Out of My Head

His wedding was finally here.

A winter wedding as was planned years ago by his sire and a noble family looking to climb the ranks of the financial world.

And now here he is, in a overly grand room in one of the treasury departments event venues, the gilded walls and thick tapestries that cover the place tell the tales of his family, each one dedicated to a new section or branch of his family. A new one is being hung as he sits here and polishes his medals, one woven to celebrate his wedding to his intended spouse that will sit front and centre till the next marriage match comes to wed.

A snow covered night in winter was perfect for vampires like him to be wed, yet somehow even under the slow falling flakes and haze of quiet that had fallen over the capital, he felt warm, boiling hot in a way he hadn't felt since he had been turned decades ago.

He was finally going to be married, two years of courting between duties, two years engaged in more than just words, and now finally he will be married.

It's enough, almost, to shake his long stilled heart to life again.

On a small bench near by was his official attire for this event, far more embroidered and fanciful than his usual dress uniform, the lack of chain mail or plate sections is strange to him after so long in partial armour. Standing over his clothes, it's bewildering to see the delicate silver thread woven into the plush velveteen of his over coat, the pattern one of his family's coat of arms, a painstaking task of dedication that he would wear today, and again on the day of his partners turning, then likely never again lest something terrible befall either of them.

The idea of such an outcome is pushed away as swiftly as it came.

Two knocks announced the arrival of his valet, a familiar man that has been with his family since his youth, the grey on his hair beginning to come through clearly. Adir would miss him when he left his families service, valets like him are hard to come by, let alone find someone to train in the capital these days.

It's a familiar process being dressed, the slow pull of a linen shirt across his arms and chest, the embroidery likely never to be seen until well after the wedding is over, familiar is the brush of the lace frills against his hands and neck. Then comes his socks and garters, the bands secured and placed just so, rolling his ankles as he tests to make sure they will not slip or unfasten as he walks during the evenings events, soon followed by his linen breeches, the under things for his true pants, they hang nearby hand stitched leather in familiar black cow hide.

As his outer layers are being pulled and pressed into place he can't help but think of you, his betrothed, across the city in your family estate likely being tended too much the same. Would your parents fawn over you? Would they smile and weep as your prepared to be wed today? Is your mother holding your hand as she walks with you to the carriage his family sent for you, will your father worry as you sit alone for that short journey?

So many questions fill his head that Adir hardly notices as his sire slips in to join him, standing at the far side of the room a box in his hands as he waves off the valet.

His sire, his father, a man well known in the treasury guard and a formidable man when it comes to social events, his shoes click on the cold marble floors as he comes closer, the box in his hands opens quietly, inside are a set of cufflinks, a broach, and a small pin with the family crest in delicate gold details. Standing ever still as his sire sets the broach to his jacket, the pin just under it, and soon after lifts his arms to secure the cufflinks to his jacket, the most gentle attention his sire had given him since his turning.

Long, cold fingers brush across his lapels before he looks his sire in the eyes, waiting for whatever this moment is to pass before saying anything.

Only, his sire speaks first.

"Adir… my son, my spawn, and today a husband in your own right. I say this not out of obligation to the agreement your marriage came from, but as the man that made you, be kind and treat them well." His father's hands grip his shoulders for a second, squeezing slightly before falling away, a single nod in response is all he can give before his sire is leaving, slipping back out into the mess of pre-wedding pressure.

The arrival of his partner to be is the tolling of bells, heavy brass things that only sound when his family is on site for events.

Standing by the main doors of the venue is Nabil, a friend, a comrade in arms, and a very cold looking harpy. His feathers are fluffed and he stands far too close to the other groomsmen than he should, a servant comes over swiftly and tucks heated stones into the harpies pockets offering relief to the shivering man. While the two of them may never have served on the same duty rounds, they have crossed paths enough that it is a comfort to see him standing in his finery waiting to support him during this moment of his.

He can't help but wonder if the harpy will find himself a partner soon, the spirits above only know how hard the harpies parents are likely pushing to see him married and nested.

The cold doesn't touch him in the same ways it does his groomsmen, standing by the heavy doors of the venue as he waits for your carriage to come to a stop. Each click and shuffle of the coachman makes him almost feel a race to his long stilled heart, watching in awe as you step from the carriage, your parents somehow appearing by your side in the single blink he'd taken. You look radiant, like the sun he no longer basks in, the fine press of silk and heavy wool dyed in the colours of your family again the white of your finery is almost too much for him.

His fang ache as he clenches his jaw, a gloved hand held out in offer of your own, fingers managing to not shake even slightly as he feels the warm weight of your touch on him. Spirits preserve him, there is no way he will make it through this ceremony and reception feast without making a fool of himself, but steadying himself as he turns with you facing the heavy wooden doors waiting for the footmen to open the hall and begin the first walk towards your joint life together.

He can almost feel the rolling anxiety at what is to come, the bows, the words, the press of your fingers to his lips as he takes his first sip of your blood before your turning. It's too much, he can't believe it was happening, he shivers as the two of you come to stand before his sire and the head of his family as a whole, head bowed as their voices ring out through the hall.

Both of you know when it is time to speak, having practiced these words enough to know the pace of them by heart.

"Well no. When I heard all that flapping I just assumed it was the neighbor's chickens getting in my compost pile again."

"I see. Well, I need you to get inside so I can take care of this."

"Of course. You be safe, dear."

You discover the reason the owl hybrid is huddled in here is that she's unable to fly, thanks to a piece of washing line wrapped around her wings. You want to untangle it for her, but of course, she's feral, so she takes off in an awkward hopping run across the backyard, chaotically trailing the washing line and various gardening tools that have tangled with it.

You squirm with embarrassment, but all that does is rub your sensitive pussy against his shaft. He purrs at the sensation, giving your hips a lazy tug back and forth, grinding you against him. It's not just his cock that's big. He's almost twice your size, with hands that can manipulate you into any position he wants.

"Come on, princess. Ride me," he coaxes, giving your nipples a flick.

"S-stop." You shiver.

"Why? Are you embarrassed that I'm all you dream about? That every night you welcome me into your dreams just so I can fuck a couple orgasms out of you?" His voice is mocking, tender, and amused all at once.

You start moving to shut him up, bracing your hand on his belly to give yourself the leverage to rock your hips the way you want. He swallows hard, staring up at you.

"Am I the only one you come to?" You ask, panting.

"Why? Want to make this exclusive?" He smirks, the tip of his tail caressing your arm, then sneaking up to gently circle your neck.

You throw your head back, baring your neck to him.

"Yes, I'll sign a contract."

He growls at that. "You don't know what you're saying."

"I do. I like the way you make me cum, so I want to keep you forever."

His cock throbs inside you, and now you're the one teasing him.

"You'll do anything for me, won't you?" you coo. "Look at you, soft as putty in my hands."

The next sharp thrust of his hips reminds you that he's not all soft, and you topple bonelessly onto his chest.

"Fuck me," you moan, and he does. He knows exactly how to make you cry and beg.

The dream ends the way it always does, with you startling awake in the middle of the night with a mess between your legs. No matter how many nights in a row it happens, you always wake up feeling refreshed. Today is no different. After breakfast, you're getting ready for a morning walk when there's a knock at your door. You open it to find a familiar figure standing outside. He looks so normal in jeans and a cozy-looking sweater that you can almost overlook the horns and claws and sweeping tail. It's him. Your incubus.

Your eyes grow wide.

"Oh my–"

He scoops you into a hug and spins you in a circle.

"I brought the contract," he says.

The dog is at your other side, your hand in her fur as each time you draw away, she circles back for more. She's comforting but nothing can dissipate the anxiety, the fear, this man inspires. You notice how the soldier, decanus, immunes, even centurion, salute then shy away. You remain unseen as the men only see him; only care about him.

“I suppose an introduction would be redundant.” He says.

“Noble Legate.” You bow your head deeper.

He hums. “The hours were not lost. My men have inspected this place, top to bottom. A habit they tend to slack on.”

You remain quiet. You know better than to speak without purpose or permission. Besides, what can you say to him that would ever mean anything?

“So… that was my day,” he puts his large hands behind him. “And you were away? At market again?”

You hesitate. You cannot ignore a question but you find it difficult to find your voice. “Noble Legate, my assignment was the drought land.”

He hums again. He mulls your answer.

“Doing what, exactly?”

Your hand shakes and Lupa licks it. You swallow and exhale slowly. “Digging. Bunds.” You eke out the words crisply. “Noble Legate.”

He sighs and brings his arms forward, crossing them over his chest. He walks on. His shoes are dusty but you can tell they aren’t well-worn. Not like your peeling soles.

“We are having a conversation. August is acceptable.” He states.

“Noble…” your voice drifts off. You wouldn’t dare say his name. You match his stride and languish in silence.

“And you?”

You bite down. You don’t know what he means.

“What is your name?” He asks.

Your heart pumps fast. You remember it but it doesn’t feel real. It feels like something you made up. You don’t own anything, not even a name. You have a number and a pair of boots.

“8E15.” You recite.

He sniffs. “Not that. Your real name. The one from before.”

Before? Before was long ago. You were sixteen when the world changed. Now, you’re not sure. You’re older and just as scared. You just know how to control it. How to keep it inside. 

Subconsciously, your hand travels to your lower stomach, that place where hot metal seared. Then you pull away and hang your arms stiffly again. Lupa once more nuzzles into your hand.

“8E15–”

“Name. Not number.” He insists bluntly.

You trip at the tenor of his voice. He’s quick to catch you. You gasp and wrench away from him. He lets you go and you raise your hands in fright. You tremble as you show your palms and drop to your knees.

“Forgive me. I was not expecting–” You choke on your plea. Begging never got you anywhere. You put your palms up and extend your arms. Don’t whine, just take the punishment.

Nothing happens. You stare at the dirt and wait. The Legate stands across from you and his dog pokes her head up between your arms and licks your cheeks.

“Lupa,” he calls her.

He grabs your wrist and tugs. You stand. He pulls you right in front of him, the dog still between you.

“I want your name.” He says.

You stare at the dog’s fur. You can’t. You can feel the familiar thing in the back of your mind but you can’t latch on.

“I don’t know. They call me by my number.” You quaver out. “Noble Legate, call me what you will.”

He lets you go and pushes back his jacket to grip his hips. You shrink down. He clicks his tongue.

“If you will not tell me your name, you will look at me.” He commands.

Your hands ball up to fists and you pin them to your sides. Your shoulders rise with tension and your knees wobble. If you look at a decanus in the face, they use the club. An Optio might even use a knife for the offense.

But to disobey, someone as powerful as the Legate, would be far worse. You must. He has given an order. Even if it feels wrong, you have no choice.

You lift your chin as your eyes stay downward. You hold your breath and force your gaze up. You see him; dark hair, a curl over his forehead, a thick straight mustache, dark stubbles; a thick neck beneath his high collar and broad shoulders that speak the power behind his title. A quick flick of your irises before you give in to instinct and look down again.

His finger taps on his belt then he drops his hands. Lupa turns and sits, resting her head against your stomach as she stares up at you. Her tail sweeps the ground as it wags incessantly.

“She won’t let me go without you.” He says.

You don’t move. What does he mean?

He leans in and reaches for you. He takes your hand and moves your stiff arm. He puts your hand on the dog. He guides you to pet her then lets go. You scratch behind her ear as she groans in delight.

“We will retrieve your possessions and you will be removed from the camp roster.” He says.

You focus on the dog. His words are too frightening to fathom. You’ve seen people leave one of two ways; for the pits where they will die or dead in the back of a truck.

“You do not ask why? Or where you will go?” He challenges.

“No, Noble Legate. I obey.” You recite, that twinge that comes each time you surrender still flickering in your gut.

“Take me to your quarters. It is late already.” He commands.

“Yes, Noble Legate.”

He growls in his throat. “Lupa, back up. Come.”

The dog relents and stands at his heels. You feel him watching, waiting. You turn back and lead him through the camp. The soldiers watch and greet him with proper salutes and stances. Others like you scatter and hide before they can meet rebuke.

You stop at your block. Legate Augustus examines the bricks.

“Inside.” He prompts.

You’re surprised. You didn’t think he meant so far. You take him inside, the decanus at the door addressing him with respect.

“Upstairs. The second floor, Noble Legate.” You dare not walk ahead of him.

“You first.” He insists.

“Yes, Noble Legate.” You utter.

You go upstairs, innately aware of him behind you. You take him down the corridor to your shared quarters. He follows you inside. Those in their cots nearly tip them as they quickly get to their knees and bow their heads.

You don’t have much. You would have said so but it’s best not to say more than he asks. You open your locker and take out your can of peanuts, a sleeve with only three crackers, a head scarf, and the needle stuck into the remaining length of leather cord.

You turn back to the legate. He startles you as his large hands cradles yours. He takes the canister of peanuts and shakes it. He makes a gritty noise and gives it back.

“That all?” He asks.

It’s more than some have.

“Yes, Noble Legate.”

He drops his hands. Lupa sniffs around the room as the other occupants cower away from her. You grip your things tight.

“Let’s go.”

The Legate turns and strides to the door, not a single glance to his audience. You follow and peek over. Your cot mate stares at you in concern. You’ve never seen an ounce of emotion from them before. That unsettles you more.

You go with the legate back outside. Lupa stays close to you. He takes you through the camp to the gates. The large black vehicles wait in a line, centurions and immunes milling around restlessly until they see the Legate.

“Past time we leave,” he addresses a centurion in their red jacket.

The centurion walks with him to one of the boxy SUVs and opens the back door. Before you can react, the Legate turns and grabs your arm. He as good as lifts you and puts you inside. He quickly spins to stop Lupa from following.

“Ah, you know better,” he tuts and points her away.

The centurion approaches. Lupa growls but her master commands her to go with him. The hatch behind you opens and she hops inside, poking her head over the seat to sniff you. The Legate climbs in. He closes the door and pushes down a button. A screen rises between the back and front seats.

“You had a long day. You may rest. It will be a long drive.” He says flatly.

Your eye flits over at the movement of his hand. He grips above his knee, his middle finger dragging up and down. You shove what you can in your pockets and keep the canister in your lap. You close your eyes.

You sit on the floor as 8KH1 sleeps on the cot. The morning rises slowly from the tepid night. You count out five nuts from the tin and eat them slow. You don't know your assignment for the day, you never do. It will be grueling whatever it is.

It doesn’t matter. You can barely remember what you did yesterday, let alone week ago. Yet, your last day at the market sticks. The thief, dog, the Legate. You dream about it. More and more, it feels like that’s all it was.

You pick at the sole of your boot where it once more separates from the rest. You traded a can of sour beets for a needle and leather cord to fix it. It only held for a month. Now you're hungry and your shoe is too.

The first bell rings. A horrible refashioned metal thing from a school house. There’s one in the hallway outside the cramped room you share with a dozen others. And others mounted on walls across the colony. There’s even one on the pole that marks the centre of the court yard.

8KH1 rolls off the cot. They pull on their sock-like cap and tuck in their ratty ends. You lock up your peanuts in the small locker with your number on it. You each get one. Enough to fit your boots at most, but those stay on your feet. You’d never get enough to fill it up anyhow.

You file out with the rest. Roll call. The Decanus soldiers with their silver buttons count the bodies standing in slumping blocks of eight by eight. Each block is called up and designated to their daily tasks.

It’s not market day for the quadrant. You’ll be headed to the drought land to dig bunds for rain water. If it ever rains. The work is tedious but better than staying in camp and tending to the rusting pipes under block 58S.

You shuffle into the back of a truck with the rest of your block. There are no seats. You stand, crammed into the canvas covered bed, and try not to tip into the person beside, behind, or in front of you.

You face the back, just able to see between the shoulders ahead of you and through the rustling flaps. A rumble of engine sound from ahead of the truck's bumper. A convoy comes into sight. Black tactical vehicles on high axles and heavily treaded tires. They disappear into a cloud of dust.

“See that?” Someone whispers. They’re hushed. Despite this someone else answers.

“What?”

Another shush.

“That looked like…”

“Sigil…” Another whispers.

“Shut the fuck up. I’m not getting lashes for you.” The shusher hisses.

You stare out at the sun beaten road. Those vehicles were headed for 814; or so it looked like. Why? They didn’t look like a work sentry or even a delivery.

Soon enough, you forget them. You get to a strip in the drought land and disembark with a long shovel. You’ll dig a half circle pit along the peaks of the dried out earth. Crushing work that already has your back achy.

You work with M5PL, a squat older man turning red from the heat. You throw the dirt out of the pit as you carve out the crumbly dirt. It blows back at you, sticking to the sweat on your face and soaking through your clothing.

You dig until the air cools. It would be easier work to start in the evening but by then, you’re rounded up and put on the truck. M5PL cries out as he tries to climb up over the bumper. He clutches his chest and falls back, landing flat on the ground. He gets a kick from a Decanus. When he just writhes and whines, the step over him and close the short door to the bed of the truck.

“Vultures will take him where he needs to go.” They march around the truck and the doors creak loudly.

M5PL twitches as the truck takes off. You look down at the shadows around your feet. One day, it’ll be you. Not if, when. He isn’t the first, they’ll never be the last.

Back at the camp, the truck honks at the gates. It’s unusual. Usually, the sentries will open them on sight.

“Business?” A raspy voice demands.

“The fuck you mean,” the Decanus in the driver’s seat huffs. “We’re stationed here.”

“Watch your tone.” The other man retorts. “Can you read?”

“The hell kinda question–”

“Use your eyes, dick,” the snarl crackles in the man’s throat.

“Centurion?” The driver sputters.

“Good boy. Get inside before I have you boarded.”

The truck lurches forward as you hear the doors parting on their immense hinges. Those around you exchange looks but don’t dare speak. What is a centurion doing in 814?

You traipse out with the rest. You lean on the truck until you get the feeling back in your feet and lift your knees as you try to get the tightness out. You grip your hips as your lower back knots up. You turn in your shovel and collect your ration card.

“Half?” Another snorts. “Half a ration?”

“Did you say something, pleb?” The decanus barks.

No response. You all tuck away the orange half-ration ticket and shuffle away. You keep your head down and pull up your jacket to hide a yawn. You drop your hands and nearly cry out as something cold meets your palm. You learned long ago not to react.

You turn as the sniffing wet nose brushes your jacket’s hem. The same black and white dog nuzzles the bottom of your stomach. You show your palms and watch helplessly. Other pass by, side stepping the beast nervously.

“Hey, go on. Get to your quarters.” The decanus stomps over. “The hell are you up to?” The dog turns around and growls at the man. He stops and scowls. “You shouldn’t fuck with that dog. It’s–”

“Lupa,” the name rolls through the air, followed by a whistle.

The decanus turns and presses his fist to his heart. He lowers his head as the Legate approaches. That explains the centurion, yet doesn’t. Why are they here?

You get to your knees and the dog, Lupa, circles you. She sits beside you as her owner approaches and rests her snout on your shoulder. You stare at the ground and rest your fists above your knees.

“Decanus. Dismissed. Go away.” The Legate snips. The Decanus flees without hesitation.

“8E15.” The Legate recites your number.

You dip your head even lower. You can’t speak. Any plebian that speaks out of turn won’t always be able to ever again.

“You can stand.” He permits.

You shake and lean forward slowly. You lift yourself on your knees, set one foot at a time, and stand. You keep your head down.

The dog circles you again then presses her head against your hip as she sits close. She prods your hand with your nose. You let her.

“And you may pet her. She doesn’t always ask so nicely.” He girds.

You open your hand and turn it out. You pet the dog cautiously. The Legate inches closer.

“My men have been searching all day.” He states.

You flinch.

“The Optio told me himself you didn’t exist. I should have his left eye.”

You gulp and instinctively look up in shock, just as quickly dropping your gaze again.

“You see, the E looks like an F.” He stops in front of you and points to your jacket, almost touching you. “But I knew you were real.” Lupa rubs her face on your hand. “She’s been restless for you.”

You scratch Lupa’s ear.

“Will you walk with her?” He pushes his shoulders wide. “And me?”

You stare at Lupa as he licks your hand. It’s not a question, not from him, it’s a command.

You grab another crate. You quickly count the inventory. Not a piece short or it will be on you. You place it on the table and it’s once more dragged across. Celer signals with a fist then a V between his index and middle finger. There’s a stir as the crowd shifts around Optio Ursus, the commander of the quadrant.

The green ration card is passed back and forth. Two soldiers, Immunes with their blue epaulettes their jackets  stand behind the man on the other side of the table. His eyes flick back and forth nervously. The number sewn into his canvas jacket is faded. Your own isn’t in much better shape. Like you, they don’t have a name. Just a number.

“Counterfeit,” Ursus proclaims sternly. “Arrest this fraud. This thief.”

You back up and watch the nervous still break into chaos. The Immunes seize the man and he hollers. “It’s not. It’s real, it’s real!”

“Insect!” Ursus pulls the club from his belt and swings across the table, striking the maan in his temple. “I did not permit you to speak.” The Optio wags his club. “Upstart peasants. Do you know the consequence for thievery?”

You do. You’ve seen it. The woman you trade out your cot with every other night bears that mark. She is not permitted on placements outside the colony. She must stay and make due trading scrap.

The Immuness wrestle the man as he struggles dizzily against them. A crate of loaves is dumped uncaringly onto the ground, flipped to pin his arm to as he begs and sobs.

“It is real. It was allotted by Optio Aquila.” He snivels. “Please, please.”

“Be quiet or your tongue shall be lopped off too!” Ursus snarls and slings his club from his belt, feeling around until he grips the dagger there. “You’ll want to be still lest I cut the whole arm.”

The Optio snickers as those around gape or pretend not to see. Most stare at their feet. The Immunes keep the man trapped.

Ursus lifts his arm. There is a murmur before he can descend. He pauses and looks toward the snakish roil in the crowd. More blue epaulettes appear and Immuness divide the crowd. A pathway clears for a man in a long black jacket, his collar high and stiff, his boots leather and shining. A chain dangles across the open front of his coat, two large sapphires pinned to his lapels.

Those with numbers on their chests, get to their knees. You too. You’ve never been in the presence of a Legate but you know one on sight. The sapphires, the clothing, the posture. It’s plain even before Ursus greets him by name.

“Legate Augustus.” His voice nearly quavers. “When did you arrive? I was not informed you’d be attending the market.”

“And why should I tend to the masses?” The Legate’s deep voice sends a chill through you despite the dusty warmth of the pending noon. “As any man of the people might.”

“Certainly, Legate, I do not question your purpose. Only I am surprised at your presence.” Ursus panders.

“And what is this scene you make? I see wasted bread and terrified people.” The Legate rebukes. “This is not the order I read of in your report.”

“Legate, this man is a thief. It is him who has brought chaos–”

“So you would raise a furor? Startle those come for their rations?” The Legate interjects. “Criminals are to be detained and tried. Not beaten and mauled as animals.”

You stare at the ground. The tension in the air is suffocating. His words are not so noble as he pretends. Every person there has witnessed or perpetrated the contrary. A hand severed is far from the worst of atrocities in the colonies.

“Take this man to be heard by a praetor and determine if he will wear the thieves mark.” The legate commands. “Ursus, you will balance this loss from your own ledger.”

Your eyes peek up through your lashes as the Legate gets to a knee and gathers up the overturned stock. He piles it in and lifts it easily, shoving it at Ursus. “People, to your feet, to work.”

At once, you rise with the others on assignment. You fall back into action as those in line move up and hand over their green tickets. Your stomach growls again. You’ll get a full loaf for the assignment but not until the day is done.

As you turn again and place a crate out, you’re surprised by the gleam of light that singes your vision. You stare down the camera lens, shocked. The man behind it holds down the shutter and you hide in your work, back to the photographer.

You notice him move to the other side of the stall and aim his lens again. You peek over briefly. The legate shakes hands with Celer. It must be some sort of act. They are staging those in line, giving them commands.

An Immunes grabs the crate in your hands. You cling to it then let go. They put it back on the stack and seize your arm. They turn you then shove you back.

“Not her.”

They march away and grab another woman, P0L14. They examine her and drag her over. They pull you out of the way and put her by the stack of crates. Another camera emerges from the crowd.

Ceres smacks your shoulder. “To work.” You look at him then the Immunes and P0L14. “Go work on the truck, dumb woman.”

You evade his hand a second time and hurry off towards the cargo lot. You help unload the heads of cabbage and hand them off for inspection. The work is slow as heads crane to observe the market scene.

“... Augustus…” a whisper repeats across lips.

“...telling more lies…” one dares to suggest.

You keep your head down. You put cabbages into crates; rotting and slightly less rotting. One hits the corner and rolls over the edge of the table. Darn it.

You bend down to retrieve it but before you can, it moves. A set of fangs sink into the leafy ball. You hold out your hands but hesitate to wrestle the cabbage away from the large dog. Their fur is longer and fluffy, pointed ears, a black head and white around its stomach, legs, and chest. Their eyes are dark and menacing.

A head of cabbage could cost you yours. You go to grab it and the dog dodges away. No! You crawl under the table and stagger to your feet on the other side to follow them. You rush by several other workers and behind one of the canvas covered trucks.

“Hey, hey, doggy,” you call after the dog. You squint to get a good look. “Hey, girl. Please, can I have that back?”

You reach out, palm up, and walk forward cautiously as the dog stops and stares at you.

“You don’t want that. It’s bitter and grimy.” You plead with her, knowing she can’t understand. “Please…”

The dog drops the cabbage and rushes back toward you. You freeze in panic and watch wide-eyed as she charges. You close your eyes and brace for your demise.

The coolness in your hand makes you squeak. You look nervously through the slits of your eyelid. The dog nuzzles your hand then rubs her face into your palm.

“Oh, you… want pets?” You feel along her soft fur. She can’t be feral. She’s too well fed and groomed. You scratch behind her ear and she leans into your hand.

You offer your other and she lets you pet her with both. That knot around your heart slowly loosens. You can’t remember the last time you met anyone or anything friendly. The corners of your lips curve up, just a little.

“That’s it, girl. You’re a good girl. I wish I could give you something. Even that rotten cabbage.” You coo at her.

“Lupa.” A deep voice booms over you.

You turn as your expression falls back to neutral. It’s him. Legate Augustus. You get only a glimpse before you drop your eyes and get down to your knees. As you lower yourself, the dog licks your cheek and tries to sit in your lap, much too big to do so. She knocks you over onto your but and you land on your back in the dirt.

“Lupa,” the Legate calls again as he stomps up to you. Your heart is pounding. “Off.” The dog relents. “Sit.”

The dog obeys. You push yourself up and the Legate offers his hand. You stare at his thick fingers. Only for a second then you once more make yourself familiar with the dirt.

“Noble Legate,” you get up to your knees on your own and cower, hands on your thighs as you grip tight.

He rescinds his hand slowly, his shadow sighing beside you. You feel his gaze but don’t dare look up to check if he really is watching. You only look as far as his boots.

“She doesn’t usually make friends.” He says. “Consider yourself lucky to be alive.” He backs up and snaps his fingers. “Lupa, to me.”

Log Date 53498Willow5

Male subject released from quarantine. No harmful outburst observed toward female subject. Both subjects stabilizing in enclosure. Further observations to follow.

The boulder grew, stretched overnight. Like a dining room table set for the two of you.

Your meals appear with a quiet clunk-clunk for you both to dine before the glass. Side by side.

The cage disappeared, too. Your new roommate waking up on the soft ground where it once stood. The sign outside your window replaced by an avid crowd, ready to observe your interactions.

Kurt prods at the goo on his plate. An aggravated pinch in his jaw.

“Is everything okay?” you ask, nudging the nuggets of almost potato around your plate.

He sighs and drops his fork, crossing his arms over his chest. “What do you call these?” He nods toward the plate.

You glance down at your own and point to each with your utensil. “Uh, potato rocks, purple fluffy stuff, and,” you pause to scoop some of the blue goo into your mouth, “gross blue gunk,” you say with a grimace. “Most of the time, they stop sending the nasty ones after a time or two.”

“What’s your favorite food?” he asks, tone somber as he stares at the alien food without touching it.

“Oh.” Of all the fascinating and delicious foods you’ve been given—your favorite? You take a moment to think before replying, “those flower things. And I think they know it. They always put them on my plate when they want me—”

“No,”Kurt interrupts. Your lips clamp shut. His tone harsh, gritting in his throat. “What’s your favorite food from home?”

Your lips pop as you think. Wondering whether it’s best to just leave it, or if bonding over your pasts will somehow make this experience easier.

“I, uh, I,” you clear your throat, “this noodle dish my mom invented, as far as I know. She only ever made it on my birthday.” You stop, turning your gaze down to the plate. The alien food. You don’t even know its real name. “It always made me feel at home,” you whisper more to yourself than Kurt.

“I always liked a nice massaman curry.” His fork prods at the blue gunk. His teeth grit, a tic in his jaw. You ignore the moisture that beads on his waterline. His throat clears. “And I miss the sun,” he says, head tilting back on his shoulders. The artificial light shines on his skin.

You stare, drinking in the angles of his form. The sharpness of his jawline. The slope of his throat. The width of his shoulders. And the long lashes that brush his cheeks. All accented by the art that paints his skin—flowers and fauna, real and abstract, hard and soft lines flowing across planes of muscle, reaching up his neck and down to his toes.

But you don’t know how to respond, utensil scraping against your plate.

“I’m sure they give us enough vitamins and nutrients to keep us healthy,” you finally say, tipping your head up to search for the ceiling you can never make out.

“Is that enough?”

Your lips seal, pressing together. He turns his eyes to you, the harsh edge of his stare cutting.

The utensil clinks softly as you set it down. Your fingers pop as they roll and twist together. “We don’t have much of a choice,” you admit in lowered tones. Your eyes flick to the window, the door. “We can’t escape from here.”

“We could—”

“We can’t,” you interrupt quickly. “I saw someone try. It hurt.” You rub the band of light around your arm. Head shaking, look to Kurt. His fierceness broken as he meets your eye. “At least they treat us well here.” You nod, more to convince yourself than him. Blinking a few times, you clear your head. With a steadying breath, you ask, “So, what was your favorite movie?”

He doesn’t respond right away, letting the silence stretch taut and uneasy.

“The Man From Goldenrod,” he finally relents.

You roll the title around in your head. “You mean that spy one?”

He nods and returns to his meal, finally shoveling a spoonful into his mouth with a grunt.

Kurt is content letting you ramble, comparing his favorite movie to one of yours. The space filling with your chatter. He even participates in the conversation, grumbling or responding in his way.

It’s one of the first real conversations you’ve had since your capture. You smile at him, a soft sweet press of your lips. Finding a companion in the person stuck here with you. Learning about his mom, his little sister. The life he has to leave behind.

After your shared meal, the tour of the enclosure is brief. A sweep of the layout, explaining the areas of privacy—the shower and the bed. Even as you wonder why there’s still only one. The sleeping surface the same as ever. The rest of the time, you spend watching him explore the platforms, hammocks, and lofts of rope high above. The thought of joining him up there enough to make your stomach flip with dread.

But you watch his muscles as he reaches. The strain of his inked skin sculpting around them. The furrow of his brow as he concentrates. Something about his features rough and uninviting, but, like this, in this light, he’s also kinda beautiful. You wonder why they took him.

He thumps to his feet behind you, the soil dipping to cushion his impact. His hand scratches through the shorn side of hair. Eyes tipping up as he gestures to the hammock.

“I can sleep up there tonight,” he says with a nod.

You hum in response, rolling the thought over in your head. Your perch is certainly more comfortable—you would know.

Which is how he ends up on it beside you. It took some convincing, sure, but you knew what you were talking about.

“Isn’t this better?” you ask, rolling to your side to face him.

He grumbles and shifts on his back. “I guess.”

You smile and tug the blanket over your body. “And you should be fine. They keep the temperature pretty steady at night.”

He rolls to face you. Shifting back at your close proximity. “And yet you’re still using a blanket.” He tucks it over your shoulder, eyes focused on his task and hands gentle.

You blink in surprise. A flutter in your stomach.

He looks up, his fingers lightly grasping the fabric at your shoulders. A crack in his surly demeanor. His eyelashes flutter as his eyes rove over your face. Something unspoken sparking to life in their grey depths.

Next Part

You feel so stupid. You knew the bathing suit wouldn’t hold up. You just didn’t speak up for yourself, too embarrassed to point out the mismatch between the style and your body. There’s nothing wrong with your body despite the pressures of LA, you just know how to dress it.

You grab a towel and wrap it around yourself. You face your reflection and quietly pep yourself up. This is Venice, it’s exciting. It was just a little blip, that’s all.

The knock at the door is quicker than your courage. “Hey, sweetheart, everything okay?”

You cringe. “Sure. I was just…” Your voice trails off and you flick back the lock below the handle. You slowly open the door. “Um… I didn’t get water all over, did I?”

“Nah,” he shrugs. He has a towel around his neck, his torso peek out all muscled and perfect. “All good. I was just thinking about time.” His eyes skim up and down. Or maybe it’s all in your head. “Dinner?”

“Right, uh… Yeah. Pasta…”

“Well, it’s Italy, right?” He winks. “I was gonna pick out something to wear… hoped to get a second opinion…”

“Oh, right. Sure, uh… I’m not really a fashion person.” You step out cautiously, hugging the towel.

“Really? You always look so good.” He praises.

You scoff. “You’ve mostly seen me at work in my apron.”

“Ha, guess I didn’t really think about it. But still, we should coordinate, huh?” He gestures you past him.

“Okay. I can… try.”

You follow him into the large main bedroom with the doors that open onto the veranda. You notice his bags and yours. He must have moved them. He hangs his towel over the back of a chair and goes to the closet to slide it open; his clothes are all hung up. And yours…

When did all this happen?

“So… green?” He pulls out an olive satin button up with short sleeves. “Too green? Does it make me look yellow?”

You focus on the material as he holds it against him.

“I like it.” You say.

“What about this?” He switches it out for a similar style in lavender with little flowers embroidered into it. “Does it bring out my eyes?”

You hug the towel and rock. “You have really blue eyes.”

His cheek dimples.

“Maybe something simpler. Just white?” He trades for a linen white shirt.

“Um, they’re all nice.” You smile.

“Okay, I’m gonna go with simple.” He puts the shirt aside and picks out some greyish purple slacks. “What about you?”

He turns and moves some hangers. Your cotton tees and jean shorts don’t really go. “Oh, well, I don’t think I have anything fancy…” You touch the floral print cotton, the only thing that looks halfway okay.

“What if I told you I had a surprise?” He rests his hand on the bar.

“Oh…”

“Well, my assistant already went to the boutique, so…”

You cringe.

“What’s that face?” He teases.

“I just… feel like I owe you. That’s… all.”

“Nah, I told you. It’s my pleasure.”

“Mhm,” you twiddle your fingers. “Right, uh…” You fall into silence as you once more slip back to earlier and the pool. You grip the top of the towel tightly.

“Hey, really, it’s nothing. No thank’s needed.” He reaches behind his clothes. “I told her you look good in red. It was a guess.”

He pulls out a satin wrap dress with thin straps. The skirt splits like the petals of a tulip. It’s a gorgeous colour and a gorgeous cut but you’d never choose it yourself.

“Wow, that’s… pretty.”

“Prettier on, I’m sure,” he grins as he holds it out. “Well, I did make a reservation and I can’t go with pool hair, huh?”

“Um, I guess not,” you take the hanger. “Thank you, it’s… too nice.”

-

The boat glides over the water. Instead of the autobus, Nick opted for one of the smaller gondolas. It’s a cozy fit as you sit next to him and the driver pushes through with his single paddle. A flicker of light catches your eye and you crane to see behind you.

“You forget something?” Nick asks, his arm behind yours, his hand nestled just beside your thigh, on the edge of his.

“No, no, I just…” you let your eyes graze along the sky. “It’s beautiful here.”

“Not too bad when you get a chance to appreciate it.” he says.

You hold back a sigh. You do appreciate it, all of it. More than you can say and yet it seems even saying so wouldn't be enough.

The water stirs softly around the boat, voices carry from others aboard their vessels, and the breeze flows by. A tickle on your forearm makes you jump. You look at Nick as the boat reacts to your movement.

“You okay?” He asks.

You nod. “Just taking it all in.”

His fingertips brush down and graze your hand. His touch lingers then he pulls away. The gondola nears the steps built into the side of the canal.

The driver helps you out and Nick follows. He gently nudges your back as you step up to the street and points you down the cobblestone. You approach the front of a restaurant built onto the canal front.

He lets you through first. The hostess inside gives you lazy look then all at once, snaps up to attention. She approaches you frantically.

“Mr. Fowler,” she greets. “I heard you were back in the country.”

He steps up next to you, his hand at the small of your back. “Work.” He says. “I have a table.”

“Yes, sir, it's waiting.”

She turns and quickly beckons him after her. He urged you ahead of him. You can feel how the satin hem tickles your thighs with each move.

The hostess guides you through the ambient restaurant with its dimmed lights and pulsing candelabras. You weave between tables to one set up on an open archway looking out onto the water. A canopy of flowers is strung over the arch and tea lights are set around and over the table.

Nick pulls out a chair for you. You sit. The setup is beautiful. Too beautiful. Nick takes the seat across from you.

“Georgio said he sent out for the wine?” He prompts the hostess.

“We have it all ready, Mr. Fowler.” She assures.