crying's not worth it

It’s a declaration that’s not completely without basis, —at least, not in her mind. All he needed were some nerdy glasses, and maybe a nerdy book (the latter of which she can totally envision if she just squints a little), and he’d be picture perfect.

So. Nerd. With very little regard for manners or forewarnings against stereotyping strangers, Eiko leaned forward, hands on her hips. If she’s trying to do nothing but increase the height disparity, it’s working. In the meantime, she had questions to ask. Important questions.

“Does everybody here dress like that, or is it just you?”

Something isn’t right, because she should feel excited, she should look at Dagger, at the closest person to a sister she’s ever known, and feel excited. Not this hesitation, not this doubt. Something isn’t right, and it’s somewhere in between the long hair and that bright orange jumpsuit. Because when she sees Dagger, standing in between the crowds of people looking just as confused as she feels, something stops her from running, or else calling out to catch her attention.

At least, not immediately. Eventually she plucks up whatever sort of courage is necessary to approach her best friend, eventually she finds whatever it takes to cut her way through the crowds of people to tug at Dagger’s sleeve.

(And honestly, ‘eventually’ is a bit of an exaggeration, a bit dramatic— it really only takes a matter of seconds.)

“Did you just get here, too?” She steps away, twists her heel into the dirt nervously. “I mean, you look lost, so.”

Not the point.

The point was the point! The point on the horn. Horns, plural. Eiko’s caught between horror, awe, and something that’s probably tinged with envy. He had two. Like, sure, they were gaudy, but he had two! Two horns!

“It’s not fair.”

She puffs out her cheeks, pouting dramatically as her expression shifts from one of disappointment to one that’s outright indignant. “There’s no way you’re any older than me! So how come yours are so big, huh?”

It’s not so much that’s it’s rare for her to be helpful, but from the way she’s got her chest half-puffed out, you’d think she thinks she’s committed the Good Deed of the Century by stopping this lady in her tracks.

As if to prove her point, she holds out her hand; there’s a small bunch of flowers gripped tightly in her fist, no doubt fallen from the bouquet the taller woman was carrying. Arm still outstretched, Eiko tilted her head as if to get a better look at the flower-touting lady. What was she carrying the bouquet for, anyways?

“You dropped these!”

She squints.

“What’s with those ring things on your horns?” Or, well, horn singular, but she was here to harass strangers about their physical appearance, not win a spelling bee. At first she was curious about who reeked of alcohol this early in the morning, but now this lady’s (or rather, her horn’s) got her curious.

Not that you could tell as much from her expression; if anything, Eiko just looks incredulous. Or offended, maybe. How come this lady got two?

“You look smart.” Filed under: Declarations that might carry more weight were they not first impressions from a six year old. There’s a confident smile on her face, as if she senses some sort of shared camaraderie in the five seconds she’s not-quite-known the lady.

“So, what’s a smart lady gotta do to get by in this city?”

The hat.

It’s the hat. The familiar, floppy, wide-brimmed slightly-ratty stitched-up straw hat, bobbing in between all of these unfamiliar heads and faces. Sure, its significance is one that predates her, one that she’s only heard through stories (and he just stood there, staring at the hat), but it’s not one that’s completely lost on her. Pyntie-hets, or something like that.

Nine little hats, lined up in a row.

Bibi, Pipi, she could never quite keep their names straight no matter how many times she tried. She takes off running.

“’Scuse me, pardon me, coming through; excuuuuuse me, —Hey, you! Kid in the pointy hat!” Slow down, wait up, something like that. Eiko skids to a stop, only inches short from colliding with him.

It’s gotta be Vivi. But it can’t be Vivi. She stands up straight, puts her hands on her hips, and arches her back— but she can’t think of anything to say.