There was a little deviation from the prompt (my beta suggested making the heat cycles more often than twenty years, and I agreed with the points she made so), but I hugged close to the rest! Sit tight, this'll take a couple parts!
---------------------------------------- Part One The Problem ----------------------------------------
All he had to do was press the button.
Lord Hater breathed in, long and slow. Air that he didn’t really need flooded his ribcage. It was just the right degree of cool, a familiar comfort after the uproar his ship had been for the last few days. Then he adjusted his cowl, reached out for the call switch again…and froze.
She was going to laugh at him.
Emperor Awesome had laughed. The giant, over-muscled jerk had laughed so hard that he’d fallen out of his throne near face-first, and it had taken a full ten minutes for him to choke out ‘you are so on your own, bro’ before he laughed right through hanging up. Knowing his rival like Hater did, said jerk was probably still laughing even now. Would probably keep laughing, for hours.
Dumb, bulky, unhelpful—
Hater took another deep breath, scrunched his eyes closed, and jabbed the button before he let himself chicken out.
The screen fizzed to life before him, a mess of static and noise. After several minutes, it cleared into a jumpy image that settled on a room of heady pinks and reds. The odd splash of green and white served to accent all of the warm colors, but it didn't stop Hater from grimacing. A small pink being, in green and gold uniform and possessing the usual heart shaped body that all of her minions sported, stepped into frame and began the usual long-winded introduction.
“Greetings most affectionate from the Grand Hall of the Mistress Philieros, the Idol of the Seven Nebulas, OverLady of the Lily-Downs, Crowned She of The Spice and Heather Quadrant, and Coordinator of the Most Impressive Collection of Erotica and Anatomical Reference as last contested span of three-fifths of a year, May She Remain Victorious. All Hail.”
Hater was suddenly very appreciative of his own much shorter announcement.
…alright, somewhat shorter.
“Where is she?” He snapped, puffing his chest out to appear more imposing. He wasn’t really feeling it—there had been far too many strange upsets as of late—but he had a reputation to uphold. One did not let their bones rattle in front of the armies, especially not those of other overlords.
The Heartthrob’s eyes narrowed. “All. Hail.”
“This is Lord Hater, Greatest in the Galaxy!” He was not going to praise Phillie, of all people. Never had. He didn't get why they insisted on trying. “Get your mistress on the line, or pay dearly!”
“Mistress Philieros is currently occupied.” The Heartthrob replied. “You are welcome to leave a message—”
“I am not going to leave a message!”
“…or I can refer you to our Chief of Staff. He is currently in charge.” The Heartthrob was glaring by that point, and Hater snarled in kind. If he’d taken the time to look, he might have noticed how frazzled its impeccable uniform was, and how its collar had wet marks that implied a mouth had been near it recently. Hater was far more concerned with his own problems however; the state and mood of a minion was hardly the foremost of his priorities.
“Whatever. Just…get me someone.” He hissed into one hand. In the distance, he could hear the scramble of Watch Dogs and faint shouting. The prisoner had gotten out of his restraints again, most likely. “Someone else.”
The Heartthrob gave him one last look of irritation and disappeared into a waiting screen of a pink background with a little heart-shaped being dancing about a pole in the center of the monitor. Beneath the dancer, in large letters, were the words ‘Please Hold’. Then, in smaller print, ‘Have a heart. Or a wank. Either, or both.’
Hater grunted and did his best to ignore the heart’s sultry movements.
After the animation had repeated no less than four times, a new face fizzled into view. The Chief of Staff, Jokey or Jocki or whatever—Hater knew the proper name perfectly well, but had long since practiced the art of never getting it right—sat scribbling tirelessly at his ever well-ordered desk. His feathers were folded and left to lay out of the chair’s specially made back, curving around the desk’s side in a groomed piled of vibrant color. Between them were three stacks of papers, each in their own little tray.
Exactly the same as the last time Hater had seen him—except for the extra attendant hanging off the edge of the desk with wide, glossy eyes and hands that kept drumming against the corners. She looked, at least in the sense of species, very much like Wander—her hair fell in tight coils and was colored a red that bordered on pink, and her eyes were a murky shade of brown, but it was obvious that they were of the same alien race. And that they were suffering from the same maddening ailment. And that she was doing her very best to get the Chief’s attention.
Well, she could wait.
“HEY.” Hater shouted a little louder than he meant to, but it served its purpose. The bustling secretary looked up. “Where’s Phillie?!”
“The Mistress is…engaged, at the moment.” Chief of Staff Jocamici replied, tone firmly bland as he spoke. “You are more than welcome to leave a message or inquiry with the desk. However, if you are desiring to know about the state of the temperature regulation unit, I will inform you that yes, it is still online and functioning acceptably. You need not ask if it is ‘running.’”
Hater did not blush. The heat on his face was because of the anger he used to fuel his answering scowl.
“This is important!” He insisted, and somewhere in one of the far-off sections of the ship, an alarm sounded. It was closely followed by a second, and then a third. “Just—just get her on the line!”
“She is entertaining.” The way Jocko spoke that particular word was littered with a very obvious meaning. One that Hater did not take the time to interpret—and even if he would have, the chance to was lost when the Star Nomad working so hard to entice Jocko made her move (trying to clamor up onto the desk in a way that reminded Hater far too strongly of a similar incident not four hours ago). She made it as far as the first rack before the Chief produced a simple, plastic water bottle and sprayed her full in the chest. From the way she squawked and flung herself backwards off the desk, the water must have been incredibly cold. “She will not be able to receive calls for several hours, at the earliest. Possibly days, if the visiting party grows. I will refer you to Emperor Awesome, if the situation is so dire.”
“NO.” Hater yelped a little too quickly, and Jocko’s feathers lifted in a partial fan at the sudden raising of his voice. Hater coughed, hoping that he hadn’t sounded nearly as desperate as he was fairly certain he had. “No. It has to be Phillie! Tell whoever she’s with to hold! This can’t wait! Wander’s driving me crazy.”
Jocamici, who had been reaching for the end-call switch even then, paused.
“Wander.”
Hater blinked. “Huh?”
“Wander, the Star Nomad.” Jocamici squinted at the screen, and there was the barest hint of amusement seeping into his voice. “He’s what this is about?”
“…yes?”
“And he’s with you. On your ship.” Jocko let his pen’s capped end rise and fall against his paperwork a few times, drumming out a metronomic rhythm. The ends of his mouth began to curl upward. “Right now. On your very, very small ship.”
“It’s not that small.”
“Please hold. I will inform Mistress Philieros of your…pressing matter. I’m certain she will set aside time to help you.”
Before he could protest that ‘help’ was not what he needed—overlords didn’t need help; and Phillie’s idea of help was reading aloud the marriage and consummation customs of every alien involved in a dispute, then offering aphrodisiacs in the place of refreshments—the screen had gone back to the animation of the heart-shaped pole dancer. The smaller print now read ‘Use protection to prevent infection!’
He groaned into one hand.
Just as he was beginning to wonder what on earth he was thinking, in a hall that was far too close for his own comfort, he heard Wander’s voice—laughing and yelling words that were muffled by the walls, but were most certainly just as terrible as they had been for the last few days. He shivered at the memory, and at the ghostly impressions of hands that wandered as much as the little pest’s name. The screen began to fizz into focus again, and Hater quickly straightened his robes and spine. Phillie couldn’t see him affected like this. He’d never live it down.
Just ask and be done with it.
The picture cleared, and Hater’s words—lined so neatly on the tip of his tongue—crawled down his throat and died. His face glowed red, and on instinct he moved to cover his eyes, but froze halfway through the motion, transfixed.
Phillie’s personal chambers were done in much the same style as the rest of her palace—red and pink prevailed with gold and green and white splashing in the odd, complex design. In the center was a circle of crystal-clear, steaming water, and from that grew a lily-pad with a huge white flower (more rose than lily). Within that was a heavy, plush cushion that looked soft as air. There she was half reclining, and with her were three more Star Nomads.
Her crown had obviously once been on her head, but now it rested a good three feet away, leaving a small indent on the upper part of her pillow. Her white collar was in the process of being removed by one light blue Star Nomad—obviously a male, though Hater was doing his very best not to look—and a slender, yellow female was attempting to ease Phillie’s chest free of her top, lovingly stroking at the curve of her left breast all the while. The third, who was a soft peach color and might have been of either sex—from the back, Hater couldn’t see enough to tell, and didn’t really want to—had their face buried in Philie’s stomach and was fighting with the buckle on her belt. Her tail was lashing about beside them, and every so often, one of the three turned and caught the appendage in their mouth. And from what Hater could tell from the giggles and moans, sucked on it.
He coughed, loudly.
Phillie’s propped up her head, but none of her bedmates seemed bothered. “Oh, Hatey. Like the view?” If her voice was a little huskier than usual, Hater resolutely did not notice.
“…I have a problem.”
“Military uniform or Sky-High 9000?” Phillie asked, titling her head to give the blue male a peck on the cheek when he succeeded in freeing her of the collar. His fur gained an extra inch of volume and he buried his face in her throat, fingers hurrying to remove her necklace to make way for his tongue and teeth.
“…what?” Hater managed, taking a step back. The female had managed to pull down one strap of Phillie’s top, and was preoccupied with sucking on the exposed swell of the mistress’s chest. Around her own moaning, Phillie fought to answer.
“Military uniform. Or Sky-High 9000.” She breathed, one bare hand traveling to thread fingers through the fur on the back of the female’s skull. The Star Nomad arched and keened, fingers moving over Phillie’s torso and that of the others almost frantically. The male peeled off and was suddenly biting at the shoulders and collarbone of the female. Phillie, having properly gotten them distracted, sat up and dislodged the last from their mission to remove her pants. “To solve your problem. It’s a very nice uniform. It’d look absolutely ravishing on you. And the Sky-High 900 is the very latest model. Guaranteed to make you scream—”
“IT’S NOT THAT KIND OF PROBLEM.” Hater blurted, trying to ignore the way the peach Star Nomad had curled their arms around Phillie’s waist and was unabashedly mouthing her hip. She gave their head a stroke that could only be called fond, then led one of the female’s hands over to their scalp. In moments, the other two were on the third, and a new series of sounds rose from their strange little pile as they worked to pleasure each other.
“Sorry about that, they are absolutely relentless.” She purred fondly, then looked back at him. “So what’s the dealio? If this isn't that sort of problem shouldn’t you be…” She waved one hand, half in dismissal. “…whining to Peepers or Awesome or something?”
“It’s…about…It’s that sort of problem but not me.” Hater blundered, helplessly gesturing as much as he could toward the three Star Nomads on her bed. He was hoping against hope that she’d take the hint. Phillie only frowned up at him.
“Okay. What sort of ‘hypothetical’ problem does your friend have?”
“It’s not hypothetical!” Hater said, bristling. “And I don’t have friends!” He was trying to loom, but the size of the screen and his attention continually flickering toward the three aliens and their own endeavors—the peach and blue pair had pressed the female between them and were rocking together in a very obvious rhythm that involved a lot of noise and touching—made it less than impressive.
“Hater. Eyes front and center, come on.” Phillie snapped her thin fingers several times, and he managed to drag his gaze back to her, swallowing lamely and trying to keep his eyes from straying back. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s up.”
“I don’t need—” Hater began, and a moment later he wilted. Like it or not, he needed help. “It’s Wander.”
Phillie’s antennae went up. “Wander? What about him? Don’t tell me you’re worried. I’m sure he’s fine.” Phillie rolled one shoulder. “Sylvia’s looking for him now, she’ll find him eventually. He probably started his cycle and got caught up in it. He’ll turn up.”
“He’s here.”
She blinked.
“…here?”
“On my ship.” Hater clarified, as he became more frustrated. Of course Jocko hadn’t actually relayed the reason for his call. Hater made a note to sign the Chief up for as many junk magazines as he could find. And perhaps find a way to ensure that all of them were grossly misspelled in both title and content. “I captured him outside of a spacial telegate a couple days ago.”
“You have Wander.” Phillie said, slowly, and in all the years he had known her, Hater had never heard her voice so low and angry. “You took him.”
“…I…uh…”
“You. Globbing. Numbskull.”
Hater did his best not to flinch. Beside her, the three Star Nomads had paused and were blearily looking up at the two of them. “I don’t…but…”
“No. Sylvia was worried sick. And he was with you this whole time.” Phillie puffed out her chest and hissed. “You could have called sooner, I thought she was going to bust a vein! She wouldn’t eat or sleep when he didn’t come to the port! I am going to knock your block off. You’d better be taking care of him, or you’ll be in big trouble—!”
“I’m already in trouble! Wander’s being weird!” Hater burst through her angry tirade with his own, and as annoyed as he was for being scolded there was also some gratitude in him for the chance to treat this like the catastrophe it was. “He’s acting like them!” At that word, he pointed toward the three Nomads clustered together, who were well-startled out of their activities and now were gathering up around Phillie again—not quite in terror, but they were obviously responding to all the yelling. Much in the same way Wander had several times now.
Phillie lost a great deal of her hot air in a loud exhale. She gently rubbed each of the Star Nomads in turn, obviously comforting them. “Well, what’d you expect? He’s having his heat cycle.”
fill: . the breaking point | Part One (1/2)
Date: 2013-09-18 03:18 pm (UTC)Part One
The Problem
----------------------------------------
All he had to do was press the button.
Lord Hater breathed in, long and slow. Air that he didn’t really need flooded his ribcage. It was just the right degree of cool, a familiar comfort after the uproar his ship had been for the last few days. Then he adjusted his cowl, reached out for the call switch again…and froze.
She was going to laugh at him.
Emperor Awesome had laughed. The giant, over-muscled jerk had laughed so hard that he’d fallen out of his throne near face-first, and it had taken a full ten minutes for him to choke out ‘you are so on your own, bro’ before he laughed right through hanging up. Knowing his rival like Hater did, said jerk was probably still laughing even now. Would probably keep laughing, for hours.
Dumb, bulky, unhelpful—
Hater took another deep breath, scrunched his eyes closed, and jabbed the button before he let himself chicken out.
The screen fizzed to life before him, a mess of static and noise. After several minutes, it cleared into a jumpy image that settled on a room of heady pinks and reds. The odd splash of green and white served to accent all of the warm colors, but it didn't stop Hater from grimacing. A small pink being, in green and gold uniform and possessing the usual heart shaped body that all of her minions sported, stepped into frame and began the usual long-winded introduction.
“Greetings most affectionate from the Grand Hall of the Mistress Philieros, the Idol of the Seven Nebulas, OverLady of the Lily-Downs, Crowned She of The Spice and Heather Quadrant, and Coordinator of the Most Impressive Collection of Erotica and Anatomical Reference as last contested span of three-fifths of a year, May She Remain Victorious. All Hail.”
Hater was suddenly very appreciative of his own much shorter announcement.
…alright, somewhat shorter.
“Where is she?” He snapped, puffing his chest out to appear more imposing. He wasn’t really feeling it—there had been far too many strange upsets as of late—but he had a reputation to uphold. One did not let their bones rattle in front of the armies, especially not those of other overlords.
The Heartthrob’s eyes narrowed. “All. Hail.”
“This is Lord Hater, Greatest in the Galaxy!” He was not going to praise Phillie, of all people. Never had. He didn't get why they insisted on trying. “Get your mistress on the line, or pay dearly!”
“Mistress Philieros is currently occupied.” The Heartthrob replied. “You are welcome to leave a message—”
“I am not going to leave a message!”
“…or I can refer you to our Chief of Staff. He is currently in charge.” The Heartthrob was glaring by that point, and Hater snarled in kind. If he’d taken the time to look, he might have noticed how frazzled its impeccable uniform was, and how its collar had wet marks that implied a mouth had been near it recently. Hater was far more concerned with his own problems however; the state and mood of a minion was hardly the foremost of his priorities.
“Whatever. Just…get me someone.” He hissed into one hand. In the distance, he could hear the scramble of Watch Dogs and faint shouting. The prisoner had gotten out of his restraints again, most likely. “Someone else.”
The Heartthrob gave him one last look of irritation and disappeared into a waiting screen of a pink background with a little heart-shaped being dancing about a pole in the center of the monitor. Beneath the dancer, in large letters, were the words ‘Please Hold’. Then, in smaller print, ‘Have a heart. Or a wank. Either, or both.’
Hater grunted and did his best to ignore the heart’s sultry movements.
After the animation had repeated no less than four times, a new face fizzled into view. The Chief of Staff, Jokey or Jocki or whatever—Hater knew the proper name perfectly well, but had long since practiced the art of never getting it right—sat scribbling tirelessly at his ever well-ordered desk. His feathers were folded and left to lay out of the chair’s specially made back, curving around the desk’s side in a groomed piled of vibrant color. Between them were three stacks of papers, each in their own little tray.
Exactly the same as the last time Hater had seen him—except for the extra attendant hanging off the edge of the desk with wide, glossy eyes and hands that kept drumming against the corners. She looked, at least in the sense of species, very much like Wander—her hair fell in tight coils and was colored a red that bordered on pink, and her eyes were a murky shade of brown, but it was obvious that they were of the same alien race. And that they were suffering from the same maddening ailment. And that she was doing her very best to get the Chief’s attention.
Well, she could wait.
“HEY.” Hater shouted a little louder than he meant to, but it served its purpose. The bustling secretary looked up. “Where’s Phillie?!”
“The Mistress is…engaged, at the moment.” Chief of Staff Jocamici replied, tone firmly bland as he spoke. “You are more than welcome to leave a message or inquiry with the desk. However, if you are desiring to know about the state of the temperature regulation unit, I will inform you that yes, it is still online and functioning acceptably. You need not ask if it is ‘running.’”
Hater did not blush. The heat on his face was because of the anger he used to fuel his answering scowl.
“This is important!” He insisted, and somewhere in one of the far-off sections of the ship, an alarm sounded. It was closely followed by a second, and then a third. “Just—just get her on the line!”
“She is entertaining.” The way Jocko spoke that particular word was littered with a very obvious meaning. One that Hater did not take the time to interpret—and even if he would have, the chance to was lost when the Star Nomad working so hard to entice Jocko made her move (trying to clamor up onto the desk in a way that reminded Hater far too strongly of a similar incident not four hours ago). She made it as far as the first rack before the Chief produced a simple, plastic water bottle and sprayed her full in the chest. From the way she squawked and flung herself backwards off the desk, the water must have been incredibly cold. “She will not be able to receive calls for several hours, at the earliest. Possibly days, if the visiting party grows. I will refer you to Emperor Awesome, if the situation is so dire.”
“NO.” Hater yelped a little too quickly, and Jocko’s feathers lifted in a partial fan at the sudden raising of his voice. Hater coughed, hoping that he hadn’t sounded nearly as desperate as he was fairly certain he had. “No. It has to be Phillie! Tell whoever she’s with to hold! This can’t wait! Wander’s driving me crazy.”
Jocamici, who had been reaching for the end-call switch even then, paused.
“Wander.”
Hater blinked. “Huh?”
“Wander, the Star Nomad.” Jocamici squinted at the screen, and there was the barest hint of amusement seeping into his voice. “He’s what this is about?”
“…yes?”
“And he’s with you. On your ship.” Jocko let his pen’s capped end rise and fall against his paperwork a few times, drumming out a metronomic rhythm. The ends of his mouth began to curl upward. “Right now. On your very, very small ship.”
“It’s not that small.”
“Please hold. I will inform Mistress Philieros of your…pressing matter. I’m certain she will set aside time to help you.”
Before he could protest that ‘help’ was not what he needed—overlords didn’t need help; and Phillie’s idea of help was reading aloud the marriage and consummation customs of every alien involved in a dispute, then offering aphrodisiacs in the place of refreshments—the screen had gone back to the animation of the heart-shaped pole dancer. The smaller print now read ‘Use protection to prevent infection!’
He groaned into one hand.
Just as he was beginning to wonder what on earth he was thinking, in a hall that was far too close for his own comfort, he heard Wander’s voice—laughing and yelling words that were muffled by the walls, but were most certainly just as terrible as they had been for the last few days. He shivered at the memory, and at the ghostly impressions of hands that wandered as much as the little pest’s name. The screen began to fizz into focus again, and Hater quickly straightened his robes and spine. Phillie couldn’t see him affected like this. He’d never live it down.
Just ask and be done with it.
The picture cleared, and Hater’s words—lined so neatly on the tip of his tongue—crawled down his throat and died. His face glowed red, and on instinct he moved to cover his eyes, but froze halfway through the motion, transfixed.
Phillie’s personal chambers were done in much the same style as the rest of her palace—red and pink prevailed with gold and green and white splashing in the odd, complex design. In the center was a circle of crystal-clear, steaming water, and from that grew a lily-pad with a huge white flower (more rose than lily). Within that was a heavy, plush cushion that looked soft as air. There she was half reclining, and with her were three more Star Nomads.
Her crown had obviously once been on her head, but now it rested a good three feet away, leaving a small indent on the upper part of her pillow. Her white collar was in the process of being removed by one light blue Star Nomad—obviously a male, though Hater was doing his very best not to look—and a slender, yellow female was attempting to ease Phillie’s chest free of her top, lovingly stroking at the curve of her left breast all the while. The third, who was a soft peach color and might have been of either sex—from the back, Hater couldn’t see enough to tell, and didn’t really want to—had their face buried in Philie’s stomach and was fighting with the buckle on her belt. Her tail was lashing about beside them, and every so often, one of the three turned and caught the appendage in their mouth. And from what Hater could tell from the giggles and moans, sucked on it.
He coughed, loudly.
Phillie’s propped up her head, but none of her bedmates seemed bothered. “Oh, Hatey. Like the view?” If her voice was a little huskier than usual, Hater resolutely did not notice.
“…I have a problem.”
“Military uniform or Sky-High 9000?” Phillie asked, titling her head to give the blue male a peck on the cheek when he succeeded in freeing her of the collar. His fur gained an extra inch of volume and he buried his face in her throat, fingers hurrying to remove her necklace to make way for his tongue and teeth.
“…what?” Hater managed, taking a step back. The female had managed to pull down one strap of Phillie’s top, and was preoccupied with sucking on the exposed swell of the mistress’s chest. Around her own moaning, Phillie fought to answer.
“Military uniform. Or Sky-High 9000.” She breathed, one bare hand traveling to thread fingers through the fur on the back of the female’s skull. The Star Nomad arched and keened, fingers moving over Phillie’s torso and that of the others almost frantically. The male peeled off and was suddenly biting at the shoulders and collarbone of the female. Phillie, having properly gotten them distracted, sat up and dislodged the last from their mission to remove her pants. “To solve your problem. It’s a very nice uniform. It’d look absolutely ravishing on you. And the Sky-High 900 is the very latest model. Guaranteed to make you scream—”
“IT’S NOT THAT KIND OF PROBLEM.” Hater blurted, trying to ignore the way the peach Star Nomad had curled their arms around Phillie’s waist and was unabashedly mouthing her hip. She gave their head a stroke that could only be called fond, then led one of the female’s hands over to their scalp. In moments, the other two were on the third, and a new series of sounds rose from their strange little pile as they worked to pleasure each other.
“Sorry about that, they are absolutely relentless.” She purred fondly, then looked back at him. “So what’s the dealio? If this isn't that sort of problem shouldn’t you be…” She waved one hand, half in dismissal. “…whining to Peepers or Awesome or something?”
“It’s…about…It’s that sort of problem but not me.” Hater blundered, helplessly gesturing as much as he could toward the three Star Nomads on her bed. He was hoping against hope that she’d take the hint. Phillie only frowned up at him.
“Okay. What sort of ‘hypothetical’ problem does your friend have?”
“It’s not hypothetical!” Hater said, bristling. “And I don’t have friends!” He was trying to loom, but the size of the screen and his attention continually flickering toward the three aliens and their own endeavors—the peach and blue pair had pressed the female between them and were rocking together in a very obvious rhythm that involved a lot of noise and touching—made it less than impressive.
“Hater. Eyes front and center, come on.” Phillie snapped her thin fingers several times, and he managed to drag his gaze back to her, swallowing lamely and trying to keep his eyes from straying back. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s up.”
“I don’t need—” Hater began, and a moment later he wilted. Like it or not, he needed help. “It’s Wander.”
Phillie’s antennae went up. “Wander? What about him? Don’t tell me you’re worried. I’m sure he’s fine.” Phillie rolled one shoulder. “Sylvia’s looking for him now, she’ll find him eventually. He probably started his cycle and got caught up in it. He’ll turn up.”
“He’s here.”
She blinked.
“…here?”
“On my ship.” Hater clarified, as he became more frustrated. Of course Jocko hadn’t actually relayed the reason for his call. Hater made a note to sign the Chief up for as many junk magazines as he could find. And perhaps find a way to ensure that all of them were grossly misspelled in both title and content. “I captured him outside of a spacial telegate a couple days ago.”
“You have Wander.” Phillie said, slowly, and in all the years he had known her, Hater had never heard her voice so low and angry. “You took him.”
“…I…uh…”
“You. Globbing. Numbskull.”
Hater did his best not to flinch. Beside her, the three Star Nomads had paused and were blearily looking up at the two of them. “I don’t…but…”
“No. Sylvia was worried sick. And he was with you this whole time.” Phillie puffed out her chest and hissed. “You could have called sooner, I thought she was going to bust a vein! She wouldn’t eat or sleep when he didn’t come to the port! I am going to knock your block off. You’d better be taking care of him, or you’ll be in big trouble—!”
“I’m already in trouble! Wander’s being weird!” Hater burst through her angry tirade with his own, and as annoyed as he was for being scolded there was also some gratitude in him for the chance to treat this like the catastrophe it was. “He’s acting like them!” At that word, he pointed toward the three Nomads clustered together, who were well-startled out of their activities and now were gathering up around Phillie again—not quite in terror, but they were obviously responding to all the yelling. Much in the same way Wander had several times now.
Phillie lost a great deal of her hot air in a loud exhale. She gently rubbed each of the Star Nomads in turn, obviously comforting them. “Well, what’d you expect? He’s having his heat cycle.”
“His what now?”