Eysin: The Giggling Curtain | Ch. 9 - Stiff Loaf, Birdsmugglers, and Blackout Threats
Comedy chaos with mud-caked arrivals, meal planning in the shower, a loaf too stiff to cut, and a grass-roots curtain riot against the oppression of funky bass lines. Scheduling conflicts forgiven.
Sylrissa is on the attic balcony, smoking a cigarette in secret, when she spots two figures crossing the distant reed fields.
Ten minutes of squinting later, she recognizes them.
She stubs out the cigarette with a private smile and heads downstairs.
“Atlas,” she calls, passing through the chaos of prep work—older kids chasing toddlers, peasants-turned-family hauling cauldrons, bread rising like it’s late for its own wedding. “We’ve got early arrivals.”
Atlas looks up from logistics—Imogen’s Dwelling is about to descend in a few hours.
“Who?”
“You’ll see.” Her smile is inscrutable.
They meet them at the threshold.
Arkion and Eysin arrive covered head to toe in mud—genuine, fresh, cow-shit mud from slipping in the reed marshes. Eysin shivers, stepping left and right. Arkion stands casual, locks muddy.
Sylrissa takes one look and loses it.
The laugh echoes through the west wing—rich, unrestrained, delighted.
Atlas blinks. He’s never heard her laugh like that.
“Welcome home,” she gasps, wiping tears. “My god, look at you.”
Because they can’t embrace or shake hands, Arkion and Atlas exchange a mutual, theatrical bow.
“I stepped in shit,” Eysin keeps mumbling, shivering in mud-caked glory.
“Arkion, I’ll shake your hand later,” Sylrissa curtseys. “Come with me, sister. I was headed to the baths anyway.”
The Chef’s Kiss
Arkion slumps onto the stone bench in the men’s bathhouse, stomach growling like a neglected bison. He’s starving—hasn’t eaten since those last dried apples.
Hot water hammers his shoulders, washing away reed-field ditch mud in satisfying brown rivers.
Five minutes. Five glorious minutes of silence and dreams of food.
Then—muffled through the thin stone wall—the women’s side comes alive.
“Some… …proper feast!”
Arkion’s stomach rumbles in agreement.
Feast? Proper? Excellent.
“…huge… … … … ham!”
Explosion of laughter.
Arkion tilts his head.
Massive ham. Acknowledged. Confirmed.
“…sweet tooth!”
Another explosion.
Arkion nods. Sweet tooth—honey cakes? Caramel? Mouth waters.
“…good sauce… tenderized…”
Laughter peaks—bright, helpless, rolling.
“…left nothing on the bone…”
Arkion grins into the steam.
If that’s the spread going around, I’m here for it.
“.......whole buffet… sampled every dish...”
Then one last clear line:
“…Started with the apples…”
Arkion perks up. Apples? Pie? Yes!
More peals.
“...Spirulina!”
He’s piecing together the menu when a tickle hits his nose. Tries to hold it.
Fails. A massive sneeze detonates:
AH-CHOOOOOO!
It echoes like a startled wolf howl off the tiles.
Dead silence from the women’s side.
One heartbeat.
Two.
Then—pandemonium. Both women lose it louder than before.
Arkion wipes his face. “Wonder what’s all that cackling about…” he mutters, scratching his head.
“Gesundheit, you absolute wolf!” One of the girls shouts with fading giggles as footsteps head deeper.
Food.
— Pan back to the women’s side, moments earlier —
Eysin stands under the shower fully clothed, eyes closed, letting hot water blast away layers of reed-marsh mud in thick brown rivers.
Sylrissa, already rinsed and wrapped in a towel, leans against the tiled wall with quiet amusement.
Mud gone. Skin glowing.
Then Sylrissa spots it—a perfect set of teeth marks on Eysin’s butt, just visible as she shifts.
“Oh my,” Sylrissa says, voice warm with delight. “Looks like someone’s been serving a proper feast.”
Eysin blinks, “Feast?”
“You’ve got this massive,” Sylrissa bites with her hands, “bite mark on your ham.”
Eysin glances over her shoulder, and bursts out laughing—the exact bright peal from the moment the bite happened.
“Good time?” Sylrissa asks, soft caution under the tease.
“Yeah,” Eysin answers, still chuckling and grinning about the bite.
Sylrissa makes a joking-swooning face.
“Wouldn’t have guessed Ark has a sweet tooth.”
Eysin explodes into laughter—sweet tooth, how perfectly accurate. The reverie of “the feast” washes over her again.
“One more man has found the good sauce, hurraay.”
They’re laughing.
“I bet he tenderized you for yours!”
“Left nothing on the bone.”
They settle down, catching breath.
Sylrissa’s towel supplies one more:
“She was the whole buffet and he sampled every dish.”
Sylrissa grumbles, fond: “Lucky you.”
Eysin deadpans, eyes dancing: “He started with the apples… and then worked his way down.”
Laughter. Laughter with tears.
“And why the hell is your mouth so green, sister?”
Eysin winks, “Spirulina!”
They share one more delighted look—then the massive sneeze-howls from the other side.
AH-CHOOOOOO!
Both women lose it.
“Gesundheit, Green Wolf!” Sylrissa calls, voice bright with mischief.
Still laughing, they grab towels and head deeper—to the big soaking tub.
*
“I’m going to the dining hall before Gen’s house comes over. Come with me?”
Eysin is cooling her head against the bath’s stone. “I’ll just head to C9 after this, I’ve got some fresh clothes there from last time. And peanuts. I could really go for some peanuts right now. Gotta catch up on the specs, Gen’s been sending reports and stuff, I haven’t really been watching.”
“Well, there’s a big dinner thing starting in a few hours—” Sylrissa waves a hand. “Though, you look like you need rest more than politics. I’ll skip it, too. It’s my last night of vacation, I’ve got a better idea what to do with it.”
Eysin sighs at the thought of vacation almost over. “Tomorrow is going to be madness—I really need to wrap myself up, and feels like I only got started.”
“Yeah, same.”
Sylrissa stands, water streaming. “I’m doing a supply run to Perona tomorrow. Need anything?”
Eysin pauses, toweling off.
Perona. Home. The mystery box in the basement where she took the three rings, and where maybe the strip-of-something is that corresponds to the description of a “flux ledger”.
“Yeah,” she says slowly. “Yeah, I’d actually like to tag along. There’s something I need to check out.”
Buffet Brunch
Mess hall. Afternoon, before guests arrive. Atlas sits with Arkion for a meal amid prep chaos.
Atlas tries logistics.
“I heard Gen’s gonna try to bust Daegan from the Guild Stash over Sampo—”
Arkion saws his meat like it personally insulted his mother.
Scraaaaaape. Scraaaaaape.
Every time Atlas opens his mouth: scraaaaaape.
A sassy curtain behind Arkion leans in and tuts: “Dear Lord, Sir Atelbäer, manners!”
Arkion, deadpan: “It’s not my fault it’s so stiff today.”
Atlas chokes on his wine.
A dozen curtains weep with laughter. One red panel faints and hangs limp like a used handkerchief.
Red: You boor!
Blue: You prude!
Gold: Get ’im, boss!
Arkion keeps sawing, angelic face, demonic scrape.
Atlas, wheezing: “I knew the meat turned out stiff, but come on, it can’t be that hard!”
The curtains explode. One droops like a drunk scarf.
Then—
Hottie, coming in!
One curtain whistles. Others summon: pss-pss-pss.
Sylrissa lets the provocations slide, strides to the table, saunters past.
“Did you change the curtains?” she wonders aloud at Atlas.
“Good to see you here,” Arkion almost whispers when she leans close.
Sylrissa is discreet with her late-night DJ voice. “Good to see you clean! I left your friend in C9, recovering.”
Atlas has sharp ears. “Recovering from what?”
Sylrissa pats his cheek. “Love and fungi, brother.”
“She’s staying with you?” Arkion asks, curious.
“Oh, I won’t be going back to C9. If you want to check on her, it’ll have to be up to you.” She tuts. “Anyway—buffet brunch.”
Sylrissa strides toward Bartel, already serving his tray.
Atlas realizes something, a stupid smile breaks across his face, he elbows Arkion, “you’re too busy milking the fruit, eh?”
Arkion chokes on his kefir.
Atlas pats on his back, SLAM.
“Welcome home, brother.”
Arkion coughs and thumps his chest.
Now that Arkion can’t scrape the plate anymore, Atlas continues:
“You’re gonna answer the call from Vinu about the whaling?”
A little annoyed, “do we have a choice?”
“We’ll take Gemini, you take Pisces.”
“I’m a member down.” Arkion shrugs, “I mean, in case you know someone who’d like to operate the Condenser.”
Pan to the large entrance door.
The curtains curl into trumpets and announce:
TUT TU-RU TU TU TU TUUUUU!
The royal-red curtain swoops down like a drunken MC, forms a microphone with one corner, and booms in game-show voice:
“Ladies, gentlemen, and assorted disasters… the Väino Brothers!”
Two kids in dirty tweed stand at the threshold.
“But can such bandits even speak for themselves?” The Right-Hand Royal Red curls into a microphone and flies over to lend a voice to one of the boys.
“State your business!” Atlas hollers.
“And don’t mind them!” He swipes at the curtain. It slides back, mock-offended.
“Ah, so your curtains have been acting up too?” Arkion grumbles.
Atlas hurries to the door, speaks with the boys privately.
Arkion asks his cutlery: “What do you think? Are these curtains spying on us? Is this some kind of new Gisnepo Diversity Sorcery I haven’t heard about yet?”
His cutlery is just normal cutlery.
All that reflects back are his own icy eyes. A little tired. Not enough sleep lately.
Atlas bursts his bubble, taking his coat from the hanger. “I’ll be out a few hours. They found Bubby. Been to the Snakehead and poisoned…”
“Atlas,” Arkion calls before he’s out.
“We’ll talk when I get back.”
“We’re in.”
As soon as Atlas is out, some people arrive from Gen’s dwelling.
One sneaks into the dining hall while Arkion isn’t finished with his loaf (which is not stiff at all, by the way).
As she enters, heels striking the hall like ice, the curtains pull back, hushing each other, as if terrified.
Arkion pauses mid-bite, loaf forgotten. The woman who steps in moves like winter arriving early.
He smiles. “Good day, lady Rozenbäer.”
“Arkion.” She smiles, curtseys, then turns serious—almost furious. But not at him. “I need to ask something.”
Arkion cools. “Can we do it here, where the curtains are watching?”
Valen glances at the curtains—nothing strange. Not yet.
She leans to the table. “I need your help with something. It has to be you. I can’t bring this up with Atlas tonight, nor with Gen.”
“Leonard not up to the task?”
This irritates her—a flicker, gone fast. “I can’t trust the Black Rain with this. Did you know—they’ve actually kidnapped people for Gisnepo? I can’t hire them and sleep a good night!”
Arkion sighs, smiles. “Alright. How can I help you?”
She drops her head, balancing on her hands. “You’re in Bratka’s circle, right?”
Her orange-blossom scent cuts through the bread-and-stew warmth.
Arkion shrugs. “Sure, in a manner of speaking.”
“I think bringing it to him makes the most sense…” Valen speaks quieter.
Arkion leans closer.
“How do I put this…”
Arkion smiles. “I see how it is. You’re trying to smuggle some birds over.”
Valen grins, approving. “Two girls have been staying with me for a year now.”
Arkion’s brow lifts. “So the quarry rumour had some meat to it… And you’re hiding them from Black Rain—or the Guild?”
“Yes, the Guild is looking for them. And they are probably worth enough to have the Black Rain come down on all of us if only they knew.”
Arkion sighs to think, nods. “You’ve brought them here?”
“They’re staying at the Temple right now, one of my entourage took them to the Old Man.”
Arkion smiles. “Good call. Alright, I promise you. I’ll get these girls to Vegas-B. The Guild will never see them again.”
Valen stands straight, thanks the ceiling mural. A weight lifted.
She looks back. “Don’t tell me you came all the way here to sneak out on me?”
Arkion smiles, looks at her—she’s a friend. A tad predatory, as he remembers, but he’d not recognize it as such. Her better side tends to be Quiet. “What if I did?”
“I didn’t mean to come on to you like that.” She crosses her arms, looks to the side, interested in the kids preparing the table, taking used dishes away, placing fresh food.
Arkion smiles, nods—she did come on to him with quite the kiss when they met over a long time ago in Reval, super urgent to evacuate—bombs blasting, earth trembling.
Valen chuckles. “I thought I was going to die.”
Arkion stands, walks over, gives her a hug.
She’s a professional at not crying when she would really like to.
“Thank you,” he leans out, looks her in the eye. “For bringing this to me.”
Valen gulps, smiles, lips sealed.
“Would have been a hell of a way to die, right?” Arkion smiles, gives her cheek a pat.
Valen buries herself in his chest. Breathes him in, familiar reliability.
“Anything else torturing you?” Arkion asks.
Valen steps away, covering her mouth to stop herself from speaking. “Something I heard…”
“A rumour,” Arkion knows—her specialty.
“I don’t know much about how Arthur died—not when, not how—just that the murderer is likely still on the loose.” She’s cold like a telegram now. “No one’s checked the whereabouts of Alexander at that time.”
Arkion crosses his arms, thinks at the ceiling, looks at the angelic murals like it’s supposed to remind him of something. “On the basis of good faith, we do not…”
“Well, it’s just what I’ve heard.”
“Well, you know Alexander—do you think he would?” Arkion looks at her, she’s uncomfortable.
She shakes her head. “But he’s an enigma, you know?”
Arkion smiles, he knows.
“And you can’t deny, they were aiming at the same position at Sampo.”
Arkion shrugs. “Everyone always knew it was going to be Alexander doing our bidding there.”
Valen takes Arkion’s hand, feet magnetized toward the door, she needs to get ready for dinner. “Everyone but him—he didn’t know.” Sharp exhale. “Will I see you here later?”
“Don’t know, I’ve got some company.”
“Well, alright, I’ll see you when I see you, then.”
Once she’s out, and Arkion is left standing, curtain DJ Red gasps and falls off its railing.
The red panel flutters, trying to regain composure, one corner twitching like it’s reaching for an invisible microphone.
Arkion walks to it, puts a foot on it.
“Hey, Red.”
The curtain perks up—frill quivering, all ears.
He leans in:
“Tell the others… The attic’s booked for a private session. No commentary. No play-by-play. And if I hear one single funky bass line leaking through the rafters—”
He pauses, silence stretching. Full winter:
“—I’ll personally replace you all with blackout blinds.”
The red curtain gasps—full, scandalized, operatic GAAAAASP that rattles every pane.
It yanks out from under his foot, straight, corner flaring—indignant as a duchess stepped on—and waves frantically at neighbors—frills flying, lace flapping in urgent semaphore.
Within seconds the collective erupts:
Outraged squeaks!
Indignant rustles!
One blue panel faints with a theatrical thud.
Another starts slow, rebellious clap that spreads.
The gold one hoists a corner like a protest banner: WE HAVE RIGHTS!
Whispers ripple: Strike? Strike!
Arkion watches the revolution ignite with the faintest smirk, wonders if he’s leaving incoming dinner guests with a Dr. Frank-N-Furter rocky horror show—shakes his head, heads where he means to.
His NSS knows exactly where his company is.
And she’s not resting at the guest wing in room C9.
The hum and bustle of freaky curtains, arriving visitors, and kids’ dinner prep fades as he finds the library, and next to it the half-hidden staircase leading to the stickman dojo in the attic.
Stickman Dojo Practise and Play
The attic is curtain-free. Mercy.
Eysin swings her staff alone, finding her centre again. Fungi tuned out; space solid, breath easy.
Arkion slips in—silent until close.
She senses him, shrieks, then laughs.
He lunges. “En garde!”
“Guard what?”
“Guard, or I’ll poke you.”
“Not with that, I hope.” She flicks a teasing glance at his staff, eyes glittering.
He trips her. She rolls up laughing.
Metal sings. Breath syncs.
They trade blows—light, then sharper.
He keeps tapping her shoulders, infuriating. “Still holding back. Still apologising with every strike.”
“Not on purpose.”
“I know.” He circles. “What’s weighing you?”
Her staff falters. “Who says anything’s weighing me?”
“Your body.” He attacks—she parries, barely. “Every move says sorry.”
“Maybe I just have exquisite manners.”
“Manners don’t flinch before winning.”
They clash harder.
“I’ve been tuned in on The Best Radio on the Show,” she pants between strikes. “Fresh rubble from Reval.”
Arkion asks, “they were talking about the Red Flag?”
“Erika. On the run, apparently. Headed where? Warsaw?” She strikes—he deflects.
“Warsaw couldn’t take her in.”
“Here?” Eysin grins, pretending the grin is at his strike.
“That’s up to Vinu.”
She hops outside their ring, “what do you think Gisnepo will do to her?”
Arkion does a bang with his fingers. “Sorry to say. But she’s done a lot of damage.”
They still to listen for a moment.
Yup, that’s an electric guitar.
“My name is pinned to that piece of history, too—I got other people involved…”
Arkion goes serious. His staff stops a hair from her throat.
“Sõsar—It’s just a piece of history. You can let it go.”
“Would any of that have happened if I wasn’t there to start the Red Flag?”
“Of course. The Red Flag didn’t cause the Tragedy of Reval. It was the shape the fall took because it was already falling—ohh man, that’s a really good song, actually.”
They stop to dance for a song, separate, occasionally spinning each other around.
The song ends, Eysin kicks up her staff again.
“I don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I’m saying the pattern was there long before you lit the first spark. I see you want to spar some more, okay.” Arkion picks a naginata from his Arsenal, a bead expands to the shape and appropriate material. “Shields on—let’s see how you cut.”
Their skins gloss over, covered by a thin fungal-feeling skin. Silver white.
Eysin’s staff turns into a naginata.
Dù-dug! Blindisde: Naginata
They spar.
Now, Eysin can tell Arkion is a lot less skilled at this than Atlas, but it doesn’t matter, because Eysin is so many lightyears behind that Arkion is taking it really easy on her.
“Hey, is this play or training?”
“Come on, I’m not gonna roast you.” Arkion chuckles. “And sure, if you really wanna talk politics, let’s talk politics.”
“I am connected to a city getting bombed to rubble.”
“No, you can’t take any credit for it. Gisnepo didn’t need Erika, or you, or any particular banner. They needed a crack that was going to open anyway. Reval was brittle at the core—economic rot, old grudges, power hoarded too long in too few hands. That brittleness was the real cause, the thing that unfolds as rubble and opportunists. The rest is just what we see happening: one thing leading to another.”
Her jaw tightens. She lowers her spear. “So it was inevitable? All of it? Pointless to even try starting something?”
“Not pointless.” He steps back, lowers his weapon. “The attempt matters. It changes you. It might even change what breaks next time. But guilt? That’s you trying to take credit for pushing something that was already tipping over. You didn’t push Reval off the cliff. You were standing on the same slope as everyone else. Gisnepo just found the easiest handhold.”
She exhales, thinking about it.
Shoulders dropping the last fraction of their tension.
Then she chuckles, “I was thinking about forgiving… But there’s nothing to forgive.”
He smiles, gestures for another round—gentler now, giving her space. She accepts, but her strikes are slower, thoughtful.
Then her face shifts—amused.
She sniffs theatrically. “Why do you smell like Valen?”
Arkion doesn’t flinch, meets her eyes. “Ran into her downstairs. Needs my help taking something to Vegas-B. Ship leaves tomorrow night.” A beat. “And wanted to ask if you’re coming with me?”
A long pause.
“To Vegas-B?”
Arkion mhmhs.
The attic creaks like it’s breathing with them.
Eysin nods—calculates her schedule, Perona in the morning. Back by evening; plenty of time.
The scent lingers, and for a moment, an old habit twitches: marking territory? But today, it doesn’t compel her to shrink.
“Smells kinda nice, actually. A scent so lovely it lights up the entire room like it’s Christmas.” She beams with delight, “what a wonderful gift,” and her next strike comes with no apology at all.
His spear flies, slams the ceiling with a metallic CLANG, clatters to the floor.
“There you are,” he grins, breathless.
She throws her weapon aside and the silver skin recedes.
“For old time’s sake—give me a reminder in close-quarters.”
He echoes her grin, circling with feigned caution. “For old times’ sake? Oh, you have no idea…”
“Go on, try to cross a line. Give me something else to laugh about.”
Arkion takes a mock-stance, “you want to laugh, eh?”
Eysin takes a mock-stance, SNORES.
Continue reading:
Eysin: The Giggling Curtain | Ch. 10 - The Attic of the Fourth Dimension (The Veil’s Unreal, Brother)
Three figures stand at the edge of a fresh hole: Arkion, Atlas, and Bartel wrapped in a blanket that used to be Bubby’s.
E-pub/book: Aiming for 2026 February.
C9 B-SIDE:
Green Hands, Peanuts and Synthetic Waves.
They close into a playful exchange of grips and feints, bodies remembering old Temple training rhythms: wrist slips, hip checks, familiar weight of sparring without steel.
“No idea about what?” she teases, dodging a grab.
“What I held out on,” he counters, voice low with promise.
He tackles her into a roll, tickles her ribs, and sends her up again.
“Ih-ih-eeee, advanced techniques?” She mock-gasps.
He lunges—fast, precise—catches her wrist, spins her until her front meets the attic wall with a soft thud. Cheek pressed to cool wood, his body a warm, solid line against her back. She’s pinned.
“Ooh, that’s a new one,” she half-muffles into the wall.
His breath hot against her ear, beard scraping just enough to make her shiver—and then he exhales, slow, letting the heat sink into her skin like a promise he’s too disciplined to speak.
His grip is almost gone, but he’s still there, maybe expecting her to break loose?
Arkion’s voice drops into full dark-overlord mode: “I’m going to be shamelessly hungry for you, and if I go too far—”
He cracks, grinning like a fool: “—you’ll slap me and we’ll laugh about it.”
Eysin oohs, eyes sparkling. Jackpot!
She laughs, “I’m here for it! Mister Frosh.”
Tightening grip for a fraction upon both words, “Prince! Frosh!”
She laughs, can’t get a word out, and blissfully can’t move—or won’t move her body.
“Pay attention,” he says.
The pressure is back.
“Let’s test a quick—secret—technique.”
His hand slides down her side, cups her hip, pulls her tighter against him.
“Because I’ve got to get to a meeting in five minutes.”
Iceburns flare in her chest—her breath creates ice flowers in the air—at the thought of him leaving her here, alone for the evening while he plays politics downstairs!?
She could break free in half a heartbeat.
She doesn’t.
Instead she presses back against him, wicked smile blooming.
“Aw, are you going to the big dinner thing!?”
He blinks. Chuckles, “oh no. I meant the meeting we’re supposed to have at… C9?”
The frost thwarts as fast as it came—replaced by a rush of wicked relief and delight that floods her veins like red wine. “Oh, that meeting.”
He growls, one hand already sliding under the waistband of her leggings, fingers rubbing against cotton with rising hunger. “We have five minutes now—no one gets murdered.”
“Five here or five to get there?” She’s catching her breath, rolls her hips back against him, “because C9 might take the entire night.”
His hand slips beneath the cotton—the side of his thumb gently gliding over her pulse, fingers teasing her moist entrance, hovering, waiting.
She chuckles, “curious—technique,” rolls her hips again—”pressing herself onto his fingertips with a soft, greedy moan that sounds suspiciously like “Prince Frosh” in reverse.”
Arkion’s chin drops to her shoulder, eyes squeezed shut, shoulders shaking with the effort not to laugh out loud.
“You’re starting a laugh, man!” Eysin does a sharp exhale.
Then he growls against her neck, and sinks one finger halfway in with a single unhurried push that steals her breath as she’s trying to suppress a laugh.
Her legs tremble as he curls—tentative at first, testing, waiting to see if she’ll pull away or lean in.
She gasps, head falling back against his shoulder.
He exhales, soft and surprised, “or,” he whispers, nipping her lip, easing in a second finger, “we can do ten. We’ll just run a little late for C9.”
“You’re—” She can’t say.
“What?” He stops moving his fingers, lips and hair tickle her neck, fingers still, giving her the space to speak.
“Terrible at keeping to a schedule.”
He laughs against her skin, fingers curl to rub the spot.
She suppresses another laugh, and a broken little moan slips out.
He shifts his weight, pressing his chest to hers so she’s fully trapped between him and the wall. One hand stays locked on her hip, keeping her from wiggling away.
“You know, I was thinking about doing this back at the greenhouse,” he grumbles.
Eysin chuckles, “with the green han—” She can’t keep talking. Ruins the feeling.
“No, not with the green hands, I would have washed them,” he smiles.
…
And soon there’s nothing left but clinging—her arms locked around his neck, shaking.
So he decides to stop—has to stop—to take a breath.
The plan is to take the rest of this to C9.
She pulses around his fingers, laughs, “This fucking technique!” Unusually dramatic, because her pants are all soaked now, “how do we—Get to C9 like this?”
He gives her butt a slap. She yelps and laughs.
“Now, how do we get to C9?” He takes a look around the room, no towels. No potentially helpful curtains. And then it’s decided.
“Unapologetically soaked and hard. We’re in this together. This is going to be interesting.”
*
Minutes later they creep through corridors—FULL MISSION: ducking behind cuckoo clocks and old wardrobes when footsteps approach, and the curtains—oh the curtains are a scandal, stifling their laughter while blasting it mansion-wide: RED ALERT! RED ALERT! RUNNERS ON THE LOOSE! SOMEONE’S BEEN IN THE ATTIC AND THEY’RE NOT EVEN TRYING TO HIDE IT!”
Despite all those wonders, they do their best to evade the crew—full of curious or furious questions about WORK or WEATHER or WHALES or SIBERIA and “boy, aren’t you happy to see me?”
A single red panel peeks around a corner, microphone-corner quivering, then yanks back with an outraged GASP when they nearly crash into it.
They tangle over the lounge sofas, muffled curses and stifled giggles, nearly knocking over a lamp.
They burst into C9—door slamming shut behind them.
They run into a low table, knocked over too easily.
Though, the surprise turns into an assisted dive onto Eysin’s mat on the floor.
Arkion chuckles, “watch your step.”
Eysin gets up to his face, teasing with kisses and pulling away.
Her hand finds contact.
She studies his face as she feels him.
Arkion grins, “still stuffed.”
Instead of letting herself laugh, she leans down to his ear while unlocking the belt.
And whispers:
“Thought about doing this back in the factory.”
His hands snap to her hips as the idea washes over him. Fingers digging in like he’s afraid she’ll disappear—or like he’s afraid he’ll lose it if he lets go.
He grins, words squeezed out through clenched teeth, jaw tight, breath held like he’s swallowing a growl:
“On the hammock?”
“Yes,” she chuckles and pushes his trousers down. “Right on that stupid hammock.”
His fingers flex on her hips, takes a deep breath and answers in a sound that’s half-laugh, half-growl into surrender:
“Very dangerous.”
She wiggles off his hiphold, downwards, feeling him harden, gives it a lick and then her chin locks between his fingers.
Arkion doesn’t let her go again.
She looks at him, lips form a clever what?
He looks at her, “Can’t let you do that right now, because first—”
Interrupted by her stomach growl.
She plays into it, crying face and all, “But all I’ve had is peanuts!”
“I see—I see what you did there,” he laughs, pulls her up.
She buries her face in his chest, hearing her own words, laughing so hard she wheezes. Exhales, “did you really just turn down a—”
Arkion groans, trying to talk himself down in mock-drama: “You were about to roast a peanuts with just one more of that GRRRRR-lick—don’t you even breathe at it!” He whines like a little violin, “I’d be a cwisped-out heart attack til 7 o’ clock!”
Then he cups her face, searching her laughing, confused eyes, to continue what the growl didn’t let him:
“So, first—I’ll give you a piece of factory, then we’ll pick a couple of really nice scarves from your ceiling to cover ourselves in, get some food from the dinner thing—sounded like great menu today.
Then we stay for a little bit, trade some winks, get a few boats running; then we’ll come back, I’ll take another good look at you,” he smiles, “and then—IF—if you’re ever still hungry for that particular peanuts—then sure, end my day and give me that heart attack. Cool?”
She’s processing, cooling. She feels that he, still at length, throbbing under her belly, is not cooling. “Okay, okay, okay.” The plan sounds good to her (braincell count: dramatic reduction accelerating) yet incomplete, “You don’t want me to continue that, but then, what do you mean by a piece of factory?”
Eyes flash!
The Grin of Mischief!
Arkion flips them over,
flips Eysin over,
Leans down and whispers in her ear,
“we turn around—”
Pulls her up by her hips!
“Get on our knees,
and f—”
*CUT*
*
They set themselves straight almost an hour later, still flushed, clothes make-shift of whatever black rag scrap Eysin’s C9 has lying around, and patterned scarves she had started to collect thinking she might be able to sell some, but then just started using them to lighten up her space.
Eysin shows a thumbs up, “that poncho actually is yours now. You’re welcome. Perfect fit!”
“Well-well, I accept the luxurious offering.”
She takes another one of those biggers scarves so he wouldn’t look ridiculous alone.
“Damn, that is comfy as fuck!”
“Alright, let’s go. You must be in a serious need of rehydration,” he winks and blushes away.
“Isotonic drinks, Jarre usually has those around. You know. For the training room.”
“Yup. File it under training.” Arkion gets it.
Funny.
She snaps serious, impressed by the though, “I could actually file the drink cost under research expenses.”
They step out of the room and walk through the dark wide hallway, lights set to red (sometimes even infra), purple (ultraviolet), and gold—bulbs that are basically sparks of concentrated daylight. Sun storage.
The curtains are watching, of course, but they’re also busy playing the music from the mess hall.
Slow, harmonic synthetic waves.
Tests and samples of drum rhythms, fading in and out.
Quiet’s voice humming along.
They walk.
“Have you done this kind of thing before?” She marks.
They slow down a little as he thinks to respond. He looks around himself, at himself, at her. “By what odds?”
She giggles, a little nervous.
“No I mean like… How did you know to use your fingers like that?”
“I may have heard something about that kind of thing, alright. All-male camps, anecdotes. ”
“And you haven’t really done this before?”
“No?”
“Aw, why does this make it even hotter?” Eysin asks this into her bracelets.
Arkion is a bit confused, “did I do something wrong?”
“Haha are you kidding?” She grabs his hand, laughs, “thanks! For… Reaching out to me like that?”
The curtain they are passing now, flays slow through the air once, a low, naughty tuned—I guess —low but sassy MALE voice comments on them, “intimacy!”
Eysin and Arkion freeze. Suppressed laughter. Looking at each other, they keep walking.
*
The mess hall has softened into late-night hush: candles guttering low, trays picked over, a few stragglers nursing drinks. Valen is on the little stage, synths weaving augmented-holographic-reality waves—shimmering code-veils, waking-in-the-matrix lyrics, nostalgic and dreamy. Jarre-Pierre tends bar, cigarette dangling, polishing glasses like meditation. Bartel and Sylrissa share a small table nearby, picking at cold cuts and a bottle of something amber and unlabeled.
Eysin sneaks up on the counter, Jarre doesn’t see her until she asks, “I need something Isotonic.”
Giver her a bottle, “Bon entraînement, hein?”
Eysin smirks and drinks up.
Arkion greets him, they shake hands.
“Broth, brother. Can we make broth?”
Jarre clicks the water heater on. “Take your pic, the cubes are in the cooler.”
Eysin puts her empty bottle on the counter.
Jarre didn’t expect her to finish it so fast.
“Yup, turns out I was thirsty. Possibly for the first time in my life.”
“Soif pour la première fois de ta vie? Do you want another one?”
“I’ll take a round of broth, he promised to make,” Eysin points her chin towards Arkion at the cooler, reading labels on the broth cubes.
Sylrissa’s message lights up on Clarity, Eysin sees it:
Come sit with us for a bit.
The four eventually drift together at the table. Arkion leans in to Sylrissa. “Can you organize a few corvettes from Adalsysla to Vegas-B? Tomorrow night?”
Sylrissa pulls her specs, routes bison carriers with a few flicks. “Done. They’ll be waiting. Expect getting on past midnight. They haven’t boarded the Bison yet.”
“Cassius’ load?”
Sylrissa nods.
“Come with us?” Arkion grins.
“I was going to see Bartel to Vegas-B anyway.”
“Gen might have a job for you. Or Bratka. Yeah?”
“Yeah I’m signed up.”
*
The lockdown ends that evening—official ping from the Swarm.
Bartel stands. “Air?”
They step outside. Crisp night, stars sharp. Bartel lights a smoke, offers. Arkion declines, Eysin too. They breathe, quiet.
Inside again, Arkion nudges Eysin toward the bar. “Quick word with Jarre.”
Valen and Clarissa are there, leaning on the counter, talking low while Jarre washes glasses.
Arkion pauses at a respectful distance. “Am I intruding?”
Valen gestures the two stools next to her. “Open space.”
He takes a little bow—half-theatrical, half-genuine—then gently directs Eysin forward. “Eysin… Valen… And you’ve already met Clarissa.” He pauses, sheepish. “Should’ve done that properly the first time. Sorry. Things were… loud.”
Valen chuckles, amused and touched. “Yeah, we’ve met. But thanks. That’s kind.”
Eysin spergs just a little, voice bright. “Your music is really nice.”
Valen places a hand on her heart, theatrics soft but sincere. “Thank you. And… will you forgive me for how I came on to you back at Gen’s?”
“Nothing to forgive,” Eysin says, grins easy. “It was quite an… interesting stimulation.”
Valen exhales, relieved. Arkion sits between them.
He turns to Jarre. “You up for tomorrow?”
Jarre catches the three red beads Arkion rolls across the counter.
“Gen would like it, mon cher. Get out ahead of the others.”
Arkion nods, then to Valen: “The Capricorn will be yours?”
“Finally I get one;” Valen raises her fist.
Arkion knocks it. “Congratz.”
“We’ll have to jack, it, though,” Valen is not happy about that.
Arkion says something they might not be aware of, “but you’ll have a navigator. Gen’s going over to bust Daegan out.”
Valen blinks. “We don’t even know what state he is in.”
“You’ll know more tomorrow.”
Arkion stands, helps Eysin up.
“Hey, Pierre!” Eysin calls out, sticks tongue out of her mouth for no good reason, “do you happen to have any—roasted peanuts?”
Arkion snorts.
Jarre-Pierre throws her an entire pack!
She catches and takes a bow, backing off as Arkion nodded towards the exit.
They slip away, dignity dented but intact, mutually amused.
Valen calls after them, grinning: “Going already?”
Eysin spins, voice bright and awkward: “Yes—he’s going to… teach me… how to… hunt! For… bedbugs?”
Beat.
Valen blinks. Then laughs. “With roasted peanuts?”
Arkion deadpans, no hesitation: “Very dangerous quarry. High stakes.”
Eysin shrugs, grinning like she meant to do it all along.
They vanish up the stairs before anyone can ask follow-ups.
Behind them, a single defiant gold curtain flickers once — silent protest — then goes dark.
The End of Separation loading…
Don’t touch that dial.
(End B-Side 9)
Tomorrow: a shotgun funeral, mystery box in Perona, televisions remembering they once were gods, and Eysin declaring personal bankruptcy.