Skyglass: Chapter 8

 Spider and Spin

PHOENIX

Moss was shut inside his room when I got up the next morning. His com was burbling and quivering with messages on the kitchen counter. Unable to resist curiosity, and really not in the mood to respect people’s privacy, I took a peek: the majority of the texts were from Marko. I spun the com on the counter, wondering if I should continue my invasion and read the messages. The com rang before I could decide.

I swept up the little chunk of scrap metal and answered rather vehemently. “He’s busy moping–stop calling and go away.”

There was an irritatingly long pause, and then Marko asked, “Is he okay? Everyone’s talking about Skyglass and I just…want to make sure he’s not overwhelmed.”

“He’s immersed himself in full-blown sensory deprivation. Something called sleep. Being overwhelmed is, therefore, impossible.” I growled into Moss’ com. “But when he’s awake, yeah. He’s overwhelmed, and thus does not need you calling him every half hour. Don’t you have something else to do with your piss-tons of spare time–like find yourself a job?”

He released a heavy sigh–heavy as the intestinal regions of a black hole. “Yeah. Just–keep an eye on him. Please?”

“Do I have a choice? Anyway, just in case he hasn’t told you yet, Moss is taking you out to dinner tonight. So clean up and dress nice. He’ll send you the street number and time. Bye.”

I hung up before he could reply, and stomped over to Moss’ door. I kicked it open, scattering lemon rinds and half-full drinking glasses across the floor. The room was dark, as was the gurgling music coming out of his exear. In the center of the bed was a blanket-covered lump.

I pounced. “Hello! Your not-boyfriend called like ten billion times and told me to take care of you, so.” I wrenched off his covers. “Seeing as I’m hungry and pissed off, we’re going to do a little therapeutic grocery shopping. And then we’re getting you something sexy to wear for tonight.”

Moss sputtered in protest as I grabbed his collar and pulled him out of bed.

I dragged him to a pan-galactic market as far from the apartment as I could find. It was a color-coded labyrinth of floozy eelman nipples, space-camp gutterbrew, and other goodies that had to be imported from beyond earth’s grubby sphere. Moss slogged behind me, poking at bags of oil-packed tadpoles, and kicking petulantly at my heels–an annoying habit I ended with a quick spin and a stomp to his toes. After that, he sulked and slowed to a trudge, until he’d fallen far behind me and our quickly filling cart.

I was just inspecting a bag of crème-filled puffersnipe when I heard him yelp from two aisles over, wailing out a desperate plea for help. “Phoenix?! PHOENIX!”

I dropped the bag into the cart and scrambled up the nearest shelving unit. I leapt through open air to the next one over before landing at Moss’ side with a crack of my heels, glad I’d worn my diamond-enforced boot spikes.

Both ends of the aisle were blocked by a slow-approaching throng of people: a murder, I recognized at once–a band of talon-tongued journalists and critics. They were the bane and joy of all performers who prostrated themselves for the public’s pornographic happy-happy-bliss-hunger.

The micro-whir of their collective eye cams rattled the jars and tubes of squik-o mayo on the shelves. Their enlarged giga-ears were tuned towards us, undoubtedly housing binaural microphones ready to eat up even the tiniest of sound bites.

As Moss and I collided back-to-back, he angled his head toward me, and hissed, “What the rot is going on?”

I giggled gleefully. Murders were a nuisance, to be true, but back in my dizzying days as toppest popup, I’d loved their nonstop attention–their presence had been a pleasant whiff of my sun-sisters’ comforting, whirling selves.

“They just want to talk to you–peck out your eyeballs and eat up your brains like the crow-creatures they are.”

He swallowed down panic. I could see it burbling beneath his grim facade. “How do I make them go away?”

I snerked. “You give them something to squabble over, and run.”

“I don’t want to give them anything.”

“Come on–drop your pants or something. It’s your first time being scavenged; they’ll let you off easy.”

“NO. Please, Phoenix.” I could feel the terror thrumming down his spine. “Can’t you just bash us free?”

I groaned. “I still have shopping to do!” I thought for a moment. “Fine. If you refuse to show them your ass, how about dropping your hood? Give ’em a little face taste.”

“How about your hood?” he bit back.

I spun right around. “My hood?” I snarled at him, then went still.

Why not my hood? Father number two knew I was here. Hiding was pointless. Why not return to my former glitz and glory?

“Fine,” I fumed, and shoved Moss behind me.

“Hey!” I called to the murder. “Listen up, you gobbling crows. Moss is just a snarky little drummer who’s never had sex–what’s so fun about that? I, on the other hand, am an epicure of orgies, a connoisseur of fire pickles with a flameproof track record of bombast and bubble-bombs.”

I tore off my hood and grinned at the murder’s bulging-eyed surprise. “Oh yes, sweetlings, it is I–Phoenix. The lustiest popup to ever strut the cosmos has returned from the land of longing, ready to shock you all to the tippity-pippity top.”

Proceed to Chapter 8, page 4–>