The fire is burning low, and Watch is always pacing the camp perimeter, bare feet barely audible on the hard dirt. Everyone else is settled in close to the fire, some more settled than others--Burn and Runner and Drummer are curled together, arms across chests or wedged under shoulders, legs thrown across hips and thighs; Siri folded up to their left, with her book on her legs, reading down at a sharp angle; Tooth sprawled on the edge of the firelight, legs splayed, one hand palm-down on the cracked dirt, the other palm-up, knuckles tapping in time with Watch’s footsteps; Birdy straight across the fire from Lucinda, between Twist and Tooth, watching the fire crackle lower and lower, with her fingers curled under her belly like she can lift the weight and make it lighter; Twist turning her switchblade so each edge and plane catches the firelight in turn, brushing at dust and picking at rust; Dredge with her head pillowed on Twist’s thigh and her heels tapping close to Photo, humming to herself with her hands folded over her stomach; Photo with her camera in hand, checking the fire through the eyepiece, trying to look at the others and compose a shot, fighting with the flickering, dimming light.
It’s Lucinda who breaks the silence, raises her head, shakes the hair escaping her braid back off her face.
“Your women let you down, Birdy.”
The snik of Twist’s switchblade stops, as do Dredge’s humming and the tmp of her feet. Watch’s footsteps stop, somewhere behind Siri. Tooth stops tapping. Runner sits up, to Burn and Drummer’s murmured and indistinct protests. Photo drops her camera into her lap, wriggles back away from the firelight; can't fade the way Watch or Tooth can, but close enough. Siri goes to turn the page of her textbook, pauses.
Everything is silent a long moment, even the wood failing to pop to break the tension.
“No they didn’t,” Birdy says, soft.
“Well they sure didn’t help.” Dredge snorts, throws one arm up at the sky before dropping it above her head to point at Birdy. “If they’d helped, you wouldn’t have the kid.”
“They helped,” Birdy replies. Sets her jaw, sticks her chin out. Tips her nose up as she draws her eyebrows down.
“But did they help the way you needed help?” Lucinda asks, just loud enough to be heard. Runner lays back down, rolls over, and Drummer and Burn go with her, turn their backs on the conversation. Watch starts her circuit again, starts humming, and Tooth keeps time. Photo picks at something hard and plastic.
Twist is silent. Siri is silent. Lucinda is silent. Dredge is silent.
Birdy is silent.
Lucinda digs out a plastic bottle--pre-war, duct taped together so many times it’s barely its shape anymore. She gestures to toss it to Birdy, then tosses it when Birdy raises her hands.
“Nan’s Lace. Grows wild in the southeast. Need to cultivate it, this far west. You take two thumbtips a day, in the middle days between bleeds. Makes sure it doesn’t take.” She holds her hand up, and Birdy tosses the bottle back.
Say They Fear Her (f!courier/siri) (dubcon, referenced noncon) (12a/?)
The fire is burning low, and Watch is always pacing the camp perimeter, bare feet barely audible on the hard dirt. Everyone else is settled in close to the fire, some more settled than others--Burn and Runner and Drummer are curled together, arms across chests or wedged under shoulders, legs thrown across hips and thighs; Siri folded up to their left, with her book on her legs, reading down at a sharp angle; Tooth sprawled on the edge of the firelight, legs splayed, one hand palm-down on the cracked dirt, the other palm-up, knuckles tapping in time with Watch’s footsteps; Birdy straight across the fire from Lucinda, between Twist and Tooth, watching the fire crackle lower and lower, with her fingers curled under her belly like she can lift the weight and make it lighter; Twist turning her switchblade so each edge and plane catches the firelight in turn, brushing at dust and picking at rust; Dredge with her head pillowed on Twist’s thigh and her heels tapping close to Photo, humming to herself with her hands folded over her stomach; Photo with her camera in hand, checking the fire through the eyepiece, trying to look at the others and compose a shot, fighting with the flickering, dimming light.
It’s Lucinda who breaks the silence, raises her head, shakes the hair escaping her braid back off her face.
“Your women let you down, Birdy.”
The snik of Twist’s switchblade stops, as do Dredge’s humming and the tmp of her feet. Watch’s footsteps stop, somewhere behind Siri. Tooth stops tapping. Runner sits up, to Burn and Drummer’s murmured and indistinct protests. Photo drops her camera into her lap, wriggles back away from the firelight; can't fade the way Watch or Tooth can, but close enough. Siri goes to turn the page of her textbook, pauses.
Everything is silent a long moment, even the wood failing to pop to break the tension.
“No they didn’t,” Birdy says, soft.
“Well they sure didn’t help.” Dredge snorts, throws one arm up at the sky before dropping it above her head to point at Birdy. “If they’d helped, you wouldn’t have the kid.”
“They helped,” Birdy replies. Sets her jaw, sticks her chin out. Tips her nose up as she draws her eyebrows down.
“But did they help the way you needed help?” Lucinda asks, just loud enough to be heard. Runner lays back down, rolls over, and Drummer and Burn go with her, turn their backs on the conversation. Watch starts her circuit again, starts humming, and Tooth keeps time. Photo picks at something hard and plastic.
Twist is silent. Siri is silent. Lucinda is silent. Dredge is silent.
Birdy is silent.
Lucinda digs out a plastic bottle--pre-war, duct taped together so many times it’s barely its shape anymore. She gestures to toss it to Birdy, then tosses it when Birdy raises her hands.
“Nan’s Lace. Grows wild in the southeast. Need to cultivate it, this far west. You take two thumbtips a day, in the middle days between bleeds. Makes sure it doesn’t take.” She holds her hand up, and Birdy tosses the bottle back.