A Fallen HomeKin

PART XLVI

Fralith wriggled further under the blanket and closer to BlueShirt, grimacing as PainBird dug its talons into his shoulder. It was quiet for a moment, save for the constant beep, beep, beep of something in his little sectioned off corner, shuffle of feet, coughing, and a low murmur of voices drifting through the thin green sheet surrounding his bed as he and BlueShirt looked at each other.

BlueShirt's brows drew over his dark, heartwood-colored eyes, tilting up at the end they were closest to each other. The corners of his mouth were pressed together and tilted ever so slightly down, as if something he was chewing over heavy thoughts. He rubbed at his jaw and the slight stubble gathering there, gaze gathering gloom and storm clouds.

He huffed out a breath and stuck out his tongue. "Blvth." Everyone had shadows in their gazes lately, and he— didn't like them. It was too heavy, like the fog, and made the shadows in his belly squirm uncomfortably. "Ray-chel? Zee? RuthMom?" Where were they? Were they okay?

Seeming to pull himself out of his thoughts, BlueShirt focused his eyes on him, dropping his hand to his lap. "What about them?"

He squinted, sticking out his tongue again. Why did talking have to be so hard? This language had too many words! "...They yes beep?"

BlueShirt's expression eased. "Ah. They're doing okay. Rachel's...shaken, but she came out mostly unscathed, thanks to you."

Shadows shivered inside of him, tendrils reaching for his thoughts at the mention. He poked them down with a thought-stick and scrunched his mouth. Stay down. I don't want you. He had to think about the good things. Ray-chel and RuthMom and Zee being okay was good. BlueShirt being here was good. And Tim gave him choc-o-late, which was very good. So...he was good.

It was okay.

The green sheet swished, letting a short man in the same dark blue uniform as BlueShirt inside. His hair—back as ink—was cropped short, framing the roundest face Fralith had ever seen. Everything about the man's face was just— different from all the people he'd seen here. The man's eyes were smaller and shaped with a slant, positioned around a squishy-looking nose overhanging a thin-lipped mouth drawn into a formal, stern line. His jaw was a rounded point, clean of hair, and sloped up to more angular cheekbones.

Where was the man from? This world's Rivierians? But Rivierians didn't look like this! The black eyes and hair were the same, but that's where the similarities ended. The man was certainly not SecondHomish, either, and he couldn't possibly be a RedShirt—he lacked the height, broad shoulders, and blond hair. But if he wasn't from the equivalent of the three kingdoms, where was he from?

"Good afternoon, Officer Waters," the man said, offering his hand to BlueShirt.

BlueShirt stood and took the man's hand, grasping it firmly and giving it a few shakes. "And you too, Officer Zhang." Dropping the man's hand, BlueShirt turned to him. "Zander, this is Officer Zhang. O-ffi-cer Ja-ng. Officer Zhang."

Zhang. Zhang. Zhang. What a funny name. It sounded almost exactly like the twang of a bowstring! Zhang. Zhang. Zhang. The o-ffi-cer part wasn't like the sound of a bow pulling back, though. Zhang was more fun to say. "Zhang. Zhang. Zhang."

BlueShirt's and Zhang's eyebrows lifted. BlueShirt cleared his throat and stepped back to his bedside. "Officer Zhang will be overseeing our conversation, okay? You don't need to worry about him."

Officer Zhang nodded, pulling out the only chair and settling himself on it. From a bag slung over his shoulder, he pulled out a small black box. "May I record this?"

"Yes." BlueShirt's reply came easily and confidently, but his BodyTalk shifted ever so slightly to guardedness.

Wiggling his toes, he huffed and scratched at his chest. What was going on? Why was BlueShirt on guard now? What did the black box mean? Everyone seemed so serious now. Scrunching his face up, he huffed.