A Reason to Stay Pt. 04

To me, it almost looks like a jam packed street of mismatching, overpriced apartment complexes in Los Angeles, tottering along the edges of crumbling sidewalks. Only here, cars aren't lined up so close that it's practically a one way street. Instead, the roads are flanked by tents, awnings, and vendors hawking their wares. It is the weirdest mashup of modern, urban living and something straight out of a Renaissance fair that I've ever seen.

Something about this incongruity evokes a deep sense of nostalgia within me. If I think hard enough, I can summon fragments of another time, another life. I was only six years old when I moved to the states, but the images of street markets packed with fish heads, leeks, and caged chickens still occupy a corner of my mind like so many colorful pieces of litter. I remember the sun blazing over my head, making the humid air so hot and sticky that my shirt always stuck to my skin. We walked a lot back in Thailand. There was always someone shouting, food sizzling, mopeds honking as they zoomed by. I often complained that it was too hot and begged Yai to pay for a bus ride, but she never gave in. She just told me to get tougher, because the world sure as hell wasn't going to cut me any slack.

Then one day, she surprised me by taking my hand and leading me to a bus stop. I almost couldn't believe my luck when she paid for our fare and let me keep the tickets. I spent that whole bus ride in heaven, enjoying the feeling of the air conditioning hitting my skin. When we got off, she hugged me tight and handed me my suitcase.

And then I never saw her again.

Brushing away the sting of ancient history, I focus my attention on the present. Of course, the biggest difference between Xtown and most cities back in my own dimension is the complete lack of transportation, public or otherwise. Aside from the occasional cart or wagon, I don't see anything that even uses wheels, let alone an engine.

The deeper we travel into the town, the more the absence of cars feels as unnatural as we must look to the locals, who are all wearing loose and colorful clothing. Sebs and I stick out like sore thumbs with our prim and proper city clothes. Though, I remind myself, they aren't nearly as attention grabbing as, say, underamour worn exclusively by Neonian Mentors. I pull at the sleeves of my lilac sweater, feeling self conscious in a way that I haven't in years.

No one outright harasses us, but the hawkers seem more enthusiastic when we draw near and dozens of eyes follow us wherever we go. I feel like a tourist abroad, my ability to pay double what I should as obvious as the opportunistic greed in their eyes.

I do my best to act natural.

As we meander past colorful stalls, Sebs catches me ogling some of the denizens and their wares. I feel a jolt of surprise as he gently holds my chin between his fingers. He pushes my mouth closed, then steers my head back to forward position. The warmth of his touch lingers, causing me to fight back an ocean of feelings.

"Keep staring like that and you'll find yourself attracting the wrong kind of attention," he warns, deadly serious.

I squint up at him. "This is my first time seeing real, live extraterrestrials, in the flesh. And you expect me not to stare a little?" I nudge my head towards one of the vendors we're walking by and whisper, "That guy has three eyes!"

Sebs clears his throat, suppressing a mixture of discomfort and amusement. "That guy is actually a woman, and with excellent lip reading skills no less, courtesy of her Orathien lineage. You'd do best not to offend the good lady."

Mortified, I try to turn around to apologize, but Sebs places a hand on my shoulder and pushes me onward. As always, he is firm yet gentle, his touch meant to guide rather than force.

"Don't look back or engage. She'll think you're making a spectacle of her and challenge you to a Snule to protect her honor."

I wait till we're well out of eyeshot of the three eyed Orathien before I hiss back, "What the fuck is a snool?"

He shakes his head. "Better if you don't know. That way if you do get challenged, you can claim ignorance and be shown a virgin's mercy." Noticing my glare intensifying, he goes on to explain, "It's a crass name for a basic courtesy upheld in most inter-galactic spaces. With so many people coming into contact with alien cultures for the first time, you can imagine how often accidental insults and taboos will occur. Hence, a free pass for first time offenders. Just don't offend a second time after the transgression has been made clear."

I don't need him to outline the rest. I'm not keen on finding out what an Orathien's idea of punishment would entail.

It's hard not to keep gawking at all the new sights, sounds, and smells, but with Sebs at my side explaining the foreignness as we go, it gets easier to hide my inexperience. Most of the inhabitants of Xtown seem human enough, but every now and then a gleam of iridescent skin or flicker of a tail catches my attention. I do my best not to make eye contact again with any more non-human species.

For a while, we wander the streets, finding our bearings. It almost starts to feel like a leisurely outing, until we notice that the sun is beginning to set. Vendors begin making quick work of packing up their stalls or securing their booths. It seems no one is eager to hang around once it gets dark, which is a good indication we should find somewhere safe to spend the night.

Sebastien tries to engage some of the vendors in polite conversation. "My wife and I just arrived in town and need a place to stay," he half-lies to a sour looking fellow with greasy skin and an unpleasant smile. "Do you know where we could find room and board?"

The man--or masculine looking person, as I am learning not to judge a book by its cover--looks us up and down, pauses on me, and then barks with laughter. A third eye flies open as he does, and I silently swear. Orathien. He jabs a finger in my direction and shakes his head. "Naicora ekoom," he jeers.

I glower at Sebs in confusion. Avoiding my eyes, he clears his throat instead, addressing the merchant once more.

"Be that as it may, we would very much appreciate your help." Sebs pulls out what appears to be a small, white square. I blink hard, unsure when or where he could have retrieved such a thing from his person.

Smiling amiably, he offers it to the stall keeper. It's barely bigger than a Cheez-it. "For your troubles, if you would be kind enough to show us the way."

The Orathien's demeanor changes instantly. He growls an order to a young assistant working in his stall, then gives Sebs a strange look before pocketing the white square. Stepping out from beneath his awning, he motions for us to follow. We oblige, of course, but not without a healthy amount of wariness. I hang behind them just a few steps, keeping an eye out for anything even remotely suspicious.

To the oily Orathien's credit, he doesn't lead us down any shady alleyways or shake us down for extra payment. Whatever the hell Sebs gave him seems to be more than enough compensation.

By the time we arrive at a lively looking establishment with a plank above the door that reads "The Bar," I'm hungry enough to eat a horse. Sebs and I peek inside to confirm it is, in fact, a bar, but when we turn around to thank the Orathien, he's nowhere to be found. Shrugging, I duck into the dimly lit building and Sebs follows close behind.

As soon as we're inside, the din of people chatting, eating, and singing drunkenly hits us like a sack of bricks. It's been so long since I've witnessed such a messy gathering of souls. It is chaos, reeking of unwashed bodies and lord knows what else, and it is utterly glorious.

Back home, I hated crowded places. But after years of suffering Neon's upper crust, with their hushed conversations and polite clinking of glasses, this dump is a breath of fresh air.

Sebs notices the considerable change in my mood. "What's got you in such fine spirits?" he asks, one eyebrow raised.

I leer at the seedy looking cluster of ne'er-do-wells and pints of what I sincerely hope to be ale. "The possibility of unhealthy food and terrible alcohol," I reply giddily.

He shakes his head, uncomprehending. "I can secure a room for us if you want to find an empty table." Giving the den a quick scan, he adds, "Or maybe just an empty-ish corner...whatever is possible."

I'm already waltzing out of earshot, squeezing past patrons and bartenders of varying species. It takes me a while, but I manage to push my way into a pocket of emptiness. It's just a small, rickety table flanked by a couple of stools, but it's good enough for two people who have been walking for hours almost nonstop. With a sigh of relief, I sink down onto one of the stools, wedging my backpack between my feet as I keep an eye out for Sebs. The sheer density of bodies has me overheating in my sweater, but I don't dare to take it off quite yet.

I feel strangely calm, all things considered. Maybe it's the crush of noise and strangers, allowing me to be the eye of the storm. Or maybe it's because I've expended so much of my rage and grief that there's no more emotion left to give. I just sit there, enjoying being still, taking in the seemingly endless wealth of diversity around me. So many kinds of garb, skin colors, and anatomical oddities--people watching has never been this rewarding. I marvel at how much this entire town is bursting with vitality. Nothing matches, at all, and something new lurks around every corner. Such a stark contrast to life in Neon, which is practically sterile in comparison. There are pros and cons, of course, to either. But for now, I simply relish the change in scenery, soaking up all the differentness around me.

In the midst of my idle musing, I think about Sebastien. He's standing by a burly individual with a great big mop of hair, evidently bargaining our quarters for the night. In hindsight, I realize that I never once balked at him lying about our marital status, or deciding on the more practical route of paying for just one room. I don't even know what kind of currency is accepted here. I can only assume not more of those white squares, or Neonian credit.

It surprises me how much I trust him...and how much I've come to rely on him again in less than a day. It feels so natural to work together, more or less like we have all these years at the Academy, that I no longer even question our camaraderie. It's second nature by now. Like breathing, or eating. He's just always been there, a constant fixture in my alternate life, ever steadfast and reliable. I suppose I took him for granted for a long time, lost as I was in my anger and loneliness. I was so convinced that I was nothing more to him than a useful commodity. It feels odd knowing that everything he did, he did because he cared.

And then, more unwillingly, I think about Aed.

My hands curl into fists of their own volition. I don't even notice until I feel the sharp sting of my nails digging into my palms. When I unfurl my fingers and look down, I see little half moon indents running across my skin.

I know that at the end of the day, his feathers will stay unruffled. I can feel it in my gut, as clearly as I sense something terrible is going to happen to him, assuming it hasn't already. It's less an emotion than it is a coalescing of a thousand shards of knowledge and experience, pulled together to form a blurry snapshot. I don't always know how or why, but I know what will or will not come to pass. He will not succeed at his mission as easily as he had planned. And should we manage to track him down, he will find some insufferably level headed, wholesome way to move past my dalliance with Sebs. Knowing him, he may even welcome Sebs back into the fold because of it, or bring up the subject of his neglected Mentor orgies. My brain pretty much blanks beyond that. I haven't enough energy left to drum up even a half assed fantasy.

And I know what I will do. I will hunt him down, where ever the fuck he is, and I will chew him out from here to hell and back again. And then I will carry on loving him, because everything is better when he's around, and everything is thrice gone to shit when he's not.

Dammit all, that bastard better still be alive.

I'm so lost in my own thoughts that I don't even notice someone sliding onto the stool opposite of me. They cough, jarring me out of my reverie.

I know right away it's not Sebs. For one, this stranger is at most maybe three feet tall. For another, they're wearing a pointy hat and sporting a neat, white beard. I'm leery of assuming its race, but a rush of manic delight overcomes me. I know it's not possible. That my lifelong obsession wouldn't--couldn't--just magically manifest itself before me, and in some dingy dive bar, no less. But my god, if the creature sitting across the table doesn't look exactly like a garden gnome.

I stare at him while he stares at me. The silence grows painfully awkward. Sebastien's words of caution ring in my head, but eye contact has already been heavily made and the gnome shows no sign of leaving anytime soon. I open my mouth, only to shut it again several times before I manage to stutter, "H-Hello there...um, can I help you?"

At this, the gnome perks up. He stands to full height on the stool and leans forward, giving me a once over. His hair and beard are so thick I can only see his nose, which is round and bulbous, and rather than the colorful hues of its statuary counterparts, this gnome's leather clothing is a simple, unassuming brown. Honestly, he looks more like something out of a fifth edition DnD campaign than a Walmart catalog.

I lean backward in response, unsettled but also unwilling to offend another alien and use up my virgin's mercy. So I suffer through whatever analysis he's making, praying that Sebs finishes with his business sooner rather than later.

The gnome continues to say nothing. He just huffs once, ruffling the hairs of his mustache and beard. And then he starts to reach into one of his many pockets. Surely, I think to myself, he won't try to stab me in public, and to my immense relief he doesn't. Instead, he offers me something completely unexpected.

A chili pepper.

My jaw goes slack. Held between his stubby digits is one whole, perfectly formed pepper. Its slender body is about as a finger long and slightly curved, plucked at perfect ripeness and skin a bright, waxy red.

My mouth waters at the very sight. I'm hit with a barrage of memories, from my mother's tom yum full of kaffir leaves and galanga and lemongrass, to Yai's spare ribs dipped in limey, spicy fish sauce. I swear that it looks just like prik chi fa, the green and red varieties most often used in Thai food, but that would be a coincidence of astronomical rarity. How could he possibly know? Are gnomes in this dimension not only real, but mind reading chili pepper connoisseurs as well?

Whatever the case may be, I must have lied about the state of my emotions, because I can feel my eyes welling up again.

My voice hoarse with awe, I ask, "Is...is that for me?"

The gnome nods his head and nudges the pepper closer. Overcome with gratitude, I cup both my hands and accept it as if it were made entirely of gold. "Thank you," I whisper, sniffling as I admire it up close.

I'm mentally halfway through a list of recipes I could use the pepper for when I feel something wet and warm slide against my cheek. Stunned, I look up to find that the gnome is fully on top of the table. He's so close to my face that I can see the pores on his nose. And he just licked me.

I'm reeling back when Sebs bursts forth from the throng of patrons. His hands are in the air as a clear message of cease and desist, his expression one of horror.

"No, no, no," he pants, getting in between me and the gnome, who has backed away in confusion. "Sir, this is--I'm so sorry, she had no idea. Also she's, uh, my wife...so...I'm afraid she cannot return with you to your collective as your mate."

My stomach drops when he says this. Mate?!

How does one fuck a gnome?

Against all odds, the gnome isn't angry or offended. He just looks at us for a moment, then breaks into a grin. "Ah, ah," he grunts, nodding his head. He points to Sebs and makes some weird gesture by pounding his fist into an open palm. Even though I have no idea what the fuck is going on, I don't like what he's suggesting one bit.

Sebs looks mortified, but before he can explain anything, the gnome turns to me. He grunts a few more times as he bows, seeming almost apologetic, and motions at the pepper.

"He wants you to keep it," Sebs translates. "It's his way of saying sorry."

"Sorry for what?" I blurt. "How do you even know that's what he's saying?"

Meanwhile, the gnome salutes us and then scoots himself off of the stool, tottering away into the crowd.

"Oh gods, Jez, there's no time to explain any of that," Sebs replies, pulling me up and away from the table. I barely have time to slip the pepper in my pocket and grab my pack before he's dragging me through the bar and up a flight of stairs.

"What the hell is going on?" I shout as I stumble behind him. I never see Sebs panic, and his panic is making me panic.

The second story hallway is like a never ending maze. By the time we get to what I assume is our assigned room, I'm starting to feel slightly buzzed. Only I never got around to ordering any booze...or did I? I'm having a hard time remembering.

I hear the click of a key and latch, right before my vision blurs and I feel myself careening backwards.

"Oh no, oh no no no," Sebs stammers, catching me as I slump against him. "Hold on Jez, stay awake. Stay with me. I'll get you help, just--shit."

I don't know why he's freaking out so badly, because I feel amazing. My sudden tipsiness has turned into a kaleidoscope of colors and sensations. I can feel his fingers against my skin, so warm and pleasant they give me goosebumps, as I watch the lights dance in front of me like a parade of fairies. I giggle at the thought of being surrounded by tiny, winged people.

"Come on, up you get," he encourages through clenched teeth. He's half pulling, half propping me up as we shamble through the door. We barely manage to fit past the frame.

"We're almost there. Just need you to lie down so your heart rate slows."

But then, as quickly as the high hits me, it disappears. And what's left in its wake is a terrible, burning need.

I'm gasping for air. I can't make sense of the fire that is consuming my body. It feels like every inch of my being is being roasted from the inside out. It's suddenly too hot, much too hot. I start pawing at my clothes.

"Wait here, I'm going to get help!" Sebs shouts before rushing out of the room again.

Hardly able to hear him through the roar of fire consuming me, I toss and turn for as long as I can stand before I decide I can't take it anymore. I don't know when he managed to get me on a bed and I don't care. I just focus on tearing off all my clothes, starting with the sweater and khaki pants. By the time I get to my underamour, I have enough wherewithal to peel it off carefully, but only just. I'm about halfway through shucking off my bottoms when Sebs barges back in.

"Oh gods," he sighs and runs toward me, "you need to keep that on, Jez."

"I'm suffocating!" I cry, struggling against him as he yanks the underamour back up to cover my underwear and hips. They're stretchy like leggings but infinitely more skintight, and it takes him considerable effort to pull them all the way up to my waist.

As soon as he's done, however, we both freeze. I've fallen onto the bed and he's in between my legs, arms on either side of me as we struggle to catch our breath.

I feel the intensity of the burning sensation double, pooling at my center.