Marginal Life Ch. 01

If I suspect her grief, Stefan must have seen it outright. Stefan Hyginos, Captain of the Marge. My second childhood friend. Anchor to my life. And the second person I love as much as Marian. As a doctor, Marian understands my injuries. Her training and discussions with Doc Dreeson gives her somewhat of a handle on my episodes. Stefan lacks this understanding. He's a leader, a people person. His empathy tells him I struggle. His compassion wants to help. Not being able to just hurts him. I consider how I can apologize this time. Another in a long string, stretching back years. I owe him more than I can ever truly repay.

Maybe this time will be too much. Maybe he'll finally cut me off. I feel tears gathering, threatening to overwhelm me.

"Hey! Enough of that!"

She drags me back, disrupting my train of thought.

"Focus on my orders. Cry when you're done. Now. When we hit port, Lasse received a crate of bananas as part of our fresh supplies. See him before visiting Teresa. When you visit Stefan, go directly to our other quarters, he knows you'd be awake today. You're done healing. I'm done talking. So go. Make things right."

Tingling runs through my body, for two reasons. First is Marian telling the bed to give me feeling back, allowing me to move. The second, is the order to use "our other quarters." Marian and I each have two bunks assigned on board. The first for me is next to the mechanica shop, a shared space for the Chief Mechanic and their assistant, meaning I share it with Teresa. It's where I sleep most of the time. As ship's doctor Marian has a cabin attached to this very infirmary, for easy access in case of emergencies. The "other" quarters is a small bedroom attached through a shared bathroom to the captain's quarters. As captain's wife, Marian's role is obvious. Me, I have the distinguished role of cabin boy or mistress, depending on who you ask and how I'm feeling.

I employ my greatest and most well honed talent: thinking about things without thinking about things. Skipping around the edges of what our meeting now implies. Not so much an apology then, more a... chance to get reaquainted.

Tears forgotten, I move.

Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I drop the short distance needed to put my feet on the floor, the healing beds designed for patients of average height. About to walk right through the hatch to the hall, Marian coughs lightly. Giving her a look, she points down, informing me of my nakedness. Marian's gaze now amused, she points to a set of clothes. Scrambling into the underthings and jumpsuit, I stick to the mechanical action. Blatantly ignoring my own form.

Now dressed, suddenly ravenous, I shakily step towards the hatch. Blocked one last time by Marian, who wordlessly sweeps me into a hug. It grants my gait a little stability. Lifts my mood quite a bit too.

With the infirmary located dead center on the lower crew level, followed by the mess hall just a bit forward, it's not much of a walk. I pass a few crew leaving as I enter, a quick check of the ubiquitous wall clocks telling me it's just after the noon meal. Behind the buffet counter that borders the eating area and kitchen, I see the ship's Cook Lasse doing something arcane with a frying pan. I can tell you exactly how every mechanica in the kitchen works, and have rebuilt most of them at least once. But how exactly he uses them? Sometimes it involves heat. Or maybe not. I think chopping is involved. Maybe.

Lasse himself seems to always be fighting a losing battle with Time, his face slowly turning into a large piece of jerky. The oldest person I know, he claims to have stopped counting after fifty. In contrast to his dry, wrinkled face, one can definitely tell he samples his own cooking often and well. As he frequently claims: no one trusts a skinny cook. In contrast to the majority of the crew, he shows no visible Marker, a rarity these days.

Wandering over to the buffet I check to see what's left from the noon meal. He and his assistant make a variety of food for each of the four mealtimes, spaced every six hours to accommodate all of the different watch cycles. Spotting a simmering pot of sweetened oatmeal, I serve myself up a large bowl. Eyeballing the grilled meats, I debate if any of it's fresh from port or the last of our dried out stores. Deciding to challenge Luck to a roll for a ham steak, I suddenly find myself caught up in a giant bear hug, Lasse having snuck up while I was deliberating.

Unlike most of the crew, who he seems to tolerate at best, Lasse has always treated me like some long lost grandson. Serving on the Marge for even longer than Stefan's nearly fourteen years, over time I've found him to be a great anchor in my life. Solid, immovable. Adding all the extra padding he's put on, gives great hugs too. Makes it hard to breath though.

"I'm fine. I'm fine." Barely squeaked out. "It wasn't as bad as it seemed."

I feel him puff out a breath, ruffling his mustache, his hug robbing me of more air.

"Son. I saw them carry you in. It was worse."

I've known him for more than a decade, and I've never heard raw pain in his voice like this. It almost makes me ask who he lost. It also makes me squirm. Feeling this, squeezes tighter for a moment, then lets me down. Reaching behind his counter, he hands me a small box.

"Here. Banana bread, baked it this morning. Doctor Tsvetkov told me you'd know what to do with it. Now eat. And don't do it again."

Trying not to hear as he forces the pain back, I give him a shallow nod. I know I can't promise anything. Juggling my tray and the box I head to one of the tables. It's a badly kept secret that Teresa absolutely loves anything made from bananas. As a peace offering, it's perfect. Waving the box slightly, I smile. Seeing my reaction, Lasse grunts in a way I know means that while he's not happy, he's at least satisfied with the outcome. He stumps away to continue whatever arcane doings my arrival interrupted.

The oatmeal is hot and sweet, the ham surprisingly good. Seems I beat my roll against Luck this time. My meal disappears fast. Followed by seconds. And thirds. I feel shaken yet again at how much of my body's reserves I had burned through. I don't have much to spare, I weigh maybe a hundred and ten pounds soaking wet. I should not be packing away more than two pounds of food. I know the healing beds leave your metabolism overcharged for a bit to help speed healing, but this is ridiculous. I can't deny the food helps though, by the time I'm done I can feel my body starting to replenish itself.

I stop at the signaling room, dashing off a quick letter to the Doc. I hope she has time to meet before we leave port. Marian's list somewhat half done, I head for Teresa. Our quarters are the best bet. Heading aft, I soon arrive.

Opening the hatch, the cabin is pitch black and unrecognizable. About to walk right in, I come to a crashing halt. I never keep it dark, even while sleeping. Pure darkness like this is one of the few things that terrifies me. Force me into a room like that, and I'll be crying in a corner within minutes. Shortly after that I'll set myself on fire just for the light. It's something primal, something instinctual. I think it relates to my Marker. Doc says it's just fear.

Just creeping along the edge of it I feel threatened. Beyond the noise of opening the hatch, I hear what sounds like crying. Uh oh.

"Teresa?" I cautiously edge my hand in just a bit along the wall, trying to trigger the lamp by the hatch. Sucking in a breath of relief as I succeed. This creates just enough light to see by, leaving the back of the room in shadow. "Are you okay?"

Sniffling answers me, coming from the small floorspace between her bed and the back wall. Slowly moving past the central table, setting the box down as I pass, I peer around the foot of her bed. Scrunched down into what appears to be a nest of blankets and pillows, I can just barely make out her form, the dim light giving her rocky skin the appearance of being freckled with glitter. The tracks of tears surprisingly bright in the otherwise shadowed space.

Moving faster than I've ever seen her, like a snake striking at prey, she lunges forward. Faster than I can react she has me in a deep hug, pulling us both back into her nest. Wrapped nearly head to foot, I'm going nowhere against her strength. Loud sobbing her only greeting. Fear, anger, guilt, and more seem to be warring with relief. I hug her back, hoping I can help her let it out. Marian's "little girl" comment comes back to me. She's never sounded so young, so lost.

We stay like this for quite awhile, until her tears burn out for a bit. When my episodes go bad, I often end up injured. Sometimes badly. My last major injury was before Teresa came aboard however, making this quite a shock to her. Once I feel she's calm enough, it's time to try and help her work through it. Talking quietly from barely inches away, I hope I can push her in the right direction.

"Feeling better? Not great, I know." Seeing her about to speak, I gently shush her. "No, no. Let me speak. I need to tell you a few things. Give a little perspective. I've been injured like this before. Several times. Often leads to someone crying over me. Before you ask, yes, Marian is one. Stefan is another. And finally, or maybe firstly, Master Abellian."

Not really thinking as I say it, the name of my deceased mentor causes my throat to close, the long standing grief forcing me to take a moment. I think Teresa heard it in my voice, but at the same time her eyes widen in awe. Clearing my throat, I continue.

"Yes. THE Abellian. He taught me, as I now teach others. Someday I'll tell you his story. Ply me with lots of smokeweed first. Anyway. You know my episodes, how focused and obsessed I get. You haven't seen the really bad ones. This makes eight times I've needed the healing beds, all for some stupid reason or another."

Still sniffling a little, Teresa clears her throat a bit and tries to speak, croaking at first.

"Is it always this bad?"

"This was a bit worse than most. I won't relate all of the horrible details. The most recent was about a year before you came on board. All but one were like this, some sort of screwup with mechanica. The exception was the trigger that found me seeing Doctor Dreeson for the first time, and the closest I've ever come to being raped. The less spent remembering THAT one, the better."

Reaching up behind her a bit, Teresa turns on her bedside Fae lam. I can see she's trying to take it all in. Her experiences so far have left her unable to comprehend the worst of it. I try to relate what I can.

"With how I look and with how you look, it can be hard to remember. You're only two years past your apprenticeship. You have a solid family. I've met them, they're great. They've also sheltered you from much of life's harshness. Also great, but it leaves you a little unprepared for the worst. That's somewhat my job now. So. We've never really discussed my past, I tend not to like thinking on it. You know I turn thirty this year. I never knew my parents, grew up in the state school. Even meeting Stefan was due entirely to a roll from Luck, one of the few times in my life her dice have come up tens. Another story for later. I'd be dead if it weren't for him and Marian. Or sold to a brothel. Or worse."

Seeing the shocked look in her eyes, the dark implications my words evoke, I hope I didn't take it too far. Better redirect. I force her eyes to hold with mine, hoping it makes her focus.

"What happened up on deck. It. Was. Not. Your. Fault. Who is the master here. Who is the assistant. My actions. My responsibilities. My ownership."

I can see she wants to argue her own part, but I just stare her down until she relents. Stubbornness I do well. Sniffling one last time, she nods just the slightest bit. A good sign. Hopefully not just showing me what I want to see.

"Good. Now, this might help, it might not. A lesson from Doctor Dreeson. Take how you're feeling, that fear, grief, sorrow, anger, all of it. Get a good idea how it feels as a whole. Remember the shape of it, how it gripped you. Don't let it own you. Move past it. It might be easy, it might not, everyone is different. Took me a year of extensive work to even start. If you can do it, it gives you an idea what your mind can throw at you. Allows you to use it to be stronger."

I can see she's trying to process it all. Lateral thinking is not her strength, but she absorbs things fast. I hope it's enough.

"Now, as fun as it is to cuddle in your little den here, you need to clean yourself up a bit and come to the table, I have something to help make up for scaring you like that."

As I mention her little nest, I learn something new. Apparently even with stoney skin, one can still blush. It reminds me of the red marble used by sculptors. Surprisingly cute. Useful fodder for later.

Now smiling a bit, we disentangle from the blankets. I climb up and over her bed rather than trying to stand. Flicking on a third lamp, this one bolted to the table, I wait for her to wipe off her face before presenting the box from Lasse. From her sudden look of excitement, I can tell she smells the distinct aroma of baked bananas.

"Marian tells me that you've been hiding in here the whole time I was asleep, so you missed the fresh provisions we took on. Advice for the future: hiding out and crying makes you miss treats."

Nodding sheepishly, she looks more and more like a kid as she cracks open the box and stuffs her face. It's fascinating to watch, somewhat like putting a sponge through a garbage disposal. In no time at all, the entire loaf disappears as if it never existed. Not entirely sure how she avoided choking, it went so fast. It does seem to help her regain some of her normal solid maturity.

As a final step, I pull out my best coping method: distraction.

"I know you'll want to consider what I said. But I was given a list of tasks by my boss and friend when I awoke earlier, so now too as your boss and friend I pass on a list of tasks to you. Your tasks are three. First, head to the mess hall for a meal, the way you inhaled that bread it obviously wasn't enough. Second, thank Lasse for the bread. If he grumbles, tell him I ordered you to say it."

Pausing for a moment to let her sudden giggles pass, I take a deep breath. Now for the hard one.

"Third. Find whatever is left of the test harness, wherever it ended up, and take it to the shop so we can disassemble it."

I can tell she's unhappy about this one, but not entirely sure for which reason.

"Before you say anything, remember. The harness worked. It worked WELL. Despite the outcome, we need to finalize it like any other project. Now go. I'll clean up your nest before I head out."

At her questioning look, I continue.

"I have one more stop on my list of tasks. There's a good chance I'll be staying in my other quarters tonight."

I expect any number of reactions from people when I mention my relationship with Marian and Stefan. With Teresa, I try to keep things on a friendly level, her lack of experience with romance painfully obvious. This time, I see something different. For just a brief instant, there's... something. Desire? Jealously? Fear? I'm not entirely sure, but I file it away as something we'll need to work out. As her Chief I try to do more than teach her how Mechanica A slots into Ship B afterall.

Regardless, I have a room to straighten up and a visit to prepare for. Shooing her out the door, I begin straightening up.

***

Some time later that afternoon, I let myself into the other quarters. I both desire and dread this room, its actions and its implications. Smaller than a normal cabin, most of the floorspace is taken up by a large bed, much of the rest split between a large storage chest and a vanity, a tall mirror bolted to the wall between them. Designed not for constant occupation, merely visits.

First, the actions. Normally I skirt around the idea, refusing to think about it directly. Not here. This is the place for it. I focus on it, forcing myself to use the words. The place for sex. The place where I have sex. Thinking it directly stirs memories of past visits, forcing me to push down on the parts that want to heat up. It's not time yet.

Second, the implications. The part that I am forever fighting with. My own personal Marker. Following the routine I established long ago with the Doc, I place myself in front of the mirror. Taking a deep breath, then another. Again. Eventually I decide I'm ready to start. The first step is to force myself past feelings, to focus only on what is.

I start with how I present myself to the world. Clothed in a jumpsuit, I look young. Short, skinny, maybe underfed. Pale skin that sunburns within minutes. Light, nearly white blonde hair, held back in a tight braid. With no hint of curves or muscles, many assume "boy." Some look at my face, see the delicate facial structure, and decide "girl." Truthfully, I wish either were true. Sometimes on bad days, I try to feel like one or the other is.

Taking another deep breath, I push these thoughts aside. The next step is harder. I have to strip away the illusions.

I pause for a moment to gathering courage. This part always takes the longest. I have to see myself as I truly am, and accept what is. Even if only for a night. Hopefully for an entire night. Opening the buttons on my jumpsuit, I strip down to shirt and shorts, and from there to nothing.

To truly understand what I face, I feel I must first explain the nature of Markers. And being perfectly honest with myself, I'm stalling just a little bit. As I briefly mentioned with Teresa and Marian, Markers are visible signs of one of the old races somewhere back in your family tree.

In ancient times, there were many powerful races, eight of which were known to have the desire or the capability to interbreed with humans. What we today call the four Fae tribes and the four dragonkin clans.

Brownie, Ifrit, Naiad, Sprite. Naga, Salamander, Leviathan, Celestial. Nearly a litany, known by everyone, taught from birth.

Nearly everyone seems to have at least a trace from one or more of the eight, each manifesting traits in differing styles and amounts. Together they form your Marker. Teresa manifests strongly, Marian weakly. Doc says there's a method to it, but it all seems random to me.

The issues arise when you claim more than one bloodline. Some are positive or neutral to others, some work in opposition. With two or three, the chart is easy. When you add in four or more, it gets messy. The worst is when you cross opposing Fae and dragonkin. In those cases it's rare to even survive a pregnancy. Most families keep a detailed family tree to map who shows what Markers, just to avoid those problems.

This circles back to me. The State Offices tell me that my mother was a lone traveller that died in childbirth. No Marker is recorded, leaving me no clues to my bloodline. Marian and I have spent years running through every tome and medical journal we can find of known Markers and their combinations, trying for the right match. Nothing ever lines up enough to count.

Another deep breath. Enough stalling.

I look back to the mirror and face myself. Naked, it's worse. Short. Skinny. Unrefined. Mentally, I know I am thirty. Physically, I know I am thirty. With no muscles or curves, I feel like a child playing at being an adult. Fifteen years working with the Doc, and it still grates on me, still frustrates that all I can see is a kid. She calls it Marker Dysphoria, my mind working against my form. Sometimes it helps that there is a proper medical definition, sometimes it makes it worse. Sometimes I wish I lived in my episode constantly. In the fire physical traits are irrelevant, only focus matters.