An Afterthought In Passing.

Schiivas, the19th, A’ii-Dann 7╥582;

Bow, listen, obey; work, bow, obey; obey, be low, submit.

Many things had changed in the Falls. A lot of individuals below the age of 76 rallied in the streets, protesting civil unrest over nonsense they knew very little about.

What these groups did have as common knowledge between them, was the clear, abhorrent disrespect they harbored for their state’s Chief Executive of Justice and Defense.

No one needed to inform Aylriun. He peered through the glass doors of the bistro, watching them march in lockstep to the tune of their angst-laden, cyberpunk tracks that nearly devoured the ambiance of the news feed that scrawled the wall behind him.

Outside, they kept shrieking: Black eyes, no soul! Throw that faggot in a hole!

In throngs, they kept offending his sensibilities, made worse to the commentary of a panel of news anchors giggling at his expense.

“Ask yourself: What sort of man should be guide and chief judiciary of Caunon’s Lawful core? A right and proper man, no? I find it hard to cope. That for years now, a pariah has been squat on the tip of authority.

It’s unthinkable! It’s unnatural! What sort of White — excuse me — ‘Malzeyurite’ man does he think he is!?”

A Seipon finished wrapping the final pair pair of sandwiches. He slid them into a bag with a large bottle of Jocthathi Spice’d Wine, and tied the handles at the top. “Don’t pay those any mind.”

Scarlet irises gradually rose to the surface of his polished, onyx-like eyes. He glanced over at the Pon behind the counter, his feelings absent from the ignorant procession lurching through the streets.

“The good Sheep goes ‘baa’,” he half-cooed, taking the bag.

The Seipon snorted, and Aylariun departed the bistro.

For all their fuss, the crowd didn’t seem to care to recognize him. He passed through their masses to the other side of the street, slipping effortlessly between sardine-packed bodies, until he got to an ebb in their progression and went against the flow of their marching to round a corner.

He ducked into an alley, striding along, airy-headed, until he reached one of the side exits of the Department of Justice Tower. It stretched up into the ceiling of the cavern, a broad, stalwart pillar deep in the gaping maw of the Falls.

It was a security door, and with the press of his palm to the matte sensor beside it, the door hissed and rolled down to let him in.

His subordinates were jittery around him, each of them stepping out of his way, so that he may move freely through the halls. A lot of them were absorbed in the live feeds of the protests.

“They keepet goeng, eventually Arkgnon’d’av to addresset.”

“Yai, but him’s on actually doeng? And against his son, too, eh?”

One of them, a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark, wine-red hair shook his head. “Yaiet’s not —”

“Any of your’s’ business.” They reeled at the sound of Aylariun’s face. He raised his bag, “Ain’et lunch? Or is eateng fowl to the lot of you since I’m headeng the Falls.” His voice was sour.

“Ain’et that…” Kelithryx formed a hfpane, and switched the tele to something more relaxing. “We’ar loyal to Arkgnon, no matter the price. Also his son.” He took a short bow.

The rest of the office went back to work.

“Kelithryx, you needn’t do all that.” Aylariun rocked onto the tips of his toes, and squeezed the Vaungod’s shoulder. “To other matters, please.”

The conference rooms were reserved for — he-wasn’t-sure-what. In all his years working here, he was aware of these chambers, and that they were to be used for situations requiring the most delicate and expert coordination.

Yet, these had managed to fall into disuse. They were pristine in their maintenance. Not so much as a a fingertip’s worth of dust on the brushed steel tabletops. Aylariun carefully placed each sandwich, passing over every few seats between setting each one.

The Seipon had taken the time to fold some napkins so that they stood upright like a tepee. He settled one of these conical napkins over a small stack, and by the time he had almost finished, his subordinates, the leads of several investigative teams, had arrived.

Last of them was a woman.

Énré wore her curves masterfully. A full-figured, graceful creature, the very air of her mannerisms reflected an unapologetic, bold fire to match the sheen of her dark, scarlet hair. She’d only stepped in, and Aylariun held her sandwich out to her.

“Thank you, Sir,” she said, with a short bow and a voice soft yet sweet as nectar. She took the sandwich and plopped in her seat at the precise moment he took his. They were at an angle from one another, the girl kicking back and taking her lunch head on.

While her gaze remained lifted towards the ceiling, Aylariun’s was absorbed in the hfpane. The air in the conference room was electric between them. Yet, it was as if they were in denial.

That is, until Kelithryx finished his latest bite, swallowed, and said, “High Justice!”

Aylariun sniffed, his head jerked up. “Mh?”

“Have you determined what action will be taken as regards the secret at the curtain?”

“‘Secret at the curtain…?'”He never managed to sound so aware as they may have liked.

“Yai, Sir.” One of them slid the contents of their hfpane to the wall, stood at the far end of the room, and after dimming the lights, began to present:

“This dug-out in the cliffside of the basin appears to be a makeshift mouth to a much larger tunnel, leadeng into the underpassages.

“In that network is a weapons cache, but not anytheng the likes of State or Unionside.”

Aylariun tilted his head back. “Ah.”

“We believe they’ar Native-sourced.”

“If Natives will to store their arms there, whatofet? Soet’s only a boon for us,” Aylariun said.

“Yaiet ain’suh, Sir.” Énré spoke, and he sensed himself drifting along the melodic tone of her voice. She presented what was on her hfpane, and continued.

He traced the tip of his tongue along the inside of his upper lip.

“They appear to be all femman dissenters.”

“Any reason for their upset?”

They still weren’t looking at each other. In fact, she’d been blushing whenever he spoke to her, and the conference room got swept up in an awkward silence.

Then, a message flashed across his hfpane:

Kel1301 — She’s sweet for you.

Aylariun glanced up. Énré had been talking, elaborating on details garnered over the years.

Kel1301 — Could possibly put that whole ‘faggot’ theng to rest, yai?

The thought had never arisen to his conscious mind. To end public outrage at a vehemently desirable woman’s expense? What would that have even…

Felt like…

The recollection of Tsengqwea’s creamy, earthy cum lingered on his tongue. The mere thought of it made his mouth water.

The impromptu meeting had ended. His subordinates packed up and, one by one, they left.

As she went to the door, a brief moment passed where the two locked eyes. Her irises were a confusing, bright teal. Though, the reason they were perplexing was because hers were iridescent, shining a near metallic violet when looked at oddly.

Meanwhile, his own were a polished, soulless black.

The door shut behind her.

“You get the drift, yai?” Kelithryx rolled up to him, nudging him sharply with his elbow.

Aylariun rubbed his side. “I — yaiet ain’own to me.”

“Ché-yih? What’ar you say’deng ‘I ain’t knoweng’?”

He kept quiet, his gaze narrowing as his stomach tightened. Then, the soothing voice of his Seipon filled his mind with what felt like infinite wisdom:

The safe Sheep goes…?

At once, the tension building in him dissipated. He relaxed, sighing a soft, “Baa.~”

His friend slowly leaned away from him.

There was more to that bleat than Aylariun was willing to acknowledge. Yschtels had taken advantage of him, gleefully, and he rendered himself to them precisely, according to their exacting demands.

His expectations of women, therefore, were derived from the Daughters of Motilüsch. As much as, since he’d cheated feeling from Shadiq, he’d come to know that he fancied chicks, he couldn’t see himself approaching one.

Because, underneath his skin lay himself.

And yet, whenever he contemplated it, what was that supposed to mean?

“Why’n’t you ditch the ‘baa,’ yai? Go up and say’d sometheng to her. Cenna be all that sour, see. All she’ll do is say’d you ain’for her.” Kelithryx was right. He got up, and left the conference room.

Alone, Aylariun lingered for some time. “The insecure Sheep goes ‘baa…'” He lowered his head onto his crossed arms, sighed, and quivered.

The day went on as it should. She had a habit of staying late past her shifts. For the work she did that could be verified by the department, Énré was compensated, but the majority of the time she spent she was content to have used it and not seen so much as a cent.

Her passion for justice was outstanding, albeit unusual.

Then, too, Aylariun’s position was unusual.

The lights went out. He closed the hfpane and offed the displays. Slinging his coat over his shoulder, he stuffed one hand in his pocket and headed for the remaining open exit.

He’d only put his hand on the panel at the frame when the clack of heels disrupted his thoughts.

“Sir?” Énré stepped over to him, and he kept the door down for her. “Thanks for the sandwich.” She stepped through, and he followed.

“Notheng ofet,” he said.

The air behind the curtain stayed fresh, although a little damp. Life in the caves was void of a natural, starlit sky, and the environmental committee managed to string together a view, though it wasn’t like the one the rest of the world knew. It was like an aurora, colors that writhed erotically along the irregular surface of the cave’s ceiling.

Aylariun found himself casually striding alongside Énré, at her pace. She’d been talking, though he wasn’t sure about what. With the crowds long gone, it was a shame that this opportunity went wasted, unnoticed in the public eye. Yet, he wasn’t to the point where he needed to worry.

Really, all he needed to do was systematically murder each Editor in Chief responsible for —

“Permission to speak freely, Sir?”

He hesitated a moment, casting a glance her way. “Yai.”

“Casually…?”

He nodded.

At once, her shoulders dropped, she sighed, and wrenched the scrunchie from her hair.

How those ebony tresses cascaded over her shoulders. “My Lon’s a real pain for my snetch. Jag my mun, will he? When he’s know’d she’s got the pitch. Ain’a day passeng here where I ain’fancied socken’et to him fierce.” Her teal-turned-violet eyes settled on him.

“Sucks to heared.”

She shrugged. “Ei-yai. Em…” When the tip of her first finger came to rest innocently on her lower lip, he immediately knew what she had in mind. Still, it wasn’t until she turned, and coyly brushed her cheek along her raised shoulder, that he found out just how committed she was to it.

Eh. “The Niynbelle, ever done’t?”

She puckered her lips, shook her head.

He beckoned her to him. As she stepped near, he took her hands, and much like the intimacy of a waltz, he hook her arm around the small pof her back, and interlaced the fingers of their free hands together.

With a bit of a stomp, he snapped into the starting position, but without music to move to, he began at a less than desirable, slowed pace for her sake.

Didn’t take her long to get the sense of the Niyenbelle’s basic moves, as awkward and irregular as they were. But as he sped up, and she kept pace, it wasn’t long before the two were in lockstep, swinging underneath the roving colors of the mock-up sky, late into the night.

Then, she held herself against him.

He obliged, folding his arms around dear, neglected girl’s waist and hugging her tightly.

“A dark and dreary road that you snuggle up to,” he muttered. Her head rested somewhere between his chest and shoulder. Squeezing her, he ran a hand up her spine until his fingers got tangled in her hair.

Oh, the sweet scent of her black tendrils. He kissed her forehead.

“Soet is. I want rid of my Lon.” She stared up at him. “You’ar my Grai. Whatofet?” The way she blinked, slowly closing both eyes in such a way that sent signals directly to the core of his being.

“Damn girl, could you be any more subtle!?” He wrenched his arm from her grasp, and wasted not a second fleeing from her.

Without gesturing to the curious and prying eyes of the Seipon in the den, Aylariun darted into the restroom, and locked himself in the shower. Steam wafted up from his skin, while heat cascaded down over him and into the drain.

What was that? All his life he’d been taught that the ‘amorous desire’ of the opposite sex was something he, doomed to end up a man, should attain.

Yet, as he reflected on what happened, the more he scrutinized himself, his awareness grew regarding something he’d never taken note of.

The downpour kept hush, tiptoeing as if it knew how to go unnoticed. Regarding the senses of Men, it did. Yet, he was not the only resident under the canopy.