Dog Eat Dog [South]

[Eastern Orange]

Alina; The Shield
Freighter; The Protector
Morrigan; The Floozy
Trigger; The Bitch

I’m so completely focused on reading about the rebellion of District Thirteen and their subsequent defeat that I don’t hear my Aunt calling me the first couple of times. My head snaps up from the page and I look at my door, blinking away pictures of hover crafts and buildings on fire. I sigh and heave myself of the bed, crossing my room in only three steps. I open my door and stick my head out. “Yea?” I call down. The hall way is empty, the entire floor seemed deserted, which is weird considering there were five other girls that lived on this side of the house. Their absence could only mean on thing: food.

“Dinner is ready.” My Aunt calls up in reply, confirming my suspicions. I feel a little queasy, I hate dinner time. It was the one meal of the day when everyone had to eat together; breakfast and lunch were optional. I turn of my light, and shut my door behind me as I leave my room. I drift down the long hallway, passing one, two, three doors, one of which was the bathroom. Three of the youngest girls shared one room, and two shared the other one. I got my own room because I wasn’t here because I was an orphan; I was here because my spinster Aunt lived here, and she just happened to raise other kids besides me. To be fair, my room was more of a broom closet and less of a room. On the other side of the house, inaccessible from this floor, was a mirror image of this hallway, where six boys slept. There was a brick wall separating the floors, and each floor had its own staircase. Aunt Lauren had a room on the first floor.

I take a deep breath before moving down the creaking steps. I can spell pasta – Lauren always cooks pasta – and I can hear the laughter and boisterous voices of eleven other children ranging from the ages nine to eighteen. I move down yet another hallway and push open the door that leads to the dinning room. Two tables are pushed together to create a table long enough to seat everyone together. In the middle was a giant bowl of pasta, surrounded by loaves of bread, and pitchers of water. I take my seat at the head of the table, no one looks at me.

My Aunt appears out of the door that leads to the kitchen, carrying a basket. She sees that I’m seated and looks relieved. She rushes over to me. “Nice to see your shining face, Trogon.” She chides me mildly. “Listen, I have to run to the hospital, Torrance got into another fight. He broke his arm.” I roll my eyes; Torrance was always in the hospital for one reason or another. “I’m leaving you in charge.” I shrug at this, and look away. She always puts me in charge if she has to leave, not that it mattered, the others had no respect for me anyway. She kissed my head, then clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention. “Children! Darlings!” She trilled. “I have to go take care of Torrance,” there were a lot of eye rolls at this, “Trogon is in charge.” And a lot of snickers at that. I try not to turn beet red.

Once my Aunt was gone, all manners fly out the window. The kid’s clean out the bowl of spaghetti is a few seconds, and pile it on their plates. Bread rolls are blatantly hoarded without any remorse, or shame, stacked in twos or threes. I sit and stare at my empty plate and say nothing. I was used to not eating by now. I look up at the other kids, they stare me down, daring me to say anything. I don't.

Ugh, those fucking children. I will beat the fuck out of them when I get the chance.

No you wont. You're all bark and no bite.

And you're all whore and no self-restraint.

You little bitch!

Enough you two. Trigger, you will not start a fight with those children, you know it will only make it worse on her, and Morrigan... Stop being such a whore.

[/justify][/blockquote]

[Deleted]

Main
"Speech"
Thoughts
"Others' Speech"

I want to throw something when Lauren opens the basement door to call me for dinner. Not that I’m a violent person by nature or anything, but anyone would get a little irritated if someone flung open a door that let harsh light into a room full of delicately developing pictures, ruining hours of work. I mean, seriously? This is the second time this week. What part of the giant sign on the door that says “Denver’s Darkroom: Work in progress, please knock” does the woman not get?! But still, I suppose I don’t have any right to be angry. This is Lauren’s basement after all, and I only live in this house because she’s opened it to me and eleven other parentless kids out of the goodness of her big old spinster heart. Exhaling heavily through my nose, I run a hand through brown-blond hair (it’s in my face all the time nowadays, but hell, I’m too lazy to go get a haircut) and yank down my destroyed work from the clothesline. I quickly collect my negatives and stash them under an overturned bowl where they’ll be safe from any light or curious fingers that might come their way, and then I flick off the red bulb that lights my workspace before running up the steps on awkwardly gangly legs. My camera sits on the top step, so I snatch it up and loop the leather strap around my neck.

I’m still not used to living in the huge, densely-populated space of this community home. I’ve assimilated easily enough into the environment in my first week of staying here (I’ve always been good at making friends), but it’s disconcerting in comparison the four-room house I’d known all my life until this point. At the top of the stairs, I gradually join the flow of kids funneling into the dining room. A few of them, mostly the guys from my floor, call out a greeting to me and I answer them with a nod and a smile. There’s a huge punch bowl of spaghetti plunked down in the middle of the table when I get in the room, and I find that I’m not surprised, seeing as it’s what we have for dinner almost every other day. Lauren does her best when it comes to food, but there are only so many things that can be cooked in bulk to feed a dozen people, and I guess spaghetti is one of those. I fold myself into a chair next to my roommate, Trace, wondering to myself whether they make chairs especially for people with legs as long as mine. This one’s terribly uncomfortable; my knees are jammed up against the underside of the table. Whoever said being tall was a blessing was an utter idiot.

"Denver! Haven’t seen you all day, man, what have you been up to?" Trace slugs me playfully in the shoulder, all muscle and machismo where I’m beanpole-skinny and not too concerned with seeming overly-macho. He’s a nice enough guy, though, and we get along all right. I wave my hand nonchalantly through the air and adapt my voice into a warbled soprano tone that’s a dead ringer for Lauren. "Oh, nothing all that important, just holed up in the basement working on those silly pictures when I could have been socializing with the other children. Social interaction’s good for your health, you know."

Trace snorts at my imitation, propping his tanned elbows on a table in a way that would make Lauren have a heart palpitation for sure if she were in the room to witness his breach of etiquette. "Man, where is she? If Lauren doesn’t bring her down here in two minutes, I swear I’m digging into this stuff, manners or no manners. I’m starving."

I wonder who he’s talking about until I look at the empty seat at the head of the table. I glance around the room, and everyone seems accounted for… Oh, yeah. Lauren’s niece, what’s-her-face, the quiet one who’s almost as skinny as I am. I think she’s about my age, but she mainly stays holed up in her room all day from what I can tell, so I haven’t spoken to her yet. Actually, I think she’s the only person in the house I haven’t at least introduced myself to. I shrug, turning back to talk to trace when, speak of the devil, she slides quietly into the room, followed by Lauren, and meekly settles down in the empty chair. Lauren warbles on about something or other for a few minutes, but the smell of the pasta in front of me is making my stomach growl too loudly for me to pay any attention. Gotta love teenage boy metabolisms that make you hungrier than you’d ever think possible. I think back to the last time I ate, lunch. Jeez, that was like four hours ago! No wonder I’m ready to start gnawing on my own arm.

Lauren leaves the room, and chaos reigns, kids scrambling over each other to get to the food. I’m sitting right in front of the bowl, so Trace and I both get a hearty helping, much to our satisfaction. Everything calms down and I’m about to start digging into my food, when I glance up at the girl, Lauren’s niece (Terra? I think her name’s Terra, anyway), who’s sitting bleakly at the head of the table with an empty plate. She’s nice enough looking, I muse, a little on the skinny side but with a pretty face and blondish hair that’s a bit lighter than mine, vacant-looking brown eyes staring off into space. I turn to ask Trace about her, but he’s already consuming spaghetti at an alarming rate, the loud slurping sounds indicating that he’s too busy to answer me. Shrugging, I disentangle myself from my too small chair and drag it over to where the girl sits in silence, plopping myself next to her.

"Hey!" I greet her enthusiastically, my voice its normal charismatic tenor. "I’m just the new guy, so I’m not positive how things work around here, but I’m pretty sure that one of the rules is that everyone gets food."

I place one of the extra pieces of bread I grabbed on her plate, followed by half of my spaghetti. "Here, I took way too much anyway. Gotta keep up with this god-like physique, so OD-ing on the spaghetti’s a no-no, " I laugh, placing a disproportionately large hand on my practically concave stomach. I could probably eat a damn swimming pool full of pasta and not gain an ounce, but girls are touchy about that kind of thing. They secretly hate guys because we don’t have to count carbs and drink diet sodas like they do to stay in shape. I slide her plate back towards her, now loaded down with pasta and bread with everyone else’s "You’re Lauren’s niece, right? I’m Denver."

[Eastern Orange]

Alina; The Shield
Freighter; The Protector
Morrigan; The Floozy
Trigger; The Bitch

I jump as someone addresses me. I look over to see the new kid next to me. He piles his food on my plate without even asking, and goes on chattering. I look at my plate of food suspiciously. Was this some sort of trick? Was there an earthworm wiggling about in there somewhere? I wouldn't be surprised, it has happened before. I look at the other kids; they aren’t paying us any attention. I’m somewhat reassured, if this had been a trick, they’d all be in on it, and they would be snickering and watching me right now. Right?

I ignore his introduction. I already know his name – I do help my Aunt run this place – and he doesn’t need to know me past being the niece of the caretaker. He’ll learn soon enough that I’m a freak, forget all about me, and just refer to me as ‘Lauren’s niece’ anyway. Why bother? I’ve seen this happen enough times to have no hope that this will be any different.

Oh damn, It’s the hottie. I’ve been meaning to talk to him…

You know the rules! We do not talk to the kids at the group home.

Shut up. I know that, why don’t you think I didn’t pounce on him before? But maybe now I won’t have to…Trogon can just do it for me.

“Thank you.” I say, noticing the generous portion of food he has given me. I look over at him, and I have to look back at my food. I feel a blush coloring my cheeks. He is one of those boys that are so darn good looking that it’s hard to look him in the eyes; I get embarrassed just talking to him. I feel a sad smile twist its way on to my face. “Since you’re new, I’ll let you in on another rule.” I say quietly, picking up a fork and twirling my noodles around it absent-mindedly. “It is not in your best interest to be seen talking to the caretaker’s niece. You might be mistaken for a sympathizer, or her ally. An ally of the pampered princess is an enemy to everyone else.” The only reason they hate me is because I get to sleep in some broom closet. I have some small ounce of privacy, were they have none. They are envious, and I can understand that. I don’t blame them.

God, why so much self-pity?

Maybe it has something to do with you going out the past three nights in a row? She needs rest.

I’m not usually this sulky, but I’m feeling a tad bit…off. Recently the gaps in my memory have been getting longer and longer, and more frequent. I’m always so tired when I come out of my ‘trances,’ like I have ran a marathon. I’m starting to get seriously worried. I think it has something to do with me not remembering my childhood. I must have hit my head in some accident, and destroyed my hippocampus or some such. I want to tell my Aunt, but what would she do about it? What can she do about it? Nothing.

Will I slowly just start losing myself, until I’m nothing more then some shell, incapable of forming memories?

A ray of sunshine, our Trogon.

[/justify][/blockquote]

[Deleted]

I snort at her comment about it being wise for me to watch who I talk to. Jeez, pity-party much? I can't say I resent her for being such an obvious loner, though. I used to be like that for a long time after... after the accident. I'm still like that when I'm having an off day, actually. And who am I to assume what this girl's life is like? Still, she's giving me the cold shoulder even after I forked over half of my spaghetti, which is unfathomable to me. Rule Number One of the Denver Code: Food is the ultimate bargaining chip or apology. I don't care how pissed I am at you or what you want from me, buy me a couple gallons of strawberry ice cream and it's all good, man, it's all good. What's-her-face's flagrant violation of what had previously been something as solid as the laws of physics intrigues me, so I don't just get up and leave. I've always liked a challenge.

"Pfft, 'pampered princess?' Last time I checked, you were living in a community home with the rest of us," I say to her, finally digging into my spaghetti. "Besides, I'm not worried about making enemies. It's impossible to not love me, thoroughly impossible."

Okay, so maybe I'm a little arrogant. But come on, what's not to love? I'm friendly, funny, and pretty much the biggest stud in this pint-sized community home, if I do say so myself. I hardly think that talking to this girl will plummet me to the bottom of the social ladder, even though Trace is giving me a really odd look now that he's taken the time to break away from his food an notice my new location. I don't see what the big deal with her is, she doesn't seem freaky or anything, just a little... different. But different isn't necessarily bad.

She actually kind of reminds me of Lydia, with her thick hair and quiet mannerisms. But thinking of Lydia gives me a horrible stabbing feeling in my chest, so I push the comparison out of my mind. No one wants to hear about Denver's dead sister, including Denver. Feeling sorry for themselves and dwelling on the past never got anybody anywhere. When I glance back over at Lauren's niece, she's got that faraway look in her eyes again, like there's something far more interesting going on in her mind than there is out here. I decide to go ahead and like this girl. After all, she hasn't given me any reasons to not like her, and she seems a damn sight more intelligent than most of the giggling, twittering females around here. Not too bad looking either. Actually...

"So what do you do around here in your spare time?" No answer, but I didn't really expect one. She's either off in la-la land and not paying attention, pointedly ignoring me, or both. But since I'm ever the conversationalist, I keep babbling steadily around mouthfuls of pasta. "I mean, we're in the middle of nowhere, not exactly anything to do. Me, I take pictures, which is why I have this contraption hanging around my neck. I like capturing life in action, you know? Just that fraction of a second when something amazing happens, laughter, anger, fear. And when you've got a picture of it, it's yours forever. That's basically a flowery, artistic description of why I walk around looking like an idiot with a camera constantly strapped to me, but you can take it however you want to."

I finish off my plate of spaghetti while smirking at my self-deprecating humor, stacking my plate and silverware in the large plastic bin on the table. Thank God I don't have dishes tonight, it's my least favorite chore. I had sweeping today, but I got it done before lunch and then retreated to my makeshift darkroom for the afternoon. My dinner finished, I screw the lens cap off of my camera and take a few quick shots, the little kids with their faces covered in sauce, Trace talking animatedly about something or another with Seth, the other guy around our age, the older girls putting their heads together and whispering about something. I'm going to need more good shots to replace the ones that Lauren wrecked a few hours ago, which means I'll probably be hovering around the house with my camera like a creep for the next few hours. There's an art fair coming up next month, and I've got big plans for that prize money.

The idea strikes me, and I turn to focus the lens on the girl whose name I can't remember for the life of me (something with a T... Theresa, Tanya, Tamara?), grinning like a dweeb. "I call this one 'Antisocial Girl Who Won't Talk To Denver.'"

The shutter clicks, and the red light on my camera flickers on indicating I'm out of film. I glance back at her while I rifle through my pockets for a fresh roll of film, and really notice her features for the first time. Cold and antisocial she may be, but she's definitely got potential for some really nice portraits with those high cheekbones and that good curvature of the neck. In fact, if I got the lighting just right...

After my search through my pockets comes up fruitless, I sigh and tilt my chair back on its rear legs, using my fingers to brush away the hair that has fallen into my eyes (again. Ugh, I really need a haircut). "Dammit, of course I pick tonight to run out of film. I'm gonna have to run into town to get some more. I know your aunt says we're not supposed to leave without permission but I've got this art fair coming up soon and I..."

Lightbulb. What's her-face helps run this whole operation, right? And I thought I heard Lauren say something about her... "Trogon is in charge..." Trogon, that's her name! How could I not remember that, it's so... different. Anyway, if Trogon's supposedly in charge, she could probably head out to the nearest general store with me and I wouldn't get grilled by Lauren when she gets back. Am I a genius, or what?

"Hey, Trogon, listen," I start out, giving her my most winning smile. Please, most girls go crazy over this, and she's only human. "I need you to do me a huge favor. I've got to get film tonight. Your aunt opened the door to my darkroom a little while ago and ruined a whole roll of stuff I was gonna use for that art fair. So if you could just take a minute of your time and escort me into town so your aunt doesn't rip my head off when she gets back?"

Her face is unreadable. Okay, turn up the smile factor, puppy dog eyes, everything. All stops pulled out. "Pretty please?"

[Eastern Orange]

Alina; The Shield
Freighter; The Protector
Morrigan; The Floozy
Trigger; The Bitch

What the fuck is wrong with this girl? Here is the beautifully gorgeous boy going out of his way to talk to her, and she is not even paying attention.

Could it be that a brain can’t function properly on five hours of sleep in three days?

Nah. It’s because she is a prude.

I’m having trouble focusing on what Denver is saying. I can hear a steady stream of words flowing from his mouth, but they refuse to click together to from coherent sentences. What about pictures? He likes to take them? Maybe, I don’t know. I don’t have the energy to turn my head and look; I’m practically dozing in the chair.

My head slumps down; I go unconscious for a second. I immediately jerk awake, and my sleepiness is gone. I look over at Denver and he’s pointing a camera at me. So that is what he said. Huh, interesting. Someone who values art. Maybe Denver isn’t so bad. Wait, no. It’s that kind of thinking that let me get hurt over and over again in the past. This isn’t any different. He only wants something from me, when he gets it, he’ll forget all about me. "I call this one 'Antisocial Girl Who Won't Talk To Denver.'" I wince when the shutter clicks, but feel a small sense of victory when he realizes that he was out of film. I fight the urge to stick my tongue out at him.

I’m learning that he is one of those boys. The ones that act like they are all nice and sweet, but really they are just arrogant, and love themselves too much. I wonder what he would do if I burst that little bubble of his? Would he turn into a jerk? Maybe. Then my conscious interrupts my musings, and I’m ashamed of myself. Wow. Why am I being such a bitch? This guy just let me have some food, which is more than I can say for anyone else at this table. Who is this aloof girl? Certainly not me.

I’m about to turn and invest myself in this conversation, when he does it. He lets me down. I knew it! He just wants the niece of the caretaker; the girl with the power. He doesn’t was Trogon. He doesn’t want me. I feel my eyes prickle with angry tears, and my cheeks redden with shame. I knew this time wasn’t any different, I’m so dumb for thinking it was. I have no one to blame but myself. He is flashing me this brilliant smile that would make me swoon, if I wasn’t so disgusted at myself right now. "Pretty please?" Ugh, now he is giving me this puppy dog look. Arrogant jerk. Does he really think that will work? Maybe now it is time to see who the real Denver is.

I stand up abruptly and my chair tips backwards behind me. In one swift motion I pick up my glass of water, splash its contents into Denver’s face, and slam it back on the table. The room is dead silent, gaping mouths and bulging eyes are worn all across the table. I’m breathing hard, and I’m shocked at myself. Who is this person? But I smirk, and glare at all the kids around the table. “I’m going out. If any of you so much as steps a toe out of line while I’m gone, I’m telling my Aunt that you guys want to eat her mystery casserole everyday.” The shock in their eyes turns into genuine fear. That mystery casserole is no small thing. “I mean it.” I hiss. I look at Denver. Well, I’m on a role, might as well go with it. “Jerk.” I spit, and stomp dramatically from the dinning room.

Oh, damn. Trogon just fucking did that. I’m not dreaming?

Ugh. Now I’ll never get in his pants. Great time to grow some fucking balls, Trogon

I reach the coat closet and grab mine off its hanger. I throw open the front door and stand on the threshold, not sure where to go. Um, well. I do need to go to the store…Denver actually reminded me that I’m in the art fair too. I have some drawings to enter. I should get some charcoal paper…

I jump down the stairs and march down the street without looking back.

[/justify][/blockquote]

[Deleted]

Well, that was unexpected. Here I am, making a simple request, and she goes all psycho and dumps water all over me. Charming. I blink once, twice, numbly reaching up and wiping the now-soaked strands of hair out of my face. Did that seriously just happen? The room is dead silent, and I can feel every eye on the pair of us, me still trying to blink away my shock and disbelief, and Trogon panting angrily as she slams her empty glass back on the table. I think Trace's jaw must be about to hit the floor, his eyes wide as saucers. Apparently this kind of outburst isn't normal for Lauren's niece.

“I’m going out. If any of you so much as steps a toe out of line while I’m gone, I’m telling my Aunt that you guys want to eat her mystery casserole everyday. I mean it.”

Her voice is still quiet, but now there's a deadly overtone to it as she glares at the other inhabitants of the dining room. The terror that statement inspires is palpable. I've only eaten that casserole once, and it's something I don't care to ever put in my mouth again. That's coming from a guy who's known for eating anything that isn't nailed down. Lauren's casserole is nasty. Really nasty. Trogon has played the trump card in this round, and everyone knows that she'll make good on her threat when she's this pissed off. No one's going to be acting up, that's for sure.

"Jerk," she hisses acidly at me as she stomps out of the dining room, leaving me sopping wet and wondering what the hell just went down.

"Was it something I said?"

---

"Dude, you musta really stepped over the line, I've never seen Trogon that pissed at someone," Trace says, shaking his head as he rifles through our closet for a dry shirt for me. I'm sitting at the desk we share, wet shirt already discarded in our hamper, frantically bent over my camera and checking for water damage. It doesn't seem like any of the mechanical workings got wet, but I won't be able to tell until I get some fresh film run through it and can check for water spots on the negatives. A new tee shirt hits me on the back of the head, and I turn around to scoop it up as Trace leans over my shoulder, seemingly to look at my camera. "Hey, man, how'd you get those?"

It takes me a moment to figure out that he's talking about the raw, ridged pink burn scars that are splashed across my back, shoulders and chest. You usually can't see them when I'm wearing a tee shirt, but since my skin had been momentarily exposed in my haste to examine the damage to my most values possession, Trace had obviously caught sight of them. I shake my head vigorously, scattering water droplets everywhere as they fly from my hair, which bore the brunt of Trogon's liquefied assault. Glancing over at Trace's puzzled expression as I yank the grey cotton over my head, I find myself grinning rather sadly. "I'd tell you they came from something awesome, like an accident involving hot coals while I was training in the wilderness with my ninja master, but I'd be lying. It's a lame story, dude, you don't even wanna hear it."

I run a hand through my damp hair to push it back from my face, snatch my wallet from my bedside table, and sit down on the bed so I can pull on a pair of beat-up gray high tops. Shoving the wallet in the pocket of my too-baggy jeans (and I'm wearing a belt that's fastened as tightly as it will go. I'll say it again, being tall and skinny isn't all it's cracked up to be), I stand up, grab my camera, and head for the door. "Permission or no permission, I'm going to get film. Cover for me if Lauren gets back before I do, okay?"

I take the stairs two at a time, slipping out the front door. It's a little chilly out, but I've never liked jackets. The walk to the nearest store that sells art supplies takes about fifteen minutes, and I spend that time wondering what I said to Trogon that had made her so angry. All I had done was give her food, ask for a favor, and try to talk to her. Maybe it was the fact that I had asked for something from her. Maybe she was used to kindness from others being superficial because people wanted her to do something for them. I shrug to myself, gently pushing open the door to the general store and walking into the warmer environment. Girls are weird. They over-complicate things way too much.

The aisle containing film, developing chemicals, and other camera supplies is near the back, so I head in that direction after exchanging a greeting and some brief small-talk with the shopkeeper I grab four rolls of film, some new chemicals, and a small package of photo paper from the shelf, and start heading back to the counter as I juggle my armload of supplies. It's only by accident that I look down the aisle next to me and spot Trogon, Miss One-Woman Tidal Wave herself, pursing her lips speculatively over different types of charcoal as she looks at the fresh new paper in her hands. "Fancy seeing you here."

Maybe it's because I'm stupid, maybe it's because I'm a glutton for punishment, or maybe it's because she's a pretty girl that I happen to find interesting, but for whatever reason I walk down the aisle towards her, my smile sheepish and subdued. "Listen, I don't know what I did earlier to make you so angry, but whatever it was, I'm sorry. Seriously, I am. I don't know what those other kids think of you, and frankly I don't care, because I think you're pretty cool. So whatever I did, just let me make it up to you, okay?"

[Eastern Orange]

Alina; The Shield
Freighter; The Protector
Morrigan; The Floozy
Trigger; The Bitch

What. The. Hell? How did he find me?! I turn and I feel a spasm of panic when I see Denver walking down the aisle toward me. I look around quickly, seeing if there is a way to escape. There isn’t. I don’t want to face him. I’m so ashamed of myself. Once I had gotten out of the house and cleared my head, I realized that I had done something really stupid. I mean, I have never reacted that way before. It was just…I was so sick of it. I’m tired of people walking all over me. Someone can only take so much abuse before they snap. But what if he was being genuine? No! I can’t allow myself to trust him. It always ends up bad for me if I do…

Ugh, she just can’t forget about Alice can she?

Shut up. Alice was supposed to be her friend. Her betrayal hurt Trogon really bad.

I flinch as he stops in front of me, anticipating harsh words, and a least some punches. But they never come. Instead he apologizes. I look up at him in surprise, only meeting his eyes for a split second before I have to look down again. “No.” I say sheepishly. “I should be the one apologizing.” I grip the pad of charcoal paper in my hands. “It wasn’t your fault. I’ve been a little flaky recently. I was just…I thought you…” I shrug, not wanting to say what I thought he was just trying to use me. It would make me feel to vulnerable to admit such a thing.

I reach up and nervously push my long hair behind my ear. “I should be the one to make it up to—” I stop abruptly and my eyes light upon the camera around his neck. Shit. Shitshitshitshit. Did he have that when I threw water on him? Yes, of course! Shit! “Oh my God!” I say, panicked. “Did I ruin your camera. I’m so sorry. I can totally get you a new one!” Just exactly how I’ll manage that, I don’t know. A camera is freaking expensive. Lauren pays me a bit for the things I do around the house, but not enough to buy a camera. I’m on the verge of tears again. I’m totally ashamed of myself.

I look at the different charcoals in front of me. I mutely pick some vine charcoal, the cheapest I can find. I can’t afford the good stuff now, I guess. Why did I have to freak out like that? I'm not that kind of person.

[/justify][/blockquote]

[Deleted]

"Woah, woah, calm down," I say with a chuckle, placing a hand on her shoulder. "It's all cool, my camera's perfectly fine. My hair on the other hand..." I dramatically run a hand through the still-damp strands, looking comically distressed. "My beautiful flaxen locks may never be the same again."

I grin at her, gently reaching over and taking the charcoal and paper from her hands. "Here. I'll get these for you, and we'll call it square."

I walk back up to the front counter, chatting conversationally with the shopkeeper as she rings up the purchase. Mrs. Stevens knows me pretty well, since I've been coming here to get photography stuff ever since I was a kid. She's a nice older lady with two full-grown kids and no husband, so she's always been a grandmotherly figure in my life, giving Lydia and I cookies when we were little, always tossing a free pack of gum or an extra few sheets of photo paper in my bag I'd come into buy something. She gives a knowing smile to Trogon and I as she hands me the paper bag full of art supplies. "Nice seeing you around again, Denver. Glad to know you've healed up nicely. You kids go have fun."

A cringe strikes me when she mentions my healing up, memories crashing over me of months upon months of lying in a feverish state while healers tried their best to stave off infections with herbal remedies, living in agonizing pain from burns that refused to heal. The raw patches on my back tingle at the thought, but I smile nonetheless, accepting the bag of items with a grateful nod. "Thanks, Mrs. Stevens. I'll be in sometime in a week or so to get some more developer and paper for the art fair. Have a good evening!"

I prop the door open and hold it for Trogon, something that I've always done for girls. I may be a bit on the arrogant side, but my mother raised me to respect women, a teaching that I've always adhered to. My display of chivalry probably seems a little out of place in this situation, but oh well. We set off a little ways down the street, and I open up the paper bag to see that Mrs. Stevens had put a few pieces of cinnamon hard candy in with the art supplies. "Oh, cool!" I smile, digging out the cellophane-wrapped disks and offering one to Trogon. "She always does stuff like this. She's kinda like my grandma. Want one?"

We continue walking for a little while, but the silence seems awkward and oppressive. I've never really liked silence, stillness, absence of activity. I reach into the paper bag in my hands and pop open one of the new film canisters, switching it with the used-up roll from the device around my neck. The sky is currently that weird, eerie blue of the half-hour or so right after the sun sets, and the silhouettes of the bare branches shooting up from the orchards in the distance make a pretty scene. I pause for a moment, getting a couple of shots in before I go to catch up with Trogon. She seems sort of lost in thought, so I leave her alone and let her walk a bit ahead of me. I snap a few more pictures, the dark outline of a girl walking alone down a dirt path. It'll be really nice looking in black and white. Her legs are so much shorter than mine that I can keep up with her even if I walk slowly, her head barely up to the shoulder of my six-foot-five frame.

"So, you draw?" I ask, interestedly, holding up the bag in reference to her charcoal and paper inside. "What kind of stuff do you do? Still-lifes, portraits, nature? I take pictures of everything, but my favorite kind don't really have a genre. I guess they're kind of like... spontaneous portraits. I like taking pictures of people when they don't know they're being photographed. I know that sounds creepy, but the pictures are just so much more real, you know?"

I don't even know why I'm rambling like this, maybe because I'm excited to be around someone else who's an artist. Talking to Trace about the finer points of photography would be like discussing quantum physics with a snail, so I don't even bother. But Trogon... maybe she'll get it. Maybe she understands what it's like to capture moments and be able to hold onto them, how that can be enough to keep you sane in a crazy world.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is... You can really see things in photos where people aren't posing. You can capture stuff like love, or laughter, or friendship. In typical portraits all you see is a forced smile and a bunch of concentrated effort to look pretty. But in spontaneous photography like I do, you can see people's lives, hold something in your hand that isn't normally concrete. I guess that's why it fascinates me so much. You should look at some of my stuff when we get back, I've got a big portfolio in my darkroom... well... in your aunt's basement."

I look over at her, still waiting for a response, and gingerly reach out and touch her shoulder. "Hey, Trogon, are you okay? You seem a little out of it."

[Eastern Orange]

Alina; The Shield
Freighter; The Protector
Morrigan; The Floozy
Trigger; The Bitch

“I draw from nature.” I reply, thinking of all my drawing of trees and birds that are plastered to my wall in my room. I smile when he says that I should look at his portfolio. I don’t have anything as formal as my portfolio…Just my wall. “I’d like that.” I smile absent-mindedly. “Your pictures sound amazing.” And they do. Candids are so interesting as compared to posed pictures. A candid will show messed up hair, or an awkward facial expression, but posed pictures are manufactured so that they show no flaws whatsoever, and thus look flat and lack life.

I jump about a foot high when he touches my shoulder. I step away from him, blushing furiously. “What? Yea…I just feel like I haven’t slept in a while, that’s all.” I shiver, and cross my arms over my chest, rubbing my arms to keep warm. The trees rustle in the wind, and a stare past him to watch them dance. This is the kind of thing I’d like to sketch. I’m tempted to ask him for my stuff so I can get down all the proportions, and shadows, but I resist. I have plenty of pictures of trees…

Speaking of shadows, did that one just move? Yes, yes it did. I freeze as a skinny man steps out of the shadows and comes forward. Another one appears behind him, a hulking beast of a man. They approach grinning like mad, and rubbing their hands. They only have eyes for me, ignoring Denver completely. They step between us. I just stand staring at them, my mouth slightly ajar. “Is that Morrigan?” The skinny one asks. “Yes it is!” He answers his own question, clapping gleefully. I don’t like the look he is giving me. I feel sick. “Hey girlie!” He turns to his hulking friend. “I rode this one like a wild buck a few nights ago; she was into some crazy shit.”

Oh fuck.

Oh fuck is right. This guy is crazy. Freighter…

I wince at his crudeness, and I think I throw up a bit in my mouth when I think of having sex with this nasty sweaty man. “You have the wrong girl.” I say stepping back, my voice cracking in panic. Morrigan. That name again. Why does that name haunt me? Occasionally I’ll have people call out to me with that name, on the street. People I have never seen before. Do I have a twin, I can’t remember? “Now, now. I think you and I have gotten past the hard-to-get stage.” He wiggles a finger at me, and gives me this disgusting smile.

He steps closer and my nose is invaded with his ripe smell. I gag and my eyes water. My hands go up to cover my nose, but he grabs them with surprising strength. “I’m ready for another romp, my dear.” He hisses, and shoves his face into mine, kissing me crudely. I start to struggle fiercely. He wraps my arms around his torso, then he lets go, but only for a second to move his hands around my waist. His hands travel down to my ass and squeeze.

I’m crying fully now, tears stream down my cheeks. He tastes like he smells. His mouth is slimy, and his hands are rough as they travel across my body. I struggle against him, but he is surprisingly strong and I’m too tired and weak and shocked. He breaks away, and I collapse sobbing. Unfortunately, he still has a firm grip of me, and he holds me up. He gives me an annoyed look, and shakes me. “Bitch, come on!” He slaps me, and my nose explodes.

Monster. Monster. I protect Trogon. Protect. My legs straighten. I look up at monster, murder in my eyes. Fear flashes in his. Ha. He is right to fear. I hear myself growl like an animal. An animal that wants blood. And I do. I want his blood. I lunge, he holds me back. “What are you doing?” he whimpers. I growl and go slack. He falls for it. He releases me. I catch myself and I fly forward. We tumble back and land, thud, on the ground. He screams as I claw his flesh. I laugh. “What are you doing?!” He repeats. I punch him in the nose. He screams again. Die motherfucker. Motherfucker. I kill you. My hands go around his neck. One snap. Just one. But that is not protection. Trogon would get in trouble. “Die.” I hiss at him, and he goes sheet white. I cackle. Next thing I know, I’m hit in the side. I fly. I hit the ground, bam. Lights fly in front of my eyes.

Hulking man hit me. Ow. Hell. Monster gets up. He has pissed himself. I spit the blood from my mouth and grin. He is shaking like a dog. Good. Hulking man moves. I hiss and scream like a wild animal. I beat the ground and fly at him. He is shocked. I caught him off guard. My antics have worked. I head butt him in the stomach. The air leaves his lungs. He gasps. I smile. He clutched his stomach, meaty arms are a shield. I bite him. Hard. He pushes me back. I snarl and pounce forward again. I scream and rage and roar.
I beat and kick. I go for the eyes. I socks my face. Pain. I can’t see. Tears flood my left eye. “Crazy Bitch.” I hear and they are running away. Away. Protection. My hold is slipping. I toss a look warning look at the boy.

Pain. all I feel is pain. Wait. It’s not only my nose. It’s the entire face, and my side. Now to mention it, my fists feel like I’ve been punching something, and my throat is raw like I’ve been screaming…

Were did they go? Why is Denver looking at me like that? What happened? Why am I shaking? I’m shaking so hard, I can’t stand. I collapse. I curl into a ball. I can still taste that man. Who was that? Who was Morrigan. Tears slowly fall across my face and plop onto the ground. My teeth chattered, and it has nothing to do with being cold. I sob racks my body. And another.

Why do I feel like what he said was true? Did I really have sex with him?

Damn Freighter, you’re fucking crazy.

Thank you.

[/justify][/blockquote]

[Deleted]

The next few minutes are a blur of confusion. Here we are, Trogon and I, calmly discussing art and generally being friendly to each other, when out of the blue a couple of guys show up who seems to think that she's someone else (Morrgian? The hell kind of name is that?). I'm feeling highly uneasy about this whole situation, seeing that there's two of them and one of me if things end up coming to blows. To make things worse, one of them is huge, and I've always been a shitty fighter.

And of course, everything goes to hell in a handbasket and I have to at least attempt to barrel in and save the day. Trogon's holding her own well enough when I get over to the creep who's groping her, but I'm able to land a pretty solid punch on his jaw. In my small moment of basking in my own glory, however, his buddy takes the opportunity to sucker-punch me and leave me wheezing for air. I do my best to tackle the guy around the knees, but the huge difference in weight is kind of pathetic. I'm sent flying through the air, landing hard on my back with the air knocked out of me again. "Scrawny punk!"

Damn my lifetime of pacifism. While the other boys spent their childhoods knocking the fuck out of each other, I was running around with my camera. I always thought fighting was stupid. I had been charismatic enough to talk my way out of any trouble I could get myself into, so I never had to learn how to physically hurt someone. My way with words has apparently screwed me over, though, seeing as I'm sitting here trying to regain my breath so I can get back to my feet and attempt to fight even though I know I'll only end up getting the shit beat out of me. Trogon, on the other hand, is kicking some major ass. Who would have known she was that strong? In the time it's taken me to force my lungs to inhale and scramble back to my feet, she's already basically handed creepy-guy's ass to him and is starting on the big one. I've barely gotten up to help her, landing a few hits on the guy, when they're both running off like scared puppies. Trogon turns around and gives me some kind of weird glare, and I make a mental note to never, ever piss her off again under any circumstances. It may just be the death of me.

Suddenly, the look in her eyes changes, and she slumps to the ground, shaking and crying. Stomach twinging in protest from the nasty punch I endured, I fly over and drop down next to her, helping her sit up and assessing the damage done to her. A bloody lip and some emotional trauma. It could have been worse, much worse. I brush the hair out of her eyes, hands gripping either side of her face as I try to bring her back to reality. "Trogon! It's okay, it's fine, they're gone."

I use the corner of my shirt to dab away the blood that's flowing from her bottom lip. The abrasion's small, but it's still bleeding pretty forcefully. She'll be okay, but I think she's more shaken up than she is physically hurt. A quick assessment of myself reveals that I'll be dealing with some bruised ribs and a scraped-up back for the next few days. Again, it could have been worse. My eyes flick back to Trogon, wondering how to approach her. I definitely don't want her flipping out on me like that. "What the fuck was that about? And who is Morrigan, your sister or something?"

Despite the gravity of the situation, I find myself grinning in a dopey manner at her as I help her to her feet and dust myself off. "Good thing you were here to save my ass. I'm a little embarrassed that I had to be protected by a girl, but I'll be the first to admit that I'm no fighter. C'mon, let's get you home so we can patch that lip up."

[Eastern Orange]

Alina; The Shield
Freighter; The Protector
Morrigan; The Floozy
Trigger; The Bitch

I feel someone sit me up, and I feel hands on my face, and I just imagine that gross man touching me and shoving his tongue down my throat, and oh God, my stomach is churning, and my throat tightens. I push away from the person holding me, but they are holding me to tight, and I can’t get away! I can’t get away fast enough! And I lean forward and my stomach empties right there in the middle of the road. I’m crying so hard, that I continue to dry heave long after the bile stops flowing.

Finally, I stop convulsing, and I open my eyes to find Denver staring at me. I’m totally mortified, but I can’t stop myself from crying even harder. “I didn’t fight them…” I sob, confused by this entire situation. “I don’t remember anything. Where did they go? Who were they?” I look at Denver wildly, and clutch the front of his shirt. “It happened again!” I howl, frustrated and bewildered. My head fall forward, and I’m burying my face in his chest.

I just sob and clutch at his shirt for an uncountable length of time. That man had violated me. He had touched me in places that no one should ever touch me. I feel so dirty and wrong. I need to go home and take a long hot shower, and I need to burn these clothes.

“I don’t know who Morrigan is.” I sniff after my tears have run dry. I pull away from him and turn around so that my back it to him. I suddenly can’t face him, not after that horrid display of hysteria, and sexual assault. “I—I’ve been mistaken for her before…Always by creeps like that.” I breathe in deeply, and exhale slowly, steadying myself. I straighten my back, throw back my shoulders, and left my chin. I fix my expression so that I look bored. I had allowed myself enough time to freak out, now it was time to suck it up, as I had learned to do over the past six years I had lived at a group home. I half turn, and look at Denver out of the corner of my eyes, still not able to face him fully. “I guess I should be used to it.” I shrug, and stand up, dusting off my pants.

I go over and pick up the bag of art supplies from where is lay in the dirt and start down the path toward the house. I walk tall, seemingly unaffected, but inside my head is a storm of questions and uncertainties. Who the hell is Morrigan? Actually, who they hell are all the people that I’m mistaken for? I’ve been called Trigger a few times. Did it have something to do with my missing time? Like, where did I go just now? Denver said that I had fought them, but I have no such memory.

[/justify][/blockquote]

[Deleted]

Man, what have I gotten myself into? Trogon's gone from looking at me like she was going to kill me to clinging to my shirt for dear life and crying her heart out, and the sudden shift makes me pause for a moment. What does she mean, she didn't fight them? She quite obviously kicked ass and took names, so why doesn't she remember it? I wonder briefly if she's got some sort of psychological disorder where she has random blackouts, but the heartbroken little sobs that she's making tear me from my thoughts and make me unconsciously wrap my arms around her. Because right now when she's crying like that and I can't see her face, can't see the brown eyes instead of blue or the elegant, angular features instead of rounded girlish ones, she reminds me so damn much of Lydia that how could I not comfort her?

Even though what we've just gone through has been horribly traumatic, consoling Trogon helps me get a better grip on myself. It's easier to think like this. Just simple, easy little thoughts. Her hair is really soft. She smells nice, too. But then again, girls always smell nice. It's weird, how they do that. You know, she's really not like Lydia at all. Just the hair. Just the hair and the way she sounds when she cries. Lydia wasn't nearly this pretty. But maybe that's because she was my twin sister and me thinking she was pretty would be weird.

I'm interrupted by Trogon suddenly wiping at her eyes and pushing herself to her feet, walking off down the path like nothing's happened. Damn, this girl is one giant mood swing. It only takes me a few steps to catch up with her (thank you, freakishly long legs), raising an eyebrow at the stoic expression of the girl who was just sobbing like a little kid a few minutes ago, and I have the tear marks on my shirt to prove it. Not really thinking about it, I loop an arm around her shoulder and squeeze, giving her a quick one-armed hug. "You know you don't have to act all tough for my benefit, right? You've already proved that you're a badass of the highest caliber."

We walk the rest of the way to the community home in silence. Thankfully all the other kids have either gone to bed (the younger ones) or are upstairs watching the sole TV (the older ones), so Trogon and I have the entry hall to ourselves, sparing us the questioning stares at our banged-up appearances. Setting the bag of art supplies down on the base of the steps, I grab her gently by the arm and lead her to the small half-bathroom next to the dining room's entrance.

"We should probably clean off your lip," I say offhandedly, nodding at the still-bleeding abrasion. I pop open the medicine cabinet, digging around for something I can use. Grinning victoriously, I spot a bottle of antibacterial ointment stuff. Perfect, it'll sterilize the cut without stinging like a motherfucker the way rubbing alcohol would. I suppose that Lauren keeps it around for Torrence since he's always hurting himself, but its current purpose is more important. I squeeze a little bit of the liquid onto a tissue before gently pressing it against the cut on Trogon's lip, my hand against her cheek to hold her face steady. For some reason, I'm babbling again. Why can't I shut up around her?

"I remember this one time my sister was playing baseball with me and some other guys, we were six or seven I think, and this fastball came and busted her square in the mouth. And man, let me tell you, it was nasty. Blood everywhere, two busted lips, knocked out a few of her teeth, popped her jaw out of place. But she didn't cry. Not a single tear, because she wanted to be tough like the rest of us, she said, and I couldn't help but think 'Man, if that thing had hit me in the face, I'd have been crying like a baby, and she just got up and brushed it off.' I always respected her for that. Lydia was way more of a hard-ass that I could ever hope to be."

I cut myself off abruptly. It's the first time I've ever talked about Lydia, about my life before coming here with anyone. And here I am, spouting off some stupid story to Trogon, who probably doesn't even give a shit. Wow, I'm a dumbass. Trying my best to concentrate fully, I wipe the last bit of dirt and blood off of her face with the ointment-soaked tissue before I give her a cotton ball to hold down over the cut. Running a hand anxiously through my hair, I wonder what she makes of this whole someone actually helping her thing. Hopefully she doesn't get all pissy again. "C'mon, let's go get you an ice pack for that eye. Then if you want, you could come check out my darkroom."

[Eastern Orange]

Alina; The Shield
Freighter; The Protector
Morrigan; The Floozy
Trigger; The Bitch

I’m grateful that Denver takes it upon himself to clean up my lip. Honestly, if he wasn’t doing it, I would just go up to my room and curl up in a ball and just sleep. Seriously, it feels like I haven’t slept in a week. I’m beyond caring for a bloody lip.

I found myself leaning against the hand his puts on my cheek, and I close my eyes as he gently fixes up my lip. I’m floating somewhere in between consciousness and sleep, listening to his story. I feel dimly indignant at his story, wondering if it is some hidden jab that I was weak for crying. But I can’t detect any malice in his voice, so I decide not to read into it, beyond wondering who Lydia was. Girlfriend, sister, cousin, friend?

I force my eyes open, and flash a smile. “Yea, I’d love to see the darkroom.” I nod, trying to push aside my sleepiness. I just needed to stay awake for another hour or so and then I can sleep. “Let me go grab some of my sketches. I’ll meet you down in the darkroom. And thanks for helping me with my lip; I’ll grab an icepack on my way down.” I smile at him, and slip out of the bathroom.

I’ve actually wanted to see the darkroom since Lauren told me about it. I’m not a photographer at all, I’ve never even touched a camera before, but I am interested in it. I’ve always wondered how pictures were actually taken, and then developed. And here Denver was, offering to show me. Who knew how long he’d remain open to me? I need to seize this chance with both hands!

I make it my room without any trouble from the others. I can hear them laughing and such behind closed doors, and I feel some twinge of…what? Envy of something I once had? Remorse over what I lost? Both. It reminds me why I can’t get let myself get attached to anyone here.

It takes all my willpower not to go straight for my bed. I can’t even look at it as I enter the room. I just survey the wall opposite it, plucking my favorite pictures down to show Denver. I look over my shoulder, at a picture that I had just recently finished. It was hanging above my bed…Okay, no big deal. Just walk over and get it. I walk over, and sit on my bed. I almost whimper at how good it feels. Maybe just for a second…

Without even thinking, I’m laying down and asleep before I even know what’s happening.

And I’m up! Hahaha, yes! Now I can get a piece of that yummy looking boy. Ugh, but first I need to change out of these terrible clothes. How he went after Trogon while she was in these nasty things is beyond me. I stand up and ignore the chest of drawers that is in our room. Trogon has no good clothes…No, I keep the good stuff hidden in the attic, paid for by lovely Aunt Lauren, unknowingly of course.

I move into the hallway and yank on the little cord that hangs from the ceiling. A ladder folds out of the ceiling, and I climb up the unstable steps into the dusty inky abyss above. I don’t bother with a light, and just blindly fumble around until I find my bag. I yank it free from unseen objects, and descend. Pushing the stairs back up, I walk back into the room to change.

I pull out a white strapless shirt made out of a thin stretchy material and jean shorts, that are no little longer than bikini bottoms. I strip down and pull on the strapless shirt, not even attempting to look for a bra; I’m not planning on keeping anything on anyway, it’s a miracle I’m even getting dressed up this much. I debate for a minute or two on whether or not to go commando, but in the end I pull on my glittery thong. Lastly, I step into the shredded jean shorts, that didn’t even cover an inch of my to-die-or legs.

I look at myself and the mirror and I have to sigh with frustration. Would it kill Trogon to apply some eyeliner? Seriously. I dig around in my bag until I find my eyeliner and mascara. I apply them with a heavy hand, until my eyes are like, BAM. I give myself a satisfied smirk in the mirror, and lament briefly the absence of some lipstick, or blush. Oh well, my bitching eyes will just have to be enough.

I’m about ready to run down the steps when I remember that Trogon threw up all over the place. Shit. Vomit-mouth is not a turn on. I rush to the bathroom and scrub my teeth for, like, five minutes, before I’m satisfied that they are clean. Now I’m ready for some good old sexy time!

I take the stairs two at a time, and am standing in front to the basement, er, darkroom in no time. I take a minute to fix a coy expression on my face, and mess up my hair in a sexily way. I walk down the steps, and step down onto the basement’s cold cement floor. His back to me, and I smile in a predatory fashion. Without a word I stalk towards him, and turn him around. “Were you waiting long?” I purr. But I don’t want for an answer. I just stand on my tiptoes and kiss him. My hands go into his hair, on the side of his face, and down to his shoulders, and back to her hair. My hands roam all around, mirroring the movement of my tongue in his mouth.

I push him back, until he hits a wall, or something. I don’t know, I can’t see, can I? I pull away grinning, and my hands immediately go down to unbuckle his belt. I give a breathless laugh, and shove my face into his again. This is so much fun! other

[/justify][/blockquote]

[Deleted]

The darkroom’s just as I left it, developing trays still half-full of used chemicals, newly-processed projects handing on clothespins from the thick yarn that crisscrosses the ceiling, and my precious negatives still hidden under the overturned bowl. Geez, this place is a mess. While I’m waiting, I might as well tidy up, right? I flick on the only light, a solitary bulb covered in a red gel that allows me to keep in on when I’m working, and the basement floods with a somewhat eerie crimson glow. It takes a while to get the trays cleaned out, but at least there’s a sink in the corner that makes the process a bit easier. Getting the freshly-developed pictures from the line isn’t time consuming, but I still take a moment to look at each one carefully as I stash some of the the shiny photo paper within the pages of my thick black leather portfolio, a long-ago birthday present from my mother, and discard the pictures that didn’t turn out the way I wanted them to.

What’s taking Trogon so long? I thought she was only running upstairs to get a few sketches and an icepack, but it’s been almost ten minutes since I came down here. I place to portfolio back in its designated spot within the long-neglected shelves of an old storage unit, eyes fixed at the bare white line hanging from the ceiling as I contemplate running up to check on her.

"Were you waiting long?"

"Huh? No, I was just - " I don’t exactly get to finish my sentence because she’s fucking kissing me, and I’m not able to think coherently, much less talk. I mean, it’s not like I’ve never kissed a girl, that’s not the case at all. Actually, I’ve kissed plently of girls. In the orchards, behind the school, under the bridge that runs over the creek just oustide of town, but… damn. This is an entirely different story because Trogon basically just jumped me without any warning, catching me off guard and reducing my mind to a puddle of so much useless mush. Funny, how girls can do that. I’m back to the way I was a little bit ago, just barely managing to string together simple little thoughts. How the hell does she get her hair so soft? This feels kind of awkward because I’m so much taller. Who cares, it works. This is awesome. This is awesome. This is… Woah, what is she doing?!

I pull away, wrenching my eyes open and frantically trying to remember how to breathe. In the dim red glow of the room, I can finally get a good look at Trogon, and what I see is definitely… unsettling. She’s got on so much eye makeup that she looks like some sort of creepy raccoon, and what she’s wearing could just barely be called clothes. It takes me a second to make my eyes drag themselves up to her face (What? I'm a teenager, and she's just there. Don't judge), and I notice that the look in her eyes is different and definitely predatory under the buckets of makeup. And when I look down, I’m (only slightly) horrified to see that my belt’s unbuckled. What the hell are we doing? Well, I mean… okay, I could deal with this. Actually, I could very happily deal with this. No. Wait. Morals. I have them… Dammit.

I end up plunging into a very heated argument with myself, kissing her again so she doesn't just sit there and watch me have an all-out battle in my own head. Because that would just be incredibly weird. I mean, I could just... No. Absolutely not. She's obviously not thinking clearly, and that would be taking advantage of her... Yeah, but thinking clearly or not, she pretty obviously wants this... No! No way. What kind of scumbag would I be if I were to... Dude, I don't know this girl's life. She could be like this all the time, and if that's the case... NO! Gah, dammit, why the fuck is this happening right now?!

Why did my mother raise me to be a respectful little gentleman? Seriously, girls don’t even appreciate it half the time, and chivalry majorly kills your game. But still, Trogon’s obviously not acting like herself (even though how she's acting right now is perfectly fine with me... Shut up.), and even thinking about just letting my hormones take over makes me feel horribly guilty. Fuck my morals. Seriously, fuck them. I’m literally too nice of a guy to ever get laid. Ever. I want to beat my head against the wall for allowing my conscience to butt its way into this, but instead I take her gently by the arms and push her back enough that I can look at her.

"Um… Don’t get me wrong, this is not a complaint. I’m not complaining at all. But… Do you have any idea what you’re doing, Trogon? I mean... you can't just expect me to take the high road here."

She’s probably going to be insulted that I asked, but I can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong. True, I don’t know her that well, but something tells me that the girl in front of me just isn’t Trogon. But hey, I could be wrong. I can’t say I’d be too disappointed…

Dammit. Shut up, testosterone. Shut. Up.

[/blockquote]

[Eastern Orange]

Alina; The Shield
Freighter; The Protector
Morrigan; The Floozy
Trigger; The Bitch

Ugh! I can’t believe he just called me Trogon, and questioned my fabulous kissing technique in the same sentence. “Excuse me?!” I pout. “My name is Morrigan, not Trogon. How can you even mistake me for that prude? And of course I know what I’m doing! Are you saying I’m a bad kisser?” Hmmph! Trogon was right to dump water all over him; this idiot have no clue what he is talking about! Well…I’m not down here because I want to get to know him; I’m down here because I want in his pants. And he has the nerve to push me away!

What the hell, yummy boy, what the hell?

“What is it?” I snap. “I’m not sexy enough for you? Huh?” I smack his chest. “Is that it?” I grip the hem of my shirt and start tugging it up. “I don’t have enough flesh showing, yet?” I smirk slowly, teasingly. “My, what a dirty boy you are.” I lift the shirt higher, just above my belly button. “You are lucky you are so damn hot, or else I wouldn’t put up with this shit.” I giggle. “Are you nervous? Is this your first time?” My shirt goes higher, stopping just below my boobs. “Because, it’s totally cool if you are. I’ve handled virgins before.” Another giggle. And I pull my shirt up—

I’m enveloped in white. Where am I? Is this heaven? But…I was just in my bed; I wanted to rest for a second before going to see Denver. Why am I so cold? Hey! It’s kind of hard to breathe…

I slowly began to come to my senses, and realize that my arms are in the air. I bring them down, and lo and behind the whiteness goes with it. OH. MY. GOD. What the fuck is going on?! I’m standing in the middle of Denver’s darkroom, in front of Denver, and oh God, why in the HELL am I shirtless? Lord…I’m braless too. I whimper and my arms cross over my exposed chest. My entire body is on fire with embarrassment...and is that arousal? I’m aroused?! What the fuck is this?! What have I been doing? No! What has Denver been doing to me?!

“W—wha…What…I” I can’t say anything. What can I say?! I can’t even move I’m so mortified. How many times is this kid going to see me in embarrass myself? How will I ever be able to talk to him after this?

God damn it! Yummy boy was totally going to do me.

You are despicable Morrigan! Trogon could have had a friend.

Yea, just another douche bag to break her heart, that’s what she needs.

Was Morrigan doing that to protect Trogon? She was trying to chase away the boy, so Trogon would be safe?

Shut up brat! I just wanted in his pants.

I should be running right now. I should be running weeping to my room, but I’m rooted to the spot, stuck staring at Denver with wide, fearful eyes. I blink, and my eyelids feel heavy…not the sleepy kind either, like they are caked with mascara. What the hell is going on? I never wear make up! Why does this shit always happen to me? I don’t know what I’m doing anymore!

But… but Denver saw. Maybe he can tell me something. I tug on the shirt carefully, trying not to flash him again. “What happened?” I asked in a small voice, backing away, far, far away. As far as I can go. Which, sadly, isn’t far. My back hits a cement wall. I shiver.

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