City of Light (solo)

WHEN LIFE FELT STORMY, Charlotte’s mind always went back to Oakland—one uncertain time for another. It was as if each new trauma was a pluck upon the same restless chord, and the reverberations stirred her into motion.

*plunk*

She was awash in an unfamiliar place, having only known one countryside house and never seen a city.

*plink*

The kind man who had picked her up turned sour, and insisted that if Charlotte ate his food, she’d have to earn her keep.

*plunk*

She was breaking the lock to a pawn-shop downtown.

*plink*

Chief took a bullet to the brain, it coated the walls red—your eyes never forget a red like that—

*plunk*

A fight.

Another fight.

*plink*

From the moment that her fist connected with locked doorknob of Saito’s room, from the moment that she saw her friend unconscious and roiling on the floor, the chord had been struck once again.

And, just as she had done many times before, this resonation propelled Charlie forward. Saito was in her arms, she was running down the stairs, the world was tilting around her. It was like playing a video game, and someone else was piloting Charlotte from just above. The only thing she felt was the need to protect, to fix this, to repair the carefully-constructed family that she’d found. Even the impossibly-hot weight of her delirious friend, babbling nonsense, faded to nothing—even the painful pinprick of blistering palms disappeared.

None of it mattered.

She had to fix this.

At some point someone had said that the ambulance would do no good, unless they wanted Saito to roast alive—they’d have to run.

That’s all it took.

All Charlotte knew was running. It’s the only thing the prawn had ever been good at. She vaguely heard that someone was going to meet her in their car, but… it all sort of slipped away in the noise.

The world passed around her as if she were running on a treadmill, her head humming, none of it felt real—god, if only this wasn’t real—houses gave way to apartments gave way to city. Charlotte brushed past pedestrians without feeling them, her breathing short, her carapace absolutely luminous—the bioluminescent pores undulated with light, never fading, quite the spectacle if you ignored the fact that they were there because she was terrified.

A voice cut through the fog.

“Hitoshi?”

The prawn was stopped at a bustling intersection, unable or unwilling to take-on the unforgiving cars. She glanced down at Saito. He was awake, for the moment. His beautiful blue eyes were set adrift in a sea of red. Her breath hitched.

He was trying to move. Whoever he saw, it wasn’t her.

A trembling hand brushed her cheek, just over her mouthparts—fuck, she hadn’t even brought her mask— her heart threw itself pathetically against her chest, panicked—didn’t people do that right before they died? See their life flash?

“Saito, no—“

“I fell… I’m sorry.”

The traffic light changed.

She was running again.

His second apology was caught in the wind.

And then he went limp. Charlotte held him closer, one massive hand holding his head, tears welling in her eyes. No, not like this, please. She had to be stronger. She had to take care of this.

“It’s okay,” she murmured. To him? To herself? “It’ll be okay.”

When life felt stormy, her mind always went back to Oakland.

But running, scared, down the streets of Tokyo, Charlotte’s mind gave her some small pardon—she remembered one of the quieter times.

Sitting cross-legged on the thick green carpet—it’d always reminded the prawn of grass— was a woman with a spill of ink-black hair, head tilted upwards as if in prayer or meditation, eyes closed, expression tranquil. Charlotte sat behind her, on a threadbare couch, legs parted slightly so that she could sit closer to the woman. Her deft, three-fingered hands were braiding the woman’s hair into a plait—a little sloppy, from lack of practice, but a plait nonetheless.

“What’s troubling you, dulzura?” the woman purred. Her speech was always honeyed and thick with a Spanish accent, full of soft things to call the prawn. Charlotte had always liked that.

“I tried what you said… at the school, Tía Alma,” Charlotte said, her youthful voice husky with disappointment, “With the other girls? They told me if I touched their hair, they’d always smell like fish. And that the seagulls would attack them.”

“Ah, dulzura…”

“Why are people so mean, Tía? I don’t smell like fish.”

“People like that aren’t worth your time,” Alma sighed, “One day, dulzura, you will find people worth welcoming into your heart. Who will love you for who you are. And when you find them, never let them go.”

Never let them go…

Never…

The tears in the prawn’s eyes spilled over, dribbling along the sharp edges of her facial scales. The breath that she’d been holding shuddered out of her. Of all the terrors she had known, of all the trauma she had faced—this was by far the worst.

These were her friends—her family—

She picked over the uneven pavement of the hospital’s parking lot, stumbling slightly—nearly rolling her ankle—and she ran straight through the doors of the Emergency Room—

“Please, help! My friend is very sick! A quirker! He’ll cook himself alive if we don’t do something!”

These were the people she’d chosen to let into her heart.

And she wasn’t going to let them go.

sister piece to this thread