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Chapter 2:

Ori

The light in the hall outside my apartment is set to 'horror movie flicker'. There's a window on each end, so when the sun is up, it's not a problem. The journey home after an evening shift at Bar Yokni, however, is a different story. Walking up to 860 Boto St. is like walking onto the set of Steel Claw 4, especially if you're fumbling with your keys and glancing over your shoulder the whole time.

I shut the door behind me and took a deep breath.

“You're back," Sylvia observed. Black-furred and pale-eyed, my roommate leaned against a pillow on the couch, staring at the screen and rapidly button-mashing her Gamebox controller.

“I'm back," I replied, then placed my keys on the mail shelf and kicked my work shoes off in the vicinity of the shoe rack.

“How was your day?" she asked as the little character on screen opened a treasure chest.

I wandered into the kitchenette and got yesterday's pizza box out of the fridge. “LOOOONG," I replied.

“So, good?" she cracked a slight smile.

I groaned as I placed two slices on a plate in the microwave and pressed start. “I forgot the reading assignment for Lit History again. The teacher is making me work with a tutor to pass."

“Yikes."

I leaned on the counter and threw my hands out. “And get this. The tutor is that tightwad who follows Blackburn everywhere!"

“You mean that cute tree-frog nixie?" she raised an eyebrow.

I couldn't believe my ears. “Cute!?"

Sylvia laughed. “You blind? I'd let him tutor the hell outa me."

I gave the comment a thumbs down and a raspberry, which only prompted her to laugh again as I turned away to pour a drink. “Besides," I said, “they're an obby. Ya know, like Kit Marshbank?"

“Doesn't matter to me," Sylvia joked. “Boy, girl, obby, whatever. I'm just sayin' I'd let that frog tutor me."

“I'm done with this conversation," I said, waving a hand as if to dismiss it from the air. The microwave beeped and I took out my food, grabbed a napkin and carried the whole thing awkwardly to the coffee table, scooching yesterday's plates and cups to the side to make room. I didn't realize I'd been humming until Sylvia spoke up again.

“What's that?" she asked.

“Huh? What's what?"

“That song? I don't think I've heard it before."

“Oh," I said, taking a bite of anchovy goodness. “New song. Came to me while I was wiping down the uhh, the bar."

“It's catchy."

“Yeah…" I adjusted my tail unnecessarily and took another bite to fill the silence.

“You gonna finish it this time?"

I shuffled my feet. “I'd really like to. But I have no idea what it should be about. And I can't record anything without a drummer."

“I meant your pizza," said Sylvia nodding toward it. “Your eyes are always bigger than your stomach."

“Oh!" I felt my face grow flushed. “You can have it if I don't."

Sylvia nodded and delivered the killing blow to a skeleton, resulting in a little victory animation. I quietly ate my pizza. Once I'd had my fill, I slid what was left over to Sylvia.

“Danke," she said.

Then I got up and started toward my room.

“And you should finish that song," she called out, leaning back and tilting her head over the back of the couch.

I smiled. “I'll see what I can do between all this work and class stuff." I shut the door and walked over to my pool. Then, I plugged in my phone, undressed, and slid happily into the water, tapping my fingers on the bottom to the beat of my new melody. In time, I drifted off.

Ceramics was much easier to be on time for than Lit History, and, as a bonus, we never had homework. Apart from the clay drying out my poor knuckles, it was always a great, relaxing way to start the school day. I wasn't very focused this particular morning, but the prof didn't seem to notice or care. Once I'd made a bit of headway on my coil pot, I journeyed across campus to the business building and doodled in the margins of my notes while Ms. Galatas lectured on interest. Normally, I was happy this class was so short, but today, I wished it would just keep going.

But, Ms. Galatas was as punctual as always and dismissed her students right on schedule. I took my time, gathering up my notebook and pencil, then made my way to the library.

This building was four stories tall, with gently curved, moss-covered walls and massive stone bowls on either side of the door filled with decorative plants. It was the centerpiece of LU and, along with the bell tower and the lighthouse, frequently showed up on graphic tees and mugs. Just inside was a little cafe with a decent sandwich selection. I got myself a salmon and cream cheese croissant, sat down, and slowly enjoyed it, feeling that it might be my last.

As crumbs hit the plate below my sandwich, I saw a familiar nixie stride in and rush to the counter as if they were late for the premiere of Silver Samurai. I watched Webster, backpack on, and a thick binder under one arm, order an everything bagel and then step off to the side, just to tap their foot impatiently. Today they wore a light brown jumper with a white ruffle top and glasses, much nicer than my baggy shirt and beanie. That pencil was still firmly tucked behind their pointed ear, though. My heart sank when they scanned the room and noticed me seated there. It wasn't too long before they approached my table, bagel balanced on a plate in their free hand.

“Seems we had the same idea," they said, looking down at me through those disconcerting red eyes.

“Yeah, seems like," I replied, through cheeks stuffed with the last bite of croissant.

“May I?" the frog gestured to the seat across from me with the hand that held the bagel. It didn't seem like a good idea to tell my tutor 'no, you can't sit here' ten minutes before having to be alone with them in a study room.

Webster pulled the chair out with one foot, set the bagel and napkins down, slid their bag off, and plopped down heavily in the chair. As they sighed, it seemed like they were exhaling tension from a body that had been stretched to its limit by noon.

“Thanks," they said. “Just thought we might as well eat together since, ya know, we're gonna be studying here soon." My paper plate was empty by now, so we wouldn't exactly be eating together. Neither that nor my silence stopped Webster from hurriedly scarfing down their bagel. I wondered if they'd eaten anything today. I leaned back in my chair and gazed out the window.

When I looked back, the nixie had swallowed what looked like half the bagel already. They washed it down with a sip from a sticker-covered bottle drawn from their book bag. Then they exhaled again.

“So I think we might have rubbed each other wrong yesterday. I was hoping we could try again." Webster removed their glasses and placed them on the binder next to them. As my eyes followed the movement, I couldn't help but notice some of the stickers on their bottle. They were band stickers – logos I recognized. Did they listen to Screws Loose? No way. I filed that away for the moment. Maybe this whole thing was some kind of attempt to bond with me. Yuck! Now it was my turn to exhale. I couldn't resist the urge to reply with sarcasm. “Rubbed each other wrong?"

Webster pursed their lips for a moment but blinked my statement away a moment later. “What I mean is, I'm not always the best at first impressions. I think we both value what little free time we have and don't want to waste it doing some bonus project." They watched me closely as they took another bite, seemingly analyzing my expressions.

“Bonus project?" That was some loaded language. “He said he'll only pass me if I do this! He's basically blackmailing me!"

Webster furrowed their brow. “That was his last resort. He wants you to pass."

“I should be allowed to fail whatever class I want. Why is that his problem?"

“So you want to fail? Is that it?"

“No! I mean, so what if I do? So what!?" I felt my face growing hot.

“If you do, then why bother tutoring you?" they asked coldly.

“Why bother, yeah!" my voice began to rise. “At least you make money doing this! All I get is part of my day trashed!"

“Why even go to school if you don't want to at least TRY to care about your grades?"

“For your information, not everyone has a smorgasbord of job opportunities! School might be my only way out!"

“So you DO care about school."

“Of course I care! That's why I'm fucking upset! My future is at stake!I'm putting all this effort into getting some kind of certificate so I can fucking do ANYTHING but bartending and Blackmail-burn is threatening to fail me over nothing!"

“Nothing? Did you hear anything he said to you yesterday?"

“What the hell does that mean!?"

“I guess not then. I guess I'll have to tell him this was a waste of time."

“This whole class is a waste of time!" I shouted, surprised at the force behind my voice. It got the shocked look I was aiming for, but Webster's expression quickly changed to something I wasn't anticipating. Hurt. They looked down at their bagel and stopped chewing for a moment. A silence hung above the table between us like an icy cloud of ink. When they spoke again, it was slowly.

“Brad and I try really hard to make this class engaging. Floro's life is kind of a mystery these days but his work was foundational to Silena. And to people like Brad and…and me. We're hoping if we get more people interested in the past, we can help build a better future." They did not make any eye contact during their spiel. The following crunch of their bagel seemed to stab my eardrums. I felt hot embarrassment rise in my throat.

“How is studying some dead playwright gonna help anyone?" I said, indignantly.

Webster finally looked up from their food, tapping their fingers rhythmically on the table. “Well…" They briefly met my eyes. “Ori. Do you know anything about uh…about obbies?"

“Obbies like you?"

“Yeah. Obbies like me."

“I mean I know The Drifters, uh, and Kit Marshbank from Screws Loose." Webster's eyes flashed with recognition.

“You like Screws Loose?" they demanded with an energy I hadn't seen before.

“Uh, yeah dude." I could barely believe my ears. I crossed my arms and wrinkled my nose. “They're only the best goddamn punk band of our era."

“You can't FIND crunchier licks!" they agreed. “God! And the lyrics!"

“I'm sorry, but," I stared at them. “YOU'RE a fan of Screws Loose?"

In response, the nixie just slid their water bottle across the table and rotated it so I could see all the stickers. There was the band's jagged logo. There was the second album cover, depicting a puppet dragon, and there was a third of just Kit Marshbank with guitar in hand. As if that wasn't enough, Webster followed up by pulling out their computer and showing me four more band stickers on their computer case.

“I have every single album," they said with a silent finality, as if they were proving some kind of point.

I looked between them and the stickers three times, trying to compute. “I thought you would listen to…I dunno classical or something! No offense."

Webster actually laughed! “Well, in fairness, I do listen to some classical. But when I first heard Kit, it was like a religious experience." There was another long pause, as I wasn't sure what to say. Webster eventually broke the silence.

“Ya know, you're not the only one who's hoping college is a way out."

“I guess not," I said softly.

“Anyway..." Webster stuck out their hand. “Let's try this one more time. I'm Webster. Webster Loveland. I'm a 25-year-old obby and a bookworm with a secret love for all things punk and subversive."

I looked down at their hand for a long moment. Slowly, I grasped it and started shaking. “Well I'm Ori Noco. 24-year-old punk rock disappointment." We moved our hands up and down robotically.

Webster smiled. “Disappointment. Yeah, I think we might have more than a little in common." They let go and I withdrew my hands, placing them on the table. I watched Webster tap their fingers again and look around. I looked out the window.

“You got a favorite song by Screws Loose?" I asked.

They inhaled sharply. “Hard to choose. I really like Cross My Heart though."

“You're kidding! That's like one of the first songs I learned to play when I first picked up guitar!"

Webster played some air drums, mimicking Khalil's famous fill. “Don't forget the drums."

“How could I? Ebo Khalil is a genius, and people never seem to talk about that!"

“That's what I'm saying! People never take drums seriously, but try listening to a song without them. It sounds awful! And Khalil doesn't just do the same groove over and over."

“He innovates each time, making each drumline unique!"

Webster nodded excitedly.

“Okay okay, I hate to bring this back, but now I have to know. What does being an obby have to do with Floro?"

Webster settled themself back down with a throat-clearing cough. “Right, my point. A lot of historians think that if Floro was alive today, he might have been an obby."

I considered that for a moment. Webster continued.

“If you really read and understand his work, you can see how revolutionary it was. He was writing in a time when nixies on the continent were still second-class citizens, when his people were forced to conform to rigid standards of sexual dimorphism, where not aligning yourself with the views of the Solian Dynasty was basically suicide. He hears of this newfound Island called Silena, goes there, and writes scandalous plays critiquing his home country – plays about formerly enslaved cross-dressers, loveable ex-convicts, queer pirate love triangles, et cetera."

I nodded. I supposed that was probably pretty wild for the time.

“When you think about it, he was basically the closest thing Colonial Silena had to a punk rocker! But that's not all. It's thought that he used money from sold out plays to lobby the early government for the rights of minorities and may have even helped put the tolerant King Rashid on the throne. There is a direct line from Floro to Kit Marshbank."

Webster finally rested, leaning back in their chair, and picked back up the bagel. “This is good by the way."

I opened my mouth and closed it, then opened it again.

“I…I guess I thought Floro was just a stuffy old poet."

“Oh, he can be a little stuffy, don't get me wrong. And a lot of the deeper meaning gets lost when you don't understand Old Silenese. But trust me, if you can parse the opaque, flowery language, it's VERY punk rock."

'Punk rock' and 'Floro' did not seem to me like they belonged in the same sentence, but I considered the nixie's words.

“And so…" I thought for a second. “Nixies were second class citizens?"

“Yes," replied Webster. “And insectoids, and deutyrians, and even harpies if you can believe it. And undines. But, well, Silena still has a ways to go on that front."

Webster was sure right about that. They looked up at the clock on the wall and spoke before I could. “It's pretty much time to start. Do you still want to go to room 203 or-?"

My head needed a moment to catch up to the sudden change of subject. “203?"

“Yes. Did you get my email?"

“Oh. I guess not."

Webster looked around them, left and right. “Well, the cafe is mostly empty and uh-I've already gotten settled. Why don't we just do it here?"

“Sure," I said.

The nixie opened up their laptop. I still couldn't believe the amount of punk rock stickers on the case. After a few clicks, they turned the screen so we could both see. It was open to the first act of Mylus Peronus.

“Let's try reading a few pages. If you don't understand something, just look at me. I've read this play four times and seen it live twice."

I took a deep breath. “Okay. If it's got queer and punk rock messages like you say, maybe I can find something to enjoy there."

I looked at the screen and began to read.