Motes — 2362

Motes played.

Today, she played prey. Today, she was a mouse to some fox, some owl, some cunning predator. She crept and crawled at first, prowling through the brush and between the trunks of trees. She stuck to where the pine needles made a thick carpet on the floor of this forest or, failing that, the hard domes of granite that interrupted it. Anything she could do to stay away from the scree or gravel, the occasional stands of deciduous trees with their noisier fallen leaves, the stands of blackberry canes that she knew would tug at her clothes and fur, leaving a wake of whimpers and vines whipping backward.

Today, she sought out all of the best ways to move. There were times when all fours was called for — when she climbed a slope, perhaps, or when she needed to force herself through some keyhole in the brush, or when she needed to be quiet. Those digger claws of hers helped at times and hindered others, and if the ones on her toes would clack against rock, she would crawl on her knuckles and knees.

Today, she listened hard, head constantly turning to build a better view of the sonic landscape of the world around her. She hunted for the rustle of branches, of footsteps, of breath. Today, her eyes were keen, her gaze sharp, flitting about to hunt for the slightest movement or out-of-place shadow.

And then there it was: the shadow. The one she knew had been tracking her. The one she had felt but not seen. The one whose footsteps were too quiet to be heard and yet which nonetheless trod the ground behind her.

Instinct took over, and Motes ran.

She ran straight forward, at first, for there was a clearing ahead of her and relatively little brush between it and her and although there was a tree smack in the middle of her path, there was space enough to either side of it to slip by without having to turn too sharply, without having to slow her headlong dash.

She ran straight forward and then, just before she actually reached the clearing, juked suddenly to the right.

It had to be a trap. It had to be a trap. She knew her pursuer. She knew it well. She knew they would have planned for this vision of a clearing. She knew — and she kicked herself for knowing too late — that she had been subtly guided this way, toward this clearing, toward this meadow of deceptively open space, of shin-high yellow-green grass and bobbing columbines.

Behind her, a growl, sharp and clear in the overbright air, confirmed her guess.

Her hunter was quick. Motes was not: she had stubby legs; she was soft; she was chubby.

Her hunter was nimble. Motes was not: it was hard to maintain a tight turning radius with all of the above working against her.

Her hunter was smart, but then, so was she. That was her strength. That was how she would win. That was how she would survive.

Rebounding off a tree and wincing at a sudden spike of pain in her shoulder, she made a hard turn to the right once more and darted toward her hunter rather than away, pressing the attack — or at least aiming for surprise — rather than simply running and running.

There, a flash of fur amid the trees. A flash of fur and sudden, wild laughter.

She picked up the speed into an all out sprint. Her pursuer darted off at sharp angle and, as it did so, a brick wall spiraled into being before her, only a few feet on a side, and yet directly in her path, a few paces away. She had just enough time to fork mid-stride and let the new instance continue in her sprint while the old crashed into the wall with a thud and yelp, then quit.

“Attaaaaack!” she hollered.

“Oh! Oh oh oh!” came a voice from out the trees and her prey skidded to a halt, quickly reversing direction and racing toward her instead.

A game of chicken, then, she thought, grinning fiercely.

The two ran directly at each other, weaving slightly to make their way around the occasional tree.

It was Motes who caved first, ducking down onto paws and knees at the last second before the critter, who deftly leapfrogged over her with a Dopplered giggle.

“Gotcha!” ey cried, scampering off to the forest.

Motes galloped after her, laughing giddily.

A few more rounds of leapfrog — repeated a dozen times over with a dozen different instances — and both Motes and Warmth collapsed in the clearing in the woods, panting and laughing. They shoved at each other for a few seconds, rolling about in the grass and wildflowers before sprawling out on their backs, looking up into the cloud-dotted sky.

“You know,” Warmth said reaching over to poke Motes in the belly. “If you were not such a fatty, you could probably outrun me.”

“But I like being a fatty,” Motes countered. “If you were not such a string bean, you…you would…uh….”

“Uh huh?” the other skunk prompted, grinning. “What would I do, my dear? Pray tell~”

Motes laughed and tore up a pawful of grass, tossing it ineffectually at her cocladist, who merely returned the gesture.

Which Offers Heat And Warmth In Fire was a skunk like her, small like her, but had wound up wiry and lithe, perpetually untameable fur stained here and there with green or yellow as if ey had been caught rolling in the grass and dandelions and run off before bothering to wash. A being of indeterminate gender and unsettled pronouns, it was her friend of friends, a superlative acquaintance that had led to a bond unbreakable.

They elbow-crawled over to drape unceremoniously over Motes’s front, sighing now that it had caught eir breath. “You are a nerd,” they said. “But I guess I like you all the same.”

“Pff, call me a nerd,” Motes scoffed, petting Warmth’s fur up backwards to muss it all the more. “At least I am a cute nerd.”

“You are that,” the other skunk admitted. “So am I, mind. Probably cuter than you.”

“Mmhm mmhm mmhm.” She grinned down at Warmth. “Whatcha doin’, anyway?”

It giggled and pushed its paws up over her face. “Motes Motes Motes! Look at you, all growed up, using contractions.”

“Mmnf! Is ‘whatcha’ a contraction?”

“I do not know. Did you have to focus to say it?”

“A little,” she admitted. “Sort of like ‘kinda’ or ‘gonna’.”

“Weirdo,” ey stated plainly. “Do you mean what am I doing right now? Because I am using your fat belly as literally the worst pillow.”

“You could get off of me at literally any time.”

“Absolutely not.”

Motes smirked. “No, I was asking what you are doing in general. What are you working on these days?”

“Oh!” They sat up cross-legged, letting Motes do the same. “I got a letter from both of the LVs, and–”

“Is that why you were mopey? You got one from Pollux?”

Its expression soured. “That was part of it. I do not want to talk about that, though. The day is sunny and bright and you are fun to be around and I also heard from Castor.”

Motes nodded. “Tell me about that, then. I do not want mopey Warmth.”

“Good,” they said primly. “Because Codrin#Convergence got my last letter and started asking all the Artemisians ey could for foods that they liked to start sending me all sorts of different flavors. Ey is such a nerd. Ey practically sent me a tome describing all of the different ingredients they showed em and what they looked and tasted like on their own, and then how they were put together into different dishes and what those looked and tasted like.”

“All of the Bălans are nerds,” Motes said. “Did you write back to tell em that?”

“Mmhm, I accused em of going back to being a weirdo historian.”

“Good!”

Ey laughed. “But! Do you want to taste a frahabrodåt?”

“What the frick is a frahabrodåt?”

As it spoke, ey dreamed up a shallow bowl. “No fucking clue! It apparently means ‘fluffy tower’.” This began to take shape. It seemed to be a lattice of fine bubbles in pale, sea-foam green. “I have only tried a few of the recipes ey sent, but this one at least gave me some good ideas.” The foam began to congeal into a firmer structure that looked to have been shaped by some sort of fork into a square-ish tower. “I do not know if I would call it good, but I am guessing by a text description of something an alien showed a non-chef on a System that is not theirs.” At last, the tower seemed to be complete, though over the next few seconds it was pocked with a few pips of what seemed to be some similarly pale-green fruit. “Here.”

Motes leaned forward and squinted at the dish, sniffing. It smelled like precious little.

“I have not gotten around to adding the scent yet,” Warmth explained. “That is one area where Codrin did not give much detail. I replied asking █████ to help with things like that.”

“Well, okay,” she said, doubtful. She dreamed up a spoon and poked at the…foam? Froth? It was surprisingly sturdy, and although it wobbled, it did not fall over under the touch.

A grin was growing on the other skunk’s face.

Bad sign.

Figuring there was nothing for it, she gathered up a spoonful of the fluff, complete with a few pips, said, “Onetwothreego!” and stuffed it into her mouth…then immediately raced to swallow it. “Mmnglhfnnf!”

Warmth bust into a fit of giggles and forked several times in quick succession, the crowd of em breaking into a wild applause, complete with standing ovation and shouts of ‘Bravo! Brava! Bravissimo!’, before quitting.

“It tastes like passion fruit and licking battery terminals at the same time,” Motes cried, bringing into being a glass of water to rinse out her muzzle.

“I know, right?” ey said dreamily. “I hate it.”

“So do I!” At least the water seemed to wash the taste away quickly. “Are the other ones better?”

“Oh, totally.”

Motes dipped her fingers into the glass and flicked some of the water at Warmth. “Then why the fuc– why the frick did you give me this one?”

“Because you are a fatty and because it would be fun and because I knew you would be honest in your reaction,” it said, preening.

“Yeah, well, I honestly hate it.”

“Mmhm! But you saying ‘passion fruit’ was new. Rye just said it was “sour and sweet and unpleasant” and Praiseworthy would not try it at all. Now I can compare it to passion fruit and try new things.”

“Rye is always too polite,” Motes said, grinning. “But I like her.”

It nodded. “She really is, and I love her. She is…mm,” ey squinted up at the trees, hunting for words. “We are kind of like an extended family, yes? Like, you have your ma and Bee, and big sister Slow Hours, and so on, all super close, but my stanza is like a bunch of piblings and niblings. We all like each other, and we love family get-togethers, and Rye is the best at making them happen. She wants us all to be happy.”

She waved away the utensil and glass of water, flopping back onto the grass once more. “That is why I like her, yeah,” she said, folding her paws over her belly, pensive.

Warmth dismissed the frahabrodåt and stretched out on their front. “Now why did you get all mopey all of the sudden?”

She shrugged, peeking over at the other skunk through the blades of grass and drooping columbines. “Just family stuff on the brain.”

“Precious little of that, my dear,” ey said, gently rapping her atop the head while making a hollow clicking noise with its tongue. When Motes merely stuck out her tongue, their expression softened. “Sorry, Mote. Why family stuff? Why is that mope-inducing? Usually you love that. Sometimes you go on about ‘Ma and Bee this’ and ‘Sis Hours that’ and it is lovely.”

“Slow Hours used to hate it when I called her that,” Motes said, smirking, then returned her gaze to the sky. “Just been lots of thinking and talk lately about how much trouble me being small causes.”

“But I am small.”

“I know, but like the smallest. Like, the youngest.”

Warmth huffed, indignant. “But I am the youngest! I am the babiest. That is my whole thing, yes? I am the most recently forked, the most recently-claimed line!”

Rolling over onto her side, Motes smiled apologetically at her friend. “I know, I am sorry. We are the little ones, right? Dry Grass even calls us that. Her little ones.”

The other skunk subsided. “I know. And I think I know what you mean, too: there is a difference between ’the babiest Odist’ and ‘Actual Kid: Motes In The Stage-Lights’, yes? Between looking small and living in little-space?”

“Mmhm. I knew it was weird and all, and a lot of people did not like it, but I am surprised to learn just how much some people hate it.”

Ey furrowed their brow. “You are?” they asked dubiously. “I though you knew that, too.”

She laughed, rolling onto her back again. “I know there are lots of people who hate the whole bit. I meant more like Hammered Silver cutting off our whole stanza.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Motes said. “Like, Sasha was the last straw, sure, but it was also because of all of that.”

Warmth sighed, stretching their arms in front of em. “I know she has not actually cut me off, but she might as well have. Her and In Dreams both, with their stanzas.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, they cut off Dear, right?” it said. “And I am rather a lot of Dear. I am Dear and Rye and Praiseworthy. I am all of my down-trees. I like being all of my down-trees. I am proud of it.” She grinned. “I think of all of those, they might like Rye okay, but they hate Dear, and I cannot imagine them being too into Praiseworthy after the History named her as the propagandist during Secession.”

Motes frowned. “Wait, really?”

“I mean, I have not actually talked to them, but they cut off Dear for less.” Ey laughed bitterly. “But again, I am also a little one, right? Even if not in the same way as you. My stanza also has our family dynamic, yes? I have dated a cocladist before, have I not? And My and I have been getting close again, too.”

Motes laughed and clapped her paws.

Grinning, it continued, “Hell, Rye and Pointillist are plenty chummy, if you know what I mean.”

She scoffed. “They just write each other letters.”

“Yeah. Sexy letters.”

“Well, okay,” Motes said, still giggling. “Do you really think they have cut you off? Effectively if not actually, I mean.”

“I have not talked with them, but neither have they talked with me,” they said. “I think that I am one step away from being in their cross-hairs. I am over here doing my weird stuff, making things and food and such. I am not really political, I am not being sneaky or dating a Bălan or whatever, and My is off doing her own thing for now. I am part Dear, though, and I am small like you.”

“Which do you think would piss them off more?”

“Fuck if I know,” Warmth said cheerily.

Motes snorted. “You do not sound like you would mind too much.”

Ey shrugged. “It would suck, but yeah.” It thought for a moment, then shrugged again. “I will amend that somewhat. Even if it would not be any big loss for me, I do not think it would make any of us feel good. No one wants to be an outcast.”

“Yeah…”

“Sorry, Mote.” Warmth scooted closer and draped an arm over her front. “I did not mean to rub it in any.”

She nodded and tugged Warmth’s arm up to hug it to her front. “It is okay, just had not heard it put like that before.”

“Dear got its fair share of getting cast out as it became more and more of a snotty little shit, and some of that rubbed off onto us. I have a fair few people who dislike me because of that.”

“People just looking up Dear in the directory, seeing you, and then hating you for no reason?”

It grinned, nodded.

“Weeeird,” Motes said, frowning.

“It is whatever. It stings sometimes, but what is there to do about it?”

“Mmhm.” She sighed, finally rolling to face her cocladist. “I wonder if that is why they are so mean about all of this. The History came out and they felt that and realized how much it stung, so they started lashing out. I know they got mad at me before then, too, but it got way worse after that and after True Name became Sasha.”

Warmth bumped eir nose against hers. “Maybe. I do not know, Mote. Even if the timing does not work, you are probably right that they feel hurt by all that. I am sorry you were also one of their targets.”

She wilted, nodded. “Thanks.”

“Mmhm. Now, come on, kiddo. Let us lick a battery terminal and eat a passion fruit and see how it stacks up against frahabrodåt, and then get some actual food.”