GLIESE: get up to highjinks.
This isn’t your usual kind of place at all, from the trying-too-hard plush rugs (probably have to rigorously cleaned by drones every day after all the idiots who vomit expensive wine on them) to the fucking chandeliers overhead cycling through rave colors.
It’s tacky as fuck, but at least here there aren’t a million suspicious warm gazes on you, waiting for you to try to arrest them or some shit. It’s one thing you definitely don’t miss about Mina.
Here you’re thoroughly normal, which is jarring in how wrong it feels.
Nobody gives a cobalt - fine, cuspy cerulean - a second look, even one with eyes like yours. You’re not the only one with psi eyes, even if it isn’t common; there’s one or two other ceruleans with them, and you saw an indigo whose oculars flashed green and purple.
There’s even a few seadwellers, and from your seat at the bar you see one with hair that looks it’s on the run from the fashion policeradicators trying to flirt with a bored-looking cobalt who has a head on him.
Weird. Usually fish don’t run as short as you.
He smiles, and gestures, clearly trying to lead the cobalt back to the bar to buy them a drink, but by the time the pair of them are within a few feet of you, she stops rigid.
“Hey.” She says, ears pricking up as she tosses her horns, and then pokes him the chest. “You’re that Prince shitbag! You think you can get me into bed? What, going to try to pap me while we fuck? I don’t think so!”
She’s so fucking loud, and it’s going right down into your soundsponges, sharp enough to make you grind your fangs.
So you get off your seat, get behind her, and hit her very precisely in the head with your palm so that her thinkpan slams against her brain and she goes down like a sack of bricks. Some trolls mutter with annoyance and draw back, but hey, security can bite you: it’s not like you were making as much of a scene as she did.
You spare a baleful look for the fin-face.
“Gonna cause more problems, or can I actually enjoy my gin in peace?”
