Work Text:
"Hey Cascabel, it's Even. You said to let you know if I was ever in the neighbourhood, so uh, hey! I'm here on Gift-3."
The voicemail icon blinks up at Even from his phone, and the bustle of the transit stop is a blur of noise and movement around him as he thinks of what else to say.
"I've got a few days before they ship me back to base again, and you mentioned some places to check out if I ever dropped by. I was thinking of exploring the sights, and maybe we can catch up? Let me know if you're free. I'll be around."
He hits send before he can overthink it, then waits for the confirmation that the message has gone through. He feels nervous. It's been good to exchange letters with Cascabel over the past few months. Each time he comes back from a test flight to find a reply waiting for him—news about how things are going, updates on local politics, thoughts about whatever new tech or shows they've been discussing back and forth—it always makes his day. With the disruption of the Miracle they haven't been able to see each other since Volition, but there's only so much that can be conveyed in written words. Meanings left to the whims of interpretation and time, each response delayed by days and weeks. He often finds himself cutting short what he wants to tell Cascabel, knowing that some things are better left until he can share them in person rather than in a mess of too many words on a page.
He almost wants to sit and wait in case he gets a reply straight away, but he knows that's ridiculous. He gets up and goes to find the shuttle for the route he's planned instead.
Usually when he's grounded he'll find somewhere green to go soak up the natural sights and sounds he misses out in the vacuum of space. It's a nice respite in and of itself, but lately he thinks maybe if he gets deep enough amongst the trees, or surrounds himself with the whisper of long grasses, or the rush of river water over rocks, he can conjure up the scents and tastes on the air as well. He only has the ghosts of those senses now—the result of his body's latest reconfiguration—and with each passing day the sense memories get more distant. There's not much greenery around Gift-3, but there's a network from Big Garage to Seiche that's dotted with enough places to satisfy the craving. And if he happens to get an invite from Cascabel, he should be close enough to drop by the workshop.
Even spends his morning travelling through a parkland that's tended to by a group from Gumption's Gambit, the landscape riddled with strange fauna and flora that have thrived amongst the tech created here in the wake of the Miracle. There are raised walkways and bridges made of scrap and recycled parts so people can pass over the wildest areas, ramshackle and mismatched in that familiar way he expects from Gumption's people.
He finds one of the places Cascabel mentioned to him as afternoon hits. A hillside filled with turbines and makeshift windmills crafted by engineers and amateurs alike. Like a lot of things it's new, but already the people in the area have made it their own. Cascabel described it as something of an art installation and good luck shrine in one, and as Even walks up from the nearby town, he can see why. The bulk of the turbines are clearly functional, sturdy towers powering a generator at the centre of the hill, but they're surrounded by much smaller renditions in wood, ceramic, metal, plastic—some brightly painted or detailed with latticework, others left bare and exposed to the elements. Children's pinwheels line the footpath like offerings, cheap and cheerful.
The clatter and whir of the different blades is cacophonous as he moves up the hill, and the variety means he can hear distinct changes in the pitch and timbre as he passes by. It's almost a relief as he hikes to the top and reaches a wide viewing platform where the wind is strong enough to carry the sound away. The view looks out on the Q glass fields, electrical storms flashing dramatically above them in the distance. He leans over the edge of the railing and watches the eerily silent light show, feeling the wind rush past his face whilst he takes a moment to rest. He opens his wings a little to let the current flow over them, and the gale pushes him back—a sudden hard jerk to the right—and he pulls himself upright with a startled laugh, tucking his wings flat against his back.
"You okay there?"
Even turns to see someone standing by the access door to the generator building, chassis humanoid in shape and height. "Thought you were about to lift off!" They make a crackle of static, like a laugh. Their tone is joking, friendly.
Even waves a hand, slightly embarrassed to have a witness. "All good." He glances back at the view, clouds stormy grey and unsettled overhead. "I don't think anyone would want to fly in this weather."
"You get some crazy folks who do. Come up here to test their prototypes." The synthetic comes closer and points towards a strip of land a few miles out. "You can see the runway where they aim to land, though I can't say they reach it most of the time." They make another static-laugh sound.
The ocular sphere at the top of their head glances over Even, darting rapidly between the obviously synthetic parts of his body, and the organic movements of his carapace and face. It's not uncomfortable per se, but he's not entirely used to these moments of scrutiny. The more his body has changed, the more he's noticed strangers paying attention to him.
"I'm Jorge," they say, and keep talking as they move to one of the turbines nearby, jacking into the tower with an arm—presumably to scan it. They must do maintenance for the place. "Haven't seen you around here before. You visiting? Doing business?"
"Just hoping to catch up with a friend."
Jorge nods their head. "Well, you've found yourself a nice view spot while you're hoping."
"It's definitely impressive," he agrees, looking out at the roiling landscape.
"Oh. I was thinking more of our little collection here, but that too!" They gesture towards the makeshift windmills. "If your friend lives local they probably made one of these, you know. If they're an engineering or artist type, I bet it's a good one."
That does make Even curious—Cascabel never mentioned making one himself. He wanders back along the path to retrace his steps and stares more closely at the assortment on display. He eventually spots a likely one, not too far down. A pole with a small panemone windmill attached to it and a red and white windsock at the top. The C of Cascabel's logo is half faded on the red cloth, and Even's pretty sure he remembers it flying near the hangar behind where the old workshop was. The vanes of the windmill look like they're made of delicate, paper-thin Q glass, each sheet shimmering pearlescent in the light. It's more artsy than he would have expected. Cascabel does good work, but Even doesn't usually see this kind of aesthetic from him.
Jorge is still around, slowly making their way along the turbines. "Found your friend's?" they ask as they pass by.
"Pretty sure."
They follow his gaze and make a click of recognition, ocular lens whirring. "Ah, Cascabel. Brilliant ideas—that boy knows Q glass inside and out." Their voice drops a little. "Smart enough not to sell his work to the highest bidder, and I respect that."
Turns out Jorge is chatty, and Even manages to pull a few more details from them about how they know Cascabel, as well as some stories about the local area. Being out on missions means he's been detached from the migration and settlement happening down on the planets, and it sounds like things were pretty rough and uncertain in this patch of Gift-3. Different groups staking claims on resources, dividing water and food and power lines. Cascabel had mentioned the initial stress of securing the workshop in some of his messages, and Even wonders how he's holding up with his current neighbours.
Jorge eventually heads back to their work with a friendly goodbye, and Even continues wandering through the windmills.
His phone rings out, and he immediately picks up as he reads the call ID.
"Hey," Cascabel says. "I got your message. Where are you? Big Garage?"
"Hey, no, not anymore. I'm at that windmill place you told me about."
"What? Really?" He can hear the smile in Cascabel's voice. "That's literally down the road. I thought you'd be at least a day away in the city."
Even looks up. "I'm staring at a windsock with your name on it right now."
Cascabel laughs and Even smiles. It's nice to hear his voice again after so long. The rasp in his laugh. "Yeah, it's kind of become a tradition for people to leave their mark on the hill. You like the little windmill?"
"It's got its charms."
"That panemone's one of the prettier things I've made, that's for sure. Though I doubt it does much to power the grid." There's a clatter of something in the background, and the acoustics change like he's moved from inside to outside. He yells to someone further away and there's a muffled exchange, phone turned away. Even can't make out the words.
"Okay, I can finish up here," Cascabel says into the phone again. "I'll come meet you. Unless you already have plans?"
"No. No plans."
"Perfect. Give me fifteen minutes."
The call disconnects, and Even smiles to himself as he looks out at the view and mentally rearranges his schedule, before heading back down the hill so Cascabel doesn't have to come meet him halfway up.
As he reaches the bottom, he can see a pickup truck stop by the roadside, and Cascabel hops out the back, saluting to the driver before it pulls away. He turns around mid-stride, and pauses as he spots Even coming down the path towards him.
Even tries not to feel self-conscious as Cascabel clearly looks him over and takes in the new changes. He knows his silhouette is nearly unrecognisable now—the shifted joints in his legs and feet, his transformed hair, the few extra inches to his height. And whilst the carapace isn't overly bulky, he has rounded edges and hard layers where there were none before. Plenty of people have mistaken his plating for actual armour, until they got close enough to realise it's all him. At least the wings aren't anything new to Cascabel.
His hair ripples where it's held in a loose knot at the back of his neck, but he manages to tamp down the nervous urge to unravel the tendrils and remake it again.
"I know you told me about all this, but damn Even," Cascabel says as he gets close enough to speak. "I can't believe you went through all this in only a few months." There's a hint of awe in his voice, and Even isn't sure what to do with that.
He loses the battle to keep his hair still and lets it unfurl down his back, curling around the base of his wings. "Honestly, it's all slowed down recently. I'm just dealing with tweaks and adjustments these days."
Cascabel stares for a few moments longer, before he shakes his head. "Sorry, bud. I bet you get enough of this already." He smiles. "How're you doing? Test pilot life treating you well?"
Even shrugs one shoulder. "Politics with the higher-ups are a pain. But I'm enjoying the actual work. "
Cascabel raises an eyebrow. "Still feel like you've been shunted out the way?"
"Oh, yeah. They're definitely happier with me off-base doing missions. It's been good to put all this—" he gestures to himself, "—to use with the R&D teams, though. And it's never boring with the kind of tech I get to fly."
Cascabel's eyes widen, excited. "Yeah, no kidding. I've been following what I can through the grapevine, and I hear there's some wild developments coming out of your division."
Even tips his head in acknowledgement. "And you?"
"You know—busy." Cascabel waves a hand. "But good busy." He gestures to the buildings just beyond the road. "I've actually got something to pick up in town. Mind if we head there, then walk back to mine? I need to stretch my legs."
Even has no objection to that, and they catch up as they make their way through the town, following up on threads they started in their letters whilst Even takes in the strange mix of architecture that's built up from the people who've settled and re-settled here. It's mostly Mandati and people from Gumption's Gambit according to Cascabel, and it makes for some unique use of the materials from the crash yards. Low houses built into the earth and grass, bulky buildings of industrial metal and concrete, others artistically crafted with sides of mixed glass or intricately textured panels. They walk through a communal lot where mobile homes are parked on either side of the road, doubling as ships and road vehicles for their owners.
When they go to pick up Cascabel's package, Even apparently doesn't need to be introduced to the proprietor of the supply shop.
"This must be your friend from the Fleet," Virginia says to Cascabel once she's returned from the back room with his package. Her gaze doesn't stray over Even's more unusual features. Instead she keeps her eyes on his face, as if looking for something there. "It's Gardner, right? Cascabel's told me about you. That mad shit you did together to stop that terrifying moon thing above Quire."
Even nods. She knocks a knuckle on Cascabel's shoulder where he's standing by the counter.
"Me and Cascabel go back a ways, and I know this one's too smart for his own good. Always chasing trouble for his inventions." She nods to Even. "Glad to know there's someone out there who has his back when he throws himself in it."
Cascabel shoots Virginia a look, laced with exasperation and a familiarity that matches her words, and Even holds back a smile. It's nice to know a friend from before is still nearby.
"Of course," Even says. "Wouldn't have made it out myself if it weren't for him. I'll always have his back if it ever comes to it again." It's a sentiment he and Cascabel have shared between them already, but Cascabel still sends him a similarly exasperated look.
"Yeah?" Virginia's eyes flicker to Cascabel, smile curling her lips. "Well, good to finally meet you, Gardner."
Cascabel gives an audible sigh and slaps Virginia's shoulder, and Even can't help laughing a little at his obvious embarrassment. Cascabel just shakes his head and tucks his package under one arm, making a promise to Virginia to get in touch about another order as they leave.
The storm clouds that have been brewing all afternoon finally break when they're walking back to Cascabel's place, and the rain comes down sudden and heavy. Cascabel curses at the downpour and starts to unroll the hood tucked under his poncho, before Even steps closer and lifts his wings above both their heads, overlapping the individual segments to block the rain. He watches as Cascabel blinks and looks up, eyes tracing the arc that lets the water run off and away.
He raises an eyebrow at Even. "Neat trick."
Even shrugs, wings shifting slightly with the movement. The wings are translucent where the plasma activates, tinted through with colour, and Cascabel's face is now dappled in purple where the light shines through. "They always get wet in the rain anyway," he explains. "At least this way the rest of me stays dry."
"No complaints from me. I'll take the umbrella service." The light plays across the curve of Cascabel's cheek as he smiles, before he turns and starts walking forward again.
They reach the complex relatively unscathed, despite Cascabel's complaints about Even's longer stride as he has to match pace to stay under cover. There's an awning over the front entrance of the apartment, and Even waits there whilst Cascabel gets the door open, carefully holding his wings away to let the worst of the water run off.
"Hold on," Cascabel says, looking over as he shoves off his boots. "I'll grab a towel for you." He disappears into the apartment, and Even is grateful he doesn't have to ask.
He looks around at the compound whilst he waits, flexing the muscles of his wings slightly to ease the stiffness from holding them aloft. Cascabel's workshop is a floor below and the entrance is obviously reinforced, locks and doors solidly made. There are a couple of other workshops here too, similarly protected, with a walled-in yard on the opposite side that someone must use to work on bigger projects. There's a bubbled dome effect over the top, presumably so whatever they're working on is protected from both prying eyes and the weather. Maybe more dangerous things too.
"Here."
He turns, and catches the towel Cascabel throws his way. He starts to dry off his left wing first. His wingspan is wide enough that he's learnt to use his hair whenever he needs to clean or check them rather than his hands, and he's aware of Cascabel following the movements of the tendrils with his eyes. He knows they look deceptively weak and soft when they're stretched out thin like this, and holding the weight of the towel must seem impressive—even if they're used to carrying his entire body weight around when he uses them to move through the bare-bones interior of a prototype.
"Want some help?" Cascabel asks, glancing at his other wing still dripping onto the concrete. There's a spare towel in his hand.
"Sure," Even says without thinking, conscious of how long this is taking, and the cold that's starting to seep in from the chill of the rainwater.
It doesn't occur to him until Cascabel comes close that he's rarely let anyone touch him like this. All his medical scans have been remote and non-invasive, with no physical examination necessary, and the symbiote's attunement to his body means he hasn't needed hands-on physical therapy to help adjust to the changes. There's no one he would expect or want to touch him like this voluntarily. It's a sudden realisation. Trust slotting into place at the same moment that Cascabel presses the towel along the top edge of his wing.
He holds in a breath, then lets it out slowly as Cascabel moves over each section. Polite and efficient. The feedback from the hybrid parts of his wings is similar to the plating on the rest of his body—mostly a flat recognition of pressure and temperature change, sensations muted compared to his old skin. There's still something about the physical proximity that keeps him focused on Cascabel's touch, resisting the urge to lean into the gentler motions as Cascabel moves over the flexible sheath that encases the plasma. He wonders whether he'd feel the warmth of Cascabel's hands through the sensors if it weren't for the layer between them—and promptly stops that thought in its tracks. He concentrates instead on drying the last edge of his other wing, taking his time to wring out the towel for the few seconds it takes Cascabel to finish up.
"I think you're done."
Even tests the folds and joints for any trapped pockets of water, and on finding them clear, tucks his wings neatly away behind his back. "Thanks."
Cascabel just smiles and takes the damp towel from him as they finally head into the apartment.
The space is small but functional. There's an open kitchen and living area at the front, and doors that must lead to a bedroom and bathroom at the back. It's tidy. Plainly furnished.
"Want something to drink? Coffee? Tea?" Cascabel asks, walking over to the kitchenette and dropping the wet towels in an empty basket in the corner.
"Water's fine."
Cascabel reaches into the fridge to grab a jug, before his expression flickers in realisation. "Oh, right. The whole taste-smell thing." His fingers curl nervously around the handle as he sets the jug down on the counter. "That's recent, right?"
Even nods.
"Think it'll come back?" Cascabel asks as he grabs a couple of glasses. There are stools around the counter and Even takes a seat, glad that they're tall enough to not cramp his legs. He hooks his toes neatly on the foot brace.
"Maybe. Some things reconnect, and I hope it isn't permanent." He shrugs. "But who knows." Now he's warming up, he can feel his carapace expand slightly in the adjustment from the cold. Loosening and relaxing incrementally. "Meal times are a bit depressing. I pretty much just cycle through the same few ration bars. The kind I used to hate being stuck with on long haul flights when we ran out of the good meal packs."
Cascabel lips quirk up. "You actually eat rations? I thought that was just a dumb stream trope about spacers."
'Spacers' makes Even laugh. He forgets that regular inter-planetary travel wasn't that common on old Quire. "I mean, we use them for military and research missions. A bigger crew will have a quartermaster or cook. But meal packs are more efficient for solo jobs. Or field work when you're on the move."
Cascabel shakes his head. "Man, that sounds like the worst."
"Eh. It's just boring." He smiles. "At least I don't have to deal with the bland taste anymore."
It's not long until Cascabel shows him the workshop downstairs. There are layers of security to get in, of course. His work has become incredibly valuable since the recent upheaval, and keeping his prototypes and methods of working protected is as much a political decision as it is a commercial one. Even thinks about what Jorge mentioned earlier, the unrest after the Miracle, and he wonders what Cascabel might have dealt with beyond the usual to make him this careful.
When he steps inside it's suddenly clear why the apartment above seems so bare and tidy. Cascabel must spend most of his time in here. There's a padded chair with a desk that looks well-worn, and a counter in the corner with a small sink and coffee machine, a couple of mugs and empty food containers beside them. The wall by the desk is covered in personal photos and sketches, with trinkets and thick, thumbed-through books lined up on a small shelf to the side. No doubt Cascabel keeps any work-related notes saved in his own private system, and any of the custom orders for his clients are tucked out of sight.
One of his personal projects is kept out in the open though. It's a small airship like the one they travelled in from the Crown to the old workshop, lightweight and built to ride thermals. From Cascabel's chatter it sounds like he's been experimenting with new start engines and body frames. Even can't follow the deeper technical details behind the build, but it's hard not to get caught up in Cascabel's energy as he talks about it. It's cute that he gets excited, the way it lights up his face, hands and feet in motion, gesturing or tapping along with his words. Nothing like the measured steadiness he harbors when aiming a rifle, or carefully working on delicate machinery.
Cascabel unlocks the cockpit and beckons Even in. "What happens if you connect to this like your other ships?" he asks.
Even runs a tendril along the console. He can sense the faint reserve of electricity on standby in the start-up mechanism, but the tech is cold to him otherwise. "Not much if there's no power."
Cascabel hums and sits down in the pilot's chair, knocking a sequence into the console. The system whirrs into life.
Even lets the metal ends of a tendril extend towards the central control unit and he feels that buzz in the back of his mind before he connects. The airship is too small to compare to the kinds of ships he usually pilots (or to feel alive the way Independence had) but it has the same feedback as a smaller vessel or computer. The distinction between mind and machine is hard-edged and clear, presenting simple pathways to follow. Easier to handle than the blurring that happens when he has to multi-task through a complicated AI-assisted system, or when he spends several days hooked up to the same ship.
A few screens pop up above the console, and Cascabel makes a noise of surprise. "I can see you in there." He flicks through the screens. "You don't register as an unknown though."
Even smiles. He takes a moment to parse the network enough to know he's not going to accidentally fire up the engine or spark something he shouldn't, and sinks into the full ship controls. There are sensors set up, and Even can 'see' Cascabel and the workshop outside through the minutiae of different gauges, from thermal readings to air pressure. He plays with the display in front of Cascabel, and writes him a little message.
AIs sometimes fight me for a few seconds, but I'm just a new installation on the operating system to a machine like this.
Cascabel's eyes widen, and he laughs. "Oh man, you really are inside."
There are sequences Even usually runs through as part of pre-flight trials, and he finds himself automatically testing the parameters, sending reports on the working order of different components to Cascabel through the text box.
"Oh, uh huh?" Cascabel smiles, and raises his eyebrows as Even notes the lower air valves on the starboard side need some attention. "I see."
Cascabel runs a program in response, a minor diagnostic tool, and Even can sense the changes it makes, feeding back to him along the channel he's opened to take control. A brief surge hits him before he redirects it, and the excess sends a shiver down his spine.
He's not sure why the wires cross between his physical body and external connections like this sometimes—so much of his hybridisation is unknown to him, even now. But it happens, whether the sensory feedback is pleasant or unpleasant. Charges and lines of tender sensation and pain translating to flesh and nerves. The teams he's worked with were alarmed when he first mentioned it, but it's never been more than brief sparks and funny feelings. A novelty rather than a concern.
He's about to share this trivia with Cascabel when the circuit repeats and the surge runs through him again, shocking a sharp inhale from him as it travels further down his spine and lingers, curling low in his abdomen.
"Shit—did it do something?" Cascabel pauses the program as Even instinctively grips the console with a hand.
"It's fine," Even quickly assures him, half-laughing, glad that his face doesn't blush anymore. "Just unexpected feedback. It happens." He loosens his grip on the dashboard. It's not like his body's never reacted this particular way before, but without the clinical environment of a lab or freedom of being alone, it feels intrusive. "I probably shouldn't mess around with the system like this anyway. It's your ship, not some project I'm stress-testing for the R&D team." He disconnects, a little flustered, pulling his hair away.
Cascabel glances at the data from the half-run diagnostic, then gives him a look. "If you're sure. I trust you with my stuff, Even." He smiles. "Wouldn't have invited you in otherwise." But he acquiesces and closes the console down, screens blinking away one by one as it slips into sleep mode. He turns in the chair to face him. "Speaking of your R&D team, they still holding back on giving you any extra tech?"
Even sighs and rubs the back of his neck. Absorbing technology no longer has the same consequences for his body as before, but the strength of the need hasn't gone away despite the lack of obvious application. "Yeah, their inventory is pretty strict. I feel like I have to negotiate with a new person every time I make a request."
There's a guilty flicker in the back of his mind as he thinks of the stolen rounds. That was an uncomfortable confession to make after the fact, but Cascabel had called it water under the bridge once he'd gotten over the initial disbelief. Made Even promise not to sneak around or do anything so dangerous if it got that bad again. He regularly asks about it in his letters. Seems rough that your bosses will pay attention to all the shifts you've been through when it helps you perform better for them, but not give you support on this. Let me know if I can ever help out, yeah?
The same concern is clear in Cascabel's expression as he looks across at him now.
"You want something?" he asks, gesturing past the windshield to the packed shelves of materials that Even has been trying not to think about. He can see Cascabel's eyes flicker to his hair which has risen a little, bunching up and coiling around itself. Cascabel grins at the obvious display of interest. "I can spare some tech for you," he says, and gets up and heads out the airship door.
Even follows and watches as Cascabel turns to a nearby shelf, shifting through compartments and checking labels. "It's new stuff you like, right? I must have something interesting you don't normally interact with."
Cascabel drags out a case and unlocks it. Inside are what look like twists of Q glass, only a few inches long, and he picks up two of them and hands them to Even. They're pure onyx black. Charged. Dense.
"These aren't scrap." Even looks up, surprised. "Are you sure?"
Cascabel smiles and continues tapping along the storage drawers and boxes lining the wall, eyes flicking back and forth like he's running through a mental inventory. "It's not like I'm offering to fill your pockets. Take them."
Even leaves one twist on a nearby bench and rolls the other between his fingers. He can feel the soft surface of his palms already shifting, internal rhythms reaching up to meld with it, bring it in, connect, consume. He has a better focus these days, a stronger control of the process, and he holds it there for a moment—before he lets the edges blur and takes the Q glass inside. The effect is immediate, new material and sensation trickling through him, waking up layers within his system as he siphons it away, the potency of the glass thinning until it feels like it's spread out like a fine coating throughout his body.
When the assimilation finally passes, he looks up to find Cascabel watching him, leaning idly against the edge of the workbench. There's a small tray filled with assorted parts in his hand.
"Looks like you needed that."
Even nods slowly. He does feel calmer, soothed under the skin. It's hard to put into words. It's not really satiation, it's activation—a part of him engaged and in tune where it usually sits dormant. Cascabel hands him the tray, and Even glances over the collection he's picked out with interest.
"Thanks," he says, realising he's still a little hazy, body distracted by the possibility of more things to take in. "It, uh. It means a lot that you'd offer this to me. Really."
He catches Cascabel's eye, but Cascabel just smiles back, easy. "It's no problem. I meant it when I said I wanted to help if I could." He waves a hand at the rest of the room. "And if there's one thing I'm good for, it's sourcing tech."
Even nudges Cascabel's shoulder lightly with his own, careful of his harder edges. "You've done more than that for me."
Cascabel glances away, shifts his shoulder in a half-shrug. He looks back at him. "I'm not giving you anything I don't want to give you."
The statement is casual, but it still makes Even's stomach flip. He distracts himself by picking up the second Q glass twist and adding it to the tray, and Cascabel ushers them back up to the apartment so he can make dinner for himself.
Watching Cascabel move around the kitchen as he puts together a simple bowl of curry and rice reminds Even to eat one of the ration bars he has tucked away in his bag. His lack of appetite means he eats more on schedule than he does on instinct, and it's easy to forget about it otherwise, until his mood or energy drops. He sits at the counter whilst he eats and Cascabel cooks, the tray of parts sitting beside him. He keeps the urge to consume it tethered, snacking on them slowly, savouring the quality of materials that rarely come his way.
Cascabel puts on some show in the background. "No laughing," he says with a pointed finger, and Even smiles. "It helps me tune out when my brain can't switch off from whatever I'm working on."
It's honestly pretty nice. A high school drama with ridiculous high jinks and sweet storylines about friendship and found family. At first it's just something idling at the edge of his notice, but then he pays enough attention to have questions about what's happening and references that go over his head, and Cascabel starts catching him up on past episodes. They both get sucked in and end up watching it on the sofa (which Even is happy to learn is low enough for his wings to drape naturally over the edge). It's nice to have something to talk about that isn't steeped in the trials and challenges of the last few months. A silly escape from the chaos. If only for a short while.
As the show winds down, Even gets an answer to his questions about the protections around the area since the Miracle. Cascabel confirms that it's been more stable than it was when he first came down after Volition, though that's not surprising. There are still people from the original Gift-3 who have helped pull things together in the community, like Virginia in town and Marlene from the diner. His neighbours on either side are Mandati, engineers with their own businesses like him, and they have a mutual agreement to have each other's backs if anything comes up or looks like a direct threat. There were opportunists during the initial power struggle that had picked off places for their supplies, and if you were alone out in the crash yards, chances were you were one of their first targets. Banding together with a couple of like-minded people to protect the workshop had been one of necessity. Though he gets along with his neighbours well enough outside of their professional connection too.
"It can't be calm out on the edge of the Mirage either," Cascabel says.
During the stream show he'd loosened up, feet tucked up on the cushion and an arm over the back of the sofa, lounging and comfortable. But as the conversation has turned, his body has tightened up, arms folded across his chest.
"I mean, I guess it's the same deal. Opportunists and pirates are the worst of what I have to deal with."
"The Rogue Wave, right?"
Even nods. "Mostly, yeah. They've got drones they use to scout ahead and investigate ships, and I've had to take down more of those than I like."
Cascabel frowns.
"Hey, I haven't ever actually been boarded." Even smiles, trying to lighten the mood. "You know I can handle myself." There are always shields and disruptors installed on the ships to deter collisions and direct damage. And since speed is the main aim of the prototypes he tests, shaking off any pursuers has been an effective strategy so far.
"I know. But it just takes one bit of bad luck. One time when you're outnumbered while you're out on your own like you are most of the time." Cascabel looks him in the eye, serious. "Do you still have that pistol?"
"Yeah," Even says, knowing Cascabel means the one he built. "I mean, not with me."
There's a stillness in Cascabel's posture. "Let me upgrade it sometime. I can give you new ammo."
Even knows that's not a light offer for Cascabel to make, and he pauses. He hasn't had to use the gun yet, but there's sense in being prepared for every scenario. A confrontation he doesn't expect. An upper hand that tips the scales enough in his favour to make the difference between escape and capture. Life and death.
He nods. "Okay."
Cascabel nods back, and some of the tension in his shoulders drops away.
Even glances out the window, and feels a guilty jolt at finding it's already dark outside.
"I didn't realise it was so late," he says. His phone shows it's past midnight. "Sorry—I must be keeping you up."
Cascabel looks just as surprised. "Don't worry." He waves a hand as Even sits up. "You got far to travel? You can stay if you need to."
"No. I uh..." Even smiles, arms out, self deprecating. "I don't really need to sleep as much anymore. Sometimes I can spend a few days straight in flight and not get tired. I wasn't really planning on resting until I was back at base."
He hasn't mentioned this particular development yet. It's been slow, creeping up on him as the days go by that his energy levels are extending, lengthening out between flights. He can see Cascabel blink as he mentally files the new information away.
"Point is, you do need sleep," Even says, and rises up off the sofa. "I'll let you get on."
Cascabel gets up too. "Let me drop you off at the nearest transit stop at least."
The storm has died down outside, but there's still a gentle rain falling as Cascabel leads them round to a garage at the back. There's a flatbed truck that must be used to haul materials to and from places, and a smaller, two-seater vehicle that they take out. It's clearly a custom build, adapted for travel over the crash yards, or maybe the wilderness at the edge of the Q glass fields. Even doesn't dare connect to the console whilst Cascabel is driving, but he theorises about how it functions from what he can see as they drive out onto the main road.
"Damn. You could just drive this with your brain right?" Cascabel suddenly asks.
"Yup." Even grins at the excited look Cascabel gives him, watching his hands tap the steering wheel.
"Do you have to like, take time to learn how things work once you've plugged in? Or can you just drive things straight off?"
"It's pretty quick. I've got less experience with ground vehicles—but, like, no offense Cascabel—I doubt your car's anywhere near as complicated as the spaceships I fly."
Cascabel laughs. His eyes are on the road, but Even can see how they light up at the prospect. "Next time you're here we should test that out."
He warms at the mention of a next time. He's enjoyed this. He kind of wishes he could stay for longer, but he won't encroach on Cascabel's time any more than he already has. And he only has a couple of days before he's expected back at headquarters.
When they arrive at the transit hub, there's a moment where Even finds himself lingering in the car. This place is quieter at night, and the rain muffles the sounds outside like they're bubbled away, insulated together. The wet makes every dull surface glisten, bright lights from signs and street lamps reflecting back like mirrors in the dim night.
"Take care of yourself, yeah?" Cascabel says. "Come visit again soon. You're always welcome."
They're close enough to touch in the confines of the car, and Cascabel reaches across and places a hand on Even's forearm, fingers curling briefly on the smooth plating.
"Yeah. I…" Even starts, then trails off.
There are things he thinks of saying, tangled up in the desire to keep what they already have stable and uncomplicated. In his experience, friendships forged during intense missions fizzle out more often than not, a meaningful connection in the moment, but one that rarely withstands the mundane routine and commitments of everyday life. This thing with Cascabel has endured beyond the violence on Quire and the terror of Independence, and the Iconoclasts, and Volition. Helped keep him afloat as the symbiote's transformation of his body accelerated in the past few months and reworked his life as he knows it (yet again).
This has meant more to him than just catching up with a friend. But his tongue ties on expressing that in a way that doesn't break whatever unspoken bond is holding all this together. The fear he could unravel this with a few wrong words or actions, affection unwelcome.
He curls his hand over Cascabel's anyway. He can mirror what he receives at least. That feels safe. "I appreciate the messages. I'm glad you reached out."
"Yeah, I'm glad I did too." Cascabel smiles and turns his hand over so he can take Even's and squeeze it. His palm is warm, and the pad of his thumb trails across the softer plates of Even's knuckles. "Keep writing to me."
"I will."
Even lets Cascabel's hand slip away before he loses his composure and says something more—something he can't take back—and opens the door and climbs out.
He shifts his bag on his shoulder as he stands on the paved concourse, and watches Cascabel pull away with a wave before he drives off back down the road. The lights of the car soon disappear out of sight.
It's quiet. The rain is light, gently pattering on the roof of the shelter above him. Even glances round at the departure boards and the nearly empty stop.
He goes through the motions, checks times and change-overs, figures out the route to take so he can loop back round to Big Garage in time to catch the ship back to base.
And wonders, as his mind lingers on the ghost of Cascabel's touch and his words, how long it'll be until he can make the return trip to see him again.