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The three of them stir and wake in the early (always too early) evening. The Dolorosa hardly needs to sleep, and while she enjoys the opportunity for rest and recuperation, she enjoys the sun more, absurdly. So the moons find her already above deck while her charges sludge through their evening routines.
The Disciple is up and out of her coon, a bundle of clothing under one arm and a sopor-damp towel around her waist in a loose resemblance of modesty. The Signless looks much the same when he comes stumbling out of his block, all tousled hair and puffy eyes.
“Who’s washing first?” the Disciple asks, the question tainted with a lethargic drawl.
“You can go first, love.” At odds with his words, the Signless remains where he is, blinking. It’s another moment and a yawn before he wheels around with surprising swiftness, disappearing back into his block.
Saying the inside of the ablutionblock is cramped is something of an understatement. There’s just enough space for one to turn around and have access to the sink, but the load gaper being jammed in the corner between the two other implements does require diagonal sitting for use.
The standing ablutiontrap is adequate, with a detachable showerhead and a small cubby for soap bars and soap bottles and whatnot. Why anyone would need three plus types of soap is beyond her; the Disciple doesn’t think anyone actually uses more than the bar for their armpits, but it looks like a nice and fancy arrangement.
There’s the hair care stuff, too, which the Disciple physically recoils at the sight of. Ah, memories. It used to be Rosa (or the other two, for that matter, but she was the one brave enough to try) couldn’t touch her hair without her screaming and crying and throwing up like a dramatic little shit. Half wild as the Dolorosa liked to call her, insult and endearment hissed through her teeth as she wrestled the wiggler back into place. In said wiggler’s defense, it had been a long long while since she had felt the sandpapery tongues of her lusus.
Now it was better. They triple teamed it and there was marginally less hissing and spitting and grumping afterwards.
She sort of wishes it was still how it used to be. Minus the sand. It used to be she could get away with not washing for a wipe and some nights.
Her family admits she isn’t herself without a layer of grime and half a forest in her mane. But even the Disciple herself must concede it doesn’t make for a good public persona.
Presenting herself to the broader public the way she does now is beyond anything she ever thought she’d do. Crazy how things end up.
The standing ablutiontrap is a timeless place, and she doesn’t know how long she stalla in there, letting the water wash over her and dragging her finger through the condensation beading on the door, before there’s a knock. A pure illusion of manners. The Signless slips in, mouth already in motor mode.
“Hey so we’re cutting in short on time actually if we wanna stick to the schedule which would be great if we could because the little birdies say it’s going to be a good turnout you may need to hurry it up or scooch over,” the Signless says, all in one breath, as she swipes frantically to clear her door doodles. Mentally, she snarks at him for lighting such a hellish fire under her ass. This standing ablutiontrap is not big enough for the two of them.
The Disciple and the Signless, looking much more like Meulin Leijon and Kankri Maryam at five-thirty in the evening and removed from the context of revolution, crawl forth from the dark, sometimes damp living space they’ve made on the First Ship to a waiting mother. The Psiioniic follows behind, looking like he put himself together in two minutes, because he probably did.
They look way more polished when committing high treason. Promise.
“Rowdy out there, tonight,” the Dolorosa says by way of greeting, peering over the rails. Sure enough, the waves persist high and mighty before dying out on shore.
She proceeds to give them each sharp pecks on the crown, as if counting them off to make certain they’re all there before they file out onto the dock.
They had scouted out a good spot some days before, shortly after they had arrived. It wasn’t a far walk, but it was a silent one, in the beginning, each of them taking the time to collect themselves. The Disciple digs around in the pouch slung over her shoulder and removes an earpiece and microphone as well as a roll of tape. The last two items she passes off to the Signless. The first, a rounded curlicue of plastic and quivering biomaterial, she hooks over her own ear. Her left, her better.
Adjusting his microphone and ensuring it’s on, Signless begins to hum.
It’s a gentle, meandering sound that serves to put them all back in their sorts. Almost like close-lipped scatting, no particular tune to follow. He says it’s good for centering himself, but the effect works on them, too.
The first mic they had acquired didn’t allow for it; the sound had come through incredibly broken and crackly. Probably because they picked it up after a very bad stand-up commiseredian tossed it to the ground whilst being brutally booed off the stage.
But a lot of their scavenged (stolen?) supplies worked just fine, so. You win some, you lose some.
The Disciple is surprised with how well the streets are kept. When you have a smaller population, all under green, drones tend to neglect the area unless called upon. And lowbloods are more focused on keeping themselves alive than the upkeep of their hives or roadways.
Sitting just a ways inland is their destination: a petite little park. It’s like an oasis; leafy, flowers, dew-damp grass.
Public, but the only trolls found there are sitting at the picnic tables, eating. Looks like stuff they picked up from the BBQ joint across the way.
None of them sit together, of course.
The Disciple is torn. These lowbloods seem mellow enough to not live in constant hostility, but their resolute desire to not speak leaves an eerie silence.
Target audience, she guesses. Trolls who are willing to listen and less likely to report.
But (at least, in her more passionate moments) she feels the way the Signless does. She wants to go big or go hive, and going hive is not an option.
Every individual who comes to realize their worth, and the worth of those around them, is a victory. But with trolls like these, it is more about offering them the space and security to think thoughts they wouldn’t dare to think otherwise. They are the ones suffering, of course they’ll be more receptive.
The Signless has made his literal dreams clear to his family. Peace, for kindness to be the default and not the disease. Even friendship with the Highblood. The fucking Empress.
The Disciple thinks he has the right idea in reaching out to those who really need to hear his words. The clowns she’s… unsure about. There’s so many gray areas. And the Empress will never listen, though the Disciple won’t say it to his face.
However, they’d be downright fools to not take every opportunity they can, even the quaint communities.
The Signless climbs up onto one of these picnic tables now. He doesn’t have much of a crowd yet, but experience dictates that intrigue will draw in passerbys.
He’d preach for an audience of one, anyway.
The rest of the Inner Circle disperse. The Disciple, given the leeway to stray since she has the earpiece, plops down at the table adjacent to one otherwise occupied.
The lone troll looks to be sussing out the Disciple and her gang as they pull apart their oinkbeast ribs. The Disciple weighs greeting them, or even acknowledging their stares, against the awkwardness level.
Eh. Folks storming your park to talk about the giant trunkbeast in the room that nobody wants to acknowledge is awkward enough as is. She gives them a little wave, misleadingly shy.
The troll says something, looking perturbed.
She gets up and as close as she dares to a stranger, tilting her head. “Pardon. I didn’t catch that?”
“You’re rebels?” the troll repeats.
The Disciple turns to them, bright and beaming. First impressions make it or break it. “Indeed! Though we like to call ourselves revolutionaries. But the difference ain’t all that important,” she adds. “We’re a little… different from those you may have heard about in the past.”
Oops. That might have had the opposite effect than intended, the Disciple realizes, when the troll takes on an even more skeptical look.
“Just— trust me, you aren’t in danger,” she says. “We didn’t mean—“
“We didn’t mean to disrupt you; my apologies on that front!” the Signless calls from atop the table. “Or rather, I do, but in a different way.”
The Disciple continues, albeit quieter, “Yeah, that. You won’t regret sticking around. Worst case scenario you think he sounds too nasally.”
The troll brushes her off, turning back to their food.
Taking the cue, the Disciple retakes her own place. She catches the vague mumblings of “Can’t eat a goddam meal in peace anymore,” as she walks away.
Oh, boy. Well, they haven’t left, so that’s something.
Sometimes, it’s hard to put her faith in that beloved hunk of mutant scum, but she knows damn well just how captivating he can be.
She’ll keep an eye on that troll, specifically, see if they’re still around by the end.
Signless is speaking, just introducing himself and easing his way into things, so the Disciple has that much more time to breath and ready herself to enter The Zone.
This is his first time in the area, so he’s doing nothing more than testing the waters. The other half of them will do the difficult bit of reading the metaphorical room and surrounding environment.
The Signless’ voice is strong, unwavering with his hours and hours of practiced speech and vocal cord exercise.
Thankfully, the Disciple already knows most of what he’s talking about, because by the end, you could ask her the last thing to come out of his squawkblaster and she’s have no fucking clue without glancing down.
They’ve still yet to work out how to execute this bit. Once the Signless has stopped speaking and the Disciple’s pen has stopped scratching; everyone still and waiting.
The Disciple knows that how to handle the tense moments between one stage and the next should fall on her and the Signless, as the two closest to the public. Somehow, for some reason.
The Dolorosa and Psiioniic have always been string-pullers and behind-the-scenes workers, and neither extroverted, so that probably has something to do with it.
But the Disciple isn’t as socially skilled as she’s given credit for. Honestly, she thought she’d be the invisible one.
Signless crawls down from his perch to sit, smiling.
As if the quiet has finally given them the permission to do so, the troll with the barbeque stands to throw away their styrofoam container, remnants of their meal left inside.
The Signless calls out to them in a rehearsed tone, all casual and unthreatening.
The troll jumps, bringing a hand to their chest and mouthing me?
“Yes! I was wondering, if you weren’t going to finish that, would you care to share it?” he asks, gesturing at the trolls around him.
Sure enough, the grouping has doubled in number over the course of the sermon.
Stunned by either the beautific smile aimed at them (the Disciple knows the feeling) or sheer shock from the request, the troll just stands there, mouth open stupidly.
“I, uh,” they glance down at their tray, then back up to Signless. “It’s… kinda cold?”
Signless vaults off the picnic table, approaching the troll. “Cold is fine. More than fine for some of those here with us.”
He doesn’t take the container until the troll hands it to him. His smile gets that much wider when she does. “Thank you, friend.”
Ugh. the Disciple knows what putting herself under a spotlight entails, but why do people feel the need to sit and stare?
She pretends not to notice as she tucks her supplies back into her pouch. When the troll still hasn’t stopped, the Disciple gives her a differential nod in return.
“Is that… unsanitary?”
Was she waiting to speak? Why didn’t she just do that?
The Disciple blinks. “How so?”
“I just touched all over that.”
“It’s food, it’s meant to be shared.” Just how… sheltered must you be to not know unsanitary is the least of it? The Disciple knows firsthand that when times are tough and you can’t afford to even wash the blood from your clothes, how sanitary your food is, especially when you know where it came from, is the last thing on your mind. First is like, not dying.
Congrats to this lady for drawing a response she usually saves for self-entitled highbloods out of her. Disciple was under the belief all lowbloods were on the same page. She stands corrected. Blanket statements are always faulty, anyways.
Verbally, the Disciple just says, “It must be pretty nice here.”
“It is. How did you even find us?”
“Traveling north. We keep to the shoreline for this exact reason.”
Later, when they’re walking back to the only place they can really call hive, the Psiioniic draws the interaction up, laughing.
“What’s so funny about it?”
“You looked miffed. Like, butt itch you can’t scratch in public miffed.”
“Mildly annoying people are my weakness.”
The Dolorosa bumps an arm against her shoulder. “You should put that on a shirt.”
“Nooo,” Disciple counters, “Don’t turn me into someone with those ‘don’t talk to me until I’ve had my evening caffeinated bean juice’ people.”