Chapter Text
Corrosive rain bleaches the trees outside, running down their rough trunks to sizzle onto the fallen leaves below. The night sky is grey, and crackling with humidity, though the open space district isn’t in the right environment to receive thunder. Nonetheless, Jo’s head sparks with static.
Oof ouchies, she thinks, lying on her back in hopes the floor will correct her shit posture enough to at least lessen the pain in her shoulders. The mostly-melted ice pack does little now to cool her neck, and even less to the rest of her. Despite the chill winds outside, (or maybe because of them,) she’s fucking boiling.
Everything just feels weird. Her spine plays the part of a military telegraph, and her stomach tries to digest a meal of rocks. She’s edgy, tetchy, wound-up, dizzy, spacey, nauseous, just plain bad, and as mentioned prior, everything fucking hurts.
At least the chronic pain is tangible, unlike the memory picking at her.
Jo flips onto her side. Well, “memory”. It’s closer to an intrusive fact given phantom form. She’s not in her recuperacoon for this reason; the slime would only make her more aware of everything, and she already has enough internal sensation bullshit. It is strictly a No Body Time, which she is failing miserably.
Despite her wrist’s protests, Jo reaches for her phone and opens Normal Spotify. The app is named for its exploitative treatment of artists and, more pressingly for Jo, its ridiculous free version, which she (being the most talented young man on Asternia) hacked to make her playlists actually fucking play in order without the five minutes of advertising and government propaganda between every song.
Squawkpipes blare through the tiny tinny speakers, which Jo fumbles to turn down, because she is an idiot who forgot that upbeat ska music is 1. not good for an aggravation sponge 2. not congruent with a shit mood 3. not good or congruent for a mood-based spongemax.
She has a “chill vibes” playlist she hasn’t touched since… sweeps ago (hence why it’s called “chill vibes”; she was cringe back then, unlike now, epic and handsome, collapsed on the floor of her hive and too numb to draw tears like some Troll Romantic hero, very cool very epic Jo, you’d be such a compelling character and everyone’s cheering for you through your misery), but with a tremendous amount of logic and fortitude, she overcomes the urge to listen to her lame wriggler bands, (the crowd goes wild,) and instead puts on one of Fedalt’s recommendations. Troll Moses Sumney. The lush instrumentation would be better with headphones, which she doesn’t have on account of being evil, probably.
Still, there is music now. Everything still HURTS, OW, but there is some very good music. Her matesprit is so cool, she wishes they could meet up in real life and firebomb the stupid hospital he’s trapped in. Cullbait4Cullbait 4ever. HER FUCKING WRISTS AUGHHHH
She drops the phone and closes her eyes. Okay, bad idea. Keeps her eyes open instead, staring at the blurry glow-in-the-dark stars she stuck to the ceiling of her hive.
In a few perigrees, it will be two sweeps since her and Fedalt officially called each other matesprits. Peace and love on planet Asternia, Jo thinks with a hollow chuckle, as if there is such a thing. Still, it would be a much better anniversary than this, not only in content, but because it actually had a solid date rather than a vague haze over the wet season. Definition is good. Definition means something to celebrate.
When would that be? About half a sweep before Jo would legally be off-planet; if she was in better health, she could petition to be legally matesprits, and then they could move in together or something sweet and scarlet.
Hemolymph thumps in her hearing. She tries not to trace it to its origin inside her torso.
Instead, she opens up the phone one more time (oof ouchies yeowch augh) and, with care, types out, “<3”.