Infinity Smashed: The Ride Home
Jul. 28th, 2015 11:39 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lb_leeHey guys, this big story was one of the two winners of the story poll! It wasn't prompted by anyone specifically, but it was sponsored by the fine folks of Patreon: silvercat17, metahacker, kaylin881, cloudiah, Seamus, Jay, contrapangloss, hanasaseru, inurashii, Bazzelwaki, and Generous Anon. I hope you enjoy this longer story and its accompanying illustration!
The Ride Home
Universe: Infinity Smashed
Word Count: 4000
Summary: Still adjusting to Treehouse, Thomas deals with a labor dispute and some weird relationship dynamics that he doesn't underand with his co-worker, Strong Legs.
Notes: This takes place when Thomas is about fifteen, a year or so before he meets Raige and M.D., not long before Savaged by Garbage; you might recognize Strong-Legs from that. More notes at bottom.
“No, no,” Thomas Rodriguez signed. “We have deal. Contract. You pay us now.”
The timber-gnawer revved its wings in irritation--and Thomas was pleased that he could read its body language. It was proof that he was settling in. “This wood is not the quality we expected,” the bug insisted, “and you took too long to deliver it. We are displeased.”
Thomas resisted a sigh. They were always displeased; it was the reason most of the Treehouse labor pool wouldn’t work for them anymore. At least still being rough with Pidgin Sign gave him a socially acceptable reason to be extremely blunt. “You say this always. Me, my partner, we come long way to deliver wood. We are only people to deliver you. Pay us now.”
The timber-gnawer buzzed into the air, stinger starting to come around. “How rude!”
Thomas’s partner Strong-Legs came up, timber still strapped to its back. It was a big, ostrich-like thing, with tiny useless wings, sparse feathers, and two powerful legs. It towered over Thomas by a good foot and a half. “Is problem?” It signed with its wings and neck.
Thomas just rolled his eyes and Strong-Legs made a clicking purr of amusement. Unlike the timber-gnawers, it knew his body language.
“Oh? They will not pay again?” Strong-Legs saurian face had a look of sublime innocence.
Thomas spread his hands. “They say is no good.”
“No good!” Strong-Legs shook its head sadly. “That is unacceptable. Absolutely.” With an elaborate pantomime of regret, it turned. “I shall have to take the timber back then. We can not shortchange our clients!”
“Wait, wait!” The timber-gnawer signed, buzzing after it. “I never said you had to take it back!”
“Cash on delivery,” Strong-Legs signed. “We get money, or we keep merchandise. Do we need the Record-Keepers for this?”
After more grumbling and complaints and attempts to turn a cut-and-dry contract into haggling, the timber-gnawers finally coughed up--only to then shortchange him and claim offense when Thomas called them out on it. Once the correct pay was safely in Thomas’s pockets, which hung from his belt along with his hatchet, he pulled on his gloves and got to work helping Strong-Legs unload--it could do it alone, but not very quickly. Still, it took long enough that the sun’s position in the sky made Thomas nervous. The timber-gnawers lived out in the flatland boonies, and the days had been getting shorter and shorter; he didn’t want to be caught outside after dark.
Strong-Legs didn’t look pleased either. It ruffled its sparse feathers irritably, adjusted the now-empty wood saddle on its back. “We must stop delivering for these people,” it signed. “Or make the complaint; you know they drag it out to squeeze less pay from us. They aren’t worth it. Come, before it gets too dark.”
Its legs were much longer and stronger than Thomas’s, and without the wood on its back, he had to jog to keep up. Really, it was probably just as well; he did not want to linger, and unlike Strong-Legs or the timber-gnawers, he didn’t have bone-breaking kicks or poison stingers to protect himself with.
“Why they listen to you more than me?” Thomas complained as they threshed through the grass fields, heading for the woody slopes. One benefit of Pidgin Sign; he could talk and run without getting winded or making a lot of predator-attracting noise. “Is same always. ‘Is no good, no pay,’ and then you speak and is suddenly different.”
Strong-Legs clicked its amusement. “They see your signing and think you’re new, an easy mark.”
“I been here six months!” Thomas signed. “Six! I deliver their wood for half that. How they not recognize me?”
“You’re a mammal. All mammals look very similar, you know. For a long time, I kept track of you because of your crest. Very pretty.” It made a grab for his hair with its teeth, but Thomas ducked.
“You have…” damn it, what sign had it used for ‘mammal’? “…Things like me? At your home?” Like him, Strong-Legs was an immigrant to the Treehouse world, but it had never mentioned mammals on its home world before.
“Many squeaky hairy things, yes. I see you and I think, you are like them! But it’s not so. You do not pop out many babies always.”
Thomas laughed uncomfortably. “Not girl, Strong-Legs. Boy. No babies.”
“Yes, yes, boy,” Strong-Legs signed. It looked nostalgic. “I was a boy once. Then the drought comes, the girls get sick, we need more. I changed the summer after.”
“Uh.” Thomas had been in Treehouse for long enough to understand that gender was a more complicated concept than he’d been brought up with, but not much else. “So… you like boys then?”
Strong-Legs stared at him. The feathers around its neck fluffed up. “What a strange thing you ask!”
“No offense! I--uh--”
“What is my liking to do with it? It’s a different thing entirely!” It huffed.
Thomas was now thoroughly confused. “Forget. Forget I ask. Sorry.”
Its feathers smoothed down. “You are embarrassed!” Strong-Legs opened its mouth and tilted its head, imitating a human smile. “I am entertained!” It nudged him with its nose. “You tell me how it is.”
“Local social more,” Thomas snapped and broke into a full run, up the grassy hill.
Even with the saddle on its back, Strong-Legs quickly caught up to him. It bounced and bobbed around him, like some sort of enormous dino-puppy wanting to play. “No! Tell me! Entertain me, please! It’s a long boring walk! I will die!”
Which was how Thomas found himself trying to explain to Strong-Legs in alien sign language the Texas concept of gender and sexual orientation. It was not the easiest thing to communicate in Pidgin Sign, but Strong-Legs seemed to understand enough to find it all utterly hilarious.
“You can not change?” it asked, dancing little excited circles around him. “What if drought happens and no girls are left? Do you all die?”
“We do not get girl drought.”
“You lie! All have that problem!”
“Promise. No girl drought.”
“Is so?” Strong-Legs still seemed doubtful. “So you can not change, mating is the same as liking, and you only have one like.” It gave him a judicious look. “Your people, they are strange. I want you to know this. Very strange.”
Thomas rolled his eyes but couldn’t argue with that. If he’d learned anything from his six months in Silver Fern, it was that everyone was strange.
“But you entertain me. This is good. If ever I get home, I will tell them of you. They will think it funny too.” For a moment, Strong-Legs looked sad, but then it straightened its neck and signed firmly, “Very funny.”
“Yes. Very funny,” Thomas agreed, and patted Strong-Legs’s side.
They both knew the odds of getting home were virtually nil. A lot of people like him and Strong-Legs got dumped through the world rifts periodically… but the rifts were always temporary. Unless another rift opened up to their home worlds and lasted long enough for them to go through, they were stuck in Silver Fern.
Not only was this difficult for the immigrants, but for the local towns too. Thanks to the rifts, the population was constantly changing… and rare was the rift that lasted long enough to let through a steady breeding population, so the vast majority of the immigrants had no staying power. With a population constantly in flux, nothing could be taken as a cultural given, and different towns coped in different ways. Treehouse, where Thomas and Strong-Legs lived, handled it by everyone being hugely invested in everyone else’s business. It was an attempt to make up for the lack of normal social or familial ties, to create a new way of emotional bonding.
It wasn’t a bad place. But it wasn’t home. Not to Thomas, anyway.
Thomas was in good shape (especially after six months of manual labor) but they’d reached the slopes now, and the rest of the jog was uphill. Now the grassy fields had given way to the start of forest, and with sunset coming on, it was dim enough that he was starting to slip on mud and rocks.
Strong-Legs saw his struggle. “You are slow. Here,” it signed, crouching down. “I carry you.”
Thomas hesitated. Not because he worried Strong-Legs wouldn’t be able to hold him, but because he’d learned over the months that riding was not something it did. Strong-Legs had never said why, and Thomas had never asked; he figured it just didn’t like squeaky mammal people on its back. “You sure?”
“Yes. If you are eaten, you will not entertain me anymore and I will have to deliver to the timber-gnawers all by myself,” it signed. “That would be tragedy. Up!”
Getting up on Strong-Legs back was harder than it sounded. Stereotypes of Texans to the contrary, Thomas had never ridden anything before, never mind a dino-ostrich. Strong-Legs was wearing its timber saddle, but that was made for Strong-Legs’s comfort, not his. All the padding was on the side Thomas wouldn’t be sitting on, and the rest was hard wood. There was also no stirrups or bridle. Strong-Legs would likely have been deeply offended at the idea, but it meant there was nothing to hang onto for leverage either.
“No! Do not pull my feathers! Ow!”
“Sorry! I’m sorry!”
“And not my neck either! Do not throttle me!”
Crash!
“…You are not very good at this.”
Finally, they worked something out. Strong-Legs got down as flat on the ground as it could, next to a convenient tree, which Thomas then used for balance when Strong-Legs stood up.
The timber saddle was about as comfortable as it looked, forcing his legs apart at an awkward angle, digging into his thighs, and covered with sharp bits of bark and twig. Thomas stripped off his jacket and tried to use it as padding, but it didn’t help much.
It got even worse once Strong-Legs started moving.
“You are worse than the timber! Your legs are everywhere!”
“You’re bumpy!” Thomas protested, but Strong-Legs couldn’t see his hands.
With a hiss of exasperation, Strong Legs reached its wings back and used them to pin Thomas’s legs to its sides. It could barely sign in that position, but managed. Turning its neck at an awkward angle to keep him in its view, it declared, “Here! Better? I hold you down. With your front legs, hold the saddle front. And do not pull my feathers! I have few as it is!”
“I won’t, I won’t.”
After that, things got smoother. Thomas got used to Strong-Legs’s gait and started rolling with it, rather than bumping along, and with his legs pinned, not having anything to hang onto got less frightening. And it was nice to be zipping up the hilly slopes from up high, rather than trudging along. Strong-Legs’s night vision was better than his; it didn’t trip.
Treehouse sunsets were pretty spectacular, and the further they got up the slope, the prettier the view got. Thomas had no idea why a land with practically no industry managed such hallucinogenic sunsets; Strong-Legs claimed it was because of all the world rifts. As it was, a Technicolor sky hung above the dark shapes of trees and, further down, the flatlands where the timber-gnawers lived. If he squinted, he could just see the glitter of Freeport, out on the coast. With the dimness, it could’ve passed for a really pretty, rural part of Earth.
But Thomas tried not to think about that. It’d just make him homesick.
Unfortunately, Thomas was not used to riding, and halfway up the slope, he needed to stop. In the growing dark, he couldn’t see the bruises on his thighs, but he sure could feel them, and when he got down, he didn’t try to walk off the soreness so much as hobble.
“I,” he told Strong-Legs, “will never bear children now. Thanks.”
It clicked cheerfully and took the opportunity to readjust its saddle straps with wings, lips, and tongue. “You are boy, remember? You tell me yourself, no babies.”
God, his hips were killing him. And the thighs of his pants were getting shredded; he could feel the fraying material. Maybe he could get one of the tailors in town to make him a pair with extra padding and reinforcing, so he could do this less agonizingly--
There was no warning. Just a crash as the shadow from up in the trees leapt down and landed on Strong-Legs’s back.
Strong-Legs wailed in shock, and tried to run, but it’d been caught with its saddle loose and couldn’t keep its balance. The saddle fell off with a crash, and Strong-Legs went down, shrieking and thrashing, trying to get the shadow off.
Soreness forgotten, Thomas yanked his hatchet from his belt and charged in. “Hey!” he shouted in Spanish, forgetting Pidgin Sign. “Get off! Get the hell off!”
He swung the hatchet at the shadow, and it bit deep. The shadow howled and swiped at him, but Thomas jumped out of the way and swung at it again. In the dark, he couldn’t even tell what part of it he was hitting, or what it was, only that it was big and that he probably wasn’t doing much damage.
But it was enough. Strong-Legs got its legs back under it and leapt up, bouncing and hurling itself against trees. It scraped the shadow off and started kicking and clawing at it. The shadow dodged and darted, then took one of Strong-Legs’s kicks full in the center.
Thomas had seen Strong-Legs break timber with those kicks, and apparently it was enough to take the fight out of the shadow. It was gone in a streak of inky black.
For a moment, they stood together, panting and listening for anything else. But the forest was silent and still again.
“Are you okay?” Thomas asked, running his hands over Strong-Legs’s trembling sides. “Are you hurt?”
“What?” it signed. “Speak Pidgin Sign.”
Right, right. He knew that. He repeated the question, in the correct language this time. Touching it seemed to calm it down, so he kept petting it.
“Nothing serious, I think,” it signed, trembling easing. “It mostly hit the saddle when it landed. I was very lucky.” It came, pulled Thomas to its breast with one wing and buried its snout in his hair. “Thank you. That was very upsetting.”
“Yes!” Thomas signed. “Please, let’s go home. Fast!”
This was why Thomas didn’t like being out at night, and why so few people delivered to the timber-gnawers anymore. Within the Treehouse town boundaries, nothing would eat or attack them, but outside, they were fair game. There just weren’t enough people or order to keep people safe outside the towns; it was a jungle out there.
Thankfully, Strong-Legs’s saddle wasn’t broken, though it was deeply scratched and battered. The straps and buckles were still in one piece, though, and Thomas got it on Strong-Legs’s back again. The shadow had probably chosen to attack because Strong-Legs was distracted with it, but having it on had likely saved its life.
Thomas didn’t complain about soreness. He just scrambled up as quickly as he could, and Strong-Legs took off.
Treehouse didn’t have a traditional wall or gate; instead, it had thick lines of predatory trees, which kept out intruders and were part of how the town got its name. The ‘gatehouse’ was where the trees thinned out a little and where there were perches for the two town sentries. When Strong-Legs and Thomas arrived, still twitchy with adrenaline, the sentries on duty saw them, waved, and climbed down to soothe the gate trees. Thomas had never quite understood how that worked; from what he could see, the sentries just muttered and poked the trees in a certain way, tossed some meat down, and then waved them forward. Thomas and Strong-Legs went in, and the trees let them through unmolested.
Treehouse was a peaceful bustle of activity. The night people were just waking up and setting up their stalls in the market, and soft red paper lanterns had been lit for the straggling day people packing theirs in. Before too long, the lamps would be put out, and the night people would go about their lives in amiable darkness.
Normally, Thomas liked to do a quick look around the night people’s wares before the lamps went out, but not this time.
Thomas petted Strong-Leg’s neck with his non-signing hand to get its attention and eyes on him. “You go home. I report job, come check on you.”
“Yes. Thank you.” It got down to let him off its back and headed off.
Thomas went to the labor crier, reported the job done, that he and Strong-Legs would be taking the next day off, and that he and Strong-Legs weren’t going to be delivering to the timber-gnawers anymore.
“You should put a complaint on them,” the crier said when Thomas shared what’d happened. “That’s not acceptable; they know you’re day people and can’t stay out after dark. If I’d known, I would never have reported the job for them.”
But Thomas was too tired for that, and he was pretty sure Strong-Legs was too. Tomorrow, he’d be more than happy to get the timber-gnawers blackballed so they’d have to get their own damn wood, but for now, he just wanted to go home.
Well, he couldn’t go home home, but he could at least go to his local equivalent. It was also a tree… sort of. Pidgin Sign had a very broad definition of ‘tree.’ One of the other citizens had tried to explain to Thomas once how all the home-trees were actually spores of one giant thing, but of course they all used the Pidgin Sign for ‘tree’ and Thomas’s grip on Pidgin Sign was still rough enough that he hadn’t understood. There were roots, and Thomas could feel them under his feet, twining between the stones of the road. He could just barely see the silhouettes of the upstairs neighbors using the intertwined branch-like things as their own road. Thomas and Strong-Legs, however, lived in the ground story, in the hollow trunk-like bit, him in the small room with a stone fireplace and it in the larger room with a dirt floor for it to roll and bathe in. It was quiet, warm, and safe, and Thomas was glad to be back.
Strong-Legs had gotten its saddle off by itself and was curled up in its bed, a nest of rushes and rags. It had lit two lamps and fluffed up its nest, but still seemed shaky. Thomas came and sat down next to it.
“All right?” He signed. “I tell crier, no work for us tomorrow. Will complain about timber-gnawers then.”
“Ugh, I hate the complaint process. So slow! But that was unacceptable behavior. Thank you. You are a good partner to have.” It shifted uncomfortably. “The fear is over, and it hurts now. Could you look, see if I need the healer?”
Thomas got down on his knees and started carefully combing through Strong-Legs’s feathers with his fingers, looking for injuries. Strong-Legs was still shivering.
“Good you have few feathers,” he signed with his free hand, trying to break the tension. “Or I could never see.”
Strong-Legs clicked amusement and nibbled his hair. “You are kind. Lots of feathers, in my people, are a sign of beauty. I am not so.” It flared the feathers on the back of its neck, a thick iridescent blue stripe. “See? The pretty ones at home, thick like this, but all over! My crest, it is my best feature.”
“It’s very pretty.” Thomas petted its crest, and Strong-Legs relaxed, making happy sounds. “No big hurts,” he signed. “Still, I’m no healer. Go?”
“Not tonight. Maybe in the morning, if I feel so. You? Are you all right?”
Thomas winced, kneaded his thighs. “No babies from me, but fine. Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Riding. I know you don’t like it.”
Strong-Legs’s wings were still a moment. Then it signed gently, “Riding is not a problem. I like being ridden, but only by correct people. It is a special thing. You are correct, because I like you. Even more now that you fight someone for me.” It cocked its head, gave him a sneaky look, and asked, “So, what is it you like?”
Even with the language barrier, its meaning was clear, and Thomas’s face flamed. “None of your business!”
Strong-Legs fluttered its wings in front of his face. “Ah! So to ask me before, that is fine, but no, no ask you.” It made its big smile again. “Here. I like turned females, like me. I mate with males, for children. I tell you, so now you tell me!”
“Not how it works!”
Strong-Legs pouted. “How uncitizenly. I am very disappointed in your communication.” It tucked its head under its wing as though to sleep then and there.
Thomas sighed and rolled his eyes. He wasn’t even sure why he was making a deal out of this. Strong-Legs was an ostrich dinosaur who could apparently switch genders when it got too hot, and obviously had a completely different understanding of sexual orientation than he did. It just wanted a distraction from their fight with the shadow thing. Why should it care about whatever he said? He tapped Strong-Legs’s shoulder.
It raised its wing just enough to peek out at him with one eye. “Yes?”
“Both. Okay? I like both. There. Now you know.”
Strong-Legs paused, withdrew its head from its wing. “You are upset.”
“Nothing. It’s nothing.” Thomas crossed his arms, uncrossed them, leaned back. “I just… haven’t told anyone.”
“At home?”
“Ever.”
Strong-Legs cocked its head. “This is… important? Local social more?”
“Yes,” Thomas signed, deeply relieved for the Treehouse sign for everything too complicated to explain. “Local social more.”
“I see,” Strong-Legs signed. “I’m sorry.”
“Is fine. You didn’t know.”
“Still, I am sorry.” It was still a moment, then reached forward and nibbled at his hair. “You are entertaining. I like you. Your people, they are strange, and your mores, they are silly, but I like you.”
Thomas snorted and shoved it off. “Thanks.”
“Your people, do they have silly mores about cross-species interaction?”
Thomas blinked. “It… uh, doesn’t really come up.”
“I see.”
“Why?”
Strong-Legs looked at him brightly. “Because I like you!”
Now there was a statement that had no business being as complicated as it was. “Uh, like, or… like-like?”
Strong-Legs just stared at him blankly.
“How do you like me?”
“You are entertaining. I never talk with mammals before, and on my world, they do nothing but go squeak-squeak and pop out babies; you are far more interesting. Your crest is pretty and it tastes good. I want to laugh and dance with you. Also possibly eat your crest. If that is all right with you.”
Thomas felt no less confused than he had before. He was also pretty sure that he’d feel that way regardless of what Strong-Legs said. The words and language for it just weren’t there. The shared assumptions about how it worked just weren’t there.
He wasn’t sure what he felt or how; dating a dino-ostrich had never occurred to him before. (If that was what Strong-Legs wanted. He still wasn’t sure. Did its species even have a concept of dating?)
“I… must think.”
“Is so!” Strong-Legs declared brightly. “We are friends. Very good. Share home, share work.”
That, Thomas understood. “Good. Is so.”
“Would you like to sleep here tonight?” It asked. “For comfort. It has been a very exciting day, a bad exciting. My people, we usually sleep in groups. I would like that comfort tonight.”
“Uh…” oh god, this was not something he could handle well in Pidgin Sign. “As friends?”
Strong-Legs let out a clicking trill. “Silly boy, yes, as friends! What else? Here, I give you the warmer spot…”
The nest was awkward and lumpy, but Strong-Legs was warm and solid, and eventually, Thomas found a comfortable position against its side. And it was right; after the stressful day, it was comforting to have someone sleeping next to him. Even a giant dino-ostrich who possibly had romantic intentions on him.
For a moment, he tried to worry about it, and then he gave it up. He was too tired. Strong-Legs had called him friend, and maybe that was good enough.
They slept.
Notes: Pidgin Sign has a bunch of different dialects, depending on how many signing limbs you have. Thomas generally uses the one-handed version, which is the most common; pretty much everyone can use it in a pinch. (Scorch uses it as well.) Strong-Legs tends to use three-limb style, using neck/tongue and wings, because it's not as dextrous as him. (Flame uses that version too, while M.D. tends to code-switch between them because that's how she learned.)
Treehouse has a rule about new arrivals. After it's decided they'll stay a while, if they haven't been apprenticed by somebody, they get assigned a buddy, who's a combo of roommate and coworker. This helps integrate the new arrival into the community and build them a support network. How Strong-Legs and Thomas become friends is a whole other story.
Also, if you're curious, Strong-Legs, when it makes sounds, kinda sounds like this.
The Ride Home
Universe: Infinity Smashed
Word Count: 4000
Summary: Still adjusting to Treehouse, Thomas deals with a labor dispute and some weird relationship dynamics that he doesn't underand with his co-worker, Strong Legs.
Notes: This takes place when Thomas is about fifteen, a year or so before he meets Raige and M.D., not long before Savaged by Garbage; you might recognize Strong-Legs from that. More notes at bottom.
“No, no,” Thomas Rodriguez signed. “We have deal. Contract. You pay us now.”
The timber-gnawer revved its wings in irritation--and Thomas was pleased that he could read its body language. It was proof that he was settling in. “This wood is not the quality we expected,” the bug insisted, “and you took too long to deliver it. We are displeased.”
Thomas resisted a sigh. They were always displeased; it was the reason most of the Treehouse labor pool wouldn’t work for them anymore. At least still being rough with Pidgin Sign gave him a socially acceptable reason to be extremely blunt. “You say this always. Me, my partner, we come long way to deliver wood. We are only people to deliver you. Pay us now.”
The timber-gnawer buzzed into the air, stinger starting to come around. “How rude!”
Thomas’s partner Strong-Legs came up, timber still strapped to its back. It was a big, ostrich-like thing, with tiny useless wings, sparse feathers, and two powerful legs. It towered over Thomas by a good foot and a half. “Is problem?” It signed with its wings and neck.
Thomas just rolled his eyes and Strong-Legs made a clicking purr of amusement. Unlike the timber-gnawers, it knew his body language.
“Oh? They will not pay again?” Strong-Legs saurian face had a look of sublime innocence.
Thomas spread his hands. “They say is no good.”
“No good!” Strong-Legs shook its head sadly. “That is unacceptable. Absolutely.” With an elaborate pantomime of regret, it turned. “I shall have to take the timber back then. We can not shortchange our clients!”
“Wait, wait!” The timber-gnawer signed, buzzing after it. “I never said you had to take it back!”
“Cash on delivery,” Strong-Legs signed. “We get money, or we keep merchandise. Do we need the Record-Keepers for this?”
After more grumbling and complaints and attempts to turn a cut-and-dry contract into haggling, the timber-gnawers finally coughed up--only to then shortchange him and claim offense when Thomas called them out on it. Once the correct pay was safely in Thomas’s pockets, which hung from his belt along with his hatchet, he pulled on his gloves and got to work helping Strong-Legs unload--it could do it alone, but not very quickly. Still, it took long enough that the sun’s position in the sky made Thomas nervous. The timber-gnawers lived out in the flatland boonies, and the days had been getting shorter and shorter; he didn’t want to be caught outside after dark.
Strong-Legs didn’t look pleased either. It ruffled its sparse feathers irritably, adjusted the now-empty wood saddle on its back. “We must stop delivering for these people,” it signed. “Or make the complaint; you know they drag it out to squeeze less pay from us. They aren’t worth it. Come, before it gets too dark.”
Its legs were much longer and stronger than Thomas’s, and without the wood on its back, he had to jog to keep up. Really, it was probably just as well; he did not want to linger, and unlike Strong-Legs or the timber-gnawers, he didn’t have bone-breaking kicks or poison stingers to protect himself with.
“Why they listen to you more than me?” Thomas complained as they threshed through the grass fields, heading for the woody slopes. One benefit of Pidgin Sign; he could talk and run without getting winded or making a lot of predator-attracting noise. “Is same always. ‘Is no good, no pay,’ and then you speak and is suddenly different.”
Strong-Legs clicked its amusement. “They see your signing and think you’re new, an easy mark.”
“I been here six months!” Thomas signed. “Six! I deliver their wood for half that. How they not recognize me?”
“You’re a mammal. All mammals look very similar, you know. For a long time, I kept track of you because of your crest. Very pretty.” It made a grab for his hair with its teeth, but Thomas ducked.
“You have…” damn it, what sign had it used for ‘mammal’? “…Things like me? At your home?” Like him, Strong-Legs was an immigrant to the Treehouse world, but it had never mentioned mammals on its home world before.
“Many squeaky hairy things, yes. I see you and I think, you are like them! But it’s not so. You do not pop out many babies always.”
Thomas laughed uncomfortably. “Not girl, Strong-Legs. Boy. No babies.”
“Yes, yes, boy,” Strong-Legs signed. It looked nostalgic. “I was a boy once. Then the drought comes, the girls get sick, we need more. I changed the summer after.”
“Uh.” Thomas had been in Treehouse for long enough to understand that gender was a more complicated concept than he’d been brought up with, but not much else. “So… you like boys then?”
Strong-Legs stared at him. The feathers around its neck fluffed up. “What a strange thing you ask!”
“No offense! I--uh--”
“What is my liking to do with it? It’s a different thing entirely!” It huffed.
Thomas was now thoroughly confused. “Forget. Forget I ask. Sorry.”
Its feathers smoothed down. “You are embarrassed!” Strong-Legs opened its mouth and tilted its head, imitating a human smile. “I am entertained!” It nudged him with its nose. “You tell me how it is.”
“Local social more,” Thomas snapped and broke into a full run, up the grassy hill.
Even with the saddle on its back, Strong-Legs quickly caught up to him. It bounced and bobbed around him, like some sort of enormous dino-puppy wanting to play. “No! Tell me! Entertain me, please! It’s a long boring walk! I will die!”
Which was how Thomas found himself trying to explain to Strong-Legs in alien sign language the Texas concept of gender and sexual orientation. It was not the easiest thing to communicate in Pidgin Sign, but Strong-Legs seemed to understand enough to find it all utterly hilarious.
“You can not change?” it asked, dancing little excited circles around him. “What if drought happens and no girls are left? Do you all die?”
“We do not get girl drought.”
“You lie! All have that problem!”
“Promise. No girl drought.”
“Is so?” Strong-Legs still seemed doubtful. “So you can not change, mating is the same as liking, and you only have one like.” It gave him a judicious look. “Your people, they are strange. I want you to know this. Very strange.”
Thomas rolled his eyes but couldn’t argue with that. If he’d learned anything from his six months in Silver Fern, it was that everyone was strange.
“But you entertain me. This is good. If ever I get home, I will tell them of you. They will think it funny too.” For a moment, Strong-Legs looked sad, but then it straightened its neck and signed firmly, “Very funny.”
“Yes. Very funny,” Thomas agreed, and patted Strong-Legs’s side.
They both knew the odds of getting home were virtually nil. A lot of people like him and Strong-Legs got dumped through the world rifts periodically… but the rifts were always temporary. Unless another rift opened up to their home worlds and lasted long enough for them to go through, they were stuck in Silver Fern.
Not only was this difficult for the immigrants, but for the local towns too. Thanks to the rifts, the population was constantly changing… and rare was the rift that lasted long enough to let through a steady breeding population, so the vast majority of the immigrants had no staying power. With a population constantly in flux, nothing could be taken as a cultural given, and different towns coped in different ways. Treehouse, where Thomas and Strong-Legs lived, handled it by everyone being hugely invested in everyone else’s business. It was an attempt to make up for the lack of normal social or familial ties, to create a new way of emotional bonding.
It wasn’t a bad place. But it wasn’t home. Not to Thomas, anyway.
Thomas was in good shape (especially after six months of manual labor) but they’d reached the slopes now, and the rest of the jog was uphill. Now the grassy fields had given way to the start of forest, and with sunset coming on, it was dim enough that he was starting to slip on mud and rocks.
Strong-Legs saw his struggle. “You are slow. Here,” it signed, crouching down. “I carry you.”
Thomas hesitated. Not because he worried Strong-Legs wouldn’t be able to hold him, but because he’d learned over the months that riding was not something it did. Strong-Legs had never said why, and Thomas had never asked; he figured it just didn’t like squeaky mammal people on its back. “You sure?”
“Yes. If you are eaten, you will not entertain me anymore and I will have to deliver to the timber-gnawers all by myself,” it signed. “That would be tragedy. Up!”
Getting up on Strong-Legs back was harder than it sounded. Stereotypes of Texans to the contrary, Thomas had never ridden anything before, never mind a dino-ostrich. Strong-Legs was wearing its timber saddle, but that was made for Strong-Legs’s comfort, not his. All the padding was on the side Thomas wouldn’t be sitting on, and the rest was hard wood. There was also no stirrups or bridle. Strong-Legs would likely have been deeply offended at the idea, but it meant there was nothing to hang onto for leverage either.
“No! Do not pull my feathers! Ow!”
“Sorry! I’m sorry!”
“And not my neck either! Do not throttle me!”
Crash!
“…You are not very good at this.”
Finally, they worked something out. Strong-Legs got down as flat on the ground as it could, next to a convenient tree, which Thomas then used for balance when Strong-Legs stood up.
The timber saddle was about as comfortable as it looked, forcing his legs apart at an awkward angle, digging into his thighs, and covered with sharp bits of bark and twig. Thomas stripped off his jacket and tried to use it as padding, but it didn’t help much.
It got even worse once Strong-Legs started moving.
“You are worse than the timber! Your legs are everywhere!”
“You’re bumpy!” Thomas protested, but Strong-Legs couldn’t see his hands.
With a hiss of exasperation, Strong Legs reached its wings back and used them to pin Thomas’s legs to its sides. It could barely sign in that position, but managed. Turning its neck at an awkward angle to keep him in its view, it declared, “Here! Better? I hold you down. With your front legs, hold the saddle front. And do not pull my feathers! I have few as it is!”
“I won’t, I won’t.”
After that, things got smoother. Thomas got used to Strong-Legs’s gait and started rolling with it, rather than bumping along, and with his legs pinned, not having anything to hang onto got less frightening. And it was nice to be zipping up the hilly slopes from up high, rather than trudging along. Strong-Legs’s night vision was better than his; it didn’t trip.
Treehouse sunsets were pretty spectacular, and the further they got up the slope, the prettier the view got. Thomas had no idea why a land with practically no industry managed such hallucinogenic sunsets; Strong-Legs claimed it was because of all the world rifts. As it was, a Technicolor sky hung above the dark shapes of trees and, further down, the flatlands where the timber-gnawers lived. If he squinted, he could just see the glitter of Freeport, out on the coast. With the dimness, it could’ve passed for a really pretty, rural part of Earth.
But Thomas tried not to think about that. It’d just make him homesick.
Unfortunately, Thomas was not used to riding, and halfway up the slope, he needed to stop. In the growing dark, he couldn’t see the bruises on his thighs, but he sure could feel them, and when he got down, he didn’t try to walk off the soreness so much as hobble.
“I,” he told Strong-Legs, “will never bear children now. Thanks.”
It clicked cheerfully and took the opportunity to readjust its saddle straps with wings, lips, and tongue. “You are boy, remember? You tell me yourself, no babies.”
God, his hips were killing him. And the thighs of his pants were getting shredded; he could feel the fraying material. Maybe he could get one of the tailors in town to make him a pair with extra padding and reinforcing, so he could do this less agonizingly--
There was no warning. Just a crash as the shadow from up in the trees leapt down and landed on Strong-Legs’s back.
Strong-Legs wailed in shock, and tried to run, but it’d been caught with its saddle loose and couldn’t keep its balance. The saddle fell off with a crash, and Strong-Legs went down, shrieking and thrashing, trying to get the shadow off.
Soreness forgotten, Thomas yanked his hatchet from his belt and charged in. “Hey!” he shouted in Spanish, forgetting Pidgin Sign. “Get off! Get the hell off!”
He swung the hatchet at the shadow, and it bit deep. The shadow howled and swiped at him, but Thomas jumped out of the way and swung at it again. In the dark, he couldn’t even tell what part of it he was hitting, or what it was, only that it was big and that he probably wasn’t doing much damage.
But it was enough. Strong-Legs got its legs back under it and leapt up, bouncing and hurling itself against trees. It scraped the shadow off and started kicking and clawing at it. The shadow dodged and darted, then took one of Strong-Legs’s kicks full in the center.
Thomas had seen Strong-Legs break timber with those kicks, and apparently it was enough to take the fight out of the shadow. It was gone in a streak of inky black.
For a moment, they stood together, panting and listening for anything else. But the forest was silent and still again.
“Are you okay?” Thomas asked, running his hands over Strong-Legs’s trembling sides. “Are you hurt?”
“What?” it signed. “Speak Pidgin Sign.”
Right, right. He knew that. He repeated the question, in the correct language this time. Touching it seemed to calm it down, so he kept petting it.
“Nothing serious, I think,” it signed, trembling easing. “It mostly hit the saddle when it landed. I was very lucky.” It came, pulled Thomas to its breast with one wing and buried its snout in his hair. “Thank you. That was very upsetting.”
“Yes!” Thomas signed. “Please, let’s go home. Fast!”
This was why Thomas didn’t like being out at night, and why so few people delivered to the timber-gnawers anymore. Within the Treehouse town boundaries, nothing would eat or attack them, but outside, they were fair game. There just weren’t enough people or order to keep people safe outside the towns; it was a jungle out there.
Thankfully, Strong-Legs’s saddle wasn’t broken, though it was deeply scratched and battered. The straps and buckles were still in one piece, though, and Thomas got it on Strong-Legs’s back again. The shadow had probably chosen to attack because Strong-Legs was distracted with it, but having it on had likely saved its life.
Thomas didn’t complain about soreness. He just scrambled up as quickly as he could, and Strong-Legs took off.
Treehouse didn’t have a traditional wall or gate; instead, it had thick lines of predatory trees, which kept out intruders and were part of how the town got its name. The ‘gatehouse’ was where the trees thinned out a little and where there were perches for the two town sentries. When Strong-Legs and Thomas arrived, still twitchy with adrenaline, the sentries on duty saw them, waved, and climbed down to soothe the gate trees. Thomas had never quite understood how that worked; from what he could see, the sentries just muttered and poked the trees in a certain way, tossed some meat down, and then waved them forward. Thomas and Strong-Legs went in, and the trees let them through unmolested.
Treehouse was a peaceful bustle of activity. The night people were just waking up and setting up their stalls in the market, and soft red paper lanterns had been lit for the straggling day people packing theirs in. Before too long, the lamps would be put out, and the night people would go about their lives in amiable darkness.
Normally, Thomas liked to do a quick look around the night people’s wares before the lamps went out, but not this time.
Thomas petted Strong-Leg’s neck with his non-signing hand to get its attention and eyes on him. “You go home. I report job, come check on you.”
“Yes. Thank you.” It got down to let him off its back and headed off.
Thomas went to the labor crier, reported the job done, that he and Strong-Legs would be taking the next day off, and that he and Strong-Legs weren’t going to be delivering to the timber-gnawers anymore.
“You should put a complaint on them,” the crier said when Thomas shared what’d happened. “That’s not acceptable; they know you’re day people and can’t stay out after dark. If I’d known, I would never have reported the job for them.”
But Thomas was too tired for that, and he was pretty sure Strong-Legs was too. Tomorrow, he’d be more than happy to get the timber-gnawers blackballed so they’d have to get their own damn wood, but for now, he just wanted to go home.
Well, he couldn’t go home home, but he could at least go to his local equivalent. It was also a tree… sort of. Pidgin Sign had a very broad definition of ‘tree.’ One of the other citizens had tried to explain to Thomas once how all the home-trees were actually spores of one giant thing, but of course they all used the Pidgin Sign for ‘tree’ and Thomas’s grip on Pidgin Sign was still rough enough that he hadn’t understood. There were roots, and Thomas could feel them under his feet, twining between the stones of the road. He could just barely see the silhouettes of the upstairs neighbors using the intertwined branch-like things as their own road. Thomas and Strong-Legs, however, lived in the ground story, in the hollow trunk-like bit, him in the small room with a stone fireplace and it in the larger room with a dirt floor for it to roll and bathe in. It was quiet, warm, and safe, and Thomas was glad to be back.
Strong-Legs had gotten its saddle off by itself and was curled up in its bed, a nest of rushes and rags. It had lit two lamps and fluffed up its nest, but still seemed shaky. Thomas came and sat down next to it.
“All right?” He signed. “I tell crier, no work for us tomorrow. Will complain about timber-gnawers then.”
“Ugh, I hate the complaint process. So slow! But that was unacceptable behavior. Thank you. You are a good partner to have.” It shifted uncomfortably. “The fear is over, and it hurts now. Could you look, see if I need the healer?”
Thomas got down on his knees and started carefully combing through Strong-Legs’s feathers with his fingers, looking for injuries. Strong-Legs was still shivering.
“Good you have few feathers,” he signed with his free hand, trying to break the tension. “Or I could never see.”
Strong-Legs clicked amusement and nibbled his hair. “You are kind. Lots of feathers, in my people, are a sign of beauty. I am not so.” It flared the feathers on the back of its neck, a thick iridescent blue stripe. “See? The pretty ones at home, thick like this, but all over! My crest, it is my best feature.”
“It’s very pretty.” Thomas petted its crest, and Strong-Legs relaxed, making happy sounds. “No big hurts,” he signed. “Still, I’m no healer. Go?”
“Not tonight. Maybe in the morning, if I feel so. You? Are you all right?”
Thomas winced, kneaded his thighs. “No babies from me, but fine. Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Riding. I know you don’t like it.”
Strong-Legs’s wings were still a moment. Then it signed gently, “Riding is not a problem. I like being ridden, but only by correct people. It is a special thing. You are correct, because I like you. Even more now that you fight someone for me.” It cocked its head, gave him a sneaky look, and asked, “So, what is it you like?”
Even with the language barrier, its meaning was clear, and Thomas’s face flamed. “None of your business!”
Strong-Legs fluttered its wings in front of his face. “Ah! So to ask me before, that is fine, but no, no ask you.” It made its big smile again. “Here. I like turned females, like me. I mate with males, for children. I tell you, so now you tell me!”
“Not how it works!”
Strong-Legs pouted. “How uncitizenly. I am very disappointed in your communication.” It tucked its head under its wing as though to sleep then and there.
Thomas sighed and rolled his eyes. He wasn’t even sure why he was making a deal out of this. Strong-Legs was an ostrich dinosaur who could apparently switch genders when it got too hot, and obviously had a completely different understanding of sexual orientation than he did. It just wanted a distraction from their fight with the shadow thing. Why should it care about whatever he said? He tapped Strong-Legs’s shoulder.
It raised its wing just enough to peek out at him with one eye. “Yes?”
“Both. Okay? I like both. There. Now you know.”
Strong-Legs paused, withdrew its head from its wing. “You are upset.”
“Nothing. It’s nothing.” Thomas crossed his arms, uncrossed them, leaned back. “I just… haven’t told anyone.”
“At home?”
“Ever.”
Strong-Legs cocked its head. “This is… important? Local social more?”
“Yes,” Thomas signed, deeply relieved for the Treehouse sign for everything too complicated to explain. “Local social more.”
“I see,” Strong-Legs signed. “I’m sorry.”
“Is fine. You didn’t know.”
“Still, I am sorry.” It was still a moment, then reached forward and nibbled at his hair. “You are entertaining. I like you. Your people, they are strange, and your mores, they are silly, but I like you.”
Thomas snorted and shoved it off. “Thanks.”
“Your people, do they have silly mores about cross-species interaction?”
Thomas blinked. “It… uh, doesn’t really come up.”
“I see.”
“Why?”
Strong-Legs looked at him brightly. “Because I like you!”
Now there was a statement that had no business being as complicated as it was. “Uh, like, or… like-like?”
Strong-Legs just stared at him blankly.
“How do you like me?”
“You are entertaining. I never talk with mammals before, and on my world, they do nothing but go squeak-squeak and pop out babies; you are far more interesting. Your crest is pretty and it tastes good. I want to laugh and dance with you. Also possibly eat your crest. If that is all right with you.”
Thomas felt no less confused than he had before. He was also pretty sure that he’d feel that way regardless of what Strong-Legs said. The words and language for it just weren’t there. The shared assumptions about how it worked just weren’t there.
He wasn’t sure what he felt or how; dating a dino-ostrich had never occurred to him before. (If that was what Strong-Legs wanted. He still wasn’t sure. Did its species even have a concept of dating?)
“I… must think.”
“Is so!” Strong-Legs declared brightly. “We are friends. Very good. Share home, share work.”
That, Thomas understood. “Good. Is so.”
“Would you like to sleep here tonight?” It asked. “For comfort. It has been a very exciting day, a bad exciting. My people, we usually sleep in groups. I would like that comfort tonight.”
“Uh…” oh god, this was not something he could handle well in Pidgin Sign. “As friends?”
Strong-Legs let out a clicking trill. “Silly boy, yes, as friends! What else? Here, I give you the warmer spot…”
The nest was awkward and lumpy, but Strong-Legs was warm and solid, and eventually, Thomas found a comfortable position against its side. And it was right; after the stressful day, it was comforting to have someone sleeping next to him. Even a giant dino-ostrich who possibly had romantic intentions on him.
For a moment, he tried to worry about it, and then he gave it up. He was too tired. Strong-Legs had called him friend, and maybe that was good enough.
They slept.
Notes: Pidgin Sign has a bunch of different dialects, depending on how many signing limbs you have. Thomas generally uses the one-handed version, which is the most common; pretty much everyone can use it in a pinch. (Scorch uses it as well.) Strong-Legs tends to use three-limb style, using neck/tongue and wings, because it's not as dextrous as him. (Flame uses that version too, while M.D. tends to code-switch between them because that's how she learned.)
Treehouse has a rule about new arrivals. After it's decided they'll stay a while, if they haven't been apprenticed by somebody, they get assigned a buddy, who's a combo of roommate and coworker. This helps integrate the new arrival into the community and build them a support network. How Strong-Legs and Thomas become friends is a whole other story.
Also, if you're curious, Strong-Legs, when it makes sounds, kinda sounds like this.
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Date: 2018-05-21 04:03 pm (UTC)--Hikaru
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Date: 2018-05-21 07:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-05-21 07:32 pm (UTC)--Hikaru
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Date: 2018-05-21 07:51 pm (UTC)Hmm, I guess the original old concept sketches of Strong-Legs have been lost to the sands of Internet time, or mislaid somewhere. I should add them to this story, so folks know.