4338.207.4 | Cody Jennings | Bloody Kiss
After revealing my Guardianship to Gladys, Luke leaves me with a bad taste of blood.
As seen in
The moment I stepped into Luke's downstairs living room, the air shifted subtly, as if the very house was bracing for the unknown. Gladys's voice, unmistakably hers, floated down like a melody infused with curiosity, gently disrupting the silence. "Luke?" she called out, her voice laced with a mix of confusion and concern.
Driven by an inexplicable urge to uncover the reason behind Gladys's presence, I began my ascent. Each step on the staircase felt like a note in a suspenseful symphony, the creaks and groans under my feet narrating my progress. The atmosphere thickened with anticipation, a tangible electricity in the air that hinted at the unforeseen.
Reaching the top, I paused at the threshold of the living room. "Cody?" Gladys's voice, tinged with surprise, greeted me. It was as if my appearance had disrupted a delicate balance, the surprise in her eyes mirroring my own. For a fleeting moment, time seemed to suspend, our mutual astonishment hanging in the air like a delicate mist. Yet, this ephemeral connection quickly gave way to a sharper emotion—a twinge of guilt—as I noticed the shadow of fear that had taken residence in her gaze. The room felt suddenly like a carefully set stage, awaiting the unfolding of an unexpected drama.
"What the hell are you doing with that knife?" I asked, my voice slicing through the tension, as sharp and direct as the blade she held. The question hung in the air, a challenge that demanded an answer.
Gladys seemed to shrink, her cheeks flushing a deep red as the knife lowered, its threat diminishing with her posture. "I... I thought... nothing, really," she stammered, her words tumbling out like leaves caught in a gust of wind. Her response, laced with hesitation and uncertainty, echoed in the room, filling the space between us with whispers of doubt.
The urgency of the situation hung heavy in the air, a palpable tension that seemed to quicken the pulse of the room. With Gladys's fear visibly escalating, a decision loomed over me like a storm cloud, dark and imminent. The truth about my real identity, a secret cloaked in shadows, now demanded the light. The risks were undeniable, the potential danger to her palpable, yet the haunting experience with Killerton Enterprises had laid bare a stark reality: silence harboured a far greater threat.
"I know you know what this is," I began, the words tumbling out with a mixture of resolve and apprehension. I extended my hand, the Portal Key nestled within my palm. Its surface shimmered, capturing fragments of ambient light and casting an ethereal glow, a beacon of truth in the dim room.
Gladys's expression shifted, a furrow carving its way across her brow as understanding dawned. “So, you are a Guardian?" Her voice carried a note of realisation, a bridge between suspicion and acceptance. It wasn't a question so much as an acknowledgment of a truth she had already sensed.
"Yes," I affirmed, the word heavy with the weight of my admission. It felt like acknowledging a part of myself long kept in the shadows, now laid bare in the soft light of vulnerability.
"I thought Luke was the only one," Gladys confessed, her eyes wide, a mirror to her inner turmoil—a blend of fascination at the unfolding mystery and trepidation at its implications.
"No," I responded, a simple negation that seemed to expand the boundaries of her world in an instant.
"How many of you are there?" Her question was a whisper in the vast expanse of secrets that lay between us.
I shrugged, a gesture of uncertainty and honesty intertwined. "Dozens, if not hundreds." It was a truth as vast and unknown as the stars themselves, a testament to the scale of our guardianship that even I struggled to fully comprehend.
Gladys's reaction was a silent gasp. It was as if the very air had been sucked out of the room, leaving behind a weighty silence that bore the magnitude of the revelation.
"I honestly don't know, Gladys," I admitted, my voice a soft echo in the charged atmosphere. Moving closer, I gently removed the knife from her grasp, an act of reassurance amidst the storm of revelations. The metal felt cold, opposing the warmth of human connection I sought to reestablish.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Her voice, tinged with a blend of hurt and curiosity, trailed off as she moved towards the kitchen. Her actions, opening cupboards in a methodical search for wine, spoke of a need to find solace. It was a typical Gladys reaction, an attempt to anchor herself to something tangible in the midst of upheaval.
Following Gladys into the kitchen felt like stepping into a different realm, one where the warmth of the room clashed with the cold reality of our conversation. I placed the knife on the bench. "It's a dangerous lifestyle. I wanted to protect you," I found myself saying, my voice a mix of defence and regret.
"Like you protected Joel?" Gladys's retort came swift and sharp, her words cutting through the air like the knife I had just set down. The accusation stung, a bolt of lightning that illuminated the storm brewing between us.
A scowl involuntarily crossed my face. "That's not fair, Gladys. I had nothing to do with Joel's death." My protest was earnest, a plea for understanding amidst the whirlwind of accusations and doubts.
Gladys's eyebrow arched, her silence speaking volumes. Her skepticism was a clear sign of the trust that had been eroded, a bridge we would now have to rebuild. "I didn't," I continued, the insistence in my voice betraying the desperation I felt to convince her, to maintain the fragile thread of belief that still connected us.
"Do you know who killed Joel?" she pressed on, her question slamming into the conversation with the finality of a door shutting. The absence of the wine she sought seemed to amplify the tension, each echo a reminder of the barriers growing between us.
I shook my head, a quick, almost reflexive action. "No, I don't," I lied, the falsehood a heavy cloak around my shoulders. The truth was a dangerous companion, one I was not yet ready to introduce to Gladys.
Desperate to steer us away from the precipice of too many truths revealed, I grasped at the first distraction I could find. "What are you doing here anyway?"
Gladys, momentarily distracted, pulled a notepad and pen from the drawer, her movements deliberate as she began to scribble. "Luke asked me to pick up some camping goods that he had purchased. It's all in the truck in the driveway." Her words, simple and mundane, offered a brief respite from the emotional intensity of our exchange.
"I see," I responded, a faint grin touching my lips despite the weariness that clung to me like a second skin. It's good to see Luke took my advice. The thought was a small comfort, a reminder of the connections and plans that still existed beyond the immediate turmoil. The brochure I had left for Luke, now resulting in tangible actions, felt like a minor victory in a day filled with battles.
"Come help me unpack. I need to take the truck with me," Gladys instructed. Her request, simple yet grounding, prompted me without a word to stride towards the front door, each step a march towards a semblance of ordinary life. The early evening air greeted me like an old friend, its freshness a welcome contrast to the heavy atmosphere we'd left behind in the kitchen. Eager for this brief escape, I opened the back of the truck, my hands automatically reaching for the nearest box. The physicality of the task, the weight and solidity of the items we were unloading, served as a temporary anchor, pulling me back from the swirling thoughts that threatened to consume me.
"Come home with me," Gladys's voice, soft yet insistent, broke into my reverie. Her presence at my side, reaching into the truck for another item, felt like a tether in the storm. "I want to hear more about your Clivilius." Her words, an invitation to share more of my world, warmed me, offering a bridge between the tension of our current situation and the possibility of a moment's peace.
With arms laden, I paused, turning towards her. The act of kissing Gladys gently on the forehead was an instinct, a small gesture of affection and reassurance. "I can't right now," I admitted, my voice a mix of regret and necessity. The thought that Luke might be close, that my urgent need to speak with him still hung over me, was a reminder of the duties that I couldn't ignore. "But I will tell you more soon," I promised, the words a pledge I desperately hoped to keep.
"How soon?" The anticipation in Gladys's voice, mingled with a hint of uncertainty, underscored the importance of our connection, of the promises we made to each other in these turbulent moments.
"Hopefully later tonight."
"Do you want me to pick you up from somewhere?"
"No," I replied, allowing a cheeky grin to cross my face. "I've already activated my Portal in your kitchen and registered the location."
The moment my words hung in the air, I could see the shift in Gladys's demeanour. Her eyes, previously dimmed by the weight of our conversation, suddenly sparked to life, a vivid intensity burning within them. "Chloe! She's with you, isn't she?" The accusation in her voice, so fragile and desperate, pierced me more sharply than any physical blow could.
But reality, cruel and unyielding, forced my expression to change. The grin that had briefly played on my lips vanished, replaced by a grimace of regret. "I'm so sorry, Gladys. I never meant for that to happen." My apology, sincere as it was, felt hollow against the magnitude of her loss.
The transformation was immediate; the wildfire in Gladys's eyes gave way to a storm, tears gathering like dark clouds ready to burst. "I want her back." Her words, a simple demand, echoed with the unbearable pain of a mother separated from her fur child.
"I'm sorry, Gladys," I found myself repeating, each apology heavier than the last, a burden I bore with every intention to alleviate her pain, yet powerless to reverse the irreversible. "She can't come back." The finality of my statement, a sentence I had no right to decree, felt like pronouncing a verdict on our shared humanity.
"You bastard!" Her cry, a blend of anguish and betrayal, cut through the evening air as she lashed out. The impact of her fist against my shoulder, though physically mild, was emotionally devastating. It was the pain of loss, the agony of a wound too deep to mend, manifesting in her anger.
As I placed the box back onto the truck, turning to fully face the tempest of her grief, I moved instinctively to draw her close. My arms, though unsure, sought to provide a haven from the storm of emotions raging between us.
Her initial resistance, a push against the unfairness of reality, soon gave way to surrender. Gladys collapsed into my embrace, her body wracked with sobs. "You've taken my baby," she mourned, the words muffled against my chest, a lament for a loss too great to bear alone.
"I'm so sorry, Gladys," I whispered again, my own voice strained with emotion. Detaching myself from the moment, I reached for another box, a feeble attempt to resume some semblance of normalcy, to distract us both from the chasm of grief that I had opened up at our feet.
Working in silence, we moved between the truck and Luke's living room, unloading the camping goods. Each item we placed down felt like a testament to the ordinary lives we were struggling to maintain amidst the extraordinary circumstances that had entwined us. The mundane task, usually comforting in its simplicity, now served as an unwanted reminder of the complex web of emotions and responsibilities I navigated, a balance between the world as it was and the world as I wished it could be.
Gladys's departure marked the end of an emotionally charged chapter, leaving me in the quiet aftermath of our turbulent exchange. Her emotions, complex and raw, reminded me once again of my ineptitude in navigating the intricate dance of human feelings—a fact Freya often pointed out with a mix of amusement and frustration. The brief, touch-less farewell with Gladys felt like a silent acknowledgment of the chasm that had widened between us, her swift exit a physical manifestation of the distance I had inadvertently created. Her lingering resentment over Chloe's presence in Clivilius was palpable, and I knew I had my work cut out for me in mending that fractured connection. Left alone with my thoughts, and an uneasy peace in Luke's seemingly abandoned house, I sought refuge in the mundane task of scavenging for food. The cupboards, however, offered little in the way of nourishment, their barren shelves a stark reminder of the transient nature of our existence. This emptiness, echoing the hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach, prompted a more thorough investigation of the house. As I moved from room to room, the minimalistic state of Luke's belongings—or their conspicuous absence—spoke volumes. It seemed Luke had either embraced a spartan lifestyle or was in the process of transferring his life to Clivilius. This realisation brought a mix of admiration and concern. The deliberate stripping away of material attachments in favour of fortifying his settlement in Clivilius underscored the gravity of his situation. Guardians couldn't always shield those we cared about from the shadows that lurked just beyond the light. The discovery of a whiskey bottle, hidden like a treasure behind the façade of emptiness, felt like stumbling upon a rare artefact in the desolation. "Whiskey," I whispered to myself, a small smile breaking through as I grasped the bottle. It was a modest comfort, a liquid companion to momentarily ease the weight of loneliness and the burden of responsibilities that lay ahead. Holding the bottle, I contemplated the dual nature of my life—caught between the mundanity of human existence and the extraordinary demands of my role as a Guardian. The whiskey, with its promise of temporary solace, seemed a metaphor for the balance I sought to maintain: a moment of reprieve in the face of endless uncertainty. As I gazed at the unopened bottle, the amber liquid catching the light in a warm glow, I allowed myself a moment of reflection. The task of mending the rift with Gladys, of navigating the complex web of relationships and duties, loomed large. Yet, in that quiet moment, with the whiskey offering its silent strength, I felt a renewed sense of determination. "What the hell?" Luke's unexpected arrival, marked by the chaotic tumble of small kayaks, instantly shifted the atmosphere from one of solitary reflection to palpable tension. "Gladys," I found myself saying almost reflexively, emerging from the depths of my search in the cupboard with nothing more suitable than shot glasses for the whiskey. Placing one on the bench, I turned to face Luke, whose bewilderment was clear as day. "What the hell happened?" His voice, sharp with concern and confusion, sliced through the air, demanding an explanation. "It's the doing of Gladys," I responded, the calm in my voice belying the undercurrent of unease that Gladys's actions had stirred. Lifting the note she had left, I relayed the message to Luke with an attempt at nonchalance. "And she's left you a note. Shelving will be delivered tomorrow." Placing the note back on the bench, I sought refuge in the simplicity of the whiskey, letting the liquid courage wash away the remnants of the day's turmoil with a practiced ease. "Ahh, this is great stuff you've got here, Luke. I had to open a new bottle. Hope you don't mind," I remarked, trying to steer the conversation towards less turbulent waters, appreciating the whiskey's fiery embrace as it offered a fleeting escape. However, Luke's focus was elsewhere, his concern not with the disarray of camping equipment or the choice of drink, but with a matter far more grave. "I'm not talking about the camping shit. I'm talking about the fucking body!" His voice, now laced with a chilling intensity, brought a sudden clarity to the weight of his words. "Body? What body?" I asked, my reaction a mixture of genuine surprise and a creeping sense of dread. "Joel," Luke replied, his tone cold. Shit, my mind raced, scrambling for footing in the quicksand of accusations and implications. Struggling to maintain a façade of ignorance, I shrugged lightly, a gesture meant to deflect, to obscure the truth that gnawed at the edges of my consciousness. "I'm not sure what you're talking about," I said, each word carefully measured, a thin veil over the turmoil that churned within. The chaos of the living room, with its accidental obstacle course of kayaks and camping gear, seemed to fall away as Luke moved to join me in the kitchen. The simple act of him grabbing a glass and sliding it across the bench felt like a silent summons to share in the ritual of seeking solace in whiskey. As I obliged, pouring him a drink and sliding the glass back, a part of me sought justification for another round of liquid courage. If Luke is drinking with me, I should pour myself another, I reasoned, the whiskey momentarily offering a shared reprieve from the storm of revelations swirling around us. "We found Joel's body," Luke said, the words landing with the weight of a verdict. The shock of his statement hit me mid-swallow, causing me to cough violently, a spray of whiskey marking the bench as I struggled to regain composure. The harsh burn of the alcohol, now a traitor to my attempt at nonchalance, seemed to mirror the harsh reality Luke had just laid bare. "Yeah," Luke snapped, his response cutting through my feeble attempt to mask my surprise. "That's what I thought." "I'm so sorry, Luke," I managed, the words feeling inadequate against the magnitude of the situation. My head shook, a vain attempt to dislodge the heavy burden of guilt that had settled over me. "I had no idea he'd get away." My admission, though true, felt hollow, an echo of the many apologies that had filled the air today. "I hardly think he got away by himself." Luke's words were a cold splash of realisation, forcing me to confront a possibility I hadn't considered. "Shit! I didn't think of that!" I exclaimed, the revelation hitting me like a sudden storm. The idea that Griffin's escape might not have been a solitary act sent a ripple of fear through me. The notion that he could have had help, that our adversary's reach might extend further than I feared, was a chilling prospect. "So, you did know?" "Yeah, I knew who he was, but I thought..." My attempt to explain, to unravel the tangled web of decisions and missteps, was abruptly severed. "Then why the fuck did you pretend you'd never seen him before!?" Luke's interjection, fuelled by frustration and betrayal, felt like it should have been a physical blow. Yet, there was a confusion hanging between us that felt almost tangible, a dense fog that muddied understanding and intent. "Huh?" I asked, my mind scrambling to bridge the gap that had suddenly widened, the miscommunication casting shadows of doubt over our conversation. "Joel. Why'd you act like you didn't know him? "Ahh, shit!" The words escaped me as a sigh, frustration and realisation mingling in equal measure. My hand moved to my forehead, pressing against the skin as if to soothe the dull ache that throbbed beneath. It was clear that our lines of communication had not just faltered; they had collapsed, leaving me no choice but to reveal the existence of a threat I had hoped to keep shielded from Luke's immediate worries—Portal Pirates. "What?" Luke's query, a mix of impatience and confusion, hung in the air, demanding clarity. "I'm not talking about Joel." My clarification, though necessary, felt like peeling back a layer to reveal a deeper, more dangerous truth. "Then who the fuck are you talking about?" "Griffin Langley," I confessed, the name a heavy load to drop between us. Leaning against the kitchen's side bench, the cool stone beneath my palms offered a stark contrast to the heat of the moment, a physical grounding as I prepared to divulge further details. Luke, his patience thinning, signalled for a refill of his glass—a silent yet potent reminder of the stress we were under. "And who the hell is Griffin La..." he trailed off. "Langley," I supplied, the name hanging between us like a spectre. "Yeah, him," Luke conceded, his action of throwing back the whiskey akin to a man bracing against a storm, seeking solace in the burn of the alcohol. "He's a Portal Pirate." The words felt like casting light on shadows, revealing dangers hidden just beneath the surface of Luke’s perceived security. "A Portal Pirate?" Luke's response, a mix of disbelief and derision, was punctuated by a wild smirk. Yet, beneath the skepticism, a thread of curiosity lingered. "Yes," I affirmed, the certainty in my voice a stark contrast to the incredulity of his. "And I believe his partner, Nelson Price, may be in your settlement." The possibility, a dangerous seed, was now planted, its implications far-reaching. "Nobody's mentioned seeing anyone unfamiliar," Luke dismissed, the shrug accompanying his words attempting to convey indifference. His reach for the whiskey bottle, a gesture of both defiance and resignation, spoke volumes. "The people I do know are already struggling to survive. I doubt that anybody I don't know about could survive on their own for long. And besides, I really don't care right now." The incredulity in Luke's demeanour was almost as palpable as the whiskey bottle I abruptly claimed from his grip. "Luke, this is serious. They're incredibly dangerous." My words, laden with urgency, sought to pierce the veil of his indifference. "I don't understand," Luke countered, his attempt to reclaim the whiskey bottle a physical manifestation of his struggle to grasp the full scope of the situation. "How did he get into my settlement without me seeing him?" "He may not have. But if he did, you'd never know it. They're sneaky bastards." The words left my mouth with a bitterness that matched the taste of the whiskey. Luke's gaze drifted to his reflection in the kitchen window, a moment of introspection amidst the confusion. "Are they the ones who attacked Joel?” The concern in his voice, a suitable contrast to his earlier dismissiveness. "I believe so," was my simple, yet heavy, acknowledgment. "But even so, if you took Joel's body, how did it end up at our settlement?" Luke's question, logical and probing, demanded an explanation that I dreaded to give. Sighing loudly, I braced myself for the confession, resentful of the circumstances that necessitated such a revelation. "I captured Griffin and was holding him captive at Belkeep. But somehow he managed to escape. He stole the truck with Joel's body." The words felt like admitting to a personal failure, a lapse in judgment and security that had led to unforeseen consequences. "Can't you just follow his tracks?" Luke's suggestion, while logical, underestimated the capabilities of our adversaries. "No!" The frustration that had been simmering beneath the surface finally erupted, my fist striking the bench with a force that mirrored the turmoil within. The sound of impact echoed through the kitchen, a testament to the futility and desperation that the situation engendered. "That's the thing with Pirates, once they have recorded a location, they can access any other recorded Earth or Clivilius location from it." The explanation, a grim outline of the Pirates' capabilities, underscored the complexity and danger of tracking them. Their ability to navigate and exploit the very portals we relied on rendered traditional methods of pursuit almost obsolete. "Shit! There's more settlements in Clivilius?” Luke blurted incredulously. "Yeah... uh... I think that's a conversation for another time," I hastily interjected, keen to steer our discussion away from the labyrinth of details that could further distract our already precarious situation. The last thing we needed was to dive into the intricacies of Clivilius' settlements, especially not when the immediate threat of Portal Pirates loomed over us. "Shit," Luke mumbled. I pressed on, eager to focus on our immediate concerns. “But wherever Griffin took Joel, it can't be too far from your settlement if you found Joel's body." The logic was sound, a beacon of clarity in the fog of uncertainty. "And if his partner is there, how do we find him?" Luke's question, a practical one, sought a strategy. The possibility that Nelson could be hiding near Luke's settlement was a dangerous one, necessitating a cautious approach. "Not sure. If there are no signs of life around you, which I suspect is the case, then it is likely that he will not know where he is either." My speculation was grounded in the reality of our enemy's situation—lost, but dangerous. "A pirate's instincts are for survival. He will happily steal whatever he needs, and he won't hesitate to use violence if he feels the situation needs it." The truth of my words painted a vivid picture of the threat we faced. "But in all likelihood, he will hang around the Portal for a few weeks, or as long as he can last, in the hope that another Pirate will come along and he can finish making the location connection." The strategy of waiting by the Portal, a beacon for any lost Pirate, was a double-edged sword. It offered us a potential advantage, a predictable pattern of behaviour that Luke could exploit. "He will attempt to record the location at every chance he can get - but he needs the Portal to be active to do it. So expect him to remain close to your Portal." The tactical implications were clear, offering Luke a narrow window to act. "You could attempt to flush him out, but he is dangerous." The warning was a necessary one, underscoring the risk involved in confronting a Portal Pirate. Luke's distress was palpable, his eyes a vivid testament to the toll our conversation—and perhaps the whiskey—had taken on him. His reaction left me questioning the wisdom of my approach. “You okay?” My concern was genuine, the touch on his shoulder meant as a pillar of support, yet I couldn't help but wonder if I had overstepped, pushing the information on him too far too fast. His response, a shudder that seemed to echo the turmoil within, only deepened my worry. “Luke?” The repetition of his name, a bid for his attention, felt inadequate in the face of his evident distress. Unexpectedly, Luke fell back against the cupboards, his knees wobbling and finally his body sliding down, his knees tucked in close as he reached the tiled floor. Tears burst from his swelling eyes. Worried that his Guardian responsibilities were taking a heavy toll already, crouching in front of Luke, I gripped his shoulders firmly. "Luke, what's going on?" My voice, though steady, belied the concern that knotted my stomach. "Just too much whiskey," he managed between sobs, a dismissive explanation that failed to mask the deeper currents of despair. "Come on. Get up," I urged, extending a hand, a lifeline meant to pull him back from the brink. The physical act of helping him up, however, went awry as his grip, unsteady and desperate, resulted in both of us grappling with gravity. The unexpected force of his fall pulled me down, my knee meeting the hard floor with a painful thud. "What the fuck did you do that for?" The words slipped out, a reflex reaction to the sudden pain and surprise, my tongue instinctively seeking out the source of a small but sharp pain on my lip. "Sorry. I slipped. Way too much alcohol," Luke's apology, though mumbled, carried the weight of genuine remorse. Allowing my features to relax, recognising the accident for what it was—a mishap fuelled by alcohol and high emotions—I wiped away another drop of blood. Sinking down beside Luke, I settled into a silent solidarity. Luke's unexpected proximity, his shoulder pressing into mine, introduced a sexual tension I hadn't anticipated, a complexity that added layers to an already charged atmosphere. The air between us thickened, laden with an unspoken query that danced on the edge of my consciousness. Swallowing uncomfortably, I turned to face him, curiosity and an unnamable apprehension mingling within me. As Luke mirrored my movement, our faces drew closer, the whispered taunts of Clivilius echoing in my mind—a seductive urging to embrace a connection I hadn't consciously acknowledged until this moment. Accept him, the voice, both a bane and a whisper of potential truths, seemed to find resonance within the depths of my being, challenging my perceptions of desire and connection. Slowly, Luke's face inched closer to mine. Accept him, the silent voice instructed again, as my head began a ridiculously slow retreat. Luke's lips, rough yet insistent, pressed against mine in a moment that shattered any lingering denial of the attraction that simmered beneath the surface. My hands found his chest, a gesture that might have been intended to push him away, yet lacked the conviction of true resistance. The sensation of his tongue, tentative and exploring against the cut on my lip, sent a cascade of conflicting emotions and physical responses through me. Pleasure intertwined with concern, blurring the lines of our previously defined relationship. As our tongues tentatively met, a door within me creaked open, revealing uncharted territories of desire and connection. My grip on his shoulders tightened, a silent acknowledgment of the tumultuous sea of feelings that threatened to engulf me. My rational mind clamoured for retreat, for the safety of familiar ground, yet the deeper, more primal part of me rebelled, yearning for the continuation of this unexpected intimacy. Luke's actions, a blend of exploration and mumbled words, paused as he pulled back, his gaze piercing into mine with an intensity that seemed to seek answers to questions unasked. "Did you know?" His inquiry, loaded with implications, momentarily confused me. "Know what?" My response was automatic, the confusion apparent as I tried to navigate the tumultuous waters of our interaction. "So I am your first," he whispered, a revelation that, while true, caught me off guard. "Yeah. I've never been this close to a guy before," I admitted, the words tumbling out in a rush of honesty and vulnerability. "We should stop,” I suggested, in a desperate bid for clarity and control over my emotions. Luke's grin, wide and knowing, hinted at depths of understanding and experience beyond my own. "As sweet a sentiment as that is, that's not what I'm talking about." His words, playful yet profound, left me scrambling for comprehension. "Then what are you talking about?" The question hung between us, a bridge spanning the gap of misunderstanding and unspoken truths. Without warning, Luke's lips pushed against mine, his rough tongue gliding across my parched lips. Settling on the point of broken skin where the small drops of blood continued to seep, Luke paused and pressing his lips firmer against mine, he took a deep suck. Pulling away, “I think you've been under too much pressure lately, not to mention the whiskey,” I ventured, attempting to attribute Luke's uncharacteristic behaviour to the strain of our duties and the whiskey's influence. My efforts to distance myself from his advances, to regain some semblance of control over the situation, felt both necessary and oddly painful. Luke's reaction, a vehement shake of his head accompanied by a soft denial, only deepened the mystery and my concern. "No," he said softly, "I see you now. Just as Clive sees us all." The mention of Clive, a name unfamiliar and yet spoken with a significance that seemed to hold weight, left me baffled and uneasy. Who the hell is Clive? The question echoed in my mind, a puzzle piece that didn't fit, adding layers to the enigma that was Luke in that moment. Before I could voice my confusion, Luke's body gave in, slumping against the cupboards with an unsettling softness. The peaceful smile that graced his lips, in stark contrast to the turmoil that had preceded it, and his closed eyes painted a picture of serenity that felt out of place in the unexpectedness of our recent exchange. "Luke," I called out, my voice laced with concern as I shook his shoulders, seeking any sign of awareness. But there was none. His unresponsiveness, whether due to alcohol or something more sinister, spurred me into action, though a part of me recoiled at the thought of what the alternative to intoxication might be. With a sense of urgency, I hoisted Luke into my arms, the weight of his body a tangible reminder of the responsibility I felt towards him. Dragging him to the bedroom, I was governed by a singular focus—to ensure his safety, to provide him the rest he so clearly needed. Placing him on the bed, the roughness of my actions belied the care and concern that motivated them. Standing there, watching Luke lightly snore, a semblance of normalcy in his breathing, I was torn between relief and a lingering worry. The hope that he would retain even fragments of our conversation, that the morning would bring clarity and perhaps a bridge to mend the gap that had formed between us, was a slender thread I clung to. Leaving Luke in the quiet of his room, I stepped out into the night, the cool air a balm to my unsettled thoughts.
Gladys's departure marked the end of an emotionally charged chapter, leaving me in the quiet aftermath of our turbulent exchange. Her emotions, complex and raw, reminded me once again of my ineptitude in navigating the intricate dance of human feelings—a fact Freya often pointed out with a mix of amusement and frustration. The brief, touch-less farewell with Gladys felt like a silent acknowledgment of the chasm that had widened between us, her swift exit a physical manifestation of the distance I had inadvertently created. Her lingering resentment over Chloe's presence in Clivilius was palpable, and I knew I had my work cut out for me in mending that fractured connection. Left alone with my thoughts, and an uneasy peace in Luke's seemingly abandoned house, I sought refuge in the mundane task of scavenging for food. The cupboards, however, offered little in the way of nourishment, their barren shelves a stark reminder of the transient nature of our existence. This emptiness, echoing the hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach, prompted a more thorough investigation of the house. As I moved from room to room, the minimalistic state of Luke's belongings—or their conspicuous absence—spoke volumes. It seemed Luke had either embraced a spartan lifestyle or was in the process of transferring his life to Clivilius. This realisation brought a mix of admiration and concern. The deliberate stripping away of material attachments in favour of fortifying his settlement in Clivilius underscored the gravity of his situation. Guardians couldn't always shield those we cared about from the shadows that lurked just beyond the light. The discovery of a whiskey bottle, hidden like a treasure behind the façade of emptiness, felt like stumbling upon a rare artefact in the desolation. "Whiskey," I whispered to myself, a small smile breaking through as I grasped the bottle. It was a modest comfort, a liquid companion to momentarily ease the weight of loneliness and the burden of responsibilities that lay ahead. Holding the bottle, I contemplated the dual nature of my life—caught between the mundanity of human existence and the extraordinary demands of my role as a Guardian. The whiskey, with its promise of temporary solace, seemed a metaphor for the balance I sought to maintain: a moment of reprieve in the face of endless uncertainty. As I gazed at the unopened bottle, the amber liquid catching the light in a warm glow, I allowed myself a moment of reflection. The task of mending the rift with Gladys, of navigating the complex web of relationships and duties, loomed large. Yet, in that quiet moment, with the whiskey offering its silent strength, I felt a renewed sense of determination. "What the hell?" Luke's unexpected arrival, marked by the chaotic tumble of small kayaks, instantly shifted the atmosphere from one of solitary reflection to palpable tension. "Gladys," I found myself saying almost reflexively, emerging from the depths of my search in the cupboard with nothing more suitable than shot glasses for the whiskey. Placing one on the bench, I turned to face Luke, whose bewilderment was clear as day. "What the hell happened?" His voice, sharp with concern and confusion, sliced through the air, demanding an explanation. "It's the doing of Gladys," I responded, the calm in my voice belying the undercurrent of unease that Gladys's actions had stirred. Lifting the note she had left, I relayed the message to Luke with an attempt at nonchalance. "And she's left you a note. Shelving will be delivered tomorrow." Placing the note back on the bench, I sought refuge in the simplicity of the whiskey, letting the liquid courage wash away the remnants of the day's turmoil with a practiced ease. "Ahh, this is great stuff you've got here, Luke. I had to open a new bottle. Hope you don't mind," I remarked, trying to steer the conversation towards less turbulent waters, appreciating the whiskey's fiery embrace as it offered a fleeting escape. However, Luke's focus was elsewhere, his concern not with the disarray of camping equipment or the choice of drink, but with a matter far more grave. "I'm not talking about the camping shit. I'm talking about the fucking body!" His voice, now laced with a chilling intensity, brought a sudden clarity to the weight of his words. "Body? What body?" I asked, my reaction a mixture of genuine surprise and a creeping sense of dread. "Joel," Luke replied, his tone cold. Shit, my mind raced, scrambling for footing in the quicksand of accusations and implications. Struggling to maintain a façade of ignorance, I shrugged lightly, a gesture meant to deflect, to obscure the truth that gnawed at the edges of my consciousness. "I'm not sure what you're talking about," I said, each word carefully measured, a thin veil over the turmoil that churned within. The chaos of the living room, with its accidental obstacle course of kayaks and camping gear, seemed to fall away as Luke moved to join me in the kitchen. The simple act of him grabbing a glass and sliding it across the bench felt like a silent summons to share in the ritual of seeking solace in whiskey. As I obliged, pouring him a drink and sliding the glass back, a part of me sought justification for another round of liquid courage. If Luke is drinking with me, I should pour myself another, I reasoned, the whiskey momentarily offering a shared reprieve from the storm of revelations swirling around us. "We found Joel's body," Luke said, the words landing with the weight of a verdict. The shock of his statement hit me mid-swallow, causing me to cough violently, a spray of whiskey marking the bench as I struggled to regain composure. The harsh burn of the alcohol, now a traitor to my attempt at nonchalance, seemed to mirror the harsh reality Luke had just laid bare. "Yeah," Luke snapped, his response cutting through my feeble attempt to mask my surprise. "That's what I thought." "I'm so sorry, Luke," I managed, the words feeling inadequate against the magnitude of the situation. My head shook, a vain attempt to dislodge the heavy burden of guilt that had settled over me. "I had no idea he'd get away." My admission, though true, felt hollow, an echo of the many apologies that had filled the air today. "I hardly think he got away by himself." Luke's words were a cold splash of realisation, forcing me to confront a possibility I hadn't considered. "Shit! I didn't think of that!" I exclaimed, the revelation hitting me like a sudden storm. The idea that Griffin's escape might not have been a solitary act sent a ripple of fear through me. The notion that he could have had help, that our adversary's reach might extend further than I feared, was a chilling prospect. "So, you did know?" "Yeah, I knew who he was, but I thought..." My attempt to explain, to unravel the tangled web of decisions and missteps, was abruptly severed. "Then why the fuck did you pretend you'd never seen him before!?" Luke's interjection, fuelled by frustration and betrayal, felt like it should have been a physical blow. Yet, there was a confusion hanging between us that felt almost tangible, a dense fog that muddied understanding and intent. "Huh?" I asked, my mind scrambling to bridge the gap that had suddenly widened, the miscommunication casting shadows of doubt over our conversation. "Joel. Why'd you act like you didn't know him? "Ahh, shit!" The words escaped me as a sigh, frustration and realisation mingling in equal measure. My hand moved to my forehead, pressing against the skin as if to soothe the dull ache that throbbed beneath. It was clear that our lines of communication had not just faltered; they had collapsed, leaving me no choice but to reveal the existence of a threat I had hoped to keep shielded from Luke's immediate worries—Portal Pirates. "What?" Luke's query, a mix of impatience and confusion, hung in the air, demanding clarity. "I'm not talking about Joel." My clarification, though necessary, felt like peeling back a layer to reveal a deeper, more dangerous truth. "Then who the fuck are you talking about?" "Griffin Langley," I confessed, the name a heavy load to drop between us. Leaning against the kitchen's side bench, the cool stone beneath my palms offered a stark contrast to the heat of the moment, a physical grounding as I prepared to divulge further details. Luke, his patience thinning, signalled for a refill of his glass—a silent yet potent reminder of the stress we were under. "And who the hell is Griffin La..." he trailed off. "Langley," I supplied, the name hanging between us like a spectre. "Yeah, him," Luke conceded, his action of throwing back the whiskey akin to a man bracing against a storm, seeking solace in the burn of the alcohol. "He's a Portal Pirate." The words felt like casting light on shadows, revealing dangers hidden just beneath the surface of Luke’s perceived security. "A Portal Pirate?" Luke's response, a mix of disbelief and derision, was punctuated by a wild smirk. Yet, beneath the skepticism, a thread of curiosity lingered. "Yes," I affirmed, the certainty in my voice a stark contrast to the incredulity of his. "And I believe his partner, Nelson Price, may be in your settlement." The possibility, a dangerous seed, was now planted, its implications far-reaching. "Nobody's mentioned seeing anyone unfamiliar," Luke dismissed, the shrug accompanying his words attempting to convey indifference. His reach for the whiskey bottle, a gesture of both defiance and resignation, spoke volumes. "The people I do know are already struggling to survive. I doubt that anybody I don't know about could survive on their own for long. And besides, I really don't care right now." The incredulity in Luke's demeanour was almost as palpable as the whiskey bottle I abruptly claimed from his grip. "Luke, this is serious. They're incredibly dangerous." My words, laden with urgency, sought to pierce the veil of his indifference. "I don't understand," Luke countered, his attempt to reclaim the whiskey bottle a physical manifestation of his struggle to grasp the full scope of the situation. "How did he get into my settlement without me seeing him?" "He may not have. But if he did, you'd never know it. They're sneaky bastards." The words left my mouth with a bitterness that matched the taste of the whiskey. Luke's gaze drifted to his reflection in the kitchen window, a moment of introspection amidst the confusion. "Are they the ones who attacked Joel?” The concern in his voice, a suitable contrast to his earlier dismissiveness. "I believe so," was my simple, yet heavy, acknowledgment. "But even so, if you took Joel's body, how did it end up at our settlement?" Luke's question, logical and probing, demanded an explanation that I dreaded to give. Sighing loudly, I braced myself for the confession, resentful of the circumstances that necessitated such a revelation. "I captured Griffin and was holding him captive at Belkeep. But somehow he managed to escape. He stole the truck with Joel's body." The words felt like admitting to a personal failure, a lapse in judgment and security that had led to unforeseen consequences. "Can't you just follow his tracks?" Luke's suggestion, while logical, underestimated the capabilities of our adversaries. "No!" The frustration that had been simmering beneath the surface finally erupted, my fist striking the bench with a force that mirrored the turmoil within. The sound of impact echoed through the kitchen, a testament to the futility and desperation that the situation engendered. "That's the thing with Pirates, once they have recorded a location, they can access any other recorded Earth or Clivilius location from it." The explanation, a grim outline of the Pirates' capabilities, underscored the complexity and danger of tracking them. Their ability to navigate and exploit the very portals we relied on rendered traditional methods of pursuit almost obsolete. "Shit! There's more settlements in Clivilius?” Luke blurted incredulously. "Yeah... uh... I think that's a conversation for another time," I hastily interjected, keen to steer our discussion away from the labyrinth of details that could further distract our already precarious situation. The last thing we needed was to dive into the intricacies of Clivilius' settlements, especially not when the immediate threat of Portal Pirates loomed over us. "Shit," Luke mumbled. I pressed on, eager to focus on our immediate concerns. “But wherever Griffin took Joel, it can't be too far from your settlement if you found Joel's body." The logic was sound, a beacon of clarity in the fog of uncertainty. "And if his partner is there, how do we find him?" Luke's question, a practical one, sought a strategy. The possibility that Nelson could be hiding near Luke's settlement was a dangerous one, necessitating a cautious approach. "Not sure. If there are no signs of life around you, which I suspect is the case, then it is likely that he will not know where he is either." My speculation was grounded in the reality of our enemy's situation—lost, but dangerous. "A pirate's instincts are for survival. He will happily steal whatever he needs, and he won't hesitate to use violence if he feels the situation needs it." The truth of my words painted a vivid picture of the threat we faced. "But in all likelihood, he will hang around the Portal for a few weeks, or as long as he can last, in the hope that another Pirate will come along and he can finish making the location connection." The strategy of waiting by the Portal, a beacon for any lost Pirate, was a double-edged sword. It offered us a potential advantage, a predictable pattern of behaviour that Luke could exploit. "He will attempt to record the location at every chance he can get - but he needs the Portal to be active to do it. So expect him to remain close to your Portal." The tactical implications were clear, offering Luke a narrow window to act. "You could attempt to flush him out, but he is dangerous." The warning was a necessary one, underscoring the risk involved in confronting a Portal Pirate. Luke's distress was palpable, his eyes a vivid testament to the toll our conversation—and perhaps the whiskey—had taken on him. His reaction left me questioning the wisdom of my approach. “You okay?” My concern was genuine, the touch on his shoulder meant as a pillar of support, yet I couldn't help but wonder if I had overstepped, pushing the information on him too far too fast. His response, a shudder that seemed to echo the turmoil within, only deepened my worry. “Luke?” The repetition of his name, a bid for his attention, felt inadequate in the face of his evident distress. Unexpectedly, Luke fell back against the cupboards, his knees wobbling and finally his body sliding down, his knees tucked in close as he reached the tiled floor. Tears burst from his swelling eyes. Worried that his Guardian responsibilities were taking a heavy toll already, crouching in front of Luke, I gripped his shoulders firmly. "Luke, what's going on?" My voice, though steady, belied the concern that knotted my stomach. "Just too much whiskey," he managed between sobs, a dismissive explanation that failed to mask the deeper currents of despair. "Come on. Get up," I urged, extending a hand, a lifeline meant to pull him back from the brink. The physical act of helping him up, however, went awry as his grip, unsteady and desperate, resulted in both of us grappling with gravity. The unexpected force of his fall pulled me down, my knee meeting the hard floor with a painful thud. "What the fuck did you do that for?" The words slipped out, a reflex reaction to the sudden pain and surprise, my tongue instinctively seeking out the source of a small but sharp pain on my lip. "Sorry. I slipped. Way too much alcohol," Luke's apology, though mumbled, carried the weight of genuine remorse. Allowing my features to relax, recognising the accident for what it was—a mishap fuelled by alcohol and high emotions—I wiped away another drop of blood. Sinking down beside Luke, I settled into a silent solidarity. Luke's unexpected proximity, his shoulder pressing into mine, introduced a sexual tension I hadn't anticipated, a complexity that added layers to an already charged atmosphere. The air between us thickened, laden with an unspoken query that danced on the edge of my consciousness. Swallowing uncomfortably, I turned to face him, curiosity and an unnamable apprehension mingling within me. As Luke mirrored my movement, our faces drew closer, the whispered taunts of Clivilius echoing in my mind—a seductive urging to embrace a connection I hadn't consciously acknowledged until this moment. Accept him, the voice, both a bane and a whisper of potential truths, seemed to find resonance within the depths of my being, challenging my perceptions of desire and connection. Slowly, Luke's face inched closer to mine. Accept him, the silent voice instructed again, as my head began a ridiculously slow retreat. Luke's lips, rough yet insistent, pressed against mine in a moment that shattered any lingering denial of the attraction that simmered beneath the surface. My hands found his chest, a gesture that might have been intended to push him away, yet lacked the conviction of true resistance. The sensation of his tongue, tentative and exploring against the cut on my lip, sent a cascade of conflicting emotions and physical responses through me. Pleasure intertwined with concern, blurring the lines of our previously defined relationship. As our tongues tentatively met, a door within me creaked open, revealing uncharted territories of desire and connection. My grip on his shoulders tightened, a silent acknowledgment of the tumultuous sea of feelings that threatened to engulf me. My rational mind clamoured for retreat, for the safety of familiar ground, yet the deeper, more primal part of me rebelled, yearning for the continuation of this unexpected intimacy. Luke's actions, a blend of exploration and mumbled words, paused as he pulled back, his gaze piercing into mine with an intensity that seemed to seek answers to questions unasked. "Did you know?" His inquiry, loaded with implications, momentarily confused me. "Know what?" My response was automatic, the confusion apparent as I tried to navigate the tumultuous waters of our interaction. "So I am your first," he whispered, a revelation that, while true, caught me off guard. "Yeah. I've never been this close to a guy before," I admitted, the words tumbling out in a rush of honesty and vulnerability. "We should stop,” I suggested, in a desperate bid for clarity and control over my emotions. Luke's grin, wide and knowing, hinted at depths of understanding and experience beyond my own. "As sweet a sentiment as that is, that's not what I'm talking about." His words, playful yet profound, left me scrambling for comprehension. "Then what are you talking about?" The question hung between us, a bridge spanning the gap of misunderstanding and unspoken truths. Without warning, Luke's lips pushed against mine, his rough tongue gliding across my parched lips. Settling on the point of broken skin where the small drops of blood continued to seep, Luke paused and pressing his lips firmer against mine, he took a deep suck. Pulling away, “I think you've been under too much pressure lately, not to mention the whiskey,” I ventured, attempting to attribute Luke's uncharacteristic behaviour to the strain of our duties and the whiskey's influence. My efforts to distance myself from his advances, to regain some semblance of control over the situation, felt both necessary and oddly painful. Luke's reaction, a vehement shake of his head accompanied by a soft denial, only deepened the mystery and my concern. "No," he said softly, "I see you now. Just as Clive sees us all." The mention of Clive, a name unfamiliar and yet spoken with a significance that seemed to hold weight, left me baffled and uneasy. Who the hell is Clive? The question echoed in my mind, a puzzle piece that didn't fit, adding layers to the enigma that was Luke in that moment. Before I could voice my confusion, Luke's body gave in, slumping against the cupboards with an unsettling softness. The peaceful smile that graced his lips, in stark contrast to the turmoil that had preceded it, and his closed eyes painted a picture of serenity that felt out of place in the unexpectedness of our recent exchange. "Luke," I called out, my voice laced with concern as I shook his shoulders, seeking any sign of awareness. But there was none. His unresponsiveness, whether due to alcohol or something more sinister, spurred me into action, though a part of me recoiled at the thought of what the alternative to intoxication might be. With a sense of urgency, I hoisted Luke into my arms, the weight of his body a tangible reminder of the responsibility I felt towards him. Dragging him to the bedroom, I was governed by a singular focus—to ensure his safety, to provide him the rest he so clearly needed. Placing him on the bed, the roughness of my actions belied the care and concern that motivated them. Standing there, watching Luke lightly snore, a semblance of normalcy in his breathing, I was torn between relief and a lingering worry. The hope that he would retain even fragments of our conversation, that the morning would bring clarity and perhaps a bridge to mend the gap that had formed between us, was a slender thread I clung to. Leaving Luke in the quiet of his room, I stepped out into the night, the cool air a balm to my unsettled thoughts.
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