[AL] Leave My Light On

He fumbled in front of the sink, pulling at the fringes of his dress shirt. The collar came undone, the bowtie falling onto the ceramic counter, stained slightly teal. He tugged harder at his shirt until finally he freed his neck from its grasp with a horribly wet noise.

Pellan frowned at his reflection, eyes locked on the wound in his jugular. Blood quietly seeped, threads of his shirt caught between the broken skin, meshed together in a sticky disaster. He breathed in, slowly, feeling his throat ache with every inhale. Starsdamnit.

He turned his head downwards. Sitting on the counter of the sink was a cup with his toothbrush in it, next to it a few medications, a bottle of floss. Nothing that would help. Pellan's hand ghosted over the materials before he flicked it upwards, scrambling with the latch on the mirror door for a second. It swung open, and he dug through several empty prescription bottles, boxes of bandaids, hand wipes, until his fingers closed around a roll of gauze.

With a huff, he steadied himself, standing up straight and keeping his shoulders squared. As he unrolled the gauze, he could hear murmurs from outside the bathroom door. Why were they in his private room? Boss had told them to give him some space to calm down. They were giving him space, right? He hadn't changed his mind, right?

Breathe, he reminded himself.

The gauze stung as he wrapped it around his neck. He could've healed it without an issue. It would take a snap of fingers, a single fraction of a thought for his magic to scurry into his flesh and stitch it back together. But he couldn't. He could barely teleport himself anymore, the most basic of spells. His stomach churned at the reminder. Was he scared, or was he angry? He didn't know anymore.

Pellan patted the gauze. There. All fixed up. He wouldn't bleed all over his shirt now.

He glanced down, to the bowtie and the crumpled teal stains on his shirt. He needed a change of clothes. How quaintly mortal. His gaze turned to the door, to the murmur of tones. Was it worth it? Maybe he should just hide here instead. Nobody would bother him in the bathroom, probably. They wouldn't want to walk in.

But he'd have to leave eventually, and the sooner he arrived back to give that precious speech, the better off he'd be. Maybe Boss wouldn't be so angry about it all. Maybe he'd get the rest of the day off. What a thought. 

Pellan gathered up his vest and bowtie, creeping towards the door, careful to keep his footfalls light. He stared, for a second, at the doorknob, at the warped reflection of his face in the brass. He could run away. He really, honestly could. 

Where would he go? Maybe he'd go to Cavia and beg Inras for mercy, plead with him for subservience. Perhaps east to Gorgion - no, too close. They'd find him, and he wouldn't be safe there. West, then? West to Easiia City? Give up his dignity and body in return for freedom from blood and torture? Maybe he wouldn't run to anywhere in particular. He'd just run and run until he found a new place, a new piece of land, and maybe he could make another city there. A better one. Leave Tablia to the wolves, let Inras and Cycla bark and fight over its scraps. And he'd be safe, off in the wilderness.

He knew, in his heart, that he wouldn't be. If anything, he'd be the perfect sitting duck, lying on the water in peace while the vultures circled overhead. There was no where for him to go where he'd be fine forever. Cycla and Inras would forever creep on the south and he'd be forever running, marked as a traitor to his mortals, abandoning them in their time of need. He could picture the headlines now, tearing into him, calling him a coward, spineless, self-centered. 

Maybe he was. He didn't know anymore.

Pellan's fingers curled around the knob and he turned it. The voices fell silent as he quietly opened the door just wide enough for him to slip through. His eyes briefly met theirs before he tilted his head down, focusing instead on the floor.

"There you are," Jazz snapped, waving their hand and putting the other on their hip. "Boss and Crystal are so fuckin' pissed like you won't believe. As soon as you left the HQ some Morion City broadcast came on the television."

"Oh?" Pellan managed, voice soft.

They gestured dismissively. "Yeah, some press conference. I tried to change the channel but they told me not to. Some fast food kid - had the little hat on - he was talkin' about something called a Gladar or... feck, man, I dunno. Anyways Boss said you need to come back to his room as soon as possible to talk to him about it. Said it's important, don't bother changin'. Just go."

"Okay," Pellan mumbled, setting his soiled clothes on the nearest table and heading for the door, keeping his head down.

For once he was grateful that his apartment was close to the central room. It was only a few twisting hallways before he could enter and figure out what else he needed to do before getting to wipe out for the night. Had he even eaten this week? Maybe he'd make himself a sandwich after all this was said and done. What kind of sandwich?

His mind wandered and his eyes glazed. Everything was the same, here, the same red carpets, dark wooden floors. The paintings hadn't been changed for centuries. The potted plants lining the boards were plastic. It was easy to get lost in his own thoughts here, in the labyrinth of the city hall, thinking about what sandwich would soothe his frayed nerves.

Hm... cheese maybe... and....

"Do you always look that ditzy?"

Pellan startled, snapping up straightbacked in an instant. Crystal was perched in a chair next to the door, cigarette lit between her fingers. She grinned at him, but she sported a new bruise under her eye that hadn't been there when he'd left.

"No, ma'am," he responded.

She took a drag. "Yeah, whatever. Boss is so fucking pissed off right now. Not even gonna broadcast the speech you were gonna... is that gauze? Did you wrap up the cut?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Bitch," she scoffed. "It wasn't that bad. Maybe if you didn't run cryin' to your room every time I had to reprimand you, Boss wouldn't be so pissed off all the time."

Pellan held his tongue.

"Whatever. Go calm him down." Crystal turned away from the door.

He entered quietly, closing the door behind himself. Pellan politely folded his hands in front of his lap, not daring to move deeper into the room. The nice, soft carpet was at least soothing to his sore feet. 

In the center of the room sat another Ant, perched on a chair, leaning forwards. His elbow sat on his knee, cupping his chin in a hand as he intently stared at the television. The volume was too low to make out any words. Hanging above him was the brightest light in the room, casting parts of his face and his clothes in deep red shadows. Imposing as always.

It was another second before his eyes flicked to Pellan. "You're here."

"Yes, sir."

"Come over." he shifted and patted the armrest of the chair.

Pellan strode over, perching softly on it. Holiday picked up the remote, pressing rewind. The colors on the screen danced as the recording spun, then froze. 

"Watch very carefully," Holiday instructed him. Pellan nodded, eyes glued.

From the right side of the screen walked a rather short - earth pony? - wearing a suit that seemed too sizes too big. He adjusted his bangs for a second before casting a nervous glance to the plethora of reporters on chairs in front of him. Pellan stared at the tensed edges of his smile, the way his fingers curled around the podium. How he leaned too far forwards, how he kept glancing back to the right. The way his mouth moved when he talked, the soft colors of his tongue. The crescendo, the rise-and-fall harmonic of his voice. The soft, tealish green of his eyes, of his magic.

He didn't know if he was supposed to listen or not. But he stared, and he drank it all in.

Holiday paused the recording. Pellan flicked his eyes to him. His boss leaned back in his chair, expression pensive and tense, fingers laced together under his chin. Neither spoke, the ticking of a clock somewhere filling the space for them.

Why was he called here? Why did Boss need him? What had he done this time? Why had he hit Crystal? Maybe he was defending Pellan. The thought made his heart flutter slightly. It would be nice to have an ally. Of course, that couldn't be further from the truth, but maybe he didn't need to think about that.

Maybe it would be nicer to believe that it was all going to be okay. That he'd find a solution to all his problems. That his mortals would have a change of heart. Maybe one day they'd all get together and throw a birthday party for him and there'd be plenty of cake and presents and he'd get told that he was a good boy, that he'd done a good job. That it was over. They'd found someone else to defend the city and now he could sleep easy, piled on top of the wealth of his people, of his city, of everything he'd poured himself and his magic and his soul into.

Or maybe it wouldn't be so bad, to go live with Inras. He was a nice guy, right? To an extent. Maybe. To his allies? Something. His head was spiralling again. He needed to stop himself before he overreacted. These were fantasies he shouldn't have, but he oh-so-loved to entertain them.

"Do you know what a Gladar is?" Holiday broke his thoughts.

"No, sir." Pellan spoke before his mind even caught up. 

"Figures," Holiday grumbled, digging around on a nearby table for a coin. He flicked it into the air. "I didn't, either."

Pellan stared at him out of the corners of his eyes.

"But now I know what a Gladar is. And so do you."

"Yes, sir."

"This could change everything," Holiday clarified. "If what that boy said was true - Alkaline, I think - he could decimate Cycla or Inras in a second. Cavia City and Cycla wouldn't even be issues anymore. Doesn't that sound nice, Pellan? No more needed to waste all your magic on that shield."

He inhaled slowly, his throat aching. "That would be nice, sir."

The coin flipped into the air, a perfect arc, falling back into Holiday's hand. He flicked it again. "Yes, it would. And it would be nice to get on his good side. Keeps the rest of those assholes off our tail for once if we can throw the weight of a Gladar around. I keep watching the video, over and over. He's not lying. He's some sort of god that we didn't even know existed." Holiday snorted. "Maybe those imbeciles in Norive were onto something."

"Maybe, sir."

"But it isn't important. We aren't just going to pray to him." Holiday stood. "Alkaline said he's visiting every city in the Universe to meet with their patron lesser god and learn about the culture, so he can... end the war. Hey, not my circus, not my bitches. But that means he'll be visiting here."

The coin flipped again. Pellan's eyes followed its graceful movements. "I understand, sir." there was bile in his throat.

"He'll be meeting with you. Not us. You. He'll want to talk to you about everything that we've built up, here. You're going to tell him, and you're going to butter him up like he's a roll in a pantry. We need his magic on our side. Cycla can't charisma his way into a sty, but Inras might be able to intimidate him into line. We're not going to do that. You look friendly enough, you can act like the sweet little bun you always wanted to be. But you have to befriend him. Got it?"

"Yes, sir. I'll befriend him."

"Good." Holiday caught the coin in his fist, and finally turned to offer Pellan a rare, subdued smile. "I see you cleaned yourself up. Crystal was out of line that time, but don't keep frustrating her. Read the speeches right the first time and we won't have another incident."

Pellan bowed his head. "Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir. It won't happen again."

"It shouldn't. Alright. You're dismissed. When we get closer to the Gladar's visit I'll give you better instructions on how to deal with him and his personality. But until then, you're off the hook for your other... political obligations."

"Thank you, sir." Pellan stood, keeping his shoulders as steady as he could. 

Crystal wasn't outside when he opened the door. He wasn't sure where she'd gone. She didn't have work at this hour, did she? Maybe Boss put a hit out on someone, to get her out of the building and out in the streets. She always liked it better that way. Still, her chair sat there, a fresh cigarette burn on the worn cushion. Pellan tried not to think about how nasty and ashen the fabric must've become as he hurried down the hall, towards his room.

He settled back into the apartment, pulling out bread and cheese from his fridge. The knife was small in his hands as he quietly cut through the brick, the slices uneven and his hand unsteady. Everything was swimming in his mind. 

Alkaline.

Alkaline.

Maybe. Maybe he could help. Maybe he'd be the ticket Pellan could cash in to get out of here. 

His smile, that smile, that nervous-holding-together-panic-attack-anxiety smile. He'd worn it so many times, giving speeches to his people, reading off what Boss and his crew wanted him to say. That same smile. He saw it on Alkaline's face.

He understood. He'd understand. 

Maybe Pellan could get out of here sooner than never.