Fralith wriggled further under the blanket and closer to BlueShirt, grimacing as PainBird dug its talons into his shoulder. It was quiet for a moment, save for the constant beep, beep, beep of something in his little sectioned off corner, shuffle of feet, coughing, and a low murmur of voices drifting through the thin green sheet surrounding his bed as he and BlueShirt looked at each other.

BlueShirt's brows drew over his dark, heartwood-colored eyes, tilting up at the end they were closest to each other. The corners of his mouth were pressed together and tilted ever so slightly down, as if something he was chewing over heavy thoughts. He rubbed at his jaw and the slight stubble gathering there, gaze gathering gloom and storm clouds.

He huffed out a breath and stuck out his tongue. "Blvth." Everyone had shadows in their gazes lately, and he— didn't like them. It was too heavy, like the fog, and made the shadows in his belly squirm uncomfortably. "Ray-chel? Zee? RuthMom?" Where were they? Were they okay?

Seeming to pull himself out of his thoughts, BlueShirt focused his eyes on him, dropping his hand to his lap. "What about them?"

He squinted, sticking out his tongue again. Why did talking have to be so hard? This language had too many words! "...They yes beep?"

BlueShirt's expression eased. "Ah. They're doing okay. Rachel's...shaken, but she came out mostly unscathed, thanks to you."

Shadows shivered inside of him, tendrils reaching for his thoughts at the mention. He poked them down with a thought-stick and scrunched his mouth. Stay down. I don't want you. He had to think about the good things. Ray-chel and RuthMom and Zee being okay was good. BlueShirt being here was good. And Tim gave him choc-o-late, which was very good. So...he was good.

It was okay.

The green sheet swished, letting a short man in the same dark blue uniform as BlueShirt inside. His hair—back as ink—was cropped short, framing the roundest face Fralith had ever seen. Everything about the man's face was just— different from all the people he'd seen here. The man's eyes were smaller and shaped with a slant, positioned around a squishy-looking nose overhanging a thin-lipped mouth drawn into a formal, stern line. His jaw was a rounded point, clean of hair, and sloped up to more angular cheekbones.

Where was the man from? This world's Rivierians? But Rivierians didn't look like this! The black eyes and hair were the same, but that's where the similarities ended. The man was certainly not SecondHomish, either, and he couldn't possibly be a RedShirt—he lacked the height, broad shoulders, and blond hair. But if he wasn't from the equivalent of the three kingdoms, where was he from?

"Good afternoon, Officer Waters," the man said, offering his hand to BlueShirt.

BlueShirt stood and took the man's hand, grasping it firmly and giving it a few shakes. "And you too, Officer Zhang." Dropping the man's hand, BlueShirt turned to him. "Zander, this is Officer Zhang. O-ffi-cer Ja-ng. Officer Zhang."

Zhang. Zhang. Zhang. What a funny name. It sounded almost exactly like the twang of a bowstring! Zhang. Zhang. Zhang. The o-ffi-cer part wasn't like the sound of a bow pulling back, though. Zhang was more fun to say. "Zhang. Zhang. Zhang."

BlueShirt's and Zhang's eyebrows lifted. BlueShirt cleared his throat and stepped back to his bedside. "Officer Zhang will be overseeing our conversation, okay? You don't need to worry about him."

Officer Zhang nodded, pulling out the only chair and settling himself on it. From a bag slung over his shoulder, he pulled out a small black box. "May I record this?"

"Yes." BlueShirt's reply came easily and confidently, but his BodyTalk shifted ever so slightly to guardedness.

Wiggling his toes, he huffed and scratched at his chest. What was going on? Why was BlueShirt on guard now? What did the black box mean? Everyone seemed so serious now. Scrunching his face up, he huffed.

Laying a hand on his knee, BlueShirt looked him full in the face, expression serious yet gentle. "I'm going to ask you some questions," he said. "Is that alright?"

Shoving the fog in his head away from his thoughts, he threw words and meanings at BlueShirt's sentences until he found a match. Questions. He could...try to answer some of them. With a glance at Zhang, he nodded.

BlueShirt smiled slightly. "Good. What happened on the night Rachel was kidnapped—taken?"

Ray-chel. Taken. The shadows in his belly welled up inside of him, bringing a quilt of fragmented sensations. Clenching his jaw, he jerked his head to the side. No! He didn't want to think about this! It— wasn't good. It was— scary.

Fingers squeezed his knee, bringing his gaze back to BlueShirt's. He bared his teeth, shaking his head. I did bad things to save Ray-chel. I don't like it.

"You're not in trouble. Anything you say will not put you into trouble. It's okay. We just want to know what happened."

BlueShirt wanted to know what happened. Did he— want to tell BlueShirt? Was it worth remembering? He looked at BlueShirt's eyes and BodyTalk. It was all earnest and caring, nothing bad. Licking his lips, he looked down at the blanket and the bare skin of his chest. Yes. Yes, it was. He wanted to tell BlueShirt because— because he was good. He cared for Ray-chel and him. He deserved to know.

Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and let the shadows rise. "Bad men come. Ray-chel...beep. Ray-chel bad men leave. I leave." Panic whisking through his limbs. Wide, desperate fear shining from Ray-chel's eyes. The gruff shuffle of the men's feet as they head for the door. What to do? "Bad men—" He felt around for the right words, fingers flicking and forming SecondHomish meanings as he couldn't translate. "—grrrvmmm."

Making a fist, he growled like the MetalEater, raising his voice to imitate its roar as it had started to move. He patted his chest and hopped two fingers from an imaginary ground to the top of his fist.

Once on, he pushed his fist through the air. Frigid wind ripping at his skin. Clutching tightly to the MetalEater's ridges. Would they notice? Would he slip? Could the MetalEater eat him from up here? "Leave."

He opened his eyes, staring at his hands. How could— how could he explain what happened next? All the words he knew just...wouldn't work. At least, not very well. If only he had his journal. Drawing would be easier.

"You...got on the van?"

Fralith blinked. "Beep?" Van?

BlueShirt frowned, hesitating for a moment before pulling out his Rectangle and tapping on it. "Van," he said, showing him the surface.

He leaned away, flashing his teeth. No Rectangles! They were too weird!

Retracting the Rectangle, BlueShirt regarded him for a moment. Nodding to himself, he cast his gaze towards Zhang, a silent que in his actions.

Zhang reached into his bag and pulled out a board with paper tacked on top along with two pencils. He handed them to BlueShirt, who settled the board on his knee and began to draw. "Van," he said again, showing him the drawing.

It was rough and not very detailed, but he could tell it was a MetalEater that shared similarities to the black MetalEater he'd ridden. Van. Vvvvvvan. Van. Was that the name for MetalEaters? It was— a boring name, not at all scary or dangerous sounding. MetalEater fit it better. "Bleh."

"You got on top of the van?" BlueShirt drew a circle with a line that ended in a branch protruding from the lower part on top of the MetalEater and tapped it. "You?"

That...that did not look like him at all! It didn't— it didn't even remotely look like a person! Snorting, he grabbed a pencils and quickly sketched out a boy on top of the MetalEater, clutching the ridge tightly. The hands were horrible and the face was definitely not his, but it was better than the circle stick. "Me." He tapped his drawing. "On...van."

BlueShirt nodded slowly, gaze fixed on the paper. "I...see. What did you do when you got to the warehouse? What happened next?"

What. A question word. But what did the questions mean? Something about him and... There were too many words he didn't understand mashed together. Maybe if he drew the next part of the story, it'd help. He was running out of words to use, anyway.

Clutching his pencils, he started to draw the dark, hulking shape of the building the MetalEater had taken him too. He hadn't seen all of it, so he made it a vague box and drew doors on one side. It'd have to do. Next, he copied the drawing of the MetalEater with him on top sitting in front of the door.

The men had been drenched in shadows the whole time, so he drew them as people blobs dragging a Ray-chel blob towards the door. "Bad men." He tapped the people blobs. "Ray-chel." He tapped the Ray-chel blob.

With a few single-line strokes, he drew the sweeping arc of the boy blob jumping off the MetalEater and dashing after the other blobs. "Leave."

Drawing the inside of the building was harder. It had so many shelves and crates and things and he hadn't been paying much attention to them. How could he draw it all? Or make it recognizable to BlueShirt? Frowning, he rubbed his bottom lip between his teeth, squinting at the page.

Maybe if he... Sketching out a quick box, he divided it up with small rectangles. In between one of the rectangles he placed the Ray-chel  blob and a man blob with a boy blob sneaking around the corner of one of the shelves. "Me, Ray-chel, bad man," he explained, tapping each one in turn.

Beside that drawing, he put a Ray-chel  blob sitting in a chair, hands tied. After a pause, he placed a boy blob holding a knife standing over a man blob with a bleeding neck. Scribbling out the man blob's mouth, he closed his fingers in front of his lips, dragging it down. "Shhh!" Tapping the man blob he said, "Bad man no shh."

A cloud passed over BlueShirt's eyes, tightening his lips and revealing a steel behind his gaze. "Go on."

"Beep." The shadows tightened around him, their chill seeping into his bones. He flicked his head to the side so his hair would get out of his eyes, a shiver slithering down his spine. Bad shadows. BlueShirt isn't mad.

Swallowing, he moved onto the next part. Boy blob and Ray-chel  blob running. Men blobs too close on their heels. Boy blob turning to face the men blobs, a pellet whizzing past him. Men blobs on the floor, boy blob fighting desperately. Then finally, boy blob on the floor, unmoving.

A lump swelled in his throat, made from tightly packed darkness. "Ow." He stroked the boy blob, PainBird's vengeful screams echoing back to him. "Very ow."

BlueShirt picked up the board, staring at the paper with his shaded, steeled expression. He didn't move for a long while. Zhang didn't move. Nothing moved.

Beep, beep, beep.

Clearing his throat, BlueShirt set the board down. Without a word, he reached over and gathered him into a tight hug.

———

Zhang is pronounced like 'jang'. The j is more of a jsh and the g is like the last g in 'gong'.