June 11th, 2004

Mask

The Escadrille

We had just finished disabling a limpet from the hull of a royal carrier and were headed back to the flotilla when Neve and Delphi began their magnetic journey to each others lips. From the time we hit ground they were at each others sides, hand in hand, heads together, trippingly walking and kissing, and then, under the Helpern tunnel, coming to a full stop to get fully locked together, forgetting my existence entirely.





A thousand admonishments scrolled through my mind, each more abusive than the last. I was righteous, watching them slithering their tongues together, noses pressed to windblown cheeks. I felt as if I was the only one present who cared about the Escadrille. My priestly celibacy was a sign of my dedication to the team, rather than my dejection. Neve giggled as Delphi’s hands moved lower on her waist, over the curvature of her hips.

My phone buzzed against my leg. It was the Hungarian, asking the usual. Where were we? When would we be back? If he said anything else, it was lost on me, drowned by my annoyance at the smacking of my colleagues lips.

“Soon.” I said, and closed the phone. Looking down on the couple, wrapped in each others arms, I felt like a babysitter watching children make a mess that would later be mine to clean. Neve managed to tear herself away from Delphi’s lips for a moment to look back at me.





“Akron, who was that?”

“The Hungarian.”

“What did he want?”

“The usual.” She smiled; not at me, mind you, she smiled at herself, and even though she was not looking at him, I knew she was smiling at Delphi too.

I don’t know what she sees in him. The cape is adolescent, and I really don’t give a fuck if he can lift a car or fly a four minute mile because he needs to be constantly monitored.

In short, he's a Moron.

Neve turned back to Delphi and recommenced the spit exchange.

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