Scuttling Strangers [chika / closed]

Chika staggered, like she was thrown off by the satchel standing out brown and off-kilter on her back. But she brushed off an observable wariness likewise mirrored in the surrounding crowd attention; she would stare up into the many jittering limbs and many glossy eyes of a…

“Uhh... I dunno? Maybe?”

Drawing one blank of many today, plus a dab of ambiguity in tone. But as a Bug with only a whopping two peepers, Chika had to rely on her peripheral and an active imagination that put her in a spotlight with a stranger. On the west end of campus, there were no hiding places, just the field and the path and, in the far distance, the pond. Her classmates – scratch any faculty or other strangers – were all staring at Chika, a once-in-a-blue-moon opportunity where they were forced to acknowledge the Paras was still around. A better memory would recollect why, for her, this was a terrible fate.

So Chika’s insistence to regard this ‘mon bled into the resistant, almost combative nature of her posture; see: the half-raise of her claws. Even the caps of her 'shrooms had flared, risen to rarity to protect her. And she voiced that stubbornness: “How’d you get on campus looking for a library? Seems sus- su-us-!”

Her voice undulated and the little bug finally and abruptly tilted, fell. Succumbed to a school bag much bigger than she was and heavier than her back, it and its contents soaked wet on the cobblestone: a precious balancing act thrown off after a “trip” to the fountain, courtesy of some peers. If anything, proof Chika was always noticed, regardless.

[nospaces]

Chika had a method of getting back up when the world knocked her down, or flipped her over. It was a rock-to-one-side, rock-to-next-side; hit the sweet spot; shift forward and left, let Shroomie do the rest – that type of method. She was up and scuttling again in record time. With outstretched claws, she let the stranger hand her one thing and another. Her Methods textbook weighed down one pincer; she groped the air for that oblong, familiar shape in the stranger’s forward-facing limbs. Maybe they were mouth parts – but Chika found herself presuming an innocence about the stranger like she’d wanted from the start, conscientious enough to know they were helping her.

There was something off about the pen, when she recognized it. Chika dropped everything, then, to scour the pathway, her all-staring expression held close to the crevices – (“So, I don’t really know where anything is yet… just saw a bunch of kids with books around and thought–”). Even then, what she would give to squint, insectoid eyes to claw, the wanted object balanced on top: a bunch of junk. A chunk of wax, a broken pencil, and a long piece of twine. The parts still intact, though precariously so, and Chika’s next stint of full attention was caught by the process of restoring its purpose.

At some point, there was an attempt at eye contact. There were the big ones, forward-facing, glittering, compounded, and rhinestones in-between that matched them, glistening, before suddenly blinking. And Chika fell away unnerved, remembering certain Pokemon didn’t need false-eyes or diversion tactics, just bright colors and sheer stature that distinguished power. The nymph only cast down vacantly at her agenda, still not ready to confront how utterly ruined her campus map was. Just the implied smell of ink was a source of anxiety. This whole situation was a source of anxiety. This was embarrassing – she had to act like it wasn’t, though.

“You’re a student?”

“Huh?” Reminded that this was a conversation: “No, I’m a librarian. At the library. That you’re looking for…” Chika mumbled, twiddling away at her cracked contraption with her single-pronged pincer, and continuing to mumble at the expense of her sarcasm.

Eventually, she stated, “Yeah, we got a library… somewhere… bunch’a young Pokes in there. I can’t escort you ‘cause, obviously,” she didn’t even feel she had to gesture at this mess. “And there’s a bunch of libraries around here anyway… Bunch’a bull, useless ones… A bunch...” This all without eye contact.

[nospaces]

A small but satisfying clink signaled her completion; on cue, Chika lurched up and ogled at the stranger. "Water-type?"

There was a distant toll, upon recitation summoning the swiveled ears and turned heads of loosely-strewn students. Like the change of a tide, the numbers would swell, both from the forking road ahead and the straight path behind them. It was a subtle change, though Chika chittered an explanation under her breath: "Lunch bell." Horrified, she witnessed an Eevee pass precariously close, cast a look over the Paras and her soaked possessions like they'd stepped in one of the puddles - and it was of excrement - then skipped the rest of the distance.

"In the way" was exactly what Chika was looking to avoid going forward.

As for the fruits of Chika's labor: the final device maintained those three bits of miscellany - wax, wood, etcetera - between a brass pin. The pin was torn from an envelope, the "official-business" kind, though Chika would assert on accusation the official business was none of her own. The ring remained balanced on the end of the Paras' claw; she held it against her head much like the stranger did her property. Both Bugs thought as one: in Chika's case, at whatever level of crazy she'd staggered into.

"...where're you from?" she ventured, interjecting the foreigner's sales pitch for a bit. They continued on and, in response, she gave a resistant shudder, the click of carapace and yawning (bored) nod of mushroom. "Nnnh, I dunno... I'm tryna' save up, right now..."

It was a non-convictional response that died a bit, barely a rejection. Chika scattered her attention across her remaining things, working the soaked agenda awkwardly into her backpack, suddenly shy, ever more conscious of the Pokemon traipsing around her.

[nospaces]

Combined, their pace increased, and the stranger didn't take offense. Perfect social interaction: Chika could have shaken her own claw. She sighed inwardly with relief. And then they kept talking.

Paralyzed with anxiety as the stranger kept her books hostage; frozen in abhorrence as they interpreted her question as an icebreaker - and kept talking. Chika felt burned a bit as they referred to some past question she was apparently expected to answer, one lost in the sea, and then baited for a compliment. No, you're not rude, she recited mockingly.

The shop-keep snatched her writing aid and, at this point, Chika wouldn't have an exoskeleton if she didn't speak up. "Nnh, watch it! I just fixed that-!"

And then was washed out to sea again. "'JAUWNG?' Princess? Provinces? Whatever..." Her first notion - that they were a princess - left her indubitably disappointed.

Finally, they relinquished her items; she considered a thank-you, but cut in, "Lemme do the rest," miserably stuffing the books into place. "'Rude' again..." Chika muttered to herself. Her bag hung limp and dripping and impossibly dense from one claw. She settled to drag it and started to scuttle. Years spent with etiquette pounding her like a mallet, she answered the stranger's question in a monotone: "Battle methods. Writing. Herbology. I start Gov in the fall."

Chika may have spoken behind her, she may have even finessed a farewell, but she continued to rely on body language to carry her through and the weight of her belongings continued to stall her.