Chapter Text
Humidity clings to your skin, like little dew drops perched atop luscious green leaves. Golden light streams through the canopy, weak, but as the day matures, those beams will grow in strength. The sun has broken through the clouds mere hours ago, the forest humming pleasantly as inhabitants ready themselves for another lively day.
You sit at your dresser, a small mirror resting atop a silver handle across from you. Your reflection greets you. Sleepy eyes and a puffy face from a good night’s sleep. Oh, and those… Blotches across your skin, those which bloom from your flesh. Rain that has kissed you on its descent, hot oil sparking and flying from the pan, these small imperfections are littered across your unfortunate face. Never once have you been free of them. Never once have you been beautiful.
There was a time when your ancestors, some archaic thing between a great gerbil and a mangled primate, would journey across the biomes to reach that sandy goldfield. Amongst its spiky wildlife and scorching sun, they would recover a miracle cure for the ailment which you suffer from, freckles. It was called… retinol. The forbidden word, you dare not mention it around your family.
It wasn’t until a couple of years after your birth that they saw what was to become of you. The horrid gasps and hushed whispers from your parents and elder siblings told you everything you needed to know. But your curiosity drove you to ask the dreaded question aloud, “Is there something wrong with me?”
“Yes, Dear. There is. And I’m sorry that there’s nothing we can do about it,” your father had told a little ol’ you while your mother threw herself into your short arms in hysterics.
“My baby! My poor little baby! Damned as you are, you will always be my baby!” Those were her words, etched into your mind, inked on your skin like those bursting droplets of melanin scattered across your nose and cheeks. Branded by nature, a slave to that which you cannot control or comprehend.
You only heard of this wonderful thing—retinol—from some of the gossiping aunts when you walked past them in town many years ago. You might be some ugly thing, but you aren’t dull. Upon hearing their hushed whispers, your course changed immediately, and you went to see the village matriarch.
She explained the long history behind your ancestors' quest for this coveted substance, detailing how they even attempted to bring it back to your homeland and synthesise more of it. But alas, it wasn’t meant to be. The last group of envoys never returned; it’s assumed some misfortune gobbled them up on the journey. As months of their absence stretched into years, it was decided that some were fated to be horrid while others would shine amongst the shadows, hidden from earth’s precious sustaining light to protect their good fortune. You might be impure, but at least you can bask in the day’s radiance without a care.
While your ancestors were banned from searching for this life-saving substance, they surely didn’t wallow in their sorrows for long. From such a cruel decree came a flourishing cosmetics industry, which has provided many trade benefits for your small village.
On your vanity sits an array of creams and powders that you apply to your face in turn, first colouring your freckles before covering the expanse of your skin. The result? A smooth and flawless complexion, just as it was supposed to be.
You return the life to your cheeks with powder, the pigment of warm afternoons, and pale strawberries, before using darker shades to bring out your eyes. To finish things off, you paint your lips with a barely-there crimson.
For a moment, you admire yourself in the looking-glass, your eyes trailing over your features and assessing for imperfections. And while you identify quite a few, the wheel in your mind spinning and churning out thoughts like, “If only my jaw was slimmer,” and “You can see my wrinkles,” there’s not a hint of the blemished canvas that lies beneath. Now, you’re ready to face the world.
...
The markets buzz with the kind of energy that only comes during the New Year sales. As far as the eye can see, flashy posters with text such as ‘70% OFF!’ are plastered across tents and shop fronts.
After running the last of your family’s errands, you retreat to a nearby teahouse. It’s one of the quieter ones on the strip, but it’s the best if you had to give a recommendation. Usually at this time of day, when the flaming sun has been wooed by the horizon, and on this day of the week, your friend comes to join you for tea.
You order apple flower, not your favourite, but your friend can’t get enough of the stuff. The server—a teenage boy you’ve seen grow throughout the years as his parents forced him to work at their establishment from a young age—gives you a knowing look as he sets the empty cups and teapot. Steam curls out of the spout, long wispy tendrils whirling and snaking towards the sky. Sometimes, you wish you could follow it and leave this earthly existence behind for a moment. How nice it must be not to be tethered nor weighed down by that which you can’t control; to be free.
The volume from inside stirs, your heart rate picking up. But then it settles into this jittery rhythm as that familiar, charismatic voice cuts through it all.
“Sorry, Mrs B… I know, I know, no food from other vendors, I got it. But tell you what, how about I make you something extra next time? On the house. You like stir fry, right? Cicadas?… Locusts. Got it. Locust stir-fry, uh-huh. With pumpkin seeds. Should I bring something for hubby too, or?” The ground tremors as Caleb stumbles into the outdoor dining area. In his hands are two bowls, their delicious scent carried to you on the gentle breeze. Mhmm, veggie noodle soup.
His alert eyes find yours on instinct, and with a big grin, he comes sauntering over to you while the matron rattles off her husband’s preferred noodles and dietary requirements.
“Hey,” Caleb greets you, setting the bowls down next to your tea. How he managed not to spill anything is a miracle. Sliding into the seat opposite you, he directs his next words to the shopkeeper, “Alright. Locust stir-fry with pumpkin seeds for you, radish and carrot soup for your husband, and something fruity for your son. Don’t worry, Mrs B, I’ll be back tomorrow with your dishes, ‘kay?”
“You get ten minutes, Scorpion,” she grits out, stopping next to your table.
“Oh, come on. We come here every week. Can’t you be a little more generous? I’m even giving you free food. I bet the other patrons don’t do that,” Caleb counters.
“Ten minutes!” She exclaims before scurrying back inside. As the stares of other guests fade, you pour the tea.
“Thanks.” Caleb takes his freshly filled cup and brings it to his lips. Taking a sip, he remarks, “Ooo, apple flower. You know what I like.” A smile stretches across your face.
“And you know what I like.” Sliding your bowl toward you, you go on, “Veggie noodles. You shouldn’t have.”
“Well, you would have bit my ear off if I didn’t,” he quips while picking up his chopsticks and preparing to dig into his own meal. From where you’re sitting, you can see the leg of a tarantula. How yummy.
“You know, after all this time, you’ve never failed to make an entrance,” you sass back, earning a hearty chuckle from him.
“Well… The shopkeeper still hasn’t warmed up to me yet, even though I’ve been bringing her and her family free meals weekly for, like, the past year. Talk about discrimination.” He slurps at his soup. A sweet laugh falls from your lips.
Fragrant broth fills your spoon, slipping over the edges as you raise it from the scalding surface of deliciousness. “You’re a big guy, Caleb. Really freaks out some of the folks around here. But they’ll warm up to eventually, trust me,” you offer in consolation. “I mean, you’re probably the best cook this place has had since forever. Do you remember the headlines?” Setting your spoon down, you bring your hands together, then spread them out like a visionary while putting on your best news reporter voice, “’Disdainful Scorpion Brings in Waves of Customers with Sensational Stir-Fries.’ ‘Get Bang for Your Buck at Arty’s: Home of the Master Scorpion Chef.’”
He shakes his head lightly at your theatrics, his thin horns bobbing. However, his grin remains as bright as ever. “You know, they really aren’t paying me enough for all the customers I’ve brought in.”
“You should demand a pay rise.” You grin all giddy while taking up your spoon once again and slurping at the salty soup. Bliss spreads across your tongue. Caleb’s cooking really is that good, huh? In your own personal food Heaven, you fail to notice the awkward notes to your friend’s laugh.
After a beat, he says sheepishly, “Um, actually, I won’t need to as I’ll be going home next week.” You choke your noodles, your coughing fit drawing the attention you both have fought so hard to fend off. Caleb leans over the table, concern marring his handsome face.
“Are you okay, Pipsqueak? Here.” He hands you a handkerchief, which you snatch from him and use to cover your mouth. Your eyes water, tangy salt burning at the back of your throat and the space upwards, towards your nostrils. Once you’ve calmed down and wiped your mouth and eyes, you set the handkerchief down.
“I’ll get you a new one,” you mumble, an involuntary cough clipping your sentence. Caleb pushes your tea cup into your hand.
You take a swig as he utters, “Don’t worry about it.” He’s already refilling your cup before you can ask him to.
“You’re going home? Like, back to the desert?” You ask, your voice a little less croaky, but just as small.
“Yeah.” He sets the teapot down, his movements tense and tight. “I leave in a couple of days.”
“A couple of days?! But why?” You empty your cup again before placing it down.
Caleb avoids your gaze, his dark, hardened fingers wrapping around his chopsticks, claws scraping against the bamboo. “It’s, uh, family stuff, Pips. They miss me, I miss them, I have responsibilities to fulfil. You understand, don’t you?” Only now do his eyes trail up to meet yours, soft and oozing with longing. “I’ve already been here for just over a year,” he continues. “It’s time I head back and step into the role my family has set for me.”
“And what’s that?” You shoot back, leaning forward unconsciously in your anxiety to know more about the man across from you, the man you’ve come to associate with a sense of belonging.
Caleb is an attractive guy, for sure. A bit of a hunk, if you will. But in your small village, it’s rare for anyone other than a gerbil to settle down here, even if it’s only for a short-term stay. Tourists come from far and wide to browse your town’s signature cosmetics, but they’re gone overnight. For an outsider to choose to stay here, and to do everything in their power to integrate into your way of life… there’s a reason why so many still fear his fangs and eye his thick tail with caution.
You were one of the first (if not the first) people to extend a hand to the newcomer. Instantly, you became good friends. You’re inquisitive, and he has many stories to tell. You appreciate good food, and he’s an incredible cook. And even though you’re some repulsive thing beneath your ten layers of makeup instead of on the surface when you step out into society, Caleb understands how it feels to be an outcast. He understands what it’s like to hear those nasty whispers and draw looks wherever he goes, always laser-focused on his perceived imperfections. Because, despite your makeup, word gets around. Hardly a person here doesn’t know your filthy secret. And while they refrain from insulting you to your blemished face (most of the time), they certainly have no problem shit-talking you behind your back.
Only one person in this entire town understands how you feel, and it’s him. And if there are other gerbils amongst the townsfolk with similar discolourations to you, then let them be known. How you’d love to band together and express your frustrations! rather than bottling them up until you feel like you’re going to explode.
For a man you rely on to get through your week, you know shockingly little about his family. He’s spoken of wild adventures with his brothers, most often, Zayne, who has been described as “cold and kinda a dick, but once he warms up to you, you’ll be fine.” But Caleb’s only spoken of his familial duties in passing. If you’re remembering correctly, he said his parents owned a ceramics shop?
“Oh, well, uh, you remember how I said my family is in the military? Yeah. It’s time that I become a soldier and defend our great kingdom,” Caleb rattles off, already stuffing another slow-cooked tarantula into his mouth, short fangs sinking into the hairy abdomen.
“I thought your family sold pottery? Like crockery and stuff?” Your brow creases as you try to picture the day he told you that. It was in the beginning. Sunny. You were showing him around town.
“Did I say that? What I meant was that my aunt actually owns a pottery shop, but my immediate family is part of the military,” he explains. Ohhhh, makes sense. You decide to give it up. Sometimes your memory plays tricks on you, anyway.
You’ve barely touched your soup, but it’s cooling quickly. Twisting a cocoon of noodles around your chopsticks, you shove them into your gob and let the exquisite flavour wash away any lingering doubts in your mind.
After swallowing, you ask, “What do you do in the military?” The forest tribes don’t have soldiers of any kind, seeing as you made peace through trade long ago. But the desert is another story, one you hope Caleb will enlighten you on.
“Let’s see, lots of push-ups, training drills, and standing around and waiting for something to happen.” Vague and light-hearted. Must he make you dig for answers?
“But, like, why do you have a military, Cay? What’s it for?” You prompt before stuffing your cheeks full, real sexy style. He barely suppresses his laugh at your rounded face.
“Ahem. Well, even though our kingdom rules over the desert territory, there is a confederation that opposes us. It’s comprised of these smaller, less biologically advanced tribes—”
“That’s not a very nice thing to say, Caleb. What? You think you’re so superior?” You cut in, using his dirtied handkerchief to clean the grease from your lips. His words struck a nerve within you. But given your situation in life, it’s no wonder they did.
“No,” he starts. “It's not like that, Pips. What I mean is… Look, if you saw some of the creatures we’re up against, you’d be having nightmares about them for the next few years. They’re—not all of them, of course, some are more palatable than others—but the ones that got caught in the evolutionary crossfire don’t have the same aesthetic appeal or consciousness that we do. That’s all I meant.”
You pout, your forehead creased as you stare at your companion blankly. “I don’t get it.”
He sighs, “There are different classes of scorpions, okay? You have scorpions who look like me, right? Human with arachnid remnants. Then you have these half-n-half kinda guys, so like, the upper part is human, but the lower part is arachnid. Really smart, by the way. I really respect how intellectual the halfies are.
“And then you have what we call the ‘scraps’. They’re like these scorpions, about my size but close to the ground, right? with limited human parts. Usually, they’ll have a human head with chelicerae protruding from the mouth. Sometimes they also have additional human limbs, like arms or legs, that are attached to the abdomen at sickening angles.
“It’s, uh, yeah. Don’t think about it too much, ‘kay? The main point is that most of the halfies and scraps form the confederation that we’re at war with. Things have been quiet for a while, but now they’re picking back up, so I need to return home to aid our war efforts.”
“So like a civil war?” You deduce. “With lifeforms you deem as uglier than you with varying degrees of intelligence?”
“Well. That’s one way to put it.” He shrugs and pushes his bowl away from him. It’s empty. You finish your meal in silence, the shopkeeper watching and waiting for you to take your scorpion and leave. Nonetheless, you tip the young server before exiting the teahouse.
Caleb walks with you through the busy streets, bodies parting as he stalks behind you, townspeople desperate to separate themselves from this towering, venomous being. Even though he's actually a softie, his sharp, glinting stinger gives off a very different impression.
The air is hot and moist, the sun’s rays blasting down upon you as fluffy clouds churn far above. The silence eats away at you, maggots in your mind. A nagging voice. Something outrageous. The audacity to take a chance.
“Can I come with you?” Your voice is meek and quiet, slipping into the background, overrun by the shrill laughter of children and the boasting of merchants. But Caleb hears you just fine.
“What?” He deadpans, stopping in his tracks. Sensing that he’s no longer following behind you, you pivot to face him. He blinks at you, waiting patiently for an explanation.
You take a deep breath. “I wanna come with you to your hometown. I know that you’ll be busy, and that maybe it’s not the safest right now, but I don’t wanna stay here without you.” His lips part, but no words slip past them. You gaze at him hopefully, but his lack of a reaction lasts for at least a minute. You suppose that’s a ‘no’ then.
Stepping closer, you grab him by the forearm and tug him along, muttering, “You’re in the walkway. If you’re gonna stand there, sputtering, at least do it off to the side, okay?”
Gradually, he regains his composure. “I’m not sputtering, I just… You want to come with me?”
“Of course!” You say like it was obvious. It should have been.
“Pips.” He stops again. You try to drag him along, but he won’t budge. Fellow gerbils and the odd traveller bustle in front of you both now that you’re standing next to a quiet stall. The tent’s stature offers shade from the intense sunlight. Seconds crystallise as you turn to gaze upon him once more. There’s a sadness in his eyes. It’s definitely a ‘no’.
“I’m flattered. Truly, I am. But I can’t let you come with me. You said it yourself, it’s not safe there. I can’t put you in danger like that.” There’s an edge to his tone that commands your obedience, but you do your best to fight against it.
“You know what it’s like here. You think I wanna stay? And it’s not just about you. There’s something I wanna do there—”
“You have some personal goal to fulfil in the desert? You? A gerbil? That’s not your territory, Pips—”
“This isn’t your territory either, but look at how you’ve barged in here,” you retort, letting your anger consume you. You don’t want to do this. You don’t want to fight. But there’s a bitterness that comes with his blatant rejection. It’s not just about him (though it is mostly about him); this trip could be your ticket to a normal life! The whisperings of retinol are in the rustling of the leaves.
“Don’t tell me what I can or can’t do, Caleb. I’ll go where I want, whether you like it or not,” you huff.
His jaw clenches. In a deeper, firmer voice, he says, “I’m trying to look out for you, Squirt. I’d love it if you came with me, but it’s too dangerous. Even if your life here is unpleasant at times, it’s far better than starting anew in the royal kingdom ruled by scorpions. You think I’m an outcast here? If you came to my hometown, it would be a hundred times worse for you, if not more.”
“Who said I’d be going forever? It’s just a little trip.”
“Even if it is ‘just a little trip’, there are too many risks. You’re not going, Pips, and that’s final.” The stern look he casts you tells you that this topic is no longer up for debate, but that doesn’t mean you’ll comply with his wishes. Besides being daringly curious, you are irrationally stubborn at times.
As you and Caleb resume the short walk back to your parents' house, your thoughts whir past in a daze. But certain words stand out to you, like “retinol” and “new experiences.” That’s what this is really about, not chasing after the only person who makes you feel normal or makes your heart flutter or cheeks burn from smiling too much. But chasing after the herald of your happiness and gaining wisdom through empirical means.
Even if your dearest friend doesn’t approve, you must do what is necessary to satisfy that itch in your very soul.