Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Hello, Goodnight ❯ Invasive Pests ( Chapter 5 )

[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]

If anyone ever tells you that war is noble and romantic, I'd advise you to punch the asshole square in the face.
War is not romantic. Not even close. War is an ugly, sick and sadistic bastard. I am speaking from experience. The Koneko is currently entrenched in a cold war of daunting proportions, and one of my war crimes is currently pecking a hole in my foot.
Did I mention the fragrance? War doesn't smell so great either.
I swiftly kick Mr. Cluckers out from under the table for about the hundred and fiftieth time today. This earns me a reproachful look from Omi, who has deemed Mr. Cluckers `endangered and protected.'
What the hell possessed me to help Omi liberate this stupid chicken? Oh right, it was to punish Aya for punishing me for fucking up. Let me add the term `revenge' to my growing list of `things that are not pretty.'
Pretty, no; effective, yes. Aya is glaring daggers at us right now, although that might not be specifically because of the chicken. My other war crime is currently sitting at the table, and is impressively more annoying than Mr. Cluckers.
“Those flowers in the shop are loaded with pesticides,” says war crime number two, “do you know the ethical policies of the farms that supply you?”
Aya has developed a nervous tick.
“I only pick flowers I grow myself, it makes them a more spiritually satisfying token.”
War crime number two is actually named Wakame. I think. The details of her real name are a little bit sketchy, because she wants everyone to call her “Harvest,” or “Raindance,” or maybe it was actually “Starling.” Starlings are an invasive pest, I hear, so that's what I'm going to call her.
The real question, when it comes to the matter of “What the hell was I thinking,” is Starling here (or was it `Sparkles?') I've made a lot of bad decisions, I must admit. But deciding to call up one of Yumi's friends just to piss Aya off is definitely in the bottom tier. Sprinkles struck me as a good candidate for someone who'd happily make out with me in front of Aya without any desire for something so conventional as a relationship. It unfortunately didn't occur to me that she was also an excellent candidate to become Omi's new best friend forever.
And. Now. She. Won't. Fucking. Leave.
“I hope this tea came from a responsible fair trade company,” she says, inspecting the mug that Omi has just handed her.
She also won't shut up.
There are of course little priceless moments of gratification to occasionally redeem my bad planning. One of which is watching Aya trudge around with a brightly colored macaroni necklace dangling over his sweater. Anyone who comes within a three-foot radius of Sterling has gotten one dropped over their head as a `friendship token.' Aya has refused to remove the ridiculous thing, because to take it off would be to acknowledge her existence. Denial is Aya's key coping tool.
Well, up to a point. With Starbuck's announcement of “That Echinacea in your arrangement is a waste of perfectly viable herbal medicine,” Aya snaps, and finally abandons his denial in favor of good old fashioned righteous anger. My wrist is promptly violated and I find myself being not-so-gently hauled into the next room.
“She goes.”
Aya's face is deadly.
And hot. Mustn't skimp on the details, you know.
“She goes,” he growls. “She goes, or you go.”
I put my hands up in defeat. It's not like I want to argue with him. “Easier said than done, babe.”
Apparently the twitching is no longer limited just to Starstruck.
“When I said you go,” Aya clarifies, “what I actually meant was you die.”
“Ah, good to know.”
I stare at him blankly. I really don't have any idea how to get rid of her.
“You know, macaroni is a really great look for you.”
He completely ignores my compliment in favor of muttering, “Get rid of her. Just sleep with her or something.”
I have to say, that I consider myself pretty well acquainted with Aya's personality. I'm usually quite good at forecasting what he's going to say next. Well, at least the gist of it, given that half of what I say is usually designed to elicit exactly the sort of (predictably insulting) responses he accommodates. “Just sleep with her or something,” however, was definitely not in my repertoire of anticipated Aya-isms. Well, whaddya know.
“I thought you wanted to get rid of her,” I respond, caught off-guard.
“Exactly,” there's no trace of humor in his voice, I think Aya is actually being serious here, “they never stick around after you do. Just get it over with so she'll get bored and leave.”
I'm not sure whether to be heinously offended, or…take it as a compliment that he's apparently paying attention to me.
Being offended is more fun.
“Sounds like words from the jealous and spurned,” I give him one of my most practiced irritating grins, “but I suppose I can take one for the team.”
His eyes narrow, but he doesn't respond to my baiting.
“But only because you insist,” I add flippantly.
Aya stalks off, and I think he's muttering something about “Taking something somewhere,” but I can't really hear, and I don't really care. Crap, I am screwed. Or, in the more literal sense, will be.
While Miss Dippy-Do-Dah ain't too bad looking, she thoroughly succeeds in erasing all the redeeming qualities of her good looks with her thoroughly grating personality. Our make-out session scored about a 1.2 on the hot-o-meter. Out of 10. She actually stopped in the middle of it to ask about the organic status of my dental products. I don't know about you, but being told “Fluoride is actually a carcinogen, think about that the next time you're at the grocery store,” in the middle of (not so) hot make-Aya-jealous tonsil hockey really kills my mood. And also does significant damage to the `making Aya jealous' half of that equation.
But what are ya gonna do?
The kitchen is easily vacated of Omi with a simple exclamation of, “Is that a TV special on whale poaching?” Poor kid.
It's just me…and Sasquatch now. Well. Me, Sasquatch, and a pile of unfortunately colored macaroni. Time to get to work.
“Sooo….” I slide into the chair next to hers and crank up the wattage of my patented Kudoh-will-get-laid-tonight smile. “What's a cute eco-consciously minded girl like you doing in a dump like this?”
Hm, maybe I should have opened with a question I didn't already know the answer to.
“I'm obviously not here for the stimulating conversation,” she answers dryly, while simultaneously out-maneuvering my attempt to drape an arm around her.
“I've never met anyone with such a…talent…for dispensing…unique…factual information.” I switch to the flattery tactic.
“What happened to Omi?” She whines.
Damn, this really shouldn't be so difficult.
“Okay, Starling—” I decide to cut right to the chase, but before I get the chance she cuts me off.
“Meadowlark,” she says.
“Huh?” I say.
“My name is Meadowlark,” she replies, with what I can only assume is irritation, although I really can't read this chick whatsoever.
“Oh,” I say, “ah—well, Meadowlark,” I emphasize her name (although honestly, what the hell kind of name is that, anyway?) to prove I'm actually listening to her (a challenging task.) “Since you're not finding the conversation terribly engaging, why don't we skip over the niceties and start engaging in something else?” I raise an eyebrow suggesively, just in case she missed the innuendo. “Whaddya say?”
“If you are referring to sexual intercourse,” she states with all the clinical charm of a medical practitioner, “I'm afraid I'll have to decline.”
Oh rats, I'm crushed.
“Let me guess,” I say, “your interconnectivity is limited only to spiritual communing. Or have you simply run out of sustainable latex-free condoms?”
“No, actually,” she smiles serenely, “I just don't feel comfortable contributing to your sexual confusion.”
It takes a moment for her words to fully sink in.
“Eh?”
“I said I don't feel comfortable—”
“I heard you.”
“Then why did you—”
“I'm not confused,” now it's my turn to cut her off.
She gives me a blank stare before retorting, “What, so you're just in denial then?”
Who's in denial about what? My evaluation of her personality as grating is quickly being up-graded to excruciating.
“I think you're seriously misjudging something,” I say defensively.
“No way,” she nods smugly, “auras don't lie.”
What?
I just stare at her, because honestly, I have no words.
“Your aura is quite thoroughly gay,” she continues to rub salt in the wound. “Totally.”
What?
This is…how do you say…not cool.
“You're on crack.”
“No,” she says seriously, “crack severs the mind-soul connection. I would never do that to my bodily temple.”
I'm reduced to gaping again. Is this chick for real?
“I'm not gay,” I sputter.
“It's like gazing into a rhinestone rainbow,” she adds loftily.
“Okay,” I interrupt before she can spout off anything more damaging to my ego, “alright, Meadowbrook. If you're some kind of magical guru, then why don't you tell me what Aya's aura looks like, eh?”
Ha! A no-lose situation! Either I'll expose her for the cosmic fraud she is, or I'll gain some sort of (hopefully useful) insight into Aya's inner workings. Ha. This ought to be good. Ha ha.
“Who, the redhead?” She shrugs, “His is kind of misty grey with lavender splotches.”
I blink. “What the hell does that mean?”
Skylark only gives me another useless shrug. “Not everyone is so obvious,” she smirks.
I think I've had quite enough of this girl, and fortunately there's more than one way to get rid of her.
“Well,” I say coldly, “that's interesting and all, but I think you've overstayed your welcome.”
“Yeah, whatever,” she starts collecting her pile of neglected carbohydrates, “you're out of tofu, anyway.” I can't believe it but she's actually walking towards the door, “Tell Omi to call me.”
I nod, although my head is aggressively confirming oh, hell no.
“Don't use that pick-up line on Misty,” she adds before ducking out, “it's not going to work.”
Misty? What…. I've lost the ability to even attempt to decipher her. Good riddance, anyway.
I'm so baffled by all of that bizarre transaction that I fail to pay attention to where I'm going, and run smack into Ken.
“Hey, what's got you so miffed?” he asks.
I afford a glare at the now thankfully closed door. “I just got shot down by Sergeant Pepper.”
“Who?” Ken follows my eyes back into the now empty kitchen. “Oh, her.”
“Yeah, her,” I mutter, “can you believe,” I probably shouldn't be sharing this, but I just find it so laughable and I'm looking to verify my indignation, “she just said my `aura' was gay.”
Ken fails to provide the gratifying display of shock I'm looking for.
Instead, he looks down and throws a questioning look at my (fabulously expensive) designer leopard print bowling shirt.
“That's hardly the news of the century.”
I think my list of enemies at the Koneko is steadily increasing.