140 EIGHTH BLAST

Tomorrow is Reaping day. He'll have to attend, and that means he'll have less hours to work on his art. That sends him over the edge, and he leaps to his feet, spins and punches Naya in the jaw.

"That's for my sandcastles!" he cries.

But it's more than that. It's much more.

She has the nerve to look indifferent. "I've destroyed many over the years," she drawls. "You'll have to be more specific."

How can she say that? How can she not even recognize his creations, when she's so pitilessly destroyed them, over and over again. Which is not to say that he hasn't retaliated—there have been glorious occasions where he ruined her surfboard and got her in trouble with the Peacekeepers. But he can't help but feet a fierce hatred possess him every time she treats his talent like a mere child's hobby. He is good-natured most of the time, a kind person, an upstanding citizen. But Naya Illumina always manages to get under his skin, and he doesn't like it.