Jealousy and grooming

Enri slid open the door to Gerald's room, startling Ilrica as she stood out in the hallway.

"Good morning," he sniffed. "Of what assistance may I be?"

"Oh... hello," she stammered, hiding something behind her back. "I'm sorry, I forgot to... never mind."

"Is that Ilrica?" Gerald called out from where he sat at his breakfast table with Cadbury. "Good morning," he waved.

"Um, hi," she said sheepishly, waving back with one hand.

"Forgive my impertinence, ma'am, but I was under the impression that female students do not normally dally in the men's dorm hallway."

Ilrica feigned surprise. "Oh, really? Oh, darn, I guess I should be going then."

Before Gerald could inquire further, she ran off, her face bright red.

"That was weird," Gerald said, choking down a bite of turnip. "By any chance was there another dead animal out there this morning?"

"No sir, not this time."

"I wonder why..."

Enri placed a metal cylinder against Gerald's neck and a small needle pierced his skin with a hiss.

"OUCH! Stop that!"

* * *

"Just make sure you are engaged by the end of the quadmester," his mother snapped as the window closed before him.

Cleylselle sighed and leaned back against the bench of living wood situated high up in the tree. "You make it sound so easy."

A shadow fell over him. He looked up and saw Trahzi standing over him ominously.

"What do you want?" He asked, looking her over distastefully.

Trahzi stepped closer, making them recoil. "We need to borrow your hands."

Cleylselle trembled in fear. "My what?"

* * *

"Nine hundred hours, examsmanship."

Doctor Ssandr jammed the shock stick into the base of Gerald's spine, causing him to wince with pain. "Wrong!" she corrected sweetly. "The V'Zirinar revolution was won by the V'zestak in 43-202 C.E. Remember the little mnemonic song we made for you?" She lifted her fingers and swayed them like a metronome. "...V'Zirinar lost her way, what the hey, elites and nobles in the stew..."

She bade him finish.

"V'zestak conquered, forty-three, two and two," Gerald groaned.

Doctor Ssandr clapped her hands. "Now, you've got it!"

She touched him with the shock stick, making a spark on his shoulder.

"Ow! What was that one for?"

"That one was a reward."

* * *

"What are you doing?" Aryc struggled to free his armored hand from her grip, but she was too strong.

"This will only take a second," Trahzi said as she pulled him closer. "I need your hand."

Aryc gulped in fear.

* * *

"Ten hundred hours, dance instruction."

"Ouch, frakk!" Mistress Qeeshol placed her hands on her hips in frustration. "Master Dyson, if you step on my toes again I will smack you!"

"Sorry."

* * *

Tiboe could run no further. He was exhausted. He looked up at Trahzi with fearful eyes, her shadow falling over his furry face.

* * *

"Eleven hundred hours, music instruction."

Gerald checked his fingering and the Zadra gave off a flat tone. Gerald looked up, proud of his progress.

"It's not enough to simply play the note," Mr. Nurmeen explained. "Kenth metal responds to your emotional state. It changes shape, hardness, and resonance. You have to feel the notes as you play them."

Gerald closed his eyes and tried again. He thought of a time in his life when he was sad. He remembered the day his mother kicked his father out of the house. The note came out somber, full of loneliness and depth. It was beautiful in a sad kind of way.

"Much better," the music instructor praised. "Now, this next staff requires passionate romantic feelings in order to be played properly."

He set down a device on the table which displayed a beautiful picture of Cha'Rolette, surrounded by roses, dressed in her finest gown. "I have been instructed to have you look at this while you play it."

"Oh, come on!"

* * *

Tomar's orange eyes were alight as he opened the box, revealing a beautifully made meal within. Steamed ozar, sautéed wooreuer, and roasted abragyan.

"You made me lunch!" he said happily.

"I did," Trajey smiled, grabbing his arm.

Tomar's ears flapped happily. "This is wonderful. I've never had a girl make me a lunch before."

Trajey placed her hands on her hips, turned up her nose, and did her best impersonation of Cha'Rolette. "Well, then get on your knees and lick my toes to show your thanks. I am a Duchess, after all."

They both burst out laughing.

As Tomar ate, Trajey looked on dreamily. A few nearby students ran away as Trahzi walked up to them.

"Hi Trahzi," Trajey greeted. Tomar ignored her until Trajey elbowed him in the ribs.

"Ugh. Morning Trahzi," he said reluctantly.

"Trajey, may we borrow your boyfriend's hand for a moment?"

They both nearly panicked. "His hand?"

"Yes, we need it for an experiment."

"Oh, I thought you were asking to cut it off or something."

Trahzi folded her arms. "Why does everyone keep making that assumption? We have never dismembered our food. Not once. It ruins the texture."

Tomar coughed on his bite of ozar, nearly choking himself.

"What is the experiment?" Trajey asked.

Trahzi held out her elbow. "We want him to touch us here."

They looked at her oddly. "Why? Is that like... an erogenous zone for your people?"

"No, that is the point. It has no special meaning. But yesterday when we were touched there, this body experienced a profound physical reaction, and we do not understand why."

Tomar and Trajey looked at each other doubtfully. Finally, she shrugged, and Tomar reluctantly reached out and touched Trahzi's elbow.

Trahzi stepped back, displeased.

"Anything?"

"No, nothing. When Dyson touched us, our chest felt tight, and our heart began pounding. Since then we have had seventeen other men touch us there, but we have been unable to replicate the result."

"It sounds like you like him," Trajey suggested.

"Like?"

"Yeah, like when you are close to him, do you feel like a little flutter in your tummy, like butterflies? Does your heart feel tingly?"

Trahzi raised an eyebrow. "Why? Do you feel that way around Tomar?"

The boldness of the question surprised her. Trajey dropped her head and tapped her fingertips together. It looked like she was going to deny it, but then nodded her head bashfully. "Yes, I do."

"Oh my bosh, you are the cutest girlfriend ever!" Tomar praised, hugging her from the side. "When you are all shy like that I just can't stand it."

Trajey kissed him on the forehead. "I'll reward you properly for that later." She turned to Trahzi. "Did you feel that way when Gerald touched you?"

Trahzi folded her arms and thought. "The sensation was similar to what you describe, but there must be some other explanation. For example..."

She trailed off, looking a little angry.

"What is it?"

She seemed reluctant to explain. "Yesterday when another girl was trying to spend time with Gerald, it... irritated us greatly."

"How greatly?" Tomar inquired.

"We banished her to the shadow realm."

Tomar and Trajey looked at each other knowingly.

"What?" Trahzi asked.

"She's got it bad," Tomar said.

"What? What do we have?"

Trajey tried to think of the most delicate way to put it, but couldn't really think of anything, so she just said it. "Trahzi, you're jealous."

"Jealous?"

"Yes, your heart has claimed Dyson, and you don't want anyone else to have him."

Trahzi stepped back. "No, that is not possible. We do not possess the capacity for that emotion."

"Clearly you do."

She touched her face in concern. Her cheeks were flush. "There must be some other explanation.

Perhaps this is a lingering effect of the Vlukkia attack."

Trajey smiled. "There's nothing to be embarrassed about, Trahzi. You like him, you want to have him all to yourself. It's perfectly natural. I felt the same way every time I saw Tomar go up and try to court the Duchess."

"Yeah, sorry about that," Tomar said, tugging on his ear.

"No..." Trahzi said, jerking her body to one side. "This is not possible. We were supposed to learn about love, to understand it, not experience it." She clenched her fist and it ignited. "This is impossible."

Trajey took Tomar by the hand. "You can't control who you fall in love with..."

Trahzi punched the tree they were under. It tore up from the roots and fell over, bursting into flame. "Do not say that. We do not like him!"

* * *

"Twelve hundred hours, personal grooming and appearance."

Gwof Wonthreen was beaming with pride as he unfolded his workstation. "You're going to love this Master Dyson. I pulled an all-nighter on this one."

Gerald was concerned. "What did you do?"

"I redesigned your Soeckian Cassock, gave it a punch up."

"Oh no."

"Oh yes. May I present the new Monk Spring Selection!"

Holographic models appeared, showing off the redesigned clothes in a variety of cheesecake poses.

"This year the floor-length look is out. What's in? Showing off those muscular legs of your in this short-skirted version that shows a lot of leg and a lot of fun."

Gerald folded his arms. "A miniskirt?"

"Yeah, you know, a short manly warrior skirt, like the Spartans used to wear. That's from your Eeeyarth history, you know, the Spartans?"

"Yeah, I'm not wearing that."

"Hmm. Shame." He clicked the next model forward. "Next we have a fun and flirty design, with the midriff exposed to show off those sexy abs of yours."

"I don't really think that... wait, my abs are sexy?"

"Psht, honey if I was a woman and not married, I'd date you in a heartbeat. One could grate cheese on your abs."

Gerald touched his muscular midsection. He had never considered his body attractive before. It was just a utilitarian thing, a tool to get work done, not an object of admiration.

"Well, thank you, but I need to be covered ankle to wrist, except when I'm working in the field."

Gwof waved it off. "You won't discourage me. I love a good challenge." He brought forth the next model.

"Now, this last one is the basic cassock design, but with a sense of fun. Just a flip of the switch and..."

The cassock began to glow brightly, with neon symbols dancing all over its surface.

"Why bother with that gauche little ear translator you wear, this model has all the translation software built right into the fabric. Every time you speak, the robes automatically translate into written standard, stollick, burganese, and kairo, and about a hundred others that I can't even begin to pronounce."

He flipped through the various language settings, which played out over the fabric like a screen.

Gerald was impressed. "You know what, that is actually pretty useful. Well done."

Gwof bowed dramatically. "If I could not do at least this much, what kind of servant of the Ssykes family would I be?"

"...However, Ga'aval law requires me to wear very simple fabrics, and I'm sure this would not qualify."

"What if it was lined with raw wool on the inside?" Gwof asked, undaunted.

Gerald lifted up his finger, but then thought better on it. "You know, I'll have to ask. So long as only the raw wool touches my skin, that might be acceptable."

"Yay, I just love loopholes."