Daddy's Ray'a Sunshine
Malsheem
Today is a good day for being Raya. Tis the best day for Rayas, a day like this, with its’… day-ness… I’m skipping down the halls of the Medical Centre in part of the High Palace and feel like flexing my hand. Funny kind of feeling, flexing a hand.
“Hello, new ring. I’m’a call you Stanley.” There’s a pink ring of scar tissue around my left wrist, more bubble-gum pink than coral… oooo maybe it’s bubble-coral pink. Another Daddy Loves Me moment achieved, and my grand plan to make Darth Carnifex the Galactic Bad belly laugh is coming to fru-fruit-tition? Fruficcion? To goodly-ness. My Daddy loves me. I know it, he loves me, ‘cause otherwise why would he remind me so many times that I need to improve my fighting skills? Train so hard it hurts, then battles won’t. How else to keep me safe?
Right? … Right?
I catch a reflection of my left arm in a mook’s chestplate, warbled by the curve of duraplast, the bubble-coral ring is all puffed and raw. Healed rings echo up my arm to the shoulder. Something’s stinging my nose, and I can’t help blink my eyes and don’t know why, but it helps when I tug my sleeve down to the wrist, pull on it and hold it with my fingers. But why are my eyes stinging? I sniffle, rub my nose with my right hand (it feels way more Raya-ish than the left), and exhale a deep, deeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep almost as deep as Girak-Kaine when he's in the oracular zone, breath.
And I’m dancing down the hall, a bead in my ear feeding me music from my copious collection. If I go this way, I’ll meet Zeptepi Zambrano or G Ghanima Zambrano or even Adara Raxis . Or, if I go the opposite way long enough I’ll circle back… ooo maybe there’s a sandwich or a chocolate shake or marshmallows on a stick with the crusty cookie bits on and … yep!
“Cookies, ho!” This is totes the right way to go. I can feel it.
Today is a good day for being Raya. Tis the best day for Rayas, a day like this, with its’… day-ness… I’m skipping down the halls of the Medical Centre in part of the High Palace and feel like flexing my hand. Funny kind of feeling, flexing a hand.
“Hello, new ring. I’m’a call you Stanley.” There’s a pink ring of scar tissue around my left wrist, more bubble-gum pink than coral… oooo maybe it’s bubble-coral pink. Another Daddy Loves Me moment achieved, and my grand plan to make Darth Carnifex the Galactic Bad belly laugh is coming to fru-fruit-tition? Fruficcion? To goodly-ness. My Daddy loves me. I know it, he loves me, ‘cause otherwise why would he remind me so many times that I need to improve my fighting skills? Train so hard it hurts, then battles won’t. How else to keep me safe?
Right? … Right?
I catch a reflection of my left arm in a mook’s chestplate, warbled by the curve of duraplast, the bubble-coral ring is all puffed and raw. Healed rings echo up my arm to the shoulder. Something’s stinging my nose, and I can’t help blink my eyes and don’t know why, but it helps when I tug my sleeve down to the wrist, pull on it and hold it with my fingers. But why are my eyes stinging? I sniffle, rub my nose with my right hand (it feels way more Raya-ish than the left), and exhale a deep, deeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep almost as deep as Girak-Kaine when he's in the oracular zone, breath.
And I’m dancing down the hall, a bead in my ear feeding me music from my copious collection. If I go this way, I’ll meet Zeptepi Zambrano or G Ghanima Zambrano or even Adara Raxis . Or, if I go the opposite way long enough I’ll circle back… ooo maybe there’s a sandwich or a chocolate shake or marshmallows on a stick with the crusty cookie bits on and … yep!
“Cookies, ho!” This is totes the right way to go. I can feel it.