Initiated; Uninitiated

     His fond thoughts for his sister turn bitter in his chest, thinking about that. She hasn't pulled him toward the Grooming Parlour in a long time.

     And that's what brings him here, now. Zoklaar has seen things—strange signs, ominous changes in Uilskuiken's behavior. When Mom comes home flushed from a day in the Games Room, counting out their allowances with a smile and unpacking Zoklaar's favorite sweet fudge from her bag, the beautiful Ruki doesn't greet her with a hug anymore—rather, she accepts the neopoints with resignation, and no longer tries to tactfully bring up the question of whether or not she'll soon be painted like her brother.

     She eats silently, feeds her Arkmite silently, reads the Neopian Times silently and lingers over the article about the strange obelisk in Tyrannia. When Mom tweaks one of her antennae affectionately and presses a codestone into her claws, "because I know you've been going to the Battledome lately, I figured if you weren't thinking about getting painted anymore we could spend the money on the Training School and some nice armor," she doesn't look grateful. Just pained. She brushes crumbs off of her fine new dress, a number that Zoklaar is sure Mom didn't buy for her, which begs the question: where did she get the neopoints?

     The signs are there. He isn't stupid. He has no proof, beyond her strange introversion and her expensive new clothes, but he can't help but wonder, "What's so big a secret she couldn't tell me?"

     Which is what brings him here, to her. He doesn't knock on her doorframe, doesn't announce his presence to her. If he gives her the opportunity, she'll just ignore him.

     "That's a really nice dress," he starts, staring at her reflection in the vanity mirror, and when she flinches he feels oddly satisfied.

     "Zee!" For a moment, she looks utterly guilty—he's sure now he was right—but then she simply turns around, composure back in place as her antennae twitch in annoyance, "Come on, can't you knock like a gentleman? You scared me."

     "Sorry," he murmurs, not feeling sorry at all, "it's just, I was wondering where you bought that dress. You look good in it."

     There's a long moment where she doesn't speak. Zoklaar rests a spectral shoulder on the doorframe. A kind of understanding passes between them, a thought born across the space and silence stretching between him and her—I know that dress isn't from Mom. I know you're hiding something. I'm not going away until I know what you're hiding from me.

      Whatever sway is holding her in place is bigger than him, though—her eyes harden after a moment, and she fingers her hairbrush carelessly, looking as though she wants to wrap her claws around the stem of it and squeeze. She mumbles something about seeing the outfit at Prigpants & Swolthy and absolutely having to have it: the message is clear to him, that she wants him to take the words as they are and pretend she's telling the truth.

     But he doesn't. Instead he floats closer to her, borne on the air in something like anger and something like worry—he puts one ectoplasmic paw on her shoulder, feeling the way his body wants to move through her, rather than touch her.

     "Come on, Uils," he entreats, "don't do this to me. I'm your brother, I know when something's wrong. You've been acting weird ever since you saw that article about the obelisk showing up in Tyrannia, and now you go there every day to fight—didn't you want to be painted Christmas? You said the color would go perfectly with that pink dress you have, but now you've got this new one and whenever Mom asks you just say you'd rather go to the Training School, and—"

     She stands abruptly, brushing him aside like he's no more than a stray thought, a wayward spirit. Her armored claws wrap around herself, as though she's fighting off a chill, and Zoklaar suddenly thinks she looks frightened. Her words take a long moment to form—when she speaks, her voice is hushed.

     "I can't tell you what's wrong, okay. I just- I can't." She shakes her head emphatically, and for the first time he notices the pendant hung around her thin neck. It's nearly hidden in the ruffles and folds, but it's there: out-of-place, distinct, and shaped like a strange, stylized S. He doesn't know what the S means—looking at it though, that makes ice travel down his spine.

     "It's not even like there's anything really wrong," Uilskuiken continues, ignorant of her brother's sudden discovery. "I just decided I'm more interested in battling, okay? I'll get painted eventually, but first I- I just want to battle, in Tyrannia. All the best challengers show up there."

     He doesn't believe her for a minute, of course. Someone, somewhere, is making his sister dance to their tune. He's sure of it, but he also knows that whoever gave her that pendant is someone she must trust—or at least, someone she must want to trust. She won't tell him anything, not now. There's a looming space between them, a gap he can't bridge with this well-intentioned chat, and she put it there.

     So he nods, floating out of her reach momentarily and no longer looking at her. The conversation's become awkward—Zoklaar can't help but think he's misjudged something, that whatever she's hiding must be enormous. He wonders why she'd have to hide it in the first place.

     "...Well, you're a good battler," he manages miserably, "And the dress really is pretty, Mr. Prigpants knows what he's doing when it comes to tailoring."

     Neither of those things is the thing he wants to say—the staunch declaration that she can always come to him if she needs him. Those words stick in his throat, turned bitter and heavy by the lack of trust she has in him. He doesn't know how to steer the conversation back toward it—he wonders angrily if whoever gave her that pendant is the one who taught her how to lie to her own family's face.

     From the look on her face, she knows what he's thinking. Utter sadness is written into the lines of her shoulders, the dejected droop of her antennae, and Zoklaar can't stand it and he can't fix it, so he turns to hurry out of her bedroom, an apology muttered into the space between him as he turns.

     Uilskuiken doesn't move. He's not sure if he's relieved or angry. It's only once he's halfway down the hallway that he hears her, calling to his back:

     "Don't tell Mom! It won't be safe for either of you. Just trust me, okay!"

The End