Interlewd Four

Interlewd Four

Franny was waffling back and forth between being more angry than she’d ever been before and worrying herself sick. The roiling emotions were twisting around in her gut, and she was pretty sure that if she continued to feel this way, she’d be sick.

The church was too calm, which didn’t help. Earlier in the day she had chores to do, tasks that she could focus on to the detriment of all else so that she could push her worries back. The people Delilah–Gomorrah, she supposed–had saved from the sewers still needed help getting sorted, then the massive incursion had started and the church got to work sorting supplies and getting ready to provide a few temporary shelters.

Those shelters had remained empty for the moment. The incursion had, according to what she’s read, been stopped at the walls.

Delilah had been there, risking her life against overwhelming odds.

Franny had stared at too many drone-cam videos of the waves of aliens charging the gap in the walls. She’d even seen Delilah’s flames burning them down. They were hard to miss.

Then the call.

Franny wanted to punch Delilah in the nose.

She stomped through the church, past a few senior nuns who gave her space and then through the familiar corridors of the great building that had been her home and school her entire life.

The worry twisted in her gut again, and this time she wasn’t sure if it was just her worrying about Delilah’s safety or if it was more worry about the damnable call.

It hadn’t lasted long. Delilah had overridden all of Franny’s questions, which she supposed was fair. Delilah was a samurai now, she wasn’t the cute bumbling girl that followed Franny around like a lost puppy anymore, she was so much more than just that now, even if Franny missed that about her best friend.

Then Delilah had told Franny that she might die, and that she might, maybe, be in love with her.

“Where are you going, young mis–” Sister Margaret froze as Franny locked eyes with her. The older woman might have clued into the naked mix of conflicting feelings Franny was freely wearing. In either case, she shut up, picked up her habit skirts and walked off in a hurry.

Franny closed her hands into fists, then looked around for a place to calm down.

She had a bad reputation with the sisters already for being something of a hothead and for disregarding quite a few rules. Usually for good reason, but that didn’t always excuse her. When she was younger she’d gotten her share of switchings for her attitude. Now she was older and strong enough that last time they’d tried, she’d stolen the switch and given Sister Maeve a real reason to complain.

Grumbling to herself, Franny opened one of the doors in the corridor and peeked within. It was one of the classrooms, one she recognized. They’d done math in here once. The room had a few rows of old presswood desks and windows that would have overlooked the city if they weren’t covered in a blurry film.

Franny shut the door behind her, then she stood by the front of the room and focused on breathing.

“Delilah,” she whispered. The name came out of her with both frustration and longing.

She loved Delilah. Of course she did. For years they were the best of friends. She’d defended and helped Delilah countless times. They gossiped together, they pulled pranks together, they’d cried on each other’s shoulders and they had both seen enough of each other’s most embarrassing moments to write entire books about them.

Did she love Delilah though?

Franny growled and kicked the teacher’s desk with her very not-nun-like steel-toed combat boots. Right then, she didn’t have any sort of love for her blonde friend.

“What kind of bitch drops that kind of bomb on someone before jumping to their death,” she grumbled as she opened up a news site on her augs. There was a site dedicated to tracking samurai-related news in and around New Montreal. They’d announced the death of Nomad earlier.

Franny was dreading the idea of seeing an article about Gomorrah on there. She didn’t know what she’d do if that was how she learned that Delilah was dead.

She had some passing worry for Gomorrah’s new weirdo of a friend too, that Stray Cat girl who was clearly insane and probably not the best influence on Gomorrah. Had the confession been her idea? That woman was a raging lesbian if Franny ever saw one.

She’d kick her ass too, if she could.

Once, not so very long ago, she thought of samurai as basically saints. She hadn’t realized how much of the church’s coolaid she had drunk until Delilah became one herself.

It was hard to think of someone as a saint when you had vivid memories of that person as a preteen waking you up at two AM because they’d had an accident and needed help covering it up.

Franny paused, then she kicked the desk again. It felt good.

There was no news about Gomorrah. She groaned. Was it better to have no news than to find bad news waiting for her? She didn’t know, and she didn’t want to find out.

The door clicked, and Franny spun around, an excuse on her tongue already. She had just kicked the desk a few times. She might have been frustrated, but she understood that it was a little immature.

Then Delilah stepped into the room and gently closed the door behind her.

Her friend wasn’t in her samurai gear. It was a strange detail to notice, but Franny couldn’t miss it. Delilah was in one of the skirts Franny had bought for her. A knee-length dark blue thing that showed off her calves in a way that had made the sisters look on disapprovingly before Delilah became Gomorrah.

She had a blouse on, which was sticking to her skin, especially around her shoulders where Delilah’s wet hair was draped down. The blouse was part of their old uniform, with a little necktie and all, though Delilah had left it undone.

Franny stared at her best friend and Delilah, in turn, stared at the floor.

She stepped up to Delilah, then without thinking, slapped her friend across the face. Then, with a suppressed sob, she hugged Delilah close, squeezing her for all she was worth.

They stood there for a while. Franny holding Delilah close and soaking in her presence. The worry was bleeding off of her, she could almost feel the knots in her gut untangling as she held onto her friend. Delilah’s scent filled Franny. It was so familiar, so nice and…

Franny stepped back from Delilah just as Delilah’s hands started to hug her back.

She stared at her friend, who was finally daring to meet her eyes. There was a red mark on Delilah’s cheek, but she wasn’t moving to touch it. Franny imagined that it stung. She squashed the guilt.

“So?” she asked.

Delilah blinked. “So?” she repeated.

Delilah, for all that she was a bit of a shrinking violet sometimes, had really taken to the lessons they had about good posture and form, and her voice rang out with an authoritative tone. Franny knew better than to just listen to Delilah’s voice to read her. The trick was her friend’s eyes, they might as well be signboards telling the world what Delilah was really thinking.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

At least, they were for Franny.

Franny stared at Delilah, and there was no missing the massive amount of guilt her friend was feeling. Worse, there was an unhealthy heaping of worry there.

Franny didn’t have to guess why. Delilah had just confessed before running off to maybe die.

Obviously, she was fine. Probably. She had all of her limbs and didn’t look hurt. The smack on her face notwithstanding, Delilah looked okay. She might have had some other injuries, and Franny would have no way of knowing with the way she was covered up, but…

No, Delilah wouldn’t confront Franny if she was injured. Delilah didn’t like confrontations like this one. She wouldn’t avoid them forever, but being injured was enough of an excuse that she’d take it and know that Franny wouldn’t judge her for it.