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Azima is not someone I expected to be at my door. I don't know who I expected, really, the only one that comes around is Bilal to invite me to his inexplicable ‘hang-out’ sessions. I don’t hang-out , I don’t let my guard down around competition, and I don’t let them see me when I’m relaxed, or else I simply might lose the frail edge I have. Bilal is a nice guy, I can see that, but I’ve never known nice. I don’t believe it.
But, no, it’s not Bilal. It’s Azima. I’m confused, and I must let it show, because she says in a wispy tone, “Is it too late for me to bother you, Longwei? I have but one request.”
I’m intrigued. My initial instinct is to turn her away, but even without my inviting her, she crosses the entrance and enters my room. Dumbly, I let her, moving aside so her willowy frame can fully step inside. It’s nothing much, it’s identical to Bilal’s room from what I’ve seen, and I have a good hunch it’s identical to hers as well.
“No decorations?” she questions. I know it’s not her native language, but she sounds nice in Mandarin.
I gather myself quickly. “I don’t see the point.”
She hums. “I do not either. But I still have a small painting hung up.”
“Ah.” I’m not sure what to say, really. “I didn’t know you painted.”
“I don’t. I am not a fan of paint. But the empty room was far too bland for me.” Azima shrugged. I followed her hand as slim fingers traced the edge of my desk, where I had a book open. Her bracelet, a thin chain with dime-sized golden coins dangling off, chimed lightly with the movement.
“What book is this?” Azima’s eyes are like night-black crystals, the fluorescent lights above gleaming off in her irises like stars.
“Uhm,” I say eloquently. “It’s… just a book.” I picked it off the shelf just to read it, to clear my mind, give myself something to do so I don’t fall into a rabbit-hole of uselessness and deprecation.
“How descriptive.” I think she might be giggling, but if she is, she’s not very vocal about it.
Almost in a trance, puzzled by her sudden interest in me, I watch as she moves from my desk to my neatly made bed. It’s untouched, has been untouched since the cleaning crew of the ship did it yesterday morning. I haven’t slept in it. I sleep on the floor sometimes, when I can’t think, when I feel like I don’t deserve the expensive plushness, when I haven’t risen once in the scoreboard after an entire day of training and fighting.
The lush mattress crests when Azima sits down on it. I’m even more perplexed. Eventually I grow impatient, it feels like she’s toying with me. “Do you need something?”
Azima seems to consider this. “Yes. I do. Sit with me, please.”
Gingerly, she pats the spot beside her, inviting me.
I scoff inwardly, shifting from one foot to the other. I cave after a bit of thinking, what’s the worst she could do to me in my own room, after all? In-fighting is forbidden, Defoe has made so very clear, I can’t see her motives for hurting me, so I’m willing to hear her out.
The bed isn’t as loud beneath my weight. We’re around the same build, she’s all grace and long limbs, but it’s clear which one of us has had more to eat growing up. I shift, almost self-conscious, before I remind myself how stupid that is.
Azima looks pleased at my sitting down, and I try not to let that get to me. It’s rare that someone is pleased with me. I file this thought away under another reason to kick myself . “As you know, I am in dire search of a husband.”
Wow. No beating around the bush with her. I remember overhearing her talking about the symbolism of marriage to her culture with the other kids. I nod slowly. “Yes. But, what does that have to do with me?”
Her hands fold neatly in her lap, her charmed bracelet pearls lightly. “You have been very high on the scoreboard. At times you even surpass me. You are very impressive.”
Where is she going with this? “Yeah?” I try to make it sound like I think she’s stating the obvious.
“With that in mind, I’d like to formally consider you as a future spouse. Will you have me?”
It’s surprising, just how straightforward she is. No brownnosing, not even a blush on her cheeks as she spoke.
I blink. “What?”
I’m not a fan of being clueless or surprised, less so of showing it, but now I can’t help myself.
Azima nods. “Before you say anything, will you allow me to do this?”
Like snakes, milkless chocolate tendrils, elegant and spidery, her fingers crawl forth. Her bracelet jingles lightly as it brushes against the skin tight fabric of my bodysuit, the one Babel provided, cold dimes a light chill on the sleek leather-like material wrapped around my thighs. Her hand inches up, and up, until it settles in on one of my hands held tightly in my lap. Slim fingers gently pry open my hand, her palm warm as she twines her fingers with mine.
All of this is done before I can even get a word out.
I open my mouth to speak, to fight through the confused lodge in my throat and the flush rising in my cheeks, but not a sound comes out. I almost expect her to pull out a knife and stab me in the gut. With how gentle she’s acting, it’s almost a cause for concern.
Azima shushes me with a press of her lips against mine. I’m staring into a starless night before her eyes close. She smells fresh, like a forest, pine needles and leaves, freshly cut grass, the aloe vera cream lotion the medical crew gives out.
I’m frozen. I don’t want to admit I’ve never been kissed before, though, so I try to push back as if I knew what I was doing.
Before I catch the hang of it, she’s pulling back, pursing her lips playfully.
She stands up, and I almost mourn her.
“Please consider me,” she breathes out, before the door to my room fizzes and whirs, and she’s gone in an instant.
I sit there, dazed. My face still feels warm. I bring my hand up to pad my fingers at my cheekbones, flushing further at the heat beneath the skin. Mindlessly, my fingers migrate down, to the pleasant buzz tingling through my lips from when she kissed me.
It was a sweet kiss. Short. Close-mouthed. Begun fleetingly and gone just as quickly.
My back bounces off the bed momentarily as I fall back. Staring up at the cybernetic ceiling, at the circuits like veins weaving through the white steel. I let my arms fall to splay across the mattress. Processing. Thinking.
Why had she kissed me? I have half a mind to think it to be some tactic, a way to get under my skin, to distract me from the main prize so she can snatch up a win. A play on romance so I can lose focus on the thing that matters.
Is this romance? I’ve never felt love before. Nor have I ever been kissed. Should it feel like this?
I curl up on my side, but I can’t sleep. Distantly, I register the sound of Bilal’s voice. The walls are nicely insulated, sound-proof, but if I focus, I can hear him mutter something to a female voice.
It’s none of my business. My heart is pounding too loudly in my head anyways.
For the first time, I’m actually excited to see my competitors tomorrow.
At least, one sole competitor.