Tymon is at a bar, drinking some fruity, non-alcoholic cirathan beverage through a metal straw. It’s sweet and acidic, but leaves a fantastic aftertaste on his tongue. He usually just drinks water or milk; it’s been years since he’s had a flavored drink. The last time was just after the second war started, when his family kept coming through Heaven’s Reach to reenlist in the military again. His siblings, cousins, and parents kept forcing him to take time off work so they could hang out, and go to nice restaurants to see them off.
Cyryl is standing to his right. Three empty glass bottles of some alcoholic beverage have been discarded on the countertop. His back is to Tymon, and he’s chatting up some girl, talking over the dull roar of the crowded bar.
“No, no,” Cyryl grips the bridge of his nose and slurs his words, “you stupid bitch, I’ve already explained this like three times.” He takes a step back and grabs Tymon’s shoulders, giving him a jostle. “My big brother here is short because of a tragic. Childhood. Incident. If it weren’t for that incident, he’d be as tall as me!”
The woman, standing at 7’0, which makes her a little tall for a peldak women, narrows her brow, and also yells a little to be heard over the party. “Well, you’re a little short too, to be honest.”
Cyryl’s ears perk, “yeah? Well, your hips are a bit narrow, which I guess explains how you’ve lived for 300 years without any man wanting to marry you.”
Tymon smiles and exhales sharply out of his nose.
The woman’s ears flare up, and her face contorts in rage, baring her teeth. With her right hand on her drink, she brings it forward with the intention of splashing it in Cyryl’s face.
But Cyryl, having been in this situation a thousand times, knows the motions. He brings his left hand up and connects to the underside of her wrist, successfully slapping the drink away and avoiding any of the liquid. “Ha! Nice try, whore. You’ll need to be a lot quicker-“
His experience tells him to stop talking. The woman tries to swing her knee up, yet Cyryl is one step ahead, and brings his left fist down. His strong, hardened knuckles smash just above her kneecap. A sharp pain spreads up her thigh and hip, and she fumbles a little off-balance, clenching her lips together.
“-than that if you want to catch me. Now piss off,” he slurs before sitting down at the bench next to his friend.
The woman is still mad, but she bites her bottom lip and walks off, disappearing into the party.
Cyryl sighs, then elbows Tymon’s arm, “hey, uh…” his drunk face looks a bit silly, and his eyes are blinking at different rates. “Just to warn you, there’s like a… I dunno, you know my skills in math. There’s like a 30% chance she attacks us as we’re leaving,” he slides one of his empty glass bottles over, “so save that and chuck it at her face if she does.”
Tymon stares at the bottle for a second. “You still only have a 30-year sentence?”
“Yeah, why?”
“You haven’t gotten time added? Even though you’ve figured out the rhythm of when to throw glass bottles at women?”
“The rhythm? Nevermind, uh… nah, I got a few judge friends and they explained the metrics.” He raises his hand and extends a finger with every point, “drunk, bar, flirting, insults, leftover women. Getting into a couple fights, you know… it’s just gonna happen. Nothing to be punished over.”
“Hmh.” Tymon takes another sip of his drink, emptying the glass. “Regardless, I appreciate what you’re doing, but it’s not going to work.”
“Bah, come on, you’re a peldak! You’ve got all the time in the world. One night, one year, a hundred years, just keep trying and you’ll find some desperate slut eventually.”
Tymon sighs, then turns around on the stool, leaning back against the bar and looking out into the crowd. The bar extends around three walls of the restaurant, and all the tables that used to be on the center floor have been removed to make room for everyone standing, dancing, and talking. “I already tried getting a wife, for about a hundred years. A few women are okay with a man shorter than her, but basically nobody wants a man so weak he can’t even lift her.”
The muscles of peldak women are denser than those of men, so they’re all heavier than they look. With modern women’s fashion featuring long skirts and sleeves which cover most of their skin, it’s nearly impossible to tell the difference between a girl who’s a string bean worth 200 pounds of muscle, and a warrior who’s 500 pounds of muscle.
“Well, uh… just lift weights unit-“ Cyryl purses his lips, his drunk brain suddenly remembering that Tymon’s bones don’t allow that. “Okay so here me out. We find a leftover woman who’s like a thousand years old. She’ll be super desperate and-“
Tymon shakes his head, “after the Vampire War, there was a mass campaign of forced marriages by King Arus. That plan isn’t going to work.”
“The Vampire War?”
Tymon sighs, “I’m not going to explain what that was. Basically, there are no leftover women older than 600 years.”
“I see,” Cyryl nods, “I see.”
Tymon shrugs, “it’s not even a big deal. So I won’t get married, who cares? So long as I-“
Cyryl jumps onto the bartop, accidentally kicking one of his glass bottles to the ground, then turns to the crowd. He takes a deep breath, puts his fingers in his mouth, then whistles sharply. The long, sensitive ears of every peldak jolts up, and the party is instantly ground to a halt. After about a second, all eyes in the room are suddenly on him.
Cyryl clears his throat to address the crowd. “I’m not married.” He gestures to Tymon, who’s trying to suppress a laugh. “My friend here isn’t married either. My friend is just six feet tall.”
“Actually I’m 5-“
Cyryl shoots his leg out to kick Tymon’s shoulder. “We’re both looking to date women, specifically with marriage in mind. If that doesn’t bother you, come on our way.” Despite the amount of booze in his system, Cyryl gives a wink and a smile that, combined with his handsome face, melts the hearts of a few women out in the small sea of people.
Then he hops off the counter and lands on the padded stool, disappearing under the heads of those around him. The party resumes a moment later, with a lot of people laughing at his audacity.
“Great plan,” Tymon says, sarcastically.
“Thank you,” Cyryl says, genuinely.
“So how long should we wait before realizing this plan fell isn’t going to work?”
But then, a woman pushes through the crowd. She’s about 6’4, slightly short for a woman. “Hello,” she says in a sweet voice, proudly waving her larger-than-average ears.
Cyryl glances to Tymon, his brow curled upwards, and a smug smile plastered on his face. Then he turns to the girl, “hey there. So, as I said, my friend here is six feet. That doesn’t bother you?”
“Well, heehee, of course not. Why would it?”
Cyryl shoots another smug look to his friend and coworker.
The woman continues, “I’m more interested in dating you anyw-“
“Fuck off.” The smile is wiped from Cyryl’s face, and he points in a random direction.
The woman stammers and makes excuses for a few seconds, but then realizes it’s a lost cause and leaves.
Cyryl purses his lips and tries not to notice Tymon’s smug face, which he can clearly see out the corner of his eye.
Another woman approaches, she’s wearing an overly large hat that hides her smaller ears, “howdy, friends.” It’s a forced introduction, but the prevailing dating strategy for leftover woman suggests it’s best to make a big first impressions, regardless of if that impression is good or bad.
Cyryl glares at her for a second, the fierce look in his eyes just making the woman’s hearts flutter. “Are you just here for me, or would you be open to a relationship with him?”
The woman pauses, glancing between the two men. “Uh…” Then her ears perk as if a lightbulb went off in her brain, “y-yeeeeah, sure! Sure, I’d be open to a relationship with him,” she says, not even averting her gaze from Cyryl long enough to meet Tymon’s eyes.
“Fuck off.” Cyryl isn’t stupid, she just said that because she had too.
Over the next half hour, more leftover women come up. They see what happened to the previous women who tried to approach, and they all realize they have to pretend to be interested in Tymon to get a shot at Cyryl. But despite their best attempts at faking affection, neither Cyryl or Tymon buy it, and they’re quickly sent away.
Even the girl who tried to splash her drink on Cyryl comes up.
“Wait,” Cyryl squints and leans in, “didn’t I talk to you already?”
“No,” she says, “that was my sister. People often get us confused.”
“Ha! Nice try, fuck off.”
She pouts, but leaves without a fuss.
Cyryl elbows Tymon in the side, “that was the other 60% chance, by the way. 30% chance she attacks us in the parking lot, 60% she comes back for more.”
“That only adds up to 90%.”
“Fuck off,” Cyryl turn back to the crowd.
“Ha!” Tymon swivels around to the bar and orders another drink, this time made from some berry native to Ciratha. “You know, I appreciate what you’re trying, I really do… but don’t do this with anyone else. If I wasn’t confident in my worth as a bureaucrat, I’d probably go home and kill myself after all this, haha.”
“Well… At least you’re smiling?”
“Watching you get mad and yell at women is great fun.” He turns his head and supportively slaps Cyryl’s back, “hey, listen. Any time you want to drag me outside to watch you scream at random people, just let me know!”
Cyryl grumbles, but it’s nice to see Tymon with such a genuine smile. If you ignore the unfortunate height, he’s actually not a bad looking guy. His mom being pregnant in space really did rob him of a bright future.
Then, Cyryl notices a woman sitting on the far side of Tymon. He narrows his brow and tries to remember when she sat down, but can’t. Wrapped between both hands is a glass bottle of some alcohol, and before her sits two more empty glasses. She’s wobbling back and forth a little, plus her cheeks and ears are flush, and her eyes are locked onto the bottle.
Cyryl nudges his friend’s shoulder, then directs his attention to her.
Tymon’s ears perk in surprise. At a glance, the woman appears to be about 7’8, and while most of that height is in her legs, with her feet flat on the floor and her knees bent, her torso still towers over both men.
Cyryl leans in and whispers in his boss’s ear, “say hello.”
“Hey,” Tymon says, his voice calm and collected.
The woman’s body jolts, but she doesn’t move. Her eyes dart between Tymon and her drink.
On the woman’s other side sits a second woman, and she stands up in order to whisper in the giant’s ear.
“H-hello…” the giant says. Her voice is weak, and Cyryl can barely hear her over the roar of the crowd.
Cyryl rolls his eyes at this, since nothing is less attractive than some shy girl with no backbone. But then again, Tymon is short, so his options are limited. Cyryl leans in and whispers into Tymon’s ear, “ask her name.”
“What’s your name?”
The girl looks away, which causes Tymon’s ears to dip, but then the giant’s friend grabs the sides of her head and forces her to look down at Tymon. “C-Cassandra Popek… 330.”
Tymon nods. When Cyryl leans in again, Tymon hurriedly shoos him away. “I’m Tymon Czepiel, 572” he says calmly, putting his hand out.
Cassandra forces a smile, her face and ears a bright red, but doesn’t take his hand until after her friend slaps the back of her arm. Despite the sheer contrast in size, and Tymon’s weak bones, her grip is pitiful. Such a limp handshake from her end, while Tymon squeezes with all his might to try and soften the blow of how weak he is.
“So, what brings you here today?” Tymon’s voice is gentle and clear. He’s smart enough to realize that he has to be the one directing the conversation.
Cassandra turns back to her friend, but her friend quickly presses against her cheek, and forces her to maintain eye contact, which she awkwardly does without blinking. “Um… uh…” She taps her fingers on the countertop, and her bottom lip quivers. “It’s… the end of the month?”
“Ahh, me too. Usually I’m working, but my friend here dragged me out.”
Cassandra nods her head a few times, but says nothing further.
Cyryl rolls his eyes and huffs. Since Cassandra can easily see over Tymon’s head, she grows a bit pale and tense.
But Tymon gives off a patient smile, “so what do you do, Cassandra?”
She looks down at her hands and starts twiddling her thumbs, though sporadically remembers to maintain eye contact and quickly turns back to Tymon. Unlike most leftover women, she doesn’t have the coordination to show off her lack of a wedding ring during the gesture. “G-guard. I’m a guard.”
Cyryl inhales sharply through his nose, the exhales loudly out his mouth.
Cassandra’s shoulders and ears dip, but Tymon smiles regardless. “A guard? Where at? What do you guard?”
Cassandra’s ears perk as she suddenly remembers the tips her friend gave her. She grabs one of her bottles, but bends her wrist awkwardly to show off her bare, ringless fingers. Though she’s holding out the wrong hand anyway. “I-I’m sorry… um, what did you say? Sorry, I-I-I, uh…”
“I asked where you work,” Tymon calmly repeats. “What do you guard?”
She bounces her leg and starts nervously twisting her hands around the bottle. “Th-the space… port. Space port. When, um… uh… people come. Aliens I mean, I’m tall.”
Cyryl covers his face and sighs, but Tymon nods. He thinks for a few seconds, “ah, okay, I get it. When aliens come to Peldor, the idea is that their first impression is they see a bunch of giants, right? So, your job is to stand there and be tall.”
“…yes.”
“Haha, that’s neat. It suits you well.”
The corners of her lips curl up, and her ears perk slightly.
Cyryl taps his friend’s shoulder and leans in, “I don’t think this is going anywhere. You wanna head out? I could pretend to pass out, so you have an excuse to leave.”
Tymon waves him off, “I’m fine. This is going well, actually.”
“…Really?”
“She hasn’t told me to kill myself yet, so it’s going great.”
“But,” Cyryl glances between him and the tall girl who’s currently fidgeting and doesn’t know what to do with herself. “But look how boring she is. She can barely talk.”
Tymon raises an eyebrow and turns towards his new friend. “You simultaneously want a girl who doesn’t talk too much, but also one who doesn’t keep quiet?”
“Well, you know… There’s a balance, I guess.”
“Cyryl, I think you just hate women in general.”
“Is… that a surprise? I feel like I’ve been really honest about that.”
“Not a surprise, it’s just important to point out that you’re looking for minor flaws with which to reject women.”
“Not being able to carry a basic conversation isn’t really a ‘minor’ flaw though.”
Tymon frowns and shakes his head, “no, this is fine. Back when I first started, the bureau didn’t hire convicts, they used people with brain defects. Like those whose brains weren’t synced right, and required a lot of thinking just to get their thoughts in order. Besides, I’ve had to deal with you criminals for centuries, so a little patience like this is easy.” Tymon turns back to Cassandra.
Cyryl shakes his head, but gives up and leans back, giving his friend the necessary space to chat her up, which he does to surprisingly great effect.
He faces the crowd and grabs another drink. There’re quite a lot of people on the center floor, packed tightly together as they speak and dance. He sees two girls out there, waiting for an opportunity to come up, but Cyryl shakes his head and waves them off. Meanwhile, Cassandra slowly grows more comfortable. She covers her mouth to giggle at something Tymon says, and the giant girl needs less and less coaching from her friend.
Said female friend sees that her job is done, so she comes around to the other side of Cyryl and sits down. “Hello there,” she says. Cassandra’s wing girl has long brown hair, sharp grey eyes, long pointed ears, and is in her physical prime, just like all peldaks. Despite that, as she waves down the bartender for a non-alcoholic drink, Cyryl can clearly see her iron wedding ring. Additionally, dangling from clips attached to her ears are long chains that glow various colors.
“Ah,” Cyryl narrows his brow and tries to keep himself from slurring his words. “I take it you’re Cassandra’s grandmother?”
“GREAT-grandmother,” she proudly declares with a raised chin and a hand on her chest.
“…uh-huh.”
“Yep,” the bartender hands off the drink and the woman grabs it, rolling the glass with her wrist and happily rocking back and forth in her chair. “Poor girl came to me three months ago, crying about how she’s never gonna get married.”
Cyryl takes a deep breath, then forces himself to set down his newest drink.
The woman leans in closer and rolls her eyes, “330 years old, by the way. Just on the verge of it being an issue, but she’s still pretty young.” She brings the drink to her mouth to take a sip, then shrugs, “granted I already had two kids when I was her age, but she’s a slow start.”
“Yeeeep,” Cyryl forces as much enthusiasm as he can.
“Aaah,” she exhales, “looks like all that work has finally been worth it. The boy’s a little short, but that’s not… well it is bad, but her height should offset that for their kids.” She brings a hand to her mouth, “oopsies, let’s not get too ahead of ourselves, eyy?”
“Uh-huh.”
“So, Cassandra’s my great-granddaughter and I’m helping her. Tymon is your…” She glances between the two men, “you said he’s your brother, but you don’t look that similar, even accounting for a childhood incident which affected his height.”
“Hm? Oh, yeah, that was a lie. He’s actually my boss. We work in the bureaucracy, and I just made friends with him today. Oh, haha! Look at that!” He raises his chin to bellow out a giggle. “The guy tries to get a girlfriend for like half a millennia, your relative is… however old and couldn’t get a boyfriend either. But one day with my intervention? I’m such a great matchmaker!”
“Very funny,” she says, “but do you make a habit out of lying?”
“Hm?”
“Do you often make up quick lies for no real reason?”
Cyryl narrows his brow, “the reason was that it was quicker to just say he’s my bother.”
Cassandra’s great-grandmother narrows her brow, taking a slow gulp of her drink. “It’s never good to lie, regardless of expediency. You should have just said he’s your friend.”
Cyryl stares back at her for a moment, then silently grabs his bottle and starts chugging.