We Are Ophiuchus

The Narwhal Hotel

The guard's eyes locked on piece of metal that had just dropped to the floor. Eyes bulging, I stared blankly at the bloodied button pin that was resting at Olive's feet. It was just larger than a quarter, depicting a Disney princess. It looked like SleepingBeauty, but I couldn't be sure. Above the Princess' crowed head, in Comic Sans font were the words:

Happy Birthday, Princess!

Squinting, I blinked at text. Then realization dawned on me... I thought that Olive had cut herself on a pocket knife? So why had a bright pink, princess birthday button pin fallen out of her pocket and onto the floor...?

The guard's eyes locked with Olive's and slowly, cautiously, he placed his hand on his hips.

"Pick it up," he ordered, pointing to the button pin that glinted dully on the shiny tiles of the airport floor. "Do it."

I bit my lip turning away from his harsh gaze. I knew he was embarrassed about being made a fool by four, arrogant teens — who obviously didn't belong in an airport... most authorities tended to have these types of ego issues.

Olive crouched down, using her uninjured hand to retrieve the button pin from the floor. She held the pin out to him, as she clutched her left, trembling hand to Owen's dark jacket. Her eyes were clouded with pain, gaze downcast. The guard took in Olive's shaking, bloodied hand, next the pink button pin. Taking the pin from her, he smeared the blood with his fingers, reading the text skeptically.

He glared down at Olive, growling, "if you stabbed yourself with this," he gestured to the safety pin on the back of the accessory. "Then why is there so much blood?"

"Because I stabbed my wrist accidentally," Olive told him, risking a glance up at the guard.

She held her wrist out to him, and he leaned over staring fixedly, almost as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. I inspected the jagged gash that had been left by the needle of the safety pin and I had to admit to myself, it did look like she'd been stabbed by a safety pin.

The guard clenched his jaw, the steely intensity that masked his face matched his words.

"...If I ever see you with this pin again," he threatened, holding up the blood covered button pin. "I'll report you. Because if I find out something happened on that plane — I won't hesitate to shoot you."

"Okay," Olive replied, gripping the jacket until her knuckles turned white.

"Yes," the guard corrected, scowling. "Yes, sir."

"Yes ma'am."

The security guard was about to start shouting at Olive. His eyes bulging, the veins on his neck throbbing, he opened his mouth to begin. Owen stepped swiftly in front of Olive obscuring her from view completely.

"My father was a security guard once," he told the man, calmly. "If I remember correctly, losing your shit on a passenger in a public place could cost you your job and your career as a protector of the citizens. You lose it with her now, and there goes your income for the next few months — possibly the next year until you can find a job," Owen was angry, it was quite blatantly obvious. "You want that?"

The security guard was clearly conflicted between his bruised ego and his job's jeopardy, so Owen used the silence for his own benefit, saying coldly, "Let's go Olive, this was a waste of time, we might be late for the flight now... though I wouldn't mind being late to talk to his manager."