SECOND DRAFT: Hard Bank Left

21

A strong hand guided Celeste by the arm along a path so fine she could barely make it out. Where they were leading her, she didn't know, but Graham trusted them so what choice did she have?

The second gypsy was so far ahead of hem she never really got a good look at their face, so Celeste contented herself with the first, the one with face paint and dreadlocks and feathers.

"Where are we going?" she asked, growing antsy that she could not see any lights or signs of encampment.

"You will see," replied the man with the face paint.

Having no end of curiosity about these people Celeste persisted. "What were you doing so far out here if the encampment is so far away?"

The man grunted. "It's not. But either way we have been finding stragglers along the river for the last six days. We've had to integrate this region as part of our regular scouts."

The man ahead of them spun around, glaring at the painted man and making a sharp tsk. The painted man waved him off.

"The Caste and our people have never really gotten along. We have differing opinions of exactly what freedom means."

The Graham in the back of Celeste's mind spoke softly, "That's why I was going to leave after this last mission, after we got Ve safe. Raide convinced me to take her side, and if I did so we'd be allowed to go in peace. She said she'd label us as gypsies so far as the Caste was concerned."

"Who are your people, exactly?" Celeste couldn't help but ask, Graham wasn't exactly being forthcoming.

"My people are the neonatives of the region. I have just decided to live with the Romani."

"Neonatives? Romani?"

"Neonatives, people reclaiming their native culture. Romani, what you would call gypsies."

This neonative man having no qualms about sharing things with the pink haired girl, the man in front of them hissed, "Quiet!"

"What's your problem? This girl is working with Crisis and Grimsby, she's fine."

Celeste couldn't help herself, she laughed. It wasn't an intentional response. In truth, she didn't know where it had come from, it simply filled her up until it burst out of her mouth in a wild, awkward, and awful to listen to. The cackle struck her so strongly that she toppled forward, barely able to keep herself upright. The cervos in her chest tightened in exasperation, she couldn't simulate breathing, but she also couldn't stop. Liquid welled in her tear ducts. She didn't bother wiping them away, to her the autonomic response was something to be experienced and embraced. She could analyze the damage done to her facial tissue by the artificial tears when the response corrected itself and she returned to normal function. The response did not correct itself. Celeste fell to her knees, her sides aching. The original humor was all but lost until she attempted to remember why she was laughing: "Crisis and Grimsby". Her laughing redoubled in intensity, but rode itself out quickly. She stood, recovering, wiping the tears from her face. A residual chuckle escaped. She covered her face apologetically, straightened herself again, and sighed.

"I'm sorry," she said with a cool, clear tone and the straightest face she could muster. "I have no idea what that was."

The Graham in her head chuckled giddily to himself.

"I've just... Crisis and Grimsby?" She stifled another bout of laughter. The names were just too fitting to reject offhand, but too ridiculous to take seriously.

The man in front of them rolled his eyes and trudged on. The man with the painted face waited patiently for Celeste to recover.

"Are you okay?" He patted her on the back, hunched over to get a better look at her face. "Did you die?"