Dirty and Gross

Redrum’s golden gaze tracked her every movement, sharp and unblinking as she retreated to the bank. He tilted his head slightly at her laughter, the sound catching him off guard. It wasn’t mocking, nor dismissive, but light and genuine—unexpected even. He had never laughed like that before.

"Starchild… Oded," he repeated slowly, his voice dragging carefully over the syllables, tasting the name as though it were some foreign delicacy. His lips twitched into that almost-smile again, though the name felt heavy and formal on his tongue. Her given name was two odd words strung together, like his own. This, he enjoyed. “Starchild. Interesting. But—” His jaw shifted with a faint spasm before he continued, “Rock-girl is… easier. Suits Rock-girl.” The crimson boy’s lips curled upward on one side, his half Glasgow scar still healing giving him a full smile. “Red is— Redrum Mortem.”

When she tossed the rock, he shifted his weight, catching it mid-air with a swipe of his paw. Brows furrowed, his feline claws scraped against its surface as he rolled it between his toes, inspecting it with a detached curiosity. It was unremarkable, just as she said.

“No crabs.” he murmured, his gaze flicking back to her as he nodded, throwing the rock off into the distance. “Then– why…” He let the thought hang, half-formed. Theories were not his strong suit. He knew how to stalk and strike, how to weave through brush without leaving a trace, but moving rocks? That was a puzzle better suited to minds like hers.

At her suggestion about the wind, his ears twitched thoughtfully. “The— wind?… maybe. Or…” He paused, tapping his claws on the lakebed with rhythmic thuds. His tail flicked behind him as he struggled to articulate his fragmented thoughts, much like a feline watching something enriching. “No. Redrum— does not— know.”

He looked up at her again, golden gaze smoldering with subdued curiosity. “Rock-girl is— always this– curious about— strange things?” His voice was halting, but there was no malice in the question, well—maybe a hint of amusement. For all her delicate features and lighthearted words, there was a sharpness to her—a hunger for answers he supposed. It wasn’t a bad thing.

It was, he thought, not unlike his own gnawing need to understand the world, even if his methods were clumsier and ineffective. Like now, trying to make sense of this Rock-star-girl.

"Murder"