In both worlds, Mila had been exposed to a lot of ‘common wisdom’ about bullies, leveled at her from all sorts of directions. Stuff like how you should comport yourself to avoid them, ignore them as they seemingly lashed out wildly due to their own wounds. How bullies were weak, and all it took was a show of strength to have them back away.
It was all horseshit. Bullies were not opportunistic predatory critters, more afraid of you than you were of them. No, in Mila’s depressingly lengthy history with the type, they craved power, swarming it like ticks on a hound dog. And once they had seized a bit of it, they wielded it brutally, looking for any opportunity to stab anyone they could with it.
It was little surprise, then, that such parasites readily embedded themselves in law enforcement. There was rarely better power than that backed by the state, and enforcing rules typically came with a plethora of discretion and the soft, or not so soft, threat of violence if opposed. And Ouran? Sheriff Ouran utilized both with glee.
That Mila could leap over at him, sink her fangs into the man’s throat, and shred the meat to let him drown in his own blood somehow made it all worse. Certainly, in the brief moment, she could strike down one pestilent officer of the law, but at best that would crater her entire life, sending her running cities away to escape the consequences of that moment. Instead, all her shark-like teeth could do was grind against each other, jaw creaking at the force.
Ouran was a symptom, albeit an oozing sore that caught her off guard with focused frequency. He was hardly the only sheriff in town who delighted in going out of his way to drudge up shitty loitering laws or similarly vaporous rules to suddenly enforce, all ‘coincidentally’ applied to folks lower down the totem pole from them. In Ouran’s case, that was often the same nonhumans that the city at large seemed to not care for all that much, although he was hardly above harassing the odd human that caught his eye.
It was only by the good graces of whatever god ruled slimy fuckers that Mila seemed to be one of Ouran’s favorite targets.
“Seen anyone suspicious?” He asked, stomping closer and seemingly doing his best to splash water up at Mila, the accusatory point within his question hardly buried. After all, it was meant to be something she could feel.
It was all bait though, the whole thing, and the specific feeling of this attempt was very familiar to Mila, albeit from Scienceland. The Mila from there was experienced with the same garbage - a police officer noticing her and feeling the sudden urge to stop and question her about the area, vague threats to public safety being painted while it being clear they were directing it all at her. A tactic one could hardly call out, to boot, an easy defense trotted out being that they were just trying to help you even as their eyes dripped a playful hate. At least this particular sheriff would have a hard time posting up outside of her home, conspicuously watching.
All she gave was a short, tensed, “Nope, haven’t.” It was about all she could slip between her teeth, hands still atop her legs even as dull claws threatened to push into the meat of her palms, very conscious of the weight of her blades at her hip.
“You sure? I figure you’ve been in a good place to see something, since you don’t got a job.” The meaty laugh was probably directed at how he thought of her chosen career as lesser than ‘real’ work. Hell, Mila suspected that he probably looked down on any career that he did not describe as ‘a sheepdog protecting the flock’ or some similar grossness.
She let it wash past her, but what followed hit her in the gut. “Not that you’re any good at what you do get. Shame about those boys. I almost liked them.” Mila was not looking at the human, instead focused on the dancing puddle before her, but she could fucking hear that dumb smirk sprout and grow. The soupy red clay took on a dangerous pink tinge in her vision.
It would have been nice to say that she was only kept in check within the moment, that it was only some quick mental calculus that kept her from nonsensically screaming “Derive this!” as she ripped into Ouran, verbally or physically. That would have been more pleasant thoughts than where her mind actually was, back in the clearing with rot in her snout, as helpless with the situation as the day she hatched.
And now. For as much as fancies of grand violence might make Mila feel better in a hollow way once she was far removed from here, she knew she could do nothing in the moment. She swallowed down the thick burning of bile, yanked up to the back of her throat by nausea and rage, but that was nothing. There was only experiencing the situation and trying to not make it worse.
The sheriff had plenty of options though. Mila hardly had schooling in how to hide her emotions - dealing with problem people in a civil way was Rora’s or Naw-Naw’s role, when it came up. That left Mila open to Ouran like one of those books that she did not know if she was feeling up to getting later, no matter how stoic she tried to keep it all bunched up, bottled down.
“What, nothing to say?” The man tromped over, marching across Mila’s view until he was on the other side. Not quite directly next to her, but enough that he felt in the way between her and the bakery’s door, cutting her off. “Guess kobolds really are cold-blooded.”
The words sent him into a braying laugh that peeled her scales backwards, underpinned by the churning thump of her own heartbeat. The racism itself was negligible, the wordplay pathetic, but that he felt so fucking comfortable making such a ‘joke’ made Mila livid, even more so because why would he not feel safe? What was she going to do, report him to his superior? Now that was a laugh-worthy jest.
All she gave was a small shrug that was hopefully only picked up on the subconscious level. If she reacted too greatly, Ouran would just go after her harder, but she also could not seem to be ignoring him, else he rolled that up into some other breaking of the laws with which to beat her with. Hopefully, if she could feed him just the right amount, he might get board and wander off elsewhere, looking for someone else’s day to ruin.
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Her micro-shrug was either too much or not enough though, and Mila could feel the vile man tensing, even as a part of her seethed at herself for wishing him away onto somebody else. Whatever awful thing he was going to try next was preempted by the bakery’s door getting flung open heavily, thankfully. It was not hard enough to damage the door or its frame, but it rattled loud and made both Mila and Ouran startle.
“Hey Mila, they’re out of muscadines! What do you want instead?” Came the call, a tad bit louder than was strictly needed to be heard over the rain. There was a moment before Rora followed with, “Oh! And Sheriff Ouran! How are you doing this lovely day?” As if she had just noticed the man standing over Mila. There was a flicker of disgust on her face from where she hung out of the open door, but it vanished long before the human could turn around and never got anywhere near entering her voice.
For his part, Ouran straightened up, making his looming marginally less obvious. He took a step away from Mila and turned to her friend, which was enough leeway for Mila to slip up to her feet, her sandals finding the ground as just another drip in the chorus of the rain. “The day’s wet. Gross,” came the spat out reply, as if the rain were not obvious to anyone in town. It was spring, after all.
Mila did not know how Rora did all of it, quite frankly. Mila could spit out a speech to an audience, rattle off insults and jokes, but that was all things she understood, all things that were a certain kind of simple that did not need teaching, to her at least. How the other kobold could say a few words, practically identical to the ones Mila had tried to use herself, and take control of how a conversation felt? Mila felt like she had been studying Rora’s words for years and still made about as much sense of it as she did magic. She was not certain magic did not play a role, in fact.
Whatever witchery was afoot, though, Mila felt that she could not afford to foul it up by intervening now, without invitation. The sliver of hope, of getting out of being cornered by Sheriff Ouran, was enough to splash cold water on the anxiety that had been climbing up her legs and torso the entire time unnoticed, and her eyes flickered, waiting for the opportunity, the waves of her futile rage washing out to sea.
“A gross day makes for cozy homes though. Keeps people from staying out and about, gives them another reason to scurry back home,” Rora spooled out easily, poking at a fact that Scienceland had science’d - bad weather resulted in less crime, which made Ouran’s needling all the more blatant. Mila kept her trap shut, still trying to fade away into the background.
The sheriff shifted, moving to say something that Mila could only assume was more of his vast unpleasantness, albeit watered down, but Rora ‘accidentally’ cut him off. “Mila, dear- oh, I’m so sorry, sheriff. But Mila, they are out of muscadines. They have other options but I did not know what you were feeling? Come take a look, I don’t want to hold the line too long.”
Not knowing how she managed how to ping-pong Ouran’s attention to Mila but refocus it back on herself, the pink kobold *did* know that it was her signal to move, and she quick stepped around the human in her way. Mila could feel the man as if he were going to use his words and authority to snatch at the back of her neck and yank her to a halt. Yet, a glance inside showed a gap in the line along the display case and the person behind the gap, a goblin man, looking towards the door grouchily, enough to stay the copper.
Mila recognized that the short green fellow had been well into the line when they arrived, even if she did not know him specifically, but his silent assistance was enough to make Mila want to pay for whatever he was getting. It bought her the leeway needed to make it through the door and escape, blotting out Rora cordially exchanging farewells with the man of the law. She instead scampered forward, sliding into the gap and getting onto the railing to look at the case, eyeing options for sweet breads that she did not really see.
Without turning her head or raising her voice, she grunted out a soft “Thanks”,falling into the rumbling words of the underfolk and hoping the goblin was also a speaker. The responding grunt was only that, but it was acknowledgement enough for now.
The big door shut behind Rora as she withdrew back into the cry warmth of the bakery, and the murmur of folks in line did not dampen the apprehension Mila felt sitting atop her. But after a few moments, she heard Rora say, “Looks like he’s off.”
That was signal enough for Mila to turn to the goblin beside her as she reached to finagle her coin purse free to compensate him something for helping her out, but he could read what she was trying to do and held up a hand. “He’s an asshole, i’n’t he? Can’t just fuck off and leave alone. ‘Elping with that’s just, eh.”
The sentence trailed off, and Mila was happy to find someone as uncomfortable with receiving a proper thanks as she was. “Are you sure I can’t get your order?” She offered, but he rebuffed her solidly with a wave. She took a step back out of the line, ready to move to the back where Rora had actually been, but the glittery one slid on over and put a hand to Mila’s shoulder, rubbing it softly. It was reassuring but kept her in place, i f only because Mila did not quite want to leave the touch.
Instead, Rora took over the small conversation entirely, adeptly getting the goblin’s name - Kelb - and promptly finding out his wife’s and children’s names, and how they were doing and what they were looking forward to. Both kobolds were out of line, and several of Mila’s glances confirmed that those in the line behind the goblin were not thinking they were trying to slip in ahead of them, but she need not have worried, apparently.
By the time someone new came in, the line had slipped forward two folks and Rora had somehow managed to ensnare a promise that the kobolds would have to buy him and his wife, plus the rugrats, dinner sometime as thanks. He had been flustered when the demand had been leveled at him, but it was useless in front of Rora’s steely kindness. Mila almost felt pity, having been on the receiving end herself before. Her sympathy had to be shelved as the two kobolds hurried back to the tail of the queue though, and Mila tried to distract herself with the smells of the food, not paying much mind to the touch that still lingered at her shoulder.
Rora got her beloved pie, honeysuckle and peach, and ordered several decorated biscuits as well, which had them stopping at one of the indoor tables to partake in them. Mila knew that her friend had bought the treats to try and make her feel better, and Mila also knew she should not be trying to eat away the encounter, but eat she did. Each of the four smaller treats were half-consumed in an instant, and true to form they were delicious, but then Mila brought herself to a screeching halt, unwilling to eat any more. Rora had a nibble of each, a formality rather than a real bite, and then came the back and forth of Mila insisting that Rora eat her fair half (even as one ignored that Rora had bought them entirely) while Rora pressed back that she was stuffed.
It took a few volleys until Mila gave in, her stormy thoughts tearing at her resolution to not be a glutton, but she did at least restrain herself a bit. The remainder of the biscuits were devoured at a much more leisurely pace, properly savored even if the eating with all the fangs was no less terrifying to the casual viewer.
Rora did not bring up the most damned sheriff, but she did not need to. While he focused on Mila whenever the opportunity presented itself, she was no stranger to the law enforcement in Rat-Hate trying to shake down some trouble and an easy arrest. A fun arrest. She understood, and Mila knew that. Appreciated it. Tried not to let that shared bitterness taint the tastiness of her treats.