EMPTY CHAIRS AT EMPTY TABLES

[onemind]

CHARACTERS: All
WHERE: Concordia - VEN DIAGRAMS HQ + BOUT IT OUT PARLOR + BEARINGS APARTMENT BLOCK
WHEN: Late Day :022 + Early Day :023
SUMMARY: The results of all your hard work - for better or worse. One win, one draw, one loss. Anakin Skywalker bites the big one.
WARNINGS: Violence, non-graphic character death.

IT’S BEEN A LONG DAY. Unfortunately, that’s not about to change any time soon. In the late hours of the evening, two things are happening: the final round of the Bout It Out expose between Kun-Kun and The Darkling is spooling up; meanwhile, the infiltration team at Ven Diagrams is working to retrieve information on H+H1 from the company’s security drive. Unfortunately, neither is going to reach the natural conclusion.

At the REGAL STREET GAMING PARLOR, emotions are running high. After a long day of simulation violence and the reveal of Kun-Kun’s new automaton fighting avatar, the crowd has been stoked to a few pitch. The music’s loud but the crowd is louder: cheering and booing, shouting for every landed or evaded strike. There’s an electric pulse of excitement in the air-- and then there’s a very literal one as an electromagnetic pulse rocks the Regal Street Parlor. The Bout It Out ring shorts and the entire parlor is pitched into total, window-less darkness. It doesn’t take more than a few seconds for the crowd’s excitement to melt into panic. Pushing, shoving, shouting - a piercing shriek as one of Kun-Kun’s representatives is stabbed. The nearby hosts (Lexa, Sam Alexander, and anyone in their faux attachment) should be able to help Kun-Kun and his reps to safety, but the crush of the crowd tangles up everyone else. When a rudimentary bomb goes off in the center of the parlor, it catches plenty of people in the crossfire.

There’s a white hot flash. A pulse of heat. A sizzle of agony. It’s a pain that guts, that persists long after the flash of the bomb and extends all the way to the infiltration team at Ven Diagrams. It’s like a limb badly severed. Anakin Skywalker is killed by the blast and every host knows it before they’re aware of anything else.

Unluckily for the infiltration team, they won’t have much time to recover. News of the bombing hits Extraspace in a matter of seconds, which triggers Ven Diagrams - paranoid from the recent attack on their own properties - to lock down their headquarters. All systems are tightened and security clamps down before the infiltration team can access the private servers. If you’re somewhere you’re not supposed to be, now’s the time to get the hell out of dodge.

Retreat, regroup. Upon returning to the Bearings apartment block, the hosts will find that two of their previously comatose friends have woken up: Hux and Aoba Seragaki will probably need to be briefed on the current situation.

     I. THE ROOM WHERE IT HAPPENS
In the Regal Street Gaming Parlor, a pulse flashes. Electronics sizzle. A fight reaching rhythm is shattered and darkness consumes the parlor in its entirety. There’s something like a collective inhale - and then the panic sets in. Screaming. Pushing. Elbows in the dark and a wave of bodies forcing their way toward wherever they think the exit is. Parlors like this one are supposed to be shielded from this kind of problem, but today that doesn’t matter. In just a few short moments of panic, a bomb - basic compared to the one that blew out the Ven Diagram warehouse only days ago - goes off.

There’s a buzz. An electrical hiss. In the wake of the explosion - in the wake of the agony of Anakin’s death -, the parlor’s fire systems go off flooding the upper and lower levels, the spectator balconies with flame retardant powder and coolant. The emergency lighting kicks on, throwing the carnage into stark fluorescent light. The probable intended victim has escaped, along with his entourage, but there are plenty of wounded - groans and weeping permeate the chemical stale air. In addition to Anakin, three people have been killed and two androids have been rendered into scrap by the explosion. Countless others could use help; maybe even a few other hosts have been wounded by the blast.

     II. MEANWHILE...
If you’re part of the infiltration team, you’ve officially overstayed your welcome. Security tightens to a chokehold; if you’re somewhere you shouldn’t be, it’s time to leave. An alarm blares through the development laboratories. The building is evacuated and then sealed throughout. The powerlifts cease operation. All networked systems go offline.

     III. FROM THE JAWS OF DEFEAT
Back at the parlor, the evacuation continues. The parlor is half-collapsed, there are injured to tend to and local authorities to deal with. In a matter of minutes, the the parlor is swarmed by public security and medical personnel. If you’re able bodied, you’re welcome to assist with rescue efforts - or try to find a lead on who could’ve been responsible for this. Some evidence, some sign - anything to make this worth it. During this time those with Kun Adetokunbo will have the chance to make their case.

It’s a long, protracted clean up and triage; it’s absolutely possible that some of the infiltration team members might make it to the site of the explosion to assist or care for their friends. 

     IV. WE TEND OUR WOUNDED, WE COUNT OUR DEAD
In the early hours of the morning on Day 023, the hosts limp back to Bearings. Maybe it should be achingly quiet, but it’s not - there’s a murmur of activity in the mental air as Hux and Aoba muddle out of their way from out of their comas. From here, it’s up to to the hosts to recover, to discuss how they want to proceed, and come up with a way to recover from this setback - and from Anakin’s death.

---

((OOC NOTES: Here it is, your wrapup log for the event! You may have noticed that the Hosts didn’t succeed at the Ven Diagrams infiltration. We thought this was a better way than asking everyone to handwave a huge amount of plot or simply having the NPCs get the evidence. Don’t worry though - there will be other mysteries to unravel soon. Very soon, in fact.

There will be an NPC top-level for the escape with Kun-Kun, but otherwise you’re free to make your own top levels! If you have any questions please feel free to ask them in the event OOC post.

Thanks everyone!))

NAVIGATION • SETTING • FAQ • MOD CONTACT • GLOSSARY

( CODE BY WHAMBAM )

Comments

bellamy blake.

[deployed]

ii. | CLOSED TO INFILTRATION.

A. )

[ The shock of pain nearly lays him out. The sensation of burning, the rising scream of agony, and then then, unexpectedly, nothingness. In the wake of it comes the realization that there's something, or more importantly, someone missing. That void tears at him, has him staggering a step to lean against the wall even as the alarms begin blaring overhead. The buzz of the hive in his head, Angel's voice warning against being caught out, it comes from a great distance and Bellamy doesn't immediately respond. He's never felt death like this, in his head, vivid and all consuming. It rattles him, even if he can't afford to be rattled in this moment. The moment he takes to regroup is a mistake. Bellamy pays for it immediately as a guard rounds the corner, eyes widening as he sees Bellamy.

There's a single burst of thought, unchecked, telegraphed outwards: Fuck.

It's Mount Weather again. The ensuing scuffle is immediate, vicious, and relatively silent. Bellamy has two hands on the man's throat when it happens, when something tips and flows out of him, and the skin beneath his fingers goes mottled and black. The burn spreads and the man crumples beneath him, rolling over to vomit. Bellamy shoves away from him, staggers back a step. Still doesn't run, even though he knows he should. Did he do that? Was that him? ]

The hell?

[ As if the man at his feet could explain. Bellamy's skin's gone clammy, temperature rising, but he passes it off as an aftermath of the fight, rather than blowback from what he's just done. It couldn't be related, as far as Bellamy understands. ]

B. )

[ The alarms don't cease. By this time, Bellamy's pale, unsteady on his feet, running on sheer stubbornness. His thoughts circle around and around to the dropship and that first bought of sickness, of being dead on his feet and coughing up blood. This is something different, but it drags his memories back around to it, compounding the misery of Anakin's loss. It's not crippling, not yet, but he's pushing on through sheer, dogged commitment to getting out, back to the Bearings. (And because he knows that being caught here isn't an option, even if all he wants to do is sit down and maybe throw up again.) He reaches out with his mind, catching at anyone who'd entered the building with him. ]

( How many are left here? We don't have much time left. ) [ Then, maybe a little shamefully— ] ( If anyone's nearby, I can use a hand. )

[ He'd make it out, one way or another. But if he meets someone else in the hall, Bellamy isn't sure how that encounter would go. There's a clear sense that no one should double back for him, telegraphed through his thoughts. Help should only come if it's convenient, and he'd make do without it, if not. ]

iv | THE BEARINGS.

A. )

[ The sickness doesn't abate. Alone in his room, Bellamy looks at his hands for a long moment, uncertain, before sitting down with a groan and stripping off his jacket, unlacing his boots. It's a laborious task; Bellamy's strength is gone, burned up by the fever, but at least he doesn't feel the urge to vomit again. It's a small reprieve. Bellamy still doesn't quite understands what this means for him, but he's going to try to ignore it for the moment. Which entails an attempt to collect himself, suppress the outward evidence of illness as best he can before facing the fall out of the bomb and Anakin's death. He sheds the sweat-soaked t-shirt and bows forward, face in his hands, elbows on his knees, and tries to breathe through the sense of weakness and fear. Company isn't in the cards, but he left the door ajar on the off chance anyone wanted to speak with him. ]

B. )

[ Eventually, Bellamy emerges from his room. He's uncertain how much of the pull is the need to be near the rest of the nest right now, but as his instincts support the need to convene and at the least, discuss what happened if not consider how best to move forward, he acquiesces. They failed in their part of the mission. A bomb derailed the rest of it. The urge to retaliate is strong, but Bellamy doesn't trust himself to voice it. Right now, he's really just here to listen. At some point, he's probably going to dip out to go throw up, because the aftereffects of his power are just that awesome. ]

iv a.

[unsea]

[ The world contorts, when Bellamy returns to the barracks.

Caught in the middle of his own need for solitude, to gather his thoughts before dealing with the next state of their mission, he doesn't recognize the twisting of his stomach and the urge to vomit as not his own. For a moment. He doubles up, draws in a deep breath -- and immediately narrows his attention on Bellamy's presence among all the rest. He comes upon him, after a brief investigation, in his room. Wan and ill, and in this moment, the Darkling is glad to have cleaned up first. ]

Easy, [ he murmurs. Bellamy should know it's him, but he lends his voice to the identification. ] It's only me.

[deployed]

[ Traitorously, his body registers the Darkling's presence as a balm. It's reassuring, even though Bellamy's trying very hard to keep those sensations isolated. ]

Are you okay?

[ There'd been blood. Bellamy had the impression of it, half-formed in his mind. He doesn't want an audience to see him feverish and lethargic, but he doesn't push for the Darkling to leave. ]

I know it was bad, at the match.

[ He didn't need the full scope to realize the extent of the damage. They'd lost a member of the nest. Bellamy knows just how bad things can get when a bomb goes off. ]

[unsea]

It wasn't the first attack I've been through. Nor the first loss.

[ An understatement; he's angry, he's reminded of the loss he'd felt just prior to leaving his world. All of the fighting he had done, he had thought it would be cathartic. It had been, until the fight with the champion. And then, it had become a chore. The world had been reducecd to blood and fire. He's doing his best to put it behind him, with new bandages and freshly washed hair. ]

You're ill. What is happening?

[deployed]

That doesn't make it easy, [ Bellamy protests, though what does he know? Maybe it does. Maybe someday this wouldn't feel as if he'd been gutted.

But the question posed isn't one Bellamy has an answer for yet. He looks up at the Darkling, thoughts offering up the memory of the man he'd struggled with, the skin beneath his fingers turning black as his body had crumpled to the floor. ]

I don't know.

[ But he did something. He doesn't understand how, but Bellamy knows he'd managed to inflict illness on that guard, and now himself. Somehow. ]

[unsea]

Oh, [ he breathes, as Bellamy offers him the memory. Vivid, as though they are his fingers around the man's neck. His stomach clenching, his throat convulsing. It makes him feel ill, too - sharing in that, and before he joins his pseudo-sibling in such a state, he pulls back abruptly. Settles to his knees with a small wince, in front of Bellamy, and reaches out with his once-more gloved hands to lift the young man's chin. ]

Have you thought of seeing a doctor? I believe we have on on reserve, for moments like this.

[ Whatever he went looking for, in the symptoms of Bellamy's illness, he leaves him for a moment to raid his adjoining bathroom. Comes back with a damp cloth and nods to the bed, lie down, he's silently urging. ] Or maybe, you could speak to Carata?

[deployed]

[ He's making the Darkling sick. Bellamy can't even muster an apology. The connection feels like a balm, even though right now all he's doing is dragging the Darkling along with him to experience this miserable sickness. ]

I don't want to speak to Carata.

[ Their last conversation hadn't exactly gone poorly, but Bellamy isn't ready for a second round. He's in poor shape, and his impulse control is shot. The chances of him saying something unfortunate would be high. You lash out, Octavia had accused, and he knows she's right. He sees her face so clearly for a moment, first spitting anger in the firelight, then again leaning over him, her hand on his chest as she mopped blood from his mouth and swept sweat-soaked hair off his forehead. Bellamy groans, looking up at the Darkling for a long moment. His gaze moves from the Darkling's face to the cloth in his hand, skeptical, before capitulating to the slight pressure emanating from his broodmate. ]

Why did I see so much blood?

[ Which is perhaps an attempt to circumvent questions about Octavia, but Bellamy knows he's not soliciting an easy answer. Something terrible happened. He could feel it. ]

iv b

[sizeofyourbaggage]

[ Bellamy might not be in Sam's brood, but that doesn't really matter. Even if he wasn't another host, part of the team, someone ducking out of the room looking that ill just isn't something Sam can ignore. Besides, the guy's in Clint's brood, and with how much he and Clint have been in each other's heads lately - well, it's worth something.

And maybe he feels a little guilty, for back when shit had gone down while they were infiltrating. He'd heard Bellamy's call about needing a hand, and even though the guy'd made it clear that no one should double back to help him, Sam still feels like he should have gone back anyway.

Spy shit was a hell of a lot harder than being a PJ or even being a superhero, when he would have gone back for Bellamy no matter what.

So now he heads out of the room after Bellamy, movements just a little stiff from his injuries. ]

Hey, man. You need a hand?

yeeeee

[deployed]

[ Sam's almost familiar. He's plucked pieces of him from Clint's thoughts, flashes of memory encompassing cities and weapons and battle like Bellamy had never seen. He isn't expecting Sam to come after him, but he stops when spoken to, turning to face him directly. ]

Do you?

[ Noting the way he's moving. That part isn't unfamiliar; Bellamy's nursed enough physical traumas to recognize their presence in someone else. However whatever other snappy commentary he might have followed the question with is circumvented by the queasy swoop of his stomach. Bellamy swallows in response and immediately regrets it. ]

It's not—you can't help.

[ He doesn't have enough hair to need it held back, but the offer's appreciated. At which point Bellamy shoves open the bathroom door. The idea of company is humiliating, but he doesn't have the time to make the point any clearer. ]

[sizeofyourbaggage]

Nah, that was my own damn fault.

[ He says it with a smile, somewhere close to casually self-deprecating, an attempt to brush off the subject that might have been a lot less obvious if it weren't for the connection of the hivemind, and the vauge mess of uncertainty and unsatisfaction boiling under the surface.

Which is cut off by the echo of nausea, as Bellamy starts for the bathroom. It'd be far from the first time that Sam crouched by someone's side like this, and he knows there's other things he can do to help than holding back someone's hair. But he doesn't want to humilate the guy if he doesn't want company, so Sam hangs back, lingering in the hall.

And reaches for the mental link instead, mind brushing against Bellamy's. ]

( Might be able to, actually. It's kinda what the symbiote thing does. )

[deployed]

[ There's an affable quality to Sam that registers even through the nausea. Bellamy feels the brush of his mind even as he wretches, heaves and expels bile. He coughs, disgusted, as he straightens up. There's nothing left to vomit, but that doesn't dispel the urge. ]

( What's that mean? ) [ The query is accompanied by a shock of cold water hitting Bellamy's face. ] ( It can do what? )

[ The symbiotes are still something Bellamy's piecing together. He isn't sure whether or not to take Sam up on the offer, but he is at least interested enough to ask. He turns, water dripping down his chin, and shrugs as he exits the bathroom. ]

Sorry.

[ And he sincerely is. He's making his whole brood sick. Whatever transferred over to Sam, Bellamy feels badly over it. ]

[sizeofyourbaggage]

[ Sam leans against the wall, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, nice and slow. He's almost regretting not paying attention to one of his old colleagues back at the VA, who use to ramble on about anti-nausea acupressure points. Still, he can keep himself calm, trying to project it out like he had when Barnes was freaking out on him. ]

( It can heal. )

[ He quirks a little smile when Bellamy comes back out. Now would be around the time that Sam'd ask if he was feeling any better, but, well. Kind of unnecessary, when Sam can more or less feel for himself. ]

I'm the one who's still hanging around here. Just doesn't feel right, not to try to help if I can.

[deployed]

[ There's steadiness to Sam that Bellamy can't help but respond to. He soaks up up in spite of himself, latching onto the projection of calm as he leans against the doorjamb. Sam can heal. Bellamy's sure that's somehow fitting, though what does it say him and the symbiote he's acquired? Bellamy makes people sick. The truth of that makes him uneasy. ]

It'll pass. I just have to wait it out.

[ The balance of the punishment feels fitting, or even light. Who knows if the guard he left crumpled on the floor is even still alive? ]

I'm Bellamy.

[ Because offering his name to someone who he's possibly projected nausea at seems the least he can do. ]

ii-b

[nirsighted]

( Keep going. )

[There's something bright and sharp under the words - the thought: a hot flash of something like fear or panic, tempered into a shape that could almost be mistaken for something else. It sizzles, hums, a low-grade buzz intensifying with every step Bellamy forces his legs to take.

Nirad whips around the corner of the nearest intersection, his kit slung heavy on his shoulder and the powerglove access glove on his hand glowing a vibrant red. He's stricken, eyes wide and mouth hanging open around the air he's sucking down. It's obvious he's been running. Five quick strides and then he's on Bellamy, his un-gloved hand clamping on his arm.]

This way.

[deployed]

[ It's not the connection he'd been expecting. Bellamy flinches against the feedback, but obeys. Even in the haze of illness, the urgency of the situation can't be forgotten. He's not moving fast enough, and even with the increasing noise in his head, he still isn't certain that the footsteps he can hear echoing beneath the din are going to be friendly.

The sight of Nirad and the wash of red light from his hand provoke a single, hysterical thought in response: That's not exactly what I meant when I asked for a hand.

But the hilarity passes quickly. Nirad's fingers dig in to Bellamy's bicep, but it's reassuring. He grabs for hold in return, using Nirad to steady himself. ]

What about the others? [ He asks, even as he falls into step with Nirad. ] Are the others out?

[ Second to the apprehensive realization that he's going to have to keep pace one way or another without falling over. He's going to slow Nirad down. That's an unpleasant thought. ]

[nirsighted]

[There's a frantic mental pulse as a first response, something high and frightened like a bird's shrill call. Then it quiets, folds in on itself. They turn a corner into a clear corridor and Nirad tries to hurry him along.]

Uh. I don't know.

[Hard to say. Hard to focus. Think, think, think. They have doors to get past and a lift to get down and one hacked pass between them if they're lucky--] Oh. Here. [He fishes the badge off from where it was hanging by the lanyard around his neck and loops it over Bellamy's head.] There. Now you belong a little more.

[Not perfect cover; not even great cover. But at least it would get Bellamy through security if he got tangled in it.]

[deployed]

And you don't.

[ The protest is instant. Nirad may as well be a stranger but for the places their minds touch, but Bellamy's aware the lanyard around his neck makes him safer at the same time it lessens Nirad's safety. It doesn't sit right. ]

You should—Keep it.

[ Not that Bellamy's stealth abilities are really in top form right now. He digs fingers into Nirad's shoulder, swallowing against the urge to vomit. ]

You're leaving with me?

[ Assuming they get out. Bellamy's uncertainty about the alternative coalesces between them, unspoken. What happens if they catch us? ]

[nirsighted]

[A buzz of anxiety, flickering high under the moment that Bellamy's finger tighten and then quickly ratcheted down. Tied down. It's fine. They're fine.]

It's okay. I don't need it. [He means it, seems - no, feels - genuine. He'll be all right. No one will notice him. Not for long, anyway.] We can help each other leave. --Are you okay?

[He feels... not all right. Can taste some of that lurching seasick feeling through the thready link between them, but tries not to think about it too hard. If he does, they might both start feeling worse. It wouldn't be a good idea to, uh, leave anything behind.

Right. Okay. Not thinking about it. The corridor comes to a T-intersection. Nirad doesn't bother to flatten himself against the wall, just steps out and peers in either direction. There's a light blinking and a security terminal at the end of the hall before a set of double doors. They'll need to get through them to reach the lift, he thinks.]

Okay, we're good. No one's here.

[deployed]

[ The bleed of anxiety doesn't do anything for Bellamy's nausea. It wedges in his gut. He frowns, turning to study Nirad's face. Why not? Why doesn't he need it? But maybe he'll ask after, once they're clear. ]

I'll live, [ as far as he can tell, anyway. ] Let's go.

[ This doesn't feel like the stealthiest approach, but they aren't in any position to be picky. ]

This'll get us through the terminal?

[ Though busting through is also an option on the table at this point. ]

iv. b

[cognitived]

[ The death cuts through him; sharp, shearing, the paring away of flesh from bone. You didn't see that coming?, he thinks, dazedly. Blood upon his tongue, cold cold cold. The lose of another life before him -- not unusual, not a first, but this...

Even now, hours later, it clings to him. The phantom klaxon of the alarm sunders through him, paired with with the phantom spray of Pietro's blood, the sickening sight of Rhodes falling. It's been a long while since he's been cut down like this, even though the relative safety of Bearings is a surprising balm.

It could have been worse. It doesn't help.

Eventually, he descends from his perch, stalking through the halls on quiet feet. The nest pulls, but that's not what draws him forth. No -- Clint's long since vowed to never let something tug at his mind, use him. Instead, it's the growl of his stomach, the hollow growl of too much energy expended on an empty stomach. By the time Clint reaches the kitchen, he's not exactly open to companionship, but he doesn't turn away the gleaming press of familiar mind skimming by. ]

You want some?

[ He calls out without looking away. ]

[deployed]

[ Anakin's death has stirred up memories for so many of them. Clint's are faint flickers, things that catch the corners of Bellamy's awareness and vanish before he can pay direct attention to them. What lingers is the sense of hunger, which is at direct odds with Bellamy's nausea. He's not intending to stop in the kitchen and tempt fate, but he heeds the invitation.

Clint is a mystery. He's closed off in a way that Bellamy envies but can't quite manage to replicate. Bellamy drops heavily into the nearest seat, elbows braced on the table while he rides out the initial, queasy reaction to the smell of food. ]

I better not.

[ He's sick of vomiting. He's also sure everyone who happens to brush against his mind is also sick of it. ]

It's still not a good idea.

[cognitived]

[ It's not really hard to be a mystery when you spend most of your time hiding from the hive's press of minds. Not that Clint would say he's hiding, persay -- but what else would you call it? Generally speaking, he's only here to train, to snag something to eat, and to sleep in shifts. Its uncomfortable still. But the control, it comes from practice, from having himself unmade, unmasked, rewritten at another's behest.

Clint wouldn't wish it upon Bellamy. He wouldn't wish it on anybody.

He can't keep away forever, though, and this mission has dragged him close. The aftermath lingers, blood beneath fingernails, chest caving in on itself. The hunger draws him forth, keeps him close. Still, Bellamy's not wrong either. Clint's stomach twists, nausea briefly fighting the hollow ache for control. It's familiar somehow. A slip of a thought escapes before he can stop it; tears and red cheeks, tiny hands and a soft humming; soothing, healing, an ache that catches beneath his ribcage like hooks. ]

Mmhm. [ A placeholder of a sound, as Clint purposefully moves about the kitchen. Bread? -- Yes, into the toaster, even as he turns off the stove and plates up some of his own food. Grabs a glass and fills it with water. Quick, efficient movements, trying not to dwell. Would Laura be--no. The ding of the toaster draws him back, and Clint slides the toast onto a waiting plate. Turns and puts plate and glass before Bellamy before returning for his own. ]

Don't have to eat it all, but a little bit'll help.

[deployed]

[ The snippet of memory is oddly devastating. Bellamy's thoughts swing immediately Octavia, remembering being young and terrified and holding her in his arms. He recognizes the ache, feels the echo of it like a pressure over his heart. He'd always been some strange mix of parent and brother for Octavia. Clint had someone he cared for like that, and presumably missed. It cuts Bellamy at the knees, feeling that bounce back through the link even for a split second. He all but crumples into the nearest seat, elbows on the table, eyes intent on Clint's back. ]

It'll be a waste if I throw it up again.

[ There's something telling in the way Bellamy's overly sensitive about food, focused on how much, who needs to eat what. Lifelong rationing left it's mark. ]

But thanks. For this.

[ It was a gesture of care, punctuated by a memory he hadn't been meant to see. Gratitude felt like the least Bellamy could offer in return. ]

[cognitived]

[ For a second, for a moment, they echo. A twisting, looping, push-pull of agony. Clint's back tenses, stilling, even as Bellamy falls into his chair like a puppet with its strings cut. Silence reigns, as Clint unwinds, busy, busy. The tension still gilds his spine, settles in his shoulders, but he breathes through it. Settles down in his own chair and tries not to think about it.

Still -- he picks up on the hesitance in Bellamy's words. A familiarity with hunger, rationing, that throws Clint back to his early years. He doesn't let anything spill, guarded, guarding. ]

Maybe, but it can't hurt to try. [ A little nod, acknowledging. With one hand, he spins his fork, a vague pasta substitute awaiting him. He won't necessarily push, but he'll nudge. ] We've more than enough for everyone here anyway.

[deployed]

[ None of that was meant to be seen. Bellamy understands that without Clint having to say it. He walls himself off and in the aftermath and Bellamy doesn't try to bypass those mental blocks. Octavia's no secret, but Bellamy realizes that Clint's holding back his own...children, Bellamy assumes, because he isn't about to ask. He leans on his elbows, head ducked as he sweeps curiosity and the urge to commiserate aside. Both feel unwelcome. ]

I know, [ Bellamy admits, though knowing hasn't circumvented years of learned instinct. ] I've never seen this much food.

[ And he hasn't seen some of the food at all, but finding it unrecognizable hasn't put him off eating it. ]

Sorry for...this.

[ For leaking nausea all over the brood. ]