[closed-ish] all the way north on the train the sun

[polyphonos]

CHARACTERS: Cathaway & [Ilde/Prince/insert option C]
WHERE: Station 72
WHEN: Day :036+
SUMMARY: Catchall for Cathaway on the Station mid-Waypoint Shril and beyond; Cathaway and Ilde prepare a meal; Prince and Cathaway have a serious conversation over tea.
WARNINGS: N/A, will update as necessary.

[It’s on a chain and my father said
to me Don’t get too close I saw it was
staring down at each of our faces
one after the other as though it might
catch sight of something in one of them
that it remembered I stood watching its eyes
as they turned away from each of us]

((ooc: In or around the Station Day :036 or beyond? Drop me a starter or PM me for something. All threads will be set prior to the end of Mission Waypoint Shril.))

Comments

[somnifacient]

[Noctis is tired in every way fathomable; mind, body, spirit. While he can school his body language to appear otherwise (walking tall, pressing forward), this mind is not so contained. It softly oozes uncertainty and guilt, exhaustion and impatience in equal measure, through every open fissure. Frustration rises more prevalently in this moment, because he's trying to remember -- a recipe that he's watched Ignis prepare, time and time again. He had been too (lazy, unwilling?) complacent to really learn all those years ago, but it looked easy enough. How hard is it to prepare a tomato and egg stir fry?

(Proof of how incompetent he is in the kitchen is evident everywhere. Scattered utensils, messily diced tomatoes (or some equivalent), a stovetop that he's ignoring for now because why not save the scariest part for last?)

He's focused, so much that when he attempts to crack and egg into a bowl, Cathaway's voice and presence almost manages to startle him. Out comes the yolk and the whites into the bowl... along with a smattering of eggshell, and his fingers feel particularly messy now.]

Agh, damn it... [He mutters, then turns to look at Cathaway from over his shoulder, still vaguely surprised. He eyes the fruit that hangs from her arm with muted curiosity, but focuses instead on her question without sounding too embarrassed.]

Yeah, just... making some food to recharge.

[polyphonos]

And you came all the way back to the Station to do it? Are there no kitchens on the Waypoint?

[There's a mild sliver of amusement there, layered in the shape of the words and under them. She smiles as she steps through the doorway and moves to set the basket on the counter. Clearly, it's more of a hypothetical question than it is something she cares to know the answer to. The one that follows, though--]

Are things starting to make sense yet?

[Less hypothetical. She opens a drawer and retrieves a long, dangerously slim knife from it.

Evidently she has no comment for his cooking ability - no need to add insult to injury, after all.]

[somnifacient]

[He can sense that's a question of the most hypothetical sort, and while he gives no answer to it as a result, to Noctis it's obvious why -- the Waypoint is swathed with far too much noise and chaos. Here, at least, in the quiet control of the Station, he is afforded an uneasy peace. While the young king finds the stillness a bit disconcerting, it's far more preferable in a multitude of ways.

Noctis crosses over a short distance to wipe his hands on something reminiscent of a tea towel. His fingertips still feel sticky from egg whites, and he can't help but rub them together critically. It's only the glimmer of a slender knife emerging from a drawer that draws his attention away from the minor annoyance.]

No. [Honest, at least, if not incomplete.] I understand technically what's happened, but if you mean still trying to wrap my... head around being part of this "Nest"...

[Then no. It doesn't make sense. Another person's thoughts and emotions shouldn't be shared so readily; he shouldn't share his own so readily.]

I'm still working on it. [A beat, and a complaint:] Everyone projects too much.

[polyphonos]

That's understandable. We remember it being difficult to adapt at first.

[She turns the knife under the glint of the light, then reaffirms her grip on it before she begins to carve the fruit from from basket free of its skin. She quarters the trimmed, brilliantly green flesh with an easy flick of the wrist.]

Eventually your mind will quiet and you'll come to see the mental overlap for what it is - an advantage in the field, if nothing else. But personally? We find the overlap liberating. [There's a practiced, simple warmth to the statement. It's gentle, curving like a summer breeze.] But we can't imagine this is really what you want to talk about either.

[somnifacient]

[Liberating? He seems doubtful of that, the way his mouth twitches into a frown revealing this much. To Noctis, in this moment in time, the mental overlap feels anything but freeing. It derails his focus, making it quite the opposite of advantageous.

All he can do is take her word for it. Cautiously, at any rate.]

Don't really have a lot to say. [Out comes the aloof part of him, the side that leans away from extroverted tendencies out of habit alone. Yet as he watches her separate the skin of the fruit from its flesh, a curiosity rises.]

What are you making?

[Well, rather, he knows it's just fruit but-- ingredients for something, maybe?]

[polyphonos]

[The first remark has her smiling small over her work, but she says nothing in response. Instead she moves on to the next fruit, skinning and quartering it as mechanically as the first.]

It's a dish from home. [From one of them.] The fruit is pureed with a liqueur and allowed to chill and age, then swirled in with a sticky grain. It's a dessert meant for a special occasion. This fruit isn't exactly what we need for it, but it's close enough to pass.

[Click, click goes the heel of the knife.]

[somnifacient]

[Cathaway uses the knife with a proficiency that reminds him of Ignis. Straight, even cuts. Mechanical from practice, an effortless movement. A long time ago, his chamberlain had tried to each him how to dice vegetables in such a way. Noctis had resigned himself to humoring the man by trying (not without a roll of his eyes), and the end result had been laughable at best. The vegetables had been sliced, but they were uneven and spread messily across the cutting board, and at the end of the day, the young prince ended up with a bandage wrapped around his finger to stop the bleeding.

A pang of nostalgia blossoms in his chest, carrying such a memory with it. He tries to return his focus to what Cathaway had been saying.]

And what's the special occasion?

[polyphonos]

[Practice makes perfect. She's had plenty: a hundred lifetimes worth of diced vegetables, chopped spice and cubed meat. Click, click goes the heel of the knife and she thinks nothing of it despite the bittersweet tang which blooms up the link between them from him.]

Our success. When you come back, we'd like to have a nice meal together. It's been a long time for some of the other fresh hosts and it seems like now would be a good time to sit down as a group. We'd like to celebrate something. And we think it would help some of you feel a little less... strange.

[This might all be perfectly normal for her, but she isn't blind to the fact that this is fundamentally alien for someone like-- well, him.]

[somnifacient]

Our success? [He echoes the sentiment back, and while it has a nice ring to it (an almost surprisingly novel idea), Noctis actually arches a brow.]

Not to sound ungrateful, because I'm never someone who'll complain about a "nice meal", but...

[Well, how to say this?]

There's a saying that you shouldn't count your chocobos before they hatch, you know.

[polyphonos]

[She turns the knife in her hand. Ots blunt edge shhhks across the cutting surface as she sweeps the pile of fruit to the edge of her workspace with a smile.]

We have a good feeling. But fair enough - we can see the benefit of pragmatism. It doesn't change the fact that most of you will probably return here and something will need to be done about the distance that has seeded itself between ourselves and the younger hosts. We would like to do what we can to make you comfortable.

[She slicks juices from the knife blade using the edge of the counter. A quick flick of the wrist, then--]

Can we ask you a question?

[somnifacient]

[At some point, Noctis remembers that he was making an attempt at putting together something edible too, and he moves to the bowl that he had cracked an egg into prior. A hand reaches out towards another egg nearby (cool and slick, he wonders what animal it came from), and he taps its shell against the bowl.

There's something paradoxical about Cathaway, he thinks. He feels uneasy in her wholeness, the way she keeps using "we", how her very presence is an entire web rather a singular thread. And yet, Noctis feels as if there's sincerity in her words, a thoughtfulness that he can find comfort in. We would like to do what we can to make you comfortable.

He's not always sure how to reconcile this, and so he just pushes it aside for now, something to be dwelled on at a later date.

The egg cracks, spilling yolk into the bowl. No shell this time, but sticky residue on his fingers just the same.]

Sure.

[polyphonos]

[She has gone momentarily idle, the knife still in her hand but grip loose and the point set thoughtlessly against her work surface as she watches Noctis crack the egg.]

Is a chocobo a lizard or a bird?

[somnifacient]

[He stops mid-reach for the towel again, surprised. He wasn't sure what question he was expecting, but it certainly wasn't that.

He actually chuckles a little..]

It's a bird. A big yellow bird. Sometimes black, but good luck trying to tame one of those.

[He tentatively offers an image of such a bird to her, if she'll have it. Big enough to ride, quick but easily startled. The sounds they make, kweh kweh. A puff of bright yellow feathers swishing in the breeze.]

You don't have chocobos where you're from? [It's something he never considered until now.]

[polyphonos]

[She's amenable to the image in his mind - soaking it up like a sponge touching water -, to the explanation, to his company.]

No, not quite. There are large animals where we're from-- ['We' but not Cathaway; she doesn't say it, but the sensation of infinite, unspoken clarity somehow prickles under the words--] But nothing quite like that.

[The knife is traded for a bowl, the diced fruit transferred there with a sweep of her hand. She fixes Noctis with a fly look and a half smile, all mischief.]

Is that why you're so bad at cracking eggs? Because they're bigger where you come from?

[somnifacient]

[He scoffs -- more an exhale of air than anything dismissive -- and does clean his fingers on the towel for now, averting his gaze to the task. Embarrassment is totally not kicking in, all right?]

Ha ha.

[But he's not offended at all. It won't be the last time someone remarks about his preparation skills, or a lack thereof.]

I wouldn't ever crack a chocobo egg. [He's too fond of them, they're too cute for their own good.

Wipe, wipe. He gently tosses the towel down, but doesn't look at her again just yet.] My turn. Can I ask you something else?

[polyphonos]

[There's a little flush of something in the air, the tang of citrus and an easy warmth of good humor as she smiles and continues her own work. Good. It would be a shame if all kings and princes were humorless.]

Of course. Ask whatever you like.

[Her mind is open enough to him. Why not? What point would there be in lying to him or anyone like him?]

[somnifacient]

[Even with the open invitation and good humor intertwined between them, Noctis still hesitates. He has a question, yes, but it's hard for him to put it into words properly. He only knows what he feels from Cathaway -- the sense of many being one.]

You've been with the Nest a long time now, right?

[A prelude to his real question, then.]

[polyphonos]

We have.

[Her answer comes easily, so instantaneous as to be a little thoughtless. At it's most basic, this is a simple question to answer.

Of course, nothing is simple.]

This one, the body Cathaway, has been a resident of the Station for fifty or seventy years. You'll have to forgive us for not having an exact grasp of the length of time. But the rest of us... it's difficult to parse. A long time.

[somnifacient]

[He tries to parse this in a way that doesn't bother him. Noctis finds it difficult, though a metaphor plays out in his mind -- many threads, coming together to weave into a singular entity that was all of them and none of them at the same time.]

Is that something that... naturally happens over time?

[The tiny spike of concern is easily felt from him.]

[polyphonos]

More or less. Which we mean literally even if it sounds-- [she pauses in her work and makes a wobbly hand motion, punctuated with a flash of a grin.]

Host minds drift naturally toward the Nest due to their connection to the symbiote. But the drift can be slow enough to maintain some sense of individuality for most lifetimes if the Host wishes it. Take the Prince, for example. He has been here the same length of time as us - as Cathaway -, and he is nothing like we are. But yes. Some measure of the bleed is inevitable.