[mission: hyrypia] give me my scallop shell of quiet, my staff of faith to walk upon

[onemind]

CHARACTERS: EVERYONE
WHERE: Hyrypia - The Graze
WHEN: DAY :013
SUMMARY: A day of competition begins, and Hosts put their newfound skills to the test.
WARNINGS: Will update as necessary. Need a warning added? PM this account please!

THE GRAZE
DAY :013

A MOURNFUL SOUND passes across the Graze in the early hours of the morning: the mingling drone of the wind coming up across the flatlands and funneling into the depths of the Finger Maze. It saws, a tired, hollow constant noise. Carried with it up through the Great Flat are maybe forty visitors carried by a variety of carts and wagons, automated and incredibly austentatious live mounts. Apparently the events of the day are drawing a crowd from the surrounding farms and homesteads on top of the various diplomatic envoys already in attendance.

After a brisk, light breakfast the short blare of a horn cuts across the encampment. It seems it's time to saddle up.



I. THE SIDELINES
A CHEER SWELLS up from the assemblage of Rabadoceans as a team successfully completes their event. On a nearby platform, musicians takes turns striking up a series of fast paced, sparkling tunes and the tang of roasting meat is heavy in the air. There's a sense of festival in this that quickly becomes lively as the Hyrypians' official pleasantries cede encourage the Meradan's cheerful, competitive shouting and the Descendants'' entertained clapping and smiling. There might even be a few smiles to be seen among the typically grim faced Carpathan diplomatic envoy.

Get something to eat. Talk to a stranger. Make friends. Sabotage a competing team. Most importantly: keep your eyes and ears open. For every moment you might spend machinating, someone (or something) else might be doing the same.

II. THE SORTING
THE SUN HAS FULLY RISEN by the time the first event is ready to begin. There has been a constant bustle up until this point, people meeting up and splitting off again, members of Envoy’s checking in with each other, carefully discussing their strategies- or laughing the challenges off as a game. Now, all of the competitors are gathered together to be given their tools- the ropes and crooks of the Gryer wranglers- even as the spectators begin to gather at the edges of the large pen, some standing at the fences, other on long staggered benches along the edges. There are a flags strung up all along the fences and large banners fly from the outermost posts of the pen. When it is nearly time the teams are split- each of the members led to a different point on the outside of the pen, to the gates that will set them loose upon the false gryer within.

When it is time for the Hosts to begin, the gates are again reset, the Gryer are all released from their holding pens, and the spectators have become no less raucous. They’re so loud it’s almost hard to hear the horn that calls from the holding pen, but the gates that spring open in front of the hosts are signal enough for them to begin. They are afforded just enough time to make their way fully into the pen before the three Gryer are lit, scattered through the herd and still milling about. The clock- or whatever passes for a clock- is ticking, and the faster they manage the task- if they manage it- the better.

When it is over, the crowd cheers, either way- energized by the competition and the strong grassy flavored drink that seems to improve every Rabadocean’s mood.

III. THE MESSENGER RACE
A SERIES OF FLAGS marks the route of the relay race that runs along the edge of the outermost cliff faces - not that it's necessary. Spectators are strung along the sidelines that it might be possible to run the race using only them as a guide for where to go. The course itself is studded with obstacles - logs and ditches, stacks of brush and at least a few imposing walls made from coral harvested out of the Finger Maze. The riders of each team are dispersed along the length of the course toward the finish line, quiet and lonely (if you disregard the forty or so other riders from competing teams in your company) and waiting in the midday heat for--

The short burst of a horn. The first string of Elin and riders, each in possession of a ceremonial scroll, launch forward across the starting line. Hopefully. What would be even better? If they keep all their riders in the process.

IV. THE ELINMASTER RUN
THE FINAL EVENT comes late - so late that the sun is already beginning to move towards the high horizon of the clifftops, leaving a cool purple cast across the landscape as the competitors and spectators alike are gathered at the yawning entrance of the isolated splinter of the Finger Maze. Unlike the other events, there is no seating, no rows, no stretches of banners or strings of flags. The environment doesn’t allow for it. Instead there are ropes separating the milling crowds from the riders. There are no gates and no strict starting point; rather, there is an area the width of the entrance and forty feet behind it that the racers may begin from. A large number are clustered near the very front - eager but clearly at extra risk, the metal and rubber flesh of the Elin automatons pressed close enough to crush. In the stillness of the near-evening air, the anticipation for this event is more subdued. More hushed. It's clear that the majority of the race will not be visible to spectators or judges. There will be only a small party waiting at the end of the course, ready in the clearing to mark places, and no witnesses before that.

The most senior members of House Basittia stand on either side of the entrance, protected by the ropes and flashy in their officiator-wear. When the horn is blown, sharp and with very little warning, it echoes down the length of the waiting canyon walls. It echoes strangely, broken only by the sound of metal hooves pounding forward into the maze and out of sight.

The first challenge is immediate - beyond the wide entrance the canyon begins to narrow dramatically. Those who have chosen the front of the pack will be forced to either get ahead or muscle their way through the others around them. Those that have chosen to stay further back will find that the distance between them and the next rider ahead of them narrows. Before there is much chance to adjust to the new positions, there is the first obstacle - a ditch, narrow but sudden, ready to take the legs out from under an Elin that fails to jump. From there the course begins in earnest. A number of paths split off from the main line, each with their own challenges. Coral branches fallen in the path, others arching just over rider’s heads. The course is full of switchbacks and sudden turns and in places the ground is made of pebbles that slide beneath the metallic hooves of the mechanical beasts. The course narrows in sections, barely wide enough to allow one rider to pass, and as the race stretches on fewer and fewer are able to continue. Some riders simply fall, others are knocked off, others foul their mounts and end up as new obstacles for those behind them.

By the time the end is in sight - a large open clearing, the far end of which has a simple stage where the judges wait - many racers have been unseated and countless others have simply fallen behind. But for those who make it to the end, there is a note in an ancient looking tome and a ribbon to be tied around their wrists to show that they have completed their trial. They will linger there in the winner’s circle until the last of the racers trickle in. Once that happens, they will be allowed at a much more sedate pace to make their way out of the canyon and into the awaiting cheering crowd - into the beginning of night and the lighting of the great braziers and flames, the scent of a well-earned meal that awaits them carried across the Graze by the mournful sigh of the wind.

V. BEFORE, AFTER, AND BETWEEN
THE COMPETITION stretches long, each individual challenge met by scores of Envoys eager to impress or simply eager for something to entertain themselves with. But the day is made far longer by the time between the competitions which is filled with talk, general chatter, and some good- and less good-natured betting - all lubricated by a constant stream of the cool grass drink that’s growing rapidly more popular as the sun’s heat increases. There's plenty to do- and plenty to enjoy between the events themselves. People will have little trouble finding things to keep busy with. And after the competition is said and done there is dinner (of course), the great dining tents pulled open and even more crowded than before with the additional local color. It’s those locals, and perhaps the camaraderie born of shared experience, which seems to help encourage some of the Envoys to intermingle more than they have before.

Of course, not everyone is in a good mood. Some of the participants didn't perform as well as others. Bruised egos are as abundant as bruised bodies among some envoys... a potentially volatile situation considering the close quarters they share with other Rabadoceans who clearly think very highly of their own performances.

---

((OOC Notes: This log covers the competition events of Day :013 and any related sideline activities. You can find a full breakdown of the events/a place for mini-event specific questions HERE. Sign-ups will remain open until the next event log goes live, however going forward please make sure to either join the individual event or have a full team selected for the team events. Please be aware that signing up late won't give you extra time to finish your thread to qualify for the finale event.

Have more generalized questions? Drop them on the MISSION: HYRYPIA OOC POST or get in touch with us on the Mod Contact page.))

NAVIGATION • GAME CALENDAR • MISSION: HYRYPIA • FAQ • MOD CONTACT • GLOSSARY

( CODE BY WHAMBAM )

Comments

[ryohji]

[ that earns her a headshake, ruefully amused. he isn't amiss to notice her gasp, and she won't be amiss to notice the pointed delay between her gasp and his letting off. he knows better not to separate her from that which would pain and challenge her. to treat her with kid gloves was to commit a grave sin with karmic implications. judging from her attitude, one could conclude she'd been born in a dry dock, rather than a hospital bed, with arms and legs like landing pylons. ]

You'd have to find some way to go back in time and rewrite my history. I think we can both agree you're better off saving your breath.

[ always taking on the impossible, and nothing is more insurmountable than the reality warping gymnastics required to make him deserving. kaji thinks misato is better of speaking for herself. ]

Speaking of, and I hate to point this out now, but 'breath' is something you seem a little lacking in. [ this she will interpret as a challenge no matter his most concerned intentions. there is nothing he could do. ]

[wille]

[ She loosens the embrace of her pylon arms about him, enough to let her land firm on her feet flat against the ground, but not enough yet to let him take flight from her. That is intentional. He is right, anyhow, to tell her of the impossibility of changing the past is only to prompt her to think of how. ]

And you're the one wasting it. That's just not fair.

[ This is nice, isn't it? This is easy. Jests and equivocal repartee, a treading of the surface to avoid the treacherous depths where neither of them know what they might find. Acquaintances and new lovers rarely fight for this reason, when their meetings are conducted on a separate, neutral plane. A mutually agreed upon performance. She plants her forehead against his chest, feeling the wrinkled fabric of her hood press against her skin, the dampness of her breath against her cheeks. When she draws in a slow, methodical breath, it is to find him among the scent of dust and sand, the rising heat of the sun, her own sweat, the electric metal tang of the Elin.

She finds him, or thinks she finds him. What is the difference really? ]

Did you worry? Did it cross your mind that I might not be back, and for that time, did you like it?

[ Are you tired? Do I exhaust you? There are many different ways of leaving someone, few of them involve untangling himself from her arms and walking away. ]

[ryohji]

[ worrying about her amounted to boarding a plane and spending the flight fearing a coordinated computer system failure. technically plausible, but so unlikely that wasting the mental effort indicated more worrisome mental problems.

kaji had never spent a minute more worrying than perhaps was warranted, considering the precariously thin ice misato frequently found herself navigating. he felt no untoward anxiety leaving her alone with gaghiel as he jetted over the pacific and away. he felt no untoward anxiety as zeruel crashed into nerv headquarters while he surveyed the battle from the ground. the explosion at matsushiro had given him a scare, but even as he accelerated over several illegal lane changes it never once occurred to him that misato could die. a freak explosion, or heatstroke following physical exertion was far too impersonal a death for the likes of her. she'd either meet her end in a blaze of glory or she'd find some way, against every physical odd, to live forever. ]

Just because I said the words, don't go thinking of me as a different man. [ a man who 'worries' about her, at least when it doesn't count. ] I have complete faith in your capabilities, Katsuragi-sansa.

[ spoken like a true apostle. and as for the part about not liking it, the idea of her leaving and not coming back, she can just ask his twenty two year old self, when she meets him on her time-traveling quest to redo the past.

in lieu of a reply, one hands fall into hers: ] Just come with me.

[wille]

[ She untangles her arms and lets him take her hand, ready to go wherever he leads. He is her rudder, the hidden imperative, the one who whispers in her ear. The unvoiced did I do the right thing? is in her every word and gesture, he must know. It is only too simple when his wishes are said so clearly for her ears. Come with me, of course.

Now, a different man would tell her he worried, because her question is the kind that demands no other reply but a phlegmatic yes, dear. The need for assurance and its reflexive response. Hers is a blind man's bluff. A different man would tell her not to put herself in danger, tell her it would kill him to see her hurt, stand in her way and call it love when he meant to say control. A different man wouldn't know how to hold her, and for a moment she did wonder how a handful of words could mean she misunderstood him all along. So this was a reflexive response, to her need for assurance of a different kind. 

She takes one step away from him, close enough to keep their hands linked, far enough to conceal her face. ]

Then did you think of me without you? If I liked it?

[ Her voice is light, inquisitive, unlike her usual string of accusations. Like a child asking him to explain the workings of the universe, pleading ignorance of the weight in her words. ]

[ryohji]

[ does she know that when she steps in front of him so that the front of her robe is concealed from his view, he is just as much concealed from hers? and in a contest of who is most concealed from each other, he walks away with the prize, because while he has the sure confidence of her back to follow, she only has the sound of his voice.

a voice which laughter threads through, a laugh which imparts a quiet deal of ambitious unambitiousness. ]

That's more like it.

[ after all, she's the type to seek immediate replacements for whatever, or whoever, she's lost. in this way of hers nothing about her original mission, and no one ancillary to it, is lost in full: just sublimated into something - or someone - else. a line of matryoshka dolls, each succession an increasingly simplified imitation of the original, key details lost to the streamlining process as the dolls must shrink to accommodate it. and wouldn't he know. ]

You've amassed quite the cavalry here. [ it's not about liking, no, thriving without him, a conclusion he's come to after careful, studious observation of her interactions with others in the nest. what's obvious is that she's spent the better part of her days without him building, developing, establishing, flourishing. and if that doesn't look like her brand of happiness - ] But I don't know anything about your time here, who [ or what ] you trust, what [ or who ] gives you joy.

[wille]

Jealous? It's not like you to ask for spoilers.

[ If theirs is a relationship built on interweaving moments, each conversation alluding to past instances, each meeting an act of parody of the other, echoes and mirrors, then this is the motif. She gives him no time to respond because she had done so for the both of them: I don't have that luxury right now. They were rebuilding too, back then, her unknowing and him knowing full well the precipice that lies ahead. Belying her words, she intertwines their fingers and holds on tighter. ]

Don't worry about the ones in my head [ She shows him the remaining in full form: the too-beautiful boy always half real and half dreaming, the weapon in the shape of a woman crass enough to make even her flinch, the undead man banking on an undead girl to show him life; then delivers her swift and sweeping judgment, immovable as a mountain: ] They only want me for what I can but won't give them. You know how it goes. And then, the rest-- [ The rest is hardly as crisp, when her mind muddles through the wheeling motion of Prince throwing her to the ground, again, a blonde girl as sweet as summer, a demon masquerading as a boy masquerading as a puppy, a kiss and the resulting guilt, Cathaway's eerie smile in the dark cockpit. ] Does it matter? I trust you over them.

[ She stands in place while tugging his hand along to get him to move. Come now. He's the one with somewhere to take her, isn't he? ]

You're wrong, besides. The answer is I didn't like it.

[ryohji]

It's not like me to be jealous, either - right? [ this they've perfected to an art form, defining each other for each other. this art form, like most art forms, concerned itself more with convenience than truth or fact. descriptions of things easier said than believed. ] Well, that's an answer to a question I never asked.

[ his imagination was the small, emaciated beast locked behind a cellar door, a beast with a ravenous appetite for questions that sounded better in his head than out his mouth. is katsuragi happy without me? was one such question, among a series of related questions, and misato now threatens to starve the beast dead by revealing to him the wheeling motion of her memories. he takes it like cold water from a shower head, eyes closed shut, mind elsewhere, unseeing. he sloughs off the glimmer of facial recognition, or the spark of temptation at memories that appeal to his more base insecurities. they only want me for what I can but won't give them. then what makes him different, then?

no, he would not prod. he will, however, take her lead, flexing his fingers to loosen the grasp she has on his hand - it's more inconspicuous that way. what he has in mind is a runty equipment shed from behind the wagons where he and pidge explored in full. ]

An answer that needs proving. [ proof was a strong word. the standard of rigor was high, any evidence must commend to make the argument airtight and conclusive. what he means to say is support. support, even for a moment. ]

[wille]

[ It takes walking a long road to become an expert in detecting the many forms rejection can take. The obvious no, the turning away of one's face, and in this case the disinterest, all point toward what seems to her a foregone conclusion. If facing harsh truths is a trait she boasts then the best she can do is hurry them down the fatalistic path, and if she prides herself in challenging inevitabilities then she holds on too tightly and strangles them both to death. Each become their own self-fulfilling prophecy.

She knows this, and thinks there must be a different way. Somehow. She lets his hand go when he wants to be free. ]

I'm telling you because I want you to know.

[ The key here: I want. Subsequently, what matters is for you to know what I want. And proof is a strong word, isn't it, especially when couched in need and rendered abstract and impersonal. An answer that needs proving, he says, rather than, I want you to prove your answer to me. The former becomes larger than the sum of its parts, larger than the two of them. Then, how to tell him that at the core of her is the conflict between the will to deny pain and the need to lay it bare? To be invulnerable or to be understood? ]

You can talk proof all you want, but will you look if I show you?

[ryohji]

[ if he let himself be rattled by every one of misato's indictments and insinuations, kaji knew, he'd be no different than shinji-kun, or even ritsuko, if she were only the type to be honest with herself. there were as many different conversational styles as there were people, but misato always seemed to prefer the 'sting like a bee, sting like a bee' approach, turning it into a precision tool in its own right. ]

Misato. [ kaji's voice goes from 'springly' to 'aspetic'. he trudges along forward, keeping conversation as he weaves them through racks and banner decked pavements. ] There's a reason why Shinji-kun disappeared after achieving a synch rate of 400 percent. That's because when our neural solitude is breached, when our minds are made public, you lose yourself in the process, and with the loss of yourself comes the loss of truth.

[ comes, of course, the loss of trust, of which he's not emergenced to say aloud. ]

Your mind is yours, and my mind is mine. That's why action is so important. It can bridge the gap only so much, but it's the only thing that can be trusted. And the only thing I'm willing to see.

[wille]

[ This is no battle to be won. It doesn't matter who fires the shots when they would both end up the losers. And she is learning, listening, committing his every word to memory.

It occurs to her that he beholds the world as impersonal, there without him perceiving it, where she entertains no other universe but the one shaped by her perspective. Her selfhood is an absolute, her viewing the world makes it real. And yet -- and yet there's a keen headiness that comes with the idea he speaks of, this loss of self, loss of truth, this doing away with the search for the self or the truth. It is an ache and a thrill, a great big inhale as one stands on the precipice fighting the urge to jump. She doesn't jump, tells herself it's just the temptation of a shortcut and not of oblivion, when what she really wants is a bridge from where she stands to where he is. Of course.

She distills his examples and reasons and elucidation to this: that action is the only thing he's willing to see. So then.

Through the stables and the wagons, the crowd dissipating to a undulating drone in the distance, she trails behind, letting the gap between them widen as her shorter steps lose out to his longer ones. It takes plain intuition to pinpoint the shed he's heading toward and a bit of cheating to overtake him with a few rushed strides at the end, all to steal the honor of shoving the door open. Her brute force sends dust to further obscure the murky interior of the shed, illuminated only by slants of sun slicing through its battered roof. She spares it no second glance before turning about to offer him a hand. ]

Ryohji.

[ryohji]

Ryohji-kun. Say it like how you would have, back all those years ago, when you sounded cute.

[ for someone who only moments ago spoke as if each word were weighed down by anchors, kaji was so often unwilling to entertain himself beyond the ends of his jokes, when he bothered to bother. underneath this particular joke lay a morsel of truth: that maybe they're better off taking it slow, dotting their i's and crossing their t's, ensuring they passed each stage with flying colors before moving on to the next one. he was no longer willing to skip any steps in the mad dash for love. if could be called that, anymore.

her mad dash to the door is regarded with a slow-to-grow smile; misato would be galled to know she'd treated him to the comical sight of drapes and cloth billowing in the wind. he takes her hand like a princess invited to the ballroom floor, taking pains to shut the door behind them. the shed looks just as he remembered it but the observation does little to ease his concern.

which brings him. he peels off his hood in a quick motion, relief palpable. ]

How good are you at that - putting up walls?

[wille]

[ The question then: can they afford it? She has structured her life into a series of mad dashes, seeking prepackaged intimacy in the form of an instant family forced under one roof or the keys to a motel room in all its manufactured eroticism, and back then, he should remember, her insistence on learning how to wield each other's bodies as if they had had years instead of a week. She mistakes his request for wanting the same. First the words, then his name, then this appeal to retreading the past when it has only been a few days.

She laughs, the kind that leaves no doubt as to how pleased she is with herself, tugging off the gloves off of the princess's hand to discard carelessly, followed by her own gloves and hood to reveal a severe case of mussed up hair. ]

Right. I'm good enough to keep you out, and give you a bad headache if you try to come in!

[ Now she can very well unfasten her boots one by one as any reasonable person would, but instead she tries to pull them off by the fake digitigrades, banking on physical might and sheer obstinance to eventually succeed. The boots are also tossd toward some undefined corner of the shed as she unceremoniously drops down on the dusty floor to massage her poor unfortunate feet. ]

Why? Want me to show you?

[ryohji]

[ a rueful headshake. he's had enough of his share of migraines, that's for sure. ]

That won't do, not by itself. Are you good enough to cover for me? Wall off the both of us from the outside.

[ then again, the idea of one mind successfully barricading at least twenty or so other minds from mental trespass... like attacking a hurricane with scraps of paper. then again, misato was habituated in the art of fighting hurricanes with scraps of paper and winning against all odds. skepticism was an emotion he reserved for other people, after all.

gloves first, then boots, then kaji makes good work on his outermost robes, unhurried in the manner of someone getting ready for a whole sunday of doing nothing. ]

How does this work, anyway? [ the ultimate rhetorical question, muttered to no one in particular. he smiles down the mess she's made of her things. at least, his mouth did. they had company the last time he'd been with her like this, but the lines separating us and them had been clearly demarcated. now he feels as though he is inviting them into his bed; cathaway's gaunt knuckles, her sleeted eyes peering at him from a shroud of darkness. ] I guess the days of privacy are long behind us. I can't believe I'm saying this, but I miss Section Two.

[wille]

At least we could trust them not to break the illusion of privacy.

[ If desire is built upon a reaching for something beyond reach and thus the illusion of possible attainment, then the accompanying illusion of sanctity matters just as much as the oft-repeated belief of being set apart from the mundane. This idea that theirs is the only real passion, the one truth in a world of lies, something sacred to be kept untouched by the rest of them. But really, really, it's fucking, it's just fucking. She finds herself demeaning the idea to corral her want so that the loss of it would hurt less, knowing he has every reason to withhold it and she can find no good reason to elevate it to such heights. So, how does this work. ]

I can't do that yet.

[ There is no way to lessen the resignation carried by her words and she frowns at the sound of it. When she rises to her feet, it is with all the heft of a soldier in full plate armor, and once she stands, she discards her shields with the same finality as she did with her boots, gathering her robes by the hem and slipping them over her head in what would be a flourish if not for the momentary snag against her elbows. She emerges, half victorious, in her bra and trousers, and throws her robes to the floor like a discarded enemy. Then she can step closer, enough to rake her hand through his hair until her fingers stop against the band. ]

Does it bother you? Because we won't be alone alone, or because you're not only yourself and I'm not only myself? [ And she is probing his face in lieu of his mind to find the point of contention that she can grapple with and resolve. ] I'll figure out how.

[ryohji]

[ fingers are seized as kaji casts one confounded expression at her rapidly approaching form. it was a simple and honest answer, belonging to someone who had mastered what misato hadn't made a habit of demonstrating - setting aside intangible problems without tangible solutions. resignation. it's an answer fit to convince him of his greatest fears.

they say you hate what reminds you most of yourself. ]

'I'm not only myself' is supposed to be a metaphor, not a literal description. [ he will appeal to normative statements about the world to distract him from what he's heard, from the hand she combs through his hair. that hand he blankets with his so that he could gently dislodge it. normal people say things like, "i can't do that yet." and it's not as if misato was above a bit of character building, at her age. and yet - ] I find that hard to believe. There's not that much for you to guard, anyway. Just my mind. [ joke or challenge? it's not his call to make. ] Have you ever tried?

[wille]

[ She shakes her head and extricates her hand out of his to fold in upon herself, an arm wrapped about her waist, her other hand draped over her shoulder to cover her nakedness.

He doesn't know what he's asking of her, this mantra she tells herself. He doesn't, can't possibly know. When she stares him down, down despite the physical reality of their respective heights, it is to impute upon him the best of intentions even through his obvious needling, this picking on her most predictable sore spots. She knows he knows her well enough to curate his words just so to incite her into action, and she thinks he is counting upon her seeing through him. To say have you ever tried is the same as firing the gun to start the race and she is already champing at the bit. ]

It could get a bit messy. So if it does, don't run off on me, okay?

[ryohji]

[ his eyes widen slightly at the pronouncement. ]

Messy? Messy, like Bellamy, I take it.

[ messy, like postwedding messy, hunched over alley pavement messy, wet newspapers ornaments and the distant train trumpets. for their want for tables, kaji circles behind her, footsteps sounding out like subterrestrial thuds. taking his position, not unlike the one he'd taken behind her when she'd vomited a night's worth of liquor worth eight years of disappointment. only when her can no longer see her face does he let his posture slump against her, thumbs finding their way to the jut of her scapula, massaging the muscles that move, collect strain like trophies.

she's well decorated, in more ways then one. her back, stiff. ]

Ask yourself, if that sounds like me. If that sounds like you.

[wille]

[ It's messy like swimming against an illogical forest to escape a wolf with teeth that glint in the dark, messy like breaking for air after diving into a medieval prison to find her eyes intact. The mind is a treacherous thing, she wants to say, most of all her own. But he has balked at enough of her negatives, and she would give him no more reason to doubt her, so instead she huffs when she rests her weight against him to let his fingers be her anchor when she begins with this idea:

If their minds are two rooms with the windows wide open then it's a matter of closing them one by one, which she does, to her own, only to find that his is the next house over that she has no control over. Now, if their two minds are bubbles on the surface of water, it is when the walls collide that they dissolve together to either form a stronger, unified bead, or collapse into nothingness -- this becomes an unwitting invasion -- here in the warehouse with the sun dripping through the roof, she feels the beat of a subterranean industrial fan against her back steadily eroding the pressure of his hands on her skin. And it is messy. Messy like needing to will oneself back into human parameters after disintegrating into a primordial puddle, like reaching for the end of a rope when one is without hands, calling for help without lips to speak with.

There's someone who hisses at the sudden stab of pain in the back of her head, someone who tumbles forward in search of solid ground, and her? She is still searching for herself. ]

[ryohji]

[ as with so many pivotal mistakes in his life, it all begins with mundane underestimations. he'd thought himself a bystander, that he could remain a safe distance away as she takes the plunge for the both of them, without fear of getting himself wet. a mere witness to her success, or even her failure, if it came down to that. and like many mistakes, what follows is the natural price.

he pauses amid his shuffling, his adjusting of his lower robes, bringing things in and out of line. he pauses though not by choice. the fusion of these two bubbles effects vertigo on his periphery senses. it assails his vestibular system. it's a dizzying loss of equilibrium as he struggles for a moment, wondering if she'd done something, wondering if he'd done something. then a realization that this woozy feeling is a consequence of hers, and comparatively infinitesimal at that. that these stray pebbles raining down his head is consequence of her burying under an insurmountable mountain, a mountain that looked to his bland ignorance so idyllic and serene. ]

Katsuragi, [ he reverts to old habits when she hisses and staggers against his feet, his brief surprise at her losing instantly set aside in favor of steadying her on flat feet. ] Oi -

[ he catches her by the stomach, even as he feels as though he could vomit on the plain of her back. hands, now balmy, seek for her face. ]

That's enough. Forget about this.

[wille]

[ There is no pain, only the impression of it, the idea. She knows that her reckless experimentation with an extraterrestrial being embedded in her brain has failed, resulting in a migraine that leaves her in cold sweat, teeth gritted to counter it, and when she reaches for the arm that catches her, it is to pull him down with her so her knees can make contact with the ground with a thud she can hear. The ground is flat, solid underneath her, and it's real. The sights and sounds are real, and yet it all lacks qualia. She senses the pain but doesn't suffer from it, the space that her body occupies a step removed from the space her self occupies and thus all this is happening to someone else entirely.

For some, numbness can feel so much like euphoria. She wants and doesn't want to hold on, stitch herself back to her limbs, maybe soon, just a minute more. Her face turned to him is placid as a pane of glass. She isn't here, in a dusty warehouse on an alien planet, no, she's in a silent room on a rocking ship where time stops as the world outside passes. ]

Tomorrow. [ It takes so long to command her lips to speak that she loses the meaning before the word is spoken. Tomorrow she will come back or tomorrow they will try again or tomorrow-- ] Hold me tighter so I don't slip-- [ down, off, away. ]

[ryohji]

[ the impact is mean to their knees, his still clothed and hers bare. he doesn't bother to cushion the landing to aid her search for bruises. there were psychiatrists capable of discerning the signs, but his experience-honed senses could easily outclass them all. within seconds of their land, he had processed the combination of sounds, sights, and the absence-of, into a likely profile of a woman becoming stranger to her body.

this is not new. he hasn't forgotten their early years. what going too fast or too slow would cause, what too much or too little alcohol would provoke, a stray memory or flashback that turned into something more. the cause may have changed, but that's where the novelty ends.

his voice is calm to her placidness, to suggest that if, in the following seconds, she dissolves into air, to be sucked up through the white-bright gaps in the wooden ceiling, all would still be right with the world. ]

I'm going to owe you after this, aren't I... [ he doesn't complicate the apology with details. what matters is that the words and their approximate order sound familiar, the meaning besides the point. there were many things he owed her. he'd find a way to atone for this, too, just as soon as he learned how, but for the time being... with one arm firmly snaked around her waist, what functions as his anchor throw, kaji extends another arm to grasp for her pile of clothestuff. he rapidly sorts them out by chronology, fingers curling on her undershirt and panties. ] Look, your underwear. I'll put it on for you now.

[ true to his word, he begins the motions of sliding the fabric through her legs, one foot at a time, even as it requires from him a limberness he has saved for squeezing through air ducts and bending out of a cargo lifts. they are folded over each other like pair of tetris blocks, anything to overplay the tactile sensation of skin, the organ that means to contain herself inside, the ghost in the shell. anything to overplay the tactile sensation of her clothes; he tugs the fabric more un-gently than otherwise warranted. ]

[wille]

[ Hers is a makeshift sort of survival, made of a Frankensteinian array of tools for repression and sublimation depending on which best serves her purpose. Stepping away from herself is useful when she needs resilience against fear and pain above and beyond what most can bear, in the same vein hyper vigilance is an advantage when she rapid-fires orders to react within windows measured in milliseconds. Her skin turns into armor or the most sensitive of instruments, and time skips or slows down as she requires, see? If she can conquer even time, what could the past possibly do against her. This illusion of control is one she jealously maintains. 

Through a lengthy and delayed chain of command, she wills her legs to move to help him, best as she can to convince him more than herself. And she does, even if the tempo is all wrong. She starts and stops. I can walk the rest of the way, or however she said that, her toes curling against the cold concrete, the wind uncannily dead. That scene is as close to reality as the rub of cotton against skin, his voice now as distant as then. ]

Don't ditch me. [ Self-deprecation isn't his exclusive domain. She reaches a hand to his face to feel the sting of his stubble against her fingers and it might as well be evening, they might as well be back in Tokyo-3 or deep in the core of Terminal Dogma. ] And we'll call it even.

[ryohji]

You really are a low standards woman, [ even if the besotted nerv major wasn't willing to entertain such a possibility. she is demanding the least of him, whenever she isn't demanding the most. hoisting up the band of her underwear, kaji dutifully minds her other clothes; starting with her bra. ] You're going to let me off that easy?

[ he leads into her hand, allowing her to reconnoitre the lay of his stubble, overgrown and prickling like a neglected lawn. his own vertigo was residing in waves, but he knows better than to take that as any indication of her bettering or worsening state. he had no excuse. she'd informed him of the risks and he'd egged her on anyway. he may be schooled in suicidal mathematics, and be lacking of any self-preservation instincts, but that didn't mean he could subject her to the same wanton recklessness.

when he speaks next, the tone of his voice puts an end to any further lightheartedness. ]

How is it now?

[wille]

[ An old, familiar banter to which she has a collection of tried-and-true quips. None of which she can grasp in time, so she just hums in appreciation. He will have to settle for a muted smile instead of an exaggerated act of fury or a sharpened retort for now, and it fades just as quickly, settling for a barren gaze at the point at which her thumb strokes his jaw. ]

It's like trying to write something on a swinging boat. I can't get my pen on the paper. [ But she can clasp her own bra in one try albeit with the slowness and care required of a surgical maneuver. It's only a matter of applying oneself to the effort, full tilt. ] Don't worry. I'll be okay.

[ It's not as bad as it seems, and it makes no sense besides. She tries to shift her weight to her feet, hands pushing against his shoulders for leverage, and through great effort and sheer obstinance, mostly succeeds. Enough, at least, to present a convincing request for him to hand her the next in her pile of clothes for her to don on her own. ]

Don't give up on me yet.

[ryohji]

[ some of those points he'd deflect her over, some he'd take on the chin, but it's all moot now. the air wheezes out of his throat.

where the queasy feeling leaves, shock rushes in to fill the gap. open-eyed paranoia boils up, stirring his guts. her struggle to be vertical, aided by her hands propped on hs shoulders, can't stop kaji's head from whipping up. the link crimps with the sound of wrinkled paper, a page being torn off its perforated edges, the scribbling of a pen, a letter left in the bottom of the baggage. ]

What did you just say?

[ his ability to roll with sudden surprises hadn't waned, as he rises to a stand as she does, gathering the rest of her clothes in his arms and handing her the first of many layers of tunic. by now, his initial shock had already transformed into a healthy head of plausible deniability towards misato, coupled with a secondary look of caution and calculation, and maybe just a hint of self-doubt. ]