[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]

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. ]

[wille]

[ To perturb the great mountain that is Kaji is an achievement befitting medals. A man who expects so little from the world and harbors such base expectations for mankind can rarely be caught off-guard, when the worst would confirm what he already knows and any aberration only a temporary relief from what's common. It is an equally worthy achievement then to sense the slightest seismic shift in his bearing, to see that even continents move and break apart and change. How much easier it is to see him when she isn't blinded by her own limelight, how much clearer the furrows on his face seem to her. Her gaze on him lasts for a few weighted beats, before she shakes her head. ]

I'm blabbering. It just feels like I drank too much.

[ Here, his plausible deniability. It is no lie to answer with an irrelevant truth, that as the vividness returns to her world, so does the migraine, a steady beat against her skull. She slips the tunic over her head and struggles into it like a creature made of eight elbows, and struggles with equal persistence to get her head out, face flushed and catching her breath afterwards. ]

Cover me with just the hood, and let's go.

[ryohji]

[ the symbiote.

a foregone conclusion, after his mind gets to replaying her response and over, trying to find the reason that would justify those words coming out of her mouth. misato was telling him truth, though his heart turns at the realization that he, perhaps, was ill-equipped to discern her lies from her truths, all these years later. to conclude anything else would be to assign her a level of secrecy that she'd never, she wore her lies next to her heart, on her sleeve, no, that was impossible. misato's request drags him back to the present day. he slants a sightless look at her, thinking, quiet until the pause between them becomes appropriately dramatic. ]

Right. [ though in lieu of covering her with her hood, he simply hands it over, dropping her socks and boots all the while: ] Wait just a moment.

[ stopping to arrange himself against the opposite corner of the shed gives reprieve and a moment to appreciate his conclusion in full. with his back turned to hear, kaji picks a wall to rest a palm against. he can't let it pass, and his head shakes in slow, deliberate unbelief.

the conclusion foregone, but everything else reveals nothing but a yawning chasm of unease. the pieces could fall anywhere. ]

Yabai.

[wille]

[ Something leaps in her heart when he withdraws, a primitive response to a fossilized scar. His leaving her isn't without its precedence, sometimes it's for just a day or for entire unexplained weeks, and her low expectations of him is rooted as much in reality as the greatest things she asks of him, that is, to stay. Well, they were both children then, honed experts at wounding each other, mistaking bloodshed for love, mistaking ache for love, mistaking tears for repentance. Sentimentality is so easy to believe, words shouted feel that much more truthful. So she doesn't want to deceive by shouting.

Instead she listens to the words in her head and dissects them, something to shift her attention to from the migraine creeping back along with the sensation in her fingers. He is displeased because she failed, that is to be expected, or he wanted her to fail and is appeased. He is frightened of the aftermath and her reaction, whatever it was she said about the boat, it repulses him. He is disappointed. He must first collect his reasons for coming back to her, and so he needs this moment, which she will allow him.

Meanwhile, she methodically slips her hood on, then her socks, one by one, then her boots, though she manages only rudimentary double knots on the laces. Then she sits on the floor, arms in a loose embrace around her knees, and waits. Ready to respond to his return. ]

Now?

[ryohji]

[ somewhere underneath this woman he is reacquainting himself with, there exists a budding version of himself, and kaji isn't sure why he is or how he exists or how to handle that person.

listening for her telling movement behind him cools the apprehension in his head and around his eyes but does not extinguish it. her one word request slices through the beginnings of composure, and he's due for an order he needs to obey. he picks himself off the wall, patting dust off his knees and whatever other grime accumulated since their fall. his shoulders square out. ]

Sorry. [ he thinks himself wonderfully skilled in acting according to his wishes at the expense of the people who suffer them. and this, his request and the consequences that followed, tweaks a nerve. ] Let me straighten myself up, and we'll go out together.

[ his clothes to be picked off the floor. he makes a short circuit around the perimeter, managing to convey an air of aimlessness even as no step is made in vain. if they sat in silence for days, speaking another word would be too soon. it's just like him to breach the stillness, hood halfway around his head: ]

You're probably wondering, what that was all about.

[wille]

[ As soon as her state allows, Misato embarks upon a detailed reconstruction of the disaster to pick apart its components and pinpoint the exact moment it fell apart so that she may know what to blame and how to learn from the mistake. But all the signs point to a doomed endeavor. It is misguided from the start, like her seeking to distance herself from her father when what she sought was a shadow of him in every facet of her life, like this building of walls between them when what she wants is for there to be none. The failure is sobering, and she's committed to not letting it go to waste.

Her reply comes quick on the heels of his question, breaking the rules of civil conversation by nearly cutting him short. ]

We all find some way to get what we want, no matter how much we say we don't want it. I'm not that good at lying to myself.

[ Both the blame, and the glory that slipped her fingers, were hers. None attributable to him or anyone else, not even the symbiote. That is to say, she never wanted the gambit to work, that's why it didn't. She always wanted to step into his mind, and so it happened. She shakes her head, dropping her gaze to the gloves she now tugs onto her fingers with the frustration of someone trying to unknot an impossible tangle. ]

I said something that scared you. Why?

[ryohji]

Because you said something that came from me.

[ very many occasions in his life called for speed dressing. espionage goes faster when you can change out of one outfit and don another in the time it takes someone else to button their shirt to the collar. he pulls his gloves on in the manner of a surgeon preparing for the first incisions.

misato and her dramatic gestures. she's seeking for someone to blame, which he'd expected, but what he knows is she'd rather blame herself than something so incorporeal and abstract as the symbiote. she dealt in tangible things. accusation her velcro strip she must attach to a picture or image. if she wants honesty, he can treat her like one of his contacts, when applicable. ]

A little different, [ conversationally and very much preoccupied with the past three minutes. he takes her questions to mean she's feeling better, even as she quarrels with her gloves. ] but not in a meaningful way. So, that's why.

[wille]

[ Where he was allowed his surprise a few minutes back, her own delayed response now mimics his, an echo. He speaks so easily of the prospect of taking slices of each other's minds no matter how slim, how terrifying the prospect of no longer having a whole self, this one thing guaranteed to remain uncorrupted by others and corrupted only by her own hand, her own choices, her own will. Her fear stems not from the idea of her becoming him or having a part of him grow inside her like parasite, because both imply a wholeness that she can contend with.

What horrifies her is the idea of fragmentation, a weakening of the joints, until there will be neither him nor her, because she isn't sure if she ever truly mended from its last iteration. She abandons her struggle against her gloves to rush toward him, fingers still stuck in all the wrong parts, but workable all in all, enough to grab a handful of his robes to prevent escape. ]

And you. Did you take anything from me?

[ryohji]

[ ah, so that's how it is. it is not the idea of her taking from him, but him taking from her, that chafes down to the bone. addition of any kind could be tolerable, for the mere fact it expands the territory she occupies like a ballooning star. subtraction of any kind could not permit, like chunks of herself breaking off and leaving her thin, top-heavy, or cold.

or maybe it's simply the idea of him. him taking. him loving. him doing much of anything except giving.

somehow having misato finally cognizant of the risks, in all her agitation, feels like less of an improvement than kaji had hoped. he holds her unescapable gaze and stills under her unescapable grasp. misato's selfishness has a foundation, as loath as many people are to admit. ]

I have to say, I'm moved by your generosity. You're still as stingy as ever, so I don't think you have anything to worry about. [ a grim flicker of a smile crosses his mouth. the joke challenges her to mock the pace he's willing to move forward at. ] I wouldn't know. That's something only you would know.

[wille]

[ How like him to use the words generous and stingy to describe her in one breath without batting an eye. How like him to mean both and neither. She allows her shoulders to ease a touch, the grip on his arm releasing only at the very last, but her gaze remains fixed on him, his eyes. It is her words that she soften to take on his cadence and his volume, deliberate in the undertaking, the argument and the example in one. ]

We can stay up all night talking like we used to. Or say nothing, like we used to. But taking chunks out of each other's minds, well, it's a bit like cheating, isn't it?

[ To take his words and recite them back to him with a fresh coat of paint and her very own brand of grit, never taking the easy road. Medicine coated in sugar for easy consumption. It's not that she doesn't truly believe what she says, but that she wants to believe it only doesn't yet, and faith doesn't take root so easily in such arid and skeptical soil as hers. ]

I want you. [ Each syllable accented (I, you, want) so it won't bear repeating. ] We'll find a way to make this work.

[ryohji]

[ he nods visibly. yes, it's one thing that she understands the point at issue. but it's not everything. ]

Maa, ne. [ these are hungry words, both maa, ne and i want you. they have nothing in their stomachs, gutted of substance or meaning. well for someone who chooses to want, but wants were temporary. no matter how undefined their beginnings, wants always endured certain and unequivocal ends. wants said nothing about the thing wanted. wants were not value judgements. just about anything could be wanted by just about anyone. people want garbage. people want people worse than garbage. ] As long as you're alright.

[ but where his words float like hollow balloons, he likes to overcompensate with action. when she could trust him to capitalize on requests unspoken, to move things where they needed to go, this instinct takes his gloved hand up her robes with more casual deliberation than he'd felt his whole life. shoulder, stomach, between her legs. no matter what, he'd never leave it like this. it's not their way. ] Then, tell me when it's time to leave.