[mission: hyrypia] i am not there; i do not sleep

[onemind]

CHARACTERS: New Hosts & EVERYONE
WHERE: Station 72; Hyrypia - The Graze
WHEN: DAY :019 - DAY :020
SUMMARY: Somewhere deep in the void between multiverses, a fresh clutch of Hosts hatches; down on the planet Hyrypia, a Host is laid to rest.
WARNINGS: Mentions of character death, funerary services. Will update as necessary. Need a warning added? PM this account please!

STATION 72
DAY :019

NEW HATCHES
YOU WAKE UP and the universe with you in it is suddenly different. --No. That's not right. You're you, the universe is as it's always been, and there's no suddenly about it. It's been a while, hasn't it? It feels like waking up from a very deep, extended sleep or coming up from the darkness of some wine dark sea. Nothing is different and yet everything is.

Here you are, a small miracle of the multiverse: lying in a small, faintly hexagonal chamber with a gentle white light emanating from the surrounding walls. If you were injured during your escape, those injuries have been healed. If you were anxious or frightened or distraught, those feelings have been calmed. There's something peaceful about waking up here - like you belong. That feeling persists even as you find the tube running from the base of your neck to the compartment's rear wall.

But once the tube's disconnected? Things get loud. A wave of emotion fills that peaceful void - fear, uncertainty, relief, a sense of purpose or loneliness or anxiety. A matching dread. An easy comfort. Maybe some of these emotions are yours, but they can't all be. After the initial sensory overload, the mental buzz elongates: stretches out into a murmur like the sound of a party happening behind a nearby closed door.

You can sit up - barely -, and shift out of the pod. There’s a ladder at your feet and a little cubby just before it with anything you brought with you as well as a set of crisp, loose-fitting white clothes; while your injuries are healed, whatever you’re wearing is in the exact state it was before. Maybe it's time for a change? Drop down the ladder to the floor of the Nesting Deck and you’ll find you’re not alone. There are a handful of you here, somehow intimately familiar to each other.

Welcome to Station 72. Beyond this room it's quiet and still, feeling for all the world like a shell for some vast dark thing.

Eventually, a sensation manifests out of the black. It says:


PREPARE YOURSELF
THE VOICE IN YOUR HEAD is sound and sensation: a warm shaft of sunlight through smoky glass - a gauzy curtain twitching in some summer breeze. It says or feels like:

( Come meet with me, won't you? )

Where exactly this meeting is supposed to occur isn't immediately clear, but head in the direction that seems correct and eventually Station 72 gets you where you're meant to be: a circular briefing room with tiered seating, empty now, before a woman with a sheet of graying hair and something focused in her expression. It's been some time since she's spoken with a young host - since she's done one of this briefings. Apparently she's feeling something like her usual self. She smiles and it's very warm.

"Welcome to Station 72. Unfortunately, you won't be here long but we'd like to answer as many of your questions as we're able before you leave this place."

[ooc note: please see here for the catch-all briefing thread]


THE STATION
WITH A LITTLE UNDER 24 HOURS before it's time to make the trip to Hyrypia, this is as good an opportunity as you're going to get to familiarize yourself with Station 72 before you leave it. There's plenty to see, but a distinct lack of people to make conversation with. It's lonely and quiet and there's a sensation of dust gathering even where there is none. Maybe studying the briefing files on your databank is the most proactive distraction, but if not? Well there's plenty of places to get lost...

In the simulated morning, a strange archaic ship has arrived on the Hangar. Its very alien pilots unload two heavy trunks, then dole out a series of kits to the new hosts. One of them - the pale female alien who her calls herself Rhan - cheerfully announces, "Get changes and buckle in. I'm afraid we've some grim business ahead of us today. Funerals, you know. But chin up, my darlings. One uncomfortable day and then we'll leave the matter behind us. --Oh, but do be gentle with the others. I suspect they might be tender for a few days yet."

You leave the Station. If you're lucky, you might one day make it back.

HYRYPIA - THE GRAZE
DAY :020

THE FUNERAL PROCESSION
A SHIP DESCENDS from the iron colored sky early in the morning on Day :020. Before it even pierces the planet's atmosphere, its cargo should be obvious to the other Carbauschians: a new batch of Hosts, freshly hatched and just in time for the grim festivities.

The idea is simple: that they are part of a mourning delegation, only here to briefly oversee Lavellan's funerary rites. Luckily (...) there's plenty of comatose Hosts lying in the tents to trade places with the newcomers.

Better get to know your new friends quickly - there's plenty to be brought up to speed on (such as, uh, the recent death of one of the elder Hosts), and likely enough work to be done that the new spare hands are welcome. Or maybe the state of nothing-like-faux mourning is a good excuse for some alone time on a strange new alien planet. You're all so very, very far from home.


BURIAL RITES
THE FUNERAL has been arranged to the Hosts' precise specifications. Each and every single request they've made has been met, carried out by two soft-spoken, contrite Hyrypian servants who had come to them not long after their return from the hunt. Perhaps because the members of the other envoys are unsure whether it's permitted or welcome to attend, the site of the funerary pyre is hardly full to bursting with onlookers. Or maybe the burning of corpses goes against some obscure tradition. Or maybe some of the minor envoys simply don't care much and think the Carbasuchians are best left to their grief alone. Still, while it's hardly the entire encampment in attendance a notable selection of diplomats and their respective entourages and several of their Hyrypian hosts have turned out for the ceremony. It seems the Descendants in particular have turned out in some force, including the very hunter saved by Lavellan's quick thinking.

When the time comes for the rites to proceed, it's left to the Hosts to light the fire and say their farewells to their fallen comrade - the first and hopefully last to be lost in this strange land.


A SOMBER CELEBRATION
ASH SCENT HANGS HEAVY STILL over the encampment. Or maybe that's simply the perception - after all, the breeze still blows in from over the Great Flat. Surely it's just a memory of the smell which lingers, as circumstantial as the mournful note the wind sighs as it cuts across the Graze and into the tangled Finger Maze.

However, matters of the universe don't pause for the tragedy of the loss of an envoy - and there is so much riding on this Pilgrimage. To their credit, the Hyrypians have done all they can to provide for the Carbauschians in their time of grief (including a visit from the Matron Bassita herself, pale and full of sympathy and apologies), and as evening falls what clearly was meant to be a carousing party to celebrate a successful hunt and completion of the Pilgrimage's first stage has been considerably tempered.

The drinks still flow; the food is still plentiful, rich and lavishly spiced - but the music being played is soft and careful and of the hundreds of small technomanced insect lights the drift over the encampment tonight, a considerably portion of them are dedicated to lingering around the charred skeleton of the funeral pyre as a sober acknowledgement of what has come to pass.

Give it a few hours and maybe the mood will lighten slightly. On the other hand, there's nothing like an uncomfortably close tragedy to bring people together - and as Rhan suggests, maybe now's exactly the right time to ask a few pointed questions. Or to get hammered with new friends. Or to take a nice long walk while everyone else is consumed by the muted festivities.

---

((OOC Notes: This log covers the hatch, the arrival of new Hosts on Hyrypia, the funeral of Lavellan and the supremely awkward dinner party meant to wrap the first stage of the Pilgrimage. Feel free to make your own logs and posts additional to this if you care to. You can find a more detailed overview of the host hatching process HERE and additional setting information about the Station HERE. Please be sure to review the MISSION: HYRYPIA ooc information if you're brand new to the game. If you have any questions, please hit up either the mission's question thread, the FAQ or MOD CONTACT pages!))

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

( CODE BY WHAMBAM )

Comments

briefing catchall | day :019 | ota new hosts

[polyphonos]

((ooc: This is meant to function as a group thread with no designated posting order - pile in, tag when you're around, leave when you need to and hop back in as you're able/desire. Please try to keep this in one nested thread as opposed to a bunch of different starters; in the case of two people tagging at the same time, just reply to the bottom comment as if they'd been done in order etc etc. Please let me know if you have any questions!

If you'd rather a one on one thread between Cathaway and your character, feel free to drop a wildcard prompt as a reply to this toplevel.))

THE BRIEFING.

[Once everyone who's likely to show up does, the woman at the center of the briefing room produces a small, credit card sized piece of apparently plastic from the draped folds of her dress. She unfolds it into a cube and places it the center of the waist high pillar beside her and a moment later, fields of data are projected into the air above it. They are long, scrolling lists of text - a series of drawings and images of a nearly barren world, some strange architectural formation, creatures that are humanoid but only just--]

Now, before we dive straight into the work-- How are you? We assume you have some general concerns that may need addressing to begin with.

[justttkidding]

[ There's about a thousand emotions running through him all at once. It's– uncomfortable. Like grazing over a still healing wound. But just as he does with everything else, November shrugs it off as much as possible, pushing through the confusion and sharpening his focus on one thing at a time.

First in the order of business: get some answers.

He's ignoring the steady pulse of run, run, run that his Contractor instincts are shouting. Maybe that can come later. For the foreseeable future, he's here.

As a little group of unfamiliar (and yet so familiar) faces starts to come around, the mysterious woman unfolds a small card, information expanding out of it in an endless stream. November is staring at it intently, as he does with all his mission briefings, committing what he can to memory. ]

I feel like I've woken up on the wrong side of a bender, to be perfectly honest. [ And just like that, he's flashing a smile, all at ease. ] Are you a stand-in for our mum or sister? Aunt?

npc catchall | day :020 | ota

[onemind]

((ooc: Been wanting to have an IC interaction with some of the local color? Now's your chance to ask questions and make use of everyone feeling and little guilty about the death of a visiting envoy. Ask questions, press for information, get someone a little drunk (or take advantage of someone who already is to get some new intel). Make friends, or enemies, or small talk.

How this works: the world is your oyster. Write your character approaching an npc of your choice (literally, this can be anyone currently at this location - a bodyguard, a notable envoy, a second, the random guy carrying drinks on a tray, the young servant running a message, someone named or mentioned in previous logs/interactions, or someone entirely new. Write an IC starter for who your character is aiming to talk to/how they're approaching them/where they're finding them and we'll hit the ground running.

Please be aware that to accommodate everyone, our tags may be fairly short. We'll do our best to boomerang to be sure these threads are completed in a timely fashion.))

[There's nothing quite like a funeral to bring down the mood in the room -- or, you know, the entire encampment. What was originally clearly meant to be a boisterous evening of celebration to draw the first stage of the Pilgrimage to a close has transformed itself into a fairly subdued gathering. There's still music, but it's significantly less jovial; there's still plenty of deliciously spiced food, but those serving it are wearing their best sober expressions. On the plus side, what may have promised to be an evening of typically stale, clinically pleasant conversation now might afford the opportunity for a little more honesty.

Sympathy (or guilt) is a hell of a thing.]

( My, this looks like a golden opportunity - doesn't it? ) [Rhan's voice, pleasant and right there in your ear.] ( Better not waste it. If I'm not mistaken, we finally have ourselves some stakes here - someone out there thinks they're winning this thing and feeling very comfortable. And someone else is starting to worry and might do something very silly indeed. Why don't you go find someone and ask a few uncomfortable questions, eh? Never hurts to know who's getting a little desperate, darlings. Sometimes those people sing like birds. )

[greentech]

[ Despite her lethargy and muted sadness, Pidge is still trying to figure out how everything around her works. She can't really stop. None of them have the time to. She's been watching the camp and she's picked out a particular Second - one who seems young and enthusiastic and she almost (does) feel a little bad for the fact that she's going to have to lie to him, but she still ends up approaching him anyway. It's partway through the celebration, drink and food are flowing and even with the muted atmosphere, there's still a healthy buzz of conversation. She throws herself right into it, taking a free spot next to him, carefully balancing a plate of food in one hand and a (non-intoxicating) drink in the other. ]

Oh, uh, hey. You're... one of the Seconds, right?

[ Good job, Pidge. ]

tries not to tl;dr, fucks up totally

[shri]

[ She holds her silver prayer plate through the whole ceremony, mild murmured as she walks through the crowd in even steps, offering the same wordless movements to anyone that stops her - to be mysterious, at least, comes easy. Easy to be removed, when the grief is still so thick. But from where she stood to begin with, to where she walks now, it is not so mysterious as all that, she has a simple goal.

A real misery, but oh yes, she'll use that, take them for everything they're worth. See what she can pry out of their commiserating misery, until that sweet guilt turns back to foul pride. The set of her abilities, without stepping into it until she needs it, is held, even if what she feels is no more than hurt, ripped open grief, a need to pour out into anything, do something.

Rather in her own structured ritual, habits of a long passed home that she means but oh used like a knife now. She keeps an eye for - an envoy, to begin with, watching the first group of high ranking envoys that comes to attend as her mark, another amount of time longer, to ascertain who seems to have the highest rank of the group before she approaches them, and speaks to that one - first and directly. ]

Thank you for attending. [ and where her veils hide the slide of eyes, she sweeps wider, across them in a turn of her face. Open, more animated, to give the acknowledgement she wants. ] You honour his passing with your presence.

[adamance]

[When Lexa approaches the Hyrypians, there's tension through her body that she only hopes can be read through the layers of cloth. She has played their games for the last few days, and she feels that someone from their group is entitled to some anger. For her people, anger is a powerful tool—when the Commander speaks out of anger, it shows that someone has broken a certain wall down or made certain to shake some boundaries. Perhaps their group should be anything but angry, but she knows anger is a byproduct of grief. It isn't a byproduct of grief for her, but she they aren't in her head like the Hosts are. They don't know how much this purposeful stride through their tables is both a show practiced countless times for her coalition and a result of her agitation from the day's proceedings.

She counts on that, right before she approaches a table full of ... more significant nobles from Hyrypia. She knows that they've allowed some of their less important fight in their games. If she was in charge, she would do the same. But this isn't about speaking to those participants, and rather, to those who watch and guide them along as if they have a right to make them play these games. It occurs to her that she could say her piece here in front of all of them, but she knows better. She is one against many, and she'd be making a show. There are already eyes on her back. She knows better.

Even if the Hyrypians shared their condolences, she feels less inclined to care. Lexa relies on grief to explain that away as well, as this is a show of her acting forthrightly, when she has been quiet, observant, and controlled since she first arrived.

She asks to speak to one of the heads of the four major houses in privacy, but with guards close. And once that privacy is obtained, she speaks:]

On the first night here, we all listened to the speech about how we could be one after this. When will we have done enough to prove ourselves as your equals? Every action we take is one that is done with the reminder that your people hold all the power. I ask that you reconsider what you ask of us moving forward. We suffer the losses. Not you. [It's risky to be here, to act in anger, but the swell and certainty of her voice is there just the same. She only wishes she could meet them eye to eye, but she's nothing short of limited at this time. This is a gamble, but one she hopes pays off.]

november 11 || darker than black

[justttkidding]

@ new hatches

[ Hazy warmth and a fulfilling sense of calm are the first things he's aware of when he comes to. It's not unwelcome, so he opens his eyes slowly, breathes in without rush and exhales the same way. The space he's in is cramped, but he feels focused, relaxed. All the tension that he normally holds himself together with has dissipated; he's not totally sure why.

The second thing he's aware of is that for the first time in years, he doesn't feel like there's a gaping hole in his person. It's just. Not there.

Lazily, he goes through his mental checklist. Once satisfied, he double checks to make sure he's intact, only pausing at the cord running from his neck into the wall. How odd. After a few moments of prodding, he unhooks it and immediately regrets the decision.

A wall of feeling hits him square on, knocking his breath out and leaving him shaking. In this now extremely cramped space that he wants out of right the fuck now. With maybe less grace than he would normally exercise, he feels his way out, clambering down the adjoined ladder and then leaning his forehead against the wall once he reaches the bottom.

He looks pale as a sheet, what a great first impression. ]

I don't suppose they can dole out medical grade painkillers here, do you?


@ all; after.....party?

[ Rude awakening would be selling this whole Nest thing short. In a way, he finds that extremely funny when he likely shouldn't. Not after the searing headache, infodump from hell, alien space travel, and now this– the afterwards of a solemn funeral for one of their own.

A pro at feigning... well, pretty much anything to do with emotion, November had no difficulty expressing condolences or looking pitiful (or somber) enough for anyone who was on the Outside. So he doesn't feel an ounce of guilt continuing to keep the charade, going through a fair share of odd green drinks that leaves him warm and lax. If anyone asked, he was distraught and needed alcohol to cope.

The first part was clearly untrue. And the second was dangerously close to reality.

There's something missing though and it takes only a moment for him to rectify. Easily, he snags a drink with his free hand and approaches another member of their cozy Nest, catching their attention. ]

Drink? You look like you could use one.

[wille]

[ Misato has been uncharacteristically quiet, withdrawn, her mind folded in onto herself like a front door closed shut and the curtains drawn. But the new ones are usually louder than him, his muted emotions thrum through the link between them, bringing into question the age of the creature living inside his brain. The most she betrays is a faint sense of nausea of the philosophical kind, not the biological. 

She stares at him for long enough to be certifiably rude, before finally accepting his offer. She doesn't take a sip. ]

What's your name?

after party;

[stilettoes]

[ peter has perched himself rather gracefully on the edge of one of the cleared off tables, legs swinging back and forth as he does so. the drag of the scarves rasp against the edge of it. peter's silhouette cuts something thoughtful and almost somber behind the plethora of pulled fabric while his eyes trail slowly to survey the passersby, emoting the sobriety of the situation well with just his limbs alone.

he usually has more time for observation than he's been handed now, but this will do. it's a better distraction than anything else for the situation at hand. or at least it was because new host calls to new host among the tangle of strange sensations surrounding him and peter is suddenly interrupted between the presence of someone and their familiar voice. ]

Well now, couldn't we all? [ he accepts the offer with a light hand. ] You shouldn't have.

[ he looks towards his nestmate, a curl of intrigue there. the need for a drink is maybe more necessary than he'd like to admit, a similar sensation of being unpleasantly tossed about. ]

[sistershoggoth]

[ She had been three years sober, until... about a week ago. She takes the drink without even a blink of hesitation. She's not sad about Lavellan. She's not in mourning over yet another dead comrade in a life that has been a lot of dead comrades. She's just a sad sack drinking on a mound of dead bodies. The whole of it more aching than any individual piece.

It's fine. She's great. ]

You're a fuckin' smooth one.

[ And she's a stubborn, loudmouthed, animal. It is easy to pick up on just from the way she speaks and carries herself, but the mental link to her is very subdued, indecipherable. Like something gruesome swimming in dart, silty water. ]

Trying to land on your feet, huh?

[ She knows the type. She tosses back the drink and hands it back to him. There are people she doesn't want to answer to about falling off the wagon, and until one of them confronts her she'll just keep playing this game like she's not doing it. Cup's in this fucker's hand, it's not her problem. ]

[redheadcarrier]

I'm not old enough to drink.

[ That's the automatic response, but it's muted, without the sharp edges that it would normally carry. She's picking at a plate of food instead, staring at some of the dancing lights. She should be more energetic now, but the past few days have left her feeling drained and tired and alone. Her gaze slides to him, narrows and focuses. ]

You're new. Right?

[ryohji]

[ the gesture catches him more off guard than it otherwise would have, with lavellan's brain on his brain. but kaji keeps appearances better than most.

the proffered drink may as well be an overlarge club with bits of metal nails sticking out every which way, for how much he wants it. but the gesture interests. the steadiness of his hand, the rehearsed introduction suggests seriousness belying the deceivingly simple question.

under the hood, kaji's smiling more fondly than he was thirty seconds ago. he doesn't mind being used, for information or otherwise. ]

No. I don't like the way I get when I drink. [ staying sober keeps him from becoming boring. his lot is tragic enough for the books. ] That's awfully kind of you.

[calhar]

Like an arrow between the eyes.

[ The newcomer isn't wrong; he could use a drink. Mat would like to get disastrously drunk, to forget the past few hours and the connections that feel like hooks in his skin — but he isn't the only one. The worse his broodmates get, the more control starts to slip, the more sloppy emotions and discontent (and hangovers, eventually) bleed over their carefully constructed edges.

His answer doesn't stop him from eyeing the offered drink a bit wistfully, but he decides against reaching out for it. He prefers getting drunk at real parties, anyway; not bad wakes. ]

You've got some bloody timing.

[ Blunt, though the sentiment carries across, something like an apology for the rocky introduction to an already rocky situation. ]

party

[shiro2hero]

[New people. Because that's exactly what this operation needs right now. New faces, thrown into the fire. No... badly timed joke intended.]

[Shiro is standing on the edges of the party, as befits his adopted persona of "looming, silent bodyguard". For once, the all-black disguise he's wearing seems more appropriate than ever, his own feelings on the situation carefully smothered down behind mental walls made of stars. Like the Milky Way in his head.]

I'll pass. Thanks.

[Belatedly, he realizes how that might have come out, and adds, in an undertone:] I'm sorry, you're new. Right?

peter nureyev / "hadrian black" ・ penumbra

[stilettoes]

DAY :019 HATCH. ( @ NEW HOSTS )

[ the first thing peter does when he wakes is sit up as much as he can, hand feeling around a moment until he finds the little cut out where his glasses are and puts them on with a slow hand. as he reaches, as he shifts forward for a little more purchase he feels it, the little tube at the base of his skull that has him working thin fingers there lazily until the connection comes undone with a sleek sound and then.

well then, the sensation comes, and peter's eyes goes wide. every single thought of his, every single iota of consciousness, zeroes in on just how loud it becomes, a swell like a symphony all out of tune and wailing. some are mournful, others are angry, others simply take everything in stride. they all pound behind one great wall demanding attention adjacent to his thoughts.

for a moment, peter tucks himself up as far into his pod as he can, back doubled over, hands pressing to the walls of this chamber, and he breathes.

peter doesn't have enough boxes to pack away each individual sensation. so he tries to run, or at least get out of the damn pod. he lets one foot swing down and feel for the ladder, hands pushing his belongings deep into his pockets before he moves as meticulously as he can. but when his feet finally hit the ground and his ankle rolls in an act of gracelessness, brought on by being so thrown. he shakes out the pain with a hissing noise for as long as he dares before there's a distinct pull (he doesn't know any other way to describe it) coming from a pod close by and he watches as its owner climbs down just as well. he leans against the ladder in way that says he doesn't need it. his smile spreads, half teeth, all of them sharp. ]

Well. Good morning, neighbor. Aren't you looking simply bright-eyed and bushy-tailed today.

[ or, post briefing? lets get lost around the station. that sounds fun doesn't it? aka wildcard if you want. ]


DAY :020 HYRYPIA ( OTA )

[ it isn't as if peter hasn't done this sort of thing before. acting. filling a role. but he's certainly had more sleep and less electroshock torture prior to accepting this sort of script. so here are your options:

you can put hadrian black to work, which he won't fuss about. the more he can listen in on the better. his hands are diligent, swiftly moving tools with defined motions and a keen eye. he's always finessed in his motions and quick to learn. it might be nice for you to take on the extra pair of hands.

or you can catch him at the more dour celebration later in the evening, moving about the various bodies and lights. they'd been informed of the tender nerves of their older... nestmates. a death will do that to anyone peter supposes, even more so when they're... tethered like this, so he keeps his mind easy, light. he doesn't partake in drink just yet, his posture not rigid per se, but alert as he sweeps through (but at the end of the evening, he could be convinced).

or there's a hand outstretched as the party's heavy becomes almost over-bearing despite the music and drink. it's convenient enough for you to settle on the decision, inviting voice warm like silk: "walk with me?" if you're looking for an out from the ponderous-feeling festivities at least for a little while, a respite, it could be a nice offer to take up. whether it's his or for you, you'll just have to be forward about it. ]

I'll do my best not to keep you too too long, unless you'd rather I do just that.

[sistershoggoth]

[ She wants a cigarette, and she wants to drink more in a more private setting, so she goes with him. This set of new kids are... interesting. A couple of them who are used to this shit in a way that is honestly a breath of fresh air after too many hatches full of children.

She gives Peter an amused look, ]

Clearly nobody's fuckin' warned you about my ass. I will fuck you in a heartbeat.

[ Joking but not joking. ]

elliot alderson.

[raw]

open: station72 - waking. (DAY 019)

Elliot is loud.

( Hello, friend. )

Being detached is like a wound; he's never felt such a pure sense of belonging before, so complete that he couldn't even be grateful for that completion because he wasn't capable of imagining anything else — and then it was all ripped away. The possibility of it just out of reach. Loneliness has always been an acute problem in Elliot's life, but it's somehow sharper now that he really knows what he's missing. So that's the agony he's bleeding into his surrounds during the initial dress-and-walk-and-adjust stage of waking up aboard Station 72, and the overwhelming sadness of it drowns out everything else about him. Fantastic first impression.

( Did you miss me? I'm sorry we didn't get a chance to talk until now. I was busy being one with the universe. )

-- C'mon, kiddo.

Mr Robot doesn't give a shit about one-ness, but he does seem tired, keeps a warm palm between Elliot's shoulderblades to steady him. There's three of them, now, which is going to take getting used to, but isn't everything? Space. Apocalypse. Nest. Enemy. As much as the effects of Elliot's anarchism had echoed around his world, this new life seems incomprehensibly scaled. So a third room-mate in this head of theirs, even one who is just as incomprehensibly many, seems somehow less absurd. And Mr Robot's presence is weirdly comforting, now that all the pieces of his manoeuvring have been left behind.

-- Don't think I'm not still pissed about—

-- I know, I know. You're morally opposed to explosions. Can the bleeding heart, we've got more important shit to deal with right now.

( He doesn't get it. Even if we've had to leave it behind, it's the fact that he lied to me. About the plan. About Tyrell. I still can't trust him. I don't even know if I can trust you. )

'You' is aimed at a friend Elliot speaks to the way some people pray to god, unaware that now? This all gets broadcast on an open channel, as it were. Mr Robot knows better than to chat so loudly, so for all intents and purposes Elliot is alone, hands tucked into the sleeves of the dark hoodie he still hasn't changed out of, and presumably addressing — well, he's not the only live body newly awakened, walking these empty rooms, after all.

closed: brood avior. (DAY 019)

The sensation of something being missing is prominent, and despite the fact that it's not that different to the kind of dysmorphic, out of place feelings he's carried his whole life, Elliot can't stop mentally prodding them like a gap in his teeth.

But there's one other person who draws him closer, who makes him remember that sense of absolute connection from the moments before he unplugged. Maybe if Elliot knew what that meant, how much they now were capable of sharing — how much the other man could know about him without so much as typing a single password — he wouldn't approach. Even as it is, he sidles up all tense: meeting new people is the fucking worst.

"Hey," he says out loud, with his mouth words. Making eye contact. Keeping his face neutral. Hoping his palms aren't too sweaty in case they have to shake hands. Acing it, basically. "I'm Elliot."

open: hyrypia - mourning/celebration. (DAY 020)

So Elliot always hated the first day of school, and the first day at a new job, and he kind of hates this, his first time on a new planet, surrounded by strangers (who maybe don't feel entirely like strangers.) Perhaps it would be easier if it wasn't for the occasion — Elliot had heeded Rhan's words, and he keeps out of the way. For all the funerals he's been to, he still doesn't know how to look grief head-on. And it's awkward, to feel nothing—

No. It's awkward, to feel the intrusive flashes of other people's sadness for a person he'd never even met.

"I'm sorry," he says, a lot, sincere despite how stilted it is, how generic. "I'm sorry for your loss."

It isn't any better once the burning is done and it's supposed to a party. Elliot hates parties.

As he wallflowers in his strange costume, Mr Robot watches the crowd with disdain, breathing an acrid cloud of smoke. (Elliot is not smoking, treasuring the pack he'd awoken with in case it's his last. There is no cigarette. There is no sharp-jawed man leaning beside him, wearing an old jacket and a baseball cap, making the occasional wry aside about funerary culture and alien capitalism, which Elliot dutifully ignores.) The food is strange. Not necessarily bad, but Elliot lives on bland carbohydrates, fried food, and candy. The rich spices and succulent, greasy texture make him feel a little nauseous — or maybe that's the anxiety.

Later: "Uh. Is there anything I can do?" he asks a stranger, more because he's bored and wants a task than because he cares about being helpful, useful.

(( check out my permissions, which also include my formatting key. swapping to action brackets is fine. if you have questions or want to plot something just hmu at fsociety ))

smears muddy hands all over brood prompt

[stilettoes]

Peter feels that repeated prod at the empty spaces that are sitting at the center of who he is now. He's got a hand in his shirt, idly plucking buttons, trying to feel the concave spaces where something else should be (some things). But the poking, pressing, it's almost automatic to do his own feeling around in the dark like fingers smoothing over empty spaces that are cold and waiting.

Peter looks up just before he says a word, like there's a tenuous little thread that makes him particularly aware of the both of them here. "Hey." He likes it even less than the... oneness of this entire place, but something inside of him curls warmly despite it anyways, like a whisper of intimacy that's different from the traditional sense of the word. Peter's own mouth breaks open into a smile on pure instinct.

"Elliot," he says, trying the name on his tongue. He meets his eyes with a level gaze, bright and curious, congeniality wearing sharp teeth as he speaks, stepping into space with a smooth step as is his nature. Meeting new people is the best. "What a handsome name. Now I'm not sure what I was expecting... but it's a pleasure. I'm Hadrian."

seth gecko.

[detestable]

— R I C H I E

[ Seth's first, loudly projected thought is of some fucked up B-movie Eddie let them watch some Christmas. Seth can't remember if it had been aliens or clones, but he remembers a shot of tubes dug into skin. Soothing is bypassed by the groggy suspicion that he's a goddamn science experiment, and then the tube detaches and Seth's thoughts are drowned out entirely.

There's only one thread of consciousness that strikes him as familiar. Richie. The momentary focus on it steadies him until the tumult quiets, and Seth can swear to himself before wriggling down and out of his pod. At the foot of it, he yanks off his vest to scrub the layer of filth off his face before he touches the back of his neck, checking for injury and finding nothing. In fact, all his aches and pains are gone. It's not particularly reassuring.

His clothes are ruined. His revolver is still empty. And in the tube next to him is Richie, making his way out. Relief pulses outward from Seth's chest as he scrambles to catch hold of Richie the minute he gets his feet on the ground. ]

You okay? You good?

[ Everything else, all the other logistics of their situation, comes after those questions. The blatant concern is laid bare as Seth lifts a hand to press at Richie's neck, check the tube hadn't left a mark on him either. ]

— S T A T I O N | O T A

[ After the briefing, Seth goes back to try to make some sense of his clothes. His first impulse is correct: spattered in monster drool, there's no salvaging what he'd been wearing before he'd woken up in a pod. Seth's irritation is palpable, and a little deliberate. It sits like a barrier between himself and the onslaught of unwelcome and unfamiliar emotion.

He's still filthy. Blood and dusk and the new addition of alien spit hasn't done wonders for Seth's appearance. He's lifted the white shirt and pants from the cubby gingerly, though he doesn't have a whole lot of leeway to be picky. ]

No fucking laundry service in the place, I'm guessing?

[ But he'd settle for a shower. That had been all Seth really wanted to begin with after fighting a sun god and the queen of hell. It hadn't seemed like a lot to ask for, but it's hard to anticipate this particular set of roadblocks. Being attached by something straight out of a horror movie and pulled out by a strange psychic wasn't really something to be planned for. ]

[ or wildcard him, throw whatever down. ]

—H Y R Y P I A

[ So they get shuttled down in time for a funeral, which Seth has little interest in. Descending into a cloud of shared grief is uncomfortable. Seth's never met the person they're grieving, and it feels like a transgression to pretend he feels anything in particular about his passing. For most of the day he can be found:

• Hanging back at the edges of the funeral gathering, arms crossed, observing the audience they've gathered more than the actual spectacle of the funeral service. When prompted, he expresses all the right condolences, in the right order, and even sounds sincere about it, but it's clear he isn't going to engage any more than he's already done.
• Milling through the crowd, drink in hand. Not drunk, but cultivating a careful buzz as he works his way through the assembled partygoers. However, all his wandering never takes him far enough to let Richie pass completely from his sight line. Poking any curious minds away from his own is becoming second nature by now, but inevitably he'll direct a more vocal discouragement to the first robed figure that steps within range, regardless of whether he's certain they're responsible for the curious nudge he'd just felt: ]

Hasn't anyone ever told you to keep your hands to yourself?

[ The implication ghosts along after the statement: And out of my head. ]

—W I L D C A R D

[ toss in a random starter if none of these scenarios pique your interest, or hit me up on plurk if you wanna plot something specific. ]

hyrypia >> funeral

[otrazhenie]

[ Elena wants no part in the funeral, and stays as far back from the proceedings as she can manage while still keeping her cover as a noble. Her life has been filled with funerals lately and she'd rather not bring up those memories just now, though of course a few flit through her mind, breaking the surface of her oceanic shields to be shared with her broodmates.

It's the thought of those memories leaking out to them that reminds here there are new members here now. She has the urge to apologize for her slip in control, but it's not like any of them are more experienced at this than she is. They're all new here, less than a month in this strange existence, but. Still. Besides, searching them out might help to keep her mind off... all of this.

Finding the closest one, their connection innately stronger than most that she has with the Nest, she moves closer, stands next to them in a few moments of silence. And then, quietly: ]

How are you handling all of this?

ota

[adamance]

procession and rites

[If there is anything that Lexa knows better than to allow to bleed out at this time, it's the slow burn of frustration that lies deep beneath the surface. Anger for Lexa is largely performative. Everything with her is cold, restrained, pulled back until it's time to strike—like venom sinking into a wound to remind the person that they are weak and she is strong.

Right now, her irritation is anything but performative. It's a show of weakness rather than strength, and a reminder that no matter what strides they make as a unit, that losing one of their own will always be a matter of crippling them. She understands mourning and pain and misery. She understands the ache of what someone goes through when they lose someone significant to them. These are all actual things that she grasps quite easily; the opposing reality, however, is this: a loss to one person might mean nothing to another. Here, a loss happens to everyone, whether that person knows who's lost or not.

While Lexa keeps back the negative wave of emotions, there is a sense that she is keeping walls up, moving through the motions of grief and mourning without allowing herself to feel what is happening. Everything about her is done automatically, even standing far away from the flames as the heat reaches her beneath her robes. She acknowledges anyone who comes near her, but she doesn't speak—not yet. It's as if words will break the stony exterior she has right now, and she can't risk that.

After all, this is a reminder of her own morality. Perhaps that's the worst part of it all. Being a Host is meaningless because they will live long lives, fail, and die, forgotten to the embers of time.]

a long walk

[The "celebration" of the evening carries Lexa far away, especially after she speaks to one of Hyrypia's own. Her frustration begins to bubble and show signs of eruption, which is why her feet carry her swiftly away from the encampment, the cool evening air washing over her as she treks out into the area surrounding where they are, aware that it might not be safe but also aware that someone is likely to follow her.

Someone from the Nest, someone who can tell that what fragile walls she maintains might begin to be too much.]

I won't ask you to leave. [These words are acknowledgement of the fact that someone is on her heels. Even speaking feels like a burden right now.

Lexa misses the luxury of privacy she had back home, back in Concordia, back in numerous places that weren't this planet. For all her fortitude in keeping her emotions in check, there were the times when it grew to be too much. Right now, she knows she's struggling, that she needs a release—but like the Commander back home, she can't risk such a dangerous thing.]

a long walk

[huntsmachines]

[ Aloy has felt awkward and clumsy around Lexa ever since their argument. Even though they've made up in a fashion, she still isn't sure what to do and so she's settled on giving Lexa space again. That's why when she notices the other woman walking away and out from everyone, her natural inclination is to leave it. If Lexa wanted company, she would seek it out, certainly. And Lexa has never, in Aloy's experience, been one to lean heavily on others.

Still, her concern, her worry, her ever-aggravating compassion carry her after Lexa after a moment of indeterminate inner struggle. Her quiet footfalls pause when Lexa speaks and Aloy's shoulders hunch a little tighter. She has been trying so hard to comfort her other friends, her Nestmates. She wants to be able to help all of them, really. ]

I just wanted to make sure you were alright. I'll go if you want me to.

Gildor | OTA

[perroquet]

❚❚❚❚❚ A. FAREWELL BLESSING.

[ How unlucky to be disguised as a holy man when holy services are needed, especially when those services are grim and alien to them. Though it is luckier to be alive, and by the time the funeral begins, Gildor has counted his blessings. He would rather be at a piano bench or even singing in a choir like old times, but today his role as the Carabauchian priest needs to come into play to maintain their cover.

He's not the only one to request the pyre - that much is common sense given the need destroy their own alien evidence. When the time comes for last rites, Gildor says his own mental prayers and stands at the head of the procession. He's long since conquered stage fright and speaks loudly and clearly, reciting a poem often said at funerals in the temple of the Artist. ]

"On the day when the weight deadens on your shoulders and you stumble, may the clay dance to balance you. And when your eyes freeze behind the grey window and the ghost of loss gets in to you, pray a flock of colors - indigo, red, green, and azure blue - come to awake you and bestow delight.

When the canvas frays in the currach of thought, and a stain of ocean blackens beneath you, may there come across the waters a path of yellow moonlight to bring you safely home. May the nourishment of the earth be yours, may the clarity of light be yours, may the fluency of the ocean be yours, may the protection of the ancestors be yours.

And so may a slow wind work these words of love around you, an invisible cloak to mind your life."

[ He allows silence to fall, confident the blessing was clearly memorized and sentimental, but just vague enough. Better to not drag this out any longer than necessary for appearances, so he gestures for the pyre to be lit. ]

( I do hope that was alright for those of you who knew him. If you need any council, I am willing to listen and offer comfort. )

❚❚❚❚❚ B. WITHDRAWN WITHDRAWAL.

[ Later, Gildor is the one in need of comfort.

It's normal to drink excessively at a funeral, and while he doesn't wish to stop any host from properly drowning their misery, being connected at the brainstem to so many drinkers is a new kind of misery. One that only worsens as the night goes on.

He excuses himself from providing any music and avoids the dining tents altogether, claiming a need to reflect in private and fast. He has no appetite to feed anyway, his stomach churning and threatening to dry-heave the moment he's alone in the tents. This isn't the same merry-making during the hunts that drew him to cravings, but rather the kind of heavy and emotional drinking that draws up so many terrible memories they manifest in physical form. Gildor manages to remove only part of the heavy disguise before he finds himself lying on a cot that isn't his, remembered withdrawal taking him in a fast growing fit of shakes and cold sweat.

And for once, his mind is utterly and uncharacteristically devoid of it's usual music. ]

(Beannacht blessing by John Odonohue.)

[sistershoggoth]

[ With Gildor, she doesn't pretend. She straight up sobers up before she goes to see him. The smell of the liquor is still in her pores, but her mind is clear of it. She's willing to fall off her own wagon, she's not so willing to take responsibility for dragging him with her. ]

How are you doing.

[ That dry tone she uses when she is concerned but doesn't want to sound like she's concerned, so she makes it sound like the most tedious, obligatory small talk... ]

prompto argentum

[gunlock]

DAY :019, STATION

[after the briefing, prompto's actually glad they're allowed to roam about. getting pushed into a truck without much warning or time to prepare just to go out miles into the darkness to resolve a case of daemon infestation by a human settlement is something he's used to. having more or less 24 hours to settle down before heading out? that's luxury. the kind he hasn't seen in a decade.]

[he could make conversation with those in the briefing with him, but he's feeling deflated--overwhelmed, even. prompto will pause and stare at the lights. it's... warm. it bears with it a kind of warmth that he had thought forgotten.]

[it hurts his eyes after staring at them too long, and so he's bowing his head and rubbing at them.]

[the silence is welcome. the feeling of loneliness... prompto tries out, uncertainly, his voice quiet despite being in his head]

( ...Noctis? )

[he'll feel embarrassed later. maybe he's here (prompto hopes), maybe others know him. prompto looks up, uncertain, shoulders slumped over.]

DAY :020, CELEBRATE

[...prompto feels like he was tossed into a pool without much preamble or chance to get ready. there's a funeral, then there are the burial rites, and then there's a quiet after-party. he thinks he's not entirely sure on most of what's going on, but there's food and drinks.]

[he'll fill up his plate, and it's almost like he hasn't seen food for the longest time.]

[bumping elbows with someone else in his rush for seconds, he nearly chokes on what he's chewing.]

--sorry. Should take it slower, huh?

[otrazhenie]

[ Elena's already made her show of eating a small plate of food and has moved on to the drinking portion of the evening. There's a good dose of guilt going along with every glass she consumes (she knows how alcohol effects Gil), but it's helping to curb her blood cravings and that's important too, right? Making sure she doesn't eat anyone at the celebration is still a nightly ordeal.

It takes only a second for her to recognize that covered figure as someone from the Nest, but more than that - someone in her brood. He's clearer than most of the others, closer, and she feels that same connection to him that she does to Gildor and Shinji, to Lakshmi and Seth. Except even that connection is different now, it has been since the day before; it feels complete now, whole. And he feels like someone who might not hate her. ]

Maybe just a little. There's plenty left.

OTA

[shiro2hero]

1) THE FUNERAL & "PARTY"
[He doesn't speak.]

[He's all too aware of the new minds around them. The new faces under veils. The new sensations. And so, he keeps his focus narrowed. Keeps his mind from wandering. If he focuses on the mental walls, keeping them up and strong, the tearing, roiling thing in him won't have an escape. Will it?]

[The fight, despite cutting his symbiote power loose, is still running at breakneck speeds through his head. The fight, and the resulting confrontation with the Darkling.]

[Shiro is dressed entirely in black, as usual. Hanging on the fringes of both the party and the funeral. During the FUNERAL, he never so much as glances away from the fire. Before the flames take hold, he can be seen stepping forward, briefly. To set something near the body. And then retreating back to the edges. The PARTY doesn't fare much better. He mostly just shakes his head and keeps watch.]

[Silently.]

[Everything held in rigid, precarious control.]



2) THE AFTERMATH
[It's away from the world. Away from prying eyes. Closed off in the tent he's been using since this all started. Where no one tends to look unless they know him. Unless they have reason to look for him. The perfect place to drop the walls.]

[Just a little.]

[The walls slip. And all that's beyond is crackling, sickly green light over what feels like empty air. The impression of a broken body thrown skyward again and again and again and there is nothing he can do. The guilt like a wild animal he can't control. Something alive and hungry and what does it matter they won? If he couldn't bring everyone back. What does it matter it was out of his hands? His friend is dead and gone and he felt it.]

[Striking one of the tent supports with a fist hurts. It's irrational. But restrained enough to not resort to using the metal hand. Just one short, sharp blow before he stops, making a long, silent effort to pull himself back together again.]


3) the wildcard
[Hit me up with anything else?]

2

[skaikru]

( she isn't looking for him. doesn't notice him leave, doesn't wonder what he's doing. for as pleasant as their first interaction had been — shiro's advice in terms of building barriers, the brief interlude from her internal torment brought about by the swooping sensation of flying when they'd held hands — clarke hasn't sought him out since. they haven't bumped into each other accidentally, but in such a small party of travelers, it's inevitable.

so while she isn't looking for him, she can see the fabric of the tent rattle when he strikes it; can almost feel the impact of fist on wood if she tries. if he's not yet so lost in his own grief, shiro might feel the press of clarke's consciousness before she even reaches the tent flap; pressing and concerned but muted. it's a type of exhaustion that eclipses grief that hangs about her shoulders, and checking on people — counting them, naming them, assuaging her own fears with the presence of others — is beginning to feel automated.

are you okay? she almost asks. the words are on her lips, but feel useless. are any of them okay right now? some of the newcomers seem to be faring better than the rest, but how long would that last? so instead, she swallows. tries again. )

Did that make you feel better?

( DAY 20 | OPEN )

[ophidia]

BURIAL RITES
[Landing down on the planet just in time for a funeral feels like it should carry a strong message. A warning not to end up the same, or an expectation to be the cavalry after someone clearly fucked up. No one's come forward with either - come forward with anything, which really begs a bigger question on who the hell is in charge - so watching the fire is left as nothing but a reminder. Another beat in what's shaping to be a consistent theme in his life.

His brother has flames tattooed black up his right arm; all Richard has is the smell of lighter fluid, ash, burning flesh. The image of a car burning up at the bottom of a cliff, a trail of solvent and a burning rag in a hospital corridor. Richard doesn't turn away from any of it, but he doesn't let it pull him away from the present. Late enough in the proceedings that people are beginning to peel away, he moves to whoever is nearest, feels less focussed in grief.]

How'd it happen?

[Simple, direct. This is the information he needs from this. The part they likely all should be focussing on.]

SOMBER CELEBRATION
[A drink in hand (which he's already sipped and written off), stood to the edge of the gathering, Richard watches. Recon may not be his favourite part of a job, but it's the only part they're here for. Learning how the other envoys move and interact is what they should all be using this party for.

But he's watching, too. Mind open, his attention spills through the network strung between the others in sharp, incisive flurries. Like a mass of eyes opening in the dark, turning this way and that at the smallest flicker of something interesting. They focus, they pin their target down, the weight of them like a blade that might easily set to pry a shell open, peel the skin away. Then they blink, turning to look elsewhere.]

WILDCARD
[Hit me with whatever!]

burial rites

[skaikru]

He was hunting.

( it seems a painfully simple way to explain the events that had led to the entirety of the nest gathered around a quickly erected funeral pyre; mundane and anticlimactic, and in no way encompassing the sudden, world-shaking impact of lavellan's death. but it's the truth, parsed out as clarke stares at the flames licking up the sky without really seeing them. distracted, somber, still a little caught up in what they'd all seen in the man's brain to feel completely numb, but despondent enough not to care that she's speaking with a relative stranger. should she be able to place him? it doesn't matter. )

A beast. As part of the tournament here. It was ceremonial. ( it was stupid. )

buckoroni n ches

[bracchium]

I. DAY 019 early (before autopsy): ota

[Bucky has kept mostly to Sam's side, providing support in what ways he can for an emotional loss. However, there are occasions when he goes out into the caravan itself to compare footprints to those from the night out in the desert. On the left side of the page is a copy of those footprints- strange and alien- with a burned circle sketch below them. On the right are samples of the creatures in their company with labels written in Cyrillic. He keeps said sketchbook on a leather tie on the exterior of his disguise for ease of use. When he sits to sketch, he usually sets the book in his lap, pages held open with the stump of his left arm and writing tool in the right.

He hasn't ruled anyone out yet as the source of the footprints yet, not even those among the Nest itself, so one may find a one-armed shadow following them from place to place.]

II. DAY 020 (funeral): ota

[Bucky is positively seething with the information that has come over the link from Sam. Even if Sam wanted to hide what happened in Lavellan's autopsy, the broodlink tying them together grows increasingly stronger, closer. They've already had moments of wondering who was who, where their borders began and the other's ended. Sam's drinking, too, which somehow makes Bucky angrier, despite not having any direct reason for doing so. It isn't Sam's job to make sure Bucky's comfortable at any given moment. Hell, Bucky would be pissed if Sam was a handler, focused on keeping an erratic weapon focused and in check. Sam needs a chance to unwind, to destress.

His mental walls are barely holding back the growing static in his head, the urge to run, to get away from these... these... he can't find his words. His head is a fog and it's all he can do to keep standing, rooted into the ground for now.]

III. DAY 020 late (early party): closed to sam wilson

[When he can't stand it anymore, when he can't bring himself to so much as look at anyone else, he turns from the crowd to return to his tent. Packing takes seconds in his fury. Bedroll, rations, water, knife. He moves to Sam's tent to do the same: bedroll, rations, water. As he rolls up the bedroll, the two stuffed animals fall out. A small raccoon and a bird stare up at him from the dust. He clenches his jaw as he wants nothing more than to pull the heads off, to tear them to shreds, to destroy the innocence they represent, the innocence that doesn't exist. It takes a moment of breathing, but he pushes them into Sam's bedroll before strapping it to his own.

No destruction until they're out of sight.

Finding his broodmate in a crowd is a lot like picking a single red flower from a patch of yellow. He yanks hard on the broodlink without meaning to as he sets down their baggage near his own tent. Wandering through the crowd, he reaches deeper into the broodlink.]

( I'm leaving. Are you coming with me? )

>> funeral

[otrazhenie]

[ The past few days have been... hard. Emotionally, physically. From the ups and downs with Damon to the hunt itself, the overwhelming grief of the Nest and the revelation of the truth of their situation, Elena's struggled more than once to keep her mental footing. Feeling someone else having a similar problem now, it's not in her to be able to ignore it, and so she approaches Bucky carefully with her concern apparent. ]

( Are you okay? )

[ Of course the answer is no, none of them are okay right now, but what else is she supposed to ask? ]

[ for kavinsky ]

[wille]

[ It's a checklist, as impersonal as that sounds. It's true. She has a set list of so-called broodmates, of whom two are fast asleep while two others are faring as well as expected under the circumstances, leaving a last illusive one to track down. 

She dips into each tent with fastidious dedication and catches up to any alien hooded figures to see if their minds might connect like magnets snapping together. When she finally finds him, the taste of his thoughts too familiar for her to miss, she reaches to grab him by the arm, an old habit of manhandling those she thinks will let her get away with it -- and so many let her get away with it.

It's also a cheat, a defense mechanism, a brace to keep her walking despite ailing bones. ]

It's easier here to find places to smoke, isn't it?

[100mitsubishis]

[She's lucky, really, that she is who she is. Other people grab Kavinsky by the arm, and he might smile, he might allow it, but he has a list, too. But unlike the checklist of Misato's, Kavinsky's is only satisfied by suffering.

Then the name can be crossed off.

But it's Misato, and he's attached to her like she's attached to him; two parasites, no host acting as the middleman between them.

He stops, he turns. He waits to see whether she'll let go, or if she's scared he'll run.]

Hey, babe. Good to see you, too.

[ for mat ]

[skaikru]

( the sordid affair following the burning of lavellan's body is being loosely labeled a celebration, a really, really terrible welcome party for the newest hosts that arrived planetside today. and perhaps to no one's surprise, clarke leaves the party early.

if she'd been highly emotional on the last day of the races, despondent and clinically detached during the autopsy, constantly struggling to grasp the futility of ever being normal again after coming face to face with the symbiote, and downright exhausted trying to mediate between aggravated friends, now clarke's something of a mix of all those emotions. a neatly folded package with fraying string tying it together, and readily looking to distract herself from the most recent swelling of homesickness in her throat. it seems ridiculous to miss earth. it'd been a treacherous, mildly radioactive landscape full of dangerous enemies and plagued with the constant haze of violence. but in a way that had been simpler and easier to deal with. her motivation had never strayed, and while the various threats against their lives had descended swiftly and viciously, it was easier to operate under the pressure; easier to force a resolution when she knew they only had a matter of days to save their people. how long would the fight rage on here? another month, a year, twenty years? there's no real telling.

and clarke is so awash with these familiar questions that when she first brushes into the tent in the late evening and begins to peel off her cloak, she doesn't even notice mat at first.

crosses to her bedroll, stoops to grab her pack, and only then does a double take into the shadows of the canvas. it shouldn't be as much of a surprise as it feels, but the loud hum of new minds and the buzzing static of her own thoughts served as an effective dampener between the broodmate connection. and that's nice, given clarke's not entirely sure if she's ready to engage yet another person in conversation after a long day of funeral prep and making new acquaintances.

but at the same time, she can't not. and after a brief, sweeping up-down evaluation and a moment spent chewing the inside of her cheek: ) Did you go? ( to the funeral; did he watch the fires and feel the same sickly twist in his stomach she had at the smell of charred skin? if he'd been present, she'd not noticed, and hazy, politely inquiring minds want to know. )

[calhar]

[ Misato had asked him if he knew the same things his broodmates knew. After a day spent trying to keep his distance and to keep his guard up, the answer had been no. Then he'd gotten curious, and then he'd deeply regretted digging. His only memories of bodies opened up and skulls split are from the battlefield and viciously unfair fights. Brain surgery is something else altogether, though even that paled in comparison to the image of the symbiote.

He'd gone to the funeral. He hadn't stayed for the whole thing and he'd kept to the edges, but he's got the same memories of loss, anger, all of it. And all for a man he didn't know. ]

I did. [ The answer's a little dull, reserved. He's got his back to the canvas, sitting on his own haphazardly maintained bedroll, the bulk of his robes in an untidy pile. Mat turns the small silver medallion he's holding over in his palm, rubbing his thumb absently across the fox's face. The metal is slightly warm to the touch, same as it's been ever since he'd stepped foot on this planet. He can still remember the bite of cold against his chest back from when it'd been good for something, for keeping him safe or keeping things out of his head.

It'd been useful, then. Now it's just a trinket. Mat considers it while he sifts through her presence, untangling the bleed-off of Clarke's emotions from his own. ] We didn't always have time for them, back home.