[closed] we can't go on together

[aluminumandash]

CHARACTERS: Rust, Kaji, Lakshmi, Darlene, and Juno (also starring Misato as lookout)
WHERE: The Red Coast ( Barracks )
WHEN: Late day :036, after the departure of Rhan and her compatriots.
SUMMARY: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ (rooting through some people's stuff)
WARNINGS: EGREGIOUS DISREGARD FOR ETIQUETTE, ingratitude, Rhan's sex toy collection, Kaji

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Kaji & Lakshmi

[aluminumandash]

[ The night the older hosts leave, all four of them, Rust goes for a walk and gets back late. He's used to the nest's dreaming by now, a smeared but vivid backdrop of impressions. The occasional brilliant emotion piercing him through, providing a temporary axis upon which to spin. They're likely used to his habits as well, up all night. Running like a city bus.

At any rate, he's confident he won't be missed.

He gives Kaji a long-distance jostle—a feeling like hot breath, like neon scraping the skin. An itch to your fingers, a twitch to your mind. Impatience. No words. He's already begun searching the vacant bunks—going through the bedding, even. He's quiet and methodical, careful to leave everything as he found it.

It's not one person he distrusts, or even a handful. It's the nest as a whole—this thing they're all straining toward, this collective compulsion. Whatever it is they're so gradually becoming. ]

[ryohji]

[ if they worked in silence for days, speaking another word would be too soon. rust is a man on the edge of losing his temper. even dividing his attention with shinji's coma, kaji does not lack for eyes, ears, or other senses. when he gets ahold of himself, it is rust who grounds him there. whether or not he's cognizant of it, the prolonged silences and casual barbs revive the force of habit, airlift reconnaissance with agents of the ministry. at times he watches him keenly out of the corner of his eye, mapping moods and micro expressions. then it's as if nothing were the matter.

scanning through a stack of trifles and leaving rust to his fit, kaji's hands shuffle like a painter laying groundwork on his canvas. his eyes light upon something reflective. a necklace. a necklace he'd seen decking a familiar girl's nape. ]

Elena's. [ rhan's taking from them. there is no judgement here, only clinical interest, as though he were an archeologist unearthing fossilized bones. ] Well, I can't say I put it past her.

[aluminumandash]

[ Kaji has to be used to it by now: Rust's inability to examine something without going under, his near-total absorption in a given task. He's slow to dislodge his attention from the metal tube he holds in his fingertips.

Elena. Young, brown hair. Joined at the hip—and likely the brain—to somebody else. A chafe of conscience, impersonal. She's another one who shouldn't be here. Rust holds out a hand, unsurprised that Rhan would be lifting things off them. How and why, that's a little more interesting. ]

Anything of yours in there? [ That'd be the test, wouldn't it? ]

[ryohji]

Because you don't have anything worth taking? I doubt that. [ rust really is the frenetically fastidious majima that kaji saw many an acquaintances try to emulate in style. seeing the real thing is eye-opening, and somewhat sobering, at least insofar as rust goes to certain lengths to affect the illusion of life. men like ikari were hard to come by. kaji rubs the clasp of the locket with a clothed thumb, before dropping it in rust's outstretched palm. ] Something of mine...

[ something of misato's he's looking for, because while he does not presume to know the story behind elena's jewelry, some necklaces meant more to some people than just decoration. hands go dumpster diving once more, and kaji begins to separate the mess as though following some sort of ordered instruction. nothing of his, so far and more importantly, nothing of katsuragi's. ] I guess I'm not appealing enough. But I'd say a quarter of this belongs to her.

[aluminumandash]

[ The locket's chain slinks into his hand. Rust sets the tube down—right back where he found it—and pops the necklace open, snaps it shut a moment later. ] Nothing material. [ The admission colored faintly by embarrassment: he'd emptied his pockets before their arrival, scrubbed away any incongruous traces of self. Wholly committed, wholly convinced it mattered. The word “mission” enough for him.

His mind flickers back to Crash—Crash, a box he could open and close.

Conversationally: ] I hear you thinking about me. [ As well as Misato. His eyes don't catch Kaji's, skip right to the sparrow's nest of crap. He nods to a scarf, brushing up against the memory of it. A tepid blue, flavored like honey. ] Lakshmi's.

[ryohji]

[ composure wavers. his neck cranes to fix rust a sidelong glance, and for a moment it is as though kaji chose to read insult where there was none. then it's gone. buried, literally. he nods an acknowledgment, trying not to look as amused as he feels. it is mostly successful other than the twist of his mouth. covered, vainly, for reasons previously alluded to: ]

I hear you thinking about honey. [ he presses the scarf to his nose, all the while his eyes train on rust. knowing but saying nothing, wanting but choosing to toy the line rather than overstep it, letting its scent fill him through the veil barrier. it doesn't smell like honey. ] Hm. I don't smell anything.

[ fascinating, and for less suggestive reasons than one might think. time to roll with the wave of his next impulse, the fingers of his free hand twitching over the mess rhan's left for them. the scarf returned from whence it came. ( I know you like it fresh - ) ] - All for you. I'll check out her closet.

[aluminumandash]

[ Rust endures eye contact, squares his shoulders about halfway through Kaji's performance. Impatience building glacially, almost imperceptible. He says, flat: ] The blue. [ His gaze shifting to the scarf as Kaji lays it down.

He puts the necklace back among the scattering of personal possessions, but absent a pattern they hold no particular interest for him. He moves to the next bunk, the bed fastidiously made. A wood box underneath—Rust taps it before opening it up. ] Lyr keeps a book—a record of dead hosts. I saw it the night Lavellan died. [ His memory of that night's unreliable but vivid, as though lit in flashes of lightning. ]

[ryohji]

[ the blue. blue, blue brings to mind the salt of ocean water, among every taste and smell people associate with the briny deep. he rewinds the conversation and still can't figure how 'blue' could supplant the unspoken question raised. maybe it's a joke, though rust is certainly not the type. and since kaji's missing it, he can only guess lakshmi is the the starring butt somehow. ]

Is that the case. [ there's not surprise in him. anticipation, maybe. ] Anything else he notes down in that journal of his? Otherwise - you might not know this yet, and I'm sorry to break this to you, but some people are just preoccupied with death.

[ the records they keep, the stolen goods, all this makes kaji feel as though he's a subject of experimentation. data collection. memories, of children standing naked, the most conceptual contours of their psyche quantified for curious eyes. simplified in graphs and numbers.

rhan's closet is astonishingly small. every inch of it has been put for good use, the clothes packed like sardines so that the colors blur. with the manner of someone leafing through a filecabinet, kaji begins the task of seeking where one item ends and another begins. it doesn't take long before a thumb settles on a clamp hanger, apprehended. ]

Moonlighting? [ it takes more effort than it ought to, but he manages to free the pants from the clutches of disorganization. the cuffs roll smooth to the floor, wrinkles apparent. ] Would you look at this...

Darlene & Juno

[aluminumandash]

[ At first, he walls himself off from the nest. Encases his thoughts in mirrored glass, so any stray curiosity, any scrutiny, will meet only with itself. The feeling as Rust flips through the first of Lyr's journals—like opening a window, an inner expansiveness—is a private one. (Likewise the recollection of Dora's diary, the indentations where pen just about tore through page. Constellations of black stars in the margins.)

He sits on the edge of one of the beds: why not. Reaches more than once for a pack of cigarettes that isn't there. The words are incomprehensible—alien or, he supposes, code—and after a few minutes of study he moves on to the drawings. Plants and animals. Skies and stars. Invested with such detail—detail born of what? Care, he thinks, fingers brushing the page. But there are different kinds of care.

It happens gradually, as Rust pores over the entries, gathering what he can from variations in length and structure. Understanding not a lightning bolt, not electric, but a tweak in his thinking. A dial twisted. He reads a full sentence without even realizing. And then—a thrill of horror and mastery. A sense of remoteness that's welcome, that's dangerous, the feeling of having wandered so far afield that the only option is to take stock of yourself and press on. A simultaneous, acute awareness of his surroundings: the floor underfoot. The shapes of his hands. His breathing.

Rust snaps the book shut, grabs for the first volume. His walls long gone, forgotten. ]

[iuno]

[ Juno doesn't trust easily. or at all, as a general rule. he might have resigned himself to the consequences of taking the Nest's deal, but the ones responsible for that have given him less than no reason to trust them. he wants to know what their deal is, what they keep behind their teeth while they're standing at the forefront of a goddamn hivemind, because everyone has something to hide. there's no such thing as a person without secrets. and what is a private eye good for, if not digging through personal belongings behind your back?

bringing Darlene along is a spur of the moment decision. back home, he'd work alone, he thinks when he's considering it — but that's not really true. he'd have Rita on the line, just in case. she may not be his faithful secretary, but what Darlene does have in common with Rita is a skill with technology he's severely lacking, and it's a valuable one. she's smart, too, suspicious of their benevolent leaders. he doesn't need to be on good terms with any of his Brood to count her in if it's something she's just as likely to want to do herself. (there's always Nureyev, the one person Juno does trust, but. Juno needs to stop relying on him. he needs to give Nureyev space to get over him.)

one of the strangest things about a hivemind is recognising something familiar in someone else's mind. he knows the pitch of that particular tone, the drive for answers humming away like an engine, the sense of putting things together like that. that rising fever-pitch of clarity. he's never met whoever it is they're approaching, but he's pretty sure they're here for the exact same reason, and he tugs on Darlene's mind for attention before he reaches out for their fellow investigator. ugh, he's getting too used to this mental link crap. ]

( You're putting a lady out of a job there. ) [ it's weird to figure out how to do this mentally, and he feels stupid for it, but — he conveys an impression of flashing his detective license. a reason for being out here, since Hosts notice each other before they can even get face-to-face. ] ( You found something? )

[nastygram]

[Darlene has already gotten good at shutting people out. She loves privacy, anonymity, secrets--so, naturally, the first thing she started getting good at was building a wall between herself and everyone in the Nest. Broodmates are tougher. A rat king of a connection, tangled wires that have melted, fused together under heat.

And Juno is one of the worst. For a taciturn dude (lady, she's a bitch but pronouns are whatever), his effing feelings have been bleeding into Darlene since day one, violent spills that interrupt her efforts to be chill. All this is to say that, when Juno gives that mental connection of theirs a tug, Darlene almost ignores it. Puts it down as some interpersonal bullshit that she doesn't want to get involved in.

But the color of sharp interest shocks through strong enough that she has to look at it. Smells like the memory of cigarettes. Feels wire-taut, someone leading you by your nose. A thrill of horror, mystery. Voyeurism. Legal voyeurism. Cops. Detectives. The FBI. All very anti-Darlene, but so the fuck what, she wants in on this recon or snooping or whatever it is that's going on, like feeling blind for a lock and then the satisfying ka-chunk when it pops free, lets you in, and before she really thinks about it, Darlene is following the trail too. To investigate. Of all the shit.

She doesn't think at them. Too guarded for that. The spark of connection is there anyways, a blip that reads like the blinking cursor at the end of a line on your AIM chat. Please hold, the user is thinking. Walking to find out what the hell is going on.]

[aluminumandash]

[ For a moment he doesn't differentiate—Juno's mind another text, a lexicon of shattered glass and open wounds. Its pull irresistible. Cyclops, the name an empty socket, a deformation. Rust thinks: Polyphemus, Odin. A bloody eye bobbing at the surface of a well. A ripple of self-mockery that dissipates as Juno flashes his (his?) credentials.

Official-like. As if Rust wasn't in the thick of his thoughts, guilt and self-loathing pressing in. He hesitates. He's as mistrustful as Juno, in his way—sure as shit doesn't want any of the older hosts finding out about this, anyone far enough gone to prize the good of the nest above all. But the PI license—more importantly, Juno's faith in it, that scrap of paper—screams newcomer.

And Rust wants to get back to it. ]

( Books. ) [ That'd be enough to make Marty reconsider. ] ( Nothing sexy. You're still interested, know that this is very much off the record. ) [ There's something else—a matter of nerves more than observation, like the creeping awareness you're being watched. He snatches at it a second too late. ]

[iuno]

( Not a problem. My secretary is the one who keeps the records, and I didn't bring her with me. ) [ as a sort of afterthought, he supposes he should actually introduce himself: ] ( Juno Steel, by the way. Private eye. )

[ he never can resist the job description.

he — well, likes is too strong a word, but he doesn't cringe away from Rust's presence the way he does with plenty of others. there are a lot of familiar edges and corners, shadows he recognises in certain ways, an overall structure to the mind. cynicism and wariness. he can stomach that just fine. and the life of a PI is rarely interesting, long hours spent on stake-outs to catch cheating lovers between any real work, so he can stomach boring just fine too. he's looked for less in worse places than books.

they're coming up on where he knows Rust actually is, the epicentre of the symbiote's impressions, and he pauses just outside to glance at Darlene. ]

Up for some late night reading, Darlene?

[ he's flippant, but the Brood connection has found a tendency to get across what he actually means: double-checking that she wants to stick her neck out for this. it's a risk to try and keep any kind of secrets in a hivemind, never knowing who might overhear you. he'd rather be sure that Darlene wants to take that risk just for books. the only reason it doesn't bother Juno is because he has no sense of self-preservation, even worse now than he ever was back home. ]