( 0 0 1 » ENSEMBLE ) welcome to the inaugural log

[reveriemod]

» WHO? everyone
» WHEN? may 1 onward
» WHERE? all over the station
» WHAT? introductory log feat. waking up, exploration, meeting over food and noises in the walls
» WARNINGS? potential for body horror, psychological horror, hallucinations, physical injury

( 0 0 1 ) » WAKE UP

Were you asleep or were you unconscious? It doesn't matter: when you come to, there's an odd taste in your mouth and there's a low-level mechanical hum in the air. Your head hurts and you feel nauseous. You aren't anywhere you know: everything around you is metal, from the floor you lie on all the way to the ceiling. You are dressed in a jumpsuit you definitely weren't wearing before.

"We tried to save the world. I think— I think we did the opposite."

The message repeats on a loop. If you look for its source, you find a comms device on the floor next to you. The logo on its wallpaper says REVERIE TERMINAL. Upon closer inspection, you find the same logo on your jumpsuit.

Welcome to your new home.

( ♪ )

( 0 0 2 ) LOOK AROUND

You've woken up — but where have you woken up? It may be time to explore your new home. Rifling through a crew quarter will make the room's terminal lock to the comms device you're carrying; the room becomes yours. That includes everything in it, from the additional jumpsuit to the two extra sets of underwear. In some quarters, you may find remnants of whoever was here before you: a book on the nightstand, a coffee mug still on the table, a lonely sock on the floor.

A look around the shared areas will reveal the bar, some of its bottles already open, the mess hall, observation deck and the gym area with its dirty pool. An even closer look around these areas might reveal basic first aid kits as well as basic tool kits and fire extinguishers. The kits are located near the fire extinguishers in compartments in the wall that are not immediately visible. Hopefully, nothing's on fire and no one needs first aid... but that tool kit might come in handy.

Every now and then, as you explore, you might find yourself standing before a door that is locked. Try as you might, you will not be able to get it open.

( ♪ )

( OOC: What items characters find of those who were there before them is up to players, but please limit it to a single item that is mundane and somewhat useless in nature. )

( 0 0 3 ) HAVE A BITE

Sooner or later, all characters will have to make their way to the mess hall if they want to eat. In the mess hall, here are a number of replicator-like devices that sometimes work and sometimes don't— but after a recent malfunction that some characters may have noticed, they seem to work just fine... or at least as well as ever: nothing is particularly palatable, but at least it's nourishment, right?

So why not sit down at a table, whether it's already occupied or not, and have a meal. Maybe use it as an opportunity to introduce yourself, or just to complain about what passes for coffee around here.

And if coffee isn't your preferred beverage, well. There's always the bar.

( ♪ )

( 0 0 4 ) NOISES IN THE WALLS

For some, it's been over a week on the station. For others, merely a day or two. For all, things are starting to change: maybe you were asleep or maybe you weren't, but surely the scream that reverberates through the station will startle you. Was it human? Whatever it was, it seems to be coming from the walls of the station. Banging, clanging, then more screams.

Are you going to chase the sounds? Hide away from them? Try to investigate?

If you follow the sound of screams through the station's corridors and halls, you might feel someone - or was it something? - grab you from behind and pull hard. But when you turn around or turn your head if you've fallen, there's nothing and no one there. If you investigate and perhaps put your ear to a wall to see if the noises really come from there, or bang on the wall, you might hear something other than screams and clanging. Strain your ears and you might hear nothing at all — or you might be able to make out a soft "help me". It's barely above a whisper. Did it sound familiar? If you try to take apart the wall, two things will happen: you'll feel uncharacteristically weak and lethargic all of the sudden, and you'll find nothing at all but wiring and more metal.

Whatever you do, you'll find that the noises stop after a while, with no discernible source other than "the walls". And then hours later, they'll start again. Stop again. Start again a day later— and then stop for good.

( ♪ )

( O O C ) ACTIONS

Hello Reverie Terminal Operators! Welcome to our inaugural event. We hope you'll enjoy it!

To help exploration and interaction with the station, we have put together ten (10) 'actions' that you can request. These actions range from very minor, such as receiving a small piece of information about the station, to major, which may be a more vital piece of information or something far less pleasant, and are completely opt-in. These actions can help get your character involved in the plot, jump into the plot and its mysteries, and have more of a personal prompt to jump off of if you so wish.

Please note if you would avoid particular kinds of consequences (for example, if you'd rather your character not be injured), and we'll try to accommodate that, but please be aware that heavy themes are in play and the actions may feature body horror, injury and hallucinations.

If you'd like to receive an action, please reply to this comment with the following:
» Character: » Type of action: minor, medium, major » Notes:

In the future, actions such as these may be "bought" with bonus AC.



Please use content warning in your top-levels wherever necessary.

Comments

[luciformis]

Not quite, but that's a decent guess.

[ he doesn't take the time to explain the specifics, but she's the first to really participate actively in anything he's saying on this station. he's always distributed knowledge, so it isn't much different here. he isn't gearing it specifically for any one person, though. that's a particular right to be brushed by.

he makes a faint, affirmative sound as she guesses. he takes up the bottle he'd earlier gestured to, his opposing hand palming the body of the cork. he gives it a tug, one that brings with it the scent of something too bodied. it isn't champagne, but a white wine of some kind. it smells like over-boiled fruit. ]

Carbonation is responsible for champagne, [ he confirms. he places the wine back down on the bar, pushes the now opened vessel closer to her to inspect if she wants. ] But, heat is what pushed up this one. That one is "cooked."

[ and "cooked" wine isn't palatable in the least. ]

[wingstosee]

[ oh! he said it was a good guess! given that that's like twice as much affirmation as anyone (well, any human) has given her in the past couple of years, she can't help but perk up a bit at his words - listen a bit more closely than she already was. ]

"Cooked?" [ she catches the scarequotes, at least. she leans in a bit, just a bit closer to ryo- and grimaces. ] Ugh. It smells like it, at least. It's not literally cooked, right?

[ she's... well, she's not that interested in wine, truth be told. why would you drink something like that when you could get drunk quicker with way less drinking involved? but it's something a lot of people enjoy, and maybe she'll get it one day, and besides, he clearly wants to talk about it at least a little. so she humors him. ]

[luciformis]

[ Perhaps it is a mercy on his end that he opts to turn in that moment, a small and indistinguishable thing. His fingers skim the opaque shelves of the bar, stirring dust beneath the pads of them like the kick up of ash. It leaves little traces of him everywhere, but that's no concern here. He has nothing to hide in this moment, the image he cuts back home echoed only in the way he conducts the lines of his body.

For someone ostensibly human, there's something preternatural in his movements. He's a slip of a thing, a pale spot in the dim of the station. There's no suggestion he's honed his body to do such a thing, but when he lifts himself up onto the tips of his toes, it is without the trace of a wobble. ]

It is, [ he says, his voice an even cast no matter the proximity. It resembles in some respects one who could comfortably lead a symposium — soldiers going to war. ] At some point, it was exposed to heat high enough to change its body entirely. [ He lifts a hand, in part to expose the pale of his fingers stained with the residue the cork itself had left across them, a dark and muddled brown. He seems to have placed it down somewhere in the interim.

He pauses, his fingers finally moving to close around the neck of a bottle toward the back. ]

It might still be alright, if you don't care about flavor or alcohol content. [ It could have been a dare from anyone else, but with it is always difficult to tell without familiarity to guide it. Still, there's no trouble with how he pulls the vessel down. If there is something always to his name, it is that he has always been deceptively steady. ]

[wingstosee]

[ it's a mercy she's unaware of, a change of perspective even her dozens of eyes don't catch. his actions are so small, so precise, that someone like her - someone as awkward and clumsy as her - don't even catch the majority of them. instead she just listens to his words, calm and smooth and well-practiced, and interjects at the last bit- ]

It can't taste any worse, right? Alcohol is alcohol. [ it's a hilariously novice opinion, built on a sample size of the two times she's ever drunk with someone. but in her experience, it's not likely to change. ] You can mix it all you want, but it's still going to taste like nail polish remover. Just, well. Nail polish remover and orange juice. Or something.

[ she picks up a bottle of unlabeled tequila, rolling it idly and watching bits of sediment filter through. ]

What about this one? [ it's an innocent question, but she giggles and adds- ] Is this one safe for me to drink?

[luciformis]

[ Why would you care for them?

The impression of words at his back. He knows the form, the coloration. He knows the glow, as the bottle slips from the curve of his fingers. His eyes know what they’ve missed, the moment his feet touch flat against the station’s floors again. Before he even turns, there’s something in the pulse and ripple of wings he cannot see but knows are there – in sudden proximity, fear sinks its teeth into him.

Why would you love them?

Love? Words catch up in throat. Words burn at the tip of his tongue. Like a rush of salt up from his lungs, something wild and feral and dark breaks the banks and shoves back screaming. Rationality splinters like a foundation ripped out by the sea in the middle of the night and the resounding clatter and chime of glass bursting about his feet – in the wild arc of his arm out to neat rows he’d once set like the explanations he kept to his chest, a reason for each and every dissolution of memory.

Abberations, that’s what they are.

It isn’t clear if he’s touched them at all, but the stench of wine and liquor cut into the air – hit against him with the copper tang of his own flesh and blood catching fragments. To him, it isn’t clear who it is that shouts. He doesn’t recognize the voices, something writhing beneath his skin – its many appendages aching to be set out. Set out to what? Set out to – shield him. His back hits the shelves behind him, his hands jerking up into his hair – it’s loud, so loud, so loud. It’s loud, so loud – and he can’t think to do anything but move back further, move back farther.

He knows this, he knows this, he knows—it isn’t right, she isn’t right. This isn’t right. This isn’t what—

He can’t move, he can’t breathe – each inhalation starved for oxygen, laughter bubbling up from behind his ribs. That isn’t what he is. That isn’t— in him, there’s something that bristles up in terror, the movements all wrong for his body. It’s bigger than the frame he knows, it’s bigger than him. It’s—

Not here, you’re not here, you’re not.

I'm me, I'm me, I'm not this. ]

[wingstosee]

[ smash.

the bottle explodes next to her, its blood-red ichor and green scales scattering across the floor. she is turning before she has time to react, a hundred eyes swiveling in unison to look at him, look at him, see what's going on-

he shouts, a sound without words, and she flinches. her hands reach up and cover her mouth, the sudden rush of air blowing cold against them as she gasps. she is frightened, cowed by sudden movements and the sound of a man yelling and something else she doesn't quite know how to describe. but even if the feeling doesn't pass, the panic does, and she forces herself to step forward - to raise her hands off her mouth in the universal gesture for "please stay calm," to try and reach his side and offer some sort of reassurance. ]

It's okay! It's okay. I promise. [ maybe it's not okay. but she knows it can be, at least. her steps are small, her breathing as even as she can force it past the gut surge of awful, crying panic. he's laughing now, a terrible sound that splits her apart like a knife, but she forces herself to smile a tiny bit back - to give her own laugh, nervous and brittle. ] It's- it's okay, alright?

[ she takes another step, steady and cautious. ]

[luciformis]

[ it isn't.

her voice is a wretched sound. it beats across his ears, under the thready pulse of his heart. it shoves beneath there, like an ineffable and unnameable dark. it pulls at what cannot and should not give. it sees what he is. it knows what he is. and his hands cannot keep against the current of his own thoughts.

he knows her name. he knows her name as he knows his, in the fundamental recesses, in the fabric of all that he is and ever would be. anger, viscous and insidious and wholly not his own blooms bright and wild in his heart.

he'd always been afraid, at the core of it. he'd always been terrified. he'd always been alone. he'd crossed a sea deeper and colder and more unimaginable than anything else, the eternity of expanses far emptier and silent than that. he'd drifted, he'd fallen time incalculable. and still, he'd never learned –

behind and before him, her footsteps are a clear advancement. he'd known the faces they'd worn – a graceful placidity, so close to his own. he'd been the most beautiful and fair. he'd been the brightest. and now, in the dim recesses of a station that choked him of even all that he could still hold in within the palms of his hands – all now he can hold is a construct, a thin and wicked shard of glass.

it seems a retribution. a divine condemnation. at the end of it all, there had been no such allowance for happiness. there had been no such allowance for a world he could keep for them. for them.

somewhere beneath it, his palm splits across the jagged edge. his fingertips catch green and brittle barbs of glass – torn from his own hair, brandished before him in the only hopes that he has left.

his mouth knives against words, but he's not there. he isn't there, no matter how his body trembles and shudders beneath the light she casts.

it's something else.

his eyes are wide. his eyes are so very, very blue. ]

[wingstosee]

[ his fingers scrabble along the ground, searching for something, and venus watches in horror as the glass cuts into him - small but vicious tears, blood already beginning to seep out and mingle with the discolored wine around them. ]

Stop it. Stop it!

[ the time for conscious thought is gone. she stumbles forward, her boots thankfully crushing the broken glass underfoot, and makes to grab at his wrists. he can't keep doing this. it's hurting him. can't he see how much it's hurting him? ]

You're going to tear yourself apart-!

[dvmn]

[Only a half-step more technologically apt than a Luddite, Akira couldn't really rely on the bells and whistles of the communicators, not having the ability to track Ryo through the network in the same way he had always been able to find him when the need arose. Instead he functioned on a loose check-in system, always having at least a vague idea of what his plans might be, sometimes agreeing to meet with him in a given place at a given time. So he knew that Ryo was at the bar, or at the very least planned on being there, because he'd asked earlier. He was actually planning on heading in that direction in the next hour or two, but he's distracted from his meandering about the station when his communicator barks at him with a sharp, demanding sound.

He glances to it and his heart leaps into his throat. His jaw clenches and he tries to contain the feeling of panic that threatens to possess him, typing out a quick message to try to make sure this wasn't a bug in the system:]

@dabil:
@r.asuka: youre still in the bar, right?? you okay?

[After about half a minute (he counts the thuds of his heart to keep the time of it), he's already tearing off down the hall. It was too out-of-character for Ryo not to answer with a speed that seemed impossible, and it only confirms and feeds into his fears. Up until this point, Akira has been putting careful limitations on what he did, how quickly he moved or how strong he appeared to others. Now he drops all of those. A bystander might have seen him running by as little more than a blur through the hallway before it disappeared.

Not even a minute has passed and he's shoving open the bar door, feeling the adrenaline and instinct altering his body without him even actively thinking about it. His skin has melted into a greyish color, fingers sharpening honing into claws, teeth sharpening into fangs. As the door to the bar swings shut and he's shouting into the confrontation that he has just arrived to,] Get away from him! [Part of him recognizes that it's Venus, but the rest of him doesn't care. As he rushes towards them, the sharp sound of fabric shredding sounds in the air as his wings tear their way loose from the prison of the station coveralls, spreading wide and shaping the air beneath him so he can make a flying leap to land right next to where Venus was attempting to grapple with Ryo.

He doesn't want to hurt her (even though there's a part of him that really wants to hurt someone that he thought might've harmed Ryo). He uses his wings again, filling the space between them, cutting Venus off from where Ryo was slumped onto the floor and blocking them from one another. He turns his back to her, and though the demon instincts within him that had been through thousands of years of kill or be killed are screaming at him for such a stupid move, he crushes them with the single overpowering impulse of: make sure Ryo is okay.

And he's not. He's - Akira doesn't know, he seems scared shitless, or freaking out, or something? He's never seen Ryo like this, and that shakes Akira down to his very core, frightening him even more than the thought of him having been hurt. It seems something deeper than that, something which elicits from him a confused dread that crawls up his throat from the pit of his gut to settle between his jaws. He sees (smells) the blood immediately, eyes focusing with laserlike precision on the glass in his hand. He reaches out in a fluid motion, first grabbing his wrist in a strong grip before placing his thumb into his palm, moving upwards with it as he squeezed at the joint, coaxing him to relinquish what he held.] Drop it. [His voice is markedly different now, almost gentle in a way, though flush with nerves that he couldn't manage to keep completely separate even if he'd tried.] Ryo. [Where once he'd furled his wings to create a curtain, now he draws them in, curving forward to partially encircle them, blocking out the light falling off of Venus. He searches the wild blue of Ryo's eyes in that manufactured shadow, desperate to find a shard of something to cling to, to use as leverage to bring what he knew back.] Ryo, it's okay. It's okay.

[Other than the blood flowing from the cut on his hand, now staining his own, he couldn't find any more injuries. Where he had reached out to disarm him swiftly, without thought, he reaches out with his other hand after a moment's debate, the stutter-step of hesitation evident in the movement. If allowed he would reach out to snake his arm under his friend's shoulders, leveraging him up and into his arms, as close as he would allow. It's the first thing that springs into his mind, regardless of situation or potential dangers, something that'd followed him ever since he'd found him out by the cliffs on that dreary overcast day.

Don't be afraid.

As for Venus... his brain is very slowly catching up to the decisions his body has made, so once that has happened and he's assured Ryo's safety, he'll address her part in this.]

[luciformis]

[ In the end, there is no difference between humans and animals when stripped of reason.

He's seen humans kill other humans in sudden bursts of self-defense, in sudden bursts of panic. He'd seen humans leave others behind in the wake of their fear, peel their reaching hands from theirs. He'd seen others sell off those they claimed to cherish. He'd seen the beginnings of war. He'd helped cause it. It is that manifestation of instinct and drive that causes his body to flood itself with adrenaline, noradrenaline. It is that perception that whatever has faced him, without Ryo's own conscious knowledge, is what caused this inexplicable and fundamental deficiency within him to begin with.

It is the hand at his wrist that pulls him into action — who cares if he bleeds? Why does that matter, when he heals so quickly to begin with? Why does this person begin to worry for his safety, when he knows what she is? Under his own consciousness, the Ryo that is and the "Ryo" that will be brushes closer in their disconnect. It's a divide as wide and deep as an ocean, as deep and wide as the fissures below the surface of all living and tangible things. It comes up against the uncountable eyes that rest upon him, tangle into what he is. Those same eyes, that he'd seen endlessly. Those same — where? It doesn't matter. Ryo is quiet beneath the flare and fire of his body as he's barely withheld from any method of execution.

His skin prickles and though he cannot drag his attention from what he perceives as one who will attack him, he knows the sudden shift of air anywhere. He knows the dimness that engulfs him in the next moments, the warmth of the body and the push of wide wings around him. The chatoyancy of eyes that search his face, though the ability to tell him that this is what he knows and this is what he understands is absent in him. He's so far back, that to drag himself ashore again is —

How much more of himself can lose before he does not come back? How many more pieces can be chipped away like dunes at a shore, the water dragging back what sand is touched upon into that same darkness Ryo'd known long before he had ever been born?

He doesn't disarm willingly, but the slick of his own palm betrays him more than each individual tremor that shoots down his arm. It doesn't sting at all. And it is a thought that reaches him before the absence of his self-made weapon does. The press of fingers against the cool of his skin is so distant that it takes a moment of struggle to accept the way he's somehow bundled up against a familiar chest, his own breathing rapid and rabbit-quick — the little sounds he makes caught between laughter and something unnervingly dissimilar from it.

It's okay, he tells him. He wonders the taste of salt that impresses itself in his mouth. It's nostalgic and painful against the weight of primal fear. He. That's — ]

Akira. [ His name catches, syllables cut across his tongue like a verse. To his own ears, if he could hear it, his voice comes soft and strange. How many times had he said in that tone? The rise and fall of his own breath about it gilds it with something unlike gold, but his body folds closer to the suggestion of Akira's palm, eyes preternaturally bright and unfocused. His initial reaction becomes like a storm caught off a coast. It drags through salt and surf with such resistance that it slows. With it, tiny slivers of recall go, scraped from the underside of his already battered and fragmented soul. It would be a wonder, if it were allowed to be pieced together again like pottery – dug up from the sea floor by delicate hands, its contents forever unknown even to him, but the shape somehow present now and again.

It doesn't give itself to him here. Instead, it asks more questions. It will ask more questions, once the fog from his own mind is lifted. Ryo comes back into himself, in steps so slow and tentative that it is hard to say when he will be there — but, for now, his periodic shivering and abortive attempts to try to combat what threatens them is a wretched reminder that they're not alone here.

There's something else. ]

[wingstosee]

[ the devil is here, and he is angry.

he comes in the dimming of lights, in the feeling of rushing wind and pounding footsteps. he comes in the tearing of seams and flesh, in an eruption of wings and dark. he is power, raw and primal, and if it weren't for his voice she'd have never recognized him in a million years. akira. the boy from the bar. is this what he looks like? is the first time he lets his defenses down around her anger?

get away from him, he roars, and so she does.

she doesn't waste time actively watching his actions - she has eyes for every angle, vision for every sight she could see, and it all comes to her ambiently. by the time she's leapt away, foot balancing and bracing herself upon the high bartop, his wings have blocked the blonde out from even her sight. by the time she's launched herself into the air, she sees those wings - large, wicked, a demon's on sight alone - wrapping down and around the boys.

and then she is spreading her wings, and frantically trying to fly away in a room too small for the three of them. it's a pathetic sight, like a wounded bird trying to figure out how to fly for the second time. it's his friend, the part of her still thinking manages to piece together, but not loud enough to override survival instinct. go. run. run! get out, get out, he'll hurt you, or you'll hurt him, but either way get out-

she just has to reach the door. that's all. ]

[dvmn]

[A piece of the tension locked within his body eases when he manipulates Ryo's hand into dropping the glass. It clatters onto the floor.

The smell of blood is thick in the air, cloying and sweet and nearly overpowering, but he mentally walls it off, keeping himself blind to everything that wasn't immediately necessary. The necessity of this, to carefully honeycomb his own intents, thoughts, goals, emotions into discrete cells, was one of the first few things he'd realized, knowing that without so much attention paid to their organization he would swiftly become overwhelmed. The first few are checked off. Ryo, no longer equipped with something he might hurt himself or someone else with. Ryo, picked up off of the floor, held somewhere where he couldn't get harmed any further. Akira tries not to think about the wildness he'd seen in his eyes, the sounds choked off between laughter and chattering he makes, the flow of blood, the fastness of his breathing. He doesn't know how to fix these things. There are very few things Akira knows how to fix in a way that isn't by also breaking them. So instead he just holds him close, offering the only thing he'd ever had to offer: himself and the openness of his heart, the worry and concern and the frank desire to help.

There seems to be a willingness in Ryo to rest against the bar of Akira's arm at his back, holding him up to rest at his collarbone. But it's not seamless, instead broken by the occasional twinge of movement, half-hearted and unfinished gestures which felt to him cast from the same material as the other scent thick in the air, the sharp and acrid taste beneath the sticky sweet of the blood: fear, alarm, apprehension.

As far as he is aware, Ryo is safe, for this moment. So he slowly lowers the wing between himself and the doorway, having heard her path from nearby towards that direction, instinctually tracking the motion and ruffling of feathers. Akira angles the leathery membrane so that it still stretches diagonally, still sheltering Ryo, but low enough so that he can turn and look over his shoulder to fix Venus in the gaze of eyes glowing sharp and bright, like shards of broken glass catching moonlight.]

Venus.

[His tone is low, and it thrums with an unspoken danger, all potential as he remains, for the moment, still.] You aren't going to leave without telling me what happened, are you?

[He likes Venus. He's only met her once but even then he'd managed to feel so close to her, feeling a kindred nature of spirit that he hadn't really experienced before, not in the same way. He's drawn too many lines of division and separation in his heart to grapple with the feelings of confusion and hurt at the thought that she might've done something to harm Ryo, but he knows they're there. He hadn't gotten that impression from her. Part of him is begging for the answer that this was some kind of misunderstanding, that nothing he knew about Ryo or Venus could be trusted with the former in a state he'd never seen him in before. There was a fear in that he was still not allowing himself to fully acknowledge either.]

Because that's what someone would do if they were guilty.

[The bright eye narrows to a slit.]

[wingstosee]

[ she makes it to the door before his voice fills the room, low and threatening. it echos even with the door thrown open, and she freezes in her tracks at hearing it. it's still him. it's definitely him. he remembers her. so why...?

(she knows why. of course she knows why. she'd do the same.)

her hands fall to her side. she takes a breath, trying and failing to steady herself. the eyes on her back rotate towards him and focus, akira and ryo clearly in her vision even from this angle. she doesn't turn herself; she doesn't want to. there's too much happening right now, sound and vision overloading until she wants to scream, and there's no way she can push away the look she's sure is on her face. ]

No. [ her voice is brittle, held together by force of will alone. ] Of course not. We... We were talking, about wine? And...

[ she crosses her arms, biting her lip hard enough that she can feel the skin break beneath her teeth- and then he speaks, and every defense she's trying to put up shatters at once.

that's what someone would do if they were guilty.

is that how he feels? she feels the ground shaking beneath her feet; she feels pressure building in her chest, a light screaming for freedom and clawing for any sort of purchase. fine. fine. then she'll tell him exactly what happened. the anger she's been trying to hold back this whole time, the fight or flight instinct, finally pushes its way through to a decision: fight.

the light within her comes to a boil, burbling to the surface as she starts to speak. ]

...he's your friend, right? I'm pretty sure he hates me. [ even like this, she doesn't sound hateful. she can't. not when she doesn't hate this person she's only just met, and certainly not when she couldn't possibly hate his protector. but there is a sound in her voice anyway, like blown glass taken and pushed until it's just shy of snapping. ] Sorry, that's not fair to him. Maybe it's not him at all. Maybe my questions were annoying. Maybe I shouldn't have tried to take the glass away from him, or he just hates the devil that much, or maybe he thinks I look like a freak-

[ the light cuts through for one moment, burning and searing like magma. her hands ball into fists, gripped so tightly her knuckles turn white and her fingers tremble beneath the pressure. and then she breathes in, and she breathes out, and she is quiet again. the anger is contained, as simple as that. ]

-and maybe I am guilty of all of that? Haha. Probably. [ a thin, wan smile, hidden from view but plain as day in her voice. it's not meant to be happy. ] But either way he doesn't want me here.

[ her wings finally lower, folding against her back- deliberately, slowly, a certain force to the very action of disarming. it's her putting down the last line of defense she has. like this, standing still with her back to him, she might as well be powerless. it's her ultimate act of defiance. it may very well be her last one, for all she knows - akira is frightening like this, overwhelming and angry and devil and man.

she finally turns to face them. fear's nothing compared to anger. fear can suck it. ]

Is that good enough? [ it's spoken patiently through a smile, even though her voice is trembling. it's the bitchiest thing she's done on the station. she knows that. she kind of hopes it hurts. ] Can I go now?

[dvmn]

[He hasn't thought far enough ahead to think of what he'd might do if she did try to just leave. Akira's never been much of a planner; his brain simply wasn't equipped for those types of machinations. His decisions were often born from the rule of his gut, the pull of his heart, the snap impulse of base instincts he still didn't have terms or titles for. There would've been much of him that'd want to give chase, giving into the raw pain of anger and seeking one of the simplest, most brutal salves for it. But that would leave Ryo alone, and so ultimately he most likely would have stayed, compressing his feelings of frustration and betrayal into an essential state that he could pull upon when he finally needed them.

But she doesn't leave. She freezes in the doorway, and though she doesn't turn he knows her full attention is upon him, reflected in the dozens upon dozens of eyes that fix him in myriad, unblinking gazes. That she isn't running is good; he feels a shift in his chest, the easing of a sense of bitterness and aggravation. That mean she didn't have anything to hide, right? That there was some kernel of sense and truth to this, hidden beneath the confusion and the fear and the scent of blood?

Akira remains motionless where he is as she speaks, weighing the words, though he can't sense any crack of dubiousness or deceitfulness in her words. It was something that he'd felt shared between them, the willingness to wear hearts upon their sleeves despite the consequences and the suffering it could bring. So he believes her, but...

It just doesn't make any sense? That they were talking about wine at first, yes, that seemed perfectly logical; he knows Ryo would talk anyone's ear off about the certain intrinsic qualities of certain alcohols, but... Everything else, he just doesn't know. Ryo'd always seemed too elevated, too reserved for something as base and personal as hate. And... fuck, Akira knows Ryo to have the patience of a saint (he'd have to, to deal with all of his own inane questions at all hours of the day, and not to mention all of the attention he sifts through on social media).

And how could he hate her for being a devil or a freak when he didn't feel the same about Akira?

His expression changes, but the tension around his eyes and furrowing his brow is evident of a block of confusion he can't seem to shatter in the confines of his skull. He ends up shaking his head, turning a bit so that only the mess of dark hair is visible over the curve of his wing.] That... [The threatening quality to his voice has leaked away, leaving behind bafflement in the hollow it left behind.] It doesn't make any sense. He wouldn't...

[Would he? Apparently, yeah. There's so much about the Ryo held up against him right now that he doesn't understand, doesn't recognize. As anger ebbs and the danger seemingly passes, all he's left with is the yawning abyss of something he couldn't comprehend and something Ryo couldn't help him with. It was a terror like looking down into the deepest crushing depths of the oceans, knowing that what lived within those depths was almost entirely unknown and had been unchanged for thousands of years.

He doesn't have the answers that might help Venus, that might provide some understanding and relief to the feeling of hurt he can feel layered over her words. He doesn't know what to say at all.

Akira senses the movement of her moving and he glances over his shoulder, and as much as he feels that perhaps he should feel some sense of relief that she hadn't incited any sort of violence against Ryo, his lack of understanding just makes him feel wounded at her (well-deserved, he recognizes) anger. There's a seam in Akira's demeanor that's plainly evident here: just a moment ago he had been very nearly something else, more so the demon within than he had been since he'd arrived in this place. But that was just him wearing the skin of something else, wielding weapons he had no right to. When he draws back his own wings, first furling and then retracting to rest once again along his shoulderblades and spine, and rocks back on his heels to shift to where he's sitting on the floor rather than crouching, he's right back to looking like a kid again, lost and aimless.]

Yeah. [He looks away from her, down towards Ryo, his grip tightening on his friend's shoulder. He swallows with difficulty around the lump in his throat.] Yeah. You can go.

[wingstosee]

[ her words strike true. she nearly feels them strike him - feels the visceral sensation of flesh parting beneath her anger, the sudden violence of a strike and the weeping gore left behind. but it doesn't bring any satisfaction. it brings anxiety, and regret, and when she hears the words coming out of his mouth it brings an overwhelming pain.

she didn't hold herself back, for one stupid second, and look where it got her.

she doesn't leave. she doesn't even turn away. she looks at the floor, and at the ceiling, and anywhere but akira, trying to force that tiny gap in her vision to grow and grow until she doesn't have to look at it - the devil holding someone dear to him, someone who would have cut her if she'd gotten any closer. but she doesn't turn away again. she's already made one mistake. she owes him that much. ]

There's a first-aid kit under the counter. And showers in the bedrooms. [ her voice, strident and shaky just seconds ago, has dwindled away. the anger always does - it makes her do something stupid, agree to something she should never have agreed to, and then just vanishes to leave her with the consequences. ] You should be able to- wash his hands in there. Get the glass out.

[ it's funny. he's given her permission to leave, and suddenly she feels like she can't. she absolutely, positively, 100% cannot leave. if she does, she'll lose the first person she's found on the station who understands. if she does, she's doing what god would want her to do - abandon the demons, live in sanctimonious solitude.

he doesn't deserve you passes through her mind like a flash. but she is vigilant, now, and she stomps it underfoot - taking out the entire afternoon's events on the thought, and a little on herself for even thinking it. and instead, she says: ]

You're a good friend.

[ she can't see the other boy. good - he needs time to relax without looking at her.

and as selfish as it is, she's a little grateful too. ]

[dvmn]

[Akira's used to feeling the ground shift beneath his feet. It'd almost become rote back home, to come to a startling conclusion that changed almost everything he'd assumed to be the way of the world. His perception of planet Earth had been the thin shell of an egg, and Ryo had crashed back into his life with an expensive car and an automatic rifle and plunged him into the dangerous unknown beneath the surface. When you felt that, and then the even stranger paradigm shift of feeling your entire body and everything about you change on every given point from what you once knew it to be, you'd probably feel pretty ready for whatever else could be thrown your way.

But this was different.

It's different because it's Ryo. He was his anchor, the one immovable and dependable point he had to rely on. He always had the answers. He always had the guidance. He always had something. But where Akira holds him now he has nothing, he says nothing, and that's terrifying to him. A few moments ago he might've been flying on adrenaline and impulse but now those things are lapsing and leaving him behind, washed up on a foreign shore where he's alone and with no frame of reference, left to fend for himself.

Except he's not. Not entirely. He mostly expected Venus to leave — and why wouldn't she? Not when he'd acted like that. He'd been frightening and threatening, and he'd meant it; he'd mean it to anyone he thought might've hurt Ryo. But that had ebbed away just as rapidly as it arisen in him, a tide come and gone, and now he's left feeling frustrated and guilty, the bitter taste of her own hurt metallic in the back of his throat.

When she speaks, his shoulders jump up a little bit. He just hadn't expected it, or the way her tone had grown subdued, diminished. It was good advice — a bit obvious, sure, but with as frayed as his mind is right now, he certainly would've suffered without the guidance. He glances to the counter, imagining where the first-aid kit could be, and then he nods dumbly. He's silent a moment, still unmoving, before he registers that it's a call to action instead of mere inert words.]

Yeah. [Slowly powering back up, like an old machine finally booting after careful repair.] Yeah. You're right.

[About the first aid. Her compliment — well. It prickles along the back of his neck like gooseflesh, falling into a yawning chasm of doubt, of endless questions as to the construction of who he is that he keeps at arm's length simply because they were questions he knew he didn't have the mind to answer properly.

But he does receive it. And maybe later he'll accept it better than he does now.]

Ryo. [He clutches the shoulder under his hand a little tighter, shaking him a little bit.] We gotta go back to the room. Can you stand? And — put your arm over, like this. [As he says it he gently tries to guide his friend's arm over the line of his shoulders, so he can properly support him when they move to stand. If he can. If not, he'll just have to carry him.

He's quiet a moment after maneuvering this, but then he does speak up again, though he doesn't turn to face her, too preoccupied with Ryo.] Thanks, Venus.

[For being much cooler about this than she probably should've been.]

venus outtie

[wingstosee]

[ he thanks her, calls her by name, and just like that she finds she's out of words to say. she wants to say something back - no problem, or it's okay, or that annoying laugh she always gives when she's trying to pretend things are fine.

but instead, she finds the words cut off in her throat, a pain in her sinuses and eyes rising into tears.

she turns around, head ducked down, and leaves the room. ]