foundationmods | R5: ghost hangout

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round 5

R5: ghost hangout

[What's this? The fog of the miasma has pulled back, revealing a path down to the basement. None of the living seem to notice it though, only those who are dead are aware of it.

Down in the basement is a large furnished room. It doesn't seem as dusty as the rest of the house, and it actually seems lived in? Or...un-lived in, technically. But the lighting here works and there's plenty to do. Even if the ghosts might not need it, there's several beanbag chairs (brought in by one of the many groups of teenagers who have disappeared into the house), a large couch, and even a jacuzzi. Because even if you're in eternal pain, you can relax a bit, right?

If the ghosts look up, they'll see that the ceiling appears to be made of spider-patterned stained glass. Which is weird, considering that it should be floorboards and such. But the stained glass allows them to look up into all parts of the house and easily spy on the living. What they hear can be hit or miss, especially if the living are whispering, but seeing what they're up to should be easy enough.

Well. Might as well make the most of this space, right?]

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[ Sometime reasonably later (that probably involved a death or two, or three) Hikage finally absconds from the jacuzzi, making the extra effort to fix any clothing dishevelment he may be suffering from with a wave of his and black butterflies. Because that's totally a thing he can do, and also why blood disappearing in the master bath was a thing, and because he has no reason to hold back his full aesthetic now. Neither does he hold back his commentary as he strolls past Subete, though that isn't new. ]

Glad I could put on a good show for you. [ His stare is flat like it was in life, but his tone is just a bit flatter—he's had a day, a weekend actually, and he can't be bothered to push back too much against the hivemind, at least for now. A click, click of his heels finds him in one of the beanbags, a red one of course. Maybe he can just cocoon here for a while. ]

[At the least, Subete seems to have lost most of his interest after the first of the deaths -- he's since sunk into a book over his rapidly cooling tea, one of the real volumes and not a miasma book, given their current access to the library proper. It's an extremely dry manual on what looks like engines, and though he glances over at the jacuzzi occasionally if things get loud...

It seems like Hikage and Date are very busy with their own endeavors and there's little for the rest of the dead to bring to it apart from frowning over the addition of extra death on top of their death pancake stack. The hivemind continues to be inconvenient.

Hivemind-wise, though, he's also managed to settle back to a baseline of mild irritation and studied apathy; there's little enough broadcasting from his corner at the best of times, but just now there's only surface flashes of curiosity as he watches the butterflies go by.]

Everything here has always been a show. Hikage. [words he's said before, though not to this particular person; the context remains almost the same, and yet completely different as he watches the cocoon a little more closely now] But I suppose your stage was a little better-appointed than most. Did you get what you wanted, in the end?

Edited (this thread is a disaster too) 2020-05-23 05:45 (UTC)

Calling some of the drivel we were forced to watch a show is an injustice, Subete. [ What is dead may never die, salt is eternal. He's heard this disdain before in many flavors, but Hikage can be more bold now, though there's a certain weariness to it. When he's settled in he'll work on properly covering that over, even though his words for the most part will remain barbed. He has a different part to play here than he did in life, but it's still a part all the same.

But for now he takes a moment or two to settle into the beanbag, ostensibly thinking over the question while summoning a butterfly to play with on his hand. His thoughts from his corner of the hivemind do seem to reflect as much, though there are pops of shadow every now and again. ]

Not all of it, but I did get to stretch my legs at least. On a stage like this one, my options were fairly limited.

And there is no justice or fairness in this mansion; I'd even say the opposite lives here, or doesn't live. You were the one who was into variety, hmm?

[A brief echo of one of the latest things he said in life, the salt in it somehow diluted in a torrid undercurrent of miasma laced with more of that deliberate reserve. It's almost like when they first walked in the door on this ill-advised mission, minus what little light and verve there was, though his stare rests dark and heavy first on the butterfly and then back on the cocoon beanbag.

Here beneath the all-encompassing shadow of the spider stained-glass ceiling and down in the dusty forgotten corners everything is steeped in purple and night and too much resentment to really be called apathy, but for the moment he somehow manages it anyway.]

... It was a better show than the one going on down here. Or what the rest of them would have produced. [there's a brief loosening of his ironclad composure, at the same time as the hivemind clears a little and connects just briefly to show exactly what the tantruming dead were up to during trial with full mocking filter, before it's filed away again like a sound bite] Probably as far as you can stretch any legs or wings, anyway. And now you're here.

How does it compare?

I said a lot of things. But that one in particular...yes, it's true. But quality still matters. [ In life there might have been a more overt mention of taste with a playful lilt, but drenched in layer upon layer of miasma his tone is leaden. ]

Well I had your act to follow, so I couldn't disappoint. And with such an invested audience here, it seems like I'll have more entertaining to do. [ He turns his hand, the butterfly sliding into his palm and then closes his fist. What filters through the hivemind at the subsequent burst of shadow is a tumultuous sludge of irritation and amusement. ]

I would have liked to enjoy it more. This is all a bit...overwrought and noisy, and there really isn't enough room. But it's not like most of this is new to me.

So you did. You did like to run your mouth. There's a reason the expression 'a diamond in the rough' exists.

[And the pushback might have been more lively once, but though it's not flat here there's simply that same dark undercurrent dragging it down, irony and ice and very little in between. He's lowered his book by this point though he hasn't closed it, words slowly flowing smoother; it seems he's doing less talking these days, down in the depths.

He saves most of his words for much more practical pursuits, perhaps a little literally, perhaps a little literarily.]

Each action has its equal and opposite reaction... I take it you weren't interested in leaving this place, yourself. That is dedication to your part, I suppose. [it's hard to tell what his tone is, precisely, his gaze still steady but unyielding; there's a curl of thoughtfulness when the butterfly goes up in shadowsmoke, like the beginnings of a question, but it doesn't go anywhere for the moment] ... No, I imagine this would just be the inverse of what you previously experienced. Most of them are a bit more easily distracted than the sheep on the other side, at least.

I said it a couple of ways, didn't I? It's not my fault most people couldn't keep up, or that most people were blind to anything not directly in front of them.

[ He flicks his hand and summons another butterfly, though this time he just watches it flex and unflex its wings in his palm. What lies directly in your field of vision indeed. ]

I was in the beginning, but I would have been a fool not to switch plans after the past few weeks. They won't do anything, they never have, and I choose to end this in a way I could still enjoy. I didn't lie about being selfish. [ He shifts a bit, a line of shadow flitting across the thoughtstream. Maybe it was resigned in a way and he knows it, but it was on his own terms and only for his benefit so it's different. At least that's his argument, even if the truth is many times more complicated. ]

...but they can roar and bite all they want. I have years and years of experience to their weeks.

Why fly when you can crawl? Why look when it's much easier to look away? Blindness is being charitable, to those who haven't lost their eyes.

[Or, you know, their face itself; he trails off in something like a sigh, something like the shroud of miasma curling about his shoulders and down his back, fanning out across his cheek in blade-like wisps. Not thorns, exactly, but sharp in an entirely different dimension. His words aren't an agreement or a disagreement, and his silence isn't mercy.

Still, something shifts a little in his stare, something twists in the miasma around him and in the hivemind like a flash of a snake in the grass. His tone is softer, though:]

There's no such thing as not being selfish here, though, is there? Choosing an ending is probably the only choice they have now, no matter how loudly they spin their wheels. [he talks to the newly summoned butterfly, carefully] Experience is the best teacher for that, for fools who close their eyes to all sense and even shortcuts. No, I suppose they're not even fools at this rate.

[...]

That was quicker than expected, though. Did you enjoy the read that much?

[ Being charitable, huh? That's one way of looking at the situation, and while it's not one he disagrees with, it's a view he can't really be bothered with right now at present time. There's still adjustments he needs to make to the tinged tide lapping at his mind, some remixing of colors against the ever present purple tinge, so his only response is a barely audible scoff.

He does seem to catch wind at that something though, as both him and the butterfly momentarily still. That stillness quickly crumbles as he listens to the rest, and there's rustling as a second butterflies pops into existence. The first one flies up to perch on Hikage's shoulder, a participant in this conversation even if on face only. ]

It was too slow, maybe. [ Said to the air, more to the butterflies. A breath and when he continues there's more substance to what he says, more weight dragging every word down. ]

Of course I enjoyed a gift from you, Subete. [ Lacking a playful note, but there's not a hint of mocking in it either. The tendrils of miasma are all too eager to take up that space in the absence of anything else. ]

It was a thorough read that went well beyond surface subjects and dressings. [ ... ] A number is just a number, but 1/1 really seems too simple.

[The topic of those on the living side, beyond the spider veil, is almost incidental now anyway -- something peripherally important in this new shade, like the architecture of the house, ever winding but only concrete and loud when you take the right stairs. The scoff sinks into the miasma around them, curled around Subete himself, and disappears.

He doesn't react to the appearance of the new butterfly or the general butterfly movement, though that undercurrent of twisted mood is still there, slowly unfurling as he inclines his head -- in many ways they agree when it comes to the trial and everything that came before them anyway, and now that they're here...

There's finally a movement from him as well, leaning forward slightly.]

... Who knows what it was. It just seemed a waste to let the house have it.

[It's not a lie, though it isn't the whole truth either, because when he pauses and closes his eyes and tucks away the bits and pieces of himself that have started to spill out of the tightly coiled presence he seems to maintain in the hivemind -- it's all in a mess, wisps of aimless resentment and exhaustion and the razor edges of memories that go up in smoke.]

It is that kind of a book, but -- read too deeply, and you'll be read in return. It has lost some of its teeth, but most of those here wouldn't bother appreciating that, I think. [slow, flat even as he tilts his head and finally catches Hikage's eye instead] In some ways it's more like a curse, but there's not much that's more cursed than where we are.

[ There's no proper voicing of his agreement, just an "Mn" slipping into the miasma around them, but it would have been a waste he agrees. And it's also a subject he's not entirely sure of either, so he has no inclination to pursue it any further. That type of dance, weaving in and out with attention paid only to the current step is hard to do with shadows miring every move. ]

Most of them, but even then—well they won't have the opportunity to see for themselves any time soon. [ A beat and he lets a spray of color (dark and lacking any vibrancy) travel across the hivemind; the vents are tight quarters, but the book fits snugly inside. After, he catches that gaze, no smile but he does tilt his head in acknowledgement. ]

Powerful artifacts tend to have that in common. But I'm used to it, like I said... [ The extra weight here means nothing, even as the second butterfly lands on his arm. ] fanning pages are close enough to a windmill for a brainless goose.

[It's hard to tell if what used to be a dance is still as graceful or as well-choreographed now, with the cloud of something else and everyone else whispering in your ear throwing everything off -- it's something he should be used to by now, possibly more than most people here or above, but there's still a flash of irritation from Subete now and then, cutting through the miasma like lightning in a storm.

It all softens and shifts when the colors reach him, the familiar green of magic and everything else steeped in an almost familiar darkness.]

Ah. It could certainly be worse, in quarters like these, with people like these.

[That one isn't honest at all, quiet as he drops his eyes to the book in his lap, but it's the whirling miasma that loosens a little further to let slip a handful of brighter emotions like fish in a pond under the rain, miasma-laced but quick enough to make a trail: startled satisfaction tightly twined with sharp consideration. Relief, blurred almost out of focus underneath.]

... I see. [a tilt of his head, not looking but listening, even here with too much noise between them] That would explain why you were looking in the library of all places. Coincidences are such funny things.

The Book of Verbalism -- is connected inextricably with the truth, no matter where it goes. As I've said, it destroys as much as it illuminates. That's true of those connected to it as well, and those connected through it.

[ Vivacity always attracts him, stealing his attention away from more lifeless topics; here it's almost brighter even if it is terribly fleeting. He has no real smiles to offer but there's a faint hum of red, thoughtful, considering, before it changes back to the ever present purple. ]

It seems I've been collecting them lately, with how this weekend went. [ The edge is directed at himself and the detective who occupied his time when he first arrived. Really, what were the odds Date would snap the very weekend Hikage finally decided to move? He brushes that emotion off like he would an annoying insect, it's something he'll have to deal with over and over again but for now he pays it no mind.

Instead he focuses on something he knows all too well. ]

Oh? [ He relaxes more into the beanbag (sags into it more really), causing the butterflies to scatter). ] So that's part of why you had to keep moving forward. But what about here? And what about me?

[ The last question is added like an afterthought, and there's a quick undercurrent of amusement that runs through it. ]

[It's easy for Subete to see the world all through one shade: green, purple, even orange, but here his frames of references are knocked off-center enough for him to follow all whims of light and shadow. He's not so easily distracted, but he tucks things away for later between one blink and the next.

'Later' is one of the easier lies when miasma steals time faster than you can blink.]

I suppose it's not the most surprising thing, given all the house is capable of. And all that the Foundation is not.

[It's less of an edge and more of something that might have been a laugh or the companion to a smirk once upon a time, the way his words distort. It's been a deeply strange weekend, a couple of weekends, and perhaps the shenanigans of the week were his way of regaining equilibrium before it was knocked to the four winds again. He curls in a little on himself, tension running like currents through his cloak of miasma, but his eyes follow the butterflies in their chaotic journey.]

The book narrates reality, to a certain extent. It doesn't bring back that which is lost, and it doesn't-- [he was keeping his voice deliberately light and level, but he stumbles a little and finally shakes his head, taking in a breath] Nesta. You must have met her, in some way. Separating her from the book is a good thing, but I suppose it must always have a few spooks to haunt it.

Ironically enough for us.

I don't know that it was that either, at least with Date. [ He leaves it there, letting the spite flow freely in the current. They hadn't trusted Hikage at trial (and for good reason), but that thread he had dangled still has yet to be pulled. Whether he actually feels like doing anything with it is another story, but being spiteful and being killed several times over is very much a thing.

A shift another refocus, as he settles into the shadows more. ]

I did. I enjoy all manners of stories, but unreliable orators...I prefer to read on my own. [ He has a clearer picture of Nesta now even if it's still jumbled considering all the related and unrelated pieces in his head, but it's easy to agree here. If she was anything like these ghosts, and even if she wasn't, it's probably too much to deal with. ]

Ah, that's almost a pity. [ Flat. ] Gilgamesh was interested, and haunting him wouldn't be so bad but...I don't regret my choice.

Hmm. I wonder, then.

[Certain aspects of the hivemind, particularly in direction of the jacuzzi, have piqued what's left of his curiosity at this point (though he doesn't bother glancing over, or giving Date the time of day at this point; there are already too many things all tangled up here and he himself is starting to lose track of them, but that's usual when dealing with this particular problem).

He doesn't pursue it, though; for the moment, see the entirely too long parentheses and the general messy state of all of him right now. He's no longer throwing out a bouquet of emotional wisps, but still.]

... She wanted to be the one to end it all. She wanted a lot of things, so much more than just one book or haunting. I hated her.

[Still, he goes on, and that note's been in his voice before -- once upon a time, surrounded by a wreckage of the wrong books, only this time the pure venom in it manifests physically. The miasma around him darkens and bubbles up over his head and the arms he has loosely wrapped around himself, sinking slowly into the left side of him all the way down and revealing a crack or two radiating from the left side of his chest.

Hikage's words still reach him, though, as they tend to do; the rolling storm slows, stills, and he cocks his head.]

As far as I can tell, the King doesn't need the help. Or the bonuses. [it would be ironic, but his voice is all distorted too, unhelpfully and masking any other emotions in it] You could have... chosen worse.

[ Another time, another story then. Hikage would feel more lost himself but given that his mind is a sea of shards right now, cluttered, unorganized, and adrift in miasma its just one gigantic mess. Maybe that's why it's almost an equilibrium of sorts. It's that same cyclical churning that propels his response, a resonation in a sense: shadow to shadow, venom to venom. ]

That really is terribly greedy, shouldn't a book know the definition of sharing? That's why taste matters...pure avarice is both a boring and ugly thing. The man who called himself my father couldn't haunt me though, so maybe I was lucky. [ For everything he is, Hikage probably shouldn't be talking about greed but. His desire is simple when it comes down to it, and singular at its core.

One of the butterflies flutters a bit, not really moving to where Subete is but closer all the same. Can shadow butterflies see? Can Hikage see through them? It's possible they're like phantoms (phantom limbs), but the curiosity does seem to be there as the miasma froths and the cracks shine. ]

Mmhmm. [ There was a time when he would have relished in that not compliment, but alas. ] I had to help him a little, but only to help myself. You were busy this past week, but I suppose boredom is as good an excuse as any.

Edited (hakai emphasis needed) 2020-06-08 04:41 (UTC)

[Ah, he's tightened his arms further around himself and tightened his shroud of miasma even further -- like a funeral shroud, like simply pulling the fabric of space-time itself over himself and plunging everything into darkness, though he doesn't pull up his knees despite the echo of an urge. And it's still too bright and fluttering and loud outside for it to really--

There's still a voice clamoring for his attention somewhere in the void, familiar and unfamiliar at once. There are too many echoes for him to be able to grasp any of what he's feeling right now, but the butterfly or Hikage or their compounded eyes might be able to see the cracks spread until the miasma starts to pour out of and over them and wrap in close like a strange equivalent of armor or scales. It's a mystery. It's also debatable if Subete is doing all of this consciously or not, but.]

The book is my-- I guess that's how the bonds of destiny work. That's why she-- [his words are splintering too, the distortion flowing and ebbing, quiet enough to disappear but what comes through more clearly is the sound he makes after a moment: not quite a laugh at all but breathless like one, a little choked] Maybe that's why. I think I might be a ghost magnet at this rate.

[A careful breath, two, three, and everything steadies a little: his voice, the miasma, the current state of his messy miasma shell.]

I had to stretch my legs a little. It's been a long time.

[ Even if he can't see, Hikage can certainly feel what's happening over there even if it's only the echoes of the miasma coalescing together. He shifts purposefully this time so he can see a little better, the one butterfly flying above Subete in a lazy circle. All of this is really-

It's enough to knock him off just a bit, because even in death they still seem to have that effect on each other. Muted as it may be, there's a reverberation of their past dance in his next words. ]

I'm almost insulted that I fit into that category. [ ... ] But it's hard to tell. [ That's as much of a call out to the half thoughts he's going to give, at least on this topic. He's curious but he's also stubborn, the pressure of the miasma pressing down even more. ]

Was it worth it? To wait that long.

[Within the miasma he's mostly closed his eyes -- they're probably darker than purple by now, the wrong shade entirely, bled almost to black in the way that those drunker on miasma tend to be; but it's hard to say whether he's drunk on miasma or something else, with miasma garnish.

A blink and the swirls of shadow over his head slow some more, thinning as he follows voices and movement. The one above his head and the one a little further off, fluttering and elusive but there.]

... I said so, didn't I? It's a big category. [it's light, wispy like the miasma was before, something a little wild about it even as he seems to pick his way through the words this time] Everyone is a ghost, everyone was and will be one, and as long as the book is with me they will all be there. Father and Maia, Nesta and Kiryuu, Akira and...

[His voice softens at the end, dips to nothing. One hand curls over his chest, disturbing the slashes and darkness like blood intermingled. Slowly, slowly the blanket of miasma continues to recede, centered there and flaring at the edges. It's enough for him to look over at the cocoon again, contemplative.]

But I wouldn't call it waiting. Using my resources when they should be used. Stealing back what can be stolen. Maybe I could have moved earlier but that doesn't mean I've stopped now.

Edited (makes it more disastrous I guess) 2020-06-08 19:56 (UTC)

[ Even as he is now, Hikage insists on letting some other colors show through: it may actually be impossible to tell when the miasma has a hold on him given his (somewhat) natural purple eyes and his ability to change his features on top of it. And though there's shadows like dust on the wings of his butterflies, it's more of an adornment than a true takeover.

The butterfly bobs up and down, seemingly in tandem with a lightly audible huff. ]

I wonder if you could really give the book away, but even then I don't think you would. It must get crowded, even with pieces it gets crowded: Kagiha, Yamato, Kazuya, Karasaba, Beniyuri. [ ... ] And Usagi too.

[ A slight shake of his head and the butterfly closer to him lands on his chest. He almost curls up around it but then shakes off miasma and feelings both, causing a large ripple. The butterfly stays, as still as a statue. ]

Mn, in that case—I think I'm almost looking forward to it. [ That sounds ridiculous for a lot of reasons, specificity not stated perhaps purposefully, but as it goes in this chaotic sea. ]

[It's the semblance of color in the void that draws his eye, no matter how thin or illusionary it is, because it shouldn't be here; just like the beating of wings and the weight of voices, no matter how much miasma is dusted across the top like salt over the meager menu of the mansion.

In response, he blows out a sigh, blows away some of the miasma they're mutually scattering all over the place, though Subete probably more so. There's the faintest glint of gold from his chest where his fingers are still holding tight; the smallest flash of another color that doesn't necessarily belong.]

I can't. [not quite resigned but somehow self-deprecating, just a little] Even if it's too crowded, I think... I wouldn't want to forget again. Not for good.

[A slight tilt of his head as he slowly files away the names, known and unknown with all their different weights, letting them bubble downwards like the miasma around him, slowly, slowly: one day maybe he'll ask. Later.

Somehow, though, there's some of the old resonance in his voice when he speaks again, the air and the shadows shifting for him like applying a physical weight.]

Look forward to it: just as I don't wish to forget, I don't fancy being forgotten. I intend to have the living regret every last vote by the time we're done here.

[In the absence of an existing agenda, make your own -- regardless of what's coming in the future, that will still hold true. Regardless of lurches or stumbles along the way, the way is forward.]

[ Later. It's an easy promise to make, because there will be a lot of it to go around or at least there should be. Later, when he's not fluxing between manic highs and depressive lulls. Optimism has no place in this locale, not even for the most naive. ]

It would be easy to, but I don't like easy. And it might be...fun "living" like this. [ That's his usual sarcastic edge, honed even more so. He doesn't like easy, and he doesn't want to forget, but his rediscovered memories are still raw and bristle like thorns against his mind. Good thing he's a masochist. ]

Some people would call that demanding. [ A flicker of red, sliced through the miasma. ] But I will then, in between my own shows. I still have a captive audience member or two.

[Later: it's truly debatable if anything significant will change in the long run, no matter what comes scurrying out of the woodwork or what harebrained schemes the living cook up to more or less nip at their collective ankles. But while there's something familiar in the way Subete's posture is losing its stubborn lines, crumpling slightly even as he uncurls a little more -- the darkness in his gaze and in his face remains, warped by miasma and so much else in a way that's hard to see down here.]

It's not easier, in the long run. [that's soft enough to almost vanish entirely, spoken down at his hands and almost to himself; a beat and then he goes on in a more normal voice, distortion down to the same warped edge that lurks in the corner of his mouth] But the long run is much longer now, so we should take advantage of it. No matter what it's like.

And you should know what I demand, from people and from reality. [there's the smallest singular motion, his eyes lifting finally to catch that flicker and its owner] I haven't stopped watching yet, but my standards might be higher now.

Everyone still has some catching up to do with me, but if the road is that long... I'll be waiting. [ Optimism really is for fools, but he somehow doubts (a form of cynicism in itself) that they'll exist as they are for a hundred years. Of course being distorted entirely also is a means of an out, but he won't present that idea.

Instead he plucks the butterfly that's on his chest, pressing it between his fingers until it's little more than a black smudge even darker than the miasma. The other one finally returns to him, vanishing up his sleeve. ]

Mmhmm. But lucky for you, you can finally see all of my wings. [ If only he could lean into those words properly, but the only leaning he's doing right now is physical in nature. The miasma really doesn't make for a proper rest but adapting and changing are more than reflexive turns for colors and gradients. ]

Edited (idk more color) 2020-06-09 05:47 (UTC)

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