foundationmods | R5: ghost hangout

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)

Hmm. If it is that long, I've already said I don't wait.

[It's hard to tell precisely if he's addressing Hikage himself or the rest of the basement on this point -- he hasn't broken his stare, but there's something a little darker and more derisive than before laced into the statement that isn't all miasma either. Accompanying it in the hivemind -- now that all of the clouding stirred up by the miasma beforehand has settled somewhat -- is a slow roll of something sharp enough to draw blood.

It snakes its way over and out, dissipating easily into the surroundings without pause. Subete's gaze tracks the shadowy butterflies in the meantime, letting his attention be scattered.]

Though I haven't seen them all, have I? I wonder how much longer it would take?

[There's little inflection to be had, still, and the brightness from before -- the beginning of this conversation, the beginning of their descent to wherever this is -- doesn't return. But Subete gestures briefly, murmurs, and a small mote of light takes flight from his fingertip: 翼.

It soars, fleeting and fae-like, to dissolve in a burst of sparks in Hikage's little cocoon; he'll probably feel the lightest of breezes riffling through hair and clothing, the barest hint that the spell was there in the first place.]

Well almost a century isn't the shortest journey to make. [ Neither is it clear who Hikage is addressing either but there is something barbed in it, even if one of the directions it's pointed is inward. When you finally out yourself for being old as hell it's probably understandable to be a little crotchety, even if it really is the case of eighteen going on 100 in the most literal sense. ]

Of course not. [ A scene flits across the hivemind, an ornate hallway lined with rows upon rows of masks. A girl can be heard asking "What do you think they are?" and Hikage answers, sans any color in his voice. "Probably the master's collection."

The combination of reaching into his memory and letting himself be wrapped in his cocoon slows his reaction; there's genuine surprise on his features as well as in the miasma when the kanji lights up the cocoon and stirs everything in its wake.

But his counter is as much reflexive as it is fast, a spray of jet black butterflies bursting forth from him with a grandiose gesture or two. The kaleidoscope of black swirls around the room, kicking up its own wind, before it exits through the wall nearest Subete. ]

...a summer breeze should accompany fireworks.

Ah. So you're declaring yourself eldest ghost as well as eldest amnesiac, I see.

[Yes, he absolutely heard that one. Apparently he's perfectly happy to bring this up instead of any of the other deeper and more relevant stuff at this point in time, possibly because they've already dived so far past so many comfort zones that they might as well float a little bit. His tone is a little lighter even if there's somewhat a lack of accompanying expression.

A moment later all of it pauses and then lightens further to a crisp strain of curiosity, winding around the intricacy of the memory and letting it swirl around like wine, slow and dark and perusing every mask with a clinical sort of attention. His mood gets mixed in like the shards of his kanji, brightening almost to something else entirely when the butterflies get knocked out and across the room.

He releases the grip he has on his locket, finally, and raises the hand to lightly brush through the cloud of creatures as they pass, somehow both darker and more vibrant than the miasma that's back to a light shroud swirling across his shoulders and down his back.]

But I suppose... this is closer to being masters of this mansion than before, despite everything. [musingly, like he's weaving the web of memory and mask and mansions all together, slowly dyeing them in what shades are left] Still, if that's what you think of as fireworks in this day and age -- you have another think coming.

[ God that was all a fever dream at the end so the only pushback he has is to grumble and scowl. He really does fit those titles at times. It's not quite the same fit as all those masks: representing a variety of different animals and expressions, each beset with a shiny jewel given his taste. Literal trophy walls of all the faces he's stolen and tucked away beneath his cloak.

He can't quite tuck away the small shudder that shakes the cocoon though, but it's surely coincidental and has nothing to do with the hand to kaleidoscope contact. His tone is ruffled when he speaks, the tiniest bit of miasma on the ends. ]

There's a lot of despites, and I don't like sharing. [ A soft click of his tongue. ] Since you volunteered, you'll just have to show me then.

Edited 2020-06-09 18:56 (UTC)

You don't like sharing, you're not the keeper of a menagerie...

[There's a curl of self-satisfaction at the grumbling, all unadorned and popping like a single quick bubble in the midst of all the miasmas and mirages they've just flung at each other, but it's there all the same. Just like the faintest glimmer of unrepentant amusement as he finishes off his perusal of the memory, the web, and lays them out on the table with a flourish.

Hiding from him is always going to be a challenge in more than one way, especially from now on.

Distracted by the butterflies, he catches little else but movement out of the corner of his eye but what still holds true here is: he doesn't have to watch. Instead his head tilts into the timbre and flutter of voice, automatically reaching for the keys to the instrument.]

But I still owe you one. Or perhaps more? It doesn't matter. There's all kinds of fireworks in the world and out of it, and I'd say I've got a good grasp on most of them.

Don't tell me that you're any different. [ Not that they were comparing but they are now, apparently. He's still off center despite the fact that he's begun to push back; even with the miasma his stubbornness can cut through the tide, at least temporarily. ]

Start with one date, or are you greedy too? [ With that particular instrument, with just a few steps forward to right himself, it's almost like he's dancing again. ]

I can be generous when I feel like it, you know. I still can't say I've had much experience with zoos or taming creatures, though. Even now.

[This is a ridiculous argument given their respective skillsets that were literally on display twelve seconds ago and possibly also given all that Subete had thrown at the house as well as the MJBK on his metaphorical payroll, but that's not the important part. It's the principle of the thing, the not quite defined give-and-take of it and them, familiar and foreign at once under new management.

In some ways, the rhythms are still the same; in other ways they're transposed, slower and more off-the-cuff but easier to follow.]

I wouldn't call it greed to know exactly how far I can reach. And I would be careful with numbers: they're easy to see as absolutes, but they, too, are words in their own right.

How could I forget the water familiar. [ Unsure if this is an argument against taming creatures or a nod to Subete being generous, but does anyone know what's going on here.

It likely says something about all of this™ that swirls and torrents of miasma can lend to moments of lucidity, but that's not something Hikage will spend any real thought on. Much the same goes for his reply too, because under the right conditions he can be terribly impulsive, so he really doesn't need the extra push here but the house provides anyway. ]

Isn't that the purpose of them? But I know, I've never forgotten that.

Water is so much more versatile than most give it credit for, after all.

[It's a mystery as to what they're arguing anymore, but while Subete doesn't manage to scare up a laugh there's something of the cadence of it in his words anyway -- the memory of water is a satisfying one, reflecting on the ridiculous ways it's allowed him to slip under the radar, splash rings around Hikage and still others, and at some point, even those from the future.

But that's not the most important thing right now, in the cloudy aftermath of storms and the continued poisonous low light, the clarity of dusk before a long night.]

What, to be absolutes or easy roadsigns? Is that what you think? [there's something like a brief huff, but he goes on, not quite playful but somehow like a challenge] I am in the business of making numbers do what I want, though. Consider it a part of the job description.

[ There's just a knowing "mmhmm" from him because it's not only Subete who came at him with a water attack, bug types may not be weak to water in theory, but in practice...

He shrugs it off, focusing on his steps which have finally found their center. The miasma will catch up to him in a second, but for now- ]

Neither and both, they're an easy way to define value. But I'll just repeat myself: you'll have to show me what you want then, that and fireworks. [ The words roll off his tongue easily, this is a challenge now. ]

Edited (rephrase for more barrel rolling) 2020-06-10 04:51 (UTC)

[There's the briefest spark in his eye at the response; to tell the truth, he really, really isn't in the business of elemental affinities nor anything of the sort, because at the end of the day the battles (the war) he fights are entirely too different in nature and scale and weight and worth to even begin to compare.

But something about it still gets his blood up, always has, or maybe it's just something in the miasma still agitating all his layers bleeding into each other and into everyone else's; he doesn't need a spur but he doesn't need a brake either, so forward he goes.]

The fireworks have always been a part of it -- you should know that by now.

[Spoken softly but without reserve, spreading his hands theatrically because that's apparently the mood now and into the sunset.]

Ah, but who am I to refuse a show? This house is the wrong stage entirely, but all that's left is to change that.

[ He laughs, mostly mirthless but with a streak of darkness that's entirely his own, weight, emotion and all. So many colors have been bled from him today, but there's still some left.

What isn't left are questions even if he should have some, but forward, forward, forward, with his wings spread. ]

It's too small for you, for me, for the both of us. But destroying it shouldn't be all that hard now that we're backstage.

[He lets that extra shot of darkness blaze through, like a shot of espresso -- extra dark, maybe? Or just an extra trail of butterflies, seen with a different set of eyes. Even Subete isn't sure how to describe his senses sometimes, especially under miasma spell, but:

It probably doesn't matter at this point, with all the wings and things and the way he's plain thrown off reservations along with life, the universe, and possibly everything. This really is a completely new perspective, so there's no sense in bothering to look at it from the ground, is there?]

Much too small, when all the world's a stage.

[It's quiet but there's a sheen to it, like a flicker of iridescence on the edge of a feather, his lip curling up in response. His fingers curl in, curl out, drawing small patterns in the air that don't quite resolve into words just yet.]

It would be easy, it should be easy, all that's needed is the key. We -- have a piece of it. That should be enough, from this side.

[ From the sky he can read the thermals even if there's fog laced throughout, because for however powerful the miasma is and isn't, it's incapable of taking away or blurring this instinct even if it's a threat to the hivemind's existence. Like a butterfly drawn to a flower, he's been chasing that intoxicating scent of destruction at the cost of everything else. That's probably the entire point.

This close even with everything that's happened in the past 24 hours and then some, it makes him bristle; the curve on his own lips almost a crescent moon, half of his vision red instead of an even purple. ]

Oh? I prefer the spotlight to the background but I guess I can settle for that until we break this venue wide open. [ He doesn't need to say it again, Hikage really hates sharing and he really hates sharing with what turns out to be a literal babe still fussing and teething. (Perhaps this talk is edging into sharing itself but he either doesn't grasp it or doesn't want to). ]

R5: ghost hangout

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