foundationmods (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
foundationmods) wrote2020-04-29 02:16 pm
foundationmods) wrote2020-04-29 02:16 pm
Entry tags:
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?]
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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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.
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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. ]
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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.]
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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.
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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.
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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. ]
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[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: ็ฟผ.
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.]
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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.
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[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.
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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.
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[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.
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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. ]
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[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.
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It likely says something about all of thisโข 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.
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[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.
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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. ]
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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). ]
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At its core, the hivemind is simply a slow-motion gathering of all the most destructive elements in the house; so it's really no wonder that that they've found themselves and each other here.]
That's the price we pay for backstage access. But you won't have to wait for long, or at all. After all, waiting is a state of mind.
[Maybe this is a challenge in return. Or just wordplay again, because that's apparently what he does even in the deepest grips of miasma.]
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...time is just what you make of it. And there's other things to play with too. [ But he wouldn't be himself (even as he exists now) if he didn't pushback in some way, because while he's no stranger to waiting and patience, he also spent nearly a century waiting for the keys (shards) to his freedom to even exist in the first place. Luckily in this case, the board has already been set. ]
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[It's, perhaps interestingly, not a denial -- nor is it truly of the miasma, this stinging slice of his own brand of cynicism despite where they are and all the ghosts they've contended with and continue to contend with between the two of them. There's a faint flatness to it, perhaps because he's been here longer, maybe because some part of him was always here.
Not waiting, not bound by this house, but bound by something else entirely and walking towards it with eyes wide open.]
But as you said, time -- is what we've traded for. [what they've traded themselves for, unspoken, but he also doesn't shy away from it] Ah, in some ways... I didn't think I'd be back here so soon.
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I traded that away a long time ago, but this place deserves secondhand quality. [ Part a dig at himself but also the truth. He reaches out, not to summon a butterfly but to play with some strands of miasma. ]
Hm. There's no real music to speak of here, either. [ If his inference is correct, but all the more pity anyway that he's not in the mood for that serenade regardless. ]