R5: ghost hangout

[foundationmods]

[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?]

Comments

[noneforall]

[It's hard to say if he was always chasing destruction for destruction's sake, or if in fact, like all the different layers of darkness they're basking in -- like all the different ones he's just borne witness to -- it was simply a web woven together of too may different threads (history, destiny, jealousy, reflection, vengeance, emptiness) and twisted beyond all shape or knowledge: here and now, though, they work out to one and the same.

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.]

[kaliedoscopes]

As long as I get a refund, eventually. [ The adjective is carelessly thrown on at the end, because this is all just a bit too raw for him not to be petulant. He doesn't mind being here, he chose to be here, but he's already set his eyes on a brighter, grander, show. ]

...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. ]

[noneforall]

A refund, hmm? I wouldn't hold my breath.

[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.

[kaliedoscopes]

We'll see. [ Longer to Hikage is skewed in various directions. This box was much more crowded than his usual, and most of the company annoying buzzing insects. But—he doesn't have the capacity to think on it nor the desire, and neither is this a proclamation that something will happen any time soon. But it will eventually, that much he's sure of. ]

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. ]