thisavrou_log | points to spinal chord on brain diagram [open]

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points to spinal chord on brain diagram [open]

Who: Chara and YOU
When: 11/23 - 11/24
Where: Literally all around Avagi this child is wandering in a disoriented post-fight daze
What: Chara fought in a trial. Chara got a prize. No one is happy with this.
Warnings: Emotional distress probable, in addition to the usual Chara warnings.

The temples began to sing.

They emerged bloodied and ragged along the edges, one hand clasped around the rust-brown stains fringing every tear in their clothing. One side of their hair has become uneven where a hank of it was roughly and sloppily cut away mid-combat. They limp. Their eyes are glazed with hunger, with emptiness, with exhaustion. Their motions are stiff and automatic. Whenever someone draws near to them, they flinch and hold ready, a blade of red steel gleaming in their hand. A smile tears over their features in a blaze of forced and painted-on glee.

They emerged from the Trial of Life victorious, in a manner of speaking - in a very loose manner of speaking. They emerged from the Trial of Life, having not died or fled, and thus are eligible for something of a prize.

That is when the temples began to sing.

They ignite with a soft blue glow, ethereal, illuminating their surroundings in a cool sweep of runic light. The light takes root inside them, nestling like a seed in the center of their chest; not patience-blue, not integrity-blue, and certainly not determination-red, but something else entirely. It aches in solemn acknowledgment of itself. The child's eyes squeeze shut. The blood has begun to hammer in their ears anew, as if rejuvenated enough to feel like it ought to redouble its efforts to spill out from their torn veins.

The hum pressing across their ears has begun to vibrate in their bones.

As they cross through the portal's bridge of light back to Avagi, the whispers and fragments of other people's thoughts begin to trail after them, silver-tinted specters of other people's thoughts.

[Chara scored the empathy reward for their participation in the Trial of Life, meaning that, to quote the info post: others stay inside their body, but gain a sense of those around them. This manifests not as telepathic knowledge of their thoughts, but an empathic resonance—ghost-vision showing their emotions in stark clarity.]

[This more or less gives them the ability to know and feel anything your character is experiencing emotionally so that's you know fantastic. Feel free to tag in with prose or brackets; I'll match you! Let me know here or over at arrpee if you want a closed starter or something more specific!]

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The Kaittans.

[That's...easy, ha ha. They can even say it and know they mean it. They truly are capable of it, are they not? They're capable of it and they don't even know every individual member of their race, never got to know an individual in particular. They do not need to, to know that they hate whoever might be capable of this - whoever might consider this a reward.]

[It's the kind of knee-jerk reaction a child might have, when they encounter something they don't like. Sincere, blunt, and with one hundred percent earnesty, even if it meant damning a whole category of something.

Sometimes it's easy to forget that Chara is still young, even with what they'd seen, done, experienced. It was hardly their fault.

So, she nods understanding, even while not agreeing. They are as correct as she might be.

Turning the kettle to heat, she fishes a small, metallic box out of the kitchen storage, turning it this way and that in her hand as she replies.]

Not much of a prize, huh?

They did not so much as ask. They made no indication that this would be - that they were capable of -

[It's fine! It's fine. They're accustomed, are they not? They have never had any choice in the matter of their life. Their arrival, their continued existence. They don't get to pretend they've ever had a right to choose. The only thing concrete in that was the choice in their method of departure - the one thing in their life they could control.]

[And even that, in the end, was not truly theirs to command.]

Hasn't been a lot of people interested in asking our opinion on things, lately, [she agrees, attempting to tap out a reasonable amount of leaves into the lid.] Just zero to three hundred on the brain, without as much as a "mind if we change things up?"

[It was becoming a worrying trend.

Satisfied with the arrangements, Shepard pours hot water through the dried matter, releasing a scent—floral—but not overpoweringly so. Not dissimilar from walking through a garden in full bloom in the middle of summer. The gentle perfume floods through the apartment, enveloping everything as she continues pouring, letting the water steep through it.]

That's not half bad.

[They're tired.]

[They're so tired, Shepard. Perhaps she sees it, or perhaps she's simply gathered as much, but - this is what they are. A film of exhaustion clings to the interior of their ribs, painting whatever remains of their SOUL with an oil slick sickness.]

[Perhaps that is why their words are devoid of bite, of venom.]

Too many people have invaded too many minds of late. I've tired of it.

[She opens her mouth to respond--the sky is blue, violet, black, her partner extends out a tendril and pats their blobbish son on the head, smiling. "Good job in the game today, kiddo. You really showed them how to play xxybzzpit!"--and closes it again, focusing instead on the scent of the tea for a long minute.

There's a long, drawn-out sigh as she releases her grip on the counter, pouring the steeped tea into two cups quietly. Finally:]

Me, too.

[It's candid. She was used to expressing honestly, wearing her heart on her sleeve for much of her personal interactions. She just didn't have much to hide.

But it was the difference between someone going through your cabin with permission and forewarning, versus a surprise inspection. Every time, you lost a little bit of privacy, a little bit of yourself. You didn't change, not really—you were just left feeling wrung out, a little angry, even if nothing of interest was discovered.

That Chara could understand that to the same depths as she could—well.

Taking up a mug in each hand, she makes no efforts to conceal her mental promises to anyone who would consider trying further with them—a protective blast shield, physically and mentally, razor-sharp on the outside, cotton warmth within.

Shepard slides on to the couch, holding out the mug by the sides, handle free towards them. If it's hot, she's not showing it.]

Here.

Tell me what you think.

[For a moment, there's a hopeful nervous aura of emotional feedback--as if waiting for judgement on her decisions.]

...what?

[Unveiled uncertainty is a peculiar look for them; they do not indulge it very often. If it were their choice, they would not indulge it at all. Exposing their own confusion is a surefire means of baring a weakness, a pumping jugular, and they would rather not allow that advantage to be seized.]

[But then, Shepard has always been...unique, when it comes to vulnerabilities.]

[It is disgusting, the fact that it is their proximity to her hope, to her anxiety, that allows them interpret the request and then want nothing more than to indulge it. Only when allowed unwanted insight into the minds of others, it seems, do they become slightly more bearable to be around.]

Why?

[It's a beat too late—remembering mentally that Chara can feel her nascent emotional field—and the hopeful nerves are quickly over-trod by a thin veneer of embarrassment, fighting and losing against a sincere compassion that just didn't give a damn. She'd buy Chara a shop-full of things, one after another, if just one of them would give them reason to smile their rarest smile.]

You said you liked tea.

[Straightforward. But as for the variety, all bouquets and posies—]

Thought I'd keep up the gardening theme.

[Perhaps that's the hardest part of all of it; the knowledge that she is not merely playing along, not merely pretending to be someone that she isn't. She is not effecting some sense of compassion out of obligation, or falsehood.]

[Because it is sincere. It is so painfully, utterly, unforgivably sincere.]

I do. [Of all the responses they have in their arsenal, not one of them is prepared for this - for kindness and hope so genuine and so central to this interaction, here and now.]

[They almost refuse.]

[But in the end, how can they? Allowing the warmth of the mug to fit between their hands, curving scarred fingertips around the contours as the steam curls out from the warmed brew, they allow for a small, tentative sip.]

...it's good.

[There's an unbridled explosion of elation at the verdict, unvarnished and light—no reason to hide happiness, after all.

Despite the mental cheering stadium—and her awareness of its visibility—her outward demeanor, while pleased, remains markedly casual. Except for the nod, then a shrug, as if she tried to do both at the same time.]

Looked around for a while before I found it. Wasn't sure how you'd like a herbal blend, but I thought I'd let you be the judge of that. Pretty sure there's no caffeine in it—or at least, no stimulants my scanners could pick up. But it smells nice.

[There's a pause as she takes a gulp of her own, more used to swilling coffee than sipping something a touch more delicate. Staring into the mug, then back to Chara, she inclines her head, leaning on the back of the couch.]

Not bad. Not bad at all.

And do we know what kind of herb?

[Is it some...obscure space blend, some compound of plants beyond their understanding, each requiring a name?]

[She's good at veiling it - the extent of everything she carries with her, in her heart, in her soul. She's had a lifetime of practice, they know. They know. No one gets to be a soldier without something like that at their back. Not simply things like anger, like sadness, like regret, but also pride - also elation.]

[It should not be as painful as it is, that understanding of how numb one makes oneself, when they devote every heartbeat of their attention to others.]

Nothing fundamentally dangerous to humans, I know that much.

[She'd scanned it, naturally—then eaten a spoonful of it, crunching thoughtfully on the leaves and flowers as she read through the largely uneventful data readout.]

Apparently it's a seasonal blend for the planet. Special edition, or--a family of stones rolls across the landscape, giggling as they bump into each other. It's courtship season, and they're headed for the beach--

She attempts to catch up with her own train of thought, and successfully manages to swing into one of its metaphorical boxcars waving a free hand in front of herself.]--something like that.

[Letting the hand drop, she leans back, letting her head rest against the couch's cushion, a thin puff of breath exhaled through her nose.]

I guess it's not so bad. Can't really complain.

[She could—for all the good it would do. It's stupid. It's irritating. But it's, at least, vaguely interesting at points, right? Silver lining.]

I mean, one time, back on the Moira—our ship, the one that crash-landed? I was half-glass for a week or so. That was inconvenient.

[It's difficult to discern the minutiae of her confusion, but it still waylays her train of thought - and theirs. All told, her control is impressive. Perhaps she's simply had enough time to adjust to the frequent divergences down someone else's life, someone else's mental pathways, to have grown adept at navigating away from it.]

Half-glass. [They frown, a dark crease dimpling their forehead.] In...what way?

[They despise asking questions, generally.]

[Somehow, for her, they don't terribly seem to mind.]

We were... fighting a group of people. Their ship was made entirely of glass—except it was almost living, alive. There was an Ingress... [Here, she gives a single-handed gesture—the universal something-or-other.] ...hiccup.

Our ship merged with theirs—and our crew was glassed. Think I had it better than others—it only had about half my face, and part of my body, and my body was still functioning. [How, she hadn't stopped to question. When your body turns to unbroken glass, you didn't go poking around until it did.] Watched someone shatter in a hallway.

[Glass. Literal glass. They'd thought, stupidly, for a moment, that it was an expression, a manner of speaking, referring to...they didn't know. Something to do with alcohol? Something to do with...drinking?]

[But, no. She'd turned into glass.]

That sounds like an especially abrupt manner of death.

[And they don't sound much bothered about that. It's said...absently, like someone voicing simple, scientific interest.]

It was—but not in the way you'd think. People said they could still feel it. Wouldn't wish it on anyone.

[There was no point in sugar-coating it. Chara wouldn't thank her for it, and as they had reminded her, already had plenty of personal experience in the field of death. But it was up to her how to treat the subject.

A creature with ten arms—five on each side of its befinned body—gently macerates a fruit in a bowl, sweat pouring off of him. A clock behind him reminds the competitors that there's a mere five minutes remaining. The judges look on expectantly.

Shepard blinks, frowns, and refocuses, mentally shuffling through her thoughts for the last one—death, as it turned out. Not a bad subject, per say—but one that they had already explored quite a bit. So, with barely a beat missed, she flips the topic completely. If there's any warning, it comes only in the form of a new wave of curiosity.]

Have you ever thought about what you would want to be, if you could choose any job in the world? ["For when you grow up" is rejected outright from use.] Got a career path in mind?

[A thoughtful hum, as they consider it. Death by glass, by shattering, does not sound like necessarily the most unpleasant way to go, but certainly it came with its disadvantages - namely in its means of limiting how best one could fight back. Most manners of death allow for at least the reassuring illusion that one can resist it, that one can struggle, that one can refuse to go gently.]

[Not that it would, in most cases, make much of a difference.]

[She's getting better at advancing her thoughts around the mental diversions inflicted upon her. There's barely any hesitation anymore.]

[They laugh, a faint little stutter of sound that's too clipped to be the disarming, defusing thing they can't quite manage to convert it into.]

I think that's a little too optimistic a possibility for me to indulge. [Which is to say: no, they've not given it much thought at all.]

Why do you ask? Was it always your dream to be a security company head on a world far removed from your own?

[Shepard laughs—a sharp, sudden sound, almost a bark. The amusement is painted bright orange across her forebrain, as she considers her own life's story.]

No, no. No dreams, beyond "join the Alliance military"—and I squared that away the day I hit eighteen. Everything else has just been the cherry on top.

[Taking another drink from her mug, she stares at the liquid, then the steam, then Chara.]

Just something I've been thinking about. [The connecting thoughts rolls through her mind as she talks: for contentment. For happiness. It's a large-scale thought, suddenly focused with laser precision on Chara, clear interest in their... well, everything writ so large for a flash of a second as to be borderline intimidating in its unabashed honesty.]There's a difference between taking jobs out of necessity, and doing something you'd actually like.

I'm fairly certain that my eventual future involves flowers.

[Aw, what a nice answer.]

[Except there's more. Of course there is, with them. It's a cruelty, to dispel an otherwise calm, quiet conversation with their morbidity, but it slips out the moment it marks their mind in golden neon. It's safe to say they have almost no impulse control, just as a rule.]

They looked very pretty, over my grave.

[There's a sound—an exhale, and a smile that spreads in its wake. Chara, Chara, Chara.]

Floristry, maybe.

You could specialize in the dearly departed.

[I'd be too tempted to eat them, they almost retort, but bite it back, just in time. If she can make light of death, she might be able to make light of their method of death, but...]

[No one needs to know that. Not really.]

And of the not-so-dearly?

Well, them too. Everyone likes flowers.

[beat;]

And all fertilizer needs ash, right?

Speaking on behalf of the fertilized community, I take offense to that.

[Ha ha. One day she'll get sick of their macabre humor, and then where will they be?]

[(Only there wasn't a moment of hesitation in her. There wasn't even the static hiccup of confusion that comes with a fresh vision of another world. It doesn't make sense.)]

[(Does it?)]

On the bright side, it worked—you really bloomed.

[If it had been anyone else, she would have nudged them. As it was Chara, she merely winks. Flower jokes and dark humor! It may have been avoiding the issues, but when had trying to pry Chara—or anychild—open like a particularly stubborn bivalve done anyone any good?

When there was no hurry, why not have fun?]

Even more reason to go into the field.

[The subtle urge to snap that those are awful and she should be ashamed swells up in their throat, a reflexive, knee-jerk dismissal born from a stubborn insistence that their sense of humor should always be regarded to be just as morbid as the rest of them.]

Narcissee that you can still discern the bright side.

[The always were fond of the story of Narcissus, after all.]

points to spinal chord on brain diagram [open]

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