First prompt [OPEN]; second prompt [CLOSED TO WILLIAM]

[ersatzeverything]

Who: Deacon and William; Deacon and OPEN
When: A few days after the battle with the Caducans
Where: Around Moira and Nomo 001 (William's room)
What: An evil demon mask is causing problems. Also, Deacon lies too much.
Warnings:References to prior violence



[A: OPEN]

[He's been having nightmares every fucking time he tries to sleep. He blames it on what happened with the Caducans. Sure, that wasn't the first time he's seen an op go sour, people get killed, but this wasn't an op, it was a massacre. There should have been a way to avoid it. Shoulda coulda woulda.

As a general rule, Deacon tries not to dwell on the past. Thinking too much about shit that went wrong is a one-way trip to crazy town and losing yourself in booze or chems of the barrel of a gun, desperately trying to escape bitterness and regret in the face of a harsh and unfair universe. It’s fucking hard, though, when it feels like the memories are actively chasing him. Sometimes when it’s quiet he swears he can hear his wife’s voice, even though she’s been dead for over twenty years now.

For the third time this week he wakes up in a cold sweat. He gives up on sleep and throws on a Moira uniform to wander the hallways restlessly and as anonymously as he can in the small community of the ship, hoping to find some booze and a quiet corner amidst the wreckage of glass.]

[B: CLOSED TO WILLIAM]

[During one of his sleepless excursions, Deacon knocks on the door of William’s room. Shades hide the dark circles under his eyes and his wig covers the red stubble on his head. He usually sleeps during the day, so he’s not worried about waking William’s roommates.]

Room service!

[He calls out in a bright and chipper voice.]

Comments

[ersatzeverything]

Feel free to lie. I won't judge. Well, maybe I will, but only on the quality of the lie. [His voice switches from low and slightly raspy to a booming TV announcer.] "Aaaand let's see what the judges say! 9.3 for execution! 8.8 for creativity! 9.6 for relevance! What a performance! What do you think, Bob?"

[But it's harder to fake good cheer right now. He does his best, but it still all sounds off, the cadence too sharp, the tone too strained.]

[trap_factory]

Then I'll just have to tell you that you flunked out of the competition with that performance. What's wrong, Dez? Such a lackluster delivery puts all of our previous conversations to shame.

So what's the big deal tonight?

You're going to die young if you don't sleep well. [he makes a beheading gesture and smiles] It won't even be my fault if that's the case.

[ersatzeverything]

I think it's a little too late for me to die young, but, hey, I'll accept it as a compliment that I'm youthful for my age.

And there's no big deal. Just thinking about the day when I was eight and we had to have my pet mole rat Bessy put down, musing about time and eternity and the tragedy of memories. You know, typical middle-aged bullshit. [And still lying.]

[trap_factory]

Come now, you know that compared with some of us, you're practically a baby. What's a few decades when there are people who have been alive for centuries? [laugh]

... Why, that's almost believable.

[he abruptly leans closer, predatory look on his face again. But with Prometheus being the height of your average teenager, he's probably not all that intimidating (sans the well practiced and not-at-all-fake sneer on his face)]

I wonder how much of that was based on real life events.

[ersatzeverything]

[Deacon takes a small step back anyway. You don't have to be tall or physically imposing to shank someone, you just have to get close enough.]

Nah, I never had a pet mole rat. Which is a shame because mole rat is delicious and the winter of '48 was pretty lean and I could have used the extra food.

[trap_factory]

That's more like it.

Now then... [he leans back to his regular standing posture, seemingly pleased with the response he's received (oddly enough)] You seem more upset lately than the last few times I've seen you. Don't tell me that this level of harassment is all it takes to send you over the edge.

There's being paranoid and then there's just your everyday paranoia. What? Are we afraid of ghosts or skeletons hiding under our beds?