thecapitol | Yes you are, my love, the astronaut, crashing in the name of science

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Yes you are, my love, the astronaut, crashing in the name of science

Who| Initiate and OPEN.
What| Initiate is Not Okay and is being obvious about it. Do you wish to bug him? Make him pay for his kills? Kick him while he's down? Offer support????
Where| Around the tower.
When| Some days after he flips his shit and Eddie stops him here.
WARNINGS| Language. Drugs. Clawing up the self?

The noise, the... everything, it ain't gone. It's fuzzy and soft and there but out of reach. It's there but it doesn't touch him. Just a short while ago his own self would've looked down on something like this, but he? He's okay with it. He is O-motherfucking-kay. And frankly there ain't much what his old self would like of this all right now. But fuck that guy, right? He laughs. Yeah, fuck that guy.

He's been in his room for a while. He realised eventually that everything in there was broken to shit, but he couldn't remember doing it. Was he out of it? Was it someone else? He wasn't real sure until he started finding things missing. If it was him he'd have just left it broken. So someone else was here. He can't find it in himself to care.

For a while he just sat in the room they gave him and he spaced. He'd flow back and forth like waves on the shore, between tearing at the walls and himself, putting blood everywhere, smashing what ain't already broke, and then being perfectly motherfucking fine. He's just there. He's chill. What a great gift he's been given. A miracle. A precious thing. He'd have to thank Eddie later. Soon.

Finally, with the rolling around of one more day, he steps outside. They've given him armbands, his stylists, upon his request. Just like his old subjugglator uniform but more over, it helped hide marks. They eyed his paint funny because it's more messed than usual. But they didn't touch as they knew better and he left it as it was.

He reaches up every few second for the small gold goat skull hung from his neck. He doesn't think about what it means though. Today, he decides, he's just going to walk around. Maybe see who all else is here. Yeah... sounds bitchin'.

He walks like a ghost through the building.

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The Signless hadn't been around for the Initiate's breakdown earlier. He'd been in the building, certainly, but all the way up on the top floor. He knows the Psiioniic didn't come back, though, so it's not too surprising to him that when he next sees the big indigo he looks like shit.

He knows he shouldn't approach after what happened in the arena and certainly not after the Initiate has permanently lost his moirail. He also knows he should at least thank him for his kindness toward the Disciple. Maybe if that's all he says and he leaves right after there won't be problems.

Taking a deep breath, he approaches, though he keeps a healthy distance between them.

"Fraysong?"

Just say it. Say it quick and then leave.

"I wanted to thank you, for what you did for the Disciple in the arena. For taking care of her."

He knows the Initiate didn't do it for him, but it meant a lot all the same.

Coming to him was a stupid idea. Risky, foolish, and dumb. Naturally, that is why the Signless is here. The siren call of stupid he was unable to resist. He ain't even surprised.

He stops, looking the Signless over with a dead-eyed stare. The Disciple is back-- brought back in place of the Psiioniic, it's a taunt, it's-- Terezi will be happy about that.

"The fuck are you getting your descant up on for? SHE DIED, MOTHERFUCKER." He hates that word suddenly, because it makes like maybe his moirail should be the same. But he's a different kind of-- gone from his head is all that, he ain't letting that in. "In agony was she and you want to thank? SOMEONE GOT SAY ON AT YOU TO MAKE OF IT?" Would be surprising. Lots of people let their stylists and escorts walk all over them inexplicable.

He shakes his head, taking a step back to further widen the safe distance between them.

"No. I'm saying this all on my own. You tried to help her, and you kept her alive even for a little while, and I'm grateful for that. That's all. I'll leave you be now."

Another step back, nice and easy. He doesn't want another fight, really, seriously, promise.

Something shifts when he steps back. He's just gonna leave, just like that.

"That's all," He repeats dully. "THAT'S MOTHERFUCKING ALL? Are you fucking KIDDING me?" He doesn't even notice the hop-skip of his own voice, the way the fluctuations scrape. Gets all without noticing a thing but the Signless wanting to turn away. His face turns from disbelief, then to anger.

"GOT HIS ASS BEING GONE, SIGNLESS! And you ain't even got NOTHING in you to say anything? I KNOW YOU KNOW, MOTHERFUCKER. I know you got the knowing of you. YOU LOVE HIM, YOU MADE SURE AS I KNEW, AND GOT IT ALL MOTHERFUCKING TELEVISED AND STUCK UP ON RECAP! And you got nothing? NOT A DAMN THING. Dammit, fuck you, FUCK YOU! Could all come down stone-slide on what I did, and where I fucked up, what I said. YOU COULD RUB IT ALL THE FUCK IN WHERE HE IS IF HE AIN'T DEAD, YOU COULD, WHO'S FAULT-!" He stares at Signless, swaying where he stands. "Anything, but you just... nothing."

He laughs. He shakes his head. He doesn't know what he expected anymore. He doesn't really want those things but that it's just forgotten, Mituna is forgotten, he doesn't want that either.

Edited 2014-06-28 17:02 (UTC)

Sandy had been lost in her own heartbroken haze and hadn't heard the Initiate was back, nor anything else he'd been up to.

So when he came across her sitting at a table in the training hall pouring over a book about plants she was surprised and offered him a weak smile.

Pruna's Duck sat comfortably on the table, chewing on what appeared to be a page from the book.

"Sup?"

She smiles and he misses the part where all he doesn't really want to and returns it back anyway. It's just as mangled, just as crooked. There's no soul in it.

He recites dully, "THE CEILING, ROOF, THE SKY ABOVE. The fleet ships tailing to the dove. THE MOONS, THE GODS OF US BELOW. The Sun, the stars, and all the ghosts."

His eyes glance to the duck, thinking all to point out the obvious-- thinking to crack its neck, thinking to hold it-- but he opts not. He looks her face over. She looks like shit, really.

"YOU'RE BACK," He says. "But you ain't whole."

His response made her smile, but it was more like someone had drawn a smile on her face to try and respond properly. It fell as he observed what anyone could see. No sense in drawing it out really, he'd find out sooner or later.

"Pruna's gone." She explained and found her throat felt choked when she said the name. It came out croaked like someone was strangling the words out of her. "She died weeks before I did and never came back to the Capitol. I guess they must have given up on her."

Duck seems to sense her unhappyness and waddles over to spit out the paper that was in his beak as if he was offering it to her.

After Roland'd learned what had happened to Cuthbert in the arena, he hadn't given the Initiate a single thought. His was the hand that had dealt the blow, but in the arena things are... different. Roland hasn't been here long, but he knows that much. It's the gamemakers who force them into the arenas, and them who chose not to bring Cuthbert back, and Roland hadn't thought for a second to blame the Initiate for any of that.

So Roland's reaction to seeing the man who'd killed his friend is, vaguely, a bit of a surprise. His step falters, he feels his face grow hot as his skin flushes. There's nothing to be gained by doing anything here and now, not even if all he does is talk. Roland knows that. But for a moment Roland can't make himself move, and only realizes halfway into that moment that he's begun to stare.

Her hands have been full after her death. She nearly misses his violent tantrum but she can't miss the cause. Psiionic is gone and a part of her aches. They never really made amends. Initiate and her, they were working on things in their hop skip two forward three back sort of way. The wounds are still raw with Psiionic. He never forgave her and she could never bring herself to tell him the things she told Initiate, that it wasn't her fault, that she did want he had wanted then. It's all wrong and backwards and she hates it. She hates that she can't fix it.

The Initiate helped her. He kept her alive for as long as he could and even with the pain...It still felt like something shifted forward in that moment. She's almost afraid to go see him. They're due for a slide back. They've gotten too far, been a bit too open with each other or something. Things will slide back.

Yet here she is, approaching him. She walks a little closer, sees the skull around his neck, feels her words freeze in her throat. She almost walks away. This is a fools errand. What will she even say.

"I wouldn't have come back if I'd have known." She shakes her head, "I mean, I wouldn't...I didn't... I know they don't trade one of us for another but I'd rather he was here than me."

Because Terezi can handle it, she's smart and strong. Signless has Karkat and his strange group of half moirails she's not sure she understands beyond his need to be pale for the world. The Initiate had Psiionic. It's not really fair.

The Signless visibly deflates. Yeah, this was definitely an awful idea -- he should have waited, talked to Terezi, said this while she was there.

"I didn't want to rub salt in the wound," he says, trying to keep his voice as soft and non-threatening as possible. "I wanted... I wanted to let you mourn him in peace. There's nothing I could possibly have said that would help pain like that."

He knows that no matter what he said his words would be twisted into something negative, mockery or needling, and he thought that remaining silent was the only safe option. Apparently not.

He opens his mouth, all rearing to snarl, to saying something what could bring about hurt. But then he stops. Then he slumps.

"HOW?" He asks. "How are you like this? WHAT MOTHERFUCKING MADE YOU LIKE THIS? What the fuck up and got you to be this way?" He starts at Signless like he can't hardly believe in his very existence. His face is twisted up to something terrible but it ain't rage for once. It's part hypothetical, like he doesn't really even expect an answer.

"ANY OTHER MOTHERFUCKING TROLL WOULD BRING STRIFE DOWN, DON'T YOU DAMN KNOW? Any fucking other would point out sins done, punishments deserving. POINT OUT MOTHERFUCKING FAULT. I know it ain't above you, I've seen it in you, so how in Messiahs names do you do it?"

Edited 2014-07-03 00:54 (UTC)

He doesn't know what to expect when he first sees her coming. Some of the numb of him has a vague registering of her, that she is still here, she came back. But that's all. He stares at her as she waffles in her approach, then speaks. It cuts clean through his fog.

He wants to tell her it doesn't matter. Tell her it ain't true and legit. He's lost before, he can deal with it. He's been hurt, he can manage. They're trolls, it happens, it was inevitable, of course he knew that. Of course he knew he'd lose his most precious and important, that's how the world worked, why he got stronger and he is certainly strong enough a troll not to feel or acknowledge something like this.

But he's not. It's all lies, all hoofbeastshit. He is cut to the bone. There is a new hole in his head and his heart and his soul, and it cries loud and sharp around the bleeding edges with all the other holes in him. There ain't enough of nothing in the world to distant that.

His hand rises up and curls around the goat skull. He tries not to do this, not in front of her (and there's an anger stirring distant in there, that he's been reduced to this). He can't. His body crumples inward, head bowing and bangs falling, free hand rising to cover his face. A hard shudder wracks through. He doesn't want to do this here, in front of her, but he can't stop it. It takes too long for him to do so and his paint is a mess again, even more than before, when he rises.

"DON'T say that, they'll USE it," He says. "DON'T GIVE nothing..."

He looks through her, or anywhere but her. Truth is, he would try and trade. He'd trade anybody, anything. He'd give up whatever all he has left. But he can't and he hasn't anything to give that they'd take.

"TEREZI. She... needs you... OTHERS. Keep the mutant's mouth shut..." He mutters. His head tilts up, like staying still is the cause of the pain. He tries to smile, which in itself is weird all things considered, but the smile itself is warped and twisted, half-crazed. "DIDN'T DESERVE HIM. I know that. KNOW AT EVERYBODY HAS MOTHERFUCKING KNOW. But he... he deserved much better. SO MUCH MORE." Not to be strapped to a ship, not to be tortured, not to be left behind, forgotten, made to live and live, not this.

She can't look away. What happened to them, to have her here and him broken like this. Hating was not so long ago and she doesn't know where they stand. With these broken pieces of hate scattered all around them, just waiting to be picked up, to be twisted in a wound too fresh or too old. He's ruining all that perfectly good platonic hate and wasn't it Terezi who started it, ruined that first bit, or was it just her on that rooftop, offering peace. She liked it better there, she thinks bitterly, they knew where they stood. Their place didn't shift with every little thing.

She's lying to herself, she hates hating platonically. It burns up energy, it's awful, it reminds her of the person her lover became, it reminds her of the person she might have been if she hadn't been curious to stand in a crowd and listen.

"He has two other moirails. I'm sure they could keep his mouth shut if they just both sat on him. He's small enough." But her attempt at a joke falls flat, too dull and too sad.

"You made him happy--I don't really know much beyond that. I kept out of your way. To give him space, because I hated you. You seemed to make him happy. Lord knows Mituna deserved that much."

She drags her hand through her hair, catching on a knot that makes her shake her hand free. It's just mindless, a gesture to keep her hands from balling up in nervous anxious fists.

"I'm sorry. For patting you on the cheek. I don't know what I was thinking."

He shakes his head. Because he doesn't know what she was thinking either and it still makes his pan get to faltering in lack of understanding and the... what all was in the gesture. He doesn't know how he's supposed to feel about it.

"Who are we motherfucking kidding? THERE AIN'T ENOUGH MOIRAILS IN THE WORLD TO ZIP HIS FLAP." He tries to joke. He tries to just let it roll off him.

You made him happy.

It ain't fair. Messiahs, why punish in this way? It ain't motherfucking fair.

Messiahs, Messiahs, please, he can't do this, he can't do this again.

The nearest wall meets his shoulder. He stares down and he breathes, ignoring the shake and shudder of barely restrained something slamming up against the soft walls he's made on his insides. There's no more space in his pan left to worry about her watching him, what she's thinking, feeling, watching the one who ruined her life break down like this.

...He did this to her. He did this.

"How can you stand it?" He croaks low, face still to the floor, gasping for breath like he's drowning. His claws dig into his scalp. "HOW DID YOU MOTHERFUCKING STAND THIS, SISTER, THIS IS--"

If there's indigo on his face it ain't acknowledged. If the hair hanging loose in his face covers it, all the better.

"Impossible shit all gone to the real, I'D CULL FOR this I'd..."

He shakes his head again in place of words he doesn't have yet.

Her hands are curled into fists. It's all that keeps her in place, all that keeps from walking and patting his cheek and the shooshes she wants to say are wrong. It's wrong, it's wrong on levels she hates. His moirail is gone and she shouldn't. She can't be his moirail, she has one, one she thinks would hate the idea--and it would never work. Not eye to eye, they've said a thousand times in a thousand ways. In blood and paint and words harsh spoken. They're different, he hurt her a thousand ways and she hated him so intensely, so vividly remembered the dreams where she killed his older self, drowning in indigo and waking up with tears and splinters of rock under her nails. She hates herself for these stupid urges, for hating him a few perigrees ago and finding him stupidly pitiable in this moment. She looks away, finally, before she can give in to the urge to run away, bury herself in Terezi's room and wait for her moirail. Her stomach flips as he speaks, churns up memories of burying herself in her hair, curled--just like him, hard to breathe, ready to murder and cull and scream for the want of him, of them--and she sits down hard right there against a wall and stares into space. She can't look at him break down, it hurts.

"I screamed, I cried, I learned to live alone. I had to survive. They would have wanted me to survive so I did." She stares helplessly at her hands, not at him, not at indigo she might see if she looked.

"They wanted me to live so I did. Despite everything. He'd want you to live too--I think. If the same things hold true, if he hadn't changed so much in the end. He never thought he deserved anything himself half the time, he wouldn't want anyone to bury themselves over him."

Was that it? Was that how it was to be? A thousand sweeps for him, a half-sweep together, and then another motherfucking thousand more without? He doesn't want to live that long. He's never fucking wanted to live that long. Truth up and told, it was a scar, the sort of trophy you showed off once you had it but you sure as shit didn't try to get it with no purpose.

It sounds like a sentence. It sounds like lifting the head for collar and chain so as to become a slave and servant. But for him? Would he do it for him, for Mituna? Yes. Yes, of course, yes. But he'd rather do it with Mituna here. It still looks like something bleak. This all, this place, has quickly turned from being one of the best things what happened to him, to the worst. He can't even go back now. He can't be Highblood, every dream is shot. He can't remember what he's doing this for.

No, he can. He's doing this for blood. He's doing it for vengeance and conquer and making those motherfuckers suffer for what they've done. He will drag their screams to the end times. He will stretch their guts, their pain, to the end of the world. And then they will understand a fraction of their sin. Though he is not The Highblood he was still Messiah chosen. They whispered to him for nights and nights in his lonely days and they showed him, he is their champion. He is the Messiahs' hand of judgement, their voice of reckoning, and he will make these people pay.

"HE'S SUCH A MOTHERFUCKING ASSHOLE, my beloved, my starshine." He makes a truly miserable noise. "SAVED ME, DID YOU KNOW? Wouldn't have been a pan left in me for them to get their revive on. PAN-BROKE SOUL-DEAD THIS MOTHERFUCKER WOULD HAVE BEEN WITH WHAT ALL THEIR POISONS GOT INFLICTING. He saved me, gave me purchase, gave grace. AND I CRUSHED HIM in my motherfucking ARMS." He can remember it all. Coming apart, the sheer un-fucking-realness of that, and then suddenly being held together, Mituna's shoosh fixing his pan as it broke, followed by the sound of some whole other thing breaking, and in his mind he was child trying to scramble to fix the broken thing as the dark slipped down.

"I already owed everything to him," He says, "-for his love, for silencing the holes and holes and holes up in me. AND WITH IT I FOUND A LIFE DEBT OWED FOR HIS PAIN. And he gave me another in that moment then. TWO MOTHERFUCKING LIFE DEBTS. I'm never going to be able to repay. I AIN'T GOT NO POWER OF LIFE. Ain't no good at that."

He could be angry at Mituna, for leaving him these debts. Could, can't. There isn't a scrap of real anger what to direct at his gold-blooded brother. His fingers have moved from his scalp to curling around that little goat again. The other hands smears paint. His face is ruined.

"It'll never stop hurting."

She can't lie to him, can't placate him with false promises that the wounds fade. You learn to live with them, the pain, the pain becomes a part of life, another part that you deal with. It doesn't fade, you're just used to it. It's just life and the way things are. One day you wake up and you realize you can go on, that you're used to hurting, that it doesn't control your every thought anymore, but it doesn't stop being.

"It'll get easier to deal with it. Trolls can get used to anything, we're strong that way. It just makes it worse really. Knowing you'll get used to missing them. I can't...I'm no help really with this sort of thing. Losing someone is awful, burns a scar on your pan, on your bloodpusher, it's never going away."

She won't play the game of who had it worse, though it tickles in her mind. To lose all three after having them for sweeps or just one after so little. It hurts all the same. It's no bulge measuring contest, no one wins this, it's just pain the whole way down and more pain for having to justify it.

She says what he already knows. It stings, but it's necessary. Clearing off dirt from the very burns and scars she speaks of. A slow go with shaking pain-wracked hands.

"WE GET USED TO IT. We get stronger," He repeats, like it's scripture. Like sermon. Yeah... yeah that made sense. It was true. He understands that sort of thing. He'd been doing that. He'd been good at that. And that's where thought gets occurrence.

He shakes his first, then he lifts it. "CAN'T. He can't do that," He says, though fangs. Everything burns in him. But at last, he can harden his face, even if it is stained and his paint is messed. "THERE ARE HOLES in me, Disciple. THAT WHAT SHOULD be there in place what AIN'T NEVER BEEN and I ain't know what they are supposing to BE. Since all got begginning AND COLLAPSES DON'T GET A FUCKING SHRINK ON. Always in pan that they'd eat a motherfucker whole. HAD KNOWING THEY'D GET THEIR DEVOUR OF THIS BEING RIGHT HERE LONG BEFORE I EVER GOT NEAR FUCKING PLOUGHING THE VOID'S CALLING FUCKING ROT." He's not telling this for pity and he hopes its clear in his voice, in the way he starts to straighten, stepping into the Subjugglator's, the soldier's, stature. Like a troll readying for execution. He doesn't want pity for this he just wants to explain.

"...What holes... lay in me... lay within him. THE GRAND HIGHBLOOD," He says, slow, like pushing through glass shattered. He wonders if she can tell where he is going. "My motherfucking self. STRONGER THAN I AM, STRONG ENOUGH TO DO WHAT I CANNOT. But I can't be him, sister. MORE THAN MY BELOVED'S WANTS FOR ME, I CANNOT BECOME HIM. If he EVER gets all COMING MOTHERFUCKING CLOSE to that..." Early, he had a feeling he'd die long before he was dead, lost to his own mind. Lost to voodoo and vision. But with Mituna, he thought he could survive himself. Survive like he had, without growing colder. He won't go without a plan at least. He breathes deep, and finally finishes it, "...cull him. IF THAT COMES TO BE, WHATEVER IT MOTHERFUCKING TAKES. Kill me."

He stares right through her.

Edited 2014-07-05 09:19 (UTC)

She listens, hears him build to it, slowly. The slow deliberateness of this all makes her bones ache, wonder at the holes in her. His fears make sense, as much as any fear can. The person he could become is pan rotted, horrible, the opposite of the things he's been trying to do. The person he's been trying to become.

"I don't know if I can."

Death would be a mercy to him if he rotted, went insane, lost it all. But she wonders at the cost to herself, to Terezi. Would her moirail forgive her? Would she be losing her in that act? Would she be losing herself?

"I can't promise," Her eyes raise to his, "It goes against everything I believe, the idea...but I understand. I think. If things get that bad.."

She'll try.

Of course she's unsure. She didn't kill him before, when she had every reason to. Her, Terezi... they don't take to the cull like a normal troll does. Maybe if she found someone else, someone strong enough. He's died before, surely it could be done.

Her eyes meet his and she stands still by her words, that she can't give word on it. But her eyes tell more, that it won't just be let to stand. It ain't a 'no'.

It's good enough.

His breath comes out like a sigh. His eyes close. If he weren't standing he might be asleep.

He speaks. "IF HE IS BACK, NOT DEAD. Back as to where he was to be, he could get sight all on of a Highblood's face. CHANCE BE HE COULD BEAR WITNESS TO A MOTHERFUCKER WHAT DON'T GIVE A DAMN." He can imagine. Imagine a helm, imagine his reflection staring back and sneering. Or simply looking through like he's not the most precious of people, just a battery, a machine. He breathes. "He made me better, but even then... when all he thought a motherfucker couldn't see, he'd get a look. LIKE HE WAS SORRY. Like he took blame for what I'd be, like he hadn't got benefit to he as all motherfucking much as what he did. WHEN CARNIVAL COMES, I WANT HIM TO SEE. I want to him see that he's wrong."

It's how he's moved through life. Resolving to show people. This feels different somehow, and yet it's not. Not really.

He bows before her. His hair falls around his face.

"HIS GRATITUDE, DISCIPLE."

Edited 2014-07-05 22:30 (UTC)

She understands. It's why she never moved to kill, never became a horror, a terror, a huntress of revenge. The thoughts had come, the urge, but she hadn't wanted to ruin all the greatness he'd done to her. For her. The things they had changed about each other would last forever if she had just held onto them. He would recognize her if they met again, she had vowed. She'd just never thought they would.

"Don't thank me." She says softly. She doesn't want his gratitude for agreeing to see him dead if it all goes wrong. She didn't agree but it was agreement in the basics, the fundamental, he knew that much. He didn't press so he knew. She curls her hands in her lap and thinks this is odd.

"Don't let things get that bad and I won't have to find a way to do that."

The Signless opens his mouth, closes it again. He doesn't know what to say. There's the long answer, of course, the one that takes into account his childhood and upbringing and visions and beliefs, but he knows Fraysong won't want to hear any of that. That's not really what he means.

"I don't see any reason to hurt someone who's already hurting. I don't see any reason to hurt anyone at all, and so I try not to, and sometimes I fail -- I fail badly -- but..." He worries his lip.

"But just because I could hurt someone doesn't mean I should. You're already in enough pain, you don't deserve more, especially not from me."

"Ain't nothing wrong with a contingency plan. FATES ARE FUNNY FUCKING THINGS." He planned to be down with work loneways and claim throne, Highblood reigning. Not this. "Ain't as if he wants. AIN'T BEING LIKE AS HE TRIES."

Part of him thinks this was a fools task. Being something worth it, what won't burst violent in their hands, seems daunting. But he can't say that so soon, not when he's just said what he has.

But he's not okay. It still doesn't feel any less like agony. And if what she says is true, if he knows himself, it's not going to. He faked it enough. But he never did learn how to stop wanting. With all said he finds himself slumping back against the wall, back to it and head hung low.

He wishes suddenly, violently, that he had kissed Mituna, pressed lip to his head, whispered goodbyes and pity and love. He wishes he'd been there, if not to stop the death then at least to see him off, bless him off to carnival as his ticket was taken. It was all so unceremonious, forgettable, and that's the way it's supposed to be for trolls but even being the most proper of trolls here-- aberrations-- he's never been all good at that bit.

"Do you pray?" He asks her suddenly. He doesn't really know. What would her kind pray to? the Signless? What could he fucking do? It's a stupid question. "NEVERMIND," He says with a shake of his head.

His hands fold together, risen up. But his palms don't go flat, his digits get their locking up and on. His thumbs are near to his bowed forehead.

"The darkest midnight curtain parted. THE VEIL'S SPLIT AND CREST. Ritual's masses who's hand mark surface, AND SEE UPON HERE, A GLIMMERED RADIANCE OF ALL COLOR ATOP, strike a motherfucker's breast. IN FOLLOWED CRYSTALLINE EFFULGENCE SPUME, we seek quiescence strife entomb. TO BE UNDONE AND LO THE MIRTH OF TRUE LEVITY. The jeer and jest. BE SO DONE IN MOST RIGHTEOUS HYSTERIA AND SO... ashore, see that we are blessed." His hands touch the goat's skull. He struggles on the end. "AY... motherfucking men."

It's as much as a goodbye he's going to get.

"IT IS GOOD SHE IS BACK," He says, without looking at her.

The hand that had settle on the table jerks. Claws sink in and the parts around his fingers actually crack like it's just putty to him. He stares at her, wide-eyed. His mask of cold calm has slipped right off in that moment. Then his face twists, his eyes close, as he forces it all down and back. His hand lifts from the cracked table and his claws are tugged free.

"NO," He says as he starts to sit. "It ain't a matter of giving up. SHE DID NOT MOTHERFUCKING FAIL. This no failure of hers. THIS IS GAME AND TOYING."

He watches the quackbeast with narrowed eyes.

"To be expected of war."

He feels eyes on him. But it ain't just that. He always feels eyes on him here, he's an alien, an anomaly, and he ain't exactly small. He commands fear and attention, he's grown use to the looks. And he's gone into himself, separated himself from the world so there's a gleaming film over it all, softer and realer (only not real at all).

But Roland looks with a different flare and maybe it's that, or it's luck, good or bad, that has him turn. In a sharper state, he might be able to parse the look he's getting, but not now. He frowns in confusion.

"BE SOMETHING OF PLIGHT, BROTHER?"

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Yes you are, my love, the astronaut, crashing in the name of science

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