June Catchall (L Lawliet + Old and New CR)

[hearthebell]

Character Name: L Lawliet (Lazarus Sauveterre)
Who: Open to CR old and new
What: Catchall for the month of June (memshare, event, detective work, slice of life). Prompts in comments.
When: Throughout the month of June
Where: Throughout Trench

Content Warnings: Included at the beginning of the prompts that warrant them.

Comments

I. Memshare

[hearthebell]

[Because L can be encountered virtually anywhere in Trench due to his work as a detective, feel free to pick a convenient public location for any of these memories (or the Rookery if you’re close CR.) The fruit market is an easy option since you could both be eating apples very plausibly, making the memory exchange reciprocal. For L, memories can be triggered with a touch or eye contact; they are from his point of view, and this is how characters will experience them.]

A. I smile when I'm angry

[hearthebell]

It’s a beautiful April day; the cherry blossoms are in bloom, and you are watching a young Japanese man in casually athletic clothes unpacking his tennis racket. Beneath your worn and beaten sneakers is the smooth, green surface of a tennis court, and the atmosphere is occasionally punctuated by the sharp smack of a ball hitting a racket or concrete.

“I have to admit, I was surprised, Ryuuga,” the young man says, straightening with his racket and offering a friendly smile. “I never thought you’d ask me to play tennis as a way to get to know each other.”

“Is… it a problem for you?” you ask in a voice that somehow manages to be both flat and uncertain.

“Not at all. But when you first invited me to play, did you know how good I was?” he asks, an impish lilt to the question as you join him in walking to a free court.

“Yes,” you answer blandly. “I’ll be fine, though. It’s been awhile, but at one time, I was actually the British Junior Champion.”

The young man at your side is silent for a few beats. “Ryuuga, were you raised in the U.K.?” he asks.

“I lived in England for about five years when I was younger, but save your breath,” you say. “Nothing in that story would reveal L’s true identity, I promise you.”

B. I cheat and I lie

[hearthebell]

“But the Chief has a family, too,” the man chokes through barely-restrained tears.

His superior, a man nearing fifty with salt-and-pepper hair and a quiet air of integrity, steps forward and places a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Our situations are completely different,” he says gently.

“Damn it,” the man curses. “To leave now, after all we’ve been through… I said I was prepared to die if that’s what it took to catch him, and I meant it. What kind of friend would I be to Ukita if I quit now? I became a detective so I could catch the bad guys, not run away!” his voice raises in helpless, heartbroken fury, echoing in the room you had built for your computers and your secrets.

The screens flicker, and an ornate letter “W” in a cloister black font appears on them. An older man’s voice addresses you. “Ryuzaki, early on in the investigation you specifically told me that if a task force member were to lose their job under any circumstances, I should make preparations to ensure that their family’s financial future was secure. If you recall, a trust fund was set aside for that very purpose.” The unseen speaker’s tone turns stricter. “I’m a little curious as to why you’re withholding this information.”

The man stops weeping, staring in shock at the revelation.

“This is not the time or place, Watari,” you say petulantly; you receive a polite but minimal apology in response.

“No way,” the task force’s youngest member says, face broadening into a smile. “All this time we had nothing to worry about? I can’t believe you did that! There you go, Aizawa, isn’t that great news?” His face falls when he sees the man’s reaction.

Features contorted in disgust and contempt, Aizawa speaks directly to you. “Ryuzaki. I assume that was some kind of test to determine how committed I was to this task force.”

“It’s not like that, Aizawa,” the Chief interjects, jumping in to defend you. “Ryuzaki’s just not the type to say things directly, you should know that by now.”

“Yeah…that’s right” the youngest agrees with a stammer.

“No,” you say, and the room falls silent at the soft syllable. “I was testing you. I wanted to see which one you would choose.”

“Ryuzaki,” the Chief says, and it seems like he can’t find words to say any more.

Aizawa can, though. He erupts. “Fine, then. If I wasn’t sure before, I am now. Let’s face it; I wasn’t able to decide right away like you guys. I was leaning towards going back to the police.”

“Come on, Aizawa, don’t be so stubborn!” pleads the youngest.

“No, I quit! Now I know this for sure. I’ve always hated Ryuzaki! I hate him and his way of doing things!”

“That’s too bad,” you say, “because I’ve always liked you, Aizawa.”

“I also hate the way you’ve always gotta have the last word! You insult me, and now you say something like that? That’s it, I’m out of here.”

“Thank you for everything,” you say as he stalks toward the door, making sure that you do, in fact, get the last word.

C. I do what I have to do to get by

[hearthebell]

The rain pelts down on you in torrents; your hair sticks to the side of your face, and your soaked-through clothes cling to your chilled skin. You’re alone, but you can breathe, and the sky is closed and darkened as evening rushes up. You can even feel the freezing concrete under shoes that have leaked and begun to fill; why did you even bother putting them on?

Some people take them off when they come to the top of a skyscraper, you’ve been told.

Someone is watching you; you can feel it, even though you’re almost completely numb from the cold. You glance toward the door, and it’s him, the man of the hour, that shining perfect prince of innocence. “What are you doing standing out there by yourself?” he calls.

You can guess what he says, based on the way his lips are moving. You cup a hand to your ear, indicating that you cannot hear over the rain.

He cups a hand to his mouth, raising his voice and shouting to be heard. “What are you doing standing out there by yourself!” he yells.

This time you can absolutely hear him. You widen your eyes, leaning closer with your hand cupped at your ear, as though you still can’t, because he can come get wet, too, the bastard.

He does, raising a useless hand to shield his face as he steps towards you and is drenched in seconds. “What are you doing, Ryuzaki?” he asks when he’s nearly at your side, an edge of impatience in his tone.

You slip your hands in your sopping pockets, the wet denim rough and heavy. “Oh, I’m not doing anything in particular…” you say vaguely, as though a mere lark or whim brought you out in a downpour with lightning forecast. “It’s just…” you raise your eyes skyward, smiling slightly. “I hear the bell.”

He looks at you like he hates you. He always looks at you that way, but today he doesn’t understand why. His brows knit in frustration, trying to discern what game you’re playing. “The bell?”

He’s playing. “Yes,” you answer seriously. “The sound of the bell has been unusually loud today.”

“I don’t hear anything,” he says, visibly annoyed, as though he really expected to.

“Really? You can’t hear it?” You make sure to sound a bit crestfallen, as if you expected him to, as well. “It’s been ringing nonstop all day, I find it very distracting. I wonder if it’s a church, maybe a wedding, or perhaps a…?”

“What are you getting at, Ryuzaki?” he snaps, his patience wearing thin. “Come on, cut it out, let’s get back inside.”

The game is going the way you want it to. Your mood still curls and shrivels like a dead spider in your chest. “I’m sorry,” you say dully, tucking your head low between your hunched shoulders. “Nothing I say makes any sense anyway. If I were you, I wouldn’t believe any of it.”

He watches you. Like a predator, or a scavenger? A soaked one, either way; you have that. You did that.

He chuckles at you. “You know, you’re totally right. Honestly, most of the things you say sound like complete nonsense. There’d be no end to my troubles if I actually took you seriously all the time. I probably know that better than anyone.”

You don’t look at him like you hate him. You don’t look at him at all, your head hanging lower as the rain comes down. “Yes,” you say hollowly. “I would say that’s a fair assessment. But I could say the same about you.”

“Hm? What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, believing he’s covered, believing he’s gotten away with it.

“Tell me, Light,” you say, turning your tired eyes his way, “from the moment you were born, has there actually been a point where you’ve actually told the truth?”

You hate each other. You both regard each other that way, boldly and nakedly, and how he hates to be seen, here alone scraping the clouds with you.

“Where’s this coming from, Ryuzaki?” he asks, like the stupid child he isn’t. “I do admit, I stretch the truth here and there. However, find me one person in this world who’s never had to tell a lie, it wouldn’t be easy. Human beings just aren’t made to be perfect like that. Everybody lies from time to time. Even so, I’ve always made a conscious effort to be careful not to tell a lie that could hurt others. That’s my answer.”

You’d hoped to keep seeing him for what he was. Fury colder than the rain gnaws on your heartbeat’s borrowed time. Your glare fades as your features slacken; you’re not looking skyward towards bells anymore, and won’t again. “I had a feeling you’d say something like that,” you respond.

You did. You were right, and you won.

You won’t again.

II. Event

[hearthebell]

[These prompts are designed to be approachable for anyone, whether they’re established or new CR. If we have specific plans, look for your personalized toplevel when it goes up!]

III. Current Cases

[hearthebell]

[L works as a freelance detective for fun and profit. Every month he solves several relatively mundane cases throughout Trench, and should you want to help or hinder these cases in any way (as assistant or perp), let me know when you tag in whether there are any event effects you'd like to incorporate! Or not; they're designed to work at any point in the month with any effects in full swing or totally resolved.]

IV. Slice of Life

[hearthebell]

[These prompts are meant to be more mundane and gentle in nature, for the purpose of building character-focused CR or following up after previous crises. These are checking-in threads, getting-to-know-you threads, meeting for the first time threads, and wildcards if you want to get very specific at some point this month.

Prompts include places that L frequents and if you're interested in an event or memshare incident during one of these (earthquakes, Leitner stuff etc), indicate it in your response and that's what we'll do!]

A. But I know what is wrong

[hearthebell]

[At first it’s probably difficult to note that something is off about L at all. Chronically sleep-deprived, it’s hardly unusual for him to stagger through parts of his day looking like death warmed-over, with dark circles under his staring eyes, pale, dull skin, and posture that sways and wavers sometimes as if his knees are in danger of buckling.

The eyes give it away, really. While open, they dart rapidly, never long enough to actually look at something or register its existence. Sitting slumped on a park bench, he’s not seeing it, or you, his hands clenched into rigid fists in his lap. Ironically, there is a well-read book about dreamscapes next to him; he’s been studying this, and it didn’t end up helping him a lick in the end.

As his dark eyes dart and flit sightlessly between clouds, you’ll probably start to notice the passenger on his back. If you want to help him, you might take a moment to read about what’s to be done about this with the book at hand. Or, if you’re alarmed and more impulsive, maybe you just decide to go in swinging and try to physically fight the thing off of him.

A.1- THE DREAM

[You notice the snow first. It’s up to your ankles, powdery and wet, and it continues to fall in fat, airy flakes from a densely dark and starless sky. You stand in the middle of what appears to be a provincial city street, and the signs on the uniformly closed businesses are a jumble of letters. Even if you recognize some individually, the smashed chaos they create together is indecipherable. There’s an umlaut and a German eszett, divided and conquered by a sea of cyrillic. A few disparate Japanese characters making no sense in context ganging up on a scatter of roman letters, accents cedila, circumflex and tilde scattered like body parts after a battle over everything.

If you’re particularly observant, you might notice that there are no wheel treads or tracks in the snow; it’s been some time since a vehicle of any time passed through here. There are footprints though, of varying sizes and gaits, and even through the snow, you can make out the figures responsible for them. You might recognize Paul Atreides, Kyle Broflovski, Alayne Stone, or Shōyō Hinata if you’ve met them. If you’ve met the dreamer, you might even recognize yourself. There are other figures, as well, unfamiliar to you: a straight-backed young man in a blazer with a black book tucked under his arm, a very thin woman holding her elbows and walking with a defeated shuffle as her curtain of long, dark hair falls forward over her face. The only thing the figures all have in common is that they are all walking away, while remaining always visible from your vantage point.

If you choose to run after one of the figures, they will not answer or address you. If you physically grab them and attempt to turn them around, or overtake and run around their figures, you’ll find that no matter how they are moved or your perspective changes, you always see them from the back. They either have no faces, or they’re faces you’re not allowed to see.

There’s one outlier, standing under a glass-sided bus shelter. He’s not dressed for the weather, wearing clothes that are too small, very dirty, and not nearly warm enough. There’s a grey hoodie with a zipper that half-torn off, a t-shirt with the faded and flaking logo and characters of some children’s show, and jeans that are more holes than denim. His shoes have velcro closures and his bare heels hang over the back so he can continue wearing them even though they are, like the rest of what he’s wearing, not actually big enough for his very skinny frame. There are no footprints around him; he’s been here just as long as no cars or buses have passed.

The most notable thing about him is what he’s holding: he uses both hands to clutch the slender stem of a large golden scale. On one side is a lovely antique compass with a glass face, pointing north; on the other is a human heart, warm muscle and veins in the cold night air. The scale is perfectly balanced, at least for the time being.

He notices you right away, but it might take him a moment to recognize you. If you're friends, it will happen faster; if you’re enemies, it will take longer. Either way, his initial words to you are the same:]

Are you bad, or good?

A.2- THE DEMON

[You chose brawn over knowledge. There’s a demon on that guy’s back, and you’re going to do something about it. The dreamer is holding still enough, but once the glaring little creature on his back catches onto what you’re trying to do, it snarls and bristles, swiping out at you viciously. The slight man its clinging to lurches with each movement as its weight shifts but does not wake.]

B. And I know what is right

[hearthebell]

B.1- Caves [for Paul, Closed]

[Uneasy peace is, by nature, a paradox that the mind seeks constantly to reconcile and lay to rest. Perhaps that’s why time and yearning etch away the searing details of the past, permitting the heart to heal.

When Paul had contacted him shortly after a particularly startling earthquake opened caverns and holes throughout Trench, mentioning a troubling vision of the future, L had stared at the message for a long time. When Paul had suggested that they go together, he’d responded immediately in the affirmative. Even if there’s distance between them, and they’re perhaps ideological worlds apart after so many nights at the Emperor’s knee, he does yearn to be with his only Bonded. He doesn’t even dwell on the notion that Paul might only be asking to go with him because not going at all isn’t an option, now that there’s a secret to be learned.

When they meet up outside of a particularly yawning cavern at the agreed-upon time, the last of their monstrous changes have faded away (though it took longer, perhaps, in L’s case to shake their influence). The detective’s gaze lingers on the younger paleblood, and he swallows, taking an uncertain, shuffling step forward. Then two quicker ones, and then he’s hugging Paul tightly enough to briefly lift him a couple of inches off the ground.]

Thank you for coming. I knew you would, but… thank you.

B.2- Labyrinth (CW heights, vertigo, spacial disorientation)

[Among the treasures and spoils in the labyrinth’s caverns, L’s eye had caught a battered old tome in Latin at the head of a short flight of rough stone steps. He’d glanced Paul’s way before picking it up, mentioned offhand (oh, the irony) that he was going to take a look.

Harmless enough to touch; heavy, but harmless enough to lift. Opening it did nothing, caused nothing, and changed nothing, and noting that From the Archives is inscribed on the inner cover before also did not do or cause or change anything… but leafing through the pages, L “Page-a-Second” Lawliet wouldn’t let that stay true for long.

He doesn’t know it’s special in any way, much less a leitner, but with little more than a glance-through, he’s managed to read too much.]

It’s interesting enough, but I don’t think it’s–

[Still reading it, he trips slightly on descent, a bit of jagged stone catching his toe between steps. He prepares himself for a fall that will probably hurt, but will at least be mercifully short, yet the impact doesn’t come.

Instead, he’s rising vertically, watching his Bonded shrink beneath him as horrifying, reversed gravity pulls him the wrong direction.]

Paul…!

[Gone. He’s gone, they’re separated, and when the upwards fall finally stops, it’s on a ledge he manages to scrabble onto, shaking with adrenaline, peering down what seems like stories below.

He lets go of the book, dropping it at his side. Picks it up again, a trial effort he hopes will result in the distance closing again. No dice. At any rate, messing with the book while closed seems to do nothing, so he stows it, determined to find out if he’s really alone up here.

He passes through a natural doorway, curved rock forming an arch around a narrow passage. He emerges into what appears to be a different part of the cavern entirely, perhaps on ground level?]

Hello?

[He looks spooked when he approaches you, but he has such a good reason.]

I have a… two questions. Have you seen a boy my height, thin, with dark hair, who-

[L and Paul look very different in many ways. On paper, their traits are similar enough that it just sounds like L is describing himself. Detectives especially find such inaccuracy frustrating; how messy.]

…something strange just happened after I found a book. Have you found any books?

C. And I’d die for the truth

[hearthebell]

C.1- Haunting

[There are some men who possess a buoyant, natural exuberance. Their eyes shine from within, their laugh is loud and easy, and they kindle joy in the hearts of others with their mere presence.

L is not one of these men. He moves through life with a baseline restless melancholy, and so when he seems happy, truly happy with shining eyes and an easy laugh and feet scarcely touching the ground, it is actually terrifying. It’s the mania of a lightning-rider, and there is nothing natural about it.

He can be seen in unusually high spirits around Trench, not in spite of his haunting, but because of it. The ghost at his side is a slender young Japanese man with brown hair and warm amber eyes, dressed in a smart beige blazer and a red tie. His mood seems to contrast L’s starkly; at all times he looks bored, aloof or annoyed, but L is either oblivious to this or takes active glee in adding to the ghost’s tedium and displeasure.

Occasionally, the two seem to be wearing a long and ghostly chain between their cuffed wrists; it appears and vanishes according to where the shadows allow light to trick the eye. Though L’s attention is often on the ghost, delighting in speaking to it, telling it stories from home and just sitting in its presence in contented silence, the ghost watches him sometimes with a red tint to its amber eyes, sullen and reproachful and very nearly menacing. When L’s not looking, the ghost seems to draw a scrap of paper from nowhere and write on it.

There are plenty who are glad to see their ghost’s familiar face and soothe it with stories, of course. There just may not be many whose positive reaction to their ghost so strongly clashes with the ghost’s barely-masked hostility towards them.

He doesn’t pay you any attention at first, happily discussing something with the ghost. You can hear a snatch of words that sounds like “as a theory I’d call it reliant on…”, and then he notices you, raising a hand in greeting.]

You look to be of above-average intelligence!

[Jovially, as if this is a big deal and he doesn’t see it every day.]

I wonder if you could help settle the bet we have going.

[The bet he has, apparently, with a silent, glowering ghost, who does not talk. Somehow.]

C.2- Intervention [The Rookery, Closed to Shōyō and Sansa] (cw for ghost violence, strangling)

[To say that things have escalated would be an understatement. Light’s ghost has been, for reasons perhaps understood only by L, wonderful company for the detective, but that’s culminated in active attempts on his life.

Last night it had tried to smother him in his sleep. Today it had flung a mercifully cold tea kettle at his head, leaving a bruise. L tries to carry on with what had been effective before, telling stories and speaking of the past, but it’s not working like it did when the ghost’s arrival had been fresh.

When Sansa and Shōyō enter the Rookery, L’s omen Lycka is hissing in the direction of the altercation in the kitchen, and the sounds alone form a bizarre scene. L is broadly invoking the mundane, cut off by the sound of his own choking; a chair topples over and a scuffle ensues. Then L is viciously insulting the ghost, using words like “evil” and “cold-blooded” and, strangely, “fortunate.” A plate smashes and furniture scrapes as though hastily moved to serve as a barrier.

Breathless and slightly hoarse, it’s possible to hear L’s last ditch effort.]

I’ll always hate you for what you did. That’s true. But we can be friends here, really and truly friends with nothing between us.

[The ghost knocks the wind out of him with a chair swung hard into his solar plexus that the wood cracks.

It might be a good time to intervene. In the kitchen, they’re both on the floor surrounded by a scattered array of table and chairs, and the ghost is attempting to strangle L with the now very solid-seeming long chain on their handcuffs.]

the dream!

[asas]

[ it was frightening to see, and the prickling up shoyo's spine into freezing his heart was instantaneous as it was limiting. his approach isn't brash, but cautious and startled as he makes his way toward the waiting man in between his schedule— training with sasuke was over for the day, leaving him with tender, inflamed and in some spots painfully blistered skin around the mouth where he's focused chakra into strips of embers in an attempt to perfect a fireball. bandages cover it up, but the painful aches stay as a reminder. he'd always meet with lazarus on his way to koz orphanage if they had the time for it (shoyo was sure to make room in his schedule, always, and lunch was a good time to talk and spend time together; he'd like that, especially now when nightmares were becoming constant). shoyo simply wasn't expecting a shrouded, eerie little third wheel with them.

maybe it's . . . he doesn't know. something? surely lazarus has noticed it by now. in shoyo's approach, who accompanies him is a grown egg, encouraging and sturdy behind him in case the unwelcomed visitor decides to try something. ]

Lazarus—?

[ he can feel the palm of his hand pressing into thin arms, and fingers accompanying, secure and at the same time gentle in its hold with a desire to stir attention.

it took a blink for shoyo to realize: he wasn't where he thought he was. egg was nowhere to be found, but picanha is, crowing above him to guide him through the prints of crunched snow. there was a man, one he thought he saw somewhere if he were to picture the back of his head, a blurry profile and the lean, erect stature bleeding a subtle sense of superiority— shoyo was good at remembering people, remembering visuals. was it a dream he had? someone he saw in the streets of crenshaw? brazil—?

he can't recall completely, just yet. although, shoyo does cease his following when the man's face is revealed to be faceless. his persistence drops like cold water and withdraws him. it was unnerving to look at for more than a moment, and even then he was already trying to return the air he lost to a shivering gasp.

picanha reminds him, beckons him: listen to me, for once— this way.

he follows now, with no objection; into the empty nightmare world and leaving his own prints in the wake of pristine snowy blankets. vacant streets. his omen has landed on the top of a bust stop, rustling her feathers and sounding barks to bid him to follow, and interact with this one. she does not warn him of any impending danger, or frights that would jump for him— because there are none. he trusts her foresight and pushes forward to, without taking his eyes of the figure, sit on the opposing end of the bench beneath their worn and dreary covering.

are you bad, or good? was that voice— without caring for personal space, the voice calls his attention more. he's heard it so many times, now. in the waking world, in his dreams, when he was sure he had that very voice, talking to a young man named light except, it belonged to someone named "ryuzaki"— ]

. . . Good? I hope? [ that's such a hard question. he tries his best to do good every day. he's not perfect— but he would never deliberately harm someone. that must be good enough, right? as much of an obvious one that it was, it still felt tricky. ] Where's this coming from?

c.2

[dohaeris]

[sansa darts into the kitchen after the nose, lady barking at her heels. she's been afraid of this since lazarus's ghost appeared and he refused to get rid of him. she has been gentle thus far, understanding the impulse to keep around a lost loved one all too well (though it didn't seem fair on lazarus's new friend, really...). truly if her family's ghosts in the catacombs had acted at all like them, she might not have wanted to dismiss them either; she had made a jest at the time about what sort of ghosts they'd like to be in order to reassure herself. but this is...this is violence. lady leaps at the ghost, attempting to know it off of lazarus and onto the floor.]

Please, Lazarus, you have a new friend now! You must let your old friend go!

[she turns towards his omen lycka.]

I think we should call Shoyo, now. Will you tell me his user name, please?

[tracking shoyo down with winter seems unthinkably rude, even now, especially since winter has a habit of saying 'lazarus sauveterre' in the same tone he uses for 'alayne stone.']

[hearthebell]

[As is often the case, Lycka is L's better nature, better judgment, and sense of self-preservation all wrapped into one. Just as she had when he'd melted off his hand with the Emperor's journal, she makes a beeline for the closest person who can help, who needs to help.

The ghost is dislodged by the charging direwolf, but where Light's ghost goes, L is likewise yanked now that the handcuffs are as solid and dangerous as the ghost itself.]

"FLYHIGH," one word, all capital letters...!

[He coughs hoarsely through a slightly crunched trachea. The ghost, still looking bored and disdainful, takes superficial damage from Lady's teeth, but reacts about as much as a rag doll might. The damage heals moments after it's inflicted, and when the spirit seems to have grown fed up with the attack, he simply phases through the wolf like mist, waiting for his next chance to get at the one he's haunting.]

[dohaeris]

[sansa watches the ghost heal, frightened, but at least lazarus seems to be free of strangulation from the moment.]

Lady, pin him! Vhagar!

[lady lunges at the ghost again. sansa digs her omni crystal from a pocket in her chatelaine as her bat-eared, borzoi shaped hellhound comes bounding through the kitchen door, looking perhaps a bit too excited for the situation at hand. sansa points at the ghost with one hand.]

Vhagar, follow Lady! Pin him, don't pull him!

[vhagar lunges after the ghost as well, while sansa holds her omni-crystal up to her mouth, white knuckled.]

I need to speak to the user named FLYHIGH, please. It's one word. Thank you.

[she speaks her message into the omni in a strained but steady voice, her eyes on lady and vhagar as they attempt to keep the ghost down and away from lazarus.]

A1. Regardless of warnings

[goldencarillon]

[ So many dreams called out to him. So many dreamers backed into dark corners of their hearts, where they might not have been ready to yet venture. Or where they needed to venture, but these undertakings were not meant to be ventured alone. But there were so many, he was almost drowning under the weight of it all.

Borrowing from Usagi's energy would only eventually drown them both, and venturing through these nightmares may prove useful in more ways than one.

A young man in white and warm blues entered the dreamscape, settling into the wet snow and breathing out a plume of condensated air. He seemed unaffected by the chill, and instead took the first few moments to observe what this dreamer conjured. His steps are light, and his heart aches that everyone in the isolating chaos is only turned away. Helios took a moment longer to ascertain how crisp and sharp the details were, even when jumbled. How often or easily they shifted in and out of focus or existence. Sometimes, small clues gave many details to the nature of the dreamer's heart.

He let time pass as it would--anywhere between all at once or not at all--while waiting for the dreamer to acknowledge him. It took some time, but the dreamer neither came to him, nor ran from him. He instead approached the dreamer, and observed his clothing. The scale. It's contents.

He was careful not to touch anything. ]

I'm good.

Would you like my company while you make sure?

[ Helios smiled, soft and warm. He was close to the dreamer, but still gave personal space. He wouldn't approach to sit on the bench by L without invitation. It may be these people were either pushed away, or left him. These children's clothes lead to an air of innocence and hurt.

He wasn't here to solve L's problems though, just to make his dreams a safe place to retreat to at day's end. ]

A. I finally got my orders [Closed to Dabi, cw earthquakes]

[hearthebell]

Lumenwood Clinic Thefts

[It's been L's experience that many people feel one emotion above others when they finally reach the point of willingness to hire a PI: sheepishness. That they let it get to this point, and couldn't handle the problem themselves, that there are gaps in the information available to them that would allow them to handle it themselves.

One of the smaller clinics in Lumenwood is especially sheepish, especially clueless and ill-equipped to do anything about it. Throughout the consultation, L cups his cheek in his hand and leans on the healer's desk as the man wrings his hands and explains that so many supplies have gone missing, continually, along with medicines and herbs.

"The person doing it is quick. Maybe even has an insider helping them get in and out without a trace, but... every time we take inventory it's the same sad story. The painkillers, antivenom, and antibiotics are hard enough to keep stocked, but... it's been a nightmare."

Once the thief is identified, they'll be able to compensate him with what they're no longer losing: antibiotics, antivenom and painkillers. "Sure you can use those things in your line of work, or at least you know someone... that work for you?"

It works for him. He doesn't do this for the payment, anyway, and never did. Any reward was always totally incidental, and usually got funneled into ways to make his next case more high-tech or exciting.

Tonight, the moon glows rose-colored in the sky as he camps out in dark clothes with his omen and his omni. There are front and back doors to the clinic; he's stationed near a shed within view of the back door, and the orca whale Lycka has shrunken to many times smaller than her typical size, surveilling the roof where one could theoretically get in through a hatch. While L isn't in the business of personally apprehending people, having no police force to work with, if he can get photographic proof, these good clinic healers can certainly hire muscle to do the rest.

Lycka rushes to his side, keening a warning. Moments later, the earth starts to tremble.

A small one, barely a grumble and over quickly; hopefully that's as bad as it gets, tonight.]

B. I'll be marching through the morning

[hearthebell]

Willful Machine Missing Child

[Nephila Cormoran, age 9, brown hair, brown eyes. She has one living parent, a frantic father, and has not made her way to the Koz orphanage.

"I just want her found. She's run away before... I won't be angry but she's all I've got."

Payment is offered in the form of a few phials of vileblood; she was last seen by the canals, and her father is beside himself worried that she has drowned or been carried off.

Today, L and Lycka are questioning those taxi boatmen who were working the day Nephila went missing; none of them say that they've seen her, but a few of them seem like they aren't saying everything they know. As you pass, you might hear the shabby, thin man pressing one of them.]

She has a history of being a runaway; it's possible she wouldn't have seemed distressed, and might have been accompanied by someone else. If a lone child would have raised suspicion, as you've said already, there are many accompanied ones who come through here, I'm sure.

C. Marching through the night

[hearthebell]

The Jealous Night Walker of Cellar Door

[Lucinda Demaro is bit of a diva, that's obvious from the start. The Night Walker is old enough to be a young grandmother but she's doing her best to defy time's weathering, dressed from the top of her turbaned head to the slippers on her feet in luxurious silks.

"Sauveterre, my client base has been built over years. I take my work very seriously; it's an art and a passion for me. Then this little upstart hussy comes along, Beldanne Urnani, and I start hemorrhaging clients. They're not leaving me for other night walkers, no! Just her. I think she's drugging their tea and influencing their decision while their minds are malleable, telling them horrible things about me and why they shouldn't come back."

L had pointed out that she was younger, and maybe that had something to do with it. Lucinda's nostrils had flared at the implication.

"You think this business is all about youth, boy? My clients aged with me. I was their companion through seasons of their lives, not some slick little slice barely out of her bonnets and bloomers. There's something wrong here that lust can't explain; I'm asking you to prove she's poisoning my precious jewels."

Beldanne Urnani, age 24, blonde hair, green eyes. Offered as payment for securing a sample of tea and identifying its ingredients is a set of fine jewelry made of high-quality and cherished bloodstones, with a promise to throw in a bracelet if he can also expose her as a fraud who needs to drug clients to keep them.

This evening, he's outside of Earworm, the music thumping so loudly that it can be heard even if one is across the street from the location.]

Excuse me?

[He catches your sleeve in a light-fingered grasp, just enough to get your attention.]

Would you consider booking a specific night walker and doing me a favor? There's a bloodstone bracelet in it for you, if so.

[If he knows you already, the reason he singled you out is obvious. If he doesn't? Well... there's a reason he decided you were the best possible candidate of all these people outside a nightclub in Cellar Door. Probably.]

A. And the dealer wants you thinking that it's either black or white

[hearthebell]

Cafe

[Not much for cooking and not particularly varied in his tastes, one of L's favorite types of establishments to frequent are cafes throughout Trench. There's no way to lose, with them; pastries are usually in plentiful supply, especially in the morning, and he can sit for hours if he wants to with endless coffee refills.

He's here today, brushing a hand through his hair as he fiddles with his omni. Downtime like this is great for catching up on the network's rumblings, and he's stirring his coffee rather rapidly when he notices you staring at the rather loud clinking sound it's making.]

Sorry. I just saw that there's going to be a baking contest... and the thought that they might need a judge was very exciting to me.

B. Thank God it's not that simple

[hearthebell]

Archives

[If hours spent in the Archives counted towards employment, L would have enough for at least partial benefits. He's here enough that he's carved out his own little routine, with a desk he prefers and a list of shelves he plans to peruse at earliest opportunity. He's thorough in his research and voracious about burning through material, especially since meeting Sansa and finding the history of her people and her lands.

Today's different, though, because you're not so different, you and he. You both prefer the same desk.

He clears his throat.]

I wonder if you might move... the other desks are just as good, you know.

C. In my secret life

[hearthebell]

Wildcard

[Choose your own adventure! I'm on plurk at LexiL and will add virtually anyone. I'm also on Discord at ladylazarus#2235 and PMing this account is always fine if you want to plot a more specific prompt.]

Re: C. Marching through the night

[butnotyet]

Augustine is... well, he's identifiable as the guy with the [owl/shrike] Plague Doctor mask, at this point, because he's been wearing it nearly as long as he's been wearing his own face around Trench. (Some lessons aren't the easiest to learn, even when it's your own Patron who's trying to teach them; even when Bausphomette gave a big hint on the very first day of the month, in the form of the cuddliest shape-changing blanket you ever did see.) The odds are fair, at this point, that the two of them have yet to interact (in Trench, at least — but even under the mask, and with his own opacity returned, he doesn't look that much like Augustin the Deathless Wood Elf of Nephele-that-Wasn't); the odds are fair that L has learned from Paul that one of The Emperor's Saints — God's First Saint — has moved into the bone-bedecked house in Gaze; the odds are possibly even decent that L has picked up on the fact that said Saint is called both Patience and Augustine (given that he hadn't seen a need to guard his name so thoroughly on his very first day out of Hell) — the odds are even pretty good that L has seen this guy-in-the-full-face-mask around town, or the surrounding countryside, often enough to seem at least vaguely familiar.

The odds are, however, honestly quite low that he's heard anything, from anyone, at any point, to connect Plague Doctor Owl/Shrike Mask Man to Augustine the First, the Saint of Patience, First Saint to Serve the King Undying, et cetera, et cetera.

But that's all background; right now, the man in the mask is tilting that mask down to look at the (paltry) grip on his arm, then lifting his reflective-glass-goggle-eyed gaze back up to the face of the slight youth accosting him, and then he says:

"Not that I'm not perfectly happy to serve as your wingman, but have you considered that most night walkers are generally used to the shy sorts, too? I'm sure he or she — or they — will be perfectly willing to engage your services directly, if you want to offer them that bracelet."

b.1

[terriblepurpose]

[When Paul woke from a dream of Lazarus spiraling upward through cracked stone hours before the earthquake struck, he barely considered keeping it to himself.

Every time he's kept something back from Lazarus, it's ended badly, one way or another. To say nothing when he might be in danger is impossible; to caution against the underground without saying why would only incite curiosity that might bring the dream to pass; to tell the dream fully and ask him not to venture downward after whatever might lie there would result in refusal. Paul would go, if anyone told him a thing like that, and Lazarus is even more dedicated to uncovering the unknown than he is.

The only thing for it was to ask to accompany him, a request Paul made with his fingernail growing ragged between his teeth in an uncharacteristic fit of nerves. The relief that came with his agreement was almost enough to erase Paul's concern about the dream.

If they're together, he can at least try to keep him safe. The chance to do even that much is a gift, one he holds close as he waits by the cavern mouth, kitted out for caving.

He doesn't expect to receive a second, swept up into Lazarus' hug with a stunned hitch of breath, and then he's burying his face against his shoulder as he wraps his arms back around the slight detective. His voice is muffled, but warm, relief threaded through it like gold.]

Thank you. For letting me.

[burnitblack]

[it's been dabi's experience that people finally reach out for aid when they feel plenty of emotions, though chief among them are pride, helplessness, and anger. some don't think they should be the ones to deal with something so beneath them. some feel they aren't knowledgeable or equipped enough to handle it. and others simply want to get it done and over with alongside paybacks.

his trips to lumenwood come from multiple purposes. ever since shouto showed him around the place, or at least to the lumenarium for supplies, dabi kept the location in mind. sometimes he was a more "altruistic" appearance, trading some harvested plants from the wood for basic supplies from the apothecary, or hanging around to watch silently as they worked to convert the plants to medicinal pastes, salves, and liquids. but other times it was... less benign.

dabi never once forgot how to be a thief. villains in his world weren't always able to run around with cash or call up contacts. had to learn to survive with what you could. a few lessons to learn in that line of living. keep the advantage, don't exhaust a resource, and don't guzzle despite the urge to do so. he'd lightfingered from the lumenarium already the first time he'd been there, but didn't opt to try his luck again so quickly. so the man scoped out the private clinics over the months he'd been here.

some larger. some smaller. some stronger. some weaker. some with renown. some struggling to gain recognition. some closer to "town". some further away. some with more security. some banking simply on locks and hope. some with more traffic. some with less. all sorts of different details went into deciding upon a hit. a score needs to be worth the effort after all.

the weakest link, however, gets preyed upon the most. a smaller clinic, close to the woods, security practically non-existent. dabi had actually been a patron of it twice during his stay, to get an injury looked at once, and to procure some painkillers another time. but that was only to get a look around the place, scope it out some. tonight, he had intent to hit it again.

blood moon be damned.

leaning against one of the trees, dabi narrows his eyes on the building, only to tense up a second later when the ground itself starts to shake. the hell? ... he recognizes it instantly as a small earthquake (you live in japan, you learn that caution). the building itself doesn't seem to react to it, but his eyes narrow on a sudden flicker of movement bounces from the roof of the clinic. a bird? no, it went down. probably some rodent... as the shakes dwindle, dabi focuses on the clinic again, then ducks forward. keeping to the shadows, black upon black, he crosses the space between wood and wall, making sure to be on the opposite side of the direction that squirrel(?) jumped off. yeah, not interested in dealing with a damn rat.

but once there, he quickly uses the combination of the window sill, a brief appearance (and shove) from his omen, and a handhold on the roof, to grab on and pull himself up to the top of the building. tsk... much easier to use his flames to jet up there, but a burst of bright blue fire isn't really "good decision time" when it comes to breaking and entering. dabi keeps low and skulks to the trap door on the rooftop, tugging out a makeshift set of picks from his pocket as he lies down on the roof and gets to work.

it was somewhat simpler back home. blast in and take what you want. but for now, he's keeping his proverbial (and literal) head down. covered in a dark cloak, with his hood pulled up and over his head, he focuses on picking the lock.]

[hearthebell]

Good...

[He mulls over the answer. The heart on the scale's right side, just over the place L's actual heard would be, shifts and morphs. It looks like a donut with a small bite taken out, now. On the left side is a volleyball; the scale still balances.]

I... think you might actually be good, mister... Shōyō! Shōyō, you're Shōyō...

[He's both shocked and relieved. He moves closer, breath visible in the chilly air, nudging himself against his boyfriend without letting go of the scales in his hands.]

I didn't know it was you at first. I thought you were--

[He glances up toward the red-haired, eternally retreating form in the street.]

...I thought for sure you were leaving.