12 . july catch-all

[necrolord]

Who: John Gaius and an assortment of people trying to kick his ass.
What: Designated spot for boatgate fallout. Note the closed log and player plot catchall log as needed. And the move-out log.
When: July
Where: Mostly Gaze.

Content Warnings: Tagged in headers as needed. Note all the usual warnings of this character.

Comments

(early-month) at bone house.

[necrolord]

[commediadellarte]

[In all the furor of failed assassination attempts, successful assassination attempts, mass kidnappings, and generally ireful visitors, the sound coming from the front of bone house may sound foreign to John and his current keepers:

A knock. Not insistent, not about to batter the door down, but just a soft, polite knock. Followed by a sigh, the sound of someone running her hand through her hair, and a faintly mumbled "Good Lord."

Someone was late to the party, it sounds like.]

Hey, [is the first word that comes from the other side.] I, er. Brought chips. Sea salt and vinegar. I know they're not your favorite, but, um. They were on sale, so...

[necrolord]

[ He waves the others away. When the door swings open, it isn't a skeleton on the other side— not exactly. John is looking worse for wear, but at least there aren't wasp's wings and chitin involved. Instead, the whites of his bones show along the backs of his hands, the edge of his jaw and curve of his cheekbone. His skin has crumbled to so much ash, in those places, and he has given up on skinning himself over whole again.

He looks like a proper lich, bones white and the fires of his eyes whiter, except that he still wears a rumpled black button-down and his hair sticks up funny at the back like he's been sleeping. He waves Sayo in, and the exhaustion is plain in every line of his body, but he still quirks up the edge of his mouth in a wry smile. ]

I could go for sea salt and vinegar. How've you been?

[ He's been bad. ]

[peripheries]

[Kaworu is curled up on the couch, covered in a blanket too warm for the weather, it makes sweat rise from his pores on the back of his neck.

He shivers anyway.

It's funny. It's very much like the night he first arrived in this house. Though, he barely recognized it as a house at the time. All he could do is curl up and try to just be... something that felt like trying to fight against the current of the river.

Now the current wants to drag him into living when he'd rather simply not experience anything at all. He doesn't want to think about Teacher striking down the heart of a dangerous patron, or letting Gideon fall into the sea, or how he failed to save her, how he became a beast, how he was left alone, how he returned here.

Why did he return here? He had no where else to go. He's never had a home before or a family and now it was all undone and the perpetrator was in this house.

The one that brought them together and the one that tore them apart.

It just doesn't make sense.]

[necrolord]

[ God's not doing much better.

He is still monstrous, all exposed bone and black chitin. Augustine still rubs blood out of his eyes to look at him, and thus avoids him with the miserable, drifting orbit of a tethered ghost. The house is huge and echoing in the absence of half its members. When he gets really bad, the buzz of his new wings fills the space badly.

They glitter iridescent at his back like a long cowl, and his steps click with chitin. Kaworu doesn't flinch from him, though, and so he's come to Kaworu. ]

Hey. [ Good start. His voice is still warped, ever so slightly, with a click and buzz that shouldn't be there. He still looks like himself, if someone can ignore the way his fingers are all white bone and very little warm brown flesh. ] Mind if I join you?

[unsheathedfromreality]

As he had last time, Illarion had come to the mansion without fanfare; and without fanfare, found a suffering Augustine and bundled the poor man off to bed.

He should have been shaken, the shrike will tell himself later; shaken, shocked, filled with trepidation at the task ahead to know that something in this house could overwhelm the inexhaustible energy of a burning captive soul that kept Ava healed. That that something was the same black god he'd offered to spell his friend in watching, if only--beg stars and saints--Ava and Alik would sleep.

He should, if he had nerves left in his body--a feeling heart in place of memories of what a heart was for--have gone from Ava's room to the study door as he would approach something pillar-twisted: with eyes averted from watching eyes and every sense alert for mind-rending danger. Instead, he walks there without particular caution and--without ceremony--lets himself in to witness what God has become.

It is bad.

The hive-sound hits him first, worming past the empty hole where an Unearthed soldier threw all his fear and invoking instinctual stillness. He feels his feathers flatten without knowing why, and stands there dumbstruck for five syrupy-slow seconds.

(It is for a moment that instant after they staggered out of the ritual circle, dead dying reborn transformed, and fixed eyes and eyes on each other for the first time, and screamed and screamed and screamed at the monsters looking back at them--)

"Emperor," he manages, at length. Greeting, identification, oath--some of all of them, in the word.

(early- to mid-month) cws for grief, vengeance, murder.

[necrolord]

[hauntedsavior]

[the amaranth had intended to be here sooner, but it had run into unexpected complications. it doesn't know, not truly, where its target will be, so all it does is chase the last thing it remembers—the blood, the bodies on the sand after the shipwreck. it's a guess. it assumes it's going to be a good one.]

[it swoops in low to the ground, all black and bloodied wings, dripping red oil in a thin trail behind it. it holds the hilt of a vileblood-coated sword in its talons ready to strike, and as it approaches, it screams out something wretched. high-pitched and beastly, but with the familiar hint of smoke fraying the edge of the cry. both its eyes are as soulless as its prey. though its body has been transformed, its soul energy, it might suspect were it aware of that kind of thing, remains the same. there is only one person this could be.]

[which could only be a meaningful distinction if multiple people were making an attempt on john's life.]

[lipochrome]

Hi, Mum.

[ Gideon kneels in front of an empty catacomb niche. Gideon stands upon the shore. ]

I think this is gonna be the last update you'll get from me for a while. Maybe even forever. After this, you won't need me anymore. I don't think you'll mind that.

[ Waves crash against the sand, and Gideon knows she won't fall in. Not this time. ]

I'm sorry I left you underground. I'm sorry I chose wrong.

[ A ghost, vanishing into stone. A ghost, inhabiting a blade for nearly twenty years. There are no ghosts hear, because there is nothing left to haunt. It's all over. ]

I'm going to finish the mission. That's what you want, right? Please tell me that's what you want.

[ Hoe thrust into the ground twice in a row means yes. Gideon closes her eyes and breathes in the damp, salty air. She does not laugh and she does not tremble, drunk on the clarity of purpose. ]

Right. [ Gideon opens her eyes. ] Bye, mum.

[ Gideon clutches the knife. She waits. ]

[cryptograms]

[ The worst part is that Ford knows he's being irrational. Oscar is dead and Willow is dead, but killing Sasha won't bring either of them back. That'll happen no matter what; they're probably already back. All this will do is satisfy his urge to right a wrong that's already been partially undone.

Or-

The worst part is that righting a wrong is necessary in the first place. Ford is used to his presence not always being enough in these situations, but this time his presence wasn't even a factor. He'd distanced himself from Sasha, but it turns out that all that means is that when it really matters he'll be too late to make a difference.

Or-

The worst part is that it's not going to work, and he knows it. The laser is incredibly old, barely stable even when it's just idling, held together only by hope and every last scrap of ingenuity he, Viktor, and Fiddleford could bring to the table. It's not like he has the greatest track record with these things, either.

Or-

The worst part is that even if it does work it doesn't matter. Sasha will come back, and maybe when he does he'll decide that now he needs revenge against Ford and his family, and they'll simply chase each other in circles like that forever.

But-

The worst part - the actual worst part, the part that's going to make explaining to Dipper and Mabel what he's about to do so difficult and awkward - is that knowing all of this doesn't even slow him down. When he strides into the workshop and picks up the death ray he's suffused with a clarity of purpose so powerful it calls to him like a siren. It feels right to stalk down the alleyways and over the rooftops of Trench. Every time Castor reports back to confirm he's on he right trail it inspires a little surge of triumph even though he knows it's too soon to celebrate.

Finding Sasha is easier than he anticipates, which tells him that Sasha was probably not trying very hard to hide himself. How that makes Ford feel is something he resolves to never sort out. Impatience surges but the clarity from earlier keeps Ford steady. He only has one chance to get this right, if that many. He's keeping a distance of several streets between himself and Sasha in the hopes that it will reduce his risk of being noticed, but it means he needs to be more careful when he takes aim. No getting startled this time.

Care does not translate into hesitation. Ford kneels, settles the gun on his shoulders, centers the reticle. He barely even sees Sasha, just a target he needs to destroy. He takes a breath-

-and pulls the trigger.

There's a flash of light - a brilliant, blinding white with an ethereal blue halo - and the rush and thump of displaced air. Immediately the power core begins to emit a sputtering screech and the chassis of the gun starts to crack and overheat - but against all odds, it works. Now he just needs to see if his aim is true. ]

(mid-month) cws for violence, murder, loss of bodily autonomy.

[necrolord]

hello yes the tiny witch is here and she is ANGY

[creidim]

[ It's odd realise she's been to this house before. It feels like another age, attending a party as a neighbour — invited through Peter to come along to it. But today she's not here on party business, walking from her home through Gaze. She hadn't realised he'd be living here, but at the very least it made him easy to find.

It's all his fault. Mariana may not be her favourite Patron, nor is Luna a Disciple; but she holds the Patrons of the Waking World with a kind of reverence all the same. Moon Presence will always hold her complete respect, and what's happened fills her with a righteous rage. If he would do such a thing to Mariana, would he do something of the sort to Moon Presence if he wanted to get something out of it? The trespass, for the sake of an attempt personal gain, is nigh unforgivable. In part she hopes it to be ignorance. But all the same: Mariana is wounded, angry — and Luna is angry on her behalf. He messed with something he should not, and the Reckoning's sway over the month encourages her to seek payment, punishment.

And perhaps what's worse is Willow's been one of those caught up in it all, one of the people he led on this expedition of his. She's seen for herself the damage done, and she's furious. Willow's dead because of all of this. Death for him won't do any justice, won't make her feel better or change anything. She's not looking to kill him, but Luna does want him punished — mess with Mariana and Willow, she'll mess with him in return.

There are others who live in this house, but she has no interest in dealing with them nor destroying a home to get to who she wants. She stands out on the drive-way, amongst the dead grass and ruined stone — holds herself tightly in her tranquil fury as she moves to draw him out. Her wand to her throat, she utters a soft Sonorus to magically amplify her voice. But even then with the magical boom, her voice is hushed as she calls out to him, eerily calm: ]

Come out, 'Black-Eyed Thing'.

(mid-month) cws for weaponized intimacy, murder, grief, vengeance.

[necrolord]

Flayed Petulance (L and Emp)

[hearthebell]

[L's in Shoyo's bed tonight, sleeping beside the protective, oblivious young man. He's stepped up in so many ways this month, doing his best to break through his boyfriend's intense depression and offer gentle support and warm embraces and reminders that he is not alone, that he is cared for, that he is noticed when he runs out of things to do and starts to slip into uselessness and helplessness.

After the battle on the beach is when it started, he thinks, even knowing that the month of July is affecting others in this way. He's experienced this before; after the rush of solving a particularly intense case, or defeating a particularly determined rival, he crashes and slumps as inconsolably as a child who has broken a beloved toy.

Love and hate are so difficult for him to define and separate. Love and hate are often very much the same thing. Tonight, against all sanity and better judgment, he goes looking for the toy everyone else wants to rip to pieces now, but he can't help but miss.

So he sleeps, and dreams, and searches, following red string he's put down before to lead him back to that particular mind. At this hour, it's probably dreaming too; it's probably longing for things lost and broken, too.

Maybe vital distinctions have ceased to matter for the Emperor, as well, if only for a little while.]

when you bring jocks to a god fight

[asas]

[ it took little time between paul's revelation and the reckoning's influence for shoyo hinata to retaliate. why no longer mattered. how was a little leaf blade dancing helplessly in the wind. all that would repeat, and repeat in him as kindling instigation is what was done. the first time he picked up a sword and stuck it in something, he lost his breakfast and the weapon. knowing himself— he never stuck to blades after that, much preferring a staff. it didn't slash or tear, but it hurt, and he could protect himself with it. that's all he needed.

shoyo hinata didn't need nor did he ever want to hurt someone. today, he did. the blade of agency that hung on display above his fireplace as an homage to the doorway is taken off its racks, wrapped in cloths, and strung together with the thin poles he uses to set up a beach court.

he knows what he's doing. he knows the kind of hurt he wants to cause— and it's damn greater than any bleeding wound. when his equipment is gathered, he sends the message and heads out: ]

you're john?

the 15th: evening on the ground (and there is no one else around) [cw: snakes/bodymods ]

[butnotyet]

The warmth is almost paralyzing, when he swims up through yet another sudden zone differential — paralyzing, or bewildering, or even nauseating, when the extremes of temperature between the tip of his nose and the tip of his tail are so profoundly different — and then there's a flash of light.

It doesn't matter how dim it is; it has nothing to do with him — and then it happens again — and then he realizes how many fish are nearby, despite the danger he represents, the unfamiliar monster in their waters —

He can hear the next thunderclap.

He starts to laugh, then — a sudden surge of manic glee — and, when his sobs of relief die out, Augustine takes a nap, letting Alfred take over piloting duties, with each powerful undulation of entirely too much tail speeding them through the last dozen-or-so miles to the shore. As a result, he misses the landing — Alfred beaches them, progressing a full extra body's-length upshore from the waterline, even as he nudges Augustine's mind and soul back to wakefulness.

«Hey. C'mon. These scales aren't meant for sand, I can't fly you above the cobblestones, and I'm pretty sure you wanted me to go spread the news about how the rumors of your death have been greatly exaggerated, anyway — it's time to remember how to have feet again, Augie. C'mon, now.»

He stirs, a little, but the absence of water pressure — the absence of water's support — is pairing with the way he's been going non-stop for days to leave him utterly, mind-bogglingly exhausted; he knows Alfred is telling the truth, knows he should be going back — home? — he might still have a home, in Gaze, it might not be only an emptied house —

The storm is sullen on the horizon, miles out to sea, but just at the moment right here the air is perfectly, blessedly dry, and the sand is digging into his scales and his skin, and he really ought to cut down on the number of ribs he's sporting, maybe go back to having a couple of legs, fix up all the rest of his currently-serpentine anatomy back to the good old-fashioned human normal —

«Someone's waiting for you,» Alfred points out, and fades away in the twilight like a Cheshire Cat ... with an invisible, extra-pointy smile.

(late-month) cws for torture, maiming, murder.

[necrolord]

[survivalthroughhate]

[When Maul finds out just what caused Willow to want to kill him and Savage, he's beyond furious. He's been trying to do better for a while now and somewhat succeeding but he thinks even the kindest, gentlest, most understanding people in Trench would understand his need for vengeance right now.

Maul's grown enough emotionally that he's come to the understanding that you can't always blame people even if they do something directly to you because sometimes there's another person behind everything who rightfully deserves that blame. Hence his desire to longer have vengeance on Obi-Wan and instead accepting Palpatine was the true culprit. While this is good news for Willow and Faith, this is unfortunately bad news for the Emperor. Maul figures to cut straight through all the bullshit and go hit the source of everything that's recently occurred in Trench.

So he goes about gathering up the necessary supplies that one would use. He knows this fellow pissed off Mariana good and proper so he figures getting on her turf down by the beach might give him an advantage if she decides to help out, especially since she's Maul's patron Pthumerian and all. Does that mean he trusts her in the slightest? Nope. But he figures between her and the Reckoning, one of the major Pthumerians in town is bound to feel sympathetic towards the burning rage he feels at the moment.

As for John himself, Maul simply appears behind him one moment in the middle of the day as if he'd just appeared from thin air, all of his skills involving stealth put on display. He shoves an unlit lightsaber hilt into the man's back.]

You are coming with me. [Maul growls out in a soft voice filled entire with anger and hate.] If you refuse, I'll take off an ear, then a hand, and keep working my way down from there. Understand?

After encounter with Maul

[no_reload]

[Reaper hadn't particularly cared to get involved with Sleepers going mental thanks to another Sleeper. There would always be cravings of power, and he considered himself retired from political disruptions. People could mess with the Pthumarians to their own detriment, and it normally didn't rouse much but amusement from him.

Then Maul had to get involved. Again, he usually let the Zabrak do whatever he wanted and face the consequences of action. It was rare for Maul to ask him to employ his skills, which was indicative to the seriousness of the situation, especially with the injuries that his lover had sustained.

So involved he became.

He took his time hunting down this 'John', keeping his distance at first as he gathered information to the mess this one had made. From the Healing District to Gaze, he trailed at a considerable distance before making his move. Gaze was dark and dreary with plenty of places for someone to slip into and out of shadows. He teleported to one such shadow as 'John' moved down a darkened alleyway, picking enough distance to not provoke a potential immediate attack but close enough he could move into prime shotgun range quickly.

He issued a dark dramatic chuckle as he stepped out of the shadow he had been occupying, though the place was still dark enough that he was entirely difficult to pick out. It was strange. This close, 'John' didn't feel wholly... alive. This close, he was generally accurate to know how much potential energy there was to steal.]

Normally I wouldn't waste my time with such petty interSleeper dramatics, but you did a number of Maul and I expect my pound of flesh in return.

[martyrofduty]

Exhausted as she is, Pyrrha hasn't slept since Augustine's behavior tipped the house off that something is wrong. John, again. Another person coming for him. Silently, Pyrrha asks that it not be some teenager, whichever of them are left that haven't taken a stab at John. Gideon could track God down like a bloodhound, but he isn't here. Pyrrha cooks.

Pyrrha grates potatoes, originally intended for men she doesn't know well, into as many shreds as her soul scrapes itself, worn down with the electric movement mirroring steps. The oil's as good as any she's used in recent months, even if it isn't butter, and the sizzle hisses hot in the pan. The shredded pieces layer atop each other, corpses in a field of battle. Salt. Pepper. Spice. Waiting for the massive construct they build, larger than the sum of their parts.

Bread oxidizes in the oven, and a jar of thick brown sludge, so terrible it has circled back around to yearned for, sits waiting. Her eyes pass between the coffee and the liquor shelf a couple times. Then she makes a pot of coffee as well, water hot from the stove. Generous pours top them off from a mostly full whiskey bottle. Warmth and comfort.

The sounds shift in the hallway. A door opening. Pyrrha plates up the food and takes them both out with her toward the living room. The small table in the breakfast nook is large enough for three, four if they don't mind being in each other's elbows. When John appears, Pyrrha motions toward the table. "Sit."

after maul and reaper

[distant_one]

While D has had his own concerns, he has still kept an eye on everything else going on. He wasn't oblivious to the difficulties with Mariana or the man calling himself god. Maul's request wouldn't have been enough to sway him into this kind of violence if D wasn't already willing to consider killing the target. His reasons weren't compelling enough on their own, but with the added incentive D found himself on a familiar task.

Killing the un-killable. What he already knew was enough for D to choose a time of day that favored him. To his knowledge his target had no extra affinity to nighttime, but D was at his strongest after the sun set. Even with that caution, he didn't approach with his sword out, and his eyes were as dark as the night he seemed to melt out of.

He made no effort to keep his eldritch aura in check, and the warm night grew cold very quickly in D's presence and no insect or bird was willing to make even the slightest sound once he revealed himself. But even with all his caution and willingness to take this opponent seriously, D wasn't going to go all out from the very start or strike with the element of surprise.

There was only one foe who earned such measures from D, and he wasn't here.

(mid-month) cws for grief, vengeance, burns, violence, death

[terriblepurpose]

[The figure that shows up on the doorstep of the tidy little house looks like he walked through hell to be there.

He's coated from head to toe in black and grey ash, clinging to every inch of skin and caking his loose black sleeping clothes down to his seared black boots. A grinning once-white skull wearing sunglasses is barely visible on his chest, the words printed above it lost, and the only marring color in his monochrome are the dull blue coals of his eyes. Even in Trench, he is an aberration on a slowly warming summer morning, the brushing fingers of light sinking uselessly into his matte darkness.

He knocks on the door in a quick, sharp rhythm and steps back, hands in fists at his sides, spine spear-straight. He is calm, he is cold.]

[asas]

[ he is damaged.

shoyo doesn't move from his watchful post bent and curled in front of his occupied bathtub, housing a small, flitting sleeper squid. back and forth in the water, it went, and shoyo would watch with unmoving eyes even as the door sounded. he doesn't know how to take care of squids. can you feed them donuts, and candied apples? does the water have to be salty, like the sea? he fills his head with questions that never seem to dampen the ache that has lodged itself in his chest. donuts and candied apples. chocolates and strawberries, eating them all up like a cute, indulgent panda, with those dark circles under his eyes. he never took them to heart. lazarus never did. he can't quite connect the dots in a way to think rationally about what he has, here. lazarus is a squid now. he should be back soon.

lazarus is also gone, and death never skips a soul in his home world. it feels like the end even if it isn't. he still feels a guilt too grand to fit in him, born from his clueless in what lazarus has done, who he has meddled with and what he was doing when they were both sound asleep looking forward to the next day after one well spent. to shoyo, he hadn't taken better care of him. he let something slip by, be it illness or something more. he has no idea.

he does, after a few moments that stretch wide, pull himself up to his feet and go to the front door. in no real rush, stuck in a numbing pit that flip-flops between horrible loss, denial and blame. when he opens the door, his raw, reddened eyes and damp face are the first to greet paul. no words come after, but he does open up further and step aside. ]

Was gonna call you.

[ his throat is snapped tight and his voice already strains. the smell of soot doesn't make the sting rising to his nose any better. ]

(late-month) cw: suicidal ideation references

[terriblepurpose]

Even after Gideon comes back, Paul keeps going down to the beach with his evolving gear. There's still work to be done there, and besides. He has so much to think about as the waves roll in seething discontent against the shore.

Given the violence of the blood tide moon above them, he stays prepared to come across Sleepers on the threshold of the sea, one way or another. He comes across a handful, some newly awakened, others turned away from a return to sleep.

He waits for it to sing to him, too, but it never does.

It's in a preoccupied state of mind that he first makes out the huddled form of someone else on the beach ahead of him. He quickens his stride in the low evening light, his Omen bounding ahead of him. When she stops, so does he, the sharp stab of recognition she transmits to him enough to cut him dead in his tracks. He stares, eyes catching the first soft beams of moonlight, at the monstrous body alone on the sand, seething with Corruption of more than one kind. A set of choices unfolds for him at the brush of his sight, a hundred possible next moments. (But only ever one past, fixed in amber.)

He picks one. The sand whispers under his boots as he closes the distance between them.

"Hello, Teacher," he says, quietly.

[necrolord]

He looks up.

This has got to be funny, right? The first time he dragged himself out of these waters, his daughter was there to greet him. She told him what she'd decided to be. Now here they are, continuing the pattern.

It'd be funnier if Paul had a knife in his hands. He can say from experience: it would hurt less to have that fucking tooth through his heart.

Paul looks good, without starlight in his eyes and shrapnel shifting in the sand like something breathing. He looks healthy. His soul perches wary in the sand, and she's tidy and cute; she's not a nightmare of bone and black chitin. Annabel's echo isn't here to put the difference on display, but he can feel her simmering just out of sight. She wants to rise and hang beside him, because she always does.

He doesn't let her. Fuck knows what he'd do next, if he let her.

"Paul," says God, and his voice is hoarse with saltwater. He pulls himself up to sitting, clumsy with rebirth, sodden black robes tangled around his ankles. The lines of his cheekbones show naked and white through the skin of his face. When he moves, his flesh crumbles like cinder and ash.

He can think of nothing else to say.