deercountry | Few Regrets (Open)

Entry tags:

Few Regrets (Open)

Who: Reaper (

no_reload) & Open
What: Post-death recovery & November catch-all
When: Month of November
Where: In & Around Disaster House

Content Warnings: Will add as they come up.

I. Squid Games

The remains of his body had fully inked and become crystallized. Then the smoke filled crystals cracked, shattered and broke apart to reveal a palm-sized squid that shook off bits of crystal and remaining ink. The black bloody ink did begin to resorb into the squid which seemed momentarily disoriented.

Then it lifted four tentacles and gave a soft hissing squeak to whomever happened to be close by. Another squeak and wiggling tentacles that clearly meant to be indication for picking up.

While he couldn’t communicate with words, Reaper was small enough and determined enough to be close to anyone. He would attempt to cling to feet or legs, and sometimes that meant the risk of getting under foot.

At other times, he would somehow clamber onto raised parts of furniture whether it was a table leg, couch arm or even a shoe and lift two tentacles to the air and wait for someone to pass by before trying to attach himself for a free ride to leg or hand.

II. Bedrest

Since leaving the squid state, Reaper had had a hell of a time adjusting back to his body. He had mostly confined himself to his bedroom, a place he hardly used as anything other than storage previously. Now he was there most of the time, sequestered to the bed as he didn’t have the available energy yet to perform his usual household activities.

After all, breathing was a laboured effort; that’s probably what was supposed to happen when one’s lungs had been vaporized. He could be found in his bedroom, sitting up to make breathing easier and clad in black track pants and a oversized black hoodie where the hood was constantly pulled up over his head, obscuring his bare and scarred face with shadow. The white of his goatee was the most obvious aspect of him to be seen.

"…death has always provided a reset, but you haven’t invested time to knowing how blood effects your abilities either. That was stupid of you…"

Reaper grunted softly as if replying to the scolding and exasperated Irish female voice that happened to be coming from a small laptop-sized device next to him on his bed. His bare hand with its blackened dead looking fingers reached out and patted the device as if he were trying to pat the Irish voice on the shoulder.

"I have this pain again." His voice was strained, nearly breathless.

"Expected. You died, Reyes. You will cope as you did before," the voice said with a touch of exasperation.

"Analysis on point, as always," he remarked with a soft nearly whimsical sigh that turned to a wheeze.

The voice was quiet, a reminder that the person behind it wasn’t actually here in Trench. That old friend had returned to their world and had never returned. He turned the medical device off with press of a button and leaned his head back against the headboard, shifting his weight as if unable to find a comfortable spot to sit in.

Then his chin tipped his head down again. "I know you’re out there."

III. Slow and Steady

Thankfully, the month so far had seemed calm and with little to no effects. He was slow to move around the house, less willing to take up some of his normal activities. He technically was the only adult in the house and that came with certain responsibilities he hadn’t been able to get back into. For one, he tired far too easily, like he was far older than he actually was. Or maybe this was how those of the SEP went out… tired, alone and shuffling around.

He spent much of his time in the house, but sometimes he wanted a chance of scenery. He was ease his way out of the house and seat himself on the ground or on a step. If he was having a particularly good day, he could get himself up to one of the edges of roof and seat himself there, legs dangling.

As soon as he went outside, his Omen, Wraith, would immediately appear. The black peacock would make a show of preening and walking around, shuffling long detailed tail feathers and issuing a low mournful swan song that was not normal for peacocks. Always, the Omen would be on high alert, never staying particularly close to him but clearly on guard to anyone who might know what to look for.

"Careful, his bite is as pathetic as his bark," he rumbled softly to anyone that might stop by to have a look or even appear from the house.

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A-ha. Illarion had had a strong notion of who this man was, and the comments confirmed it. He grimaced in faint sympathy at the coughing before moving closer to the fence; better that Reaper didn't have to talk quite so loudly to be heard.

"You are Reaper, then. Varian has spoken of you." Not to mention the other network traffic he'd heard over the past week. "Though I am not here to check in on him today." The few inventors Illarion had known tended to be intolerant of random interruptions, though Varian always struck him as more resilient than most of those. He would certainly take the opportunity offered to be curious about the most elusive member of the household, however...

"You are recovering well?"

He nodded his head at the confirmation. He found it interesting that Varian spoke about him, though he supposed that his name was rather out there with the whole Lance meltdown on the network incident. It was a shame he had been too dead to actually make a comment himself, and it was far too belated now.

"I am," he verbally confirmed, adding a slower nod of his head that this one was not here to check on Varian. He basically supported anyone willing to get that kid out of the basement for an hour or so. Inventions and science was important, but so was socializing and eating like a normal person. "I didn't catch your name," he added a moment later.

He shrugged his shoulders at the question. "Well enough. With death seemingly different from Deerington, best to have multiples early on to know what to expect for those fearing death."

Between Varian's description and Lance's, Illarion's picture of Reaper was--distorted, to say the least. And the shrike knew it, which was part of his reason for stopping to talk. For better or worse, the Sleepers of Trench formed a closed community with few opportunities to leave or reinvent oneself. Functioning in such a group required accurate information, let alone managing its disputes and proclivities.

(Managing it. That wasn't his place in all of this and he shouldn't be thinking that way.)

"I did not offer it," Illarion replied, suitably apologetic, and rested his crossed arms on the fence. "My people do not burden those we have just met with our names, as a custom, but we accept those use-names given to us."

There were reasons behind it beyond mere custom, some of which didn't matter to Illarion any longer. Drown him in Hell's river if he was going to give them up just because he was dead, though.

"A wise thought, yes. I have heard others over the Omni voicing concerns about this, and had thought to make an experiment of dying myself. But, I have not yet found a suitably spectacular way to die."

That might or might not have been a joke. His expression gave no sign either way. "If it is not too forward to ask, were the reasons for your death true as given?"

Burden? Now that was an interesting word to use when it came to one's name, but this individual was clearly not a human species. He'd read enough fantasy novels over the years to make a guess, but he wasn't going to bring about a question period. He was too tired for that. He instead filed the information away.

After all, there was no harm in guarding one's name. He did the same thing. "Then what word would you prefer to be called by for me to identify you?"

He glanced at Wraith was was looking as regal as ever yet remained vigilant. "Death by peacock does sound suitably dramatic," he pointed out. "I could make recommendations on ways to die that are suitably exciting, though most are quite painful." It was also hard to tell if he was joking or being serious; a fun game to play.

"The reason being that a teenager killed me in the Arena? Yes," he said simply, waving a hand in the air as if dismissing the topic. "He has quite the power when he can focus it."

When Varian had asked Illarion a similar question--in the vein of what do I call you?--he'd demurred, in part in service to custom, and in part because it had amused him to needle the young man's creativity. Result: He hadn't gotten a use-name for weeks.

He had since learned his lesson. Trench's inhabitants didn't have centuries of exposure to shrike customs and thus he couldn't rely on the old patterns they had wrested out of awe and horror.

"Back home, my people are called shrikes. Since I am the only one of these here, that will do." 'Shrike' was one he'd gone by often enough, to those who didn't care to differentiate between him and anyone else who looked like him. It was a little piece of familiarity in a strange place.

He echoed Reaper's glance at Wraith--sort of; he turned his head in the right direction but his gaze definitely did not land on the peacock. Nor, when he turned his head back, was he looking at Reaper in favor of something off in the middle distance. "I should like to hear them! All in the service of knowledge, yes?"

It was a fun game to play. And Reaper was shaping up to be an interesting opponent with an elegant way of dodging uncomfortable questions. Illarion lifted two fingers to his brow in what's recognizably a salute at the non-answer. Touché. "But, ahh, to your Omen killing me--fierce as he is, I fear it may take so long for him to do it, it would do nothing for your reputation as a torturer."

Nothing accusatory was in his tone.

Reaper would be perfectly fine with the continued refusal to give a title or word that suited this other worldly being. It simply meant that he would be making up a word for it, and he had no doubt that it wouldn't be suitable. So maybe it was for the best that 'Shrike' gave up that word for an associative word. He had gotten over 'hey you' a long time ago after all.

"Shrike does have a nice ring to it, I suppose," he drawled, trying to hide the wheeze to his breath. He had been out and talking more than he probably should, but no matter. He was all about pushing the limits. "Is that so? You clearly haven't had too many invitations in death. Don't worry, I'm certain they are coming knowing these places."

He had plenty of stories and had seen a few too many bodies to be healthy. So he had stories aplenty if Shrike actually was serious about hearing them. Maybe over some flaming drink rather than with him sitting on a roof edge.

"I assure you that he's rather creative, so it would only take a few minutes," he said, adding a grin as Wraith echoed that sentiment with a haunting call before fluttering from fence to roof to parade along the edge near where he was sitting. "That's not the worst reputation I've had, and it will instill caution."

Shrike does have a nice ring to it. Illarion's smile curved wider, showing his fangs, more by way of punctuation than any threat. "We did not want anyone mistaking what we were about."

Naming themselves after butcherbirds had been good advertising. Some of the predatory interest implied by the name leaked through into Illarion's regard, into the way he waited an odd moment longer before responding to Reaper so he could listen to the man's breathing. He wasn't--he told himself--going to do anything about that, but the Unearthed's sense for weakness pushed and clamored in the back of his head to notice, notice, notice. "I have only died the once before," he replied. "But I have witnessed many, though that is not quite the same as knowing what would be interesting to experience."

Rather than, say, terrifying. Like his first death. He was also about pushing limits.

"Ah, now, you are tempting me to test his mettle! If I did not have much more to do today," and this weren't right on Varian's front lawn, with who knew how many other children around, "I might well ask for death by peacock.

"There is this thing. But, given death costs less in this place where you had come from, do you think the foolhardy or justice-mad will not dare anyway?"

It was clear to him that this non-human being was a predator of sorts. He could spot it a mile away, and he too had to hold back on the urges to discover more about Shrike. There was time, he reasoned. He was not in the proper shape to be wandering about subtly asking questions, but now he had an incentive to talk to Varian. Kid wasn't always careful with information after all.

"No. Obvious names are like a warning sign for those unwitting enough to not read the other signs," he agreed. Hence why he was called Reaper. It was blatant advertising for what his abilities could result in. He expected much the same with Shrike.

"Another time then," he remarked because it seemed to him that they would meet again in future. He also probably shouldn't be taking on any fights when he hadn't fully recovered from the last one. "In that time, I can come up with a list of exciting deaths for you to endeavor on."

Reaper issued a low growly laugh. "I invite them to try. My Sleeper body count in Deerington was low, but that's because I have restraint. If someone wants to play with fire, I will burn them to ash."

Varian was very casual with information, bless his soul, and probably could have used a lesson or two in operational security. Illarion hadn't thought it his place to correct--he hadn't given up any of his own secrets, after all--but maybe more time spent around Reaper would repair it.

Or not. It all came down to the kid's value as a source--and it was suddenly, guiltily delightful to the shrike that he'd even begun thinking that way again. That he had someone to think that way around. It was the kind of challenge he was best-suited for, more than the uses he'd been put to in the Unearthed and the loose ends he'd picked for himself in the Knights Pariah. "Another time," he agreed. "Perhaps after drinks."

At least one of them was unlikely to be around to enjoy drinks after.

Reaper's response came as no real surprise to Illarion--it's not far off the one he'd have given, under certain circumstances--and he nodded along amiably. "So what do you intend for this latest one, your killer?"

Reaper was also twitchy over the lack of discretion when it came to information, but that simply meant that he usually worked overtime to keep the place safe. Who know what might show up to stay in the house for a few days. He hadn't had to leave any corpses on the front lawn as a warning yet, but he expected that would be coming sooner than later.

So many people in this place were too trusting, too willing to give up intel or not realize that someone could and would be dangerous. It was such a surprise to most when a resident went off the rails or hurt them or used them. He was currently sizing Shrike up, aware that they were silently doing a push and pull game to see what the other was made of. How thrilling.

"Are you actually inviting me out for drinks?" He wouldn't tell Shrike it took a considerable amount to get him drunk. Or would it? He actually hadn't tested that theory since coming here.

"My cabrón? Nothing. His suffering is something he will struggle with, and I don't even have to be present. Besides, he's been through enough for awhile, and he killed me fair and square." Reaper held no grudges against his own deaths unless it was actual betrayal. Other people's deaths were where he became a little more proactive but even then, it was usually threats.

The possibility of retaliation against the other household members hadn't slipped Illarion's mind, either, especially now that he knew Reaper was back in residence. Knowing the instigator of this particular incident was remorseful and--in fact--would go out of his way to avoid killing under ordinary circumstances said nothing about that man's allies, or what might happen under the extraordinary circumstances Trench threw at all of them.

So whether or not the other man wanted it, he'd have a silent ally in keeping the house safe.

"Yes. We get along well enough already, do we not? I will buy." Because unless blood magic could make alcohol work very differently on the undead, he wasn't getting drunk any time soon. "It will be fun."

Especially now that he had a better fix on the man before him: Complicated, this one, but with a coherent sense of honor. And a fine appreciation for how the minds of others worked. It would be fun. "You know he will pose no threat to your little flock here," he observed aloud. "It is well, to have honorable enemies. What did you do to him to start this?"

He was unlikely to get a straight answer, but it never hurt to begin with the open question.

Reaper had taken it upon himself to keep the household safe, and while he wasn't in a position physically to leave if that's what it took, he would once he had healed. There were plenty of questions coming from his housemates, some of whom he had very little interaction with so far. What an introduction on the way.

He also was not going to stand for anyone coming for revenge in the household, and if he had to employ his own skills and call on Darth Maul to kill anyone that came looking for a fight, so be it. Retribution was expected, but he had contingency plans in place.

This might just be the quickest 'friend' he'd ever made in either Trench or Deerington. "You're an odd one," he said instead of agreeing right away to a drink. "Your idea of fun and my idea of fun is likely different, but I am willing to accommodate this request."

He wanted to know more about someone who wouldn't give their name, seemed to have a strong bird affinity, and was on patrol in the area looking for trouble. Besides, their light verbal sparring match for intelligence was not something he had missed, and anyone that could have such a brief give-and-take was someone he wanted to know more about. He did like a good mystery.

"Oh, he isn't honourable," Reaper corrected, leaning forward as he pulled a leg up to hook a boot heel on the eves and then rested his chest on his thigh. "He's scared, confused, and he has a lot to unpack from killing me. One could say that his doing so evened the score," he said, giving as much of an answer about how much he did to Lance so publicly. There was a lot of history between them.

Just how the House's other residents would take this was something Illarion dearly wanted to know. But then, he dearly wanted to know many things that weren't his business to know. This was one he wouldn't poke into, for all that.

It had once been his job, even so. Just like it had once been his job to befriend people quickly, employing this same brazen cheer and just a touch of seduction. He smiled all the more prettily to be called "odd," as if Reaper had paid him a great compliment. "Unique, surely, as I am alone here in Trench, of my kind. And I will enjoy learning what we do and do not hold common, for 'fun.'"

Continuing to feel each other out would be entertainment enough for him. As would teasing out more of what Reaper hid from the public eye.

"A-h-h, then you think his reluctance to kill again--this is no deeply held conviction, only inertia from his upbringing?" It was a familiar story to Illarion. Not one he objected to, in theory; if mere habit could keep mortals from going to war with each other, out of a vague sense it was bad, it would do as well as deeper morality.

Unfortunately, it didn't work that way in practice. At least honest killers and honest soldiers admitted to what they were. The shrike gave a thoughtful nod to his own question. "Yes, that explains more of how he chose to fight your lover. He could not win cleanly and thought he averted greater harm by playing distraction, but it all would have ended if he merely died."

At least, it would have ended that act in what sounded like a long and complicated cycle of revenge. These things never resolved that quickly, not without intervention.

(Don't think about intervening. But how couldn't he?)

Edited (fixing a tense error, clarity) 2021-11-15 01:52 (UTC)

Information was a valuable currency, and those that knew when and how to collect it could be very valuable here in Trench. There were far too many unknowns, and the books that were available were often hard to locate because of the sheer volume of information. Sometimes he found talking and then verifying the information to be faster and more useful.

He looked Shrike up and down then made certain to nudge at Wraith the peacock strutting nearby. "And just what are you to be considered so alone? You pay a considerable amount of respect - teasing or otherwise - to Wraith." He had his own guesses, but since they were 'friends', he figured he could ask a direct question and see what happened.

"His mind was addled. Normally he wouldn't dare challenge me so brazenly to combat," he remarked with a flippant turn of his hand. "Lance has been through a considerable amount, but he's not generally so stupid as to jump both feet into a fight." Especially since it was common knowledge that he and Maul were a couple; they were so revenge motivated that it should be obvious taking one of them out would draw the other.

He smirked at the assessment. "So true. If he had died immediately, Maul would have stopped. Like I said, Lance doesn't always use the space between his ears well sometimes." It was also a very obvious trait to fight to stay alive no matter the cost. That was pure instinct.

Turnabout was fair play, and Illarion had peppered in his own share of direct questions. To get one back hardly phased him; quite the opposite, he straightened from where he was leaning on the fence and gave an imperious shake of his head. "You mean to tell me you do not recognize an elf when you see one?"

There was laughter behind the feigned offense in the question. "Or perhaps yours are merely mammals, or do not exist at all." Which was a real tragedy, said the look on Illarion's face. A whole entire world without elves. (He had learned those were more the norm than not among Sleepers. He still didn't know what to think about it, when humans were nearly a universal constant.) "We are kin to birds--the blood of dragons runs in our veins."

If one got poetic about it, anyway. And then he dropped the act for something more conversational, adding: "Our cousins the sparrows keep the old lines of guard-peacock alive. It has been too long since last I met one."

Thus his greeting to Wraith.

But, ah--he settled back down on the fence with his arms crossed before him once more. There was that; Lance had obviously not been entirely there at the end of the fight, though it was good to know that was not something the man ordinarily did. The information got a thoughtful nod from Illarion; it was all inconclusive evidence for the theory he was building on what morality ordered the young man's world.

The method of its delivery, though, and what it said about Reaper... That was fascinating. Tantalizing, even, as little of it as there was. "You want me to have an accurate picture of him," he observed, at length. "What do you hope he will grow into?" What is he to you?

"Only from fanciful novels," he replied dryly. "We don't have elves on my world, just genetically modified beings and monkeys." So that was something. He also didn't consider it wise to make a guess on another's species in case his name or pre-contrived history might cause offense. This one happened to be interesting enough where he would at least pretend some form of politeness.

Though, he had never read any particular novels where elves were actually related to birds, though it would explain so much about them. He looked to Wraith who was ruffling and settling feathers. "Did you hear that? You're an ancient creature helped along by sparrows."

Wraith offered a regal look, fluffing elegant tail feathers. What a dramatic asshole his Omen was, which... well, that was definitely par for the course. It seemed to him that Wraith was giving Shrike a more appraising look, dropping any malice or suspicion for now.

He could tell that he had Shrike interested and why not? He and Lance had had a complicated and contentious relationship for years. "I expect him to deal with his trauma and overcome it eventually. Or overcome what can. We all bear scars from traumas, big or small. Wouldn't you agree?"

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Few Regrets (Open)

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