[OPEN] ❁ behold the demons that I freed

[roseblooms]

WHO: Kit Fawkes and YOU
WHERE: A nightclub in Tisse, and later Hollingberry Field in Viea Village.
WHEN: Sometime mid-September; time is a flexible illusion.
WHAT: Hallucinomemories are catching up with Fawkes, but you know what they say: pressure turns coal into diamonds.
WARNINGS: Prompt A includes dark themes, reactions to a traumatic hallucinomemory, and direct canon quotes from a killer with a taste for sadism. Both prompts have the potential for those themes to come up, but A puts them more directly front and center.


I: OUT ON THE TOWN

[They say that time heals all wounds, and that's not exactly true, but it turns out it does at least blunt them a little bit. The hallucinomemory of the creature called Karasu is more distant now, less vivid; he's not jumping at evey shadow he sees move out of the corner of his eye, not fighting off the rapidly mounting apprehension that comes on the heels of false notions of being followed.

(It wouldn't have been so bad, maybe, if it weren't for that clever little bit of sadism, didn't you say you refused to be afraid of things you can't see? There's a reason they say that nothing is scarier than the alternative — because nothingness leaves far too much room for the idle mind to fill in the worst, and then some.)

Still, weeks have passed, and he's admittedly not fine, but he's functioning. He can distract himself; he can put it behind a wall of sorts. He's determined to keep on doing the things he always does, without letting the ugly hallucinomemories catch up with him.

Though admittedly, maybe opting for a trip to the nightclub wasn't the most sensible of ideas, because tonight the surroundings are going more toward making him anxious than they are helping him to unwind — the dark atmosphere, the crowd of bodies moving, the flashing light and dancing shadows. It's hard to let go and just move, when club music designed to get the heart rate up is doing precisely that, but not in the way that he would prefer.

And soon enough, pale gray thought bubbles start to coalesce around him, as he moves and sways on the dance floor. Eventually, his apprehensions get the better of him, and he starts to move for a an empty table — and by the time he does, those thoughts are fully-formed:


Shouldn't you be taking this time to pray?

I promise it won't hurt too much.

You know that's why I've decided to leave your beautiful face unharmed?
Make this easier on both of us and give in.

You're weak. You're tired. You're powerless. You're pathetic.

Seems you have a masochistic streak that wants indulging.
It's a shame I can't keep you.

Do it already! Kill him! Kill him!

Just do it, we don't have all day!
Was that really me?


Well, well, isn't this just the worst case of Pop-Up Video: Trauma Edition. He drops his face into his hands, trying to breathe slow and get control of himself, but eventually finds the atmosphere too overwhelming to remain in and hurriedly makes his way back out into the warm autumn night.]

II: THEY CALL HIM TUXEDO MASK

[It's a fair distance from Tisse to Hollingberry Field in Viea Village, but frankly, he could use the exercise and the opportunity to wind down from his earlier apprehensions anyway, so the distance and time it takes to get there doesn't really bother him much. The park is quiet at this time of the evening, anyway, and that's precisely what he wants — something quiet and the right amount of lonely, but not uncoincidentally, someplace populated all around with things that are green and growing.

He'd grown plants in his sleep, when he'd first had that nightmare of a hallucinomemory. He'd panicked, and the plants had reacted, and he'd woken up to a jungle of vines and leaves crisscrossing his apartment, forming a tangle that nothing could possibly get through without striking them first. Had he been trying to protect himself, then? Somewhere in his subconscious, had he tried to leave no room available for dangers to penetrate, whether he could see them or not?

Feeling wrung-out and oddly exhausted, he flops down onto his back in the grass, staring up at the night sky and letting its strange, nebulous gravity wash over him. The fox in him hadn't been afraid of the crow that was out for his death; he'd even managed to turn the tables and claim the advantage, for a while. So why? Why had it disappeared? Why withdraw, when it'd said itself — he was fortunate I could come. He wouldn't have survived that without me.

But he didn't survive it anyway, did he?

The sky, however, lends him no answers, and after a while he sits up and brushes grass from his hair, digging into the pocket of his coat after the packets of seeds he's started carrying with him at all times. His fingers feel clumsy and fat as he pries the paper open, shaking out a seed into his palm and willing it to sprout, the way he's been practicing for the better part of two months now. Soon enough, it blossoms into a lovely long-stemmed rose, and for a few seconds he simply turns it in his fingers by the stem, minding the thorns as he tries to recall what he'd seen in his memories.

At first, he gives it a shake, snapping his wrist like he's brandishing a magic wand. Nothing comes of that, save a little wear and tear to the blossom; soon after, he tries throwing it, and being as limber and unaerodynamic as it is, it simply wobbles a few feet before pitching into the ground, discarded.

Making a vaguely dissatisfied face, he wrinkles his nose and reaches for another seed, sprouting another rose in short order, and trying again.

He's not having much luck at it, so far. But then, he's also got plenty of seeds in his packet, and all the time in the world to try.]

[OOC: Please be sure to let me know your comfort level in threads regarding the warned-for topics in this post, if there are any subjects you'd prefer I avoid! Otherwise, it's fairly likely Fawkes will end up discussing the things that are eating at him, so expect the warned-for topics to crop up in interactions with him in this log!]

Comments

I and I'm good with any of those subjects

[thesettingsun]

[The joy of just being able to go out at all is starting to finally wear off for Shuji, but he's still making a point to go out more often than usual. You never know when you'll be stuck somewhere for weeks, whether it's an apartment or in another reality entirely.

Shuji hadn't been intending to go into the nightclub - not tonight, maybe some other time with Mista - but seeing Fawkes hurrying out of it, it's natural to greet someone he sort of knows (even if he knows the face more from his Retrospec icon than from seeing him in person) when he runs into them on the street.]

Hi, Fawkes.

[He can't tell at a glance that something is wrong, but he'll probably piece it together very quickly once Fawkes actually notices him.]

[roseblooms]

[Oh, yes, it's immediately apparent that something is Up With Fawkes right from the start, given the way he all but jumps out of his skin at the sound of his name, and seems to look around a little frantically before he finally manages to pinpoint the voice. It's then that he relaxes again, shoulders lowering, but there's still something a little hollow around his eyes, and he's carrying a touch more tension in his shoulders than maybe he should be, given the givens.]

...Hello.

[It's all he can do not to cringe at the sound of his own voice; it's thin and stretched too tight and more clipped than he means it to be, and it's hard to shake off.

Unbidden, a thought bubble fades into view near his head:

Fawkes. I'm Fawkes. I'm Fawkes. ]

Out on the town, tonight...?

[thesettingsun]

[There is definitely something up. Shuji isn't so scary a person that someone should jump at the sound of his voices, and most people don't have to remind themselves of what their name is.

He could just ask what's wrong, but he doesn't think he's close enough to Fawkes for that. So...]

Yeah. There's a slam poetry thing I was going to tonight, do you want to join me?

[Distraction. Whatever's happening to Fawkes, he probably can't do anything about that any more than he can change what's happening to himself, but he can try to take his mind off things.]

[roseblooms]

[On one hand: the thought of going back into a crowded space after he's just escaped a different one is apprehensive, to say the least, and he almost kneejerks himself right into a "no" without further comment. But something makes him hesitate; maybe it's the earnest way that Shuji asks or the fact that he's really got no reason to invite him along except to try to be nice, and it's the notion that someone is actively trying to be nice to him that gives him pause.

It's such a far cry of chants of kill him, kill him. Is he really in a place where he wants to turn down an open offer of kindness being extended to him?]

Slam poetry? ...Where at?

[Apparently, no, he's not willing to turn it down, even if his answer is wobbly and not quite a yes, just yet.]

[thesettingsun]

A cafe that's like a block from here. It's not a big place and the poetry nights are never crowded or loud, and it might be good for a distraction?

[It's not quite a yes, and Shuji understands if the answer is no. Sometimes you're not up for that kind of distraction. He wouldn't take it personally.

But he would like to help somehow.]

ii! if stuff comes up it's all good

[doublesmall]

[chuuya's not usually much for nature, but he is an evening person, and since he's not working tonight he ends up just-- walking aimlessly around to occupy his time and maybe get a little practice in. covering distance is no problem with gravity parkour shenanigans on your side, after all.

so maybe this isn't where he meant to end up, but it's fairly nice anyway. sort of relaxing.

up until he runs across a familiar face throwing flowers, anyway. chuuya stops nearby, watching another rose fall to the grass.]

So, what is this, some kind of twist on the usual 'they love me, they love me not'? 'Cause these probably don't say anything good about your love life...

[roseblooms]

[It'd be nice if he could say he doesn't jump at the sound of Chuuya's voice, but the fact of the matter is, he's just jumpy as all hell right now &mdash the sort of jumpy that, if he smoked, would have his fingers trembling while he tried to light a cigarette, but which in practice is a little more masked by the way his rose throws keep wobbling and falling, which is just as easily explained by how un-aerodynamic they already are to begin with.

He pauses, though, when he realizes who it is, and looks up with a smile on his face that doesn't reach his eyes, and a long-stemmed rose between his finger and thumb that he doesn't seem quite inclined to throw just yet.]

Oh, I'd say these are a little more for my hate life, rather than my love life, really.

[He quips, a little weaker than his usual retorts, as unbeknownst to him a thought bubble drifts into focus near his head:

Did someone send him to look for me? ]

[doublesmall]

That's a hell of a twist on it, then. I thought roses were supposed to be the opposite?

[chuuya picks up one of the roses, humming to himself as he weighs it in his hand, apparently working something out-- then gives it a casual flick that sends it flying straight into a nearby tree. gravity fuckery, probably.]

And I'm not trying to snoop, promise, but-- nah, I just happened to be in the area. [he turns his attention back to fawkes, there, head tilted slightly.] Memories fucking you up again, or-?

[roseblooms]

[Oh. Now that's how it's supposed to look, the way it flies, the way it sticks when it finds its target. That's how it ought to be, and he's abruptly attuned to the sight, a rose of his own frozen in his own hand as he spends a moment lost in thought.]

...Something like that. I tried going out dancing, that usually helps me unwind. I guess tonight was just the exception.

[He chews at the corner of his mouth, fighting a frown, and unbeknownst to him, another idle subconscious notion slowly fades into view:

You can ask your creator why he flawed with you!

But preoccupied as he is, it doesn't seem as though he's quite made the connection yet that Chuuya offered up why he was in the area as a response to Fawkes's own visible thoughts.]

I remembered what I was doing, when I was — when the other me was in that fight to the death. Why he was there, what it was for. It was a tournament, that's why there were rules about getting in the way.

[doublesmall]

Rules were made to be exploited. I still think there had to be a way around it, you know? Some kind of loophole.

[why go into it otherwise? there's always an out, somewhere. he's not the type who can find them easily, he just knows they tend to be there.

he steps closer, propping a hand on a nearby tree as he leans against it.]

So was it just that there were too many people wherever you went, huh? If it'd still make you feel better... well, I'm not great at it, but I like to think I can keep a rhythm.

[that comes with a little smile, there. if fawkes wants to talk about it, he's here for that, but if he wants a distraction? chuuya's here for that too.]

ii; all topics are fine with me!

[thole]

[John loves places like this. All the grass, the plants. It's nothing like home in the least, but if he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath he can try and pretend. Growing up in between the rural areas of Cumbria and, when he was at school, Scotland, it gave him a certain appreciation for rolling grasslands after all.

A man needs to get out of his office every now and again as well. And out of his head. This semester marks a decade that he'll have been at the University. And aside from making him feel old, there are other things that marks in time as well.

He's just about to find a spot in the grass to attempt some reading (preferably shady, he is English after all, and most likely he'll burn if he winds up spending too much time in this sunny day) once he spots the red haired young man. And notices the interesting thing he's doing, with the seeds, turning them into roses, before -- whatever it is that he's trying to accomplish after that, John doesn't rightly know. He supposes that there is one way of finding out, though.]

That's quite the ability you have there.

[John's voice is gentle and soft when he speaks, though his Cumbrian accent is as thick as butter. Hopefully you can parse this one, it's quite something for the untrained ear, much to his chagrin.]

[roseblooms]

[He ought to be a little more apprehensive, maybe, that he's been spotted using his strange supernatural powers like this by a stranger, but it occurs to him after the fact that it's probably unlikely for someone not on the Retrospec app to even notice something like that as remarkable in the first place. And if that's the case, then there's already a certain camaraderie here, a common denominator that helps to set him, even marginally, at ease.]

I didn't realize there was anyone out here.

[Which isn't a direct response to the implicit question, and whether that's because he's being dodgy or because of the accent is anyone's guess.]

[thole]

[John offers the younger man something of a shrug as he moves to step a little closer for their conversation.]

It's a nice day.

[It doesn't explain everything on his end either, but it's true of course. It is a nice day, and John is happy to spend as much time as he can outdoors, with or without the company. He isn't picky, though he'll always welcome good conversation, when he can get it.]

I apologize if I'm interrupting. I just couldn't help but notice... [He gestures to the roses, now strewn on the grass around the younger man.]

[roseblooms]

...I suppose it's hard not to, isn't it.

[So he says, as he surveys the carpet of roses a little wryly before picking one up to toy with idly while he talks.]

You're welcome to some, if you want them. I haven't any plans for them, now that they're grown.

[thole]

[John hesitates a moment, before carefully moving to take a seat and join the young man. He hopes he's not intruding of course, but he's been polite and generally welcoming of conversation thus far!]

I'd never turn down the offer of fresh flowers to brighten things up. Though I find myself curious as to how it works

[He flicks him another smile.] Do you mind if I watch?

i, hit me with everything

[crudest]

[These sort of places still bring a kind of comfort to Baren. There's some part of him that inherently doesn't want to be alone, but he needs to practice. So what better way to be alone than also surrounded by a crowd of people? He's putting on the usual airs tonight, having eased himself back into grinning - though not yet laughing.

And when he finds Fawkes, he most certainly isn't laughing. Instead there's a reach as he drums his fingers on the table in front of him, alerting him to someone else present there. Then a reach for Fawkes' hand, an easy place where he can swat Baren away or hold onto him - whichever he needs.

Baren's expression is open, the party goer mask discarded, as he tilts his head.

His expression leaves Fawkes room to tell him - or not tell him - whatever he wants.

His thought bubble gives him away though:

What made him like this? What do I have to do to fix it?]

[roseblooms]

[It's telling, maybe, how even with the warning, he jumps. The music isn't helping with that either, probably — not with the deejay picking a tune heavy with bass and a driving pulse, accented here and there with sounds that register somewhere smack in the middle of the uncanny valley between obviously natural and obviously synthesized. It's the kind of music that's perfect for a club, to get the heart racing and the adrenaline flowing.

The problem is, adrenaline is rapidly turning into anxiety for Fawkes tonight, and he can't seem to dig himself back out of the quagmire of his thoughts no matter how hard he tries.

When he looks up, it takes him a moment to seem to recognize Baren. It's a moment later that he sees the thought bubble drifting above that genuine, inviting expression, and his face goes hot as he looks away quickly, fighting off a sudden and inexplicable wave of shame.]

..."Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, he walks into mine."

[It's a halfhearted attempt at a quip and he knows it falls flat as soon as it's left his mouth, but he's trying, and maybe that's something.]

Out on the town tonight...?

[crudest]

If the king's away too long, the subjects might get unruly.

[ . . . . purely facetious, of course. Baren would make a terrible ruler of any sort. But he does admit that he had to return her at some point. He's still got gloves on his hands, but recovery is a process that he's determined to get his ass on. There's still a tilt of his head as he slides into the booth next to him, a fair distance away, but still making it clear that he's not leaving.

Not yet.]

Now what's a pretty face like yours doing all alone on a night like this?

[roseblooms]

[It's that choice of phrasing, pretty face, that strikes the chord with him. Maybe he would've been able to keep control of himself, otherwise, and maybe he wouldn't have, but the fact of the matter is that there's something about the casual endearment that digs claws in beneath his skin, sending him spiraling back to the smell of singed flesh and the slow approach of death in a crow's body.

One by one, a flurry of thought bubbles start popping up around his head, with the same fleeting rapidity of his own intrusive thoughts —

Pathetic.
I'll keep you.
Pathetic.
Such a beautiful face.
You're my favorite.
Kill him!
Let's end this.
Pathetic.
Masochist.
Kill him!
Finish him off!
Before he quite realizes what's happening, his palms are stinging, and he looks down a little dazedly to realize that he's curled his hands in on themselves so tight that his nails have dug into the skin.]

...Dancing.

[Like hell he is.]

Forgetting, I suppose. Maybe.

[crudest]

[That's a lot, isn't it?

Baren falters - and he can't miss the thought bubbles this way. It's close enough to read and - he turns his head away after he thinks he gets the gist. It's infuriating, of course it is, but for now he would rather respect Fawkes' privacy as long as he can avoid any other triggers.

Then, a simple offer - ]

Air? I'm feeling a walk... or a drive.

[If there's another escape needed.]

II

[originallutece]

[Oddly enough, she hadn't been seeking him out.

She'd known vaguely he was heading to the club tonight, but after wishing him a good evening, Rosalind had rather dismissed Fawkes from her mind. Instead: she's here because she wants to get out of the house for a bit (never you mind why), and there's nothing that's quite so much the opposite of her home as the park.

Given that, it's understandable why it's a bit of a shock to see that familiar crop of red hair. Less surprising: the way he's tossing flowers about, pulling them seemingly out of nowhere. She knows precisely what he's doing there, and truthfully, it worries her.

He's free to explore his powers, yes. She's fine with that; frankly, she's eager to see more of it. But it worries her that he'd told her he was going dancing and that he's now here, alone, sitting by himself and trying to make weapons out of seeds.

She watches him for a long few seconds, then comes forward, taking a seat next to him with little ceremony.]

You're getting faster at them.

[roseblooms]

[He feels prickly tonight somehow, in a way that he can't precisely explain — like the sensation of pins and needles after a limb falls asleep and starts to wake up again, except all over, and psychologically, in a way. It's odd to have Rosalind sitting next to him when he's so preoccupied with the phantoms of what seems to be his past; she's an undeniable anchor to his present and to his future, no matter how the torrent of his memories might try to drag him back down.

Still, it worries him that she's out here. Did she know, somehow, that he was out here? Did someone tell her? Was it all a coincidence?

And really, he comes to discover, she's an anchor in more ways than one. Her presence at his side makes it impossible to consider indulging his flight response, no matter how anxious he might get; she is, after all, one of the few people in the world he couldn't possibly imagine ever running away from.]

I'm getting stronger, I suppose. Practicing more...something like that. Practice makes perfect, and all.

[originallutece]

Indeed.

[But though the roses are pretty, they're just that: roses, nothing more or less than ordinary. Rosalind leans forward, taking one, her thumb brushing gently against the thorns.]

And can I assume you're trying to practice changing their properties? Or simply tossing them for the fun of it?

[It's ostensibly a joke, but she's not smiling.]

[roseblooms]

Changing their properties...? How so?

[Sort of absently, he reaches and picks up another of them, holding it up near the blossom as he starts to snap off the thorns from the stem.]

[originallutece]

You twisted those branches in the park. They speared those creatures. You had to have changed their cellular qualities in some fashion for that to happen: speeding up their growth, sharpening them . . .

[She studies the rose again.]

So you could likely do the same with a flower, I suspect.