ashoney | (no subject)

[The Sun, pure passion and will, fell from the sky and left its Path a ruin of ashes. The Paradise he yearned for is gone.

And yet, Sunday feels no venom or anger, only a deep need to close his eyes and never awaken. The dark, flickering shackles restraining his body bite into his skin just enough to prevent sleep. Whenever he feels himself about to drift off, they constrict or jolt, stirring him back into wakefulness.

Why must they humiliate me? Why can't they just let me die?

Maybe this torture is what the IPC thinks he deserves. And maybe they are right. The more righteous Path was destined to win the battle at the Theater. He lost. That makes his cause the less righteous one in the end, doesn't it? He has no place in this world, not anymore. He's a heretic, and what does the Family do with heretics?

Kill them.

I tried to save this world and I died trying.

Died.

Going to die.

When the door to his cell grinds open, Sunday doesn't bother looking up to see who has entered. He just snarls into the shadows.]

What do you want?

Have you come to mock me? Well, if that's the case be quick about it. Then leave.

[ Preservation burns in his pocket. The Aventurine stone, newly reforged, is not even remotely warm, but its presence, its weight, have been unignorable since the Stonehearts convened to decide his fate. Not a second chance given to a promising, dedicated employee, but a reluctant lifeline tossed out of sheer necessity. Galling. And after? Aeon Wars, special IPC interests -- Aventurine had done his best to listen, but once the scales had tipped firmly to one side, most of the rest had slipped in one ear and out the other.

He is still in the uniform of a Stoneheart, sleek vest and coat with not-quite-Harlequin accents (that does not mean he does not feel like a fool), when news comes in from Penacony. The Nameless, victorious, Ena, defeated, and the Bronze Melodia...

Well, Aventurine isn't the only one in possession of the devil's own luck, it seems.

It should be enough to know that arrogant albatross has suffered so humiliating a defeat. More gratifying, knowing that the IPC will have a hand in his fate. Aventurine could, certainly, probably, maybe, rest easy in the knowledge that his tormentor has been laid low and can only continue to suffer for his arrogance. Let that be enough.

But his feet carry him to that specific holding cell, anyway. It's easy enough to gain access, what with the IPC and the Family so eagerly cooperating, now. Standing before a heavy cell door, still in clothes he'd been certain he'd never wear again, burning right up with something like fear or rage or despair -- and nothing at all like relief or gratification -- Aventurine fetches a coin from his pocket. He needn't work to grasp composure, just lets the coin dance across his gloved knuckles as the door swings open.

There he is, in the dark, bound and crestfallen, as hopeless and harried as Aventurine himself had been. It should feel good, seeing the blessed of Ena laid low. The chosen-one, snuffed out. The golden child...

Aventurine does not smile. Does not frown. He feels... nothing. With a flick of a thumb, the coin launches into the air, glints in the dark before disappearing back into his palm. When he finally speaks, Aventurine's voice is as smooth as the silk of his tailored white shirt. ]

What's to be gained from gloating over a man who's gone bust?

[ He takes another step closer, flicks the coin and catches it again. Why had he come here? To gloat? To test the waters and see if the Harmony's Tuning really was broken? To see his monster bound and gagged and harmless?

With Sunday there before him, a twice-blessed son of such heights, deprived of everything, he doesn't know anymore. But it's easy enough to lie. ]

No. I'm here to congratulate you on surviving your first fall.

Edited 2025-10-29 14:01 (UTC)

[Sunday's wings curl forward, resting pinions against his shoulders. In the darkness, his lips curl back on impossibly white teeth.

Aventurine.

The Stoneheart who slipped his noose.

If anyone would be gloating over the Sun's fall from the heavens, it would be him.]

Congratulate me!? Why should I take any pride in my defeat?

[Finally, he lifts his eyes to the silhouette in the doorway.]

You aren't here to congratulate me, you're here for satisfaction.

I won't give it to you.

You'll find no catharsis here, gambler.

Hah! You of all people should know that I take no pleasure in seeing anyone in shackles.

[ However insincere he sounds, words syrupy sweet, it is a truth -- that he hates such harsh, needless displays of power and that Sunday would know his feelings on the matter both. Admittedly, he hadn't meant to be truthful, but... well, he hasn't felt as clear since that Knight of Beauty fished him out of Nihility's sea. Maybe Harmony still has its hooks in him after all.

Feeling a little mean about it, Aventurine takes another step forward. He pockets the coin he'd been toying with in silence, taking pleasure in dragging every second a little longer than it needs to be. After feeling the clock tick down on his own life, this is positively indulgent. ]

Though, I won't lie. They do suit you.

[ Aventurine crouches before Sunday, hands resting over his bent knees, an inscrutable, charming smile on his face. ]

You should feel pride in your survival. Few fall as far as you have and live. And now, you know...

[Sunday's eyes shine golden like a cat's in fire light.]

Ah, there it is. The satisfaction.

[The fall hurt. It hurt more than anything he's ever experienced, and he deserved to feel it. Aventurine is not the one who gets to bask in his suffering, however. Only the Nameless deserve that honor; it was they who cast him from the sky.

Aventurine is an opportunistic nocturnal scavenger, emerging only after the sun has fallen to gather scraps left behind by the light. Snake. What right does he have to gloat?

Sunday winces, and a low groan steals his breath before he can snarl out any accusations.

The pain twisting through his body and soul lets him know he is awake. Nothing can actually hurt anyone in the sweet dream.

How he wishes he could go back there now. If he dreams in the cell, will he enter the Hotel's lobby? Or will he be a stowaway, risking madness with every moment he spends dreaming?

...A pointless question. The dream is no longer his, and the dreamers have all awoken. If he goes back, whether in a conventional way or not, he will be alone—a king stalking the broken streets of his fallen kingdom.

Sunday is silent, his wings curling forward then folding back as he thinks dark thoughts. Then he remembers Aventurine is crouched in front of him; solid, grinning. The waking world is more surreal than the dream.]

And now that you have your satisfaction, what will you do? Linger here to insult my pride?

[He lifts his chin to meet Aventurine's gaze.]

Or...

Shoot me?

[A pause as he reconsiders.]

Hm. No, not that... A knife across the throat seems more your style.

[ Satisfaction, is that what Aventurine feels? It is, he supposes, what he should feel, crouched before the man who'd reached slender fingers into his mind, cased the joint, and left a mess in his wake. The arrogant god-king dethroned, it should be a more delicious sight. But those chains are far too tight, and Sunday's breathing weighted by pain. How long has it been since Sunday has slept? Is deprevation a safety measure or further torment?

Aventurine ignores the slimy snarl in the pit of his stomach and holds his grin with the studied grace of a master dancer. ]

You have such a low opinion of me! [ He pretends to pretend to sound hurt. Whatever pain he does feel, he refuses to give Sunday credit. ] What could I possibly do to you that would hurt you more than you've already been hurt?

[ Admittedly, he is not immune to twisting the knife, even now. It brings him no joy. He wishes it did. Wishes he felt anything other than nebulous flaring anger at everything around them and sick pity for the not-quite-so-smug albatross. ]

There's no sport in that, little bird.

[Sunday's feathers ruffle at being called "little bird." His already distorted halo flickers miserably, but his expression remains still as carved stone.

"Just kill me," he nearly hisses. "If that is really what you came for."

Yet he can't bring himself to say it. He refuses to mewl and beg for his life, but he doesn't want to die. Maybe the sweet dream paradise failed, but he can bring eternal happiness to mankind in some other way. He just has to live through this.]

You? Heheh... not much...

Your IPC handlers, however...

They could do plenty.

[They can hand him off to the Family, where he will be tried and executed as a heretic. If he ends up in particularly vicious hands, maybe his execution will be public. The whole universe can watch the once proud Head of the Oak Family kneel before losing everything from the neck up.

The IPC will not torture him. The Family could, though. Would. Will. Despite their apparent desire to elevate the weak, not all of them were good people. They detested anything out of harmony. And Sunday, the perfect and beautiful Bronze Melodia, has spent the last decade singing a different song.

He cannot fall into their hands, not yet.

Sunday's golden eyes slip closed as he allows his wavering consciousness to reach out around him. His song is different, but his command of the Harmony is still strong. Order exists all around him. It is there in the march of civilized progress, in the development of language, in mathematics, in the very make of the cosmos. It is in Aventurine, too, in his colonies of unified cells, the rhythm of his heartbeat. All Sunday has to do is reach out, find the right string, and pluck it, sending a musical vibration through the other man.

The tuning is much more gentle than the Harmony's consecration had been. Instead of an intrusive assault commanding obedience, it is a silent request for attention.]

Release me.

[The demand is spoken without words directly into Aventurine's mind.]

Edited 2025-11-01 16:41 (UTC)

[ Familiar birdsong curls into dreamy shape in his mind. However faint, Aventurine knows that tune well. A whisper, a wish. His fingers flex and flutter. Freedom, he understands the desire, even if he's long given it up, himself. An easy enough thing to grant... until his stomach pits.

He jolts with clarity, stumbling back, teeth clenched and bared. Hands balled to fists. Aventurine's eyes flash, animal wild. For an instant, he is that boy again, shackled and branded, ready to lash out at whatever means him harm.

But it's just a caged bird before him, bruised and beaten and delirious. Aventurine finds his breath, masters himself, swallowing the lava that had rushed to the surface and hiding that bitter, biting part of him away. In the next second, he's standing straight, relaxed. He adjusts his tie, smooths down his sleeves, refusing to meet Sunday's eye, now. ]

Nice try, but bad form, Sunny. If you're going to make it in this brave new world, you're going to need to learn that you're a pawn now, not a bishop.

[ He spares the former Bronze Melodia a withering glance, then takes a step back, toward the dark room's solitary door. ]

What interest does a fallen religious idol offer the IPC? None. And you don't even realize you're freer than you've ever been.

[Aventurine jolts back at his mind's touch, and he feels the gently vibrating string go still, then fall away from his grasp.]

Heh...

[A laugh rolls bitterly from Sunday's chest as he slumps weakly in the cell's uncomfortable metal bench. The chains binding him pull at his body, forcing him back upright. Have the cells always been this horrible, he wonders. Is this where he'd been sending Penacony's unfaithful? Maybe he does deserve this.

Aventurine's last comment drags another humorless chuckle from his lungs.]

Free? I am not free...

[A small part of him remembers toppling from the heavens and feeling something deep down in the core of his being break. Within his soul, a sheet of tempered glass fractured into a thousand blades of light, and a fiery beast sprang loose from behind it. What that creature could have been, he doesn't know. It is hard to imagine any aspect of himself as free when all he sees are the dark walls of a prison cell.]

If a fallen sun is of no use to you, then it shouldn't matter if I am alive or dead, right? So what is the point of keeping me here?

[Demanding his release is better than having it offered to him out of misguided charity. It is certainly better than begging. So, for the sake of his dignity, he keeps at it.]

[ It's not often that Aventurine makes a bad bet, but he supposes he's done so here. Penacony's fallen Bronze Melodia has given him nothing but grief, climbed into his mind and not apologized for the mess he made. When considering the state Aventurine left the Sweet Dream in, he personally thinks them even. So, why is he even still here? It's the tuning, probably, still stuck in his mind like chewing gum in hair.

Aventurine leans against the doorway, one step closer to freedom, and crosses his arms over his chest. ]

How should I know? [ He shrugs one shoulder. ] But if you're not the customer, your the commodity, and I can think of one person interested in buying your freedom.

[ Sunday is bound up as much by his pride, his straightened tie and perfectly pressed trousers way of being as he is by these strange chains. Nothing he says is going to break through that, Aventurine realizes. And so, he shoves himself away from the doorframe. ]

Word of advice? Figure out how to make yourself more valuable so she doesn't have to pay the difference.

Edited 2025-11-04 05:24 (UTC)

[Sunday is sinking deeper into himself, allowing pain and despair to drown out all other sensations. Only in agony is he kept awake.

Then Aventurine says something that rouses the fallen sun from his maudlin stupor.]

...Robin?

[His wings spread rapidly, shedding downy silver feathers that drift to the floor around him. Fear grips his lungs until it is difficult to breathe. When he finally manages to speak, the music is gone from Sunday's voice and replaced with a tight, worried tone.]

No. My sister is virtuous and kind. I am the one who committed the crime and I am the one who should pay the price. I know you IPC bastards bargain with more than coin or credits. Don't... Don't let her pay for my freedom.

[He'd promised himself he wouldn't plead, but he is pleading now. Now that a life far more valuable than his own is on the line. The IPC will not kill Robin, he knows that much. But they could easily rob her of her happiness.]

Please. If there is any goodness in your stone heart, do not let her buy my freedom. I'll... make myself valuable. What do I have to do?

[A sharp breath rattles from his throat as he lifts his chin to meet Aventurine's eyes. Their gazes meet only for a moment before Sunday feels disgusted with himself and this display of weakness. Almost reflexively, his wings fold forward over his eyes, severing their gaze and shielding him from the sight of his prison and his once-pawn who now has power over him. ]

[ What was he thinking? He shouldn't have come here. He shouldn't have done this. It seems they just don't make monsters like they used to. Sunday may feature in the nightmares that have dogged him since his dip in Nihility's river, a many-eyed beast, bright and beautiful and cleanly brutal, but he just doesn't compare to the cold, animal terror of watching someone bound and chained beg for the only thing they have left. It is instantly and completely disarming.

Aventurine wrinkles his nose. ]

Come on now. She has free will.

[ He cannot resist making the jab, matching insult for insult. And then feels a little nauseous over it right after. Aventurine flattens his palm on the top of his hat, tipping the brim down to obscure his eyes. ]

The Aeons are going to war, and you don't really care for any of them, right? A guy at rock bottom with nothing to lose, and still you're lucky enough to be of interest to influential people. [ He doesn't even have to work for it. Privileged brat. ] So, take a chance. Pick a side. The one you think will help her most.

[ Aventurine rests his knuckles against the heavy metal door separating them from the rest of the world, ready to free himself from this waking nightmare. ]

As for the songbird... I'll give her a nudge toward safety. [ A pause, a scowl. ] For her. Not you.

["For her," is all Sunday can ask for. Aventurine has spun the truth into lies before, but he wouldn't harm Robin. Sunday has to believe that.

Slowly, hesitantly, he parts his feathers just enough to glance at the Stoneheart.]

...Thank you.

[The luminous golden eyes that peer out from between silver pinions are still those of the Oak Family's Head. Still bright and full of fire. But the sly, predatory gleam isn't there. Instead, there is sorrow and uncertainty.

He isn't the everburning Sun anymore. He is a man.

Stripped of his wings and bound to the earth. He isn't sure if he'll ever get used to this, but he has to try for Robin's sake. And for the sake of his promise.

The feathers close, obscuring his face once more as he sits back with a low hiss.]

[ Sisters who catch and carry every burden, who face more, work harder, and think faster than anyone gives them credit for, who take care of foolish brothers that fail to see just how resilient they are -- they deserve more than a flat roll of the dice. Sunday is right. She doesn't deserve to suffer for his sins.

Aventurine tries not to think of who waits for him in the next aurora, who was not there on Nihility's other side. He can't -- and won't -- shield Robin entirely, but there's a path through this that benefits everyone, he is certain.

Not even out the door, and already his mind buzzes. Time is limited, but a few messages to the right folks should set the ball rolling. Lines form between links in the great web of Penacony, something takes shape in his imagination, a big payoff... or a considerable bust. He likes his odds. Maybe Jade will even forgive him overplaying his hand in the Sweet Dream.

It's here that he catches a glimpse of Sunday, that soft little bird hidden beneath the Bronze Melodia's wall of haughty arrogance. Another good bit of advice, he thinks, would be for Sunday to break that little bird's neck and bury it outside, deep, where no one can dig it up and exploit that weakness. But he doesn't say that. ]

Relax, lean into your restraints. It hurts less. [ A pause, he works his jaw. ] And the next time they put them on you, tense up as they're secured.

[ Now, finally, he raps his knuckles on the metal door. Clang! Clang! Clang! It's especially loud in this awful, dark room. His eyes stay fixed on Sunday, hiding away again, as he waits to be set free. ]

[For a long time, Sunday remains still, as if he hasn't heard anything.]

Hm?

[Another bitter laugh rattles from his throat.]

Ah, right. You've been in chains before, haven't you?

[Now that he is the topic of conversation, the cynical ice returns to his voice and his shoulders square again. He can be arrogant about his own life and safety.

Beneath his feathers, a wry grin snakes across his lips... then quickly dissolves. Aventurine doesn't deserve this sort of bitter treatment, not when he is offering to help Robin.

So Sunday relaxes into the restraints and feels some pressure ease off his body. Not enough, however. Not nearly enough. The pinch of metal even through the fabric of his clothes makes him uncomfortable. The weight of the chains dragging on his limbs is miserable.

His head aches, and his back feels too tense.

But maybe a prison cell is supposed to cause discomfort.

As a youth, he thought cages were safe. Not every cage is safe.]

You're right. [He says finally, not bothering to part his wings from his face.] It doesn't hurt as much.

[ Even now Sunday retreats into his pride, shielded by tattered wings and a broken crown, though they offer no real protection at all. It'd be funny, this former beacon of lawful virtue clinging to his own deadly sin for a scrap of dignity, but Aventurine is too aware of how painful it is to have each layer so carefully peeled away. There is a tired part of him that wishes he could simply delight in the misfortune of someone who'd so thoroughly wronged him, but the shape Sunday takes now is closer to knife than swordsman; responsible for a great many wrongs, but crafted by others' hands to serve that purpose.

Ngh. If only things were simpler, but they're all hell bent on staying in character until the theater burns down, it seems. Aventurine looks away when Sunday speaks, unsure of why he's chosen this moment, after everything, to fluff the truth. ]

You're an unconvincing liar, little bird.

[ There's a hint of amusement in his voice. It's what he leaves Sunday with, a soft drop of something close to sunshine, as the metal door swings open with a heavy, aching whine, and the Stoneheart of Stratagems leaves his tormentor behind to send a few messages and spin fate's wheel for all of them. ]

[ Self-pity is for people who aren't in crunch. Making space for anything like that is liable to tip the carefully balanced scales, and right now the last thing Aventurine needs on his plate is another round of recalculations. The wager's already climbed a bit higher than he'd anticipated, and that's time better spent catching his breath. Harmony's weight is only just beginning to really needle his senses. More is sure to come as the will of that Aeon attempts to make an ant of him — if only THEY could see that he is already playing worker bee for someone else.

Not far from the Golden Hour's main drag, in an alley between luxury shops, he finds a spot to steal a few seconds he probably shouldn't spend, and leans heavily against a pillar.

Something moves in the corner of his already blurry vision. Probably a trick of the Tuning or another Fool, but his attention snaps to it, anyway. Surprise flickers across his features, settling into unbothered neutrality. Aventurine ignores the sweat breaking on his brow. ]

Bronze Melodia.

[ Aventurine had killed the last man who'd leashed him with his bare hands. Then, waiting for the chance to do so had been the hardest part. Here and now, it is the absence of any feeling at all that is most unbearable. ]

If we keep meeting like this, people are going to get the wrong idea about you and me...

[The streets of the Golden Hour are alive with music. The footfalls of dreamers, the creeking wheels of food wagons, laughter, chatter, and shouting weave together into the Harmony's elegant tapestry of sound. Yet there is a distortion now that was never there before. A new melody is forming, strung together by the Harmony's notes, but in a different order. In most places it is quiet, in others it is loud.

It is getting louder here.

Sunday pauses at the mouth of an alley and peers into the shadows with bright golden eyes. He doesn't need to look hard to find what he already knows is there. Most souls in the Golden Hour have a quiet music to them, but the one slumped in the alley dances a different song. His song.]

Tch. Don't flatter yourself.

[Slowly, he steps into the darkness, hands clasped behind his back.]

As you've pointed out, I am still Bronze Melodia, as well as the Oak Family Head. If anyone sees us together, they will make the sensible guess that I am guiding a wayward member of my flock...

[A wayward member who seems to be resting on the job. Sunday frowns. His expression is more disappointed than angry.]

Hm. Alas, I have found my sheep resting as the wolves are circling it.

...What are you doing, Mr. Aventurine?

[ What a vulture. Aventurine meets his soon-to-be executioner's disdain withe a pleasant but strained smile that falters under the pressure baring down on him. He shuts his eyes. Lifts a hand to massage his temple. ]

Ngh- just fighting a migraine.

[ No use trying to mask the venom in his voice -- 'annoyed' is probably an undervaluation of what he should be feeling right now, all things considered. But Sunday has made himself an inconvenience once more, and after Aventurine had only just gained certainty in his chosen path. He falls silent, taking a second more to collect himself. Then, with a deep breath, he straightens, adjusting the lower hem of his vest once he's standing tall again (because he knows it will be annoying). ]

I'm hardly one of your little lambs, Bronze Melodia. [ His eyes narrow, head tipping to the side. ] And I'm hurt that you don't seem to have faith in my investigative abilities. Can't you leave a man to his work?

[Sunday watches Aventurine adjust his vest with heavily lidded eyes. How improper. But the gambler knows this and is trying to annoy him. He decides not to take the bait, though his feathers visibly ruffle and his halo slightly darkens.]

You are a businessman. You know as well as I that it is often necessary to check in on one's...investments.

[The hands clasped behind his back fall to his side, but his posture remains stiff. Almost inhumanely so. Many of the small movements he used to make as his natural body language were stifled long ago. Only his wings and halo ever show his true feelings anymore. That is a flaw in his otherwise immaculate presentation, one he will have to address.

Later.

Not now.]

And you are an investment, Mr. Aventurine! So why not take a moment to let me into your process?

[ Disgust flickers and fizzles, a spark that cannot quite catch before it's smothered under Aventurine's better sense. Sunday cannot hurt him any more than he already has -- already will, if he insists on creating greater delays. How annoying, but not yet a problem. A single breath, barely a laugh, escapes Aventurine's parted lips. ]

Well, as you know, I'm on a rather tight timetable.

[ His voice is smooth in spite of the pressure baring down on him, like the sound of an action movie booming through walls one theater over. ]

You're welcome to shadow me as I work. [ As though he isn't already. Still, Aventurine slips his glasses back on and sweeps one arm out, inviting Sunday to accompany him as he walks. ] But trying to explain all the hows and whys? That'd be undue distraction from my very important responsibilities.

[He catches the flicker of disdain, which draws a small grin to his lips. It is satisfying to be so hated by the sinful.]

Of course. I would never dream of distracting you.

[Sunday steps aside and sweeps an elegant hand toward the mouth of the alley.]

Please. After you.

[ This is... inconvenient. Fresh off feeling like he had just found his right path, here's another penny on the track to derail him. It'd be funny that the Bronze Melodia seems so insistent about disrupting his plans, but he's a little too invested in the outcome at this point. Death, for the moment at least, is a goal that must take a very specific shape -- one that can't involve a clock slowly ticking down.

It doesn't help that the smug bastard seems delighted that he is an obvious annoyance.

Aventurine exhales a short, sharp breath, then steps into the lead. ]

You know, really I would have thought the head of the Oak Family might've had more pressing matters to attend to than playing key warden. [ He does not glance over his shoulder, refusing to look at Sunday, certain that it will only make him angrier. ] Do you give every man you condemn the luxury treatment or am I a special case?

[ The unfathomable threat posed by Irontomb and its future iterations has become a little more quantifiable thanks to the efforts of one Doctor Veritas Ratio. Aventurine would never say it out loud, might do his best not to show it too plainly, but all the same he is proud of the good doctor. Proud, but not surprised, that he would work so tirelessly on something so vital.

Indeed, everyone had been working tirelessly, and victory had been a close thing, so, he doesn't think much of the little oddities he notices in that first week after the vaccine has been finalized. Oh, he notices, certainly, that Ratio is scattered and distracted. But who among them hadn't been on edge in the lead up to Irontomb's actualization? If he were really honest with himself, which he is not apt to do, Aventurine could admit that it did worry him when the Doctor's strange distance lingered longer than expected.

If he were really honest with himself, he feels a bit guilty for not pushing the matter sooner.

That's just the thing, though. What they have now is nice. Simple. A working friendship, light without the strings of something more complicated. Doctor Ratio is in his life, close enough to enjoy, and not so tangled in it that his disappearance or betrayal would hurt (too much). Adding worry to the equation would make it too complicated, would risk it all falling apart, and Aventurine is too selfish for that.

When HQ sends word that he and the Doc are to oversee distribution of the vaccine to distant systems, he tells himself that this will be a great opportunity to- well, not talk about it, but at least keep an eye on him while they work. It is surprising, then, when Dr. Ratio helps half as much as Aventurine expects in planning the itinerary. And more shocking when the Stoneheart arrives at the Doctor's office to find the space uncharacteristically untidy.

Aventurine passes from the main room, papers strewn haphazardly across his ordinarily pristine desk, into his laboratory and finds everything... strangely stagnant. Dull as his own feelings tend to be, he still bears the weight when his stomach pits at the sight. Worry climbs to abject concern, but Aventurine does his best impression of a carefree gambler as he wanders the room, making note of every out-of-place detail in this space he has so loved to loiter in before. ]

Hey Doc~? [ At least he still sounds every bit the flippant Stoneheart of Stratagems, a bit of sing-song in his voice. ] Don't tell me I messed up syncing our calendars again. Today's fly day. Where'd you get to?

[ it had been a nagging feeling for some time now, a feeling that he had been able to ignore less and less. at first, ratio had considered it an impossibility; after all, he's lived much of his life as a normal person. perhaps not as normal as the others, considering his achievements since he was young, but he wouldn't say he's had anything that would make it stranger than usual.

sure, there had been a few instances that seem to give it substance, his intellect aside. but nothing concrete, nothing that hammered any kind of nails in the coffin—at least, not until the incident with irontomb.

the digital vaccine he created was meant to block the virus that interfere with the cognitive functions of organic lifeforms, something not unheard of in the medical world but still strange, considering the virus is inorganic in every literal sense of the word. there shouldn't have been any way to counteract its effects, especially in organic lifeforms.

and yet, his own blood, his own immunocytes, had managed to do the unthinkable, eating away at the virus as if they're two opposing forces. it's another groundbreaking finding from him, the vaccine a success, something the universe could benefit from in the long run. other medical discoveries could arise, could be unearthed.

the weight of the truth curls around his heart like a suffocating hand, and for a moment, he doesn't hear the hiss of the lab's pneumatic doors. doesn't realize the presence of another person in the room. ]

Gambler.

[ ratio sees his reflection on a beaker, running a hand through his disheveled hair before walking around the table to shrug off his coat. ]

... Did you pass through the decontamination chamber before you entered the room? I precisely remember reminding everyone to disinfect first before walking in the laboratory.

[ Relief flickers and fades, swallowed up again by troubled thoughts when Ratio comes into view. Something is not right, and the only thing stopping Aventurine from swanning in for a closer look is the reminder about decontamination. Best to apologize first, then. (Or, something... in the same galactic cluster as an apology.) ]

Oopsie-daisy.

[ He tips his chin up, jewel eyes glinting with put on mischief even as he admits his guilt. An honest mistake, had he not shown up already worried, had he not stumbled upon an office that felt wrong, he might've remembered. It feels like a little too much, admitting to all that. ]

Guess I was in a hurry, thinking you'd left without me. [ A breath, a smile. He cranes his head to try and get a better look, and tries not to let it show in his eyes when he notices the disheveled hair, the signs of stress in the doctor's demeanor. Better judgement tells him he should excuse himself, wait outside until Ratio is ready to leave. He finds, though, that he can't bring himself to move. ] I didn't... mess up anything important, did I?

[ no, of course not.

ratio sighs loudly, somewhat unsurprised that his own instructions are sidelined in favor of interrupting him. and he'd call him out on a better day, but that day isn't today, not with the current circumstances and not with ratio half-distracted; aventurine should count himself lucky, he wouldn't have gotten a pass otherwise.

at the question, he casts a glance at his work, strewn across his desk like confetti after a party, at the samples laid along the table, his trials and errors. ]

No, there was fortunately nothing to mess up when you arrived.

[ not when everything is already a mess in his head, the only saving grace the vaccine that needs distribution. that, at least, keeps his thoughts straight, his mind clear. his gaze flickers back to aventurine, taking note of his expression. ]

... If that's what you're concerned about, gambler.

[ No reprimand? Well, that seals it. Something is wrong.

Luckily, Aventurine's itinerary for this mission could best be described as "loosey-goosey." Plenty of time to collect evidence here in Ratio's lab before he starts stringing a plausible theory together. Most important (and admittedly a little surprising), his presence is not somehow making things infinitely worse; not the IPC or the Stonehearts or his own antics, then. Reassured, Aventurine regains control of his feet and sweeps in closer. ]

I was concerned that you might've been kidnapped, honestly. [ Tone light, teasing, he dilly-dallies near a shelf of samples, but can't discern anything relevant about them from a glance. ] Your desk's a mess, Doctor.

[ He stuffs his hands in his pockets as he comes to stand next to Ratio. The Cheshire cat smile that bends his lips feels especially false when presented to the doctor, but he's reasonably confident that Ratio can't see the worry hiding just past it, even if he knows the smile itself for show. ]

But you're alright?

[ There is care in the question posed; not enough to seem baldly worried, but even the best actors and fakers cannot always conceal their concern. He may know the truth, but he's still curious about the answer. ]

Edited (clarity) 2025-12-27 06:26 (UTC)

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Is "FIRST!" still a respectable meme?

I certainly think so

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for choirmaster

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for @phd

crawls in here, happy holidays!!

happy holidays! patpat i hope yours aren't too crazy

only cooking craziness

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