cerebralbleu

[cerebralbleu]

He was out here to check on the decomposition progress of one of his specimens. The process to do such a thing was simple: place the carcass of the dead animal under plastic tub, and allow nature to do the rest. Once the carrion is putrid and consumed, the treasure of bones lays waiting.

Legato is unbothered by the stench of rot and death. Lifting the container, he examines it, prods the dead vulture with a stick he had brought, and decides that it needs another week. This far out in the woods, he hadn't encountered anybody during this regular outing.

That seemed to change today though.

Golden eyes flicker to the side from where he is crouched when he hears the sound of twigs snapping. Legato slowly brings himself to his feet to stare upon a man smudged with an assortment of what might be-- soil? Ash? He cannot tell just yet.

And then he talks.

" Oh? " Legato tilts his head slowly.

" I don't want to talk about my hair, " so he moves past that unceremoniously, " has your heart been taken as penance for a sin, or because your best friend is possessive over you? Both could be diabolically interesting. Tell me more. "

He wanted to compliment the guy's dye-job (it was really good, put pretty much anyone he knew to shame, even Lana) but he was a bit distracted by the haunted forest around them. Still, the blue hair definitely made him noticeable in pretty extreme environments.

Thomas felt awkward, the tug of his chest being in whatever direction Andrew was in, something strange and new and not uncomfortable but awkward in that way new relationships were.

So, despite being pretty damn sure of foot in the woods, he stumbles, giving away his position and all of the various mushrooms and nuts and rocks in his pockets.

"Uh."

"Would you believe me if I said my best friend has my heart - literally - and it's a weird feeling or should I just compliment your hair and move on?" He'd clearly interrupted the guy, and he wasn't feeling entirely feral at the moment. Yet, anyway.

@cerebralbleu

[cerebralbleu]

" I know my sorrow when I see it. "

So quiet, a muffled whisper, practically swallowed back into his own mouth due to the disbelief.

He knows his disgust, the revulsion he feels when seeing his body in the mirror, the way it brought bile to the back of his throat. He knew the ghosts. They clung to him. Static electricity danced on his tongue as he found himself equally frozen in place, as if this very sight would shatter like a mirror if he moved even a centimeter.

Sorrow recognizes sorrow.

Legato recognizes his lost expression.

Was this a trick of the eye? The puppeteer had heard murmuring of the creatures outside mimicking other people in the city, but this did not feel quite like that. Legato lifts a steady hand, twitches his fingers, and uses his threads to grasp onto the other's left arm.

" You have them-- right-- ? "

He's allowed only a moment's pause before the ground beneath his feet rumbles viciously. Outside, a cacophony of screams is heard, and he can see through the window a crowd of people stampeding through the streets, running in the opposite direction. Men are trampled as women scoop children into the arms.

Legato snaps his head to the side, skin prickling with adrenaline. He did not care for the countless lives out there, not for a single one. And perhaps, he, too would allow himself to lay upon the ground and be disemboweled by the distorted anomalies that roamed Spirale like a virus.

But this mirror-- this doppelganger of his-- looks younger than him.

" -- You have to come with me, " an inaudible whisper. Legato looks directly at his alternate, and repeats himself.

" You have to come with me-- " louder this time.

" He's not coming to help us-- " The connotation could only be understood by himself. It's painfully true though. Angels were not going to intervene on this.

Everything Legato needed, and had acquired so far, could fit into his pockets. Most of it was not worth of dragging along. Besides his notebook and a pen, all he takes is a small bag of stale cookies from the back of the kitchen cabinet before following after the crowd being evacuated from the building. Leaving is an easy decision - perhaps he could get even slightly further away from the blaring siren that is making his ears ring and head hurt.

With every stairway leading downwards - he wouldn't trust the elevators in this situation - the noise from outside turns louder. The distinct sounds of echoed screams of terror and fear, some of them snuffed out by a sudden attack of an infected. At first, Legato finds himself strangely unfazed by it. The only one whose safety he needs to be concerned of is his own, and that has never been a particularly high priority for him.

The past few days had been confusing at best, and horrifying at worst. Realistically, how much worse could it all get? He is already burdened with the weight of the majority of his memories returning, and most of them were the kind he would have rather kept at an arm's length.

The barrage of sounds grows overwhelming as he reaches the bottom floor, stopping on his tracks after something unusual catches his attention from the corner of his eye. In that moment, the sounds seem to momentarily subside, turning into a distorted, faint murmur in the back of his mind. Or, he must be imagining it.

What he isn't imagining is the man with a familiar shade in his hair and an even more familiar, haunted look in his eyes. Instinct tells him to look away, that this is a stranger who is simply trying to make a run for it before the building would be swarming with those things from outside.

Silver eyes widen with surprise as the man speaks, and he finds his feet glued onto the floor, pulse thrumming against his ears. " How- would you know that? "

[cerebralbleu]

You're pretty far from bein' the first person who's just needed someone else to hear you.

Freedom would had been learning how to live.

Both men were Vash the Stampede. Though their faces told different stories and traumas, their words permeated him all the same. The truth hurt the way that alcohol stung when splashed onto a wound; temporary pain to alleviate long-term suffering. Legato did not want to hear it, but his mind clung onto those words-- there was still a spindly slave boy occupying his ribs like a protective cage, desperate to know that someone valued his life.

So, momentarily, he allows that boy to see through his eyes, and experience something that nearly every man and woman took for granted: willing company.

Legato gives a half-hearted smile, betrayed by the exhaustion in his eyes, but it was there. Just like the hope had been right before he pulled the trigger. Diluted, but there.

--

Meandering through the streets of the Abyss wasn't frightening, it hadn't been in the first place, but that did not stop the false Vash from making an effort to be helpful. That is what he was good for, is that the case? Help or be hated.

" Paintings? " Legato lifts a brow with confusion, stepping through the door that is opened for him. A familiar sight hits him: this was the museum in Archimedes. He'd been here before-- but clearly, he hadn't wandered into this particular exhibit.

The disciple stops dead in his tracks, looking up at the dramatic oil painting of his suicide. Blood splatter in garnet smudged his already distorted face, body bent back quite dramatically. When he takes a closer look, he sees that aside from the stark blue of his hair and violent red of viscera, the painting is entirely black and white.

" They've managed to make a gruesome and pathetic sight look beautiful, " Legato muses to himself, eyes narrowed as he takes it all in. He was beginning to realize that he quite enjoyed artwork. Glancing over his shoulder though, he sees that Vash's array of paintings were numerous-- the most recent one showing him slamming into the pavement of the highway.

Legato approaches slowly, looming behind the Typhoon, and speaks as he looks onward.

" -- Do you allow yourself to die because you know you will return to this place, or do run into death's arms on purpose? Your counterpart, the Vash that pulled the trigger, he had a look in his eyes that was sickeningly familiar to me. It was cathartic to know that someone besides myself had such self-destructive tendencies. "

"Oh, that's alright," Vash says eventually, to all of it. Seems like Legato had a lot to reckon with now.

Having waited for the other man to begin eating first (and now certain that they didn't need to swap meals), the gunman shovels a quick forkful of hotcakes into his mouth, watching on. Legato had gold eyes—pretty ones, like Livio. Back then, he'd been without his memories of the Double Fang, and his offer to keep in touch had gone unheard.

It's entirely possible these two here'll split off for good once they get back to the surface. Well, given that there hadn't been much wrathful vengeance in this version of Bluesummers after all. Really, the Stampede didn't think it was out of the question for the other man to have been in the mood to toss the hot tea or soup right at his stupid smiling face, but…

"See? You're not so bad. N'not so different from everyone else, either." Vash chuckles. "You're pretty far from bein' the first person who's just needed someone else to hear you."

Nor was he the first whom Vash's had to help out with technology, either. The tech-savvy Stampede freely gives tips and explanations between bites of food, happy to help Legato utilize a tool to help him better navigate life. There's no way to cover everything in detail, but basics and establishing some heuristics for safety would go a long way, he figures.

—

"…Might be a bit scary t'find out where to go and what t'do, but you're plenty smart n'plenty capable, at least I think so." Back on the streets of the Abyss, the wrong Vash's kept up his spirits with his new friend.

Something about his sunniness, or their proximity to the exit, has warded off the worst of what lurks in the dark behind them. They're able to make it to the door at a relatively leisurely pace.

"Well, here we are. …Remember, they're just paintings." As he pushes the door in and holds it open for his companion, Vash notices…

That Legato's lone death portrait is up ahead, lining the left side of the museum hall further in. It's in stark contrast to the right side of the museum hall, magically and temporarily making up a showcase of all the death this copy of Vash the Stampede has endured on the island.

[cerebralbleu]

This fuckjn emo...

[cerebralbleu]

As the rain continues to come down, Legato thinks on the conversation that they were having. Chara was young, he had no reason to doubt their input though.

" You are smart with your words, " he compliments quietly.

" When I was a child, " Legato begins to share, " nothing that I said held value to those around me. I had nobody. Not a soul cared. I could shout until my throat ran raw, and my words would fall on deaf ears. It was as though I was invisible, until I had to fulfill my duties. "

No reason to elaborate on the nature of those awful duties.

" I don't think that children should feel that way, " he admits, " that is why I am willing to listen to even the human ones. What you are sharing with me-- "

A pause when he notices the pink tint on Chara's cheeks. He moves over on the bench, offering them more cover from the rain beneath the tree.

" Will be taken to heart. Thank you. "

“…

I know you said you do not expect me to answer your question. However, I do believe that… whatever god here, whoever the Angel is that decided to drag our dead carcasses to this place … benevolent or not, I believe it may have simply been serendipity that cast us to this place. I am still not sure if it is a good thing or not.

… I do not know if worth had any sort of weight in that decision. But perhaps it is for the best that we do not find out the truth.”

At least they can reason that maybe there is a shared goal they were all brought here for if they choose.

Maybe.

Chara snorts softly, hands going to wipe at the wetness of their cheeks from the rain. Their skin is tinted pink. They never did very well in the rain; Chara can’t help but wonder if they chew get sick in this world as well.

“Happiness is more of a state of mind than a concept. I hope you are able to figure it out one day. But until then… I am glad that you feel something close to it, at least temporarily, with me.”

[cerebralbleu]

Mira.

A simple, but nice name for an extraordinary girl. At least, that is what Legato thought. She was extremely unique, so otherworldly, like she fell from the sky like a comet. At times, Legato felt the very same-- like he did not belong, like he came from another place, even when he was at home. He finds solace in that thought. Perhaps he will revisit it in the future.

" It's nice to meet you, Mira, " Legato says quietly, his voice relaxing as he adjusts to the lack of gravity. He mimics her, holding his arms out as his coat slowly billows in mid air.

What an alien experience. He never imagined that he would know how it felt to be unburdened of gravity. Is this what it was like to be an asteroid? Or an angel? Or any of the other cosmic entities that called the wide expanse of space their home?

His straying thoughts come to a pause when the nature of his name is questioned. Legato tilts his head.

" That. . . "

Hmh.

" I do not think so. I didn't pick my own name, " he explains gently, " it was given to me. The very first gift I ever received. "

Once he's moving forward, Mira's changing where she is, moving to be by his side once more, save this time she’s turned around, back moving forward first and she's more turned towards him. This way she could keep an eye on him if he needed any assistance, she could spot it instantly.

Another thing she's done is let her arms freely float besides her, one close towards him so if he needed, he could grab it at a moment's notice for whatever reason but still giving him his space.

"Mm..?"

Oh? Had they really gone this long without introducing themselves to one another? Odd, she was usually better at doing so upon moments of a new meeting. She chalks it up to his desire to explore the space station why it blanked her mind for a moment.

"Apologies, I had not realized I failed to give you what I have been called. Others have taken to calling me Mira."

Although, the second half of his name does make her head quirk to the side some, catching her attention. Bluesummers? Summer was a season was it not? Was it typical to have the seasons in one's name?

"Bluesummers, does this mean you are related to the Summer season? Or is it another type I am unaware of?"

[cerebralbleu]

Legato did not keep human beings close. Perhaps Hanabi was one of those remarkably rare exceptions. If there was room-- any room-- in the man's heart for a human, it was the young girl who had extended such kindness and patience to him. So, he had to make sure that she was not harmed during this apocalyptic incident.

He nods, and follows her without any complaint. Down they go, moving off of the roof, descending several staircases, until they were on the streets again. The infected did not seem to be populating this stretch of the road-- for the time being.

" With your role, I assume anybody that you know would be very beneficial in this situation, " Legato mutters, carefully moving block by block through the streets. He would deploy his threads at any given chance that a beast comes for them.

" -- sshhhhh. . . " He stops when he hears shuffling-- several of the glitched, fused together in a grotesque, tangled formation-- like something out of a horror movie, shambles nearby. Legato ducks behind a building, pulling Hanabi with him. If they stayed quiet, perhaps that hell spawn would leave-- but he was prepared for the worst case scenario.

She tries to crack a small smile, but it fails. She looks at him and says, "I'm used to it, but..." The out-of-nowhere kind of death, at least. It was still a lot, though, and it never got easier to deal with. THIS right here was why she had to be strong. the lost spirits wandered and it was her job to guide them.

It just sucks that she can't guide them this very second.

"Me too. I'll make sure we're both safe from this." She'd be damned if anything happened to Legato if she could help it!

Brown eyes looks to where Legato points. "It's the only thing we can do right now." She turns to fully face Legato with a nod. "It's a good plan than any. maybe we'll meet someone we know along the way."

She motions for Legato to follow. She doesn't need help getting down, but she's careful as to not alert the beings on the other side.

[cerebralbleu]

It was not his place to judge the tastes of a superior. This never prevented Legato from doing that though. Previously, he had not convinced himself that Knives could read his mind. Therefor, there were plenty of decisions that his master made that were subject to silent confusion.

The same will go for Lord Balduran.

Quietly, he huffs under his breathe, and looks away, choosing to instead glare out the window while Willem rummage through the closet. This was stupid. Absolutely stupid. If they return injured due to poor timing, or even worse, poor decisions, how was he meant to explain it to the illithid?

A pat to the shirt (and his chest as a result) is given. Legato frowns, takes the article of clothing, and gives it a look over. It was not his style. He didn't wear such revealing tops, never, ever. While he ponders the lord's style of dress, Willem finally approaches with a packed bag. A sigh of relief is given, and Legato turns around to leave again. Though annoyed, he does keep the shirt.

His lips twitch into the most subtle of pouts as his target gives a bow, and addresses him as--

" D. . . Darling? " Legato repeats slowly. Darling. That is. That is a choice.

" I was not informed of your abilities in combat, but mine are currently waning due to the strange conditions. I have enough strength left to defend myself and one another person. I suggest that you stay close and do not-- " A harsh stare.

" Make any reckless choices. "

Legato reaches and prods his finger into the back of Willem's neck, attaching one of his metal wires into the skin. It would feel like a subtle pin prick, but with that motion, he invades the man's mind, and speaks to him.

' Do you understand? '

" you're excused, " escapes will on instinct, though he visibly freezes as soon as the words are out of his mouth. leaning back out of the wardrobe, he desists of facing the other directly ; he can spot the daggers in his stare from the corner of his eye. with a nervous undertone, will begins humming loudly, as if the current sound would muffle what he said before.

" oh wow, look at this one, " said to the same beat of please don't hurt me i was joking, " it's one of balduran's, but it should fit your brooding and wonderful frame just the same! haha! "

he basically skips over to his new acquaintance, pressing the shirt to his front. " it does fit! how lucky you are! "

a pat to the shirt now against the man's chest tells him to hold onto it as will returns to the wardrobe and more quickly picks something for himself. his figure scurries around for a moment, in search of the bag he'd filled up before his rescue. a few additional supplies laid inside it, things he'd forgotten in their initial escape. he slides the outfit currently in his hands into it, then slings it over his shoulders.

" alright, alright! i'm ready, " waddling to the door, he stops before it, bowing. " lead the way, darling! "

[cerebralbleu]

The black sheep had his throat on display, prepared for the slaughter. His body had always been meant for sacrifice. It was a righteous way to depart. Death was not permanent in this wretched city, and he would ascend to life once more like so many other mythological figures. Strange, it was, that the miracle of resurrection no longer separated man from God.

A dying sheep will scream for intervention even if it knows that there is no escape. Instincts will never be quashed by logic in dire situations.

The phantom of Dominique has him by the throat, her one eye staring through him. In most ways, she was no different than any of the other assassins hired into the Gung-ho Guns: she had been a woman in need of a purpose, and a paycheck. Legato Bluesummers offered her not only a direction to lead her in, but the salvation of death as well. Death was a gift that was take away the suffering, their lives laid down to make way for the return of Eden. Dominique's loyalty to Legato had been unmatched by any of the other gunslingers. Any leader would be fortunate to have such a quick-witted, talented woman at his side. Yet she was culled just the same as the other failures.

Those who are incapable of serving Millions Knives to the best of their ability, do not get to live. Legato personally reaped those souls. It was his single exception to a moral that he believed in: mercy to women and children.

How ironic it is now, that this corrupted monster wearing her face is attempting to rip out his jugular. Maybe it is only fair.

He did not know how to be a human, after all.

Legato grits his teeth as blood spews from his mouth. Dominique's nails were hooked into the flesh of his neck, and at any moment, she would tear it away-- but that is not the outcome that is fated to happen on this hellish day. An overwhelming surge of power washes over the space, knocking back the glitched away from Legato, and the rest of the surrounding area. Fervent eyes look to Fiyero, bearing witness to the skilled work of bow against violin strings, and then to Lord Balduran, who descends upon the madness. A shield of brilliant, bright energy flashes before his eyes, encasing Legato in protection.

Balduran could only hold it up long enough for the puppet master to reorient himself. Though exhaustion was not audible through the mental connection, Legato could see it in the man's eyes. With lips parted in a gasp, he realizes that the harrowing images that had been projected into his mind-- incomprehensible to most-- had belonged to Balduran. The hero who suffered such cosmic madness, stood before he and Fiyero, acting as their blade.

How could Legato be worthy of such a thing?

He blinks away a few bewildered tears, before looking to Fiyero who was cutting through more and more of the glitched with a blade in hand. Everything that Legato knew of the bard, as she called herself, was that she was a gentle soul-- a forgiving one, an understanding one. And seeing her in such a vicious setting was truly difficult for him to grasp. She moved so effortlessly-- that is right, she had told him before that she was familiar with the scars of war.

It was growing apparent that Balduran may fall, but where he does, the pair that stood as his left and right hands would rise to continue the fight.

Legato cannot afford the safe choice of allowing himself to die and return. These two needed him. He needed to live. As unimaginable as it seemed, he had to set self-sacrifice aside, and take up a different mantle.

With that truth held tightly in his chest, Legato finally steadies himself on his feet, his threads under control, no longer entangled by his own influence. If he must take up the mantle, then he required a weapon that had been long forgotten by him since he opened his eyes in Spirale. Like a priest communing with his god, Legato reaches a hand upward, fingers twitching as the space above him is distorted-- he rips into the fabric of this broken system's reality, willing the weapon into existence.

Guernica, the automaton that had carried his broken body across the sands, was taken apart and fashioned into the absolutely massive bludgeoning flail. The long handle appears, Legato's hand wrapping around the steel as the other hoists it over his shoulder. He takes one step forward, bearing his weight on his right leg, a determined expression settling those usually vacant, distant eyes.

' Dying for a cause is no use if there are individuals still in need. '

He isn't sure if that was directed towards his allies, or himself. But, with one mighty swing, putting all of his physical strength into his shoulders and core, Legato's weapon wrecks through the disoriented swarm of glitched, impaling some of them, others outright smashed into the earth. Guernica swings back around, and he carries that weight on his shoulders once more.

' I . . . I will not. . . Allow your lives to be taken so recklessly. '

Such words were wildly uncharacteristic for a man like him. But with his face splattered with blood, and time running out, Legato could at least pretend to be a force of good. Once, only once-- for as long as he convinces himself that this is a temporary shift in the quality of his soul, he will not disappoint himself when he inevitably becomes a heretic again.

Accepting that there were people that he cared about enough to stay alive for, was a complicated matter he could reflect upon when the blood wasn't flowing. That, itself, was terrifying.

@viladlind -> @astrallithid

how many people has fiyero killed?

too many. too many to count. and isn't that a horrid thought in and of itself, to know that there are faces there she couldn't recall if she tried? and yet, not a single person she recognizes in the crowd is one she regrets seeing. not one.

perhaps that is foolishness. perhaps that is pride. but those feelings, too, are mortal, and fiyero will not shed them for some blindsided attempt at heroism. some saviour of faerûn balduran picked, a bard who refuses to take back anything she's ever done.

there's a bandit that tried robbing her in an alleyway, his face burned off. the paladins of tyr she struck down after karlach asked her to, still a stranger then. and in the distance, she can see the drider that carried a moonlantern, killed for his dedication to the absolute.

balduran had told her he will be her sword. in many ways, fiyero acted as his, wreaking havoc across faerûn. she did not care much for it, but she grew, too. what started as a single-minded journey to free herself from the tadpole was eventually added to.

with the tieflings. with the gnomes. with the shadow-cursed lands that meant so terribly much to halsin.

fiyero, at the end of it all, is a creature of companionship.

and a sword, if she needs to be.

so she doesn't dwell on the faces, not now. she keeps her focus spread, on both of her companions and the chaos spreading around them. there's so many— balduran's feelings more pronounced over their bond, the ever-present haunting of his past delivering a pressure so tight that fiyero can feel each emotion, vibrations sent over a thread. he is facing a woman. he is facing—

belynne.

at the same time, legato is overtaken by glitched. fiyero curses outloud, switches her violin for her bow, and shoots.

she's not fast enough, but she can barely blame herself for it. one, two, three of them fall off legato as more keep gathering, and fiyero concentrates on the tadpole in her mind. she reaches for it, grasps for it desperately as she keeps rushing over to legato. he's screaming.

' guardian! ' you are my guardian. you are my sword. ' help legato! before kar'niss gets here! '

two more fall. fiyero is almost close enough, reaches for her rapier. it's within that motion that one of the glitched who has fallen gets up again— and rushes at her. fiyero has enough time to thrust her rapier through the stomach of a man she does not recognize, but not before he bites down on her shoulder viciously.

she snarls. more glitched come running. fiyero tosses the body off of her and gets up with a new single-minded focus— legato.

@astrallithid > @cerebralbleu

[cerebralbleu]

I like to imagine Midvalley in his spare time telling Legato about all sorts of musical things and asking him to rate his work

[cerebralbleu]

With the bisected beast shaken off of him, Legato could steady his breathing. He ducks into an alleyway, dumpsters and old garbage thrown askew. It appeared as though someone had attempted to barricade this area with the bins and a few wooden palettes, but it had been broken through, leaving the debris on the ground. Staying here for the long term wasn't optional, but it gave Legato an opportunity to catch his breathe.

Slouching against the side of one of the buildings, he exhales sharply, and listens to Mira. She was so light in his arms, and trembled. So fragile, it felt as though she could blow away with a strong enough gust of wind. Legato knows better than that though-- she was remarkable-- this vulnerable state was only temporary.

He looks down at her with narrowed eyes. Both of them were covered in dried crimson. Legato frowns, the thought of trusting strangers went against every last bit of his personal comforts, but if Mira believed that they were reliable, then he needed to swallow that paranoia. At least temporarily. At least until they were safe.

" Archimedes, " he mutters, feeling around for his phone in his pocket.

" We can get to Archimedes-- " Legato pulls up the map.

His powers were waning. Mira was falling apart. They would have to run for their lives. Legato Bluesummers isn't familiar with this feeling. He had always longed for death. He embraced it. But, death was not permanent in this world.

Despite that truth, the thought of putting the Soul Tender through any more despair made him feel something. It was something akin to the fear he had of disappointing Master Knives.

" I-- " An exhausted exhale. Legato wipes his face, body aching.

" We'll get there-- We'll get to Archimedes-- I swear-- "

It's when he's firmly stating that he won't die, in a tone she's never heard coming from him before ever, that ceases her feeble attempts to free herself from his arms and in turn, fingers move back to gripping tightly at the fabric as her mind races.

How could he be so sure? It seemed like every attempt to try and get to safety had gone wrong in the end somehow.

Yet, briefly, she's recalling words he'd spoken some time ago to her, how he felt compelled in a way to make sure she was safe all because she could handle his company. Is that why he was so determined? Because of that still?

Tensing for a moment, she's letting her eyes squeeze shut before she's feeling him stumble, making her move her arms to be wrapped around his neck to hold on to him better and in hopes it helps him in the slightest as she all but hides her face away.

All she could do was rely on him now, that as he said, they would make it through this.

Even with her face hidden away, she speaks up loud enough to be heard, to try and offer ideas.

"There's a place in the Archimedes Ward we can try. A friend of mine was trying to have people he knows gather there. I got separated from him earlier as we tried to locate another."

She tries to ignore the feeling in her chest at the thought of Fiyero and everyone else not making it to the Nest.

"Another possibility, but I don't know if the panel is still active through all this, maybe the Space Station? I doubt the creatures will be able to use the panel."

[cerebralbleu]

One bite is taken. Oh. How delicious. What a nice texture. Airy, yet complex. While the man standing beside him begins to boil over, Legato remains stoic, watching that reaction as he holds the dainty plate in one hand, and an equally small fork in the other. With a tilt of head, Legato tracks the way that the stranger flinches with wide eyes.

A low huff through his nostrils is given. It's almost a laugh. Almost.

" You act as though I've killed your father, and now you must exact revenge upon me, " Legato remarks.

" Perhaps we are enemies now. We will meet at this weekly dessert tasting, and you will watch as I swipe the pastry that you have your eyes on, time and time again, until you lose your sanity and finally snap. "

A pause.

He takes another bite.

" Now that I have said it out loud, it sounds dramatic, doesn't it? "

He waves the fork in hand idly, dismissive.

" Or, perhaps, we will find common ground and you will decide not to turn me into your new arch nemesis in this strange city. That option sounds considerably less irritating. "

"'Neglectful'!?" Rafal repeats, aghast. "I was reaching for it, you merely stole it before I could take my prize, you thief." And there it goes. His eyes widen, flinching as the perfect, delicious treat was bitten. Soiled. Destroyed before his very eyes! A strike that blows not the body but the heart. He could do nothing but stare at the travesty for a moment.

But mourning would not bring the sweet back.

"...I will remember this." He finally declares, heart full of burning, righteous indignity. "I suppose I must compliment your eye for quality and swift hand, but know you will rue this day you stole my greatest treat."

...Okay, Perhaps just a little dramatic, even considering the grave importance of the matter. Scowling, he quickly scans the table for his next quarry, snatching it before it can befall the same fate. It was clearly Inferior , however...

[cerebralbleu]

my FAVE TRIO (⁠θ⁠‿⁠θ⁠)

[cerebralbleu]

Before he pulled the trigger, Vash had looked at Legato and said something. It was so direct, so profound, that it had rattled the disgraced disciple. He could not process it, he was not ready to. Like a stubborn dandelion seed, it had taken root though. It was somewhere within Legato's sternum, hoping to grow.

Mercy would had been learning how to live.

It stuck. Hope was not enough to prevent Legato from trying to take his own life. But it was enough to leave an impression on him that he would be incapable of ignoring.

Now the alternate Stampede reflects that same sentiment. He believed that life was, unconditionally, worth living. How could Legato possibly grasp such a thing? This was also far too much for him to process in the moment, but he makes the conscious decision to keep that thought, so that he can ponder upon it.

Master was not coming to save him.

He didn't the first time he decided to utilize Vash as his personal slaughterhouse.

And he wasn't here now.

The only one who can stop the sacrificial lamb from slitting his throat, is himself.

By the time food is placed in front of him, Legato lifts his head. He looks across the table to Vash, with both eyes in tact.

" It's hard to understand, all of it, all of what you are saying, " Legato admits, sullen. But he does pick up the spoon, prods at the chowder for a moment, and takes a bite. It's delicious. Maybe the best thing he's eaten in weeks. What strange chewy texture it had, though.

" If I have to be alive, then, I might as well eat, I guess. "

The spoon clanks against the bowl.

" I don't know what I want to do. What I want to be. I wouldn't even be alive to go through all of this if it weren't for him. All of that is irrelevant now, I've never known what it is to-- " a pause. What could he possibly say to describe his immense confusion?

" -- To even have wants. I-- "

An irritated huff. He stuffs another mouthful of chowder into his mouth.

" I don't even know how to use this stupid thing, " Legato waves around the smartphone that was given to him, " why-- WHY is everything related to this place on this thing-- it tries to sell me things, there's a map I can barely read, I already have trouble reading to begin with-- it's not simple to comprehend at all-- "

Nervous rambling. This isn't just about the smartphone.

No matter how many times he hears that from other people, it always makes Vash's heart ache for them. Even just that last sentiment is so cold, so detached, an extreme end of self-worthlessness.

Arriving at a conclusion like that only follows after immense suffering, excruciating pain; a learned helplessness that avers existence itself as a failure. The profound, false understanding that only a permanent punishment would have succored that misery. Honesty felt as truth. Mistaken for it.

He understands that pain intimately, feels it again now just as vividly. Out there on the sand and buffeted by howling wind, small and alone and terrified and exhausted, Vash had wanted nothing more than to get swallowed up by the world-cataclysmic despair he'd caused.

But then, against those wishes, that child had been rescued anyway.

Caught up in the other man's feelings, the Stampede nearly misses entirely their waitress' arrival to their table. A bowl of today's soup is set aside for Legato, while a plate of hotcakes is given to Vash. The food is hot, and inviting scents help to anchor his senses for at least the politeness of thanking her before she steps away.

"Where we are right now's a one-way street." Vash's head tilts once toward the window alongside their booth to clarify that he means it literally. "Leads to the museum in Archimedes. There'll be paintings of how we died, but they'll be just that: paintings.

"What I'm tryin' t'get at is… We're alive. It's why the shadows want us out. We don't belong here, not in a place like this."

The Typhoon's chinrest falls down to rest against his prosthetic, sympathetic eyes unafraid to look at a half-broken golden mirror.

"But you've been around long enough t'know. The world up there's kinder than what we came from, isn't it?" Clean air fueled by real plants. Free housing and utilities. People with kinder hearts, humans who have lost the reason to fight and kill one another just for the sake of survival. A bowl of hot clam chowder in front of him. Eating a meal with someone else across the table. Rain.

"You're right." There was no reason for Legato to exist. "But that also means you've got no reason not t'do whatever you see fit for yourself now. Means that you're free from everything you thought you had t'do. Everything you thought you had t'be.

"What better purpose in life's there gonna be than to live it?"

[cerebralbleu]

A Collection of My Favorite Nonverbal Prompts: ('my Muse' refers to the one who posted the meme, and 'your muse' refers to the sender)

Your muse raises  a  finger  in  a  gesture  to  silence  my  muse.

Your muse gestures  for  my  muse  to  sit  down.

Your muse taps  my  muse  on  the  shoulder  to  garner  their  attention.

Your muse works  a  brush  /  comb  through  my  muse’s  hair.

Your muse helps  my  muse  put  on  an  article  of  clothing.

Your muse and  my muse make  eye  contact  across  a  busy  room.

Your muse straightens  an  article  of  my muse's  clothes.

Your muse  rolls  their  eyes  at  my muse.

Your muse  hovers  over  my muse’s  shoulder  as  they  complete  a  task.

Your muse finds my muse somewhere  they  shouldn’t  be.

Your muse finds my muse drunk.

Your muse throws an item of  sentiment  bitterly  at  my muse.

Your muse gets caught  following  my muse.

Your muse pulls my muse out  of  harm’s  way.

Your muse buys my muse  a  drink  at  a  bar.

Your muse claps a  hand  over  my muse's mouth  to  silence  them.

Your muse gets caught  snooping  in  my muse's things.

Your muse throws something  aggressively  at  my muse.

Your muse yells  at  my muse to  put  their  hands  in  the  air.

Your muse watches mine while drinking their beverage.

Your muse “accidentally” briefly touches my muse. (example: brief hand touch, knee under the table)

Your muse beckons my muse to follow yours somewhere.

Your muse and mine get assigned as partners for a mission.

[cerebralbleu]

Matters of the heart were peculiar to him. It was never a place where he fought from. Never a place where he felt from. And if he knew-- oh, if Legato knew the extent of his allies' emotions during this onslaught of carnage-- the divide between him and the others would become an impossible chasm to gross. The little that he understood of the society from whence they came was enough for him to see how different they were. Fiyero and Lord Balduran hailed from a world where bonds of kinship were more valuable than a man's weight in gold. He'd listened to the two of them share more than one story about their fantastical adventures-- the strife, struggle and sorrow-- and how a reliance on a valuable ally allowed them to pull out of danger in triumph.

In contrast, Legato understood teammates as temporary assets, and future sacrifices to the be fed to the sands of the boiling planet. There was no room for family, no room for friends, no room for a sense of self. They were weapons, and weapons were meant to be discarded without distinction the moment they ran out of ammo.

The other two were recognizing familiar faces among the corrupted horde, exchanging feverish observations, wondering how they could be expected to clash with the dead that had crawled out of the crypt. But Legato could not rationalize how they felt-- of course these were not illusions-- when the deceased return from a disturbed grave, you are meant to drive another bullet through their skull without another thought. You kill a man, you own that sin, you commit to it.

Fiyero expressed fear.

Lord Balduran, pain.

Legato Bluesummers feels nothing, exactly how he had been conditioned to respond to such treachery-- even when a myriad of faces that he recognizes begin to manifest from the shambling, snarling crowd.

Dominique the Cyclops, a failure in the eyes of the cerulean servant. He'd wrapped a thread around her throat and pulled her off the side of a building. An expression of revulsion can be seen in this false copy, rushing forward with full intention of brutalizing the man that had put her to death. When the glitched beast pulls her gun from the holster, Legato whips around and shoots another bullet from the barrel, putting her back down to rest. And he shoots again, again and again, indiscriminately at those that come forward. A weapon such as himself will never forget how it feels to be an instrument of destruction, even when he is left on the shelf, abandoned by his master.

Puppet strings tug at the back of his neck, and Legato grunts in pain. The strain on his cranium was beginning to wear on him; it had been some time since he exercised so much of his power-- controlling these distorted bodies took a heavy toll on his mind. But he would not relent, not as the monsters swarm upon his teammates.

He must push forward. He must cut the path. Even as his ears ring and mind aches from the pressure on his brain.

More and more. He recognizes so many more humans that he had culled in his past. He must had put down thousands for his master's cause. Figures that were only somewhat humanoid slump at the edge of the horde with pummeled bodies, fleshy and pulverized up as though they had been put to the meat grinder. Slave drivers. At some point, all of those faces begin to blur together, and Legato shakes his head to ground himself, taking labored breathes, focusing on the objective.

Trick of the mind or not, Legato lived in his own head so very often, that this may as well be reality--

His attention snaps back into focus when gnarled hands grapple onto him. One of the infected had evaded his vision, it reaches for his face, intent on digging into his eyes. Legato gasps, trying to shake it off. He is disoriented, unable to redirect the influence of his threads-- he was controlling too many-- even his mighty power has it's limitations.

When he pulls the trigger of his pistol, it fails to fire.

' That's impossible, how am I already out of--?! ' The rattled words echo through the mental connection to Fiyero and Balduran. Seconds later, Legato thrashes, trying to push the monster off of him, until another flanks him, and another. Without steady focus, he catches himself in his own wires. Threads latch onto them grotesquely, mangled bodies captured in a spider web, but he was trapped as the undead faces of the various failed Gung-ho Guns he had killed stare him down. They would devour him whole, wouldn't they? It's sickeningly familiar, he feels small once more, he cannot move. Oh God.

Legato Bluesummers had felt nothing for so long.

Now, he feels vulnerable.

He screams.

@viladlind -> @astrallithid

the confirmation from both of her companions implies a power that may have unsettled fiyero, once upon a time. as it stands, there is a danger to overcome that she can't on her own, and people at her side that are willing to fight and follow her lead. to bring them all to safety— an inherent trust that she is endlessly grateful for.

she had wondered, doubted, if balduran would be able to listen to her commands in battle. he had laid out the breadcrumbs for her path in faerûn, never directly stepping in, stuck in a conflict of his own. now, he is hers to command.

and legato, legato frames it so delicately, holding one of those weapons fiyero has only seen once previously. at the end of the day, this is how it works: lead and be led in turn. so fiyero does.

she points the bow of her violin, delegating the other two ahead of her as she stays in the back. it is thaumaturgy that still does most of the work as they run, but fiyero goes out of her way to try and spot a glitched that seems more attentive than the others.

it takes a moment. the music of her violin and the verbal components of her spells already draw some of the attention onto the tiefling, though she doesn't bother with most, certain that she'll be protected. eventually, one of them sticks out.

a middle-aged human man, moving quick and hissing with a gravelly voice and louder shouts, seemingly leading some of the others by pure noise. he is mindless, but as soon as they lock eyes, fiyero lets out a bit of a startled yelp.

' what— '

that's enough. the man charges towards her and fiyero casts dissonant whispers. that was her plan from the beginning, to watch the spell take hold and for the glitched to turn in charmed fear and lead others away with the racket, but anxiety spills over their telepathic bond. fiyero forgets to contain herself.

' that's gandrel. the monster hunter i killed— these might be illusions meant to toy with us. stay vigilant! '

@astrallithid > @cerebralbleu