#youll have to pry this headcanon from my cold dead hands before i stop writing about them

[miscellaneoussmp]

You will have to pry Bagi and Cellbit sibling headcanon out of my cold, dead hands. Anyways, here's a brother and a sister playing a game (cw/tw: blood/violence/death implied/mentioned throughout):

She's not scared of blood. Fear is something to be hidden, deep inside and under the cover of the starless night. Though she feels sick and dizzy, that's something they can't afford right now. She tells her brother such as she leans against a tree. She tries to look him straight in the eyes. His pupils are dilated, and she can't tell if it's in concern or not. She doesn't want to think about the other reason why. He grabs her hand with the one that doesn't hold a knife in a white knuckle grip. He softly tells her to close her eyes. She takes a deep breath and sheaths her sword at her hip. She covers most of her vision with her free forearm before closing her eyes. He starts walking, and she follows along.

It's another game, a game within a game. It had to be. Neither sibling can even remember what they're fighting for in the first place. Survival and winning this game take over as good reasons. Neither can remember why they're here, either. It was probably her fault. While his teeth are sharp, her teeth dull against a sharpened tongue.

What do you hear, he asks. What do you see, she responds. Their game. She hears the crunching of dead grass under their leather boots. He sees the rest of the open field he's leading them through. She hears birds cawing overhead. He sees carrion birds circling over wasted potential. She hears voices, screaming, in the distance. He sees the carnage left in the wake. She hears the rustling fabric of her clothes that are one or two sizes too big. He sees where he stuffed the extra fabric of his pants into his boots.

How old are we, she asks. She hears rumbling thunder not too far off. Where are we from, he asks. He sees dark clouds on the horizon line. Fifteen, he replies. Brazil, she answers. Do we have names, she asks. She can hear his pounding heartbeat overpower her own. Do we have a home, he asks. He can see her tears fall while his only sting. No, we weren't given names, he answers. Not anymore, we were taken, she replies. Is there something more for us, she asks. She hears the wind pick-up speed, whistling past. Are we deserving of something more, he asks. He sees a unoccupied cave, a nighttime shelter. I don't know, he replies. I don't know, she answers.

Once they're in the cave, she opens her eyes. Her eyes didn't really need to adjust to the low light. He hands her two sticks. She lights them, creating torches. He looks around the cave. It's big yet still closed off. Perfect shelter for the rain and the night. In the morning, or when the storm passes, they'll continue with a different game. Another game with in a game.

Bagi covers her ears as she sits on the floor, leaning back against her own bed. She wonders at what point in her life her hearing became so sensitive. She can't remember. She wonders if the island did this to her instead.

Cellbit closes his eyes as he stands in front of the evidence board in the Ordo. He knows when his vision became so sharp, he just wonders why. He can't remember the exact reason. He wonders if he needs a break.