thegatesofinfinitespace

[thegatesofinfinitespace]

"Seems so." The Copy shrugs. What other answer was there to give? Every day there was a new weapon, a new way to dig more shovels into an open grave. "Just like all things, they were made for good but then used out of context."

But like he had said, that could have literally been the source of everything. He was a result of something made with two different purposes in mind. It was a wonder that Vile hadn't recognized him yet. What does X look like to you?

Should he be thankful, to not be seen as anything other than Seraph?

It's... odd.

Gravel into sand and glass, rubble for miles. Still a neutral zone, at least for now. It's laughable how close their old base was to the last bastion of humanity, how long they had avoided getting caught. It only took one person to fuck it up. He frowns, guilt making his arms cross, more to shield himself than to come off aggressive.

"I mean, I would want to hear war stories, don't get me wrong." That conversation with the reploid in red had still been an honest one. I want to make an archive of the past. "...But yeah, there's more."

"I'm sure you've heard of Zero."

That's.... a lot.

Vi had expected some degree of upheaval in the future-- the present climate was a powder keg. Anyone could see it. For it to spiral out into endless conflict after conflict...

He and Seraph have already come to the same conclusion. This conversation doesn't matter. There's no way any solider makes it through every single one of those battles unscathed.

There are only two fates for Maverick Hunters: die in the line of duty, or be decommissioned as a Maverick. Vile knew damn well which destiny he would seize. Just another name to be forgotten in the fog of time.

...better that way, isn't it? Better than infamy.

"...tech just keeps on improving so we can find more inventive ways to kill each other, huh?" It's a dry laugh from the older reploid. His head turns to take in their surroundings, to scan what passes for a world at the end of it all. Fragments of so many eras that came before, yet so long after his own life.

If it bothers him, he doesn't make it obvious.

"All that power and you still want to talk to a museum piece..." it isn't just curiosity, is it? It isn't being said, but Vi can fill in the gaps. There are consequences to using machines like that. Of course there are. Who in their right mind thought altering realty would come without complication?

"...alright, level with me. You want my insight even though my name isn't so much as a footnote. What exactly do you want to know about the Hunter organization? You didn't bring me along to hear war stories."

[thegatesofinfinitespace]

It must have been hard. Each movement is deliberate, a cocktail of desperation and defiance. To have stepped towards the darkness at all with eyes wide, seeing it as it looked back, and raise a weapon towards it...

How alike you really are.

The Hunter's blade does not make contact, cannot. Light, too, can decay. At such a small scale, it simply wanes instead of making something far more catastrophic. Despite the swing, it's as if the very motion died, not even a brush of air from the vanishing blade making contact.

"Sheathe your blade." Red-pupiled irises drift down towards the Mortal, but there is no scorn in his eyes. I tried to warn you. "...Your family would not want it to be damaged here." They, Death can see. They, who hung off of this alternate like chains, like all of the other shackled stars. Unintentional, pitiful, drowning.

Though some may have been willing to part, if coaxed, it was clear there were others whose beliefs still weighed down on the living like guillotines. These souls, unable to be severed from the one they were roped to. This fate... how cruel.

"...I'm sorry." To them, and to the man frozen before him.

A rarity, that his inclination is to pull back rather than go through. The hunter's sole step is cautious, the testing of a patient predator.

Why?

Only the dense shadows of the god's cloak ripple between them in the renewed stillness. Deep ink dotted in otherworldly light, a sky never witnessed in the land of the new gods. Brilliant, and uncanny.

Push.

It is a monumental effort to act, to be swift. Even as Rho finds the resolve to strike, his blade does not. It moves towards its target, then falls away, unbloodied. The streak of blue dissolves in the air around the immortal's head. It never clips a single hair, eroding into nothingness long before making contact. Just as quickly as he gained the momentum, it too comes crashing down in the overwhelming presence of this thing.

Rho finds himself frozen, for the first time in years, he's stopped in place.

A visceral sharpness is in his chest, pulse in his ears. He is a small, primitive animal, staring into the yawning abyss of the unknown.

When was the last time you felt fear?

[thegatesofinfinitespace]

Even if the outburst hadn't been intended, every word was true. Still, he shouldn't have snapped, if his subordinate's expression was anything to go by. Zain's sigh puffs his bangs out and away from his face, hands with nothing better to do fidgeting with torn threads on his slacks.

His anger had performed as intended-- briefly distracting him from his surroundings-- but just as quickly subsided to the discomfort of the quiet rhythmic beep of Xanti's monitors. It's cold. I feel cold. Even after he's given permission to escape, the gentle smile from his boyfriend and the seemingly conclusive end to their conversation, the blond grimaces.

Hesitation permeates every movement, but he still needs to speak. If nothing, for those who shared the same cursed knowledge as him. "...No. There's more." Even as he fiddles with the Maverick's files, there is a growing pit in his core. "Even if I don't know how he got here, it doesn't explain where his mech came from."

Vile didn't have access to the same resources as his Hunter counterpart had, "...and I know he wasn't aware of what Xanti looked like until today. He was there for someone else." While goading Zain wasn't too off target, what had happened was certainly not gone to plan-- if the anger they'd received was anything.

"He shouldn't have known the exact coordinates of the Conference's room, or when to show up when the security was lighter."

Too many loose ends. "Someone in that hall had to have been feeding him information."

The absence of conversation is filled in by subtle sounds. Beeps of various equipment, the gentle roll of Xanti's fingertips over tools as he makes his selection, the quiet protest of metal in Zain's hands. It's the calm before the storm, before the crunch of aluminum in the Commander's hand.

Vi is the one who flinches, who doesn't expect the blond's outburst. Can't help but feel like he's being scolded, yet.... defended simultaneously. An argument, with only themselves, with fate itself. Not like him. Every word a frustrated prayer, as if determination is all that guards them from tragedy. Won't be like him.

"...no, sir," stunned, it comes as a first reaction. A kneejerk agreement. "A Maverick's a Maverick, and that's.... not me." He doesn't sound very convinced. Potential still lingers, an abstract threat finally made real. To see a version of himself like that, it feels....

Opening his eyes again, he peers down. X is nothing if not stoic, focused on accessing those potentially damaged internals in his forearm. Somehow, looking at his own exposed wiring is more comfortable than facing his commanding officer.

This doesn't bother you at all, does it?

No, it's readily apparent to Xanti where Zain's anger comes from. He doesn't want you to see yourself that way, Vi. Slowly, over the course of the conversation, the medic's smile had returned. I'm glad the two of you are making amends. This is confirmation, that his boyfriend is actively chipping at that invisible wall that once isolated him.

Not the same, yet still a second chance.

"I think I have a good picture of everything now. Thank you for the debrief," a pause, as he glances back to his partner. "I have a lot more work to do here, but nothing too serious, Vi's gonna be fine. You should rest up before it's your turn." Permission to finally escape, if desired. A ping, for one very tired blond. //You did a good job today.//

I know how hard this was for you.

[thegatesofinfinitespace]

Seraph, how do you feel about X?

"What's the point in asking me a question like that?" Were they expecting jealousy? Some sort of unspoken rivalry about his mentor that he had yet to mention? That he was anything like what she had painted him as? The reploid can't help the irritated tone in his voice, the crossing of his arms in a way to wall himself off.

Hide the discomfort in his eyes.

His attention drifts to Zion's outer walls, the shimmering blue past them. "He had a hand in the project that made me, but I only have guesses as to why he even bothered in the first place." Guesses that were morbid in thought. Why make a replacement at all? To run away? To shift the blame? To give up?

And yet X was still here, in cyber-elf form, a physical ghost that had trained Seraph when he ran from Neo Arcadia, taken him under wing despite who the Copy was based off of. So much risk for someone that carried a lot of baggage, whether that was about the original or his replica was anyone's guess.

"I should be saying I owe my life to him." A pause. "And... I do, just as much as I owe it to everyone in this Resistance." Trained to. But why...? "I should be thankful he permitted me to use the Mythos armor. I am," clarification, "but..."

"...Why make me at all...?"

[thegatesofinfinitespace]

alone: How does your OC deal with loneliness? Have they ever been completely alone before? How do they act when there's no one around to see them?

(For Zain and Ser?)

Loneliness is an all encompassing thing. Silence might as well be in its name, and yet... he's never wholly been alone before. Felt alone, yes. Been alone in a room before, yes. But actually been...?

No, the Maverick that ran their network and the one that had been trying to understand himself, they were always with Zain. Any moment of distress, any shock, and they would probe into his memories to see behind his eyes, to make sure the situation didn't call for their presence.

He can only be thankful it wasn't ever found necessary. It doesn't change how he feels.

There is a certain type of pain that can be found, to be surrounded by those he recognized but who didn't recognize him. Worse than invisibility, but a secret third thing that ruined his ability to enjoy the company of others.

Being in the dark alone reminds him that the room he sleeps in, while it is his, it wasn't Zain's. Reminds him that once everything is finally over, there will be no place for him.

Sure, there's been moments of silence in between missions, in between raids and base-repairs. Moments where he's able to sit in his pod to recharge. Well. Sit. He'd rather the energy be spent elsewhere, and it's not needed for his systems as much as it would for other reploids.

Seraph could argue he's never really been alone, than his door was always open for others if they needed him. That he'd be working even into the late mornings from the night before. Rest could only be afforded if there was nothing to do, and so he was simply always available.

If he ever had the chance, likely he wouldn't know what to do with it. Pick up another project, maybe? The Copy never thought for himself, but for others' benefit. Not that he couldn't, no, but someone always needed something, and so he would never find himself without someone beside him.

Always the workaholic.

[thegatesofinfinitespace]

skin: How comfortable is your OC in their skin? Do they grapple with anything that lives inside them—a beast, a curse, a failure, a monster? How do they face the smallest, weakest, most horrible version of themself? Are they able to acknowledge it at all?

(Muse (or muses!) or your choice)

Sometimes it's best to not acknowledge it at all. That being comfortable in one's own skin was only natural. That living with the weight of too many lives lost was no burden. Who he used to be is someone he can't be anymore, and it's better to pretend they weren't the same. That he was looking at a life through someone else's eyes.

It's not running away; it's just change.

[thegatesofinfinitespace]

Of all your muses, who spends time making their living space feel like home, and who has just the bare essentials?

Maybe the first step to discovering out one's own personality would be to surround oneself in things that bring a positive connotation. Every little thing put up on the wall, hung on the fridge, placed in the drawers and on shelves, those are a combination of necessity and desire.

In the modern times where you could purchase a cake from the store, baking utensils aren't necessary unless one likes baking. Sewing and art supplies aren't important unless one likes making apparel and paintings.

Even the color of the bowls that one eats their cereal out of implies their aesthetics.

This all is to say... Mave is the most deliberate out of all of my muses that wants his home to look and feel like a home. It took more effort than most would think it did, but there is a kind of hoarding that comes with wanting a comfortable place to live.

Alternatively, Kane doesn't really bother with much. A God's tower is filled with every desire they could ever have, all the riches they could possibly have, every plush pillow and gold lined wardrobe, and the Wasteland God's... is surprisingly empty.

If you were ever able to explore it freely, there isn't furniture adorning the floors, no frames on the walls or art hung in decorum. While it's not empty, everything has use, even the library he continues to add to, the artifacts of the Old World and the memories of those long gone.

Even then, that room is locked away, hardly considered warm and cozy. His bedroom, the kitchen in which he cooks, even the throne room where he spends the majority of his time, most of it is simply... bare.

[thegatesofinfinitespace]

If he were asked, despite the way his core felt like it was going to shudder into dust, Zain wouldn't have wanted fragile peace. As a weapon, it was too easy to break. As an instrument of war just as MZ and Mave were, it was more sand than glass, slipping through his fingers. The distraction of decrypting a file wasn't enough of one.

Your E-Tank, a subtle reminder in the back of his head. Dull. Though the creak of metal was quiet, it felt loud to him, no doubt noticeable to the other two machines in the room. The Commander's grip loosens slightly as he lifts it for another swig, to down the mixture of blood and nanomachines in one gulp. Hates how it tastes better than it should.

"He's not you."

So much for attempting to avoid crushing the can. It crumples as his hand curls into a fist, at his subordinates words. A loud echoing snap reverberates in the room, slicing open his syntheskin as it accentuates his words, the drink's former contents causing the wounds to close before much blood is shed in the gut reaction.

"...He is Vile," that much was true, "but he's not. Vi." Zain can feel the grimace on his face-- for snapping, the broken container set beside him punctuated with a sigh. "You're not... Like him. At all." There is a desperate argument in that tone, but he means it, insistent. "I may not know all of your history," the eye scar, the red optic, the refusal to fix them, "but I've seen enough of your reactions now that it's obvious not even your upbringing could have been the same."

The solitary melancholy from before gives way to anger, frustration, anxiety, guilt; he can't even focus on a singular emotion, overwhelming in its intensity. "Not the same personality. Not the same voice. You don't even look alike." I wish I could forget, could live without remembering, could just...

It all fell way to the same thoughts from before. A plague that hadn't needed to happen, his own misplacement spreading like a virus. First, the Irregulars. Then the loss of Sigma, the First Unit. Now, a ghost too physical to ignore. Fingers curl into the fabric of his tattered slacks, multicolored optics bearing down into the white tile. This is my fault.

"That Maverick..." Was my first friend. Was my biggest adversary. Was my brother in arms. Was my shield. Was my trigger. Was my reason to fight. Was my first--

Was the reason I died.

"...Could never be you, Vi."

Discomfort permeates the laboratory, a looming thing none of them are able to ignore. The X feels a pang guilt for the anxiety hanging over his partner, but this is too serious to brush under the rug. Too dangerous to turn away from in favor of the security secrecy provides.

It'd been a purposeful blind spot for so long, years of being close but never pressing. How could he, when any brush with the past would leave Zain hollowed out? Every old wound still bled, and brought with it the forlornness of fresh loss. Asking felt like a violation, like an act of harm, and now.... now there is no choice.

No going back to thin peace pretending brought.

Xanti is quiet as he works, quiet as he is slowly drip fed context. He reaches for a small tablet and cable, then gestures for Vile to lean. The port connection in the back of his neck is quick, something they've both done a million times, but it's perhaps the only time the purple clad reploid has looked so awkward.

"...and he is... who, exactly?" Less demanding already, the medic leveling out to a more neutral register. They are all tired, all regretting every second spent wading in the muck of the Commander's history. Still, it must be done.

Vi volunteers the next snippet, if only to cut the tension. "Well, see...." Ever avoidant, his gaze lands on one of the empty corners of the medical wing. Briefly the walls light up with the red glow of malfunction, before he chooses to close them.

"...we hadn't actually crossed paths before today," started again, as if they are both skipping over the same exact detail in tandem. "Neither the Commander or I had reason to believe this would be an issue. Which... is why it wasn't discussed." An excuse, going to the defense of his superior. The words are strange in his mouth, useless fluff to put off the truth a little longer. He can feel the expectancy off of Xanti, a long sigh the only cushion between this moment and the next point of no return.

"...he.... is me." Three words that lodge themselves in his processor, that grind in place no matter how many times he turns them over. There is no describing how disquieting it is, how the creep of unreality blurs the edges of his thoughts in disjointed code. "That's... how we knew." Because we're the same, just a different coat of paint.

A grimace, for the residual pain in his frame, for the way the concept of trying to decommission himself is burning a hole in his brain. It'd been easier to react to a present danger, and only with the clarity of hindsight does the uncanniness truly settle in his body.

"...we weren't.... keeping anything from you, Xanti."

The room is quiet again.

[thegatesofinfinitespace]

hc + 🐈 for a pet/animal-themed headcanon <: doesn't have to be anything detailed, but I don't think you've talked much about any of your muses' pets!

Not many of my muses actually have pets!

While MZ has Absolute, a little white bat-bot companion made by Amelia a long time ago, it wasn't originally meant for MZ, but for her son (who's long since passed away and who's death started this whole fiasco that ended the world). The little machine fell into disrepair when the main Wily base was destroyed by the Maverick, and later when he returned to the site, that was when MZ founds its pieces and put it back together on a whim.

Besides him, Zain actually has a tiny black cat he rescued on a mission. Originally he'd intended to pass it off to a rescue shelter, but grew fond of the kitten and relented into keeping her. She's a rambunctious but skittish little thing, and likes sleeping in buckets, baskets and boxes. He and Xanti ended up calling her Noir.

Vesper! Has a bunch of little undead creatures from the Infernal plane called Absadees (you can see Volt shapeshifting into one from time to time). They look a little like jerboas, but with skulls for faces, horns and hooved hind feet, and a fire in their belly. They're not really Vesper's pets but are attracted to misfortune (though are NOT the bringers of it), and he houses them out of sympathy. Only one would really count as a pet; it was originally a kitten he'd had as a child that passed away prematurely and came back in the form of an Absadee. It's horns and hooves are purple.

[thegatesofinfinitespace]

Thematic Headcanons. A series of subject-specific headcanons you can ask your favorite blog and muse.

hc + 🤝 for a headcanon about a connection with one of the receiver's mutual

hc + 👪 for a family-themed headcanon

hc + 🧡 for a friendship-themed headcanon

hc + 💌 for a romance-themed headcanon

hc + 💕 for a loved-themed headcanon

hc + 💔 for a headcanon about a sad experience

hc + 🤥 for a lie-themed headcanon

hc + 😶 for a headcanon about a secret they know of / keep

hc + 😴 for a sleep-themed headcanon

hc + 🌇 for a headcanon about morning- or evening rituals

hc + 🧼 for a hygiene-themed headcanon

hc + 🏠 for a home-themed headcanon

hc + 😃 for a happiness-themed headcanon

hc + 😨 for a fear-themed headcanon

hc + 🤕 for a pain-themed headcanon

hc + 🚶‍♂️ for a habit-themed headcanon

hc + 👍 for a headcanon about things they like

hc + 👎 for a headcanon about things they dislike

hc + 💪 for a sport-themed headcanon

hc + 😡 for a headcanon about something that makes them angry

hc + 👻 for a headcanon about supernatural occurrences

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hc + ☕ for a drink-themed headcanon

hc + 🐈 for a pet/animal-themed headcanon

hc + 🌸 for a plant-themed headcanon

hc + 🌄 for an outdoor-themed headcanon

hc + 🌍 for a travel-themed headcanon

hc + 🗡 for a weapon-themed headcanon

hc + 🎡 for a hobby-themed headcanon

hc + 🚗 for a transportation-themed headcanon

hc + ⏳ for a time-themed headcanon

hc + 🌘 for a night-themed headcanon

hc + 🌞 for a day-themed headcanon

hc + 🪐 for a universe-themed headcanon

hc + 🌂 for a weather-themed headcanon

hc + ⛄ for a season-themed headcanon

hc + 🎉 for a celebration-themed headcanon

hc + 🏆 for a goal-themed headcanon

hc + �� for an achievement-themed headcanon

hc + 🚬 for a headcanon about a bad habit

hc + 🎭 for an arts-/crafts-themed headcanon

hc + ✂️ for a hair-themed headcanon

hc + 👗 for a clothes-themed headcanon

hc + 💍 for a jewelry-themed headcanon

hc + 💄 for a makeup-themed headcanon

hc + 🎓 for an education-themed headcanon

hc + 📿 for a faith-themed headcanon

hc + 🎵 for a music-themed headcanon

hc + 📱 for a media-themed headcanon

hc + 🎥 for a film/tv-themed headcanon

hc + 📔 for a reading-themed headcanon

hc + 💰 for a money-themed

hc + 💼 for a job-themed headcanon

hc + 💉 for a medical-themed headcanon

hc + 🛒 for a shopping-themed headcanon

hc + 🔞 for a nsfw-headcanon

hc + ❓ for a headcanon of the receiver's choice

[thegatesofinfinitespace]

"...You know, I don't think I appreciate you getting a kick out of this." At least Rock wasn't choosing to participate. That was probably the best of a blessing he could get.

"...almost forgot it's nearly time for the good ol' annual Zain tormentin' season. We're really that late in the year already huh? Good fuckin' luck dude."

Can't wait to hear what kind of nonsense your subordinates pull this time.

[thegatesofinfinitespace]

Someone is playing Holiday music on the speakers in the Maverick Hunter Headquarters. While no one is complaining exactly, no one is attempting to stop it either. The Commander's grimace is nothing new.

"...It's not even December yet "

[thegatesofinfinitespace]

How Many People Are Simping You?

"...It's no blessing."

[thegatesofinfinitespace]

Mutation

Little AU piece for the ol RP blog don't mind me <3

[thegatesofinfinitespace]

Despite how the scent of meat and greens, spices and savory sauces wafts into the room, implying a mouthwatering experience with the way it danced on the tip of the tongue, the GodHunter meets the meal with the same level of distaste as he'd everything else in the tower.

...That, Kane can find himself agreeing with to some degree.

It wasn't as if the food was bad, no. It was just as good as it smelled, sure, but his personal disdain for it was something that couldn't be explained properly. The food may taste the same as something he could recall consuming, but there is a lack of a handmade feel to it. The comparison of a toy carved out of love by hand and a copy purchased from a vendor mass-producing the item for profit. Fundamentally the same down to the materials, but with a lack of experience behind it.

If there hadn't been a concern of the Mortal keeling over in an attempt to flee his current situation, perhaps the God would have foraged for the ingredients like he preferred. Satisfy the need for a hunt since he'd never landed the killing blow. At the moment though, it seemed much like there wasn't going to be an opportunity any time within the near future.

At the sound of utensils scraping against the plate, the clinks echoing in their solidarity, his attention returns to the book in hand. He'd been reminded of it in the time it took for his charge to awaken, the presence of his present company. It was history, this time, of a Province that he'd discovered had ended in fire and brimstone and crumbling Towers.

Written by a survivor, picked up and likely published in Callyx. It's language is foreign in that it was no longer commonly used, made extinct in the years passing. Years prior, Kane had picked the print up on a whim, a curious realization as soon as he'd read the first few pages. Another of the older ones gone, he one of the few left.

Events happened so randomly, when did he ever notice them unless he had been attendant, or it had been done by his own hands?

It wasn't as if he mourned the razed country, and if the God of that land had been aware of what they'd reared on their soil, the events of the present surely would have been different. Unfortunate, that they had likely caused their own demise, somehow. Ironic.

Clattering of porcelain has the Immortal's attention drawing away from his musings, and the pages flutter shut as his eyes turn to empty dishes, and then the one who put them there. A pause, as if they needed to prepare for what followed.

His eyes trail down, iron masking the smell of garlic and herb the moment the first roll of gauze is unwound. Fresh skin and tissue pull away with dried blood on linen, the bubbling of fresh plasma underneath. Again the desire to reach forward, to feel the warm squelch of muscle and sinew bleed around his fingers, is reigned in.

This wound is painfully deep, will take time to heal. It was all fair in that way, at the time the injury was delivered the intent had been to kill. The rest, though... Red gazes to the chest wound inflicted, the sprained shoulder. Bruising yes, but also already scabbed over. While some of that healing had been the Wasteland God's intention, the recovery time was still impressive.

Kane abandons his tome to the chair he'd been sitting on, heels clacking on tile as he approaches the Hunter and his excruciatingly slow progress. "Is it your intent to bleed out?" The human's desire to be contrary was formidable. Much like with the meal from before, gauze was in his hands, no sign of where it had come from. "Move your hands."

That’s all, the human doesn’t reply, though his flat expression implies it well enough. It was a small concession to have spoken at all, and he has little interest in offering the Immortal more than necessary. Idle chatter is nearly as unpalatable as the food.

The smell is there in an instant, a manifestation of the deity’s will. Everything comes to the gods like this. By whim alone. They shower their subjects with gifts they needn’t lift a finger to create. Mark them with clothing and armor and trinkets in a show of possession, then demand sacrifice of mortals as if it’s an even exchange.

A warm meal is a rare thing in this life, and still he is not grateful for it. This too feels like a defeat, no matter how rich the flavors on his tongue. To have fallen so low as to be forced to eat out of his captor’s hands like some starving animal… his only blessing is that the God of the Wasteland seems to be taking no joy from this.

Kinship in displeasure, and nothing more.

The clink of the last empty plate returning to its place is a quiet, but imperceptibly loud thing. It is accompanied again by the sound of the God’s heavy leather bound tome snapping shut. A signal that as one begrudging acceptance of aid ends, another must begin.

I don’t want your help. Unsaid, as Rho situates himself at the end of the bed. There are eyes on him, the red glow of an immortal gaze. The Hunter begins the careful act of unwrapping the stained bandages binding his abdomen. There is a grimace for each slow pull of cloth away from sticky wounds, but this much he will manage. This slow torture is better than those inhuman hands on him.

[thegatesofinfinitespace]

Fingers curl around his sleeve, likely can feel the way the suit is just barely holding everything inside, particles leaking through the fabric like ash, and he wonders what it feels like to the X. Did it feel wrong? Like a ghost possessing the clothes it used to wear in life? Like a facsimile of what a body should feel like? Xanti worked with so many, he must know the unnaturalness, notice it at the very least.

If it bothers him, he doesn't show it.

Like a cornered animal, wounded and wary. Guilty. That is what Zain assumes he looks like in those moments. "I..." But despite his growing lack of comfort, the blond falls into the same kind of compliance as his fellow Hunter, both he and Vile finding their own perches to settle upon, complicit to orders from a higher authority.

The lab bench is cold through his slacks, sterilely so. It's just in your head. Disassociation is grounded with the E-Tank pushed into his hands, and further compliance given when he absently pulls the tab open with a hissing click of the pressure seal snapping.

Coolant is an easily recognizable smell, sugary and toxic all at once, mixed with the regular repair nanomachines that made up the Energy Cans that were usually masked with a heavy smell of citrus. As he tilts the drink to his lips, the color of the liquid shimmers in lab light, a reddish shade from the blood Xanti had carefully measured in. Pink lemonade was an oddly specific way to describe his boyfriend, and strangely accurate.

With each gulp, his vision starts to stabilize, errors no longer popping up with each movement he made; multitudes of warnings of being unable to uphold his form slowly closing away. The plop of fabric catches his attention again, vision re-focusing on Vi's arm as it moved, drops down to the gaping tear in his own suit.

He's afraid to take it off, to see the grey and red stain of dead nanites. Will I fall apart if I do? Zain tunes into his boyfriend's musings, and-- feels like it would be just as well. When the room trembles, he knows it's not the damage. His fingers curl around the little can in his hand.

"I... thought he was dead." Discomfort in that statement, an anxiety that came with the day's events finally processing. How actually, had that Maverick... Looking for a distraction, the Commander parses through the report he'd been about to send the GDC during that conference. Right. He'd said he'd wanted to bring in a second-in-command. The only solution would have been Signas. That armor flashes instead, can't stop remembering...

The electricity in his veins, parallels of his own death and that of the Maverick that had gone down with him. Of that same armor painted blue, and mangled from Psi's reports later on. Of the laugh that had once been less manic, far from the first or the last companion. Of the optic glowing through the visor that used to not be red.

Distraction. From the corner of his eye the Zero can see his bangs fraying. I don't want to think about this right now. There was that file he'd never finished decrypting, a desperate focus on something else. "...Didn't consider he'd recognize," purposeful meaning in the nickname, "Vi, but in hindsight it isn't surprising."

"It's my job to rescue you," the X teases, fully aware of the irony. Although his boyfriend has a solid poker face, he already knows that Zain is about to try squirming out of a conversation. It wouldn't be the first time, and it most certainly won't be the last.

You can run headlong into danger no problem, but answering questions? Torture.

"Oh no," his hand remains on his partner, grip tightening on the blond's arm. "You're staying right here. I still have to look you over," nanites or not. "...and you have some explaining to do."

Vile frowns at the almost sugary sweet tension in the air, Xanti's special brand of upset. Best not to get between a couple and their squabble. "In that case," he starts to move. "I should leave you two t-" he feels the X's free hand grabbing at the tattered back of his suit, wrangled before he can bolt.

"You aren't going anywhere," a flat tone from the medic. "Both of you? Sit down." Somehow, the smallest android in the room is the reigning authority right now.

All the same Vi complies, expression twisting slightly as he sets himself on one of the work tables. I guess we're both getting voluntold.

"...er, which part are we going over... exactly...?" His frown deepens as we watches Xanti move across the med bay, grabbing a handful of supplies.

"Ping me your diagnostic data," comes the idle response as Xanti gathers his tools. The medic filters back, a canister set in the Commander's hands as he passes the Zero by. "Drink that." It isn't a suggestion.

He settles by Vi's table again, and looks expectantly at the purple Hunter. In turn, a suit jacket is shrugged off, the solider more awkward about the atmosphere than his need for repairs.

"Let's start with the enemy. It'd be one thing if Zain was his goal," taking out the Commander of the Hunter Organization would be a major setback. "Or if he was only targeting me." It'd send quite the message if something were to happen to X, with no Maverick Hunter support to stop it. Xanti looks focused as he tests the reaction time in Vile's left arm, but it's clear his attention is divided.

"... but he knew who you were, Vi." No one else in that room could have or should have recognized you. "Seems like you both knew him, too."

[thegatesofinfinitespace]

"Wish I was," is the the response, but to him it only felt obvious. They were wading through the skeletal remains of buildings reclaimed by nature, so many just simply toppled over like fallen soldiers. A neutral zone between the last bastion of Humanity and the wilds beyond. Away from Neo Arcadia.

Only as Vile's own flurry of questions does the Copy give pause-- just not in his stride. They needed to get far enough away for their warp signal to not be noticed. Crimson was the only safe entity here, and he wasn't physically there, nor the one first sent out.

There is some debate in continuing their line of dialogue, but Seraph wasn't superstitious enough to bother fearing whether speaking about the past-- Vile's future-- would be an issue or not. Truthfully, if this reploid was from the past despite speaking to him now, and nothing had changed, the answer was morbidly clear. He did say he was a Maverick Hunter.

Or they were both lucky, and they were from alternate timelines.

Unceremoniously and without further ado... "Cyber Elves. Sentient artificial entities capable of affecting reality." A miracle Hawke hadn't started squawking at this guy yet. A blessing probably. "I don't know how they came to be, other than they can affect the very code of the world around us at the cost of their own lives." Amazing technology got that far, maybe? Everyone knew to not use them, had already learned their lesson-- the decay around them was enough of a nightmare on its own.

Seraph can only shrug at his own future. It was his now and some else's past that he was concerned with. "Wars plural, nine before the aforementioned Elf Wars, and then..." Well, it didn't matter. "The numbers are there, but the details are gone."

Maybe he should be a bit more wary of just how quickly this is moving but… Seraph seems pretty sincere. If nothing else, Vi’s gut instinct isn't to distrust the other reploid. That hasn't led him astray so far...

For now, at least, it's worth hearing the guy out. Enough that Vile finds himself following along, skepticism absent for the time being. “...You're kidding me, right?” Sounds like a problem right out of the dark ages. “...nearly all of…” How the hell does something like that happen?

“Wait, wait back up a second–” Vile finds his arms crossing as they walk, contemplative. “...wars plural?” The situation as it was now is more a handful of small skirmishes than a full blown war. Where would that much firepower even come from? 

“...and ‘elf’ is short for what exactly..?” It feels ridiculous to even ask outloud, but they're both lacking context here. “Shit I know you have questions, but I might not have your answers.” Sounds like he isn't nearly far enough into whatever bullshit future is ahead of him.

Lovely.