thegatesofinfinitespace

[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.

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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."

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"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.

[thegatesofinfinitespace]

Zain knew exactly what his subordinate was concerned about the moment the ping hit his COMMs. So many cameras, so many news outlets, and none of them would truly want the full story-- not right now, at best. Whatever sold best, whatever headline got the most clicks. Socials be damned, they hardly mattered in the face of personal opinion as much as facts did.

Plus, he had manifested a weapon, despite the lockdown and entering the Conference without it. Too many eyewitnesses to deny that one, and there were sure to be follow-up demands for details from the GDC at the very least.

//Noted.// Even if the blond had his own reasons for not wanting to be there longer than required. There was quite literally a hole in his chest (not through, he'd argue, but that didn't matter from the way Xanti was looking at them), and...

His fist clenches, pushing his focus onto the action. Vision flickering aside, Zain's eyes slide down to his arm, the way a few nanos shudder away, the dead ones consumed by what was left to prevent his shape from dissolving completely. Unnoticeable now, but not forever. So it's no surprise when the response to being pulled into the X's warp was relief.

...And then not that, the sterile white of the Medical Bay causing the Hunter to bristle. He can feel his grip on his body waver, so caught off-guard by their destination. Not in front of Vi. A weakness of their Commander when he could usually function under pressure normally wasn't one that needed to be broadcasted to every person he knew. Xanti was supposed to be the exception, not the rule.

"Thank you for coming up with the excuse, Xan." Damage aside, won't it perpetuate if he stays here? Didn't they learn this lesson already? Or maybe he was running before he could stay for any more than he had to. "I'll-- Go start on those reports they're likely already hounding us on, we can debrief once you take a look at Vi--"

It'd been a quick interaction, but with all the eyes upon them the second they opened the doors... the glasses made sense. Calculated, now that they would be at the center of the aftermath. Can't have too many questions about that damn red optic-- what a bad look that would have been. Ugh.

Now the stupid thing won't shut off, as if it wasn't already damaged enough... Every digital shutter sound is a reminder of the speculation in his future. He can only be grateful they'd chosen to run this operation under a cover story, as dishonest as it'd been.

Vi shoos another cam drone away as they start their march towards X and the other EMS members on scene. This feels scripted, and he can't decide if they've come out better for it or not. Public opinion could be swayed so easily be the smallest misstep. Would the Hunters take a hit for this stunt, or be praised in the morning? They broke the agreement. They saved lives. Just another incident to be spun in whatever way fits each agenda.

//Remind me not to read the news tomorrow.//

Xanti's smile is a tired one as they approach. Concern, and relief, mixed exhaustingly together. ''Glad you're okay... you two did a great job out there." Green flicks between them, and it's obvious what's about to come next.

"That being said, I'd like to examine you both for damage at the HQ." Out loud, for all their onlookers. Lest it look like the Commander is fleeing the scene of his own accord... "You can never be too careful with these things, and I have much better equipment on site."

"Given the area is secure, we should leave immediately." A small mercy for both of his companions. "I'd really hate for either of you to exacerbate your injuries!"

With that, the small reploid is placing his hands on his companions, and before there's time for protest, hastily warping all three of them out.

[thegatesofinfinitespace]

Unpleasant.

An accurate description of emotions, even the positive ones. Being in love is unpleasant. The affliction of affection, a blinding curse that alters reactions, personalities, makes the rational irrational. Psi wants to laugh. You realize why I picked you, don't you?

Still, there is a happiness, a comfort that comes with the familiar. They hadn't asked for it. Not exactly unwanted, but a tragic in-between. A contradiction in the human-built desire to avoid loneliness even when his presence made as many waves as the next. A ripple-effect of connections made, unavoidable.

Ceasing to exist now wouldn't make things easier. Cale made the perfect example, despite all of his attempts to hide his true nature, the mask worn still had an effect. Intentional. People still adored constructs, the familiar at work once more. They didn't know him. It didn't matter. Would it have made a difference? No.

Every step, every word, waves and networks, passing moments never forgotten. Unpleasant.

Psi... didn't want to be remembered at all. An irony, to stand beside the one machine that would never forget. Worse, that even he had fallen into the same lull the average life did, to contradict himself. There were those that called him family, those that looked up to the X that was presented to them, two in particular who sought out his attention, as minimal as it was. It was unfortunately mutual. Hopelessly attached. Unpleasant.

The only way to never be missed was to never exist in the first place. Failed at step one. Even a stranger passing by may have found some characteristic to commit to memory, cursed to never forget. All of the lives he'd known, a weight that would never be forgotten, the art of human connection a burden made of the gilded chains of friendship. Unpleasant.

Verse was honest, in this very moment and onward, at least to Psi. Most people would fear to learn about their own future, would want to ask to avoid every possibility of their final moments, but did his matter anymore than anyone else's? No, why would it? Everything ended eventually.

Morbid, huh? His real thoughts were horribly monochromatic. "I'm going to hold you to that." A wish is held on his tongue, kept to himself in that same contradiction turned selfish; I hope that you forget me.

"...But okay. If that's what you want."

Silence is a strange thing to those with emotions– almost hypocritically self absorbed. It is not truly silent, is it?

They are not in a vacuum. The sound of their footfalls bounces quietly off of smooth walls– each of them adding a unique ambiance to the mix. Lights buzz overhead. No matter how efficient they became, it still remained in reploid hearing range. There is the distant noise of monitors in a room they pass. The hum, however subtle, of cores burning energy in their chests.

Still, with all that surrounds them, silence is an agony. A lifetime. This too, is an affliction that the OVER could never grapple with before. The grueling sensation of anticipation. Utterly unknown to a being that perceived the flow of time itself, and yet… he is enmeshed in its weight.

The X’s voice only mildly quells the discomfort. Unfortunate. The more is said, the more they slow. It is pure physics, emotions have weight, mass creates drag.

’You wouldn’t feel this way’. I don’t know what this is; Verse wants to protest, another physiological reaction. It takes focus, not to squeeze the hand in his own tighter, mildly relieved as Psi does it for him.

For once, the sound of a sigh escapes the OVER-unit. His mind his racing, the web of possibilities vibrating and shifting with each moment of struggle. Even I am entangled by the red strings of fate.

“…yes, I suppose that logic is sound.” His gaze drifts away from the eyes that can’t meet his, to the the place they are connecting. “To some degree, I must always possess a bias for you. A… fondness, although I… cannot claim to understand it, even now.” They are in agreement then. “…and I will admit the psychosomatic effects of this experience are most unpleasant.” That each mental shift carried with it a host of physical symptoms– …is that normal? Horrible.

“I accept your apology… but you are wrong about one aspect.” A morbid topic to broach, especially now, and it must be tread carefully. “I already know what will happen to you. Every single way that it has, or will end.” A lone witness to those that already came to pass, unremembered. “I have no need to ask of your past, and I have no need to prepare for your future.” A simple fact, even though the implications are callous.

Perhaps that is my true nature.

I have seen every tragedy possible, and felt nothing for it. Even now, I do not fear your passing.

I still can’t.

“Inevitability exists, even for me, Psi.” I will not be swayed from my duties, even for you. “Until that day comes, I would humbly request we continue to share what precious time you have.”

[thegatesofinfinitespace]

As if he was attempting to delay their future assault, the blond's gaze travels the expanse of the room, the smoldering mech behind them, the hole to the sky, and eventually to the reploid walking up to join him. The glance over has realization dawning on him, halting them both with a mumbled, "One second."

His pause is brief, fishing around in the pockets of his tattered suit, to retrieve a pair of cracked shades that he'd never had the chance to wear. Better than nothing. The frames are popped open, and slipped over his companion's face with little reverie. There is a slight frown to the red eye blinking back at him, a weight in the air. Still going to ask about that later, goes unsaid.

Zain still can't help the drop of his core at the door creaking open, their reprieve of a hard-fought battle and crackling bonfire left behind them. The cheer that meets them is more mortifying than rewarding, the amount of people still there. If the fight had at all broken past the room they had been in...

He spots Xanti, and their backup, attempting to evacuate those who had a sense of self preservation, halted now that they'd left the conference room, the irony not lost on him. The request to avoid additional Hunters on the scene felt scripted, intentional. Whatever Vile had come to do, however, was hard to say.

Vi steps before him, an appreciated shield, already waving camera drones released into the air the moment they'd emerged. The Commander's frown settles into place as he waves one of their Navi's over, a few words whispered before they nod and run off. Right then.

Stepping past his bodyguard, Zain's voice raises to the crowd. "He's right, it's not time to cheer yet." His optics meet the X's, then turns his attention back to the eyes on him. A sinking feeling pervades, but he can't spot the source. "The perimeter is still compromised, and the remainder of you need to be escorted to the medics outside. Your cooperation would be greatly appreciated..."

Time for cleanup.

//Just a drink? You put a pretty cheap price tag on saving my dumbass.// An attempt at further teasing, though the shorter reploid sounds exhausted. They both are, even as they pull themselves to their feet. Even as they inspect scorched armor and melting wires side by side...

Between the rubble from the building and the remnants of the mech, it's hard to say for certain. If there truly is a body somewhere in the carnage... they won't know the answer for some time. The investigations of the scene that are sure to follow will take months at best. If they're lucky they'll get an update in a few weeks-- once onsite forensics is finished cleanup begins, that is.

//There's no such thing as peace of mind in this line of work.// This is just another thing they'll be haunted by until it can be put to rest for good. After some time Zain turns for the door, knowing they can't keep putting off the media firestorm waiting for them.

"Right." Vi follows dutifully, albeit less than enthusiastic.

//Here comes my least favorite part...// Immediately there is cheering, cameras flashing, and a barrage of questions being pelted at both of them. Vile hesitates to open his mouth, expression twisting slightly at the frenzy of attention.

"Alright that's enough," he waves off some of the people crowding them, much like he had on their way to the meeting. "Out of the way... the Commander doesn't have time for an interview right now and neither do I."

[thegatesofinfinitespace]

◀️◀️ Seraph!!!!

send “▶▶️” to get a glimpse at a scene from my muse’s future. send “◀️◀️” to get a glimpse at a memory from my muse’s past.

It's a sting of betrayal. Frustration. Fury. He's dead. He's never coming back. He's DEAD. It's too much to process. Seraph can't hear his only brother left talking, Alouette clinging to his leg. There's only red. Is he shaking because he's shocked, or is it anger, guilt? His fingers curl tightly into themselves, and he's ripping away.

X tries to form in front of him, and he doesn't even notice, storming through the hologram like a hurricane. A blink, he's flicking all of the switches in the cockpit of their stolen carrier. Neo Arcadian. It clunks for a moment, used one too many times for undercover raids, but whirs to life all the same.

Unlike someone else. It's the perfect ticket to a one-way destination.

Thrusters flare, still colder than the fire he feels in his core. It's a fire that sears through his limbs, burns his fingertips, suffocates his vision. He's rocketing away, muting Harpuia's COMMs of concern, dismissing the pings from his predecessor. It only blazes hotter as he nears the last bastion of humanity, watches the sensors for any warning of his approach. Clueless. They'll pay for their ignorance.

There's nothing. His thumb flicks up the cover on the panel to his right, mashing the button it covered. A missile soars, cracks the glass encasing the city below. Seraph doesn't relent until the barrier is powder, crashing through smoke and debris. He aims true for the tower in the center, the roar of his engines matching his fury. They'll pay for endangering his people.

It's only disturbed for a second. Plasma rips through his windshield, shattering the glass. Red optics flash down, to the smoking barrel of the gun fired, the shock of silver hair, the crimson armor of Neo Arcadia's hero. They lock eyes for a moment, but the Copy X refuses to spare another glance. He tightens his fingers over the throttle, and cranks it, tearing across the sky like a scar. They'll pay for leading Phantom to his death.

[thegatesofinfinitespace]

Silence meets the reploid for a moment, an eternity, a few seconds. Psi stares forward, because there is nothing left to do but wait for his own feelings to subside. Being this vulnerable was a hindrance, a reputation gained on masks and smiles, goofy jabs and jester laughs. No one pried when they were amused.

But equally it had been no mystery to Verse. Verse, who knew his whole lifespan like it was a documentary with no dialogue. Verse, whose perspective was a forced neutral, picked as a Guardian to watch all lives in the same manner.

Anyone's lives were a rollercoaster of tragedy and parody. He was no different, a comedy made of a thousand unfortunate agonies. To Verse, all the reasons the X chose to hide his true feelings was as painfully obvious as Rock's vehement hatred for humans were, why Cale had worked himself until his dying breath, why Xanti had taken up the dangerous field where the average lifespan was 15 seconds. The apples never fell far from the tree, and apparently they didn't land far from each other either.

"No, I do have a reason to apologize." Unquantifiable to Verse, even now. "I agreed to those terms because I didn't mind them. You can't get attached to things in a regular way." Much like what he's seen of MZ, actually. A strange it happened twice analogy.

"But I don't know if you've realized this, but there's something you're missing that was only made clear from this sabotage attempt." He's still walking, but only because stopping would throw everything away. "I was avoiding attachment, was hoping that you would be the only person who wouldn't care if something happened to me." Because it was a gut feeling, that something always would.

"It seems I was wrong."

"Verse. You having feelings for me now suggests that there was something before you gained this ability to feel." As short-lived as it would be. "Somehow you formed a bias. You had to, because if there wasn't one, you wouldn't magically feel this way the moment you'd been compromised, nor will it go away the moment your systems recover." Ironic, and so very... sad, but was it more for Psi or the OVER he was partnered with?

His steps slow, the loud echo of their aimless pace waning. "So for that-- I want to apologize." He's squeezing his boyfriend's hand, but unable to look back directly. "Both for doing that to you, and... not wanting you to stop despite my own reservations." The smile that follows is pained at best.

"I'm sorry."

A hand squeezes his own.

Most people do not say what they mean.

This was his first lesson on socialization, when his AI was in its infancy. That not everything is a lie, but it is often not the whole truth. This concept was always perplexing, but it had long since become a useful tool. A way of navigating conversation that the OVER-Unit himself often turned to.

Honesty; a novel concept.

He should feel hurt by the implication of being manipulated. Verse takes a moment to pick apart those statements, to run them through for their full meaning. To go over every bit of data he has on his ‘boyfriend;. In the end of those incredibly minimal processes, he finds he is not surprised. No, Psi has always been this way.

Never one to talk about himself. To share his feelings. This topic always changes, always deflects, but Verse never pursues. He does not have to, when he already knows the history. Knows the events that have shaped each person around him. There is no reason to pry. This had been an unspoken reality for them until now, and one that the OVER thought he understood.

They walk, as if it will offset some as of yet unlabeled emotion. As if it will make their hands being clasped together more sincere, in spite of the topic.

Most people do not say what they mean.

“Psi,” Verse begins again, his gaze drifting away. It is as though merely being seen will crush the small machine beside him. “I told you from the beginning that I am not capable of returning any feelings for you. Any kind of relationship would exist purely for study.” Nothing more than another experiment. “Under those conditions, you still asked, and accepted, even knowing I would be using you.”

Their fingers are still intertwined as they travel the barren liminality of the lab’s hallways.

“You have no reason to apologize to me. The terms were clear from the outset. You will not be lonely, and I will attempt to learn something that I do not know.” They pass a few doorways, each a meaningless path.

“You may be right. My state could be intentional.” It certainly had its benefits. The weight of duty is nonexistent to those that cannot see the chains. Emotions are heavy, physical things. They are taxing even now, running extra information in the background of every action. A part of him misses the blinders already.

Does that bother you, Psi? Verse frowns, unsure of the wisdom of this line of questioning. Will the answer even matter once his systems are restored? Will any of this? He runs the conversation over again, looking for the subtleties in each reaction.

“….I do not understand.” There won’t be another opportunity to, if he doesn’t ask. “…are you upset that I feel something for you now, or that I will not later?” You said you didn’t want me to get attached, and yet…. most people do not say what they mean.

[thegatesofinfinitespace]

A necessary sacrifice.

Even as the other Wrath demon grinds out a realization like lava pushing through bedrock, they are coming to different conclusions. It’s no surprise, really. Only in the throes of digging their own claws into each other or unfortunate victims were they ever on the same page.

Voluntas was amusing in that he reminded the Infernal of Ice of his youth, when he was birthed into existence by the first war laid by mortals. The sharp burn of plunging bodies into hypothermia, the scalding of ice scraping against flesh. The violence that hissed like metal reaching it’s breaking point. Everything was injured, even himself.

Wrath was like that, the world had come to realize very quickly.

Golden blood rolls down the arm of his chair, only a drop or two enough to stain, residue of a glittering substance. KiZ'met steps forward as his Other rises, head hung like a child scolded, a tantrum in words replacing once of earlier fire.

Balanced despite his lack of an appendage, the elder’s heel bashes into Volt’s chest, crushing him back into the antique he’d been thrown into moments before, talons curling into his chest. A hand follows, crushing around his throat, frigid claws painting themselves in flecks of precious liquid metal.

“I don’t recall requesting your opinion of MY actions–” Fractals were on his breath, exhales of frost instead of smoke and sparks. His tail-scythe swings behind him, the blade slicing into the same tile he’d been coveting moments prior. The growl that casts the room in a dark shade of blue is a warning.

“You behave as if I was simply going to allow something of mine to be stolen.” It’s not an inconvenience. His grip tightens, a scowl. “I would not even share you with Lord Death if he came for you.”

[thegatesofinfinitespace]

They say that cats can see spirits and entities that ordinary humans cannot. Is it really such a surprise, then, when the little mascot of Exalting Sanctum blinks its yellow eyes up at Death and meows in greeting? Despite the General's chunky size, it gracefully hops up onto a fence post to be more level with Death, and better receive any pets that may come its way. It has been working hard keeping an eye on Jing Yuan and the rest of the people in its humble territory.

Do you intend to bequeath a mission or request unto this loyal creature, O Death?

For some cats, perhaps that was true-- especially so for the creature currently engaging his presence. The meow-- the greeting-- is acknowledged with a nod of his own, fingers uncurling from the scythe he wielded. It lilts for a moment the moment it is released, and then disappears in a fractal of the same light that made up its blades.

The General is regarded with a slow blink, but no more. There cannot be more, for the hands of Death killed whether it was his desire to do so or not. So instead he crouches to both meet the feline halfway, and pluck a long stalk of feathered grass from the earth. It wilts instantly in his grasp, but still he flicks the reed to and fro, its end bobbing in the breeze, a chance to play.

There is no true request that the General is not already doing. "Continue to take care of yourself," is simply a wish.

[thegatesofinfinitespace]

Despite not being stable, his wings still provided ample enough cover, only small bits of shrapnel managing to slip past the fluctuating gaps in their membrane. Minor cuts and bruises were gifts compared to anything worse, and he can't find it in himself to complain. It's only at their comms pinging that he redirects his attention to the reploid he'd saved.

Second time? It wasn't as if Zain had been keeping score, but the purple Hunter earns a weak half-smile for his sass. //You can buy me a drink when we're done.// It fades as he eases back into a kneel, eyeing Goliath's remains. While his own scans confirm the same results, skepticism coats his tone as he swipes away a cut on his cheek with the back of his wrist.

//...That's what we said every time.// Until that processor was in his hands... The blond forces himself to his feet, fighting the wobble in his vision as he stalked towards the wreckage, the gaping hole that cast moonlight into the room. Between the flickering overhead lights and the crackle of electrical bonfire, it was hard to tell it had even reached night.

Multicolored optics raised to the sky made starless from city lights, there is a weariness he can't place. If just for a moment, he could recognize the emotion he'd always seen on Psi's face, though it was long buried now. //I... doubt it's over.// A curse, like a scar he'd never be rid of.

He turns to Vi, the two of them in their tattered suits, and it's only now that he can hear the distant murmur of an anxious crowd. "...Come on." No point in dusting themselves off. He waits until his partner has settled by his side, as if they could stave off the upcoming noise, and pushes open the doors to shouting and flashing lights.

A roar of pain echoes in his sensors, the snarling of a voice that should and shouldn't match his own. Hands claw in outraged agony for the saber lodged in familiar discolored armor. There is a moment of wrongness, where Vi can't help feeling as if he's fallen outside of himself. Harbinger of-- yet witness to-- his own demise.

Is this how it always ends? I die or...

It conjures images of those that came before. Former comrades felled when they go rogue. When they become irregulars. A fate befitting the disgraced, and infected alike.

Vile's digital voice goes up in guttural glitching as the blade drags itself through his body. The commander is free, dropping elegantly off the vehicle's back. In that moment there is only the two of them, two of him. That single furious red optic refocuses on him like a twisted mirror. Silent accusations-- even as the alternate's body is falling apart. Complicit, like all the rest.

It's only noise, in the end. Nothing but the plight of tin soldiers. Die here; or die there. The inescapable epilogue of the Maverick Hunters.

Goliath heaves under them, the screech of metal of plasma bellowing out. The mech careens towards the ground, spilling its occupants and innards alike. Vi tries to catch himself as he's flung, body still straining to follow its owner's commands.

In a blink he's under Zain, nanite wings sprawling out like shields.

BOOM.

A rush of heat, shrapnel, and wind pressure. Stunned, it takes the purple reploid a moment to return to the present, blinking up at the blond on top of him.

//That's the second time you've done that tonight...// a future defied by the person who should know better. //...guess I really owe you now, huh boss?// Internal chatter quiets, as he gingerly pushes Zain and himself upright.

Vi's optics do a sweep, apertures zeroing in on the flaming wreckage yards away. He flicks through a few settings with a frown. //...not picking up any signatures. If I couldn't get away on my own, doubt he did.//

[thegatesofinfinitespace]

Everything shudders. Is it Goliath, the ride armor's integrity failing as it's main cables are cut? Nerves on fire, he can see his physical form, the arm he has curled around the Maverick's neck shredding at each bolt of hypercharged electricity feeding straight into his systems. No. It's me.

...That's right. Subconsciously, Zain knows. His body wasn't a consistent one, comprised of billions of little machines. It doesn't matter. Don't let go! A struggle to move, the better thing he can focus on is simply holding on. Don't let go!

There's a strain, the way his vision flickers, it all feels so sickeningly familiar. I died this way. Circumstantially, maybe it was necessary, maybe he always had to against his former friend. Vile growls in his grip, attempting to shake him, and to shake off the third body weighing the mech down. My core, if... Despite the agony, the clarity was morbidly calming, a rational solution. If that is what it takes.

A roaring scream stops the pain, slicing through his thoughts and the multicolored reploid's torso. Vi is before them both, a reminder. Not done yet, but you... The Zero's vision sharpens, daze shaken as he reaches forward, the shape of the saber's hilt a friend.

This stops here.

The blade cuts through metal like butter, dragging up Vile's chest and through his shoulder, murderous howling in Zain's ear as he wrenches his weapon free, dropping off the back of the mechaniloid. Limbs, no, his nanomachines flashing warnings in his vision, he pushes himself forward, and carves a path through its legs. Goliath's joints shriek in the air as it falls backwards with a cacophonous boom, making the floor tremble under its weight.

Without thinking, he's twisting on his heel despite the flash lighting up the room like a sun, swerving past the searing heat of the barrel, the plasma singeing his coattails as he tackles the bodyguard to the floor. Crack- His wings, materializing with a snap--

BOOM

Looked at later? Are you really thinking about that right now? No time for protest. They can't slow down-- can't be distracted.

With some aid, Vi is on his feet again, as if to spite the protesting of his own frame. There are still errors, still warnings in various parts of his systems, still flickers in his vision. It'd taken everything in him to stay conscious while lightning wracked his body. His exposure hadn't been lethal, but they might not be so lucky if he gets fried twice.

We need to make this quick.

//Enough to sever is all I need,// confirmed with a single ping. The machinery is familiar-- servos sounding, hydraulics shifting. It's a hell of a custom job, but there's enough there to recognize. To pinpoint, from hours of hands on work. Easy.

Less simple is the sound of that weapon readying. Move. Move. He's slower than the commander, synthetic muscles stiff and straining from the hard reset of electricity. The body guard still manages to split away from the wall they'd landed by, before setting his sights on the enemy. The duo approaches in a staggered pincer formation-- one after the other from opposite sides. Better to have more than one target.

The alternate takes the obvious bait of a faster target... of course he would. In seconds the red Maverick Hunter is swerving under, then clambering up the ride armor as it falls to one knee. Then, the sickening buzzing and popping of that same debilitating attack.

A necessary sacrifice, as is the relinquishing of that sword. Every step feels heavy-- though the purple reploid himself is swift through the pin. Swift as he slides to grab the hilt rolling on the ground. It feels natural in his hands, plasma sparking hot as he rounds to the front side of the massive machine.

Bounding up Goliath's damaged knee, the first disconnect is made. One huge waist cord is sliced, rupturing in a mess of sparks and vital fluid. The second follows in quick succession, cable cleaved haphazardly, before Vi begins his ascent. He climbs higher, using the charging chest cannon as leverage. There he spots them, Zero's arms locked in a chokehold around the Maverick pilot.

Wordlessly, the saber is plunged into the other Vile's torso. It melts through armor, pinning the rogue machine to the backside of the cockpit. Vi's free hand slams down on the disengage button on the control panel, the weapon below him reaching a fever pitch.

C'mon! C'mon!

[thegatesofinfinitespace]

Meridia

[thegatesofinfinitespace]

Glowering cyan practically shines in the dark, the color utterly inhuman. It's not the shade of a God's, but something else entirely. The thought is brief. This is the first time we've made real eye contact. Yes, they'd clashed gazes during the fight, but those adrenaline-burst blurs were not the same. Still no fear was found, but a frustration shared.

For that untamable fire, the deity had only expected silence as a response. This hate, strong enough to drive the human to kill beings far mightier than he, would not have permitted dialogue between them. A forceful recovery would be a long one, but ultimately necessary if their unspoken animosity were to continue unless he'd actually managed to strike a chord within the GodHunter.

Understanding passes between them, for all that loathing on display.

Kane blinks at the very real words pointed at him, each one as sharp as a dagger, yet as harmless in the moment as a butter knife. The sigh that meets his own is more or less a hiss of ire, but it's still something ultimately.

"That's all?" The unimpressed tone of the God's is more aimed at how much effort it took for them to reach the point that they had. He's thoughtful, or at least appears so-- until he gestures with an inclination of his head to the bedside table that had not been there moments earlier.

Plates and bowls of food adorned it, warm and fresh. Like the other Immortals, the Tower was his own, could manifest anything he willed. Simplicity was its finest, even though the effort it took to produce whatever came to mind was anything but. Rarely did he enjoy relying on it like this, but...

"Eat, then. And then I will change your wounds." Can't trust you to hold scissors in your state. A fair assumption.

Crack. A book closes behind him, the first signal the immortal is moving. Under any other circumstance, the Hunter would have turned to face the source, weapon brandished. Now, though, he’s far too drained to react to his present company.

That doesn’t stop the spike of adrenalin when Rho feels a hand at the nape of his neck. Doesn’t stop the sudden fire in his veins, the impulse to push back, though he body is incapable of it. The world twists around him, as if reality has fallen out from under his feet. A blink in what is, passing through what is not.

Few of his prey had utilized such a tactic, and none had saw fit to bring him with in the process. Unsettling.

There again, manifested anew at the center of the room. Impossible to relax, despite the luxury of real bedding. A half snarl for both the frustration and the pain. Still he does not lash out, his body unmoving to his own commands. Instead his eyes meet the red gaze barring down on him, wordless aggravation offered in kind.

Can’t stand being lectured by you.

“……….”

Understanding passes between them, for all that loathing on display. He’s right. A maddening prospect. This is not a good death.

There is a sigh, the undercurrent of anger self evident as he finally begins to speak. “…need… to eat.” Few words given, though he does not spare the vitriol. Nothing could be more degrading that having to rely on a God like this. A failed hunt is punishment already, but to be left alive… disgraceful.

It’s not as if the divine understand. Regeneration magic makes years of mortal recovery take mere hours. They rarely have to suffer through the grief and humiliation of physical damage. Of sickness. A fact that only makes the continuation of this conversation more distasteful. “…then…” he gestures to the myriad of bandages on his torso. “…I’ll need…. to clean the wounds.” Provided they’ve stopped oozing by then.

[thegatesofinfinitespace]

Magic Anons cause I miss 'em

No time conditions added for flexibility with RP styles. Make some crack, do some full threads, keep it contained to asks, whatever your heart desires. Feel free to add specifics to any M!A or leave the details for the receiver to decide! If something already applies to a muse, the M!A can make the opposite occur instead.

Physically Transform the Muse!

Thumbelina: Muse shrinks in size

Maximize: Muse increases in size

So... fluffy?: Muse turns into an animal

Mechanize: Organic muses become machines or vice versa

Fangs: Muse turns into a monster from folklore, pop culture, etc

Wait a sec: Muse is stuck looking like a different character

Afterlife: Character turns into a ghost or other undead entity

Not an anime: Character gets animal traits (cat ears, dog tail, wings, etc), but otherwise maintains their normal appearance

Scenario Makers!

Mortality: Muse becomes mortal or immortal (whichever is opposite for them)

Powerless: Muse loses one, several, or ALL of their major abilities/skills/etc

That's new: Muse temporarily gains a new power/ability/trait

Senses: Muse loses a major sense or gains one they don't normally have

Wrong Edition: Muses powers are now the opposite (fire = water, etc)

Trade me: Asker and receiver swap something (powers, appearance, etc)

(Un)mute: Muse can't speak (or can, if they normally can't)

Rewind: Muse reverts to a past version of themselves

Fast Forward: Muse becomes a potential future version of themselves

Sneak Peak: Muse witnesses a snippet of a future event without context (get creative with the method)

Another life: Muse swaps places with an AU version of themselves

Mirror: Muse's usual personality shifts (friendly muses are aggressive, shy characters are outgoing, etc)

Under the weather: Something is wrong with the muse and they can't seem to recover (a cold? something more sinister?)

Jinxed: Muse is suffering from a string of bad luck or misfortune

Two Truths and a Lie: Muse can only lie or only tell the truth (whichever sounds more fun <3)