etrayalogs | l’aimer toujours

Act 2 Spoilers

[Two weeks after the mission, Renoir settles into a comfortable routine. He explores fascinating locations and returns to his apartment come the night. But his heart sometimes considers not returning at all. Losing his family, after reuniting in this world, threatens a descent into madness. Now he lives alone and his excursions become something to fill the void. The absence of his son is painful. The world need not be so.

Early in the morning, he enters an abandoned church deep within the city, followed by a brood of companion bots. One became two and two became three. Now three has become five. The scent of lilies and flowers infuses the air as he summons his easel and canvas. He mixes paint on his palette and chooses a clean brush - and begins working on his unfinished painting.

Those who enter will hear his low and warm voice echoing near the flowers.]

The most important element of painting is drawing. Without drawing you cannot express your emotions. If you cannot draw, you cannot create great art. But treating it as an academic exercise stifles your expression. Life is fluid and dynamic. Why should art be otherwise? It is more important to draw what you want to draw.

[He is teaching the companion bots - some wearing headbands resembling brushes - about art. Three are watching him paint. Two are squiggling random lines that show nothing of anything. His bemusement echoes; like a father being patient with his children.]

Your efforts are reasonable. But this is unfinished.

[He instructs his student by turning its paper to a fresh page.]

Try something new.

[Renoir prefers the outdoors, where everything feels peaceful, though he misses the heat of summer or the pleasure of a spring breeze. He craves wine poured from a bottle and the music of an establishment that remains open until midnight.

But what he misses is what life was like before.

Now he is enjoying a table outside a cafe familiar to those he frequented before his world broke apart. Lavender grows beneath the windows, scenting the air with a calming fragrance. He stops drinking his coffee, chooses a subject and begins sketching their likeness onto paper.

Perhaps they notice what he is drawing? Or perhaps they notice he is drawing them?]

( Two weeks, and Lois has been cataloging the city's disparate parts. There's a certain restlessness she hadn't expected when pulled first to San Francisco, where the city lived and breathed and moved like a city, then to Etraya, which fills itself with hollow spaces and softly whirring robotic joints. Or the trolley, which has ceased its fast track to the island of snakes and the fast-food joint nestled between them.

Lois doesn't know how to sit idle. She's been reading back through the message board, building her own understanding of what's been documented there, but it's not complete, and she's not done. She needs to be out and moving in-between spending time with Clark and Jon, and everyone else she's building connections with as contacts or allies or whatever they need to be in the context of Etraya's conceit.

This church feels as abandoned as a number of other buildings, only quieter with it: floral scents drifting out along with a voice when she's close enough to hear. Lois follows the trail of both, quirking her eyebrows when she sees the source and his companion bot entourage. Is he hosting a painting class with the bots? She watches from beyond the flowers, one hand hooked in her front pocket of her slacks: she may be stranded away from her closet at home, but Roxx has been generous when she's picked through for clothing along the lines of her preferred business-casual-and-comfortable style. )

Would you say the companion bots make for dedicated students?

[Renoir raises his hand, lifting his brush from the paint to ask for silence. There is no need to glance over his shoulder to paint the picture of a confident woman. Her voice had interrupted before he heard heels striking stone. Now she weaves her words deftly into his lecture, suggesting she is well practised in public speaking.

He bows his head in concession, acknowledging her with his attention directed towards his painting. Perched on a stool, he blocks the canvas, hiding her line of sight with his tall frame. The silence he asked for becomes clear when he focuses on a series of brushstrokes. The companion bots are likewise engrossed in their work.

Or is this play for them? He slides off his perch, resting his brush and palette upon the table, following which they are replaced with the cane resting against the edge.]

I believe they have the potential.

[He turns to face her but indulges in casting his gaze across his class. There is the weight of expectation in his studious face.]

But these are early days. Do you discipline a child who has just picked up a brush? No. You let them draw.

( He indicates for silence, and she takes that time to study his actions first, the mien of a dedicated artist, before she likewise studies the reactions and responses of the companion bots gathered around. A couple with the crowns of brushes are particularly interesting. Lois wonders if it's meant to reference anything, or if it's like the scarves she's seen on various companion bots, little markers of individuality.

The question about discipline and children hits just off to what it would have three weeks ago. Back before she'd met her alternate universe future son, which is a series of revelations that don't strictly apply to her, while likewise defining how she's approaching aspects of being in Etraya.

(She's never been a mother. Now, she is, while she isn't.) )

Tends to depend on the parent. You have to value art and the experience of learning to realize you need to step back. Let them create first.

[His pale blue eyes search the sketches lying on the ground with the critical gaze of a master. There is freedom to create. There is no freedom to disrespect their time. He swivels with his cane and rests upon it while looking back at her.]

Indeed. But impress upon them the importance of discipline in their work.

[He imagines that was ever an important lesson. His tutor had certainly impressed upon him the importance of practice. But she had also seen talent. Then their relationship had become more to put it lightly.]

Progress cannot exist without desire and diligence. One or the other is never enough.

[surely there are stranger things to sketch, but Antigone is far from mundane, either.

the little creature has slunk through some hedges like a wary thief, but all that grace and care seems to drain out of the body like she were a sieve. for a few moments, it's like she's standing idle on purpose, eyes cloudy and unfocused before some dish-clinking around the cafe makes an ear flick and sense seem to come back.

she darts her gaze around before double-taking, catching the man's eyes on her, and slowly, fur starts to bristle on her tail as a cat's would. fingers flex and clench, and she watches like a hunted thing, as though expecting some form of assault.

May as well. Fuck it. Get it over with. Grizzled fuck.]

[Vibrant. Alive. Imposing.

The strange creature, roughly half his height, catches his eye because of her colour moreso than the noise. His attention fixes on her green hair, paws and claws; her white and pink fur; the bizarre mixture of tints woven into her clothing. Are those blacks, blues and oranges the colours she has chosen for herself?

His eyes drop to the notebook open upon the table. He sits upright in his seat and sketches her between glances, his curiosity the primary inspiration behind his art. The crossed pattern on her scarf makes him cock his head to the side - and that is when he is perceived in turn.

She looks tense.

He picks up his notebook and turns it around, revealing his earliest draft, communicating not with his cane but his work. Maybe she understands art. Maybe she understands nothing. It hardly matters when this moment is reality.]

( Lois smiles, shaking her head a touch. It's not like she has legs to stand on: she's not a very patient person within the context of her workplace, and yet endlessly patient when tracking down information. What is it to offer structure for a kid? She's not sure, but it's what she and Clark have been trying to do in their own way. Just... (

Diligence, yes. Desire, yes. Discipline is something they can discover for themselves in the process, or not. Trying to enforce that as a concept can lead to some interesting rebellious phases.

( Her own punk rock phase being part of that, against the discipline of her father. At the same time, she was incredibly dedicated to her work. How much influence teachers have over their students feels like it might be at times greater than parents, in that when a teacher of anything that inspired a student had a guiding hand in that direction, discipline could become something different than the structure of parental guidelines.

Again, she reflects, this is why she's not ready, but it's not like it's a choice. Turn away? She can't. Even if it were just her here, as she's sure at this point would be the same for Clark, and Clark can at least help Jon get a handle on his burgeoning powers. )

The companion bots have been showing indications of all three?

[there's a beat of blank-faced nothing before Antigone's eyes refocus and actually start to comprehend what's being shown; admittedly, first thought was it was going to be words, more things she can't understand. but that's not the cases.

connecting the loose gesture and blocking of shape and patterns takes a few seconds more before her ears flatten.]

What for?

[her voice is a little hoarse, throat dry; too much running and hiding, not enough hydrating.]

[The last mission took a toll on Kirk and since returning to Etraya, he’s mostly holed himself up in the Tower of Justice. So far, the few times he’s come out have always been after sundown. He doesn’t want to deal with humans if he can help it. Just do a short hunt for deer blood or a quick supplies run and that’s it.

It’s almost midnight when Kirk lands nears the cafe after succeeding in another deer hunt. Unlike Hernan, Kirk’s stamina for flight isn’t as abundant and he needs short rest stops more often. He had already wiped off the animal’s blood around his mouth and chin but some still remains on his Batman suit, namely on the normally white chest area.

He softly sighs. Another night, another meal to keep the beast at bay.

He then turns his head to the cafe. His melancholy had briefly distracted his enhanced senses and he finally realizes a person nearby]

I am an artist. I draw what I want to draw.

[It bothers her. His attention and his gaze. But drawing and painting are not always embraced as means of communicating with his subject. Both allow him to feel a sense of control, especially after being brought here. Some might even called it kidnapped. Because there was no decision on his or all their parts.]

And there is plenty of life in this world to explore, no?

[He rests his hand atop his notebook but does nothing to hide or move it. Make the best of everything, right?]

[there's probably a good conversation to be had between an artist and a changeling - people who can create in different ways on different canvasses - but Knife's focus is far from philosophical. it's just survival. and, hell, strung out as they are, they can't even be catty to correct any possible visual errors - it's not like they looked at themself lately to be sure they got the hues or fingers right!

Antigone's brow knits while trying to process this - it's a little harder than it should be in the moment. one of the cafe bots moving about draws her focus briefly, makes her bristle and back up a little, before she gawks back at the artist.]

N-not, nothing here for exploring. Okay? I'm not--not doing anything. [as if being perceived at all was subject to offense here.]

[His wife would be critical of her approach to discipline. How it is discovered. How it is created. How it can be passed along from master to student. His lips twitch in a smile, memories of working under her as vivid now as thirty years ago. But as it stands, he rolls his shoulders beneath his coat, acquiescing to what his wife would advise, while not appearing to favour one approach over the other. His encouragement had always been more gentle and forgiving.

But that never meant he lacked expectations and standards.]

I certainly see desire. But their education is too early to gauge progress.

[There is a series of beeping. He gazes across his shoulder and sees those watching his painting drawing on the works of their companions. His chest heaves an exasperated sigh. What follows is an unintelligble expression under his breath - jeux de main - as he is reminded of his own children roughhousing.]

Continue with that and there'll be no dessert after dinner.

[Do they understand his meaning? Do they eat at all? Perhaps not the latter. But the former certainly seems to make them stop.]

[Renoir looks busy under the lamplight. His fingers smooth down the edge of his notebook, caressing it like a lover. His brow pinches while looking down at the woman upon the page. She calls to him from her prison, and he embraces her from behind, supporting her spine against his palm.

He is drawing from memory, too devoted to ruin her by copying somebody else. This woman is someone he has loved all his life.

But the matter is complicated. Life often is and, as often does, interrupts him. He hears someone walking nearby and gently closes his notebook.]

[His hand remains on the sketch, gently moving the base of his notebook, slowly adjusting from one side to the other. What some might see from the drawing is he is gifted - though he would put himself down and ignore the compliment - and their image exists as their own person. They live inside their own world upon the page.

Whether their life is better or worse is down to interpretation.]

Should that matter? I'm drawing. Some might say I am likewise doing little of anything.

[The notebook rotates left to right once more. But he lays it back down, leaving it open on the page.]

[Should it matter? fuck if Knife knows. what do they know! who cares!

Antigone grimaces in response to the thoughts, but it may as well be disdain for such an even-handed reply from a stranger who is quite truly just minding his own business. like this is all normal and worth not minding at all.]

If it's what Aurora tells you you should be doing, then maybe don't.

I draw what I want to draw, no?

[There is bemusement in his tone that anyone regards him as anything less than stubborn. There is but one person he would allow to tell him do anything. But she is not here. The realisation is old but evokes a solemn mood, regardless of the moment. Come the end of the day, Aurora and her siblings, and their creations? None of them are family.]

Other people have warned me about taking her at her word. I take it you are in agreement?

Her word's just air. [it's more comfortable to scoff and grouse than it is to stand on business, braced for retaliation for some slight. it's, perhaps, justified to some to do so - she just...doesn't know who out here will be ready to jump her about it.

Knife's mostly sure they can outpace an old man with a sketchpad, but they've been duped before.]

Just like anyone else's words. Doesn't mean anything unless there's meat behind it. Only meat we get is nonsense and no-home, so!

Not at all.

[He cannot bother himself to make excuses for the fact there is no evidence, no proof their worlds will be saved one way or another. But he is desperate enough in his own situation to work towards saving his own regardless. It is already facing extinction.]

We have no proof of our homes yet are expected to make a home here. But those apartments are more an eyesore than a convenience.

[They also have no artistic merit. He is saying they look like shit.]

[Holy shit.

someone actually talking sense rather than insisting Knife play ball and make adjustments to suit. it happens so sporadically that Knife seems to be surprised every time.

needless to say: the little critter's ears are perked.]

N-no good escape routes, either. Yeah. Yeah. I get it. [You get it!] And! And all we went through? Just, just then? What'd we get out of that, huh?

[you know. besides the horror of having one's mind twisted and then having to do a murder about it. but maybe that was just Knife.]

[ The mission leaves Hernan feeling ambivalent. Though it did wonders to reaffirm is loyalty to Kirk - on that point, there's never any doubt. But everything else has left him shaken in a way he's not used to. He's sure of himself, confident in who he is and how he fits into the world.

But with Clark's arrival and Superman2 taking up space in the list of usernames on the network, Hernan's also been forced to confront the idea that he is the aberration. He'd seen the divergence point before: Jor-El losing his hand before Clark could be conceived. But the questions linger: What if Zod had been a few seconds late? What if Zod's shot missed? What kind of man would he be right now?

He hates that these things linger like a bad cloud without a moment's respite from them. He hates that it eats away at him like that lion had. Speaking of--

Hernan spots Renoir drawing from where he is in the sky and decides to replace one problem with another. He descends silently, lands gently and sits down without asking permission. ]

Who is that? [ He points to the notebook. ]

[The man descends in silence, claims the opposite chair in silence. The downturn in his own expression suggests offense at a lack of decorum. But he refuses to reveal emotion after decades of insolence from a man who is far more important.

That and he suffered a lifetime of disappointment in people who look exactly alike. Now he paints to find peace, and reclaim that sense of control. Now he has to tear away his attention to attend to an inconvenience.]

Somebody else who lived here.

[Was he a member of their band of kidnap victims? Or does he resemble a son? The two share an undeniable likeness.]

[Kirk keeps his distance as to not spook the older gentleman]

My apologies. I was surprised to see someone out this late.

[Most of the Etraya's population aren't night owls as far as Kirk's aware of]

[Clive has been sitting at the cafe for a bit. He had stopped to get something to eat and get himself a coffee. The weather was wonderful, so he opted to sit outside and let the gentle sounds of nature wash over him. If Etraya was anything in times like these, it was peaceful.

He sits there, food finished, hands curled around his coffee mug, and watches the world around him in comfortable silence. Though he does have a niggling feeling he is being watched. He tries to ignore it. If something tries to attack him here, he is sure he can at least start to handle it. Decades of training beat his desire to stay still and he turns just in time to make eye contact with Renoir.

Clive blinks. Is Renoir... drawing him?

He raises a hand in a small wave before putting it back around his cup, exactly as it was before.]

Do you want me to stay still?

l’aimer toujours

OTA | Sector 5 Church

OTA | Cafe Millenia

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CW: Brief mention of animal blood

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gonna ask jic. how are you for spoilers?

im good!! ty for checkin c:<

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