etrayalogs | vacillating [OPEN]

WHO: Knife (as Antigone/Pending), ota
WHEN: Mid-late Oct
WHERE: Assorted, tagged in prompts
WHAT: the up- and downswings of being overly exposed against one's will while stuck in a bubble zoo
NOTES\WARNINGS: mentions of dissociation & depersonalization, violent/suicidal thoughts, violence (attempted or otherwise), rampant swears/coarse language

i. badgerlike habits
warnings: attempted violence (or actual violence if you're up for it!)

[the encampment in Dewpoint can, at times, add some interesting ambiance to the frost-laden area, what with its gentle tinkling of chime-like glass shards and bottlecaps dangling from tree branches. it's a nice sound, even if the aesthetics are rather trashy (in that there is a lot of trash about).

however, now and then, someone gets too close and the tinkling of materials takes on a more intentional sound when a length of wire is pulled underfoot. then, then there's a growling and a sudden glint off metal in the light - a scalpel flung close to the offending foot.]

SCRAM! [the voice is muffled behind layers of fabric - from one of those flapping tent-flaps.] Walk around, wherever you're going!

ii. humanlike efforts
warnings: n/a in starter

...

[Maybe...maybe this would feel better if there were more than like. Six fucking people in a place at a time. Right now I feel like the world's shittiest stalker-spy.

...

Maybe I'm THIS world's shittiest stalker-spy.

Yay, me.

Pending's...making attempts to be a person, here. A person doing person-things like...picking up food! at the Otto-Mart! they may or may not be shadowing someone in there and...matching their aisle movements and selections and watching what they do.

or it's simply taking a walk outdoors and stopping short when whomever was ahead of them appears to be doing something of import, watching to see just what that important thing is and whether or not he needs to be making a habit of doing it, too.

or it's just...sitting at a distance and watching someone else read a book or work on something, their own hands empty of distractions. memorizing gesture, maybe slightly twitching a finger here or there to mimic while they memorize features and mannerisms.

apparently people-watching is normal so this? this is normal. this is very normal. Knife just feels like shit regularly so there's no cause for concern that this, too, feels like shit. good job, everyone.]

iii. rabbit-hearted impulses
warnings: n/a in starter

[multiple evenings in a row, Antigone makes to approach a diner or a bar or food shop, stands mere steps away from the entrance, fidgets a bit, leaves, comes back, then leaves again. something about the inviting warmth of their interiors is doing the opposite - making them seem ominous, a threat of a bad time. it's annoying that so many of these places never turn their lights off; maybe it'd feel better if she were actually doing something wrong as opposed to just feeling like she is.

it's the prospect of being seen and asked how she's doing that stresses her out the most: a dozen-plus answers bouncing along the sliding scale of cynicism flit about, but none taste right on her tongue, especially when imagining certain faces on the receiving end of them. guilt? guilt for what! not...doing well? fucking stupid, honestly. who even cares?! aside from the...handful of people who decided to make caring, like, their goddamn jobs. which isn't her fault!

...

well, another amble up, another lingering pause, and another failed effort sends Antigone back out of the borders of the street lights, only to hasten with panic when she hears door hinges squeak open. she scrambles into an alley for cover to hold her breath and try and sort this out again, maybe chalk it up to another failure and settle for garbage again.]

iv. disruptive tendencies
warnings: n/a in starter

[it's the lack of control that's really the problem, isn't it? the overwhelming pressure of tasks too big to accept as their own coupled with the ennui that makes itself comfortable when all those too-big tasks leave mind and hands free. Knife can control the way they appear outwardly, but it changes nothing but that appearance. laying in a miserable stupor works in little intervals, but hunger pangs cut into that quiet idle time and prompt them to move once more.

create or destroy seem to be the most favorable options: they've picked at clothes here and there when the meditative patience lasts, but the futility of the effort always catches up and leads them to abandoning their work to follow the impulse to move. here and there, bits of newly-embroidered jackets or layered scarves or the like can be picked up around Dewpoint and Alcyone's Wake in particular, no owners come to call.

for now, the grocery store's been pilfered of a fair amount of its egg stock for the day, a boxful of cartons toted away to another street.

Pending is sitting on the backrest a bus stop bench, feet on the seat by the cartons, periodically picking one up and lobbing it out at the water, at nearby animals, at passing helper bots, at signage or buildings within range.

the waste is the point - it's change, however brief. this place is a little uglier until the mess is picked up. childish, perhaps, but he's not here to be a model adult. he's not here for any good goddamn reason!]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It doesn't have to be a book.

[ But fine. She's not going to push it. He can make his own decision. ]

Believe me, if I knew where to find decent fabric, I'd bring it to you. I've resorted to taking apart some of the larger garments in the shops, but over 90 percent of them are that strange fabric with the slick feeling.

[ Polyester. ]

[he nods at that, stuffing his mouth with the remainder of the plate and chewing thoughtfully. yeah....yeah...shiftweave sure as shit isn't gonna pop up around here anytime soon, is it? let alone some fair wool.

he gulps thickly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.]

Tears easy. Gotta layer it four, five times...

[ He needs some table manners. Clea looks away while he eats, but she agrees with his words. ]

It's useless. It doesn't hold warmth and it isn't breathable. It traps moisture and odors.

Gotta ask around for a caster. For prestidigitation. [he nods, pauses, then explains:] The spell.

[that explains it.]

[ That explains nothing. ]

What is prestidigitation?

[ Magic doesn't exist in the real world for Clea. Only in Canvases, where a spell could be anything the Painter wants. ]

[oh. okay. just saying "spell" explains nothing.

Pending makes a vague, sweeping gesture with his hand over his plate.] Spell that cleans. Makes mess and smells disappear.

Do you think the world with the awful fabric is full of wizards?

[ Is that why they don't care how their clothes function? They're all using magic to clean themselves and keep warm? ]

Not full, but... [he shrugs one shoulder.] Buncha towers here. Could be one wizard around, maybe. Seen some people flying now and then...or cast. So it's...not that weird. I guess.

I feel as though expecting a wizard to do your laundry is a waste of time.

[ Surely the wizards had better things to do than other people's laundry? ]

At least the machines are useful, though they shred garments if you're not careful.

[ God, Clea misses sending out her clothing. Washing is a pain. ]

[C'mon, lady. Everything here's a waste of time.]

Rather a wizard than a machine. [he looks sidelong toward one of the idle bots.] Glass eyes. Echo probably sees.

[ Clea takes another bite of the middling chicken. Too much wine. ]

Echo doesn't need the machines to see. If he wants to, he can see. Without us knowing. So it would be best to assume he's watching us all the time.

[squint.] How? Scrying? [Lady, I'm unscryable!]

In a sense, though I don't know how your world defines scrying.

[ Since magic is real for Pending and for Clea, it's...complicated. ]

He could pluck out our memories, freeze time to observe us or place cameras, go back in time to watch...I suppose he could scry as well.

[ She has to assume Echo has all the powers in his world that she'd have in one of hers. ]

... [Go back in time? What the fuck?

food doesn't feel very good in his stomach all of a sudden.]

Does everyone know that already? [Am I the last to know? Or can I peddle this shit off on the Lois-lady for more stuff.]

I don't imagine so. It would depend on who else here is knowledgeable about creation magic.

[ It may not be magic, precisely, but it's as good a term as any. ]

I don't know who else that is.

[Pending is already green, so the grimace he gives to the remainder of his plate completes the nauseated look.]

Okay. I'm done. [he pauses only a half-beat before standing up.]

[ Well, that's rude. ]

Are you one of those people who doesn't like Gifts or magic?

[ He didn't seem to have a problem with the cleaning spells. This is confusing. ]

[he lingers there, standing between the pushed-out chair and the table. the loomer, looming.]

Depends on who's using it. I don't like Echo. [And I don't like the idea of him being able to manipulate my time on top of everything else!]

I don't like Echo either.

[ So no argument on that front. ]

Or Scylla.

[ Team nobody. ]

Not knowing what they can do won't stop them from doing it. The more we know, the better.

You know more than I do. [so that makes him effectively useless, no? that's what Knife thinks. Pending nods, accepting that conclusion that literally nobody else has come to.] I can leave now. The cooking thing... [he shrugs, looking back toward the kitchens.] You get the gist.

In some ways, yes. In others, no. That's why we should talk to one another.

[ In other ways, Clea knows less. She's arrogant, but not delusional. ]

You can leave if you want to.

[ She's not going to stop him. ]

Thank you.

[ For the cooking lesson. It hadn't done what she'd expected it to, but the effort had been touching. ]

[the thank-you stalls him a second, an awkward second.]

Auh, yeah... I mean-- [more Pendingly:] Okay. Bye.

[nearly bumping a leg of his chair but only nearly, Pending scoots away, hunching a bit under the weight of a funny feeling as he makes his escape.

there are, probably, worse ways to have wasted time. it--it was a waste, right? probably?]

[ What an odd little man. He doesn't even give her the chance to also tell him goodbye in return.

Not her problem. Clea mentally shrugs and turns back to her meal, continuing to eat as the robots work to clean up the mess they'd made of the kitchen. At least she isn't responsible for that. ]

vacillating [OPEN]

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End!