songe, sombre

[betenoir]

WHO: Renoir & Closed
WHEN: January
WHERE: Various
WHAT: Missions and Threads
WARNINGS: E33 Spoilers





Closed by Request ⚔ Contact Me ⚔ Tagged for Spoilers

Spoilers include the end of act II and involve act III

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The Louvre (Clive & Verso)

[betenoir]

Clea's Workshop

cw: renoir drinks chicken soup from a can

[There are images one cannot forget. The vision of buildings tearing from their foundations and rising into the stratosphere, seismic quakes and violent tornadoes breaking the world, leaving deep fissures and ruptures in the earth. The people who depend on you learning you are unable to answer their questions and solve their problems. Children you defend learning you are powerless as your broken corpse bleeds upon the ground.

These images are what he sees every time he gathers her paintings. Framed pictures and portraits of a personal nature, sketches and drawings of private affairs. Canvases are heaped against the wall while watercolours are strewn across her worktable. The space is dominated by a statue on a plinth: an unfinished plaster sculpture surrounded by aluminium wire and clay molds. This human representation is both a friend and a stranger, a mother and a daughter, with features both foreign and familiar.

Whether the statue is his work or hers is difficult to tell.

The workspace now claimed as his own is saturated by the overpowering smell of paint and turpentine, mingled with the scent of moist earth. Her friend might notice one wall has been repainted with no signs of colour beneath. Her family might notice she is no longer here.]

[herofhopeless]

[There isn't time for this. If what Clive has seen and heard is true, then all of Etraya is going to be pulled into yet another mission soon. He doesn't have time, but his heart does not care.

Clive spent far too long scrolling through the network, over and over and over again, hoping that he just missed her name, that he somehow glossed over something that had become so synonymous with comfort and care here. There had been few constants in Clive's life since coming to Etraya. But Clea? Clea had always, always been one of them. Arriving at the same time, meeting at the beach, spending days together in coffee shops, on walks, in parks, at her apartment, in her bed, and later in her studio. Clea had become so much of his world here. She was there, even when he had been left behind.

Until now.

Now, he stands outside the door to what she had been making a home when they last spoke, a room in a beautiful building full of stunning art that Clea could speak on for hours. Not all assessments were positive. They never were. She was so opinionated and honest about what she thought about art, both hers and others, and that had been beautiful.

Clive's hands shake as he pushes open the door that separates Clea's once space with the rest of the building and stops in the doorway. Despite knowing he won't hear her brusque voice, sharp and aware, he still calls out.]

Is anyone here?

[betenoir]

[Renoir might be difficult to spot at first, hidden behind the unfinished sculpture. His fingers are delicately wrapping sodden gauze around a series of wires, plaster dripping from the bandages onto the floor, while his feet stress the ladder supporting his weight. The gardens of his home are filled with all kinds of sculpture he is responsible for creating. But while most of it bore resemblance to work he remembers, most of the pieces remembered were not his work alone.

Clea had friends willing to tolerate her company. But she would not willingly allow everyone into her atelier. But this is no longer her space and he no longer has to endure her presence.

His voice is muffled as though he wears some kind of mask.]

Of course. Forgive me if I don't come down and shake your hand.

[herofhopeless]

[Out of all of the voices he might expect, for some reason, Renoir’s was not one of them. He knew the man wasn’t Clea’s father, not in the sense that Clea would claim, but he knew little else of the connection the two of them shared.

Clive steps into the space and looks around. It has… changed. Seeing it this way hurts. How many days had Clive spent here, watching Clea work, reading, lounging, hovering hands over her steadily growing mural of a wall? Maybe, had they more time, Clive would come to know the significance of Clea allowing him so intimate a view, to allow him into her own private haven, but to him, being near Clea in this space had just felt natural.

Clive swallows a shaking breath as he stares at the wall where Clea’s growing mural once stood, barren of her lines and color. He steps closer and hovers a hand over the space as he had done what felt like thousands of times.]

W-what [Clive clears his throat and starts again.] What happened to the mural?

[betenoir]

[Renoir is too focused on his work to see the gesture the younger man is making. He is wrapped up as tightly by his thoughts as he is binding wire in plaster. There is something in his voice suggestive of understanding; the ache of pain and loss.]

I have designs upon the space.

[Better uses that he does not elaborate upon, such as honouring and burying a daughter he has never been able to lay to rest. He refuses her justifications for her actions and her permanence in his presence.]

It is a quiet and reasonable adjustment.

[One example of his restraint when encountering someone who murdered his daughter.]

[herofhopeless]

Designs.

[Clive’s voice is quiet as he lowers his shaking hand. He clenches it desperately at his side and turns to take in the rest of the space.

And it’s changing, one bit at a time. With each shift, a bit of Clea is lost, taken away and replaced. Gone.

He looks to Renoir and watches him work in silence for a couple of seconds before he can find his voice again. It is forcibly steady when he speaks next, but there is nothing he can truly do to hide the ache there.]

How long was she gone before you started making these changes?

[He’s too afraid to ask what he truly wants to know. How long has she been gone? How long was she here without him? How long did she stay in this place thinking that he might not want her? That he didn’t love her?

Clive nearly chokes on what he wants to ask.]

[betenoir]

One or two months or sixty-seven years.

[The words come out like another one of his lessons; a vague allegory or metaphor that means nothing without understanding. His voice shifts together with his position on the latter, one foot moving down before the other, as the bandage is wrapped over and around what resembles an elbow. He smooths down the end and ensures it sits in position before returning to the floor.]

Time is immaterial, monsieur. When painting ceilings or walls, artists understand another will eventually do the same. Such is the nature of aesthetics.

[The consequences of such a medium.]

[herofhopeless]

[Clive blinks and furrows his brow.]

Sixty seven… years?

[There was certainly a story there. Part of Clive wondered if he wanted to know, but a larger part wants to understand Renoir more. For having lost someone from his home, he seemed rather, well, aloof? That word didn’t feel quite right.]

I suppose that makes sense.

[Clive approaches the statue and looks up at it. He tries not to think about how Clea would get paint smudged on her knuckles or her cheek, how he would help wash any stray pigment from her hair, how she would scowl at something she made that was perfectly beautiful because it wasn’t quite right.]

Are you going to paint something else?

[Clive tries to hide the way his voice shakes.]

The Spire (Gustave & Sciel)

[betenoir]

Lux’s Garage

cw: sciel commits vehicular manslaughter

[Is this world worth saving? That is the question everyone asks themselves, exploring this wild and lawless land. Renoir asks another question. How can wetlands thrive on the border of a desert, and tropical rainforests in the presence of jagged mountains? He wonders about aesthetics and artistic sentiments - and examines the application of logic.

There is nothing to be gained in worrying about a world he will never revisit. So he leaves at dawn, completes his assignments within days, and returns at dusk. His team departs in different directions, seeking respite or solitude. The impersonal approach to their mission works better than the idea of befriending strangers. He leaves the garage, balancing a chromatic orb of light within his free hand and his cane in the other. Soon his distinct figure is outlined by the headlights of a vehicle.

Other days he remains within the base, sometimes taking stock of supplies, otherwise exploring or working alone. He tours every nook and cranny of the facility and begins taking notes of damaged circuits. One might think him attentive to what has been proved a problem. Others might believe him to be looking to cause a problem. He can be heard rummaging around inside a room in the garage, the small space illuminated beneath and behind the door.]

[cache_coeur]

[Any world is worth a solid try, but it feels unsurprising to Sciel that this one might slip away. The creatures here are transplants themselves, after all, residents of some long-gone people's bottle world, while the rest of their kind live on elsewhere. It makes it tremendously easy to preserve a lot of worlds at once, but it feels like a cold inevitability that this place should end: after all, at some point, their populations will dwindle regardless of any force extinguishing them. Any Lumièrian knows that.

This is what she thinks about when she is driving, in particular with precious cargo in the back. (Not Maelle, precious as she is –– these are specimens.) Six eggs, each the size of a whole ham, are bundled in the back, wrapped in burlap so they don't jostle against each other too terribly. Sciel keeps looking in the rearview mirror to check on them. She still wishes someone had ridden in the back to keep an eye on them, but at least this way, the three of them can take care of each other on the hike back.

She is looking in that rearview mirror when she turns the steering wheel, hand-over-hand, to turn into the garage. She says aloud, cheerily:]

Almost there!

[This is exactly when she realizes she is about to run someone over, and she gasps and slams the breaks. The car lurches to a tight stop, Sciel's knuckles white on the wheel, her eyes wide –– but was she fast enough?]

[betenoir]

[Renoir remembers how bustling city streets were before the Fracture. He pictures cars and people fighting for scraps of space, trying to squeeze through the same space at the same time - but cannot remember the detailed shapes of their bodies. He struggles to recall the colour of their lights. He cannot recollect the names of their creators.

(Because the one who created them was not their creator.)

Does he remember the name of the woman driving this vehicle? He recalls meeting her once before, but cannot think of a reason she is important enough to remember, by name or appearance. He cannot consider it good or bad that her vehicle strikes him on his better side. Because he just understands that he cannot die or experience being hurt.

But for a second he can feel it. Then he is collapsing into a heap on the floor.]

[cache_coeur]

[Sciel’s vehicle is now officially a battering ram. Her foot is all the way down on the brake, and as the man is knocked down with a dull thump, she wonders whether she should have stayed on the gas. Augh! Of all people to run down.

She could swear.

She undoes her seat belt and jumps out of the car, rounding it quickly. Her weapon is close at hand, but she doesn’t pull it out of her pictos space, not yet. Her heart is hammering. She approaches anyway.]

Still in one piece?

[betenoir]

[Strange is the first word coming to mind in the moment. Surreal comes second. Shock comes third when he hears the scrape of gravel against the leather of his coat. Four seconds later his mind is telling him he is lying on the ground.

Blood is pooling along his face, along the length of his thigh, around his knee and down his arm and across his shoulder. There are no signs of fear and he does not shake in confusion. This moment feels like a dream, trapped within the act of clenching his teeth, while understanding there is nothing to fear.

Low and frustrated groans and growls echo around the garage as he rolls onto his back. His fingers grasp his opposite shoulder.

This is not the first time in his life they have been in this position. But he had accepted that moment would be the last. He could have struggled then but did not. He does not in the present.]

Of course.

[His mind refuses to focus on metaphor, and he knows she knows what he means. There is no need for pretense.]

[cache_coeur]

[She stands over him, assessing the damage. There is some small bit of satisfaction seeing Renoir sprawled out like that. She’s seen him bloodied, of course, but never prone.]

You must be joking.

[But this is a mission, and they’re far from the Continent; she can no sooner ditch another Etrayan bleeding on the floor of a garage than she could throw a drink in his face in San Francisco. There’s no point in explaining it to the others.

She puts a hand out to help him up. Just one. She might need the other.]

I’d be justified in leaving you here, you know.

[betenoir]

[Each cannot trust the other. Each cannot believe the other will not resort to violence. There is a momentary flash of something approaching consideration - but in the next moment his fingers are scrambling across the ground, groping for his cane.

Which is just out of reach, of course.]

I would have no reason to complain, I suppose.

[Is it her fault for being distracted or his for not observing the road? That is not the question. Why would each help the other? He has no right to her support and the expedition has no right to his trust after all their fellows have done.]

While you might never be forgiven for never learning how to drive.

[Mask the serious nature of what happened? Well, who has done that before?]

[demainvient]

[ The base is almost more a comfort than a convenience; for a man who left everything he knew with almost no hope of coming back to it again and throwing his fortunes onto the shattered beaches of the Continent, it's an almost inexpressible luxury to be able to come back from their excursions, either laden with samples or frustrated without them.

But come back they do, to rest and recharge and organize their supplies. Gustave, always curious, takes this time to continue with examinations of his own: the light emitted by the Lux is a source of never-ending fascination for him. He follows cables and wiring through the spire all of them leading him deeper into the strange structure. And not only him, it seems.

He stops short at the sight of a familiar straight-backed figure. A little light reflects off the hand that rests atop its cane, picks out the strands of white in his hair. Gustave hasn't seen him since the fog. When Renoir glances his way, he glares back, jaw tight. ]

What are you doing back here?

[betenoir]

[There are intellectual reasons to be exploring the depths of the spire. One being the joy of exploration, another the satisfaction of curiosity. But there are personal motivations behind his descent into the abyss. To separate and isolate himself from these people, who are nothing like the expeditions, but will surely betray each other and his family all the same.]

But they continue their attempts to befriend him. Clive in particular, who was perhaps the closest to his son. But even that memory is to be ignored. Is it selfish to want a relationship because of that connection? Perhaps. Perhaps Clive's feelings on the matter count for nothing.

He feels the constraints of bending into a tight position and straightens his back - seconds before a familiar voice assaults his ears. Another man - an expeditioner! - with whom there is an uncomfortable connection.

One for which he should bear the blame.]

Really? You loiter here yourself and that is your question?

[He says, delivered with a gaze and tone that asks the same.]

[demainvient]

[ It's been a long, long while since Gustave has felt scolded by someone old enough to be his father. Older, maybe — definitely. He remembers some iron gray at his father's temples, some lines beginning to sink into the skin at the corners of his mother's eyes, but they'd been lost long before their hair could thin and turn white or their skin could wrinkle. And still, there's some gut instinct to stand at attention at that disappointed tone; it rakes through him and yanks straight the curve in his back.

The last time he saw this man, they fought — but instead of ending in blood and pain and a sharp shaft of light fading away into darkness, it had simply... stopped. Gustave's sword heavy in his palm, his eyes on the girl behind Renoir. The man hadn't been attacking, he'd been protecting.

She'd even looked a little like Maelle, from what he could see.

Gustave's fingers curl again, but not to call his sword. He feels the bite of his short nails in his palm before he forces his fingers to relax, shaking them out. ]

Fair enough.

What are you looking for?

[betenoir]

The distribution board. I assume you understand there was something serving the same purpose with the dome.

[Was there a main switch to disable the entire system or did it run in perpetuity? There were smaller loops for individual functions but perhaps nothing that could break the shield. Otherwise someone foolish could have done something disasterous.

Probably the Council. Politicians.

In any case, he hoists open the panel and raises his hand to shine a chromatic ball of light so he (they?) can see what they are doing.

He has no idea what most of it does. But switches? He understands switches.]

[demainvient]

[ Gustave's eyes narrow, but aside from an aborted step forward — it turns into more of a flinch, a sway of his body without his foot actually lifting off the floor — he doesn't move as Renoir opens the panel and peers inside. ]

Yes.

[ That patronizing tone grates; Renoir may have helped design the dome, but that was over sixty years ago. A lot has changed since then. ]

When I left, we'd updated it to spread the energy load across a few distribution channels, so if one happened to go down, the whole dome wouldn't collapse. It needed back up systems, failsafes —

[ The light flickers. Gustave's head lifts, eyes searching the corridor, but he can't see anything that might have gone wrong. And then, in the next moment, he can't see anything at all.

Darkness swallows them. There's a brief beat of silence, and then he can hear thin cries of distress from throughout the spire. ]

Putain— did the power just go out everywhere?

[ They need the light. He's heard the horror stories of what happens here in the dark. Renoir might almost be a mercy in comparison. ]

[betenoir]

[There was no time to be concerned about distributing energy, or to worry about distribution and failsafes, not with death itself battering against the door. But he cannot blame this man for not understanding the luxury of time - of being forewarned and knowing when death will arrive - and lives with the satisfaction of knowing those who came after made the most of it.

Not that a part of him feels anything except anger towards how those people wasted their time. How in the past they ignored and exiled each other while he fought for every second with his family.

But the room is plunged into darkness before he responds. Distressed cries pierce the silence, which blankets them one moment and exposes them the next. He inhales deeply, recalling similar vivid sounds from the past. There is a moment of thought for his family, trapped upon the isle that had been ripped from the land and thrown across the ocean.

Three of them not all.

But panic and worry saves nothing and nobody.]

The darkness in this facility should be different to that outside.

[The result of the absence of electric light as opposed to the sun. He closes the panel and concentrates chroma in the palm of his hand. Presumerably this man knows how to do the same.]

There is space enough. We could suggest taking shelter.

Cloud & Renoir - the Louvre

[nimbuster]

Cloud's been keeping himself busy - partially because that's just his usual, partially to keep his mind from returning to the places it goes when he's working with Sophie the rest of the time, and partially to avoid Sephiroth as much as possible.

He realizes after a few weeks that he hasn't heard from Clea lately, which wouldn't be so odd except that they'd discussed him coming by soon to help her move some sculptures and materials at the museum, but she'd never called him. He's already in the area when the thought occurs to him, so he just drops by, parking his motorcycle with the usual squeal of tires and heading inside.

He knows where her workshop is from the last time he lugged things around for her, so he makes his way through the museum to her atelier door and knocks.

"Clea? It's Cloud. You in?"

[betenoir]

[Renoir is working once again on his sculpture when there is a knock on the door. The piece is more complete today than it was yesterday. When Clive visited it was half plaster, half wire. Now it stands in a near complete state; an individual without distinguishable features.

She is both friend and stranger, mother and daughter, with features both foreign and familiar.

In any case, Renoir is pouring plaster into a mold. The windows are open and his voice is muffled by a mask.]

Enter.

[nimbuster]

[Cloud's brow furrows as he pushes the door open. That voice sounds a little familiar, though it's hard to tell from here. It sure isn't Clea, though.

He steps inside and right away, he can tell something's changed. That sculpture grabs his attention for a moment. It's unsettling, and for some reason he can't put his finger on, it reminds him strongly of Jenova.

That thought prompts him to tear his eyes away from it and keep walking until he spots a familiar figure.]

Renoir? What are you doing here?

[betenoir]

[Renoir ignores Cloud for one moment while he finishes pouring the later; a second while it begins to harden and set. Once he is satisfied he turns around - though his expression is impossible to read behind the mask.]

I work here, monsieur.

[His answer is shared with the essence of a question. What are you doing here? For much as he knows, this young man neither works or frequents the museum. But he can imagine it has something to do with her. Why else would he be in this space?]

Why are you here?

[Just to make it clear.]