etrayalogs | songe, sombre

[ 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?

[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.]

[ 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?

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.]

[ 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. ]

[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.

Edited 2026-02-23 15:02 (UTC)

You have no way of knowing that.

[ It's the same darkness, only no longer held at bay by electric lights, the same way they held it back with campfires while out on missions. Gustave uncurls his fingers and a second chromatic glow joins the first, lighting their faces and lending a pale haze to the shadows around them. They can see, at least, but Gustave doesn't know if the luminance from their chroma will be enough to keep the worst of the darkness away. His heart is thumping, but he suspects that's due more to being thrust into a vulnerable state with Renoir only inches away than some supernatural influence.

But the man doesn't attack, only stares coldly at him through the insipid glow, and Gustave forces himself to think critically through the suggestion before shaking his head. ]

We should try to find out what happened. Maybe a power source failed, whatever generator these conduits are running from... we might be able to fix it.

[ Said reluctantly, but without hesitation. Whatever his feelings toward Renoir, the man helped design the Shield Dome. He at least has some idea of how to get energy flowing. ]

Let's go further down.

[The man is right. There is no way of knowing. But he is approaching this problem logically; he understands people can use their eyes and see where darkness would be a natural creation. The creative mind can picture the shadow cast by a wall, or colour in where it might be too dangerous to walk.

There is a reason for this confidence, and it extends to how he pushes through the darkness towards the door. She is keeping him alive. Not safe, because she cannot prevent the danger others bring, but alive.

Back in the corridor, he lifts the light in his palm, searching for circuitry. There is nothing to the left, but on the right is a box no bigger than his hand, screwed into the wall. The junction is above eye level and he steps back.

He is not the engineer here.

The wound left across his stomach has disappeared, but he remembers the pain, and given what happened to create this enmity, perhaps this man appreciates not having him at his back.]

[ He follows Renoir at a wary distance, all too aware of how quickly the man can move when necessary. His left hand flexes, the shape of his pistol as close as memory, but the only chroma that glows for now between either of them are the small globes they both carry, casting the corridor into stark, ghostly monochrome.

He stops when Renoir does, waiting to see what the man will do, and can't quite hide his uncertain surprise when he simply steps back, giving Gustave room to move forward and examine the box. Gustave studies him for a moment, but they don't have time to waste on caution. He shakes his head and steps forward, expecting every moment to feel the cold stab of a beam of light cutting through his torso once again.

But even that takes a back seat to his examination. The box is locked, but a moment's fiddling with one of the delicate tools he uses to keep his fabricated hand and wrist in working order soon has the metal doors swinging open. Gustave lifts his light and peers inside, studying the neat layout within. Everything looks in perfect shape, but it's clear no power is running through the diodes.

It does, however, give him a direction: there's a small map pasted to the inside of one of the doors. Gustave shifts aside without thinking, holding the light up so the other man can see. ]

Look, here: instructions on how to get to the main power source. We need to go down another level.

[Were this power chroma they could follow more easily. But it is electricity, thunder and lightning not unlike that this man channels through his prosthetic. That, too, was chroma. Would channeling raw electricity cause the same result or would this man die a second time?

He approaches from behind, his cane echoing on the ground. One glance at the instructions and he finds himself longing for a brush to make them make sense.

This close together he finds himself wishing for distance - but holds off creating space while looking at the diagram.]

Back where we came from. There's an access stairwell past these doors on the right.

[ Click. Click. The hair rises sharply at the back of his neck, and he jerks back, turning sharply as Renoir approaches... only for the man to study the diagram. Gustave's heart is pounding, a light, cold sweat breaking out under his clothes.

The last time they met, they fought, and Gustave had wounded him. But Renoir had been without his powers then; fallible. Vulnerable. He has access to his chroma here, and Gustave knows how another fight would go. Fear rises in a sour miasma, threatening to choke him. Everything in him is screaming for him to run. It sounds like Maelle, her voice shredding in her throat.

But is it better to have Renoir where he can see him, when he's about to head into the darkest recesses of this place? This problem may need two people to fix, and Renoir has some experience with manipulating and channeling power, even if it was chroma and not electricity.

If he doesn't run, Maelle might kill him. But working with this man might save her from the darkness. His jaw works, heart pattering rabbit-fast in his chest. ]

You lead the way.

[This man fears the darkness. But now as then risks his safety and life to protect who he feels is family. Were their families not in danger, they could perhaps be colleagues, because he cannot picture them possibly being friends.

One is too old. The other too young.

One sacrifices for his family without compulsion. The other sacrifices without regret. But on that front perhaps there is no line between the two.

Renoir says nothing and continues along his suggested path. The only sound is his cane, punctuated by the opening of a door, held open for the other man to pass through. This might be out of civility and manners more than anything else.]

[ The door creaks open, Renoir standing off to one side, and for a moment Gustave sees an overlay of glowing lamps littered along the path ahead in his mind's eye. If he breathes in deep, he knows he'll smell wet rock and salt water, feel the crackle of electricity running over his skin. Gustave pauses in the doorway, studying the older man in the pale glow of chromatic light. The prey response to run, flee without looking back, ripples through him in a cool rush of adrenaline.

But there's no time. The darkness is closing in, and with it panic and paranoia and worse. He sets his jaw and moves onward, setting his back to Renoir with grim determination.

They descend. The diagram leads them down toward the belly of the structure, into places that feel familiar: neat running lines of cables, hard angled machinery. He's not sure what they'll find when they get to the end of it, and he has less idea of Renoir's ability to work with whatever it might be. ]

Have you ever worked on a generator before? Aside from design, I mean.

Occasionally. There was no power after The Fracture.

[The world was in a worse state than what it had become. People helping each other. People stealing from each other. Looting homes whose occupants had been lost in search of bedding and food, later for metal and wiring.

The experience flashes across his face like shadow, revealing old and deep lines that mark his face.]

Such knowledge became a necessity. Though it was never my trade.

[Before he commanded the expedition, he was a painter. An artist given to exploring emotions.]

[ Every Lumieran has had to learn through necessity: to ply a trade, to grow food, to pick up a weapon and fight. How many in Lumiere would have chosen other paths for their lives? He himself might still have fallen into engineering, but would it have been for the love of the specialty instead of the necessity of finding answers, of fixing broken things?

Did Renoir's connection with the Paintress give him some special understanding of the workings of chroma? Is that how they managed to get the Dome running in the first place? ]

Engineering requires creative thinking around problems. It's an art of its own, though it uses a different canvas.

[ It's much of an acknowledgment as he can stomach with this man. He feels nauseous from his pounding pulse, the adrenaline running hectic through his veins. They need to find the generator so he can get away. ]

If we're lucky, the generator will just need a jump. If we're unlucky, it'll need to be fixed.

[Engineering. Woodwork. His artistic inclinations extend into the latter - a holdover of the life he almost remembers living. Though his creations were more artistic than practical, more decorative than functional.

He understands the unbearable position this man is trapped within. He has been living it for nearly a hundred years.

Practical solutions and words, then. This man has already seen what he did not want him to see.]

Or replacing with something functional. Power comes in numerous forms. Fire, light and water. All exist in one form but can be controlled.

songe, sombre

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