ORIGIN

He was there--well, not right there, ready to detach from the shadows just beside the Zoisite and loom ominously. But close, close enough to see it pause, and just close enough to hear the faint and quiet few syllables that were barely louder than a breath. Did it say--Overseer? Vargas wondered, not quite close enough to be certain. But--...Ahh. It recognized--the Orthoclase. The huge, lumped chrysalis tucked to one side of the tunnel, where Alpha had fallen. He peered, for a moment, and only by chance did he notice the rising of its quills: a sign he knew from Alpha itself to be indicative of... emotion. Which emotion was always an unknown variable, though.

Alarm, he assumed. Or fear, concern? Something you are fe- Vargas shoved aside this thought before it could finish, and rather than a smooth step from the shadows, his approach was the rush to move away from his own dangerously wayward mind. A few overly-swift strides took him toward the Zoisite, his footfalls scratching and audible on the rock; he made no move to hide himself. It was only as he neared it that he realized he might look hostile: a blank-faced almost-charge toward it. He slowed, shifting his gaze to glance down at the stone, and came to a halt a body length away. "Zoisite-One," he greeted, with stiff, brisk formality. And where were you going with this-? For a moment, he stood in silence, the awkwardness perhaps known only to himself. He could hardly march up and make small talk. And he didn't want to demand notes on the Zoisite's progress when it was clearly distressed, standing over Orthoclase-Alpha's chrysalis.

"I have not told anyone of this stone," he said bluntly, striding blindly down an avenue of thought, his words tumbling out as the thoughts hit him. But it worked; it would do. His honesty led him for a moment. "I do not want word getting out that it is resting here, in case someone attempts to harm the stone. Overseer Orthoclase-Alpha had enemies."

His main concerns, of course, had been the dragons, though they'd only been spotted a couple caves away. But anyone might hate Alpha. And-... As much as Vargas had kept the thought tamped tightly down in his own subconscious, he'd come to realize over time that his fierce protection of the gemstone hadn't been down to any reasonable, logical fear for its safety. Someone attacking it was realistically unlikely.

No: it had been because Alpha had been afraid to sleep, and he had promised it he would guard it. It was that simple. And so he'd watched it, or more often had the Sentinel watching it, and had periodically ensured it was covered in twists of foliage or tumbles of dirt and rock--all of which were gone just now, taken by Lessers or the wind.

He shifted his weight to one forelimb, and tilted his half-lidded eyes down at Zoisite, his own emotions unrevealed. Any faint turmoil he felt over the entire situation did not show: he regarded this, Alpha's child, a link and quiet family, quite steadily. But still-...

I still do not want it traumatized. Is it upset? It must be surprised, at least. The quills-

"This must be surprising to you," he observed, not knowing what else to say, offering that invitation to conversation that must have seemed--in terms of observational skills--blunt as a sledgehammer.

Well, he'd frightened it--or "startled," perhaps; that certainly hadn't been his intent, but not unexpected, either. He disregarded this, the clap of mandibles and the rattling of quills. After he had spoken, Master Vargas stood silent as the Zoisite formulated its reply.

Six acid eyes shifted to regard the Orthoclase as it spoke, and then looked back to Zoisite. He wasn't going to lie, no; but he had already determined not to tell anyone the full truth. For Alpha's sake. Though he doubted Zoisite to be the opportunistic kind, he was certainly familiar with that type, and if word got around that the Orthoclase had displayed such weakness there might be those who would take advantage. Chaos-One, for example, though that one at least would probably be killed if it tried anything too head-on.

Or Draconua.

Thus Vargas's answer came smooth and ready, his tone genuine (for it was; this was a lie of mere omission) and faintly touched with regret. "It was injured in a hunt in Pegasus," he began, glancing again from Zoisite to the chrysalis. His mind snapped back to splintering trees, to the shiver of quills so like Zoisite's own, to the leak of blood and bile. "We were chasing down Meadow Deer, as a sort of a challenge. It made a kill--alone, and well, I might add. But it was knocked into a large tree and broke one limb. It came back here to rest and heal." Vargas studied the stone for a moment, faintly troubled. "It should have been awake by now," he went on--more than he'd intended to say, but there was no reason not to mention it. Gaze flicked back to Zoisite again, and he exhaled heavily. "It was not... in peak condition, so it is possible its stone had more to repair than only the one limb." Truth, without full truth.

Vargas scooted a little closer to the chrysalis, and gave it a light rap with six knuckles, as if knocking on the stone--as if to awaken Orthoclase-Alpha--faint humor in him. "It is late in its emergence, but I am sure that it is fine. I have been monitoring it to ensure there is enough magic in the stone," he went on to explain.

Because that had been worrying, hadn't it-? The emaciated shadow of a former Overseer, barely able to walk, to speak? He'd feared he might have to grant it new life all over again, struggle to keep its current iteration from merely being... erased.

Vargas looked back to Zoisite again. While on the one hand, it was good to be... neutral, all-business and no vulnerability for either of them, it also felt strangely stiff to stand here discussing, as a matter of logistics and fact, the near-death of the Zoisite's lifegiver. Vargas still wished to build something more with this one than he had with the one in the stone--something more than that tenuous bond of military training and history lessons. But what could he say? He wasn't the sort to sit down and sympathetically ask how the Zoisite was feeling, and to do so would be to admit a sort of weakness that would have him instantly cast down. Astraea, perhaps, could do so, but not he; he had been made of different stuff.

Harsher stuff.

What of the connection between Zoisite and Orthoclase-Alpha, then? Were they close..? I doubt that. But I wonder. For the first time, Vargas wondered what it must be like to have Alpha as a lifegiver, for one such as Zoisite. A creature that noted compliments and sought to create and grow, rather than destroy, raised by one who hardly talked, and only picked fights. Did Zoisite look for that emotional lifeline? Had Alpha denied it that with its ever-sullen silence? Or had they shared secret kindnesses, a bond built when his own Overseer's eyes had not been watching? "Overseer Alpha is... difficult to talk to," Vargas said, testing the waters here. And abruptly, he realized a truth, and he spoke it: "I am not the most emotional creature in the cave, but I tend to speak my mind. If I am angry, or pleased, I say as much. Your Overseer does... not. It is difficult to know what it is thinking." Eyes cut again between chrysalis and monstrous child. Does this bother you? he wondered. Did it leave you to find your own way this way, too? It hadn't really occurred to him that he'd done the same to Alpha; he'd always been open but he'd not really had emotions to share. Vargas's "feelings" were blunt, bludgeoning weapons, and none of them were soft or created with finesse.

"That is not a good way to live," he added. A lesson, then; he hadn't intended one, but as he eyed Zoisite he realized it had become one nonetheless.

But he was getting quite off-topic; the Zoisite had only asked what had happened. He thought, for a moment, before turning the conversation's thread back to where it had begun. "That is, in part, why it was gone so long. It was often unhappy but either it did not know why or would not tell me; I told it to take time away and seek its own mind. Perhaps a long sleep will help it to clear that mind; we will have to see."

And then he waited--curious, and somehow worried--to see how the Zoisite would respond. And some part of his skin crawled, too: some oddly guilty-feeling part that feared that someone might step in, overhear, and note this conversation, see it as something more tender than it was. That they would somehow sense the motivations behind these dry and empty-seeming statements. That word would get back to those who had disavowed such things.

That they might suspect.

Had Zoisite but asked, he would have answered the truth: because, as a Master, he could sense it. Feel the Orthoclase's magic, monitor it--it was half of what he did, lingering as he did near its chrysalis, at times.

He was ensuring it would be all right.

But it didn't ask: it replied, and at first Vargas thought that perhaps it was accusing him, somehow, of being at fault for Orthoclase-Alpha's departure. The Overseer left. I did not get... He listened, and would have frowned, if he could, his own quills twitching but not rising, yet. Yes, well, I did tell it it could linger, go where it wished... He realized, then, that it wasn't accusing him; he realized that it had been left behind. Abandoned. And then--ahh!--the desired bombshell.

But I missed them.

His eyes trailed over it. Its stiff posture, its empty tone, were not lost on the Leviathan--he who had been made to observe and judge. Emotional subtleties were often beyond him, but... this--these were not subtleties. He was about to reply. Formulating, in his mind, a reassurance, an answer--so that when the magic struck him, unaware, the first thing Zoisite would note would be perhaps surprising sense of sympathy. Vargas was... sad, for the Zoisite: he still wished to forge some connection. To catch it before it fell too far. But his sympathy was awkward, at best; he was still fumbling for the right thing to say, for an appropriate thing to say, when Zoisite launched her question.

Vargas froze.

A traitor. A traitor to the nest. I am- He shunted that thought down, slammed a door on it and fastened a mental lock, dropped it into the deepest sea of his subconscious as quickly as he could. It wasn't that he was aware of Zoisite's prying: on the contrary, anyone might be listening. A mind was a fragile thing, with magic around. Dwelling on these things-... the smallest bit of body language could give it all away. He, like Zoisite, could not afford to dwell on this one thought.

Images, though, flicked briefly through his mind as he lifted his massive-jawed head, gazing off at the rock wall, trying to think of how to answer this. Images of blood-slicked arms and a blind-eyed child. Images of his sneering Lord and a shimmering gemstone. I am not a traitor, he thought, savagely, and swung his gaze sharply back to Zoisite. It was a damn good thing that her magic would detect only emotions, not images or thoughts, or she might have at once known and seen too much.

As it was, the emotions that flicked through him through these brief few seconds--that Zoisite might pick up--swung wildly between realization, disgust, hope?, horror, determined... silence, as Master Vargas stifled his own feelings. And yet... his outward demeanor hardly changed. In all it had been a glance away, a thoughtful stare, a sharp look back: one might be forgiven for wondering if his inner self was always in such deep turmoil, and simply remarkably well-hidden.

It wasn't, of course: the Leviathan was generally a straightforward beast, in speech and feeling both. But now he formed his words carefully, and they came with a strange sense of caution in the master, free for prying Zoisite to taste. And this, more than anything else, would have likely felt private--as though he were deliberately thinking over how to feel.

"The one who made me," Vargas told it, quietly, "is no longer in this nest. Several of the Masters of this cave have proven to be traitors." A legacy I will need to fight to cast off. But realization was creeping in--and the Zoisite could perhaps feel this, too. Sudden doubt, sudden misgivings. Was I made this way, deliberately-? Was this planned..? I had thought-... I had thought that it was simply an opportunistic choice, but...
An incredible surge of uncertainty flooded Master Vargas. He had always been certain, more than anything, of himself--but had he been made for-..? Had his choices been predestined, all along--predetermined by a cunning plan thousands of years in the making? There was a sense of dawning horror, a realization, a sudden rage at perceived betrayal-

Vargas cast away these thoughts with a heavy, sudden exhale. Not now. If the Leviathan's emotional health were ever in question, his compartmentalization was remarkable: he would simply designate himself a time--later--to worry about this. Not now. Now was Zoisite's time. "You ask a difficult question, Zoisite-One," he said at last, blinking, his jaw briefly working as he considered.

I did not come here to speak about myself. It was a somehow sad thought--he did not want to suddenly lapse into terrible realizations about his own creation when he had been so focused on trying to build something--anything--with the grown child before him. "This-... This world," he began, and took a few small steps closer. He settled himself down, on his haunches, in a looser posture than prior. Thoughtful, he studied the Zoisite and continued. "Our world. It is not made for close bonds, and for families, you understand. It is a nest: a place for creatures to spawn a new generation, who are taken away for the purpose of this nest, for the Creator." He fell silent, for a moment, and briefly... again, though he did not show a whit of it, sad. Bonds--love--that had never been Vargas's domain. It still wasn't.

The sad truth of it was, if Lord Dhracia descended here in a fury now, he would still sacrifice every member of the Forge to preserve his own life. His own work. He would do so--and he would do it again, and again. But for how much longer-? Another thought to be pushed away. The point was that, while he was coming to understand that there were bonds among many of his creations, bonds that were ignored at the creature's peril (see: Orthoclase-Alpha), he could not truly partake, or understand. Oh, he could care for them, in his way; he could try to build those bonds, to be as decent a monster, perhaps, as he could be. Honorable, whatever that meant, within the confines of his own rules for survival. It meant a fair warning, before a kill. It meant being true to one's word, even if that word was murder. He could try to protect them from the realities of this world.

But we are trying to build something better.

He inhaled, and shook his head. "My maker is gone. But yours is not; perhaps when it wakes, you might spend time with the Orthoclase, and build a bond while you have time, if you wish it. If it will accept it--and it may not," he warned. "I admit, I do not know its mind on the best of days. I am-... sorry, that you missed it; I did not order it gone. I told it that it could come and go as it pleased. I do not know what has troubled it so." Patient, factual admissions, only the faintest touch of weariness in them: these were old truths that he'd come to terms with, by now. "But if it will not speak with you-... Or, if you wish it anyway. I am also here. I will also speak with you-"-and with a glance at the chrysalis, Vargas showed remarkable empathy, for once: "-though I am aware that I am not it."

When he looked back to Zoisite, past the faint weariness, only two faint emotions remained for it to pick at: concern, genuine and faint, a muted mirror of a "normal" creature's familial love--and the lightest thread of hope.

Some part of him noticed that Zoisite had crouched lower upon his approach. He could not tell if it were fear or submission, or merely a companionable crouch, a mirror to the way he was sitting on his haunches. He hoped it was the latter, but there was no real time to bring it up, not without interrupting.

And when V-Zoisite-One began to speak, he would not have interrupted it for anything.

He was not, indeed, a highly emotional being. Zoisite had had the extreme... luck? if one would see it that way, to have prompted a strong reaction with her question at the exact moment she'd cast her magic net. He was pragmatic to the core, and the little indulgence he allowed himself, the dabbling in care for Alpha for example, hardly intruded on his day-to-day thoughts, or on his work. More often lately, perhaps, but still, the snapshot glimpse that Zoisite had obtained likely painted him in a more sympathetic light than was quite fair to his considerably cruel nature. He was, as he was wont to remind anyone who looked twice at him or to think too kindly of him, a monster.

And yet, as Zoisite spoke, this rigid truth melted utterly away. For those few moments, at least, there was feeling in him, and it was a good thing (or a shame, perhaps) that she was no longer dipping her mind into the chemical trickles of his emotions. 'You make me feel better when we talk.' These words brought a faint warmth--unfamiliar, but he found himself silent as he watched her. Relief then flooded through him, and it was surprisingly strong. It is not lost, then--not like Alpha is. She had not crossed that line or, more accurately to the Orthoclase's scenario, gone careening over it head over heels. There was, indeed, still hope.

But the Zoisite wasn't finished. Her comments in regards to Alpha were practical enough, and he nodded faintly along, offered a slight grunt of assent--of approval. He was considering his response--to assure her that it was worth a try, perhaps; to agree that her viewpoint was wise, to praise her for it--when she clicked her jaws and peered up at him.

'... And... If we are to be sent to the Creator for a greater purpose, I don't believe... That makes the smaller moments here meaningless. It is still nice to have lights in Draco... even if it doesn't make us stronger.' Vargas, for the moment, was silent: utterly silent. His stillness might have seemed imposing, but internally, he had also gone quite still.

He was thinking those words over. Savoring what they meant. Zoisite might have been uncertain of whether she made sense, but he understood perfectly. And in that moment, Master Vargas, the Leviathan, Overseer of Hydra, had to define himself by his response. Because his answer, here--and he knew this--would tell Zoisite everything, or nothing, or whatever he wanted it to know.

There are still risks, he thought, distantly, to honesty. Leverage was ever a threat, hanging over his head, as much as there were promises to the contrary. He was no fool. Yet he decided, then and there, on that honesty. Because, as the Zoisite said--it was the now that mattered, wasn't it?

He took a breath, and spoke.

"It is wise to see your relationship with Overseer Orthoclase-Alpha in such a manner," he began, choosing first to get this out of the way, so that it wasn't later forgotten. "But remember, if it does not wish to speak to you--this does not reflect on you. It does not wish to speak to anyone," he pointed out. "Though that does not mean it isn't worth the attempt. Perhaps its rest will have cleared its mind some."

Vargas took another breath, eyes on Zoisite, and more carefully continued. Interwoven with his deep pragmatism came that new thread of feeling, one he was cautious in revealing, unreeling it only slowly. "With luck, Zoisite, none of us will be sent to the Creator. You, and the rest of the Forge, are only here to help create those who will be--those that I send with Lord Dhracia every few cycles. There is... never a guarantee. What I meant to say..." he went on, hesitating, thinking over his phrasing here. "...was that this world was not built for the bonds that many of this era seem to need. It is... new to me. Orthoclase-Alpha may have needed that... that support. I was unaware. I may be the reason for its..." Unhappiness? Dismay? No single word seemed able to encompass its total lack of animation, the way that life and hope had faded from it. Striking it certainly didn't help, he thought, a little bitterly, yet again. But he hadn't had much choice. Vargas looked up, peering down the tunnel, thinking. "Its melancholy, perhaps."

He looked to Zoisite again.

"What I had meant to say--I realize I did not connect these thoughts very well--was that this nest was not designed to provide the needs that many of you seem to have. There was no... room for them, in that era. And they were not made to need them. It was a factory, for monsters; monsters do not need bonds, or to speak. They need only kill, to harvest the weak, to die to the strong, to prove their designs. That," he pushed on, quiet, "is not the world that I would build, had I the choice. That is why I am trying to protect the Forge from--all of that. We must perform our work, but so long as Lord Dhracia holds to her word and I perform adequately, you should all be safe. Safe to... make your lights," he added quietly, and for a moment he was almost--almost--tempted to reach out and pat the Zoisite's head.

"But you are right: I do not believe the lives we forge meanwhile to be meaningless. What is the point of living if you do not enjoy it-? Of succeeding, of winning--sometimes at the cost of another's life--only to be miserable? You create things that are beautiful, and you can find beauty in things as they are. Enjoy them. There is no shame in that," he added, and felt no shame in saying it, either. There was nothing weak about finding pleasure in looking at something beautiful, any more than there was in savoring fresh meat, or roaring in triumph atop a kill. "The point of being stronger, of surviving," Vargas went on--perhaps rambling, now, he didn't know--"is to gain yourself more time to live. So: live," he advised.

He studied Zoisite for a moment longer. He wanted to say, Your lights are beautiful. Because they were, but it felt... insincere. He did not stare at them and appreciate their beauty--but... but she did, and that was what was important. "I am... happy, that you enjoy your lights." Stiffly said, but true. Your lights, and everything else. He understood.

Vargas hesitated, then. He had one more thing to say, but it felt a little awkward, truth be told. He forged on after a beat. Vacillating was not his way. "And I am pleased that talking... helps. I would..." Ahh, awkward phrasing. This... personal conversation was so new to him! The closest he had come, perhaps, was over tea with Nemean and that had been full of sarcasm and jabs, never a real heart-to-heart, or approximation of. "...like, to speak... more. Whenever you wish."

There-... that worked. Right?

He hadn't been trying to dismiss her; in fact, he had meant it as an invitation, much like her own, for "now or later." To continue to chat, if she so wished, but Zoisite's explanation--and invitation--provided an opportunity all its own. An opportunity for further... bonding? If that was what they were doing (Vargas found it hard to tell). Though... it wasn't strictly bonding he was after.

No, he wanted to... to provide support. To ensure that the Zoisite didn't wind up unsupported, as Alpha had. A bond, though he wasn't finding it as repulsive a concept as he once would have, would be incidental. (Was that what a bond was? Caring that someone would not fall? It didn't matter. He didn't know.) But--the farm!

"I will come now," he blurted, perhaps a tad over-eager. It seemed... perfect: they could go, look over some of the Zoisite's own passion project, and further encourage its confidence and so forth. And... he wanted to see. He had seen: he was not so lax as to not check on their progress, but he wasn't about to ruin the moment by saying so.

"SENTINEL," he bellowed--there was one who showed no signs of requiring anything, encouragement or joy or otherwise, and so he felt little guilt in pacing over to the approaching shadow and giving it orders to just... remain behind. "I am departing with the Zoisite, to inspect the farms. Guard the Orthoclase in my absence." It had eaten, judging by faint odor of blood on it.

He looked to the Zoisite, and the quiet spell of heart-to-heart was broken--or was it enhanced? Changed, perhaps, from reflection to enjoyment? Again: Vargas didn't know. Hell, he didn't really think about it; he just knew that maybe he had a chance, here, to simply accompany the Zoisite and let it speak of what it enjoyed, to share it and to grow more comfortable in his presence.

These were good things.

"Come, then;" he said, and there was quiet confidence in his tone now: "show me."