ORIGIN - and i wonder: do i look all right?

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derealization/unreality? [in low-opacity section]
Awake.

No, not quite.

More adrift than anything.
Wading through a mire, little but the sloshing of amniotic fluid around its ankles, the peculiar milk-scent of newness clinging to the creeping, crawling mist. Wasn't that strange, too? A dream. A dreadful fog—or was it soothing? There were glittering lights above, incandescent wisps gamboling at the peripheral edges of its own awareness; it didn't feel much like it had a body. It, used loosely, of course, for it was some nameless, listing entity lulled into this strange state. Between planes? Between existences? Between the collision point of two realities? A hologram on the surface of the event horizon, body long-destroyed and pulled taffy-thin by an infinite gravity in an infinite space in an infinite mass?

It was quiet here. Muffled? At times a susurrus of sound echoed underfoot, but any time it looked down, it'd find only a formless shape. Sticky black decomposing and coalescing once again into something only vaguely imitative of a triangle. Sometimes the crystalline plane smeared; other times, it cracked and shattered beneath the unknown pressure of watercolors. Light would press in, then—fingerprints smudging the glass, and what did it see then? The murmuring shape of before, but different; clearer and yet not. It excited the metastasizing growth in its being.

A sense of solidity, of conscience, of feeling the press of a diaphragm on scarred lungs—and wasn't that an interesting, minute detail, those scars? If it was so unknown, unreal… then why did its form bear scars? The wear and tear of a thing discarded in the petrichor and playground mud? Why did it recall the reason, the meaning following form, then?

How one could do so was beyond it, for a time.

It understood with the sting of stagnant air and crackling ozone in its lungs; but, what blessed things they were to gasp for. Its limbo whisked away into distantly forgotten reverie with the shuddering crack! and peel of orthoclase from chitinous flesh, and it blinked to a solid state.

After the initial violent spasm, the apparently revived hybrid shook out its sparkling-clean, pristine, straight— quills and blinked into the stark contrast of light against dark and vice versa—with eyes no longer clouded by starvation and an age-old weariness. There was a clear picture at the end of its snout, not something blurred and strained through a well-loved cloth. At this, the monstrous hybrid launched to its feet.

Nary a stumble or wobbling, compromised joint betrayed it; and a breathy sound that could be mistaken for a laugh, however disbelieving, puffed from its parted jaws. Its jaws, no longer slavering, no longer frothing for want of and aversion to the feel of anything in its stomach.

Putrescent—clear!—eyes flicked downward, and it lifted a claw to feel at its shoulder. All the evidence that any of it had been shattered had reduced to just this: marbled whorls where it thought it may have fallen, may have become injured. (How did that happen? it wondered amid the wonder of just being intact and the confusion of why it felt so... excited by such a thing.) Claws sat perfectly in their beds, and it—Orthoclase-Alpha, it recalled only faintly—slowly ran them over the edges of its hide, each once-shredded plate it could remember and find.

All intact. All whole. It traced the old scar along its side, the snarl of flesh along the opposite, and—with only the slightest amount of practiced, overfamiliar dread—its skull.

And yet, its heart gave an involuntary spasm, shuddering and jackhammering in its chest. A fluttering, unfiltered sort of joy so rarely experienced that it could be a world-class museum exhibit. The type that made its hindmost legs kick out behind it quite similarly to a stallion set upon a spring's first pasture. It galloped a short distance with rearing steps, casually shuffling quills, and a snuffling sort of breath.

The cancerous old mass of doubt then made itself known in the twist of its gut. It stopped abruptly, head canted high above its shoulders and eyes searching like spotlights. Quills flattened against its neck.

Despite the foreign-seeming energy rocketing through live wire veins, using its body as the path of least resistance, Orthoclase-Alpha was too aware of what could not possibly be there. Toxic eyes could not help but to begin regarding its surroundings, and soon came the clockwork momentum of its neurons gauging proximity to a womb, to a Forge, to its denizens. Computing the likelihood of it having been spotted in such an unconcerned state.

Where was it? How had it gotten here?

It glared into the shadows, stealing peripheral glances to the remains of its own chrysalis. (What happened?) Gears groaned to life inside its skull, leaving it far too distracted to truly notice the effortless smear of bloody red across its vision; that is, until each signature grew to such an overwhelming intensity that Alpha began to move for the wall with a rattling mane and uselessly half-squinting eyes.

Claws lifted to dig into its mane, scraping tender hide at the base of each quill and chasing off the sensation of too much.

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

Master Vargas was a patient beast. It was an innate trait, honed over centuries. Hunting those who hid in ratholes, squirreled away for days on end, required it. Waiting for the results of training to break through in a creature he was working with--likewise.

He had not, therefore, been fidgeting and worrying about the stone. He had been practical about it: his attention and concern was there, but flavored 'pragmatic.' He'd kept it under watch at all times, either by himself or by his Sentinel; he'd checked on it, from time to time, to ensure that its magic remained strong. And it had; it had grown, rejuvenated, hopefully rejuvenating what lay within.

Still, the initial cracks had him up like a shot. His head surged up, acid eyes unblinking, nostrils flaring, his full attention on the distant chrysalis. He pushed up from where he'd been resting (not sleeping, never sleeping) and strode for the stone.

He did not make it in time for the hatching.

He did turn the corner just in time to see a distant Orthoclase-Alpha break into what almost looked like dance, and Master Vargas slowed.

Stopped.

Watched.

Its quills look healthier. Its weight, better. It looks more energetic, filled out, strong. Relief washed through him, a feeling he stifled (for necessity's sake), but he did not force himself to feel anything else. Instead, he continued to watch, for the moment, pleased--very pleased--that finally, finally, the Orthoclase seemed... better.

But the body, he knew, followed the mind; had the mind gained from this rest, as well? Or would the Orthoclase merely backslide, hooked claws gripping at this newfound joy and failing to keep a hold?

The Leviathan started forward as Alpha looked around. Slowly, hoping not to frighten it all over again, but careful to not to make his approach too like a stalk. He called out, his tone a careful one. "Orthoclase-Alpha..? Are you feeling any better?"

Did it even want to see him?

I do not care, so long as it is somewhat mended. ...Perhaps it did just need a moult.

@Orthoclase-Alpha

In a single twist of the neck, twin sets of irradiated green eyes locked. Vargas's set into a casual, careful squint; the orthoclase's widening and flashing whites as they scanned, searched, studied.

Looming limbs prowled forward, but unhurried. No hunched posture, no backward shift as if to spring forward. His violet hide rippled only to take a casual step, not the frenetic contraction and release of honed muscle as one breaks into a run. Toxic eyes glanced at hooked talons, slicing arm-blades, the lack of motion to put them to lethal use. Blood roared hot in his veins and stood too bright too bright too bright.

Chartreuse eyes screwed shut, turning away for just a precious moment to dispel the overlay of life.

When it turned back to regard Vargas, it seemed almost… surprised that he'd not closed in. Quills fluffed into a haphazard spray, a ring of points around the back of its head. A forearm lifted into its backward half-step, hovering instead of completing the movement. The plate of its shoulder scraped stone wall, and it rocked forward in response.

Head lifting from where it'd fallen below its shoulders, Alpha glanced down either end of the tunnel. After a mere moment's consideration, it took a halting few steps toward the arched doorway, away from Draco. Its gaze never left his (body).

Belatedly, it realized that the Leviathan'd spoken to it. Asked it a question: Are you feeling any better?

It blinked.

There was no curling nausea in its self-cannibalizing stomach, no persistent buzz in its skull. No stinging pain in its retinas at too stunning a light, too dim a light, too faraway a light. No sulfuric burn in its lungs. No piercing agony rippling through shattered bone and splintered shell. No omnipresent fog in its own head to wade through, lost in the mountain sound with no rappelling rope tied around its waist.

Was it feeling better?

Without so much a thought as to what maelstrom of rising anxiety and paranoia held its body—made it lock up tense enough to shatter at a single blow—it decided that, physically…

"Yes."

No rasp, no terribly grating pain. Just a faint illusion of wetness in its gullet, vocal chords still slick with amniotic fluids. Alpha could not suppress the gasp fluttering from its mouth, the instinctive urge to put a hand against its throat and hum—feeling the smooth vibration of sound against its palm as it half-whispered, "I am…"

Its gaze tore away for that precious moment, and snapped back to Vargas like it'd remembered he was there to begin with. Claws dropped back to the floor, and it mock-straightened its posture—even with itself situated between him and its exit and glancing to it at a moment's notice.

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

Delicate. Delicate. A delicate dance.

The turmoil in its body language was clearly visible, though the health shining through it and the strength of its voice were reassuring. Still, Vargas felt like he was facing some precious object in the Palace: something with vast potential, great worth, but which the slightest vibration in the wrong direction might send tumbling to the floor. Crashing. Shattering, into a thousand tiny pieces.

Did he ask it if it needed space, or time, alone? Or would that send it off into another cycles-long round of hiding and starvation?
Did he ask it if it were ready to return to work? Or would that crush its spirit, driving its cowering body to the floor?
Did he explain that he had been here, guarding the chrysalis as promised; that he wasn't here awaiting its emergence so that he could harm it? Or would that only drive fear, memories, searing back through its mind?
Did he-

No. -No. I know what to do.

Inspiration flared, then settled into confidence. Into hope.

Vargas tilted his head back just a bit, rocking back to sit lazily on his haunches. "Good," he answered, and his tone was pleased, approving. "It is good to see you awake. You look healthier. Better. Take your time in readjusting. Find food, if you must, but when you are ready... I have a favor to ask of you."

Let us see, he thought, curiosity prickling at his mind, what it does with that.

@Orthoclase-Alpha

Vargas reclined.

Orthoclase-Alpha remained standing; and yet its halo of quills thinned out, relaxing only minutely.

All slack came due to a confusion mirrored by its expression: narrowed eyes, pupils dancing; the slight shift of weight to either foot; its careful shuffle to regard the Master just that little bit more directly. All effort at reining in the strangely bothered look on its face fell through as its stream of consciousness parroted the phrase a favor.

Not a command, but a favor. Something optional.

Had the Leviathan formally forfeited claim and control over it?

Was this a test, to see what it did with the illusion of choice now that it was… relatively physically sound?

Would its response determine whether or not it was… still worth anything?

It tightened its jaw, squaring off its stance with a roll of shoulders. The affirmative felt thick on its tongue, so it dipped its head in a single nod of acknowledgement.

It made no move to do what had been suggested before the favor, instead bracing for what was to come.

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

And we are back to silence.

It was mercurial, his spawn. The rise and fall and ebb and flow of its moods were impossible for him to predict. Aside from 'my presence causes it to panic,' Vargas amended, dryly.

He gave it a nod in return, a tilt of his head. He glanced off down the tunnel, nodding toward Pegasus, then back to Draco, as he spoke. "V-Zoisite-One. It has been working quite hard--at the farms, primarily, but also creating lights for the Forge in Draco. I think that it would be good... for it to hear a few words of encouragement from its lifegiver, and its Overseer, don't you think?" He paused.

His tone was mild, even friendly.

"I think it has been... difficult for it, your absence. And I haven't the time to always provide it the support that it requires. Try to forge some sort of..." Vargas gestured, as if the idea were unimportant, as if it were just a part of training, as if it were nothing at all. As if he hadn't struggled with these thoughts for cycles. "...Bond, with it, whatever is required. Trust or positive reinforcement. If you find the time," he added. "For its own sake."

It was unlike him to be manipulative--to be anything other than up front. But Orthoclase-Alpha hadn't responded well to honesty. Maybe a little maneuvering would do. Vargas, though generally honest, was not an idiot. He thought that there was a chance, however slim, that giving Alpha something to focus on--someone else to focus on--might help it just that bit. Perhaps it will even form a bond. Perhaps that would help it, as well.

And what if they banded together, and defected from the Forge? -Vargas was not, himself, without his own paranoias. But the thought didn't bother him, for now. For one thing, it was unlikely. And for another-... well.

One thing at a time.

"Now: is there anything, now that you are awake, that I can do for you?" He kept his tone easy-going and unhurried. The last thing he wanted to do was rush up on Orthoclase-Alpha, striking it with a barrage of questions, assignments and demands. Yet he knew, too, that to simply leave it on its own was to invite a second "hiding in a hole" disaster. He had to do something, but the balance, he knew, would be a delicate one to strike.

Can you still speak? Or have I ruined you? he wondered.

@Orthoclase-Alpha

It may as well have been shot with how it flinched (minutely, somehow) and recoiled (not so much). Not for Vargas's action, but his words—no, word: Overseer.

Active listening tossed to the backburner, the orthoclase left its mind to spin out of control. A favor, he was asking, of an Overseer—but, surely not it? Surely it'd fallen from that graceful title (and why did it feel the faintest bit of guilty freedom thinking that, however briefly?) One did not bear the mantle of weak, broken, unstable. Not even for a moment. They couldn't, they couldn't afford to. Perhaps… there'd been another named in its absence, to fill the feeble little niche left behind, and it was to pass the message along.

But there was just one life-giver. Just one. One that had been an Overseer, its Overseer.

Alpha backtracked with a stunned sort of blink, a shift in its about stance; who did it refer to? Zoisite. Squirming grub, magenta claws and even brighter quills. Glittering eyes. Snapping teeth that refused to close about the jugular except through threat of death, failure—no, that was too long ago. The farms. Making lights. Creating. Looking, seeking approval and—

It was a faint, hardly-there shred of memory, but…

Something about it.

Orthoclase-Alpha sucked in a breath, lamenting the way it whistled through its teeth. It tried and failed to peel the tension from its shoulders, the ache and familiar soreness beginning to return already. Claws curled into the stone, but it was with another overlong, hesitating inhale that it murmured, "yes, sir."

It was merely obligation to comply. Even if it… was a favor (that word made it feel sick) and—

Putrescent eyes drooped in the frown the rest of its face could not execute, and it took a hesitating step to the side.

"I'm… still an— Overseer?" it asked haltingly, perhaps expertly dodging the question of what it needed. (Nothing, it reminded and convinced itself far too comfortably.)

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

A simple "yes, sir."

Well--it was speaking, that was something. It was still... moving, shifting, uneasy--and that left Vargas with a sudden misgiving. What if, in its fear of him, it lashed out at the Zoisite instead? What if it feared Zoisite's failure? What if it feared that his words had been a threat to its life, or that its failure would reflect on Alpha itself? His jaws briefly tightened, the muscle flexing in thought, but aside from that there was no real outward sign of his attention.

"Hm. There is no need to push the Zoisite or to be harsh, you understand. I am suggesting support. It is doing well." ...Just in case.

And when Alpha spoke again, Vargas paused. He tilted his head just a little, again, and peered at his wayward spawn. "Yes," he answered simply, and then--with a questioning lilt to the words--"-assuming you still wish to be?"

He waited, then, and gave it time to think. To answer.

@Orthoclase-Alpha

holy shit a short post between these two

It was unconcerned with the Leviathan's late addition the moment he offered an answer to its question.

A miserably open-ended answer. "Yes, assuming you still wish to be?" he said, kicking over the line in the sand; smearing black and white together on a palette and muddying complementary colors. Opening the door of potential and—the orthoclase (figuratively) slammed it shut with a blurted-far-too-quickly "I do."

Peals of nausea immediately slithered up its gullet, bile and stomach-sick forming despite the total lack of food in its system. It tilted its snout down and stared past it at the violet claws at the static edges of its vision. A practiced breath passed in and out of its mouth; its chest swelled and stuttered at each part, and an uncertain grumble rattled through its throat and quills.

Why did it feel... dissatisfied by its own answer? Its Master's?

He shouldn't be letting it return so easily. It'd shirked duties for cycles and cycles and hid from the world like it were no better than the failures locked away in Canis's vault of bones. Let itself fall into neglect and decay, disrepair and surviving through the sheer force of will that living stone seemed so hellbent on preserving. Too ~~afraid~~ stubborn to die, too terrified to live. Vargas shouldn't be so merciful, so forgiving. It was wrong.

Somehow, though, it felt like... that wasn't quite the reason for its own misgivings.

Nearly sixty seconds after its impulsive affirmative, it lifted its head. Four eyes tried to catch six, but continued to slip away until it gave up; gave up and averted its gaze entirely with a leftward tilt of the snout. Settling for looking at the crook of a slender, toned elbow, it fumbled around the question swirling in its skull.

Almost choked on them, even: "What if I didn't—" NO. Its voice crackled, sputtering off into an unintelligible noise before quitely clearing its throat and starting anew. "If I... shouldn't— want to. It, it—"

Another step was taken away.

"I don't— it doesn't make, make sense." Alpha faltered, quills rattling and flanks seizing with a suppressed cough and quickening breaths. Stop, stop, stop, I need to stop—

@Vargas

vargas isn't dead tho
just a note

in case anyone was wondering

- THE LEVIATHAN -

It gave an answer, and Vargas began to take a breath to speak-... and noticed. Noticed the quiver of quills, the strange sound from the Orthoclase's throat, the shift of eyes to stare at the floor.

He fell silent, and waited for a moment, peering.

Orthoclase-Alpha stared down. Began to look up. Turned and looked left. Stared at its own arm.

Vargas waited. Patience slowly ticked away, but he forced himself to wait. He had not come this far to lose his temper now, nor was he really angry; he simply had to... wait.

The stuttered, stammered beginnings of thoughts were both disappointing and encouraging. Disappointing, because the fact that Alpha might not wish to resume its former life sent a cold spiral of dread through his gut. He did not want to have to chase it down again, should it wander off to "take a break" and vanish once again. Did not want to have to repeat all of this, the cautious approaches, the speech. I tried to leave it entirely to its own devices, and look how that went. Lord Dhracia, it seemed, hadn't done much good.

Most of all, the Leviathan did not want his spawn to simply leave. It didn't... feel right. It was his responsibility. He was-... Concerned. Nothing more.
Yet the words the Orthoclase offered were encouraging, too, of only because they were words, the beginnings of an opinion, a desire. Something beyond 'I don't know.' So the Leviathan waited.

When Alpha stumbled into coughs and rattles, panting breaths, Vargas spoke calmly and clearly.

"Breathe, Orthoclase-Alpha. You are not cornered or in danger." Sensibly said, but he doubted its fears answered to any such god as logic. "If you do not want to resume the duties of Overseer, if you do not wish to be Overseer, then you do not have to." He'd told it that before--had he not? That he had no use for an Overseer who did not wish the role.

Vargas studied Alpha for the briefest of moments. It was not so difficult for Vargas to be delicate, as he was about to be: a hunt required cautious steps, and Overseeing necessitated observation and deduction. He put both to the test now, each word slow and careful. "If you wish, you might take your time in waking up. You look healthier; you ought to enjoy yourself. I ask that you remain near Draco, for now, so that I can at least ensure your well-being," he added, a chain with which he'd have preferred not to collar the Orthoclase but it had proven unable to handle its own leash.

He gave it another moment, and then, careful still, asked again: "What do you want to do?"

@Orthoclase-Alpha

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