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

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Curious, wasn't it? The nature of intelligent life to crave its routines, adhere carefully to upbringings and preconceived notions, to see all fear sublimate down to that of which was not understood. Terror of the unknown, of change—metathesiophobia, if one were to get flowery with large words—was the most base, primal instinct.

It thrummed deep in the foundations of Orthoclase-Alpha's conscience, that irrationality and uncontrollable spiraling accompanying thought. Perceived change met with anxiety, paranoia, a slipping grip on the here-and-now while it lapsed and once again failed to understand what was so different.

Once again failed to understand how harmless such a discrepancy could be.

It may not be cornered or in physical danger, but still something pulled it taut in all directions (a feeling akin to a butterfly pinned to a dissection tray) and spread a deep freeze through its body.

Should it flee? Would it be able to get away quickly enough if it was pursued… ? No, the consequence would be severe, defecting again— What might happen if it remained? The favor, its ill-earned title (it was a trick, it had to be, had to be) returned, routine restored— Vargas may as well have stuck a live wire between its teeth and ordered it to bite down; its flaring, agitated quills were testament enough.

Especially the way the shuddering stopped at each wish, at the thought of it being able to enjoy itself. Foreign concept the latter was. There shouldn't be time, it shouldn't need to, it shouldn't, it shouldn't. It should do without, not get comfortable, one never knew when the new (figurative) chain around its neck would tighten, form a pinch collar 'round its neck—

Disorientation quickly turned turbulent, sublimating into thinly-veiled frustration. Its head shook harshly in the general direction that was Vargas, a half-formed, reflexive snarl on the lip of its jaw. Yet, meeting imitative sight of green eyes had it recoiling, settling back into a near-cowering state of lowered head, pupils darting quickly enough to flash their whites. A soft apology rumbled from its throat.

A beat.

The orthoclase made a common confession: "I d-don't know."

An uncommon statement. "I— shouldn't be an Overseer. I don't—I don't… know why you— n-no, I deserve—" Jaws click!ed shut. An informal redaction.

A rare request. "Tell m-me what to do, Master Vargas." What I want.

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

Vargas felt that same twinning--loss, and hope--as the Orthoclase continued its circle around the drain. It was circling, yes, but it wasn't yet sinking too far and at least it was moving. The body language was clear, twitching, snarling, shuddering.

The snarl took him aback. He hadn't expected aggression. Angry at me, or at my question? he wondered. He could have chided it, despite its apology--should have, really--but he let it go. It does feel cornered, he realized, though whether by him or merely the implications of his presence and questions, he couldn't tell.

Its question, though, gave him pause.

Tell me what to do.

Oh, child, if only I knew. The thought was not a loving one. It was the sort of thought a grandmother might think, while shaking her head at a lost cause of a criminal grandson. It was a thought spawned of cycles of fruitless repetitions of that same question: what do I do? What does Alpha do? -From cycles of repetition with no improvement, and no answers. It was, in a word, exasperated.

What could he say-? Tell it to find its own way? To take the time out to find a name, a calling? I have tried that. Tell it to resume its duties? To find normalcy in its old, soulcrushing grind? It does not want that. To dismiss it? To tell it to go and find its freedom? It will think itself useless, worthless, then. I have tried that, too.

Maybe if he took "figure it out yourself" and wrapped it up in the guise of a decision, and pushed it away to calm it down, for now. That seemed to be the best, and Vargas quickly worked to phrase it. His words were still deliberately measured, quiet, so as not to startle or threaten Alpha further. Calming, even--as best the Leviathan could manage.

"Very well. Go enjoy your health for a day or two, and find the Zoisite when you are done. Spend time with it. When you are more relaxed, return to me. We will try you on minor Overseer duties one day out of three, and you can decide after one cycle if you wish to continue. Does this sound acceptable?"

Simple enough. Broken down, translated, he was saying: "leave, before you drive yourself into another breakdown. Go be with your child and see if you can relax and bond. Then come back and learn you are not unwanted, and test the waters yourself to make your own decision." With loose deadlines applied, so that it would not be lost in a wave of its own indecision.

Would it work?

Vargas snorted--mentally.

It was just as likely as anything else.

@Orthoclase-Alpha

It braced itself for a relapse, a rehash, a repeat of last time, its ~~punishment~~(?!) for failing, for losing drive as its Master had described it before; for him to send it away once again, to let it experience once more how helpless (It wasn't! It wasn't! It could prove that to him—) it was without the Forge. To give it as simple a directive as "I want you to find it again" like before and watch as it seemed to fail endlessly at that.

Orthoclase-Alpha braced itself, and what came seemed far worse: the unexpected.

Vargas simply passed over its fumbling words, as if they'd not been a failure to describe the cloying sort of sickness rotting a hole through its skull, through its glass-blown heart. (What was there was akin to algae coating the surface of still water, smothering all light and starving the riverbed dwellers below of scarce, precious oxygen. An oppressive, immovable layer of sick. A plague.) He passed over them and proposed that there was time. That there was opportunity to take things slowly, to decide if it wanted to continue.

Putrescent eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly of their own accord, not for suspicion at actually receiving a calm response to its one-time, desperate request (thu-thu-thump! goes the heart at the adrenaline of having made one at all) but for the strange, recoiling feeling that swam through its body at even considering its own title. Frustration ebbed back in, the bird-trapped-in-a-cage feeling buzzing behind its eardrums; but, it was gone as quickly as it'd come with a reminder fluttering through its turbulent thoughts: i>I think it has been… difficult for it, your absence.

The Zoisite. The Zoisite. Master Vargas must have told it something, this was a part of his plan. To offer some vagary like "Go enjoy your health for a day or two" and send it to its fellow Forge for… something. Alpha tried to remind itself that the Leviathan had never been anything but direct, honest and as blunt as a deer's tooth, but—

Quills clacked against one another in its apprehension to respond, and there was a solid fifteen seconds in which it simply stared, processing; eyes flicking to and from the Door of Life and what greenery lay beyond. Never once did it meet the Leviathan's gaze again, nor did it make an abrupt move to escape (canary in a coal mine, meet the aforementioned butterfly on the dissection tray) or attack.

It'd gotten what it'd wanted: directions. An aim. A goal (however vague) to pursue.

So, despite all its reservations on what was to come with such directions, it intoned with practiced care and a slow dip of the head, "Yes, Master Vargas... sir."

And just like that—like it were once again a mere four cycles old in Tunnel P, all those cycles ago—there it stood, mane perpetually in a state of half-agitated disarray, awaiting dismissal.

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

Well, it didn't look great--the quills were all over the place, again. But he had no real way of knowing just how deep Orthoclase-Alpha's turmoil currently dipped. Was it totally and utterly traumatized somehow, deaf to all his words? Or calmed and relatively ready to carry out his (half-baked) instructions?

Until he learned to read minds, Vargas knew, the point was wholly moot.

"Good!" was all he said. "I am glad you have come out healthier. Go; and try to have a little fun..?" There was amusement in it, humor. Vargas himself had fun all the time, after all: he believed in it.

It was just that his brand of "fun" tended to align perfectly with his own duties. Hunting rebels down and killing them, for example. That was always fun.

@Orthoclase-Alpha

Woosh.

"Thank you, sir," was all it said—with no less than gratuitously wary confusion—before it turned to plod down the length of the tunnel, toward Pegasus. A few glances tossed over its shoulder (as if it wasn't sure he was being wholly serious about the dismissal, or that it still expected some sort of surprise attack) and nothing more.

When Vargas inevitably disappeared from sight, along with the Oilstone-laden gates to his domain, Orthoclase-Alpha stopped; how far was too far to stray? Toxic eyes listed behind itself, once again over a shoulder (new, fresh, intact again…) to study a valkhound that was (perhaps) no longer there to provide answers.

Guilt (akin to that of a child caught breaking a lamp) gnarled its innards as it continued on.

… what was it supposed to do for a few days?

(Its Master had made a suggestion: Have fun.)

Its snout tipped downward as the tunnel light grew brighter, warmer. As a cool breeze settled in its chest and spurred a muffled cough in is throat. Pupils contracted further as they stared across the horizon, the distant wall opposite to this one, the hulking shape of meadow deer ambling through soft, green grasses. A startling flare of nausea and terror slithered up its spine, and it looked away before the rattling of its own quills began; as if that'd alert them from such a distance.

Calloused pads sank into the ground cover beneath them, but all the strange magic of aliveness had leeched out of it the moment it'd spotted violet. Eyes narrowed. It kneaded at the earth with shifting weight, head slipping sidelong to gaze at the southern side of the cave—then, the northern.

With far too much ease for something that'd just awakened from cycles in a chrysalis, Orthoclase-Alpha decided that it'd find a nice hollow to sleep in—or to lie in, far too awake with a horrific maelstrom of conflict brewing in its overcrowded, overcast head.

Exit!
@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

Vargas watched it go.

He did not follow. He would not count away the hours it was gone, like pushing beads along an abacus.

He'd trusted it once to find its own way and it had failed completely--it had all failed completely. But it was clear that his presence had been distressing it. Unfortunate, but... perhaps it would pass. That was all he could hope for, for now; to turn it loose again, healthy this time, and try to guide it to find its own way.

You weren't much help, he thought with a snort, Lord Dhracia in his mind.

Well-! Time not to dwell on this, then.

He had Masterly things to do, and Alpha had... whatever it was going to do. He couldn't afford to constantly worry, not now; he'd done what he could for the time being. It was time to let Alpha steer its own course for a bit. If it didn't check in in a week, he would find it. If it did, they would... well, they would go from there.

exit Vargas

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