ORIGIN - FEALTY

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"MASTER VARGAS?"

Long echoes, long shadows, long vacations. I think you can understand the pit in his belly, a storm like Jupiter's raving in his chest. It is a human emotion. Khavur had been living with that shame and the heat of that fury for so long that it was now muddied, slurred, and dried onto his torso, his limbs, his wings. The guilt, shame, and blame fused together into the chorus of black spires twisting out of his leftmost head, out of the eye sockets. His desires and failures made manifest, weighing him down like iron shackles. What I don't think is quite so human, then, is that determination festering inside that made this monster rise, and drag himself back here. Back to its own creator. Back to...

"I HAVE... returned."

I wish I could piece it all together, every ingredient and spice in this stew, so that you could see the recipe. You might recognize it. I have tried before, and I have tried my best. I think everything is there, just not all in one place. Look back to the reference of Jupiter's storm and know that this, whatever has been brewing within Reaver and Holder, has been brewing for a long time. Perhaps we will finally get to watch it unfold. But don't get your hopes up too high. I think there is still time to wait out.

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

Let it be known that Master Vargas hadn't been aware that Khavur had never returned from Deathmatch. Or rather--he knew, but after he'd checked on the resting chrysalises a few times, he'd started to save time (rather than travel the entire way to Orion and back almost daily) by asking Nemean to let him know when they awoke.

When she hadn't reported in, he'd sought her out and her response every time had been something along the lines of "Yeah, yeah, they're still asleep."

So--up until this moment, to the Leviathan's full knowledge, Khavur had been simply resting.

The call, then, filled him not with fury or contemplation or a pondering on a suitable punishment, but simply... relief.

"Khavur!" he bellowed, cheerfully. That cheer faltered as the damaged head wound into view: the clusters of Oilstone jutting from its eyes. And then his own gaze fell to the dirt streaking him; Khavur didn't look... good.

Vargas, not thinking a thing of it, made his way forward with nothing but concern on his mind, no awareness of personal space to think of as he strode to inspect the damage to the gemstone more closely. "Was this from the chrysalis-?" he asked, drawing near, reaching out to try and take that head in hand. He was oblivious to any potential turmoil, only wondering to himself--was this the result of someone sleeping in for this long-?

@Khavur

He arrived. He arrived, and Khavur had to force the entirety of his gut to stop violently churning, which was like trying to stop the inclement sea from roiling. And when he arrived, he greeted Khavur's call with... what was that, cheer? Immediately, it crossed Khavur's mind that this must be a trick. Then he drew closer, reached out clawed fists without pausing, without hesitation, and Khavur was sent back, in a flash, to the moment when Vargas had shoved those claws into his body with force, mechanical cruelty — he resisted every urge to wince and withdraw, every alarm bell rattling in his head like the tail of a snake, and allowed the Master to inspect his encumbered head.

"Was this from the chrysalis-?"

Khavur bowed his head and turned so that Master Vargas might see the colorless splotches along his spine as well. Mind that he was cautious to keep that region at more of a distance. Flashes back to the glass spines, let them wrap around and provide an armor, post a sign that says: 'Look only.' "Yes, Master Vargas. As was this. Two mutations..." He felt like he was choking again, "T-wo chrysalises. I... ran away, when I first awoke. I hid and chrysalized again, which is what caused the oilstone spikes to... blind me." Khavur then summoned the monster and buried the feelings, swallowing smoke, forming composure out of melted wax, and seeking out Master Vargas's eyes with those of his own that remained functional. All for the sake of appearance, of attempting to lose graciously, I suppose. "...I failed you."

For the first time since he had exited his second chrysalis, Khavur was suddenly stricken, completely overcome with a feeling of absence. His eyes widened, and he could not hold his tongue: "Wh- Where is Maximus? Do you... know?" The feelings scraped on the dirt above them, and Khavur nearly drove a claw into his own skin to make them stop. It would have been a futile attempt — bodily harm meant nothing to him. Regardless, he had to find a way to get back in control. "S- Apologies. That was not what I intended to ask about..." but he still had to know. His mind would not continue until he knew.

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

He craned his head to see the pale spots, puzzled by Khavur's words, at first, as they came. Two chrysalises? he was thinking, but his creation was still speaking.

Ran away..?

Vargas, as anyone who knew him could say, was not a particularly emotional sort. This was usually for the best, though: he was controlled, measured and relatively fair, rarely lashing out in actual anger. But on the flip side of that cold coin lay the other end: his praise, too, was always measured and handed out in a genuine but logical fashion. Empathy--that did not come easily, nor should it for one like him.

And yet.

With his previous troubles--with Maximus, with Orthoclase--he was beginning to develop something of a complex. Baggage, even, it might be said.

A fear that there was something wrong with his creations.

He'd come to believe that there had been a mishap. Only... not a mishap: a rebellion.

A little one.

Someone who'd hoped to fly far too high had injected a little something into him. A something he'd passed on to his spawn--quite by accident--and on to a little human girl, quite on purpose. For the last several thousand years, Overseer (and then Master) Vargas had been blindly charging through a dark tunnel, and now--only now--were certain circumstances and certain people shining lights on certain things. Slowly, irrevocably, these things had been falling into place in his mind.

And he was realizing that the tunnel had, all along, been something entirely different than he'd imagined. The lights silhouetted new and dancing shadows on the wall, the shadows of puppets forged eons ago, and now he understood. It was all rather genius, really, and he couldn't fault the puppeteers.

He couldn't even be angry that he'd turned out to be a puppet.

But his spawn-? Had he known, in advance, he'd have been prepared for it.

The thing was...

The thing was, he'd thought Khavur was immune.

Khavur had never been particularly demonstrative. He'd always been straightforward, direct. Reserved, yes, but honest--as he was being now. But Vargas hadn't had any reason (at least, in his own mind) to assume that the problems with his other spawn had been shared into the Reaver, too. Yet the thought had worried him, that thin thread of possibility. That knowledge that no 'child' of his would be normal.

The knowledge that they'd eventually give him away for what he was.

But when his personality drew itself around to the end of its circle, back from this curve of emotion to logic, everything snapped back into place. The theoreticals, the what-ifs and the worries--they did not matter right now. What mattered was that Khavur was present; Khavur was speaking; Khavur had to be addressed.

A hand wave, indifferent--no; dismissive. "Enough of the 'failed me.' I think all of you assume you know what failure is, and that is an arrogance you haven't earned." It was said calmly, without hint as to what he might have meant by it. Was it straightforward? Was it what it sounded like? Or was it cryptic, the Master lost in his own thoughts? He gave no indication.

"Why did you run away? What did you run from?" What were you afraid of? He'd have wondered, again, if it was him. Deathmatch had been voluntary. He thought he always treated his spawn with relative fairness. All the Forge, in fact. But-... that wasn't his concern, just now. He was not defensive, angered. He just felt...

...tired.

And there was business still to tend to: therefore, there was no time to indulge that weariness. Instead, he rocked back to sit on his haunches, studying Khavur, and shook his head at the Reaver's apology. "No matter. I think I know the bond you share. You do not know where they are-?" he went on.

He'd expected their link to still be strong. He'd expected, even, for Khavur and Maximus to have tried meeting in secret. He'd intended to keep watch for that, with every intention of harming or even killing Maximus when he caught them.

And yet. Again. Despite all the irritation and frustration--so much of it undeserved--that that other spawn had put him through, he felt a twinge of concern. Did it leave the Forge and simply... die? Had it really failed that quickly, out there in the caves, without the protection of Draco and of Khavur? Of Vargas himself?

Maybe Draconua did hunt them down, he thought, but no--she'd have gloated about that much, at the very least.

But then--did Khavur know Maximus had even left..?

"Maximus chose to leave the Forge, partway through the Deathmatch. I had given them my permission in return for their leaving a child behind, to be raised by the Forge. V-Chaos-Six-... if you did not know. I told them that they were to stay away from Draco and from the Forge. I have not looked for them."

Vargas was still unaware of the actual link--the magical link--that Khavur and Maximus had forged: if he had known, and if he'd known that it was severed, he might have been able to tell Khavur what that meant. Dead, or in the gemstone. But for now-?

For now, all he could do was wonder.

@Khavur

As much as Khavur wished not to be an Orthoclase-Alpha, nor a Maximus, here he was learning the same lesson: to creatures who feel, to mortals, kindness could be crueler. The heart wasn't built for the change. But Khavur did have one saving grace, and that was the part of him that was his Master. The part ingrained — the monster. And yet, even the monster couldn't seem to take the questions that prodded too deep. "Why did you run away? What did you run from?" Those weren't questions for a monster, so the mortal part had to trudge and rip through the grave once more. Too many brains. Too much thinking. Why not more criticism? More to flinch at, more wincing, more fighting? If he could rebel against Master Vargas, why wouldn't Master Vargas rebel against him?

That was most certainly an arrogant thought, of the same line Master Vargas had mentioned. What criticism did come, Khavur took like a soldier. Wordless, breathless, as if talking to clay. With words and actions, he could be molded. I do not know what failure is, then. I was certain, for the longest time, that it was me... and Maximus. There was shock in that revelation, but surprisingly it did not run far. Even though it definitely should have. Electricity does not carry so far across earth. All that remained were echoes of a name: Maximus.

Because it was urgent, that is where Khavur focused first. He took it in, quiet despite his brimming heart, on the verge of disaster. It took him a moment of listening, thinking, absorbing... and then that mortal part of him felt like it was about to reel and spiral right out of his chest. But another saving grace; ration, reason, made it through first. "You spared them." There was no disbelief, although the tone could be read as such. In shock, or... awe? Mild awe. "Thank you." One head, the one not coated in oily black spires, bowed again, this time in humility. Genuine gratitude. The question of where Maximus was still remained, but the knowledge that, after everything, they had been spared... meant hope.

Unless Draconua had devoured that hope already.

That thought made part of Khavur's mood spike, boil rapidly, reach a fever pitch. Khavur slammed that part into the cold, solid ground and told it to focus on another name instead: V-Chaos-Six. Then, somehow, he- it- moved on.

"I... you are right, I do not know failure. I merely had... ideas of what it meant. That was arrogant of me, to think myself correct. I apologize. I..." don't know how to say this without it sounding like a criticism, "do not understand as much as I want to, about such things. Failure. Myself. If you remember, long ago I once asked you about strength, and you gave me an answer... yet I still do not know for certain what it means to be strong."

Khavur paused for a moment, looking uncertain, and feeling, of all things, numb. And then, from some source Khavur did not know about, somewhere above the chasm in which he dwelt, all that truth he had been building up... must have broken a dam and come pouring out. Down it fell, scattered words from the only maw he had left to speak with. "I suppose I do not know what to say." That was the first, and possibly the last lie Khavur would ever tell Master Vargas. He took a breath and went on before Master Vargas could interrupt:

"...It might be arrogant, but not knowing what a failure looks like, I assumed it looked like myself. Perhaps you do not see that in me, because for whatever reason I kept it hidden. I tried to find out about strength, and once I thought I knew, I forced it upon V-Labradorite-One and V-Zoisite-One. I tried to fight in the Deathmatch and lost in the first round, to a child as big as my hand. I tried to protect Maximus, from you, and from myself. I tried to build my strength, to build it in others, to earn freedom for us all, and I never once succeeded. In everything I attempted, none of it came to pass the way I had wished. All that you have given me — a rank, a purpose, a body — I have squandered. This is why I thought myself a failure. And I suppose, since you commanded my honesty and my loyalty, that I will tell you: that is what I ran from. Your judgement, and my mistakes. Just as" Orthoclase-Alpha did "a lesser creation might. One who does not belong amongst the members of the Forge. Yet, I could not bring myself to run away forever, almost entirely because I knew... there was nowhere else I belonged."

Whether it was human or monster, Khavur didn't know anymore. Maybe just an abomination. Maybe just a creature and a creator, unsure of what living was like, despite having lived so many cycles. Maybe Master Vargas would be able to see it in his eyes — thoughts, familiar and alien. Emotions, similarly familiar and alien. Honesty. Everything he had asked for, and more.

"I once thought, with my own definition of a failure, that a failure could change, or that circumstance and situation might change the way a failure is perceived. I thought that I could change, remake myself without your assistance or guidance. This..." he gestured to the spikes bursting from his flesh, "was my most recent experiment."

Perhaps there was one questions left, after this torment, this storm overhead. Why return? Why not continue living this mottled half life? Why place yourself on the scale already? Master Vargas was not pressing for those answers yet, and Khavur would not answer such a question unless it was asked of him directly. Only because he wasn't sure. He needed time. That was the ironic thing — the need of time that he was now forsaking. The whole ordeal, his whole life, had never felt more insignificant. And, in the bigger picture of things, that is exactly what it was. But to be aware of it can cause so much grief... no matter. He would attempt a poor answer now, imagining it to be the last answer he would have the opportunity to give. "I could attempt further experiments, but they take too long, and they have never been authorized. And they have never been successful. Now, I find, that they might have all been irrelevant as well. Either I was never a failure, or I am and by definition I can never change."

It was so rigid, so factual. Sometimes Khavur wanted proofs, evidence, reasoning. How vile, how orderly. But then, none of his answers ended up being concrete, or telling the full story. He remained a beast of chaos because of that dual nature, the way that it fought in his head, like the moon swallowing the sun and the sun swallowing the moon.

Once all of his spilling was done, he felt gaping and dry, like a fish on land. Now, now he did not know what else to say. Perhaps that was his invitation, at last, for the judgement he had spent all of this time fearing.

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

Spared them? The words surprised Vargas--as did the genuine 'thank you' that followed. His gut (that was his gut, yes?) wrenched at the idea that Khavur might have awoken to Maximus simply dead. Yes, the Leviathan had come to loathe Maximus for their behavior but Khavur-? You are likely the reason that I spared it, he thought. He didn't say it. It wasn't something Khavur should hear, in his mind--he did not want Khavur thinking that he owed Vargas for a life. Still--he did not know what to say to 'thank you,' and so he simply nodded an acknowledgment, and shuffled out a quiet, stock-standard "You are welcome." Genuine, but... What else could he say?

Khavur went on, then--and went on, and Vargas (surprised by both the flood of words and the depth of their flow) remained silent throughout. He made mental notes as Khavur spoke: things to address, when at last it had finished.

What a failure was, for example. And to define strength once again. He-... thought he was a failure. Baffling, how his spawn could leap over chasms of his praise to reach these conclusions. Vargas again felt weary--tired--as though this were a path he'd trodden far too many times already: a sisyphean hurdle of pushing his spawn up this hill, only to see them tumble back down past him... over and over and over again. Why? For one who had spent so long encouraging, berating, pursuing, gauging, judging, overseeing, Vargas found himself once again at a loss.

I command his loyalty, his honesty. He fled from my judgment-? And his mistakes? What mistakes-? Well-... His fortitude in returning here was to be admired, at the very least. His willingness to face Vargas, even though he imagined punishment at hand, even though he believed himself to be a failure.

Strangely, the thought of punishing Khavur for having wandered off for cycles (damn it, Nemean) did not even occur to the Leviathan. Instead he was (wearily, tired, drained) mulling over Khavur's words, taking a breath, steeling himself to the task of answering.

Of trying to shore up a failing dam, where he had so many springing leaks all around him.

Leaks they could have fucking warned me about.

When at last Khavur finished speaking--the over-rigidity of his definitions now clear and sharp--Vargas set himself to his task. It was not with only a sense of duty, though; not only with that exhaustion. It was with some faint consideration for Khavur's state of being. An echo, a mirror again and again of the same troubled minds among all his spawn yet this one, at least, still held strength.

There is Chaos-One, but that one is too much an idiot to actually worry about anything, I think.

"Khavur," and Vargas set the tone of his address with calm and measured words, "I would judge that the mistake you have made is in thinking the opposite of strength to be failure. The opposite of strength is weakness. It was a long time ago now but I told you that weakness has a lie that it tells itself: that the weak fall, and then believe they have fallen because they are weak. The weak can learn to be strong; the strong can fail, and become weak. Weakness breeds itself, not out of some physical failing but from a creature giving up. Someone is only weak once they begin to believe that they are weak. They are only weak," he went on, "if they give up." He didn't add that this was precisely how Maximus had disappointed him, time and time again. Despite every chance that they'd been given, they'd always given up. Not at first--not when they'd been physically weak, but mentally determined, which was what had made it most irritating of all. He'd given it that second chance, reformed it free of corporeal defects and it had somehow fallen apart. "That was why I told you that strength is willpower alone. A weak creature may be as strong as I am but give in when it stumbles. A strong beast might be physically broken," he went on, thinking of the Lorekeeper daring to stare him in the eye, "but refuse to stay down. That is strength. Your loss to the creature who defeated you isn't weakness, it's just a loss. Luck always factors into battle, Khavur, as does experience. Loss is only learning."

Wise words, from a monster.

"As for failure-? I do not know that you have ever seen it. I have never deemed any of the Forge to be a failure." Even Orthoclase-Alpha, starved and mute in a hole. He thought about it. "A creation made for battle, which gives up and simpers, lost and wallowing in self-pity, refusing to better itself--that might be a failure. Once it resists every effort to grant it strength, insisting it is weak-... then it may be deemed a failure. Is this any clearer?" he asked. And he hoped it was obvious that he meant all of it: strength and weakness and failure, all a bundle of confused definitions that were--in Vargas's mind--crystal clear.

He had more to say, of course, but-... he wanted to know that this time, he was understood. That this time, Khavur would not somehow decide that it was weak or a failure, and then begin to self-destruct. Is this what happened to Orthoclase-Alpha? he wondered.

Perhaps--but Khavur still stood before him, one way or another. And the Orthoclase had returned to him, as well--if briefly; it had also found its courage.

Perhaps his spawn shared something more than self-destruction after all. Was that too much to hope for?

@Khavur

Now, it was Khavur's turn to listen. And just like that, the world began to creak its gears and shift. Words written in pages as they were revealed, stowed away in the still-beating heart of the Reaver. Looking over all the times in the past where such muddied definitions, where Khavur's key mistake, had clashed with the reality at hand. Where misconstructions of strength and weakness had bashed the zoisite and labradorite to bits, reduced them to animals. Was that still right? Had that still been right? Maximus... had never liked that violence. Khavur had known that, and had hidden it away as one of the many skeletons piled in Canis closet. They had attributed it to Master Vargas, to the wound he had torn in the depth of Khavur's complicated heart. That internal bleeding had made Khavur lash out, yes, but what of Master Vargas, who — as far as Khavur could tell — could not even bleed in that manner? And Draconua, who sought destruction and corruption out of joy? And Lord Dhracia, whose exhilaration still crept and crawled through Khavur's gut like a spider that had made its home. These monsters, they would have torn him apart for the exact same reason: just to see what was inside. Just to see what Khavur was made of. Hadn't that also been what Khavur was to do, with the labradorite and the zoisite?

This was the crux of the war in his heart. Those siblings of his, whom he still considered siblings if he had any right to... he cared about them. Unwittingly. Unrelentingly. He wanted nothing less than their freedom, than that happiness that he and Maximus had shared on the trip to Draco, on the visits to Pegasus. He wanted their protection, he wanted to see them thrive in a way no monster from Draco had ever seen before, and that on its own was overwhelming. But he also wanted to see, just as Master Vargas might, whether they were capable of reaching that. Khavur could not be their Prometheus, their fire-stealer; not in this world. But if they, like their parent, had shown signs of what Maximus had theorized to be that "softness", then... could they reach it on their own? Did they have what it took? Or would the strength, the relentlessness that Master Vargas craved, always be out of their grasp?

Monsters were strong enough to attain freedom, and what would they do with that freedom? Only "lesser creations", non-monsters, would use that freedom to not be monsters. Khavur had just wanted to see... which it was, for his siblings. He wanted for them to seize freedom and do what they wished with it, and he had suspected that what they wished to do with their freedom would reveal their softness, and he had feared that their softness would bar them from the freedom they needed. (Because Master Vargas seemed to equate "softness" with "insistence of oneself to be weak", and the weak were not strong, and the strong were not free.) Khavur had wanted to tear his siblings apart, like a monster. He had wanted to make them hurt like how he hurt, like a person.

So was it right, back then, to fight? To run? To hide? To have tested them, then left them to fend for themselves? It was all so confusing, Khavur felt like he was going to fracture, shatter, explode. But Master Vargas had answered his questions. All of the questions that remained could only be answered by Khavur himself. Well, not all, but most.

"I understand now. Strength" for monsters "is... unending resilience." And for Maximus, it was defiant softness. They were not a monster. "Weakness is a lapse in that resilience, but the gap... can be mended. And failure is the refusal to mend." Therefore, I have proven strength, despite my losses. Perhaps even by way of them. He let it sit, in the air; a repetition to be evaluated. Meanwhile, he thought of the differences. He was strong enough to be free, in Master Vargas's eyes. He was strong enough to be beautiful, in Maximus's eyes. He was supported by fate, according to the red dog. So then, his failures... Khavur felt silly about them now. Ashamed, to have ever mentioned them, misevaluated them, and especially to have run from them. Abandoning his post, and his plan. The plan would have to change now anyways.

But there was more: "Why do we— you... why do you work for this nest, Master Vargas? Why do you wish to keep it alive?" If only he could know about that ceremony that had bound Maximus and Khavur's minds together. There was only softness there, personhood and freedom. The strength to know limitations and rely on the assistance of others. There had been no monsters there besides Maximus and Khavur, if he recalled correctly. And what of that power, love? Was it monstrous, or strictly for people? Khavur looked at the Master and tried, almost with desperation, to seek a decision within Master Vargas's eyes. Khavur looked as if somewhere, underneath the plating, just in the corner, was the answer tucked away, ready to fall out and be seen. But he couldn't find it. Even in his memory, he couldn't find it. Draconua? Lord Dhracia? Did they feel love, of any kind? Did Khavur? That part of himself, did it... But he couldn't find it. So he looked away, instead choosing to elaborate on his question. "If there are so many in these caves who would not be resilient..." Canis flashed in his mind, "who could not be resilient enough to survive, why keep them alive? Why seek to protect them from..." As many times as he had thought her name, and despite the few times he had let it escape into the air before, he could not say it now. He did not know why.

The ghost of his elaborated, ulterior questions drifted over his tongue. Were they only weak? Were they not failures? If the weak should not be punished, then... why did they die? Or are they failures, and failures should not die, or should not die anymore, or—

The empire in Khavur's mind was unraveling. For the first time since his reawakening, he thought of the bats in Canis he had watched some time ago. They fought for food, they died with fear but without remorse, and nothing shifted. The world went unconcerned. Always, animals. Always contested, always bare. They could not hide their faults or weaknesses, and the reason they went unjudged and were allowed to continue is because they were necessary. Necessary to Khavur, who had the capacity to hide and be strong, but who was not himself necessary, and could therefore be removed. To be worthless and powerful, to be priceless and... weak, or failure? What made it killable, and defenseless against death, while Khavur was not to be killed, and could defend himself? All of this unresolved matter floating in his mind, and the hunger that it brought him, was overwhelming. His theories were shifting, the world was shifting, and it was never complete. But at least, for the first time in cycles, it felt like it was about to make sense. Through all that loss, he had learned. Learned much. Just as the Sentinel had said.

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

Vargas waited, for a moment, as Khavur thought. As he struggled for his own conclusions; as rigid paths and links in his mind shifted, moved, reformed.

He was patient. He was attentive. He was unaware of some of Khavur's other misconceptions, his belief that Vargas was equating softness to weakness. Unaware of other links forging, deadwood-brittle, standing on new false logic. Instead, his pragmatic mind ticked off unrelated notes as he waited. Mention that others may make their own definitions of strength, failure. Use physical weakness as your example. Note: taken. Ask what he wants as a reward for surviving Deathmatch, before you dismiss him. Praise him for surviving. Second note: taken.

Then Khavur was speaking.

Strength was resilience. Weakness, a lapse. Failure, a refusal to mend. Vargas nodded, chest swelling with approval. "Precisely," he rumbled, his voice a quiet purr that ran bass through his own bones. Yet there was a sense of words still hanging in the air: thoughts unspoken, ripening, about to fruit.

Vargas waited.

And the question--ahh, if his face had not been so rigid. If his lips could have curled into a dark grin. As it was the flare of his acid eyes brightened, eyelids squinting down, his jaw twisting just that little bit. Dark triumph--that savage, primal joy that Vargas took in surviving, in winning--hissed through his heart. And, of course, he loved it.

What a question. He was ready to launch into an answer--something that he never had the chance to, something nobody had ever, ever asked him before--when Khavur continued.

And made his answer that much sweeter to present.

Vargas pushed up. Gone was the fatherly patience, and in flooded the predator. His head was held low. He prowled, stalking, pacing, as he began to speak. His tail flicked, feline. And his voice began with a low and throaty chuckle, a side of him his spawn had likely never seen. This was the Vargas who followed the weak through Hydra, and claimed them. This was the Vargas who mimicked the cries of the damned to draw out their allies and end them. This was the Overseer, the monster, the Thing That Chaos Had Made, violence draped in violet. Each step was taken with grace, with power, practiced for millennia.

"Please," he began, "forgive the arrogance of my answer." Now he almost did seem to grin, head twisting lower, that pink skin at the corners of his jaw gleaming. "I work for this nest because I was created here. I have no choice but to work for this nest." From beneath his calm and measured words, a dark undercurrent erupted, his voice rising. "Why do I wish to keep it alive-? To spare those the Creator would not?" His eyes flashed with hilarity, imbued with malice. "BECAUSE I CAN."

He circled, paced, prowled, losing himself in his own perceived strength. No--his own earned strength.

"I have fought, and I have killed, and I have hunted. I have OBEYED, and I have WON, battle after battle, and I have survived. And now, what I do with the POWER that I have earned is MY OWN DECISION! If I wish to PARDON those slated for execution, then I WILL DO SO!" It was not anger that thrilled through every word: it was power. He was drunk on it. He let himself taste it, let himself show it, just this once. His voice swelled, booming with his confidence. "I have EARNED my power, and I have BARGAINED WITH GODS and I have WON! The creatures of this cave are pardoned by MY hand," and he swept that hand out, turning a fraction away, inviting Khavur to look upon Draco. To imagine every cave that lay beyond, every soul within it, and to believe what Vargas did: that their lives hung--at least in part--upon his word.

Was it hubris in him?

Perhaps it would have been, if every word had not been true.

"They live because I have decided to allow it. Because I have risen from Overseer of the Masters' whims to a Master with the ear of a deity!" A flash of zealotry rippled through his face. A deity he knelt before. A deity who had held him--him!--speechless, submissive, rapt. A deity who had listened.

And if he had been made for such a thing, doomed to nothing but success, it mattered little. He had still been the one to survive to claim that Fate given to him like a scrap of meat in a god's outstretched hand.

Vargas's eyes dropped to half-lidded, savoring that memory. A slow, heavy exhale slipped from his lungs, and he ceased his pacing. Distant eyes refocused on Khavur. "If you are asking for my motivations, it is because I have deemed them undeserving of death. They have been given no chance to prove their worth. I will not have wholesale slaughter," and was that a snarl on his face "in my nest so long as I have a say in it." There was remarkable strength in these words, a low purr of anger. Where it came from, he gave no hint.

He had awoken from his sleep a murderer. Why should he care now? Did he, at all?

Did his answer satisfy..?

He studied Khavur.

Doubtful.

And so he amended, in a low growl. "Even if they were not resilient. Proven weak. They live because it pleases me to have them live."

"That is what we earn. The power that we gain. The freedom to use it. As we see fit."

He stared at Khavur, unblinking, willing him to understand. He had never been so serious, so solemn, so fierce--not when striking out, controlled in violence. Not when offering his form of comfort. This-... This was a core of who and what Vargas was, and he was sharing it with Khavur for a reason.

What that reason was, he did not deign to say.

Or perhaps he did not dare to.

@Khavur

Evaluation came, the "Precisely" almost a form of praise, and yet Khavur still felt numb to the feeling of success. Victory was only the surface of what was to be explored. The Holder was more curious about Master Vargas's own sensation of victory, of how it swept him up and consumed him. Victorious in his power, in his achievements, he looked more like that fabled creature of the night than any Master of Draco. This was the version of him that destroyed rather than created. Watching the transformation happen right before his eyes, Khavur wondered if his own transformation had looked like that to his siblings. And he wondered if they had been anything more than afraid. What that meant, below the surface, was that he still did not know what was inside of them, because he never bothered to continue that experiment, and that was part of his truer failing at his task.

But nevermind that. Mind, instead, the full force of the power in Master Vargas's steps. Khavur watched from below the prowess, the control, the way it dominated the room. He could not lift a finger to stop this creature, he understood. And because of that, he began to understand that this was why Master Vargas could. He had decided, somehow, some way, that he wanted the weak creatures of this nest alive. And who could stop him? He wouldn't allow anyone to stop him. And who would dare try? He wouldn't allow anyone to try. That was his point, all along. Power was something you seized for yourself. You took it, opportunity and advantage, anything that was available, and when you clutch them so tight to your body that even once you die, no one can pry them from your frozen fingers.

Khavur felt like he was drowning in this sensation. The overflow of Master Vargas's cup was reaching Khavur's knees, then his chest, then his shoulders, then his head, and he was having to drink and swallow to keep the fluid level from clogging his noses. What empowered every violent, purple limb in one creature beat the back like an oppressive heat of the other. This whole nest is at his mercy. This whole cave. All of us. That was easy to swallow. What was harder was this: Why? An elephant looming in the room. Why does it please him? It felt like it might be reaching too deep, too far into an abyss, where nothing might be at the center. Yet that, and the danger of reaching into that black hole looking for its core, taunted Khavur. He let the question hang on the rack, unsaid. For now.

He gave his reason, and yes, doubtful was the right way to feel. Khavur did not wince — it watched, similarly rapt, by the display. It did not move an inch, it only absorbed... and remembered, occasionally, when these displays had been more of a mystery. Even now, they were a mystery, but less so. Ever since hatching, Khavur had always sought to understand, and especially to understand him. They all had, everyone in their litter. They all had their hopes about him. Did he— does he understand that responsibility? He controls this whole nest, and we KNOW it. We look to him... does he recognize his importance amongst us? Does he see it?

Maximus had wanted to see something in him that Khavur now sought again, in the eyes and the movement, in the meaning behind the motivation. If the stated motivation was true then, sorry Maximus, but it wasn't there. There was not even a monstrous love for this nest and those within, only a rational decision based on a lust for power. Master Vargas's desires were not about them — he could have had any nest, he could have been created anywhere, programmed to do anything, and it wouldn't matter because Master Vargas was a purely self-interested creature. But if there was an explanation for that pleasure beyond power... then Khavur feared, and Khavur longed for, and Khavur wished it knew. For Maximus's sake. Still, it left the question hanging on the rack.

It was most jarring... to see Master Vargas laid bare like this. Openly exposing what he truly was to Khavur, and willing him, with every radiant, glowering eye, to understand. Why Khavur? Where did he fit into all this? What could he do with this now? Well— a lot. He only needed time to think. He supposed the answer to this "why" was simple: he had asked. He had asked to see it, again and again; Master Vargas's motivations, the reasons that guided his actions. And now he understood so much more than he did before. And that gave Khavur a better understanding of what he did not understand. He felt small, and desirous, and anxious as he thought more and more about what to do, what he had failed to realize, whether or not he even needed this plan. No, he did. They needed this plan. But whose side would he be on?

It pleases me, too. The pardoning of the weak, the existence of the weak. But I know why it pleases me, and it is not because it is a display of my own power, nor is it out of admiration of you, Master Vargas. It is because I need the weak. The strong. The failures. And you. This is my world, my horizon, the way in which I orient myself. The cycle of life is that it longs, inexplicably, to live. And the cycle of power... is to grow. Is that all you have? Are you not alive? Do you walk forward only because your legs allow you to do so? Is it all some form of vanity? Is that all of you?

Khavur took the question off the rack. "Why does it please you? You pardon them because you have the power to, and this pleases you, but what is pleasing about it? Why are you pleased? Are you created that way? Is that your purpose? Would that be your journey, no matter where you were, no matter who the members of the Forge or the nest were?" Everything was registering. Everything had changed, had been changing all along, and Khavur had never realized it. Perhaps no one had.

The world had gone unconcerned. Because he, Master Vargas, had made it that way.

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

Good questions. They were good questions. And even as Khavur finished asking them, he was wondering how much to say.

Wondering how much he could say.

Wondering how much was a risk.

And did it matter-? Did malice or mercy mean anything to the two-headed monster, this beast created to destroy before Vargas had known the parts that sat sour in his lineage? Or did Khavur only strive to understand the paint of Vargas's broad strokes, regardless of his source of pigment? Perhaps it thought that by grasping where these things had come from, he could better understand the artistic result.

That wasn't how this worked.

Vargas was the paint and to get the answers he desired, Khavur would have had to go to the craftsman who had scooped his raw ochre from the riverbed, ground it to color, formed something from it--something that could on its own create.

Still-... That would do nothing to answer his question.

Some of that question struck too close to truth, so much so that it jarred him, a warning thrilling through his nerves. Tread carefully, he thought, but was he warning Khavur or himself?

The last of it--would that be your journey--that, he found of interest. And he thought about it; the rest he knew the answers to, he simply had yet to decide what of them he would share, if anything at all. But this, this question he had no answer for, and he paused to try and find one.

He imagined himself Elsewhere, on worlds cluttered with death, on a paradise of sun and water, in thick-clogged cities, in a scorched wasteland. Eyelids dropped to half-lidded, his expression distant, a slow exhale escaping him.

He had his answer within seconds.

And as to the first-?

If he told Khavur the full truth, he would have to kill him.

If he told Khavur too much. If Khavur guessed at it. He would have to kill him.

Ahh--but he could wrap the truth in other truths, swaddled dark and safe and secret--but there, still there, to be seen. Seen as something similar, yet something different. Something close enough in meaning and motivation to grant the same truths and wisdom, without the threat of toxic teeth being laid bare.

"As for the first," he began to answer, slowly--and his pacing returned but for a moment, a few slow and thoughtful strides before he settled still once again--"As for the first... do not think me too soft-hearted. It is not that I wish them to live, to thrive, to survive; I do not dwell on their lives, pine for their well-being. It is that I do not wish these creatures constant death. I spoke of being Overseer and overcoming my trials: this is because I was the arbiter of them all. I was the one to kill them--do you understand?" He let that thought linger, studying his spawn. "It does not haunt me with guilt, but now that I have been given the choice--now that I have taken the choice for myself, over centuries of servitude--it is my decision to make. It pleases me that I have earned that. It pleases me that I can make it so. But as to my motivations for this decision to begin with-? Why does it please me to let them live, and not to slaughter them like rats?" He was winding to his final point--he truly was--but despite his second recounting of his Overseer's tasks in mere minutes (as if to emphasize his point, the reason for mentioning it to begin with), his voice held now a somber tone. There was none of the godlike thrill, now; there was no need to flaunt that. This was the thoughtful Master, the intelligent one, the considering one. "My final answers on that topic are my own, because they cannot be yours. Your motivations you must find for yourself, and,"--and here was an unintentional whisper of Khavur's own thoughts moments before, thoughts Vargas himself had been touching on--"continue to drive yourself to build the world you would create. And ask yourself: who will stop you..?"

Perhaps that was him.

Or perhaps it wasn't.

For whatever reason, the Leviathan held these cards close to his chest.

He turned again. Paced, an instructor to his soldier, staring off at rock. "Would this be my journey." A question, repeated as statement. "If it were needed--perhaps. If it were not, then there would be no need. There are times when death is wasteful. A cruelty we need not inflict and why should we-?" A glance at Khavur as he turned, as he paced back the other way, unhurried. He walked as if he prowled to the point he wished to make, as if he stalked to it, as if he would ambush it and shake the life from its throat.

He walked as though he were afraid it might bite back, should it see him first.

Patient. Cautious. Predatory.

"There is pragmatism, and there is sadism. -Do you know the difference? I do not indulge sadism. To torture and torment, to drive a prey-beast mad with pain and fear--what is the point of that..? I understand what suffering is, because I have inflicted it for thousands of your lifetimes. To be pragmatic is to work toward a final goal, one where your ends justify your means. Coldly, if you must... Enjoy it, if you do so, if it must be done anyway. But if your goal is pain, then you are one of the creatures we send out to devour worlds." A pause, a lingering stare. "A monster." And that was truth: these were the beasts created to sow agony and chaos, to rip through cities, to send civilizations imploding in militaristic terror.

"A monster, or the Creator of monsters," and his voice was soft.

Here was honesty.

Vargas could have grinned again.

"So yes: if I were in His nest, and there were those who might wish to inflict pain for pain, death for only death--then I might stand in their way. But I don't see why 'no matter where I am' could not be a beach vacation, instead."

Humor washed away on the next exhale. There was nothing vulnerable about anything that he was saying. This was no heart-to-heart. It was blunt, it was somewhat fragmented by necessity and it was almost cold.

It was, indeed, pragmatic.

"I was created," to answer that one spear of a question, that one tempting lure in Draco's dark, "to Oversee. I just happen to be very good at it. To Oversee means to see all parts of a creature. Do you understand..?"

"That may not mean the parts worth saving. But it may mean... the parts worth sparing."

@Khavur

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