ORIGIN - hold on, hold on, hold on to the old days

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There they were, two seemingly harmless questions: one a repeat of one from earlier, encouragement to just speak; the other wondering why it'd fled. Either of them were potent enough to draw out the sheets of corpse flies that loved to drown out every other sense it had.

It knew the answers to either of them; but to speak them aloud would mean admitting to fear. To offer them would be to exposing and accepting vulnerability far more obvious than the chinks in its armor and the gaping hole between its eyes, the gnarled scar down its flank and the mottled fracture lines of its shoulder. It wasn't afraid of those answers, it wasn't afraid of what meaning dwelled in them, it wasn't afraid of what they might mean for it other than being another stone piled atop its monument to failure and struggle and weakness— it just... it just...

It couldn't answer, for ~~Zoisite's~~ (NO!) its own sake.

Orthoclase-Alpha's jaws clenched too tightly. Alpha's muscles pulled together too tightly. The orthoclase's slipshod mental fortifications were— too loose, too free. They were far too worn-down to withstand sitting down (in a more figurative sense, because it already was reclining backwards) and truly consider the ramifications of keeping silent, of letting its thoughts run wild from chattering jaws, of keeping small shreds of something resembling secrecy to itself.

Guilt flared and settled like magma in its stomach, heavy and chewing mercilessly at the inner lining. (It couldn't possibly hope to say something as simple as no to all of the above, could it?) Ice ran cold in its veins, a single shiver passing through its whole body. Jaws gaped just once. One stuttering breath rattled through its lungs in perfect rhythm with clacking quills. Focus shifted away from reality, and suddenly it was far from there.

Far enough away that the thought that was "I do-n't want to" was what stumbled out from its mouth.

It lifted an arm upward in half-defense and covering of its snout—as if that'd muffle its fading, faltering voice even more when it jarred loose to the present midway through. Immediate regret made itself known and obvious in the way its gaze cleared again, if only to try to listen for the reprimand that it anticipated. (Wasn't that funny? Had Vargas ever punished it for speaking? Could it even hear him over the static in its head, the not-so-monochromatic smear of the world it saw?)

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

Well, it was a mess, that much was clear. Not! As bad as it could be, though, and that was something.

It spoke, and Vargas didn't know what it meant but he knew the answer.

"Fine!" he said, cheerfully. (Why was he so cheerful? He sure as hell wasn't hinting at it.) "You don't have to." And then, after a beat: "What is it you don't want to do?"

Had it simply meant answering, or... bonding, or? Or answering his other question?

Still, there was no urgency to him, and that might have seemed strange if one didn't know what was going on behind the scenes.

That they had workers, now. That Vargas was not going to push, for the Forge, for one broken Overseer to return. It could come back, or it could not--and an hour here and there spent trying to speak to it was only for its own sake.

He could spare that much.

And this, anyway-... Awkward as it was? This was progress.

@Orthoclase-Alpha

It half-froze at the response, still startled despite what seemed to be geniality (or perhaps that was why) to give any other immediate reponse. Eyes shifted to and fro, and—with a puff of air—it heaved up to its feet; just to pace a few steps forward. Whites flashing, it's gaze searched, roaming. Staticky strobes fizzled at the frayed edges of its conscience. But, it could make do with… yet another divide between then and now.

Orthoclase-Alpha dropped its foot mid-stride, quills clacking to a halt. Incandescent stare never leaving Vargas now. Claws, flanks, quills—none were spared its judgment

Of course, an internal war found itself in its skull. The more figurative steel-on-steel clanging, the horrific shriek as one's grain drags across another. Temptation versus terror, logic over instinct. Learned over innate. "You don't have to." … have.

Have.

Funny concept. Implies a sense of worth. Just like others seemed to foolishly endeavor to drill into its iron (sand) fortress (castle) of a will, that it held value beyond its faltering capabilities. Vargas and the Zoisite had just tried to trick it, was testing it —

It could… test him.

"To ans—" its voice wobbled, throat run dry, and it hacked a stuttering cough, "answer that. To talk… a-about it.." If it played too much with fire, would it ignite the burn in its throat? How long would it take for the whole inferno to cover it in a blanket of self-immolation?

It tensed again, but... perhaps not as much as before.

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

Vargas noted, of course, that Orthoclase-Alpha was drawing closer. Talking, even, and wasn't that a step forward? -Metaphorically speaking, in this case. Vargas didn't react to it, though.

"Ahh, I see," he said. And that's all he said, at first, easygoing, deliberately keeping to that casual. If it was working, he wasn't about to change it. Of course, that left the next question: what now?

"Well, do you intend to speak to Zoisite again? If not, I will let it know that you are doing well. It showed concern," he added. Which it had--the Zoisite had held only one request for him, and that was to check on Orthoclase-Alpha. "A shame it did not go well, but... perhaps it will take time."

Or perhaps not. His indifference wasn't feigned; whatever happened, he at least could adapt.

@Orthoclase-Alpha

This... wasn't right, this casualness. Alpha ~~imagined~~ remembered a wall being there before, solid and six inches thick with concrete and rebar. Insulated and sound-proof. If it'd wanted to speak its mind, speak out, it'd do it from around that wall; and not for Vargas or his superiority's sakes, no—for itself. To smother that vulnerability, to make itself wholeheartedly believe in a purpose that never belonged to it in the first place. It knew what happened when it wasn't perfectly aware, perfectly compliant.

But aside from the throbbing pain of a year-old scar on its snout, the phantom sensation of blood dribbling down past its eyes and into its own mouth—it was... confused. Wary. Unsure of how to proceed, how it was supposed to just... speak now that its foolhardy testing of the waters had ended in failure.

Failure, because it'd expected andhoped that it would end the conversation then and there. But it'd overestimated the power of its own words, overestimated its ability to think ahead and on its feet. Orthoclase-Alpha had no answer because it'd already begun to trot away from the eject button—not in a physical sense, but—

Toxic eyes blinked slowly, and its caged-tiger pacing came to a halt. The static in its head roared again, an incessant stream of thought coming in from all stations and altogether too quickly, too much; the vast majority involved permutations of What do I say? It had already admitted too much by merely attempting to evacuate, and now— "Do you intend to speak to Zoisite again?" No, was its certain answer, but... could it dare to utter as much?

Orthoclase-Alpha gazed at Vargas, and its throat swelled shut again. Any glassiness that'd formed in its eyes—stinging sensation or not, fluttering heartbeat or not—was blinked away. It averted its gaze to a violet shoulder, where it studied pebbly hide as if it could see the exact moment it'd be sprung upon for floundering into silence once again.

Concern, he said.

From V-Zoisite-One.

It'd be better for the both of them if—

If it could admit to it. It could. Then it would not exist to fuel their fantasy and that curse of feeling. Then the Forge's garden would not be destroyed again. Then it could go back to— go back to just— what is there to go back to? Each and every one of them had moved on, failure or success aside. Zoisite had said that they missed it, that they loved it ("If I don't love us, then who will?!" They can't, they can't), and yet, and yet— Stop, stop, stop.

Shoulders sank in its momentary defeat. It gulped down nothing but air as it shook its head. Jaws parted as if to say "no", too, but not so much as a pained wheeze forced its way through past vocal chords and crooked teeth.

It was silent.

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

Vargas studied his wayward, silent spawn.

Choking on its words again? he wondered.

He gave it time--a few quiet moments--and then huffed, a little. "Then I will tell you another joke," he declared, and was that a promise or a threat, or-? "Why must we not fight around the trees?"

@Orthoclase-Alpha

This joke, at least, was met with bland indifference. An almost comically world-weary look crossed the orthoclase's features (which was all in the eyes, but it was there nonetheless) and it blinked slowly.

Blinked again.

Not for the first time in this conversation, Alpha thought: I need to leave.

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

Vargas leaned in, just a little, stifling his own laughter at his stupid pun of a joke. He barely even made it through the punchline.

"Because they will leaf."

He pulled away again, expectant once more, as if expecting Orthoclase-Alpha to at last break into laughter.

They will leaf, he thought, and stifled his own laughter.

@Orthoclase-Alpha

Orthoclase-Alpha wasn't many things, and the type to break into laughter because another was? One item on that list of things—that it wasn't, to clarify.

A bland indifference to the joke, emphasis on leaf or not, was all it had to offer. The fuzz in its skull was entirely preoccupied with concocting a new escape strategy; and then, after a few neuron pulses, mustering up the will to enact it. Better to manage it now, than to leer down the cutting edge of this... very strangely-shaped blade called A Joke.

Jaws worked around the words forming in its throat. A muffled cough to try and clear out all the debris it imagined in there—and to irritate scarred-over lungs while it was at it.

But, even with apparent permission to speak out its own thoughts, its increasing(ly inexplicable) desire to simply walk out—not so much into the ocean, but in the general sense—... its throat refused to press sound and color into its words; no matter how many times its teeth parted to do just that.

Or, was that it's mind, too clouded? Could it not see past the opaque, frosty pane in it, or was it all-too-clear, shined to a finish so smooth one would think they could put their hand through it like it were merely air? Was it overthinking phrases now, urged to speak? Putting too much into what should be so little? It should be so little, as simple as breathing air—this thing called Conversation and interaction.

It couldn't remember the words it wanted to.

Its sense of recall blurred into a hazy, abstract smear. Unfocused without the nuance that diction and syntax required to be anything resembling effective. Despite having spoken just two or so minute ago—those had been simple words at best—it now couldn't think of any at all besides "my duties?". It wouldn't be enough by the standards put forth.

Better to not speak at all, then, and just let its Master take the reins as always. It could not falter there, at least; shutting its mouth at last with an audible click! and giving up on its frenetic ad hoc speech. Putrescent eyes pinched upward, imitative of the ghost of a frustrated young orthoclase. It gave up, and it gave in.

Not to allowing any sort of positive reaction to the joke it hadn't quite grasped (there was not much of it to be had other than ticking-time-bomb nausea and muddied feelings of... annoyance) but to merely shake its head slowly with an incidental huff of whistling breath from its nose—almost the idle snort of some livestock animal ambling down the stalls. Giving up on talking, giving in to its silence.

Quills clacked against one another, hoisted high by the goosebumps crawling down its neck. It shifted weight to either foot, glanced down, and noted the apparently too-small distance before shuffling backward.

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

Had that faint... whuffle... snort-sound, been a laugh? Vargas couldn't tell. He could see Orthoclase-Alpha slowly back away.

"...Leaf." He stared, suppressing his own laughter. "Because the tree would leaf. As in... leave."

He had no idea the depth of tangled, confused emotion roiling through Orthoclase-Alpha. All he could do was offer his stupid punchline, and hope it served as enough of a distraction from whatever those emotions--or maybe only thoughts--might be.

in which vargas responds to a huge thoughts-post with a one-liner
@Orthoclase-Alpha

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