ORIGIN - retreat back into me, like a catabolic seed

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"... done anything wrong." Hm? Its eyes refocused blearily—when had it started meandering, again? "You have not done anything wrong." I have. Pupils contracted imperceptibly, subconsciously tunnel-visioning back on Vargas. "I do not think you have ever done anything wrong." I... have? A breath caught in its throat again, and it barely swallowed it down. It escaped in a flare of nostrils instead. What did I— there'd been more than the dragons. More than that. A river of tar stood in the way of it trying to answer that question.

Orthoclase-Alpha was not brave enough to even try fording it.

So, instead, it let that drop. Yet, it remained stock-still—for here was a monster made only to fight in a war that it never would; made to be another number, another design, something to make the Caves look busy; made to pursue endlessly and crush everything in its path. Concern and relax were not familiar words. Enjoyment was seldom on its mind. Those were creature comforts, unnecessary, things it didn't need—he's waiting for an answer—it jolted a little.

"Do you understand?" he'd said. No—, it thought. "... yes," Alpha murmured in that same half-hearted manner. The simple word crackled through its throat, and it cursed itself and this stupid, pathetic state. "I've been eating," it pressed, even though they both knew that was a lie.

If the orthoclase noticed the way Vargas looked over it before moving off a few feet, it made no mention nor gesture of it aside from tracking his path further back. It'd be a while before it moved from the wall—but, it didn't press so tightly. A small step. Any leaning, now, was entirely deliberate; like it could be a covert method of balancing against something. Clearly, it's wrong.

"... you've nothing to fear," and so was Vargas. Sleepless minds did a poor job of taking anything past face value—while it was just here that it should not be spooked, it couldn't help but dart through a thousand worries at once. Failure, destruction as concepts swarmed—or the more mundane crawled across its flesh, like fire and lightning and a million spiders—it could not have easily or consciously explained those away. All of it was muddled, obfuscated by a thick veil. At least they weren't across the river.

Quills clattered against one another in the silence, their toxic points glowing dimly in the blacklight of Draco. Alpha barely kept itself from wandering again; instead, it reflexively huffed, "I don't know," as the violet behemoth attempted to turn a question onto it. It wasn't intentionally dismissive, but something spoken in a blind haze—it was already disengaging and looking for a conversational exit.

Yet, not a physical exit—not yet. Not... ever... ? Orthoclase-Alpha seemed half-content to just stay there, looking quite like a deer caught in the headlights. Still, it muttered shallowly, "what—" It swallowed. "What happens when I come back?" Not if. Like it was some inevitability that it'd be in the Forge's orbit, that it could not stand being outside the monotonous familiarity of here. As far as it was concerned, there were no greener pastures... or, rather, drier places.

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

The fact that the Orthoclase gave a blunt "I don't know" and nothing more wormed further warning signs into the Leviathan's mind. Hell, he thought, a breathy sort of word even in his mind. It didn't have the headspace, it seemed, even to think it over, to consider possibilities. This was worrying, more than anything else had been.

When Orthoclase-Alpha said that it ate, Vargas believed it. Maybe it had been eating, but just less, with a moult approaching--why would it lie, after all? When it said it understood, Vargas believed it. Again--why would it lie? but the crumbling wall of "I don't know" didn't strike him as dismissive; it struck him as incapable even of basic thought.

As he was mulling this over, surprised and dismayed, the Orthoclase lobbed a question of its own: 'What happens when I come back?' Vargas eyed it, thoughts jolted to this new track. "You may come and go as you please until you decide you are ready to resume your duties." Vargas paused, studying it.

He was now presented with an unexpected choice: to offer the Orthoclase a permanent "out" was, it seemed, a necessity but ought he to do it with no strings attached, no consequences involved, no responsibilities hanging onto that? He had work to do and if Alpha wanted to jump ship entirely--well, let it; he would mourn a potentially useful Overseer (and a spawn--though they had never truly bonded they certainly shared a history, now) but he had no use for one made miserable by its tasks. But that was not the old way. He did have work to do, and if the Alpha wanted to depart entirely, its final responsibility would be that of replacing itself.

This was, in fact, a task he had given it cycles ago--but he was unsure if it had ever tackled this with any seriousness, this raising up of a spawn and training it in its own image.

He considered, briefly. "Your position will remain open for you and, as I say, you can come and go as you please. Is there something else that you had in mind?" he asked, studying it once more. Did it want to leave, or did it want reassurance that it was not being... rejected?

@Orthoclase-Alpha

Did it have good reason to lie? To obfuscate and hide that vulnerability? To shy away from admitting to this bout of weakness, of failure? Vargas had promised it, once, that he'd not hesitate to dismantle it if it continued to show its clumsiness. Circumstances had changed since then, and perhaps it should know that he'd meant it only to get a rise out of it and encourage it, but—well, it was internalized. Death swiftly nipped on the heels of incapability. Why else would it have been brought to a break by something as stupidly small as one eye worm?

Not that it fully remembered any of that—just that it had reason to lie.

Still yet, Vargas answered its question quickly: "you may come and go as you please until you decide you are ready to resume your duties." The inevitability was implied, too. Still, yet, it stayed in place. "Your position will remain open for you..."

Come, go, what did it matter? A tide always ended up in the same place at the same time. It hated to venture far from familiarity—and no, simply being aware of a cave's layout did not count towards that. No, the rhythms—the machinations of the Sentinels, then the Forge were what it was used to; what it thought it was suited for. At the end of the day, the orthoclase was a beast of war. It didn't often concern itself with questions and thoughts—it did not understand or like what it usually found: a conflict of interests, desires, innate... callings? Looking for something more and never quite braving the waters.

When was it ~~happiest~~ most ~~content~~ at ease? When—

It'd been a while (maybe, yes?) since either of them last spoke, and it jolted back into lucidity.

Putrescent eyes squinted a little in the now apparently bright Spirelight, briefly unheeding of Vargas's silhouette against it. Slowly, it lurched away from the wall and padded along its length. Its head hung low, gaze clearly considering the distance between them before edging just a small bit closer. Quills prickled in anticipation.

The pacing was slow and apparently aimless, but at least it was movement.

A line occurred to it, and tumbled out of its mouth before it even had a chance to mull it over: "I don't know if I want to stay or go." The words hung in the air for a moment before teeth snapped shut and Alpha was subconsciously making for the wall again. Still, it paced, limbs heavy like it were slogging through a tar pit. Toxic eyes fixed distantly on Vargas while it rounded him.

It shambled toward the aperture with one step, had a moment of visible indecision, and turned away to shuffle in the opposite direction. Pacing was always how it thought, right... ? This was just normal behavior from it. Look at how alright I am—please don't make me leave—there's nothing wrong with me. It may as well be sleepwalking.

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

Vargas studied it--the movement, the quills, the way it paced. Its uncertainty, and its hesitation. "You may do both, if you wish," he answered, eyeing it. He kept carefully still, sensing, somehow, the precarious nature of Orthoclase-Alpha's nearness. As if one wrong move might send it scurrying off, a frightened beast. How did things come to this? he wondered.

Ahh, but Vargas was the product of his time. A time where monsters brawled, and died, and the strong survived and bellowed triumph. Weakness had had no place, there. Softness, emotions. They came and went, yes: blazes of things like loyalty, like self-sacrifice. Sometimes they had been a creature's downfall, and Vargas had never admired such things. Survival, over all. But--sometimes, a creature had both clung to some malformed urge--some love, some kindness, pity--and survived, and Vargas did admire that. To survive, with such a self-imposed handicap, in his mind: to put one's life on the line further, and come out of it alive, that was worth being impressed over. But he was not used to creatures stuck on introspection, creatures that crumbled under stress, or trauma, creatures that had nightmares over the very nightmarish reality in which they lived.

Those never lasted long, when they did exist, and none of them had been his compatriots.

Perhaps in an age where he was still Overseer, with Masters above him, and Orthoclase falling apart as it was--perhaps he would have killed it. But he was Master now, and he was finding that his own decisions were rather different. Why, he could not say--and he had no interest in examining it. An aversion to that, if anything, and he didn't know why, either. But his decisions were his own, now. His survival did not depend on the Orthoclase. Nothing did, if he did not will it so. Pity was his to give; compassion, or allowances for weakness, or whatever the hell this was. And there was a slight defiance in him, the pleasurable knowledge that this was his choice now, to make how he wished, as he steered their new direction. "Orthoclase, understand this is not some finality. I have said, it is not the end of a thing. Any good Overseer is rewarded with time away--time to explore, or simply to rest. Time to do as you wish, and it seems I have overworked you without such an allowance, and so I make that now. Do you understand-? You have done nothing wrong." He repeated this again, tone patient, words unhurried.

"This is not a decision that will have consequences. Whether you stay or go. You may come and go as you please. It does not matter. Do you understand this?" he asked, again. His tone was almost gentle; it was certainly still patient, understanding; his gaze certainly sought the Orthoclase out, looking for any sign of recognition in its face. Any sign of anything at all.

"This is... meant to relieve pressure, not to place more. This--hrm. This is not a test. I know that I have said everything is a test; I have said this many times. But this, of all things--this is not a test. If you are uncertain what to do, try all of it. Stay for a time. Travel for a time. Do as you wish." He fell silent, abruptly--not for any real reason, but simply because he had spoken perhaps too much for the Alpha's single-sentence contributions, and he wanted to see if it had anything to interject.

@Orthoclase-Alpha

V-Zoisite-One remained still but for the single, quiet rattle that went through their quills as they listened to Master Vargas speak to... the Overseer. The green eyes of the Master turned briefly to them, and they remained resolute like a statue, not so much as breathing. They would not interrupt, they would not draw attention to themself.

Overseer Orthoclase-Alpha insisted it was molting, quiet and tired. V-Zoisite-One wanted to believe that. They didn't want to acknowledge that their life-giver was... sick, or broken. They hovered on the cusp of that thought, refusing to let it sink in. They remained still, even as the Overseer asked to speak somewhere else, even as the softer, duller eyes of their ~~mother--~~ Overseer look to them.

The Zoisite opened their mandibles, but V-Chaos-Two approached while they were focused on the Forge members that outranked them. Something touched their shoulder, bumping it, and the Zoisite jerked back, talons scoring the earth as their tail lashed instinctively toward the sudden contact.

Thankfully, they were lucky enough to dart back, and Chaos-Two was closer to their front end, so the sound was the only startle it gave, clacking threateningly as it sliced the air between them. Dazed, golden eyes raised to meet their clutchmate. They calmed their quills from rattling, and stood still for a moment longer.

It took a terrible strength to not look longingly after their life-giver, but they lowered their head to stare at the ground as they stepped slowly, heavily, after V-Chaos-Two.

; exit and @V-Chaos-Two for visibility

Content Warning
This post contains potentially sensitive material:

self-depreciation

Ironically, if the orthoclase had been left to its existence of getting into fights and following through with the occasional order, it might be so much less pitiful—perhaps not so terrified of failure, and more confident in its safety. Yet, faced with such a daunting task as teaching and venturing far out of its skillset (among other things) it'd crumbled and yielded to a "bare minimums" sort of existence.

Even now, the concept of if you wish was enough of a blow to the bland, gray walls it'd built up around itself.

It hated to choose. One decision could mean the end of something else; one conscious decision could be the wrong one. Agency and self-determination outside of basic necessities terrified it. (Should it stay or should it go? Both?) Alpha paced another step, and considered just lying down and sleeping right there—but that would be uncouth. It was so tired. This façade was exhausting and... it could not keep it up.

Walking in a steady line took a stupidly large amount of mental wherewithal to maintain—enough that the sound of Vargas was fading into background noise. It ambled back to a standstill, and locked its joints as best it could. To keep it from swaying on its feet, at least.

Then, at least, the orthoclase could fixate on what he was saying; and, it could spiral as a result.

Good Overseer—fat chance. If it'd been better, then they would not be standing here. Not once had Vargas overworked it or come nipping on its heels to actually encourage it to do his job. Alpha bitterly neglected to realize he didn't mean this contradiction the way it was taking it; that he meant to be as gentle as his tone was implying. If there was no consequence to leaving or remaining, then that meant its presence was worthless. "It does not matter," he said.

"Do you understand this?" he asked.

Toxic eyes glistened as it wavered in place. All the rest of the Leviathan's words slid past its ears, and it dithered. It tore itself between sublimating the lead lump in its throat into classic fury or letting it be. The latter option was so desperately unappealing, but the former... ? There was not enough Alpha there to fully commit to it. It clipped a short "yes" his way, but the sound was hoarse and terrible.

That, apparently, was the breaking point.

Shit, it thought, and practically physically sank. Quills went slack, its stomach churned with the remains of whenever it'd last eaten, and squinted in a piss-poor attempt at keeping itself from making a choked sob then and there. The stagnant air nipping at its quill beds reminded it of how exposed and out in the open it was. Zoisite and Chaos-Two might've gone away into their own private conversation, but no part of Draco was obscured from sight. Anyone could look and see it falling to pieces—

Vargas could see it falling to pieces.

Magic came in a surprisingly steady burst, though it formed only a sort of shield (a bit like that of a particular three-horned dinosaur) on its face—something subconsciously done in lieu of lifting an arm to guard it (and all it could ask itself for that was why? Why do I need to protect?) Torn-up nostrils flared and it licked at its own chops, the acidic taste of bile washing up from its throat.

It sucked in a ragged breath, muttering, "I don't— I—"

Another breath. "M'sorry."

Another. "I don't understand."

It staggered in place, "I—I'll go away." Before it collapsed into a total break, before everything could come crashing down, before Vargas decided to flash what it thought was his true colors. Flanks heaved with one last sigh; it swallowed thickly, put its head down, and broke into a lopsided, stumbling galumph for the aperture.

exit... ?
@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

It halted. It wavered. It managed a word, and then it seemed to fall apart.

The shell that passed abruptly over its head, horns sprouting haphazardly from its face, had him drawing back in surprise--Orthoclase's body language seemed... troubled, but--why the horns? Why the magic? Vargas had little time to try and puzzle this out before his Overseer was stammering, babbling.

The apology, above all else it said, tore at him--a sharp and unexpected stab to the gut, an unpleasant reminder of its misery after he'd struck it when it had done nothing wrong and for a moment, unrelated to the present, in vehemence, in hot fury, Vargas hated Lord Dhracia. For what she represented; for the threat she'd posed. For what she--no, he--had done. That brief misery in the Orthoclase, mirrored again, was pain to him.

He did not know what to do with this, and so he set it aside, trying to focus on the Orthoclase's words, on its sudden turn, its shambling run. Its departure. "You have nothing to apologize for-" he began, but it was indeed fleeing Draco without even a look back.

He hesitated only briefly, long tail thrashing once behind him, cat-like, as he decided.

Yell, and stop it? No. That would do nothing, he thought; the Orthoclase had never responded well to confrontation. It shut down. It never did tell him what it was thinking; perhaps it didn't know, itself. That had never gotten anywhere.

If he went with it, directly, he had no doubt that it would panic or even turn on him. Whatever was wrong with it right now, it was too volatile for Vargas to be charging alongside it.

Leave it be-? No. That, above all, was unquestionably a bad idea. It was unbelievably fragile in this moment, he could see that. Vargas had made a long and successful career, so to speak, of immediately gauging other creatures: of taking a passing glance at them and gaining a usually accurate, if general, reading of their strengths, their weaknesses, even their mentality. Though he had no idea why the Orthoclase was this way now, or what had brought it to this point, he could see that it was like teeth made of glass: that it might rush out and harm another, or--so distracted as to be near helpless, or so emotional as to rush into danger foolishly--it might be shattered into nothing.

But there was something else Vargas had made a living of, back in the other era. And he'd enjoyed it. That was the hunt: stalking the refugees, the rebels, with the patience of an ageless hunter. Unseen, cunning, fierce. He would put those skills to other uses, now: he would follow the Orthoclase, and he would look after it, until he was certain that it was safe on its own--or that it seemed his intervention would be necessary.

He half-glanced back at Draco. There was no time to warn them; but he didn't expect to be gone more than a few hours, perhaps a day or two at the most. By then, he hoped that Orthoclase-Alpha would have calmed down, one way or another--and if it hadn't, he'd try speaking with it again.

Hopefully his appearance would not panic it--but why would it? ...Vargas did not know, though he felt, somehow, that it would.

With a grunt he pushed himself forward, a massive violet monster shrouding itself in abrupt shadows. They came hesitant at first--but they did come, enough to hide the glow of his eyes, his maw, as he slipped past the Aperture to follow his spawn from Draco.

exit Vargas;
@Orthoclase-Alpha (for visibility)

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