ORIGIN - A Hot Mess

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Parsing was a slow process.

"I am not going to kill you" did nothing to assure it; it was not the index and middle fingers hooking underneath its collar to wrench it out of hiding, but it was not the gentle coaxing of a hunk of meat or another appetizer. And perhaps that cat had lied—or, perhaps it'd been a desperate grab at distance after the sting of betrayal ate through leathery wing, masking a fresh wound called "loneliness."

Like with many things now, Alpha didn't know.

It was situated on the wrong side of the fast-moving river of history, with no way—or will?—to ford it where others had; where Vargas had, now swearing up and down that he'd not once had intent to harm simply because he now had the position to decide that. The orthoclase, sedated or not, couldn't come to grips with it. What did the ever-present hole on its face say? Weakness? Vulnerability? All that the Master should never have time for? Why should he care or show concern for a tool of his after it'd so clearly outlived its usefulness… ?

It remembered that much, being just an object. A weapon to be pointed in whatever direction, without any needs or wants except those necessitated by survival.

It didn't understand why. It didn't understand why. It didn't understand why.

"You were confident once, but I do not know if you were ever truly happy." It didn't either. "You began to grow… distant, lethargic." And why? It did not know. It didn't know. It didn't know anything.

"I imagine asking you to come back to Draco would not help, either." Yet, ever since the start of… all this, Alpha thought that it would help. That it should prove itself worthy again of walking amid the Forge. Little could shake the desperate desire to serve, to be useful, to have purpose—and that, right there, was where everything had gone so sideways. Left unsupervised without directive, it was little but a ship long-lost at sea, doomed to crumple beneath the waves lashing at its unmaintained hull. Autonomy did not fit into the empty, empty jigsaw puzzle that was its sense of self.

What the hell was an orthoclase without purpose? Nothing discernible. Not anymore.

It understood the least its own struggling movement: belly-crawling through the narrow, claustrophobic tunnel, and recoiling against the harsh light of outside again. Revealing itself just to its upper half, propping itself up for a meagre thirty seconds before flopping down with far too much heaviness. It did not understand the apparent want to approach with anxiety thrumming harsh against its ribs. (Some leftover fragment of socialization practice? A desire to see its conversational partner and be seen by them? To face its Master with some shred of dignity—before it inevitably died, it was so sure?)

That upper half was likely all that Vargas needed to see. If it'd seemed lethargic before, it—after a torturous four and a half months of just barely getting by—certainly looked it now. Every quill on its neck was painfully, miserably out of place, unkempt and shuffled to all sorts of odd angles. Dingy, dim eyes sat sunken into their sockets, the lids puffy and dark with nothing but raw exhaustion. Dark stains clung to its cheeks, trailing from clogged tear ducts. New impact fractures were littered across a forearm, from where it'd fallen on it in an attempt to get away from Nemesis.

But, that was unimportant for the moment.

Does it have the sense—the knowledge of self—to have an answer? For what the Leviathan could do? The Leviathan that it struggled to even look at without its eyes unfocusing and drifting elsewhere? That it watched for any excuse to retreat back into its claustrophobic space?

Breaths whistled out from its mouth and its broken nose as it tipped its head a little upwards. It tried—and failed—to meet those burning-toxic eyes, and faltered. Where it's mouth had opened to formulate some sort of word, it clipped back shut. Forelimbs shoved pathetically at the sand, mostly sliding but still yet shuffling it just under halfway back into the dark alcove. It didn't go for another shove, and whether that was because of wary trust or plain inability was up to anyone. Black pressing against its vision had it wavering where it lay, the world wobbling before it in a briefly nauseating spiral. Too much movement.

So, no, it doesn't have an answer bar the slow—almost painful tip of the head, hesitating between a nod and a shaking head. It couldn't have made one if it tried.

It didn't want help. It didn't need help. It could help itself—

(What a liar.)

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

It did not answer him. Not a word, not a vocal sound--only the scratch of carapace and quills in the dust. That, though, drew Vargas's head around. Earned an eventual glance, after the long and thoughtful staring off at Hydra's glare.

For a moment his eyes had to adjust; and for a moment longer he was unsure what he was seeing. His mind parsed the image only slowly, put together the broken pieces to form a fractured whole. The last time he had seen the Orthoclase, it had been... thinning, miserable, but not this. This looked like someone had taken it apart and put it back together with spit and string, and expected it to get by on luck alone. Broken, was his first and startled thought-...

...But it was emerging, wasn't it? Only a little--ahh and now it retreated back. Halfway.

Vargas eyed it, for a moment, and bit back a false attempt at humor--some "you look like shit" that would have been acid on open wounds, instead of a salve for it, for Alpha. He looked back at Hydra instead, giving it a moment to process. Or had it died, right there? Started out, collapsed, expired? No, its stone would have taken it, then. Maybe it still would. His glance had caught that damaged nod, a half-shake of the head, confusion. You still don't know what you want, Vargas thought, and pondered.

He reached for his magicka, then, an idea slowly forming, but as he did so he took his time. Concentrated. That magic rarely worked, for him, despite any practice he put into it, but he needed it now. Needed it for an important gesture, a white flag, an offer of truce to a war he hadn't intended to wage. Do not fail me, his mind whispered, and he was speaking to himself.

After a moment, the Master's masterpiece flared into existence between clawed hands, and he exhaled the slightest little sigh of relief. The fruit was small, but it was, and it gleamed rubbery yellow in Tunnel P's awful vibrant light. He lifted a single thumbhook claw to it, slicing through the peel enough to allow the fruity fragrance to drift free.

Then he looked to the Orthoclase.

It never ate, when he suggested it. It hardly touched its food. Could he convince it-? Could he instill in it some spark of motivation, some form of that stubbornness it once had held?

"Orthoclase-Alpha," he began, slowly, and shifted himself--not quite standing, but sliding, careful, turning--"You have said you do not want to die." The split-peel banana was slid across the floor, opened side up, pushed toward scarred and withered snout. "But I ask you now: are you ready to live?"

@Orthoclase-Alpha

Just about every breath made it move, shift in place against its will. As if the simple task of drawing in oxygen were too much to bear. It did not help, of course, that it was still breathing hard enough to make saliva foam at the corners of its otherwise cotton-dry mouth. It licked halfheartedly at its chops, but— it wasn't worth it.

Eyes unfocused with every passing minute, but still managed to catch a blur of violet and whatever movements it made—if only in vague, scattered light-and-shadow. Vargas turning and extending an arm, for example.

It lurched back with a wordless gasp, as if the offering were some sort of bomb, the hand offering it a trap.

By the time it'd grappled for something resembling lucidity, the orthoclase had already sequestered itself back into the cover of the tunnel. The world wiped over with monochrome, frames smearing and pixelating like a burnt-out television. A sweet scent filtered into its nostrils, overpowering despite all the dust, and while its mouth managed to water, a peal of nausea curled thickly through its gut. It gnawed and gnawed.

Alpha stretched its neck out to glance at the banana, but no further attempt was made to eat it. Instead, it just… set its head back down with a vague, squinting grimace. It stared past the fruit offering and continued to watch the Leviathan's vague shape across its vision.

It showed no sign of having even noticed Vargas speaking.

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

It drew back again, a jerk, a hiding wheezing mess.

Evidently not, Vargas thought. After a moment, he lobbed the little banana into the hole after Orthoclase-Alpha. It was a light toss, one that would bounce it a couple feet in but little more. Alpha would eat it, or it would not; he supposed he could go hunting for it, but there was no guarantee it'd still be here upon his return. Hell, in its state it might wander off the other way--wander into Hydra--and be forever lost, dead, its stone consumed by some Sand Worm or the like.

He had no further ideas, for the moment, and he lay there on the rock, staring back at Hydra again and debating. He obviously didn't want to leave Orthoclase-Alpha alone in its state. It looked to be at the very edge of survival, and the smallest thing (hopefully not his own arrival here) might well tip it over.

But he could think of nothing to do. It occurred to him now--only now--that Orthoclase-Alpha hadn't actually heard anything that Vargas had said for a very, very long time. He'd reassured it it wasn't in trouble, and here it was, believing he had come to kill it. He'd told it he'd been concerned for its well-being, and--well, the same result. He spoke to it now, and it did not respond, barely able to breathe and shrinking away. What did that say about its mindset..? And worse, what had gotten it to this point?

Vargas spent the quiet moment forming up another banana, between his claws; it was the closest thing he had to a direct transfer of energy to his spawn, assuming it chose to ate any of the fruits. But past that he was still stumped.

He'd noticed its slow decline, of course; but what had caused it? It could have been many things, he thought, grimly; and maybe that was the biggest issue with it. Its stonegiver, crawling into Hydra to die. Vargas's strike. Lord Dhracia's visit. The Chaos Forge's move. Hell, maybe his dismissal had only made it worse, though he couldn't really see how. And then there was the question of who had told it he was coming for it. Had this unknown someone harmed it? The Boneseer, maybe? he wondered. Had some grim fortune falsely-told scared the Orthoclase down into this den?

Claw slit peel; the second banana was scuffed, skidded across the sand, lightly into the burrow.

Acid eyes looked back at Hydra, thinking.

If this were the old days? I would drive it up, if I could, and out into Hydra and help it find that motivation. It might have been traumatized by it, but it would be strengthened or it would die. No--actually; it isn't in a physical state to even make it that far, I think. But, of course, he didn't want to return to those days anyway. It was perhaps a bad sign of his lack of ideas that was sending him grasping at such ancient straws.

He'd start slow, then. See if he could get some kind of response. Work with 'yes' and 'no' until either Alpha proved to be wholly unresponsive (and what then-?) or they formulated at least a basic plan.

Start with the simple: "Orthoclase-Alpha, do you wish to return to Draco with me?"

He was trying to structure the logic gates in his mind, but this one was the very first step.

@Orthoclase-Alpha

The fruit fell with a fairly inoffensive thump!, but still Orthoclase-Alpha jolted at the sudden presence of it. Another knot of nausea swarmed through it, the sheer proximity of food being both tantalizing and appaling. Mouth watering both from hunger and an intense urge to hurl up nothing but stomach acid, it lapped at its chops. It was over familiar with the messy burn of bile in its gullet, the taste that needed time to fade even with enough drink to make it vomit again.

It reacted to the second banana the same as it did the first Jerk. Consider. Reject—especially after mouthing one to shuffle it away from its own snout. Less of an intense scent, that way. Nonetheless, its stomach gnawed desperately; time and again, it'd think about it, and then think against it because of the ever present aftermath.

Accidentally catching a chunk of mushy banana with its tongue had it simultaneously recoiling and lurching forward. A ravenous appetite had always been a postmark of its being—to sustain its metabolism, it had to eat beyond logical reasoning—and this… stupid pair of bananas had ignited it.

Despite its hesitation and disdain for the fruit, Alpha managed a single nibble before grimacing and breaking away from again.

Before Vargas spoke again. "Orthoclase-Alpha, do you wish to return to Draco with me?"

It immediately jerked its head upwards once, for that was all that it ever thought it'd wanted: for the Leviathan to allow it back; for him to still think it useful and worthwhile; for it to show that it could do what he asked of it—regardless of if it was Overseeing or fighting or training. It did not want to be alone, left to its own will to determine what to do. (Were Orthoclase-Alpha at all there, it would've growled and roared its hatred for how weak it'd become, how it'd barely even survived.)

But—Alpha rescinded its answer with a heavy shake of its head. "Wh-weak," it intoned, almost too quietly to hear (as usual), and tucked its chin inward, quills falling slack. "D-don't— w… want th-them… y-you... t's-see." A sore-throated cough broke loose, unable to be stifled by its teeth snapping shut.

Hadn't they already, though? Someone had. Two of them. Who… ?

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

Vargas was considering precisely the Orthoclase's own concerns when it startled him with something quite resembling coherent speech. It would not want to be seen; we could find it a- and then it had spoken his very thoughts.

He pondered. Some of them would not judge, he knew, the Sentinel among them. Others--Draconua, Nidhogg--might outright try to kill the Orthoclase, and still others might remember its weakness. "Would you like to get strong again, and then return?" he suggested.

But how could it "get strong?" How could he figure out what had befallen it in the first place? Was it psychological? A failed molting? Poor diet-? He knew the Orthoclase wouldn't be able to tell him, either. "I can bring you food, water. When you are strong you might return?"

But did it want that?

"Do you want that?" he tried. He had to make sure. He couldn't tell if it was pushing out excuses, not wanting to come back--or if it did, but truly didn't want to be seen.

Even as he considered, another banana was being formed, the little misshapen fruit skidded in to join the rest. Did it even want them-? He didn't know. It couldn't communicate its desires very well.

But what more could he do? This was, at least, a start--he hoped--this slow step-by-step communication. But would it solve anything? Would the Orthoclase retreat again, withdraw, fall back into its stone right here in the rock and leave him where he'd started five cycles ago (ignorant of its ailments, oblivious to the cause?). What more could he do?

Perhaps the answer was nothing; perhaps the Orthoclase was doomed to die. Vargas was at least not one to easily give up, however, and until it did, he would continue asking his slow questions, and pushing bananas at his broken spawn.

@Orthoclase-Alpha

"Would you like to get strong again, and then return?"

It nodded its response, simple and short. Not even this obfuscating haze could drown out an ever-present desire to be the epitome of power, the apex predator, the capable and brutally efficient combatant. Even being on the absolute verge of living, grimacing—but not startling so much—as a third banana was lobbed into its burrow, wouldn't quell that. It was as essential to survival as oxygen, food, water, shelter; or, so the monstrous thing'd always led itself to believe. Right out of the chrysalis, fixated only on the physical concept of strength—nothing abstract, or as someone more sentimental might put it, internal.

The problem was, then, that Alpha did not… know what it was supposed to do. The hole it was in extended far beyond the one it'd sequestered itself into. Its walls were soft, crumbling underfoot every time it tried to claw its way out, and even standing high enough to peer over its edge afforded it little by way of assistance. Nemesis had put herself halfway in to attempt helping, but it had refused. Vargas made his offerings of food and water, and it—

"Do you want that?"

… Alpha shook its head with a soft, indecipherable sort of noise. More from the chest than its overused throat. It was broken-up by the gullet-knot, almost… wet. Like a horrible hybrid of a sob and a cough. It wheezed a shuddering inhale.

If it could not help itself, then how was it supposed to just… accept help from anyone else? Not expect the ranks of Draco awaiting its return with sneers and sharp teeth? For this to be an elaborate ploy—even the cat's warning? Was it all a game? Vargas couldn't—it snorted roughly, and warily nosed the bananas closer to the hole's opening; with just that one little nibble taken out of the one. It could not flee, and it was laying itself bare for the moment it managed to drag itself back into the open air.

Much like a catfish (for lack of better description, really) it essentially slithered backwards into its den. Limbs shifted the absolute bare minimum amount to cram itself inside, and it curled up tight. At long last, the weak rattle of quills ceased, but—as if trading off—its ineffectively quick breathing ramped back up in the claustrophobic heat. If anyone lowered themselves enough to see inside the dark alcove, they'd find those dingy ol' eyes half-lidded, closing slowly with each passing, teary-eyed blink.

It just wanted to sleep… a little while longer…

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

Vargas was left with something of a conundrum. He watched, a little relieved, as the Orthoclase's head initially lifted into a little nod. It wants to return to strength, and return to Draco, as well. But as to offered help, it gave him a wretched shake of its head.

This left the Leviathan stumped. He didn't crawl over to stare into the hole; it was clear that something was desperately wrong with Alpha, and he had no intention of terrifying it further. When I find who did this to it, who told it I was hunting it-? Genuine anger flickered up inside him, lifting and popping into heated steam, bubbles frothing through hot, thick liquid. As it came to the surface, he turned and stared at Hydra. Don't look at it, for now. If it saw him suddenly glowering down it would be sure to misinterpret it.

Ahh, how careful he was being. It wasn't completely new to him, either. Such delicate charades had sometimes led to a kill, long ago, though he'd never pretended sympathy. He'd never really lied, even; his false presentations had been the tempting scent of food, or the illusion of a safe haven. He did hold some sense of honor and fair play. But the careful maneuvering, then, was not unknown to him. Prey, too, was easy to scare away. Was Orthoclase-Alpha prey, now?

He turned his mind back to the task at hand. "You want to be strong, and return," (or was it only saying that to appease him?) "but you don't want help in doing so. Are you capable of getting yourself food, water? You look like you would collapse." But that wasn't right, was it? He'd not detected it in this tunnel the last time he'd passed through, so it'd returned here a day or two ago at the most. It was probably in and out, able to hunt and find water, still, but just not very much.

Vargas was not much one to pray, but he pushed up with a grunt, after a moment. Creator, he thought--ah, would he make demands of Him, now-? I want this one alive. I don't suppose your power can leave some water in this hellhole? Now upright, now lanky and stepping nearer to the warren (to the tune of rasping breaths), Vargas spoke. "I'll see if this power lets me give you a little water, or something, but if it backfires do not panic. It isn't an attack." Blunt. Plain. Would it listen? More likely, the magic wouldn't even come; the Creator, if he even guided its power, surely did not care for the weak.

There was a spark and a hiss, and then nothing, and Vargas shrugged and pulled away. "Nothing. It was worth a try. Do you want me to leave you here, Orthoclase-Alpha? To leave you to recover? Can I trust you to find yourself food and water; are you strong enough to do that, physically?"

A pause, then; did it even want him to leave-? Would it prefer that he stay, even if he didn't feed it? "Or would you like me to remain, to at least assist you?" Was it even awake, anymore, in there?

@Orthoclase-Alpha

Silence greeted Alpha, at first, and it–with net zero ability to read Vargas from its warren-hole—veered back onto the course of a cornered prey animal's terror. Quills rattled, however weakly.

Had that been the wrong answer, wanting to return to strength but away from Draco? Denying help? Was the paragon not independence and the capability of rebuilding oneself on their own (… even without clear and obvious directives?) As much as exhaustion—from this conversation alone, not even anything else that'd weighed on it for cycles—weighed down upon its stream of consciousness… the thoughts nagged. Made its hooked talons bite into its calloused palms until they were just about set to bleed; its jaw clench and unclench, tongue lapping at crooked teeth in anxious anticipation. Its stomach twisted uncomfortably in its gut, already halfway to rejecting the pathetic chunk of fruit within it.

"You want to be strong, and return, but you don't want help in doing so."

Exactly.

"Are you capable of getting yourself food, water?"

It blinked slowly, dragging itself away from the vague miasma of scenarios and situations unraveling in its mind. A half-formed thought fluttered out of its mouth before it had a good minute to think about it: "y– yes." It did not ooze confidence. The orthoclase, out of sight, recoiled at that.

Then, it drifted yet again; it faded faster and faster like the light of a star being pushed away by an ever-expanding universe. Dark matter always on the fritz, always growing. Coherency rippled away from sight, and the curtains nearly slipped close—

Ah. It's nam—no, designation.

There was an audible sound of it being startled awake while Vargas continued: "To leave you to recover? Can I trust you to find yourself food and water; are you strong enough to do that, physically?"

It did not know how unsure it would sound answering "yes" a second time. Jaws worked uneasily around its panting, but it remained silent—

"Or would you like me to remain, to at least assist you?" No.

Him—its Master, always busy, always working—remaining here to provide… assistance. The orthoclase bucked against the thought instinctively, and a less logical (… moreso that most) part of its brain categorized the oh-so-clear cause to being that Vargas should not waste his time with this. There were creations to make, monsters to train, Lords to appease. Every passing moment here was a waste of time—and that was so precious, these days.

(Not to Alpha, apparently. It'd wasted—how many? How many cycle—)

But…

Was it so much of a waste? Surely the Master himself would not waste his own time chasing after things left in the lost and found; would not busy himself with a task made obsolete by his own position. If none of the other creatures of the Forge hadn't come after it, then why him? Why him, and why the rhinoceros it'd met once and gored halfway to Hell?

Orthoclase-Alpha was not a creature of attachment; or, so it didn't believe itself to be, anyways. It'd liked fruit and exploring the Caves, learning things that were useless in the long run, sparring with new creatures and new magics. It hadn't minded, after a while, interacting with the regular run-of-the-mill Gembound that'd actually stayed behind the boundaries it put up. But, did it ever think those mattered to it… ? Even as it omitted any detail from reports like it were hiding them? Protecting them from being used as tools?

(It sure hadn't bothered to cling to those memories as its mind gradually slipped away to Neverland, as they abruptly came into focus and filtered out through a lens blur—like it were seeing them at a far distance.)

But, the orthoclase did think it was attached to something, at the very least: Vargas. He'd given life to its stone, and despite his general vague absence as it grew up and experienced all of the above, it'd… it looked up to him. Idolized him. Craved the raw power and strength he'd held—still holds. Fixated so deeply on that abstract concept of might that nothing else mattered. He was the closest thing it had to a father—without Vander around, without Hemlocke, without—

The thought of Vargas leaving terrified it.

Before, it had fled from certain death. Now, the reaper was just outside its door offering a hand with "mercy" written on it.

Alpha could not read.

It retreated deeper into its hideaway despite the now-desperate urge to crawl out. The desperate urge to creep out of the darkness, expose itself to the light, and just follow him back to a normal. To let the violet behemoth—who'd shown it nothing but flashes of brutality underlying a conservative sort of peaceful demeanor—whisk it back to Draco and make everything so monotonous and normal again. As nice as the thought was, it terrified it, too.

What waited in Draco was unknown, even with certanties like Garnet-Delta—the cat.

Worse still, though, was the Master himself. It wanted to make sure he didn't leave it behind, that it was still worthwhile, but even being a shred of vulnerable in proximity? Within reach? The orthoclase curled tighter in on itself, quills rattling weakly with the movement. It didn't want him to leave, but it didn't want him around. It didn't want to die, to have been tricked and see those arm-blades cleave through far more than just its face.

Tears bled hot down its cheeks, but it didn't notice that; that, and the quiet sobs clawing their way through its body with no space to go into. It didn't know how long it'd been since Vargas last spoke, or if he'd even stopped.

"No," Orthoclase-Alpha blurted between its silent gasps for air. "G-go," it half-choked.

Vargas was surely too busy for it. The words tasted like blood in its mouth, and it wasn't because of the coppery tang flooding its horribly abused throat.

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

For a moment, the Leviathan was puzzled by that second "no." Was that a no, don't leave-? A no, Orthoclase-Alpha couldn't feed itself? But he was fairly certain the next word was "go," a stumbled syllable lurching out between ragged breaths.

It can barely breathe, he thought to himself.

He debated only briefly what course of action he would take: and then he stood, lanky limbs lifting him to stand upright. "I will go, then," he began, slowly; "but I will come back, and if you have not improved I will ensure that you do. That may mean finding someone more familiar with your... sort of anatomy," he added. "In case you are sick." He still wasn't sure there wasn't something terribly wrong with... with moulting, or with the original Orthoclase stonegiver's nutritional needs or what have you. Guessing at Alpha's internal psychology was hard enough for an empathetic creature--for Vargas it was a near-impossibility, and he weighed physical issues on the other hand as every bit as likely. But-... He would give it this chance, for now.

"I will return in a couple of weeks. Eat, drink, try to find words to explain to me what has happened or I will bring someone to look into your... moulting." ...Maybe? "...Or whatever it might be. And if you feel up to it you may return to Draco whenever you wish." Vargas paused, considering. He still held that leash, that chain; was he willing to let it go? The decision, as always, was quickly made by practicality and not merely mercy: there was no point in an Overseer as useless as this. "If you choose to leave the Forge, Orthoclase-Alpha, you may; but inform me so that I can replace you. And not kill you," he added, a little sharply.

Another moment's thought, as he stood there--eyeing Hydra--and for a moment it might have seemed he was about to utter something deeply philosophical or at least containing a modicum of emotion. Instead, he grunted, and said "Do not wander into Hydra."

Irritation flickered up at the failed magic, and he grasped for it again, this time with a burst of savage, mental violence. It was chaos, after all. It required strength to control, and he snatched for it as if it were his and not his Creator's. Something came, something that reached for the heat of the tunnel and then--did nothing with it; and Vargas let it go with another moment's silent annoyance, and turned away.

He took a few dust-shuffling steps and then glanced back. "Is there anything you would say before I go?" he asked his spawn, looking at the mouth of its dark den.

@Orthoclase-Alpha

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