There was something about Orion-- it was either the relative quiet or the incredibly convenient proximity to his former chrysalis. Opie isn't entirely sure which. Frankly, he couldn't care less, either, as long as he's able to sleep here. Preferably for hours, with the temperature staying just right.

Sleep was nice. Sleep was good. The joey still carried the deep trauma of being forced into awareness by those dumb shards, and probably always would-- but a nice nap couldn't exactly hurt him, now, could it? He would defiantly bear the weight of the universe's massively unfair grudge with him and make do with what he had; crumbling, dilapidated, derelict buildings, at this particular juncture.

He had spent a truly obnoxious amount of time finding this particular one, actually. It had been annoying to expend so much effort, (and at some points slightly terrifying) but ultimately worth it. Opie was confident his home was the best there was. Structurally sound, cozy without being claustrophobic, easily accessible to an opossum. It even had a window with a view-- the magnificent, stellar tapestry of Orion's ceiling, draped high above the lush, rolling landscape; if you liked that sort of thing, anyway. Personally, he found the gentle wind tugging at his fur pleasant, and the glinting lights from the quartz deposits soothing. A perfect space to ignore the otherwise inescapably crushing weight of reality.

Opie sleepily nuzzles into the gentle coolness of his window. He hadn't moved farther than several inches in hours, and his stomach was full of something he had found just outside. He wasn't fussed with the details, but it had been fantastic. Ah, bliss.

Unfortunately, reality was the most irritating force in the universe. Or, more likely, he'd just dozed off too close to the edge-- again.

He wakes to the stunningly bitter realization that gravity had not forgotten him. He'd rolled onto his back, at some point, and had just allowed himself to languidly stretch out his limbs; only to tumble headfirst out the window; because of course that's what would happen.

Opie screeches the entire way down, desperately attempting to twist himself upright. He can't die-- he just can't! He's too young, and far too handsome; there are so many good dreams he hasn't watched yet; so much food he hasn't tried, he despairs.

Abruptly, his magic refuses to obey Newton's laws. The same biting force, which usually liked to lash out and cause untoward mayhem, instead wraps around him protectively. But either it can't or won't stop his fall-- it does the next best thing instead, which is tricking his body into thinking its somewhere it isn't. The moon, perhaps; if it even knew what that was.

His paws touch dirt, only to be sent drifting gently back up again, in the vague direction of his window. The joey wiggles and writhes, trying to reorient himself to suddenly lacking any kind of gravity. An adorable shriek of sleepy rage slips passed his teeth. "Why do you even have holes?" he asks his building accusingly, feeling a strange urge to bite it-- again.

Opie squeals in surprise-- somehow loud enough that it causes his whole entire body to spasm in the air, violating every known property of inertia. Immediately his eyes are assaulted by the bright, obnoxious colors of the stupid creature who's currently laughing at him, and he splutters wildly at them. This is timeless, really; he almost dies, and someone's there to watch him suffer while making idiotic noises.

He sees his entire life in milliseconds, and hates it immensely.

"Shut up!" Opie wails. He has no idea what fuck or man means-- but he sure knows what a moron is, and feels rightfully affronted. "Or I'll bite you!" He just might anyway. It would definitely be incredibly satisfying; if he could get over there, anyway.

The thought makes him pause. Can he get over there? Opie scrunches his nose in thought, giving the creature a speculative look. Inching closer proves to be pointless-- he just sort of gently tumbles in place some more. Having plummeted down at a nearly perfect angle, his body was only interested in falling straight up to right itself. It's worse now that he's completely exhausted the force of his drop; he's floating back to the ground more than anything else. He can't be entirely sure, but it's probably not very likely.

Ugh. He hates gravity, too. So, so much.

The opossum considers his situation for a moment. Then doubles down with enough weight to terrify the Earth's crust. "I really fo-fucking will," he hisses, flaring his tiny teeth defiantly. He still can't figure out what the word is for, but he thinks he actually likes it. Fuck. Fuck, fuckity, fuck fuck fuck! Ha! That'll show them! "Watch me!" He wiggles some more to prove his point, fur bristling.

What.

"What am I—" Opie spits back, disbelief and rage briefly grappling for dominance. He'd fallen out of a window; he'd very nearly fallen off the mortal coil; and now he's here, floating, infuriatingly slowly back to the ground-- a cosmic testament that comedy always came in threes.

Rage wins out. "What the heck are you? Stupid or something? What's it look like I'm doing?" he screeches, wrenching his body around to make several vague gestures. To the ground, to the building; to every single chaotic and unfair molecule that's allowing this to happen to him.

Don't touch me! I bite!

Opie's ensuing rant dies with a hilariously fizzy snarl. In either an act of instinct or pure malice, he takes the canine up on that bet-- by jerking back his head and latching onto the teasing paw with his many, though miniscule, teeth. Including the one brimming with magicka.

The effect is rather like a three-day old kitten gnawing on a steak.

While on the moon.

Oh, he squirms and flails, scrambling to adjust to the sensation of biting something mid-air in a fit of hysteria. The possum is practically vibrating from the adrenaline rush and righteous indignation. But he defiantly refuses to let go, eyes narrowing into glittering, dark slits.

Your move, idiot.

Opie howls.

It was like ammonium and methane had mutually assured their destruction, leaving nothing behind except a noxious chemical miasma-- which he had just inhaled. Through his mouth, and his instinct to sneeze and snort it out sent if wafting painfully through his nostrils, his throat, his stomach, his very soul.

Just kill him instead, coward.

Opie spits out the canine's finger with an ungodly shriek, tumbling to the ground in a heap of furiously spasming limbs and overly dramatic coughs. He hopes, viciously, that the dumb thing manages to somehow choke on its laughter and die in agony right this very millisecond, right there on the ground. When it doesn't work, he tries to make that statistical improbability into being by sheer force of will.

The universe, of course, does not oblige.

The possum roars; "YOU—"; thoroughly unintimidating, with snot dripping pitifully from his pink nose and tears clouding up his vision. "I'LL KILL YOU, YOU, Y-YOU, FUCK!" Disoriented and sneezing compulsively, Opie nonetheless tries to make good on his threat-- lashing out with with his bristling energy in a magicka-fueled tantrum.

More or less giving himself a punch in the face.

Again.

Granted, this one hurt significantly less than the one last time, but it's all a bit too much for Opie. The fall, the cosmic humiliation-- the foul, foul stench. He collapses on the ground, making a sound somewhere between a sob and a scream. "Fell out m'stpd'window..." Sniffling pathetically, he places his paws over his eyes and defies every force known to rise up and swallow him whole.