backdated to being a tiny bit after One More For Dinner This Evening
cw for... blood? i guess? and a brief fit

Its Overseer had left to attend an impromptu dinner party hours ago.

In that window, there was plenty of time to properly dispose of the (not-literal) hatchet.

Alpha spat out the shard of topaz nearly cutting its thin cheek, eyeing it; its teeth were caught between that perpetual neutral snarl and a slight parting, as if preparing to bite, to snap, and tear and rip. Its gaze flickered around the area. Alone, it quailed, then bolstered itself with a harsh reminder of as I should be. Bones being tossed came to mind. It does not bother me.

Claws snatched out the grip the gemstone, previously-cut fingers curling around it in a harsh, crushing - "grgh." It remained solid, intact. Not pulverized into a fine, unreadable mist. Now, it carried hints of neon and reopened those wounds. The orthoclase tilted its hand up, watching the blood pool around the gemstone before dribbling off the pads.

It does not bother me.

Rocking back onto its haunches, it transferred the topaz to the other hand, and clenched its bloodied claws. Magicka thrummed through it, weaving patchwork bruised purple across the thumbs and palm. Alpha swept its tongue over them, between its fingers - cleaning that, and then the stone. Destroy it, it urged itself, eyes narrowing upon it. Teeth set in that grimace again. The monster clutched it tighter in its left hand, reeled that arm back and hurled the shard with a roar.

The sand had never looked so beautiful, glittering and sparkling orange in the midnight orb-glow.

It does not bother me.

Orthoclase-Alpha was suddenly hyperaware of its inefficient heaving, the quills rattling, the roar of blood in its ears. It stiffened. Arms lifted to deliberately smooth down its mane. It strode forth, claws swiping through the broken pieces of topaz, mixing it into the sandy substrate. Just as slowly as it paced up and down the length of the corridor, its breathing evened out; back to that cool, repressed fury.

It slunk off towards the Warren, then, where it was presently lying awake on a shelf of rock right in front of it, chin on its forearms and - what, idly passing the time staring off into nothing? Its eyes were half-lidded, at least, from the boredom of lying around for longer than five minutes. At least a thousand footprints were visible and smudged in the few bits of sand on the floor, in uneven circles and paced diagonals.

Surely, the Overseer would be returning soon. His orthoclase was expecting the worst, and hiding behind indifference.

@Vargas

Overseer Vargas was not the one you'd want to see when having an emotional crisis. There were warm, supportive Gembound in the caves. Ones who would gently listen, and offer sweet advice, or simple, kind support. Vargas was all brashness and business, bellowing orders and snarling threats. There was no support, there, no kind ear.

Whether that was out of necessity, or cruelty, or some mixture of both, no one but he knew. And what he actually thought, and felt, beneath his snapped commands was also unclear. Judging by the way he swept in with long, indifferent strides, pacing with the natural, unintentionally predatory movement of a monster, nothing would change about that today.

"Orthoclase-Alpha!" he roared out, as he approached; the voice of command, the tone of one who assumed that his words would be immediately obeyed.

It was the same indifference, half-distracted and with an attitude that would seem careless were it not for obvious attention on many things at once, that he always showed. It was as though he were constantly moving from one topic to another problem, delegating responsibility here or providing a solution there. So his attention was often swift, fleeting, but pointed, and now was no exception, as he paused outside the warren.

He had been told that Orthoclase-Alpha was miserable. Beyond any emotional considerations lay the problem of performance: a miserable soldier was not one that would perform perfectly. Was that his main concern? Vargas certainly wasn't about to tell anyone; his thoughts were his own, and no one else's. Was it that, perhaps, Orthoclase-Alpha's display of misery was a sign of weakness he'd thought eradicated through mixture of two generations? Maybe it was that. Or was it a sense of duty, to ensure his creations and those beneath his command were at their peak? Possibly.

The Overseer did not offer such explanations. He only demanded, and he ordered; and right now, the only thing he was ordering was the presence of the Orthoclase.

@Orthoclase-Alpha

Full lucidity came roaring back in, and it shattered that indifferent composure in a moment. Its claws scraped into the sandstone, quills pricking much like a spooked cat's tail would. His call was no different — but he'd called for it.

The orthoclase rocked to its feet, cursing its few stumbling steps and choked-up throat running dry. It'd always been afraid of Vargas — respect was born from that fear — but… panic at the mere sight of him was rising rising rising. Already, it wanted to be defensive or plain run; but, its crawl down the ledge and even stride towards the Overseer did not falter. If it acted like nothing was out of the ordinary with it, then… maybe they could avoid that topic of conversation entirely.

"Overseer Vargas, sir," it managed dryly with a short bow of the head.

@Vargas

It was a simple enough trick. If one could call it a trick. A thing he'd used many times in the past. A thing Orthoclase-Alpha had no way of knowing of. A thing designed to protect both parties. Vargas held it in his mind, prepared; a way of saying certain things without saying them, a blunt instrument with hidden subleties. Or like a sword, which when swung, cut away only the things that needed trimming.

Metaphorical hedge-clippers, really.

He came to a smooth halt, six toxic eyes ranging briefly over his creation, and he grunted. "Orthoclase-Alpha. You've done well so far. The deer is arranging a gathering with the modern-era rock-spawn, and we will present to them their options. He will try to convince them."

All indifferent, all matter-of-fact. The Overseer lowered himself to his haunches. "Your training has been going well thus far. There is another task I would set for you, but I need to know that you are one hundred percent worthy of it. That you will not fail me, or disappoint me, when it matters most," he added, sharply gruff. "Failure would have the potential to get us both killed. And so, in addition to the other tasks I've set you, I provide you with this new one."

A pause... a long pause, as Vargas held that weapon in his mind. Not yet--soon; but not yet. First, this: "You will find, or create, and train, three spawn of your choice. Imagine that they are to be set loose to cause havoc, Orthoclase-Alpha. To charge in and kill relentlessly. Or to hunt and stalk the shadows. Not here; but here is where they must be trained. Here is all we have. You will be in charge of this. You will carefully select them, and shape them, and perfect them."

Another pause. And still, not yet. "You may use any resources at your disposal, including myself. And there are no rules. If they prove worthwhile, when it comes time to test them--and what is 'worthwhile' is my decision, and perhaps the Masters'--then I will name you my second."

Here, then. The weapon poised, raised: and Vargas swung it, his trick, his safety, his lifeline. "You would be free to choose a name--and we would decide upon a title for you. And other rewards, and so I ask you--and you must answer truly, without thought as to what others would decide for you: this is the first step in your power--what rewards would you wish? What is it that you would ask for? What is it that, if you held the authority to decide for yourself, you would seek?"

What is it that you secretly desire? What is it that you are missing? What is it that you--in your secret weakness--weep for?

@Orthoclase-Alpha

Alpha straightened at its name and the passing praise, a deliberately smooth motion as it otherwise stood and listened attentively — tamping down the uproar churning in its guts and conscious with Vargas's words. This was a far more comfortable rhythm: being talked at rather than to, with few breaks and openings for responses.

The stag would arrange a meeting — he implied that it would be there, too. (A thrum of relief ran through it, briefly thinking that it hadn't been exposed.) In light of that assembly, perhaps, Vargas was setting another task for it, one seemingly more severe than the others. With that long, drawn out pause, Alpha stiffly shook its head. It didn't speak yet, briefly caught in supressing panic-button response to "you will not fail me, or disappoint me, when it matters most." Quills pricked in apprehension, but smoothed out to their shaggy-looking neutral.

"You will be in charge … select them, and shape them, and perfect them."

(The work of an Overseer.)

It was… quite an offer, and at the end of it — the carrot on a stick, the bait all the initiates were conditioned to take so quickly and eagerly. A name, a title. The very concept of self could be afforded. Grappled for through its spawn. This task was not optional, and neither was failure. Alpha couldn't have escaped from this if it wanted to. In a smooth motion, it was swept fully under the banner again — and it looked eager at the prospects, as any of then would.

"What is it that, if you held the authority to decide for yourself, you would seek?"

That enthusiasm faltered, if only to be replaced by confusion — and a slight wince as that uproar came up again. Alpha shoved it down, twisted it (certainly Pride intended to upset it, turn it against its Overseer and get rid of the dragon problem through subterfuge) and buried it in a shallow grave. Even still, its posture shrunk in some, eyes averting. All those goals and dreams — conscious feelings — that the stag had suggested it hold were not its own. It did not know what it sought for itself.

In five cycles, it'd never thought much about itself; only the bare minimum glances at its physical wellbeing.

"I don't know what I would seek," Alpha admitted mildly, forcing its gaze to meet the Overseer, "I've only sought to serve you and the Masters." Both statements, really, were true. At least it pressed far more confidently with its "I will not fail you."

@Vargas

It was not his place to hand-hold, to coddle, to wheedle and weasel and work Orthoclase-Alpha's innermost desires out of it, to unravel all these threads that--to some extent--he himself had tangled. In any case, to even attempt as much was to admit weakness, a weakness that neither he nor it could afford to show.

Vargas lifted his head a little, silent, as he listened to Orthoclase-Alpha. Perhaps it was telling the truth. It likely hadn't thought of anything further. Perhaps it hasn't allowed itself to; Vargas was hardly close to his spawn on any meaningful level. There was an air of businesslike indifference to him as he responded. The blow had been struck, his secret weapon used, and its damage might take time to be inflicted. For now, however...

Vargas grunted.

"Well, consider it. It is perhaps the greatest chance you will have at rewards. Consider it closely, Orthoclase-Alpha. There is very little in these caves that an Overseer cannot offer you, and little that would be denied to a loyal and useful servant. There is... a benefit in being who we are. A benefit offered to few others."

"Assuming the meeting changes nothing drastic, you may begin your task then. Think about your reward, Orthoclase. Do you have any questions? Any requests?"

It was a shield, as well as a weapon--a trick that went two ways, a trick that benefitted both of them. Vargas did not think that his spawn, none of them, would ever realize what he'd done.

It did not matter, much, so long as all of them remained alive.

Everything was a test, after all.

@Orthoclase-Alpha

Consider it.

Alpha set its jaw — permission to look into its wants. Figure out what they were, demand them as rewards. Yet… it still felt treacherous, weak. A slippery slope it could fall down at anyone's behest, it seemed. The who (rather than a what) in the Overseer's words didn't go unnoticed.

An anxious twinge stole through it, making its heart stutter in its hefty pace.

The orthoclase swallowed that down, offering a deep tilt of its head and staring up at Vargas afterwards. Questions, requests?

Only… "what if the stag's meeting causes… change?" For the better, for the worst? For it, or for Vargas's plans?

@Vargas

He watched it struggle, think, and then--finally--ask its question. And what did that question reveal? Fear of change, perhaps? A desire for stability?

He didn't know, and it didn't matter.

"That depends upon how it changes! I doubt it will be anything to alter this, but we will see."

Vargas paused, then pushed up from his haunches with a grunt. "Be ready, and consider. And be ready for the meeting." He paused, eyeing Orthoclase-Alpha, as if to see if it would ask anything else before he went.

@Orthoclase-Alpha

We'll go with it, was the summary of that.

The orthoclase nodded briefly in acknowledgement, then offered a short "yes, Overseer." to conclude. Stay in earshot, it decided, and waited in place until Vargas took his leave.

After that, Alpha went back to its shelf, lying down and continuing to stare out to the end of the tunnel. It blessedly had other things to mull over, now.

exit alpha unless stopped?
@Vargas

The Overseer turned, pacing out of Tunnel P.

There was much that could have been said. There was nothing, however, that he would say. The weapon--the shield, the gift--had been swung, or raised, or given, or however the metaphor might go. It was done with, now; the words were out of his mouth, the offer on the table.

Now he would turn his mind to other things, because to dwell on such as this was very bad for one's survival prospects.

exit Vargas