Set just a few days after and i wonder: do i look all right?

Holy smokes! An Alpha post that isn't littered with Content Warnings?! THEY'RE REAL?!
(Maybe a little bit of anxiety, though... a small dose, for once.)
Was this it?
Where the grasses were over, soft, loamy earth settled between cut-down and split trees; light-speckled rows of plants budded and bloomed with the beginnings of various fruits and vegetables and greens, with the final product of their growth. Rows of tilled soil sat by the water, which spilled down the ridge to fill the valley between each row. The scent of many lingered, all too muddled and now-unfamiliar for it to discern a single one from the rest.

Orthoclase-Alpha hovered at the fringes of the little farm, putrescent gaze sweeping over the sight. Something throbbed faintly within it—reminded that one of its spawn (however little it seemed to recall about the grub past its earliest days in existence) had created this—but despite the perceived lack of an audience, it tried to remain unbothered, unaffected. Weight shifted, and it reflexively smoothed down its mane. There was more than just war and fighting; there was hardly any need to fight at all.

There never had been. All the battles had been picked by itself.

The monstrous hybrid scraped at the earth, a sudden peal of nausea clotting its throat and sealing it shut with a honeyed sweetness—though there'd be nothing to regurgitate; it hadn't eaten in the past few days, falling back on the old, terrible habit of seeing nothing as food. (Not even the ripe, plump fruit registered as even edible in its more instinctive mind.)

Had it chosen wrong?

...

No, it hadn't decided at all.
Mud stuck underneath its talons, crumbling despite its moisture. Alpha heaved a sigh at the sight, closing its eyes and shaking its head as if to dispel the spiral before it could fully play out; it was remembering how to repress, how to fall into what seemed to be a comfortable and even rhythm without room for errors like feeling. A cog in the mechanism, uncaring iron and brass in the whole machine.

Except...

It was told to be here. To spend time with the Zoisite (which it barely recalled the significance of, which why does that bother me?) and encourage it—them? To... find meaning. (Vargas hadn't suggested the last part.)

Is this where it's supposed to be?
Toxic gaze slithering to where it'd entered, it huffed slowly once again; and with measured strides, moved toward the middle of the farm's perimeter, facing out toward the open water (though anything trying to look in from the outside would see merely underbrush, given the surprising defensive positioning of this farm). A faint flare of magic buzzed through its chest, trying and failing to burn crimson signatures onto its retinas.

Carefully, it rocked back onto its haunches and sat as a silent sentinel; and, there it waited.

@V-Zoisite-One

The farms were Zoey's happy place. Affectionately considered her garden-- to compare to her best friend Pollen's own garden-- she spent hours here, feeling both free from her family and intimately entwined with them. The food grown here would be preserved in case they were ever in need, and even if one day she was to pass, the roots that took hold in the rich soil will remain like a legacy, something for generations later to tend to. Would they know that it was her hard work that put them here? Would they remember her?

It was a strange thing to think about. They could live for thousands of cycles so long as peace continued, and she had reason to believe that her Master would do everything in his power to keep that peace. Still... Couldn't an accident, a sickness, a stray, dangerous individual come crashing in bring that all to ruin? It seemed like life was a fragile thing. She had taken the lives of lessers with minimal (physical) effort, but it weighed on her. The only thing to do was to rationalize it as a natural cycle, one that she too would be apart of.

In the safety of her garden, among others who shared her kind, nurturing nature, she was safe to explore these thoughts. She could allow them to wash over her like the rain soaking into the soil, prune away at them like overgrown and yellowing leaves. She was quiet as she snuffled through the tangle of shoots, vines, and bushels of leaves, inspecting for insects or signs of rot with careful observation.

There, toward the end of the garden, a few new sprouts had poked through the soil. Her quills rattled gently with surprise at the sight of them, ambling closer to gently inspect them. Many had begun their climb upward, a single leaf at each of their ends eager to absorb sunlight to get all the energy they would need. One, however, had only the smallest tip of green, as though it was lagging behind the others.

Delicately, she crouched down into the dirt, and reached out a single talon to touch the teeny stem. You can do it, she encouraged it, pouring some small, subconscious effort into helping it grow. Before her eyes, it began to grow up out of the dirt, producing a pair of leaves in a matter of moments. Fondness bubbled up in her heart, but she didn't want to make the plant bloom before the others, before it was ready. She delicately touched it with the bottom of her jaw, before she rose back to her feet.

The faint sound of noise rustling at the edge of the farm drew her attention, her head shooting back at an angle to see around her immediate surroundings. Was it Equinox? Maybe Oliver was checking in on--

She could have spotted the Orthoclase from a mile away. Compared to her shorter, compact frame that could easily duck between the rows of crops and disappear, the Orthoclase towered, even as it sat still as a statue, glowing chlorophyll eyes. It could have been a scarecrow as easily as it could have been a creature, and for a brief instant Zoey's eyes blinked and blinked and blinked to try and rid the mirage from her retinas.

But... No, that was her Overseer. Talons dug deep into the soil, dangerously close to the roots of her delicate plants. She flattened her quills as quietly as she could, and lowered her head, struggling between two different branches of herself. The terror of being scolded and the joy of seeing her lifegiver. What side did the Orthoclase want to see? What would help the Orthoclase the most? She hesitated there, until she raised a front limb and-- stumbling with the rigidity of her muscles-- shuffled her way toward the Overseer.

"Overseer Orthoclase-Alpha," she greeted with a tickle in her throat, limbs jerking roughly to a stop once there was only a single row of growing produce between them. She did not raise her head to stare at the Orthoclase, instead standing somewhat naturally, if not stiff underneath her violet armor. "Are you well?" Underneath the carapace, dozens of questions and pleas clawed desperately, only for her mandibles to shut tight and swallow the growing lump before she choked on it.

@Orthoclase-Alpha

Something shifted—the air, the ground, the presence approaching the monochromatic smear of its periphery—and its snout tilted that slight bit to the side; and there it they were, amaranthine coat stark against the darkness of the earth underfoot. Six legs, dirtied with only the product of one's toils, quills and fuzz smoothed deliberately, head not quite tilting upward.

Orthoclase-Alpha tried and failed not to make its standing up too abrupt, to not make it obvious how alarm bells had wriggled into its skull and amped up to a deafening volume. There'd been nothing when it came in—so it'd thought—and suddenly there was. It'd have liked to think it was merely surprised, not that it thought the Zoisite would attack it. Sweet, tender, unwilling-to-harm Zoisite. Not that it thought itself a scum-of-the-earth defector worth being played for a fool and murdered not even by the Master's own hand.

Overseer. Hah!

Quills clacked and rattled through the air, providing a percussive beat for the monster that'd stopped between the rows. Alpha curled its claws into the soil to avoid taking a reflexive step backward. It hated how much it wished there were a few more rows of growth between them; but, it wasn't supposed to be afraid, wasn't supposed to feel a prey-like panic trying to formulate a response to a greeting and question as simple as "are you well?" It wasn't supposed to feel like it was lying supine beneath a magnifying glass, scrutinized by God Himself. It wasn't supposed to allow itself that nervous habit of shifting weight from each limb, looking for exits (the running list was an opening behind it, crashing through the brush and into the river, shoving past the Zoisite to pass through where they'd presumably both come from.)

But, it did anyways, subconscious and unnoticed until it'd already given a too-slow dip of the head in response. "I'm fine," came the practiced, reflexive response. Nice and vague, never prompted questions. Not with their Master—

It should say something in response. Encourage, he'd said.

Crooked nostrils flared once with a forced inhale, and its teeth whistled a short, one-note tune as it huffed. Staring at the insectoid beast head-on, it let its eyes roam over them. It searched them for: pock-marked chitin, keratin; the tell-tale sign of claw-marks, battle, chunks of flesh shorn from the rest; bedraggled quills in disarray. But, aside from what terrific wound spiderwebbed beneath the crook of their left forearm… nothing. Where did it get that? it wondered for a moment, without concern—merely a sense of curiosity, since it'd managed to remember that, of all things.

It knew the answer physically, but it stood to awkwardly question regardless. "Are you well?" Unintentional parroting, with no added emphasis on you as one might expect.

@V-Zoisite-One

Fine. Relief tried to find purchase on slicked walls, but she reached to cradle it close before it dropped back into the gulf. Whether it was the truth or not, Zoey didn't try to dissect. Instead, she looked about the plants underfoot, and carefully settled her hind limbs down in between them, taking delicate care not to crush any of them.

Had the Orthoclase ever asked Zoey how she was doing before? She couldn't remember a time before-- and maybe, if she was being realistic, she could acknowledge that it was being... Polite. If the Overseer could be polite. "I'm very well," oh, how bittersweet the words, "thank you."

It was surely the truth. She had been happy with her work, with her garden, with everything she had done. She put the wilted star shaped flower out of her mind, and worked toward making the lives of those who were still around her brighter. As was her duty and her purpose. It had made her happy.

"We've been working on the farm," she filled the empty, hollow conversation with words. "Oliver.. Do you remember Oliver? The black hound with wings. He showed us how to grow these plants."

This was all she had wanted for endless cycles. Just to be near Alpha, and speak to them, and have them speak to her. But it wasn't...

She was terrified, and doing everything to hide the fact she wasn't. It was selfish, cowardly, as she crammed away every piece of her, trying frantically to compress into a mold that hopefully wouldn't chase off the Orthoclase. She was somehow telling the truth, speaking earnestly, and lying with every single word.

-- "Did you come to see the farm?" She prompted with a muted curiosity. She raised a set of talons, reaching toward one of the stalks that was growing, and gently brushed the stem, coaxing it to life. With a delicate rush of magic, the plant shifted, and formed a couple of buds along the stalk that promptly bloomed into bright yellow flowers.

Those would turn into fruit eventually, but for now... "It's been a lot of work... But the plants are growing well. I've been practicing my magic too..." Steady now, she kept her gaze upon the blossoms, avoiding tilting her head up, avoiding making eye contact with the radiating green stare that towered above her.

@Orthoclase-Alpha

"I'm very well, thank you."

It met that with a slow nod, unsure of how best to go on from there; but, thankfully, the Zoisite continued (either out of pity for its floundering—fuck!—or obliviousness) with mandibles clacking a steadier rhythm than before. They placed a we before Orthoclase-Alpha, and so it struggled to remember if their (plural, not singular) Master had made mention of more than one working at the farm. Oliver certainly rung no bells, though it very well remembered "the black hound with wings."

Or, rather, the feeling he'd invoked.

There'd been—was, maybe—a grove in Canis; tender words, a pumpkin crushed between then-bloody teeth. A haggard attempt to talk, a skin-splitting acknowledgement of its unhappiness (and had it ever found the meaning of that word? A description for that feeling?) and that ever-sore spot in its chest. That feeble little bit of sentiment that refused to be quashed despite all efforts. Nothing more, nothing more. Oliver'd talked of Trials and death and terror that would never again be witnessed because the job was done—and nothing more!

Alpha had shoved its acrid, bitter envy far from its attention. It reared its ugly head in the form of narrowed eyes and half a snarl mangling what stiff features there were on its face. (Perhaps it was fortunate that the zoisite dared not look up.) Claws began to bite into its palms, and it huffed.

Did it remember Oliver? "I do," it intoned with unnecessary harshness, the clipped duet of syllables somehow condensing into a single note. (Perhaps it was unfortunate.)

Him—and an exhausting sort of hatred creeping up its spine, born anew—aside: "Did you come to see the farm?" they said, reaching for a broad-leafed vine with too-gentle claws. A flush of magic must have fluttered from lethal weapon to delicate stem, for each part of it seemed to flourish in its wake. Yellow flowers unfurling from twisted buds, forming a star-shaped blossom bright enough to rival Schrödinger's sun. It was something so simple, but Alpha knew what strain it took to create, to beckon forth life. Zoisite themself was living proof of it.

So here was where it should've offered words of encouragement; but, it watched instead. It remained silent as it did, except to simply say that "yes", it did come to see the farm. There'd been some residue of its prior venom there, too, though far more subdued and restrained (think of the circus tiger at the full extent of his choke chain.) And another opening came so soon—in the summary of what'd been done in its absence, what growth the grub-turned-… something had gone through; again, it remained silent.

Vargas had asked it to listen and promote, to do its job, to spend time with V-Zoisite-One and bond. (I don't— do that— I can't—) and here it stood, mired so thickly in its raw confusion and bewilderment that it couldn't think of the words, the empty compliments and platitudes. So mired that its quills prickled with anticipation even while it nodded mutely. Whether or not it realized it, it was hard to be impressed when it just… did not understand.

So foolishly: "… and Vargas ordered this?" it asked, hesitating on stilt limbs that still shifted, begged to pace and circle around the kitchen—wondering why everything had changed. Fuck! ran its proverbial gamut through its skull, but it set its jaw; the question already sat heavy in the air, put forth into a physical quality that could never be contained again.

@V-Zoisite-One

Zoey didn't recall what Oliver had said about meeting Alpha, but her quills stiffened at the Orthoclase's clipped response. Perhaps better not to prod their memory.. but Oliver had been so nice, and... She dearly hoped that her- Overseer did not hate her friend.

The Overseer had come to see the farm. That made matters easier. She could shuffle to her feet, show them the different plants they had planted and explain what crops they were expecting to yield, how far along they were... She could maybe even tell them about her plans for preserving the harvest to last for as long as they needed. Her mind was churning, eager to rush into the opportunity presented and climb herself out of the darker, cloying muck of her darker desires.

But before she could rise to her feet, the Overseer asked about their Master. Despite the warm comfort she had started to feel toward Master Vargas-- who had shown nothing but interest and kindness since they actually held a proper conversation for the first time a few cycles prior-- the question had her pressing rewind into a whirlwind of concern and uncertainty.

The last time she had seen the Orthoclase with Vargas had been... well, the last time she had seen her lifegiver. Something in the question, the phrasing, the everything reminded her of a sand-coated warren, of detached family and squealing rats. Why? None of that mattered, and yet-- did it matter? She didn't want to read into it. She didn't want to pry, to push herself too close and be shut out again. Easier to keep her distance.

Zoey took a deep breath, ribs heaving and sending a quiet rattle through her quills. "Master Vargas told everyone to pick a role. He gave many options, from guards for the Forge, caretakers to raise the new spawn, builders for the housing... He wanted a farm to be made, and for lights to be strung up. I make lights too... But the farm is a long-term project..." She trailed off, pacing mental circles around the short question. Her every instinct wanted to dig into it like meat, to shake it like a rat who's spine had yet to snapped, to shred and tear it apart for every sparse morsel she could find. Her stomach churned, but the nausea had been building well before that imagery violently pressed itself into her thoughts.

Regardless: She resisted. She held back. It was not her place, and if she overstepped that boundary, they might leave again. No. She finally rocked forward on to her feet, raising her head to peek at the Overseer. Not for curiosity, but to acknowledge them.

"I chose to do this." Those words were strong, confident, but they barely held back the dam. Her heart quivered. Her weakness bled forth, and as she stared at the Orthoclase, she found it impossible to keep back from quietly snipping out of her mandibles, "it's better than hurting." Not a judgement, though it risked being taken that way: it was an admission of guilt. Of weakness.

Previously, she had reassured Master Vargas that if she needed to defend the farm and her family, she would; but facing down Alpha was different. In front of them, she couldn't proclaim to be steadfast and sturdy... With them here, it was all she could do to stay on the other side of the crop line.

The Zoisite turned away, taking a step down the row. "... I can show you what we've planted so far."

@Orthoclase-Alpha

Diaphragm pushed forcefully against unwilling lungs, and there was the slightly delayed answer; and did it, perhaps, seem so obvious? The sandy hall that briefly haunted Zoisite had not been so hospitable to life—nor had any cave in its travellable vicinity. It stood to reason that they might take advantage of the new digs. Even with the strange addition of lights.

Putrid eyes slipped downward, staring past its nose and at the paltry defensive wall between them. The plants barely reached halfway up its forearms, and they swayed so easily in the breeze. A thrum of panic mimicked its recalling how flimsy this position was, how it would take a mere step over for either of them. Its heartbeat jackhammered, and—STOP.

For that moment, it slipped backward, crash-landing at an old junction from before it'd been named an Overseer: a bright-eyed youngster with no fear of that which it was dependent on and desperate for the attention of. With no fear of asking "the housing?" and just following one's lead.

That was another misalignment of past and present. Another metastatic growth set between its ribs. (And weren't there so many in its head already?)

It was easier with Zoisite. Perhaps easier with maybe any of them. Flounder all it wanted, there'd still be a façade of confidence put up; presumptuous assurance that it was still feared enough, that it was not avoided out of pity or disgust. A feeble hope at best, and Orthoclase-Alpha wasn't sure it truly believed in it.

They looked up at last, fuzz-and-quills shifting with the appearance of pinhole suns. A decision shook loose of snapping mandibles, and then… suddenly—as Zoisite'd been taken to a dusty tunnel, Alpha was too—it was staring down at a tiny, tiny grub and its two-headed mess of a clutchmate. Watching as both struggled to execute a rat pinned beneath its own claws; as the grub broke at last and fit teeth between vertebrae and nearly decapitated the struggling rodent.

Had it cried, then?

A brief twinge of fear rattled through it, and on instinct, it rumbled in a low, crackling voice, "Don't let our Master hear you—you say that." Weak, weak, weak, failure— and just like that, coherent thought spiralled away along with the vignette; all replaced with wondering: Why was it concerned over the safety of this one? Any of them? Had its other spawn (half-remembered in the grand scheme of things) fallen like this, too?

What would Vargas think, if he found out? He can't.

Quills flared, agitated by the goosebumps and coldness slithering down its back. Something crawled beneath its skin, and it tore its gaze from the insectoid hybrid to the treeline—scanning for an equally violent violet silhouette cast in shifting, sun-dappled refuse.

It forgot to breathe until Zoisite spoke again.

And there it was again, that malleable distance; that unyielding commitment to obedience despite all its disorientation. Alpha snapped to look as one pair of mandibles was replaced by another, as they shifted to move down the row.

The orthoclase sucked in a breath as its heart started to beat against its ribs in a desperate grab for oxygen, and it nodded mutely. For that moment, the dynamic that should have been there (should have! It was supposed to be here as its— their Overseer, and… and… it felt sick) fell away, and it shifted to follow them down the rows.

Guilt flared hot in its gut at the prospect of something so… soft.

@V-Zoisite-One

Had the Orthoclase awoken without Master Vargas being right there...? Perhaps the Sentinel had been there when they had broken free of their stone-encrusted rest, and that was why Alpha didn't know about the roles, or the housing, or... Or maybe Master Vargas simply forgot to tell Alpha, or was waiting. There were too many possiblities, and it didn't truly matter.

Zoey could tell them. Answer the questions, a steady conversation that was already more than she had ever truly had with her Overseer despite wanting more. All because it was safe, fair-weather words. "One of the rewards," Zoey explained, "if we do well, like getting rights to travel, or breed, or a name." Her mandibles clacked a few times after the word name, something she had no right to. Something that she clung to privately, something that she could easily shut down in front of Vargas, but not in front of--

"The builders are making structures, so when one earns housing... They will have a private room, where no one else is allowed without permission." It was a simple explanation. Keep talking, after all, avoid sinking down into the quick sand.

She tried, of course, to keep it impersonal. Then when she failed, the Overseer corrected with a low, threatening half-growl. Don't. "I know," she responded timidly, lowering her head as she turned it further away from the Overseer, a nervous chatter rattling down her quills. "Sorry."

Master Vargas could never know of her cowardice. He never would. She swore to protect her family, and oh, how capable she was of causing harm. She even acknowledged what her form was suited to-- killing, maiming, execution, assassination, death, death, dying squealing rats-- direct to his face, but he allowed her to garden.

Never mind that Zoey could not picture a scenario in which telling Master Vargas of her aversion would be met with anything but adaptation, patience and understanding. It was the strange dicotomy of what she saw of her grandfather and what Alpha's unspoken portrayal of their father was. Perhaps she should have trusted Master Vargas more for all he gave her, but she could not stray from her lifegiver's instructions, could not ignore the warnings that they gave her. She was young and innocent, and the war-scarred titan was a pillar of absolution to her.

So she kept her failures kept locked up like a dirty secret. Tip-toed around them. Perhaps she was correct and would never face punishment, but what of Alpha? To have made a creature made for killing that had never quite snuffed out a childish fear? She couldn't picture Vargas-- the firm, but compassionate Master-- punishing Alpha... nevertheless, there was something worse hanging like Damocles's sword overhead. The Orthoclase could shoulder the blame of her wrongness all on their own, even seethe with disappointment, go as far as to loathe all that she had failed to live up to.

Did they...?

Zoey swallowed, mandibles clicking on both ends as she carefully stepped her way through the rows. "Toward this end are the melon vines," she began to explain, "there's melons already, but none are ripe." She reached one of the winding vines, raising a talon to point at the small, rough ball of an unripe melon. "Those bushes around the edges are berry bushes." Berries were a bit too small and delicate for her to harvest, so she left that to the others.

"Diot brought most of the vegetables... I'm not sure what all they are," she swung her head toward the rows of crops that grew now in abundance, "but they should be ready to harvest soon... I plan on preserving what we harvest with my magic so it doesn't spoil..." Like the flower, the words died between pincers, biting down tight on them. She stood stiffly, staring out at the garden, and struggled to keep her carapace of her knees from buckling.

She shouldn't... "... what do you think?" ... but she had to know.

@Orthoclase-Alpha

Housing. How simple of a reward that was… shelter for oneself, a private thing meant for no others to trespass upon. Alpha found itself slithering back to wondering about before; wandering through its shot-full-of-holes memory for if that had ever been offered alongside a name (a name a name a name he'd asked it why it hadn't picked one already). Maybe it had… ? Surely not now.

Surely not.

Same as it surely didn't feel a twinge of something in its gut as the Zoisite wilted in the suddenly-scorching light. That malignant growth in its chest certainly wasn't seizing with a horrific miasma flooding from every sore spot. It ripped a cough from it, which it stifled with a setting of jaws, grinding of teeth. Regret made its home next to the rippling, piling guilt starting to rot yet another hole in its skull (and without any concern for the grey matter within, for shame). The latter weighed heavier than the former, and so the inkling of it—it'd done something wrong, that hadn't been what it was here for—in its incandescent gaze was quickly smothered; same as the rest of it as it slipped into its disguise and acted as if it'd never happened.

(Strike one!)
One foot before the other, another loop of the Sisyphean task of life for one Orthoclase-Alpha. Push the boulder uphill, watch it crest and land at the other end of it; never able to be balanced, never able to be fixed. (But its too stubborn and bound to obligation to just stop, to just look anywhere else!)

Its claws sank into the soft earth as it moved down the rows, ghosting along with its attention far from here. They crushed a delicate stem underfoot, and it was fortunate that the growth didn't snap so much as bend to its new, unfortunate shape. Putrescent eyes darted downward to it regardless, and it rapidly adjusted its trajectory; it made a haggard effort to kick dirt over the ruined plant as it strolled past.

(Strike two!)
Alpha knew it should be paying more mind, retaining more of the farm's layout, more impressed by what was there. It should see the cycles' toils and attention put into just this, building something for the future rather than pursuing an apparently fruitless task always-pacing, always-training, always—"… what do you think?"

All momentum came to a halt—it'd been mentally categorizing the plants the zoisite led it past, what they described (melon, berry, vegetable)—and it stilled. Stilled, worked its jaw. The visitation from the Lord had been tucked into the mental fog, but there was some part of it that now dared to sympathize with Her ministrations, her abrupt dismissal in lieu of destruction of something whimpering and sniveling at raptorial feet like a beaten dog—Monsters were not built for this sort of thing.

What a simple question, too. Vargas had asked it this over and over, as if it had a meaningful opinion to dredge out of its sick, sick head. It didn't know if it'd ever answered them—it must have, though. Once, by the window while a blizzard raged outside. Again in the sands. Again in the festering organ not too far from here (and it remembered that, at least, the guilty admission that it despised the new place.) Maybe again in its own head, when it'd once dared to be angry with him and threaten escape, teeth sunken into femoral arteries or anything it could get to.

Quills betrayed the minute-long silence between them with a rustle as they rose up, up, up.

It didn't have an answer. Its mouth was stuffed full of cotton, eyes replaced with glass, guts torn out and put on full display with the apprehensive shiver making its way down its spine. Zoisite was looking away, and yet the faux eyes and uncanny bioluminescence of the other end bored into it. Unblinking. Burrowing underneath chitin and devouring the hidden amaranth beneath. Alpha wanted to reach up and claw the worms from its own rotting corpse. It was a dead beast walking, it'd meet the grave any second now. All this was it floundering closer, closer, closer—

Tick tock. Another minute. SAY SOMETHING! Encourage it. "It's nice," it blurted. Its voice cracked and strained underneath the pressure, but the empty, empty words were out; and the groaning of the glass skylight beneath it ceased for just that moment. A ragged sigh accompanied its desperate clawing at the soil, at the ceiling, and it tried again. "It's nice."

(Strike three! You're out!)

@V-Zoisite-One

Silence.

The silence stretched painfully, but the Zoisite was ever so patient. She always had been, really, born into a world where answers rarely came easy and more often only came after a misstep that needed firm course correction. Of course her heart quivered in the painful stillness of the moment, but her dam held strong against the insecurities and fear. She could wait forever if it meant that she would get a few more words from her life giver. What was one more eternity?

Alpha was just gathering their thoughts. Considering what to say. Maybe they were absorbed in the beauty, maybe she had finally gotten through to them. It was all so outlandish compared to the darkness that lay just beyond her defensive walls, the ones that hissed that she better not turn back and look, because if she looked, her mother would be gone again.

Zoey stood still. The seconds stretched. Had it been only a mere minute, or hours? The rattle of quills could have easily have been the wind, and if they were Alpha or her own, she wouldn't have known the difference. She tried to keep hers quiet all the same. The effort brought a dizziness to her head made the world sway around her despite how firm she stood.

And when the Orthoclase's answer came, like a dropped plate shattering, she flinched. Her head jerked, her body crunching down into her shoulders that stood painfully rigid. A second later she processed it: the Overseer had answered. Said it was nice. To make their point, they-- with a damning sigh-- repeated it.

Was it nice, though, or were they just saying that? The lump in her throat rose with a tickle that she almost gagged on. Her jaws parted and snapped shut, gulping down air to fight the terrible sensation. Was it so much to ask that Alpha appreciated her work? Was it so much to share a piece of herself and have them care, just-- just once?

Selfish. The dam was cracking, and she had to plaster the leaks before the whole infrastructure came crashing down. Eyes closed and talons sunk deep into rich, warm soil. The Zoisite sucked in yet another breath from between her tensed jaws, and stiffly shook her head.

"You don't have to pretend," Zoey said quietly, defeat weighing down her words. "It's not for everyone... But I'm glad that I had a chance to show it to you. I..." Missed you. No, don't-- Wanted to make you proud. --not so personal! Thought you were never coming back. Shut up, shut up, shut up. "... I'm sorry."

Change the subject, move on, move on quick. Anything else. The Zoisite's eyes opened and she reared back her head with a confident swoop that she certainly didn't feel beyond a surface lie. She took a few steps forward, back down the rows toward the vegetables. "I-- believe the preservation will be useful to the Forge," she hastily pushed forward into a subject that, fine, maybe Alpha didn't care about, but that would smother any dangerous quiet. "I can use my magic to put plants in a stasis, so food won't spoil. If something happens and we lose access to Pegasus, we won't starve. A stockpile. Master Vargas has been pleased with the progress." Smooth, easy, back into discussion that didn't have to do with feelings or opinions and maybe the Overseer could go back to asking simple questions and the conversation could just... continue, naturally, as though the hiccup hadn't happened.

As though she hadn't ran it right into the ground.

"I also function as a guard for the farmland, along with Equinox. No one has attacked the farms... But, they are hidden," filler conversation. "Still... we keep it safe." Maybe a slight nod to prove that she wasn't quite so cowardly. Is that what they want to hear...? Did it matter? The conversation needed to be continued. Leave openings for questions, but no more long hangs. And whatever she did-- no feelings, no thinking too deeply. Don't. Keep moving.

@Orthoclase-Alpha