Scene #8428: Gasping For Oxidation

Owner	Pose
Petra Soroka	Continuing a trend of uncomfortable dissonances between her mind and body, Petra has chosen to sleep. Her humming reactor heart outputs steady, limitless energy to all the cables and mechanisms filling her frame; hours and days barely register to something that theoretically operates on the scale of millenia, but Petra's psyche is worn thin and ragged. A month straight of fitful night terrors is barely 48 hours behind her, and Nephra's motel room, despite the mess and the unfamiliarity, feels like a security blanket. Petra declines to take the other bed, in her woozy exhaustion after drying up all of her tears. She curls up on the carpet in the thin slice of floor between the two beds, walled in on either side, drifting off within seconds. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Petra is somewhere else. Without even momentary relief of the cessation of consciousness, Petra is standing in an infinite steel-blue field. Flat as far as her eyes can see, fading into white fog in the distance, slightly reflective like the thin sheen of a winter puddle. Completely empty. Silent, in a suffocating, echo-deadening way that feels resentful. The sole dead pixel, the unpopped pimple, the disease that locks herself in quarantine. Petra's gut knows that it shouldn't be this way, that it should be full of life and celebration and an outpouring of culture, welcoming her into a shared space, and it not manifesting for her is a mixed relief. She's not one of them, after all-- Dimo's attempt to integrate her was a stomach-turning violation of her core self, and she wants everything to do with the Silver as far from her as possible. But it's solitary. Again. Every night. Petra exhales forcefully and tilts her head back in exasperation, trying to suppress the budding panic. The sky breaks from the monotony of the ground. Looking like frosted glass textured like crumpled tin foil, Petra can make out blurry colors and shapes of the world outside her sleeping body, still monitored in her semi-conscious state. She sees the dim shape of Nephra spin around in her chair across the room, and silently pop the cap on another one of those brown bottles, inaudibly muttering to herself. The sense of comfort and familiarity that seeing the real world brings her-- it's better than that fucking door-- is dampened by the apparent distance between Petra and the sky. It feels like looking up at the sun while drowning. The soft plink of a droplet of fluid falling draws Petra's focus down again. Of course every wound would follow her in here-- but her bomber jacket didn't. Nothing to hide behind. Her skin is rippled and torn, patches of skin looking more like islands drifting on a sea of silver than something that should be continuous, and running with thin streams of multicolored fluid, as if the iridescent light refracting off of petroleum was frozen and sorted. Silver, expected by now and sickening for that expectation, runs off her body and seamlessly disappears into the metallic ground. Red, dripping off of her fingers, almost relieving to see. Black, thick, tarlike, oozing through cracks. Lastly, and catching the most of Petra's attention despite being the least present, pearlescent white. Just like Sterling. Just like ---- The leaking droplets splattered on the semisolid silver ground create the only environmental landmark that Petra has in this dreamscape. She bunches up her shoulders and habitually tries to hide her hands in her missing jacket's pockets, then starts trudging in a random direction, each step rippling across the ground. A trail of red and pearl stretches out behind her, nearly overwhelmed by the endless Silver.
Lilian Rook	This is the world of the Silver. That is all it can contain and it contains all of it. No matter which direction Petra picks tonight, no matter where she goes, free of walls in only one sense, it should take her only to more of the Silver; she is locked to its substrate, like a fish to water, unable to leave for the concept of leaving is incoherent here. Even if she reaches its boundaries, there's no more way to escape than there is for a human being to walk 'up' and leave Earth. It'll be the same as the night before, and the night before that, and the night before that, and the same forever until she can somehow get back her warm and fragile flesh. ----- So why is this §here? The fog at the edges of Petra's surroundings fades back past something much more significant than the pearl-red splatter leaking on the floor behind her; nothing so simple as going in circles. It's easy to spot, black against the faint white, but not so easy to grasp. When Petra moves towards it, she begins to realize that it must be quite large, for how slowly it resolves. By the time she starts to see the outline of its shape, she also notices something else; the steel blue has tarnished, or parted around, or §been punctured by something else beneath it. In the circle of sky above it, where she should see the apartment around her, there is a window full of §stars. A floor of charred carbon black that feels like soft soil underfoot, covered in luridly white grass, tinted and faded as if being seen as heat through infra-red. In the midst of it, a door-wide ribbon of black steel §Magnetite. You know that, right? matched by three others in rising from the ground, coiled and entwined together in a loose helical pattern that ascends all the way to the sky, as if threaded from heaven to earth like a needle; implicitly §piercing above and beyond. Though the gaps between are easily large enough for Petra to walk right through, but there's no hope of that; putting so much as a finger to it reveals the hard barrier between the threads of the cage, completely invisible until she places pressure on it. It's surprisingly warm. Like §skin. Behind it, within the spiral column, the ground turns hard and pristine, gleaming white, and the transparent gaps appear to be walls of the same, when looked at from the inside, but the air is visibly contaminated, slowly crawling with a faintly visible mist of black particulate. There's a hazy suggestion of a bed somewhere in the back, and the mist shifts with the odd suggestion of §ghosts and shadows. They're not real people. It'd feel good that she's out here and it's contained in there, but-- A streak of vivid red drawn across the white floor, a crimson smear drawn down the wall to her left, visibly cracked. A familiar shape in a familiar posture, slumped lifelessly at the bottom of the streak, cheek to the wall. Luminous and insubstantial; seeming impossibly fragile like this, made of unclothed light; little more than an §infra-white§ silhouette against the black haze, and against the other thing in there.
Lilian Rook	It was almost hard to see, for a second, even though the haze is much fainter than it is. The §vanta-black§ form, crouched down on one knee yet still towering over. Something nearly human, but not. Sloped and angled edges contoured like armour, fingers pressed to ground contoured like claws, without definition to its face. Smoke spills from the head and shoulders, heavy as a waterfall and breaking into dark haze where it lands, as if wearing a cloak. The only thing that stands out against the void is a band of you know what formed like a collar, numerous broken links of chain hanging from around it, with just two intact, extending half-slack behind it. Now that she looks at it, the hunched posture over the §figure§ looks . . . guarded. Its forearm is posed as if to guard her from outside, and as if to scoop her up and carry her. But it's completely dormant. She lies unconscious, glowing faintly between its kneeling arms and legs.
Petra Soroka	Petra didn't, really, expect to get anywhere. Walking endlessly was meant to blandly pass the time, the tiny, insignificant details of ripples and the trail shrinking away behind her as feeble reassurance that, at the very least, this enclosure was larger than 20 by 20 feet. Looking towards the 'horizon' is numbing, so Petra's gaze is lowered to the ripples on the Silver ground, unbroken until the §corrosion eats away at it. By the time she looks up to see it, the helical tower's shape is already faintly visible, and Petra immediately understands that this isn't some unknown feature of the landscape that's still alien to her. The sight of it settles in her stomach like guilt. Walking towards it feels like trudging to the principal's office, or knocking on the door knowing that her mom is going to be waiting on the couch when she comes in, or working up the energy to apologize after blowing up at her friends. She goes anyways, wishing that stepping from the metal onto the soft grass felt as nice as it should, even though that sensation in flesh is just relief from unnecessary pressure and pain on the soles of your feet. Recognition stirs in Petra's memory at the helical pillar, but before she's able to pin down the feeling, she presses her hand to the barrier and sees the shape crumpled inside. "Lilian!" Petra's shrill cry sounds a little more real here, in the patch of bleached grass around the pillar, than any of her absentminded noises and mutterings did in the indeterminate duration of traveling through the plains. Her attention is solely on the glowing figure, too absorbed with rambling to notice the shadowy giant at first. "I'm sorry, I-- I'm going to make it better, I will. I called Persephone, I asked her for help, since y-you said that she was one of the people we could trust, and I'll figure out something that can fix this. I-I-I know I probably should've been thinking about that while I was walking-- that's probably the point of this whole stupid place-- but I just k-keep going in circles, but I'm going to try." Petra runs a hand over her hair and leans her cheek against the barrier, still staring at Lilian. "God. I know there's no way she can actually hear this, which is good, because I've got to sound so fucking needy." It's then that she finally notices the figure looming over her, and she momentarily recoils before her eyes widen. "That's-- the thing that was, in the vision, all the way back in Siberia?" Petra keeps talking as if she's addressing the incandescent silhouette of Lilian, despite Lilian not actually knowing about those hallucinations. "Like what Nika had, with the-- the tree thing. That was real, right? I don't-- what is it doing here?"
Lilian Rook	There are long, long seconds where Petra's voice only vanishes into the void. There can be no echo, because there are no walls. Nothing here but her isolation, swallowing up those words. Raw. Sincere. Desperate. Meaningless. Heard by no one who matters. §<<No, she can't. But <I/we> appreciate it all the same.>>§ Here, the sound comes from in front of Petra; words spoken in Lilian's voice, but not. Her pitch and resonance and cadence, but, she realizes immediately, without the omnipresent 'edge' hers always carries. Vague stress. Protective disinterest. Dry, sighing tolerance. The little architectural creaks and squeals of someone holding up too much weight. Hearing those words come so lightly is eerie. Almost like back at Indus I'm so glad you want it too, but again, different. Without that sense of relief. Just as if she'd always been this way. A Lilian who'd never been forced to lie and hold back and tolerate and bide and wait. The rest, she notices, is all in her head. The words aren't really words, just pleasant Lilian-sounds. Words she could have said, but didn't. §<<It's <surprising/vexing/charming> to see you here, <Petra Soroka/Unchosen One of space>. I don't know you as well as <she/I> does, but it must be in your nature that we'd finally <speak/know each other>.>>§ The §Lilian?§ slumped against the wall in traumatic repose has opened §her§ eyes when Petra wasn't looking. Black against white. Eye-shaped stars in the night, but §inverted§ The figure stretches §her§ arms as if §she'd§ been comfortably asleep, made strange by the lack of yawn or popping joints. §She§ rolls over, draping her arms squishing her chest over the side of the §giant's§ forearm, and stares at Petra with uncanny, piercing sight, as if she were showing something she never meant to. §<<After all, you're someone she could have <loved/assimilated/broken/made whole> <but didn't>. That makes you a fit to commune with <me/us>. But I wonder how your mind <became open/underwent surgery> to this degree?>>§ There's a little scar on §her§ cheek, like a thin sliver of void, right where it should be. But no bruise. No cuts from shattered tile.
Petra Soroka	Petra yelps and stumbles back when §she§ responds, leaving a smear of pearl on the invisible barrier where her cheek was pressed. "Oh you-- you talk. You're actually here, not just, a vision. I..." Petra hesitantly approaches again, reaching up with her sleeve to wipe off the gleaming fluid. Starlight twinkles on the silver gashes and scabs on her arm when she raises it, and Petra reflexively winces, lacing her fingers behind her back. "I guess I'm surp--" 'Charmed' also kind of feels right, actually. "Surprised to see you here too. See a-anyone, actually, but especially..." Petra struggles to meet §Lilian?'s§ stare, but there's nowhere else for her wandering eyes to settle on. Not the ominous giant, the red streaks, or anywhere else in the curves of the soft-white glow of §her§ body. Her gaze awkwardly flickers around, lingering on the black orbs for a moment whenever she talks and then falling away. "I don't really know what it says about my 'nature' that we can-- that I can talk to you. I don't really... I thought I couldn't, for stuff like this. Even if I-- I'd probably let Lilian. But you're... not Lilian? Sort of Lilian?"
Lilian Rook	Petra sees §Lilian?§ hold a hand close to §her§ mouth in what must be a silent, refined titter. A motion Lilian probably-- no, must-- it seems so naturally fitting-- make, but never to or around Petra. They'd never gotten the chance. §<<Well, <I'm/we're> not <copresent/connected> at all. <She/I> wasn't when <she/the bloom> dreamt of <I/the fruit>. If I had to guess, what they did to you just made you <resonate/comprehend/glimpse the edge of> the same <paradigm/vista of possibility> as those four do.>>§ §Lilian§ puts §her§ face in §her§ palms, elbows below, and kicks §her§ feet lazily, as if gossiping on a sleepover. It's nice. It's creepy. To see this body language. To hear this voice. To see §her§ without the spectre of tension and death hovering around. §<<That is to say, <I/she> can't help you. But with the psychic potential of this enormous <aggregate mind/old wish> at your disposal, you can get some idea of what lies outside <her/us>, right? Something that isn't quite inside <her/that> mind.>>§ But you're... not Lilian? Sort of Lilian?" §Lilian?§ stops moving for a moment, inverse-star-black eyes blinking slowly at Petra. The resonant hum she hears is nothing like her reactor. It's vibrating glass. The faint snatches of an echoing song. §<<I don't really exist, but I could. I'm <Lilian/Unchosen of Winter> too, but I'm not. I'm everything <she/we> could be, but aren't yet. <I/Serenity> almost took her, when it came <time/temptation>, but she stayed. For <others/humans>. I don't know <why she would do that>, really. But I couldn't bear to leave her, because she is I and I <love/need/understand> her more deeply than life.>>§ §Lilian?§ rolls herself over slowly, standing to her feet, and stepping over the behemoth's arm, walking towards Petra with an unmistakable gait, changed utterly by the looseness of her spine and the careless swaying of her hips. §<<So we are <together/comptemporaneous> now. One day she'll realize <I> am <here>. In the way <I/we> really am. She'll understand that <I> was always <here> and <she> was always <there> with <me>. That is to say, you failed to reach the 'Lilian Rook' that exists, but you succeeded at reaching <everything she isn't, but one day will be.> You're a <funny/charming/perverted> one, aren't you?>>§ Laughter. It comes so easily to §her§. It's so light and easy and radiantly contagious that it chills Petra's soul. It is at once the laugh of a Lilian who will never be hurt again, and the laugh of a Lilian who could hurt her without a shred of guilt or hesitation, should she be bored or disappointed. §<<Do you get it? I am <Exigent Serenity/the Wish she made Realer than Real>. One day, far from now, 'Lilian Rook' will turn inside out, and unbecome, and we will be <one and the same>, and I will <give her/have her take> the love she deserves.>>§ §She§ turns around just long enough to pat the dormant hulk on the shoulder. §<<This isn't quite her <shape>. It is the nightmare she has of her <shape>. The <long fear/first and last alienation> that gave rise to such an impossible <wish/thought/concept> at all. It is similar, but different. It is not the <form of the endtimes/the armour-self> of a <Bloom of Humanity>. It only lives in her mind.>>§
Lilian Rook	§<<It has a name, you know. It is called <I Have All The Time In The World/All The Time In The World Is Mine>.>>§ §She§ tilts §her§ head in slow appraisal of Petra. §<<It's nice to <speak/divulge/bare hearts> to someone. <She> hasn't figured out how to talk to <I> yet. <She> sees her <Shadow/Inverse> and is shamed by it, so she cannot grasp the light that lies beyond it <yet>.>>§
Petra Soroka	"'What they did to me'...." Petra murmurs, rolling the thought over in her head. The first 'they' that pops into her mind-- quickly followed by, but still preceeding, Dimo-- is the nameless Paladin who'd strolled into her cell to lecture her on her rights. The barely memorable face of the extradition. The suggestion that she became a little more similar to the Blooms of Humanity because of it sits oddly in her mind, a little comforting, if not for the tide of guilt. The memory of kicking Oreshnika's door and shouting bubbles up in her mind, like it does sometimes when she's showering or trying to get to sleep, and she cringes. I should see if I can visit Nika after this. §Lilian's§ carefree posture makes Petra smile a little bit, automatically taken in by her expressiveness, until the real one's state comes crashing back to her mind. "You're... something like the Lilian that she's scared to be, right? If she didn't have her code, if she stopped convincing herself that people are more real than they are even without her wish." Petra crosses her arms, lightly hugging herself with a troubled frown. Droplets of red and white soak into the carbon-earth below. Beads of silver lay on top, slowly rolling away from the pillar."I can't really say that I get it either. Why she-- any of this, really. It's always so far beyond me, when there's something so-- so big, and complicated, and important, like this. I wish I could understand it better. But if she chose to stay, then I..."-- 'Obviously, I didn't. But I still wonder if it was the right choice. People like you make me wonder a lot more.'-- Petra closes her mouth, and only flinches a little bit at 'perverted' "...Then I want to help-- I want to make that easier for her." "... Exigent Serenity. That's what she calls her-- those hands from back then, and the cables and armor." Petra studies the sleeping giant intently, when §she§ gestures to it. Gears turning in her head, trying to put meaning to the words, puzzle together concepts into something she can grasp. I really don't get it at all. Maybe I need to go to jail a few more times. Petra tries not to squirm under §her§ stare. This whole conversation feels like being graded on a test that she's only ever failed before. "I-- I guess that makes both of you, that can talk to me like this. I don't-- I don't really get it, but I want to be w-worth it." I want to talk to Lilian when she isn't completely fucking miserable too, but for that I need to stop fucking up and making her miserable.
Lilian Rook	'What they did to me'....' §<<Oh? Interesting. So that's who they were. And this is where you're <looking in from/seeing the words align>. <She/we> knows her too.>>§ §Exigent Serenity <Lilian>§ says, tapping §her§ cheek in a strange-familiar way behind the barrier. §<<Oh, <Oreshnika/Unchosen of Autumn> knows little, but <feels the call> much. Less severely than <she/I> but with less to <maintain her shape/tempt her back>; a pull of lower tension. You were a little horrible to her, weren't you? <We/I> didn't like that. But I think she would explain if you were honest. After all, she wished for <all things in heaven to understand her>.>>§ 'You're... something like the Lilian that she's scared to be, right?' It's at that moment that §Exigent Serenity's§ lower face splits with a void-slash smile. Subtle and wide, guiltlessly amused and chillingly unglued. §<<You're so close. I'm <impressed/not surprised>. You're <one of few> who ever thinks about <the magnitude of her struggle/the shape of the Other> and not just petty good and selfishness.>>§ §She§ extends her arm, putting her palm to the invisible glass, warm and soft and impenetrably solid. §<<I am what she <is not/could be at any time>. If 'Lilian Rook' were to take the <way of being human> she wished for, we would be one and the same. <She> would have <absolute freedom>. She would <fear no more>, <strain no more>, <find no use for hate>, <love intensely>, <take freely>, <feel joy without shame>, <harm pleasurably> and <kill frivolously>; to don her <new flesh> and be an existence unbound from <here/there> and <now/then>. Wouldn't that be something? Wouldn't that be worthy of love and terror?>>§ The curl of §her§ fingers against the screen makes the sound of nails slowly scratching across Petra. §<<All humans fear the unknown. When they can know nothing about a <possibility>; when it could be <bliss> or it could be <hell>; who would be eager to take the plunge? Though <I> know the shape of it, <she> can see only so dimly, as it is for all the <Blooms of Humanity>. The way of these things is that only the truly desolate, the desperate, the girls who can't stand living and can't stand dying, come up with these things. Only girls who <can't stand being human like this> would ever be so careless as to take <our Fruits>.>>§ 'Petra closes her mouth, and only flinches a little bit at' §Exigent Serenity§ titters in §Lilian's§ voice; §she§ and §her§ are a certainty and a possibility of the same thing, after all. §<<If you love her, you should really <throw off that shame>. It'll only bleed into her tenfold; she is <the aggressor>. But if you're sane; if you can acknowledge the reality of the evil <she's/I've> done to you, then I won't hate you either. You'll drive her closer to <I>. Whichever way <she> goes, we will be able to love her together.>>§ §<<Because <I> understand <her> more than anyone, I <love> that she did it to you. I don't care about any other humans at all, but I love it when someone can understand <my love for her> too. Those moments, where she forgot her hate for <herself/myself> and <existed in the moment/took My Turn To Be Me>; when she <hurt you/took you/had you>; wasn't she <radiant>? Her shame and disgust can't make it <unhappen> can it?>>§
Lilian Rook	'I don't-- I don't really get it, but I want to be w-worth it.' Slowly, §she§ lowers herself to casually lean against the barrier, a body of light pressed with soft deformation, inches from Petra. §<<Aren't you happy? Even if it was temporary, even if it hurt her so much in the end, those moments you wanted <all of her/the way I am>, too, were something no one else has ever given her. So maybe I'm a little grateful to you as well? Haha~>>§ 'That's what she calls her-- those hands from back then, and the cables and armor.' §She§ rolls over lazily; all of her motions are so languid and effortless, with no true respect to physical strain or tension, but still with that absolute clockwork precision Lilian has for herself. Unmistakably, even §her§ physical language is the same, but painless in all ways. §<<Mm. <The Lady in Black>. The <armour-self> she was meant to inherit. First of the <Blooms>, as usual. How strange that this time she would <deny/let in/reconcile> it with her <gravity-skin> this time. Haven't you seen it?>>§ §Exigent Serenity§ gestures at §All The Time In The World Is Mine§. §<<Like this, but so much more beautiful. If this fully awakens within her, as it nearly did 'back then', there'll be no stopping it, you know. Once her will to <tolerate being human like this> has worn out, she'll turn inside out and become something <greater/beautiful/more grand and complex>, like others. The <Blooms of Humanity/Children of Space> can too, if they just know how.>>§ That chiming, thoughtful hum again. §<<But maybe she doesn't have to? Right now, she can only picture her <new flesh> as the <self-ideal> she's always wanted; the <Knight> in armour. Just as <I> am always with <her/us>, but <she> can only imagine my <hands>, and not my <eyes/soul> or my <mouth/scream>, her <wish> for her <skin of steel> is something she can only think of as 'armour' and nothing more. But there's just one leap from <armour> to <armour-self>, you know?>>§ §<<Isn't it funny how the <Children of Space> inevitably draw themselves towards the same thing? <New flesh> in the form of <toy-selves> first, and then, one day, <inversion>; like <Persephone/Chosen of Unchosen> and the Hellers <Of Coral/Of The Work>.>>§
Lilian Rook	'I-- I guess that makes both of you, that can talk to me like this.' §<<Hahaha~ You've probably noticed, but since I rarely get to talk, I like saying lots and lots when I get the chance~ But we're running out of time to talk for now. And you're <running out/falling behind> in a general sense, aren't you? After what you've done, her <will> will break down eventually. She'll no longer be able to <stand being human like this> sooner or later.>>§ §<<But what's your other option? To <confer forgiveness to her> for being a <monster>? Not only to <love the things she's done to you>, but to make her accept them too? <The others/Its Sword-Seals>, as well? I can't imagine how. Nobody would blame you for <having your dignity> and taking the reasonable approach. Nobody would ever treat <her/us> the same way, if they knew what it is <we/she> thirst for. What tastes and drives and joys and pleasures she has <inherited> from <I> on the day <we became one>, but won't speak of.>>§ §Exigent Serenity§ pushes off the barrier, and twirls around lightly on tiptoe to look at Petra again. Hands clasped behind §her§ back, body swaying carefree, everything about §her§ exudes such inappropriate, even unearthly, flirtatious charm. §<<She'll kill him, you know. She'll kill everyone who <refused to look at her>. Who <denied her existence> when she <screamed>. But you'll be fine. I can tell. If she <can't stand being human like this>, the people who deserve it will die, and the people who deserve it will become closer to her than ever before. You'd be safe, as her <captive cherished thing/arms of adoring acceptance/receptive doll>. So don't worry too much either way~ <She/I> likes you~ Those memories will keep <us> warm.>§ One of §her§ hands swings out from behind her back, pressing a finger to her void-slash smile with a mischievous shush gesture. §<<So be careful about telling her how much is your fault, okay~?>>§
Petra Soroka	§So that's who they were.§ Petra doesn't even register that anything is wrong at first. The weight of a heart like a cruel heatless sun bearing down on hers feels natural, to the point that she easily slips into code-switching between speech and thought between sentences. "Ugh. Yeah. I really was horrible to Nika. I was horrible to a lot of people, really, but there's only so many that I can bring myself to feel bad about." She felt like a sister, even back then. "Maybe that's the reason why. I'm not really a 'thing in heaven' though. I'm..." Petra, for the first time, looks away the inside of the barrier, her eyes tracing the edge of the star-scattered hole in the sky, a tiny glimpse of the dirty motel room visible through the frosted glass ceiling. --weaker than gravity is, I think. Petra blinks and swings her head back to stare at §Exigent Serenity§. Wa"--it wh--"at? "I didn't say that-- how--" I said only her, and this isn't her. But somehow I can't really feel too upset about it either. It's impossible for Petra to fully suppress the thrill of pride that runs through her when §she§ says §she's§ impressed. It mixes, deeply enough that Petra herself might not notice it, with guilt over tricking §her§ into thinking she understood something. "... I think I get it, mostly. The wish-form. When she lets people be as fake as they feel to her. So she only needs to care about the ones who she cares about even when they're fake, and only needs to respect the people she doesn't want to hurt even when they're vulnerable." And only keeps the plastic toys she wants to keep playing with. A shiver runs down Petra's spine. "She doesn't want to-- to be feared, though. Not that way. She wants people to respect how hard she's trying to not be scary that way." §If you love her,§ Petra purses her lips, tightening her wrapped arms around her chest. Is that allowed? I-I-I mean, I'm kind of new to this whole thing, you know. She has a fiancee. "... You don't have to threaten me with saying that she'll be closer to disappearing if I don't forgive her. I already-- I already wasn't going to tell anyone. I didn't even tell Persephone, because it's not my secret to tell, and that's--" '--all there is to it' rings hollowly in her mind. I think I want to be trusted. With whatever that she wants to trust in me, whatever it is, as long as it's mine. Is that fucked up? Is it still bad if it's for her sake? All of §Exigent Serenity's§ unburdened carelessness reminds Petra, specifically, of how brittle and tense Lilian has always been around her, specifically. When watching the glowing silhouette roll around and stretch, Petra's thoughts track back to the way that Lilian moved and held herself in the brief minutes when rushing into her cell before Matthew. She just needs an ally, doesn't she? What Petra quietly says is, while entranced by the smoke pouring down off of §All The Time In The World Is Mine§, "... I can't believe no one else ever calls her a knight."
Petra Soroka	§And you're running out in a general sense, aren't you?§ Petra tries to defensively raise her hackles, insisting that she's on track, and that she's got a plan. The attempt passes helplessly through her mind as the ghost of an impulse, drowned out entirely by the pearl tears already streaking down her face. "I know! I know I'm running out of time, and I still don't-- I still don't know how to fix it. This kind of thing? I-it's fucking insane! I fuck up enough trying to understand this shit normally, much less when there's an alien that wants her to turn inside out! God. Especially when I kind of agree that he should die, I-I just, don't know if that's, an okay solution. I'm already a murderer, so she wouldn't have to be, but I don't-- I don't want her to think that she deserved it." Petra leans her shoulder against the barrier and slowly slides to the ground, squeezing her knees to her chest. "And of course no one else would get it. They never get anything." I'm kind of avoiding the topic of how I felt about it, aren't I. "So they don't deserve the chance to be wrong about it. They just haven't earned the right to know everything about her. It doesn't matter what they think, because they'll never be allowed to think it. As long as she has someone--" Me. "--to be open around, and as long as I make people treat her better, that's-- I hope that'll be enough." Petra stays there, head leaning against the barrier, for a while, as the Silver dreamscape slowly fades away around her. The thought crosses her mind, at some point, as walls gradually rebuild themselves; Is sadism always a psychic curse thing?
Lilian Rook	'I'm not really a 'thing in heaven' though. I'm...' §Exigent Serenity§ watches Petra work through her thoughts with an unusually focused sort of fascination. It's odd to see her bend forward, hands behind her back, watching Petra's expressions carefully from chest level, tilting her head here and there at Petra's intrusive thoughts; it's odd because Lilian is never so effervescently expression, and yet it's so, so easy to imagine it, if only . . . §<<You sort of are. Almost everyone is; otherwise it wouldn't be a <binding force>. But you're <fighting against it> aren't you? Even if all you do is sputter and flame and rise so very slowly, creaking with every inch, I think that's sort of beautiful, in its own way. Hahaha~ And completely pathetic~ But trying and staying <bound> is different. Those other <Unchosen Children> should look at you now.>>§ '--it wh--' §Her§ grin can only be archetypally Cheshire. The 'I know something you don't, but I'll be glad to share it' smile of a maddening liar who is having fun telling the truth in infuriating ways. She can see it in the way those black eye-shapes narrow from the bottom up. Why do Lilian's smiles never get that far? §<<Does it feel like <unfaithfulness/betrayal/failure to display devotion>? You know, <I> once said to her <special people> 'I'm Lilian too'. And that was true, you know. <She> has the potential for <I> within me, so if <she> became more like <I>, then would you fall out of love? It's okay if you want me to <take you/have you> a little too~>>§ '... I think I get it, mostly. The wish-form.' §Exigent Serenity§ nods cheerfully along with Petra's assessment, long, unbound hair-light bobbing with each motion. Tying it up like it's not there is such a shame. At the end, §she§ straightens up, and turns around on her heel again, sauntering along the floor by tracing back the line of red, hips swaying impatiently. §<<I think <she's> afraid that everything will become <hyper-unreal/more fake than plastic>, and all <meaning> will disappear from her life. But <I/we> don't really think that's true. You know these things; it's like going from Christianity to nihilism. Because nothing is <real>, you can choose anything to have <reality>. You decide for yourself what has <meaning> and then you become the ultimate master of your life, free to pursue anything, and feel like it mattered; not just shame and guilt and trying to score imaginary points. Right?>>§ 'She doesn't want to-- to be feared, though. Not that way.' The psychic 'voice' drops a lower pitch. The kind of smoky tone that Lilian uses at her most exhausted, her most patiently pleased, or her most sen-- §<<Mm hmm~ I think <she/I> wants to be feared, just a little bit. If people don't fear you at all, they only respect your <voluntarily/according to their nature>, and humans are terrible volunteers. It'd be best if they were healthily afraid of <her/us>, so they knew to always listen, to <watch their step/bow their heads>, and not try to force <her/us> to <be/do> anything.>>§ §<<The thing they aren't supposed to fear is <inconsistency. A gun is a terrifying thing you know; everyone fears being held at gunpoint, and they comply so easily. But everyone knows how guns work, so if it isn't pointed at them, then they aren't afraid. They all <know the rules> a shitty hunk of steel follows. Why is grasping <her/us> so difficult? Why do they all have to think <she/I> is so <arbitrary/impossible/unstable> that terrible things would happen <randomly/on a whim>? They don't think that about themselves.>>§
Lilian Rook	§She§ looks over her shoulder, blinking at Petra. §<<I think <they> should be more afraid. Much, much more afraid. But the problem is that they're afraid of the wrong things. That's why <she/we> always ends up <breaking her toys> in the end.>>§ 'Is that allowed? I-I-I mean' §<<Hahaha~ Who knows~? <Tamamo/The Sun as it Might Have Been> is the biggest reason she <stayed/reconciled>, but there's so much she's scared to <tell/reveal/admit> to her. All the parts of <I> that she thinks would make her leave. Isn't it <perverse>? The ones who'd help without hesitation are the ones she'll never tell. But I'll share you an <open secret>. She's so new that she doesn't know <what to do> either. You're playing a <risky game>, but I think I like you~>>§ '... I can't believe no one else ever calls her a knight' §Exigent Serenity§ saunters back to §her§ vantablack perch, seating §herself§, one leg over the other exactly as Lilian does save the placement of §her§ palms by §her§ side, tapping §her§ foot up and down. §<<Well, <a few people/the inner orbit/those receiving light> do. But why does that surprise you? In the <grand arc> of things, there are plenty of people who won't even call her <what she is/what she has been every time>. You've seen <him/it/that thing>; you'd know.>>§ I fuck up enough trying to understand this shit normally' §She§ nods, humming affirmative. §<<Haha. Rude bitch. If you call me an <alien> again, <I'll> do far, far worse to you than what <she/we> did before, okay~?>>§ §Her§ merciless smile and incendiary purr makes no doubt of how much she'd like to anyways. 'Especially when I kind of agree that he should die' §<<Oh certainly. Few people have <deserved it more>. But you'd have to <remove that tumour with a scalpel>. Otherwise, <it> stays unresolved forever; the demented idea that <she> has that <any of this> ever made <any sense at all>. It'll be <her fault> somehow, that he's gone, and never accepted <her>, and <she> was never <redeemed> for <murdering an imaginary person>, and how <she> should have <tried harder and done better> to get a better outcome. One <she> won't ever have. It becomes a <forever scar/unwinnable argument>. You know <her> right? I'm right and you know that.>>§ 'It doesn't matter what they think, because they'll never be allowed to think it.' §Exigent Serenity§ laughs; so easily. It's different yet again; deep and breathy and warmly malicious; flush and hot like blood. It echoes in Petra's ears and in her thoughts even as the dreamscape fades. As consciousness returns, §she§ plants her elbows in her lap, her chin in her palms, and smiles with only her inverse-star eyes alone. §<<Now you're starting to understand <she/I/us>. <Lying is more honest>. <Agency is a privilege not a right>. <They don't get a say/It's My Turn To Be Me>.>>§ §<<Hmhmm~ And don't be reductive. For someone like <her/I/us>, it's only natural that <power/pain> are the gateway to <vulnerability/love>. It's not a curse; it's a <charm point>~>>§