[ open. ]

[epiprocta]

WHO: Gen & OTA TO KENOMA.
WHAT: Aftermath of the events of Soviseri.
WHERE: Around the Citadel.
WHEN: Late Soviseri into early/mid-Firaseri.
WARNINGS: None at the moment, will add if applicable!

i. citadel halls

[ Shortly after the Kenoma's return to Achamoth from their respective assignments (and though very few of them probably know what's coming, before the public reveal of their 'prisoners,') the Aions of the Citadel might hear some slight commotion. The sounds of an argument muffled past a door, it seems like -- though 'argument' might be a poor definition of whatever's going on, since one voice is definitely speaking far more than the other, and in a much angrier tone of voice. At least it doesn't last terribly long before there's the sound of a door being flung open, followed by the stomp of footsteps, then -- ]

I'm leaving. Don't follow me.

[ That latter bit is snarled in clear irritation, answered by a young man's meek 'Yes, sir.' Gen slams the door shut behind him as he skulks out out of his room and into the halls, giving an irritable click of the tongue. And only then realizes that he has an audience. ]

... what.

[ Gen scowls as he looks to whoever's caught him in that embarrassing little tiff with his retainer, though -- that's not necessarily the most alarming thing about him at the moment. He's clearly been having a rough go of things, face pale save the exhausted shadows under his eyes and hair a disheveled mess in desperate need of a trim. Not to mention his left sleeve, which hangs empty at his side. Though Gen reflexively tries to angle himself to keep that wounded side slightly out of view, there's really only so much he can do for such a glaring injury. ]

ii. citadel grounds

[ He can't remember the last time he got a full night's sleep. Certainly not since they'd been sent to Venera. In any case, it's starting to become routine that the unholy hours of night find Gen wandering about the halls of the Citadel, the sounds of his boots scuffing off tile cutting through the chilly silence. It's usually quiet at this time of night even with the random assortment of servants and guards that often flit past him, though he's not sure if that's a good or a bad thing. Maybe the quiet will help him rest, he thinks sometimes. But the quiet mostly ends up further muddying the turmoil of his thoughts. And given the general state of affairs around the Citadel these days, he struggles to even distract himself with familiar comforts. The lurid sights and attractions of the entertainment district just don't hold the same allure any more.

And so any other Kenoma awake in these small hours of the night might find Gen out around the Citadel grounds, the harsh black of his clothes almost melting him into the darkness. Sorry if he startles you during your peaceful nighttime rest.

a.

Bad days find him slowly trailing a meandering path down a hallway or a path outside, head ducked and hand clutching at his left shoulder. The injury itself might have been healed up, skin and flesh forcibly melded together where his limb ends short, but it still hurts sometimes. Hurts a lot. ... this is what they call phantom pain, right?

The tip of his boot catches on some uneven spot on the ground, sending him stumbling, and Gen groans as he comes to lean against something for support -- a nearby tree, a bit of fencing, whatever -- just so he can stay upright until this godawful sensation stops. Sorry not sorry if he's getting in your way.

b.

But (relatively) good days find Gen outside, staring into the middle distance -- maybe on one of the Citadel's many balconies, or out and about in the gardens. Though the heavy dark circles under his eyes indicate he's not awake at this ludicrous hour just because he's a night owl, at least he seems mostly calm, if tired.

There's the rustle of fabric as he withdraws a cigarette and his lighter, parking the former between his lips and flicking on the latter with a practice swipe of the thumb. Too bad the night air is cold, and the weather refuses to permit him even that small vice; turns out lighting a cigarette in anything but the calmest air is hard when you don't have an extra hand to shield that tiny fire. The lighter's flame sputters and dies once, twice in the face of a stiff breeze, and Gen huffs an irritated noise to himself. ]

Hey. [ Then, realizing he has company, he turns to whoever else might be up at this ridiculous hour. And, barely giving them the chance to respond to his brusque greeting, Gen tosses his lighter their way. Better move fast. ] Do me a favor.

[ He words it like a request, but says it like a demand. Like an order. Rude. ]

iii. wildcard

[ Gen can be found skulking around the Citadel and the streets of Achamoth looking generally exhausted and out of sorts, or in the training fields in the mornings still trying to stick to his usual routine, so please feel free to assume anything else if these prompts don't work for you! Otherwise, I'm available at databomb / inktrashing#5307 for plotting purposes if you'd like to plan something! ]

Comments

[epiprocta]

[ He can't swing the mace quite like he'd gotten used to. Without his other arm to counterbalance the weight of that weapon, he's forced to keep his movements more restrained lest he overshoot and unbalance himself. And he's slower on the recovery, too. His body just won't move the way it did before taking that damage. It's an important lesson that he'd already started to grasp while training with Eustace, but it's made all the clearer when he's fighting against someone like Childe who isn't holding back at all.

A bitter pill to swallow.

Case in point -- the impact of the mace clashing against Childe's weapon rings all the way up his arm, making his muscles ache and his nerves shiver. Already exhausted and in less than optimal condition, Gen's a beat slow to steel himself for what's coming, and the following parry is enough to have him stumbling a step sideways.

It doesn't leave him much time to react to the incoming spear swing.

What should he do? Probably not what he does end up doing -- which is simply gritting his teeth and lunging into that incoming blow. The spear's shaft is on a straight path towards his ribcage that way; a real weapon swung at that speed would have been more than capable of bruising a few ribs, maybe even fracture one. But it at least brings him out of the slashing range of the point tip, and, more importantly, brings him close up into Childe's personal space. A truly reckless move.

Up close like this Childe might get a good glimpse of Gen's face -- a touch pale, sweat beading down his jaw, eyes wild and ringed with exhausted shadows -- before he adjusts his grips and aims to slam the handle of his mace into Childe's gut as hard as he can, right below the ribcage. A wiser move than attempting a broad swing in such close quarters; Eustace had taught him well. It's just too bad he can't muster any proper strength when he's already clearly drained. ]

[vapour]

[ it'll be a harder pill to swallow the day Gen realizes that Childe is very much holding back. Despite both being Aions and Firebrands, Eustace's idea of restraint and Childe's idea of restraint are completely different levels.

That's not the lesson of today, however.

Today, the lesson is that standing up to an opponent that you know isn't going to let you simply beat on them can be rewarding: like Childe actually not simply using his bow the entire time to bully Gen and wear him down with constant humiliating hits that stack up to exhaust someone in the most physically and mentally type of way. Of course Gen doesn't know that Childe plays like a cat with the majority of his victims because they're not strong enough to warrant the energy, but he might find out one day when Childe decides he's not going to respect Gen even the slightest bit .

That isn't today. Today, Childe gives him enough respect to have the privilege to land that hit straight beneath his ribcage. Whether or not he let it land on purpose doesn't matter, and he won't reveal which version of the events are true, but the grunt and sharp hiss pulled from him are real pain.

Ballsy moves don't always deserve to be shown as pure stupidity, because sometimes you just really get lucky when it counts.

There's no words from the Firebrand aion, no hint of whether he's impressed, amused, angry or something else all together. He staggers back and then continues to further edge the distance between them. That pain he's experiencing seems to be enough that clutching his upper abdomen and not attempting a retaliation is the preferred set of actions he will take.

The deciding factor of how this match will end is what Gen decides to do next. ]

[epiprocta]

[ It's not like Gen's blind to the fact that he's severely outclassed by many other fighters here. It's not like he's ever lost sight of the fact that he's just a highschooler who was thrown into this chaos and forced to adapt. Were he in a slightly better state of mind, he might have caught onto the fact that Childe is clearly holding back for whatever reason. Maybe.

But he isn't, so he doesn't.

All Gen cares about at the moment is pushing past the crushing exhaustion weighing down on him, and venting his mounting frustration on this conveniently-available target, consequences be damned. He feels the staff of Childe's spear crack against his side, a blunt pain hammering through his lungs as the impact shivers through his ribs. But he ignores it. Ignores that hard-to-read expression on Childe's face, too. Ignores the thoughts of anything other than simply winning this fight, whatever that means.

Childe staggers back from the blow to the ribcage, and Gen surges forth to maintain that close distance between them. His boot stomps down hard on the ground between them, but it's not a simply intimidation tactic. The impact of his boot sends a rapid shudder through the ground, causing it to crumble beneath Childe's feet, destabilizing his footing and ideally forcing his balance into a precarious position.

And pressing that advantage, Gen lunges forth to aim a tight but vicious back-hand swing of the mace aimed at Childe's chest. Not something that would kill, were they fighting with real weapons. But more than enough to cause injury and a significant amount of pain. Enough that it might, might help vent some of the wretched sensation that's been long building in his chest, he thinks. (He hopes. Desperately.) ]

[vapour]

[ for a split second, childe is a little more intrigued by gen, but only because his earth magic is executed the same way as the Traveler does. Interesting, but up in the air on promise overall. he'll have to see gen in a real fight rather than this sloppy mess he's executing. he only lets gen get away with this because he sees the other needs to pass the fuck out.

gen's mace hits hard, and childe grimaces. to the other it'll feel like he's struck flesh and bone, even perhaps the give of cracked upper ribs, but childe doesn't make a sound beyond the initial grunt that's let out with the inevitable rush of air that's forced out of him from the attack. it's enough to knock him off his feet and send him to the ground hard onto his back. ( it's not exactly something childe's happy about experiencing, even if he's holding back, but it's gen's reward for finally getting off the whole bashing skulls obsession he had in the beginning.)

now, let's see if all that helps gen 'feel better' and has exhausted him or if childe needs to take it into his own hands. for the moment, the harbinger won't react other than move to roll on one shoulder even as he's gasping for air. it may sound like pain to gen, hopefully, if that's what he's after, because, without any air in his lungs, he can't even make a sound if he tried. ]

[epiprocta]

[ The impact of the blow rings all the way up his arm, shivering cold through the joint of his shoulder. The heavy thunk of padded metal making impact with flesh seems to hang in the air, unhindered even by the thud of Childe's body hitting the floor and the grit of his weight scuffing through the dirt.

For one moment Gen is still frozen in place, shoulders tensed as he watches Childe's gasping form, silently steeling himself for some sort of retaliation or counterattack. Because it can't be that easy, can it? ... can it? ]

-- get up.

[ Gen spits out that demand hoarse and breathless, though he can't help the way his posture slumps slightly. And even as he takes a heavy step towards where Childe lies on the ground, he finds himself lowering the mace. It suddenly feels so heavy in his hand, an inexplicable exhaustion starting to weigh across his limbs. Maybe because he can't help dropping his guard at the thought that he's 'won' this bout. (Or maybe because Childe's form lying on the ground reminds him a bit too much of the sight of Dokja's body beneath him in that Veneran fountain, chest heaving in those same pathetic gasps for air.)

Gen swallows thickly before he finds his voice once more. And though his voice sounds markedly wearier, he still maintains that tenuous grasp on his main -- stubbornly refusing to drop his guard completely -- as he draws another step closer to Childe. Practically standing right over him by now as he repeats, ]

Get up. Or are you telling me that's really all you've got?

[vapour]

[ get up, Gen says, as if he's never had the air knocked out of him in his entire life. Childe can't even laugh without some shit in his lungs, and so several seconds more pass in silence, the Harbinger solely focused on refilling his lungs.

still, Childe stares directly up at Gen the entire time once he moves to over him, eyes void of anything and everything. None of his demands are going to be met any faster, and maybe Childe will just lie here indefinitely, afterall.

There's one difference between Dokja and Childe though, and that's that Childe has no desire to die. Death will come for him far sooner than a normal human, but he's decided to live every second until then until its at his doorstep. This, truly, is nothing.

His voice is low, apathetic and surprisingly flat when he finally responds, as if he suddenly can't quite drag his usual persona over to mask the one beneath it. ]

Still standing. . .? That's...

[ The smile that slides up Childe's face is arguably unsettling, so confident even as he slowly lifts his arm up towards Gen—or the sky itself. ]

... a real shame.

[ Childe's blue eyes suddenly flare violet, a coil of electricity erecting itself out of nowhere and crawling up his to his hand and fingers before snapping itself as a bolt from its master straight for Gen's head.

It's practically all instantaneous, and if hits, its intention isn't to pierce or otherwise outwardly harm Gen but instead to send his neurons on the fritz and blank his mind out temporarily even as he looses consciousness (its effects will be almost seizure-like.) Maybe it'll help him rest temporarily in a dreamless state, but either way it won't hurt—at least not until after he wakes up.

He was going to spare Gen this if he had given into his exhaustion after Childe let him get that pent up mess inside of him released via such a blow but... well, he can't dictate Gen to perform to his whims. And someone needs to deal with Gen since he isn't feeling well with himself at all..

Oh well. ]