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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! ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ Eustace sounds tired.

Gen is, despite his many (many) flaws, more observant than he probably seems at first glance. But even if he weren't, Eustace's usual stoic demeanor would make his current exhaustion all the more glaring -- his words drag at the edges with a touch of lassitude, each one dull in comparison to the usual crisp cadence of his voice, and even his gait seems lacking in his characteristic precision. Like there's something invisible weighing down on him.

There's a moment of silence only interrupted by the scuff of their boots on the pavement and the distant murmur of the Achamoth crowd. Maybe Eustace can feel the prickle of Gen's gaze fixed on his back, and if he glances over he might notice Gen's stare lingering on him for a moment too long before sliding away. There's no hostility in his eyes, but a certain level of caution and scrutiny, like he's trying to gauge the situation before he dares to say anything more. It still takes him another second or two afterward to find words. ]

Guess being a soldier doesn't make this shit any less stressful.

[ His wording is blunt, but his tone of voice is softer than he usually employs. There's no judgement or derision in his words, only a statement -- and indirect comment to indicate he can tell how tired Eustace is, and an acknowledgement of the toll it must have taken him to reach that point. Turns out Gen isn't capable of a few crumbs of tact now and again, it's just that he reserves them solely for the few opportunities where they feel warranted coming from him -- and Eustace having saved his life lets him join that very exclusive club.

There's the rustle of fabric as he distractedly rubs at his shoulder; the pain in (the remains of) his left arm tends to ebb and flow, and it's prickling a bit now, maybe because of what he's steeling himself to ask next. ]

... d'you think we could've avoided this -- [ mess? disaster? brutal hostage situation? ] ... this trouble if I managed to kill Estinien back then? Me or M.

[ He thinks about the question for a long time, balancing what few facts he knows with the possibilities that might branch from such a hypothetical. His boots click against the ground as they walk, the busy hubbub of central Achamoth fading from his ears as he withdraws into himself, head slightly bowed in thought.

Finally, after about two minutes, he offers Gen the best guess he can make. ]

I doubt it. We might have been able to delay this [ this awful, awful procession ] but the main problem is the entity and not Estinien. There's no guarantee we would have been able to destroy it, not with the group we had at the time.

[ Even with their newly gained abilities, it'd been too similar of a group as that first time, and all they'd managed to do then was suffer a sound defeat. Even now Eustace isn't even sure that they would be able to defeat the entity, any traces of a possible plan still tucked away in Ciel's mind. He sincerely hopes she does find a way, if only so the bulk of the Citadel (and Achamoth) are spared from the brunt of the Innocence and its childish wrath. He may not care much for the lifestyle most Achamites lead but they are still people, born with no greater crime than to have lived a life knowing only the Regent and their ways.

With his thoughts no longer consuming him, he looks back at Gen. His voice is pitched a little lower this time, enough so that it has just enough traction to make it to Gen before being buried until city noise. ]

I take it you don't like what the Regent has sanctioned against our prisoners?

[ On some level he knows that was a stupid question. He knows it's probably idealistic to think that they could have taken down that entity that had dispatched them with all the effort of a man kicking apart an anthill. And hypotheticals never matter, anyway. 'If's are worthless. Even so, Eustace's answer has him giving a low sigh of ... exhaustion? Frustration? He's not even sure. And bogged down as he is by the dark undercurrent of those thoughts, he's a beat slow to realize Eustace has asked him back. ]

-- huh?

[ And a beat slow to control his emotions, too. For one moment there's no masking the sickly consternation and agitation coloring his gaze, a mental snapshot of that horrific display of the prisoners rising to the forefront of his mind before he can shove it back down. Even if he hurriedly looks away once more and rubs his hand over his face, that vulnerability was unmistakably there. ]

It's ... killing someone is one thing. But something like that -- [ He exhales slowly before lowering his hand, brow furrowed and eyes narrowed to a tense stare into the middle distance. ] ...m'just not used to it. I know it's just something that has to be done, but ...

[ It still makes his stomach churn. Because even if he's killed before, even if there's blood on his hands, it wasn't like this. He needs to force another breath slow and ragged before managing to conjure words. ]

Just need some time to get used to it. [ Because surely, he'll manage in the end. He has to. ] ... wasn't it the same for you? When you started.

Don't get used to it.

[ The words come out before he can stop them, cutting and bitter and immediately buried under the raucous city hubbub and Gen's continued speech. At his side, his fingers curl inwards, nails digging into the flesh of his palm. (He must truly be on edge, to let his internal thoughts slip out so easily.)

Though torture's a tactic that's been around for ages, and that might even be considered effective in specific circumstances and cases, he'd never been able to bring himself to approve of it fully, even after having been forced to sit through a few sessions of his own. It's—unnecessary, in his opinion, a show of dominance and power and little else. And while he can't dictate what Gen chooses to believe or what he does, the thought of that last little flicker of boyishness burning out and replaced by a dead stare...

It makes his lungs and heart constrict, a momentary chill creeping through his veins.

They stride down the street a little longer and then take a right. The scent of food creeping into the air even more strongly than before heralds the appearance of restaurants dotting each side of the street. ]

What are you in the mood for?

[ For breakfast, that is. They can resume their unpleasant conversation once they're inside. ]

[ He heard that. That ... commandment.

Don't get used to it.

And while Gen is hardly about to meekly agree to it, he also doesn't bristle in the face of what is essentially an order. It's unlike him to let an adult come so close to giving him a command without making some shitty comment in retort, but this time he lets it slide. When Eustace looks back to him, his gaze is fixed in a wary stare, making it clear that he'd heard those muttered words. But Gen otherwise has no response to give, that moment of eye contact serving as the only indication that he'd heard. But the tension in his shoulders does loosen just the slightest as he looks away.

(For some reason, holding those low words close to his chest permits some tiny crumb of relief. The thought that at least one person might permit him that weakness lets him breathe just a little easier.)

As for the question of food -- ]

What's good around here?

[ Maybe this, too, is a bit uncharacteristic. Gen's usually decisive to an almost obnoxious extent, and certainly not the type to look to others for recommendation. But glancing towards the restaurants strewn on either side of them, Gen looks vaguely troubled. The hand to his mouth muffles his words somewhat when he mumbles, ]

... I can't taste things right when I'm [ stressed, traumatized ] tired. Just pick whatever you want. I can eat anything.

[ He catches the tail end of that look, along with the lack of direct reply. Gen must really be tired (or worse?) not to snipe back. Maybe they'll both feel more like themselves after some food.

Typically he doesn't go out for breakfast - usually only lunch with Ciel and the occasional dinner when he feels the urge to escape the Citadel proper - so it takes him a half a minute browse around and mentally shuffle through all the pubs and restaurants he's visited in the past. Nothing too greasy or too heavy, some place with reasonably strong coffee to give them both a boost of much needed energy.

Finally, after some deliberation— ]

This way.

[ He leads them down the road and then takes a left turn down a smaller, quieter street before pushing open a door and heading inside. It's, perhaps unsurprisingly, quiet inside, only a scattered handful of patrons seated at the various tables.

There are any number of questions still lingering in his mind, most of them about Gen, but he keeps a lid on them for now, grabbing a table and taking a seat instead. ]

... okay.

[ Again, that uncharacteristically easy acquiescence. Gen follows behind Eustace without much comment or complaint, trailing a few paces behind him into the restaurant. The quiet is welcome, and Gen already seems just a touch more relaxed when he takes a seat and slumps back in his chair.

When the waitress drops by, he orders a coffee, black. Absently looks over the menu, not really taking in the words and just deciding that whatever's near the top is fine. Instead glances up to where Eustace is sitting across from him, studying him in silence for a moment.

... Eustace really just never changes, does he. All that shit going on, and he looks as calm as ever. ]

Hey, Eustace.

[ It must be a little jarring when Gen speaks up, his tone of voice lower than usual. Nowhere near as combative, weary and plain. ]

How old were you when you became a soldier?

[ Eustace follows suit, grabbing a black coffee for himself before turning to look out the window. He doesn't bother with the menu, being enough of a creature of habit to order the same dish every time he visits.

It's quiet enough in the restaurant that the question, quiet as it is, grabs his attention immediately, his head swiveling around and brows creasing slightly at the unprompted dig into his personal life. But he answers without hesitation or suspicion, once again too tired to try and suss out any ulterior motive prematurely. ]

Fifteen. It was the earliest they would have let me in.

[ Which implies a willingness on his part to throw himself headfirst into the horrors of war rather than any sort of forced conscription. Truthfully if his guardian had been anyone in the Society but Ronan, no doubt he would have been allowed in even earlier. But Ronan had always had more of a conscience than the rest, and a strong desire to protect him from the cruelties of the world despite how much he'd done his best to shake off that protection.

Now more than before, he wonders how different things might have been if Ronan hadn't been there keeping an eye on him. How much easier would it have been for the Kenoma to pull him under and drown him completely? ]

Why do you ask?

[ This isn't exactly very Gen-typical behavior. ]

[ It really doesn't seem like him, does it.

But Gen's always been the type to sink into his thoughts when troubled -- what else could he do when he'd been taught at a young age that his biggest sin had to be forever buried deep in his chest? A quick temper and a propensity for violence had made it easy to hide the fact that he often buried himself deep in the mire of his thoughts, stuck turning things over and over in his head until he could internalize them in silence without ever letting anyone else know.

It's just that ... this time, there's too much, too fast. It feels like some dam inside his chest's started to form cracks, and he can't stop his thoughts from seeping out.

'Why,' Eustace asks, and Gen just offers a half-hearted shrug at first. Looks up when the server drops off their coffee and wearily pulls one of the mugs forth for himself. Takes a small sip before lowering it back to the table and watching the liquid surface ripple from the movement. And only then he speaks up again, words aimed at a vague point at the tabletop. ]

I told you before, I was just a student before I ended up here.

[ He takes another sip of his coffee before continuing, fingers idly rubbing on the handle of his mug. ]

I was supposed to just finish school and go into construction. So everything here ... [ His words peter off because he's not sure how he'd ever think of ending that sentence. Then he clears his throat softly and mumbles, ] But. If you were fifteen when you became a soldier. I guess I'll be fine. I'll manage.

[ He'll adapt, like he did before. It's just a little easier knowing that this time there's clear precedence to prove he'll be okay. ]

[ He's only half paying attention, gaze trained on Gen even while his own thoughts swirl around inside his head. But that passive tone of voice, so out of the ordinary, snaps his full attention right back, his lips curling downwards into an even deeper frown.

While Gen's fingers curl around the handle of his coffee mug, Eustace's fingers curl inward, hand forming a loose fist on the table. ]

You don't have to just manage. You don't have to accept any of this.

[ The words come out a hair sharper than he intends, fueled by his own dislike of the thought of Gen simply accepting the fate that's been forced upon him. At least his voice is still quiet, not loud enough to catch the attention of any of the other patrons in the restaurant.

Sitting here with a mug of steaming coffee before him, he realizes how little he still knows about Gen, his history and his personal traumas that have shaped him into the person he is now. It feels too late to ask now though, both their psyches further damaged by the constant horrors a life in Achamoth has forced them to face. But surely it's not too late to nudge him towards a more stable future? Maybe it won't be a bright future or even a happy one, but it can at least be one where he's allowed some sort of autonomy over himself. ]

If what you want is to learn to accept this, then fine. There are ways to cope with this type of thing. But make that choice because you believe it's the right thing to do, not because you think it's the only thing you can do.

[ Some of his personal feelings are definitely bleeding out into this conversation, his usual objectivity overruled for the time being. ]

[ More than what Eustace is saying, it's the crackle of fire in his voice that gets Gen to look up from that spot on the table. It's not much, but it's still something -- and even that brief flicker of hot emotion speaks volumes coming from someone as calm as Eustace. It's enough to earn a surprised blink, a pause, a soft exhale before Gen mumbles, ]

... you say that like it's easy.

[ It's still hard to meet Eustace's gaze for more than a moment. It feels like he hasn't been able to focus on anything for days now anyway, his thoughts slipping between his fingers like so much sand, and Gen looks aside as he absently rubs the pad of his thumb against the curve of the mug's handle. ]

It's not like ... [ Not like what? His brow furrows. ] It's just. [ Just what? ] I've -- ... always done what I need to do.

[ It's the same thing he'd said before, Eustace might remember, when they were speaking in his room about Gen's resolve to kill Kim Dokja. That silent but fervent conversation that had taken place over Communion, each word infused with the defensive, desperate bristling of a wounded animal. And though his words now are quiet, lacking in his usual aggression, the sentiment remains the same. Gen's spent so long chained in place, it's hard imagining himself with the freedom to choose even after being freed of those shackles.

Still. He knows Eustace isn't the type to waste his breath on empty sentiments -- these aren't words he can just brush off. And after a moment of uncomfortable silence, he asks quietly, ]

What about you? [ 'Are you here by choice?' It's what he wants to ask, but doesn't dare say out loud. ] ... how d'you know you're making the right choice?

[ He doesn't answer right away, the gears of his brain slowly turning as they usually do before he tries to answer something as deeply philosophical as this. He's always preferred actions over words, simplicity and the material over the intangible unknown.

Or at least a subject. His own feelings and beliefs he sets aside for later. ]

You don't have to change all at once. [ In fact: ] You can't change at all once.

[ Especially not after years and years of the same habits and actions, drilled so deep they bake into muscle memory. Most people just aren't like that, no matter how much they wish they were otherwise. ]

But you can take one step at a time. Make one decision at a time.

[ The words feel alien coming out of his mouth, poorly worded advice that he honestly has no right to give. Not for the first time he wishes Abel were here, with his easy voice and genuine optimism and shockingly sharp intuition for a man usually portrayed as a bumbling fool. His own intuition is dulled to a nub by now, at least as far as the emotional goes, and he feels like he's wading across an endless tundra without even the stars to guide him. ]

It doesn't have to be anything large or important. It doesn't even necessarily have to be the right thing to do. [ Because gods only know the longer he stays here, the less sure he is of what the right thing even is. ] As long as it's something you want to do, not something you feel like you have to do, that's what matters.

[ Whatever else he intends to say - the actual answer to Gen's question and not this meandering aside he's led them on - is pushed off even further with the return of their waiter, inquiring politely about their meal choices. ]

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really hate that you're making me think about this

sorry i gotta get the pain out of the way before silly/soft-only september

dunks you into the trash

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