[ 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

[semicharmed]

[ Matt's lips twitch at the question. His emotions, though faint, shine clear on his face: amusement, shame, regret. He shakes his head. ]

Not for fun, no.

[ He rolls his left wrist, realizing with a pang that he still wants to flex his fingers. He wonders if he'll ever stop expecting them to be there.

Sometimes, it really feels like they still are. ]

I don't know if anyone's told you what helps. Drinking's pretty good if you're into that--way better than I thought, actually, I thought I was shit out of luck living in a place with no opioids. Massage isn't bad, though kind of impractical a lot of the time. Mine always hits in the middle of the night.

[epiprocta]

I'm not gonna sit around drinking myself stupid every night.

[ He'd already tried booze, in other words. It had worked well enough, true to Matt's suggestion, but it had its limits and Gen isn't that much of a drinker -- spending too long lost in the stupor of being drunk just made him feel shittier in the mornings, he'd quickly realized.

There's the rustle of dirt and grass underfoot as he slowly lowers himself to a crouch, pent-up exhaustion catching up to him and making his body feel heavy. Every last bit of energy he has goes towards trying to contain himself despite the throbbing in his arm, and he can't be bothered enough to care much about how he seems to some dweeby weirdo. (Sorry not sorry, Matt.) ]

And I'm not into massages. [ He can't help sounding a little dismissive about that option, giving a low huff. It sounds lame, after all. ] ... I'll be fine, either way. If you've managed to handle it, so can I.

[semicharmed]

[ Fair enough to the first point, Matt will allow. Alcohol is something of a double-edged sword. It's just one that happens to fit in fairly well with Matt's preexisting coping mechanisms, his need to feel he's ingesting something that's almost like medicine. It's technically fair enough on the second: Massage isn't for everybody.

And yet ... ]

Oh, okay, [ he says mildly. He folds his arms over his chest, only slightly ginger with his stump. ] Why do you think that, out of curiosity? Because if someone like me can take it, obviously you can too?

[ --Look, he wants to help Gen. Whether he thinks he needs it or not. But as much as Matt wants that, he can't help feeling wounded. Intellectually, he knows people don't act like Gen does because they've made a 100% rational determination that you're sentient garbage. They do it because they've been hurt, and are still hurting.

Emotionally, though, nonstop rejection stings. And this is a spot in Matt's psyche that's already flayed pretty raw. ]

[epiprocta]

[ It's not often that people actually call him out on his attitude; people back in his hometown had known better than to pick fights with him, and most of the other Aions he's gotten to know have either been remarkably patient with him or simply clashed heads with him straight-on. So that rebuttal from Matt earns a weary blink. Gen cants his head as he gives Matt a skeptical look, tangled strands of his hair falling over his face. ]

What're taking things all personally for?

[ Said like a filthy hypocrite, because god knows he would have bristled aggressively if someone else had dared say something like that to his face. But maybe that's to be expected -- Gen is hot-headed and shitty and self-absorbed in all the typical ways a teenager is.

He's just also dealing with things no normal teenager should have to deal with.

Clothes rustle as Gen sits back on his haunches with an indignant huff. ]

You think you're so fucking special for learning to deal with your shit? You're not. And if you can, then so can I. S'just what I gotta do, so.

[ So he'll do it. Like everything else he's accepted as things he simply 'has to do.' ]

[semicharmed]

[ Matt doesn't actually know how to answer that question. His first impulse, this is the most personal thing that's ever happened to me ... does make sense, of a sort, but not the right kind of sense. Did he take the remark the wrong way? Maybe. Maybe Gen only meant to be macho and self-sufficient, and the derision Matt imagined is all on him. Then again, this is the second of two times Gen's started an interaction threatening violence.

For a moment, he breathes. Even, deep, following the patterns he knows will soothe his limbs and slow his heartbeat. Not enough--nothing is ever enough to appease his missing fingers. But after a moment, he judges: better. ]

There's no reason for you to have to learn from zero, [ Matt says. He sounds a bit arch, but he feels calmer. ] Building character through suffering is great and all, but there's more than enough of that to go around, don't you think?

[epiprocta]

[ At that, Gen just gives Matt a Look, not entirely unlike the way a street dog might try to assess someone beckoning at it. Like he's not sure how seriously to take everything that's being said, here and now.

There's the rustle of fabric as he listlessly grips at his shoulder to try and ease the constant pain that ebbs and flows through his nerves, and Gen eventually looks away as he mutters, ]

... I can manage. [ But this reiteration of the sentiment sounds ... uncomfortable. It's subtle, but there are distinct suggestions that Gen simply isn't accustomed to this sort of conversation -- the way his voice comes lower and a little lacking bite, the way he avoids eye contact, the tight curl of his fingers into the fabric of his shirt. He clears his throat before adding reluctantly, ] I didn't ask you for any help. Don't go getting all pissy 'cause I turned it down. -- or are you one of those types used to talking things over with everyone all the time.

[ Matt's guess had been right -- Gen's shittiness is mostly just out of a desire to be macho and self-sufficient. But it's also just that he doesn't know how else to exist. Willingly accepting that offer of help from someone who seems as soft as Matt would imply weakness, and he can't permit that. ]

[semicharmed]

[ Even if Matt wanted to hang onto his own bristly hurt--if you've managed, so fucking special--Gen's clear pain would make it difficult. How is he supposed to walk away from someone hurting like this? Past that, it's hard to make out what Gen might be thinking. He strikes Matt as a thrumming ball of energy: oscillating around some unknowable core, spiking out in sudden, cosine peaks of hostility.

As is often the case with his fellow Kenoma (let's be real, with people in general) Matt is cognizant of how much he doesn't know. Gen is as oblique to him as a stone wall. ]

I know you can manage, [ he says after a moment. That seems obvious to him, but maybe it bears saying. ] I just think ...

From a tactician's point of view, it's like. I have some experience with this shit, so why shouldn't you benefit from it? If anything that's helped me helps you, it could get you feeling better--and fighting better--more quickly. That benefits everybody.