EVENT #1: THE EMPTY THRONE

[aionmods]

The Empty Throne

DESCENT

Nearly two weeks after being dragged from shrine caverns, you hear along the grapevine that the "the throne room is complete." It doesn't take long to figure out what that means; the ritual grounds that you have been hearing mention of are finally prepared, and it's only a short while before you are once again being gathered together for travel. As a small mercy, at least this time the journey is short.

Through a passage that has been blocked by a gathering of soldiers for the entire length of your stay, a stairway is revealed to you. It leads deep into the ruins, through unfamiliar structures and into the bowels of the earth. Though your feel your are mostly going downward, the walk is still long on account of how many stairs their are, and the soldiers escorting you are restless. They are now being led by the stray, mask wearing Achamites that have been accompanying the group till now, silently observing. Whatever place this is, it seems that they now hold court.

Funneled into the chambers below, you are greeted by a massive, domed enclosure of stone. Positioned around its circular radius are twelve thrones in various states of disrepair, sized as if meant to seat giants. The backs of these thrones all differ slightly in design, though most have great cleaves of stone broken loose from their architecture, as if subjected to some great cataclysm. Each is engraved with a sigil, though some have been obscured by the destruction wrought. The throne closest to the entrance has been almost entirely demolished, making it impossible to glean much about.

The dome's ceiling appears to be hundreds of feet tall at its apex, its smooth surface disrupted by stalactites that puncture through its form like teeth. As a result, many chunks of the original structure seem to have cracked and collapsed in to the floor below. When examined closely, these fragments of the domed ceiling seem to be made of a material strangely reflective in quality, though caked in many years of dirt and grime. If large enough sections are cleaned, patterns may emerge, revealing designs that look almost like star maps. The floor beneath your feet as a similar, but subtly different quality, covered in wreckage and ruin but can be cleaned to reveal complex patterns of intersecting lines.

A careful eye will indicate that these lines all lead towards the center of the room - the one space that has been cleared and scrubbed prior to your arrival. Here, the lines converge, with carefully preserved marking in the stone that bely increasing levels of runic complexity the closer you look. This is where the ritual will be held, you are told.

THE RITUAL

There is not much time to regain your bearings before you are being shuffled forth towards the ritual space; no, all the waiting has already been done. Under the command of the smaller group of Achamites, the Hylicians will make heavy use of the whips in leading everyone to their places along the rune-inscribed circle. Before that, however, small cuts will be made to each prisoner with an athame, either on their hand or arm. With a sharp, burning sensation in the afflicted skin, these cuts will spread into wounds reflecting the image of one of the eleven sigils displayed on the thrones encircling the group, and matching the shrine they were originally pulled from.

With this accomplished, they can finally be taken into the circle. With a design comprised of four triangles overlapping, the design of an open eye carved at its center, all prisoners will be led to separates points on its design where the lines cross. Seemingly arranged by their shrine sigil to be closest to whatever throne represents them, they will be brought to their designated positions one by one. Any attempts to flee or disrupt the process will be dealt with swiftly and harshly, exacerbated by the increasing levels of paranoia and fear in the soldiers themselves. Whatever is being done here, they don't seem happy to involved with it either.

When everyone is in place, the seeming master of ceremonies will finally emerge. A dark haired woman will appear from the shadows, motes of golden light fluttering about her otherwise darkness-clad visage. Moving towards the center of the circle, she will stand over the marking of the eye and begin working her magicks. As if on cue, the soldiers will withdraw any remaining whips and scurry to the outside of the circle, only for new bonds of ethereal energy to lash out of the ritual circle itself, binding each and every prisoner and dragging them down to their knees. Among the soldiers, you can hear mutterings identifying this woman as "the Aion."

"Come," she says to the coterie of robed Achamites, who will approach the circle with an assortment of vials collected into cases. There is enough for each prisoner to be given a drink, and so they will; a vial of abyssal liquid will be forced into each one of your throats, no matter how uncomfortably it must be done. While no less ruthless, the Achamites have a different way about them as they work, forcing themselves upon you with a strange familiarity that feels more akin to a mother forcing their child to take medicine than the suspicious hostility of the soldiers. As the foul liquid touches your tongue, it takes on a consistency almost like a living thing, crawling down your throat even if you refuse to swallow, all while the Achamites stroke your hair and make saccharine assurances.

Once all the prisoners have been fed their vial, the Achamamites too will retreat from the circle - all except for one. Joining 'the Aion' at the center, the two of them will begin enacting a planned ceremony of sorts, that culminates in the following scene:

The Achamite kneels before the Aion, lifting their masked face to meet their dark gaze. They speak, in practiced tones.

"To the Kenoma my body, to the Kenoma my soul."

In response, the Aion holds the Achamite's face between their hands in almost a loving gesture. She speaks softly:

"By the blood of the Martyr, I accept your sacrifice."

From the Aion's hands a darkness spreads across the Achamite's body, as if they are melting and dissolving on a cellular level. She kneels along with them, cradling them as their body breaks down, pooling in a void-black liquid around their knees. It drains into the lines of the ritual circle, surging out towards the prisoners.

Within moments, the ritual is complete.

KENOMA SICKNESS

As this dark power surges throughout the ritual circle, you will find yourself almost consumed by the tide. Whatever foul creation you were forced to swallow wakes within your chest, and you can feel it move within your veins, inside you lungs, behind your eyes. As quickly as it begins, the flood of darkness washes over you, but not without leaving you stained.

Something has changed in its wake. As you return to your senses, you will notice the magical bonds of the circle have fallen away, leaving you free to move; for once, the soldiers will not move to lead or restrain you. Instead, the Hylicians warily back away from the ritual space, retreating towards the only path upwards, where they form a defensive line. The Achamites that linger make a series of ritual gestures, praying in voices too soft to hear. The Aion woman stands in the center, her hands blackened with residue from the person you just watched fall to pieces in her arms.

"You will be given time to find your truth," she says. "Use it well."

As you recover from the experience enough to stand, she and her Achamite entourage are already retreating to join the Hylician guard. Gradually, your situation will become clear: they intend to keep your trapped down here. However, it will not be the same as when you waited before. Instead, the soldiers simply intend to block your only exit out, and otherwise leave you free to roam the full diameter of the throne room, seemingly free to do whatever you want as long as it isn't trying to break free of the cavern's confines. Each day, they will offer to their prisoners a limit supply of food, water, and firewood, but nothing more. Beyond that, you only have your increasingly dirty white robes and the same bedrolls as before.

❖ COMMUNION
The first change you will experience is an itching darkness in your mind, like a psychic wound that is becoming infected. The sort of thoughts you would normally try to force down become increasingly hard to resist; despair, hatred, and fear will plague you, and requiring great feats of will to silence even temporarily. Phantoms of the things you'd rather forget will become a constant companion, all while a presence seems to whisper: when you accept your fate, the pain will stop.

Worse than this, the darkness of your mind may not remain private. As if awakened by the ritual, your empathetic sense has become impossibly strong, to the point that you feel the broadcasted emotions and thoughts of others, and in turn, your darkest thoughts will be psychically projected to others with a volume proportional to the intensity with which you feel them. This effect is most potent between those sharing Legacy, with the capacity for their identities to become momentarily confused. In all cases, this connection may bleed into your dreams, or manifest as hallucinations.

❖ TRANSFORMATION
Yet, your mind is not the only thing that ails. In proportion to the strength of your emotions, your body may begin changing to match your state of mind. Physical transformations akin to those mentioned here will begin to manifest, themed to your inner suffering and the most negative aspects of your self conception. These alterations may shift from moment to moment, depending on the turbulence of your emotional state. They may or may not be painful.

❖ AFFLICTION
Along with the above effects, characters may also experience various more mundane ailments; essentially anything traditionally associated with illness could fit. Weakness, nausea, body aches, and chills are all common options. Along with this, void-black ooze may start to trickle from virtually any orifice. While it may stain clothing and skin, the material itself will dissipate after a few minutes in a manner reminiscent of ectoplasm. This effect may also appear around your Shard, as if the stone itself has begun to bleed.

RESISTANCE

Even as the Kenoma threatens to overwhelm you, you still have the power to fight. Though it may be a grueling war of attrition, you can force back its advances with sufficient will to survive and resist the darkness. Of course, your captors are not going to make this easy for you. Those that fight hard enough to expel the Kenoma from their bodies and spirits will take at least a week to do so, and for that duration they will be trapped within this chilly cavern, haunted by their worst thoughts and emotions.

The bedrolls barely strand up against the cold, your clothing doesn't at all, and to be comfortable you'll require fire. Yet, there is a limited amount provided to you, along with food and water, and the soldiers do not seem to be making any effort to distribute it evenly. Achieving basic warmth and sustenance may become a battle against your fellow inmates, all while you struggle against the enemy infecting your body. Cracks in the dome of the cavern lead into some smaller caverns and crevasses in the stone that can offer some privacy or protection, but the more splintered the group becomes the less the supplies will hold up. Fortunately for you, neither the cold nor starvation will kill you, but it will make you suffer.

Yet, you may still persevere. As you fight back the Kenoma, something else will be cultivated in its place. Bit by bit, a comforting and warm presence will grow within you, gradually disrupting the maladies afflicting your body and mind. Your faith and perseverance has been rewarded with an attunement to the Pleroma, the Kenoma's cosmological opposite; given enough time, the Kenoma will be forced from your being entirely, in the form of void-black sludge. Only then will your power begin to shine through, the abilities of your past life slowly returning.

You must keep your guard. With or without otherworldly power, escape will be a struggle.

ACCEPTANCE

Or, you may choose the easy option. Maybe the Kenoma resonates with your history and emotions in a way that makes it seem like it isn't the enemy. Maybe the depths of your despair are too deep to escape. Maybe your simply lack the strength to fight. Whatever the reason, sooner or later, the Kenoma claims you. The more you let it in, the less it feels like a poison and the more it feels like strength. The darkness settles comfortably into the cracks and holes of your spirit, and you awaken to its power. You feel the change viscerally.

This world is not good enough, a voice seems to speak through the Kenoma. This suffering you feel, the cruelty that has birthed this darkness in you... it is simply the rot that is consuming this existence. A better universe awaits, one forged by your own hand, and all you need do is first bring about this broken reality's end.

Whatever effects you were suffering from the Kenoma's presence will fade away, and in its place, you will feel your endurance bolstered. The clarity is stark in comparison to the mire you were trapped in before. As the other prisoners suffer around you, the Aion woman from before and an accompaniment of a couple Hylician soldiers will approach you among the ruins, as if summoned straight to your location. She looks you over, her dark eyes impassive, and then asks:

"Did you feel it?"

She doesn't actually wait for an answer, your expression alone enough to assure her. She'll tell the soldiers that you are free to go, and that you are to be given a share of their food and a change of clothes. She'll escort you out of cavern and towards the upper ruins, where the soldiers and Achamites have set up camp. This feels natural to you, somehow, like you and her are on the same wavelength in a way that is hard to comprehend. She is like you, you sense. That dark power is within her as well.

She doesn't linger with you for long, but she will see that you are on your way before heading back to the caverns. She'll say that the voice you heard, that promise, was the Regent, the ruler of this land. They spoke of a power that could birth a new, better universe, and they weren't misleading you. It's within their reach, closer than ever, and if you help them achieve it you will be rewarded lavishly. For now, you are free to regain your strength while the others make their choices. She only asks that you stay in the area and be ready to join the Regent in Achamoth when all is prepared.

If you're prone to boredom, though, she will mention that you'd really be doing the prisoners a favor by convincing them to accept the Kenoma like you did. You could convince them with words, or by making their situations so unbearable they won't have a choice but to break. However you'd like. It won't be worse than what's coming for them if they carry on this way.

When she parts ways with you, you are left to your own devices. Somehow, you feel inclined to cooperate. After all, the Regent did have a point.

QUESTIONS

Are the involuntary transformations during the Kenoma sickness period temporary afflictions or permanent ones?
By default they are temporary, but characters can also keep a couple keepsake changes if you'd like! An Aion's physical appearance is something that is generally in flux, and so even if you keep something from this event, you can always alter it later.

What kind of supplies are going to be distributed to those who accept Kenoma and leave the caverns?
They'll be given food, water, and clothing. They'll be given more/better rations than they were as prisoners, but it's still the sort of food that is limited by the fact that they are out here on a mission. The soldiers will have some fresh meat from prey they've been hunting in the forest, and will generally be having a lot of stew-based food going. There are actual spices in it, though, so that's cool. This is all set up where the Hylicians are camping.

As for clothes, they will get a fresh set (including boots or shoes) and some soap to clean themselves up in the nearby creeks and ponds. Hylici has an aesthetic that leans towards ancient Greek/Roman, so while they won't have anything fancy with them, you are free to assume they are able to acquire anything in that general ballpark. They do also have pants, though. While it is now spring and Horos has a generally temperate climate, it can be chilly at night.

Will Pleroma attuned be able to escape once they've regained their powers?
Yes, they will be allowed to escape at that point, and a second log will be going up to cover that part of the event. This log should generally cover up until shortly after Pleroma start ejecting the Kenoma's influence. Characters are permitted to escape by their own power if they somehow devise a plan to do so, but as we know the Pleromas are at a significant disadvantage in this situation, some characters who have fought against the Kenoma particularly valiantly will be given some magical assistance to help the survivors escape.

Will the Kenomas be able to try to stop them?
Yes! The second log will be set up to contain some PVP, though given the Pleromas do need to escape, we ask that you play nice. There will be a battle, but it will be structured in the context of the Pleromas having to hold off the Kenomas long enough to escape, so it will be relatively brief.

Can we speak to "the Aion"?
Yes, she will be around for the full length of the event. All characters will have the chance to find her watching over the group whether they are Kenomas or soon to be Pleromas. She will not be that talkative, though, so anyone tagging her will have to lead the conversation. She will not make small talk. Martyrs will recognize her as one of them.

Comments

[affal]

( he fills his lungs with a long, shuddering breath, and it's in its slow release that he returns one rhetorical question with another: )

Then why are you here?

( he already knows the answer. gen can enshroud it in as many layers of begrudging irony, claimed boredom, or forced apathy as he can muster, but the concrete nature of action will always undermine and brush aside such smokescreens. it has to be far simpler than that. the cruelty of the human spirit, perhaps, seeking to dredge up more sediment to fill the murky waters of the miserable existence makoto currently ekes out here. that, he would understand, even if it poisons his blood with ire — he would most likely have done the same thing, should their positions have been reversed. that, or he really does seek something from makoto, be it his conversion at long last to the darkness that suffuses him body and soul or to prove some sort of point that had been left over from their first meeting. again, not something that would've been too far outside of makoto's own wheelhouse, but he finds himself suddenly impressed with how much directive this new change in gen had instilled in him.

concerns of food, drink, warmth, and dignity hadn't really plagued him when his focus had been turned purely inward — he is a curiously industrious creature at compartmentalization, able to deprive himself of far more if he has a great enough goal to focus on. it's far more difficult when he's forced to be physically and mentally present for gen's little visit and being reminded in the meantime. he allows the venom of loathing to fill his mouth as a welcome distraction, painting pictures of lurid violence on the backs of his eyelids. he doesn't rise to the feeble stabs at his ego — not that they don't find purchase in their target, because they do, but because he only has so much energy to devote to any given thing. he's well aware of how he looks, and he can understand the irony in the situation, given what he is. but just because he's a demon doesn't mean he's any more likely to be convinced to relinquish his furious grasp on what it is that gives his continued existence any sort of meaning.

when gen continues, makoto becomes a victim to a slow onset of a fit which seems to oscillate between dry coughing and breathy laughter. he at least knows what he might've been in for if he was feeling more himself, but... it's taking enough out of him to string words together for a simple answer, let alone a coy game of informational keep-away. having similarly been pushed to the edge of the abyss and been forced to stare deeply and confront the very worst of himself, he had thought gen would have an inkling of what he meant — he wishes he could tell him to go chasing into his own experiences to find answers, but...

his breathing slows, becoming more normal as the fierce throb of pain begins to ebb, exhaustion rushing in to take its place. after a moment, he continues, the words thick and heavy on his tongue, ) I gave everything I was to a demon because of what he promised me. ( even though it hadn't been what he'd originally wanted, he'd accepted — half because it hadn't really felt like a choice in the first place, but half because he had wanted to believe what J offered, too drunk on the feeling of acceptance and the opportunity of a world that wouldn't feel like a set of shackles. perhaps in J's perspective, he hadn't lied — that it had been the manner by which he would love and raise him as a demon in his own right. but makoto knows that he had been tricked, as much as it galls him to admit it. ) Instead he screwed with me and tried to make me into exactly what he wanted.

( the jury is still out whether or not the revenge-driven little monster that makoto has become is in and of itself exactly what J had wanted out of him. )

That. ( he says it summarily, putting as much emphasis on it as he can, though it just makes the following words that much more thin in comparison. ) I won't allow. Not again.

[epiprocta]

[ He ignores that pointed question about why he'd chosen to interrogate Makoto in particular. The answer's obvious even if he won't say it out loud, isn't it? Their unsavory little exchange from before had left an impression and, vindictive and petty in the way that all bullies tend to be, he'd wanted a reprise of it. To affirm his superiority this time.

Not to mention the allure of getting to watch a so-called demon struggle just to string words together.

So perhaps a little surprisingly, Gen listens quietly. Waits semi-patiently as Makoto catches his breath between those pitiful little coughs and wheezing laughs, taking another leisurely sip from the waterskin but offering no comment at first, even as his hard stare rakes over Makoto's huddled form sharply enough to prickle at the skin. It's not until Makoto finishes spitting out that fragmented answer that he caps the bottle off once more, cants his head to stare at Makoto down the slope of his nose, then drones, ]

Why the hell'd you even become a demon?

[ His delivery is low and dry, but the derision is clear in the deadpan of his words, the exhale he huffs out in lieu of a condescending laugh, his listless posture as he shifts his weight to better stare down at Makoto. ]

The way you put it, you demons don't even live that glamorously, just doing the same boring routine as people. But you're getting turned into one to get your head ripped off, lied to, scammed -- and for what, some bullshit 'magic' that won't even save you from ending up in this shithole. [ A low bark of mocking laughter caps off those impassive words. ] Sounds like you might just make bad choices. Who's to say choosing to stay here isn't going to get you fucked over this time?

[ Maybe Makoto's lucid enough to notice the way Gen grips a little too hard at the waterskin as he says that, though. The way his other hand is clenched to a pale-knuckled fist, the way his eyes narrow with disdain and venom creeps into his voice, a little more biting than most bullies would bother with. Because even if Gen dons this impassive mask and feigns ignorance, he does know very, very well what it's like to give in to lies and manipulation. Knows the sense of bitter resentment and regret that comes with making such a mistake.

Could he really be blamed for wanting to deny that he might have just resigned himself to the same fate again? ]

[affal]

( he hadn't expected an answer. it's easy enough to guess because it would've been makoto's same answer if he had been the one to fold first with gen as the one still writhing on cold stone and dirt. human or demon, they had the same sort of vindictive pettiness swimming through their veins, but the one major difference is that makoto would say that gen's is a little... short-sighted. he hadn't entirely bent to the other boy's whims in their first meeting, and so he felt the need to assert control over supposed lost ground — ground that makoto knew he had no way he could defend and was therefore already ready to cede to him, content in the knowledge that he does so to buy himself time enough to formulate a plan to really make gen regret it.

"live and let live" was not in makoto's dictionary. he does not forgive and he does not forget. this fact about him is closest to his essence as a person, inviolable and immutable.

an obvious question with a simple answer. makoto breathes out a long, rattling breath, cracked lips quirking into a smile that looks somewhat pained. )

It wasn't really a choice.

( J made the decision for him, and then he had graciously allowed him to respond with a "yes." but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't caught up in the clamor and the drama of that moment; he had wanted to believe that a creature that had seen him, the full scope of who and what he was as a person, and accepted him wholeheartedly might have been telling the truth when he said he would care for him, raise him, provide for him. he hadn't learned quickly enough that there's no word out of J's mouth that one could trust — not a single one. he was a man who would obfuscate every question he posed and then take ire when the answers weren't the ones he wanted; there were no limits to the depths he would reach in order to "punish" for defiance, and then he would have the gall to call it a kindness for the lessons that it taught. as makoto thinks of him, his bile rises to burn in the back of his throat, fueling a furnace of anger in the pit of his stomach. and as he thinks of this, gen talks, and the two intermingle with the results that one might expect. as defeated and pathetic as he is in this moment, he manages to prop himself back up on one elbow, giving a quick jerk of his head to get his hair out of his eyes. they burn with a malice that gen could mistake as directed at him, and there's some small amount of it that does, but one day he might discover that there's nothing he can do to makoto that would cause him to hate him even one-fourth of how much he hates its true object. )

You speak with great confidence about something I only just began to describe to you. ( the words are still leaden on his tongue, but they are also laden with venomous contempt, a flurry of emotion that gives him more energy than he's had in the last day or two. his lips peel back to bear in a snarl canine teeth that are noticeably longer than they had been, several days prior. ) It only makes you look like a fool. I was the ward of an archduke of Hell. In just a few years' time I'd earned my initial, and given more I would have found a way to surpass him. Do you think this is the first time I've faced something like this? ( he laughs, the sound catching in his throat enough to sound partially-choked, but otherwise rings breathless and slightly frenzied. ) I'm still here because when I'm faced with a trial like this, I try to find some way to use it. I don't back down and fold like a coward.

( makoto is only still here because of this. if he had given in and folded when J had first come to visit him in datenshou's brothel, if he had given in to comfort and contentedness and what was easiest, he would have become boring and disposable to the demon. he really only interested him because of his ability to maintain the clear focus of his hatred, because he would willingly put himself into a situation that he disdained if he thought it meant it would get him closer to his goal of destroying him.

there's catharsis in spitting the venom that wells up in you. but, on the other hand, if you imagine that makoto has no idea what his barbed words might be buying him, that would be mistaken. even in anger, he's purposeful in his provoking; he might not have the ability to inflict any physical presence in this confrontation, but he's a shark when there's blood in the water, and he has a gut feeling that he can try to needle its source. )

[epiprocta]

[ Makoto's assessment is correct: Gen's short-sighted. Short-sighted and brash and hasty in the way that so many young men are, certainly. But also short-sighted in the way that those with very little left to lose tend to be, reckless and imprudent and desperate because there's barely anything left to hold them back. He'd already been on the cusp of losing everything before ending up here, and after the humiliating days leading up to his pride finally getting trampled on by this ritual -- thinking in the long term just doesn't feel worth the effort, really.

And so when Makoto arduously props himself back up on one elbow, spitting out words that are far too venomous to be empty bluffs, Gen just watches him in impassive silence for a moment -- before suddenly reaching forward to grab at Makoto's head and shoving him back down. ]

Don't push yourself, you poor thing.

[ That pretense at pity is delivered at a frosty deadpan, as if it's not even worth the effort of saying derisively. And Gen looks flatly at Makoto as he bears his weight down on that grip against Makoto's skull -- not intending to cause him any proper injury, not yet, but definitely meant to pin him back to the ground. Makoto's free to resist, but Gen's recovered greatly after a two or so days of proper rest and meals; he certainly won't make it easy. ]

Forced to make a hard decision, weren't you. Taken in by a demon? The archduke of Hell, you say? [ He shifts his grip slightly, fingers tangling through Makoto's hair, though he's staying mindful of those teeth. Sharp, aren't they. What a freak. ] And after all your hard work, you get brought here where it's all rendered null. Starting from the ground up again. How pitiful.

[ He knows fair well that he's working off sparse information, that he's probably wrong in an objective sense. But that hardly matters when he can hear the fury in Makoto's words, when he knows he's hitting a sore spot. Regardless of how he might pay for it in the future, how can he resist the temptation to claw for a little more control in this situation?

A pointed pause before Gen drawls, ]

Correct me if I'm wrong, though. Wanna tell me more about that hard life of yours to set me straight?

[ He'll take that, too. Makoto had been the one to declare information precious and start acting coy about his words. Let him go back on his own attempts to be sly in order to defend his pride.

Gen truly had returned to the cave out of some sense of genuine curiosity, but all that's forgotten by now, laid by the wayside. He's always found catharsis in anger and violence and struggles for control, after all, and Makoto's indignity is like catnip to him. The sheer rage in Makoto's voice is more energizing to him than any meal, and it's evident in the way he stares down at Makoto with absolute focus, waiting to see how he responds, this so-called demon getting dragged through the mud. ]

[affal]

( oh, he's familiar with the type. it's a common one among humans desperate enough to summon a demon to offer their soul to in exchange for the solution to whatever their gravest problem is — most times it's not nearly so grievous as they might expect, and the price they pay is far steeper than what small shred of satisfaction or catharsis they might enjoy from it before both that and they themselves crumbled away into ash. makoto hates minegishi gen for the type of person that he is, but he also appreciates him for the self-same reason — he is familiar in a way that feels predictable and controllable, and for some twisted and bizarre reason that gives him a piece of peace of mind. because wherever gen tried to enforce control over a situation with brute force, makoto does the same by trying to incite outcomes from others.

he had baited gen knowingly, so, in a weird way, the other teenager forces his head back down in a moment in which both of them end up like they're succeeding in their own broken, foolish ways. it's not that he enjoys the process of it. he crumples back down like a falling house of cards, shoulder pinned painfully underneath him as his temple makes dull impact with the stone. even without the force necessary to make his head crack with contact against the ground, it hurts all the same, especially with the continued pressure keeping him there. as had been the case in their first meeting, he doesn't make any outward effort to resist — which is strange, right? it's an almost animal instinct to fight back against such treatment, especially if unaccustomed to it. it might lead one to believe that it's a learned solution to a problem he's faced several times before.

but at least he knows how easy it still is to elicit a response of physical force from him, how repeatable the process seems to be. he can drink that satisfaction as panacea to his aching head and his wounded dignity without issue.

it's a keen and correct instinct, to keep out of cursory range of makoto's teeth — as docile as he might seem beneath the rough tangling of gen's fingers into his hair, he wouldn't have thought twice about drawing blood, just to teach him the first inkling of a lesson. as it is, he remains still. he remains silent. his chest still rises and falls with quick, agitated breathing beneath his robe, but it isn't until his aggressor has drawled out his last leading question that he makes any attempt to move. he doesn't try to get up. instead he tries to shift where he is, edging his shoulder out from under him so that he can lie somewhat more comfortably with his back against the ground — gen would have no issue continuing to keep him fixed to the ground where he is, but he tries to twist his head so that he can look up at him, pale-and-crimson eyes peering out through a twisted tangle of a former fringe of bangs. )

But you are wrong. ( his smile is as slick as oil. ) Just not about what you think you are. I didn't care about the rank or renown, Minegishi-kun — I never did, only for what it meant. The only way to challenge a demon is to become as powerful as they are, and the only way that existed for me to do that before was to make others believe that I was. To make him believe I was.

( that's just the thing about demons. they don't exist by their own right, and they don't gain power exclusively by their own merit. they only exist when others call them into existence, and the "hierarchy" that hell is built upon isn't set in stone — it's written into social perception and the delicate balance of power dynamics. he'd never be able to destroy J if he wasn't able to either do something to him or find something on him that would truly rattle him, and that was no easy feat — if it was, he would have been extinguished by one of his many rivals centuries ago.

but he's not in hell anymore, is he? his smile notches wider. )

Don't you get it? None of it matters anymore. If I'm starting from the ground up again, it will mean he is as well. And I don't have to play by the rules anymore. All I have to do is find a way — any way — to get the upper hand.

( he laughs, but it's an ugly and pathetic thing, like a baby bird struggling to break free of its shell.

the pit of darkness seething inside of him tells him that it's moot and pointless — that there's no purpose to a vengeance against someone that no longer exists, but that's an outcome makoto simply can't accept. if he still exists in this universe, J must as well. he knows that as readily as he breathes. instead he focuses his attention on gen, thinking of what he could do at this point to rile him, to see how far he would push his childish view of superiority even when it seemed to run contrary to what those that had accepted the Kenoma were even doing in this cavern still in the first place. he thinks of reaching up to place his hand over the one clenched in his hair, of how gentle and knowing the trace of his fingertips would be to make him flare up with anger and revulsion. and that's just the least and simplest of what he could do. they are, after all, cozy in the intimacy of power and violence here, aren't they?

for now, he chooses to refrain, though it doesn't stop his voice from starting out soft and worn enough that it could almost be considered coquettish, ) I struggle to believe you're really all that interested in me. ( or maybe he is. it's easier to stay silent when he provides excuses, though. it's not that there's much about his life that's a secret, but he doesn't particularly think information on how he's spent the last four or so years would go over well with present company and the given situation. instead, he continues, his former tone warping, the words growing sharper and more viscerally incisive the more personal they get, ) Isn't it really because you're so damn easy to read? A schoolyard bully-turned-high school delinquent who justifies his pointless existence by lording over those who aren't strong enough to fight back in the first place? ( a sound of derisive disgust catches in his throat, the loathing in his gaze making his colorless irises as flat and lifeless as river rocks. oddly enough, in this moment, he's more human than he's been in years, brought so close to the troubles that felt like they'd chased him from a former life to the here and now. ) And here I thought I'd never have to deal with your kind again.

[epiprocta]

[ Gen permits Makoto to shift against the ground. Remains firmly in place pinning his target to the ground but doesn't bother tightening his fingers around that handful of hair -- not any more than he already has, not yet. And Gen meets the Makoto's gaze without flinching, flat and steely even in the face of that mocking assessment woven from silken-soft words and a disgust so strong he can almost taste it in the air. It's only once Makoto's furious words peter off with that noise of disdain that Gen tilts his head to study the look of loathing he's wearing. A good look, admittedly. Gen spends a moment admiring it solely because he appreciates it as proof of the effect he's managed to have on a so-called demon.

Then he knuckles down, angling his grip on Makoto's hair to grind his cheek against the ground just a smidge and force him to crane his neck. Force him to look up. ]

Got a good understanding of me already, haven't you?

[ His delivery is flat; Makoto had probably aimed to provoke, but he might be disappointed by the reaction he gets. Because Gen has long since accepted the role assigned to him, knows full well what he's become. Let people think of him as a simple scumbag who's always preyed on the weak for a taste of gratification -- is that really so wrong? ]

So you used to have to deal with bullies when you were human, huh. [ That earns a faint sneer, the corner of his lips quirking as he looks into Makoto's eyes, that inhuman crimson sheen. But even that derisive mirth fades quickly, replaced by a more bitter, acrid animosity. ] Can't say I'm surprised. Always been annoyed by your type. Always whining and acting like you've had it so hard, and then wondering why on earth anyone would ever wanna beat your face in. Look at yourself, you freak. Still gonna act like you're some poor, innocent little victim when you're like this?

When you're obsessing over beating someone who doesn't even exist any more?

[ And it's only at this point that the steely act he's been putting on buckles. It's slight, but the signs are there. His voice sharpens with those last few words, his breaths coming a little shallower as his pulse quickens with frustration, with seething anger, and Gen's grip tightens enough that pain must be prickling through Makoto's scalp. There's a subtle pause, and from this close proximity Makoto might spot the way Gen swallows thickly, his jaw clenching tighter for a moment before he can continue. ]

That archduke or whatever you're so fixated on -- he's long gone. You felt it, didn't you. Before we woke up here. Everything you knew about is gone. And here you are, acting strong and saying whatever bullshit you want, because all you can think about is besting a dead man.

[ He leans in a fraction closer, staring down the slope of his nose as he spits, ]

Pathetic.

[affal]

( in the stretch of silence in that long and empty moment, the two teenagers bid all that they are to one another in a clash of unblinking gazes and indomitable wills. it would only be realized in retrospect (if it was realized at all), but the posturing of this conflict stands as a proxy for problems unsolvable either because they are outside of their power to do so or because it's no longer possible given where they've ended up. the new roles that they play in this otherworldly situation would have little light shone upon them regardless of how much they bare their teeth and snap at one another, and the lives that they've left behind them in tatters would remain beyond grasp, out of sight but impossible to keep out of mind. it's misdirection, but it's necessary — perhaps they should be grateful to one another for being such ideal mutual antagonists to pin their malaise to, because otherwise they would continue to well up until they were pulled under and drowned.

makoto expects violence because he had baited it out, but he can never really guess exactly where it will come from or what shape it will take. as soon as gen readjusts with a violent twist in the wrist and enough added pressure to pin the side of his face down into the ground, he attempts to minimize the pain by going with it as much as he can. his cheek burns where the grit of the cavern's floor bites into it, and the wrenching makes his neck ache and aggravates the half-healed wound that had been opened in their last meeting. it hurts; it's obvious that he's trying to hide how much it does, but there's a sudden stillness in his breaths before a heavily-guarded exhale that betrays it somewhat.

for a few moments he just looks dead ahead, because that's what was easiest and hurt the least. but physical pain is nothing compared to injury to his pride, so he grits his teeth against it and cranes his neck and strains his eyes best he can to set gen in his seething gaze once more.

it wasn't the first or even within the first hundred times he'd been venomously called a freak, and at this point he can't even feel the barbs where they'd been intended. why would he when he's right? he had never claimed that the human world was meant for a person like him, or that he had ever been meant for it. even with gen giving him an unwelcome reprise of his schoolyard days, it still all feels so distant to him now that there's no point to feel upset over it. who cares how the other students had treated some macabre weirdo, anyways? he'd gotten what was coming to him — an occult and ritual death which had hounded and haunted his family until their breaking point. for a moment makoto's gaze glazes over with reminiscing of a person he felt multiple degrees separated from at this point, but it's when gen changes the tack of his taunting that his attention focuses laser-like once more. it's not just because of the shift in topic, but also because of the near-infinitesimal changes in his voice and in his demeanor that ring like morning bells for someone as trained in their detection as makoto is. if there's blood in the water, he will know.

gears begin spinning in his head, their machinations a visible sort of consternation in his gaze. it's somewhat obfuscated as his eyes narrow and his jaws clench at the tightened grip in his hair (which seems near-ready to tear a fistful of it clear out, given the searing pain along his scalp), but it's consistent. consistent as he listens to gen continue, up until the point that it clicks. he goes still, expression somewhat blank. and then his eyes lid heavily, the corners of his mouth curl in a morbid contradiction to the painful position he's pinned in, and a choking sort of laugh once more rattles the cage of his ribs. when he fixes gen in his gaze again, it's with an eerie sort of clarity. an odd sort of response to have to an insult literally spat into his face, but that's so easy to ignore with what else he feels he's gotten a grasp on. )

Ahaha... I see. I get it now. ( "don't you remember what you asked of me? what you really wanted was to experience that for yourself." he'd thought J was full of shit when he'd said it all those years ago, but it still sticks in his head every once in a while, so perhaps there's a grain of truth to it — a grain which he reaches out to clutch at now in a desperate yet bold gambit. he lifts the hand that's not pinned underneath him — would gen stand to let him touch him, even something as feather-light as a few fingertips to trace along the line of his jaw? even if he wouldn't, makoto wants to push him, wants to find out. just how far does he go before he rattles? ) Is that what caused you to fold so easily? Poor thing. Ah, but what is it that you feel you've lost, I wonder. ( he speaks as if gen isn't even here — like he's some puzzle that he's ruminating over in concept and theory. ) The toothless way you spoke about my revenge seems to indicate that that - isn't it. ( he would hum, but given the state he's in, it's more of a pained pant. ) Wrath and regret. Most of the time, that's why humans call on me. So if it's not the former... Heh, then I guess the question I should be asking is who do you feel that you've lost...?

( he doesn't really wait for an answer. he doesn't care. the brief playfulness evaporates, replaced with intent and steel, expression and words razor-sharp. as much as makoto can't put up an impressive resistance physically, there's something resolute and unyielding in his determination that proves he isn't all so paper-thin. )

Say what you will, Minegishi. I can care less about my worlds falling into ash, but there's one thing that I know for certain. If I still breathe, so can he. Even if he's atoms scattered at the edge of the universe, I will find a way to pull him back together just so I can be the one to ruin him once and for all. ( his lips press together into a grim little smile. ) A shame you couldn't find the strength to do the same.

[epiprocta]

[ Perhaps predictably, Gen jerks his head back the moment he feels fingertips touching against his jaw, expression tinging with disgust. Not because he fears physical contact, but because he rarely permits it unless he's the one initiating it -- unless he's the one reaching, grabbing, yanking, exerting control. The number of people who'd be allowed to touch him casually are far and few between, and a gesture like that, bordering on affectionate? Laughable. Especially coming from this freak of nature wheezing and groaning in his grasp.

Turns out demons aren't all that much in the end, huh? If the best Makoto can offer is that measly attempt to creep him out with a wayward graze of fingers and some empty words, then he's really not anything worth worrying about. And certainly not worth wasting any more time or attention on. It's not like anything Makoto says can affect him, right?

-- really, it's entirely his fault for dropping his guard and assuming the best Makoto had to offer was some pointed insults and half-assed taunts. Gen's grip had already started to loosen a fraction as he considered moving on from this waste of time, but that just makes it all the more obvious how stiffens at those key words, his grip knuckling down and tightening against Makoto's hair at those key words.

'Who do you feel that you've lost?'

Most would dismiss Gen's reaction as a simple, startled reflex in response to Makoto's sharper tone of voice and the sudden fire in his eyes. But at this proximity, in this position, Makoto must be able to detect the nuances to the way Gen's next breath comes sharp past clenched teeth and his shoulders square with tension. Even when Gen abruptly hauls Makoto's head up by that brutal grip at his hair then slams his face back down into the ground, there's something more than anger there. Gen had responded to that taunting smirk with violence because he always reacts with violence, but as he bears his weight down on the hand braced against Makoto's skull, grinding his cheek into the dirt, his pulse is thudding fast in his ears from more than just fury.

Maybe Makoto can recognize the way Gen needs one, two jagged breaths to steady the tight feeling in his lungs, the way he thickly swallows back the lump in his throat, the way his eyes narrow as his gaze loses its focus for a moment. Given what he is, maybe Makoto can pinpoint those subtle reactions for what they are -- symptoms of loss. Heartache. ]

... you talk too much.

[ It's telling that Gen ultimately manages to keep his voice ironed cold and flat as he leans in over Makoto's pinned-down form to mutter that derisive comment. He's had far too much practice hiding his emotions, keeping everything save anger and bravado locked up deep within his chest; even that brief slip was more than he would have liked, and now that he's on guard once more, he won't be slipping again. ]

Talk is easy, but words mean nothing on their own. Say whatever you want, but you know what you are right now? Just some sad -- [ each word is punctuated by a subtle shift of the wrist, further pressing Makoto's face against the craggy ground ] -- pathetic, helpless, weak little animal with nothing to cling to but the thought of a dead man.

[ A pause to let his words sink in before he leans in a little closer, each words chosen with vicious deliberation as he growls, ]

I can guess what kind of person you used to be. You probably deserved all the bullying you got. You deserved to have nothing before you became a demon.

[affal]

( very predictably, but that's fine — here makoto plays by the procedures that he had developed when collecting human souls, initially taking time to poke and prod at every perceived weak spot that a person might have so that later, when the soul was weaker and closer to fulfillment in its contract, he could begin to slip daggers into the places where he had sensed sensitivity. his hand drops, disappearing into an oversized sleeve.

the control that gen exerts is one that would've been found desperate and reaching in hell, where the appearance of something could have more weight than the action itself — the rashness of a demon to prove its strength to others was looked down upon in comparison to the untouchable composure of one who knew they didn't need to prove that strength. the power itself is something makoto was still in the process of obtaining, but the composure is something he has a good foundation in. in this situation, pain is an obstacle, but he deludes himself into a feeling of security to and within himself because this is nothing worse than what J or kieran did to him in the past — and that despite J's barbed "lessons" and kieran's displays of strength, makoto still harbors the embers of vengeance in his chest, ready to ignite with the proper kindling, and he now carries the wings that had once been kieran's. so long as he can survive long enough to exact revenge for mistreatment, he can withstand any indignity (even though he hates its sting even worse than the physical pain).

some might dismiss the minute change in gen's demeanor, but to a creature who has made himself a student of the behaviors of others, both demon and human alike, to extract from them as much information as he can, well... he might as well have made the reaction obvious under neon lights, especially as it only confirms a suspicion that the demon already had. an insidious sort of satisfaction stems from the center of his chest and worms its way through his ribcage; knowing what might be coming next, he steels himself in the best he can (even if it would almost certainly not be enough). he squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his jaw as his head is wrenched upwards by his hair and then brought back down upon the stone with a sickening thud. for a moment he doesn't react at all, the impact of it stunning him and causing his mind to flood white. a small amount of blood begins to seep from his temple, and he's coming back to the immediacy of the present as grit grinds itself into the skin there from the pressure of gen's hand and intent. pain and anger burn in the back of his throat like bile, but he forces it down, attempting to content himself with the precious knowledge of what feels like his adversary's most potent weakness.

the sentimentality of heartache. ah, there's something so comforting and yet so sickening in how predictable humans always prove themselves to be.

perhaps he does talk too much, but now he lapses into withdrawn reticence, having obtained exactly what he wanted out of his perfectly unwanted confrontation: knowledge he could attempt to twist into torment for the other teenager later and enough physical pain that he could use to distract his mind from the siege that the malicious miasma of the Kenoma has put him under. he still hasn't reopened his eyes, and his breath comes in fits of small, feverish leaps from his lungs. there's no real proof that he's receptive to the insults that gen strings between the short distance between them but that he's still conscious (or seems to be). not until he's finished speaking, and then those eyes do open half-way — with the bloody sclera they're like two darkened wounds, which make a startling backdrop for the staring, baleful pale irises. )

And you're the fool wasting his time on it.

( he'd become numb to such insults long ago. how could such things hurt as badly as the actions of one who claimed to love you but did nothing but try to twist and contort you into something else? )

Now, if you're done making yourself feel tall, ( he says before his breath hisses through his teeth with pained sibilance; he curls in on himself (or as much as he can, given how his head is pinned) and closes his eyes once more. ) I'll - reiterate what I said before. Finish doing whatever it is you came here to do. Then leave. ( whatever energy his innate indignation gave him has guttered out; he's done. )