becoming.

(deaken bluman, 153 years old, cis male, he/him) THEODORE is a HOUSEKEEPER AT A HOSTEL. They are an AUTOMA. They are DESPERATE, but they are also CAPABLE. In their spare time, you can find them PEOPLE WATCHING.

The hostel attracts a diverse crowd, especially with an event like the unity ball approaching. So much of Theodore’s job involves going through familiar motions—even now, as he stokes an almost forgotten fire, it’s nothing he hasn’t done from the very beginning of his existence—but the people who pass through fascinate him. 

He isn’t like them, but he’s something close. He just doesn’t know how to bridge the divide now, how to overcome whatever part of his design leaves him feeling dull and distant from the obvious vibrancy he so often sees on the faces of those who travel to and from Atherion. 

Of course, there are some travelers who are more fascinating than most. With the fire slowly returning to life, Theodore rises. His free lodgings come with responsibilities—when he’s done here, there are rooms that need sweeping, woven mats that should be taken outside and cleaned. It isn’t terrible work. This, more than anything else, he knows how to do. After all these years, there’s still so much of him that wants to be useful. 

When he turns around and sees a familiar face in the hostel though, Theodore calculates the time he’ll need to complete those tasks, decides it’s far less than the hours he has left in his day. There’s time, then, to make his way over to the other man. 

“Marswyn—welcome back,” Theodore says, before dropping the pretense that he isn’t endlessly curious about where he’s been. Because Marswyn is nothing like Theodore. The hostel is the closest thing the two of them have to shared experience; where Theodore’s spent most of his life just gathering the courage to come here, Marswyn travels in and out of Atherion. Where Theodore’s attempts at conversation are so often riddled with uncomfortable pauses, Marswyn seems to thrive on an audience. 

And Theodore can’t help himself—he wants to be that audience. He doesn’t think he could live the life Marswyn does, but maybe, if they spend enough time together, he’ll at least learn to carry himself with some of that easy charisma. So, he leans forward, eager. “Where did you travel to this time?”

Twelve. Benjamin “Bandit” Moore had now been to exactly twelve of these events. Twelve, and he still could not, for the life of him, stand all the noise. Don’t get him wrong, he loved the concept. Unity? Great. Free alcohol? Even better. Too bad he couldn’t even get close enough to the drinks to have any. There was just too much noise. 

So, he stood as far off to the side as possible. Away from as many people as possible. There were too many thoughts roaming free. The alcohol doesn’t help as people let go of their inhibition, the mental walls usually up just as an instinctive defense often come tumbling down. 

Bandit had never had the opportunity to learn how to control the thoughts that roll in, and at this point, he was far too stubborn. A grown man needing to learn how to work his own mind? Yeah, right. You can forget him ever asking for help in that department. Isn’t gonna happen. 

Is he an idiot for preferring to suffer over asking for help with it? Absolutely. Is that gonna change anything? Absolutely not.

Bandit nearly threw a punch at the way Theo slid up next to him, half surprised, half disgusted at anyone coming near him. Theo likely wasn’t trying to sneak or be quiet, but Bandit’s mind was so loud right now that he snuck up on him like a damn cat. 

“Gods, Theodore,” he started in, “I nearly shit myself. — However, I will be taking that.” He gladly snatched the goblet from him and drank it down quickly. “Boysenbarely give a fuck what it is, as long as it’ll get me blasted.” 

He sighed and fidgeted with the now empty goblet as a bit of relief washed over him now that Theo was here. A bit of static buffering between him and the other people now, Theo being automa saving him. “How are you, mate?”

-

He’s never thought of himself of stealthy, but it’s easy to imagine how Theodore’s presence could get lost in the noise of tonight—both the music Theodore can hear and the rest that he can’t. In so many respects, the Kalashtar are unique. Supposedly celestial, even. 

Those aren’t Theodore’s gods of course—as if he could ever have any. There’s no mystery for him, no need to wonder if there’s a pantheon of heavenly beings watching over him. Theodore knows exactly which human designed him and why. He’s also outlived that creator by over a century. He has no connection to them now. No ancestors waiting for him in the Forest of Souls either. No matter how badly he wants to be part of Atherion, there will always be parts that he can’t hope to understand.

He also knows, he does, that he shouldn’t be envious of the abilities that come with Bandit’s heritage. Bandit looks as uncomfortable as he does in crowds for a reason. But even still, Theodore thinks he might prefer it—finding himself connected to everyone around him, even if was only one-sided. It’s been lonely, spending one hundred and fifty three years with himself.  

“I’m enjoying the ball,” Theodore says, first and foremost. It’s genuine; after forty years of these, he hasn’t had his fill. “With everyone traveling for the celebrations, the hostel’s been busy as well.” Busy is good, especially when Theodore has so many more waking hours than most to fill. “I’m not sure how I feel about that joke though,” Theodore adds, not quite succeeding at teasing—tone flat even as he’s smiling. “Can I expect to hear more if the mead does its job?”  

Even after forty years in Atherion, it can often feel like he isn’t making any progress—as if he’s the same Theodore who took so long to gather the courage to come here in the first place. The world around him has changed, but has he done the same? When he can, it helps to find something concrete that says yes.

He wasn’t kept away in some secret room before Atherion, where he wouldn’t be of any use. But people always seemed to speak at him rather than to him. Humans loved to marvel at the advances in automa, but they didn’t understand what they’d created. And, no, Theodore doesn’t understand himself either—but he knows enough to know he deserves more than that. 

And, in turn, Theodore didn’t care about the humans around him, even if he was built to care for them. He hasn’t spared much thought to them now, certainly hasn’t missed any of them over the span of four decades since he left. The proof that he’s changed, then, is when there are people he would miss.

Benjamin—Bandit—is one of those people. Twelve years shouldn’t register in an existence as long as Theodore’s, but the moment he ran sometimes feels like the first moment that matters. He’d been thinking about it for years, but finally making that choice, the first of many, was committing to reinventing himself. And, anyway, he won’t pretend he doesn’t cling to anything that makes him feel something these days, friendships included. Maybe especially friendships. 

So, when he goes out of his way to find the other man at the celebration tonight, it’s selfish—as much as he loves these events, watching so many people in the kingdom come together can remind him of how isolated he still is. Bandit’s on the sidelines himself, likely wishing he was anywhere but here, but that doesn’t stop Theodore from stepping into place beside him. 

“Here,” Theodore says, by way of greeting. He holds out the goblet of mead, mostly untouched. It doesn’t feel right to let anything about tonight go to waste. “You might have more use for this than I do. It’s boysenberry.”

eager to be hospitable, floss quickly disappeared and ladled some of the mead into an empty goblet and handed it to theodore, intently wanting to let everyone experience the same indulgent luxuries as she.

“hmm… what does it taste like” she repeated pensively, taking a deep sip and considering what the flavours emulated, swishing the liquid on her palate. “it tastes like …  joy. you know the kind i mean? just pure, blissful joy, especially after you’ve had a few-” she added with a giggle and a hiccup. 

the mead made flora a little blind to her acquaintances diverse behaviours and nature,  she was just happy to be here, giddy with excitement if not a little unaware.

“drink!” she urged, not bossily, but eagerly, clapping her hands. 

“drink then dance!” 

-

That does bring a smile to his face, even if the joke is mostly on Theodore. “No, I don’t know what you mean,” he says, honestly, because even though she’s being metaphorical, he’s never thought that joy came with any particular flavor. He wants to protest the goblet she’s already passed his way, well aware that it’s a waste for him to drink it. There’s no point—it won’t affect him the way it does her. He could have a few or far more than that, but he won’t feel it. So the goblet in his hand is unnecessary, especially when he knows this mead is likely far better than anything they serve at the hostel. It should go to someone who can enjoy it. 

Then again, maybe it’s good for him to do more unnecessary things. It’s easier, as it always is, to follow old patterns—but that won’t get him what he wants. That won’t change anything, teach him how to be different than he’s been for the past one hundred and fifty years. So he raises the glass for both gratitude and cheers, and tries a sip. 

“It’s uh, sweet,” he says, which isn’t saying anything more than the obvious. Mead is supposed to be sweet. He wishes, not for the first or last time, that his reaction could be something better than that. Whatever Flora tastes in the mead, he wants that instead. “It’s good, I mean. Thank you for bringing me some.” With the glass in hand, it gives him an excuse to avoid the dancefloor once more—although he knows, even if no one’s asked, that it’s more about the fact that his body wasn’t designed for the kind of swift and fluid movement he sees out there. “Have you gone out on the dancefloor yet?”

Location : Madan Castle 

Who : Open !

Gripping her goblet of mead a little too tightly, Floss took some deep breaths to center herself, standing on the outskirts of the ballroom of Madan castle. The countless times she had stood in this same position in the castle, ensuring her catering was satisfactory at royal feasts and parties, donned in her apron, hair pulled back, flushed cheeks showing her labrous efforts as she served her monarchs with great fervor. But now, here she stood at the Madan ball - as a guest, an equal, a friend. She shifted in place excitedly, drinking in the majestic atmosphere elatedly. Oh how she longed for an event such as this, a chance to feel herself, a chance to feel beautiful. For one night she had traded in her sturdy boots for soft slippers, her usual plain linen dress swapped for baby pink lace that cinched in at her waist and complimented her petite elven features. Catching the eye of a familiar face, Floss greeted her friend excitedly, grinning wide.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” Floss laughed loudly, a little bit giddy from her drink. “You’ve never seen me without flour on my face huh? Can I refill your goblet for you…what are you drinking? The spiced boysenberry mead is particularly good…”

-

“Oh, I’m...not,” Theodore says, uselessly. “Drinking anything, I mean.” He had been staring, just a bit. He hadn’t meant to, but it was easy to do. Tonight especially, Flora is full of life in a way that Theodore has never quite managed. She isn’t the only one; her expressions are mirrored on the faces of so many Atherions when he looks around the room.

If nothing else, jealousy comes easily to him these days, he knows that much. He’d been looking forward to tonight, but in the end, he doesn’t know if it’s even possible for him to enjoy the unity ball as much as some people seem to. Maybe no one had bothered to program him for that—what use would a household automa have for emotions? 

 Leaving his response there seems rude, verging on painfully awkward, especially when Flora’s beaming and laughing. So he clears his throat—unnecessary for someone like him, but habitual by now, something he’d picked up by copying other beings around him in an attempt to fit in—and starts again. “The boysenberry mead is good though? What does it taste like?”