Nessun Dorma

Every click of her heels as she stalks closer makes the hairs on his neck stand at attention- the way his feet take a single step back in precaution as he trains his eyes on her every movement. He's done this game once already with Dan Shu.. Caelus is not making the same mistake.

Amber eyes widen a flicker at the request, gears meshing and turning as the sound of footsteps get louder and the npc's voices get clearer. The words are still a tad muddled, but the Nameless can pick out "search", "wanted", and "dangerous". These folks are after Kafka.. understandable, as she is technically a wanted criminal with a bounty ( even if she was technically pardoned by the Luofu since she wasn't a threat to the alliance ) on her head.

Yet, there's more to the story here- more questions that rise as his eyes narrow. She needed him to protect her.. so she could get Blade in a stable enough condition to leave. Kafka knew that she would need someone to watch her back, and that she would be caught or interrupted otherwise, and called for him ahead of time. Intentional? Likely. Cunning? Maybe. Tactical? Very much so. Or, the "Script" gave her the heads up to prepare for the outcome.

A low and worn out exhale makes his shoulders slump, already summoning his signature bat to take in hand as his eyes close while coming to terms with himself- that he is going to do as she asked of him. Part of him wants to walk away, wants to let whatever sort of "justice" of the cosmos run its course. Yet.. he can't. Caelus' feet won't turn the other direction to leave. Something in his chest is screaming at him to protect ṫ̵̮h̵͙͝õ̴̪s̷̳̃e̸̪͐ ̸͚̉h̶̥̓e̸̼̿ ̸̳͆h̴͇̀o̷̳͠l̵̝̈́d̸̜͒s̶̫̓ ̶̯͑d̸̻͑è̸̟a̵̫͗r̵͇͘, refusing to leave when someone needs his help.

❛ Fine. ❜

The silver spits out under his breath, conflicting emotions running rampant as his fingers flex around the hilt of his weapon.

❛ But just so you know, the Galactic Baseballer doesn't do favors for free. You owe me. ❜

He pauses, taking a single step to the side- towards the sound of hurried footsteps.

❛ I have a lot of questions for you, and you better be ready to answer them. ❜

The Nameless doesn't dare move further, wanting a confirmation- a promise- that the deal will be upheld.

Kafka watches the tension ripple through his fingers where they rest on the hilt of his weapon. Not unlike Blade's hands, she notes—the impulse to protect something, even if that something is already burning.

Even if he doesn't remember.

Something about the angle of her mouth softens, her expression tilting toward satisfaction. She inclines her head, just slightly, to acknowledge their transaction.

Kafka's elbow rested on the balcony rail, chin propped in her palm as she took it all in. A comedy competition wasn't her usual stage, but that was the appeal, wasn't it? This was a theater of survival, where humor and slapstick would be weapons. And there was always the temptation of mischief—of testing how far she could bend the mood of a crowd baying for blood.

Kafka's gaze slid toward the woman that had been marked as her partner, taking her in like a predator measuring another. The woman was tall, austere, and looked as though she might sooner cut through hecklers than try to charm them. Of course, appearances could be deceiving—she could have been an Emanator of Elation donning the guise of the straight man.

Her heels clicked against the polished floor as she passed a venue with @deathstaroverload at her side, the sound near lost beneath the raucous buzz of the crowd. Giant screens looped highlights from past Roboball matches, the air thick with sugar and ozone, cheap perfume mingling with the metallic tang of overworked machines.

She didn't have long to take it in before a man in a fitted jacket came barreling toward them, eyes wide and smile showing too many teeth.

"You two! Perfect—absolutely perfect for SoulJoy's new season!" he exclaimed, shoving a clipboard toward them quickly. "We're recruiting new drivers right now! All levels welcome, no experience necessary! All you need to do is sign here, pay-the-insurance-fee-and-tournament-deposit and glory is practically guaranteed!"

Kafka smiled pleasantly as she skimmed the contents of the top-most page, taking more time than she actually needed so the man was forced to maintain his grin as he fidgeted. The whole thing reeked of desperation and stale promises, and her smile widened by a fraction when she flipped to the next page of the waiver and the man started sweating.

The former Silver Wolf of the Urals stares at the ground, face red as she had. It hadn’t been embarrassment, rather it was confusion. Wolfie… I wonder if it’s a coincidence… or... Clearing her throat, Bronya looks up to meet the eyes of the woman before her. Apologies left the stranger’s lips, and Bronya let out a light chuckle in response. “No need to apologize, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been mistaken for someone else. If it makes things easier for you, feel free to call me Wolfie. I used to go by a similar name, anyhow. Otherwise, just call me Bronya.” 

Her eyes follow the stranger’s gaze, a glance in the direction of the guarded door. The teasing words that left the stranger’s mouth caused Bronya to roll her eyes. “I’m still a bit curious about what's behind the door, regardless of whether I’m meant to be in there or not.”

And then: a deal. Dangerous, Bronya thought, this woman seems like she knows what she’s doing. Not to mention… She seemed to be quick about helping me. I’ll agree, but I need to be careful. She nods, and whispers, “Tell me the favor, then, Miss. I’ll see what I can do to help you.” As the words escaped Bronya’s lips, the Herrscher recognized their pliability. She could easily become malleable in this woman’s hands, especially if such a deal could be considered dangerous. Hopefully it was nothing of the sort, but Bronya would err on the side of caution all the same. 

Still, her favorite hacker's doppleganger was interesting. She'd reclaimed her composure quickly despite being flustered, maintained her curiosity about the event despite how vague the cost would be. All useful traits for a second pair of eyes, a second heartbeat to siphon attention while Kafka claimed her quarry.

The risk lied in this older wolf's nature—if she turned out to be more of a rabbit, she might balk when the favor's teeth showed. Still… the calculus of entertainment favored a little danger. Pretending to 'audit' the Wubbaboo ring had its charms, but so did seeing if she could nudge this look-alike into becoming an accessory to larceny.

"Kafka," she supplied, mouth curving with lazy amusement. "I know you aren't my Wolfie… but I'm curious how you'd hold up in a friendly wager."

The history in Ochkanatlan was like a living thing—carved into the ruins scattered across the country, into the towering spires crumbling into the air in suspended animation, into the locals that called it home.

Whispers of a priceless historical artifact had reached her ears, and she knows a librarian that might appreciate holding a piece of such history in her hands. Said librarian might appreciate the Stellaron Hunter's method of acquiring such history a little less, but Kafka thought it would be worth the risk.

She drifts through the bustle of the settlement with unhurried grace, listening as names and rumors are traded like currency. A young guide points out a stairway that perilously descends into fire; an elder waxes poetic of the climb to the heart of Ochkanatlan itself; a Saurian spins tales of a sealed dragonlord, another of a king's memorial.

All of it useful in parts, but about as trustworthy as any local upselling their products to unwitting tourists.

At the edge of the crowd, she spots a figure that carries herself like mountain air poured into a human shape—silver hair cascades down her back like an avalanche, her clothing distinctly different from the Natlan locals, and carrying an unusual air about her that snags at Kafka's attention.

If anything, she seems like she might know where to begin.

After the last incident, Dainsleif had sworn to himself that he would never be caught dead in the streets of Fontaine again. (AKA, he would never be there again, as one could not be caught dead if they couldn’t die.) He didn’t have the time to wind up back in a prison cell, not with the traces of a very lost Abyss Herald that he had followed here. Or with the Abyss Order still running rampant in general. He couldn’t waste that precious time, his only life’s purpose now, sitting in a cell.

Of course, Dainsleif isn’t a fool either. He had been on the other side of the law once, a noble knight of the realm, eager and willing to serve his kingdom with a smile on his face. He had smiled a lot back then, now that he thinks about it. Catching his reflection in the water flowing through the sewers, he thinks that he looks like a completely different person these days, all of the light from his youth having dimmed from his eyes.

He’s not a fool, so he stays away from anywhere he could easily get caught, taking to the shadows of the Court of Fontaine’s sewers like a fish took to water. And as he walks these halls, whispers reach his ears.

Whispers of a criminal and their heinous deeds. Whispers of what kind of person they may be.

Whispers that make Dainsleif think he could easily hunt down this person and make them atone. (Selfishly some part of him wonders if he could get off for his own crimes were he to do that.) He was already on the hunt; what was adding one more target to it?

“A criminal… huh?” He mumbles to himself, sharp eyes and their darkened stars glancing around the nearby area for anyone suspicious that stands out immediately, other than himself of course, “Can’t be that hard to find…”

Kafka had come for the joke first, the bounty second. Fontaine was a lovely place to take a paramour's hand and be decadent, and she'd always enjoyed a good hunt—chasing down a known criminal as an unknown criminal felt like good comedy. Bounty aside, doing a good deed for the city meant she'd likely be rewarded for her efforts back in Mondstadt.

If the Spina di Rosula's black hand couldn't pin down their target, then her quarry was either a nimble little rat or very well-connected. For her own entertainment, she hoped it was both.

However, Kafka was very decidedly not entertained as she entered the sewers, where she knew rats tended to hide. The tunnels were damp and rancid, and she glanced down at her coat with a private sigh. No good deed went unpunished, and Fontaine would likely collect its toll in stains.

Surely the hunt wouldn't end immediately, though. The odds of the first silhouette she encountered being her prize were astronomically low, though not zero.

She walked around as casually as one could, aimless as each step didn’t have a direct destination in mind. Yet, her ears picked up on the quiet- yet still loud enough- sounds of cheering in a nearby room. Curiosity struck, and as she walked to the room’s entrance, two people stood in her way- a man, and a woman. The woman spoke. “Password.” 

The Herrscher stared in blank confusion. A password to get into a room? She wondered what could be happening for there to be a password, and in such an archaic way, too. The two seemed more bouncers if anything. “Please?” The word left Bronya’s lips with more confusion than they had certainty. The two bouncers shook their heads, and as if to add insult to injury, the cheering behind the door grew louder. What is behind there?

Driven by curiosity more than anything, Bronya grumbled as she took a deep breath. Nothing hurts the tried and true method of password guessing.

“May I enter?” Head shake. “Please, with cherries on top?” Head shake. “Herta is cool and awesome?” Head shake, though the male guard let out a snicker at that one. “Reach for the truth?” Head shake. Maybe the tried and true method hurts this time. 

A bit defeated, Bronya aboutfaces, walking back towards the hub area of the Space Station. She wanted to find someone who worked here. Maybe they’d know the password? At this point, curiosity drove her, much like a cat walking into what was clearly a well laid trap. However, the Space Station seemed mostly harmless- at least, she was well-trained enough to sense a trap from an annoyance, and this seemed more like an annoyance.

Lost in her thoughts about cats and traps, Bronya bumped into another, “Apologies-” When she looked up, properly making eye contact with the woman before her, Bronya caught a glimpse of mulberry eyes. She’s well dressed. Maybe she could help? It’s worth a shot. Choosing to do the polite thing, Bronya helps dust off the woman she had bumped into. “Say, and I'm sorry if you know nothing, but what do you know about the door with the bounc- guards outside of it? They’re asking for a password, and I wanted to get in if possible…”

"…How bold of you to show up in person~" she ends up teasing anyway, knowing her words would have had Silver Wolf grumbling. "I was starting to think you were soldered to your chair."

Kafka observes the stranger before her. The resemblance to Silver Wolf truly is uncanny, though the two certainly differed in their general aura. While their faces might have been similar, the aged-up doppelganger had a steadier stance and the tidy economy of someone more interested in rule books than leaderboards.

Her attention tilts to the door. Two individuals playing at guards flank the door, their chests puffed with borrowed authority. Hearing that all it took was a password to gain access to their illicit establishment was laughable. Confidence is a skeleton key, one she's used in more doors than she cared to count. Entry would be easy… and the stranger would serve as a lovely distraction once Kafka had retrieved her prize.

"Oh, sorry. I mistook you for someone else," Kafka says lazily, bringing a hand to her mouth as though the realization had just struck her. "If you don't know the password, or even what's on the other side of the door… then you weren't meant to be inside, were you?"

Blade doesn't look particularly well.. but he doesn't appear to be as bad as Caelus had feared- which is good.. he thinks. Though Caelus does not how his question wasn't answered, ignored in favor of a general statement, almost left to interpretation. He hates that- why can't people just be direct? Why do people feel so inclined to lie? Why-

No. Now is not the time. Later, when he can go through the motions ( and crumble apart ) in the privacy of his own room.

The lad takes hesitant steps forward, wanting to get a better look to inspect the damage himself ( wouldn't want this to be a trap, remember? better to investigate and make sure the dude isn't just playing "dead" or some other stupid thing to be tricked by- ). Hands stay tense at his sides, amber eyes glancing around the room the man sits comatose in slow, meticulous lines to scan every single piece of furniture and housing utensil present in that rather cramped space.

❛ .. is there a way for him to recover? You never answered my question- what do you need from me? ❜

He dares a peak over his shoulder as he speaks, voice calm yet firm despite the warring unease burning under his skin. The silver can't quite tell what he hears, but he does hear some faint talking in the distance and what sounds like a group of people walking around. Who could that be this late at night..?

It doesn't. She'd known exactly what she needed from the moment she sent the request. Still, some truths deserve the courtesy of a pause.

"Recovery," she repeats, tasting the word like a fruit she knows is long past ripeness. "…No, not truly. Being stricken with mara is the inescapable destiny of the long-life species. It is a madness triggered by the accumulation of emotions and memories. Blade… is not fit for interstellar travel in this state."

Her hand lowers, and she takes a quiet step forward. She doesn't close the gap fully, but enough that the hush of her words doesn't need to compete with the footfalls in the distance.

"My plan is to use Spirit Whisper to temporarily seal the mara by reducing its potency. I need to focus all my concentration so I'll be vulnerable for some time—I need you to protect me while I suppress Blade."

"Well," she says, "I suppose that's another thing we agree on." She swallows a bitter sip. "Looking forward. Not straying to think on the past. Heh. Do all leaders need that quality, I wonder...?"

It's a question, but it's hardly directed at Kafka. Her vision is lost in her drink once again.

"What don't I miss about them...?" She wonders aloud. There is no sarcasm nor eye rolling, but for a moment, her smile slips again. "Their liveliness, their company, mostly. The quiet kind of company that is often so hard to find." Even March, though more rarely, she muses.

She groans, sitting up and leaning back at her seat. Of course she did not miss everything about them, but...

When her elbows settle again on the bar counter, Himeko is noticeably closer to the other woman. Her fingers dance adventurously to tap on Kafka's arm.

Instead, Kafka resigns herself to staying. Burning this bridge now, when it might one day lead to something useful, wouldn't serve her.

But then Himeko leans in, fingers reaching across the small space between them to brush against Kafka's sleeve. It's a bold gesture, no doubt encouraged by the cocktails settling in the woman's bloodstream, but the movement draws the Stellaron Hunter's eye to the water dripping from the woman's coat. The bar's warmth had done little to dry her.

It struck her, the idle thought that it would be rather inconvenient if one of Caelus' companions caught a fever. Elio's script hadn't said anything about the Navigator dying of pneumonia, but the thought of Caelus looking like a kicked puppy if Himeko fell ill had Kafka exhaling a faint breath through her nose.

"You know," she said at last, her voice light, "sitting around in damp clothes isn't doing your constitution any favors." Her gaze flicked lazily to Himeko's face. "Not that I doubt your resilience, of course," she added, a faint, feline lilt to her tone.

"…We both have people to return to, Miss Navigator. You're welcome to make use of the shower in my room."

"Finding people? I can't promise you that, but if the same cruel entity that made everyone disappear also took all the alcohol, I say we go find them and give them a good thrashing."

The granny looks the two and up down, inspecting their persons. The whole group has been through a lot, and the toll has really started to show on their body. Weathered clothes, cracked skin, and sunken eyes are all she can see.

"Though, maybe for uhh, maybe for some of the light weights among us-" Citlali brings her hand up to lightly cough, "The drinks might effect us too much with we do not have anything to eat or drink. If we could find a kitchen and some supplies as well, I don't mind making us a little something."

Lisa's quip and Citlali's half-playful response stirred the corners of Kafka's mouth into something not quite a smile. Her fingers tapped lightly against her chin in thought.

Even still, at the woman's gesture he drags his way towards them. She's right enough, and if they're all going to die here they can at least have spoken before this. Maybe they've figured it all out without him, or decided to just sit back and let the end come. He's not caught much for their conversations.

Close enough to converse, to be heard despite the way his voice scrapes his dry throat, he settles.

"Outside of it?" He looks up at the sky, at that relentless sun. "I've been on my own for a while now, grew up in the city."

A shrug of his shoulders. The way he speaks is not withholding, it's honest. "Not much to say for it, if not for working at the beach I'd probably spend most of my time alone. I've got a few coworker friends, but they've been MIA since the morning we left for the tour. We used to surf after shift..." Almost wistfully, he trails off. Like he's remembering the ocean, like he's remembering anything other than this heat.

Then he blinks.

She'd remember Citlali's offer to treat them all to a round of drinks after this. More importantly, she'd remember Lisa's interest in taking her up on it.

For now, Lisa's voice cut cleanly through the lull, pulling their tour guide into the fold with a gentle question about his life outside of work. He answered readily enough--city-born, comfortably vague--and Kafka might have let it go if not for the part about his missing coworkers.

"Your coworkers," she echoes, tone mild as she glances at him. "Kind of roles did they have?"

Kafka rolls a 2. No HP loss!

"After facing a certainly perilous time together, I hardly think any of us would be expecting compensation from you, Cutie Citlali~" Lisa's grateful to have enough energy to get the little tease out, she'd be remiss to not speak up after such an adorable display.

It was a relief to see that, despite their less that ideal situation, they were managing to keep each other's spirits up. Though, she couldn't yet agree with the current consensus that they would 'put on a show' for the pesky, little voice that had apparently been tormenting them this entire time.

...Speaking of the voice-

"If we're all on the same page, to some extent," She starts, pulling a band from her wrist to tie her hair back. "Would it be too much for me to inquire on...what this little voice has been telling the rest of you lovely ladies~? I find myself especially curious of whether any of you had been given...instructions."

[Lisa rolls a 3! No HP lost! (9/10 HP)]

And then Lisa speaks, voice warm and lilting as she teases Citlali. Kafka smooths down her skirt as she takes a seat next to her girlfriend, watching with interest as the librarian pulls the hair tie from her wrist.

But then she's asking about instructions, and Kafka takes a moment to consider the question. Was there any point to confessing her role, since the voice had exited stage left—or at least, had feigned doing so? There wasn't any immediate benefit she could glean from sharing, more likely earning the ire and distrust of the rest of the group instead.

...Well, that had been different. Different and wholeheartedly unwelcome.

First she gets hounded by that foreboding voice once again, and now there wasn't just one voice taking up space but an entire cacophony of them... She hadn't even given the first voice permission to take up real estate in her delicate, little brain, why was there now a chorus-

...Oh. The others had appeared to hear something there too. Even little Mira, if his reaction was anything to go by.

As she found herself watching the older pair of their entourage interact with one another, certain details stuck to the tracks of her train of thought. Details that, in retrospect, they should've been mulling over MUCH sooner. Perhaps their circumstances wouldn't have gotten so dire, if they had...

She'd have to apologize to Kafka properly, when she could.

Swiping at some of the sweat beading on her forehead, she regards Citlali with a weary attempt at a placating smile. "Miss Citlali, please..." She begins, already shaking her head in protest. "While I can't claim to be privy to what this voice has told you, I can at the very least be certain that regardless of who or what this voice claims to be...no one here deserves to be condemned. No matter what 'fate' says we're meant to do or what our ending is meant to be..."

She sighs as she lowers herself to settle in the sand. Her legs weren't especially tired, but...any distance from the sun is enough. Surely that was it...

[Lisa rolled a 1: -1HP (9/10 HP)]

"We all simply came here...for a relaxing vacation," She huffs, waving her hand in a motion for the others to sit down as well. "Do any of you think...you deserve to die for something so...innocuous...~?"

@fermatafour

It was her.  She did it, she was meant to kill him.  She tried to kill her, too. She should be the first one to go.  Kill her, save yourselves.  Kill her, live.  Kill her.

The Stellaron Hunter resisted the urge to scoff aloud.

Citlali's monologue washed over her, all pretty, pointless meaning wrapped around a tired frame. All that trembling conviction--Kafka let it pass, staying silent until the diviner pressed Lisa's hat back into her palm.

"Everyone's meant to die at some point," Kafka says, turning the hat over once in her hands. "Doesn't mean you have to rush toward it."

A soft huff escapes her, not quite a laugh, and her hand rises to set the hat back into place on Citlali's head. 

"Our audience seems to be getting antsy, don't you think? They're probably not too happy about seeing such a dissatisfying conclusion to their show. Are you really going to give in to them so easily?"

"You must really care for her huh... but for your kindness I'll thank both of you. You too have a part in your change, don't undermine your own efforts-"

Her words cut short by a fit of coughing. Speaking so much is taking a toll on her throat, moister stolen by the arid air. Her eyes weigh with exhaustion, but fear keeps them open. Fear that if she closes her eyes they may never open again.

Her palm opens, trying to summon any cryo magic possible. Icy wind spurts and clashes, ultimately evaporating before turning into anything of substance. She clenches her hand before relaxing it, letting out a short sigh in the process.

"…You're wasting what little strength you've got," she says softly. Her voice isn't cold, but it isn't kind, either. Just honest. She exhales slowly through her nose, casting a brief glance toward the horizon--toward where Lisa had disappeared with the demigod.

"And you're right," Kafka adds, her tone almost conversational. "About me caring for her."

Three words settle on the edge of her tongue, absurdly tender and too soft for a place like this, so she keeps them to herself. Lisa isn't here to hear them, and the sun-bleached graveyard doesn't deserve to hold them.