OH, SELF-RIGHTEOUS DISGUST—

@incurse liked for an event starter.

Navigating has gotten only slightly easier , as the monotonous Spirale slowly gains the color it had lost. Octavius had set his sights on more ambitious things , the mixture of orange and maroon giving him the confidence he needed without the overbearing doubt that usually came with it. What he was trying to tackle this time was the subject of amassing an army. He's a general , and without the army he usually commands , well , he no longer feels like a Commander. With nobody his size ( other than Jedediah , but that's a given ) here , he has accepted the fact that he has to branch upwards. Literally.

still, colours ebb and flow around him, each person he passes alight with one of dozens of hues. he wonders, distantly, if one could count them all, had they a mind to. he wonders at the kind of person who might try.

he's pulled from these oblique feelings by someone addressing him. it's a surprise ! he feels myopic and restless, in his depressive hues, but he's been gifted a few more colours by this point, and he's starting to come together into more of a real person, and so he puts on the serene smile that has swayed many to his side and turns toward the voice.

"of course." the one before him is a lovely shade, bright and unabiding, he suspects. and he's dressed in a way that—well, suguru has no place to judge, in his monk's kasaya and so on, but it looks so archaic ! this man has the look of a general out of time itself ! he likes it.

Greys and greens, huh?

Well, it wasn't really something he'd call depressing ( not out loud, at least ) but those were some pretty dull shades. He hadn't talked to everyone he had passed by, even if he probably should be doing that, but this guy seriously had some of the worst colors he'd seen.

Maybe he could change that? If they were really affecting how people felt, then...the shade of blue he got felt like a good counter? Josuke was feeling pretty good, at least. Not too different from usual.

it's a nice blue, though. that's a shade he's always been fond of ! the question the others asks is very straightforward... direct, even.

honestly, he appreciates it. he feels exhausted, like a rope stretched too taut over something that could cause it to fray. the colours he's collected so far have been making him feel muddled ( apathy, misanthropy, drive ) and maybe having more would help. maybe something brighter would at least add variety. he's more or less figured out how this works by now, this exchange of things.

🍔 "Excuse me! Do you know if there any waterfalls around?" It was a strange question to ask, especially without any context to start. Maya probably would have asked anyone, and it was just this poor man's luck that he had been the first person she had come across.

waterfalls...? for twenty-four hours? my, but that was some very intense training ! he doesn't say that aloud, though, because he worries it could come across as condescending. this girl... she's only a few years older than his daughters, he suspects, and he knows how to take someone seriously.

Was 35 years in Mikoshi not enough? Now he has to suffer purgatory in a city so unfamiliar that it grates on his skin just to see it? He feels pathetic. Weak even. He never knew he'd miss V so much. But at least this way, he knew V was still alive, right? If this was all in V's head, like a back alley tucked away behind the hippocampus or something? It didn't seem like Johnny was being let out anytime soon, so he decided, hey, why not get comfortable...

"Quite the vivid imagination you got, V," he comments, staring down at the small pixie village, silver hand on his hip. He's not even sure if V is listening, probably busy shooting up some scavs to care, but Johnny mentally notes this for conversation later. He reaches out to gently grab one-- with his metal arm, which goes about as smooth as rocks on sandpaper. He swipes a little too quickly, and it's swatted instead of grabbed ( but neither outcomes would've really been ideal ). "Oh, fuck."

but worrying does nothing, and a walk is good for clearing the head. he passes by the village of pixies ( strange, how the human mind can just start accepting things as normal if one's walks take one past something enough ) and though he notices the man there, he pays no mind. at least until—

well until something happens.

eyes widen. ' i saw that ' is what his gaze says. still, he does not draw attention to it directly.

suguru has done worse, and with less alarm after the fact... in fact, that was kind of funny...

There is only so much betrayal of his blue emotion that he can take, and the infinity increases around him.

He does not let him in -- maybe that has always been his fatal flaw, this the inability to connect atom-to-atom with others. His outward smile, his teasing nature, his terrible personality means nothing if he won't let someone undo them.

"Do you know what's happening?" he asks, and his tone sounds all too reminiscent of another time:

stomach turning, limitless dropping, messing up big time & you are not at fault; the strongest, pushed to his limits, blanketing himself in infinity & of course: ❝ suguru, should we kill these guys? the way i am right now, i doubt i'd feel anything about it. ❞

he wants to get it on satoru.

really, that's all he's ever wanted, in a less literal sense. to mark satoru with something he can never get off. he wants to have happened to satoru, and that's selfish, probably, but he doesn't have much of a desire for anything else. that was how suguru had always wanted him.

the apathy brings back memories of old times, bad times. but it's nothing suguru's own cloying, sticky depression-colour has not already done. still, his drive is not to make satoru care about anything, right now. it's just to be a splinter that never works its way out of satoru's skin.

his head shakes. hair falls over his shoulders.

You went on what is probably the most useless errand run ever. You didn’t even need anything. You just wandered around until something caught your eye and filled you with want.

You bought tape.

For no reason in particular, really. Now that you have it, you’ve been breaking off pieces and sticking them to yourself. Under your cloak, on the brim of your hat, right under your glove where your wrist is exposed. You run your fingers over that strip. It feels smooth. Your skin is stuck and squished underneath it. You peel it up a tad, noticing how the adhesive seems to have caught the various imprints of your skin and immortalized them. You stick it back down.

Now you play this "game" for a bit. Peel, stick, peel, stick, peel, stick… You like it. It feels good. The strip eventually loses its adhesive and no longer sticks to you. You may not have given it the best purpose, but maybe it feels fulfilled. If strips of tape are capable of feeling much of anything. Regardless, it is now useless to you like this, so you discard it … … ......

…………into the trash bin you stand beside. Because you don’t litter.

he has spent most of his life tethered to the things he has had to do, whether imposed or self-inflicted, and endless repetitive tasks do not lend themselves well to a very aware mind, do they?

a lack of duty seems to be just as monotonous. he wonders at how difficult it might be to start a religious organization here. not that he can gather any curses from it, but it would at least be something to do.

he shelves the idea, setting it aside for future consideration, and instead turns his gaze toward his people-watching habit. there's a different structure to this place, no longer can people be easily sorted into shamans and not-that, no, instead he needs to sort through other categories. his internal moral system is broken for the time, and so he observes with rather more neutrality.

or at least as much of it as he's capable of.

his observations are only that, but still, he is compelled to speak—

"repetitive actions for their own sake, hm?"

he doesn't care much about the wasted tape, really, because any use of it is better than no use at all. a thing shouldn't sit on a shelf until its destined purpose arises... right?

"what was it that you were doing there? and did it help with whatever you were doing it for?"

It is silent. Almost moonless. They watch the stars above, hands behind Their back, as the cool night air rushes past. These constellations are nothing like the ones They had so meticulously hand-crafted, stars too close or too far apart, the turn of the globe too fast or too slow. They watched, as a star rushed past; almost pathetic, really, how it swipes across the sky like a paintbrush too dry to paint. This entire universe was not to Their liking; They were going to have strong words with the angels if this was a redesign of their liking.

Leaves crunch distantly, and They turn slowly to face the source, finding a stranger in Their midst. That has been happening an awful lot, meeting strangers. In the world that They had crafted, there was no such thing. Every being, made in Their image. But not him, not the many other civilians that roamed these streets, not the wildlife, not the fauna, and certainly not the stars ( and least of all, the Stars ).

still, he tries his best to stave of the slew of negative emotions he sometimes feels bubbling up within him. the after-effects of many a miserable meal ( thousands of them, even, huh? who would have known that there were even that many nasty things out there, and then some ) or something of that kind.

he does not know what he is looking for until he finds it. someone—interesting. someone he could converse with, maybe. the one before him speaks as though they're used to... something. he isn't sure. command, maybe?

he tilts his head, curious, then dips into a polite bow. formality and greeting, more than obeissance, and yet...

"uh huh. you're suguru geto. you swallow cursed spirits whole and use them, right ?" she lifts a finger as if to count off whatever she was saying. "you were the one to trap satoru gojo away. sealed him away as he yelled at you ! geez, you really made us work for that one ! hanami got crushed like a bug against the wall."

she has to prove she knew him, right ? clearly, losing the stitches made him lose a bunch of memories, too. so she continues.

at that, there is a pang of disgust that lurks up her throat like bile - slicking her innards with something not particularly friendly. at the notion of satoru gojo, in particular. not that mahito cared for the man beyond an awareness that he is dangerous both within and without a close proximity, so this was simply . . . odd. she puts it down to the strangeness going around.

mahito was nothing more than a silvery grey. untouched, unhandled, as intimate as it may be to adorn oneself in the hue of another being.

"we all bit it that day. except you, i think. maaaaybe choso ? jogo definitely didn't make it . . . so, you owe me," it's said with nonchalance. "i'unno about those two girls. i didn't see them after a bit, so . . . i guess , probably , you really were the last one standing. "

a shrug. "what does it matter ? they had the stench of fear aaaaall over them ! but, but, but, we didn't get so much as a ' thank you very much !'".

( would it kill him to pick up something nice for once? )

but he processes it nonetheless. files it all always for future consideration. some of this sounds like him, some of it does not. for what reason would have to turn against satoru gojo in earnest? to work with curses for that purpose? a vile thought. curses are something he subjugates. to work with them is an ugly idea. is there a version of him so desperate? or with looser morals?

for suguru geto is nothing if not a creature of morality. not good, not evil, but firm, rigid certainty. philosophy. the bone-deep ache of it all.

"you haven't answered me. your name, if you please."

still, none of this forms recognition. he does not know this spirit, cannot even conceive of a version of himself that does. but she knows too much about him for this to be a case of mistaken identity.

he does not know what to say. his mouth goes dry. back to this he again, isn't he? that mysterious figure referenced over and over since he's come here. something that wears his skin like a costume. the thought makes him sick, but he is careful not to let that show.

the names are unfamiliar, and then—two girls. surely not. hopefully not. but maybe... unless—

he nods.

"i imagine..." he begins carefully. "that if i were to have worked with you, i was merely using you. you know of my technique, don't you?"

to admit to using others is almost laughable. he would never confess as much to another person. but this isn't a person he's speaking to. it is a curse.

@incurse liked for a starter.

Phoenix really didn't realize how easy it was going to be to get lost in this place. He was just trying to get to the townhouse he was assigned to. He supposes it's just his luck that he can't seem to find his way. ( Might as well just tell me to live in a dumpster if you won't give me directions to my house. )

After a while of fumbling around Spirale , he finally wanders onto a long Boardwalk. As he takes in his surroundings , a small frown curls onto his lips. There's a faint tune that's carried in the air accompanied by the sound of distant laughter. It makes his stomach tie itself into a knot. ( Maya would absolutely love this place. I wonder how she's doing. )

He's sure that there are people that are supposed to be here. People whose lives haven't been completely uprooted for some unknown purpose. And yet hearing everyone so . . happy. It's strange. He should be happy for them. He sighs , turning on his heel with the intent to turn back.

or maybe the salt in the air is just good for the spirit. there's a reason people were once sent to the seaside for their health, right ?

he's almost glad to be pulled out of his thoughts by a stranger. he turns toward them, taking in the sight. the man is dressed nicely, but not extravagantly. a career man, but perhaps not the most lucrative career. the monk's robes geto himself wears must seem out of place in comparison! not that he has ever minded standing out, it's all about the image one cultivates, isn't it?

he smiles politely and waves a hand, as if dismissing the apology outright.

Of course.

( satoru gojo had spent hours memorizing the shape of suguru geto's soul, after all. )

"Who else would you be?" he laughs, and though there is a chasm between them that runs the length of Tokyo itself, a limitless pit in his stomach that roots him to the floor, he still smiles. Because despite the absurdity of this place, this new realm, there is one redeeming factor.

he smiles, because how could he do anything else ? and the expression there is as close as he ever gets to something real. it has always been easy to smile around satoru. he makes it fun, to fight curses or share snacks or declare war.

to struggle, to fight, to die.

he does not ask—he does not want to know the answer to that obviously rhetorical question. who else would you be hangs there, in the air, and he does not ask. there is something cold and unknowable here, and he does not address it in any way.

...To say in simpler terms. It was overwhelming. They were used to being confined within their former library situated underwater but now... they've found themselves back on land. Trying to make the most of it they took charge and thought to finally leave their townhouse but the metaphorical bulb in their head shattered at the realization they do not know the first thing about how to get around the place.

Naturally,  the best thing to do in this situation? Bother an unsuspecting person for their aid.

 ❛ . . . ❜

Their selection process wasn't anything special. In fact,  one might call this bizarre behavior the way they opted to stop moving once near-entering the bubble of @incurse.  Only opting to lift their head and allow their glowing features to stare at him intensely. Maybe gesture towards him with their sleeve to further gather his attention.

 ❛ you. ❜

sizing them up, perhaps ?

if they aren't a curse ( and he's fairly certain they aren't ) then perhaps some other sort of spirit? something natural? something harmless? idly he wonders whether they're edible, to something like him, but dismisses the thought as quickly as it arrives.

this city is an odd one—ostensibly like other places he has been, because he has been to big cities and small ones, travelled and seen a lot both in and out of the country of his birth and yet...

despite all surface-level similarities, this place is different indeed. the trappings of familiarity fade as quickly as they arrive, when one looks beneath the surface and when one begins encountering people and other types of beings that are so different from those he had ever seen before. this is the novelty of such a place, right? and so maybe he should view it as a blessing. a chance to learn more about the world.

he is getting his bearings here, he is learning it slowly but surely. soon he will be completely familiar, but until then—

—his head inclines toward the one before him. whether it is some sort of friendly spirit or something else entirely matters little, he supposes. he just smiles.

-- it is no longer solely loneliness that plagues him, but kei's drive that bends him into the prism of light.

It's all he sees, except when he sees him. Suguru is not blue.

His eyes shift downwards, but there is a gross amalgamation of the lonely and the desire to stay as such; combined into this horrible little world, but he wants to reach out and taste other colors.

He reaches for Suguru's sleeve, defies his own emotions yet does not grasp; there is limitless there, stopping contact. "You're green."

suguru turns, eyes on his best friend. the colors there are—they are not what he had expected, not what he associates him with. or at least not overtly. maybe there's something. maybe there was something.

he blinks once, twice. sees the hand reach out and tries to meet it with his own, just to touch, finds himself stopped by infinity itself.

and so, he turns to face this stranger with a small smile curved upon his lips, eyes finally straying from the painting to meet his.

"it is." of course michael is stood before the painting of a fallen angel, reaching towards the sky with its wings now clipped; not unlike some paintings he has witnessed back on earth, yet with this universe's artist's unique flair.

—and is there not always a subjectivity to art? with only the title of the piece, the medium, and the artist's name on display, the rest is left up to the viewer.

the observer... or in this case observers, plural.

"i'm something of a recent arrival myself," he says, and the smile he pushes to his face is not ingenuine, or at least no more so than usual. if you strip away every layer of falsehood from suguru geto, well, there might be nothing left at all. but it's not entirely fake either.

he is alive against all odds ! is that not reason enough to feel the joy that comes with such a peculiar surprise ?

ʚїɞ - "I've killed before. Demons. But never another human." Caught practicing her magic against a tree trunk, Fern supposed to was only natural that someone would wonder what she used her offensive magic for. A weakened magic beam had been enough to pierce all the way through the tree trunk when she narrowed the beam, after all.

"You know my teacher?" When she thinks about it, THAT makes sense doesn't it? Maybe they had been in the same class and something in the way this man mentions it in general gives her a sense that they were more than just acquaintances.

( he hopes she is treated better than those who lived and died before her—but if she's one of satoru's students, then maybe there's hope for that... )

it sounds as though something of a mess has been made—even if he's not sure of what exactly what it was. is suguru the problem?