#:work

The archives are a vast collection of records. Records of research, field reports, personal reports, patient and monster observation, finances, and the 'legitimate' history of The Program. The archives are largely electronic, towers of computers forming neat lines throughout rooms, coupling with the rows of bookcases for historical texts, personal logs, and files too sensitive to be entered into the database. Everything inputted into the Program's various systems eventually made it's way down into the archives, where it would then be scanned, and organized. It was a very neat and orderly process.

Much like being settled into a grave.

It was not dark, or even dim in the archives, but shadows were long. Numbers hum as computers process information, turning it over and over, analyzing data and sending it on its way. There wasn't much need for a high amount of staffing in the archives; the computers did most of the work. The silence is one made from white noise, humming loudly enough in the background that the absence of a heartbeat is lost. After all, he is somewhat a deadman.

General Sarosh was a busy person, far too interested in affairs that were actually pressing, instead of minor technical errors and information requests. He's left to his own devices more than not. A fine arrangement for him, as far as he was concerned. He and the Captain-- did not quite meet eye to eye. An unfortunate result of the political circumstance that put him here. Though… perhaps political circumstance was a strong phrase. A strong phrase for the smile that spreads wide over a face he can never quite make out.

"Avios."

He breathes for the first time that day, out of habit, and smiles. Not as grandly as the one smiling at him, or as cloyingly, but he smiles. The book that had been in his hands is carefully placed aside, new pages sewn into the spine being rewritten in a meticulous fashion, as he corrected the errors in the transcript. "Yes?" He's learned that pleasantries end at the utterance of his name.

"There's someone who needs your help." The voice is silvery, but nearly static on the edges. It sounded happy today. Perhaps the voice had won a game of Diu Siu that day.

"My help?"

"Yes. Lieutenant Rajani is going to confront Rih today. I really don't think he's going to make it out alive-- without help. You are capable of helping, aren't you?" He's being belittled, like a child might be, when they do not realize the adult they are talking to does not quite like them. He is more than aware of his place here however. His smile does not falter.

"Perhaps."

The dead should not leave their tombs. He feigns the need for breath as humid air beats down upon him, the sun searching for exposed skin, so it might burn it. He will not stumble over thick air or burn in the sun though. He's modest, dressed in layers like the locals ( layers upon layers, rags wrapped over rags to hide the dirt on their skin, to hide the truth of what they were ), and no one stands in his path. No one bothers a soldier, well, that wasn't true. The smart ones did not bother a soldier. Surfacers were not always smart though.

"I have the best of pickles on all of Myrhl!" The cart he walks next to is old and rickety, ready to fall apart at every bump it hits, and yet it remains intact. The man pulling the cart looks much the same. He has aged well, all things considered. A quick glance at the man reveals no obvious symptoms of Strife, no growths, or strange 'disappearances' of what should belong on a human. He was also fairly vivid, even through his current eyes. A warm, toothless smile mirrors the warmth of brown eyes going cloudy with age. He was a strangely charming human.

"You do?" He's polite, even if he's annoyed. He could easily out walk the cart, the walls of the city looming behind them, and yet he holds pace with it. He holds discussion with the old man, letting him pitch his wares as they follow the path, as the cliffs rise around them. The city was built on cliffs, overviewing the ocean, which was quaint. A terrible choice for an oceanic port city, but that was not the city's purpose any longer. The city was crawling in Surface Soldiers, mingling in with the people, even as they stood out unique. This city was a terrible choice indeed.

"Oh yes, of course! I pickle everything myself! My daughter used to grow my cucumbers for me, but ah, she's no more. The village she lived in was taken out some years back, a bad Monster year. Say; aren't you a soldier? Do you--"

"I am not a surface soldier." His reply is not distracted, though he hadn't been paying the man much mind. The cliffs kept reaching higher, the ocean keeps getting closer, and he can smell Strife. His current eyes disguise most of the landscape to him, painting it in colors he almost doesn't understand now, but he also sees more. He sees the Other World stretch out before him, grey and bland, screaming like a void at some part of his mind. "I am a Senior Scribe; I do not do field work. You have my condolences, however." A hand lifts, the half of his kallias in his palm blinking its singular eye as he places his palm over his empty chest, and he bends ever so slightly at the man; his clothes ripple and the shadows behind them grow darker. "Monsters are a terrible blight on us all."

"N'aw--" The old man is uncomfortable now, squinting at him, setting his cart down to sink some in the softer soil on the side of the road. He scratches at his beard, his fingers gnarled with hard work and old age, and he bares his toothless grin once more. "You don't have to be sonny, but I'll take it. Monsters are a real problem for people like me." People who were not rich enough to bathe regularly, who were coated in dust and dirt, and worked tirelessly for-- what? A chance to survive? A chance not to become the things they feared most? It was laughable.

"Please." He's coming closer now, the shadows of the cliffs laying over him heavily, and the ocean roaring in the background. The city was screaming above them, but the old man could not possibly hear it, not as the ocean beat the shore below them. "Let me buy some of your pickles." He's smiling, his teeth bright white and straight, and the old man brightens. Joy crosses his face as he turns to his cart, words already bubbling up about which variety he might like, and gnarled fingers already grabbing a pickle pot. His kallias blinks again as hands reach forward, grabbing the sides of the man's head, and the shadows behind him smile. He's old and human, his bones are brittle as his skull shudders in his hands, and cloudy eyes gloss over as blood begins to run out of the man's nose.

His initial assessment of the old man was incorrect, as Strife had begun to show itself on his body. He had small growths of teeth in his stomach, the teeth forming in immature mouths that still moved as his dead body twitched, and the mouths seem to bite at him. Hunger permeates the body, plagues every soft tissue as the shadows of the cliff face reach forward and cradle the corpse, allowing him to dig into it. His hands split skin easily, tracing from collar bone, over his sternum, to his navel. Shadow claws gently pull apart clothes, removing layers upon layers of fabric, as he pulls apart skin.

He slices open the chest first, so shadowy mouths can reach in and eat at the old man's hunger. His fear of the hunger making his flesh sour and unsettling, but that was not his fear. The mouths reach deeper, pulling apart organs and breaking apart bone, as he continues to pull apart the skin. He just needs it to pull cleanly from the muscle underneath, cutting slips from the armpits and down the arms, mimicking the action on the insides of the thighs. Mouths follow his hands, spreading over the man, and eating what is left behind. There is so little of this man, and yet so much. The shadows of the cliff blink and grin, whispering even as eyes slide over him and pull at loose skin; pulling it over themselves.

There was no blood on the road as the little old man picks up his cart and walks towards the shore, watching with clouded brown eyes ( so full of joy) as a monster falls into the ocean.

"I read something once."

"Wow, you read?"

"Fuck off JJ."

JJ is laughing, acting as if it was the easiest sound in the world, and that he wasn't still trying to catch his breath. One of the guys had caught him under the rib and had left JJ heaving for a minute as he broke a chair over the guy's head. JJ whistles once he's done laughing, tossing a bag of zip ties in the air and catching it again, as if he was showing off to a bunch of girls. "Don't be so mean to me Kitten; I was just teasing!" As if he'd forgive him for just teasing anytime soon.

"I read something once." He's louder now, climbing onto tables and ignoring the fake pout JJ shoots at him, favoring for reaching up into the dinky, tasteless chandelier instead. "That said--" He's grunting, struggling to get the angle right on unscrewing the bulb, and pretending he feels just how hot the bulb probably is. This is why he wears gloves. Well, that and they looked cool. "--if--" He manages to get the bulb at, cracking the old glass that surrounded it to diffuse the light, and he's only annoyed about that because it rips his sleeve. He just bought that shirt!

He jumps off the table, stepping neatly over the guy who he broke a chair on (he was out fucking cold), and walks over to the other one. He's got the lightbulb in hand, waving it around just a bit so it cools some, and so he can watch the filament break off and toss around in the glass. He always loved doing that: shaking things so hard their insides broke. "--You put lightbulb in your mouth, you can't take lightbulb out without breaking it." He nudges the lightbulb against the guy's face and smiles as eyes widen in realization.

He had been the one asleep when his phone rang, of course, so JJ had answered it. Which wasn't bad, really, but JJ always got that weird, 'your dad wants to kill me' look whenever he answered Viktor's calls; always. It was fucking annoying. "I was kinda fucking sleeping--"

"Yuri." The voice on the other end of the line is ice, even to him, and his complaints die off. He ducks his head, even though Viktor can't see it.

"Papa." JJ is looking at him, his phone in the air, and headphones off kilter on his head; he was listening in.

"I want you to take care of something for me." JJ's eyes narrow a little, a frown settling in, but he tries not to frown back. The Family comes first; they both knew that.

"Yes Papa."

It wasn't hard to track down the guy Viktor told them about, not with JJ typing away on his computer ('She has a name Yuri! She's Patty! Isn't she cute? She's lighter than Gertrude was~') and Yuri calling Vor out of their hiding places. Finding the guys was easy, but getting to them had been a bit trickier. JJ had solved the issue by acting like a honey pot; his suit cut way too tight and his heels way too high, and the guy had fallen for it. He had gotten to play air duct boy again, like usual, and he put another tally on the 'get back at JJ' list. He could do that later though. JJ had gotten the guy alone, just with his guard, and he had popped out of the ventilation and done the rest. Well; most of the rest. JJ had kicked the guy in the balls at least.

He presses the bulb closer to the guy's face, lets him flinch and recoil from the heat, and chases him as he tries to scuttle back. JJ had used the zip ties he had thrown at him to snare the guy's hands behind his back, the plastic pulled too tight and already making pudgy fingers turn purplish. It was kinda neat how fast some people could start to blood pool. He's grabbing the guy by the cheeks, pinching at his jaw, and wedging his fingers between his teeth. "Open your mouth." He's wrestling with the guy, shoving the bulb against his face, but not too hard; he doesn't want to break the bulb just yet. The guy jerks to the side, evading him, and he loses his grasp. The guy clenching his jaw makes slapping him the face a bit stingy, but he's not the one sporting a massive split lip now.

"Maybe I should break lightbulb over your head; yeah?" He's sneering, teeth bared and lips curled back, and he lifts the light bulb up. It's more of a threat than anything, but he could always go get another bulb. He doesn't get the chance to though, all because of JJ.

"Kitten, don't!" He sounds almost genuinely distressed, taking a step closer, hands held out before him as if to placate him. Then his facade cracks, a twitch of his lip matching the sparkle in his eye, and Yuri knows he's going to hate whatever JJ's about to say no matter what it is. "If you do that… he might get hit with a bright idea."

Called it.

JJ moves quick, quicker than most think, and he's right next to him in what seems like an instance. His fingers curl around his wrist and JJ slots up behind him; he's taller than him for once, thanks to the heels. JJ pushes him forward with his body, making him shuffle forward a bit, and he nearly brackets the guy's face with his thighs. A gutsy move should the guy decide to try to headbutt or bite his junk; JJ doesn't seem worried. He guides his hand down, urging the light bulb back towards the guy's face, and he watches as the guy's eyes seem to bug out. "Say ah~" He looks down and JJ was digging the heel of his stiletto into the guy's junk.

JJ shifts, pressing weight against him, and against the guy. The guy finally wises up, or gets desperate, because he opens his mouth to try to scream, and Yuri pushes the lightbulb in. Perfect. JJ reaches past him to pat the guy on the head before he backs off, going back towards the bodyguard, and he has to force himself to look away. The cut of that suit was unreal.

"It does fit; cool." He squats in front of the guy now, holding him by what little hair he has left on his sweaty head, and he bares his teeth again. He's been told his grins were a bit too toothy, but that was the point, wasn't it? To show people your teeth? So he shows him his teeth, getting too close, and dropping his voice; as if he was going to tell him a secret. "You think the rest of what I read was true? Like how you crossed Papa and thought you could get away with it? Or you thought my boy could be bribed?" He had watched how the guy had touched JJ, how he had pitched drugs and money at him; he had seen it all.

The guy was trying to talk, his teeth clacking against the light bulb's glass, and he was shaking his head. He grins wider, all teeth, and stands up. "No, you don't?" The guy keeps shaking his head, trying to shimmy away, and keeps trying to talk; to throw excuses or bribes. He doesn't make it a habit to accept bribes; it's why Viktor always gives him this sort of work. "Well I do." Viktor knows he'll never leave a job undone.

He lurches forward, raising his knee into the underside of the guy's jaw, and enduring the reflexive little kickback his foot gives as his kneecap hits jawbone. It's pretty amazing that the guy can scream with a mouthful of glass, he'll give him that. He can hear the splinter of the bulb, can see shards press their tips out the sides of cheeks, and blood already begin to flow. It comes out past his lips and his nose, meaning some of the glass went through his top pallet, and he whistles at it; that had to hurt.

The guy lurches off to the side as he steps away from him, rolling and writhing on the floor, gasping and choking as he desperately tried to spit out glass. It's hard to spit out glass that was embedded though, especially without any hands to help pull it out. "Guess I was right?" He steps back over the guy, stomping on the side of his face, and he screams again. He lifts his foot and kicks next, just for fun, and just a bit to help dislodge glass out of the bottom of his boot. Shit; he needed to replace these boots soon.

"Kitten." JJ was on his phone, frowning a bit, and gesturing him closer. "He called more guys somehow; did he hit a switch I missed?" He grunts, intent to come closer and look at whatever JJ was looking at on his phone, but he doesn't make it that far. The bodyguard lurches forward, evidently having been playing them with his 'out cold' routine, and he's lunging at him. The guy was after the gun that had been discarded on the floor, but he doesn't make it that far. He feels the gun dig into his stomach as he half lands on the body guard, slamming his head into the ground, and trying to grab at his arms. JJ handles one of his arms for him. The guy screams and he looks over, looking down one arm to see JJ stepping on the hand, the heel of his stiletto pushed right between the bones.

The Orchard is a grand place. When she was little, her parents told her of the great trees within the Orchard. The temples were always present in the trees of the Orchard, acting both as a creature snug in its home, and the protector. The trees were grand, yes, but as a child the temples had awed her more. Their splendor, with the balance between architecture and nature, had consumed her focus. The great doors of the temple had closed before she realized she had been left there by her parents. The grand temple was to be her home.

She remembers years of ease; of brushing about the priests and playing in the forest. Her dreams were silly and sweet; her ambitions most focused on getting the juiciest morsel of the fruit left out for the children to eat. She did not lie, she did not steal, but sometimes children still err. She snatches from another child and hides away from the priests. The fruit was hers! So lost in the victory of sweetness she does not realize that the temple was far behind her. The foliage had grown thicker and the air heavier. Her feet grew heavy, as did her eyes, and she rested with her prize tucked against her. She pressed her back to the base of a pure white tree and dreamed.

Childhood dreams of laughter and playfulness are easily torn, like candy floss caught between ones sticky fingers. She tears at her dream on accident, too boisterous and bold from her victory. She rips it open, spilling herself out into a place she had never seen before, and at the feet of a priest she had never met. The tales come to her in a rush of panic; she searches for six eyes and a cloying grin. She does not find either in the priest though. The priest peers at her with cloudy eyes and a soft smile. She lets the priest scoop her up, from the shreds of dreams she would never see again, and walk away with her. This dream was vast, open with hundreds of paths spiraling around it, and flecked with stars and emotions. She watches, eyes open as far as they can go, trying to see it all; it was impossible.

She wakes at the base of the tree, curled in the arms of the priest from the dream, and feels at home.

The priest who found her was the Orchard Keeper. They were always soft spoken, but their voice was so sweet. Flowers bloomed in the Keeper's hair and mushrooms sat on their shoulders like tiny birds. She would run from the temple, after she had completed all her daily studies and chores, to sit with the Keeper. The Keeper was rarely idle, either tending to the trees within the Orchard, or the gardens that lay dispersed through the woods. They spoke of the plants, spoke to the plants, and sometimes even to her.

"Tell me your name."

"Suin'vun!" She's too eager, too bright, for such a name: 'Quiet Life'. The Keeper smiles down at her, moss covered hand pressing against her brow for a moment, before listing away. They reach above them and pull a fruit from a branch; she hadn't seen a fruit on that tree before!

"A beautiful name."

"What is yours?" The Keeper holds the fruit out to her, so she takes it. This fruit is sweeter, with rosy flesh flecked in pale spots, and the seeds white and soft. She eats it all, ignoring the way it seems to pulse (echoing in her ears like a heartbeat) in her hands, chasing after the last drops of the fruit's juice on her fingertips. The Keeper's smile captivates her. She sees a smile like that, sometimes, in her dreams. It lurks at the end of a distant path, reflected off a pool of shimmering water, and waits on her.

"My name was once Uil." The Keeper leans in to tell her this, as if it was a secret; the Keeper does not take a breath to speak more. "Do you think it is a pretty name?"

"Yeah!"

The Keeper nods, cloudy eyes falling shut, and fondness falls over their face. "I gave that name to Lethanavir, when I pledged myself to him." She's heard of the pledges; they all pledge themselves to Falon'Din when they are old enough. From the commoners to the rich, their prayers go to the guide who keeps them from straying from the right path. The priests do more than just pray though, don't they? She's old enough now to see more than just grandeur around her; she sees the dedication that the priests, that the Keeper, offers to Falon'Din every day. The Keeper opens their eyes and looks right into her, like she were nothing but a reflecting pond. "Won't you do the same, when your time comes?"

She can taste the sweetness of the fruit still on her tongue when she speaks: "I will".

She plays less and studies more. She does not run from the priests now or rush through her duties. She becomes studious, and kind, and dedicated. The priests help her learn, help her grow, and help her cleanse herself before it was time for her pledge. She stands at the edge of a shimmering pond, the surface stunning and undisturbed, and looks at her reflection. Her eyes were bright and clear still, with only a fleck of creeping white marring their color, and she looks straight through herself. She whispers her name; for Falon'Din was the brother of Dirthamen and always heard the secrets meant for him; and watches her reflection change. The reflection pond echoes a vision of a woman back to her, with her eyes completely grey, and she embraces it. She embraces the name the vision whispers to her: Ithelana; the one who watches. 

She works under the Keeper now. She is a priest now as well, tasked with helping tend to the Orchard. The Keeper's body grows more frail as time passes. She is one of the priests who prepares for the Keeper's body for its ultimate rest. She trims the flowers and fruiting mushrooms into compliance on the Keeper's body; the other Orchard Tenders wrap their body in wool. The Keeper smiles at her as the Tenders gather around to pray. She watches, head bowed, as the Keeper's smile fades away. The Orchard accepts the body and she watches the roots of the great white tree claim the body.

She sleeps in the pure white tree that night and dreams she walks again with the Keeper.

The Keeper speaks to her in the dreams; through the Orchard. Their name was Urvun, a gift, as well as a reward. Urvun guides her, echoing advice to her, and whispering through her. Flowers have begun to sprout from her hair and she favors mushrooms over all the other plants in the great Orchard. She stands at the edge of the reflection pool and stares within it, but struggles to see much anymore. The years begin to dim, very slowly, but she is not bothered. She watches regardless, even as the cloudiness of her eyes prevents her from fully seeing the face of Falon'Din when she finally is blessed to meet him, and Urvun whispers that it is a good thing. Falon'Din was of untold beauty and kindness; his smile alone could make her heart ache. Urvun whispers these things to her and she laughs, for she is still not a quiet life, but ever watchful.

Falon'Din visits somewhat frequently, or perhaps she visits him frequently. She stays in the Orchard mostly now, rarely straying to the temple. She tends to the Orchard faithfully, even as the other Tenders lay for their finally rest. She prepares their bodies as well; their limbs bound up with roots and their eyes overgrown and shut. She watches the seasons change, years pass, and the Orchard grow. Urvun speaks to her still, but no longer through her. It was getting harder for her to talk, for her to feel; she barely sees the Orchard around her, even as she knows its beauty.

Now she sits at the edge of the reflection pool, her body weary and heavy with abundant roots, and watches her reflection. It blurs before her, sparkling, but indistinct. She leans over the pond, the shimmering water undisturbed, and prays over it like a willow. Her hair falls against its surface, but make no ripples. She is not a burden to the Orchard; to his will. He comes to her, hands pressing gently to her bowed head, and she watches the clouded reflection of his smile peer at her. She has seen that smile before, but more clearly, long ago.

"Tell me again: your name." It is Urvun who speaks to her now, even as new Orchard Tenders gather around her. They trim the flowers in her hair and help ease her gnarled hands flat. She is root bound and stiff; noncompliant only in such a sense. Each breath grows harder, with the taste of the air around her bland and unamazing. She does not feel cloth wipe dirt from her face or water pass her lips; she can only feel the breath of the Weave on her face when Urvun speaks.

"I am Ithelana." Her body is wrapped in wool, but she does not feel its warmth. She is laid before the great white trees and the Tenders gather around her. She feels comfort, yes, but little else. She reaches for the Weave, but her body is too stiff. She watches as the last bit of light is taken away from her clouded vision, roots cradling and crowding over her, and dirt covering her completely. She was not afraid.

"Have you watched faithfully?" She was being pulled beneath the great trees of the Orchard, sparkling roots that glimmer, even in the cloudy darkness, coil around her. She feels at ease here; like it was a dream.

"I have Urvun."

The sparkling grows as hands reach for her. She reaches back, no longer stiff, and no longer wrapped in wool. Urvun pulls her from the dirt, back onto her feet, at the end of the most distant of the paths she has ever seen. Urvun was smiling, but she cannot see it. "Yes you have. I am proud of you." Urvun was not the Shepherd, perched like an owl on an oaken staff among the paths, but they guide her all the same. 

They guide her along the path that leads her to the reflection that she had seen long, long ago. Of a beautiful smile, so beautiful and kind it would lead her heart to ache, and her heart does ache. Urvun leads her forward, into the pond, where her soul does not disturb the surface. She sinks into the pond, at peace, and watches through cloudy eyes as Lethanavir peers down at her. She settles among the growing pearls at the bottom of the pool, not radiant as they, but at peace. She only feels peace as the last bit of her vision fades away, staring up into the too beautiful smile of her god.

The world is not known for kindness. It's known for twists of fate, cruel and otherwise, as well as random intervals of divine intervention. Ze's not fond of the latter, because when gods stepped into play, it rarely turned out well in the long run. Sure, zir town's water supply had been cured. Sure, the babies had been freed from the plague; sure. Everything was good now that a god had come down, horrific in appearance from what ze had seen under their mask, and fixed everything. Everything had been good; everything had been fixed. Except the god had seem zem, with too many eyes, and ze had paid the price. Nothing came without a price.

Ze had been bedridden for a month by the time someone had come. Zir nanny had tried, ze knows, but trying to cure a curse with home made medicine wouldn't help. The town had been very faithful, but not very knowledgeable. Zir parents were dead for a reason, after all. The person that had come was quite different though, smelling far too clean for a traveler, and looking it too. Pure white clothes were hard to look at through sore eyes, but ze manages. Ze manages to turn zir head a little, be blinded by the white of the person's garb, and let him close zir eyes with the tips of two fingers.

At that time, ze was grateful for the touch.

Ze had woken up the next morning well. The person had remained overnight, still dressed in pure white, and lounging with the elders of the town. He had smiled when he saw zem, he had checked zem over, and he had gone about to check the rest. A cough was pulled out a girl and an older man's pained ears were eased. The stranger didn't work miracles, but he worked magic-- and medicine. His fingertips were crusted with fairy dust and his pouch had vial upon vial of ointments and tinctures. He was helping the community. He was doing the work of a man, not a god. It was easy to be wrapped up in that, in the beginning.

Ze left with him at the end of the week, his nanny worried about zem, but obviously somewhat relieved. Zir health was no longer on her shoulders; the Kira line and it's longevity could only rest on zir hands now. The man had arched an eyebrow at zem when ze asked to travel with him, but he had smiled. "I'd love t' have someone t' travel wit'." His voice was not gentle; it was buoyant and full of a gleeful sliver of amusement. Blue eyes had pinned zem, for a moment, before a hand had come to squeeze at zir shoulder. Ze felt welcomed. The healer had a charm about him and ze hadn't realized to be wary of that charm.

"Y'know what defines a god, 'Zuru?" The question is posed after a death rattle fills zir ears, their presence too late to save a young man. Disease foamed at his lips and clouded his eyes, his death turning his body limp, and useless on the bedding. Gin was hovering right over him, watching as lips rounded out in a gape, and eyes unfocused. Pale fingers touched his eyelids, closing them, and the action makes zem shift. Ze looks away, away from prying blue eyes, and into pleading brown. Ze doesn't say anything, because the truth was too much, and ze wasn't ready. Ze ducks out the door as Gin tells the family of the death.

"Can you bring the dead back to life?" Ze asks the question when ze doesn't expect an answer; when Gin was quiet and usually asleep. He breathes evenly when he sleeps, calmer and deeper than when he was awake, even if ze can't hear a heartbeat. Ze long gave up trying to remove the snake that slept around Gin's throat, because once ze thought it would try to choke him. Gin had laughed at him. Ze jumps when fairy dust coated fingers rake through zir hair, making zem look up, and catching a glint of blue. Those fingers tap against zir eyes, pushing them closed, and Gin hums over zir inhale.

"Maybe~"

The books are unfathomable. Ze has seen them before, sectioned away in Gin's collection, like they were cursed. The tent that Gin carries with him was much more spacious than it gave on, as the little ring in its center dropped straight through a hole, and into a shrine. Ze's used to the library that Gin keeps, how it moves, and how the layout seems to change only once ze's gotten used to it. Yet the books never move; the layout of the table never changes.

"Aren't y'e curious?" He's stared too long, eying the books from a just inside a doorway, where the little snakes that hide on the cusp of a portal would try to strike out and bite zem. Gin can linger there, unscathed, and ze doesn't know how. "Y'e never did answer." He gestures at the books, has his charming smile, and moves. He pokes a bony finger against the corner of zir eye as he passes, touching the edge of a book, and fiddling with the clasp. "Y' don't know what defines a god, do y'e?"

The answer should be obvious; is obvious. Ze is too slow to grasp the meaning at first, to understand that this rhetoric demands an answer, and Gin's smile wanes; just a little. The hissing of the doorway chases zem further into the room, with an answer on zir lips. "I don't." That was the truth; ze didn't. Gin fiddles with the clasp on the book and the unsettling feeling grows; the book cases were moving again. The room has no doors and no windows now, just the tables; more tables than ze remembers there ever being.

The clasp pops, like a water bubble, or a pocket of fluid in someone's chest. Gin peels open the book, his eyes firmly shut, and his smile oddly wide. Ze doesn't know better than to look. "It's simple~" The book is bright, like Gin's clothes. It burns, like the whiteness of what Gin wears, but worse. It blinds zem, so suddenly it's reeling, and ze doesn't know how to escape. Ze doesn't know that Gin isn't helping when hands grab zir neck, when ze is strapped down to a table ze will try to forget, and the touch of the speculum under zir eyelids and wire around zir neck makes zem jerk. There's a click, a tick, and a slide as the blindness almost fades. It's enough to see Gin leaning over zem, needle and scalpel in hand, and the snake curled around his throat laughing at zem. "I'll teach y'e~"

"Hey." The voice is gravel against zir ears, startling zem, but just for a moment. The images were vivid, too real to understand, but too distinct to forget. Arms are around zem, a face is pressed against zem, and ze doesn't realize ze is whining until ze hears it through their ears. "I got you." Gravel grinds in zir ears, drowning out the clicks of a needle being dipped in ink, and the soft little noises eyes made when pierced.

A hand touches zir face, too warm, and not covered in fairy dust. "Izuru." The name is like a blessing, zir name, and spoken like it meant something. Their hand is rubbing over their face, spreading warmth, and ze doesn't know how. Ze can't grasp it. "Izuru." Ze knows the wire in zir neck had been cut; that it was no longer there. Ze knows that no one can see the bloody marks spread all over zir eyes, blotting out blue irises, and darkening white sclera. It wasn't real anymore. "Close your eyes Izuru."

He would have asked zem to open them, to push zir face against blinding pages, and be poured to the brim with things ze couldn't see. What have you done! What have you done! The warm hands are pulling on zir blindfold, easing it off, and ze closes zir eyes. Magic drips off zir lips, dripping from zir whining mouth, and Renji wipes it up. Warm fingers drag blood and magic up zir face, rubbing it against puffy, swollen eyelids. They care; they care. They kiss zem as the blinding pages chew on the backs of zir eyes, eating zem up from the optic cord out.

"What should we name this one?" This one, he says, as if there will be many. As if the sheer number of them might just not be enough in the end. Which might be the truth. The jar is large, it needs both of his hands on it to be moved, and it was full. The other jar, on the far table, was the same size. It was almost full too.

He's fearless, reaching into the one jar. Slimy bodies dart back and forth, fearful of his sudden presence. They're hard to catch, slipping out of his grip more than once, but it's okay! He's in no rush. "What'cha think~? Timmy? Tommy?" The names are meaningless, but fun! This was fun, wasn't it~?

There's a rattle, off to the side; it stops the moment he pauses. He's still, just for a moment! His cheeks eat self satisfaction when he moves again, the tiny pant of relief echoing in the near silence. There was only his breathing and the soft splish-splashing of his hand in water to mask any noise. Not near enough in a big room like this; nope! He liked a room with good acoustics~

Acoustics were important, you see, for him. He liked hearing things. He liked hearing the water dripping from the faucet on the other side of the room, the deep steel basins of the sink echoing the tiny drip-drip-drip nearly ten fold. The sound of the water masks some of the street noise outside. Where cars drive past every so often in the dilapidated sector of an industrial area. A fork lift switches into reverse, beeping loudly, and he looks out the window as the drip-drip-drip fails to mask the clunk of shifted wooden stocks.

"'Zuru~?" Fingers tighten suddenly, a fist forming around one of the slick, squirming bodies in the water. The water running off his arm goes drip-drip-drip as he moves from the jar, dropping his catch into a smaller cup of water, and scooping it up. Izuru still won't respond, utterly silent in the nice big room, and looking straight ahead. It's like he's afraid! What would he be afraid of? There's a siren, way off in the distance, but he ignores it. "Dun' have a name for it? Want me t' name it~?" Izuru won't even look at him as he sits down, setting the glass jar between his outstretched hands. He likes those hands. They were pretty. He sets his hand over one and swallows his laugh at Izuru's flinch.

"Mmm~ What if… I named it… Renji?" The sharp inhale rings through the room, over the drip-drip-drip and the faint whine of sirens. It makes him pause; the noise so perfect he has to savor it. "Only right, ni~? That I make 'em help y' out." He's stroking Izuru's fingers now, his pretty, purple fingers. They were normally so long, good for grabbing things, or working their way into people. He's sucked on those fingers before; he's head them all in him before. He strokes them, cradling one tense palm in his own, and tapping the end of a swollen digit. Izuru doesn't even twitch.

The water goes drip-drip-drip and the siren wails, getting steadily closer, or maybe just more noticeable. The fork lift beep isn't there anymore; they must have parked it. He looks out the window as he pinches up a cotton ball drenched in hydrogen peroxide, wiping the end of Izuru's finger. He has to clean the bite! Get it nice and clean! He has to make sure that it won't get infected. He wants Izuru's finger to heal after all. "Look… y'e can't even feel anything yet…" He sets the cotton swab aside, grabs the towel, and dabs. He gently wipes the finger up; just the one. He leaves the rest alone; they were already taken care of for the day. It's just the one he needs to worry about. Just one.

The rag is tossed over his shoulder, smelling like chemical clean, and covering the quaint little security badge pinned to his shirt. He's got his hand back in the glass, grabbing at the slimy little creature within, and he's smiling. "If the real Renji ain't gonna help y'e out… this one can~" The leech is desperate, for food, just like the rest of them. So desperate that it's already latched onto ruddy, swollen skin by the time blue eyes dart down for a glance. He loves the lovely tone of green on Izuru's cheeks.

"I told y'e what would happen if y'e went out wit' them." He's standing up, wiping his hands on the towel. The sirens are just down the block now, it seems. There's shouting outside, sharp and loud, but he can't see anything out the window. There's just some light coming in the window, falling partially over Izuru, and partially over the table he sat at. The chains are too dirty to catch the light, but the locks are new. The locks keep the chains in place, the sides of the stocks secure, and ultimately: they keep Izuru seated. There's gunshots outside, drowning out the drip-drip-drip and he can see Izuru flinch.

He drops the towel on the table, running his hands over all the pretty, purple fingers that were limp against the table, and up. The sirens cut out suddenly, leaving too much silence, and he loves it. The silence lets him hear Izuru's struggling breaths, feel the tension in his chest as he leans into the back of his chair, and closes his eyes as the stitches holding all ten fingers in place are stroked. "I told y'e 'Zuru." He's kissing him, pretty lips screwed up tight, just like pretty little eyes. He presses hard, tips his head back, and eats up the grunt that's caught in Izuru's pretty little neck. "Ain't no one that'll find you out here."