#decomposited

A flood of information. Violence, terror, apathy, disconnect, void, all of it connecting and intermingling with even more words than Sigma could think to describe, a horrible torrent, a gaping wound, a tsunami higher than they could see, pulling the world out from under them, their world out from under them, and they were so small, and he knew what they had agreed to, and they were drowning———

Silence. Stillness. Those were the first two things Sigma was aware of. The flood of panic was sequestered to the back of their mind; they were aware of it, of the weight of it, lurking there, pressing and seeking any weakness it could find and threatening to take them over again. But their defenses held—the same defenses that landed them here.

They should have been dead. It was possible they were dead, they supposed. They never had any thoughts about what would come after, even when faced with it. But they didn't think they were dead. They were floating—or were they falling? Drowning again. Panic surged through them once more, the air leaving their lungs in a thoughtless, terrified gasp, bubbles rising upward. They flailed, desperately seeking the surface.

They broke through, coughing and gasping, clearing water that wasn't there from their lungs. Beneath them was the water, its surface solid and smooth despite the ripples. It reflected the starry sky above like a mirror, but their reflection was nowhere to be found. They stood on unsteady feet, not trusting the ground they couldn't see. From this angle, with the stars reflected so clearly on the water they looked to be beneath the surface, it looked like the thick glass floor in the center of the casino.

But there were no stars below. There was the earth and the twinkling lights of cities far below the Sky Casino there, and here there were stars caught in the deep sea.

Sigma's mind was moving slow, still groggy from the onslaught of information their ability had pulled from Dostoevsky, and it was only now that they realized that the improbability of it all made sense in only one context: a dream. The impossibility, the rationalizing... this was a dream, and they—

A quick look-around revealed one part of the dream their mind was doing its best not to parse, or not create. Shadows. The depths of the sea made solid. A current ran a chill through their bones, and for a moment they thought they could see a faint cloud of their breath before it was gone. There was a presence there, just out of sight. They could feel it, even if they couldn't see it.

This may have been a dream, but they were not alone.

Sigma's heterochromatic eyes were focusing on the surface of their latte—the swirl in the foam was perfect save for some distortion on the side closest to them, where they'd already taken a sip. Ivan had started at the cafe shortly before they had joined the Armed Detective Agency. They were still a little unclear on some of the details that led up to that arrangement (something about him not being a threat on his own, something about the government not wanting to waste the resources necessary to keep him contained with that in mind), but the details didn't really matter at this point. He'd been thrilled to see them, and they found the presence of a familiar face nearby to be comforting.

No one had told him about Dostoevsky yet, and Sigma was not going to be the one to broach that subject. No one would.

The subject they were going to broach was different. "Vanya," they began, using the nickname they'd picked up from Gogol what felt like years ago, pronouncing it properly, "do you ever miss your old life?" Before Dostoevsky, they didn't add.

It was a loaded question. They knew that. But it was a loaded question for themself, too; they had no memory of their prior life to miss, and yet they still felt like they were missing something without the ability to know what. Even Dostoevsky didn't have the answers, like some part of them had furtively, foolishly thought he might. Were they different now? Or did they always have to contend with an innate lack of belonging?

Paimon wasn't exactly sure what happened as it happened; whatever it was happened too fast for her to really process. They were—the four of them—Paimon herself, the Traveler, Raiki, and Epsilon—walking through some ruins deep underground. It was the type of place that seemed long uninhabited, and it gave Paimon the creeps (a fact she was sure to disclose).

But the quiet-but-peaceful exploration was cut short as stone seemed to come to life around them, the sound of stone scraping against stone filling the air. A crack formed in the ground, and for a moment Paimon thought they were falling. She screamed, but it was only mid-scream that she realized she wasn't falling—the ground the Traveler and Raiki were on was raising quickly. As soon as she realized what was happening, they were gone, out of sight somewhere above.

"Traveler!" she yelled, very aware of Epsilon's own yelling beside her.

“...Excuse me,” The new Knave said, voice scarcely above a whisper. They peeked in through the door to the laboratory, only deeming it safe to move forward when they caught sight of the other Harbinger. “You’re Scaramouche, right?” Arlecchino recognized them from her introduction ceremony. And, for the time being, did not perceive them as a threat. “I…Is The Doctor here?” Even if they were asking after him, Arlecchino gave every sign they didn’t want to be present. His arms were folded over his abdomen protectively, those ink-stained hands plainly visible without the oversized coat in the way. Whatever brought them all this way must be awfully important.

Really, Scaramouche had no reason to be here beyond finding the laboratory comfortable and The Doctor's presence tolerable on a bad day and maybe even slightly worth humoring on a good one. They'd spent so much time here—so much time around him—over the centuries that it became one of their usual haunts when their time on standby deemed itself just as unexciting as it sounded. So old habits and familiarity had them lying back across one of the many tables, holding some papers they were reading above them. Dottore's notes he had left unattended.

Sharp indigo eyes flicked toward the door when that quiet voice spoke through it, taking in the appearance of the newest of their numbers. The Fourth. If he had been just any human maybe they'd feel some sort of bitterness about being ranked lower, but they knew there was something different about this one. Besides, it didn't matter. Not really. This was all a temporary situation, despite how long they'd been here.

They gave a small nod in affirmation to her question about their title, eyes flicking briefly back to the messy notes still held above them. Then they let out a sigh as they sat up, papers discarded on the table beside them—more or less where they'd found them. Probably. "If he was, you'd know." Whether they meant that he'd be found out due to his dramatics or the way he could practically sniff out an experiment they left up to interpretation. "He stepped out for a minute. He'll be back soon."

The Balladeer took a moment to really take in the newcomer, their quiet voice and defensive posture at odds with the stoicism they'd displayed at the small ceremony. And to kill the former Knave... She certainly didn't seem like the type capable of such a thing, so young and reserved, although that inky blackness on his hands... hm. Dottore having failures from the House of the Hearth passed into his custody was no great secret, and they knew some of those outcomes: mindless soldiers high on power and elemental energy, mainly, good for not much else but brute force and to have bodies when needed. Those were the ones that didn't die.