#rivalis.open

⸻ ⸻ open starter for both oculus and enigma

         Homura’s not sure if he slept or not. He’d retired early, earlier than most, and one of his siblings had had to do the talking for him in asking Mr. Moe where he could stay for the night. The bed was too soft, the house was too quiet, and he thinks he’d lain in that strange, half-awake state for some time, his thoughts drifting on the verge of dreams, exhausted but unable to fully sleep.

        Zephyr’s calls hadn’t immediately roused him; they’d blended right in with the conversations playing in his headphones. Someone else had come into his room to get his attention, worry clear on their face. He’d donned his mask, and left his headphones behind.

        And now, as he stands among the group observing the black hole in the hallway, Homura can’t help but smile. Memories flash behind his briefly closed eyelids.

        Harold showing him his power, gentle explanations, the void openings never bigger than a coin.

        Tearing open his own void, a massive wall of black to protect his siblings. Vertigo spinning in his head as he tumbles toward it.

        This black hole. This hallway. This late night, just past midnight, moonlight filtering in through the windows. These blurred faces, worried and shocked and confused. This ravenous void, ever-growing.

        “I’ve seen this before,” he says dreamily, reaching out, hand hovering just close enough to feel the faintest pull of the black hole.

with:  anyone  ! location:  foyer  /  heading  towards  the  bar.

reality     aches     towards     precarious.   a   balance   quinn   tried   desperately   to   maintain   began   to   reveal   cracks;   dreaded   vertiginous   sense   that   came   with   his   stomach   dropping   at   the   sight   of   his   childhood   home.   [   no   headmaster   waiting   for   a   report,   budding   teammates   alongside.   it’s   low   hanging   lightning   +   a   congregation   of   flashing   bulbs.   ]   fight   for   a   steady   composure   against   the   current,   feeling   greedy   hands   grasp   at   the   seams,   searching   for   a   loose   thread   to   tug.   it’s   an   event   quinn   had,   admittedly   with   misplaced   faith,   hoped   would   never   happen.   figured   knox’s   ingenuity   would   absolve   him   from   the   inevitable   -—   be   there   to   guide   quinn   through   the   murk   of   it   all.   but   fate   +   heart   complications   refuted,   otherwise.   front   door   slammed   with   outer   layer   shrugged   off,   feel   immediate   guilt   weigh   down   the   armour   that   comes   in   the   form   of   a   black   suit.   edges   worn   like   it’s   owner,   altered   to   safely   hide   holsters,   throwing   knives   at   the   ready.   old   habits   died   miserably   hard.

attempt   to   avoid   nostalgia   like   some   old   friend.   the   afternoon   was   meant   to   comfort   others,   balance   trepidations   with   steadfast.   [   grievances   were   already   dealt   with   a   cheap   bottle   +   a   late   night   in   the   office.   brushed   off   under   the   label   of   minor   feelings,   someone   had   to   keep   pieces   together.   ]   grey   hues   caught   sight   of   the   bar   across   the   opening   of   the   dining   room.   one   drink   to   bring   himself   steady.   movement   breaks   into   callous   actions,   an   accidental   collision   of   shoulders.   ❛   christ   -—   ❜   it’s   instinctive,   spit   out   the   name   to   fill   missing   gaps.   heels   turned,   features   contort   into   a   sheepish   apology,   ❛   sorry,   my   bad.   i   just   .   .   .   haven’t   seen   the   place   filled   with   so   many   bodies   in   a   while.   ❜

The   inner   courtyard   is   deserted.   It   feels   hostile,   and   hollow   in   a   way   that   has   nothing   to   do   with   death.   It’s   not   a   ghost—nor   the   setting   stage   to   one.   Rather,   a   door   left   half   open.   The   emptiness   that   sleeps   here   isn’t   owed   to   a   sudden   departure,   but   to   each   absence   gathered   over   the   years.   Children   leaving,   children   never   looking   back.   Lance   knows   these   smaller   hauntings,   he   knows   them   both   too   well.   He   wouldn’t   be   surprised   if   the   Enigma   house   had   a   part   that   showed   it   all   the   same.   The   wrecked   aftermath   of   departure.

He   cuts   across   the   wind-swept   path.   On   either   side   of   him,   the   larchwood   bower   parts   and   gives   into   an   opening.   The   square   is   hidden   by   the   greensward,   rising   on   a   slight   incline.   Inside,   two   benches   face   each   other   under   a   red   brick   wall.   Lance   doesn’t   need   his   training   to   tell   someone   is   already   here.   Of   course.   They   would   be,   wouldn’t   they?   This   is   the   best   hidden   spot   on   the   estate.   It’s   also   where   the   past   is   at   its   most   inescapable.  

When   he   squares   his   shoulders   and   puts   his   mask   back   on,   it   isn’t   some   sixth   sense   that   makes   him   do   it.   It   isn’t   battle   instinct,   either.   It’s   just   avoidance:   he   has   a   deep   awareness   of   it,   one   that   precedes   his   Enigma   years.   He   learned   to   hide   before   he   learned   to   fight.   He   clears   his   throat,   once   over.   Then   again.   He   lets   his   steps   tread   louder   on   the   foliage.   He   makes   himself   sure   to   be   seen,   just   as   intently   as   he’d   do   the   opposite.  

He   doesn’t   have   patience   for   a   lot   of   things   these   days,   and   he   has   even   less   reverence—especially   in   the   enemy’s   goddamn   den.   But   this,   this   safekept   loneliness,   this   licking   of   wounds?   This   is   something   he   knows.   He   respects   it   more   than   the   living,   more   than   the   dead.

Numb. After the weeks of being at home, knowing he was gone, after the funeral where she stood to the side and watched as the chosen carried his body, after the media frenzy outside the cemetery, most of what Grace was feeling now was a lingering numbness. She’d spent most of the day glued to Gabriel’s side, partially for the steady comfort his presence gave her, partially fearing what else might pour out if she left it. 

Now that they were home, though, the hallow halls of the manor feeling just as grand and empty as the day she left, she finally found herself breaking away from her other half and off to her own solitude. There were plenty of hiding places she’d found over the years, and she made a beeline for her favorite: the parlor behind the butler’s pantry with the paintings. When she got there, though, someone was already standing in front of her favorite piece, the large Dali collage, a black mask quickly indicating their affiliation. 

“It is an original, you know. All of the art in this house is.” Her words came out quiet, barely louder than the chatter that could be heard from room’s away. “Mr. Knox used to tell us that he knew Dali, that he purchased this from him directly as a commission way back when. He had a lot of stories like that, and I think they were all mostly true. Who would he have to impress by lying?”  

“I’m Grace,” she offered with a smile, staring into the mask of the person beside her. There was so much they might know of her, and yet, she knew nothing of any of them. It fascinated her as much as it frightened her, a welcome distraction from the heavy feeling of the day. For so long, she’d wondered of the Enigma members. To have them in her former home was a strange, strange feeling.