#yeonban

♢  — @yeonban said: An utterly focused gaze stares down at the miniature creature resembling an endearing mixture of a raven and his beloved doctor, and despite it not possessing (as far as Subject Two can tell at the moment) any particularly noteworthy abilities or traits, the creation does nevertheless succeed in holding the homunculus' attention all to itself as it meanders around the table's surface, cawing as though orating something of great importance to its audience of one. "Prime," The alchemist pronounces softly, yet without tearing his gaze away from the creation. "May I have this?" This, referring to the pocket-sized creature that has visibly piqued his interest. Subject Two does not make a habit out of caring any which way about the results of experimental lifeforms (and certainly he would have felt absolutely nothing for it had the creature not resembled Dottore to this extent) but in this case, the homunculus feels a peculiar fondness for the creature due to its uncanny resemblance to the doctor; and so does an idea soon form in his mind. What of checking its current resistance to the abyss? What of attempting to alter it in a manner that would allow it to exist within the void realm long-term? And what of bringing it there with him on the rest of his future expeditions, so that he may keep a part of Dottore with him even in a forlorn place where the segments themselves are unable to venture without suffering senseless side-effects? "I would quite like to keep a part of you with me during my leaves of absence." (The thought itself seems to alleviate some of Subject Two's feelings of recurring loneliness within that despondent space, as they are present even when covered by the thirst for knowledge that regularly leads him there in the first place.) / The bewildering amount of Crowttore fanarts I've seen these past few days has made Subj2 #lock #IN on this idea I'm SOBBINGGHDHJDFHJ 😭 EXPERIMENT IN PROGRESS: UNPROMPTED ASKS - ALWAYS ACCEPTING !

The creation that moves about on the stainless steel surface of one of the many tables in the lab does not possess nor achieve anything that draws Dottore's attention to it. He remains aware of it, but only as the same acknowledgement he gives anything in his surrounding ; where the scalpels lie, where the report for Lab 12.A is. ( This all to say, the creature holds no more value than a pen. ) Its continued freedom is allowed only due to Subject Two's odd FIXATION upon it. He cannot fathom what has earned that. At least some of the other critters have their uses. THIS ONE DOES NOT. Dottore's masked visage has not once turned to regard the narrating critter as it chirps and caws, its tiny claws clattering against the steel. His gaze remains concealed under the mask, and his attention towards the machine spitting out results for him to compare with previous readings. Success is closer upon initial assessment.

" You can. " The response is one of clinical detachment. Had the request been to eat it, the answer would have been no different. But Subject Two seems fond of it for now, and though Dottore lacks any feeling towards it, he is content that the other should be happy. ( Even if there's so faint amused exasperation at one of the critters being adored for a reason he cannot fathom. )

THE LATTER COMMENT BRINGS A SUDDEN, UNNATURAL STILLNESS TO THE DOCTOR'S EXISTENCE. Tension swiftly settles upon shoulders and the length of his neck and jaw as if Subject Two had physically slapped him rather than spoken soft words. IT FEELS LIKE A SLAP. For the first time, Dottore turns to stare at that little creature that caws. Concealed though his gaze may be, the weight of its intensity is not something that can be missed. The same sensation of a greater beast watching from the shadows.

THAT is what Subject Two is saying is him? And thus also is saying that he is that in return? This failed experiment, flawed and effectively useless for what it was originally intended for? A harsh laugh threatens to leave his lips but he cages it behind sharpened teeth a flash of a deep, sharp frown. He has the sudden urge to DESTROY IT despite his apathy moments prior. A MISTAKE. So many would agree ; he remembers those very words in the village, in the Akademiya, even amongst some here. Maybe he is reflected a bit in that creation. Maybe that's why he hates it even more.

But he is not THAT, and it is not him despite some shared genetic material. He is not his mother, despite her genetics in him. He is not his father, despite his father's genetics. That is not what was said. It was implied if that thing is him solely for carrying a bit of his genetic material. It is not him and he is not it or his progenitors and - HE IS BLEEDING. The objective fact cuts through the chaos of his thoughts with the precision of a scalpel blade as he tastes the blood in his mouth and registers a dull sensation in his tongue. Bitten. Asinine of him to do. Pathetic.

He turns away - abrupt, sharp ; a motion that is jerky and disjointed rather than his usual subconscious smoothness. He's staring at the readings but they're not registering anymore. Numbers and results flicker by; recorded to be viewed later when his attention and rationale is not compromised. Teetering on something ugly. But that's Dottore's nature isn't it? UGLY, TWISTED CURSE. His jaw clenches and - He is getting himself stuck in a positive feedback loop where the stimulus is amplifying the output signal. Negative feedback loops ensure homeostasis whereas positive loops do not regardless of the output. And he is not maintaining his equilibrium. He's better than this. He knows better. It does not make anything easier.

The notes are set beside the machine whilst he picks out the infected roots in his mind and chest on this particular subject. Or tries. Force down his shoulders, force the muscles to relax. Force it all into submission, to that abyss of his chest where it might freeze over instead. At least now. If it bursts out later when he is alone, then IT DOES NOT MATTER. His muscles are still a little too tense, the reactions a bit too sharp but few would be able to perceive it. His voice comes out smooth like a too-still lake.

" If that is the case, then I am sure something can be arranged. " He replies, his mask facing Subject Two in favor of ignoring the creation. " And you are welcomed to keep that if it so pleases you. If something made by me so ignites your want - " ( He should be proud of Subject Two voicing his wants. He thinks he is. But there is too much damage control to do to dwell in the moment to focus. ) " - then do as you wish with it. I believe there's a folder of what observations were made in the cabinet across the room, third shelf, red binder. " Precise. Factual. " I and the other segments are the only me. I do not appreciate otherwise. " HE'S UPSET. There are other matters to attend to.

@yeonban played: ‘i can buy you some time.’ Tobias' tone is unbothered despite the fast pace of the game and the predators hot on their trail, if ever so slightly out of breath after running around for the past half an hour, and it seems he's willing to act as the necessary distraction while Chishiya works out the hidden code that will ensure the players' escape and win instead of using him as the scapegoat while he himself remains in the safety of this room. Is he still seeking out a thrill, or does he trust in Chishiya's ability to solve this puzzle, and in Chishiya not to abandon him afterwards by running away alone? (That would be a foolish decision to make, when so few are truly worth their lives in this borderland.) "how long do you need?" Not think you'll need, but need outright. Surely Chishiya can tell as much from a glance? If he doesn't, he's not worth Tobias' time.

𝗚𝗔𝗠𝗘 𝗡𝗔𝗠𝗘: RESIDENT EVIL REQIUEM STARTERS

Oh, Chishiya loathes these games that force him to be physical. IT'S NOT A MATTER OF CAN'T. He can; his muscles move with ease and his limbs are used to long days spent on his feet with the sterile smell of hospital and ozone in certain hallways seeping into his blood. ( Admittedly, that is less intensity and more endurance whereas this is more intensity. ) It's a matter of Chishiya does not want to do it even if he can, and he stubbornly refuses to for as much as he is able to without meeting death. He's good at it too ; in letting others do the running about for him while he slinks along the background like a shadow. This particular game might take the crown for which game has gotten him to move the most - much to his displeasure as he slips into the room with Tobias. He huffs, head tilted back against the white wall while he draws in a few quick, rapid breaths. But where his physical activity is limited, his mind was another story. It never stopped, the clever glint in his eyes or the way he immediately takes in the room and factors it in with clues and details he had observed externally in addition to the room they're in.

Tobias's offer draws his attention as soon as he starts to speak. " Oh good, because I wasn't going to. " Chishiya answers with a faint twist of his lips. Manipulate someone else into being sacrificial pawns? That he would and could do. He had already pinpointed two of the other players to utilize as the time continues to tick down ; gullible and eager - THEY'RE MICE IN THE FIELD UNDER HIS SHARP EYES. But Tobias's offer is better. He seems no worse for wear beyond slight elevation in respiration and pulse and seems more capable than the two Chishiya was willing to use.

"Fuck!"

The expletive comes following Lacramioara's unceremonious crash through the ceiling of the agency, wood splintering, drywall crumbling, tinsel tangling. This was far from the first time Lacramioara had gone through one of their walls, and it was far from the last.

This time, however, the angel had made sure to bring the wicked bat-winged beast with her, fingers curled tightly around Mihai's ankle. He rises slowly, other hand combing back dark hair to little avail. She thrashes him once more before dragging his body closer, looming above him on swaying legs. His pierced, forked tongue swipes blood and corpse paint away from her upper lip, but does little to stop the trail of blood coming from his nose otherwise.

She bends over, and in the process, falls to his knees, straddling Mihai's chest. Bizarre dances of red and green light play out across their bodies from the lights and tinsel tangled up in Lacramioara's horns, hanging down in curtains around them.

"You are such a sickening creature, you know this?" He asks, one broad palm cradling Mihai's head and caressing the white hair absent-mindedly. "You just-- you piss me off, all of you, every thing..." She trails off as something hanging from one horn tip catches his attention, something that makes her smile and lean in closer. Blood closes the gap between their faces first while Lacramioara laughs.

"Eh? Look, it's eh... It's mistletoe! Even vexatious little animals-- little things like you, are deserving of the kissing-bush, yes?" Their foreheads knock together with the inelegance of the motion, but the kiss itself is surprisingly gentle, for now.

it is late. the only indicator is a small, silent clock that hangs above a wooden desk. even the strong khaenri'ahn moonlight does not reach down here, in the depths of king irmin's palace⸻ a contained space in which something is always bubbling. rhinedottir is never disturbed here. even the last iterations knew far better than to question her, especially at this time of night, when inspiration and brilliance strike her in waves.

that is something he has not yet learned.

thoughts become narrower, as she turns, gazes at [ ... ] well, him. no other term to use. rhinedottir has not yet named him. some might argue that names are integral to humanity, a word one can use to reference their history and identity: who they are. without one's name, all memories belong to an indistinct entity without definition. yes, the name is an anchor for self, a representative phrase vital for actualisation, a good starting point for forming relationships.

he will earn all such privileges, if his faults can be corrected⸻ if the frustratingly persistent, inhuman parts can be stamped out and replaced. he is almost ideal, almost excellent, almost flawless. if he can realise perfection, the true human form, perhaps she will grant him the luxury of identity.

she might even find some sort of fondness. for now, there is only impersonal regard. he must prove his merits before she allows more discussion on the matter, and her patience is wearing thin. the dragon is hungry. she finds herself more irritated than ever, when they speak, when she experiments with and on him. and how many moons has it been since he filled one of her flasks? the image in her mind of his ingredients and make is losing its vibrancy. not fading, for she remembers everything ( although, if she didn't, it is well-recorded in the notes that scatter the room ), but rather dissolving from relevance. in that time, he has shown no improvements. still a marvel, a living ( !!!!!! ) example of her personal genius, but flawed. wrong. a creature that must be disposed of if she decides her resources would be better dedicated elsewhere.

she hasn't been particularly obvious about it. even if this stall in progress is horrifically irksome. at least, not so that she believed it was blatantly evident. so, does that mean his question arises from paranoia or concern? that must be an indication of his humanity. good emotional responses, clearly defineable as reactions to stimuli ( or lack thereof, in this case? ), and easy to measure with scales of intensity. a noticeable improvement from a previous version, who did not emote ( or even suffer! ) no matter how much she provoked it.

good for testing ...

“ and why, child, would you ask such things? ” an emphasis of his youth, the distance between their proficiency. she is sharp and pointed in delivery, but the low tones of her voice serve to dull the edges. in between words, she places one hand atop his head. rhinedottir notes the soft quality of his hair filaments. natural. “ have you some hypothesis? explain. to be vague is useless and petty. ”

"I had an idea for a new tattoo." He looked up at the Takeda with a little hum. It had been months since the kishin and oni seemed to disappear for Hi No Moto and the best thing to come out of it, were how close the castles were being rebuilt together. He was able to spend more time with Naotora now and it kept him from being too bored with the peace they now had.