KENOS IC CONTACT

[zauneyete]

SILCO

CONTACT

WRITTEN ◦ ACTION ◦ COMMUNION

© TESSISAMESS

[ Communion with Silco is like being doused in cold, polluted water. It feels like taking a breath is difficult, like there's fingers around your throat, pain all over. The water is too-slick like it's almost more pollutants than water, and the water crashes against you, inescapable, even if you were to somehow find the ability to breathe, there is still no escape from the sickening undertow. Somewhere, perhaps deeper in the water, or something else, is a simmering, vile hatred, resentment, and it feels like it should be hot enough to make the water around you boil, even if it's almost too-placid, and too cold. Like all of this hatred is buried deep. Then again, the fact that it feels so close means it must burn so hot. ]

Comments

action, early Takiltu.

[baltimores]

[ It's taken him about half of what passes for morning to get here this time, so even though Amos is getting increasingly familiar with the ticking clock that is being away from Highstorm, he knows he's got time.

There hadn't seemed to be any downsides to accruing two tiers' worth of discord at first — he could lean further into the Zenith, feel more at home with it — but once it had become clear to him that he might be spending more time in Springstar this month, actually. Once he'd first tested it, making damn well sure he knew the pathways to take. Once he'd started walking along Kowloon's streets, and he'd felt that unpleasant sensation, realized he needed to go back so soon—

Well. It was irritable as fuck.

But at least the sun wasn't a problem here, so, silver linings.

Emerging from one of the tunnels to Kowloon itself, Amos walks down one of its streets at a casual pace, looking around with eyes darkened with black sclera and feeling right at home despite being away from Highstorm. This is the closest thing he'll get to being back in Baltimore. Real Baltimore, with all of its criminal elements, except here it's handily all in one place rather than mixed awkwardly with regular society. There are no sloppily-applied coats of paint, no inkling of surprise crackdowns — it's unabashed, unashamed, honest, and maybe he should feel uneasy about how naturally he slides right into the environment, but it doesn't occur to him that he should feel uneasy, so he doesn't.

He comes up along Draumahol, leans against one of its walls, far enough away from its main entrance. He loosely crosses his arms over his chest as he looks upward at the rest of the city above him, thinking. Alright, so he should probably try to grid this. Divide the city up into searchable pieces, tackle as many as he can in a day, and eventually he'll find the shop Kathova had alluded to, and he can go from there. It's basic, but it's as solid of a plan as any—

Did he just see someone?

He lowers his gaze back to street level, pushing himself off from the wall, and just ends up... blinking, at first. That looks like Silco— Actually, considering where they are, it's almost certainly Silco.

Well, I'll be damned, he thinks, light and easy as he raises a hand up in a sort of wave. Either he looks like an idiot to someone he doesn't know, or, fancy seeing you here. ]

[zauneyete]

[ Just like Amos, Silco... can only be down here for so long. He tried to make every moment count. Every day, he walks the same path in for efficiency's sake, but he goes further, looks at new stalls, new locations every day. He'd been to some, such as Obmen and Draumahol, peeking into the corners, watching what each place offered, and what they were lacking. This was a market already cornered, practically, but that didn't mean there wasn't a place for a usurper, or perhaps something different.

Silco fit in here, it was clear. The way he walked, the way people parted around his swaying steps, they took one look at his two black sclera, and passed quickly, knowing what it meant -- or thought they knew, perhaps. Silco, after all, already had one blackened eye, and how much he felt chilled and close to the Zenith didn't affect that. After resurrection, after peeling the vines from around his neck with frantic, angry motions, he'd been quick to return to the manor. Quick to speak with Kathova, and that had led him down here. He'd spent as much time down here as possible, but he could feel his body chill by every passing moment.

Stopping by Draumahol had been intended to be a quick event. Stop by, peek at the usual suspects again and get a feel for who was here often, see what they liked. The owner already eyed him with suspicion, given the fact that Silco stopped by daily, but never imbibed himself. Perhaps one of these days, he would show him something new -- give him a taste of what a different sort of power could do -- but that was not today.

He'd just been about to leave, when what normally is a dual-toned gaze caught Amos's own eyes, and his lip curled into a smile. It was sharp -- perhaps a touch more feral than the last time he'd seen him -- before he had died at the hands of the man who'd tried once before. The one Silco had stabbed in the back, and wanted to again, and again, and again.

He ran a hand through his hair, as he approached. He'd taken to wearing gloves again, not just to avoid using his power, but it covered the deep scar at his wrist, the gift from that damned dryad. ]

Of all the people to find down here...

[ He said, approaching slowly, but his eyes moved suspiciously, this way and that. If Amos knew about it... What were the chances --

He couldn't afford another death down here. ]

backdated to late Iqnu (October 30th), Tree of Life

[kabooming]

[ five days, Silco has been gone.

it's been five days since a panicked, frantic Communion was sent that summoned Kaeya to Highstorm; five days since they had come to the Tree with an unmistakable Shard. five days since it sank into the earth, slowly swallowed by the soft soil. five days since Silco had fallen at Vander's hand in the Markets. five days since he breathed his last strangled breath in his enemy's clutches.

the cocoon had formed along the Tree's base along its roots; Jinx and Kaeya could do nothing but watch as it slowly went to work rebuilding the man from the inside out around his Shard. it was so, so tedious a process when they could do nothing to speed it along, to affect it, when their only choice was to hover in wait and watch.

but finally... finally, those five agonizing days after death - there are signs of movement for the first time within that cocoon.

Jinx, seated in the grass beneath the Tree and close by her father's side, uncurls a little where she had been sitting with knees hugged loosely to her chest. it hasn't been a Good Time, and Lord knows poor Kaeya has done all he could in dealing with the fallout - but she has not taken this whole situation very well. (it isn't like he's doing the best either, is he?) but there is only one thing that will truly appease them, one thing that will make this even close to right again--

which becomes very evident as she sits up onto her knees, pressing one hand tentatively against the fleshy exterior of the cocoon's veiny surface. ]

--Silco?

[ the cracked hope in her voice is painful.

people don't come back from the dead. miracles don't happen. everyone who's ever left her that way have never returned. there are no second chances.

but there is something so terribly and infuriatingly ironic that this isn't the first time the dead have come back to life - and it was that man who put this one down to what should have been a final rest.

--it doesn't matter. it doesn't matter; she's sending a flighty look over her shoulder to where Kaeya lingers nearby as if questioning if he can see it, too. a sign of... life. a sign. a sign it's real. that he's going to come back.

please... come back. tell her he's really coming back. ]

crawls here slowly...

[subsist]

[ Five days can feel like forever when you're waiting for someone important to come back.

Kaeya doesn't know when he loses track of time, when the days begin to blend in from one to the next, but he does his best to avoid thinking about how unbearable it has been. After all, someone else is taking this much harder than he is, so he wants to provide Jinx with the support she needs while they wait for Silco to come back. He stays by her side and makes sure she's at least looked after while she's busy waiting out the time it takes for her father to be with them once more.

Not that he's doing any better, of course. The abrupt spike of panic he felt when he found out what happened isn't something that went away entirely. If anything, it still lingers, haunting him in every corner of his mind whenever he thinks he can catch his breath. He does his best to ignore it.

It works most of the time, so that will have to be enough.

When he hears Jinx's voice, the hope that filters through is painfully raw, making him smile at her. One glance at the cocoon tells him all he needs to know so he leaves his spot in favour of placing a hand on her shoulder. A gentle reminder that he's here, no matter what happens, but he's sure that all the waiting they've done is just about to pay off.

Silco sure took his time... but he'll wait until the man has crawled out from the soil before they both hassle him over it. ]

action, a couple of weeks after Ryad round 1.

[baltimores]

[ Amos probably owes Silco after he retrieved his shard for him, didn't leave him trapped within his soul at the mercy of Ryad's denizens. Yes, they may technically be a sort of co-workers, and there's some kind of unspoken professional obligation there, but... still. He didn't actually have to.

That, and the part where Amos knows he's going to be coming back to Silco for his services one of these days. Not just yet — dying takes a fair bit out of you, turns out — but one day. Because he'd drowned in rage with barely a second thought this time, which means there's going to be more trial in his future. Hopefully less error.

So, he had reason to come back to Silco's outpost anyway.

That, and the job he's been given.

It's nothing personal. Sure, Amos might be encouraged to do it a little just because he has his own personal reservations about the man — they clearly have different priorities in life, even if they're both Zenites — but ultimately, it's just a job. He's been given work to do, and he'll get his own form of payment after. Virtually everyone in Kowloon would understand, and he'd be surprised if Silco wouldn't do the exact same thing to him if their roles were reversed.

It's a few days after the harmonization ceremony that he's picked up the eye to use to bug the outpost. Amos doesn't go for it right away; he takes a casual stroll up to Ryad, noting who's around at this particular time of day. Spreads his visits out at different times of day over the next week or so, a casual observer who never gets too close, does his best to go unseen. And when he thinks he's found a time of day he'll be able to slip into the outpost on his own, he goes for it.

Amos glances around, knowing that even if he's got the interior of the outpost all to himself at the moment, that can be disrupted at any time. Somewhere this eye won't be found... everywhere he looks just feels kinda obvious, though, and the clock's ticking.

He looks up.

Yes.

He makes his way over to the fluorescent light closest to Silco's desk, hanging from the ceiling. Angles himself just where he wants to be under it, and then turns off gravity's effects on him. It's been a while since he's been in zero g, but it's like a muscle memory — Amos floats up, right beside the light. He places a hand against the ceiling to steady himself, bringing himself to a stop right where he needs to be at the casing at the light's end. Holding the eye up to it to gauge the size, he pulls out a sharpened screwdriver from his pocket and stabs it into the casing, the force he's capable of now creating a puncture wound. From there he's got to work to make the hole just big enough to fit the eye through, a makeshift and utterly human drill, still on the clock...

Shit, are those footsteps? Amos doesn't have time to risk a glance over his shoulder. He pockets the screwdriver, taking the eye back out and working to force it into the hole...

It takes a bit of maneuvering before it settles right in, now filling the hole in the light's casing he'd made, looking out over much of the outpost's interior. Amos pushes himself off of the ceiling, turning gravity back on for him, get to the ground don't draw any attention to that light fixture whatsoever—

He's the picture of calm and poise as soon as his feet touch the ground, manoeuvring himself around Silco's desk like he owns the place. What're these books on the bookshelf? Maybe he'll take a look, ignoring any sounds of steps now — it's not like he's doing anything wrong, after all. ]

[zauneyete]

[ In the time since Silco and Amos had last seen each other, things had... shifted. It's subtle, at first, for the man. A silent question of where -- What --

Silco pulled away from others at the manor -- as if he could be called particularly social at all -- and was more a specter than a man. Late night returns, if he did at all, his time in Kowloon stretched longer and longer, and he felt the tug of discord starting to surge and pull at him once more, but he barely felt it at this point, ignored it, stretched what one man could do thin. The bottle on his desk in his quarters had turned to more than one -- and Silco had never been one for over-indulging -- and there was a half-filled one on his desk here, too. The ashtray, a glass and non-adorned thing in this outpost, was packed with cigars. Silco had barely bothered to empty it.

Silco's footsteps outside the outpost are steady, and he stopped only for a moment, before he slammed open the door, looking every bit annoyed at the prospect of this entire existence. It's not in his appearance, neat and placed perfectly as it always was -- Silco would not slip, even in times like these -- but it's in the little things. The dark under his eyes, the sour, almost perpetually angry look on his face, the cigar in his hand half-burnt to the end, fouler than usual in smell, and Silco looked at Amos with none of his usual affected-on pleasantness.

Instead, he took one look at him, before he strode in, stamped the cigar out on the pile of others on his desk, and started to take his coat off. ]

Couldn't even wait for business hours for another ride in Ryad, could you?

[ He asked, his tone flat, touched with annoyance. ]

That's the only reason I can think that you are here before I am. Next time, wait outside, instead of barging in.

[ His eyes were not on Amos, but instead on his desk, taking stock. Nothing appeared missing, and anything of importance was in the manor, with an alarm set around it. He'd been paranoid before, but... Silco wouldn't dare let anyone in to muck about or mess with anything in there. Even he hadn't touched the array of metal, half-constructed inventions, or colors drawn across half of his possessions in there. As if moving it would disturb the spell, and she'd never come back.

His eyes then flicked to Amos, as he pulled out another cigar, and clipped the end. ] Got it?

action; (time wise - anytime pre-event of your choosing!)

[kenosnpcs]

[ hey Silco!! it's late one night early in the second half of Takiltu, closing in on what is high moon (midnight) in Highstorm. where can one find their favorite little rat Zaunite...? ]

m -- mommy 😳

[zauneyete]

[ Late at night is when Silco's just rolling in from Kowloon, like a bad kid sneaking in after curfew. He normally stops by one of the balconies for a late night smoke. As if he doesn't smoke enough of them. ]

communion but like text because empathy sucks (also whenever)

[cutlery]

Mr. Silco,

As a brief note, I have moved out of Lady Yima's manor. Since it seems she (or Mr. Kathova?) has a fondness for giving me animals, the space was no longer suitable for their needs. Feel free to drop by if you wish, as I will give you a key to allow yourself in regardless. It is quite near the Tomes.

[ Also sent is the Communion equivalent of GPS directions for where his house is, since he's ever thorough ]

In addition, now that he is thoroughly trained, please do stop by to meet the third pet sometime. It is a practical matter, I assure you, as it is a creature from my realm rather than a much more docile (but more charming) cat. Should you let yourself in, he needs to know not to attack, in short.

Yours,
Sebastian Michaelis

action; gross...empathy

[zauneyete]

[ Eventually, i don't know when, probably a day or so later because Silco's forcing himself to be so busy down in Kowloon -- haha don't worry about it??

Knock, knock Sebastian, I hope you don't mind cigar smoke in your nice new clean house ]

a letter sent at the start of emru

[cutlery]

[ Past the events of the Scorching Isles, Silco will receive... A very nice, handwritten letter! Which, if you prefer the actual easy to read text (fair), is here. ]







[ Also included is Sebastian's address, which is located near the Tomes in Highstorm. Silco in particular has an additional note simply saying that he's inviting Misa Amane, Set, Voryn Dagoth, Amos Burton, Emet-Selch, Liem Talbott, Akua Sahelian, Lottie Person, and Matsui Gou, but "who may tag along, I cannot guess." Should your character wish to attend (and bring a +1), that log is a mingle style one here! No pressure to tag it if you're busy, but just let me know whether your character attends or not if you can't swing it OOC! ]

EARLY WARQU; ACTION, KOWLOON.

[redsoil]

[ Set arrives soon after breaking the finger of a street urchin attempting to harass him in the streets. A crime for a crime, in the neutral district of Kowloon — and the bold, brassy claim of his affiliation with the owner of the den of iniquity he arrives to visit. Dressed in a linen wrap, hair loose around his shoulders, even the god manages to look resplendent in his recovery.

He enters Draumahol, signaling to Gregór that it is him ( and does not loosen his guard, for even if at this time he is a welcome, invisible partner, the next time? Silco might recant and make life harder for him ). And it is to the office he goes, trailing his way up to rap his knuckles upon Silco's door — to mindfully wait, if he has business he is attending, before swanning in with the carelessness befitting him. The scent of Meridian's energy is scalding upon him, any exhaustion under his eyes hidden by fresh, bold makeup and — there is something different to him.

A complex thing, as he slips into the space and chirps brightly: ] I think we ought to start scheming our approach to the next Oracle, hm? You still owe me your aid, since we could not compromise you the last time.

[ hey silco! ]

[zauneyete]

[ Silco has so many balls in the air at the moment. He is considering Zenites that he could nudge in the directions he wants. It is a path that he intends to take with Kowloon, and just like Zaun, he can make it happen. Undercities had more power than they thought they did, and here, Springstar seems weak, willing to ignore the festering rot underneath their streets. Or at least turn a blind eye.

There are no enforcers here, there are no mines to shove people into, to force them to work hard to survive and suffer silently because they have no other options. Kowloon has its own advantages, and Silco likes it, but it does make the people less desperate.

He looked up, over his papers, before he set (hah) them down, and pulled a cigar out from a desk drawer. ]

Set. I haven't seen you in some time. [ His lips curled, and he clipped the end of his cigar. ]

Another partial cooperation, is it? It's difficult to predict for these oracles, but we did offer you support in the beginning, so that must count for something. I even helped your fellow Meris in finding supplies.

[ Dextera had threatened him over it! ] We will have to be less obvious this next time, I think.

action, early Warqu.

[baltimores]

[ Despite his time spent in Kowloon, Amos is not a frequent visitor to Draumahol. Hell, it's entirely possible this is his first time in it, the vices it offers not exactly his usual fare — even though he has indulged in one of its newest ones a couple of times.

Well. Maybe not indulged, but at least ingested. Really, that's at least one of the reasons Amos has turned up here; one of a handful of subjects he needs to talk about with a certain someone.

He knows who owns the place now, after all. And so he just walks on in — and, since it's early evening, gets blasted with loud sounds and bright lights, the start of a rave that he is actually not here for and is going to make this marginally more difficult.

Amos holds up a hand to shield his eyes from the flashing lights as he looks around the main floor, but who is he kidding? Silco is not going to be among that mass of bodies — and so it's completely unceremoniously that he resorts to communion, amiably placid as though he's at a tea shop in Highstorm, instead of... this. ]

Hey. You at your place? Figure we got some notes to compare.

[zauneyete]

[ Somehow, the lights pulse even more with the beat of the music, and the sounds of elated, high cheers that somehow drown out the music makes Draumahol the sort of place for revelry and mirth. It's nothing like the owner himself, but perhaps there's something about the fact that this man particularly sets himself up in a place of power that reflects revelry and excitement.

Elation so often helps sell drugs, too. That certainly doesn't hurt.

There's a note of questioning thought in Silco's response, though it's curious. ]

As normally, yes. Tell Gregór I sent you, and he'll let you up.

[ Amos won't have far to look, the name comes with the impression of an image, and Gregór, and impressively large and now heat-scarred orc is currently tending "bar", though it looks to be more distributing pills, needles, inhalable, and any number of other distributable.

No shimmer, though. That's the boss's work right now. ]

action ; early warqu | ryad

[epiprocta]

[ Well. Turns out he hates this place.

Late one evening finds Gen slinking through the streets of Ryad, hands in pockets and head held high, expression held at a stoic neutral as he casts about at unfamiliar surroundings. Everything about his posture telegraphs confidence -- or at least, almost everything. Hidden within the pointy little pockets of his hood, his canine ears are gently canted back, and beneath the long drape of his coat, his tail holds close to his body. The sound of a loud scrape from off to the side has him looking over a little too quickly before he trains his gaze ahead once more with a click of the tongue.

As much as he's accustomed to keeping a straight face and playing casual, he knows he doesn't belong here. The very air tastes sharp, almost metallic with tension and bloodlust, and he can feel too many eyes on him, prickling at his skin. His instincts tell him to get the fuck out of here -- and that the only reason he's being left alone is thanks to the gold pin gleaming at his chest.

At least it's good to know that the day spent having to cooperate with those two obnoxious assholes (read: Sebastian and Makoto) was worth it. Gen breathes a quiet sigh to himself as he turns off a street and down another, adjusting the sit of his hood to ease some of the nervous energy swimming in his veins. Now that he's confirmed the badge's efficacy, he's technically finished what he set out to do for the evening, and considers returning back to the more familiar streets of upper Kowloon.

... until he spots a familiar figure just down the block, already glancing in his direction.

The dim lighting of this place makes it hard to tell if Silco's noticed or recognized him yet; quick mental math tells him that, either way, acting like he hasn't seen the other is a cowardly move that'll probably just put him on the back foot. So. ]

'course a guy like you would be hanging out in this place. [ Gen speaks up at a haughty deadpan. Though he doesn't speak loudly, this area of Ryad is quiet and his words carry. A cant of the head as he looks Silco over. ] 's it just your hobby? Looking like as much of a creep as you can?

[ It's 40% his usual teenage puffery, 40% a desire to be shitty for Gray's sake, and ... 20% nervous energy expressing itself as metaphorical raised hackles, like an animal baring its teeth. ]

[zauneyete]

[ Silco isn't doing himself any favors here, lurking outside of Ryad, smoking a cigar, and then, when he tipped his head to greet the interloper, calling him out, there's the eye. In the low light of The Below, Silco stands out, not just for his dress, or the way people got out of his way, but in the dimness, one of his eyes glowed like the ember at the end of his cigar.

His lips curled, and he looked Gen up and down. ]

One of my many ventures.

[ He said, and turned slightly toward him. Gen will notice a very familiar golden pin on his own lapel, something Silco kept on him at all times. ] Ryad is an excellent...testing ground, you know.

[ As if to punctuate it, there's the echo of a howl, and several slams against a wall...somewhere within there. ]

I did not expect to see you making time in there -- [ Eyes flicked toward Gen's own pin, with an -- ] Ah, just business?

BACKDATED TO LATE WARQU, PRE-BEACH.

[redsoil]

[ — the point where Communion violently begins is born from the sense of intimate connection developed between two individuals.

It is very obviously a burning, bright thing from Set, whose mind scatters into the corners of those he has forged some sort of companionship with — for duty, for responsibility, for fun, for solemn vow. What arrives is the briefest sense of rising disorientation, woven through with a burst of wrath and grief so white-hot that it might char flesh from bone within seconds, shot through with rapture and the whiplash of love. It rises like a dying, murderous sun ( like Meridian ) — stifling and acute and suffocating — only to be tempered within seconds, by the cool, crisp wash of the dark sea ( like Zenith ), tempered and soothed with all edges laid flat once more.

The Communion plunges into quiet and calm, like a great, purring beast, and ends as abruptly as it began. ]

ACTION.

[redsoil]

[ Silco the Oracle, and loses a hand right after. Set arrives to his office in Kowloon hot on the heels of this thread, several days following. He comes through the connection that the man has permitted him to have, the direct connection through the Cornerstone — his expression murderous, wild-eyed and feral with rage. ]

— Silco! [ He roars, teeth flashing bright and sharp. Fingers curled into claws, into murderous hooks with which he wants to rip someone to shreds. With which he wants to make someone suffer. It is ironic, that he goes to a Zenite for a Zenites crime. It is not ironic that he goes to Silco, because Silco will understand. Beyond the veil of fatherhood lies grief, grief that has transformed into wrath and injury so soul-deep that the last man who had hurt Set in such a way was the one he had torn from the throne of Egypt and confined in Duat.

Already, he is figuring out how to punish Minegishi Gen, to the extreme. ] SILCO!

[

Meridian's heat ( the desert's arid, burning heat — ) wicks off of him like a wildfire, he glows vaguely at the ends of his fingers and hair like he's ready to throw everything he has into this man's hands, provided he gets what he wants. There has never been a moment where he has not understood Silco, but right now? They are the same fucking animal, hateful and spitting venom. Above anyone else, it is Silco that he goes to. Silco is his comfort, because Silco will not try to fix it. He'll feed it. ]

HE DARED. HE DARED PUT HIS ABOVE MINE —!

[ He knows Jinx is gone. Her loss in the clutch of Savant feels like a loss of some vital part of him.

The world gave their children to them, and someone ( something ) dared take them away. ]

[zauneyete]

[ Just a month ago, Draumahol seemed to have a lightened air about it, even in Silco's office — a place Set has now been allowed to frequent or pass through freely — it had seemed... Different. A reflection of that space hewn from Set's own aspect missing here too — for though it had yet again been so brief, the mark was left on Silco's office. From the scribbles where only a familiar eye would know where to look (up in the rafters, or even on the side of Silco's desk where he sat) to the scattered metal parts now left right where they had been last dropped. A gear here, a screwdriver there, it's all encapsulated in a way that shows that Silco has not let anyone move anything within this venerated space now. Just like the space in Yima's manor — and the space he'd staked out in Highstorm remained (depressingly) empty now.

It would be depressing, almost a sign that the man had given up, if it weren't for the thing missing from Silco's body, or the words that had made their way back to Set. He had to already have heard by now — it had been public after all — and Silco had taken to conceal it with a pocket, but without his coat here, when he swung his head to look up at the intrusion — not an intrusion, a welcome distraction instead — it was bare for Set to see.

Only one discarded glove on Silco's desk, his bare hand with Sebastian's mark on the back of it apparent in the refracted light dancing over his desk from Kowloon's ambient light. His lips twitched, his head swung, but he was bereft of a cigar or a drink to soothe whatever fury bubbled underneath this skin.

He hissed out a soft exclamation — only sound without words — before he took stock of Set, the cut of his fury and anger, his clawed hands and he knows that Set felt a rage similar to Silco's. He feels an anger that only Silco can share. That this is an anger borne from his own child's loss —

He can't help it. His lip nearly trembled, and his one hand — the other, he can imagine its ghost matching — clenches as he regarded the god before him. Resplendent in his rage that reaches to sear the core of him by beholding it.

But Silco can take that rage, and cultivate it like he does his own. He turned his chair, to regard Set with a single unblinking eye that glowed in the dim light of his office. ]

Who.

[ That was all. There was no promise, he didn't need to promise. For all that they were in opposition, for all that they were on opposite sides of this war, Set was the one who understood — perhaps more than anyone now — his motivations. What he wanted, and why. He didn't have to say more, Set knew that he understood. ]

action ; roughly halfway through iqnu | silco's office

[epiprocta]

[ It shouldn't have taken this long for him to make this move.

To be fair, it had been a bit of a lofty goal in the first place: infiltrate Silco's office and find the chance to snuff him out in an ambush. Turns out Silco is even more of a cautious, sneaky fucker than Gen had anticipated. Just figuring out the location of Silco's office had taken quite some time -- his ability to traverse the floors of Draumahol undetected hadn't granted him any magic invisibility, after all, and he'd had to move cautiously, sticking to the shadows and carefully avoiding being spotted as he ticked each room off a mental list. And even once he'd figured out the location of Silco's office, he'd then needed to get a better idea of Silco's schedule.

Just retrieving what Silco had taken from Gray wasn't the point, after all. He needed to make sure Silco also suffered, and ideally died. An eye for eye, as the saying goes. And while he's yet to fully prepare himself for the task, feeling like he's still missing a few crumbs of information that would really seal the deal -- has yet to establish the connection he'd need to meet Silco face to face and truly get to him to drop his guard -- that's fine, actually. He might as well make his move now, something tells him. (Set's Geas whispers at the back of his mind, stirring a manic bloodlust. Zenith must bleed. Might as well make it someone who he'd been meaning to kill in the first place.)

An evening finds Gen waiting patiently where he lurks within the floor of Silco's office, just one pointy canine ear poking up above the surface, near-invisible in the shadows of a corner, so he can listen carefully. He hears Silco enter, and he hears the creak of the man's weight sinking into a chair; hears the ruffle of paper afterward, the rustle of drawers opening and closing, other movements. How long should he wait? -- longer, probably. Long enough he can be certain Silco's really immersed himself in his work. But too long, and won't Silco leave? That last thought, combined with his innately impatient nature, is what has Gen moving probably a bit sooner than he should have. And so, before Silco can fully lose himself in his work

-- the faint rustle of movement from behind him, as long as a shadow flickering over him. Gen might have risen from the floor in complete silence, but his movements make a normal, human amount of noise, raising a normal, human amount of alarm. Perhaps just enough noise for Silco to catch on before the knife Gen wields finds its home in the side of Silco's throat, where Gen has aimed it. ]

[zauneyete]

[ Silco's routine is... methodical, careful, and above all...

Regular. He spends most of his time in Draumahol, after all, and what he doesn't spend in Draumahol is offsite though still in Kowloon. This evening it was more of the same. The early evening before the nightclub really starts to explode with life, he was in his own offsite lab, running more tests with Sebastian on the Shimmer they were developing. Closer. They were getting closer, and he was ready to unleash this on everyone. Springstar, even Highstorm, the next location of the Oracle. Everything culminated in that plan.

His thoughts are on that, as he drifted into his office, and sunk into his chair. Sighed, and got to work. Requisition orders, plans, stock, and numbers, it's all things that Silco knows better than most, and it shows in how Gen might not have gotten too early to find him fully engrossed, but he was focused on paperwork when he first slid into the shadows here.

The office itself is... Cold. Dark, even. The lights aren't on, other than the large window, that allows the ambient light of Kowloon to drift in. It doesn't matter for Silco, whose own eyes are drifting towards black, given his discord these days. No matter how much he shunts it off onto the clients, it's not enough. That vapid pit in his chest, that hatred for it all, the fact that it wasn't gone yet left him feeling empty and cold, and filled with a chilled rage that seemed to leave his only hand stiff from the cold of it.

Even in the dark, before he moves, Gen will see it, how... eerily disorganized it is. The glass is half empty, the ashtray stuffed to bursting with cigars — and if he looks closely, he'll note the ashtray is... painted? — and there's more of those scribbles elsewhere in the office. Clutter and piles of gears and sprockets and screwdrivers piled on one chair in the corner by the window, another basket of them elsewhere. Someone was here inventing, but certainly not while it's so dark. (Gen's really preying on a depressed old man right now, isn't he?)

The soft tup of feet on the ground is what tips him off — and Silco is not unused to knives in the dark.

He moved, though his hand — his missing hand — tries to reach for a knife that he'd already swapped to his other side, and he's left mostly whirling out of his seat, and turning to lean across his desk, trying to rectify the instinct to reach with a hand that no longer exists.

His one eye narrows — as black as his other — and his mouth opens in... confusion? Curiosity? ]

What are you doing?

a memory—

[kenosnpcs]

[ Very suddenly, there’s a sense of Communion touching your character’s mind. However, it’s as if they connect with the mind of a shared Aspect, as they’re not able to block out the brief, but sharp memory that comes to them. ]

They’re a Shard-Bearer from a world where everything is long gone, destroyed hundreds of years ago. In a Highstorm garden, they carefully plant seeds in fertile soil and feel something like hope for the first time in their life.

[ ooc note — Just to avoid OOC confusion/misinterpretation, the details included in this memory are random and are not necessarily interconnected or plot meaningful beyond a surface level. However, your character is free to interpret this random memory however they’d like! This event will also be touched on somewhat during today’s NPC Communion Post. ]

not long after fane's post, lmao,

[muchalucha]

[ AGGRESSIVELY TAPS ON HIS AQUARIUM GLASS ]

[ Or, after hearing Fane's address to everyone and how Silco in particular is mentioned, Quetzalcoatl can't help but feel a little guilty, even if indirectly. So, the people that had gotten dissipated were back. But Silco is sitting on a table in her modest Heliopolis room. She'd made him a little bed of Cempoalxóchitl, since even when she'd brought his Shard back, the idea of tucking him away in a drawer felt too cruel. He was at least safe here in her room, and if she was going to be out to her temple for a day, she'd usually bring Silco's Shard with her. It's the sort of kindness that he'd surely despise.

And for a while, she sits looking at it with her head in her hands thoughtfully. She considers maybe just giving it to Cyrus or Set, since they'd surely have fewer difficulties with how to handle him... But she hasn't decided yet. So, maybe it's to help her decide.

The familiar, always sunny warmth of Quetzalcoatl's mind reaches out to Silco's, but this time, he's a Shard and nothing else. Still, her presence is like an outstretched hand to help him up. ]

Ey, Silco?

[ She's a little curious at first, because she's never tried to speak to a Shard this way. She's not totally sure if it'll work! ]

You're here, yes?

he needs enrichment or he'll go (more) insane

[zauneyete]

[ He's been reduced a shard for some time. It's somewhere between sleep / dreaming / boredom / like pacing the walls of a tiny cell — and the small malevolent little shard resting in Quetz's modest Heliopolis room exudes what can only really be called: rancid vibes. Constantly. Like how Harbingers are constantly subjected to this little tangle of Silco's fury in the back of their shared Harbinger-adjacent space, most of that is focused outward into the space he's forced to occupy.

Because, you know, he's literally a slim little rock on this table. Dark enough to look like water at night, but Quetz probably noticed that when the light reflected off of him, it was like oil slick, pollution shades that rippled on the surface like there was something in the water after industrialists had spent ages dumping poison into the ecosystem.

Much like Silco, really.

Quetz's sunniness, the promise of an outstretched hand is practically slapped away, as if annoyed at the attempt to demean him. It is not verbal, because well.

He has no mouth, and he must scream.

Instead, it is the non-verbal equivalent in Communion of... Silco. All hard sharp edges, an unblinking, violent stare, hunger for power and rage. Oh so much rage. He hides it, he really does, between sarcastic twists of his lips, or tucking his hair back into place like putting the compartments of himself over it keep him from letting out the truth. But it's there. He hates this. He hates being here, being kept from — ]

Please. You haven't given me the dignity of being allowed to leave.

[ It's not really words. It's anger and spite and annoyance, and fear buried under all of that, translated into something sarcastic and biting that Quetz's mind can understand. Oh, he hates her for this. It's hard to really understand it. Sure, nobody wants to be kept a solitary prisoner with only... themselves for company like this, but this is more than that. This scratches at a raw wound that Silco has no hope of healing, and it's like having the knife twisted into it. ]

communion, early Emru.

[baltimores]

[ Knock, knock goes Amos' metaphysical hand against the metaphysical door to Silco's mind, requesting entrance but like, politely.

And, immediately upon being granted access: ]

Those attacks in Springstar. That you?

[zauneyete]

[ It's late enough after his startling revelation and difficult... period without his contracted demon, that Silco has calmed down. Not fully, there is always that bubbling sensation of rage somewhere deep within the cold still waters of Silco's mind.

The "knock" is greeted with a door opening, as expected, but Amos's immediate words weren't. Only a split second of placid surprise, before: ]

Me? No, I barely leave my office.

[ There's the impression of a finger being drug along a desk, idle. ]

I do believe a certain Mr. Szczepanski would hate if I took credit for his work.

KENOTEBOOK.

[redsoil]

[ set

just leaves this in silco's notebook. CURSES ARE REAL SHIT OK???? ]



you've been spotted by the $ MONEY GOO$E $

you cannot escape this goose, and i am cursing you eternally <3

two days before Cyrus' assassination

[bakedapple]

[ Link's Communion explodes into the mind of every Zenite, like the opening of a window during a hurricane. It rushes in with an intense and primal sense of panic, a mixture of both fight and flight, and the horror of knowing that neither has worked. A certain death is imposing down on him. If you've died before, you'll likely recognize this potent cocktail of desperation that's suddenly flooding your mind. But unlike the flashing of one's life in the moment before the end, this moment is filled with purpose — unfocused and clumsy, but desperately bold and determined. The message is not conveyed in words, but in feelings and impressions, unbound by the limitations of language and becoming that much more distinct and impossible to misinterpret. ]

Get away from the Manor.

Get out of Highstorm if you can.

The Meridian —

[ ...and then, it's gone. Both the message and the roaring sensations that carry it halt abruptly, like the slamming of a door — but, even a slammed door makes a sharp noise as it shuts, sends a gust of wind as it moves on its hinges. This sudden stop doesn't come with anything, no friction, no echo, not even the intentionality of closing a Communion once a person has said what they meant to say. Just stillness. ]

you know when we talked about it LMFAO

[fursuit]

[ because trying to type it out in the subject like i was like wow this got specific ]

[ Anyways. It's probably a surprise when someone reaches out to Silco through Communion, and likely even more of one when he finds it's not one that he's able to block. A fellow Harbinger is reaching out to him, after all. It's a roil of dark, fragrant smoke that smells of copal—earthy and piney—and it's a presence that Silco will likely become much more familiar with from now on. When he speaks, there's at least no mystery in who this is. ]

What's up, danger?

[ Did Silco just get a new nickname or is this a fluke? Who knows! ]

[zauneyete]

[ Silco isn't really. Amenable toward communion these days. The high of survival and the bitter sting of fear and defeat has dissipated, Set had returned what belonged to him (his daughter) and the raucous threat of discord tipping over had subsided. Though the sting of worry and that ever-increasing discord had left a network of scars on him that were still healing over. At least now, Silco's impression in communion is just cold water, though the depths are deeper than before, darker. Not that Tezca would recognize it, but you know, for flavor.

He is still angry, though, and it thrums through him, that rage, exacerbated and intensified now that it has something to protect. A certain hope that was not there before. Something so cautiously, carefully held that the layers and layers of unending, incessant anger were like armor. ]

Tezcatlipoca.

Around for good this time?

[ He'd noted, of course, that he hadn't been around after their first encounter for long — the second a brief flash in the pan last month then he'd disappeared again. Likely, he suspects, because the force of his brother's (gender neutral) presence had kept him from arriving for good. ]

It's too bad that you missed the show.

communion, early Pelu/post-gossip.

[baltimores]

[ Nevermind everything Silco had said, let alone how long he had gone on for. Amos had only been half-listening when his voice entered his mind, the rest of him more focused on something else. Something very, very specific; a feeling, a presence.

Let their compatriots chew him out however they saw fit; that was their business. And Amos' was much more narrow in scope, both because he's already well aware that Silco is never going to change — and also because there's the chance he might.

And so, well after everyone has gotten what they've felt they needed to off their chests, in the dead of night, Amos requests his company.

And again, without any preamble, ] Did you see Yima?

[ But he isn't desperate for news on her welfare. He does not know of her state, and is simply convinced that she is still out there somewhere. He doesn't need more than that, confident that she will return, one way or another.

No — it's more a question for Silco, a curiosity he wants an answer on. If you did, did she impart anything on you, because he swears he can sense something. ]

[zauneyete]

[ He'd noted Amos's conspicuous silence but hadn't commented on it. Let them, after all, rend him and tear him to pieces. Silco had no trouble with it, and understood that they needed some reason to change Zenith. Oh, he'd justified this to himself afterward, of course, but he could always justify his own actions, couldn't he?

There is the idle sense of Silco considering his words. ]

See? No.

[ He says.

Amos may think that's the end of it, but Silco's words, the specificity of it hangs in the air. ]

Florence came to get me after I crushed Quezalcoatl. [ In communion, of course, it's easy to sense: he's leaving something out. ] And informed me of Yima's disappearance.

Now, as for whether I believe she is gone, or not...

No. She lingers.

[ He says it with certainty. After all, it was Florence who got him, but he knew the presence within her was not her, not wholly. There were flashes of something else lurking beneath her skin, a presence that Silco understood, and after — understood even more so much about what he had learned since arriving. ]

communion | also post-gossip

[semicharmed]

[ Before he attempts Communion this time, Matt's personal meditative list of repressed topics grows by a few items: in addition to his feelings about Yima and the impressions gleaned from Silco, he adds "Meridians," "any sexual contact he's had since arriving here," and the phrase surprisingly compliant.

You're fucking welcome. ]

I'll keep this short. I know you think I was spying on you the other night. I wasn't, but you weren't amenable to hearing it then so I can't imagine you are now.

Unfortunately, a few of my friends seem to really like your place. And I'd like to be able to see them there with a minimum of drama and assault.

Can we make a deal?

[zauneyete]

You can understand my caution, I assume? My difficulty believing that?

[ After all, he'd been called out directly by one of their own. Identified as "wrong", even though Silco knew he was correct, and accepted, and welcomed for his actions. They could say it was not what was acceptable within Zenith, but Yima, and now her cohort, accepted him.

Hell, they had valued him over Sebastian. He knew who was more powerful than the two.

So the rest of them could be ignored, for their ignorance. ]

What sort of deal?