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how do you handle your monthly bleeding here?
Good morning.
How are you feeling?
How are you feeling?
I could give you a real dick, but it'd look weird without balls and those take forever, just get the strap.
[Alia is up because a caged beast will pace and pace and pace, and because she is kept in her room, far from Paul, from Alina, she is the most caged creature alive. The light of her phone illuminates the ragged mess she's made, throwing pillows and books and chairs every which way, a child's raging tantrum.
But she snatches it up, opens the message and feels sweet fondness flood her like a summer rain.]
What a beautiful, distinguished gentleman, come to keep me from loneliness. How kind 💖
But she snatches it up, opens the message and feels sweet fondness flood her like a summer rain.]
What a beautiful, distinguished gentleman, come to keep me from loneliness. How kind 💖
Alia, it's Hawkins Fuller.
Just wanted to check in. You're safe?
Just wanted to check in. You're safe?
Hi, Alia.
I don't want to sound ungrateful, but you can leave some cinnamon rolls for the rest of the house. We don't need an entire plate every morning.
I don't want to sound ungrateful, but you can leave some cinnamon rolls for the rest of the house. We don't need an entire plate every morning.
I haven't seen you recently.
Would you like to go swimming with me?
[ Is this what it's like to make plans with friends... ]
Would you like to go swimming with me?
[ Is this what it's like to make plans with friends... ]
I'm sorry, Alia. I messed up. I'm so sorry.
( it's like that hollow, empty feeling after stabbing the crysknife through jamis' heart. everything feels small, unimportant. paul is laying on the dirt forest floor, trying to care about anything but the hole in his chest, letting wet worms crawl up inside it just to feel the sparks of pain. losing alina is almost as bad as facing alia's disappointment — her failure of a brother, who somehow manages to feel all the right things but say them in the wrong way. a disgrace. a defect. )
( it's like that hollow, empty feeling after stabbing the crysknife through jamis' heart. everything feels small, unimportant. paul is laying on the dirt forest floor, trying to care about anything but the hole in his chest, letting wet worms crawl up inside it just to feel the sparks of pain. losing alina is almost as bad as facing alia's disappointment — her failure of a brother, who somehow manages to feel all the right things but say them in the wrong way. a disgrace. a defect. )
[Does she feel it, beneath the shuddering sound of fireworks wrenching the sky apart, when the universe quakes on it's axis and the sun itself (herself) leaves the sky? Perhaps, even as she's burying herself under pillows and blocking out the sound (stone burners, seared flesh, Paul sainted and godlike in a new and terrible way) and hoping for morning.
But he reaches for her, bereft and hollowed out amd pleading, and Alia is on her feet, tear tracks dried salty on her face, reaching back ad she slips through the darkened house. She could lie, could say it's Jessica within her, it's the mother stirred from sleep by her child's cry, but that isn't quite true. There is no piece of Alia who would not fly to Paul's side, if he called her.]
what happened
where are you
But he reaches for her, bereft and hollowed out amd pleading, and Alia is on her feet, tear tracks dried salty on her face, reaching back ad she slips through the darkened house. She could lie, could say it's Jessica within her, it's the mother stirred from sleep by her child's cry, but that isn't quite true. There is no piece of Alia who would not fly to Paul's side, if he called her.]
what happened
where are you
How are you holding up, Alia? Alina is your friend, isn't she?
[ As the accusations fly back and forth, there's a lot that's said about Alia Atreides that plucks at an uncomfortable point in the empty maw of Homelander's chest, as unimpressed as he presently is with her brother.
(The emptiness that he tries to ignore — the image of a boy locked in a white box, twisted and burned and shaped into a weapon by scientists instead of parents, by unattached staffers who feared him, who never loved him.)
It takes him a while to actually come up with a message, but ultimately, what he sends is this, devoid of any of the sentiment that spurs him to send it: ]
sorry about the vote. shame to lose you from the team.
(The emptiness that he tries to ignore — the image of a boy locked in a white box, twisted and burned and shaped into a weapon by scientists instead of parents, by unattached staffers who feared him, who never loved him.)
It takes him a while to actually come up with a message, but ultimately, what he sends is this, devoid of any of the sentiment that spurs him to send it: ]
sorry about the vote. shame to lose you from the team.
[It's an unexpected thing to receive -- Alia has forgotten there were teams, forgotten this was meant to be a game. Everything has been stark and terrifying and sickening since Alina was attacked and now -- now its just a blank, howling emptiness.
She is what she is. And now everyone knows it. She doesn't expect kindness, not with her sentence set in stone. And yet.]
I have been no assistance to the team. It is no great loss.
You are not relieved, to have me contained?
She is what she is. And now everyone knows it. She doesn't expect kindness, not with her sentence set in stone. And yet.]
I have been no assistance to the team. It is no great loss.
You are not relieved, to have me contained?
I do not expect forgiveness for my betrayal this day. I speak to you asking for no kindness and indeed no reply, only to tell you this: I will protect Alina and Paul for the remainder of this wretched game — and you beyond it, wolf or no.
Whatever retribution you and and Paul seek against me after, I will accept. I alone have sinned against your House.
Whatever retribution you and and Paul seek against me after, I will accept. I alone have sinned against your House.
Edited 2024-10-10 16:16 (UTC)
[She doesn't answer for a long, long time, over an hour, less because she's angry and more because time slips away like sand between her fingers in the dungeon. It's civil enough, unlike the cells of Arrakeen, but there are no windows. Alia loses time without the sun.
Eventually, though:] Do you believe me a monster, Alicent?
Eventually, though:] Do you believe me a monster, Alicent?
[She isn't sure how she's meant to feel. Erik is dead, and Alia is accused and sentenced killer now. But that doesn't mean she does not care. She isn't sure what to make of it all, but she wants to reach out anyway. Francesca would call her friend, and she does not have very many of those.]
Are you well?
Are you well?
I know this might come out of left field and not mean much from a stranger but I hope you're doing okay.
Sometimes people just latch on to what they want to believe and the mob gets riled up. ( she knows it really well — too well, too intimately. she knows how it is to be on all sides of it and feels the shame of it too. )
Sometimes people just latch on to what they want to believe and the mob gets riled up. ( she knows it really well — too well, too intimately. she knows how it is to be on all sides of it and feels the shame of it too. )
[How strange -- for this to be not the first, nor the second, but the third outreach from a stranger. Alia had resigned herself to her imprisonment being grieved by only a few, but...perhaps not.]
You are being kind. Were you one of my accusers, now stricken guilty? There were so many.
But no. They have not made any overtures. They sleep peacefully in their sunlit rooms and forget me. You do not, username Cooper.
Do you recognize yourself, then? In me? You will not be the first.
You are being kind. Were you one of my accusers, now stricken guilty? There were so many.
But no. They have not made any overtures. They sleep peacefully in their sunlit rooms and forget me. You do not, username Cooper.
Do you recognize yourself, then? In me? You will not be the first.
action!!! | sometime post-vote, the fancy jail (cw: some ritual self-harm)
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semicharmed
2024-10-11 04:48 pm (UTC)(link)
[ Despite all the times Daniil has told him to get some sleep, Matt has not slept. He keeps staying up late, haunting his spirit board for any word from Parisa, from Erik, from Saxsice or Grace or the dead mother and son. From Embry. He feels less like a human person and more like an ambulatory divining rod, some spiritual tuning fork. The nicks on his arm are starting to look like a tally of days, or possibly regrets. Either way, he covers them with a sweater.
One of the staff directs him to the jail. It's strange how many doors here he's never seen before, after all his weeks-turned-months of cataloguing. Just head down to Otherworld, turn the other way, and you're there, wandering down a medieval row of barred cells. As if this really were still the game Portia planned, they cells have been lavishly appointed with clawfoot tubs, fridges, all kinds of amenities. ]
Alia?
[ Sorry Luci, he'll circle back with you later (never). As Matt heads down the grim hall, he's surprised when a familiar sound punctuates the air in the decidedly unfamiliar space.
Is that ... a video game? ]
One of the staff directs him to the jail. It's strange how many doors here he's never seen before, after all his weeks-turned-months of cataloguing. Just head down to Otherworld, turn the other way, and you're there, wandering down a medieval row of barred cells. As if this really were still the game Portia planned, they cells have been lavishly appointed with clawfoot tubs, fridges, all kinds of amenities. ]
Alia?
[ Sorry Luci, he'll circle back with you later (never). As Matt heads down the grim hall, he's surprised when a familiar sound punctuates the air in the decidedly unfamiliar space.
Is that ... a video game? ]
[The strange juxtaposition of the rusty, barred doors (archaic, even to Alia, who grew up in a palace similarly appointed with a prison) and the relatively comfortable size and set-up of the cells themselves is strange. Alia's, when Matt draws closer, is like nothing so much as a cool girl bedroom, complete with a gaming corner, yes.
And yes, she's playing Mario Kart -- Rosalina main, of course. Her movements are practiced by now, her red-rimmed eyes following the screen, dropping banana peels and shells with expert timing. She hasn't slept either.
If she hears Matt, she makes no acknowledgement.]
And yes, she's playing Mario Kart -- Rosalina main, of course. Her movements are practiced by now, her red-rimmed eyes following the screen, dropping banana peels and shells with expert timing. She hasn't slept either.
If she hears Matt, she makes no acknowledgement.]
Edited (shhh nobody saw that) 2024-10-12 04:21 (UTC)
[ there is no appropriate time to text someone after their brother dies but needs must. ]
Who did you actually kill?
Who did you actually kill?
( dying is simple. rising is difficult.
it's an intense resurrection. alina expels energy she doesn't have to bring paul back safely, and she loses parts of herself during — her hair goes gray like a raccoon, her skin dull, as if the sunshine inside her had to be divided to seize paul, to drag him back from the living. the whole action wasn't terribly traumatizing for him, because he always knew alina would bring him back. but it was horrifying for one brilliant, power fulled second. paul, full of light and alina's life, back from the dead, and alina — addicted. wanting more.
he had to stop her, physically. the moment spun out, both of them needing to care for each other. now it's some time post resurrection, alina letting him reunite with his sister alone although he really can't stomach being away from her — but he does it because she accidentally commands, and he listens, with an impulse that borders on compulsion. down the steps and to alia's cell door, paul arrives somewhat bedraggled, hair mussed and clothes askew, the tips of his fingers up to his third knuckles looking dipped in white paint, faintly glowing in the low lighting of the dungeon. )
Jessica. ( he calls out. his fingers slip through the bars, stretching. ) Come to me, now.
it's an intense resurrection. alina expels energy she doesn't have to bring paul back safely, and she loses parts of herself during — her hair goes gray like a raccoon, her skin dull, as if the sunshine inside her had to be divided to seize paul, to drag him back from the living. the whole action wasn't terribly traumatizing for him, because he always knew alina would bring him back. but it was horrifying for one brilliant, power fulled second. paul, full of light and alina's life, back from the dead, and alina — addicted. wanting more.
he had to stop her, physically. the moment spun out, both of them needing to care for each other. now it's some time post resurrection, alina letting him reunite with his sister alone although he really can't stomach being away from her — but he does it because she accidentally commands, and he listens, with an impulse that borders on compulsion. down the steps and to alia's cell door, paul arrives somewhat bedraggled, hair mussed and clothes askew, the tips of his fingers up to his third knuckles looking dipped in white paint, faintly glowing in the low lighting of the dungeon. )
Jessica. ( he calls out. his fingers slip through the bars, stretching. ) Come to me, now.
[Paul breathes and so too does Alia, gasping like she'd been holding her breath, submerged beneath icy dark water for a week. Perhaps she has been; the foggy recollections of visitors, of flickers in the dark, of tiny pinpricks of lucidity amidst a snarl of grief are all she has of that time when her brother, her light, her life lay still and cold. And still, beneath it, never an instant of doubt that Alina (brilliant, beloved, burdened by her power, her role, endangered again and again by it) would restore him to life.
So: he breathes, his heart fills with blood, and Alia is herself for the first time in days. She doesn't think to brush the snarls from her hair, to wash her tear-streaked face or clothe herself in anything aside from the too-thin nightgown she's worn for days. Let him see, when he comes. Let it be known the suffering endured by Alia Atreides, and let that and the fact of Jace's life (however short) stand as testament that she has served her sentence.
Her mind is bright and awake and alive from the instant Paul is, but she still awaits his visit impatiently. Her bare feet make soft, scurrying sounds -- like a mouse, like the echo of Muad'dib she is, his shadow, his sister -- as she hurries to the bars, eyes bright as they'd been when she met him in the sunlit halls all those weeks ago.]
Leto, Leto. [Softly, adoring, catching his hand and pressing her chapped lips to the center of his palm, to his wrist, to the tips of his bright fingers.] You're here. You're back. [Resurrect the son, resurrect the father, House Atreides surviving in his veins, no matter the world. Welcome him as herself, as their mother, as a mirror of Paul himself.] You're back.
So: he breathes, his heart fills with blood, and Alia is herself for the first time in days. She doesn't think to brush the snarls from her hair, to wash her tear-streaked face or clothe herself in anything aside from the too-thin nightgown she's worn for days. Let him see, when he comes. Let it be known the suffering endured by Alia Atreides, and let that and the fact of Jace's life (however short) stand as testament that she has served her sentence.
Her mind is bright and awake and alive from the instant Paul is, but she still awaits his visit impatiently. Her bare feet make soft, scurrying sounds -- like a mouse, like the echo of Muad'dib she is, his shadow, his sister -- as she hurries to the bars, eyes bright as they'd been when she met him in the sunlit halls all those weeks ago.]
Leto, Leto. [Softly, adoring, catching his hand and pressing her chapped lips to the center of his palm, to his wrist, to the tips of his bright fingers.] You're here. You're back. [Resurrect the son, resurrect the father, House Atreides surviving in his veins, no matter the world. Welcome him as herself, as their mother, as a mirror of Paul himself.] You're back.
( sometime after midnight —
alina abandons the party, mid-resurrection, for the safe bunker of her room. whenever alia crawls in — the way alina has come to expect her to slink under the covers, a kitten basking in the sunlit-heat of alina's warm body — there's barely any signs of life left in the room at all. just little remnants of a storm passing through, proof it was ever there at all: wet droplets on the bathroom tile from a bath, the open doors of her wardrobe, the mess of clothes she'd tugged from it in a whirlwind.
and, centered on the (uncharacteristically) made-up sheets: a tray, overflowing with its harvest of pastries. to the corner: a cute little cake, leaking cream from where it's been roughly gouged open, a single slice pulled from it. the edges of the plate are crumbly, like someone had abandoned it without much more than mousy, grazing bites.
a small little card sits off to a corner, the handwriting graceful and looping, for all that it looks rushed. )
I know they aren't your cinnamon rolls, but I saved the rest for you. You deserve to have something sweet.
( and, at the bottom, a signature: yours, alina. )
alina abandons the party, mid-resurrection, for the safe bunker of her room. whenever alia crawls in — the way alina has come to expect her to slink under the covers, a kitten basking in the sunlit-heat of alina's warm body — there's barely any signs of life left in the room at all. just little remnants of a storm passing through, proof it was ever there at all: wet droplets on the bathroom tile from a bath, the open doors of her wardrobe, the mess of clothes she'd tugged from it in a whirlwind.
and, centered on the (uncharacteristically) made-up sheets: a tray, overflowing with its harvest of pastries. to the corner: a cute little cake, leaking cream from where it's been roughly gouged open, a single slice pulled from it. the edges of the plate are crumbly, like someone had abandoned it without much more than mousy, grazing bites.
a small little card sits off to a corner, the handwriting graceful and looping, for all that it looks rushed. )
I know they aren't your cinnamon rolls, but I saved the rest for you. You deserve to have something sweet.
( and, at the bottom, a signature: yours, alina. )
[Diarmuid would aim to seek out Alia, but the events after the Werewolf game is over has left him too sheepish to look in this Otherworld. Maybe reaching out directly through the phone would be a better option; how nice, to have such modern devices.]
Alia, are you there? Are you well?
I know it has been a terrible few weeks.
Alia, are you there? Are you well?
I know it has been a terrible few weeks.
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