expiationlogs | open 🌌 crime of the day: overworking

Entry tags:

open 🌌 crime of the day: overworking

Who: Altius & you??
Where: clinic; residential district ruins; network; around the city generally
When: immediately after the March event into early April
What: In the wake of monsters, Altius attempts to deal with the consequences.
Warnings: suicidal ideation

⬬ when you lose your self esteem | recovery; mid-late March

[The shade isolates himself as the Black Beast is destroyed—though by that point the wisps of shadow that trail behind him and disappear reveal enough of the man that it would have been obvious, had anyone been there to see him, that the wish to be nothing was losing its hold on him. As the transformation finally fades, Zekarion collapses, burns from light scattered across his body with the most severe of them spreading across his back.

Eventually, someone finds him. After that, he spends nearly a day unconscious.]

A [When he wakes in the clinic it's with panic. A shuddering gasp marks his return to consciousness, and he pays no attention to his injuries as he grasps at his head desperately, as if to make sure it's still there. Amber eyes wide, his sharp gaze darts then to where his mostly-ruined belongings sit on the other side of the room—then, finally, to whoever might be there in the room with him.]

B [Altius politely but firmly declines staying in the clinic more than absolutely necessary, given the circumstances—meaning he isn't there more than a day after waking. Though his burns are unpleasant even after some magical healing, eventually he gets around to convincing whoever might want to keep him there that he's capable of taking care of himself, promising to update anyone concerned about the matter. Really, the thing he ends up more willingly waiting for is a change of clothes—though it's not from his own wardrobe that he ends up dressed. After that, he's taking stock of his salvageable inventory—onyx tie clip, small pouch, wallet and partly-singed notebook—as he prepares to get going.]

⬬ that's when love dies | ruins; mid-late to late March

A [His obvious immediate first stop is... what used to be his house. Or it would have been, had the destruction not been clear two blocks away from it, debris from the collapsed buildings scattered as if from some sort of explosion. His steps slow to a stop before he takes it all in, then—

He laughs. Three seconds of the helpless sound; three seconds of silence as all the energy of it leaves him. His shoulders only sink so far, as if he's holding himself in place, and he only allows himself a brief moment of stillness before he prepares to step through the rubble.]

B [Later, when he's less obviously a mess and more put together, he comes back to continue salvaging what he can. He does more than look through his own home, though; if he happens to spot anyone else also sorting through the destruction, wherever it might be, he's more likely than not to step forward and lend a hand.

And sometimes, in other parts of the city where Altius isn't, a small number of black creatures made of crystal help with the work—though not possessed of any great magic and only rising to most people's waists, their giant jaws of sharp points are good for breaking through debris and making it easier to move.]

⬬ you look like you're bluffing | network, un: altius; end of March

I'm looking into building a new agricultural and general garden space within the city for the Chosen. I have little experience with cultivating plants, so I'm interested in speaking to anyone willing to contribute their expertise or effort. I'll compensate you appropriately.

[It's short and to the point. He doesn't think he needs to explain why.]

⬬ tell me, is it death, you feel | erasure; early April

[Before now, it would have been invisible. But sometimes, as the days go on, he slips.

When will this be over? — I don't want to be here. — What good is any of this doing?

As he thinks this, shadow overtakes whatever he has his hand on—a door, a set of documents, a box, a slab of broken bricks—and before he can register it as much more than a change of color, it disappears entirely, disintegrated into nothing.

Altius freezes. His expression blanks, the only thing remaining there intensity. The tremor in his posture might speak to the internal battle for control that he's waging over himself.]

⬬ that will bring you peace of life? | wildcard

[Altius contacts those he works with in order to check up on them specifically, and those who answered his call for volunteers to compensate them as promised. As for those the shade encountered... he's slightly less direct, seeking them out physically in what he thinks to be their general haunts to test if they're even amenable to his approach. With his home destroyed and the city in some disarray, there's no real guarantee of stopping by somewhere and seeing him.

He may have seemed to have an impressive work ethic before, but at this stage it wouldn't be mistaken to consider his constant movement unhealthy. Even to those who didn't speak to him as a shadow, it's clear that something is off about him, a stiffness in his demeanor, especially after his discovery of his new ability—when he stops openly gesturing and offering the physical reassurance he usually does, and pointedly keeps hands to himself.

ooc: Anything else? Hit me up at

lumieresdedragon or PWM!]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Perhaps it's no surprise that Dante is the one who speaks up first; his arms folded stiffly, fists curled around the fabric of his sleeves, Altius is having to put too much effort into maintaining his decorum to immediately decide how he wants to approach the conversation.

"That's hardly comforting." Too self-centered. "Being attacked?" If it sounds sensitive in his head, can he really keep that from coming out in his voice? He already knew that, anyway. "At least you were somewhat prepared." Absolutely not. He's not here to dismiss what he did.

After several seconds, longer than his typical response time, he comes up with something more neutral: a guess, his voice low.]

... Distortions, you said.

[A pause, and then a nod.]

< Mn, them too. And what happened wasn't too far off from what I've seen from most Distortions out there. >

[Thinking back to how Dante described the process... he never even got the chance to say no. No voice in his head but his own, no chance to resist. It happened so quickly, but not quickly enough to leave him without a clear memory of the process.

He is not here to talk about himself.]

Did it help? The... familiarity.

< A little. I had some idea what to do because of it. But you also were a lot more willing to work with me than most of the Distortions I've seen. Not that I'm complaining. >

[They're still pretty sure they can't take anyone in a fight.]

< Still... I'm pretty sure I should be the one asking you if it helped. I know you're back to normal and all, but... >

[Well—he supposes he wasn't... worse. He's grateful that he wasn't the worst thing Dante has had to deal with. Still, he wonders.]

Yes. [He's remained quiet, but there's something softer to his,] Thank you.

[Despite himself, despite everything, between Dante and the others he tried to erase along with himself, he could come back to his senses. Or at least... he thought he did.

He turns his gaze towards them, piercing even as he lets some of his concern through.]

Are you alright?

[It's a loaded question. He'll probably have to be more specific. He can't bring himself to do that, immediately.]

< Me? I'm fine. I got out of all that pretty good all things considered. Not even a single wound to my shoulder this time around. >

[They know that's not what he was asking.]

[It answers his question. He doesn't have to ask further; Dante would have said instead of making a poor joke about past injury. But somehow, right now, that's not enough.

Altius stops and becomes even more obviously serious, a grim near-glower on his face. His tone is much more blunt.]

Tell me if what I took from you came back.

[He's not asking. He needs to hear it.]

< Ah... >

[A slow, soft series of ticks is all that fills the silence at first. They face his direction, but can't look Altius in the eyes. They hope he doesn't notice.

A single, solemn tock accompanies their reply.]

< It didn't. >

[He takes in a hissing breath through his noise, jaw clenched as he closes his eyes, the confirmation hitting worse than he thought it would. But he shakes his head at himself, dismissing the feeling as anything more than a driving force to do what he sought out Dante to do.

(After all, hasn't he done so much worse? But—he'd meant to do those things. This...)

Solemn, his voice low once more:]

I'm so sorry.

< Altius, it's fine. >

[It's not the first thing they've lost. It probably won't be the last, either. Their hands, resting in their pockets, ball into fists. Only for a moment.]

< I don't know exactly how it's like, being in that state of mind, but I know it's... different from what you would choose to do if you weren't in that state. The fact that you're apologizing right now is proof enough of that. >

[They shake their head.]

< We can only move forward. >

It is not fine, [he declares solidly. He forgets his facade, Altius's typical gentle manner meant to smooth down every interaction.

The truth is that neither of them are fine.

But Dante is right that they can only move forward. He has no intention of leaving them with only an apology—and while he can't put their thoughts back into their head, he can still offer them something. He returns his arms to his sides, but he resists the urge to shake the nonsense out of them, hands in clenched fists. He can't risk taking anything else.

He may have erased the thoughts as they passed through him, but the memory of them still remains.]

Dante—you are more than all of it. More than a manager. More than your prosthesis. You're more than your pain or uncertainty. Do you hear me?

[Dante doesn't reply. They stand still, unmoving.

Altius's words should mean something to them. They know that, are certain of that. They're touched, yes, but anything stronger slips away like sand through their fingers, down, down into the yawning abyss where something used to be.

Those feelings... The sense of inadequacy, the doubt, that sense that they should always be doing something more, the weight of responsibility...

What does it mean to have them gone? Would feeling that way again make them feel whole?

The hour hand shakes.]

< Then what am I? >

[A question their doppelganger once begged the answer for. A question Dante never would have thought to ask aloud before now.]

[He sees the tremble and takes two steps closer, his nails digging into his palms as a reminder to keep his hands to himself.

On a typical day, if he were asked that question, perhaps he would hand the power of it back to Dante—tell them it was up to them to define themselves and their future, that he could only encourage them, offer to walk alongside them just as they offered him.

This is not a typical day. He will take that power and he will use it—if just to feel like there is still something he can control. He looks down at them, to where he estimates their eyes must have been once.]

You're kind, and diligent, and steadfast despite your doubts. Reliable and open-minded. [His determined brow furrows further.] You're terrible with humor and somehow even worse at caring for yourself. And you deserve better than to think of yourself poorly.

[There is only one sentiment of the shade's that he would repeat willingly—and it's that.]

< Oh. >

[A noise as much as a word, accompanied by a single, soft tock. Followed by a wordless, continuous stream of softer, more rapid ones.]

< I... >

[They can't hold his gaze for long. It just makes them dizzy.]

< I'm... >

[They should say something. But words seem nothing short of impossible right now.]

[It seems clear now that it's truly gone deep, what he did to them. The thought is another throb in his chest, but it changes little otherwise, and his proud posture doesn't change. Given their already tenuous hold on their identity—between literally losing their head along with their memories under who knows what circumstances, that magical light hiding within their head, all the deaths of others they've had to endure—he can't call it a surprise.

He will remedy this, somehow. He must. There is no peace of death in this place, and so the best he can do is...]

You are Dante, and that has meaning. I'll remind you of that no matter how much it takes.

[Still the words won't come. Only his name.]

< Altius... >

[Is this what the others felt when their time came?

The path before them... The words, the feelings, held out like a rope for them to take, a thread for them to follow, a piece of something to hold onto. Something they didn't know was possible. Something they didn't even know was missing to begin with.

Something else.

It's... such a foreign concept.]

< I'll... do my best to keep that in mind. >

[There's still significant force in the single word of his reply, like he wouldn't have accepted any other answer.]

Good.

[He stares at them for a few more moments to study their full response, but his gaze finally breaks away as he brings a hand up to rub his own face, taking in a deep breath. There's a slight tremor in his movements that disappears whenever he's still, but for the most part, he is in control again. He is in control.

He is Zekarion Altius, a man who's struggled against the supernatural for twenty years—not a shadow, not a monster—and he'll be damned if he lets this place get the best of him. He refuses to die or surrender until he returns home and sees his goal realized.

The slightly less sharp sense that comes to his demeanor still isn't quite his typical, when he lowers his hand and puts them in his pockets, taking half a step back and looking to Dante again.]

... I apologize for startling you.

[It takes a moment for them to put together what it is he's talking about, but then they remember the incident that started this whole conversation in the first place.]

< Right... I did actually have a question about that. >

[And now that it's come up, they might as well ask. It's not like they haven't already been talking about the incident from a few weeks back anyway.]

< How long has that been happening? >

[The pause before his answer isn't out of any real intent to avoid the question or reply dishonestly—even if his preference might be in that direction. It's simply to quash down every flicker of panic that threatens to arise, locking them solidly under his will as his gaze momentarily seems to look through Dante to—somewhere else.

It's a simple question. He only has to answer it. His focus returns and his tone is flat, obviously forced into evenness.]

It hasn't. [He takes a silent breath.] Not since I was changed.

[That's... certainly some sort of reaction. They cross their arms, head tilting, words accompanied by a slow and rhythmic ticking.]

< So it's something new. >

[He can only do so much, unfortunately, about the way his pulse is racing again, or how his mouth has gone dry. Nevertheless, he holds himself straight, refusing to turn away like a coward, hands clenched in his pockets.]

Yes.

[In a moment, he may recall that others have also been granted odd powers in this place, that it may not necessarily mean he's not his solid, true self. For now it's all he can do to focus on those steady ticks. He times his breathing with them. In... out.

He's fine.]

I don't know what triggered it.

[...Yeah. That's a reaction. Something subtle, but there. He's not usually this stiff or short--and for reasons that aren't very hard to guess.]

< Maybe it's because you managed to come out the other side? It's not unheard of... >

[Not that they can go into much detail.

A pause, and an insistence.]

< And you did make it through. >

[There's a moment where something else comes through—a slight widening of his eyes, a flutter of a blink. The tension in his posture momentarily lessens.

But the gratitude he feels has to be tightly reined in, too, lest the rest of everything follow it, and he remains stiff, for the most part. Still, it... helps, to hear his internal convictions repeated by another. By Dante.

It feels less like he'll fall apart if he doesn't use every bit of his strength to prevent it. This time, when he takes in a breath, he lets it out as an audible sigh. So what, is this his reward?]

As if I hadn't done enough damage. [Sarcasm may not be the most genuine of expressions, but perhaps that's what makes it easier to allow.]

< At least you weren't the only one? >

[Between so much of the city being destroyed and the chaos of that time... Yeah. There's no way Altius wasn't the only one who had to deal with all of that.]

< But don't worry. You'll get the hang of it. >

[They're sure of that. He's been reliable so far, and for the things he has trouble with alone, they'll be here to help.]

[He thinks of Fauna, who willfully left on her own and caused him so much trouble as a result, and is momentarily aggravated—but the idea isn't entirely without a comforting aspect, as much as he obsesses over the idea of being in control. A noise of reluctant agreement leaves his throat.

The furrow in his brow loosens just a touch as he answers,]

I'll have to eventually. [Rather than hopeful, it sounds grimly determined—but it's nevertheless a determination. Speaking of damage, though...]

Was your office affected at all? [Office, home. He supposes it's somewhat lucky he didn't try to go there looking for Dante and leave the building with holes himself. He might have, if he hadn't found them before that.]

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