tushanshu_logs | [Open] The life among the dead

Septimus is sleeping.

Normally, this might not be such a bad thing. After all, he has a bad tendency to overwork himself, so getting any sleep at all is a victory for those who try to keep him in check. Of course, the count of those has been gradually increasing, here on the turtle; no one else who knows how to manage him, or that he needs to be managed, is here. Most days he's grateful for it.

Sleeping is a good thing, especially when he can push himself far beyond sane limits. However, he's asleep in the middle of the day, and over drawing up numbers and ideas for how to get the hospital established as quickly and efficiently as possible. Long experience of what he didn't do suggests that maybe if he has this before talking to the Emperor, he'll get what he wants.

(The bitterness accompanying that thought is mostly for what his father never did--but only mostly.)

The pen is even still in his hand--he seems to have just dozed off without even noticing. What's more, looking closely--really closely, the kind that can't be seen across the room, might reveal he's not sleeping easily: breathing's a little uneven, and from the way something around his eyes are flickering... it looks rather as if he's seeing something on the back of his eyelids, something that has him restive.

Edited (adjusted date for plot) 2013-11-02 22:08 (UTC)

He enters the hospital gingerly, dragging his feet, looking around to make sure no one sees him enter and immediately gives him a queue number, or its equivalent. McCoy'd been insistent on regular physical checks since the effects of the ghosting hadn't worn off, and Kyle had been poked and prodded in every manner imaginable. He scowls at the receptionist, but ultimately there's logic in the decision to come here and let the good country doctor give him one final check.

After all, he woke up this morning and he was afraid. He had actually set his juicebox down unsteadily, and let the emotion course through him, making him doubt and shiver. It was made to be overcome, but that couldn't happen if he didn't have any to start with.

(And he had a number of apologies to write, too.)

He wanders into Sep's office, intending to check up on his friend while waiting, and stops dead at the door. He's nowhere near as observant as a detective would be, but he's sensitive to the way Sep's breathing. It feels wrong, and that's what makes him catch the other tells.

A nightmare.

He pads over, quietly, tentatively reaches forward and grasps Sep's shoulder. Firmly, but calmly, he says, 'Sep. Wake up.'

Edited 2013-11-04 12:34 (UTC)

The sound might not have set off a reaction.

The touch does.

In an instant he's-- moving, at least. Awake might be the wrong word, though, because it is purely on instinct that his hand flashes beneath the desk, to where he's got a dagger hidden, ready to pull if necessary. Septimus had never been overly paranoid, even after the assassination attempts started. He didn't need weapons, he was one. Keeping a blade near by was new.

Just as instinctive is his reach for windcrafting, and while Kyle has seen people move much faster than Septimus currently is, Sep is nonetheless moving slightly faster than humans should be able to manage. In the same moment as his fingers curl around the hilt he throws himself to one side.

His arm snaps back, and the knife the blade catches fire, white-hot, just before he throws it in Kyle's vague direction. From the mildly unfocused look in his eyes, though, he is not what could be reasonably defined as fully conscious.

It probably makes him more dangerous in some ways. Easier to out-think, though.

He thanks whatever god is listening for his ring, and his training. He was ready to jump away in case something like this happened, and while he's not quick enough and too close to dodge, he has other options. A shimmering green shield blocks the knife, and the forcefield around him glows.

The knife clatters to the floor. In the poor light it looks like one of Fatality's, and Kyle is privately amused at the parallel.

He stays where he is, unyielding, and waits.

'Sep,' he says again. 'It's me, Kyle.'

Some part of him hears Kyle's voice. More than Kyle's voice, however, a part of Septimus is feeling the alarm from the nearby egg--they're in nearly constant empathic contact, after all--but the flip side of both of these is not quite so pleasant:

His closest friends called him Sep. Most of them had been with him.

He hadn't been able to shut out the panic of battle around him.

Being inside is helping to keep him under control. Fundamentally his instinctive moves are a lot harder to pull inside a room--for instance, lightning's not so manageable without a full and diverse atmosphere--but some things, at least, are available. Things like the sharp gesture with his hand, which instigates in the same instant a sizable slab of the stone floor following the gesture with incredible momentum. He fully intends to slam whoever crossed this line into the relatively shallow pool in the corner room.

(It hadn't originally been there. Septimus took a few liberties with the stonework and reshuffled, partly as a hobby; unconsciously, perhaps, he'd been making sure he had access to as much of his talents as he could, even in such limited space.)

If it worked he'd know the instant the body hit the water; simple enough then to have the water keep it pulled down. Either way, the goal is to give him time enough to reach the blade again.

(What little functions of his conscious mind oscillates between panic over being so far from his sword and striving to remind him he had been deliberately trying to relax.)

There went his brilliant plan of trying to talk Sep out of it. Kyle braces for impact, expecting another knife, but the floor gives way and he goes with it, arms flailing, mind racing through constructs (and they flicker, as he can't decide what to use; they're indoors, he doesn't want to have to hurt Sep, this entire thing would be way cooler if the man wasn't trying to kill him) and a large fist hits a bookshelf with a crash at the same time he meets water.

The instant Kyle hits the water, Septimus's hand closes on the hilt of his dagger. As the water begins obeying his silent command to bloody well hold the enemy there, the egg's alarm--thanks to Septimus projecting more than a little.

Immediately, he throws back--well. It's meant to be calm reassurance that he is taking care of this, it'll be all right, but he's in no mood for the earth- and firecrafting to work that way, instead of inciting something of the opposite reaction. That sensation of surprise and hurt is enough to finally grab his attention.

Which reminds him what he's feeling, and where he is, so almost the moment he's back on his feet he stops, still coiled to spring. Still flashing green eyes blink several times, rapidly, as they refocus properly on the scene around him.

Eventually they find Kyle. The water immediately collapses to normal tension. "Blighted crows," Septimus swears (less under his breath than he meant to). "Kyle?"

He's stepping forward, hand outstretched and expression more than a little chagrined--though the tension hasn't quite left him. Nor has he, completely unconsciously, relaxed quite enough to let go of the blade.

He rings up scuba equipment; the level of detail is unnecessary but it's the first thing that comes to mind, you can drown in a puddle if you land wrong, and he breathes, feeling his limbs relax as the water stops being affected by - was that magic? - and only reacts to his flailing movements.

He waves to Septimus, and then, eyeing the knife, gets up by himself, water dripping off him. Muffled, he says, 'Hi! Don't mind me, I'm busy drowning.'

Because the right way to deal with an opponent more powerful than he might be himself is clearly to be a little shit.

Septimus follows that glance, and it is only years of watercrafting which keep his cheeks and ears from turning a dull red with embarrassment. He feels the heat--but it doesn't show.

Still, the comment startles him enough that he laughs, despite himself, and if it is mildly more tinged with strained nerves... well, perhaps that's not surprising.

He shakes his head. "Here, let me--" He flicks his hand, almost idly, to gather all the water dripping off Kyle. It gathers itself neatly to one side and pours back into the pool. (He's handy that way.)

Running his fingers through his hair, Septimus sighs explosively. "Are you-- all right, now? There's something I should check."

There's other signs of embarrassment, but Kyle doesn't care. He's been on the other side of this scenario so often it's almost pathetic, really, and he just rolls his shoulders before stepping out of the pool. The water whip earns a small smile and a brief that's cool (because it never won't be).

'Pretty good. You on the other hand-- nightmare?'

Septimus waves a hand rather carelessly. "They happen," he dismisses it while placing the knife carefully on the desk. If he's honest with himself, he knows he shouldn't. But one, he doesn't want Kyle carrying the burden of his past, and two, he's been avoiding the thought of it himself. He hesitates before releasing the hilt of the dagger with visible reluctance. "I'll just be right back."

Before Kyle can say anything, or try to dig a little deeper into the question of just what Septimus was dreaming about, Sep high-tails it to the room with the egg. 'Be right back,' as it turns out, is more like fifteen minutes.

When he comes back, his step is rather more calm and buoyant. He sets the chair upright again and all but sprawls in it, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. "So, what was it you needed?" he asks casually. He's slipping the dagger back under the desk as he says it, and despite his demeanor his eyes are still more tight and troubled than he's aware of.

No, he's not all right, and it's obviously worse than usual.

There was a day when he'd have taken Septimus at his word. It's long ago, far away, and it's in a universe where he can close up a bar on Oa and collapse in his own bed, listening to Guy snore before he falls asleep, expecting to be woken up by the ring's alarm. That decision belongs to the Kyle Rayner who has so much going on he can barely parcel out his time the way he feels he should.

This Kyle hasn't felt like that in months.

And so, he regards the knife, his expression becoming stoic, and then completely cold and disapproving. Yes, the burden may be heavy, but there are always people who can (and will) share it, what little they can. That truth has been beaten into him here, through words and blows, and the bruises left their marks. He breathes, steadily, staring at Sep's feet. The movement is entrancing, and makes him lower his hackles, just barely.

'Yeah,' he says, slowly, after letting an uncomfortable silence settle on both their shoulders. 'If that had been anyone else, they'd be dead. That just happen, too?'

Edited 2013-11-15 09:28 (UTC)

For a moment, Septimus' eyes flash, the green hardening--it's an expression surfacing more often in recent days, particularly the last week or so, and a distinctly arrogant one.

But it's only for a moment. Because it's an instinctive reaction, one he's been letting himself fall into unconsciously more and more lately and which he has only been dimly aware of. But preparing mentally to talk to the Emperor has been neatly setting up a series of switches in his mind, and--

And with a sigh, he sits back up (a faint thump, stretching out all six-foot-four of him had tilted the chair ever so slightly) and rests his elbows on the desk. Kyle is right, of course--and Septimus is far more shaken than he'd like to admit. He'd seen his share of battles, come close to death more than once. Close to death and dying are different, I suppose. He suddenly misses everyone from home viciously.

"Septimus," he says after pregnant pause--and stops. It sounds strange even to his own ears, after a year of never hearing it said aloud. "My name." And he knows, as long as he's talking about it at all, and he owes Kyle this after nearly killing him--

But it hurts, forcing himself to say the syllables out loud. "Gaius Septimus."

Kyle stares back, completely without fear. He's convinced he's in the right, and that arrogance, no matter that it comes from someone he knows, will not sway him. He doesn't relax even when it's passed from Sep's face, Kyle has a metaphorical knife at his throat and it's in those short moments that he sees what kind of man Sep truly is.

He exhales, softly, when Sep leans back on the chair, listening to each syllable dragging as brick on concrete.

He nods, cracks a small smile. 'I think I'm gonna stick with Sep.'

Septimus knows his own arrogance, though not necessarily the extent of it; he knows he will do what is necessary, though he doesn't like it; and sometimes he underestimates how cold he can get, and when he doesn't tries to actively avoid it. But his father's line all have certain potentials and despite Septimus' inability to follow through on some of it... it is there.

And sometimes, it shows.

With a crooked smile, Sep sighs as well. "I appreciate it. I've little enough use for it, here, and my friends used it. Not always, of course."

He looks down almost moodily. It's still hard , and it will take direct questions to keep him talking and not deflecting, but at least he's talking at all.

The tension melts away, and Kyle takes the seat opposite him, leaning back, matching Sep's posture. Now that there's less power imbalance (though Kyle thinks Torchbearer isn't really a topic he wishes to discuss openly, not yet), he glances at where the knife was, on the table, before Sep put it away. Each step from now on has to be a chess move, pawn, bishop, and knight needs to be in place.

(And Bruce taught him to play.)

'I'm guessing assassins,' he remarks. 'I've run in to more bounty hunters, myself, but they're all annoying.'

Edited 2013-11-17 09:59 (UTC)

Septimus sees that glance, and too many years being raised by Sextus means he understands he game, and generally dislikes playing the metaphorical ludus of politics and manipulation. (The literal game is pretty fun, but he prefers speed ludus to longer, patient, over-thinking games.) So he does get what Kyle's doing. But he knows, too, that he's needed to get this out and been avoiding it, so he'll aid and abet.

To an extent, anyway.

So he tilts his head, considering. "Tell me what you think, then." He knows he's dropped some signals, without really intending to, but while he's given away that much he's pretty sure he hasn't left quite enough to point to just how far it went.

He never really did appreciate games, but sometimes, they are necessary, and they hurt less if trust is present. The only difference is Kyle has forgotten how to trust as most people do, moving from stranger to friend to brother; the people around him tend to declare their intentions quite openly and clearly. And people have always been either above him or below him. Equality is a difficult concept. Jim has been slowly hammering it into him.

'I think you were in a war,' he says, quietly, honestly. 'Maybe several. I'd have said exclusively military but you know your way around politics.' That, he knew, from their earlier conversation, where Septimus had mentioned seeing the Emperor. 'Soldiers don't play the game.' Like I don't. 'Politicians, on the other hand, can easily adapt to force.'

Edited 2013-11-17 10:18 (UTC)

Kyle's perceptive, and Septimus can't help the faint smile. His father would have liked Kyle, definitely, and there's just enough independence that there's a strong possibility Sextus might have wanted him for Cursor, or at least high enough commander to have that independence. He lets the smile grow a little.

"More or less accurate," he admits, "though whether or not they like it, the Legion captains often have to play a little politics at some level. Not by choice, as they're career Legion, but--our Legions are the sword and shield of the Realm, and answer directly to the High Lords, sometimes the Senate and the Crown."

He pauses, pressing his lips together as he reviews standard promotion trends. "And given our reliance on that talent, promotion due to rank is somewhat less common, and it is far easier for Citizens of middle of lower rank--even sometimes less furycrafting, if they are capable enough--to rise to that kind of command. On rare occasions, some freemen, though they generally end up being granted Citizenship at some point and likely before being made officer."

And he is well aware he's dumped a lot of information into that: that there's a lower class, but that even the class above them has enough convoluted social structures that even most of those are not upper class or even aristocracy; that there is legitimate room for rising based on merit, but it doesn't always happen; that sometimes less merit remains higher due to social stuff; and that somehow, the magic power plays into it and probably gets easier access to higher classes. It's a lot, of course, to pick up at once. But it's there.

Approval is something he never asks for and rarely needs, and to get it unsolicited, he initially shoots Sep a wary look at that faint smile, and then crosses one leg over the other, a few fingers on his right hand rubbing his ring. He listens, attentively, and the pieces slowly fall together and form a complete picture.

'I know of something like that. We called it the Roman Empire.' He remembered just enough from his history classes to form a vague outline.

Then, he huffs, quietly. 'Lanterns are chosen and promoted through merit and valour. Anything else means death for the people we protect, or those we fight beside.' He hadn't been, but there were other ways to prove one's worth. 'Most people, looking at us, would wonder why we have the power we do, but the ringbearer's true colours show through.'

Wariness of that faint smile is probably the correct reaction, especially from either Septimus' father or son. From Sep, it's less foreboding. However, at his comment his Septimus throws his head back and laughs, bright and genuine and yet a richer sound than ever.

"Aye. We've myths that we came from another place once, a single Legion and her followers, and slowly grew to the Realm that's stood a thousand years. One of my maestros used to insist they were called Romans. Until this place I never believed him. I wish I could apologize. We even still have a text by a Gaius Julius, De Bello Gallico," he adds merrily.

With a huff, he chews a lip. "Metalcrafters, in battle, often spark in color, but usually to that of their family, or the one strongest in them. Perhaps it's also a testament to their character. But our power also feeds the structure, and while some Citizens have up to three and mostly strong, only the greatest families have all six types of furycraft, and when they do, it's to varying levels but generally of great power. Different philosophy than your Lanterns, though some odd similarities."

Kyle smiles. It's pure, and bright, and he rarely smiles like this, but today, it's easy. Septimus' words have an easy poetry to them, and he's strongly reminded of Guy reading to him.

'I've found that "odd similarities" accounts for most things here,' he replies, wryly. 'Which brings me back to the whole assassins point. Anyway. I'm not qualified to treat this sort of thing - they have special doctors for that, and I've never been to one if I can help it.' He has to give the appearance of invincibility, and now, he feels safe conceding that. 'I've got a portal to the Dream plane, if your mind is calm enough you can work it out there.'

[[ooc note to any reading: a lot of this is close to lifted from the books. Worth every minute.]]

Septimus has a habit of inducing smiles like that, feelings like that. Still, he snorts. “Aye, cutters have no shortage of work, given the politics, the social climbing, the struggles between the leading Houses—bloody crows, how the territory wars can go,” he comments wryly. “Those with domains include the lands around their seats, their cities, larger and smaller, some kept within the family, much granted to other families and freemen holders. Arguably their struggles for power are civil wars, but those do not spread throughout the Realm.”

As he speaks his eyes have slid away from Kyle, down at first, deeply thoughtful and clearly caught in reminiscence. “Twelve High Houses stand beyond the rest, and grant status to the others. They rule our great cities—Antillus, Phrygia, Placida, Riva, Ceres, Attica, Aquitaine, Rhodes, Kalare,” a hint of deep distaste colors the last two, “Forcia, Parcia; each holding their seat since they were built. Perhaps councils carry some governance within the city, as the Senate does some for Alera Imperia, yet the High Lord is the authority of their lands. And sometimes they do make plays for the Crown, or other great cities. Those are our truer civil wars.” So much weight of Greece, Rome, the Gauls in those names. But those are only eleven Houses for twelve cities, and they imply a more fractured Realm than he’s implied so far.

“Our legends say we came to Carna from another place. A thousand years we spent, fighting the non-human races on our continent. And those that threatened us, we destroyed. With every battle won we grew. Even after the Realm formed, it ended only with the Children of the Sun, eight hundred years ago. Before it formed, sometimes those great cities warred for land; when we had no other races truly outmatching us—though the Canim, the Icemen, the Marat still try—given long enough our drive turned on each other.” Despite the sheer, unmitigated brutality he describes, his voice has taking on a different cadence, though it suddenly turns savage. “And yet, despite our weakened state in those times, no race can stand against us.”

However, it fades then. With every word he speaks his voice grows a little richer and deep, despite the low volume. With every beat of the return to that measured cadence, something else surfaces. It speaks of horror and dread; of energy and terrifying elation; of a depth of will and power; of an unshakable resolve, a devotion to not quite mad but not quite within the bounds of reason. That unnamable passion burns in those green eyes, now not unfocused but looking higher, far beyond Kyle.

It’s unclear that he’ll even hear any interruption. Maybe, but it is utterly unpredictable.

Kyle's never been a man of words. His world is images, watercolours, acrylics, this shade and that blending together. The translation from mind to paper is what rankles him, but he hasn't had that problem since getting the ring. Not when it can create what he needs precisely.

It's why he doesn't pay attention to the exact words. Tone matters more, and Sep's clearly dreaming, so Kyle watches that, hawklike, interjecting only with hmms and I see when he judges it appropriate. Guy can talk, and so can Jim, but never quite so openly.

He thinks, not tangentially, of Tennyson. To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield, and he leans forward, rapt at attention until Sep's done.

[Open] The life among the dead

Kyle Rayner, Nov 12

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