The Seeds of Unrest: the Iconoclast Oracle

[beleos]

RUNNING OUT THE CLOCK

The situation is bleak.

The Blight - and the massive labyrinth of roots tearing both cities asunder, spreading deadly flowers wherever they penetrate - have progressed to a point beyond catastrophe. People are dying in rapid numbers. Bearers are having difficulty keeping up with the spread of infection - even among one another. The collapse of Kenos seems inevitable; a cure will not come in time. You can do nothing but watch as each new day brings further disaster, ticking down the seconds until it all falls apart.

And then, you feel something seize your Shard. As if physical fingers have wrapped around it, as if it is being clutched through you by invisible hands, you feel invaded. You feel wronged. But before you can panic, a voice enters your mind through Communion.

“Excuse the dramatics, but there isn’t much time for pleasantries. The Trees are about to hit the point of no return. But there's still work to be done. The Tree of Life will take you where you can find it: the Oracle and the creature causing all this mess. Fix this when you find them. However you'd like.”

Have you heard Aetos’ voice before? Perhaps it is the first time; perhaps it is familiar to you. Either way, the last thing you will remember is a confusing jumble: a spell of immense and incredible power, one utilizing the Tree’s strength to shelter you. The sensation of every cell in your body coming alive, yet seeming to break apart and render you into billions and billions of tiny pieces, all hovering in different times and places across all the different iterations, timelines, and realities in which you have ever existed. A voice that speaks not through words asking your forgiveness, unspeakably sad.

And then, there is nothing.

AWAKENING

Your eyes open, gritty with the feeling of a long, deep slumber.

Perhaps it takes a moment to shake off the heavy veil of exhaustion, to recollect what you were doing before you fell into this state of hibernation - but as soon as you do, you feel an immediate sense of foreboding around you. It is thick in the air, oppressive and pervasive, and you aren’t left long to wonder at its source. You lay beneath the branches of the Tree of Life, but as your bleary eyes focus… you see it. The Tree is all but bereft of life. Its bark has withered down to gnarled wood, the soft lichen dried up, and the grass that should be alive beneath you is long dead and gone. There is not so much as a single leaf on its decaying branches.

It has been this way for a long, long time... you realize this with a feeling of intense dread as you see it - the beautiful expanse of stars, of the cosmos, of universes scattered like starlight above the tree's boughs, gone. In its place hangs a sickly, ominously low-hanging, and dying sun ready to sing the end of everything.

You can't help but wonder how long Kenos has been in this state, but a sense of gratitude fills you as you realize that the Tree expended the last of its energies to protect you, the Bearers, during your state of rest. Had Aetos worked with the tree to see you sent here?

The next question comes quickly: how much time do you have left…? And can you find the Oracle before that time expires?

ABANDON HOPE (DAYS 1 & 2)

The cornerstones are still active and will take you to whichever city you wish to see.

Highstorm and Springstar sit like empty monuments to the cities that were once filled with life - yet the first thing you will notice is they are strangely absent the signs of the Tree’s overgrown roots, the Blight, the catastrophic damage that you can recall all too easily. Instead, each city sits as those they were summarily abandoned overnight, leaving nothing but their shells behind. There is a stillness in the air that is unnatural and unsettling. Despite the lack of any sign of the citizens of either city, you cannot help but feel… watched.

Something terrible happened here. Best you find the Oracle before something terrible finds you, instead.

The burning of a dying sun beats down on you wherever you go, unbearable heat sending waves off the aged cobblestone streets. Perhaps it is your instinct to seek refuge in the shade - but linger too long about the shadows and that feeling of eyes on your back, of being unable to breathe, of your world closing in around you will grow untenable and drive you back into the light. If you hope to explore the ghostly shell of your city in search of the Oracle - or to sate your curiosity, some problem-solving might be in order.

And while you acclimate yourself to your circumstances, you cannot help but note you feel wrong inside, somehow…

EXPLORATION

• If your characters choose to explore previously unreachable areas, please use THIS TOPLEVEL to report when they get there in the thread! We will get back to you with what is discoverable in that location.
• The following areas are off limits for exploration: below Yima’s Manor; below the Church of Heliopolis; Alenroux; Kowloon.
• The Great Trees of both Highstorm and Springstar are in a similar state to the Tree of Life and will not respond to Communion.
• Generally speaking, items will be of poor quality. Most will look as though they’ve aged thousands of years. Others will be in half-decent shape, but sparingly so. Oddly enough, it doesn’t seem like the whole city has aged at the same rate, so especially diligent rummagers can find worthwhile supplies. Please consider this should be rare and don’t go overboard!

NOTES

Here are some prompt reminders - see the full thing at the OOC Summary!

• Characters will have a diluted connection to the Zenith or Meridian.
• There will be periods powers are weakened or non-functional during days 1-2 (up to player discretion).
• The sunlight results in scorching; the shadows cause claustrophobia and fear while outdoors.

THE RITUAL (DAYS 2+)

The place you started your journey to Kenos is also where it seems it will end. As soon as the first Bearer makes contact with the Iconoclast effigy, you are collectively drawn to the roots beneath the Tree - like a pang sent through your Shard. Your objective has been found. The Oracle awaits.

Trusting Aetos seems like a fool's errand, but you must put your hope in the Tree. What choice do you have left? It's time to find what lies at the end of this.

Bearers descend, your steps echoing in the dark, cavernous space. Once brimming with life and vitality, the roots are now dried and brittle like the bones of some ancient leviathan that died long ago. As you make their way deeper into the earth, the deadened roots twist, leading you to a vast chamber deep within it; the air here is thick with the smell of decay, and the faint glow of luminescent fungi and mosses barely illuminates the space.

To your left, the Bearers will notice what has drawn them here - and the object of their search.

An effigy sits on the ground between two darkened tunnels. The effigy is made of gnarled, dead branches woven together in a humanoid shape; its hollow, empty eyes are sightless, yet you cannot help but feel it is watching your every move. Branded on its forehead is the Iconoclast symbol carved into the rough wood.

Once all Bearers are present, the Ritual will begin. Your means of exit have been sealed off, and you are trapped, slowly deteriorating together…

NOTES

• Bearers will have access to the Ritual Chamber which is a very wide, open space with the effigy situated against the far wall from the entrance. Several smaller tunnels off-shoot from the Ritual Chamber. They all run to dead ends; some are very small or narrow. This may afford you meager privacy away from the group.
• Once a Bearer steps into the Chamber, they can no longer head back out the way they came. They’ll find themselves automatically walking back into the Chamber as if of their own volition.
• For brevity’s sake we won’t list them out again here, but the complete description of effects Bearers will experience days 2+ is available in the OOC Summary.
• The effigy is impervious to damage.
• It Is Watching You.
• In a dead-end root tunnel attached to the Iconoclast’s Chamber is the Blighted statue of an Otter that may be familiar to some… Please see THIS TOPLEVEL for more information!

THE PURGE (DAYS 5+)

The sap has festered in your veins for what feels like days. It’s impossible to tell how much time has passed; this place has no sunlight. The effigy watches as you remain trapped, huddled together around it, unable to leave as you find yourself sick with the affliction of the Meridian, Zenith - or both.

And then… something finally gives.

Though it does not move and speaks no words, you feel the effigy offering you guidance. Knowledge. Much like the Tree speaks to you in impressions and feelings, you are conveyed wisdom you did not have before: a way to take what you want and rid yourself of what you do not. A way to make your convictions known to all who would hear them. A way to be known. To write your path in blood, be it yours… or theirs.

When all is said and done, only one force - Zenith or Meridian - will gain its favor.

Show it who you are. Show it what resolve looks like to you - and what you are willing to do to attain it.

NOTES

Here are some prompt reminders - see the full thing at the OOC Summary!

• You can Purge your alignment through various methods: Trading, Corrupting, or using the Effigy itself.
• All characters will understand the end goal is for everyone to Harmonize; the alignment with the higher rate of Harmonized Bearers alive when time’s up wins the Oracle’s favor.

NOTES

• A reminder that the Harmonization tally will take place on Friday, the 19th and be open through Monday, the 29th. The results will be released on Wednesday, the 31st OOCly.
• Don’t forget to submit any deaths to the Death Tracker, with a gentle reminder characters will remain dead until the event conclusion!
• Reminder to fill out the SETTING POLL ASAP if you haven't already!
• Have some MUSIC if you'd like. LYRICS here!
• HAVE FUN!!

CODING

Comments

[affal]

( he likely does, which is ironic, considering they had most often had the breadth of horos separating them, serving different causes as they had been. though the specifics of the months he had spent there were blotted out to the point that no details resonated as accurate with any certainty, makoto still gets broad-stroke impressions. he almost feels foolish in doing so, but he allows them to guide him even though they are at best like signs left by a wanderer who had long ago traveled the path he does now — he can't read the words etched upon them, so he just has to divine the meaning from their placement and perceived severity.

the feeling of something foreign — be it an energy like Zenith or a force like the kenoma had been — invading his soul to magnify certain aspects of his self or his memories while dulling others is still enough to make him automatically defensive in this way.

dextera's straight-forward earnestness is something so characteristic of him — he feels he had known this before, but he has learned it all over again in these last few weeks living together. it endears him to makoto, though it's only a shame that his is not the kind of soil that might be receptive to such entreaties. as it is, an almost dreamlike smile spreads across the demon's face; he reaches forward, his right hand brushing for just a moment across his cheek before holding the side of his head, warm and familiar.

unfortunately, his words do not match the kindness of his gesture. they pretend, at first, ) Dear Dextera, ( he half-purrs, head tilting ever-so-slightly to one side, ) but I know that what we are to one another would not be destroyed, if that weren't the case.

( so it's not a factor I consider, is the tacit implication. he does not intend to be cruel to dextera, regardless of whether or not he reads it that way. makoto has always been maverick, violent in defending even the tiniest scraps of agency that remain to him. he would not allow something so simple as kinship to divert his course... and perhaps that is his crucial hubris. perhaps he takes dextera and his support for granted, and perhaps he will come to regret that one day.

for now, he doesn't. his hand falls, and he continues, ) It does feel like we've lost the game before it's even begun, doesn't it? ( he thoughtfully rakes a hand through his hair, hopeless in tangles even despite his efforts, ) If we do all conform to the Oracle's trial... do you see a future for this conflict? How far into the horizon do you look — do you at all?

[passio]

[ dextera leans into makoto’s touch. he can’t help it, even as he knows they use physical touch differently. maybe he would allow that on a deep, abstract level, it all comes back to the same thing—wanting something for themselves—but on the surface that matters in the social world, makoto’s touch is guiding. some might say manipulative, but dextera is more generous; he allows himself to be drawn into it, before it’s taken away.

the more time makoto spends here, the more even their positions become. they’re closer to what they used to be, but dextera would be lying if he couldn’t admit to himself that somewhere underneath it all, he still wants that influence. makoto’s light rejection stings for the fact that it shows dextera’s lack of sway, not because he really thought it would work.

it’s a little selfish part of him that he prefers to keep hidden. ]

…

[ as for the matter of their future, dextera had started to settle on the idea that this would be the end. makoto seems to think differently, forcing dextera a few steps back to the mindset he had prior to the sun flickering out above them. ]

We’ll keep fighting. There are… more Oracles, they said, so another one will appear in time. [ but even beyond that? dextera pauses. ] …if we win, I’ll go back to my world. I’ll do what I have to do. That’s why I’m here.

[affal]

( it's not as though makoto's own experience with tactility and physicality has robbed it of its sway and importance — if anything, he knows just how stark and influential the difference can be when it is the type that is produced, sold, and traded recklessly versus that which is shared with one that actually strikes through all of the layers of pretense to get at the very heart of you. when he had worked for datenshou, makoto had been very good at his job. a great deal of that hadn't had anything to do with sex, though — the novelty of something like that could be lost very easily, especially considering this body of his had been far more fragile than many of the others under datenshou's employ. no, he had kept a long list of regular and influential clients because he knew how to play them. he knew how to make anyone feel as though they existed at the gravitational center of his attention when his time was theirs.

and he had only been able to do that by careful mental transposition, subtracting out whoever it was his client was and replacing them with J.

the faintest brush of the man's touch and attention had always been enough to demand such a strong response from him, both physically and emotionally, that he had many times wondered if it were some spell that he had cast over him. but maybe that is just love — a blessing, a curse. he, of course, does not feel the same for dextera; makoto thinks it's impossible for him to feel that way about anyone else. but there is a warmth and a fondness that stirs within the cavern of his chest as the young man leans into his touch. he isn't entirely sure what it is that he extracts from these gestures of theirs, but he hopes he finds some solace in it. it might not be what makoto intends, but... he believes dextera is deserving. whatever it was that he wanted, he would give to him, because dextera gives so much of himself to those around him in a sort of regurgitative inborn instinct that makoto cannot fathom. but he would at least see him repaid for it.

the idea of more Oracles (i typed moracles the first time...) beyond this one is an exhausting one. makoto frowns, his gaze falling downcast at the same time as his hand falls away from dextera's face.

he looks back up to him, expression carefully placid in the way that prove it's an active decision he is making, ) You want me by your side in this conflict, ( he begins, and then his face splits into a wounded smile, ) but how am I supposed to even conceive of that if the end result is all of us returning to be sequestered within our own worlds...? Would I ever see you again?

( well, as far as he's aware, they have no idea about how any of that might actually go down if or when they get to that point. this is an assumption, but he feels it's just as dangerous to assume otherwise. )

And if Meridian fails?

[passio]

[ dextera feels a kinship with makoto that he simply doesn’t with anyone else. there’s a yearning hunger in both of them, borne of different reasons but shaking out just the same, and they’ve mutually shared vulnerability even if makoto doesn’t remember. makoto is his friend, someone dextera wants to hold onto—but when he brings up the potential of them returning to their separate worlds, dextera is surprised to find that it doesn’t scare him.

after all, what he wants is makoto here, now. he had mourned when he thought makoto was gone and never forgot what they shared, even with all tangible evidence of their relationship destroyed in horos. it’s not a lack of feeling for makoto that makes him take the possibility of separation with a brave face; rather, it’s the intimate knowledge that makoto could never be what dextera needs someone to be.

it’s a friendship of a different kind, but still only that: a friendship. makoto does not want to become one with him. to take him back to dextera’s world would only be miserable for them both; in the back of his mind, he compares it to gen, the guilty awareness that he doesn’t care if gen is miserable the way he would care for makoto.

he addresses none of this. instead, his expression turns fleetingly thoughtful as he falls back on his silence as an answer. luckily, makoto then asks a question that makes it necessary to really think.

the answer he comes to is a simple one, ]

…I’ll go with the Archangel.

[ not because he’ll choose to. he knows the archangel will drag his shard along into whatever new world is created in the aftermath. there’s no agency in this statement, the way there should be. ]

(1/2)

[affal]

( though they have not experienced many of them, there are times where falling back on characteristic silence is just as wounding as a horribly honest answer might be.

in this moment, makoto finds himself inflicted with both.

time passes, and he's still. quiet. his expression is static, stunned, but as his mind works through what dextera has said and the implications therein, it slowly shifts and changes to pantomime a stage play of what he feels deep, deep within the shadowed and echoing chamber of his chest, in those desolate reaches where the thing that stood to be his heart resided: a tenseness around his eyes belying disbelief, then an increased hollow wanness to his complexion as callous claws are sunk deep into tender internal wounds he knows will never properly heal. )

You - ...You'd just allow yourself to be taken by him?

( he does sense that it is a choice that dextera doesn't believe he's making. dimly, ever-so-dimly, he recalls the false wings of a man who had woven a venomous and ensnaring net of words to curse and bind them together. hate makes this recollection oddly concise.

but, to makoto, who has struggled tooth and nail against the impossibly impervious forces that have buffeted his feeble frame for the entirety of all of his different attempts at life, it is something entirely different. to passively leave himself up to that, to not fight furiously for the chance of anything else, is in and of itself a choice to neglect it. )

(2/2)

[affal]

( makoto has always been, and especially after his being brought into Hell to learn to live as a demon, a slave to the violent whim of his moods. his narrow chest is densely packed with material that would serve as quick kindling to ignite into a furious blaze at the slightest provocation, at the smallest thing that might provide a spark. it's not as though dextera would be ignorant to this — once, long ago, he had leveraged his unforgiving ferocity at the other young man when he had pressed a palm to him in Purification.

somehow, this is worse.

the young demon moves without warning, without thinking, flinging himself with immediate and reckless abandon at dextera — he is not, and never has been, physically strong, but the suddenness and wildness with which he acts might catch the other off guard. he would force him to the ground, if he could — he would bare his teeth and clench his fists white-knuckled in the front of his shirt and shake him, slam him against the soft earth, anything he was physically capable of and perhaps even that which he wasn't, all the while thinking quickly and vividly about instead wrapping his hands around his neck and crushing the fragile windpipe within until he grew blue and still. something — something dextera had perhaps entertained in his mind for the briefest of moments in their first meeting, which makoto remembers with a sharp and painful jolt to his shard. the sudden detail and bleed of color into the context of their relationship doesn't help in this moment. this remembrance, aided by anger and pain, only serves to feed his anguish. )

You wouldn't even fight? You wouldn't even try?

( the Communion between them is rent asunder to pulse and surge with the brazenness of what he displays now with plain force and physicality: there is the anger, yes, a white-hot wave of blistering heat that fills his sails and sends him crashing against his friend as a rocky shoreline, but below that fury is a deep, horrible, maddening agony that goes down to the very core of him.

because this feels like abandonment. for this pathetic, wretched creature, there is nothing worse. for makoto, who had neither been granted nor earned the love or acceptance of a single human being while he was alive. for makoto, who had been drawn into Hell with the promise of attention and devotion but was ever denied both, all to forge him and hone him into a weapon that would one day slit the throat and spill the vital blood of the only person he would ever truly love. for makoto, who would never be enough to keep that man tethered to life and to him, as it had proven to be too arduous to do so even though he had been there to share it with him.

he doesn't seek the same from dextera. he knows there is none other he could find the same love — the same madness, as they often felt one in the same — with but J. but of all those he has ever met, human or demon, mortal or immortal, dextera has felt the closest to him in nature. from him, he craves understanding, familiarity, kinship. he wants to seek comfort in him, and for him to do the same in return. but there is also something inherent and inextricable from makoto that is twisted, and so that feeling of closeness warps into something possessive and controlling — ironically similar to that which dextera had just a moment ago verbally consigned himself to, should Zenith reign in victory.

he suddenly goes still, the wind not yet out of his sails but instead held back in the tension of potential energy, one that causes his thin arms and narrow shoulders to shake slightly in exertion. ) And if I claimed you from him? What then? ( his pale, colorless eyes are wide and wild like those of a drowning man grasping at whatever flotsam that might support his weight and save his life. )

[passio]

[ dextera is not unaccustomed to this. not from people, not even from makoto, but this still catches him off-guard. there’s only the briefest hint of warning through the open lines of communion, like the way the air feels just before a lightning strike, but it’s far from enough for dextera to anticipate it any more than instinctively.

makoto lunges, and he’s pushed back so that his back hits the damp ground and a surprised more than pained air is loosed from between his ribs.

he can take physical pressure. there’s no fear of dying under makoto right now, and that’s the one thing that would make him tense up to protect himself in his final moments—instead, it’s the fear of the emotional weight that feels like it’s falling from makoto’s gaze right onto dextera’s chest that makes him restless, almost wild, in a passive mirror of makoto’s impulsive demands.

what’s wrong with not trying? why should he have to try once he’s lost? the indignant thoughts are his sole defense, kept as private as they can be when the roots want them open.

in fleeting anger, he grabs makoto’s wrists—and for a moment, he sees himself as just a slightly different person, purifying someone he cares about at their most vulnerable just so that he doesn’t have to confront the things he doesn’t want to. but makoto stills, and dextera is a merciful god. ]

…

[ his gaze is clear, fixed on makoto’s face. ]

Then I would go with you. I’d rather go with you.

[affal]

( there is always a sharp thrill of exhilaration that shoots through him under circumstances like this — the soft and pliant way that another body succumbs to what force he could impress upon it, the knowing resistance of bone, the breathy sound of pain that catches somewhere between mouth and lungs. it's something that makoto would usually indulge in, not often given any position of power over another person, but he doesn't want to allow himself such a thing here — no, not with dextera. he shoves it roughly out of mind, instead too wrapped up in his momentary despair, smarting with the pain of what he personally perceives as some sort of betrayal, some sort of abandonment. having never really been given any positive or healthy model of it to embody and emulate, makoto neither cares nor loves in ways that are conducive to anyone but himself. he is selfish, controlling, indolent, perhaps even stagnant in its proposed actualization — if he ever actually reached the point of what for him resembled stable happiness with someone else, he would try to preserve that moment in amber for himself, regardless of what it might cost to him or the other.

he would want to divorce himself from time, from change, from pain, from reason, all so he could cling to the tiny shard of lasting happiness he believed he might have found for himself. should his life have continued its previous trajectory in Hell, this is what he would one day find himself wanting for himself and J: he would have dreamed to keep him prisoner in his own manor, a caged bird both literally and metaphorically, his life forever sustained so long as makoto could lovingly shape the syllables of his name in his own mouth and not shatter.

this would have been the fate that J would escape by the exact same procedure.

just based on who and what they are, makoto could never understand the arguments that dextera would level against him. for makoto, whose life has been nothing but a long string of successive alienations, humiliations, and failures, it has been carefully fostered within his instincts at a base level that that is exactly the time during which you fight the hardest. if he is ever going to go down, he is going to go down wildly swinging, taking as much out of his breaker as he could before the determined strands of his soul were finally undone. that is the type of brutal tenacity that would leave its mark upon the world.

dextera grabs his wrists, and somewhere deep and distant in the scarred sections of makoto's memories, something stirs. something which produces a deep and moving fear of what might happen next, the reflex that would carry one to flinch at a raised hand after habitually weathering abuse.

but it doesn't come. as much of a mess as his memories and self are, there is something in makoto that recognizes this as clemency, and that's reflected in the bald-faced emotion inherent in his gaze, in the rushing current of his emotions.

there's a certain amount of suspension in his expression before dextera replies, but as he does, it's shattered entirely — just as his shard once had, placed beneath a torrent of unending ennui, the porcelain mask of his face cracks right down the middle as hot, painful tears begin to claw their way out of the corners of his eyes and crowd along his the bottom lid. even though he's the one crouched over dextera's chest, he feels as though some sort of massive monstrosity has reached out to crush his ribcage in one immense claw, all a somewhat-manic sudden release of emotion, of still-present despair and newly-fledged relief all at once. he feels like he can barely breathe. it's all he can do to slowly slacken the grip he has on the front of dextera's clothing; his throat feels so raw and so constricted that he knows he wouldn't be able to force words out without them transmogrifying into gasping sobs, so he instead forces them into the space of their Communion. for dextera, and only him: )

You cannot see who I am at my heart and leave me behind.

( even in communicating these painful thoughts to him this way, he fails at maintaining his composure. his throat aches, and he chokes out a silent sob; hot tears stream down his face, falling away from him. )

Everyone - everyone who knows, who even suspects, has always... will always —

[passio]

[ this is the makoto that he wanted to kill.

dextera can see him against the backdrop of the outer world, standing in a line of people dextera has already purified or was planning to when he next returned. a man so repulsed by the blood on his hands that his very neck lengthened away from them until it resembled a second spine; a girl so agonized by her memories that she traded away her very perspective to only observe herself from the outside; and then makoto, a demon…

makoto, a human so ostracized by his own kind that he could only find acceptance in hell.

he’s never spoken all that explicitly of his past, and dextera has appreciated that. from some people, he doesn’t mind recollection, even craves it like he can sustain himself on someone else’s life. with makoto, however, he worries how the details might paint too clear a picture, might make it hard to impress his thoughts and feelings. this pained display—something dextera meets with the cold mercy of maria—is abstract, it’s easy.

but dextera doesn’t enjoy makoto’s torment. the part of him that’s human, personal, wants to recoil in sympathy from the drip of tears onto his shirt and collarbone, and the heat of his misery pulls dextera’s expression from placid dissociation into the moment. he stares up at makoto in apology, eyes creased and lips barely parted. ]

…I won’t. I’m sorry.

[affal]

( he is, of course, predisposed not to speak of his mortal life. he isn't even all that interested in speaking of his life in Hell prior to returning to J's side in order to learn how to ply the demon's trade, not because he was ashamed of the years he spent working for datenshou (how could he be, when that time had been just as formative to who and what he is now than all that time he'd spent reaping human souls that had piled as gold dust in the fountain at the center of J's courtyard?) but because it felt less applicable to what it is he does now. in Hell, the image of oneself that a demon projects to you realizes itself — it's why he had gone to the slums in search of information of J's past, as if he continued to see him as the unassailable Archduke he had always appeared as, makoto would never be able to overcome him. regardless of how strong J actually was, he would be defeated before he even began by the indomitable obstacle he formed in his mind.

instinctually, makoto does the same for himself here, even though the rules don't work the same as they had in Hell. he wants to be the enigmatic and unpredictable demon M, one which any soul in kenos could underestimate only at their peril. it's no guarded secret that he is a former human — why should he hide something that he feels proud of, as the only human who had ever survived and flourished in such a transformation? — but he doesn't want others to know the details of is life on earth, on the circumstances around his contract and why he had been made into a demon rather than reaped as he likely should have been.

he wouldn't even want dextera to have all of those details, even though he might be one of the only ones capable of understanding even in part. the more someone knows him, the more power they have over him — the more they will be able to hurt him, and hurt him with accuracy that bypasses all else.

as soon as this wave of emotion has swept over him, through him, and past him, he will feel ashamed of this moment. but makoto has always been powerless before these capricious and overwhelming tides of his; he isn't any more able to suppress himself in a charged moment like this one as he's able to pluck the stars from the sky. even though his tears cloud his vision, hopelessly blurring the fine details, he can still understand dextera's expression and how it works in tandem with the reply that forms in his mind.

slowly, his white-knuckled grasp slackens. his right hand lifts to his face to wipe artlessly at his eyes, streaking his face with damp paths which cut through the faint grit and grime accumulated from their time in these caverns. his weight shifts, and he climbs off of dextera, coming to sit with his knees pulled tight to his chest alongside where he lies prone on the ground. makoto has tried so hard to no longer think of what any one person deserves, be it good or bad, but he knows in this moment that there's no part of him that deserves the magnanimity that dextera gives him. not here, in this fragile and terrible moment, or in any other remembered or not remembered.

he is silent, and his thoughts and emotions crystalize into the realization that he hates thinking of the future. he always had. when human, he had looked into his future and had seen only what he feared he might one day do, what would happen to himself and his family when he was inevitably found out. his despair over the future then had been so strong that he had summoned J as a way to avoid it entirely, in finality. the only aspect of the future he had ever been comfortable holding tight in his hands had been his vengeance over J, but... what came after that? he had never thought of it. he had always assumed he would topple over the precipice and into death, that blessed cessation, right after him.

so he hates to think of Meridian and Zenith and what they might promise, either for himself or for dextera. but even still...

he feels like he needs to know what his friend would choose over any possible future which had him in it. )

...What is it that you need to do? Back home.

[passio]

[ there are two things dextera knows with certainty. one, that all their worlds are different, even the ones that seem the same. the other is that makoto would not take kindly to the truth of dextera’s existence even so.

his purification is already opposed to makoto’s entirety. it’s not something he can change about himself, but he can choose not to use it knowing that it hurts makoto; and the reason that it does is because he is a god, righting the kind of aberrations that demons—baroques, the grotesque creatures twisted by them too—are made from. he hasn’t talked about his past because he doesn’t remember it, and that’s allowed him to avoid mentioning too much of his present, either.

now, though, he’s at an unpleasant crossroads. his skin crawls with guilt, knowing that his own self-preservation will win out over being completely honest with makoto. ]

…you know that I’ve sinned.

[ although he’s moved away from thinking of it quite like that—the words don’t feel as right as they used to—it’s the vocabulary that he leans on to explain himself. ]

I don’t tell people what I did. I can’t. They wouldn’t look at me the same. [ there’s an odd distortion to this lead-in, almost hard to listen to through communion for the way dextera’s own heart pushes and pulls at his will to say it. ] But I’ll tell you. I killed the world.

[ it isn’t something he’s been able to hide entirely. both this world and the one before it have forced people to see glimpses of dextera’s apocalypse, and in his explanations of his loyalty to meridian, he’s claimed a need to fix it. but admitting to being the cause… he hasn’t yet done that, and this is only the context required to properly answer makoto’s question. ]

[affal]

( makoto had asked, and so he opens himself up to the dangers of knowing.

but he did so knowingly. with all the time they have spent together here in kenos, and not to mention vague recollections of their experiences in horos, he has never ventured so far as to ask dextera much of his world, his history, or his reason for deciding to attune or Harmonize as he does. theirs is a kinship that is at its strongest when it is at is simplest and unadorned — the more of these elements that are contextually arranged around who and what they are as individuals, the more murky the waters get. even ask he asks, makoto knows he will likely regret it. he has, after all, started to remember with the startling clarity of a splinter driven into the substance of his memory his ever-brief encounter with the archangel before — of the fury that had gripped him at the judgment he cast on dextera, how he had tried to tear the feathers of those false wings asunder with his hands and talons...

he reacts with an instinctual twinge at dextera's reply. he begins to turn as if to look at him, but he stops himself, steeling himself in to listen before he spoke or acted rashly. he... he is trying to understand, to not overpower and overwhelm dextera's words, experiences, and beliefs with his own.

ah, but it's so difficult.

dextera is one of precious few individuals he would feel a twist of sympathy for, but he does now, in sensing the odd distortion and "warbling" in his words as he forces out something he intrinsically doesn't want to disclose; makoto almost breaks, he almost tells dextera to forget about the whole thing, but — "but I'll tell you." at this, he does turn to face his friend, his odd and metallic eyes unblinking and devoid of pretense as he stares at him. he feels the weight and privilege of being granted this information, as unbelievable and terrible as it is. perhaps there were other Shard-Bearers that would judge dextera for this, who would indeed not be able to look at him or treat him the same.

but makoto is not one of them. ) Was it really a sin? ( he leans back over dextera, one hand bracing his weight on the other side of the young man's torso as he does so. even as his dark hair falls around his face, casting it into shadow, his colorless eyes seem luminous in the low light. ) What was your world to you, or you to it? What all did it ever do to deserve your efforts to set it to right?

( one would have to try to understand. this is makoto who, when formerly a young man and still human, had felt utterly misplaced and wrong in the fabric of the world he was born into, who had died and gone to Hell to find a place that would accept him. in horos, he had been prepared to sink every known or conceivable world into annihilation before he joined them, just to punish them for all those years he had felt so horrendously rejected and for all that he had suffered since.

a world and its people never have inherent or intrinsic value to him. they have to prove it, to prove themselves. )

[passio]

[ makoto’s questions are achingly reasonable. if dextera were a slightly different person with slightly different experiences, it would likely be enough to break him of his desperate hope for redemption and rise to the call of zenith. but without his memories, without understanding, there is only one path forward. there has only ever been that for him, no matter what roads he might take to circumvent it.

the fact that his purification remains, even now, is proof of that. his existence is undeniable. ]

…

[ his breath shakes as he looks at himself in the reflection of makoto’s eyes. he knows the world was not kind to him, that he can only see himself when he looks in a mirror. all that’s left of what should have been is the scar on his hip. ]

It… doesn’t deserve it. [ it hurts to admit that; panic rises in his throat, and he’s grateful that he can’t choke on his words. ] I hate that world. It’s brought me nothing but pain. But I… everything that I am is still there. I can’t live like this.