In Utero

[Trenchcoat Man]

Hell. Chaos. Netherworld. Neverthere.
The White Hot Room
Then-Now-Forever
But Mostly Then.



[(ǤΔŘĐ€Ň€Ř ỮŇΞŦ #04 Ø₣₣ŁΞŇ€)…ŁØĆΔŦΞŇǤ…ŁØĆΔŦΞŇǤ…]

[€ŞŦΔβŁΞŞĦΞŇǤ ĆØŇŇ€ĆŦΞØŇ...]​

An assembly of noise, crashing, cascading, washing over each other in a grand reminder of the sounds not to make while the movie is playing. Every pattering of idea and inspiration, every reach for meaning and joy, bubbling to the surface like stray thoughts in the shower, fearlessly broadcast to the cosmos as a Jaiden Smith’s Twitterfeed, unaffected by the trolling of the Stupid, the Jealous, and the Boring.

It will Create regardless of You.

The stars bending in a spherical bulge; something behind the infinite nothing of space, pulsing in bass to that Ariana Grande song everyone keeps singing. You know the one. You’re humming it right now. It thuds into existence, a bright ball of Indigo, smoldering directly before his face, everything awash in warm, blinding white.

Awe to Behold.

A string in the labyrinth. The heart of the Universe.

Glory, Glory.

̳͎̺̖̎̂̽̄͛͋ͤ͒͂ͤ͐̃ͦͯ̂̾̈͛̚H͔̜̲̣̫͚̭̤̮̫̍͑̉͑ͫ͒̄e͈̲̺͔͖̝̯̹̘̱̟̰̲̠̩̤̥ͯͭ̈́̃̆̒͑̈́̃́̏̾͆ͯ̈́̊ͪ̚ͅl̦͍̼̑̿̀̄̏͆̔ͤͭ̆̃̃ͦl͉̦͔͕̤̩̺̗͉̞͓̭̮ͦ̔̔̂̅̅̆͌̀̈́̊̚ỏ͙̮̻̜͍͙̗̗̫̑̈́̉.̖̘̞̩̦̋͋ͮ̽̃̂̿̚ ̥͚̦̰͇̯̩̭̝̼̥̈́̓̊ͦͩͮ̚ͅͅ ̙̼̳̰͈̭̜̿̈́ͪ̓ͪ͛ͬͩ͊̈͊̾ͅH̲͎̙̜͒̍̾ͯ̃ͦͩè̝̥̫̗̣̯̺̩͈͉̪̤͍̯̦̟̟͚̙ͩͥ̍͊ͬ̊ͥͨͤ̓̐ͫͥ͋̚̚l͈̰̞ͪ̓̿́ͣ̉̓̾̊ͥ̏͑͆̏͑̿l̩̟̹̻̣̪͖͚͓̬͖̹̘̻̑̊ͦ͐̈́̑͒͌̄ͭ͆̅́ͬ̑o̞̫͔̖͍̗̖̱̦̗̙̦̰̱͔͇̘ͣ́͐͛.͙̼̻͔̋̇͗̄͛̍ͬ̉̄ͦ̀̿ͩͤͭ̽͌ ͈̟̮̬̝ͤ̍̊ͯ̀̈́ͩ͌ͪ̐͑ ͉̖̦̫̰̠̩̳̫̙̊̑ͬ̿͒̎̄̏̒̍Ḫ͉͈̮̙̣̩͖̗̘̥ͬ̿ͤ͒ͩ̏ͦ̓ͯ̏̐̓͊ͪ̓̚ͅe̹̙̰̝̦̖̝̪̫͙̠̰ͭ̐ͥ̿̌̌͑ͭͣ͗̚l̙̻͎͈̬̝͇̜̟̫̼̻̣͔̰̎̔̇̽͑̇̋ͤͭͅl̝̳̯̣͔͇̼̏ͣ͆ͬ̔̓̉ͤͬ̔̑ͤͫ͌̀ͦo̺̦̬̰͙̙̫̖͓͇͈͍̤̩̭̮̝̓͛̆ͭ̏͐̆͛ͯ͂̍̄̾̐̂̓̚.̦̻̱̮̼̰̩̹ͯͬ̀̓ͨͯ̊̾̒ͮ̋ͤ̑͛̒ͯ̚̚​

̼͈͎̟̟̤̜̞̺͛ͯH̞̎͐̃ͫͬ̀̈ͨe̞͇̝͐̋͊ͥ̅͆ͮͅl̲̹̋͋ͥ͒l͈̍̓̀ͧ͒̓̚̚o̰̲̭̦̼̪͉̝͗͋ͣ̑͑̃̽.͓͎̭͂̄̒̈́̚ ̦͙̘̞̈́̿̏ͮ̌͆ͦ̓ ̬̺̬͖̦̒ͅĈ̦̗̠̘̩̖̟ͤ̓̾̂ͥà̪̟̻̹̘̫ͯͬ̌ͪ͂n̻̰̺̟̾̿̄ͧ̋͌ ̙̲̠̰̹̰̩͉̟̀̃ͥ̂̓͌Y̫̭̠̺̆ͬͬ̓ͭ̀o̝̪̼̥̝̮͉̿̇ü͔̪̲̘̲̟͇͆̽̓̚ ̹̘̤̫̻͑ͅH̬̺̥̠ͫ̑e̜̲̳̦̜͎̖̊͊̊̔̈́a̖͉ͥ̓̈͆̄̽̿ͨ̚r͎̔̒̚ͅ ̬̭̻͇̘̭̗̼̊̋̋̋ͥ̀̚Ḿ̤̹̠̫̅ͨ̇͆̋ͨe̖̦̖̫̘̯̭͚̒̀̍̿͛

[(ĆØŇŇ€ĆŦΞØŇ €ŞŦΔβŁΞŞĦ€Đ.) ΔĆŦΞVΔŦΞŇǤ..]​

Benedict’s skull rolled to the side upon its skeleton neck, sockets straining through the brightness despite its eyes, its brow, its lids, its gender being gone. Its bony arms were splayed out in crucifixion, its self-made cross the intersection between the masculine energy of the material and the feminine energy of the dream.

But where was the distinction in a place like this?

Really, it’s a funny question to be asking an RP Character.

[(Р€Ř₣ØŘΜΞŇǤ ΞŇΞŦΞΔŁ ĐΞΔǤŇØŞŦΞĆ)...ŞĆΔŇŇΞŇǤ...ŞĆΔŇŇΞŇǤ...]

[Ň€ỮŘΔŁ ŞĆΔŇ ĆØΜРŁ€Ŧ€.]​

[(ΜΔРРΞŇǤ ŞỮβĴ€ĆŦ €ЖР€ŘΞ€ŇŦΞΔŁ Ş¥ΜβØŁΞĆ ŞŦŘỮĆŦỮŘ€….)

ĆØΜРŁ€Ŧ€.]​

[ΔĆŦΞVΔŦΞŇǤ.]

It was impossible, a silhouette despite all of this light, but such a thing was but a drop in the bucket. Like an eclipse, It began to form, humanoid, a incinerated matchstick of a man in the center of the smoldering Indigo Sun. Whatever it was, it was approaching, the indigo folding behind him like stowed Archangel wings. Benedict would not pay no pittance of fear to no Yellow King – for the shadow presented an open palm, sign language of the occult:

“Be not afraid.”

But it was not the spectre’s actions so much as his words that soothed the Trenchcoat Man’s post-mortem anxiety.


ͫ̃̈̓ͩ͐“ͣ̄͛ͯ̒̽O̐ͦ̆͆̎ͦ̑h̆̑ͤ͂̏ͭ̓ͣ,̓ ͊̑̌̆̓Iͬ͊’̿̽̓m̓̍͂͐͆̍̽ͯ ͌͌̽̓̀͌̾l̈͊ͭ̍̍ͪ̈́oͪ̑͑͆ͩ̅̃ò̿ͪ͒ͭ̓k̑̈͐ͯi̽͒͊̌ͩ̐n̋̓͛͑’̆̉ ̋ͧͭ̈́̽̅f̉͊̎̊ͪ̐̋ͣo̅̓͆̃͛͒̑̐r̓͛̎ͫ̓ͧ̃ ͮͧ̀̿ͨͭ̄̅m͑̽̉ͯͦͩ̌y̓͌̔̂ͦͨ̒̊ ͬ̐͋̐̐͂m̋̅i͛̊ͮ̌͛ͮ͛̓s̐͂͑̌̋ͥ͆ͮs̒̋̐ͣͧ̈́ͯ̄͂iͣ̃̔̊̑̾͂nͨ̃’ͩͪ͒ͭͨ͗̈́̚ ͐̎p̌͌ͨ͛ͦ͂i̐ͭ̒̍̈e̎ͯc͂̒e͆ͪ;̓̓
O’er land and o’er seas.”

So familiar, the poem. Something fun his mentor used to sing in the alleyways, at the passerbys, at the briefly-encountered. The Wind People. The Laughing Ghosts. It convinced them of his madness, but Benedict knew it for what it was.

Just a silly song from a Children’s Book, written by a hippy to instill personal value and a realistic understanding of sentient relationships. People didn’t read it anymore, so they spun around, hurting each other, but more often, themselves.

People didn’t read it anymore, so they presumed madness. So they left ol’ Roddy O’Bojangles alone…

Alone with his secrets.

“So grease my knees and fleece my bees.
I’m lookin’ for my missin’ piece.”

Benedict always appreciated the performance, the skeleton approximating laughter in a flapping of its jaw, a clicking of teeth, a rattling of bone.

clakclakclakclakclak

“Benedict? Is that you, son? Not been eating your red meat? Getting your beans in, boy? Cuz yousa lookin’ a wee bit peaked.”

Another rattling of bone.clakclakclakclakclak

Ladies and gentleman, Roddy O’Bojangles – The original Guttermage

~*^*~​

Coruscant
The 1313
Currently

Tucked within an alley, snuggled safely between three dumpsters nobody bothered to dump anymore, the permacrete had begun to swell. Tiny at first, a warp due to the Spring heat, perhaps…or the resulting damage from the sonics of the devil-may-care bass coming from the clubs on either side…but, all the same, negligible.

Until recently, when stress fractures carved themselves into the slate grey floor. This zit on the skin of Coruscant was growing.

Threatening to ruin the prom for everybody.

[member="Mala"]

 

[Mala]

There was a reason these three dumpsters were no longer used. Here in 1313, Mala had carved out her tiny territory with ankle biting and a tendancy to froth at the mouth. The latter Mala had discovered, entirely by accident, was a wonderful way to add effect when standing atop one dumpster and stamping feet at passerbys who dared to even look half interested in her treasure.

Treasure. Anything rometely shiny was treasure, if it sparkled it was precious, if it didn't it might prove useful, so it was hoarded, here in these three dumpsters. Why would anyone even look? Someone sane might ask. Well, it was simple, here in 1313 people were starving, and rumaging through a dumpster often provided you with a meal, maybe a week old nerf steak. Not in Mala's dumpsters. Mala's dumpster were the cleanest in 1313...

Well...sort of.

She sat on the edge of the dumpster, looking down at the swell growing in her home, chewing slowly on a quextionable piece of meat. It wasn't particularly unusual, but it was there and it was growing. Both problematic things, if you asked the grubby squib, but no one asked her. Why would you ask her? Her purple fur was no longer purple, but a matted brown, her patchwork clothes needed more patches and she smelt just as bad as everyone else down here.


There was something...different about this distorted bit of permacrete. It produced a bad smell. It was the smell of decay, the smell that would normall tell Mala not to go down that alley, till it had passed. So maybe she should move. Such a bad smell, meant bad news.Trouble, and not the sort where you dart from one alley to the next giggling as you out run the owner of the purse you just swiped. But the kind that had you trembling under tables while the red liquid splashed on the floor.

The idea, however, of finding, relocating and defending a new territory was more unappealing than whatever the bad smell was, so she stayed.

It was just the heat after all, wasn't it?


Mala spat out the meat and watched the swell with beady eyes.

Maybe she'd regret this decision in later life.

[member="Trenchcoat Man"]

 

[Trenchcoat Man]

Hell. Chaos. Netherworld. Neverthere.
The White Hot Room
Then-Now-Forever
But Mostly Then.

“So young, so deliberately dramatic. You’re a rollercoaster, my son. Helter Skelter – You were always chasing the thrill of the big ups and then, that harsh, harsh crash.”

Roddy gently caressed Benedict’s hollow cheek with the back of his homeless gloves, the nerfwool mitten-flap catching and loosing some of its excess fuzz upon his face.

"Mesa blame the Rock and Roll – Teenagers praying to your pretty little death gods."

The skull grinned a little harder than it already was. Somehow, the meaning was conveyed, despite the impossibility. Roddy grinned back, before something caught his eye…The trashbag-lining of Benedict’s trenchcoat pockets.

[{ĐΞΔǤŇØŞŦΞĆ ĆØΜРŁ€Ŧ€.} ΩỮΔŘΔŇŦΞŇΞŇǤ ΜΔŁŴΔŘ€...]

"̤͉͚̜O̹h̬͇!͈̥̹̗͙̼̱ ͔̹̤̗͓͔ ̯̰̰O͇o̞̞͖ḫ!̰̠ ̹͓̞ ͕O̮̤h̙̖̞̞̖!̭̞ ̖O̜̲h̠͙̭̻̝ͅͅ! ̯͕ ̱̘̻̙Yo͇̦͖̣̱u̞̞̪̩̬͎̲’̫̘v̙̼̯̥͖̼e̘͓̬͍̰̘ ̝̪̥̫br͍̠̱̯̯͓̭o̦̘͖̥̤̞ͅu̮̱̝̗ͅg̘̫̗̥̟̝h͖̠̪ṱ̘ ͙͙̲̼̪̳m̜̱͇̝̦͚̬y̟̱̰̺ ̻̠̝͕b͖͍̺a̱̞͍g̞̱̫̠͚ͅ,̳͙͔̭̦ ͓y̯̟o̜͖͙̱͕̫u͙̟̘̰̥̻ ̱̟d͚̤̹͚̣̯͙i̱̯ḍ͓̦,̣̪̯ͅ ̝y̳̩͈͎ọṵ͖̙̝̥̰ ͔̦͈̯d̬̜̘̻̟̥͎i̼ḏ͉̞͙͔͔͍!̰̳̗"̻͙


Roddy moved behind our crucified Guttermage, husking his trenchcoat from his matter like he were an ear of corn.

"Do you remember? The night I found you? Sixteen years old, turning tricks in a bus station, letting weak-willed accountants cut you with razor blades – So convinced it was the end of the world without warm meals and holovision. When I found you, you were crying. So ready. So, so ready to be dead."

Roddy lay the trenchcoat over his arm, the lining facing up, presenting one of the Deep Pockets for ease of access. As the cross started to recline, forming into a surgeon’s table, Benedict was visibly panicked – his skull looking left to right, then narrowing on Roddy as if to request help…but there were no features to harness the meaning. He was terrified, recalling the ECT – The periodic death of his mind throughout his stay at the Asylum.

"What did I tell you, my boy? I told you Sixteen was -too young- to be dead. Twenty-four was too young to be dead. Twenty-Seven was too young to be dead. Thirty-Three is. TOO. YOUNG. To be dead."

Had it been here to which he had been going? He tried to recall his studies under the Mad Vagrant, but he couldn’t quite remember how he’d come to be so good at it….Had it been here where he had studied, had practiced, had been reforged and made better?

[{Ř€РΔΞŘΞŇǤ ĆØŘŘỮРŦ€Đ ₣ΞŁ€Ş...}]​

Roddy had been pulling garbage from the pockets, reconstructing Benedict’s form: bubble-gum to hold the joints in his knees, an old carrot set in the central hole in his face for a nose, wet paper from burger wrappings painted over bones as new flesh.

And the bottoms of beer bottles -- stained glass, indigo -- set in his eye sockets.

"It will all be over soon enough,' I said to you, but the game is still in play. So, in the meantime, please, please, please, please live. You always wore your heart on your sleeve – let it dry out, callous over, gave it away to that diamond in the rough to be abused, to confirm your Hell. There ain’t no such thing, my boy. I know. No pair of brown eyes gonna save you from yourself. You have to let it all in, my boy. You can’t only ever be trying to save yourself. You can’t be afraid and hold back. ‘Open your heart, Benedict,’ I recall. ‘You will never truly be a part of it until you open your damn, black heart.’” Let it change you. As above, so below."

Roddy set a discarded candle within the protection of his ribcage and applied a lit match. This little flame would burn in its place.

"So you did and it killed you. So clever, my boy – Always finding the most elaborate way to avoid doing what you’re told – even going so far as doing it to the letter, but betraying the spirit, the intent. You crave your death, your rebirth. Going around to come up behind yousa again. Yousa want to pay for wisdom in full. Do things the hard way. A rollercoaster. Yousa always kept thingsa interesting."

A detached mophead had been set like a crown upon his skull; a tangled, dirty mess, not even vaguely the right color, posing where his hair should be.

"To return your name? Noo…no…I would never deprive you of your well-earned scars…,” he was sculpting Benedict a face out of soggy cardboard, massaging in the wrinkles of age. “Thirty-Three. Three and Three. Thrice-Damned, Thrice-Risen. Show those Sith title-hoarders that one, amirite?!”

And, finally, a piece of tire, shoved into his mouth.

[{Ř€РΔΞŘ ĆØΜРŁ€Ŧ€.} {Ř€ΞŇŞŦΔŁŁΔŦΞØŇ ĆØΜРŁ€Ŧ€.}]

[ĆĦ€ĆҜΞŇǤ ₣ØŘ ỮРĐΔŦ€Ş]​

"Yaw…Yaw..waw…Yoaww not Rawdy…,” Benedict struggled around his words, relearning to speak with the piece of rubber that was now his tongue. The table began to incline, tipping Benedict from the slab, sending him stumbling forward with his new body. Roddy moved to the side.

“I am,” the vehicle that was Roddy O’Bojangles shrugged, weighing the significance of his words. “Ξ’Μ ŇØŦ,” suggested the light it contained. “You want me to prove to you that I was ever there. That you haven’t just been in that room forever. I can’t. Not in a way that matters. We’re all that burning fire, hidden. You. Me. All of us.”

Roddy withdrew a mirror from the deep pockets, shattered here, there….7, 14, 56, 777 years of bad luck. Benedict frowned as best he could, catching site of the patchwork person he had become.

“Kark, I’m a sight.”

"Isn’t that what you’ve always been about? We’re all so ugly and terrible alone. But maybe, together, we can be something better? Remember what the A͎̗͔i̝̥n̗̰͙ͅg̩̟̝̬͍̺-̩̱̺̠̺͓̝T͓̙͈̭̮̩i̜̺͚ị̱̭͉̘̞̘ told you?"


"Just say it with me, now, son...The magick words I taught you...The secret Console Command to this whole damn thing..."

Benedict grinned, and muttered, "Fake it until you make it."

And his body was transformed

[РŁ€ΔŞ€ Ř€Μ€Μβ€Ř]

~*^*~​

Coruscant
The 1313
Currently

The cracks were coming on steadily now, the stench of burning weeds and manure rising through its pores; like a sewer main had erupted in flame just beneath the surface, breathing smoke into the streets, giving one more sensory attack to the Misery Checklist that was the 1313.

Lights flickered and the ground shook, an illegal subway train running through the spaces between atoms from the universe next door, so unbearably close, the power and despair churning between the levels, the tenements, the people stacked on top of each other on top of mattresses on top of blood-stained carpeting with cookie crumbs crackling with static charge…Mountains of architecture creaking under the weight of gravity, clinging despite its rotation, shouting Jenga Jenga Jenga to pre-empt its inevitable collapse.

And then, it popped, gushing forth with excess gross, splitting open like the legs of a Sith Apprentice, its human infection stepping out, all trenchcoat and arrogance. All combat boots and smirk-in-the-face-of-Ugh. The None-More-Spunk, the Third-Time Risen. The Dark Twin of a Dead Cultist and the Unborn Son of a Crazy Arse Witch. The Filth and the Fury and the Kiss-Me-I’m-Irish

And in this corner is………………………..

Not born, but crapped back into existence by the irritable bowels of the Coruscant Undercity, wrapped in his placenta of puss and excrement and smoke of Gungan algae-tobacco. A rat skeleton oozed down his arm, turning as its butt bumped a bubblegum wrapper, some feces. Casually, he reached for his cigarettes inside his pocket, setting one between his lips, looking every bit like he didn’t just hatch from a concrete womb/egg/thing of confused nature; like he didn’t just casually swipe away an umbilical cord made of electric wiring.

Despite his disgusting grease, he appeared healthier than ever. His teeth returned and white, the wrinkles more regulated, and the taint of the Darkside scraped free, replaced by the pink-fleshy twinge of the lightly sunburned, a shout-out to his half-Zeltron heritage. He winked at [member="Mala"], his eyes flashing with their new, improved, Indigo color, cracks apparent in the iris as if they had indeed been manufactured from shattered glass – a much needed redundant ward against the Pink-Eye he was begging for.

He took his first inhale of cigarette, returning his lighter to his pockets.

“Miss me, did you?”

 

[Mala]

The swell was proving more problematic than Mala had first thought. She rearranged her dumpsters, clearing them of the cacks but forming a wall around it. Despite the smell, she couldn't leave it now, she ignored the hungry growls of her stomach and sat before the zit that had grown in her home. She sat and she waited, eyes glittering with excitement. There were somethings in life that demanded attention, some, very few and far between things, that would make Mala negate her need for food or her desire for shining objects.

The ground was trembling now, the squib scrambled to her feet, tongue whipping across her lips in anticipation before she hopped from one foot to the other in a little dance, giggling manically. Something was happening.


Something utterly...


Disgusting.

She was pasted from head to toe in gore that made her own stench seem almost pleasant, it left an imperfect outline of her on the dumpster behind her. Stunned, she blinked through it, shaking her head to send peices flying from her fur before settling her gaze upon the intruder now standing in the middle of her nest.

She said nothing, sticking a gore covered finger in her mouth without flinching she tasted the chaos from where this one had come from. "You taste as bad as you smell." She spat the mouthful aisde, before climbing onto the dumpster and reaching to grab the collar of his cloak, pulling him so they were nose to nose. He was...tidier, than she remebered. There was a sheen to his eyes that cried out 'looking for trouble'. She pullled at his cheeks, ears and lifted his hair before sitting down finally on the dumpster as if satisfied with her inspection, a sly grin forming on her face.

"No." She finally replied to his question. Peering behind him at the steaming crater he'd left, she let out another slightly manic giggle "What were you doing in there?"


[member="Trenchcoat Man"]

 

[Trenchcoat Man]

Hell. Chaos. Netherworld. Neverthere.
The White Hot Room
Then-Now-Forever
But Mostly Then.

"Do you know what the city is, Ben?"

"You mean beyond the obvious, yeah?"

Benedict fished through his trenchcoat pockets as old impulses once more began to fire. He was looking for his cigarettes before it occurred to him what cartoonish nonsense it would be to smoke here, now.

Roddy’s smile held a condescending air, recognizing his movement for what it was. He continued without further ado.

"Has the obvious ever been important to anybody anywhere? I told you I’d tell you, old sport, but I don’t know that I ever did. I left first."

"You died."

"Did I?"

“Yeah, old china,” Benedict nodded softly, casting his eyes to the floor for a moment. “I’m proper certain you did.”

“Maybe it was magick.” Roddy made TADA! spirit fingers, which failed to ease Benedict of his moroseness.

“Quit arsing me about, Roddy. What’s it you reckon I should’ve learned about cities, then?”

He hated this. This whole thing stunk of a finality he wasn’t interested in having. Too many of his friends were already dead.

“Firsty – It’s not plural!,” Roddy was overly-excited, hoping to make it contagious. It was never him that taught Benedict to mourn his life. “You’ve seen it – I know you have. Babel!”

Benedict deliberated a moment, uncertain. In the end, however, there was only one thing Roddy could’ve been talking about. “The Sprawl,” the guttermage apprentice-turned-master corrected.

“…Heh. Maybe once, they were individuals…But now, just different boroughs. The same city, spread out upon different galactic bodies, joined by hyperlanes like bridges. It’s grown, and all the big things have become SMALL things!” Roddy set his arm on Benedict’s shoulder, gesturing to an imaginary map of the cosmos. They were still in the White Hot Room. “ It’s a virus, Benny-boy. It’s a virus that that consumes all resources, replicating itself until there’s nothing else left. And it’s not just infected a planet or two, but the whole galaxy. Every steenkeen damn piece of it – just another place to plant a flag, to open a business, to make a machine out of.”

He looked to Roddy O skeptically, this whole One Journey Completes So Another Can Begin bit having run its course when he was a damn teenager…”Return the Light, Benedict? Is that bloody it, then? More of this Good versus Evil nonsense?”

“No, son, it’s neither good nor bad. It just is. And there’s a power to it – you’ve seen it. The galaxy’s growing up. It doesn’t need this anymore than you do. It’s an eggshell, my son – It’ll hold you until you’re ready, and then it will crack, and eject you into space. But you’re not ready, son. Your development is stagnated…and do you know why?”

“The Black Myth,” he guessed facetiously, feigning excitement as the pieces fell into place in a puzzle he never particularly cared about.

“The Witnesses….are not a wholly useless organization,” Roddy’s hand left Benedict’s shoulder to slap the Invisible Witnesses to the Defilement of Our Beloved Sister Susan patch on his coat sleeve.

“Hah! That’s a karking laugh.”

“Ho ho!”

Benedict’s grin depreciated, his sincerity returned, “So, what’s the sodding point, then…of all this? Of this stupid karking virus?”

Roddy shrugged in resignation, though the entity riding on his back knew full well. It answered as best as it could, “The Celestials built it as a Garden program. Only in Suffering can Compassion grow. Only from the manure. The Philosopher’s stone – Divine Alchemy. That’s the secret power of the city. And it’s something we’re going to need in the next round.”

Benedict arched his safety-pinned eyebrow, he wasn’t quite sure what was being said, but with its contextual proximity to the Witnesses, it didn’t bode well.

Roddy stepped forward, taking his surrogate son’s face in his hands.

“Salvation is a mug’s game, Benedict,” he stated softly, trying to be kind knowing Benedict’s disposition, his likeness to his father. “ Your strategy, my boy, need be Resurrection. The galaxy is ending. But there ain’t no reason why there can’t be a new one. And there’s certainly no reason why you can’t hedge the bets in our favor in advance.”

He kissed Benedict on the forehead.

D̯̤̩̣͙̗̞͐ͬ̐e͕̩̯a̪̣̻ͥͫͣṱ̫̝͓̟̯̼ͮḣ̤̅ͯ̃͂ͭͣ ͎̖͈͇͋i͆͊̂̓͂̋n͉͇̣̝ͦ͆t̜͔͐͒̏o͖ͫ̒̐ ̙̪͚̰͕̬͑̊̆̀̐̉̒L͙̳̅ͦ́̄i̗͍ͤͤf͙̖̆̋̆̅͋̀̓ë̼̗͓̲́̄͆̽ͤ͐ͪ.̹̝͓̳̆͒ͭ̏͑ ͖̀ͭC̍͒͂́̄h̫̫͈͚̒̽̀͛ͬi͖̞̣ͭͪ̒t͖͍̙͉̦̦̗̓ ̣̪̲̙̝͑̄̄͆̈́i̝͚̼̠͂̔n̻͉̟t̗̺͖̖̗̺͕͗ͬͧo̰ͮ͆̋̋ ͇̗G̹̟̓ͧͦͧ̓o̲̦ͥ͆l̖̫̠͂̃̾̅̚d̫̼͖̝̜̗̜.̣̻͈̰̠̞͕́̎ͭͬ͒̈ ̠̦͈̲̊̄̽ͩ̊̄ ͖̈́ͥT̻̜̘̺͕ͩ̾ͬ̚r̥̃ḁ̘̪̜̫̟̔̃ͦͥs̫̗̘̜̳ĥ̝͉͖͇̭̄͛̔ ͉͆͗̂̆́i͖̞̪̞̘̾̑ͦ̃n̎t̫̟͙͍̤̱o̝̻̗̲͍̖̩ ̪̳̦͚̤̬̌ͤ̓̉T͍͈̭̬̀̄̇r̟̳̤͔̭̍̇ͨe͍̺͚ͭͨ́̒͆ͨ̈ͅa͍̹͉͉̼̎̾̈̄͛̆̂s̼̖̖̀ͣ̊ͩ̔͆ū̘͓̤͙̹͉̂̓̅̎r̖̯̪̬͍̖͔͋́͗ͦë̦̙́ͮ̂.̪̩͎̤̗̌̎ ̭̼̭̃͂ͩ͋̒̒ ̪̲̪͚̤̇ͤ͊T͓̰̭̐̅h̝̳̀̍ͯ̓rͧ̎̉̃ỉ̆c͔̥e͔̩̻͔̘̟̟̿̎̂̇ ̼̠͖̥̝̍D͓̥̻̪͔ͧ̒͑a̻̤̠̳̬̐m͕̹͖̑ͅn̖̮͓͖̤͎ͅe̳̘͍̞͍d,̮̓̂͐̿̐ͮͪ ̤̐͊̿͗T̬̆́̅̓̒̆̚h̙̣̮͕̹̗̣͑̿ͮȑ̉i̥̩͒ͩ̽ͪ͛ͫ̔c̦̘͖̖̰̩͕ͮ̽é͙̰̦͖̟͚̜̀ͧ͗ ͗̒̓͑̉R̹̣̖̼̜̖͋ͨͥ̌ͯͤi̭̝̩̲̯͆̾̚š̅è̲̠̑̉̓̊̾n̲̂ͫ͗ͮͅ.ͭͤ̈ͨ̃͋[/size]​

[ŴΔҜ€ ỮР. ŦĦ€ ǤΔΜ€ ΞŞ ŞŦΞŁŁ ΞŇ РŁΔ¥.]​

Y̳̝̫̙̬͖ͨ͛o҉̯͔͕ụ͙̤̫͚̬̳ͪͮ̌̿̈͝ ̥ͨ̂̄̎̀̇͂͠s͂͏̤t̅ͯ̉͆͏̙̹̟̖̙̫͈i̇̔ͦ͌͑̿̅͏̗͔̘̬͚l͙̱̯̃ͫ̔̈́̈ͭͯl̿̍ͦ̽ ͈̽̒͘r̃ͧ̅̈e͉͓͚̱͍͘mͧ̌̉̔͗͛eͯ̊m̝ͥ̽͆b͕̹̊͂̋̓͘ͅe̶̜͍͎̖̺̞r̸̯͉̼̜̍̅ ̉̚tͨ̽̊͑́h̪̦̝̯͉͖e ̙͓̠͎̞̺̱͆́ͫͨ̎ͥȑ̴͈̘̭̼͖̭̫̀͊͑ͭͫȗ͔͐̐ͥ̅ͦ̾l͇̪̮͈͇̞̦̈́͑e͎̭̦͙̖̬ͤ͑š͕͍̦͇̞͓ͪ,̸̩̖͚̠̽ ̗̼̻͎͕̾͑͋d̻̳͍o̵̝̣̱̠̪̬ͦ̎̀̆͌̀n̺̗͉̺ͩ̋̌ͣ̚̚͡’t͇́͐ͨ̅̄͝ ̊̓͏y̤͍̭̯͖̮̺ͫͦ̄̈́ͧ͋ͭ͟o̓ͧ͑͜u͡?͙̥̤̘͉̜̘̄̀̂ͤ̐[/size]


Roddy grinned toothily, though there were few actual teeth.

“Goodbye, mate”

Roddy retained his expression as his smeared into an indigo light, blinding into a bright white...

[ǤΔŘĐ€Ň€Ř ỮŇΞŦ #04 βΔĆҜ ØŇ-ŁΞŇ€.]​

...Until he blinked, and he was looking at the smog shroud veiling the 1313’s ceiling.

~*^*~​

​

Coruscant
The 1313
Right Now


Benedict made contrasting faces at Mala as she tugged at his features like an estranged relative, puffing out his cheeks as she tugged his nose, raising his eyebrows and squaring his lips as she pulled at his cheeks. Though she were a legal adult, Benedict still did not recognize that she was not, in fact, a child.

No, seriously. He thought she was a little kid.

Wouldn’t you?

Anyway, what was he doing in there?

Benedict returned to full-height, watching the traffic pass before the alleyway. Something was different now. Some nuance to his vision – like he could see the relationships between people in high-definition…

A man, subjected to cold showers every morning before work, because this woman he never met wasted the hot water at the same time every day. His parka, a charity donation from a teenager two levels up, who had gotten a new hoodie that was manually assembled by his 1st grade teacher’s runaway nephew after having been arrested by [member="Darth Adekos"] and his droids and shipped off to a work colony…

It was a giant loom of a resonating strings like a cosmic piano, tying one to the other, whether they knew it or not. He pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes tightly against the sudden pressure on his brain as it tried to adapt to the new way of seeing. “I was…”

And in this moment, he realized he didn’t feel as sick as he used to, either. The fiending for destruction was gone. His Force signature still throbbed like an aching wound, but it didn’t fester anymore. He didn’t feel that same pining for human misery. He just knew it. It flowed through him, and he genuinely empathized for the people in the city – no longer simply addicted to its sickly, dark allure, dressing himself in their stories to scratch a rotten, schadenfreude itch.

“I was on holiday, luv -- Anyfing happen while I was away, then?”

[member="Mala"]​

 

[Mala]

"Holiday?!" Mala cocked her head, peering once more at the crater he'd left behind him and flicking a piece of slime from her arm. She shook her head. "Unlikely. Only crazies would go on holiday there by choice." The way she said there might have hinted she knew where he'd been. Maybe she wasn't as ignorant as they all thought. Or maybe she was. She stuck a finger in her ear, pulling out more goo which she wiped on the front of his trenchcoat.

"People disappeared, fires and chaos up high." she shook head. "Bad." Ears flattened against her head for a moment. "Some came back, some didn't. Permanent holidays, yes yes, Mala thinks so." She cocked her head. "You came back. Why? What does the crazy want to do now?"

[member="Trenchcoat Man"]

 

[Trenchcoat Man]

“Weren’t me first choice, anyway,” he muttered around his cigarette; an aside, so low so as to not disrupt her train of thought in explanation. He took his beginning steps, pulling his trenchcoat taut from where she utilized it as a hand towel, pulling her along should she maintain her hold.

As she released him, he spun around, walking backwards to watch her carry on. Benedict couldn’t maintain a straight face, amusement creeping across it despite his best efforts to conceal emotion. He enjoyed [member="Mala"] for her art; its manner of expression and dramatic flair. And though “fires and chaos from on high” and “permanent holidays” could have referred to anything from the Netherworld event to Darth Adekos’ Progress Initiative to even the slave-driving, organ-stripping sex-violence funtime of the CRC, in the end, it didn’t matter. His response would’ve been the same.

“Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord, Mala, petal,” he started, fishing from his pocket a shiny coin (casual, despite his special effort to do so, in his effort to see it glinted in the light) and whipping it at the edge of a nearby building. “We must pave the way.”

The coin would ricochet off the exterior, rolling into his path of travel as he left the alleyway, ensuring Mala stayed nearby should she opt to chase it.

 

[Mala]

Mala slid from her perch on the dumpster as he tugged his coat away, she padded forward a few steps after him. Pausing, head tilted slightly as she watched him retreat from her. She wanted to follow him, but past experiences reminded her that he could take her anywhere.Like off the edge of a street to plummet several levels below.

She wasn't sure she liked that. She hopped from one foot to another, torn between comfort and...well...company. The glint of the coin caught her eye and her eyes brightened only to switch from joy to terror as he flicked it away. All thoughts of remaining in comfort forgotten with a wail.

"SHINY!"

She shot past him, chasing the coin as it rolled away out of her dark little lane and into a open street. It skittered under passing feet, which Mala dove between to slam her hand upon it and stop it skittering away. Picking it up delicately, she wiped it clean as curses rained upon her from above. Clutching the treasure close she brought it to her chest and stuck her tongue up at her verbal abuser and rising to her full height, (all ninety centimeters of it) and popped the coin in her mouth for safe keeping.

Turning on her heel she almost bounced back to the crazy, stopping in front of him, she spat the coin into her palm and offered it to him.

"Must keep shiny safe," she frowned slightly trying to recall what he'd said. "Need it to...ummm..." Nope, she'd definitely forgotten. "Nevermind, Mala keep it safe for you?"

[member="Trenchcoat Man"]