he gives his harness bells a shake [open]

[goodweather]

WHO: Phil, friends, and you
WHEN: Nov 2nd and onwards
WHERE: Around
WHAT: moping about like a loser (November catchall)
WARNINGS: Aftermath of Halloween, contains some references to the carnage



i. the only other sound's the sweep (tauva, night of nov 1st/morning of nov 2nd)

Besides speaking with Erin and Darcy, Phil doesn't leave his room on November 1st. He doesn't answer the door, except for those he knows well enough. Most texts are similarly ignored. He just wants to... sleep is the wrong word. Turn off, maybe. Thankfully there's piles of breakfast outside for him to filch, but even if there wasn't, he doesn't think that the hunger pangs would overpower the exhausting prospect of having to talk to someone.

(And they may well want to, if they see any of him in Photos at Sea. Bloodied and beaten, Maeve standing over his corpse.)

But then it's 2 AM. Normally he's down by midnight, and he's not lacking in fatigue, but sleeping doesn't feel right. Not after what's happened. What, just rest, after all that? Just sleep?

So it's in the night when the owl finally flies his nest, down to Tauva, and pours himself a drink.

ii. of easy wind and downy flake (around, early november)

He's not done sulking, but he's done with doing it in his cabin. After a while it starts getting cramped and stuffy, so instead he'll do it in places like the library or the lounge or the shadows of the pool deck, and hope that he looks dour enough for people to leave him alone. Yes, he wants to be around people, and no, he doesn't want them to talk to him. (Not that he'll turn them away if they do.)

He fills his time with hobbies. Where before he'd just done things for the sake of it, now they're distractions, filling time before he starts doing something stupid, keeping himself from getting too mired in misery. He shreds napkins to pieces as small as he can get them and scatters the bits into the sea like shitty snow. He sits on the deck with an empty stare at the sunset. Sometimes he just lays about.

And sometimes he steals ice cubes from the bars to make tiny ice sculptures, with his minimal ice powers and his newfound talons.

iii. the woods are lovely, dark, and deep (john's, mid november)

Phil had previously been a regular at John's; most evenings, the ship could hear him practicing on its piano for at least an hour, often more. This was unfailing routine for the past four months.

After Halloween, it goes silent. He isn't even at the bar. He isn't there at all.

It's two weeks before he even shows up there again, and he hardly plays when he does; he just dances a single hand around the keys for about a half hour. It takes a bit of adjusting to account for the talons, but he manages.

The second day, Phil seems to be gaining his momentum back. He puts a book on the music stand. It's a slow start, one hand at a time, running the parts slowly, so it goes for about an hour and a half... then he puts both of his hands on the keys and plays.

iv. but i have promises to keep (wildcard)

[ Other things to note: Phil will not be seen flying at all for most of November, not that he did much of that before.

but otherwise? you got something, just hit me! available for plotting here at this journal or you can find me on the discord @ dongpuncher#7741 :] ]

Comments

ii-ish?

[serialskiller]

One afternoon, Phil is in the lounge, occupying his hands with whatever, when a certain SecUnit quietly takes the chair beside his.

Doesn't say anything. Doesn't do anything. Just.

...sits.

[goodweather]

What he's doing at current is an experiment on weaving one of those craft friendship bracelets out of an eclectic mix of shoelaces salvaged from the Tommy Bahama. Results so far look as though he's attempting to fashion a diseased snake, but he's going through with it anyway.

He looks up attentively as SecUnit approaches, then sits, but after a beat of silence goes back to his weaving. It's as much to give it a little bit of space and time as it is for him to think of how to open a conversation, after... recent events.

He knows he saw it at the party, but he'd lost track of it almost immediately after the fighting broke out. He also lost track of most people, so that's not saying very much.

"How've you been?"

Well, it's something.

[serialskiller]

"I died."

Robot voice is in full swing, no emotions about it at all.

[goodweather]

There's no denying the cold jolt in his stomach. He just hopes it doesn't show.

"... Yeah, me too."

Violently, as they all did.

("Died," did SecUnit say? Instead of "was terminated" or whatever?)

He should give more than that, though. "Someone wearing Maeve's face... my music student." Deep, belabored sigh. "She got me." Crosses one lace over the other. "I hope she's alright. I'd make sure, but I can't... I don't know... if I can talk to her for a while."

[serialskiller]

It seems very thoughtful for a moment. When it speaks, there's a certain carefulness to it, as if it's picking every word deliberately.

"I know of someone else who will be seeking her out to talk about her possession and its aftermath. She will not be without people checking on her."

[goodweather]

"Good," he says, and he means it.

And thinks about what else to say. He wants to keep its company, and he wants to make sure it's doing alright, but. That process is a little more complex when someone's already closed itself off.

But information is... relatively concrete. Impartial if he does it right.

"When... how much do you know about what happened?"

[serialskiller]

"Everything I know after shit hit the oxygen circulators is secondhand."

Everything, not 'almost everything', not 'nearly everything'. It really did get the shit of it.

ii

[firewalled]

Rich is usually quick to scarf down whatever food he's gotten when he's at the buffet, but he's... a little slower nowadays. It's hard to find the appetite, sometimes, and he takes up his time people watching instead.

He's happy to see Phil at first, but then... a little concerned once he sees how miserable the guy looks. Plus, uh, what new additions he seems to have. He picks up his tray and slides in at Phil's table.

"Hey, nice sculpting. You're a regular Michaelangelo. Where'd you get the, uh... tools?"

[goodweather]

Phil doesn't look up immediately. He'd heard the footsteps and hoped they'd pass him by, and for a while it seemed like they might--and then they're in the seat opposite him and he hears Rich's voice.

That sends a particular cold wash down his chest, but the way he speaks... it's over, he reminds himself. That is definitely Rich. Definitely the teenager and not the weird little kid that was scared of shadows and took a knife to César.

He wipes all of that from his face, reminds himself of patience and of trust. Rich is a good kid. Chances are once he actually gets into conversation he'll feel better about it, so he meets him with a tempered, if tired smile.

"Oh, they're... new. I was told I had a package to pick up at the Sundries, and when I went, I, well." He wiggles his fingers. "Looked down, there they were."

A beat. "How've you been?"

[firewalled]

There was... a moment of hesitation before Phil spoke up. Rich wonders if it's something 'he' did or just the way the last month had gone for everyone. He knows better than to ask, even if he's morbidly curious. No need to remind everyone of the crap they had to go through.

"That's weird. I thought packages were always just... you know, literally wrapped in paper. I guess this place is weird enough it could decide to give us crazy sharp teeth or whatever as a 'gift.'"

It does make Rich wonder a bit how far these 'packages' they can receive can go... but putting that aside.

"You mean, after a month of forced time out in the void? Probably as good as I'm going to be. Missed a lot, trying to catch up. Dads are upset, naturally. Darcy seems... kinda weird. I dunno. I guess expecting things to be normal is too much to ask." He eyes Phil a little warily. "...What about you?"

[goodweather]

Phil grimaces. “Ugh. The void…? Yeah, god, I’m sorry about all that, I… can’t imagine any of that’s easy for you.”

Sympathizing. Both out of a genuine concern for Rich, and conveniently steering attention away from himself.

He shakes his head. “No. There’s… too much to be normal about it, it… Darcy had it really rough in October. I can’t—it’s not for me to say.” (That, and he also doesn’t even fully know what was up with her; she wouldn’t, can’t tell.) “But, um… the Halloween party at the end of the month ended up being a disaster, and she put a stop to it. She and Vance.” Two kids, he thinks.

“… Anyway.” He scratches at his chin. What was he saying? “I’ll be alright. I think I’m more worried about everybody else. You know. Like you.”

[firewalled]

"That's hardly the biggest problem though. I'm sure it was a lot worse for people here... dealing with people with their friends' faces attacking them and shit. I just... had a weird I Have No Mouth And I Must Scream thing going on. You guys dealt with worse."

Of course, a situation as dire as one of the most infamously depressing sci-fi stories ever written should qualify as 'a big problem,' but Rich is great at deflecting.

"...She told me a little bit. I don't know all of what went on, but I know the kid inside me told her some things about... some of my memories. Really personal shit. It's got her freaked out. No wonder she probably fought so hard to get things back to normal."

He sighs and leans against one of his hands. "But you know her. She doesn't give all the information. I think there was probably more going on, but the chances of me getting it out of her when she's worried about me..."

[goodweather]

"That still doesn't sound great, kid, and I'm not in the habit of comparing struggles. I'm sorry about that, and I'm sorry your personal crap got spilled." But deflectors gonna deflect.

"If she's not talking, then I don't think I can either. I was... mostly on the outside, I think... I don't think I talked to anybody who was possessed before Halloween." Texting whoever was inhabiting Maeve's body to cancel lessons doesn't count, right? Right. He picks at his teeny ice sculpture. "She was stressed out of her mind at the party. She was right to. She..."

He glances up at Rich. "Did anyone tell you what the party was?"

iii

[sabigoe]

If it weren't for Phil's playing, she wouldn't have made as many visits to John's. Her regular visits had stopped. Even earlier than November, back in October's early weeks when her soul slipped out. Similarly, she hasn't been seen making visits early in the current month either. Still getting accustomed to being back in her own body and trying to function during her day-to-day life on the ship.

Today, it may be the start of her return, drawn in by the soothing melody coming from the piano. Fio tries not to disturb as she keeps her steps quiet as possible. In a nearby chair, she sits in the company of two stuffed dragons: Calcite and Penelope, both which she places on her lap.

...And in a few moments, Fio drifts off to the sound of the piano. Then she begins to dream-- Phil mentioned the town of Punxsutawney once. She remembers the drawing of the diner. Her face is peaceful, a soft look that unfortunately lasts for a few minutes. She stirs, a look of visible distress crossing her sleeping expression. All she can think of in her dreams is pleading for Phil not to hurt himself. Over and over again.

scrapes myself off of the ground

[goodweather]

Phil doesn’t tend to look up when he hears people wander in, preferring to let people enjoy the music without the caveat of a social encounter—and he does hear them, even if he doesn’t always register them, same as he hasn’t quite realized the lightness of those footsteps. Of someone who is not very big at all.

But he reaches the end. The music stops and Phil looks up to see a face he’s scarcely seen all last month, and for a moment he softens to see her fast asleep, stuffed animals in her lap, until—until he notices that whatever her dreams, they aren’t peaceful ones.

He drops from the stage and crouches at her side, one gentle hand at her shoulder, trying to shake her awake. “Fio? Fio, are you alright?”

[sabigoe]

And she opens her eyes, waking with a startled gasp. Her eyes have grown damp throughout the dream, without realizing. She blinks, tears streaming down her face. For a moment, she stares with big eyes at Phil, her face fraught with concern. Sometimes the pieces don't fall into place as easily. Sometimes she dismisses the faces in her dreams as strangers from a distant land that she'll never meet in her life.

There's no mistaking it this time. And she connects the dots faster than her other dreams. Especially with the multiple times she had to see Phil in those confusing visions.

"Uh..." A small distressed noise, unsure what to say. She doesn't want to say what she saw. His question sounds like something she should be asking him.

"I'm alright. Are... you?"

[goodweather]

"I'm fine," he says reflexively. "Well, actually, I'm pretty stressed after last month, but it's nothing I can't handle, alright? You don't worry about me. I've got lots of people to help me. But you..."

He plucks a napkin off of the table, wiping it gently, so gently across her face, frightened as he is of hurting her with these new talons that he hasn't quite gotten used to yet.

Wings--ones that he didn't have in those old memories--fold out slightly, a small attempt at comfort.

"Did you have a bad dream?"

[sabigoe]

That comes to her as no surprise, even if she doesn't have any recollection of Halloween. She's still recovering herself, after having her soul lost in oblivion. Others have been helping her, by being present. Including Phil. But the nightmares, unrelated to last month's events... they've been around for some time now.

"I did," She murmurs softly, remaining perfectly still as he dabs the wetness away from her cheeks. The talons, she takes note of as they come close to her face. Those are new, but she saves her questions about that for later.

There's a stretch of silence, hesitant. "I... thought I saw someone who looked a little like you, so I was worried."

A little, she says. A bit of a lie. She's certain it was him, minus the wings and talons.

[goodweather]

He frowns. That excuse flies by him, but it doesn't change the fact that Fio had seen someone that looked like him, and she had a reason to be worried that it was him. There's something he isn't being told.

Kids are very, very smart,

"Oh... honey, I'm sorry. I'm alright. But why were you so worried, even if it was me?"

iii. don't mind me. just crying

[millay]

Maeve's mostly avoided John's except for the occasional moments when she can't stop herself and the sound of someone playing something very different from the usual Billy Joel gives her pause and she peeks in...only meaning to check.

She lingers at the door once she realizes it's Phil. She doesn't really intend to stay, but the song is pretty and she's sure that he'll never notice her standing in the doorway silently. She's making a very pointed effort not to move. She spots the wings and the...fingers are different. She frowns a little at that, the certainty of the knowledge in what she's done.

By the time she's aware the music's stopped, she realizes she's been staring for a very long time.

lays on the ground........

[goodweather]

Phil hears the footsteps, but there is a grace: he doesn't tend to look up when people wander in, and he doesn't now, not recognizing those steps they are.

So he plays. Debussy is a blessing: beautiful, thoughtful music, that demands technique but not speed. It's a music that sits in a certain sweet spot that lets him involve his attention deeply into the performance without the aggressive intensity that comes with flying across the keys. There is still a faint unsteadiness to his playing now, but for the most part? He feels better than he has in weeks.

He runs through the music, then jumps backwards and plays again and again, penciling in notes, revising sections and pages and sentences, because he's not just playing, he's practicing, see, and it's not right to get up before one's done. And he's not done. (He doesn't want to leave.)

But he has to, of course. There's a moment where he flips the book closed and stands. He grabs his pencil and tucks it away.

When he turns to the entrance of John's, there's no helping the way he jumps. A jolt and a sharp inhale, that's all it is.

...

"Maeve?"

i'm not crying, you are

[millay]

Maeve stills even further as if staying so still would make it impossible for him to notice her. But it doesn't and he does. She is all at once very uncomfortable. "I...didn't mean to," she says quietly. She means stand here. She means be seen. "I'm sorry. I can leave. I'm sure you don't..." want me here.

And that is exactly her plan. Her plan is to run away.

[goodweather]

"Maeve," he calls again, sudden. A line cast before she can leave. Before he knows what he'd even say.

He hesitates. Silence passes between them. And then, slow and careful as the bowing of a branch, he steps off of the stage. Takes a step towards her. Then another. Another. He folds the book under his arm.

He stops in front of her, fifteen feet away.

"I..." Stops. "You..."

Doesn't take his eyes off of her.

"If you want..." inhale, "... to leave, I won't make you stay. But if you do, I... want you to feel like you can. You can."

Wow that's probably the least eloquent way he could've put this.

[millay]

She looks down for a minute, frowning. She can feel his eyes on her, but she can't look at him in this exact moment. "I saw the pictures of..." She looks up for the briefest of moments. "I..." There's a shakiness to her voice that she can't really help. "I don't remember...but..." But she's still carrying the guilt of it because he's still having to face her here...when someone pretending to be her killed him. Clearly.

"I wouldn't have. If it was me." There's still so much space. "I've killed people before, but...I was me. And it wasn't..." She frowns again, eyebrow furrowing slightly. "Most of the time it was either them or me." Her hands flex. "But I didn't want..." She looks up finally. "I'm sorry."

[goodweather]

"... Oh."

He'd... thought that this was just about... things in general. He hadn't realized that she knew. Or that there were pictures.

He's going to take a torch to Photos at Sea.

(He likes to think he would have told her. He doesn't know when, or how, but it would've been nicer than her finding out like this. He must've made a handsome sight.)

Phil looks down with a pale yet steady face, breathing heavily. His arms hang lifelessly at his sides, a stillness that is very unlike him, though his hands fidget, talons scraping against each other.

"I know." That she wouldn't have. That she's killed. That she's sorry.

And he should probably say something else, too, but.