did you see my bag? how you think bout that?

[zuka]

[spoiler=↪ SPINNING LIKE A WINDMILL - 18.12.15]Good lord, humanity was animalistic.

Rubbish lined the miserable council gardens bordered by embedded rocks that worked as no deterrent to any idle stray cats and rabbits; rather, at most, they were a challenge. They didn't pose any particular threat against litter, either, evidenced by the hundred tiny scraps of brightly coloured paper in among the dirt and bottle lids and crushed cans - it seemed as if whoever took care of the gardens had pretty much entirely given up as well if anyone even did still bother coming to glance over the beautifully horrendous disaster started as a Green Thumb project gone wrong. If anything, whoever cleaned up the park purposefully skirted around the gardens in its center, hauling large garbage bags behind themselves and calling it a day done without a second look over to the round decrepit wasteland of amassing litter. Maybe it wasn't their responsibility. Maybe they wished it wasn't their responsibility and so deliberately ignored it. Maybe whoever cleared the park honestly forgot what the garden bed looked like without a fine layer of rubbish over the top of it and just left it as is.

It didn't help that the rest of the park was in a condition equally as distressing. The grass had bald dry patches from how often it was run over by children and people playing sport, the playset not even worth mentioning to your child unless you wanted to see their face twist in disappointed disgust from the sheer spiderwebbed and deprecated state it was in, the benches irreparably scarred with scratched graffiti and carved impressions of wildlife in the form of V-shaped birds among the painstaking grooves of names next to one another - perhaps done with a compass. Liquid paper was among one of the tools used as well; rubbish was crammed between the planks of wood running lengthways consisting of the seat and gum joined its ranks wherever conceivably possible, not even forgetting the fact that one of the benches had one of its seat planks entirely taken out. Stolen or done by the council itself no one could tell - the only thing you really could tell was that out of three benches, one of them had a plank taken out from its seat right in the middle. There's a plank at the front and one against the back but in the center exists only a sad void where a spider's made itself at home by the edge.

Scorpio surveys the sight with a fair amount of dismay - him, a tall serious man, standing there and staring down at the horrific display posed a rather bewildering sight in his sheer lack of movement on top of the frozen expression that crawled onto his face, but there was no time to worry about that at all. What is this kind of indifference? This kind of ambivalence to the wreckage of this establishment that sat and sprawled across a good portion of town, impossible to miss and composing a high percentile of its land? This kind of heedless neglect? This laxness? How dare anyone take on a role to clear up this park but not manage to do it correctly? How dare anyone simply expect others to sit down on this deteriorated crumbling bench when it's in a condition like this? HOW DARE THE GOVERNMENT ALLOW THIS TO SIMPLY OCCUR? HOW DARE THE UNIVERSE FOR ALLOWING THIS OUTRAGEOUS TRAVESTY TO EVEN BEGIN TAKING PLACE? HE WON'T STAND FOR IT. NO.

Memories of home flit past his mind's eye with all the tempting fleetness of bittersweet falsitude; the inevitable conclusion that it's all nothing but a wishful illusion. Memories of the warm cosy hearth and his gigantic comfortable bed with massive fluffy pillows and cushiony blankets piled high into a mountain of sheer luxuriation - recollections of the lavish food he used to eat every single day by the sheer experience of capable hands, gentle hands that set down the plates in front of him... delicious food... his amazing bed... but -

All of it is gone now. All gone. Out of reach. And now the only thing looming in his future is this hideous, run-down bench, leering up at him in its bird dung-splattered faded forest green glory, making fun of him...

"...................This is disgusting and UNCIVILISED."

Hence Scorpio mightily extracts one of his scented, four-ply pocket tissues and gingerly touches the bench with it. Just the very corner of the bench, making sure to use very deliberate care so as to not get ... contaminated.

"I should call my lawyer about this," he goes on to mutter, eye fairly twitching, "this is - DEPRAVED."

Disgusting. Just disgusting. He can't do this. He is not going to sit on THAT THING. Why would anyone do this?

(He's never going to be able to get over the shock of moving out of his parents' house. You can tell right here.)

(In fact, he's still recovering. Oh dear.)

And, lastly, a significantly deader whisper in utmost seriousness: "This is... a punishment."

The edge of Scorpio's hand accidentally grazes the bench's back and it's all he can do to suppress a scream.[/spoiler]

[abbr=really not wanting the rp to be wiped]feed the flies stave the hunger off [/abbr]- v sorry abt length. would put it under a spoiler but yk

but you know
legends never die!

The buffeting wind, while not quite close to being able to knock someone off their feet, combined with the all-encapsulating chill was enough to bring one to their knees and not just physically. It didn't only whip in your face but sunk its fingers into clothes, dug its teeth between every loose strand of hair. Frostbite had never been a worry before (remember that? Nice, warm sunsets, slightly stiff beds but still with blankets and a pillow at least, reassuring solid tile-or-concrete underfoot and his shoes clicking with every step...) but before also didn't warrant the apparent upcoming need to go about making a bed for himself in reasonably obscuring bushes or on the gritty jagged floors of caves that hardly worked to insulate on account of their gaping mouths open to the elements and predators alike - at this point, if any part of him was growing suspiciously worryingly numb he wouldn't even realise it, such was the unyielding grasp of constant cold that just about rendered him into a solid ice cube. How long had he been here? Too long, already, but the cold must have already gotten to his head too for how well of an estimate he could toss out. A day? A few days? More? Less? It was ridiculous. All of this was ridiculous and ridiculous was putting it kindly. This was bullsh--

You could tell that Roxas was not used to - nor did he like - the cold. At all, on both counts. Who would?

Of course he'd tried to get his way out; banged first his fists against the wall that'd completely secured itself behind him before he turned to his Keyblades, experimentally then with increasing fervor and through - cold, shivering, what was this - stuttered shouts of fearful incensed (betrayed?) fury, but he's already broken a whole wall of computers once to know that wrecking whatever he could wasn't going to make anything better.

Less than a day. Yes. It couldn't be more than that; night coming and going would have been ridiculously easy to notice (right? Maybe. This entire situation was throwing his logic out the door but he had to cling to something), plus he probably would have already lost all feeling as opposed to... most feeling. This temperature shock wasn't very kind to someone that had never felt cold before, much less someone that had only recently begun being able to feel; it explained a lot of how he'd been able to steadily work through Agrabah's burning heat wearing that heavy black coat that'd been standard Organization XIII issue, come to think of it, but the revelation was a very bitter one to come to - as Roxas found, curling his fingers around and blunt nails into the solid rubbery grips of Oathkeeper and Oblivion and gritting his teeth. Certainly an unwelcome revelation if there ever was one. Stabbing his blades just about as sentient as blades could be (or, rather, as blades used to be if the humming he felt in them now turned out to be merely the numbness in his palms) into the snow seemed almost demeaning to them, using them as sort of horizontal mountain-climbing grips even worse on top of that, but there was little option especially when the snow he was wading through put on the illusion of getting deeper with every step. It didn't stop Roxas from wincing and barely managing to bite back achingly sincere apologies every single time either of them sunk down almost directly to the hilt - guilt worked in funny, tiresome ways. Look, if I don't do this I'll sink and die. Do you want that?

Of course, there was no reply. Keyblades seemed sentient but, aside from detecting pure hearts and all that nonsense (and attracting hundreds of Heartless besides), they were nothing more than glorified magic keys.

...Which is definitely not the reason why Roxas caves, heaves both his Keyblades out of the deep holes in the snow they've made with a goopy wet shluuk and, resigning himself to his fate, begins spinning them in both hands to flick away the remnant droplets of thawed ice on them. Fine. The shifted, anchoring weight pressing against all fingers did feel better, though, even if the snow was dangerously nearing thigh-level and raising his legs high enough to go over it seemed just as implausible as plowing a Roxas-shaped tunnel the rest of the way through (where was he even trying to get, anyway?), but maybe leaving a trail of four footprints in his wake would be only far too easy for any ... enemies to follow. Or so he told himself in some affectation of consolation, because the damage would've already been done judging by how far he'd come. Two holes in the middle, for him, and one narrow but long hole one hole each for his blades on either side.

Maybe someone would think that he was some unnatural creature and take it as a sign to immediately go in the opposite direction. Maybe he could use it to his advantage? Maybe his lips peeling, eyes drying and face-muscle-freezing was getting to him in more ways than THERE, A CAVE. Roxas's pupils dilated with the abrupt epiphany and he shook his head solidly, flaxen sweeps of hair shaking out the powdery snow that'd simply been accumulating and waking himself and his cold-slackened features in the process, and blinked hard before returning his previously increasingly-fuzzy gaze to the rocky mound that loomed just within eyesight. Of course - with as much vertical swimming walking as he'd done, he was bound to get somewhere. It appeared that somewhere was here. White puffs of visible air left his mouth with greater energy, urgency and he forced himself forward faster, locking his fingers around the handles of his Keyblades and going back to punching them tip-down into the sea of white to better propel himself. Except, only when he was approximately a couple of feet from the opening could Roxas pick out the sight of a woman from the back with pale hair (no wonder he hadn't seen her, blended in so well) facing off against -

It was a thing. Certainly a thing. A very tall menacing thing with foreboding horns and wicked teeth, and for a splitsecond (in which the girl drew her sword) he could only stand there and marvel before he squeezed the handles of Oblivion and Oathkeeper once more, snapping out of it. Who knew who he could trust in this game? Who knew who was desperate and willing enough to go along with the instigator's plans to the point where they would turn on everyone else? No one did as of current. In any case the blond tugged Oblivion, shining black from condensation, out of its temporary powdery sheathe with one mighty pull of his arm and hurled it straight at the monster with an intent, provoking mutter of, 'Come on.' Quiet enough for surprise.

notes im so sorry for how much ramble this is, gah - next post it'll be much more based on interaction!

but you know
legends never die!

As if the sight weren't bad enough, the monster began running - to an extent lumbering, but its curling gait almost terrifyingly transfixing. Its path was certain, snapping its teeth all the way, but even as the stranger shouted her challenge it seemed as though she was going to tackle it head-on, tall as the beast she (they?) were facing was. Roxas lurched forwards wide-eyed and alarmed, one-handedly wresting his second blade out of the snow behind him with strain from friction grabbing onto Oathkeeper in a drag that slowed him --

Until the girl disappeared in a smattering of aquamarine sparks, the exact moment the monster's jagged jaws snapped down around thin air, and reappeared again on its back as fluid as though she'd always been there, hair flying and expression intent as she brought her blade home with no chance for it to block. It earned an animalistic scream but the monster only seemed to stagger once even with the following slam of Roxas's weapon knocking it back like a javelin - and it regained its footing all too quickly and very violently, tossing its head before affixing wild reptilian eyes straight at him in bestial intent. Though it'd scored its own punch of damage by way of blunt cutting force, Oblivion was left to bounce off the beast's scales and downwards onto the ground with a clatter, far too irretrievable. Roxas secured his free hand to Oathkeeper as well and readied it to the side immediately, flexing both numb hands around the handle with the faintest pressure of his rings digging into his fingers and twisting - battle ready. If before he'd managed to defeat something a little less than the size of a skyscraper before (not without being rendered half-conscious and only recoverable on account of having been a digital avatar at that point, but he digressed), he could fight this.

The pale-haired woman had retreated but not escaped. She even shouted at the beast for its attention to return to her, wielding her sword coalescing blood down its tip, and it was the first time that Roxas had ever seen blood coat a weapon himself - Heartless were nothing but mere shadows, almost illusions if illusions had a subspecies that was entirely physically corporeal and very organ-driven, and they disappeared with the glow of the hearts it'd stolen released to the heavens - let alone his weapon, slack and unmoving against snow-flecked stone, but her words drove his movement. She wasn't scared of fighting this beast, inhuman and hulking and real, so he could hardly bring himself to be. Roxas pushed ahead a step and leaned forward to reengage it with a shout, the brutal cold whipping his face. 'HEY --!'

That was when the blond spotted the flare of a glowing blue orb flashing from behind the beast, rapid and fleeting; he doubled back in surprise and clamped his mouth shut but only managed to just catch the tail end of -- but no, not even that, it was too dark to make out and furthermore too fast to see. Roxas's attention darted back to the monster and he ducked his head, calculating a second before charging forward speedily, parrying anticipated claws raking in his direction with the upward thrust of his Keyblade in a sharp block. What was that shadow he'd seen? He had almost enough evidence to discern that it'd literally fired with the intent of ... helping them, injuring the monster, warding them away. Whichever one it was. Good, wasn't it?

Either way, Roxas stepped back fast and aimed another spinning low slice with a bitten taunt of, 'Here!'

but you know
legends never die!

Maybe his swing had managed to hit the creature but it was aggressively reactive, and it immediately responded in kind with directing almost glowing eyes unblinkingly, furiously on him - and it bled. Roxas yanked Oathkeeper back when it seemed to gain purchase (though hardly, because the scales that made up the monster's hide were far tougher than they appeared and that was the tale of how he learned exactly why the woman's direct hit earlier hadn't appeared to do all that much damage) and flitted back approximately the moment that the lizard-thing's rear end fairly exploded with gruesome red. He was hideously out of his depth; even if he had all the familiarity you could think of with hacking things to pieces, having gone through the motions only too many times before and having been trained into it, the idea of it had never been of explicitly killing. He extinguished Heartless and freed the hearts they had stolen. Now, he only managed to dig the slightest cut into the monster with his blades - sharpness apparently be damned - and scored just barely droplets of blood sluicing down its front onto the snow, and that blink-and-miss but undeniable pause of hesitation earned him claws digging into his arm before another ball of searing fire darted right past him right into the lizard's mouth and ... choked it. Set it aflame. Consumed its tongue, ate at its gums. Et cetera.

Roxas hastily threw himself back at the creature beginning to topple, azure eyes widening to their limit at the screaming creature's mouth and throat being cooked right in front of him, and only just managed to avoid falling from the thudding impact by digging his Keyblade deep into the snow like an anchoring shovel. Sorry, again. The fire was a fair reminder of what it felt like to actually be able to move his face but worked just as well as an indicator for what it was going to be like in here, in this caged arena - hideously cooking meat, bile, evidence that monsters were actually sentient beings over ... blobby things to cut down. More than anything, though, he'd managed to do basically nothing. More than anything, it was frustrating how much he couldn't get over it, even if he'd charged in himself. His head jerked up at the sound of an abrupt call, dragging his eyes up from the (smoking) wreckage of the beast's body to meet the initial woman's gaze after her sharp vague sentence. Oh. Keyman - key, he figured, looking briefly down at Oathkeeper as if only just reminded of its shape - equaled him. As such, he quirked a faint, vaguely hesitantly wary smile, though he did falter with the slightest of starts at her eyes. 'Uh - it's Roxas,' he answered, as politely as one could be half-frozen and no small measure of silently self-admonishing plus with a liberal heap of caution. The literal heat of the battle was gone, adrenaline fading; the temperature claimed his shivering attention once more, as did the awareness that likely not everyone was able to be trusted. Wonderful. '... It's nice to meet you.'

He had to get over this. Blood. He swung his unoccupied burning arm behind his back.

The whole situation all seemed ridiculously tame, at least on his part, and so to distract himself the blond lowered his gaze back to the perished being's body. Luckily it hadn't hurt anyone - much. Roxas scoured the area before locating his second weapon, sprawled out as it was in the snow, and deigning to approach it slowly with the other gripped tightly in a hand. He was just kneeling down to it (and gradually sinking to a worrying extent in the drift, such was the nature of this setting) when there was the steady crunch crunch crunch of someone - or at the least something humanoid - running their way. Roxas flashed a look over his shoulder just in case but found only the sight of another male glancing at them all, their mini ensemble of a woman and a small child and a ... fox lady. Then he began to complain and Roxas had to bite back a small genuine laugh, hiding his expression by turning back down to his Keyblade and closing his free hand around it. He stood again and turned around at the brunet's question, both large keys slack by his sides. His gaze flicked to the quieter sight over to the side, the inexplicable little girl and -- ah, the fox. So it'd been the one to have been unleashing those balls of fire. Roxas shrugged lightly at the other's first groan, unable to take the credit for the fight ending at all, but he did comment wryly, 'How about you? You'd normally introduce yourself first, right?'

He smiled, though, and offered again lightly, reservedly amicably, 'Well... I'm Roxas.' Pause. '...Colony?'

but you know
legends never die!

Blue eyes fell once more to the quiet scene of the girl and small vixen interacting; the shift from purse-sized animal to fully grown woman - albeit with a tail and all, a tail of all things to make it even more confusing - was disorienting for certain, but more significantly the way that the two spoke to one another... Roxas couldn't hear their words and it just seemed to be something remarkably private to look upon, so he redirected his glance back to the two others without watching them for too long. Maybe one would assume that he'd feel even odder being surrounded by others out of his age group, but it wasn't as though he hadn't spent most of his life around others that were older than him. Nobodies; no one even really knew what age they were. An eyebrow rose almost exactly as Reyn's (so he was named) creased, and Roxas's mouth fell open just slightly at the elaboration of a colony. It only meant a town? The word brought to mind a sort of ant colony; thousands of people milling about but perfectly in synchronised movement, systematically walking down the streets all taking steps to the same beat and probably all wearing a mirrored, blank expression ...

Not just due to the cold, the blond shivered and his mouth pushed flatly closed again. It did upraise with another incredulous laughing twist at the exaggeration, on the other hand, Roxas shaking his head with the slightest of entertained scoffs. This boy reminded him vaguely of a certain someone he knew. A couple of people he knew, actually. They were good friends, in any case, and Roxas's manner reflected it as much as his self-preservation instinct would allow; he could just find it within himself to ease back on appearing an inch from wildly swinging his Keyblades, at least. They pointed downwards. 'I don't think it really helps to tell you where we're from, anyway,' he added, waiting a beat after Ciri's weighed - almost imperious, if you took it that way, but there was a certain subtle edge of definite self-assurance more than mere bluster... except if it was - interjection to supply his own two cents. 'Unless you know a place called Twilight Town?'

In any case, the ashen-haired woman's words brought the rest of his trickling apprehension back in one fell swoop. Loyalties were never certain when there was anything as tenuous as lives on the line and it was exacerbated on knowing that they had to fight each other. After all, apparently it was all they were worth, making things 'interesting' - for real people. As if they were only puppets. Roxas alternated his stare between all the others, wary but unmoving: the newcomer, straightforward and mood-making enough in the kind of attention-grabbing way that was enough to hide any other miscomings should they exist (including secretiveness), the little girl that hadn't seemed all that bothered by the monster from before at all, the ... fox lady (he wasn't - and couldn't - going to pretend that he wasn't at least a lot little curious about how that was possible, but then again he existed even though he technically hadn't had a heart to begin with so ... maybe that was just a tad hypocritical) and the peculiar magic-using scarred warrior with very white hair.

... Honestly, ironically, if Roxas had any say in this, the one he'd be most suspicious of was the little girl. After all, he didn't know what she was capable of in the slightest, or what she really was.

........ Personally, that was. If anyone ever asked.

............... Though he'd probably just cough and pass instead of admitting it.

He exhaled slowly, adjusting his grips on his weapons' handles again, before focusing a tad curiously on Reyn. He seemed the most normal here, judging just from first appearances, and the way he spoke exuded it too - then Roxas eyed the fox lady. 'Um... you are?' he asked hesitantly, more on the grounds of carefully breaching her attention after the enclosed events that had just happened between her and the girl - also a touch of concern for how she might react to his inquiry. She'd be the second largest unknown after the young(er) child to him, hands down, even without the ears and single tail - Roxas could handle the existence of most magical abilities, having some himself and fighting with others that did too, but she'd actually become a fox. Powerful and quick, too, though it wasn't as if he couldn't say the same for the woman he'd first witnessed engaging the lizard-thing - and actually, the newly-arrived brunet's giant weapon ...

It seemed the reality was they were all unknowns here, then.

[zuka]

arty if u ever see this dont look @ the rest of the thread its ugly but we need to preserve!!!!! these two!!!

TRYING A NEW THING.
='①。①'=

- [abbr="[ narrative ] dialogue."]knock knock[/abbr] -

[ he isn't living it big, exactly - maybe - but that in itself is a big yet.

Maybe you needed a little more than a BMW with a suspiciously dented left side with the bottom interior caked with miscellaneous crumbs gathered from years on end - maybe you needed more than grimy windows, one still marred with the remnant in the form of a persistent outline around what used to be bird poop, specked with scratchy muddy but dry dotted flecks of gutter-water on the outside, and maybe you needed more than an iPhone alarm clock shrilling off psychedelic slumber in the morning with its buzzing under your pillow. You needed more than choking on Colgate when you noticed the time in the middle of thumbing through your phone in the middle of brushing your teeth in the middle of attempting unsuccessfully to wake up for the third time that morning; more than forgetting to take your breakfast along with you even after it'd been prepared and left on the counter, cooling and shriveling, and always being late.

But limousines cleared the streets and rolled out red carpets on the road with their presence alone, redirecting lights off the bonnet like a subliminal no autographs, please, chasing out the grimy-window rodents and the tow trucks spewing out smoke like steam trains clinging onto modern relevancy with the scornful swerves smooth as the rolling clicks of a film reel and flaunting their tinted windows with the gentle reminder of 'better than you' - they bumped off the lights that frantically battered at every side, heated photography jamming camera lenses with the heat of flickering a thousand times in a single second, purring like jaguars with how they almost seemed to slide down the sea of cement, and he is getting there. He will.

Little steps, after all; except you had to persevere to keep them from being too little. Beginner's mistake, clumsy and expectant but underachieving and lax - awaiting the world to go slipping at their feet so they could scoop up the excess and pocket it as if it was only luck. Only errant fame to adopt. A naive mistake.

Though - spilling through the automatic doors with a frantic wheeze and a wild glance all around before a following dash straight to the receptionist's desk hopping on his feet in the wait for the person before him to have their questions answered so it'd be his turn - it never hurts to simmer down just a bit. There it is, however, his opening, and the way it's snapped up is close to a lunge, almost-tacky orange red spilling by his cheeks in the frenzied storm. ] Hey, I'm sorry, could you please direct me to--! Oh, sorry again, I'm Ezekiel Ito, I-- okay, thank you. Thank you! Uh, if it helps I'm here for this .... filming, thing... [ cringe. An incredulous glance flits his way but sleeved pages clipped in a huge binder go in a trained flurry of the receptionist's fingers; names, numbers and emergency contacts in a phone number, and he hurriedly jabs his finger forward at the telltale flash of a Z and a K and an L close together. ] There!

[ floor level, room number, show his identification, OOPS they started filming almost half an hour ago. ] Thanks for your help, haha, I'm just... Yeah, thanks a lot, sorry for being a bother holding up the, uh, line - [ quick glimpse to check if anyone's there, which is a negative ] - well, bye! [ and he's raking spidery callused fingers through slightly brittle but still soft enough for-the-job strands as the messenger bag at his side is hiked up under his arm to stop it from swinging and as he sprints to the elevator, hammering the up arrow a couple of times before - augh, this is taking too long - wheeling around and throwing himself up the stairs two at a time, heart searing a white-hot hole of nerves through his left lung to a certain muttered mantra. ] I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die, I'm dying, I'm dying-- [ and unawares, behind him certain doors slide apart and await a passenger no longer patient enough to wait even five seconds - a passenger beginning to rake his nails through his yellow highlights and cringe during his ascent.

But at least now he's only thirty-three minutes late as opposed to thirty-five. Doesn't that count? ]

[ and, finally. ] Found it...! [ but not without heaving an endless stream of wheezing pants, resting a fatigued forehead underneath uncontrollable burning bangs against his arm pushed horizontally against the wall for support, and Ezekiel takes a moment right there recuperating directly beside the door of fate - now he's thirty-five minutes late, figures, but come on he just ran up three flights - before he stumbles off, staples his unsteady feet against the floor and mightily... cracks the door open to take a peek inside. Oh, good, at the moment everyone's only standing around, one with glasses peering down at a clipboard with disinterest and another fiddling with a tripod and another up on a ladder adjusting the lighting while everyone else is assorted in between those groups and others - he takes the time to subtly squeeze in through the very narrow opening and shuts the door silently behind him as discreetly as humanly and Ezekielly possible.

He's not a model (though he definitely is - the camera just went off. Only metaphorically; hopefully no one saw him). Spilling: him through the doors, forth the drying but thin and very rebellious locks of the impossible inferno on his head (he jests), his guts to whoever has any possible inclination in the next few moments to come by. Notably copious apologies for being late and I-won't-do-that-agains. Sorry, he's a one trick pony. ]

....Huarraghgah. Geeeez! [ a one trick pony that still needs to catch his breath and is flattening himself exhaustedly against the wall in a very classy attempt to slink Casually. Again, model, not track star. ]

@/art

- [abbr="save me."]01:31 AM[/abbr] -

[ flashing lights, a dime a dozen especially all in his face and overlaying his eyes; lean against there, please, thumbs in pockets, chin up and roll your eyes to the side, that's a star. It wasn't what you could call showbiz but it was, even accounting for fabrics worth more than your entire arm and also expensive studio lights and particular filters to slot over the top of them, profit, and if it only took a makeup artist dabbing at your artistic sweat in between every single couple of photos and touching up smudging foundation then there was no point in not snapping up such a generous deal. He doesn't pay for the makeup or the clothes, after all, nor does he pay for the booking of public places just for his shoots or the clearing of entire parks or meadows for those particular shots of him out 'enjoying the sun' - but it's only fair. He rakes in the dough, he takes his fair share of it home - he pleaded the fifth on what his average paycheck was but even more, it's no lie that no-names bite off everything they can get in the rapt desperation to make it big even just once (because, after that first time, they won't need to try); Ezekiel's no different, only a little less willing to admit it. Not that any of them are exactly clambering to tell, of course. It's shameless but shameful at the same time, doing it to do it but darting your eyes around to make sure no one else has seen. Can you tell? Even now, sliding his back down the wall just a little, forcibly quietened raucous pants dying quickly down to a more stuttering rendition of his normal breathing, patting down unruly misplaced strands of dyed brunet hair and discreetly already tugging down his clothes as unwrinkled as he can get them - flashing lights?

Yeah, they're acquainted. ]

GAH! [ but he and a composure are not. The plaster suffers his sporadic scrabble-claw-grab for dear life. ] Where did you eve-- I mean, I'm sorry, I swear I'm supposed to be in here and I didn't just sneak in randomly from the street! [ nor are he and impromptu thinking. Oh boy. ] Not that... you were thinking that... A-AHEM. [ ...but wait, properly (cringing all the way) meeting blue accusing eyes and hunting anxiously for a name to face, he stops dead. And points. ] Wait, I know you! You're that girl that's on channel - what is it - X, right? Right! [ the finger gains confidence. ] Yeah, you are! You're...? What was it, sorry, I don't really remember, but my sister seriously lov---

[ and then at her finished succinct inquiry, almost exactly on cue, he falters, alongside a nice blaring mindblank. To squeeze the time out for all it's worth, he slides a little further down the wall with his jacket bunching up with it just slightly for momentum to slip back on his feet away from his life support and grin - nervously sheepishly. ] Lines...? Oh, funny thing, I was waiting in a line just then, ha. [ ... ] Not that you were asking about that in particular or anything. Or as if you wanted to know. [ uh oh, the words are nudging at his lips; he swallows them back but it's futile, oh no, the urge is rising astronomically he needs to fight them off with something else-- ] Still, I could swear I have your name on the tip of my tongue. How long have you been acting, again? I didn't mean for that sound rude... at all, haha, augh, it's all just kind of coming out at once augh I'm so sorry, you're right, it's terrible, I swear I set an alarm almost an hour early for this but I never manage to wake up even with an alarm plus I even forgot to have breakfast today which is really worrying how am I supposed to survive without the most important meal of the day, urk - I was irresponsible and insensible and this is why I should never trust myself which is why I'm never going to trust myself ever again and I didn't even know or... realise I was supposed to memorise any lines gah [ big intake of breath - ] but it was all just a mistake and I swear that it'll be the last time anything like this ever happens or I'll eat my foot, promise! [ ... ]

Um, I didn't need to tell you, in particular... any of that, did I.

[ his temples need a good rub, so he indulges them. ] As in, any of that, except maybe for the thing about the lines... which I... don't know anything about... yeah, okay, that part was pretty important. Aha. Ha. [ he's raking his fingers through his hair again with a wincing brand of apprehension but it's at the back of his head, mussing the hastily styled tufts with enough gentleness to keep them in shape but just as much enough roughness to work off some agitation - not that it helps. Embarrassment, sort of, anxiousness, definitely, just a tad bit of fear? Well, there's that, too. Please don't fire him, there are so many more attractive models than him he needs this extra gig on the side or he's going to go broke and spiral into a hole of debt and regret and lost potential and his hair will get all oily and his roots will take over because he'd have lost the inspiration to keep bleaching and dyeing it... ] ...Hey, actually, weren't you in that one high school thing once with the...? Muppets? [ come to think of it, his entire head needs a rub, too. Maybe a little rough one, against this wall right here. It might put him out of his misery, even if only for a little bit.

AHEM ANYWAY. The overlying question here is: ] ...We had lines?

[ oh look, he's distantly noticed; accordingly the camera crew kind of begin dodgily setting things up again in the background, maybe shifting the props a little. The director's away, he hears, and so they're basically just going to take as many random takes as they can before they get kind of-sort of what they want without any fear of potential Gordon Ramsay on account of either his negligence or his laziness. Woohoo convenience! ]

- [abbr="I NEED YOU GIRRRL stop me from kpop"]you're so cold![/abbr] -

About that, ha, basicall-- [ her eyebrow rises with judgement and she affixes him with that stare. ] ...yes. Yes, I'm so sorry, I don't know what could have happened to them but it probably wasn't my fault and I mean I--! I... hmm. [ he's cowed into silence by her systematic turn to address the crew and systematically aggravated knit in between her eyebrows as she threads strawberry light hair in between her fingers, face in the light highlighted with just the faintest sheen of sweat in this muggy atmosphere. There are almost no fans allowed ever inside these rooms and you could discern the reason why - you couldn't have anyone's haircuts suspiciously out of place scene to scene, after all. It was only too telltale when two parts of a movie, allegedly consecutive and in fact one only a second after the other, displayed a character with their hairstyle changed almost radically; fans could not be trusted. Neither could air cons. Unless you wanted the sort of effect that had your hair seggsily blowing back on purpose, just whipping willy nilly - generally for photoshoots - then fans were a definite no. Including paparazzi.

... So Ezekiel can only stand there sheepishly rubbing his arm as the pretty girl goes about doing her job. He can't hide a wince when she says it so bluntly, just calling him 'the kid' and ... the thing about his lines, though it's true. Regardless, he folds his arms and takes to staring aimlessly about the room instead of feeling too self-conscious, surveying the people's ears almost rising up like an alerted dog at the girl's words and consequently, appropriately, going about setting everything up. It sends a little pang on the front that he's aware that he's just thrown ... what's the phrase, a cog in the works, just by pretty much existing (you can't give anyone like Ezekiel anything like a responsibility and expect him to uphold it, life just doesn't work like that), but if he can't own up to his own mistakes then there's no point hiding behind his own shadow. ] Ha... yeah, I'm sorry again. [ the girl possibly spares him the faintest of glances at his words but her attention is elsewhere, to more important things, and the expellation of a sign on her part speaks endless epics on just how much she's been through today, how much she's been through in the last four years of her life. She definitely does seem the type, Ezekiel letting his arms slip from their fold and dangle about his sides in a more attentive stance - fed up and agitated but rolling with the punches. If you could look at it in that way. Maybe she was just used to working with uncooperative people.

In any case, her eyes properly flit to him a few moments later - just when he'd almost forgotten the oppressively sharp sting of her gaze on him, not really by any conscious decision on her part but generally because oh lord the guilt - and she addresses him wanly, flatly and informatively. Yes, definitely accustomed to working with dropkicks. Erm, they could change that into a good thing? ] I-- alright, yep! [ some of his pep returns; not entirely, on account of that murky feel of insecure brightening like is-it-okay-for-me-to-be-happy-at-a-time-like-this, and he tries a little sheepish smile. She does not seem impressed. He promptly goes back to rubbing his arm. ] Yeah, I heard from some people talking about it - okay. Got it.

[ and, like a scene out of some movie, she begins strolling off - somehow, it's exactly like something you would see out of a movie. The perfect languid twist of her ankle, the subtle whip of her hair, her hands sliding into her pockets, and Ezekiel can wager a pretty accurate guess on exactly how annoyed with him she is at present moment even though she's doing a very good job at keeping her composure; if she's short with him, then he'd really have walked right into it. He calls after her. ] Alright! And, thanks a lo-- [ like as an afterthought, or the precursor to delivering a witty, snappy line, her head twists just slightly to the side and says almost dismissively -- oh. Never mind. The model flounders, fingers slacking from where it's digging into his other wrist, before his head droops petulantly. Augh. Okaaaaay. ] Will do. [ his voice is very clearly forlorn and flatter than it had been but, then again, whose wouldn't be? ] Thanks.

... Um, but what do I even ... do now...? [ the question, a rhetorical muttered one, scatters off into the thick unventilated (save for maybe cracked-open windows, or however they do things here in this place) air filled with the occasional smatterings of conversation from the other underwhelmingly generic teams. None paying attention to him, though a few people do glance over to him when they feel his gaze on their backs - he immediately averts his eyes though, steeples his fingers in the air awkwardly and remains stationery for exactly about ten seconds before - never mind, again - giving up and wheeling about to go ... into the break room. ] Eheh... hey, sorry to bother you, but. [ he makes a discreet face. A somewhat conflicted, a tad wary face. Honestly, the girl gives off the feel of a wild card; probably only just suppressing her unbridled wish to chew his head off in frustration but just managing to hold it in because of years of experience with the same thing. Does he really want to talk to her? Still, though, the genial beam returns. Making amends? Can they? ] I meant my question. So, how long have you been acting? [ his tone is as polite as possible, like poking a sleeping dragon with.. a soft stick. If that even works. ]

- [abbr="hit you with a brand new high!"]oh my my?[/abbr] -

[ there's a moment of horrified faltering when time stops and the actress doesn't answer for a beat that stretches on unnaturally long in his perception, but the amount that he brightens upon her acquiescence - even if only by way of giving him an answer - is embarrassingly substantial. In any case, it's some sort of embarrassingly genuine, though he does manage to smooth it down into a calmer (barely) ebbing beam. On the other hand, though, the awkwardness drags on relentlessly because he'd caught her attention just before they'd entered the room, so the two of them only - hover about outside. ] Seriously? Wow, that's really good! I've only been a model for ... oh, less than a year, huh... [ ... yeah. But along with the tentative energy returning to his movements, among careful examination of every inch of the girl's current expression just to make sure he doesn't suddenly go back to stepping out of bounds with her, it abruptly skyrockets at her next words, and his trailing-off murmur fully dissipates. ] Whoa-- really? Great!!

[ and equipped with many exclamation marks, Ezekiel takes no prisoners in immediately following after just for the promise of scones. Delicious pastries with all the jam and cream slobbed on them as you could even think of, creamy and inch yet fluffy and succulent and when hot they were perfect ... oh. He's drawn by the promise of, um, reconciliation with the girl, too, of course. That's... yes, it's certainly very important. It is. (Though his mind cannot resist the floating promise of almighty dessert deliciousnes-- ... he means, he's a little excited for them indeed. Yes. A little.) At any rate, the compulsion to express his gratitude overwhelms his faculties for a second too long - it goes spilling out very messily and very impulsively. ] Wow, thank you - geez, it's my fault and all but I'm starving and these are really going to help since... I should really stop talking, right. Yep. [ at least, these instructions adhered - if they can really be called instructions at all. He dithers around while she prepares it, stepping aside for the director and flashing him a rather twitchily respectful smile. Hi, he's not late at all. Ezekiel nods with unfathomable enthusiasm that's more than a little rushed as he obediently slides into the seat that she pushed a plate towards, almost outright gushing with his enthusiasm. Also drool. You'd think models wouldn't drool, but scones are scones.

And Ezekiel is Ezekiel, which is just about interchangeable with that. ]

Hmm. [ it's an ambivalent hum of agreement. He watches her for lack of anything else to do, because glancing down at his scones - even if at that moment plain - would only incite the sudden rabid urge to take one whole and shove it into his mouth. Hunger does things to people. Her movements with the knife are deft but he's distracted by her words, to which he casts a subdued glance in her direction - could it be? Yes, it could be and it is, with the girl smoothly handing him the knife and even smiling at him. Yep, it is. They're having a bonding moment!! ] Oh! Thank you! [ pause. Did he seriously just thank her for... oh well. ] It's Ezekiel. ...Ito. It's great to meet you, too. I'm sorry for all the fuss I caused.

[ with that, and a megawatt grin, he promptly gets down to coating his scones liberally with as much jam and butter as physically possible. By that, however much it looks like the scone can take without oozing either onto all sides of the plate; he's experienced with this, on the other hand, so he succeeds in crafting a sort of jam mountain on top of each one. Only boys worth their salt are afraid of getting their fingers or mouths dirty, pfft. Again, model propriety? What's that? The knife gets dropped rather haphazardly back onto his plate, Ezekiel garbling a bright sort of "thnksfrth'food" before picking one up between three fingers and - after huffing on it a bit to make sure it's not going to cook his tongue - abruptly shoving it straight into his mouth, unable to resist out of the clashing yet eventually combining forces of extreme eating on top of his hunger. That's how you do it. It's so good, too, and he makes a fair impression of the butter as it melts from the heat. Truthfully, though, between chomping and discreetly licking his fingers in a motion fast enough to pass off as only wiping the crumbs from his lips, there's something that strikes him as vaguely familiar ...

SWALLOW. ] Sorry, what's your last name again? I could swear that you remind me of someone ... [ to punctuate his contemplation, he slathers his next scone with jam. It takes a little less blowing for that one on account of its heat having drained away just a bit in the time it was left untouched, hence promptly deposited most charmingly back into his gullet for consecutively thoughtful chewing. Hayleigh's face ... it strikes something of a distant memorOH. He promptly chokes. ]

GAUARAGH. [ and cue a feeble slam of his hand against the tabletop preceding another, much rougher, swallow, before his finger is thrust in her direction. It's somewhat disbelieving but not negative. ] SIMONS!

[ Ezekiel has to clear his throat a few more times, however, but he does manage to get back on track after a second of recovering. ] Yeah! My -- my sister loves you! [ aah, that's why she's familiar. ]

[zuka]

forgot to put this - OH ★ HELL ☆ YES

- [abbr="note: ezekiel is the one at the back, 'sleeping' like a slob."]talking body[/abbr] -

[ ... it's crass to break the fourth wall, but he has to think it.

There's certainly something to be said about the way she just looks up and surveys him while he's choking. Casually, maybe indifferently even though she does at least look up and perhaps there may be some touches of worry plus he hadn't quite had his little oxygen-deprived fit long enough to really ring some alarm bells - but come on, what if he'd died? Maybe it'd be no skin off her back, but still! The probability of his death is a dire one! Dire!! He doesn't want to die! She could have at least made some sound of alarm!

Sucking it up, though - a thing that one must do when you want to get anywhere above eating instant noodles for breakfast, a thing that includes though is very much not limited to getting right down and delicately licking someone's shoe with the metaphorical wagging tail of someone desperate for a raise - the boy pats his chest with a closed fist so as not to stain his clothes, mere T-shirt it was not (for the record, it was a vest, whatever worked to allow him to give the best impression. Well, that was the intent, at least. He couldn't have exactly woken up this morning and foreseen that he'd gag on a scone) and beams, pulling back the accusator...ily happy finger. ] Yeah! It's a little embarrassing, honestly, but I guess the writers do have some fun putting in sarcastic jokes that little kids won't understand and - oh.

[ by all means, it's meant to be a privilege. Free pass: bring your pet sister to work day! A day as lorded as Valentine's Day and maybe even Christmas, a one-off wonder that occurred every year only of the unpredictable sort depending on how happy your superiors were. Wouldn't you like for your family members to see the atmosphere of your workplace? Wouldn't they be so pleased to realise that your job was actually more than sitting prettily (not that Ezekiel was personally meant to do that; being male in the media and young meant boyish and tousled, windswept tousled everything and askew ties. What, just because he's supposed to be in university means that he can't pull off the schoolboy look without a fair amount of feeling weird? Surely you just anything is okay when you're a model) in front of the camera?

Sure, if he wanted his beloved sister to snort at him derisively as he sat in a different sort of way in front of a vanity for upward of thirty minutes with a makeup artist piling on foundation and also squee (not squeal, squee) all over this girl facing him at present. Loudly, embarrassingly and unabashedly. She would do it. Mark Ezekiel's words. He knows her; how long have they lived together? Just when was the last time that they'd been apart for more than a few hours --?

But there's no way to say no. His sister's going to find out if he did and she will, somehow, because she'll manage to wheedle it out of him some way or another without even knowing that he was hiding it to begin with, and then she'd scream and make a fair attempt at throttling him out of the fury conjured off typical sibling-sibling rivalry and also the sheer steaming indignation on the behalf of the opportunity that he'd allow slip through his - her - fingers. Like he was going to be able to escape when she got into one of her moods. There was no escape. They didn't loathe each other, exactly, but you couldn't just put a boy and a girl together in a family and expect them to get along especially when they were both - ]

Great! [ - is unfortunately what he ends up blurting out, face afresh with an enthusiastic grin like oh, yes, seriously? Christmas just came early, and he nods in appreciation for her promise. It's not every day that someone would be so willing to accommodate someone else they haven't even met - well, and keep the promise, too. It's not as if Hayleigh can flake out, either, because it's literally the next day. Either way... he swiftly grabs the last scone on his plate so she can take it unhindered and so he can eat it. He blinks a couple of times at her next instructions - at least he has someone telling him what to do now, because otherwise he'd still be there flattened against the wall right beside the door heaving for air and remaining very lost - but nods obediently, discreetly wiping his mouth free of crumbs and clambering to his own feet after sliding the chair out with a fairly horrifically discordant scrape. Ezekiel tucks it in after himself from a sheer apparently appropriated politeness that seems to just sweep over him the moments he's in this girl's presence, this girl and her wholly accidental streak of commanding sovereignty.

He keeps nodding, all the way until she finishes and she's making her way out of the door. He calls after her, just one last time, and it's a very familiar situation. ] Okay! Thanks for all your help, Hayleigh! I'll see you later! [ he even waves, too, still with his ridiculously goofy (and this is why they make him pose with a serious, brooding look) grin as she slips out. Alright. Time to face the music.

... Now, who is Audrey? ]

EST. GMT +11, A.M.

TIME +22, NEXT DAY

[size=9px]- [abbr="EXID"]pink hot[/abbr] -

[ it goes just about as well as Ezekiel'd anticipated, which is to say that everything is absolutely horrible. ]

AUGH! Why didn't you wake me up earlier, you know how I am! [ his response is something that thuds heavily against the other side of his door like lead, and what if he'd tried to open it at that exact moment was his sister trying to kill him? ] HEY, I DIDN'T HAVE TO INVITE YOU ALONG, YOU KNOW. [ this time he gets a few 'gently spoken words' in reply, to which he cowers back behind his toothbrush because her voice throws very far even when she isn't shouting. She most definitely is now. ]

OKAY FINE I GET IT ALREADY JUST GO AND WAIT IN THE CAR!!

[ damn sisters. Damn twin sisters that are freakishly obsessed with dumb shows about the worst most contrived fluffy romances filled with ridiculous humour meant for kids. Honestly, what?

In any case, he wakes up half an hour late, bleary and rubbing his stomach vacantly with typical slothlike hunger, remembers only when he's slowly slipping into sweatpants that he's meant to be on set recording - the Valentine's special no less - and hence almost trips flat on his face when he practically sprints for the bathroom. He, again, misses breakfast, egged on by the condescending yells of his sister as she fusses over her clothes and makeup having woken up least an hour early so as to prepare accordingly, and they both end up tumbling into... his sister's car, which is comparably, embarrassingly, much better than his. Then they end up even later because she frantically switches her shoes upon realising that the ones she's wearing are pretty but she can't walk in them for long and she wants to follow her idol everywhere, and then a little longer because Ezekiel takes that time to go make some breakfast (he doesn't even end up eating it, being dragged back to the car before the bread pops back out of the toaster) then they're both off and after getting lost because his sister cannot read maps (and then blames him for looking down morosely at his stomach instead of out the window indicating where the building is) and then after frantically finding a place to park that's only semi-illegal they race each other past the pressure-activated doors - his sister winning by a long shot - wherein she closes the elevator just as he reaches it, so up 3 floors he goes.By foot.

At this point nothing would give him a more long lasting joy than taking whatever obscure scrap of signable material she prides his costar and ripping it into shreds. The instant that it's signed. Seriously. No mercy.

(Using the word costar lightly, which suggests that he makes up his own fair portion as a star of the show while she has the other. No ... it's more like Hayleigh trumps him in every way while he sweated and glanced very obviously over at the prompter. It took ten takes before they got fed up and just took whatever little he could give them, on account of not wanting to waste film. ... Waste more film than they already had. Never had sitting in front of a camera made him freeze up so much. How's he going to model now?)

And, well. Dream as much as he can about tearing his dearest twin's hopes and her own dreams down and smushing them underfoot as he might, there's no denying that he literally had to walk up three floors, and he stumbles in through the door almost forty-five minutes late with sweat beading at his temples and a deathly grip on the door handle (what, doorknob? Doorknobs are so eighteen-fifty) only to remember that he can't rip his dearest twin's autographed ... thing ... to pieces because she's probably going to make Hayleigh do it on her hand. Then take a picture of it, upload it on Instagram and never wash it ever.

For the record, Ezekiel takes makes unabashedly shameless use of social media as much as he possibly can to get his name out there, but try as he might to use it to his advantage it just ... doesn't work. So that's something. Maybe some people just aren't meant for fame. ...Don't say that to him, though. It hurts.

Too long didn't read, he opens the door to the set to see pretty much everyone gawking over his sister, who's already inside and somehow getting more attention than he does when he literally walks out on the street with no sunglasses or hat to 'hide his identity'. Basically: of course.

Thanks, Ariel. ]

... Eruuegghghhg.

[zuka]

[spoiler=street lights, people]16.11.15

          For someone that scarcely cared enough about others to trek out of their safe, warm
          home and generic comfortable place in front of the hearth, you'd think that that same
          someone would resign themselves to their fate forever hooked into the tempting thrall
          of twoleg-offered creature comforts, contenting themselves with barely moving an
          inch a day if not less and curling up at the foot of his twolegs' cushiony nests.

          Shocker, horror, overall stunner, today it seemed as though the leisurely life was not
          to be ... on sheer account of the fact that Scorpio had gotten himself accidentally
          locked out while sunning himself. He hadn't even seen it coming; he'd trailed out past
          the open door just for a moment and made himself comfortable, turning his face toward
          the sun like a very self-satisfied sunflower with all his limbs tucked in and tail curled
          nicely about himself. Yes, this was truly going to become yet another snapshot of a
          very fulfilling life. Just look at that smug grin. He didn't give a forest fire.

          Until the rather large Maine Coon had stood, given himself a grand shake of the pelt,
          wheeled around and padded almost directly straight into his front door.

          Naturally, his first reaction had been empty incomprehension, olive gaze blankly affixed
          on the solidly impenetrable wood. Then Scorpio had placed a single, testing paw on it.
          Then he'd flattened himself against it with some bouts of very loud unsuccessful wailing
          for attention; such came about the cruelest realisation that perhaps his twolegs didn't
          appreciate him as much as they should, and so, in a flurry of tears (what? Cats
          can't cry? What are you talking about), the tomcat stomped away. No, he wasn't sulking,
          either. He was making a statement. See if they last without him for a day. Mumble.

          And, you know, so here he is, staring blankly at the tomcat that was sunning himself
          as well. The reminiscence of this to his own situation brought forth boiling unadulterated
          rage. Who needs those fleshbags, anyway?

          Scorpio's head tilted mechanically to the side. 'Abandoned by your terribly ungrateful
          and highly irresponsible Upwalkers, too?' he asked plainly, sympathetically grimly.
          NO he wasn't being bitter. Blah. Who needed them, anyway? Not him. Those housefolk
          can go miss him. He'll let them stew a little before going back. Honestly. Ugh.

          (He so was.)

18.11.15

          Unfortunately, Scorpio had been and still very much was extremely unaware of having
          a live audience witness his glimpse of mature and reasonable request to get back into
          the house; the Maine Coon reeled minutely back at the other tom's admission of not
          exactly having his own housefolk, nose pushing up with a frown of half-pitiful indecision.
          'No?' he repeated almost rhetorically, slowly, and his sceptical disbelief shifted into that
          of very disgruntled realisation at the stranger's next words. He should have known; he
          didn't particularly have any smell that regularly denoted others staying with their own
          Upwalkers. Egh, he felt unclean now. 'I feel as though you have a very skewed view
          but don't let me stop you,' he meowed, politely and just a little twitchily. 'Freedom
          of speech, after all. It's more conversation than my Upwalkers can give me.'

          Living with his Upwalkers indeed definitely made for a very tame life; he slept wherever he
          wanted, mostly gravitating toward the warmed foot of his generous feeder's beds, and
          woke up whenever he wanted to give his legs a little stretch and head straight for the
          kitchen where a bowl of the softest and best kibble could already be found waiting for him
          alongside another bowl of clear water. He had all the freedom to enter and exit at his own
          whim with the installation of a cat door and many things had been given to him that were
          really all he needed - a tall snaking jungle of obstacles for him to climb and a peculiar post
          that he made sure to mark delicately before slashing approximately ten times a day - and
          he gave little but his own weight into their laps to be petted and brushed. Life was good.

          Save for the fact that the cat flap had the tendency to jam and apparently his benefactors
          found it perfectly fine to neglect letting him back in for hours on end (it's been around
          ten minutes). ... And he's not fat, damn it. Or lazy.

          Right?

          He was just letting his Upwalkers do everything for him because that was the way you
          did things. If someone was perfectly willing to fold your bed, you let them do it. Besides,
          they were his. He didn't follow any orders from them so he didn't see anyone wrong with
          sticking around and letting them heap food on him.

          Scorpio inclined his head for the presumed stray to speak, short ears flicking forth, and
          narrowed his eyes. 'It's freedom if you have no one to remember your face when
          you have died or not come back for a while, I suppose,' he answered seriously.
          'Or having to scrabble through rubbish bins just to be given one decent meal.'
          His whiskers shivered minimally. 'Though feeling absolutely no security can be
          missed, too, as well as suffering through cold night after cold night. Hmm. Yes.'
          The highly accidentally pretentious cat delicately settled himself in front of the stranger,
          blinking at him, and inquired curiously, 'Have you ever had your own housefolk?'

          ...Please don't be a ghastly forest cat, please don't be a ghastly forest cat.[/spoiler]
do i want to save my first get to know me meme. do i.

[zuka]

qotd: "Look at my mullet, girl. I want you to ask yourself this...could someone with hair like mine truly be evil?"

make detailed paras on

kingdom: structure, ruling gov, terrain, influences from other places (for me??? research?) as in societal norms, history

lucina: personality, background, influence of kingdom on morals, ambitions, motivations, thought on marriage, perceptions of husbands & others (tianyous fam, otis)

---

— ionia

OVERVIEW

ionia, the kingdom of science and technology, is one of the holistically larger kingdoms, almost double (?) the size of xizethia albeit not as large as the total surface area of the kingdom ruled by the lian dynasty. however, the empire is constructed generally by a number of smaller islands, and therefore singularly ionia's size itself speaks of the variety and diversity of life found within it. this abundance serves as a gateway for much of ionia's workings, steeped in the scientific zeitgeist of the country in a dogged, continuous pursuit to analyse and interpret the workings of life for the benefit of their living conditions. to a lesser acknowledged extent, their motivation is power; the logic is, by understanding all there is to know about life, it's a straightforward process to WORLD DOMINATION k no

STRUCTURE

three general divisions within ionia are known publicly, separated on the basis of aptitude determined by a test.....

* top limited number... top 25 of each cohort?
* proletariat?
* fodder in the gov's eyes failed the test?

irt schooling: unthinkably intense by any other kingdom's standards, drilling students with scientific procedures, methods of research, differentiating the branches of science... rudimentary education of all branches initially that they then elect specialities

SOCIETAL NORMS

insane pressure placed on the youth to become part of the top, a coveted position that essentially secures you for life, access to elite libraries and having authority over the kingdom(??); to become better, break the surface first, make breakthroughs and having your name spread, publishing papers. incredibly competitive and unforgiving environment; psychology is viewed as one of the sciences however clinical psychology itself as opposed to research is not as pushed? little support if these people taking the test fail;


****  idea for the kingdom: everyone is programmed at birth 2 have their lifespans drastically reduced for quicker turnover rate/stimulating pressure that encourages greater results in a smaller period?? or in order to speed up the process of different scientific contributions from diff. people.......... i don't know where i was going with this but the government would totally do this if they could..... b/c in science kingdom life itself wouldn't be valued as much as the end product sacrifices galore? unlike our modern world with our ethical practices ...


— lucina

BACKGROUND ,



PERSONALITY ,

this is ugly redo all of thsi

- every part of him is measured; his movements, his actions, his words

he's a genius, but that's not part of his personality. what's part of his personality is his neuroticism for getting the right answer, his steady focus on achieving the goals he's set himself higher than skyscrapers - because he can reach them. that's what they're all taught at school, conditioned, and lucina particularly was one of the sharpest knives in the abattoir. not so much competitive as thorough, he works collaboratively only in the awareness that science is not linear but the amorphous amalgamation of different but identical ideas meshing, refining one another, constructing a divine pathway from misspellings and nonsensical hypotheses saved in a note on one's tablet.

of anything you could call him, it wouldn't be selfish. [nor selfless, but he acts little from self-motivation - he's pragmatic.]


lucina is a person that's fundamentally easy to comprehend, however it's empathising that's the hard part. he has an intimate relationship with ionia's ugly smoke and mirrors, and he's in deep enough that he can't be excused accountability - drenched in the sort of depraved, hungry naivety extracted from the whims of starved polymaths. in many parts it's a thirst for completion, the venture for self-satisfaction in completing a project, and any questions or complaints he has about a game that's given him a platinum throne are kept where no one can breach because he is the furthest from idiotic.

beneath a veneer of frigidity and a near blank slate of emotional incapacity,

[Seliane]

asdfghjkl i love lucina sm,,,

[LUCINA]

wheeze!!!
im bad at looking 4 icons rip me

[Seliane]

yELLS i can share some of the ones i have if u like... when i get back tho.. since i'll be away from home for the next fourndays...and i'm sure u can always ask anni too bc i'm sure she has pLENTY lol

[zuka]

AHH BLESS YOU..... IF U DId i would appreciate it so much y___y yes i trust anni 110% with gifs of our fave dumpling

i really hope you and your siblings have a great time!!

[zuka]

[PUT A THING HERE ABOUT WHAT PEOPLE LIKE AND DISLIKE MOST ABOUT A CHARACTER]

a night owl albeit an early bird. it's cute the way he tugs his hood on and mumbles his words when he's tired, the hint of a whine, until he starts on one of his cleaning rages where he turns over the entire room even when there's no apparent sign of mess. he squirrels his possessions away and marks it into the bankbook lodged in his skull whenever someone borrows any of them, but drops it all to comfort, listen. he plays along exactly however much he needs to and sets his foot down before it becomes too much. a planner beyond imagination, following a little script in his head, lost to the wind at the slightest sign of change. stubborn enough to make you pull hairs out, yet frustratingly quick to back down once disproven. conservative - unadventurous. despite this, ambitious enough to consistently aspire to meet his own ends, and he has enough drive to make a lamborghini envious. unsettled, restless. indulgent, ridic. cute when he gets amazed over something simple. unthinkably consistent - kind of to a fault. has a knack of defying all expectations, even lapping them twice. often inscrutable, which can be frustrating in terms of knowing if he actually likes what you're doing or saying, but the real clue is if he shakes you off or just lets you keep clinging, and especially if he smiles. it can be hard to get that out of him, but you could think that managing to crack it is the reward in itself. trustworthy. laughably easy to pull one over him, despite (especially because of) how careful he is. getting his validation is gold.

ANY SECRET ATTRACTIONS? when gyeon finds it within his strict borders of rationality to feel something more than platonic affection for someone, it's difficult not to notice. he hands out smiles like they're brochures, glowing and fleeting, and lets himself be pushed around more with hardly any complaint. it's different; a side of him shown unintentionally but evidently, because somehow it becomes that much more difficult to hold himself still where they could be seeing him, noticing him. it's something of a pretty thing, his affection, for all that it's never quite been brought out into the open and stays private, iridescent, but he never knows what to do with it - if anything it's only the renewed light in his eyes, a sweetness on the edge of embarrassing, and ultimately nothing ever becomes of it because he tends to have something bordering hero worship generally for those that are older and more experienced than him in a Certain Thing. which means those people typically never give him the time of day regardless, not that he's pushy, and anyone younger than him immediately puts them in the category of people that needs his stern faces and most delicate shoulder pats. sometimes they break through; he's a bit shortsighted, and it takes bothering, fussing at him, all the subtle reminders he needs to actually focus on them. only sometimes. does his crush on wolverine count?

MONOGAMOUS OR POLYGAMOUS: by nature, with the rarity of him extending his affections to anyone at all it seems that he's more comfortable with a single trusted partner, being the most obvious go-to. on the other hand he's the type that adapts, and he's never been opposed to having more or less attention. given that he shrinks from the spotlight, one person's attention is more than frightening, but in one way or another gyeon (secretly - maybe?) thrives on attention. moreover, on the other hand, his kryptonite is stability, and a form of security that can be assured; gyeon doesn't often take risks, not while he has the elbowroom to run everything over thrice, and the like applies only when they've asserted ground rules, a stable dynamic, a fixed balance. regardless of how it may seem, he has a lot of affection to give in that tiny golden heart of his.

PERSON HE DISLIKES THE MOST: the majority of gyeon's life has been centred on bolstering his tolerance. towards people, his situation, words, struggles. despite this, there's only so much flattening out the ends of his patience and petting it down as far as possible that is possible when around the intolerable: thoughtless, provocative, those on trains that are easy to anger and spit words of filth without fear of retribution. and in those empty nights reflecting over his advancement, his achievements, his personality traits and tendencies and his future, sometimes the person he can't stand the most is someone much like himself.

PERSON HE LIKES THE MOST: whether he likes it or not, it's those that slip in insidiously - subtle, but permeating, and the ones that never leave him alone long enough to let him second-guess and shrink away and overthink. gyeon would rather compartmentalise than ask for support, but people that don't even need him to ask, that nudge and nudge and nudge and sparkle at him and glance at him for affirmation between every sentence, that pretend to take their friendship for granted but grab for him first - on  a level, those that understand him more than he does himself, the words he won't say and the ones he says too quietly for anyone else to hear - leave their deepest imprints. like that middle school striker, the one that always stuck his arm around his shoulder regardless of how sweaty either of them were, and made ridiculous bets just so he could give gyeon's cheek a quick little self-indulgent poke; like that magnifying glass-focused light, blinding in her vivacity and hair-trigger impulses, their eventual formation of normalised mutualism. whether he initially realises it or not, people that tug him from his comfort zone, open the blinds; a trend of people that shine brighter than suns, intelligent people that know much more than they give off and smile twice as much.

WHO HE RELIES ON FOR EMOTIONAL SUPPORT: for a reason he knows very well but oftentimes pretends to forget, one of the hardest things in the world is probably releasing his inhibitions long enough to admit what he can't do. at least, that was more of the case when he was younger, trying to push past the brink of what was impossible to do independently in the name of proving himself. or something. now, so long as he doesn't think too hard about it being weakness or a point of vulnerability, he can bring himself to open up at least to those understanding of his situation - albeit never anyone that in turn already have much to deal with. it goes against his sensibilities.

PEOPLE WHO RELY ON HIM FOR EMOTIONAL SUPPORT: people tend to like that gyeon's dependable. he has a warm shoulder to lean on, he listens unobtrusively while giving his support in the form of vivid expressions, he's there - cradling coffee, playing with his cat at home, constant, reliable, forthright. the web of people around him are inevitably roped into it at some point, whether it's the day they meet him or somewhere far along the line, kicking their feet off the side of a veranda, rolling a chilly can of asahi between their palms and glaring out into the sunset. something about gyeon invites it, the way he takes everything onto himself and looks over people out of the foreground. this doesn't apply to those he idolises; bad as it is, he becomes at a loss.