Tʜᴇʏ sᴀʏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴏʀɴɪɴɢ ᴄᴏᴍᴇs ғᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ ( ᴄᴀᴛᴄʜ-ᴀʟʟ )

[stations]

Who: Jack & Company
When: August
Where: Thorne, Horizon
What: Catch-all
Warnings: mental instability, violence, (self) gaslighting

𝐹𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑎𝑠𝑙𝑒𝑒𝑝, 𝑠𝑙𝑒𝑒𝑝 𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔
𝑆𝑙𝑒𝑒𝑝𝑤𝑎𝑙𝑘𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑠𝑙𝑒𝑒𝑝 𝑤𝑎𝑙𝑘 '𝑐𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑒
𝑆ℎ𝑒𝑒𝑝 𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑡 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑚𝑒𝑒𝑡 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑠

Comments

[ushiri]

[ That's alright with him. He'll take a bad liar over the alternative— someone like himself, or worse. He hasn't known Jack long enough to say he trusts him, but Kahlil trusts that Jack means well.

Their palms meet, and the callouses are a little unexpected. And there's the severed finger, but like the missing half of his leg Kahlil doesn't seem bothered, only curious. Another reminder that he knows next to nothing about Jack except the vague understanding that he's been through something terrible and strange in his life.

He'll have to find a way to ask, this time. It helps that Jack is nothing like Alidas.

Kahlil's hands have their own callouses across his palms. His sleeves are pulled back enough from the movement to show his wrists, covered in thin white criss-crossed scars, most of them faded now by over a decade, but there are one or two that are newer. On Nayeshi he made a point to keep them covered, wearing long sleeves on even the hottest days. The Prayerscars on his eyelids were strange enough for most people. He was proud of them, so he didn't mind the odd looks he got whenever he had to walk in public. But when people caught sight of his arms— that bothered him sometimes. It didn't take him long to overhear in a whisper that people tended to think the scars were self-inflicted. They had no idea who he was, or what those old wounds signified.

Neither will Jack, though that's kind of the least of his worries right now.

After a second he closes his eyes, pulls in a breath through his nose and out his mouth. Repeats that again, then again. Their room is quiet, he doesn't have to work to block out much. There's no sounds of a house settling, no pipes rattling behind the walls...

He doesn't remember opening his eyes. There's an expanse of land in front of him, but it's hard to fix his attention on any single piece of architecture or greenery, all except for the towering figure in the center and the impression of a gas station in the near distance.

He recognizes nothing about the stranger next to him until his gaze settles on the Moon symbol. He presses his own hand on the Hanged Man motif etched into the leather of his duster. ]

It's so empty. [ he remarks— mostly to himself, walking a slow circle around Jack, his gaze fixed on the ground. He doesn't remember what he expected, or if he had any expectations at all. After he completes a circle he stops, crouching down and placing his palm on the ground. ]

[stations]

( If it's any consolation, Jack doesn't so much as glance at those scars. He can be observant at times, but usually those times are reserved for when shit is hitting the fan and he has to step up to control unwinding chaos before somebody dies. Outside of peak insanity, his observational tendencies tend to do what the rest of his brain can't — they curl up in bed and take a nap. The truth is, even if he had noticed, that's exactly the kind of thing he would decide is absolutely none of his fucking business, and he wouldn't spend more than a couple of seconds thinking about it before pointedly and decisively moving on without judgment.

He's not really sure what he expected Kyle's domain to be. Not an ant farm, that much is sure, but he doesn't actually know the guy very well. Nothing about him screams beachside resort, baseball stadium, or bunny ranch, but all the same, practically vacant wouldn't have been on his list.

He doesn't remember creating his own. It was only ever going to be the gas station. Maybe he skipped the creation process altogether? )

Yeah, it is pretty... ( He searches around for a world that doesn't sound offensive, and ultimately settles on: ) Minimalist. You should think about getting a fountain or some posters or something sometime.

[ushiri]

[ It should bother him that he can't remember anything of his history beyond his own name. He should probably feel more suspicious of the person he's speaking with right now, all things considered.

He glances over his shoulder at the other man, his fingers digging into the bone white sand.

The Moon, the dreamer.

That feels like fate. ]

I think you should either leave— [ he cocks an eyebrow ] or stand very, very still.

[ He doesn't want him to leave, but he offers the warning anyway.

He lets his hand slide further into the sand, and the ground beneath them begins to shift. Echoes of thoughts become shapes become solid forms, the first to appear is a tree, its dark iron trunk laced with veins of gold as branches surge up to almost the height of the marble walls that begin to solidify around them, a glass dome catching the light some seventy feet above their heads. From the iron branches sprout pale crystal leaves, and from their tiny buds form crystalline fruits: bright red, translucent apples that cast dancing ruby lights on the stone floor.

Lanterns burn on the walls, incense burns from holders that bloom around the tree like so many flowers, lazy smoke trails drifting up through the metal branches.

Whoever he is, he isn't an ascetic. There's nothing minimalist about the temple that's built into existence around him.

It's not finished, but it's a good start.

He reaches up to take one of the crystal apples, surprised and not surprised to find it doesn't feel like holding a stone: there's a fleshiness to it when he squeezes, and so he doesn't hesitate to take a bite. The inside is a pale yellow, just as translucent and alien as it appeared from the outside.

The taste is like—

It's only right then that remembers he might still have an audience. He turns around, looking to see if the dreamer remained or if he left. ]

[stations]

( The wonder of creation that unfolds around them is, in the most literal dictionary-definition sense of the word, awesome. Jack isn't a very expressive person by nature, but even still it's pretty visible on his face that awe was, in fact, inspired.

He sees a lot of crazy shit in his life. A lot of terrible shit, a lot of fucked up shit. Usually traumatizing, scary, violent, or abstract to the point of being nearly incomprehensible.

But he doesn't see a lot of beauty. )

Wow.

( Suffice it to say, the dreamer remained. )

...I guess that's a little bit better than a poster, yeah.

[ushiri]

[ At this awe and approval he smiles, as wide and uninhabited as if he'd drank a gallon of fathi. ]

Come on, dreamer. [ He tosses the apple to Jack. If he catches it, he'll note that it feels no different than a regular apple. If he drops it, it'll crack on the stone floor, shattering in half from the place where a bite had been taken from it.

Whichever happens, he strides gracefully toward the open doorway of the temple, out to the garden that wreaths it. Apple trees grow out here too, but of the normal, wooden variety. Grapevines creep up the stone lattice built into the structure, their fruits ranging from green to pink to dark purple. A clear stream winds around the structure, a single path crossing from the doorway outward.

He walks backwards from here, staring up at the two stone figures flanking the temple, they stand just a bit taller than the glass dome. Both are men, their musculature detailed so realistically that you might have to look twice to be sure their chests hadn't just risen and fallen with living breath. They have their arms outstretched, beckoning. Their faces aren't entirely formed yet, but there are details that mark them as different from each other. One springs from a base carved of flowers and ivy that encircles him, something naturally inviting and warm in his pose. The other forms from a base carved of rushing waves and crumbling earth, his outstretched arms seem to welcome the destruction around him. ]

I can't remember what his faces are meant to look like. [ His grin fades at this realization, shifting into unease— but then his attention shifts almost suddenly, his gaze locking on the closest neighboring Domain with raised eyebrows. ]

Is that yours?

[ The gas station. ]

[stations]

( He does technically manage to catch it. It slips out of his hand once, goes bouncing up into the air, slips out of his other hand, and winds up cradled against his chest like a newborn baby before he manages to secure it, but he does catch it. Once physics stops fighting him, he takes it in hand and holds it up to get a proper look at it in the light.

Definitely not the kind of fruit they sell at the gas station.

Mostly because they don't sell any fruit at the gas station, but this thing is incredible.

He's not normally a huge advocate of eating after people he barely knows, but... come on, how often do you get the chance to bite a crystal apple? He has to admit, it's tempting.

In the end, he figures it's probably safer to gently set the thing down at the foot of the tree before he follows — just in case it's like a big, significant... religious... fruit... situation. He'd hate to be That Guy.

He catches up and falls into step right on time for the question, and follows Kyle's sight line onward toward his own domain. )

Yeah. ( Which sounds only faintly embarrassed. Probably not as much as he should if we're being realistic, but it's there a little all the same. Can you blame him? Comparatively speaking, he feels a little bit like he did as a kid, walking into class with a duct-taped backpack and Social Services donated clothes two sizes too big — just to sit down next to the rich kid.

Despite that, he still sounds light and easygoing when he speaks again. ) I think you just gentrified me.

[ushiri]

[ There's no particular religious significance to the apples or the tree of iron beyond the obvious: all things come from Parfir. Only the statues signify any relationship to the Payshmura Church, and even they aren't copies of any that exist in Basawar.

( something he'll have to consider when he returns, with his memories )

Kahlil chuckles at the dreamer's remark, shaking his head before inclining his chin toward his Domain again. ]

I promise I'm not judging— but... why a gas station?

[ Kahlil puts emphasis on the question, genuinely curious. He could create anything, there must be more to it. He wouldn't have formed one if it didn't hold some meaning to him. ]

[stations]

( Jack blinks — like it never even occurred to him to question it himself. Like he never thought it would come up, like nobody would ever wonder let alone ask. )

That's where I work, back home. ( He answers simply, with a shrug. ) I guess I own it now, technically, but... yeah, I've spent most of my adult life there, more or less.

( And a lot of his non-adult life there too, in a way, considering Sabine had been his life from age seven onward. Considering her parents owned it, and everywhere he lived seemed to be within a certain proximity to the place.

It probably sseems stupid, making his domain his job, but... )

I don't really have anywhere else.

( Even his house isn't really his house. It's certainly not his home. It's just... where he goes when he's off the clock. It's the place he showers and stores his books. )

[ushiri]

It's what you think of when you imagine home. [ He nods, frowning slightly. Then, matter-of-factly: ]

It's become a part of you.

[ There and here now.

It might be strange, but he's sure that there are people who would find this temple strange. It's all a matter of perspective.

He smiles at the dreamer again, then glances toward the gas station, eyes narrowing. ]

Do you have nachos and cheese?

[ It is a gas station. ]

[stations]

( Jack doesn't say anything about it, but he takes a minute to consider the concept — and ultimately decides home isn't quite right. It's a part of him, yes, but it doesn't feel like home. It feels more like... his responsibility. His obligation. As long as the gas station exists, someone needs to guard it, and there's nobody who knows it better. Nobody better capable of surviving it. At least, nobody that doesn't have terrible intentions.

The gas station is his duty.

Of course, explaining that to a stranger would sound absolutely batshit, so he just nods and carries on. )

It's a gas station. ( He answers, like it should be obvious. ) Of course we have nachos. Come on, they're on the house this time.

( And probably every time since money here is fake, but they'll cross that bridge when they come to it. )