[ closed ] Winter in September (October, November...) (dungeons + catchall)

[userunfriendly]

Who ❄ Michel and friends(?)
What ❄ area runs & overflow
When ❄ September and on
Where ❄ dungeons, assorted
Content Warnings ❄ kidnapping, captivity, suicidal ideation, self harm, TBA

⬣ Chasing Sunshine's Two Wings

Comments

Dungeon: Chasing Sunshine's Two Wings

[userunfriendly]

[ New patch means a need for more gear, more gear means more dungeon runs...

Winter is confident enough that any full party should be fine now. No, it's not the party that's the problem. When they load into the area he looks at the volcanic wasteland with a despair as bleak as the landscape. ]

Is the randomizer broken? Is it always this environment?

[ Someone should probably have been tracking the keyword effects more meticulously, oops. Winter is melting. ]

[threatmewted]

You've been getting these places, too? 'Least I'm not the only one.

[She looks so unimpressed. She's also currently a Flick Reaper.]

[curvaceous]

Ah. Here we go again.

[ Fuck! The! Heat! This sucks! ]

Somehow I keep ending up here, too. It's pretty miserable.

fine wine private rooms - mirror mirror

[userunfriendly]

[ Decorating is far from a hobby of Michel's, as his real-life room would attest to. But the crafting system has been a way to pass the time, and making their private rooms more functional is worth expending a little effort.

(Of no object is the fact that his freeform crafting experiments had been less than fruitful. It doesn't matter. He'll stick to the security of the regular craft menus now.)

That's why he's sitting on the floor of Ganymede's room with some paper for scribbling layouts beside them, fiddling with his crafting menus. ]

...What did you need in here? The system has most basic furniture.

[ And Michel has only the loosest idea what kind of furniture humans usually make use of, to be honest. But he somewhat suspects Ganymede is on the particular side. ]

[ganymed]

Maybe something like a dresser? If we start off with that, it'd be simple.

Plus, I don't know how many clothes I'm going to get in-game, so I'd like to keep it where I can access it easily so that my inventory doesn't explode somewhere down the line.

[ One of the most convenient things about having a guild to place stuff in, as far as Ganymede is concerned.

Sure, it makes it feel more realistic, but there's something nice about that too. It's a game, he should be able to enjoy it however he likes. ]

Maybe some chairs afterwards as well.

[ What is a room without chairs? Not one at all, that's what. ]

[userunfriendly]

What colors do you like? Dark or light?

[ Michel might be silently patting himself on the back for this strategic maneuvering, but it mostly doesn't show on his face... probably. Yes, he has his own ideas about Ganymede's taste from what he's observed so far. But why do guesswork when he could have certain answers right from the source?

Alright, no amount of stoicism can keep a small smile from his face. As he thought, Ganymede has plenty of ideas how he wants things. ]

...You might get so many clothes that you'll need dressers at every guild.

[ Is he suggesting Ganymede seems like the type? ...Yeah. ]

[ganymed]

Light. Darker colors aren't my style unless it's some kind of blue.

[ Unsurprising, perhaps, that he goes to list his preference as well. That being said... ]

I wish they had compact mirrors too. Sure, it's a game, but can you imagine the convenience, and realism? All without it being nonsensical like unreasonable temperature changes.

[ Yes. He's still complaining about that. Will he stop bringing it up? No.

Though he does notice the smile, and thoughtlessly sneaks a loose blond hair behind his ear. For no reason at all. ]

[userunfriendly]

Is that why you made your avatar's eyes blue?

[ Ah... he hadn't meant to ask that, either. Averting his eyes busily to tap through menus — although not before he catches that little hair fiddling gesture. Hm.

Elm is light, and that should make an adequate dresser. Building that first so Ganymede can be a little distracted with it too. ]

They might add something to a future patch. That's usually how these systems work... they put most of the desirable things at a high level to give the player a reason to grind. And a false sense of accomplishment for doing so.

[ Chairs next, Ganymede said? Let's see... ]

[ganymed]

[ ...A small pause. ]

...Something like that. The aesthetic appearance of the color looked a bit better.

[ Not that he has anything against anyone having green eyes. But, for some reason, on himself, it makes him think of that man. It's not really a healthy thought, and Ganymede knows that, but... ]

That's dumb. They should just give it already.

[ It sounds a bit childish for him to say that, but is he wrong? Some people making games have little to no braincells, he swears. ]

~Nov 10, postbattles

[userunfriendly]

[ Under the influence of the guilt of the moment, it hadn't been hard for Sinclair to convince Michel to join the Phantom Operatives. But the guild headquarters is small for so many people — for an entire virtual world, in fact, all of Fragment is small. There are so few places one can go to be truly alone. Even the dungeons are no guarantee.

Michel has worked out the best solution of the moment that he can. Dungeon trips to make use of his maximized gathering abilities; then back to the Netslum, wandering the storage shelves to add things or gently sort them into neater piles. It's likely more organizing than he's done in his entire life up to this point. But the tedium of it is soothingly reminiscent of the databases work he'd done at home; he can picture the underlying structure of the data tables as he wanders the shelves.

This place isn't wholly isolated either. But Sinclair's company is soothing. At the sound of footsteps he leans out from behind the shelf to offer a greeting, then pauses in mild surprise. ]

...Scitalis.

[ Not Sinclair. But not an unwelcome face, either. A little of the perpetual tension in his shoulders eases anyway. ]

[ophidie]

[This kind of work suits her, and Miharu's found a comfortable rhythm in serving the players who stop by the Net Slum storage as if they were her very own customers. Sometimes she has the acute sense she's being upstaged by a Grunty, but... someone has to take a firm stance about the allocation of their remaining supplies. With so many people she knows convalescing in the infirmary, the job also lets her watch over them when they least expect it, though she has nothing on the head nurse.

When Miharu heads back at the dawn of her shift, Winter is already there in the shelves. Michel, really. He was only ever Winter in the game as long as she'd seen him, his name a close-kept secret the way one holds a vulnerable part of themselves. She feels as if she saw Michel in that cathedral, which might be an insulting thing to tell him.

Tugging her gloves up higher on her forearms, she joins him at the rack of hanging plants at flowers, bands of color standing out even here.]

You know, it's fine to call me Miharu like the rest. [It isn't her given name, not the name she remembers having in Fragment, but she must have trusted the others with it for a reason. Even if she can't remember it being hers, it's meaningful comings from the mouths of people like Yuui, Haru, and Emil.]

[userunfriendly]

[ They really haven't spoken much, have they? But it's strangely easy to give her a tiny sidelong smile, making room for her to work beside him. He feels like he understood a glimpse more of her during that battle, too. ]

Sinclair mentioned it. I wasn't certain if it was personal.

[ Although Sinclair is generally careful about things like that. They've all been scrambled lately, and boundaries are blurring. More for those with only the one set of memories, if that.

He gives a brief glance to her gloves — it's the sort of gesture that draws attention, when he isn't too lost in his own problems to make note of it. ]

...You can call me Michel, then.

[ Everyone knew that name now. But there's a distinction for him. From the mouths of people he didn't offer the name to himself, he'll always hear something subtly, intangibly different. ]

[ophidie]

Sure. [She agrees with a slight smile of her own. A lot of people already do, she gathers, but Miharu understands implicitly what it means to have actually been given it. It's familiar, the amount of times she's heard it in the guild and when fighting Gorre, but this is really their first time being introduced to one another.] It is personal. That's why I'd rather people keep using it.

What've you brought for us today, Michel? [Idly, she wonders if trying to be useful is his way of seeking "forgiveness," an abstract absolution for things he couldn't control in the first place. Even so... she also remembers their conversation in the dog park; he would try to aid even on person if he could even while avoiding everyone else's company.]

[userunfriendly]

[ He gives a little nod of understanding at that. He'd been private with his own name, once. But once they seemed in danger of losing them... That was different. ]

Not much. I found some Powdered Demon Horn in my inventory...

[ Even with Gorre's memories, some of what he was doing is lightly indecipherable to Michel. Was he really hunting for food in dungeons? He supposes he should be grateful that the AI hadn't decided to eat something truly strange. ]

Anything I can add is just a token compared to what Zelkova left to begin with. But Sinclair said another hand to help with sorting things might be of use. ...Do you mind?

[ He can come back at another time if his company is uncomfortable. But as graceless as he is with these things, he doesn't think that's the meaning in her expression. ]

[ophidie]

[It's true that Zelkova left them with more than they could conceivably hope to gather themselves in such a short amount of time. The remaining indeterminate stretch of time would look even bleaker without this place. Even with all of this, potions are their most finite resource.]

Have at it. Just don't make anything impossible to find. [Her tone is stern. Unlike Emil, she might be a little put out if the sorting system were to change around completely. Speaking of impossible to find...]

Are you hoping someone will come looking for you here? I'd like to know if I should expect company. [She knows that song and dance of running without telling anyone. Sometimes you want to be left alone; sometimes you want to be chased.]

~11/22? Post-Skeith, infirmary (miharu + sinclair)

[userunfriendly]

[ A broken shoulder and a few fractured bones is enough of a good excuse to stay put in the infirmary, not that Michel needs one. He's inclined to move as little as possible, painkillers or no. Although — it might be the most badly he's ever been injured, but not by such a terribly wide margin. The physical discomfort isn't much of a deterrent.

As much as he would, personally, have preferred to remain unaware of the world around him, he's been dragged forcefully back to full consciousness again. He does not have the knack of dissociating on command. Forced to find much more mundane ways to deal with the stretches of boredom, he's now claimed a corner of the cozy little nook of the infirmary and is passing the time playing chess match after chess match against himself, nursing a cup filled with... juice? It's fine. Surely he wouldn't do anything contraindicted by doctors.

He wants to go check in on the others who should still be sleeping off their injuries in other rooms. But he wants to not disturb them... He moves a chess piece the way a child would pick a petal off a flower to make the decision. If he wins, he'll go look. If he loses, another match. ]

[ophidie]

[By the time she'd actually brought herself to the infirmary, the bruising on her side had been practically black. The adrenaline and chill had all faded Miharu's been advised to not laugh, cough, or cry as much as possible, and at least one of those seems like an achievable request. Any additional time here is just to recuperate what she can.

Though she won't admit even to herself that she feels this way, it's a relief to see Michel up. When he'd attacked her, she hadn't been in her right mind, either, but in the wake of the battle, his distress seems starker in retrospect.

Miharu plops down wordlessly in a nearby cozy chair and watches him ponder his next turn. If he's always playing against himself, won't be always both win and lose? And while this might make for a rather boring introductory move on her part, she continues to sit there in silence, though clearly paying attention to him.

It's what she might have wanted someone to do for her, after all.]

[userunfriendly]

[ He'd once quipped that this was like meditation for him, but honestly... it may not be too far from the truth. He hears someone settle down across from him — but until he sets the next piece on the board, he feels no obligation to look up.

As soon as he does, his expression folds in instantaneous, transparent worry. Gone is the blank void of reaction he'd shown immediately following the fight. The quick, searching gaze he flicks over her as he assesses her for injury is only a few shades away from panic.

Unfortunately... he's played Fragment entirely too much. He knows what class Vak Makima was a move for. He knows there were only two Edge Punishers present at that fight. And he knows, when his vision went dark, where Mithrun had been. So even blindness couldn't shield him from the understanding of his sins for very long. ]

Miharu... how are you feeling?

[ It's a trite, hopelessly small thing to say. But he does have to ask. ]

[ophidie]

[Wouldn't he rather sit in silence a little longer? It's always as if talking opens up more opportunities for later regret; speak with someone, and it's easier to notice their absence later. Though Miharu considers keeping her own silence, recalcitrant and withdrawn, maybe she really has changed over the time she can remember. She answers him soon enough after all.]

It only hurts when I breathe. [Though it's tongue-in-cheek, she won't downplay it: This is painful, pale in comparison to the experience of being data drained and yet more draining because it's so persistent and slow to recover.] I should be asking you.

I actually wanna ask you a favor instead, Michel.

[userunfriendly]

[ It's the risk either way, isn't it? Sitting in silence allows more time for his own thoughts. And the longer he dwells on things, the deeper into the mire he sinks; not just until he can't see the light any longer, but until he's so far down that he no longer can recall the memory of what light looks like.

He'd come here to run from his problems. But here, he's truly trapped. So perhaps with his back up against a wall, he can finally stop running and confront them outright. He gives a tiny exhalation at her quip. Not quite a laugh, but for a moment his forehead is furrowed slightly less. ]

I'm... [ not fine, and he needs a better default to skip over so he doesn't have this awkward pause every time, ] ...Not going to be lifting anything with this arm for a moment. But provided that's not the favor you wanted to ask...?

[ His gaze is intent and, beneath the awkward stoicism, quietly hopeful. Something he can help with? It would be immensely gratifying if that were true. ]

~post-Skeith, Justy!

[userunfriendly]

[ Michel's nerves have been fraying for weeks now; it's been at least two since he would have sworn that he was at the very last of his endurance for human contact of any kind. He hasn't bitten anyone again... yet. But some days are a nearer call than others.

In many ways it was much easier back when he was still willing to shut other people out entirely when he felt like this. But even so; he doesn't entirely regret that he's managed to change, or been changed, with or without his cooperation. And some company is easier for his tired soul to bear than others.

For instance, he feels no need to explain himself when he pushes the door to Tylor's infirmary room open with one foot, his one good arm (left) piled with random manga and an inexplicable Jenga set. Could this have been done in the public area without carrying things? Yes. But then there would have been more people, and he would no longer make any promises about biting. ]

Are you sleeping?

[ Asks the man who just barged in... ]

[tylorific]

[ Justy's leg is mostly healed by now, splint turned cast turned boot marking his progress as the days and weeks and fights marched on. He'd been so present before the fights, spreading himself thin yet elevated by socializing. Keeping things light, giving anyone that wanted one a reason to laugh. Yet losing people was always hard on him. Fighting them was almost worse. Grief seeped in as they dragged on, barely noticeable save in the small ways that left him wandering off alone more often again. Adrift, fluid and aimless unless found; concern waved off with a friendly hand or an offer to hold theirs.

A smile is forever an easy, genuine thing for him to find for others. Even when they're barging into his room while he's in the middle of napping. The fresh bandages around his head are even more visible once he sits up in bed looking way too happy to see Michel. He's more than a little scraped up, answering way too fast-- ]

Yes.

[ a blink, a little laugh. ]

Well, not anymore. [ There is barely a breath before he keeps talking. His gaze, pointedly on the things in Michel's good arm-- ] So, what'd you bring me?

[userunfriendly]

[ Michel narrows his eyes a little at those bandages. The fights are becoming a haze now, one after another before he feels he has a moment to breathe. Is that injury his responsibility too? Very possibly.

But he's already been shaken out of the hazy comfort of his complete disconnection from this place. So he's not going to curl up into another ball of guilt when there are too many things to do. He only pauses for a second before he continues his purposeful march inside to plop himself in one of the visitor's chairs and deposit the haul he's brought onto the table. ]

Comics... and another game for you to beat me at.

[ Yes, yes. That's not the point. He flicks a glance over Tylor's scrapes, and his brow furrows again. ]

Have you been getting out of bed like that?

[tylorific]

[ Tylor's gaze follows Michel to the table, his own body beginning the movement off the bed almost on excited instinct. If the happy little sound at Michel's answer is any indication. ]

Should I let you win more?

[ He jokes, one leg haphazardly off the bed and one hand on his old crutch by the time Michel is brow furrowing at his scrapes. Predictably, Tylor doesn't seem bothered by them with his attention squarely on fun things.

The question earns a blink, gaze pulled from shiny new things to the look on Michel's face like he only just noticed his cousin in law's expression. Just as he's carelessly pushed himself off and toward the table, he wobbles to a stop but seems unconcerned.

Also clueless-- ]

Huh? Like what?

[userunfriendly]

No. That would be patronizing...

[ Michel puts the things down hurriedly on the nearby table to free his hands, barely overcoming the impulse to drop them in an undignified rush.

Why... why does Justy put him in mind of an overenthusiastic puppy, getting to his feet and wagging his tail as if completely insensible of the fact that he's still healing? Michel steps in to put a steadying hand on his arm. ]

Like— like this! Often! And when you're liable to fall!

[ Hopefully Justy never expected his personality to change so drastically that he would stop worrying. Perish the thought. ]