ataraxion | 011✖; (voice)

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011✖; (voice)

"People tend to believe in something, whether it's gods, a god, some sort of afterlife or nothing at all. Nothing can be something, can't it?

"In any case, the belief in the soul and that it goes somewhere after the body dies has surprisingly been a subject of interest these last few years. Is the soul a thing that is natural, and can it be created out of something that is unnatural?

"What happens to the vessel once it's no longer occupied by whatever makes you you?"

['You are a vessel. You are born to die.' Those were among the first words she's ever heard, and yet the connotation behind them are unsettling for her now.]

"Is there any place like a Heaven or a Hell for a thing that's not born but made by a person, or is it more likely that we just disappear entirely once the vessel dies?"

[Death had never been a scary prospect for her before. Not when she had something that she wanted to live and die for. She almost misses being empty, when she didn't have to worry about the things she would leave in the likely events of her eventual demise. Everything has an expiration date, after all.

[DEEP THOUGHTS coming from the lounge with booze.]

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Um... All right, if that's what you want...

[He feels like he should talk her out of this, but is it really his place right now?]

Tell me if it hurts.

[Somehow, he doubts she would, but it bears mentioning nonetheless.

Cautiously, he holds an uninjured part of her arm to try and mitigate the shaking. With his other hand, he sets about removing the glass. He doesn't want to draw the pain out, so he works fast but gently.]

[She nods, telling him silently that that's what she wants because words are annoying and she can't even recognize the sound of her own voice right now, anyway.

[It helps that she's been through almost every kind of pain imaginable. During her many lives lived she's been blown up, shot, stabbed, torn apart. She's even plummeted from great height with a bullet to the skull. So this, with the glass, as Firo works on plucking them out, is nothing more than a tiny sting.

[Even if she reacts to the pain with sharp flinches, she can handle it. And as the blood starts oozing down her arm -- a reminder that she's something like-human at times -- she takes her left hand and rolls a finger across any open cuts. All she requires is a little bit of heat, a small fragment of energy to close up the bleeding wound from the tips of her fingers. That's all she needs.

[It hurts, but it's nothing compared to being blown up.

[Once she's done, the heat recedes back into the palm of her left hand.]

[He releases her arm when he's removing the glass. While it would probably be a better idea to ditch the stuff immediately, he stays to watch her seal them. That it is--or, rather, that it looks--as simple as a touch is almost incomprehensible. He leans forward a little to try and see if there's a trick he's missing.]

How the hell..?

[He jerks his eyes up to meet hers.]

That's just--how'd you do that?!

[The wounds are hardly healed. The cuts are only sealed up. She places her free hand down her arm, wiping away some of the blood.]

When we were born, they told us, "You are a vessel." [Her voice is still odd, like a stranger is talking. She doesn't like to talk right now, but she continues, for clarity's sake:] We're not empty. Vessels are meant to be a powerhouse to something. This one contains an energy.

[She's not sure if she's ever told Firo this before. It's not information she often shares.]

A vessel..?

[He can't really grasp what she's talking about, though it's chillingly reminiscent of Szilard's view of his homunculi as tools.]

Of course you're not empty, you're a person! I mean, I dunno about energy or anything, but--

[He breaks off, shaking his head.]

[She exhales through her nose, her hands balling over her knees as she rests her head over them. Nothing still feels right upstairs, and she's not entirely certain if she trusts herself to be around anyone right now -- but she also doesn't trust herself alone for the time, either.

[Her complexion wanes.] Was plenty of persons, over time. Used to be a linguist from Argentina in one life. A South African daughter to a drug lord father. An Israeli mechanic. A Dutchwoman who saw her mother murder her father, and another from Ireland who hailed from a family of drunkards and addicts.

Was all of these women at one point. Died as those women. Came back as... whatever this is. [She shrugs, indicating her current body. Her vessel.

[When she said she understood what Firo meant about his memories, she really meant it.]

So the memories you were talkin' about...

[Yeah, they really can relate their experiences, can't they? Szilard would've been interested in this, but Firo's just confused. Rey is Rey to him.

His eyes follow her gesture and he returns the shrug.]

Then "this" is just you, ain't it? You've got a name, a personality, all a' those things.

[As far as Rey is concerned, all the other women she once was were Rey, too -- just variants. They're not entirely different people, but they're not all the same, either.

[It's just as confusing as one would expect.]

Yes. And all those women were Rey, too. Can't forget their memories and experiences. How they lived, or how they died.

[Their deaths are the hardest part to live with, because it's also the present Rey who's dying, too.]

Oh...

[The last part really catches him. Some of his nightmares come from the memories of the moments people had right before Szilard ate them. Her deaths must be memories just as painful--probably even worse, depending on how they died.]

...That really sucks. Is that why you were wonderin' about all that?

[The muscles in her shoulders and arms tighten, like she's closing in on her own self just as much as her thoughts have inside of her own head. She almost looks -- and feels -- smaller than she normally does.

[Thank god she's not on the network right now. No one else needs to see this. Even Firo seeing her like this is bad enough.]

Dying sucks. [It's such a no brainer thing to say, it sort of sounds like a joke. But she nods, and presses her chin closer to her folded knees.]

It does.

[It's almost painful to watch her huddle up like that and it hammers home how terrible it all must be. The memories, having to relive them...

He wants to get up and help her with him, but he's afraid she'd insist on staying here or maybe be offended that he'd make the gesture. Firo shifts to a less tense imitation of her posture, figuring they might have to get comfortable. She doesn't look like she's going anywhere and he doesn't want to leave her.]

Whatever I said that set this off... I'm sorry. But I know that don't mean shit and all, so I'll do what I can to make it up for you.

[Rey shakes her head, though not really looking at him.]

No, it's not you. It's here. [She taps her temple a couple times before linking her arms around her legs again.]

My father was the one who decided to give me back the memories. That knowing history would help me not to repeat it. His decision. Not mine.

He also said that it would-- ["make you want to die"] --hurt. A lot.

[She hesitates.] It's not your fault. It's his -- and mine, for bringing up the subject in the first place.

I don't think I like being alone. [Her voice sounds strange, even to her. Who is she supposed to be now?]

[He stiffens, looking at her in horror.]

He didn't even give you a choice? Jesus. What an asshole. 'S not your fault at all--that's on him.

You don't hafta be alone. It's hard to make promises in a place like this, but you've got people as long as you're here.

[Assuming she's not so unlucky that all of her friends vanish.]

[She tilts her head, almost like she's trying to hide one side of her scarred face.

[Then just shrugs again, as one would when something wasn't a big deal. Her agency has never been a big deal before. Why would her father be any different.]

People go. They always do. Because Hell is repetition.

[She's been that unlucky before. And has been to that point where it just seems easier not to establish close connections with people. But that's hard, too.]

Everything ends eventually. But, uh, what's that part about hell?

[He leans forward to try and make eye contact with her.

He knew he wouldn't be fortunate enough to have his family forever, but he didn't dwell on being alone. He just suppressed it like a normal person. So he's not too sure how to argue with her about this, but damn it, he's going to try.]

[As Firo leans in, Rey tenses. Her eyes locked in the space in front of her, though it's like she's seeing nothing.]

Those women -- the ones that I used to be -- they all had one thing in common. They lived alone, and when they died they were alone. Over and over and over. Even the one who tried to find meaning in it all -- she couldn't. We couldn't. Because she is me and I am her and history repeats itself. The pain echoes. We either let it hurt or...

[Something in her expression starts, like hearing the crack of a whip. She shakes her head, rubbing her forehead.]

Sorry. [Pause.] Really, sorry. Don't think it's coming out -- um, not making much sense right now.

[The tension in her body is signal enough for him to shift back and give her some space.]

There's nothin' for you to be sorry for.

[But, yeah, he'd agree that she isn't making much sense at all. He'd be a pretty bad friend if he let that get in his way, though.]

But... Why couldn't it be different for you? You've got friends even in a crappy place like this.

[Rey is inclined to disagree -- she has plenty of things she's sorry for. Not just to Firo, but to a great many people.

[Her teeth grind for a moment. She doesn't say anything at first. Until finally, she manages to shift her eyes and stare at him, because

[f r i e n d s ?

[Rey doesn't have friends. That's just silly- aw shit.]

Never really thought about it that much. Tried not to, since it always seemed like a fleeting concept. Was never able to build long-term relationships before.

[What with the dying thing and all.]

[Sorry, Rey, you're officially trapped in Friendville. And there's no escape.

He smiles at the sudden eye contact, though there's a touch of obliviousness to it. Something's going on in her head, he can tell, but he has no clue what it is. What matters is that she seems just a little less distant now and that's a victory.]

You don't need to think about it, do ya? It'll just happen and then you can enjoy it.

...Never thought I'd say this, but maybe there is a good thing about bein' here. Even if you couldn't do this stuff back home, you can here, right?

[Friendville sounds better than Friend Zone.]

Certainly did trade in one shit deal for another. [Her lip twitches a little. Not quite like a smile, but it's... something.

[And then, she mutters:] At least back home there was takeout.

[It's a merry place!

Is that a joke? He hopes it is; that would mean she might be feeling a bit better. And also being compared to takeout would honestly kind of hurt.]

...Great. I'm glad to know that no matter what we go through together, I'll still be less important than crappy food.

[That's for her to know and you to-- oh, them's fighting words.]

There is absolutely nothing "crappy" about Chinese food.

[YOU TAKE THAT BACK TAKE THAT BACK RIGHT NOW.

[Okay she may be lightening up a little bit.]

[That is... definitely not the answer he expected, but he thinks he's more than ready for this fight!]

I never said it was! I practically grew up in a half-Chinese food restaurant, you know. It's the takeout stuff specifically that's crappy.

[Here's where he would shamelessly plug Alveare, if anyone gave a damn.]

...

[She makes a huff that's like a... laugh or something. It's hard to say, considering it's a sharp and succinct sound so who knows what the fuck even.]

Well, it was all that was available for some time.

[When she was deemed too unstable to interact with the general public and her sense of taste had been fixed, she's not too picky when it comes to food.

[That said SHE WOULD FUCKING LOVE TO HAVE GROWN UP IN A HALF-CHINESE FOOD RESTAURANT AND EAT THAT SHIT EVERY FUCKING DAY FOR THE REST OF HER GODDAMN LIFE.]

[It was the best place for a half-feral street urchin to grow up into a mini-gangster. And, yes, he did still eat a lot of his meals there. He was a lucky, lucky person.]

Seriously? Sorry to insult your terrible taste, then, if it wasn't all your fault.

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