EVERY LIVING THING PUSHED INTO THE RING,

[agogemod]

WHO? Everybody!
WHAT? Welcome to the arenas.
WHEN? Two weeks of arena time.
ANYTHING ELSE? Please warn for anything besides physical violence and move to a personal journal if it's beyond PG-13.

GUESS YOU THOUGHT YOU COULDN'T JUST WATCH;

no one's getting out

READ THE JHASHCH INFOPAGE.

THE ENTRANCE

COST and the Regency receive formal invites a week before the arenas open, requesting their presence at the opening ceremony. And not in just any capacity, but as guests of honor. Queen Thsh agreed to host these arenas, after all, as a show of power and confidence in that power; not only to spiderkind, but to those who would support or overthrow her.

The inner rings of Ythaway buzz in anticipation. Aranean architects and their workers put the final touches on the massive structure strung over the pits of Ymir, dedicated in equal parts to combat and gaming and court life. Carved from stone and adorned with wicked sculptures, it looks impossibly delicate, balanced on bridges only just wide enough for a single female Aranean. They are packed with spiders and their decorative servants on opening day, made more hazardous by the crowd and perpetual darkness.

The arena is lavishly decorated on all fronts; while the bulk of the audience only offers standing room, there is peculiarly decorated Aranean furniture along the perimeter of each area, set up high so even those significantly smaller than the average Aranean female can get a view. It's possible to find Aranean children tussling here and at the forefront of the crowds, with even the smallest already sharpening their backstabbing skills.

» THE CEREMONY

The opening ceremony is a grandiose affair, marking the beginning of a two-week event. The arenas themselves are hung with banners and trimmed by gold filigree that represents the Royal Family and each of the remaining Great Houses. Each house puts on their own show, displaying the best of their respective skills and resources.

Jankeh's is technological genius, featuring mechanical wonders and holographic projections that earn noises of admiration from the crowd. Shaiy's is pure luxury, displaying all the latest fashion trends and elegant in movement. Khah's is power, with elaborate dances that mimic military formations and tell tales of the Thshan Empire's victories. It takes the better part of two hours to display everything they have in full, each display more extravagant than the last.

And then, as fireworks go off, it's your turn. COST and the Regency aren't expected to do much, fortunately; you aren't the entertainers here, at least not yet. But you're brought on stage and introduced, expected to bow and carry out your pleasantries. It's short and snappy and the Regency exchanges derisive looks with any recruit who meets their eyes.

Once you've cleared the stage, a parade of uthcki and hhcho are marched out in neat rows perhaps a little too similar to the ones you just departed in. All of them wear the colors of House Chchai and they are, in essence, the last vestiges of the house. They're displayed proudly by House Shaiy, with Lady Thchnk's daughters standing at either edge as an honor guard. And then, at the sound of a rising cry from their mother, they turn as one on the genetically engineered creatures.

It's brutally quick and silent, save for the crack of bone, as each female Aranean cuts down the servants and pets of the now-dead house. Their teeth gnash and blood splatters against their carefully, lovingly crafted dresses. Part ceremonial and all power, they kill every last uthcki and hhcho until the stage is littered with remains and permanently stained red with blood.

As Lady Thchnk's eldest daughter and heir apparent delicately wipes her mouth of blood, none other than High Queen Thsh steps forward, to applaud the display. And, with her word, the arenas are officially open.

These are your battlegrounds.

» DIVIDE AND CONQUER

As ever, "conquest" is the name of the game in High Queen Thsh's empire. While you've made impressions and connections with noble spiders, this is your chance to show off where your loyalties lie. If you claim victory, you can dedicate it to your chosen monarch. While COST would like you to declare for the Queen, you can show your favor for Princess Chch or any other spider allies. COST will not reprimand you and Young, at least, spares Queen Thsh no love.

But note that, while you may kill competing Araneans and Regency agents here with immunity, the same holds true for them to you. To step into an arena is to forfeit any semblance of safety or diplomatic immunity. While there are rules—you still need to follow proper Aranean duel etiquette and can't wantonly attack anyone when you aren't participating in these arenas—they are few and far between.

COST and the Regency aren't the only foreign diplomats in attendance, either. There is a surge of new arrivals through the Jhashchan terminals, some humanoid and some not; if you can imagine it, you're likely to see an alien of that sort in the audience or competing in the arenas themselves. Of course...whether they're here willingly or not is another matter.

That said, for recruits who make a name for themselves: Don't be surprised if an Aranean asks you for a genetic donation to their labs.


THE ARENA

Upon entering the arena, the social niceties that encouraged the spiders to separate COST and the Regency dissolve. You are left to the darkness and your own devices, so don't get stabbed in the back, whether by an Aranean or the Regency operatives. While the three individuals in charge of the Regency—Khnum, Ptah, and Tatenen—icily engage Grothia and Young, the agents under their employ at left to your mercy and vice versa.

None of them are without their shabti; in many cases, when a Regency operative considers a challenge beneath them, they order their shabti to take it instead. It's yet another display of power to the Araneans, daring them to take offense. The shabti never protest; they execute their assigned duties with a minimum of words, uncannily blank faced and almost robotic in their motions. The Regency's unspoken point is clear; they expect the Araneans beneath them to bow just as their shabti do.

Mhic Nathair, earstwhile matron in Gallipoli, keeps her distance, though her shabti secretary occasionally flits through the crowd to get her mistress drinks. The shabti Mhic Nathair owns is a quiet, demure woman, who shies away from conversation as though she expects it to preclude physical violence. No one knows what Mhic Nathair is doing to her secretary, but it hasn't resulted in any bruises anyone can see. But, then again, she's always wearing long sleeved shirts and high collars.

Still, no agent is foolish enough to disgrace one of the Araneans at the top of the food chain. There's real deference in their treatment of the High Queen and Princess Chch; the observant might even catch a few meaningful glances between the princess and some of the higher ranking Regency agents as the Royal Family receives their guests.

It's a cool affair, before they wave everyone into the hands of the Great Matrons, ever playing politics. And the Great Matrons brush the duty off on their daughters, who are as disdainful as they are vain. After all, you haven't proven yourselves yet and the Matrons have their own duties; it's only under their watchful eyes that the arena logistics unfold. And there will be hell to pay if they don't go as planned.

Each of the Great Houses claims domain over one of the arenas. Rumors hint House Chchai would have dominated the court and dabbled in the games, but with the family exterminated, it's only hearsay. As it stands, House Khah exerts most of their influence over the game and the stadium, while Shaiy shows the most favor to the court, but does not hesitate to plunge into the other arenas. House Jankeh favors the stadium and then the court. This is done most transparently in the form of sponsorships, which they'll offer to victors with particularly impressive winning streaks, especially if they dedicate victories to the family.

And remember, even here the hierarchy is in play. But it doesn't always obey the simple layout outside the arena doors. Someone sharp of eye might notice that some challenges in different arenas are specifically gamed so one tier of the hierarchy dominates the others. So keep an ear to the ground and follow the spider gossip if you want to play to your strengths; sometimes the arenas are, without a doubt, rigged.

» THE LOGISTICS

You have the option of choosing the outcome of your arena exploits and tailoring them to your liking. But for those who are interested in a bit more risk...well, there's a bit more reward involved as well. If you'd like to RNG your battle, sign up here. Be warned: Losing may result in serious injury or death.

Of course, if your character dies, they'll be teleported back to BASE and will have to convalesce there for three weeks, although given the way BASE time lines up with everything else, well. There's a good chance they might get teleported back into the mission not long after they died. And they may also experience a strange vision, a magical glimpse into the future...or maybe that's just the excellent drugs Chiron has in Medical.

That said, the prize for winning is much more impressive. Win well enough and by a large enough margin and the loser (or the house of the loser) must give you whatever you claim as boon, within reason. If they own it, you can take it. Up to and including their very lives.

In all arenas, you can name enemy spiders, Regency operatives, and other NPCs; feel free to make up their personalities and handle them as you see fit, down to plotting their demise. If you need to contact an Aranean NPC for something that cannot be handwaved, please go here; to talk to Mhic Nathair, her shabti, or any other Regency NPCs, please go here!

» THE STADIUM

The most openly dangerous of the arenas, combat is for recruits who see strife as a way of life. While the setting varies—sometimes there are even simulated fields in the barren, boiling style of Jhashch's daytime landscape, modified so all lifeforms can survive it—often they're darker than the rest of the arena, so your assigned goggles may come in handy.

Fights take any manner of shape and form, from straightforward combat to competitions that test competitors' mettle in reflexes or speed. Opponents vary; some of them are ordinary humans whose luck has taken a bad turn, while others are aliens on par with your own cognition. Others still are monstrous wildlife, big or small but always deadly. Just remember: it's expected victory end in blood. If it doesn't, rumors inevitably fly.

There is no rhyme or reason to what kind of fight you find yourself in, whether pairing up with a friend or against said friend. You might even find yourself temporarily allied with an Aranean, the Regency, or another being. And recruits are authorized to carry any weapons they like into the arena; perform well enough and House Jankeh might sponsor you with their own arms.

Also, Princess Shai and Princess Aythy compete in this arena. Deadly and graceful, they're a sight to see on the battlefield. Arena encounters with the Twin Generals are only available via RNG and mean your character has an extremely high chance of dying, so tread with caution.

» THE COURT

As ever in the Aranean court, etiquette is key. Entertain, dance, and dine; in this arena, it's as much an artform as stressed by your training. Only here, if you make an error, a droid doesn't cutely—infuriatingly—glitter ball and inform you that you've been consumed. No, here it becomes reality. And these interactions are no longer reserved for Araneans; again, there are other species on the playing field, representing other factions of the Thshan Empire and all here to exercise that specific brand of Aranean diplomacy.

And, of course, there's the Regency. It becomes clear that the Regency is working to fill the power void created by the fall of House Chchai; there are candidates of all sorts clamoring for recognition in these arenas, which serve both foreign and domestic diplomats.

COST recruits receive a list of marks, with pro-Regency targets highlighted. While all members of COST are told to keep company with at least one other recruit, it holds especially true in this arena. The court may not be fast-paced outside of bursts of blood-bright violence, but tensions constantly run high. And, for the unlucky—or the lucky, depending on your point of view—you may encounter Princess Chch herself. While her mother derides participation—well loved as these arenas may be, they're a celebration of High Queen Thsh and don't merit her participation—the princess has her own agenda, so watch her closely.

» THE GAME

The safest of the arenas, by virtue of why it exists in the first place, there's no limit to what kind of games the spiders offer. As long as it has a bit of violent spice and a clear winner or loser, it's all good. Moreover, the night vision goggles you received at the beginning of the mission can interface with the VR equipment, provided you do some tweaking.

This is also the arena that allows interplanetary participation. As such, there are several players who appear as nothing more than usernames on a screen. The spiders in charge of this arena claim participation is locked only to diplomats and individuals with important political sway, as a way of paying homage to and fostering relations with distant stars, so rest assured you're gaming with someone very important.

...Probably, anyway. There are signs something is off about some of these distant competitors, whether through the muttering of spiders or their own silence. They never speak, sticking exclusively to text for communication, and at one point an entire group is banned from the servers. Which doesn't seem to be enough to keep them out; several return, taunting anyone who will listen. Trolls, perhaps; it's certainly how the higher ranking spiders like to spin it.

Prince Shch and a few members of his entourage observe, although as male Araneans it's derided that they participate. It's funny enough to female Araneans that male humans like video games; the idea of a male Aranean enjoying the pastime is preposterous. But he remains a silently ominous figure in the stands, bearing witness to your endeavors and showing understated favor to victors who somehow win his attentions.


THE FALLOUT

All of the arenas run the risk of being bloody. Physical confrontations are almost inevitable and brushes with them are inescapable. While it's possible to sweet talk your way out of them in the court or game arenas, there are a few things to keep in mind for those of you who try and don't succeed...or for those of you who want to be a big damn hero and come to another recruit's rescue with guns blazing. Your pick.

» THE ARANEANS

Araneans are as powerful as their size suggests. Their legs are only deceptively fragile; while their joints can be weak points, their exoskeletons are like armor. They're much faster than any human, with almost preternatural reflexes; they may not be able to deflect or dodge bullets, but in many cases they simply don't need to. Again: their exoskeletons are like armor. They can absorb pure magical attacks, though using bespelled items or elements can work. The underside of their abdomen is a vulnerable spot, but it also puts any targets at the mercy of their eight legs. It's highly unadvised for a baseline human to take an Aranean on solo.

Older female Araneans often go unarmored in the arenas, unless stipulated otherwise; if they're armed, they often carry spears. Male spiders and young female Araneans just stepping into their first arena often don armor. Originally designed as protection and an aid in mining duties, it's evolved with their culture. Designed in a plated style with futuristic trappings, it protects the abdomen and joints but affords the spider full mobility, as expected of a species that prizes agility and jumping. Male Araneans often use longer spears to make up for their smaller size, to give them the reach of a female Aranean, but you'll never see them carrying weaponry that elevates them above a female spider. Historically, that's a sight only seen in rebellions mercilessly crushed by Queen Thsh and her mother.

Their detection ability is a boon against artificial and magical entities—magical ones, especially, who they can sense in the very air. And, as always, mind their fangs. You only have three autotoxin injectors, but keep them handy.

» THE REGENCY

For recruits who endured Gallipoli, facing the agents here isn't too different. Only agents of high ranking have access to power nullification equipment, but they're all in beyond peak physical condition. It'll take at least two baseline humans to tackle one Regency operative, who have additional cybernetic modifications. Some of this is offensive, but it affords them a great deal of additional strength in all cases, depending on what's augmented.

Their actual weaponry varies between arenas, but they err in favor of what the spiders want to see and stick largely with melee weaponry; it earns more respect from the Araneans. They also aren't shy about sending shabti into combat in their place, should they see it necessary. Or if they're aiming for insult and injury.

The shabti are augmented just like their creators; while none of them have the cybernetic implants their lords and ladies favor, there's something preternaturally quick and resilient to each of them. If your timing is equally preternatural, you might see one kill an Aranean...or you might see an Aranean kill a shabti and devour their remains. While spiders are well aware of the Regency's intent behind the shabti, they're also quick to adapt to this hiccup in the hierarchy and treat them as little more than food and decor, just like their own servants. But that isn't to say they're to be underestimated on the battlefield.

» THE LAST FRONTIER

There are far more than spiders and humans in attendance. What they look like, who they represent, and what they're capable of is as variable as you'd expect in a meeting of interplanetary forces. You never know what you might find.


THE KIOSKS

When you aren't participating in the arenas, you have access to your quarters and the Siopai in the Second Ring. Really, you have access to (almost) all levels of Aranean society, should you wish to explore it. However, the sensation of being watched within the dark halls of Ythaway never disappears; if anything, with the arenas, it intensifies.

And the kiosks are no exception. While they're more affordable than the Siopai, they still aren't cheap. They predominantly sell kitschy trinkets and food; none of the latter is labeled outside of a vague description of what it is, so buyer beware. You don't know what's mixed in there, but it's definitely meat. Mystery meat that the Araneans devour ravenously, as if to remind you they once devoured their creators.

The kiosks—and more than a few other locations in the mines—are also overrun by the paparazzi, Aranean and otherwise. They demand interviews, detailing your latest win in the arenas. What's your date of birth? Is it possible to translate it into the Jhashchan calendar? Perhaps your star sign is compatible with a competing bachelorette.

It's going to be a long two weeks.

READ THE JHASHCH INFOPAGE.

NAV. NETWORK LOGS OOC MEMES PLURK

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ryo asuka ( tennou vergilius maro ) | ota | general

[reillumination]

I. TIME CAST A SPELL ON YOU, BUT YOU WON'T FORGET ME (OR THE STANDS & ABOUT THE QUARTERS)

A.

[ Before his tussle in the Stadium, he can be found quietly attending the matches. He sits in the highest rises, one leg crossed over the other and eyes fixed on each of the matches with an almost desperate edge. It is clear from the odd pallor cast across his features that he doesn't seem to be enjoying this, the blue painted meat of his lower lip caught between his teeth. Occasionally, he'll lean forward further to see a square-off against an Aranean, but that's it.

Otherwise, he quietly nurses something from an opaque bottle in his hands. His knuckles go white occasionally, but sometimes — sometimes, there's something strange and foreign that edges around the corners of his expression. When people sit next to him or linger beside him, he won't look up immediately. However, he will eventually. His eyes are always dark.

It might be difficult to hear him above the rising and falling clamor about them all, but: ]

Are you competing?

[ It isn't so much an interest, as it is almost something that's expected these days. ]

B.

[ After his tussle in the Stadium, Ryo keeps to himself near COST's quarters.

Occasionally, he can be seen in the interconnected garden between their rooms, his injuries largely healed by the next week. All that remains is the ugly purples and greens about his knuckles where they'd fractured under strain, the duller pallor of his skin from residual blood loss. He looks... Tired. The bruises that once adorned his face like splashes of dark paint are gone, leaving deeper shadows beneath his eyes. No matter the amount of makeup he places over them, he can't hide them entirely. It's questionable if he tries.

More often than not, he drinks from his own stores he's purchased here. He'd rather not go out to a bar if he can help it. He doesn't want to see himself up on the screens, much less hear about it.

If anyone comes to sit beside him, he wordlessly extends whatever glass he has in his hand without looking. He doesn't want to. ]

It's better than the stuff at the bars, [ he says, as if it excuses and explains him reaching out with it all. ]

ryo asuka ( tennou vergilius maro ) | ota | stadiums

[reillumination]

II. BABY, I DON'T WANNA KNOW (cw: excessive gore, dissociative states).

[ There was no way to win.

In the fray, in the impossibility presented here — he's only a human, he's only a human — Ryo had been presented a challenge that should have ended just like this: death by the hands of the Araneans whom he turned down or death by the hands of the Aranean who issued the summons that trapped him to begin with. The time it'd taken him to be called from the party to this moment, right now, had been gruesomely short. And in the end, in the pressure to choose his hand, he'd tried his luck to buy time to live.

But, nerves had rattled him. So, too, had the many eyes cast down from the stands, the weight of the gun in his hand. No matter how well he shot, his opponent was fleet and experienced. He'd seen far more powerful than him fall to a spider's maw, their bodies devoured with a primal adroitness. He'd seen the tender color of their flesh, the insides of exoskeletons. The scent of their deaths reached him, even up in the roar of the stands. And now, he was surrounded by it. He was coated in it.

Everything is a furious rush in his head, his vision blurring through tears as he reloads his gun again. No matter how sure his fingers are, it's no use as he's crowded in by dark limbs. The crowd is a smudge in his periphery as he tries to shove the butt of the gun up into the spider's mouth, air breaking from his lungs in hysterical laughter. He's lost so much blood, so much blood — the blunt row of his teeth is stained in red as he pulls the trigger, only to miss and clip the Aranean's armored exterior as he pulls back from the blast. He'd long used up the more useful properties. Left to only bullets, he feels the weight of a leg press against the meat of his shoulder and shove him back.

He's already unsteady. It doesn't take much. His feet are out from under him already, clotheslined by another limb.

The world upends and all that's left is the sharp buzz that erupts from within as the back of his head hits the floor of the arena, the massive body of the spider a long shadow over him. Distantly, he can hear the proclamation that he's about to receive a killing blow — ]

[ It doesn't happen.

The air of the arena shifts, a living and tangible thing. It comes in the sudden surge something so cold and so bright from Ryo's vulnerable form that it seems to burn against the underbelly of his opponent. They rear back, hissing loud enough to be heard across the stadium.

What happens in the next few moments is difficult to describe, in part because it is difficult to see. Ryo pulls himself up with an inhuman fluidity, the lines of his body lit like a match. From his hands, he drops his weapon and reaches up to remove his goggles.

His opponent charges back in.

There's something bright that sparks off him, like a current. It cuts into the softer portions of the spider's body, but at such close range, it is difficult to tell what it is. It engulfs the pair and the ensuing scuffle sends the spider skidding backward. With the Aranean's underside now exposed, Ryo emerges from the bright with a looseness that has never been suggested in him.

But, it can't be argued. Somehow, he's already leapt up onto the vulnerable point of the spider. Feet planted on the underbelly, Ryo lets out a ringing laugh as the spider tries his best to right himself — legs tearing at Ryo's form with an instinctual viciousness. In the darkness, his eyes cut like the knife he jerks out from his boot as he bends down, one limb cleaving a line across the high of his cheekbone. It should have drawn blood.

It doesn't. The skin mends. The skin mends and Ryo bears his teeth, rears his arm back —

It's excessive, in the end. His opponent struggles and squirms — cuts into his sides and across his arms — but ice spreads out from beneath Ryo's feet as he hauls his arm back again and again. Even once it is evident that the Aranean no longer lives, Ryo doesn't stop.

He doesn't stop, until he notices the stadium has exploded into riotous cheering. His eyes blink the gore from his lashes — once, twice — as he lifts his head.

He straightens, tearing a loosened limb from his opponent as he goes. He doesn't stay still for long, as he hops off without the wobble and sway that had dictated his movements before. He lands light, slower than he should. The tips of his toes brush the ground beneath him as he settles like one stepping back from a waltz.

He hoists the limb up, mouth upturned in a way both hungry and beatific. ]

House Jankeh, [ he calls, his voice projecting further than its bodily constraints. It rings clear and bright, like a champagne flute struck with the flat of cutlery. He glows amid the darkness, the smallest slip of light in a sea of unseen bodies.

Lord Ngsh's blood rains over the golden crown of his head. ]

A.

[ There's something strange and feral behind his eyes, his skin somehow alight against the slick of ichor. His movements don't seem to fit in his body as he moves outside the Stadium's ring, the weight of his presence a visible luminescence in the dim. As though beneath a dark ocean, he appears a bright and beautiful thing, his head held high and blue eyes chatoyant. Across the obsidian bodies of Araneans, the upward sweep of his right hand to rest against his chest casts a cool and brilliant glow. It softens their hard edges, makes them somehow more approachable than the one who stands at the center of them, encircled as soon as he exits the doors.

It seems a struggle for many of them to remain in his range for long. Their clustered, wet eyes wink and glitter like strange stars against the way he cuts at their comfortable dimness. But, their mandibles still clack and their legs still reach with questions and inquiries. Ryo's face is a neutral mask, blood dripping from the tips of his fingers as he holds what appears to be a portion of a limb, the straps of his gun and his goggles in his left hand. It is hard to hear his answers unless someone steps in, though his voice seems to have no trouble rippling outward like a low tide at a certain radius. ]

It was what had to be done, [ he says, silvery and soft. His eyes lid against the gore that brushes against the high points of his face. His mouth goes sweet and pliant, adorned with the glimmer of white teeth beneath the ugly and artful split of his lip. ] Move back. I need to clean myself off.

[ When they don't move back, there's a subtle and slow dip of the air about them. It comes like a pale frost. It spans past metaphorical, webbing its way across anything living or warm closest to him. Even then, it's with a reluctance that they seem to scuttle back and allow him move.

If he passes by the person who has come to witness this, especially if they've lingered in curiosity, he lowers his right hand and idles — for a moment. ]

What is it? [ He asks. His eyes skim a slow line from head to toe. Somehow, the tone of it is too absent to be absent at all. ]

B.

[ He doesn't come back to the stands.

Instead, he's tucked himself into a quiet corner just beyond the entrance. Most seem to have overlooked him here, no longer bright in any sense of the word. To them, it was another body curled in on itself. Covered in blood as he is, with his hair matted to the curvature of his skull — he could pass for something near to death. But, death doesn't touch Ryo Asuka as much as others might have thought it had.

Close to him, one can hear the short and shallow intakes of breath. He'd pressed himself here in the darkness some time ago, his back up against the corner and his arms bent and pulled flush against his raised knees. His forehead has long rested hard against the tops of his knees, his fingers buried in the slick of his hair with enough dedication to reopen the wounds that litter their way across them. An observant eye can map what's caused them: a digging in of nails and joints beneath the soft plates at the bend of chitinous legs. The subsequent drag back had skinned them here and there, his pale skin a raw and vicious red beneath the discoloration of oxidized gore that does not belong to him.

Touching him only escalates the staggered nature of his breaths, the minute trembling of his body. He can't seem to get words out to questions, as much as he can seem to get words out to himself. His voice is how it always was, though rasped and low — tremulous, now. ]

What did I do? Why didn't I lose? What did I—?

[ It doesn't matter if anyone goes. But, if someone stays and waits, it might be possible to guide him back out of the Stadium to get himself cleaned up. ]

A

[cutlery]

[ Sebastian has been watching many of the arena's matches. In part, he just enjoys a good bloodsport, but he's also just intrigued to see how his fellow recruits fare. He's unassuming in the crowd, just watching with the sharp-eyed interest of someone who wants to know more about just who he's working with. In theory, this could be used against them, but that's just the way he thinks. A demon is always picking out information where it can, since it could be valuable later. And so far, he's been impressed. COST holds its own in the match ups he's witnessed, and he gets the better understanding he's looking for.

But finally, it seems like that might change. A young man isn't faring well against the Araneans, and Sebastian leans forward with a little more vicious interest, since he fully expects him to die. He really is like the Araneans, though not as animated in his enjoyment. Though like the rest of the crowd, he's surprised at how the tide quickly changes. However, where the cheers resume with vigor, Sebastian is actually very genuinely surprised. This sort of presence and power is familiar, but not in a specific way. He can have a guess at who this could be, but... That just piques his interest enough to leave and meet the victor.

As he emerges from the stadium, there's a throng of Araneans to greet him, and Sebastian is among them. But rather than press closer with curiosity, he stays back, just watching. If his suspicion is correct, then he knows better than to intrude, or in their case, to impede. It wasn't quite his intention, since he would have approached on his own, but when he's addressed, he'll take that as his cue. He bows his head lightly, but his expression is one of wry amusement. ]

Congratulating a resounding victory, naturally. But it is little surprise, I would say.

[ He cants his head lightly, and his tone is casual. He doesn't want to assume too far, so he'll turn it to him by asking as generally as possible. ]

Demon?

0:)

[reillumination]

[ The inclination of another's head is something this one seems accustomed to. He does not insist it is not necessary, but rather takes the opportunity to let his eyes rest with implicit understanding upon the individual — the demon — before him. As Ryo Asuka, there would have been no such response, but Ryo Asuka is quiet. In time, these exchanges and these fleeting freedoms will be forgotten until they are wrested from the confines of the body they have borrowed, the memories they've molded to fit up against theirs. For now, the corners of Ryo's bright eyes crinkle with a kind of fleeting fondness. There’s no thank you, but it is implicit in the way he deposits his earnings and wares on one of the innumerable furnishings beside him. There’s a ghost of an action that doesn’t quite translate in this form, but the impression is there. It spans about his frame, almost as if he’d have shaken the blood from body with it. His head tilts. It is an opposing mirror. ]

I'm familiar with them, [ he hums, knowing full well that is not the question he's asked. He lifts a hand to skim the gore from his cheekbones with the backs of his own knuckles. They look swollen and bruised, but there’s no wince as he does so. His lips upturn. There is no viciousness in it, no dagger-like precision in the way they tip. ] These Araneans are not nearly so earnest. [ It's a pity, is the unvoiced sentiment. ] For all they've spoken about overcoming their rulers, they still follow them.

[ There’s a kind of gentleness, removed as much as it is attached, that rounds out the corners of his words. It touches on something that sits stark to what typically comes off Ryo’s tongue, the tone of this voice somehow more at home in this body than even Ryo's is. Like an artist that clears a patina of dirt from a pithos dug from the Earth, what stands before this man for the first time is the contents of its inscription, translated in part. ]

[cutlery]

[ He could press more about the unanswered question, but really, there's no need. A non-answer is still an answer, even if it's not satisfying. The way that he'd like to know more is almost hungry, but as is always the case with his hungers, he never lets that come before anything else. And besides, this is only a few words so far. It wouldn't do to get ahead of himself.

Though besides that, when he pushes aside that strain of interest, what he chooses to focus on is surprising. Sebastian cants his head very lightly, though it's not out of confusion. Only surprise. ]

No, they are not. Perhaps they could be in time, but... [ He trails off as his gaze turns to the gore that still remains. ] They are mortal. Just because they take value in strength does not change that. Mortality has that unfortunate effect, in my experience.

[ Almost automatically, he reaches into the coat of his COST uniform to produce a handkerchief, as odd as it may seem. He carries himself as a gentleman when amongst mortals, so whether this is a joke to that respect or simply a habit isn't clear. He offers it quite casually regardless. ]

[reillumination]

[ He considers what this one says, his attention weighted — calculated. The curiosity is something that sits across his skin, too restricted in the vestments this society had shoved this body in. It's all wrong. Innately and ineffably, it's all incorrect. ]

Almost everything is mortal, [ he says, with the soft extension of his hand. No matter its state, the skin there is as cool as the light that diffuses from the whole of him as Ryo accepts the handkerchief from him. ] Or mortal enough. [ Even the one Sebastian now speaks to has limitations. There's a small pause, before he deigns to bring his hand fully back to him and, with a delicateness, wipes clean the skin of his cheek beneath it. Slowly, what flesh revealed is peculiarly white and smooth in appearance — like marble. As he lifts the material back, eventually satisfied, what comes away is the dark blood of Lord Ngsh and something gold within it. It threads through like a spider's web, gilding its coagulated edges. It's fresh. ] Time might give them more courage, but they're attached to what humans left.

[ The word "human" sits strange on his tongue, brittle like a curse. The poison in it is apparent as something shudders along the frame of his body, almost as if speaking it had inspired a wave of motion that no longer could be replicated. ]

I couldn't tolerate living with the remnants of something that enslaved me, [ he continues, after a moment. His eyes are clear, the blue of them too sharp and to be considered human by any stretch. Even among the remaining gore that litters him and the darkness that settles into the corners of his expression, that brightness remains. And in that respect, Sebastian was correct to inquire to begin with. ] I could never forgive it.

[cutlery]

[ It surprises even him just how enthralled he is by this conversation, even if he carries it quietly.

The exact way in which demons live is something he'll obliquely talk about with mortals, but he's always cagey with that sort of topic more than anything else. If someone truly wants that information, they have to pay for it, since there's a balance that all demons that venture into the mortal realm respect. The less mortals know about them, the better. But it's complex, steeped in a society that's not too far from Araneans, but far older. The problem with the stories that mortals know is always that some are true and some are not, and only the demons themselves know which is which.

But there's never any question about what sorts of creatures are at he very top. It's always the oldest, and the very ancient have quite a different way about them. It's a very different sort of elegance, and it's exactly what he sees in Ryo. ]

But it is always that caveat—enough. It is a difficult criteria for most to attain should they wish to find the limit of "enough."

[ Since it's the same for him. He calls himself immortal not necessarily because it's completely true, but because it's functionally true. There's very, very little that can kill him, and the farther people get from demons' origins, the more that sort of information is lost. It works out well for them. ]

And clearly, your own is not today. I thought it may be otherwise, but... [ He doesn't finish the thought, since clearly that changes. Though feeling emboldened by his curiosity, he has to ask. ] If I may, why are you masquerading as a human as well?

A

[deem]

[For 9S, death has been such a common experience that he might count it mundane, were the pain of enduring it not as keen every time he experiences it. He handles the thought of his own violent end with relative ease regardless, even anticipates its inevitability, but if it means one less human faces imminent danger, it's well worth it. After all, he had joined COST for this express purpose.

Given this fact, there isn't really any surprise in his alarm each and every time one of his human compatriots enters the arena, whether he recognizes them or not. And he does recognize Ryo's face, though he has no name to call him by, and that's the only thing that lodges his voice in his throat. The knowledge that he can't intervene without making the situation worse sends his thought routines scattering across avenues with only dead ends. No options.

But the fellow he met who refused to harm some creepy alien deer apparently has more power at his disposal than the average human, and no such compunctions where murderous spider creatures are concerned.

He can do little more than gape for a long moment, reviewing what he had just seen and at a loss for how he could account for it. But that moment passes, his puzzlement shoved aside in favor of bounding his way through the stands with the unnatural speed and grace living weapons of his era possess, to close distance and assess damage for himself.

He's a black blur until he halts, right beside him, on a dime.

Or a severed mandible that crunched under his boot by virtue of his weight. Eugh]

Are you okay?

[A unit has to have priorities here]

[reillumination]

[ It is a curious thing.

Recognition is somehow both slow and immediate toward the rush of the other down from the rises. A division not clear in its operation, one wins out over the other in the faint turn of Ryo's head.

Are you okay? It is a fair question. Both parts of Ryo would inevitably answer the same, but only one part could possibly be earnest. So, it may be a wonder to anyone else what part it is that comes to respond, but it is not a wonder to them.

Ryo blinks once, not at all taken aback by the way the individual stops, lashes matted with the damp of ichor and long shed tears. ]

I'm fine, [ he says — they say. Still, it is Ryo Asuka's feet that finally touch back down onto the packed floor of the Stadium. To any who'd met Ryo, the face that he seemed to wear for those who ringed them would have parsed as strange. To himself — themselves —, it is only a part to play until there is no longer a part to obey. And neither was ever particularly good at following the rules. When there was a world held in the hands of something that could not understand freedoms or a right to live, the answer was clear. It had always been, since before Ryo Asuka was ever Ryo Asuka. And it would always be, so long as either lived.

Yet, there is no hunter's pride that etches itself in the lines of Ryo's body as his arm lowers with a controlled and seamless grace. The joints are for the moment placed with absent consideration on the corpse beside him, a mangled and terrible thing from the metatarsus down.

In truth, the display was instinctive. More Ryo than what lay underneath, it had been a gruesome and ruthless kill. The movements inherent in this body now suggest something that would have been less physical and more precise, the blood suiting and not across Ryo's skin. But, in the face of all that now looks upon the form that was and the form that is, the answer of what would rule for now is obvious. Ryo would never be equipped to handle it. ] Most of my injuries aren't serious.

[ That likely isn't what was meant, largely, but there is no consideration of that here. Ryo's mouth bows almost in reflex. His posture is loose, relaxed.

It is a strange contrast. ]

[deem]

[They may not be serious injuries, but hey're injuries all the same. Whether it's advisable to do so or not, 9S catches Ryo's sleeve with a small but insistent tug. 2B used to discount her minor injuries too, but small points of damage could worsen into something far more significant, and he doesn't want to think about what that might mean for a human body, one he can't so easily repair.

He'd seen enough in Gallipoli to be certain that infection for organic life is worse than it is for androids such as himself. The damage could be irreparable, and there were no replacements for their limbs or any other part of their bodies]

Even if they're not serious, you should get them looked at.

[9S hesitates to offer his own assistance. What he can see looks minor damage, just as Ryo had said, and he ought to be capable of attending to that much. Still, he finds himself concerned because it isn't his area of expertise. He was meant for maintenance, rather than medical care, and that awareness looms over him]

I could find someone, or get you bandages, or something...

ii / b.

[faenthras]

[ It's elven hearing that picks up the staggered breaths, the put him apart from just another body curled up on itself in the dark. It's what gets Vex to stop, eyes widening as familiarity peaks through his gore covered form. She had seen the fight, watched Ryo fall then rise again to rip himself back from the jaws of defeat. The display left her breathless, mind unable to wholly comprehend the power that burst forth from. He had struck such an imposing figure at the end of his match, the complete opposite to what she sees before her now.

Fingers curl, head whipping back and forth to check the area around them, before she moves forth hovering by Ryo's side. [

Hey...

[ There is a softness to her voice, an attempt to catch his attention. Approaching as she would a cornered animal, slowly, calmly, ensuing that she doesn't appear to be any further threat. Her hand, starkly pale in comparison to the gore that covers him, hovers in the air above his head falling to gently rest upon it. It might only startle, but she reaches out regardless. An offering of rope, an escape from whatever deep whole he's fallen into. ]

You okay?

[reillumination]

[ You okay?

It filters in, like smoke under glass. There's nothing in the way that his posture that would dictate a positive answer to her question, but that's a question that's forever been asked — been exchanged, in the quiet of nights so long and so seemingly endless that Ryo had often wondered if there would ever be a dawn. But, there always had been. There always had been and Akira would circle back to him with gore and ichor flung up his arms with all the grace of an abstract artist — a Rothko, on a good day. But, these questions were not voiced in his name. These questions were not in that voice. And Ryo is not okay.

He's not okay and even had he the words to dictate the intensity of his confusion and ache, sensations too enormous for the confines of his body — it is that well-meaning touch of her hand that sears white-hot across the crown of his head. It makes him suck in a breath, sharp and hissed between his teeth — and all at once he jerks back and defensively, the minimal spaces between him and the wall filled as he tries to escape, but cannot entirely. Muscles and joints petrify, at a loss of what else to do with the meager scraps left of his energy.

In instincts of fight or flight, Ryo would often choose the former. But, there is no choice here. That is obvious in his pallor, in the way he bleeds beneath the blood of another's. And just because he knows this voice, recognizes it peripherally, it does not mean to him that he is safe. A familiar voice once told Ryo of their blood lust, what atrocities they had carried out in the gardens he tread as the professor's son. A familiar voice had once demanded he keep the fire going. And a familiar hand had raised to him a knife while he was sleeping —

Fear snakes beneath his skin. It writhes and breeds, pushes up against all the dullness that now cloaks him. ]

Stop it, [ he murmurs, mumbles — all the weight and wariness of a pinned and cornered animal, barely contained. His fingers tremble and flex beneath the lay of her hand, but that is all there is left. ]

[faenthras]

[ Something inside her aches, a sensation familiar to what she felt in the Plane of Fire, watching those two boys tremble in their cage. Another might have left when he coils back, thought better than to try and calm what is more likely to bear teeth, but Vex doesn't. Her hand jerks, if only for a moment, before she tries to smooth his hair, gentle motions similar to how she would pet Velora's hair. What is he if not akin to a frighten child? So much smaller than he had been in the arena. ]

Shh, it's alright. I'm not going hurt you.

[ Vex shifts a little closer, using herself as a shield between Ryo and the area around them, protective. As though an attack is expected at any moment, as though the shadows hide knives poised to strike him down at his weakest. It's paranioa, likely, that whispers those things in her ears but she attempts to shield him regardless, poised to move, to drag him with her, should they have to. ]

It's Vex. [ She starts, quietly, softness betraying the empathy that beats heavily in her chest. ] Vex'ahlia. A friend. I'm here to help.

[ In truth she has no idea if she can help him, or whether he will let her, but she tries regardless. She has to. ]

topples back in here

[reillumination]

[ Vex.

There's something to that name, to the tonality of her voice. He's known her for a while. He knows. He knows he has, but there's something resistant and ugly in all of his form. There's something bruised and wounded in ways he doesn't know and ways he's sorely acquainted with. There's something painful, angry. There's something unspeakably hungry for something that doesn't exist here for him to curl his fingers into and so he shudders at first, the initial brush like the pass of a bladed pendulum. The second brings out something else, something paranoid and vile — more pride and embarrassment that settles alongside the fear that creeps into his bones.

He feels ill on the third pass and on the fourth, he pushes back — uncoordinated and purposeful — with the back of his bruised hands. He doesn't want to be coddled, he doesn't want to be touched. He tells himself that, over and over. He keeps telling himself that, under the roar of his thoughts — the uncertainty of himself, stretched to degrees too large for his own body. He itches. It aches. ]

Stop it, [ he says, a little more clearly. Stop it. Stop. There's something almost hazy in the way he lifts his head, eyes somehow sharp despite the dull of his expression — the tension trapped in all of him, tight and sure. He isn't afraid. He isn't. He...

He can't manage to look at her, but there's something in the way he swipes the back of his hand across the blood that's still painted across the pale of his skin, somehow paler than before. ]

spins u around

[faenthras]

Alright, alright.

[ Her hand falls back to her side but she does not move, crouched down Vex'ahlia determines herself a wall between Ryo and threats unseen. At the very least she can at least do that, aimless hand moving to feel for her concealed blade - a reminder it is there, a comfort that she is not weaponless in a house filled with hungry maws.

Still a part of her wants to do more, to pull him from this darkened corner, take him somewhere safe. An impossible task when he recoils, hissing, a wounded angry creature not know who to trust. Vex breathes in, tilting her head in order to get a better look at his face. Bloodied and pale, it is a feat that he has not yet passed out from it all. ]

Look at me, then. I want to get you out of here.

B.

[bivariant]

[ She finds him, in the way that she found him that night at the bar. By the brightness of his eyes and the set of his shoulders, though now they quiver anxiously instead of with that frightful savagery she'd seen in his war-ready face. It is entirely unlike him now, to be so sheltered and so far from the action. Whatever transpired on the field of battle, whatever had spilled from him, it was gone now. It left something she was more familiar with.

Someone haunted by the field of battle, the things that had transpired on it. Where she had always had the formation to fall back on, there was no comfort in rank and file to be found among COST. Foreign to her, and saddening. The abandonment of COST's people to their personal discomfort, their wild individuality, their misery as a singular... it drives her concern. ]

Ryo, [ her voice is a steady, quiet thing, it betrays who she is at her core. Ashhawk Wings Sheathed, maddening in her mental stability, the even way that she approaches her problems and exits them with her senses and sanity intact. Working under pressure is a talent that she possesses, in the way that he seems to be felled by. Cheris uses his real name, cautious of prying eyes and ears as she bends at the waist, then the knee, and crouches directly alongside his shivering form, her ear turned towards the rasping, breathy gasps and questions he asks. ]

I'm glad you lived.

[reillumination]

[ Once upon a time, Ryo Asuka was a boy that his father and mother loved. He was gentle and he was kind, a child wholly unlike the one who sits curled up against themselves now. In stature, in appearance, in all that he was beyond the miserable and frightful emotions locked up in his chest — Ryo Asuka had long ceased to live. This body was not his, as much as this identity was not his. And now, what remains of Ryo Asuka (and who was that?) was the immeasurable weight and sorrow of a human heart that, despite its own fears, wanted so desperately to —

It's hard to tell immediately, what good another presence does. It is difficult to see, beneath the matte discoloration of blood and gore. For all that luminescence, Ryo himself now has none. He wears only the abortive, protective movements that an instinctual animal does. He tries to hide further back, but his body locks up. Better that he does not lash out, but the impression of that resistance is there in the way his fingers jerk and curl against his scalp. His energy expended, it is all that the buzz and fury of his mind can tell him to do.

Don't come near me, is what is written over him. But, Cheris's voice is a familiar scrap of something he does not wish to label or categorize. How could Ryo trust another soul, beside the soul he sought out? It's a little bubble of hysteria that blooms up from his lungs, an ugly and champagne bright thing. It is the only defense he has in this moment, his thoughts too disorganized and too divided to know what to start with. ]

I, [ he breathes, after a moment. Words catch behind his teeth, burn across his tongue. They taste like salt and iron, the blood of his opponent and himself smeared at the corners of his mouth. It is a rare thing, that Ryo is driven to such states that he is frozen, but here he is. Here he is, and he cannot measure the time that elapses between the statement she makes and his response to it.

Why would anyone be glad that he lived? Why would anyone be relieved for him, besides Akira? Humans were loathsome creatures. They were complex creatures. And in the raw nerves that make up Ryo's body, the sensation human connectivity and detachment war within.

Maybe I gained something more that night.

It is the first conscious thought he's truly had since he'd tucked himself away here. And it is that that forces the usual stiffness back into his frame, the wary and animalistic way he turns his head. The world is a blur as it comes back in, in part from the bruising that creeps up toward the corners of his eyes. The blue of them are somehow still so sharp, amplified by the damp and redness that ring them. ]

Cheris. [ It comes more like a small exhalation, a question — like someone waking up from some night terror so profound that it had taken time for them to reorient themselves to anything past it. ]

[bivariant]

[ She waits. With great patience, even and moderated in the way she crouches alongside his shivering form and the firmness of her eyes. No matter her current role, she is still a captain, then a general. First and foremost, she leads her people, she watches over them, she is a woman and a superior officer to be trusted and obeyed, and it wears on her nerves and eats at her heart. The difficult decisions, the need to move forward, to not waver or hesitate. She wonders what her fellow operatives would think of her, if they knew the things she had done, would do, will do.

She doesn't want to think of Ryo, more than a child but barely an adult ( he should be attending symposiums and classes, his are the years to be educated and molded; not here, not fighting wars -- ), and the way his too-blue eyes look to her and focus. Like she is an anchor in the cold, dark waters he's momentarily lost to. So, she thinks of the beaches at her home. The City of Ravens Feasting, where she walked along warm shores and scrawled operations and formulae into the ground, where the hoarse wark of her favorite birds surrounded her in the sunlight. She thinks of the importance of an anchor, for someone so unmoored.

That's the point where she reaches out, and pushes his blood-slick bangs back from his brow with the flat angle of her hand. ]

Lift your head, and tell me how excited you were to face your opponent. [ She instructs him softly. ] Be clear and loud.

[ He needs to be overheard, he needs to be seen as overcome by battle-lust, not fear or disorientation. She will protect him, however she must do it. This is the way to recover his image, before the prying and hungry eyes of the others surrounding them. Hushed, she insists: ] Will you do this, for me?

FINALLY BACK ON MY GAME

[reillumination]

[ He knows the necessity of that action, beneath the impulse to shove back and away from her touch like a startled doe, a wide-eyed and frightened thing — more flight than fight without the proud display of antlers to drive through skin and bone. He knows that even though she keeps him hidden, there's the intricate web that all these creatures clamber on. He knows that if he continues to ignore it, that he'd bound to be caught in the lay of it, open to the weight of dark, glimmering bodies and the puncture of their maws.

He knows this and yet the adrenaline and the haze that pounds through his veins has his tongue stuck behind lips and teeth, unbearably tasting in all ways like copper and something foreign underneath. As Cheris shoves back his hair, there is the warm interplay of gold that rests beneath the gore of his opponent, differentiated from the matting of his (once) well-kept hair. He thinks about his father.

He stops thinking. ]

I was excited, [ he says, after a long time. It's a low thing, something that isn't to pacify or disguise himself from all that encircled them in ugly rings. He was, wasn't he? The idea of it enthralled him, somehow. The idea of those things tearing each other apart, bloodthirsty and effortless — he stops himself with another, little laugh. More unsure than before, he tries to straighten his back and all the muscles tremble with the aftermath. ] I hate this whole fucking society.

[ His fingers untangle from his hair. He's a small slip of art in the most base sense, the blues he wears a harsh contrast to the red that he's freshly adorned. His fingers are raw. He contains the wince, just barely, as he flexes them against the tops of his knees. He won't quite look at Cheris now, but — ]

I wanted to tear him apart, [ he says, just loud enough. Just for himself. Just for him. He did, he wanted to. He wanted more than anything to wipe from existence those fucking things that reminded him so much of the demons back home, wearing the skins of humans — he lifts a hand, scrubs at the blood that wells up from his bottom lip as he talks. ]

b.

[duskmeadow]

[ Something's wrong.

There's plenty of people who limp out of the stadium. Vax doesn't have any illusions about the toll competition in that arena can take. But the blood-drenched, shuddering form tucked into the corner seems hurt in a different way. If he's nursing a mortal wound, he's being a lot quieter about it than most people Vax has observed. But he catches the undercurrent of words. That rasping stream of panic is something else entirely, and Vax crouches, just out of arm's reach, to peer at him. ]

Hey.

[ He immediately feels clumsy. It would be better if he had any idea of who he was talking to, or something more to go on than just a miracle fight in the arena. But he doesn't touch. He knows enough not to crowd in just yet. ]

You're alright. Can you look at me, friend?

[ Though Vax thinks he'd probably be better away from here. Maybe back on the base entirely, but he knows they can't swing that. He keeps his voice pitched low, an attempt to soothe while he tries to think of a better way to help. ]

B

[kometes]

[ He'd come to sit beside him because he thought that the boy looked like he needed company or a bit of cheering up. Judging by his current state, it's apparent that he'd been involved in a fight, but it's even more apparent by way of his expression that something heavy is weighing down on his shoulders.

He was going to speak first, but the boy does something unexpected and kindly offers him his drink. ]

And you'd share what little of it you have with a stranger? [ He doesn't push the drink away or reach for it, yet. ]

You better not think I'm some beggar looking for scraps and other handouts. I'm a proud warrior, you know. Such an assumption could get you beaten black and blue again.

[reillumination]

[ The voice doesn't sound familiar.

He's heard most recruits by now. He can match their tonalities to their faces. But, this one is new and this one is different — and already, the proclamation makes the corners of his mouth downturn in visible degrees. It would have been more sour, perhaps, if he were not already so fatigued. ]

Take it or don't, [ Ryo grumbles, the usual bite is taken right out of it. It leaves an impression there nonetheless, like a test of incisors against vulnerable flesh. It doesn't really matter to him, but he isn't much of a talker. Usually, he's managed to avoid much interaction with the presentation of vices. It has built easier silences, stilled the tongues of recruits who tried to sidle up alongside him for company. Ryo's had to learn how to do many things to survive and this is just another addition to it. It isn't a kindness.

Still, he doesn't quite retract the glass. The blue of his gaze weighs heavy on him with a habitual wariness, the line of his shoulders pulled tight — strained. ]