psychoshenanigans | Skeleton City // PSL

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Skeleton City // PSL

They call it the "Market", and it's always buzzing like a hive. The vast caverns are warmed by the hundreds of bodies all hauling, shouting, pitching, laughing, exchanging things from one hand to another. Even more people stroll up above, their voices lost in the tangle of bridges made of stone and wood and metal. The place is lit by dozens of electric signs, spilling brightwarm colors where the hanging lanterns cannot reach.

There is a lot to look at. One person seems to trade a bolt of rich red cloth for some nails and hinges. One man is trying very hard to convince another that the chicken he is holding is worth at least three bags of grainmeal. And then there is whatever Phalanx is holding, which they most certainly did not trade for, and it most certainly leads to someone reaching out over their stall table and grabbing them harshly by the arm.

"Hey, you little theif!" Says an irate, heavy-set woman, "What do you think you're doing?"

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"Robin-trouble." And that helps remind Phalanx of recent things, and they return to the surface. They open their eyes to merciful darkness, and the dim frame of light gives them somewhere to focus.

Their head is still held low, but they're at least looking out from under their hood now, peering at the blind woman while they try to fidget their nice new coat even closer around their body.

The blind woman smiles a little at Phalanx's answer, though Robin does not seem particularly impressed in response.

"We won't be staying for long," he starts explaining, "I don't mean to waste any of your ti--"

"Your friend has it right," she blatantly interrupts him, which only seems to annoy him further, "You rush around too much. It would not be wise to leave hastily."

Perhaps sensing some of the stranger's anxiety, she gestures calmly to one of the chairs across the table from her, speaking to Phalanx (and perhaps pointedly, not to Robin).

"Would you like to sit, dear? You don't have to draw cards."

It turns out that Phalanx really would like to sit, so they heartlessly abandon Robin to go sit with the nice old lady.

They don't sit like a person today. They draw their knees in and pull their feet up onto the chair, pulling the edges of their coat around them so they can be a small shape. Feeling solid and anchored to the earth sounds nice right now.

While irritated, Robin isn't at all surprised by the way this is going. Vincent comes in here every once in a while (she was an old family friend before they both had the "blind" thing to bond over) and usually winds up telling Robin that he can't understand why he doesn't like her so much.

He can practically hear it now, crossing his arms near the door. Everyone seems to like her more than he does, and though he's thankful to be out of the way of danger... He can't put his old annoyance down.

But that's okay, Phalanx is away from that now and sitting at a nice, empty, quiet space. She doesn't have much of an energy about her--it's certainly trivial compared to what Robin puts out without thinking--but what little she does have is calm and entirely neutral.

"Robin," she says to the demigod before her, "Stop pouting and hand this poor thing a blanket."

Robin makes a little noise as he remembers the blanket still wadded up under his arm... He doesn't want to agree with her or give in without an argument... But even he can admit that's childish, and Phalanx is more important than his grudge. So he huffs like it's such a big pain, but walks over to drape the blanket over Phalanx's shoulders anyway.

Ah, yes, that is much better. Phalanx eagerly absorbs the blanket around themself, tucking everything in until they're as much a single, uncomplicated shape as they can manage. And there, they continue to ride out the waves.

Especially without open space and people and things to pay attention to around them, the busyness of the energy they carry is much easier to notice. It's going to take a minute for the silt to settle.

They hear what's being said, though. It sounds familiar. They've heard it before.

"...Are we poor?"

"Poor in that there is an absence in you, dear," the woman tells him, sounding very self-assured, "Absence of quiet, I think. Absence of peace, at the moment."

Robin hears this and, keying in to the rattling feeling that still threatens to send Phalanx scattering to the far corners of their many separate realities, reaches for the other chair. It makes a soft scraping noise against the ground as he drags it closer so that he can also have a seat next to Phalanx.

He still crosses his arms, but now it's less from defiance and more to try and keep his unwarranted bitterness to himself.

"Absence of absence." Because there are too many pieces right now. Too many things present, too many things real, all in a space meant for only one.

They'd said the number, hadn't they? Phalanx groans and rubs at their eyes again, under their hood, using a limb that is mostly blankets now.

"But, it's okay. We didn't want it anyway."

Robin doubts that the fortune teller knows what's really happening with Phalanx. She isn't a clairvoyant or a true mind-reader. She just has one subtle, magical trick that she uses very, very lucratively. And on top of that, she really is blind, so she can't see the way Phalanx subtly changes colors as they're talking.

"Didn't want what, dear?" She asks politely, from her side of the table. Robin lets her ask, because he genuinely believes she would not be able to glean enough to do any harm. At least--not on purpose.

"Absence," though Phalanx already sound a little unsure about it. Their train of thought only ever makes sense in the moment, and time is still moving forward. "We didn't like it."

Whether or not the conversation is actually going anywhere, talking might be helping anyway. They're at least not buried in their own hands anymore as they try to speak and work through thoughts.

And to that, the woman gives a warm, wrinkled smile. They can hear it in her voice, too.

"Then I don't think you've got anything to worry about. You'll be all right soon."

"Soon... soon..." Phalanx murmurs with some anxiety, but it sounds like they're at least trying to soothe themself.

And then the blanket pile turns until big, ink-black eyes peer over at Robin, like they're expecting something from him.

Robin glances back at Phalanx... But seeing those big, black eyes stirs something in him, vague memories of the night before. He remembers them all piled together on the bed, now nice it was. Following that train of thought, he finally uncurls from his defensive slouch and stretches an arm over Phalanx's shoulders.

"She's right," he says, hugging them closer with a small smile. "You're doing very well."

Being wrapped in blankets is nice, but being hugged up under an arm is true relief. Robin had calmed Phalanx like that before, and it works just as well (and just as immediately) now.

Phalanx leans in with the sort of gratefulness that people who are still socially-minded tend to avoid. Dogs and kids do that sort of thing, not men sitting in a public establishment.

It turns out that not even Robin, lord of all human suffering, can keep up the feeling of frustration against a gratitude like that. That extended arm bends around to pat the top of their hooded head, trying to pretend he isn't very fond of everything happening and failing rather spectacularly at it.

"I think we've done a lot today," he adds, pretending there isn't someone else in the room with them for just a moment, "And it's not even breakfast-time yet."

By the hum of acknowledgment that they answer with, Phalanx agrees with this statement quite a bit. And to demonstrate, they hold up the bundle that is their injured hand.

"Sewing," Phalanx adds, as if Robin hadn't been there when it'd happened.

They say it so innocently and earnestly, but it would be a lie to say that they weren't at least partially hoping for a little more attention over it.

It's very cute. Robin laughs a little, charmed, and takes that other hand in his. He doesn't do anything with it other than hold it, but it seems a nice gesture all the same.

"That's right, sewing."

Funny that Phalanx still remembers, too. Maybe they'll still remember by the time they get home. He wonders if they'll remember that number, too...

"I'd almost hate to ask what got you two so riled up," the old woman speaks up after a moment, leaning back in her chair a little. "You aren't causing trouble, are you?"

"You'd almost hate," Robin points out, still sidled up nice and close to Phalanx. "It's nothing, just a busy street."

"And shopping. Pins. Legs. Magic."

Phalanx will helpfully fill in the things that Robin apparently forgot, while they're all snuggled up there.

"He said we're from nowhere."

The woman's brows are almost completely covered by bandages, but they can almost feel one skeptically raise as these potentially dangerous words come babbling, unfettered, from this stranger's mouth.

"Who did?" She asks Phalanx.

Robin, thinking quickly, grabs for the lowest common denominator he can summon under such short notice, "No, I told them a story yesterday. The one about the boy who gets killed and turned into a bird."

"...A bird?" She asks, this time turning her skepticism towards Robin.

"A bat, sorry. Birds are the old version." He shakes his head a little even though she can't see, "But I think I may have embellished a little too much, they've been talking about it all morning."

He gives the top of Phalanx's hood a subtle little tug, hoping that it's enough to get them to lie just a little lower than the "helpful" way they're acting now.

Edited 2018-09-24 04:38 (UTC)

Phalanx probably misses the subtle message that Robin is trying to get across, but the distracting half-truth gets the job done anyway. The spirits perk up at the mention of the story that had made such an impression on them the day before, and they veer off down that mental path instead.

"He dropped rocks on their heads and killed them," Phalanx shares, delighted.

"Ah..." If the woman is still suspicious, it doesn't take long for her to give up on this particular form of pursuit. The skepticism leaves her face and her tone. "It's been a long time since I heard anyone tell that story."

She moves again as she says this, reaching silently for her deck of cards. Robin's eyes track the movement immediately, cautiously watching as she begins shuffling them in her surprisingly dexterous, wrinkled hands.

"We'll be going now," he states all of a sudden, standing up in his place and trying to bring Phalanx up with him.

Phalanx can't react that quickly, especially when at least half of their attention is divided up on other things. Part of their mind is on the new curiosity of the cards, part is still back on the story about birds and death, and only a little is left to spare for the body. With them still curled up in the place they had previously been trying to retreat into, they haven't thought about moving in a little while. Robin pulls on dead, unoccupied weight, and Phalanx looks confused.

"Tell the story? We're going?"

"All of a sudden, dear?" The woman continues to shuffle her cards, seemingly unperturbed by Robin's quick attempt at an exit.

Robin feels the resistance of dead weight and realizes that Phalanx isn't going to move that fast--not unless Robin really startles them, and that's the exact thing he's trying to avoid. He considers just hoisting the whole pile of them into his arms and walking away, blanket and all, but he settles on exploring his other options first.

"No fortunes," he tells the woman, starting to sound irritated again.

"It's not for you, boy." The fortune-teller only shakes her head and continues as if talking to a stubborn child, "For your friend. Would you like one?"

Still holding the majority of the deck, she places three cards face-down on the table in a neat row. The cards themselves look a little old, with nothing but a blue background and white circle on the backs as any sort of decoration.

"Fortunes?"

Phalanx can pretend that Robin isn't there either. Maybe the woman's demeanor is just as contagious to the creature as everyone else's is. They reach out a finger toward the cards, but retreat quickly before they actually get close.

"But fortunes are for futures? We don't have anymore."

Maybe she interprets their question wrong--because she doesn't seem to think it was a strange thing to say at all. Rather, she smiles kindly and gestures to the cards in front of her.

"Everything has a future, but fortunes can tell the past and present, too."

She has probably done this a few hundred times, by the way she subtly reclines in her chair and resumes the roll of an actor playing a particular part. She never stops shuffling the remainder of the cards, though.

Robin stands next to Phalanx, saying nothing, but squeezing his fingers into a fist at his side.

"Fortunes. Fortunate."

They get a little bit braver when they get fidgety, this time. Their fingers nearly reach a card, before they stop and dig at threads in the tablecloth with their nails instead.

"Do they tell... tell. Tale..." No, still not quite right. They try again. "--Take. Do they take? ...Do you take?"

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Skeleton City // PSL

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