psychoshenanigans | Skeleton City // PSL

Okay! The plate has successfuly landed, Phalanx has been armed with the proper tools, there is one less sock around to potentially fall into something edible. Dinner is served.

Phalanx stands, of course, as it's a good bet that they can only really acknowledge the existence of half of their body at a time. They're good at slouching though, so there doesn't seem to be much of a problem with just kind of hunching up over the plate while they take the first curious jabs at exploring their meal.

They even know which end of the fork to use, how about that?

Again, this is shaping up to be an evening of compromises. If it doesn't occur to them to sit down, Robin won't tell them to sit down. Getting them to consume food is probably a high achievement all on its own.

The demigod picks up another plate and finally starts serving himself, with the only notable moment being his pleasantly chastising Vincent for eating so many root rounds, and Vincent curtly telling him it ain't his fault he's a slow-ass.

The "root rounds", as they are apparently called, are probably the most interesting part of the meal. They're coated with something sweet and salty, lightly breaded underneath, and then spongy, almost rubbery, on the inside. The dried fish is surprisingly tangy, almost bitter, past the initial flakiness. The soft grain with vegetables is barely worth eating, mostly there to fill up the empty space between other, more interesting, foods.

Robin pulls a tall stool over and hunches over a plate of his own--so he and Phalanx kind of match for a moment, with one standing and the other sitting at about the height of the actual table.

As a being, Phalanx is already generally lacking in empty space; there's no great need to fill up on grains. Being questionably made of dead things probably quells one's appetite as well. In either case, Phalanx ignores the bland and healthy-looking things as if they're actually invisible, and plays with the rest more out of curiosity than the hunger it seems like they really should be feeling by now.

The shiny, sticky, technicolor rounds are an expected hit. Though they're a little intimidating at first, it doesn't take long for Phalanx to catch on after a bit of exploration. Only one round gets stabbed and picked apart into oblivion before the others are sampled in a much more normal manner.

However, the fish is the surprise star of the evening. That sharp taste is a visible shock, and despite (or maybe because of) how the flavor borders on offensive, Phalanx finds them thoughtfully chewing through one piece, and then another.... and another...

Robin eats fairly politely, rationing the more flavorful pieces throughout the bland filler so as to turn it into a semi-functional meal. Vincent eventually runs out of root rounds and finds his way to the flavorless grain--which he tops with some broth from the noodley soup to give it some semblance of flavor.

For a while, the three of them eat peacefully, with Robin occasionally looking over to see just what stage of dissection his new friend has gotten to this time. Around the third or forth piece of fish, Robin comments around a small mouthful.

"Looks like the mudfish is a winner."

"Said no one, ever, about the mudfish," Vincent interjects, tilting his head up as if it would actually help him see over the table, "He's into those?"

"Looks like it..." Robin nods, finally pointedly pulling the pile of ghosts back into the conversation, "Hey, Phalanx. You like those?"

He points to the current piece of fish on the end of Phalanx's fork.

"Yes," they definitively answer, and decide to smash the fish on their fork down against the plate instead of bringing it to their mouth. As if it's serving as some punctuation on their opinion, Phalanx calmly obliterates the piece of fish into a million useless flakes.

Odds are, they won't remember to finish up that mess before moving onto another unbroken, appealing piece instead.

Oh, the fish will get eaten one way or another. Maybe not by Phalanx, but maybe in someone's leftovers, or maybe someone will think to feed the already ground-up bits of fish to a local chicken in the hopes of making said chicken a more appealing meal than the fish. Nothing really gets wasted down here.

"Good," Robin replies, just as definitively, paying little mind to Phalanx playing with their food rather than eating it. He watches them do this for a long moment, resting his chin on his palm, hunched over the table, thinking to himself--his own dinner gone and already forgotten.

And then something happens silently very high up above them, and Vincent notices immediately, picking his chin up again to stare unseeingly at the cracked ceiling. Robin catches on a second or two later, looking over curiously, then following the taller man's non-gaze.

"Grid's off," Vincent states. He doesn't sound worried, but it is a grumble of warning all the same. Robin hums in agreement. Then the sounds follow the thing that happened--a repetitive shushing sound, just a little louder with every beat, like a very big heartbeat except that the beating sounds like when blood rushes through your ears.

It's getting closer. Almost there.

"It'll just be a second," Robin adds, looking down at Phalanx just as the noise descends and the room, the floor, the entire level of the underground world is plunged into near-blackness.

Something glows through Robin's shirt, red. Small, maybe a necklace. It only takes a second for a crackle to sound somewhere and some dim lights to flicker back on elsewhere in the world--and then the room is back, nice and quiet and a little darker than before.

This is very normal. Happens every night. The only people upset are the ones who didn't quite get to finish their hot showers, or finish doing business, or finish getting safely home before the descent of artificial night--but the rest have seen this dozens, if not hundreds, of times already.

The only ones upset about the grid are all those unfortunate folks caught in the middle of doing something important... and Phalanx, apparently. Either because of a terminally short memory or (much more improbably) because of somehow never having experienced this nightly ritual, they startle entirely out of their meal.

Phalanx freezes as the power flushes out of this sector, and there's the tiny, highlighted sound of a fork hitting the floor once it's totally dark.

It's all back only a second or two later, but Phalanx already has both hands covering their ears, eyes wide and uncomprehending.

"Oops," Robin says.

"Whaddya mean, oops?" Vincent says, chair scuffing against the floor as the tall man stands up, unintentionally looming over the table. He does not move forward, but he's certainly ready to if there's suddenly a problem on their hands.

But Robin is the first one to actually move into action. He calmly steps off his stool and glides around to Phalanx, putting a hand gently on their shoulder to bring them back down to the singular realm.

"Phalanx, are you all right?"

His voice is soft but his presence is very grounding, somehow, in a way it wasn't a moment ago. If Vincent notices, he says nothing, only waiting to be told whether or not he is needed to help in some way, shape, or form.

It takes a second, but Phalanx's dark eyes finally float around the room before landing on Robin's face and fixing there. One of the hands pressed against the sides of their face has a sock wrapped around it.

"Are you all right?" Just an echo at first, but after a blink or two, they're realizing they haven't drifted as far as they'd thought.

"--We... are. We're all."

"Ah," Robin smiles, sounding glad to hear it. He wonders, at the back of his mind, if this is what it's like for other people, when he finds himself scattering between too many places (or sometimes just one place that happens to not be where he is standing in space and time).

As if on cue, Vincent stands down, hearing that whatever had been going wrong is starting to resolve itself.

"You're all good?" The large man unconsciously copies Phalanx's use of plural, focused more on intent than delivery, "Spooked by the lights, or somethin'?"

"Dark," Phalanx affirms. The hand with the sock disappears back into the blanket shroud, followed by the other once they're totally sure that all is safe.

"Sometimes we're blind. Or... dead?" Vincent can't see the unsure scrunch of Phalanx's face, but it's there in their voice. "But this was just dark... just-dark. Dark-dark."

Vincent's expression is many things: confused, skeptical, hesitant to even begin to try explaining why that doesn't make any sense. But while he furrows his brows in "wait what the fuck was that about 'dead'?," Robin is already there and moving the pile of ghosts right along.

"That's right, everyone is still here where you left them." He gives Phalanx's shoulder a small squeeze before letting go, dropping his arm to a more casual stance. "They shut the power off every night down here. Emergency lights go on," he twirls his finger in the air a little, "But no heating or hot water for a while."

"Wait," Vincent finally interjects, finding something he can actually grab onto in this conversation, "Did you not know about the grid?"

"The grid the... grid..." Phalanx starts the echo barely before Vincent finishes the words himself, sounding thoughtful.

And in a moment of impressive clarity, Phalanx manages to suss out what "grid" actually means in this case. Their eyes are still dark, but they catch the dim light like human eyes normally would as they look up to the ceiling.

Following the memory of where the two men's attention had gone before, and then reaching even farther back, Phalanx's attention goes up--through the caverns above, thinking back, remembering, searching, and they slowly lift a hand to point at the cracked plaster overhead.

"--No, none. Ours was all... not this. Not a grid."

"Not a... grid...?" Vincent repeats them, with more confusion than before.

"Seriously, is there an echo in here?" Robin, meanwhile, smiles and pretends that something is stuck in his ear. It's a short bit, but his good mood does not waver as he asks more eloquently for clarification: "If yours wasn't a grid, Phalanx, what was it?"

He thinks he knows the answer--but earlier, he thought he knew a lot of things about Phalanx that quickly turned out to not be entirely true. He sees no harm in asking, aside from potentially giving Vincent a headache.

Vincent runs the chance of developing a headache from this nonsense, but apparently so does Phalanx. Switching gears so often, focusing and unfocusing, learning and remembering, takes a toll on the scattered entity.

Phalanx frowns and brings their gaze back down to the floor then, tipping their head to the side as if they're listening for something. The hand that doesn't have a sock clutched around it goes out, fingers demonstratively spread, while they search for words to fit the memory.

"Lines... crossing, like... a web, maybe? And some just by themselves."

Is that right? Phalanx's eyes are changing color again but they shut tight. Only a few of the pieces floating around even understand the question, let alone know how to answer, so it's hard.

"And less. Not so big."

'Like power lines', Robin thinks, making a small sound as he realizes just how long it's been since he's thought about power lines. He supposes he's heard that radioactive mess downstairs maybe tell the girl from Up-Top about how people say there used to be a web of power that wrapped all around the world--but she didn't believe him.

Why would she? It was a very long time ago.

Robin's thoughtful silence gives Vincent enough time to come to some kind of conclusion, though he sounds a little hesitant to speak up after that... confusing explanation on Phalanx's part.

"...So, on that note, can we maybe..." He turns his blind face towards Robin, "Talk about this whole... I dunno, what this guy's gonna do in the short term? This ain't exactly like letting a friend crash on your couch for a night..."

And having finally been called to business, Robin sighs, finally reaching over to pick up the fork that Phalanx had dropped (and likely forgotten) minutes ago.

"I suppose that is the fair thing to do, isn't it." The demigod puts the fork back on the table, then reaches again for Phalanx, this time putting a hand on the small of their back. If that hasn't brought them out of their eyes-tight focusing, this probably will:

"Phalanx, would you like to come sit with me on the couch?"

Their eyes are a weird shade of olive grey when they settle on Robin again. The struggle of remembering, all that focus, transfers right to the demigod. Phalanx has an anchor again.

"Yes." A sure answer. Sitting with someone on a couch sounds much more comprehensible than trying to grasp the power system of a world literally lifetimes separate from the current place in time and space.

"I thought as much. Come over here."

And so, Robin leads Phalanx away from the dining room table, around the pyramid of cans and cartons stacked up around the trash can (Vincent has been meaning to take those out, he swears), and towards the threadbare couch that serves as the heart of the tiny room.

The couch is probably the closest thing that this house has to a holy place. It is a safe zone, the only location where both Robin and Vincent know that they have to be amicable towards one another while they are both sitting on it. Vincent lays on it when he's too tired to get to the bed, Robin lays on it when he's too tired to have a proper meltdown in the bathroom. This is where they listen to the radio together, the only other thing besides card games and killing monsters that these men can seem to do in complete, unwavering agreement.

So in a sense, Robin taking Phalanx there is both a power play (taking advantage of the unspoken rule of the Safe Couch) and a silent plea for a peaceful discussion over what he knows is going to be a delicate topic. Realizing one or the other, Vincent sighs, but busies himself with putting leftover food into their ice chest and refrigerator for a while. He'll get around to it, he just doesn't like that he has to.

Robin sits on one of the end cushions, patting next to him for Phalanx to snuggle up next to him. There are a couple of blankets wadded up nearby, in case they want to grab and absorb any of them along the way.

It's kind of crazy how small and comfy Phalanx can wad themself up when they're allowed to. This might be a respectable, adult body, but they don't move like it. The way that they bonelessly curl up with blankets hugged close, becoming as soft and small and bundled as possible, is something you generally lose long before "grown-up" years set in.

Robin's side gets quite snuggled as a pile of ghosts builds a cocoon against him on the couch.

Even though Robin invited them over in the first place, he's still a little surprised when the creature curls up next to him so readily. Just like before, in the bedroom, the idea of someone actually grateful to be near him is a little jarring--but he still wouldn't trade it for the world, in this moment, and wraps an arm loosely around Phalanx's scrunched up form as they settle into their happy little bundle.

They will have several minutes of peace before Vincent finally joins them, treading through his living room and eventually taking a seat on the far side of the couch.

It's not a very big couch, though, so Phalanx can feel the edge of his cushion sinking down towards the heavy man. It would be very easy to poke him with a stray foot.

Yeah, Vincent asked for it. When the cushion sinks down, shifting gravity a little bit, Phalanx automatically adjusts for it by pulling both feet onto the couch and tucking them into the blanket too. Vincent definitely has some of that whole bundle settling against him now, fully part of this comfy couch family.

Vincent grunts, but does not actually tell Phalanx to move. He must finally be resigned to his fate, or think there's worse things than having some weird bundle-person's feet on him.

"So," he prompts Robin. A silence hangs in the air for a moment, and Robin starts rubbing Phalanx's shoulder through the blankets while he thinks.

"I like them," the demigod finally states.

"'Kay," Vincent acknowledges. "But that doesn't change that this is a... situation."

"It is."

The two of them don't sound angry, at least. Vincent doesn't sound nervous, Robin doesn't sound mean. The rules of the couch are being upheld, even if it takes the two of them a while to find what words are best around pauses of heavy thought.

And like they've done before, Phalanx drifts along with the scene like they're not actually a part of it. It doesn't hurt that the shoulder-rub is nice. The touch is soothing, and it's easier to disperse than stay focused, so they settle back away from the effort.

They're probably listening (at least most of them) but there isn't the sense of it. The two other men can carry the tension between them without anything getting in the way.

"...So, what're you gonna do about it?"

Robin continues smoothing out the blankets over Phalanx's shoulder in repetitive, intentional motions. He counts the seconds that way, letting three, four, five pass by as he thinks of what to say in response to his only friend.

"I'm not sure. I've seen a lot of things, but this is beyond my understanding."

Vincent grunts at that, slumping a little further down the couch, Phalanx's feet still on him.

"Shit. S'that bad, huh?"

"I don't think they're dangerous," Robin follows, quick on his heels.

"Yeah, but you don't know that," Vincent responds, countering just as quick, "And I don't know if I want it to be my job to clean up if you turn out to be wrong."

There's a pause as the both of them think again, and Vincent scratches at his head and rubs at the corners around his not-eyes. When Robin says nothing for a while, Vincent brings up something else.

"'Sides, you know I don't have time to watch a kid."

"I'll watch him," Robin states, quietly resolute. "I can't afford not to, until I figure this out."

"...Think you can?"

"Hm?" Robin chuckles then, almost a scoff, "Of course I can. I just need time."

"Okay..."

Vincent doesn't seem entirely okay, but his next question sounds more like a last-minute suggestion than any genuine effort to dissuade Robin from his path.

"And you're sure you couldn't just, like, take him to the Priesthood, or..."

"No Priesthood." Phalanx can feel Robin shake his head, he does it so pointedly. "They'll kill him, plain and simple. I don't think there's an exorcist in that whole gods-damned temple that could handle what'd come out of this if they did."

"That's not..." Vincent wheezes quietly, "Filling me with a lot of confidence..."

"It's fine," Robin says. "I just need to understand the beast before I can understand who best to hand it to. In the long run, I think you'd much rather they stay with me than with someone who may accidentally unleash a magic that they don't understand."

There is one more silence, and the next time Vincent talks, he's talking through his hands over his face.

"So he's staying on my couch tonight, huh?"

Robin laughs, an honest laugh this time. "Yes, if you wouldn't mind terribly."

Grubby fingers fidget while the two men talk, but not with anything tangible. Phalanx plays with the hem of the blanket for only a second or two before the motion changes to simply kicking a couple fingers back and forth against nothing in the air. Patiently and distantly existing while their whole world is debated.

And once a lull finally settles, Phalanx wordlessly decides to crane their head back to look right at Robin's face. It's a little too close and sudden for how casually they're watching him, but that's what the ghosts do--not expectant, but curiously checking in on Robin's expression and waiting to see what happens next.

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