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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They hadn't even realized that they were holding something, really. Or they had noticed, but only a part of them. Only half of their attention had been musing over the shiny object in their hand, while the other half had been preoccupied with other things--moving, walking, shrugging at where their cloak was trying to slide off their shoulders. They didn't even know what the trinket was, let alone when they had picked it up, so they balk when someone grabs them and stabs a question into the air between them.

"Looking," the thief blurts out. A man, it seems, but the voice comes out too soft for the face. It's weird.

"Holding. Mm... This thing."

Phalanx wiggles the metallic object a little, to help explain.

The thing he's picked up appears to be a barrette, or maybe a large pin... Or maybe just a fancy piece of bent copper with some other fancy pieces of silver wire woven through holes in the design, with some sort of clippy thing on the back for some reason.

The woman over the counter gives their arm a little shake. "So you think you're a smart-ass, huh?"

She only gives Phalanx a cursory look-over, but even then, her frown deepens at the sight of white hair sticking out from under his hood. She says something else after that, demanding that they put it back or she'll blah blah blah, but something distracting is happening kind of all of a sudden right at Phalanx's side.

Someone is standing there, dressed all in black, hands politely folded behind his back. He's pale, his hair is dark. He's smiling, but he also stands with a sort of tenseness that does not reflect his expression. Or maybe it's the... feeling that seems to accompany him, something strange and eye-catching, but not necessarily in a good way. One or two passers-by look at him as they shuffle past, but they are quick to glance away again.

"Hello, friend."

He is looking at Phalanx, and very pointedly. The woman, also distracted by his sudden appearance, loosens her grip on their arm.

The man tilts his head a little. "What are you doing so high up?"

Oh, yes. This shiny white-and-black man is far more interesting than the woman. Phalanx loses track of both her and the object she'd seemed so angry about; it either ends up in a pocket or set down on the table or held loosely in forgotten fingers.

Phalanx looks the man right in the eye, but in the way that a doll might. Almost like they're painted on, the irises that lock unblinkingly onto Robin are flat-black, reflecting no light, and maybe just a little bit too large. They stand out like ink stains against how everything else--skin and hair and clothes--look like the color has been almost entirely washed out.

"Up?" As they look down at the ground, Phalanx's hood slips forward to cover up any visible bits of white hair. "We're in the middle."

The man doesn't bother blinking--or maybe he's just forgotten that kind of human mannerism entirely, with how focused he seems to be on the odd, pale thing in front of him. Their answer earns them a moment of silence, a boon of consideration, and it isn't until the woman next to them speaks up that he finally looks away.

"Is this..." The woman was fully prepared to sling out more accusations, but she is not immune to whatever vaguely distressing feeling the newcomer is still bleeding into the air. She ends up letting go of Phalanx for her own safety, "What is this? Are you with the Rings or something?"

His smile widens and he is quick to adopt a more casual, placating tone. "Nothing you need to worry about, ma'am, so long as you aren't looking for trouble."

The woman retreats back into her tent, resigning to crossing her arms and muttering something about how she don't want no trouble, no sir, which leaves Phalanx entirely free to be metaphorically scooped up by this stranger instead.

"Follow me, won't you?" Speaking to his new friend again, he holds out his hand expectantly. It's black like the rest of him, gloved.

Phalanx first wraps fingers around the place where the woman's hand had been, before obediently--and delicately--reaching for Robin's hand. Despite the layers of cloth wrapped all the way down the wanderer's arm, almost enough to cover their fingers, it's clear that this being really is taller and more masculine than might be guessed at a distance. Underneath all that demure slouching is at least the body of a man.

That's not what takes Robin's hand, though. Whatever this creature is, it takes Robin's hand like a guileless child. Confused but trusting. Maybe even a little bit excited to see whatever is going to happen next.

The stranger hesitates as their hands meet. The moment barely lasts a fraction of a second, but it is filled by a quiet absence of breath and a wavering feeling, like the flickering light of a lantern. Much of his tenseness disappears as the world starts moving again, and he moves with it, turning to guide his discovery through a stream of wandering bodies.

He still glows like a candle, though. Like a flame. Different than the rest of them. People don't seem to see him anymore, not like they could a moment ago.

Phalanx is led without a word along the stalls and down some stairs and into what might be considered a courtyard in the abstract sense--it's a round area, lined with a jumble of temporary awnings and more permanent establishments. They are led into the center, where concentric circles of geometric stone serve as benches for anyone not strolling past it.

Robin sits, expecting Phalanx to sit as well.

Being led by something that is big and bright, but isn't demanding attention, allows Phalanx to drift a little. Even without Robin looking back at his new find, he wouldn't be able to miss it. The diffusing is as much in the feel of it as it is in the vacant expression that quietly settles on Phalanx' face. Maybe even more so. The flutter, the echo, evens out until it grows still as they move through the crowd.

No one notices Robin, and no one notices his friend either--not until they finally reach something resembling a destination. Phalanx blinks around at the shift in gear.

And once they're paying attention, they watch how Robin sits. Then, purposefully, they follow the exact motions to sit down as well.

And Robin watches ravenously, picking apart every detail as if it was, in itself, the answer to all of his questions. And he has so many questions... He keeps himself collected, sitting as if he merely had polite interest in the other party, but it is only a calculated shell. It is hard to keep his fingers still when they itch with a want to touch and press and dig and dig and dig.

He keeps holding their hand though, gently, so long as they don't try to take it back. He also thinks of killing them, or not killing them, and being equally ready for either.

"So," leaning in towards his find, propelled by ravaging curiosity, "You are not a monster...?"

It could almost pass as a statement, rather than a question.

Phalanx has forgotten the hand that Robin is holding, so it can remain captive for as long as the other wants. Phalanx forgets a lot of things in the face of that question. There's a pause while they look down at how the fabric drapes over the bend of their own knees, and the echo slowly builds again.

It's a stuttering, hard-to-grasp feeling, where the shape of other creatures' energies tend to be easier to fathom. It's as if each of Phalanx's thoughts have their own form, and Robin can feel the ripples of them all bumping together as they rattle through the creature's head.

Phalanx's face is lowered, half-shaded by the hood, but there isn't much there to read anyway.

"You're not a monster...?" Asked the exact same way--as an expectant statement.

His smile slowly splits to show teeth. Maybe he'll have to kill it, whatever it is. Wouldn't that be fun? Maybe it he cracks it open, all the rattling things will spill out.

"Don't be rude," he says through his grin, "I was asking about you."

He doesn't get it, and that's the part that's really gnawing at him. Instinctively, he squeezes the hand he's holding just hard enough to start to hurt.

"Tell me what you are."

Phalanx's lightless eyes shift over to the hand caught in Robin's grip a second too late, as if there is a delay in noticing (or caring about) the discomfort. They've at least probably received the threat hidden in there, though it's hard to tell for sure. Their growing expression is more one of confusion and concentration as they grapple with the question.

"What I am. Mm..." Fingers twitch in Robin's hand, and Phalanx looks to the side, where the nearest sounds of people are coming from. "I'm... tall. And twenty. And twins."

Robin leans back. His expression has changed, and no one is holding their hand anymore.

"No you're not," he counters too quickly, out of instinct, with nothing to follow it but a frown. No less exacting, his eyes flicker from the shapes in their hood, over their face, across the wraps around their fingers, and back up to those flat, black eyes.

"...Not twins," is what Robin finally says, while the rest of him catches on to his own sudden anxiety. "Not my kind of twins. Why is your hair like that?"

And now he's back to leaning in, curious and confused and just a little accusatory.

"No one is your kind of twins--" Phalanx counters just as quickly, though they clearly seem confused about the words coming out of their mouth a second later.

They're beginning to rise out of detached lethargy as Robin's agitation becomes contagious. That feeling is sticking to them and reflecting back, and they shift uncomfortably in their seat, in their robes.

"I, uh... my hair..." Phalanx reaches up to pull on a lock hanging in front of their eyes, but if Robin was referring to the whiteness of it, that fact is suddenly beginning to change.

As Phalanx anxiously fidgets with what bits of hair are visible under the edge of their hood, it begins to take on a distinct chestnut color.

"Why is my hair like that?"

Phalanx is lucky. Despite threatening bodily harm a moment earlier, Robin is probably the only person in all of these caves capable of handling the sudden change in front of him. One of those gloved hands comes up to the edge of Phalanx's hood, quickly tugging it even further over their face.

"No no no, don't do that." He's quieter now, the startled edges of him melting down as the threat of being seen is now much higher. Another hand is taking theirs again, to guide them away from fidgeting further--and somehow, in doing this, he's gotten a lot closer.

He has to warn him. "Not where people can see you."

The sudden closeness doesn't seem to bother Phalanx, but the reprimand and the warning certainly hit home. The creature shies back into hunched-up shoulders, and their voice and whole persona becomes a little more delicate.

"Sorry... sorry."

Their hair doesn't change back, though. And when they peer at Robin around the edge of their hood, their startled eyes are now a striking shade of human blue.

If they remain this agitated, who knows what will shift next.

Vincent's eyes are blue, he thinks. Were blue, before he lost them.

Maybe that's what he'll do.

Yes.

"Listen," he says, ducking down enough to meet their eyes under the edge of their hood. "I'm going to take you to see my friend. We can talk there. You aren't in trouble, but there are a lot of questions I need answered."

Which he thinks is important to say, now, with how he has decided this thing is not a monster in disguise. Even calling it a brab'ja would be giving it too much credit, too much agency as an individual. He doesn't know how to explain it, but Vincent is smart when it comes to people, so maybe he can find an answer there.

The direction is very assuring. It resonates through his entire person, a flickering candle now burning with a steady flame. He's back to holding Phalanx's hand.

"Do you understand?"

"Do you understand?"

Phalanx is repeating the words almost before Robin is done saying them, but their (now big blue) eyes are holding fast onto Robin's. And there's a subtle shuffle of motion, almost a nod. They're listening and comprehending and agreeing as much as they can.

--Which is a good thing, because there's already something shifting about their face again. In a few blinks, their eyes are much more hazel than they had been a moment before.

Close enough. Whatever this thing is, he needs to get it out of sight of normal people. Who knows how many humans it has interacted with already, or how long they have until someone says a little too loudly that they think they saw a budding Mage wandering around the market.

They're standing again. People see them holding hands, but don't look any further. Robin brings them back into the drifting crowd and guides them along the current, down the river, and eventually, back into the sea.

And then back into some dimmer, emptier places. Smaller tunnels. Stairs going down down down, sometimes with two walls and sometimes with high ceilings and sometimes just a narrow path with the guts of a chamber exposed the whole way down.

And then they're just sort of there, through a doorway and into a dark room where Robin finally lets go of their hand.

"Vincent?" He calls. No one answers, as no one is home, but that doesn't stop Robin from heading further into the room. It's not a very big place; most of the space is taken up by a musty couch pulled up in front of a large, old radio. There are a couple of shelves and small tables, but they are mostly covered in old newspapers, printings, and beer cans.

Lots of beer cans. What little of the kitchen visible from the doorway looks like a nightmare of old bottles and takeout containers stacked up against other garbage-things. Robin steps gracefully around a group of six or seven cans by the foot of the couch on his way towards the bedroom.

He sticks his head in, just to look, while Phalanx is left unattended.

Luckily, Phalanx really couldn't be easier to puppet along, especially in a setting like this. The being truly does melt into the crowd, some core thing about them dispersing or quieting until it's almost hard to remember that someone is actually still following along.

And just like before, it isn't until they reach their destination and Robin detaches that Phalanx seems to return to their own body. The blinking as they enter the room isn't only because of how dark it is.

Then Robin ducks away, and the visitor is left to their own devices. Which, in this case, turns out to be curiously following whatever happens to be a prominent sense. With how dark and quiet it is in here, that sense is understandably scent.

Bear cans stink. So, by the time that Robin returns, he will find his new friend picking up, tipping, smelling, and maybe tasting part of the collection.

Yes, he turns around to find the stranger investigating the beer can as if they'd never seen one before in their lives.

"Ah..." He raises his hand in a futile gesture, already too late, and lowers it again. "...That's probably not... very good."

"That's probably not..."

More parroting, but the curious expression that they turn toward Robin puts a question-mark on the end of the sentence for them.

As least they have paused in their investigation, leaving room for Robin if he wants to interject with anything else.

With that pause, he has time to start shaking his head.

"That'll taste terrible. Don't do it."

To be fair, the beer that Vincent drinks probably tasted awful before it had time to percolate. He holds out his hand again instead, since his new friend has been fairly responsive to that already.

"Why don't you put that down and come over here."

And just as before, Phalanx (again with their original washed-out features and abyssal eyes) readily complies. The beer cans are forgotten, they pick up the hem of their cloak, and they carefully maneuver across the room to take Robin's hand.

At least they are obedient, if nothing else. A monster would never follow him around like this. The tribesmen from the world above know some small scraps of magic, and he knows that strange things sometimes fester out in the wastes where no one goes--but even those kinds of people would never walk up to him and willingly take his hand.

The bedroom is cleaner than the front room, but only because the bed takes up any space Vincent could have otherwise set things down in. There are some drawers with a mess of clothes in them, a closet with a broken door, and that's about all there is to see.

But Robin seems to like it in this room. The air feels kind of like him, or maybe he smells like this room smells, or maybe it's something else... But being here seems to calm him down in ways he may not even notice.

He sits down on the edge of the bed. The mattress springs sound pretty old.

"Do you have a name?"

Before, Robin had wanted Phalanx to sit beside him on the bench, so that's what they automatically do in this case as well, despite the creaking springs. And though Robin is asking another difficult question, this is at least a relatively frequently-asked one. It only takes Phalanx a moment or two to think before they answer.

"Don't know about a name. They called us Phalanx."

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Skeleton City // PSL

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