psychoshenanigans | GRATIA // PSL

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GRATIA // PSL

So, here's what Irahl knows.

He's alone in a dark, cold cave. He has most, if not all, of his gear. No one is guarding his location. As he heads away from the spot where he came to consciousness, no one tries to stop him, and no one gets in his way. The few people he finds down there seem human, and not about to approach the nearly-seven-foot man that comes stalking out of the lower tunnels. Honestly, everyone here seems a surprised and a little astonished about his... Entire scene.

There is a way up. It's a maze of twisting corridors and confusing passageways, half of which feel too small for him. It's bigger and bigger groups of people, some of which scatter like schools of fish, and some of which have to be pushed through to get anywhere. It's climbing up into streets lit with dingy lights, graffiti-covered hallways, warehouses, weird holes in stone walls that may or may not be windows. It's alarm bells, it's people yelling at each other down the street. It's just an absurd number of stairs. A couple of people make an attempt to stop him somewhere, and it goes poorly for them.

Elsewhere, events are being set in motion where Irahl cannot see. But he's on his way out.

Eventually, more people try to stop him. At the end of another long stretch of Underground city, a group of official-looking folks are putting a real effort into blocking off the obvious exit, and some of them have weapons.

Down a side alley, into another tunnel, and then the space opens up into a... Plaza, of some sort? The floor is made of stone. The buildings surrounding it are made of stone and are hard to distinguish from one another. At at least the ceiling (also made of stone) is a lot higher than before. Cavernous. There's some kind of sculpture in the middle of it, some impressive feat of geometric stonework that gives the illusion of defying gravity despite weighing literal tons.

This is where someone finally catches him. Sounds have been echoing unhelpfully down every passageway, making it hard to tell if people are coming or going - but this series of quick footsteps comes from an upward direction before someone hits the ground about five feet in front of Irahl.

His clothes are different. His hair is better-kept. Maybe if the situation wasn't quite so tense, there'd be time to see the ways in which his face is different, the way his eyes don't have quite as vicious and sharp a gleam as they used to. But whatever Irahl can take in of him, there is Robin, having hopped down from a rooftop to put himself between him and the exit again.

"...Holy shit."

Kind of weird that he looks absolutely shocked to see the person in front of him, though.

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While Vincent is more than happy to keep taking blame until this whole thing evens out, Irahl provides the only other out he likes better. It's a huge relief to be invited to just ignore the problem, his natural coping mechanism.

"Didn't happen," Vincent agrees, still barely restraining himself from laughing, "No one was confused and we had a perfectly normal mornin'."

Another addition is added to the list of things they continue to pretend didn't happen--with items ranging from panic attacks in space to that time they nearly trapped themselves in their own shuttles with mattresses.

"Anyway," he forces the conversation somewhere else, while they head down the stairs to the first floor, "You, uh, plannin' on grabbin' breakfast, or headin' right out?

Right. Food.
That would have been an excellent thing to have planned for.

While leaving time for a meal is not part of his usual routine before work, he also hasn't been following all of the other parts of his routine that would have accounted for it. This fact, plus how much energy he'd used up the day before, does make eating something sound tempting.

So, the wordless disgruntled sound that he answers with is a stand-in for both 'no' he hadn't planned on grabbing anything, and 'yeah' he's now wishing he had. He at least should have grabbed something from their fridge on the way out.

"Damn," Vincent says, mostly catching the second part of the sentiment, "You want me to try an' grab somethin' for ya'...?"

As much as he likes the idea of further diverting from the bizarre embarrassment of their shared revelation (his face still feels kind of warm, so he must have been blushing), he realizes as he's saying it that him trying to find food for either of them would not be an expeditious or advisable course of action.

It becomes even more apparent as they hit the first floor and pass through the lobby--which carries the sounds and smells of people eating from some adjoining chamber. Wherever the food is, there are probably at least a handful of normal guests trying to enjoy a normal breakfast, and that's something he would surely interrupt.

And there's a familiar-looking carriage waiting outside the glass doors at the front of the hotel, not that Vincent can see that.

Yeah, as sweet the offer is, sending Vincent on an errand that is meant to be quick, through an obstacle course of things he can't see, isn't really a viable option.

Irahl is ready to write the idea off completely... until he hits the smell of breakfast on the ground floor. Like others of his kind, his appetite is transient--easy to ignore until it's suddenly not. Vincent had seen it in space, when Irahl had gone from not eating for two days to suddenly and methodically devouring his way through every flavor of protein in the dispenser. He'd actually expended some magical energy the day before, so when his appetite hits him now, it pounces with a ferocity that even he isn't quite expecting.

Slowing to a stop in the lobby, Irahl's gaze pulls from the glimpse of the carriage waiting outside to peer over at the doors leading to the dining room and the array of foods waiting just beyond.

"...Hold this." It's a snap decision. He keeps his rifle on his back but shucks off the cumbersome bag of gear and pushes it into Vincent's hands. If he knocks into someone or something with that bag, he isn't going to wait around long enough to apologize, so its best if Vincent hangs onto it for a second.

A moment later, the diners will be treated to the sight of a giant harbinger of death stalking into the dining room and cutting a path straight through to the buffet tables. If there is an orderly line or posted instructions, he doesn't seem to notice. Irahl only deviates in his path enough to grab a napkin. Then, he's moving around any other people who might be in his way as if they aren't there--diner and server alike--to cut in at the warming trays of meats.

He goes right for whatever most resembles the little sticks of sausage that he's used to from home. He at least has the decency to use tongs--picking out a good half dozen of the things and placing them right into the napkin in his hand. And with those efficiently acquired, he heads right back out again.

When he returns to Vincent hardly a minute later to reclaim his bag, he's already halfway through eating one of the pilfered sausages.

"Thanks."

"Oh, uh..." Vincent barely has time to respond before a heavy bag is pushed into his arms, "Sure..."

He doesn't know what Irahl is about to do, but he maneuvers the heavy thing onto his shoulder and waits dutifully in the middle of the lobby all the same as his friend treads off towards the sounds and smells of breakfast. And honestly? Better the guy that can see than the guy who can't.

Irahl is in and out of the open breakfast buffet so fast that no one can really raise a serious complaint about his presence, but that's not to say they don't react--a quiet gasp here, half a protestation from the person he cuts in line, a couple scurrying to get out of his way. Plenty of astonished looks as hotel guests and staff alike try to comprehend the sudden appearance of this seven-foot-tall, dark-clad, terrifying man with a giant gun who seems to be absconding with a pile of sausages.

When Irahl returns to the lobby, Vincent is more or less how he'd left him. He's been listening to the vague chaos in the other room, and sniffs the air curiously upon his friend's approach.

"Nice," he says, starting to break into a grin as he hands Irahl's bag back over, "They got sausages?"

"You'll love it," he mumbles as he finishes devouring a sausage while looping the strap of the gear bag onto his shoulder. It's a little awkward with one hand busy holding a bouquet of breakfast meats, but this is not the first time he has done this. He's a professional.

And with that all squared away, he can finally head out, which is a little surreal as he can't remember if he has ever really had someone see him off before... aside from Vincent's exuberant display the day before.

So, he's rather unceremonious about it. Just a little nudge on Vincent's arm before he turns to head toward the door and the waiting carriage beyond it.

"See you later."

Vincent has no idea that Irahl's holding a fistful of the things, but one gets the sense that he'd hardly berate the guy if he knew. Honestly, he's just glad the guy's eating anything. He knows it's never really Irahl's first instinct.

He gets nudged. He pats that spot on his arm once, just to make sure he's not being handed something else--and then swats at where he thinks Irahl's shoulder is to properly return the gesture.

"Yeah, man. Kick ass."

Less embarrassing fanfare than yesterday, but Irahl's already faced one day of trial without getting kicked out. Vincent feels like he can simply give his blessing before heading off to vaguely menace some people in the breakfast room.

Outside the hotel, the familiar carriage is waiting... Though it's not exactly the one he rode in yesterday. The windows are wide open, slid to the side in a way that wasn't possible before. There's also a sunroof, which has been preemptively propped open. Jandru is already leaning on one of the doors in the shade of the vehicle, with their pocket watch in one hand and a large, covered glass of iced coffee in the other.

"Good morning! Did you..." They look up to greet him as he exits, their polite and cheerful smile quickly fading as they see what he's bringing with him, "I... I'm sorry, why are you carrying a handful of sausages?"

This farewell is much less embarrassing for sure. Having a little sendoff like this is actually kind of nice in a way that Irahl can't explain and probably won't try to unpack anytime soon. For now, he takes it at face value and steps outside to greet his babysitter.

He absolutely notes the difference in today's ride with considerable relief, but nothing about his body language says that he either notices or cares. Just as nothing about his body language hints at whether or not he's joking when he tilts his hand in his handler's direction.

"Want one?"

Regardless of however they react, he pushes his scarf down enough to put another sausage into his mouth. All of this without slowing down much, ambling right for the door, ready to get into the vehicle and get this day properly started--sausages and all.

"No..." Is their response, along with a belated, "Thank you..."

As perplexed (and probably distressed) as they are by this bold choice of breakfast-to-go, they're opening the door before they've even fully finished their response. Irahl may continue to eat his sausages, and now Jandru is also thankful they brought the carriage with lots and lots of airflow.

The interior is very similar to that of the last ride. Jandru already has some files stacked on what's probably their seat. They climb in soon after Irahl, and the carriage gets underway without delay. Soon they're rolling slowly past fountains, sandstone sculptures, and artfully-arranged garden nooks.

"First order of business..." Jandru says with a tired sigh, stashing their giant coffee in a cup holder, "I thought today might be a good day to look at some clothing options. No fittings or anything, I just noticed that you..."

Once they sit down, they gesture apologetically at... all of Irahl.

"Well, you wear a lot of black."

Between the ample open windows, knowing ahead of time what the day will entail, and being able to content himself with a snack, Irahl is much more comfortable during this ride than he had been during the previous one. He settles right down and neatly devours his way through his breakfast as they go.

"And gray," he corrects. At least the deadpan delivery is easier to interpret as a definite joke, this time. "Good for hunting in the city, but bad for the sun. Imagine I need something paler."

The joke gets the tiniest of laughs, the bare minimum needed to acknowledge that it happened and that Jandru almost found it humorous, before they follow it up with an agreement.

"Yes, exactly. And if you like grey, I do have some good news..."

They open their file and hold up a couple of pieces of paper for him to see--fashion sketches of some outfits that look in many ways similar to his current gear, in a several different shades of grey. Jandru looks excited about this, and it's a little hard to tell if it's genuine or just them being performative for whoever might be able to hear them outside.

"If I had to guess, I'd imagine you're not big into fashion, but I wanted to catch any immediate rejections before we send them to our tailor for mock-ups."

Edited 2024-10-16 01:33 (UTC)

If Jandru is in fact genuinely excited about this, then they'll be pleased to see that they have his immediate attention, as he sits up and leans forward to look. However, they might be less pleased to see that he is so interested that he reaches out to take the whole packet.

He isn't a complete animal about it, though. After stuffing another sausage into his mouth to chew on thoughtfully while he looks over the drawings, he sets the last few aside (safely on their napkin) on the seat next to him, brushes his gloved hands off on his pants, and then reaches out.

Once he can closely inspect the mock-ups there in his hands, his eyes tick from one detail to the next, seemingly meticulous in his analysis. It doesn't take long before the notes start.

"--This style of cloak won't work. Need to be able to take it off fast... and I don't do headgear. Hood is okay if it's big enough."

Irahl's interest is surprising to them; they would have bet money that he doesn't care as long as it's functional. Though, come to think of it, he has a very thorough understanding of his gear, so it makes sense that it would extend to everything else he wears...

The sausage situation continues to loose him points, however. Jandru isn't sure how to write this upsetting display up in their report, but they commit to finding a way then and there.

"Ah...! Okay, no headgear..." They say, forcing themselves back on track. They start jotting things down on a notepad next to them.

It turns out that Irahl has quite a few notes, actually. Generally speaking, he has comments about certain features and fits that either need to be altered or simply won't work at all. Compared to the typical priorities of snipers, he has more concerns about being able to move around well, not having dangling things that can get caught, and wearing things that will work well with his armor. The matters of temperature control, comfort, and appearance are far secondary.

However, there is a lull after he seemingly delivers the last of his notes, where he continues to look at the last few sketches for an extra moment... before he states his actual final thought.

"--And not that one."

There is no qualifier tacked on. He just doesn't like it.

Jandru takes dutiful notes as always, capturing every detail to the best of their ability. They're starting to get a pretty good idea of the man's preferences. This will save them a lot of time in the long run.

But then Irahl finds that sketch... And Jandru giggles.

"Really? Not interested?"

They shake their head--of course he's not interested in the one where Jandru's instructions to the artists had been to 'go wild' with it--and holds their hand out to take the pile of papers back from him.

"It's fine, just wanted to make sure you're paying attention."

See, it's things like this that are only going to encourage Irahl to continue messing with Jandru whenever he can. It's also confirmation to him that when dealing with Seth and his group, literally anything can end up being some sort of test.

With both of these things in mind, he sits back with a small, amused huff and picks up his little pile of sausages again, unrepentantly returning to his breakfast.

"Funny."

He had better finish those breakfast sausages soon, and not just because the likelihood of Jandru somehow putting a stop to them grows with each passing moment. Their carriage had rolled through a number of greenhouse-like tunnels in a fairly straight line, slowing here and there for pedestrians, but the ride seems to come to a definite stop at another one of those exterior-facing platforms.

"I kind of liked it. Maybe I'll get a belt-cape commissioned myself..."

More jokes, probably, from Jandru. But they've arrived at their destination, so they work to gather up their papers and their coffee cup and lead them back out onto the platform. It's definitely hot out here, the sun already high in the sky--but it doesn't have quite the same intensity as it did when Irahl and Vincent had arrived in the afternoon the day before.

"Do you get motion sick?" Jandru asks, for reasons that might quickly become apparent. Parked along the edge of this platform are about a dozen bare-frame dune buggies, which is apparently the vehicle they'll be swapping over to.

Yes, the rest of his breakfast disappears quickly when all signs point to them stopping soon. Even the napkin ceases to be an obstacle when it's crumpled up and left behind on the seat as he follows Jandru out onto the platform.

Even though dust and sunlight aren't yet the immediate threat that he's sure they soon will be, he pauses to put on his mask and visor.

"Not yet," he answers. He's pretty sure he's been through wild enough rides on his bike to know, but he doesn't want to make any promises just in case he turns out to be wrong.

Jandru pretends they didn't notice the napkin. They're so close to being able to escape that greasy reality. The driver can deal with it when they're gone and then they'll never have to think about it again.

They lead Irahl over to one of the vehicles and, perhaps surprisingly, they climb directly into the driver's seat. Irahl is left to figure himself out for a moment as Jandru situates themselves, adjusts the chair, and starts putting their hair into a ponytail.

"Do they have rigs like this where you're from?" They ask, the scarred-up side of their face on full display. They look like they got mauled by an animal, probably many years ago.

Irahl is a little surprised when Jandru not only continues to be part of the proceedings, (he'd assumed they would be handing him off to someone else when the desert seemed to be the next destination,) but also fully climbs into the driver's seat. It's a pleasant surprise.

As they're getting situated, Irahl does take a moment to sort himself out, which mostly involves reaching in to try and find whatever seat control they seem to be messing with so that he can do the same. Working from experience, he's pretty sure that seat is going to need to be cranked all the way back before he even attempts to get in.

"If you mean wheeled vehicles, then yes. But we don't have a desert. Would be bad news to drive around in something this open."

Once he's sure that himself, his cloak, and all his gear will fit, he finally climbs in as well.

These vehicles are pretty spacious, lots of room for bulky gear bags and several soldiers to pile in... But it still wasn't designed for someone seven feet tall. The seat will definitely need to go all the way back.

But he has a moment to make those adjustments. Jandru's busy gearing up, tying on their own face mask and pulling a pair of goggles out of their bag.

"That's funny," they comment, "The closed rigs around here tend to wear down too fast. The sand gets into everything. Oh--! Speaking of that..."

They reach into their bag, pulling out one more thing--it looks like a tight roll of some sort of resistant fabric, about the size of an apple. They hand it over to Irahl once he's in the car.

"This is for you. You may not need it once we're there, but I'd recommend keeping your rifle covered for the ride."

It's essentially a giant drawstring bag. It even fits--even if it's a little on the big side. They probably had to use something normally meant for a vehicle-mounted gun or something.

Edited 2024-10-17 02:24 (UTC)

Irahl frowns a little behind his mask, but it's mostly over the fact that he hadn't thought about the sand factor beforehand, as well as that his normal method of dismantling his rifle and putting it in its bag for protection wouldn't really be an option here, for a couple of reasons.

So, though he doesn't love letting anything come in contact with his rifle that he hasn't vetted ahead of time, he accepts the cover and works on carefully fitting it onto his weapon. He takes extra time to make sure that it's not catching or pulling anywhere, and generally messes with it until his psyche is soothed enough to move on.

Now he's ready for the ride.

They'll wait patiently for Irahl to finish. It's more important that they keep his equipment in good, working order than it is that they get out there on time. Plus, it gives them a moment to sip more of their rapidly-melting iced coffee.

When their passenger seems settled, they turn on the engine, put it in gear, and roll them out to an open elevator platform to be slowly lowered down hundreds of feet towards the sand. For all of Skeleton City's rickety, dangerous platforms and questionable contraptions, this one feels about as smooth and secure as you could ask for out here.

"Maybe if you do well today," Jandru muses, "I'll let you drive on the way back."

There is a considerable amount of relief when Irahl both sees how they're going to get down to the desert floor and finds that this method is worlds more stable and secure than anything he'd seen in Vincent's neck of the woods.

Then Jandru interrupts his idle estimations about how high up they must be and how long it would take to hit the ground if they fell, and he can't help but give a short chuckle.

"So, if you don't, I'll assume it's a bad grade."

"That's not what I said," they correct him, smiling wryly, "I said maybe."

What is this, friendly banter? Jandru seems to be taking things pretty casually today, at least compared to the previous day's breakneck pace. Maybe it's because no one can see them clearly while they're being lowered slowly along the outside of the city, and they've fully dropped that persona of theirs... Or maybe it's the lack of sleep wearing them down, or maybe this is all part of another test. Hard to say.

As soon as their platform touches sand and the safety gates are lowered, Jandru sends them speeding off into the desert, leaving a sizable dust cloud in their wake. Soon the motion sickness comment will make sense--as the landscape of the desert means a lot of ups and downs over the dunes when they aren't really small enough to weave around instead.

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