October Catch-all

[marcato]

Who: Aunamee and you
Where: Various locations
When: October
What: Catch-all

Warnings: likely mentions of murder, violence, sadism, germaphobia


you can find me at dendrite for specific plotting questions and ideas! wildcards welcome.

Comments

ash tree motel | open to people in his forum post

[marcato]

[You're here because you're looking for your purpose. Or maybe you're here to give that weirdo on the forum a piece of your mind. No matter why you arrived at this nondescript motel room, Aunamee greets you in the exact same manner -- straight-backed, smiling, and motionless, like he's been carved out of stone. Like he's been waiting forever.

He's dressed in all white. ]

Come in.

[The air inside the motel room is thick with cleaning chemicals, astringent in a way that prickles one's sinuses. The twin-sized bed that was once in the center of the room is now in the corner, along with the two nightstands, the television, and the mini fridge. They're covered with white bedsheets. The only furniture that remains is the desk placed in the center of the room and two chairs on either side of it.

The light bulb in the center of the ceiling was covered with a fixture once. Now it's bare. Buzzing.

He gestures to one of the chairs. ]

Sit down, dear stranger. You're exactly on time.

hope this is ok!!

[primepool]

[Really, Wade's just here to see if this is a new recruitment angle for Mormons. Or Scientologists? When he walks in, taking the room in, a single guy wearing all white is definitely not changing his hypothesis.

For a second, it appears that Wade just stops in his tracks, peering somewhere up above his head like he's trying to look at something through the ceiling. Something in 100 x 100 pixels, perhaps... he squints.

Wait a second.

Okay, so maybe this really does have a Scientology angle.]

Love what you've done with the place. Gives real One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest vibes. [And Wade is the only splash of colour in it, having come in a hot pink hoodie that reads Live, Laugh, Lobotomy with the hood pulled up over his head, which is covered in his usual red Deadpool mask.

You know, because he was definitely walking into an MLM scheme, or maybe a tupperware party. He's gotta keep his identity somewhat secret. As if it's particularly hard to find a bald guy covered in skin sores, or who often dresses completely in red.

He plops into the seat, sitting straight up, his hands coyly in his lap like an overeager cheerleader trying to sit still.] Okay, Dexter! I'm here. So what's my purpose?

it's perfect

[marcato]

[This is going to be a problem.

Aunamee recognizes it immediately, but he doesn't push Wade out of the room. He doesn't recoil. He doesn't sneer. Instead, he maintains a mild smile, his jaw tightening ever so slightly to keep it in place. It's not rigidity that keeps him on script, although it is a factor -- it's his compulsion to maintain control at all costs. To never admit defeat. ]

You must be Mr. Neeson.

[He approaches the opposite chair, but he doesn't sit down. Not yet. There is a rhythm to meetings like this. ]

My name is Aunamee.

[Not Dexter, he doesn't say. There's a lot he doesn't say.

(He doesn't say anything about his ludicrous outfit, about his lack of manners, about the fucking insane asylum jab-- )

He resets his smile. ]

I know you're eager. But work like this isn't to be rushed. Do you understand?

[primepool]

Please. Mr. Neeson was my father. [Just because that joke was made elsewhere doesn't mean it won't come up here. It's a classic.] But it works for the time being, sure.

[Wade crosses his legs politely at the knee, as if he's just now realized this might be some kind of job interview. Which does bring to mind that his mercenarying has been at an all-time low, mostly because he makes money at his day job and just kills NPCs for guns on the side. Have to say, the wanton murder without Avengers-interference has really allowed him to keep up-to-date on his ammo count.]

Aunamee? Oh, god. I would've prepared more if I knew you were French.

[What does the preparation entail? Uh, he might've worn more blue and white, maybe?] Well, I guess I can, but I do tend to take a speedrun kind of approach to all aspects of my life. Can you like, drop a hint? A tasty little morsel of meaning for me to hang onto in the otherwise vapid void of meaninglessness located entirely in the corner I've been written into?

[Okay, it's not that bad, but the lack of off-post hobbies really needs to be fixed. Maybe this'll get him into something meaningful, like crochet. Or jazz.]

[marcato]

[French. Yes, his name is French -- or it was before he smoothed it out into something that wasn't quite recognizable. Plausible deniability is valuable in his line of work, even if few people are familiar with the term anomie.

But this man. Ah. This man knows.

His smile doesn't fade, but his eyes dilate, just slightly, like a cat seeing something that it likes. ]

We'll start with the broad strokes.

[He sits down, finally, the movement smooth and practiced. He doesn't carry a notebook. There's no need. ]

What was your life like before your arrival?

[primepool]

[Man, this is feeling a lot like that job interview with Happy, but it's like he's failing this one somehow even worse. He didn't even wear his nice jeans. (He doesn't have nice jeans anymore. Tragique.)]

I feel like you gotta work on the sales pitch a little. Even Costco has free samples.

[That's a terrible metaphor when you pay a membership to go to Costco. In Wade's defense, he's absolutely never been in a Costco beyond sneaking in for a hotdog.]

Right, okay, we're getting right into the biography. [He claps his hands, tossing them onto the table top where they rub into the wood. Or. Plastic? This is definitely not real wood.] Well, I was a troubled kid, got into the Special Forces, made a lot of rich guys real happy... founded the X-Force, watched them all die within about twenty-four hours, uh -- kept up freelancing work before and after that. I like to think I have a healthy work ethic. [And yet he never has money. Why is that? (It's all the cocaine.)] Almost got written out completely by the TVA, but I saved my entire timeline by getting an evil, bald British woman spaghettified. Just your average life. It's only...

[Wade's fingertips tap into the table, one at a time.] I've wrestled with meaning for a while. All of that, and life still feels so empty, you know? It's like, either you survive the monopolization of the company that owns your copyright or you live long enough to get really fucking depressed for other, unrelated reasons. Like working a minimum wage job. Where do you go from there?

[marcato]

[He's overwhelmed. It's an unfamiliar sensation for him. Aunamee knows things. He knows thoughts. He knows the future.

And he has no idea what this man is saying. ]

Stop.

[The word comes quicker than he intends it to. He takes a breath. Recalibrates. ]

This is delicate work. Dear stranger. [There's an unnatural pause between the phrases, like he's trying to speak slowly himself and measuring it wrong. ] Start with your former occupation. Nothing else.

[vestments]

( marc hadn't caught the 'A' on the handkerchief aunamee had used before he'd fled from the launderette and so he hasn't, yet, pieced together that the (probable asshole) on the forum is the guy whose face he introduced very intimately to a dryer.

he hadn't bothered replying to the forum post, either, not out of a lack of interest, but the opposite. he'd read enough to get a picture, to decide that 'A' has precisely zero good intentions or, on the off-chance he does have good intentions, is going about them in the worst way possible. to marc, it doesn't quite matter which: a conversation's in order, especially while he's lacking in anything else to do (read: anything that resembles a real job).

unlike the first time they'd met, this time marc turns up dressed, like aunamee, all in white. his — a three-piece suit — is deliberate, worn to create an impression. the buttons and the cufflinks have been meticulously, painstakingly replaced by crescent moons — a less easy process here in the diadem than at home, the result of everyone owing someone something combined with marc-mr. knight-moon knight's lack of reputation to cash in on. still, he'd eventually found someone that didn't ask (too many) questions, even if marc's not convinced it won't come back to bite him at some point.

he doesn't look any better rested.

recognition hangs unspoken, and marc thinks there's a chance he's invited in on autopilot. he steps around aunamee and into the room before the invitation can be retracted, his attention sliding — notably, accompanied by visible movements of his head — from chair to bed to (bare!) bulb to—

a half-glance over his shoulder. )

You haven't made it feel very welcoming.

[marcato]

[His whites match tonight.

He stole them, undoubtedly. Or he used stolen goods to purchase them, or perhaps promised a favor to someone he had no intention of fulfilling. In Aunamee's mind, the method matters so little that he's already purged it from his memory. The important thing is that he has the suit.

And the stranger is here to see it. ]

Were you expecting cross-stitch?

[He looks remarkably calm, considering their last meeting ended with his face smashed against a metal dryer. The bruise is still visible, but only barely. Like before, he's covered his imperfections with foundation. Like before, he smells like cleaning chemicals. Lemon. Bleach.

Things that sting. ]

[vestments]

Hardly. ( curt and decisive. what he would consider welcoming doesn't get shared, although the twitch of his nose gives a fair indication. the smell of cleaning chemicals is impossible to miss, and though there's no evidence for it, marc's first thoughts gravitate towards blood, punctuated by who? and why? (hey, it's why he's had to become good at cleaning whites, even if the blood's the point—)

he pulls the chair away from the desk without bothering to lift it, the wooden legs scraping against the floor before he takes a seat; marc's a man used to taking up space and that's no different here. he sits with one foot planted on the ground, his other leg raised and crossed so that his ankle is resting on his knee. the corresponding arm — his right — rests atop of the chair, and he gestures towards aunamee with an open hand (gloved). it's broad. expectant. demanding in its own way. )

So. You help people find their purpose.

( marc has his. he has his debt. his duty. his mission. aunamee doesn't need to know that yet; marc wants to know what this is all about.

he lifts his chin, just a touch, brown eyes fixed on aunamee. )

Let's hunt.

[marcato]

[The scraping of wood against carpet is disgraceful, but Aunamee suspects that the stranger knows this, that he's trying to make him flinch. He doesn't. Instead, his smile tightens by a degree or two before returning to a priest-like calm.

He's not afraid. He should be afraid. This man is capable of hurting him and now here he is in the room with him, intentions unclear. But for Aunamee, fear is something so unspeakable that he'll keep it buried for longer than necessary. It will claw at him from the inside for minutes or hours. It will try to escape. Each time, he will tell it no.

Until he can't.

He sits down opposite of Marc, not allowing himself to break eye contact. He makes a point of lifting the chair first.]

We'll start with your name.

[The script will continue. His voice is calm, but his eyes dance across Marc, taking in his expression. Daring him to deviate.]

What is it?

[vestments]

( he almost points out that he'd given A his name, but that it'd been ignored in favour of 'stranger'. the response sits in the subtle shift of marc's jaw, the way his mouth twitches, before— )

Mr. Knight. ( better. better than 'spector', given how he's dressed now, given what he came here to do. he wishes, not for the first time, that he'd arrived with his mask, that he had one here, but— it is what it is.

he doesn't miss the way that aunamee looks him over, takes in his features. from here, marc can see the foundation, the way that aunamee's tried to disguise the bruising across his nose, under his eyes. at that, marc's expression only reflects acknowledgement, not satisfaction, not amusement.

up close, under the stark lighting of the bare bulb, aunamee will be able to see the way that marc's lack of sleep looks to be habitual and recurrent — dark circles that deepen now and then, but never fully go away; will be able to see the evidence of a certain kind of lifestyle in the scar through his left eyebrow, the one that suggests he's lucky to still have that eye at all. the nose that's slightly misshapen from being broken and broken and broken. the suit's put-together, but marc is not quite, not outside of the deliberate, pointed composure.

(mr. knight is put-together—.)

he doesn't break eye contact, either. )

I didn't catch what the 'A' stood for.

[marcato]

[This is good. This is proper. The imperfections in Marc's face align with the stories Aunamee would tell himself about the stranger in the laundromat as he lie awake each night. In those stories, the stranger is a man with violence built into his DNA, a man who punches the wrong people and drowns it out with hard liquor and sleepless nights. He is deeply unhappy, the man in Aunamee's stories. He is broken.

The clothing, meanwhile, gives him pause. He knows why he chooses to wear white, and it doesn't quite fit with the loose cannon persona he's built for the man sitting across from him.

No. Not the "man." He knows his name now, and it's -- ]

Mr. Knight.

[He feels how the syllables settle in his mouth. Not bad.]

My name is Aunamee. [He straightens his posture ever so slightly, like his own name reminded him. ] It's a pseudonym, of course, but you're familiar with those. "Mr. Knight."

[He pauses as punctuation. ]

Former occupation?

[satanicpanics]

[ The last message that Eddie sent was so abrasive, it could really only be read as an implied ass kicking. But the young man who comes knocking at the door without a number never intended that, and doesn’t really have that in him to begin with. Two things are clear about him from first glance: he’s got a wild head of hair, and copious amounts of nervous energy.

Truth be told, he’s actually not entirely sure why he’s here, but music being called a small thing fired him up enough to make the drive, and he has no desire to type out an entire rant using his index finger. Better to do that in person, but any immediate argument he had dies on his tongue as he peers into the room. He stops dead in the doorway and looks to the covered furniture, the bare lightbulb, and the man dressed in white. His eyebrows raise right into his hair. ]

Wow. Just—wow.

[ He shakes his head, baffled by just how stereotypically cult-like this all is. ]

You know, I don’t know what I was expecting, but, uh...

[ He gives it all another sweeping look, then turns to Aunamee, still absolutely befuddled. ]

Really? Really?

[marcato]

[He smiles. It's practiced, this smile, the kind that belongs to an actor or a politician, perfected in front of a mirror until it's automatic enough to look convincing. ]

Most people start with "hello."

[The smile shifts, just slightly, settling into something that resembles sheepishness. His gaze flicks to the room behind him. ]

It's not very hospitable. I know. I wanted an environment where I could --

[He pauses if searching for the word, even though he already knows it. ]

-- minimize distractions. If I could let you in on a secret, I don't like it very much either.

[satanicpanics]

I can see that, but uh...mission horrifically failed, dude.

[ Eddie wasn’t exactly expecting an agreement, but he can kind of see what the man was going for now that he’s explained. Unfortunately, the sheer creepiness of it is sort of super distracting in and of itself. But it’s fine. ]

But it's cool, because lucky for us? I’ll make it quick.

[ He’s very much not going to be particularly quick. In fact, he strides into the room and runs a hand over the backs of the chairs sat there, then reaches up to give the bare lightbulb a tap. Just to be annoying, and just to see the dancing of shadows across the sheet-draped furniture. ]

So, uh, rock and roll is a small purpose, huh? Compared to…?

[marcato]

[He had thought that the boy came here to beat him. He still could, Aunamee thinks, watching the way he taps the exposed light bulb like a hanged man. In spite of this, he's not frightened. Fear would require acknowledging his mortality, and he's not prepared to do that just yet.

So instead, he watches and smiles. His hands are neatly clasped behind his back. ]

Maybe you can convince me.

[He sees the shadows shifting in the corner of his vision. He likes shadows. They touch the landscape without dirtying it. ]

What makes it big?

[satanicpanics]

[ Truth be told, the feeling is mutual in that Eddie doesn’t find Aunamee entirely not scary. He’s difficult to read, which means it’s difficult to know what he might do, if anything. Based on this meeting alone, he reminds him quite a bit of Henry, actually. Upright and polite, but likely hiding something else beneath the surface.

But Eddie is stubborn, and he has no desire to leave the weird Cult Room until he gets his point across. He tilts his head at the question, eyes narrowing like the answer should be obvious. ]

Uh, everything?

[ Spoken like a true metalhead, and spoken with a level of blatant honesty that can’t be faked. He means it.

Music has been the world to Eddie Munson since he was old enough to comprehend it. He feels it on a bone deep level, and it’s just a need now—breathing, eating, music. No escape from a small midwest town that hates you just for existing? Put on a record—just as good as any plane ticket. Want to feel like you’re not alone when things really, and I mean really suck? Metal and the blues are what the doctor ordered. Need an escape? A mood boost? A good cry? Anything at all? Music. And he loves almost all of it, he just leans into rock n’ roll ]

‘Kay, so...you said your purpose is to “protect humanity”, right? [ Complete with finger quotes. ] Which, uh, good luck with that, by the way. And you’re kind of a little late. Music already does that. Rock already does that.

[marcato]

Does "Rock" know how to tie a tourniquet?

[Because he does. Tight enough to save a life. Tight enough to kill a limb. Sometimes, he practices making them while doing something else, the way that some people knit scarves.]

I kid. [He smiles quickly, there and gone.] I do see the value in music. In symphonies. In chamber music. In rock music --

[He hesitates, as though searching for the most diplomatic word.]

-- less. It's a structurally unsound genre, isn't it?

[He remembers once listening to a record that remained playing, improbably, after a house fire. The screams in the music felt at home with the smoldering rubble, a counterfeit sound of not-quite violence that turned his stomach in an unfamiliar way.]

[baddragoon]

[ He's in town for once when he sees the post on the so-called forum, so it's a simple enough matter to locate this Ash Tree Motel and make his way there. Unfortunately, it's not actually possible for Estinien to know which room is missing a number on the door so he finds himself entering through a door and climbing several flights of stairs up to the second floor for the first time in a very long time.

Still, if this stranger has knowledge of this star and what ails it then Estinien can forgive this bit of tediousness.

He can't say he particularly had any expectations for the mysterious 'A', however he can say that this stiff and precisely dressed figure is not it. Aria is not without her peculiarities, however, so this supposed world-saviour can be forgiven for his. Estinien removes his lance from his back and sits where indicated, lance leaned against his seat. The chair isn't big enough for the rest of him, however, and so his tail drapes itself over the armrest to pool on the floor. ]

Have you only recently arrived on this star, then? I imagine a protector such as yourself is not likely to allow such issues to remain unaddressed for long.

[marcato]

[He watches Estinien carefully, as though attempting to weigh the other man's head through sight alone. As a cruel person, Aunamee instinctively expects cruelty from others. He thinks I'm lying, is what his brain tells him. He thinks I tolerate mess.]

"Issues?"

[His tone is calm enough. His expression remains mildly pleasant.

He circles around the table before settling in the opposite chair.]

I assume you're referring to this world's instability. [He says "instability" like it's a diagnosis.] Yes. I'm afraid I haven't been here for very long at all.

[baddragoon]

You work fast then. [ His tone is approving; Estinien very much favours action over anything else. ] What have you discovered thus far?

[ The others, he knows, have invested much time into investigating the diffusion zones, hoping this will lead to answers: their purpose for being here, the nature of their relocation, the effects this place has on time and space, and so on. However, Estinien can't help but wonder if, following that A's suppositions are true, maybe they might be looking at things backwards. ]

The diffusion zones and the likes, do you know if they are a symptom of this instability, as you say, or if they are the cause?

[marcato]

I don't know.

[Honesty. It's rare for him, although Estinien would never know that. There comes a point when even his gaslighting has its limits, when he's forced to look at the gaping hole in his knowledge and say those three terrible words.

I don't know.

He doesn't shudder, but his spine quivers with something like it. ]

I'm simply well-versed in dealing with failing worlds. I know what a world looks like when it's on the brink. I know that's where the Diadem is right now.

[He smiles, calm as ever. ]

But we're getting ahead of ourselves. My name is Aunamee.

[baddragoon]

[ If Estinien were a normal man he might feel chastened by that. As it stands he has some... interesting gaps in his interpersonal skills and so offers only a short: ]

Estinien.

[ with a nod as a greeting before continuing on with his questions. ]

You said 'worlds'. What can you tell me of your experiences? I too have been to other worlds on the brink of collapse, but typically the circumstances surrounding this, as well as any intercession and battle for their salvation, have been wholly manmade. Never has the world itself stepped in.

[ It is a fascinating concept. Even Hydaelyn herself proved to be just a primal in the end despite the power she held. But a star fighting for its own survival. How novel. ]

[marcato]

A failing world.

[When he corrects himself, it sounds like he's correcting someone else -- or perhaps reality itself. His fingers twitch. ]

Where I come from, I'm known as the Host. [No -- he's known as a Host, one of many over the generations, but he prefers to think of it as his singular role. It's cleaner that way. ] As the Host, it's my duty to smooth out wrinkles within the present to ensure humanity's safety in the future.

[His eyes flick briefly to Estinien's less human features before choosing to disregard them. ]

Whatever brought me here likely knew that.

["Whatever." Like he doesn't know. Like he doesn't believe with his whole heart that his god has delivered him to this crucible directly. ]

It also likely knew your history as well.