acatalepsy_logs | [OPEN] Well. That Didn't Go Quite As Planned

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[OPEN] Well. That Didn't Go Quite As Planned

Who: EVERYONE
Where: The Temple of Beginnings
When: Immediately After The End.
Rating: PG-13, may vary by thread
What: You fall, you pick yourself back up and you move on. Or at least, you try.

Fished Out Of Water
One minute, you are witnessing the fabric of an entire world implode as it is literally ripped apart by powers unknown. The next, that tell-tale twist somewhere beneath your sternum, before you are bodily YANKED away from Akvos, away from the ocean and the Queen and the King and the Princess.

And land back on (mostly) solid, dry ground.

Welcome back to the Temple of Beginnings. Don't worry, there's no hurry for you to get back up just yet.

Hey, Howya Doin'?
Once you do get back up, now is the time to be taking stock of the situation - yours, your friends, and even those new merfolk neighbours (who may need a hand getting their fins back into the water). There is also the missing members of the Circle to consider: people who disappeared on the journey to Akvos, and those who never made it back..

(There's also that small matter with a certain 'witchess-san' that may be a cause for concern to some more than others.)

Whatever the case, it's a lot to process right now. Take the time you have, because you don't know if it'll be enough for what you need.

[[ OOC: Here's an open post for threads reacting to the end of the Akvos world hop. Feel free to use the above prompts, and/or make your own! ]]

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We sure did!

[Hank stretches his face into some kind of parody of a grin and lifts his bottle, like he's proposing a toast.]

Go team!

[That seems like the time for a good drink so he takes one, coughs at the burn of it. It's not the same without water stuffed into his throat all the time, he's not used to it, and he lifts his head with a gasp, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth.]

Guess you're here to gimme a post mortem, huh? Time for a full report of everywhere we went wrong, what we coulda 'put our minds together' and done if I'd just of tried to organize some of this place's shit like I said I was fucking going to?

[He knows that Hank’s brand of facetiousness is born of a deep discontent. That cheerful air dripping with something cloyingly disparaging — Connor need only look at the bottle in his hand to confirm it, and for once, the android lacks the motivation to suggest that he abstain. Can’t bring himself to take it away from him this time.

Even so, the suggestion that he’s here to slather correction upon correction runs wrong against nerves he doesn’t have. Did Hank think he came here to dredge up better solutions to their failed stint on Akvos? If he had any he would have tried them while they were submerged underwater, not saving it for when he was feeling damnably useless with his feet on the ground.

Brow slanted, he turns his head to look at Hank.]

Is that what you want me to do?

[It flirts with sounding accusatory, Connor’s usual even-keeled mood now operating in hills and valleys.]

[Hank frowns, looks at Connor, goes to talk but reacts to Connor's sort-of tone instinctively, abruptly changing his mind mid-breath about what it is he wants to say.]

Sorry. I'm an ass when I'm-

[He swallows the rest of that sentence and looks back at the lake, expression hard, pressing his lips tight together. He picks up a rock and hurls it in front of him, and this one goes further. He takes a couple hard breaths through his nose, jaw tight. Then he takes another rock and looks at Connor again, raising his eyebrows as he holds it up to him.]

[The half-apology seems to dull the edges of whatever discontent Connor was about to employ. Silence rings between them, and he moves to clasp his hands behind his back, straighten his shoulders, and just look out at the lake — thinking of their time spent beneath the water, those he had spoken to and tried to save, and the way the city seemed to angrily crumble all around them in those last moments, before they were spared by Astoria’s magic.

But Hank offers the rock to him, and via instinct of curiosity and wanting to busy his hands, Connor reaches out to take it. Turns it over in his fingers, registering texture and shape.]

...you want me to throw this, too?

Well, do you want-

[Again Hank cuts himself off, scowling briefly in no direction in particular. Know what he doesn’t need today? Another weird, infuriating conversation about Connor’s weird, infuriating not-feelings. But Hank already handed the thing to him. He shrugs, sighing.]

I don’t know. Sometimes it helps, throwing shit around. You oughta try it at least once, and I already kind of trashed the one room in this weirdo place that’s actually got stuff to throw around. So-

[He gestures at the rock in Connor’s hand. If Connor wants to try having a little robot temper tantrum, rocks are the tool that’s left.]

[He’s not sure what good it would do him, how it would change the outcome of the last world, how there’s no anger for him to abate (the usual brand of explanation from Connor), but he finds himself compelled to do it anyway. The weight and size of the rock is considered, turned over twice more — he’s reminded of his quarter, the way he recalibrates with a flick of a thumb and the chime of a silver coin flipping in the air, caught easily between deft fingers, rolled across knuckles, flown from one palm to another.

He glances up at Hank, brown eyes uncertain yet curious.]

I don’t think it’ll help me in the same way it aids you.

[Not like his quarter held fidgeting hands, an anxious tic that helps him focus.

But still, he turns to face the lake, figuring that he should give it a try anyway and see what comes of it. Everything about his movements are android-purposeful, from the way he winds an arm back, to the perfect arc it follows as the stone is thrown. To the admirably fast way the rock flies through the air, landing with an almost perfect plunk into the water in the distance.

Connor tilts his head, considering.]

…But I can see why it might help with your frustration.

Oh yeah?

[Shit, he might of avoided the argument about Connor and emotions and all that shit, but he's getting the aftermath of one of those little talks anyway - that heavy feeling, like sinking into sand. Or maybe that's just him really wanting to throw himself back against the ground, cause sitting up's too much work, so he takes another gasping drink of the moonshine and then lets himself fall back.]

Can you?

[His voice isn't flat yet but it's going there, trying to play along with what's got to be Connor being polite, indulging the stupid illogical human, but he doesn't have it in him to play along and sound like he means it.]

[He nods, slightly, the curl of hair falling across his forehead swaying just a little in the breeze coming off of the lake.]

Yes. Physical exertion is a common method of venting for humans. Exercise, usually, but the act of forcibly throwing a rock into the water is…

[A pause.]

Cathartic. But maybe not enough, not in this instance.

[Hank takes a second. He angles his head to look up at Connor - getting all sorts of shit in his hair, rubbing his head in the dirt like this, but fuck his hair anyway. Maybe if he gets enough of this place's dirt in it it'll feel less, later, like it's Akvos he's trying to wash off.]

What? You want somethin more violent? Uh. We could figure somethin out, I guess - but for me, or you?

No. I don't mean it like that.

[He looks down at Hank, deciding to clasp his hands behind his back again, fingers twitching and tightening.]

Only that... given the weight of our mission failure, we could likely throw a hundred more rocks into the lake, and the dissatisfaction would still be unfortunately prevalent.

[Hank makes a disgusted noise, looking away again.]

Well, guess nothing I can do's ever gonna help. Gee, thanks for lettin me know.

[Taking a big drink of this shit while flat on your back? Not always a great idea. Hank rolls on his side to lean up on an elbow, coughing.]

[It lands wrong, his comment. They always seem to when it matters most.]

Sorry, I-

[And Hank starts coughing, which makes Connor have to pause for him to recover. Whatever he was going to say next, whatever clarification he wanted to relay, it's dislodged for the sake of-]

Hank, if you're going to drink, please at least sit up.

[Between the burn of the moonshine and the coughing, Hank ends up having to wipe the heel of his hand over his eyes. He tells himself not to worry about it; his eyes were still a little red already, probably. His voice comes out tired.]

Why are you here, Connor? You sure you didn’t come here just to lecture me?

No. But I’m trying to save you future digestive issues — you shouldn’t eat nor drink anything in that position.

[“No”, he says, not coming here to lecture… while he lectures a little. Such as Connor is.]

But I’m here because I thought— because commiseration might bring you some comfort. In this instance, encouragement to do better the next time seems… ineffective, currently. And I don’t think you want that, anyway.

Edited 2019-01-29 14:57 (UTC)

Commiseration with what?

[He looks down, grimacing, at the ground, taking a slow, guilty breath. He wonders if he should be feeling guilty, if something with no emotions can care that he's just reminded it it doesn't have emotions, then decides to shove the energy he's wasting wondering into just trying to sound normal.]

Take a load off, Connor. At least try to look like you're relaxing. If I'm gonna teach you how to fake sympathy you gotta look like you actually want to hang out with me first.

[Connor is quiet for a moment, android-still, considering. Then he seems to acquiesce, if the way bends down to sit next to Hank is of any indication. Holding his tie flat against him as he does, when he’s finally seated on the ground, he’s still back-straight and all manner of unrelaxed, acute angles.

His voice drops only a degree.]

Commiserate about our losses, Hank.

[Hank frowns at him, still feeling sour about the whole commiseration thing, still feeling weird about it.

His arm’s getting tired of holding him up so he thinks about that instead, for a second. If he lays back down he’ll be looking up at Connor at an awkward angle; if he sits up, he’ll be giving in to Connor’s stupid little lecture. He flops down onto his back.]

What do you mean when you say that? You’re a machine, Connor, what the fuck do your ‘losses’ even look like?

[Then he adds, defensive-]

I mean, I’m sorry, but that’s what you are. You told me enough times. How the hell would you even know what loss means?

[He shifts against the ground, awkwardly, as if trying to mimic a comfortable position that he doesn’t quite know how to achieve. Fingers press into dirt as a palm goes back to steady himself.]

I—

[Hard to answer that. Hard to explain what he experiences when it’s like pulling teeth trying to get himself to speak the words. To give himself that small mote of allowance.]

I can comprehend losses, Lieutenant. That’s basic programming; the very reason why I can perceive successes versus failures.

Success and failure. [Hank doesn’t sound outright derisive when he says that, but he doesn’t exactly sound approving either. He shakes his head.] You think that’s what needs ‘commiserating’ here? Those people back there, in Akvos, if there’s even any- You think any of them give a shit if you, uh, if your programming was adequate to accomplish your self-determined objective, or whatever?

[It’s so easy to find reasons to shit on Connor right now. It’s so fucking easy. But- fuck, Hank misses the days when he could just do that without feeling worse afterward, without thinking twice about it. He shakes his head, looking away from Connor, up at the clouds.]

Fuck it. What is it you want to talk to me about? Robot losses, right? Go on, tell papa Hank all about it.

[He huffs, almost amused, and wiggles his hand absently, dragging the bottom of his bottle against the dirt.]

God. If I ever call myself that again you slap me just as hard as you can, okay Connor?

[It doesn’t feel fair to be dismissed like this, before Connor can even truly ground himself in what he’s trying to say. Like Hank is going to toss away his careful attempts to built up a rapport about this subject, so that he might as well be looser with his words, more careless, else he’ll not get anything in edgewise.]

I suppose they’re not going to feel anything now that they’re gone, Hank.

[He regrets it the moment he says it, LED spinning, backtracking almost immediately, trying to school his tone to something neutral and lacking exasperation.]

This isn’t about me. Not about my failed prerogatives, nor ways in which I can improve myself. It is about those people we lost.

[For a minute Hank doesn't answer. For a minute Hank just stares up at the sky, feeling lower than the dirt under him and twice as shitty. He doesn't apologize. But once he manages to shove the nasty, aching feeling far down enough that he can answer at all his voice is flatter, honest.]

I don't know what you want out of me, Connor. And this'll shock you, but I don't know how to... 'commiserate' or 'remember what we lost' or, or any of that shit.

[Whatever traces of anger he was able to muster burns out pretty quickly and Hank's left speaking slow, sounding defeated.]

I can't help you, Connor.

Sorry.

[Hank swallows, and closes his eyes.]

[He’s quiet, thinking, calculating, LED spinning in circles. The mood in the air stutters and staggers, then lowers into something below the doldrums. Connor frowns, brow knitting, then casts his look out towards the lake again. Fingers clasp against a rock next to him, curling gently around it, before he tosses it out into the lake, wordlessly, a mirror of his previous gesture. It lacks the same velocity, the same perfect arc through the air, instead landing with a subdued entry into the water.]

…It’s fine, Lieutenant. It might have been unfair of me to put those expectations on you, anyway.

[He thought to come here to make him feel better, to maybe make the both of them feel more grounded. Maybe that was a mistake.]

Would it be all right for me to sit here for a few minutes?

[The sound of a rock plopping into the water makes Hank blink his eyes back open, a little startled. Or - he can't really reach 'startled'. It's hard to get there, under the weight of everything else. But he didn't expect it, anyway, that gesture. It's a gesture with meaning to it, maybe, Connor doing that now when it felt like he'd dismissed it earlier.

It takes Hank a second to put what that meaning probably is into words: Connor acknowledging that tossing that dumb little rock's the closest thing to help that he's gonna fucking get. Cause Hank's not going to help him. Cause he'd expected Hank to help him, earlier, when he'd said all that about throwing dumb little rocks in the first place. And now he doesn't.

He came to Hank with expectations.]

Yeah.

[Hank clears his throat, like there's some phantom itch he's got to clear out, like that's why that word had a big old crack in it. He looks away from Connor again, swallows. The corners of his mouth twist oddly, unsteady, and he throws an arm over his eyes and he takes a deep, slow breath.]

Sorry.

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[OPEN] Well. That Didn't Go Quite As Planned

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i like that icon

hank and connor icons are the best icons

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instead of typoing ‘okayConnor’ my phone suggested ‘okay bacon original’. i don’t know why

he's the bacon original, ofc

rk900 is the bacon double

connor is the healthier option

no wonder hank and connor have so much trouble getting along then