acatalepsy_logs | [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! ]]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

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

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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