Dirk Strider (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
string_instrument) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thenashira2025-11-18 09:44 pm
string_instrument) wrote in thenashira2025-11-18 09:44 pm
All Night, Me And My Wretched Device
Who: Nova Pastos, Lil Cal, the Abyss, and-- (you!)
What: Catch-all for Nova Pastos' time in the Abyss
When: 7/31 and on until they're saved
Where: The. Uh. The Abyss.
Warnings: Suicidal ideation, derealisation and depersonalisation, break with reality, child neglect, more to be added as things are written
Like failure itself, the Abyss knocks the wind from him.
Not physically, and not like a punch, but mentally and like the hard, bone-shattering impact with the water's surface tension. It cracks across his psyche just like that, splintering across the sheer plane of his mind. It wants him to break first, of that he's sure, but he doesn't.
The pain, however, wraps around his brain the same way his body was engulfed by ocean--in that dream.
But this is not the Abyss of his ocean. In some ways, it's similar. Endless, with an infinite depth and a vastness of existence that renders any single living object irrelevant. But it still has solid ground, and gravity, and air to breathe. The terrain varies from lifeless sand to gritty soil, peppered with inert rock. It's like the earthy quasi-beach before one reaches the ocean shore, but without ever seeing the sea at all.
There is no ocean.
The dark sky yawns hollow above him, void of sun or moon or stars.
This is also reminiscent of the ocean, but without the pressure, the movement, or the power. It's thin and strange and empty. There is an absence, a death of substance, that he feels every time he breathes in, filling his lungs with nothing and leaving him aching for purchase, for presence, for reality--for any sense of realness at all. It is as though reality itself has disincorporated him, and it...
It is horribly familiar.
It feels like home. Like his penthouse suite, its rooftop 168 metres in the air, a perfectly isolated habitat soaring above the Chalra skyline and filled with a restless accumulation of stuff. Computers, horse statues, movie posters, horse prints, puppets, furniture, weaponry, mechanical dreams, workout equipment.
But it never felt any less empty.
Now, in this uncanny echo of that infinity of loneliness, that lonely infinitude--the reality he holds in his mind gives way to the tangible waste of his existence. It seeps into him through the cracks of his broken heart--the soup can, rent asunder into mere atoms, compressed and devoured by the sea. A discaded husk whose failure was inevitable. And that was okay. It was always meant to be.
But not like this. Not like this. There is nowhere for him to go, nothing for his essential nature to become.
This is not his ocean.
There is no ocean.
This is just stone, and grit, and Nova Pastos, and Lil Cal.
And--
What: Catch-all for Nova Pastos' time in the Abyss
When: 7/31 and on until they're saved
Where: The. Uh. The Abyss.
Warnings: Suicidal ideation, derealisation and depersonalisation, break with reality, child neglect, more to be added as things are written
Like failure itself, the Abyss knocks the wind from him.
Not physically, and not like a punch, but mentally and like the hard, bone-shattering impact with the water's surface tension. It cracks across his psyche just like that, splintering across the sheer plane of his mind. It wants him to break first, of that he's sure, but he doesn't.
The pain, however, wraps around his brain the same way his body was engulfed by ocean--in that dream.
But this is not the Abyss of his ocean. In some ways, it's similar. Endless, with an infinite depth and a vastness of existence that renders any single living object irrelevant. But it still has solid ground, and gravity, and air to breathe. The terrain varies from lifeless sand to gritty soil, peppered with inert rock. It's like the earthy quasi-beach before one reaches the ocean shore, but without ever seeing the sea at all.
There is no ocean.
The dark sky yawns hollow above him, void of sun or moon or stars.
This is also reminiscent of the ocean, but without the pressure, the movement, or the power. It's thin and strange and empty. There is an absence, a death of substance, that he feels every time he breathes in, filling his lungs with nothing and leaving him aching for purchase, for presence, for reality--for any sense of realness at all. It is as though reality itself has disincorporated him, and it...
It is horribly familiar.
It feels like home. Like his penthouse suite, its rooftop 168 metres in the air, a perfectly isolated habitat soaring above the Chalra skyline and filled with a restless accumulation of stuff. Computers, horse statues, movie posters, horse prints, puppets, furniture, weaponry, mechanical dreams, workout equipment.
But it never felt any less empty.
Now, in this uncanny echo of that infinity of loneliness, that lonely infinitude--the reality he holds in his mind gives way to the tangible waste of his existence. It seeps into him through the cracks of his broken heart--the soup can, rent asunder into mere atoms, compressed and devoured by the sea. A discaded husk whose failure was inevitable. And that was okay. It was always meant to be.
But not like this. Not like this. There is nowhere for him to go, nothing for his essential nature to become.
This is not his ocean.
There is no ocean.
This is just stone, and grit, and Nova Pastos, and Lil Cal.
And--
no subject
(What else is new?)
Unsurprisingly, Lil Cal meets her smile with his own. The way Nova Pastos holds his puppet is a little different than usual, however; Cal is draped over his shoulders, yes, but this time by the torso as well as the arms. Like a mink stole, perhaps. His ass hangs down, and Nova Pastos' right arm clutches the doll tightly by the legs.
To be frank, the way he holds tight to the puppet's plush is almost childish--or at the very least a bit more vulnerable.
On the other hand, the look on his face suggests the same old Nova Pastos he's always been: an unforgiving mien with a hard line for a mouth, heavy brows low and stern over the sharp pink angle of his shades.
"Oh. It's... you." The lack of conviction in his quiet monotone is mostly attributable to his confusion. Out of all the Knights he's met, he doesn't remember getting into it with or about Neos at all. But here she is.
Or at least, her unhinged evil alter ego? He doesn't understand this at all.
"Why you? What do you want?"
Poisons, Whips, Disasters, and anything that moves like a snake.
"Surely, you have noticed, none of you are strong enough?"
This is so experimental,
"What."
"HAA HAA. I GET IT. YOU WANT TO PLAY A GAME."
Lil Cal's voice is so much stranger and more attention-grabbing than Nova Pastos' dull deadpan that if it wasn't for the movement of Pastos' human mouth, it would be easy to miss that he spoke at all.
Not like it really mattered what he said, is it? It's not like it would make any difference.
Cal's not talking to the terrible and resplendent figure currently looking at Pastos like a bug that crawled into her throne room, though. He's talking to Pastos.
Which... unfortunately, helps. He shuts his eyes for a moment. Once Cal puts it like that, it almost makes sense. Behind his shades, his gaze turns up towards her. The muscles in the back of his jaw tighten.
None of you are strong enough.
His gut burns with resentment, with humiliation, with failure. His chest constricts again, threatening to crush his lungs and heart like a massive serpent made of bone.
And in the immediacy of understanding, his cognitive reflex is to tell her to fuck right off.
Not just because she's being cryptic as hell, or because he's tired as fuck, or even because she's right. But because Nova Pastos--Dirk Strider-- only knows how to play 'yes, and' with the right kind of person. And there is no such person here. Only in his imagination--or at least powered by it.
But the delay caused by this little interaction does give his brain--overtaxed, overclocked, and overheated though it may be--time to process what she's saying for real.
"This is some kind of devil's bargain shit, isn't it." He says it carefully, weighing his words with steel to hide the calculations. A kind of maths being performed behind his eyes, desperate and confused and angry. And yet efficient and cruel and cold.
"YES. SAY YES. THE ANSWER IS YES. LET'S PLAY. DIRK. PLAY HER GAME. I WANT TO PLAY." Lil Cal's bright-eyed enthusiasm for real play, for risk and stakes and fun still tugs at his heart, somehow. It's hard not to hurt. Not when he doesn't owe anyone anything as much as he owes Cal.
no subject
As she walks, as she moves, the wind whips around her, little eddies of dust and wind. "Someone I need. For this boon, a gift. I aid your escape."
CW sexual suggestivity
Nova Pastos makes a critical error here, because he glances at Lil Cal. This is more because of Cal's decision to call this deeply suspicious deal-maker 'this bitch'--bitch is word he himself is not shy about using, but something about Cal's choice makes him look at the puppet.
Which is immediately taken as invitation to elaborate.
"SHE WANTS YOUR BODY. BECAUSE IT IS SO FINE. SHE COVETS YOUR RIPPLING BICEPS. SHE DESIRES YOUR LUSCIOUS ABDOMINALS. SHE CRAVES THE SHAPELY MUSCLES OF YOUR FLESH. TO USE HER POWER. BY BEING INSIDE YOU."
Uh. Wow. Is that... how Lil Cal sees him? Or--no, honestly, Dirk has to admit it's flattering. He's a lot more into this than he really should be comfortable with. Maybe that's not fair. Maybe he should admit that's not an unreasonable level of admiration. The uncomfortable bit is in how loud he is about it, and how... public, and how inconveniently timed, than it is in how graphic, or vividly described... he feels his heart flutter, just briefly--and then catches himself, and his stomach turns over.
Wait. No. No, this is not the time for that.
"Okay. Yeah, I got that. That part I got already."
no subject
"In exchange: When the storms are highest over the Coral peninsula, when you find the one who has a shining pearl around the anger in her heart-- Take that fang, and open the way for me once more."
She looks, now, into Dirk's eyes, as if searching for something she is not certain, yet, is there.
no subject
That's.... cryptic. Not as cryptic as it might have been without the obvious resemblance, but still cryptic. He's not into that. He's especially not into the lack of answers or even acknowledgment regarding his questions. The corner of his mouth pulls down slightly.
"I already said no?"
Behind him, on his back, Lil Cal starts cracking up. The complete and total disregard of what Dirk Strider wants in favour of what Typhon wants is, apparently, just the funniest goddamn thing he's ever been present for.
Which is objectively not true. He knew Dirk when he was 13.
"HOO HOO HEE HEE HAA HAA HEE HEE HOO HOO HOO HAA HAA HAA!!!"
"Bro. Come on." Dirk mutters, but it has no effect.
"THE BITCH IS BEATING YOU. SO HARD. YOU ARE ALREADY LOSING. HEE HEE HEE HOO HOO HAA HAA HAA! SHE DOESN'T EVEN HAVE TO TRY. SHE IS PULLING ONE OVER ON YOU. AND BEATING YOU INTO THE GROUND. LIKE A DECEASED EQUINE. OF EXCEPTIONAL WORTHLESSNESS. IT IS HILARIOUS. HAA HAA HAA HOO HEE HEE HOO HOO HOO!"
He continues to cackle as Dirk's jaw tightens, but finally composes himself long enough to goad him again--this time more productively. You know, instead of just absolutely fucking losing it at what an absolute fucking loser Dirk is currently looking like. He even makes wall-eyed eye contact with Dirk through the man's shades--not unlike Typhon herself did just moments ago.
"WELL? ARE YOU GOING TO LET HER WIN. AND DANCE ON YOUR CORPSE. LIKE YOU ARE A LITTLE COWARD BITCH BABY? OR ARE YOU GOING TO WIN. LIKE A MAN."
no subject
She smiles, like she has happened across a little child. "Do you think shining forth your own light will save you? I can tell you, it shall not. I am your mercy."
She is lying.
But Dirk knew that already.
no subject
"Don't dog on Cal," he deadpans, seemingly determined to ignore every opportunity he's given to defend himself.
But he will defend Cal.
Cal is his bro. In every definition of the word, thwe relationship, and the role--Cal has been all that and more. He's been the brother he should have had, the brother he did have, the brother he missed out on having, and the brother he longed to have.
He's the one non-self in Dirk's tiny world.
The one 'other' in which he could see himself, and by whom he could be seen.
"But the way you say 'puppet' like it's a dirty word, I don't think we're going to get along anyway."
He takes the knife, plucking it from its place and balancing it carefully in his fingers before--with the deftness of many years of practise--he hops back once, backflips, and then, landing, flicks his wrist to throw the blade, aimed directly at her smiling face.
By refusing a gift three times as you praise her.
And grows, and her frustration becomes a scream that becomes a dust storm and there it is. A giant, golden snake, half a mile long.
"Know this, Pastos. I shall pursue you, too. Until either you two are dead... Or I am."
And the storm dissipates, and the ground shifts and crumbles around Dirk, and it's only now that he realizes--
He'd never actually learned her name.
no subject
The gleaming and subsequent melting of metal into pure liquid? Sort of unhinged but objectively cool as hell.
The growing and screaming? That's where it goes off the rails for him, and the scene morphs from 'tense but under control' to 'alarming, unpredictable, and honestly awesome in the old and original Invokes Fear kind of way. He crouches low to the ground, one hand finding the hilt of his sword--the other grabs Cal by the arm, as the puppet begins cackling and hooting with deranged, delighted laughter. Loudly and directly into Pastos' ear.
By the time she's fully revealed herself for what she is, he's torn between two reactions: what the fuck and the one that actually comes out of his mouth.
"Of course she's a literal snake." It's low and muttered under his breath, and he doesn't even finish saying it before she's threatening his and... someone else's... life. At first he's thinking it's Cal, but maybe she means Neos? Fuck.
It's becoming hard to really think about that kind of thing, because the fight to keep his footing as the ground groans and bucks and begins to give is actually becoming a struggle--but he has a solution to that, at least as a temporary measure.
Balance is hard. Movement is not. So he grits his teeth and sprints at her--over the ground, using the momentum to keep him upright as he takes the most insane risk he's taken so far. It's a decision made while completely freaked out, slightly dissociated, and very much in his adrenaline.
"IDIOT BITCH BAG. WE WILL KILL YOU. WE WILL KILL YOU SO HARD AND WIN YOUR GAME."
Her name is the last thing on his fucking mind--
But it is on his mind. Admittedly, the framing he has is What the fuck is this? What the fuck is this?
"Last words, 'bitch bag.'"
In the heat of the moment, he only has what Cal's been calling her--
Typhon, Whose Element is Outrage
no subject
He doesn't actually experience the impact at all--he has that thought, he feels the hit, and then he's on the ground with Cal on his face and dirt in his teeth, his lungs paralysed from shock before he can breathe again.
Which, for a man who rarely experiences true unconsciousness even by sleep, is a far more jarring and discomforting experience than the simple humiliation of losing a fight. Cal, draped on his face, doesn't help him at all; he uses one hand to pull the puppet away from his inability to breathe or see.
"D--" he starts to ask--or tries to. Instead he coughs, and blinks, and recoups for a second.
"Did... I just... get my ass kicked by the weather?" he manages at last, after several seconds spent struggling for enough oxygen to speak.
Questionable use of breath and energy, but not entirely without reason. He'd been so fixated on the ocean's depths--thanks in no small part to his dream--that the surface and beyond hadn't merited much metaphorical consideration.
Rules atop the ocean... okay. His chest hurts, deeply. That hurt.
Fuck the weather demon, he thinks.
But he doesn't get up quite yet.
He can just... lie here in the dirt. It's fine.
He'll move... soon.
Eventually.