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thenashira2025-12-02 08:56 pm
nashiramods) wrote in thenashira2025-12-02 08:56 pm
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Game Update: August II 2377
🎶 Recommended Listening: Answer - BUMP OF CHICKEN ♪
august ii 2377
EPISODE 8: When You Wish Upon a Spark...
August 16 - 31
NOTE: As a reminder, there will be no event or missions this month while the mod team takes a break. The game update contains prompts for all of August II, so play around to your heart's content!
Star Suite: The Training Room has been unlocked! Special training machines are now available to the Nova Knights, and they now have access to a new Star Suite power, Sparkle of Life. More details about this power are included in the Starlight section. The Rewards page has been updated with information about the next unlockable room, the Portal.
Constellations: 2/7 Constellations captured. The Nova Knights have the Dancer and the Three Sisters.
Weather: Chalra City's hot hot summer continues! While August isn't quite as hot as it was last month, it's a good deal more humid and stickier. Whether it's a swimming pool or a beach, Chalra City residents are flocking to the water to cool off and relax. Sunbathing in the park is a popular activity on cooler days, and local shops and restaurants court young shoppers by offering special services and sales suited to the student wallet. The highs for the month average around 90°F/32C° with lows around 78°F/25C°.
Recap: The Nova Knights got some badly needed wins in the first half of August! Not only did they rescue the Three Sisters from the Harbingers' clutches, but Dirk and Reese escaped from the Abyss more or less intact as well. They managed to foil most of the Harbingers' plans at Littleneck Beach, but the Harbingers got away with their stolen energy, and whatever they were harvesting from the folks consuming Potari Sweet. The Harbingers have since disappeared from Nautis's magical radar, however, suggesting that they're prioritizing their defenses over a proactive attack.
BY DAYLIGHT
⭐︎ Summer break is over — it's back to school for all students. Hope you did your summer homework, or at least copied it from someone else last minute!
⭐︎ As the summer swelters on, the Midnight Diner serves up a Chalra City summer favorite: finger food-sized fried chicken with a spicy yogurt dipping sauce known by locals as pieces and beach sauce. While beach sauce is typically associated with fried chicken, Chalra City residents will put it on just about anything, and everyone's got their own recipe. Master's beach sauce is known to pack a powerful chili kick.
⭐︎ Chalra City commemorates the end of the summer with a fireworks festival on the waterfront running from the 26th to the 28th. Chalra City's artisans take great pride in their craft, and they spend months preparing three consecutive nights of elaborate fireworks displays on the waterfront, each more fantastic than the last, leading up to a truly show-stopping finale on the evening of the 28th. The festival is only active at night, but much like the Smoketree Promenade's midsummer event, there are plenty of food stalls and street vendors to occupy people's time before the fireworks go off. Sparklers are a popular toy for children and adults alike!
In Chalra City, the fireworks festival is about more than just tasty food and spectacle — it's an important opportunity for community togetherness and gathering with friends and family. There's an enduring old custom in this part of Atlace of making wishes on fireworks — if you make a wish aloud as a firework goes off, it may come true, and conveniently, the noise of the fireworks drowns out all but shouting. Of course, most people will agree that it's just an old superstition, but sometimes you can hear a murmur of voices intermingled with the deafening pops and cracks, so perhaps some of the Chalra City folk are a little more superstitious than they'll readily admit. Everyone needs a little something to believe in.
And it wouldn't be a true Chalra City summer event without a little competition! On the evening of 27th, the festival holds a spicy food eating contest hosted by the celebrity comedian Wakaba. Contestants will be tasked with eating a variety of hot sauce-coated foods, with the spicy factor increasing with every round; in between rounds, while the contestants take a brief breather, Wakaba asks them a variety of personal questions, most of which inevitably end on a joke. While there is a small cash prize for winning the contest, the real incentive is bragging rights.
BY STARLIGHT
⭐︎ Hope's Prophecy: Thanks to their past life as a diviner for the Oracle, Hope may occasionally receive prophetic dreams that give the Knights a hint about what's to come. Hope did not have a prophetic dream this time around either, but there's always next time!
⭐︎ Hideout Status: The Aquarium has 20 new quartz shrimp in addition to the four goldfish! The massive tanks are still mostly empty, but it's a start.
The Training Room is now accessible! If you were expecting a classic gym experience, think again — rather than conventional workout equipment, the Training Room holds what appear to be a series of arcade machines with a decidedly Hassalean aesthetic. Apparently, this is how the Nova Knights in their past lives honed their skills! There are currently three working arcade-style workout machines in the Star Plus training series: Star Plus Blazer, a target practice game to help hone weapon proficiency; Star Plus Light Catcher, a Whac-a-Mole style game where you bop cute little star-shaped monsters; and Star Plus Beats, a drumming game with two large drums that helps with magic power circulation.
There are more workout machines, but the rest are all out of order...who knows, maybe you'll find a way to repair them someday!
⭐︎ Star Suite: Another Silver-level Star Suite power has been unlocked! The Nova Knights can now use Soul Flash, a Silver-level finishing move that cleanses ordinary people who have been temporarily possessed or changed by the Abyss. The overzealous beachgoers who had drunk Potari Sweet, for instance, would have been cured in an instant by Soul Flash!
Star Suite powers cannot be alone; they must be used in concert with at least one other Nova Knight, and the more Knights who participate, the stronger the attack. It can only be used once per supernova transformation. Characters in eclipse lose access to Star Suite powers for the duration of their eclipse.
⭐︎ Maomao's Garden: If Maomao has made any crucial progress, she hasn't shared it with anyone. Instead, she's just fully taken over the Lab and relocated the entire hydroponics garden there for better study. Trespassers will be hissed at.
⭐︎ Nautis Updates: Late in the evening of the 15th, Nautis informs everyone with unusual gravity that two more of their number have been claimed by the Abyss: Sunbeam and Crescent. As far as she can tell, they're not in one of the more surface-level pockets of the Abyss like the last few Nova Knights, but somewhere deep and as of yet unreachable like Nova Zenith. The Harbingers have gone to great lengths to hide themselves from Nautis, so it'll take time before she can find a way that deep into the Abyss. She urges everyone not to lose heart — their friends aren't dead, only captured, and the Nova Knights are coming for them.
> I know it's hard to think about having fun at a time like this, but...
> I just don't think it's good to dwell too long on what's already happened! You've got to take all that emotion and let it drive you forward! ( ◡̀_◡́)ᕤ
> Besides, you know they wouldn't want you giving up at every setback! We'll prove their faith in us and rescue them for sure!
> So you have to make sure to take care of yourselves, OK?
> We've got some of the training machines up and running if you want to feel productive about your emotions ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧
> I hear this city's got some great fireworks...I know! You should all go take pictures for me! ^_^
> After all, it's not like I can go myself... Don't you want me to enjoy the fireworks? Don't I deserve to witness beauty too?
> I've been hard at work trying to put together what the Harbingers did to the Three Sisters and everything...
> The Constellation will recover, but yikes, those clowns really did a number on it. What they did was basically sacrilege! Don't they know these are precious artifacts of Hassaleh's Ocean Temple?!
> It really fries my circuits to see those good-for-nothing villainous losers abusing priceless pieces of our history (｡•̀ ⤙ •́ ｡ꐦ)
> The Constellations' magic was never meant to be used so directly...I don't think they have any idea what they were tampering with.
> Thank the stars they didn't! They could have done much worse than mess with some drinks. We can't let another Constellation fall into the Harbingers' hands again!
> But it seems like they're laying low for the time being... So I think it's time for everyone to take a load off! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡
⭐︎ Intel: Although it's still unknown as to how the Harbingers' ship managed to disappear itself from Nautis's sensors, a conversation overheard by Dirk and Reese during their escape strongly suggests that while Mistiluxia clearly has dealings with the Abyss, the other Harbingers may not even know of its existence.
That doesn't mean all is quiet on the Nova Knight front, however. Even though there doesn't appear to be real any Harbinger activity on Earth these two weeks, there is an uptick in drinks monster sightings — more specifically, slushie monsters. While many of the monsters the Nova Knights face are directly summoned by the Harbingers, some, like the drinks monsters, are a byproduct of the Abyss's influence on Earth. So while there may not be a bigger Harbinger plot to foil, these monsters still need defeating! It is really hot out, though...would getting hit by just one frozen slushie attack be all that bad?
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Which is all to say that they smile through it, pretending that it didn't hurt just a little bit even if it was unintentional, and don't comment on it beyond that. And they let him keep talking, and as he keeps talking, the smile fades. Gradually, sure, and then all at once when he calls their mom a broodmare. Again, not intentional, or so he assures them. Again, very hurtful. It's harder to hold on to that grace that they'd offered him this time, their hands closing into loose fists in their lap, but they remember how badly things had exploded the last time they'd fully lost their cool. (They remember the image that Shellustria had shown them of what might happen if they succumb to that anger.)
So they decide to respond to something else. The greater point, instead of the smaller ones. He doesn't know their mom—no one does; their mom's a nobody and likes it that way—so it can't be targeted. None of this is targeted. But the gooey chocolate center of the whole thing is what sits the worst with Hope if they think about it for too long. "I don't know if it's the best idea in the world," they start, thinking they sound startlingly composed for the situation, given the circumstances, "To think about my dad looking for something in me and throwing me away when he didn't find it when I already have so many problems feeling like I'm not good enough."
They don't want a confrontation this time. They just want to speak what's on their mind, say what they think is at least the way they feel towards all of this. Is it likely, if Dirk is right, that their dad gave them those problems in the first place? Probably. But there are some curtains that they're not ready to pull back yet.
"Maybe you're right, you know? Maybe that's it. But it's... like, I want to hang on to the good memories of that place if I can, and I can figure out the rest in therapy or something, you know?" They give this... weak little smile, like they're trying to defuse something but they're not even sure if the bomb is ticking. "I haven't reached out to my sisters in a while. Maybe I can finally ask why Anna was so pissed off all the time and see if she learned something that I didn't." The smile gets a little more real, that surprise coming back into their tone. "I haven't told anybody about my sisters before you. Not even Natalia."
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"I didn't know you and Natalia were close." A well-placed truth can cover for a lot. He might be interpersonally impaired but he's learned a trick or two from tangling with the media. And Old Man Harley. And
Jake--anyway. Who cares about Jake. This is big. This is huge, even. He's honestly a little rocked by it, but he has to keep it chill, play it cool."I guess this is an honour, then. Should I be saying something to mark the occasion, or is this more of a between-friends vibe?" There's a smile--or more like a smirk--curled in the corner of his mouth. It's very small, and it lasts only a couple seconds, but it's there. Then it drops, and he clarifies with a deadpan: "I'm kidding."
He made a joke. That was the end of the joke.
Now, of course, it's time to actually address something serious.
"Don't worry about what your dad wanted you to be. One, you don't even like the guy. And two, whatever he thought he was looking for, you already turned out better. So you failed to be something that's fundamentally insignificant--who gives a shit? He's looking for some mere feat of genetics and passed you by, but you're a full-ass Nova Knight. That's a calibre of proof his little progeny project could never hope to touch." There's a kind of pressure to his tone, an intensity that's paired with a jarringly street-level gesture at the end, when he tips his head as if to say: game recognises game.
Then, weirdly, he just... leaves it tipped at that angle to think.
"... also, don't go to a therapist. If his matrimonial spook-bitch is as deep a sleuth as you say, whatever you say to some third party could be compromised. He's got the money, she's got the skill to use it, and at least one of them is just looking for an excuse, I'll bet." There's no logical reason for Dirk to believe this, but instictively, he does. There's a bias there, taking Hope's dislike for them as cause to assume the worst of them. But it's also just how he thinks: his brain is already running off with the details, unspooling suspicions to lead him deeper through his mental labyrinth. Anna might be a safe source--especially if she's pissed--but maybe not. Wouldn't Anna then be surveilled more closely by Hope's father and stepmother? But if she had reason to be pissed, then maybe she does know something. And it would be idiotic for Hope not to ask.
This is where his thoughts are when the first firework goes off.
Loud, and sudden, and completely unexpected. He just about jumps to his feet--to react, to fight(?), to... uh. Do... something. Or nothing. As the case may be.
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How crazy is this, right? They went from crying and screaming and ruining this guy's eggs to having... to having a friendly conversation, truly, one with highs and lows and enough weird moments in it to stick with them in a good way and real, actual advice; with first reveals and serious words shared between the two (three) of them; with mutual understanding or at least an amazing facsimile of it. They'd actually done it. It's such a weird thing to feel right now, happy and relieved and like a normal human being. They dwell in that feeling like a blanket on a cold winter morning while Dirk continues talking about how therapists are a risk, and it's only the firework—bang!—that pops them out of the reverie and into the world again.
They look up at the sky, then over to Dirk who looks like he's just been jumpscared by an animatronic bear, and they laugh brightly. "It's just the fireworks! The show's starting." They glance back up, still feeling some special kind of way as the red and green trails of the first explosion fade into the sky. "You want to head out to the boardwalk and watch it properly?"
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And partially not.
The lack of bite is a little bit embarrassment--and not wanting any defensiveness to show. He is perfectly aware of how much worse that will make him look. But it's not just that. It's also a simple lack of fight in him. Against his better judgment, and without any conscious decisionmaking on his part (a rarity in its own right), he finds himself.... chilled out.
He's still himself--still intense, yes, and serious, and hyper-attuned and hyper-aware and all of that--but his nerves are strung just a bit less tightly, and for once he finds it easy to just. Drop it.
Good? Maybe.
But once dropped, he finds himself caught in the awkwardness of what to say after. It's been so long since he found himself talking to anyone for any length of time without escalation or tension that even the realisation itself is uncomfortable, and discomfort rises like a tide around him.
It was easier when he had a focus--Hope's family history is going with him now, as something to look into--but now it's weird. He's not sure what to do.
His instinct is to dip, but he doesn't.
He doesn't do that.
"Sure," he says instead.
He doesn't know why he says that. It made sense for approximately two seconds--to say yes, so as to demonstrate that he's not afraid of the fireworks--but the instant it leaves his mouth, he regrets it.
Not because watching the fireworks is a problem, but because it's with Hope, and he's already uncomfortable and starting to feel on edge about it, and--
And they asked him to go watch the fireworks with them.
They smiled, they laughed, and they asked him to go do something with them. This, the second realisation, is the one that really sinks him.
They're not upset. They're not trying to push him around or twist his words. They're just relaxed.
Happy, even.
They don't hate him.
It should be a relief--and it is, it's such a relief that it makes part of him kind of angry--but at the same time, the outcome was so inexplicable that it's hard to process clearly. It leaves him feeling numb and out of place, and it fills him with dread. He didn't do anything to make them not hate him right now. But they don't.
And he...
He would kind of like to keep it that way.
But he said 'sure,' so now he's going to the boardwalk. Leaving is the one guaranteed way not to fuck it up yet--this tentative offer of friendship that he's signed onto and somehow hasn't sabotaged immediately despite its fragile neonatal newness--and he just cut off his own exit.
He's either the stupidest motherfucker alive, or--
He glances at Cal. Anxious, and pretending not to be. "Ready?"
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Another firework goes off overhead, and they look up to try to catch the trails again. Underneath the echo of the boom, they whisper something to themself. Not enormously hard to hear, but hopefully easy enough to ignore. "I wish to not go back," they say, and it's not the way they would say it if this were a conversation or if it were something they wanted to acknowledge, but... it's superstition. And it's hard to break the habit of following it once they've been doing it for long enough.
They unfurl their hand, not having realized they'd curled it up at their side to begin with, and look back at Dirk. "Yeah, let's go," they say, and chase it with the too-honest, "This is how I hoped we'd end the night, but I was so afraid about whether it would actually happen. I'm glad it did."
It would really be nice to have more friends. Friends who aren't being claimed by the Abyss every moment. Friends who know Hope's deal—in more depth than they anticipated—and who are... god, willing to help keep them in line? Maybe? Helping them hold their head above water? It's weird. It feels weird, but it feels warm, and they can figure out the rest of it later. Now that there's a "later" to even consider with Dirk.
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He makes no such wish himself.
He doesn't believe in that kind of thing, and hasn't for many years.
But he likes fireworks.
Sometimes that's enough.
They catch his attention, then--and then catch him by surprise with their revelation. Behind his shades, he blinks; from Hope's perspective, he's once again inexpressive and immobile.
"Seriously?" he asks out loud with his mouth. Like a chump. Then, "Huh."
It almost comes off as casual. Above, more fireworks--green, gold, blue--as he starts to head in the direction of the boardwalk they both know well. He tips Cal's head back, gently, to let his main man get a good look at them. It feels good to do.
"I'm surprised you're telling me that," he says to Hope. That's the kind of thing he'd have kept to himself and probably taken to his grave. Personally speaking.
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"I am too, I think," they admit, feeling their cheeks get a little red as they try to dodge the invisible gaze of their friend. "But maybe being more open about this stuff doesn't just have to be for bad things. I'm happy that I didn't say or do anything to fuck this all up worse than it already was."
While they walk with Dirk towards the fireworks, while they try to act normal and find it less difficult than they expected—and getting a compliment that they're doing well at being normal is also something huge—they start taking in the scenery a little more. Chalra really is a beautiful place. They're glad, despite everything, that they're still here and that they can still experience all of it. (Maybe that feeling won't last forever. Maybe it's lasting long enough for now.)
"And I'm happy I told you about my sisters. I've been meaning to reach out to them all for a while, but I've been so caught up in my own head that I just haven't done it. So I appreciate it." And they crack a smile and look back out in front of them. "But I'll lay off. Call me crazy, but I get the feeling you have problems hearing this kind of thing."
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(If he was less busy being tickled by it, he might remember that he'd believed their reactions to him, their hatred for him and everything he said, were simply inevitable. That the problem was Hope, but that he--Dirk Strider aka Nova Pastos--would always be an antagonistic force, and that he could not help it. He could only accept it and use it for good.)
The corner of his mouth quirks up again, and he huffs a soft breath, barely audible with all the fireworks. A laugh.
He lets them finish, though. They walk, and he listens, and he and Cal watch the bursts of colour and soak in the vibrations--not just the social ones, but literal ones. It's part of what Dirk likes about fireworks. They are explosives, after all. If he's close enough, he can feel them. Each one comes with a shockwave that seems to shift the weight of the air, and he likes that.
He's quiet for a few seconds after Hope's little jibe.
Problems? Him?
Did he say something to make them think he had a problem? With what? Their family?
Why? What problem is he supposed to have? How did they come to that conclusion? Was he acting weird?
He wracks his brain in desperation, but he comes up empty-handed.
"I don't know why you'd think that," he says, finally. Casually. "Is it 'cause of the sibling thing? That's all some people want to talk about, is my Bro--oh. Yeah, I guess that makes sense as an assumption, now that I say it. Hmm." Okay. Maybe he answered that question.
A big, multicoloured starburst rains strobing sparks over a volley of gold crosettes.
"Don't worry about it. I'm used to it. I guess it's nice to find someone who wants to talk about their own siblings for once and admit it's for their own sake, instead of co-opting my Bro for it, or trying to pry into my shit out of 'concern.' That's probably an improvement."
A lot of the 'someones' in question here are actually reporters or wanna-be scoopsters, admittedly. His social life isn't really what one would describe as 'robust.' But they don't need to know that.
Then he realises what he's said and turns to look at them--his brow is slightly furrowed with what is meant to be concern, but that's sure as fuck not what it looks like.
"I did give you a free shot, though, so if you wanted to ask about that--"
He immediately trips on a rock.
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And anything they could have been saying gets stalled for a moment. They grab for his upper arm to try to steady him when he trips. "Whoa!" It's a light enough grip, but it should be enough to stop him from toppling, right? "You okay?" they ask, a surprised sort of laugh chasing their words. And, because he's Dirk Strider, they doubt he's going to let tripping over a rock get the better of him, so they decide that they might as well just keep up the conversation.
"If I only get the one free shot, then let me hang on to it until I come up with something I really have to know about. And," they say, letting go of Dirk, "If it goes too deep, then I want you to tell me to back off. Don't spill your guts on my account unless you want to."
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Hope's hand--hands, plural--on his arm, however? He does not know what to do there. Part of him wants to freeze up. Another wants to jump or pull out of their grasp--kind of a dramatic overreaction, but it's better than falling directly on his face about it.
By some miracle, the two impulses cancel out, and he does basically nothing, except to stand back up very quickly, with no real assistance needed. Emphasis on stand.
He stops walking and waits for them to let go. They're still talking, somehow? His brain makes a valiant attempt to catch up, and despite everything, succeeds. And he realises, in that exact moment, that he is going to play this off like a fucking professional.
The infusion of added of confidence that comes with this is so powerful that they could have said anything to him right now and he'd have embraced it just for the continued rush. For a moment, Dirk Strider has pulled it off. He is who he's meant to be--the guy he's being, right now. Calm. Competent. Cool And most of all: in control.
"....sure, if that's what you want," he says. Having been jostled from his fireworks-focused vantage, Lil Cal's head falls to the side, staring at Hope almost directly in their face. "Just you leave my guts and the question of how far I'm gonna let you dig into them to me."
The words of another Pandora, in another place, reside not far from this conversation. He can practically hear the condescension and faux-concern--but he can't. Not literally, anyway. Because it's as opposite of the living person ("Hope") that's supposedly in front of him as it's possible to be. But still--it's there.
You'd be considered a modern miracle outside these walls, you know.
He breathes in through his nose, filling his lungs with late summer air--and tips his head, almost like he's levying a challenge.
"Unless you don't trust me?"
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"I trust you to know what your boundaries are," they say carefully, but it is honest. How much they can trust him with most other things remains to be seen; they're friends now, sure, but Chalra wasn't built in a day. Either way, they're pretty sure he knows where to cut himself off.
"It's hard, though." Back to being somewhat casual about it. They sink their hands into their pockets and look vaguely ahead of themself, eyes glancing towards the sky when they can manage it safely. "I don't know a lot about probing questions. I think when I want to know something about someone, the first thing my brain decides it should do is overshare about something close to what I wanna know. And then maybe the other person will do it too, and then if they don't, well, I never technically asked, so it's fine." They grin at themself and glance over at Dirk with just their eyes. "You know, like what I did there. It probably isn't the best habit to be in, but being aware of it is better than nothing, right?"
They could really stand to be a little less honest sometimes.
no subject
Originally he assumed this a feature of the protracted mental breakdowns they were having every time he spoke to them, but no. This is business as usual for them.
At least they're trying. What are you doing?
Not fucking that, he thinks. And maybe it's the residual high from his smooth recovery a second ago, but he gets a little satisfaction from it. Unfortunately, his awareness of the context bites him as soon as he thinks it; he can't avoid his own brain.
The thing is that they actually cop to their problems. You've rewritten your own problems to make you someone who never has to admit to them.
Sure, maybe if he had normal fucking problems like Hope did.
...
Nah, that's a lie and even he knows it. He gets no relief from sharing; even trying feels like pulling solid concrete through a sieve. He really would rather fucking not. And if it's between that and holding onto his pride, he'll choose his pride every time. He knows this. He knows this because knows himself. Maybe too well. Maybe in a way that humans aren't meant to. But there's so much that human beings aren't meant to do and be and experience that he's already been and done and survived; he's an exceptional case, and it's up to him to bear that gracefully. Or at least responsibly. That's the word. Responsibility. It all comes back to responsibility in the end.
Hope's problems aren't entirely normal. He can see that. I don't know a lot about probing questions is not a normal problem. It's a weird fucking non-problem they've made up and gotten stuck on somehow. But a tiny, bitter seed of his own thoughts can't help but note that if he had the kind of petty and bizarre problems Hope is constantly levelling with him about, then it wouldn't matter what he was doing about them. These are not problems that are going to get anyone killed--not like his. Like him.
He knew, long before now, that he had the capacity. It was an intuitive knowledge, one he'd explored in the confines of his own head, endlessly--testing himself, asking reapeatedly despite his answers always coming back the same.
He knew that killing would not move him, would not bring him to a halt.
But he didn't just kill their doppelganger with cold efficiency. He killed with feeling.
He finds himself holding the sensory memory of their severed head in his hands. Maybe it's the scent of their hair, reminding him of the scent of blood, and the rest just follows. His hands, his brain, the rest of his body--it all occupies a moment in time that he's not in. Scent is a powerful driver of memory, and Dirk is a very physical, tactile man. Or maybe it's where his head is in other ways. By the time he realises he's raised his hands to hold a kind of phantom object, the sheer contrast between his problems and Hope's makes the absurdity of the whole thing something that he has to talk himself down from. He lets the percussive booms of the fireworks overhead jar his brain and pass through his body.
It's actually helpful. At least something is.
He looks at his hands, and he can't come up with a way to make that gesture 'normal' so he doesn't try. He runs their explanation of their own behaviour back through his brain.
"Does that... work?" he asks after a beat, feeling oddly disconnected from his internal processes. Hope doesn't need to know what he's thinking about, and he really does wonder if this strategy is actually successful. If he was a very different kind of person, maybe he could use that. Maybe he still can, somehow. At the very least, he can be vigilant for this tactic in the future.
He waits for an answer.
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So if they had to guess, he's doing something similar right now. They can't presume for a second what exactly he's thinking, but the question he eventually asks gives them some idea. Maybe, if they answer good enough, they can explain themself better. Maybe they can make themself understood more. Maybe that's the right way to handle it. That one word they've said so far has come out easily enough; just say a few more and you'll be fine.
"A lot of people like talking about themselves, so if I give them an on-ramp to do it, sometimes they'll take it. Maybe, like, 60% of the time?" They don't know if that's scientifically accurate, but it's better than a coin flip, they know that much. "And the rest of the time, either they're not interested or I scare them off by saying too much. So I wouldn't say that's the best outcome."
They take a breath and debate whether to continue. More words are probably not going to make anything worse, so they go with the thought. "But you," they say, and this is actually kind of interesting because they don't want to accuse Dirk of anything, "You're doing something that doesn't happen a lot at all. You're getting me to talk even more about myself, without me sitting here like 'I have to keep the conversation going'." A small moment more of consideration. "I don't hate it."
I've worked this tag over so many times, I don't know if it makes sense any more or not!
Pieces have started to fall into place regarding their hangups about Mortis, though. A probing question is any question that aims for a vulnerability, or any question that you follow with more questions. But their entire process involves never actually asking anything. They just... lead people, hoping (lol) for the best, and... if it works, then great, and if it doesn't, then... too bad?
It sounds to him like they just don't like the potential for confrontation. Maybe he's being too harsh? Maybe he's being too forgiving. He can't tell, right now. He's lost the plot, the delicate balance he'd struck in being a friend when he objectively he's never been built to know how to be one.
"I'm doing that?" he asks when they finish, and he's genuinely flummoxed by it. "I'm not really doing anything. I'm just asking you things directly, is that not something people do?" He feels a little insane. Okay, a lot insane. He starts to say something else, but falls silent while another volley of fireworks begins above them. Maybe it's a good thing, timing wise. Figuring out how to talk through all the thoughts and all the memories and all the everything is hard. It's hard in a way that he feels, physically; it's eclipsed his previous sense of who he was, the temporary facade of his humanity marred by an inescapable spread of fractures that began in another time and place. A time long before the Abyss, and a place nowhere near Let's Family!
It's a lot easier to let the sounds and sights and sensations of the festival's dazzling climax take over. To some extent, it helps relocate him back in this time, this place. Still himself. Still a thousand splintering fragments of monstrousness and artificiality. But... here. Present.
"I'm glad it's not... uh, offensive," he says, finally. The corner of his mouth twitches upward, slightly. It's such a surreal, desperately unmoored moment. What the fuck is he supposed to say that? What the fuck does it even mean?
His heart is hammering in his ribcage like he's been fighting for his life, or like it does right when he's about to--never mind. Never mind any of it. He feels the sweat prickling on the back of his neck, but he stays calm, stays cool on the outside. His mouth continues without any real permission from the rest of him, but when isn't that the case?
"But you shouldn't make a habit of explaining all your mental processes to people like that anyway. That's just setting yourself up to be scrutinised under a microscope. That's probably why you feel like you're doing everything wrong. You're slicing yourself thin and laying sections on the slide for study. You're making it easy for them to compare themselves to you, and by extension judge you. And you're making it even easier for the people who want to take advantage of you. You keep that kind of thing inside your own head, and you maintain an advantage of assumptions." He takes a deep breath, then tips his head to regard Hope for a moment. "Make them earn your acquaintance."
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It's not... it doesn't feel like browbeating, like it did when they were at their lowest point. It just feels like advice. A suggestion. Maybe some insight into the way that he prefers to do things. Maybe a chance for understanding a little more why the two of them had had so many problems to begin with. It's an idea that Hope's flirted with in the past, but it's never sat right with them. To explain why, though, would be doing exactly the same thing that they've been doing. So they're at an impasse for a second.
"Does that work?" they decide on, grinning just a little with one corner of their mouth. They assume it must—Dirk's been getting by, uh. Well enough, probably, so far. If nothing else he's been able to keep things held together a lot better than Hope has. "Because it's really not funny how uncharted that territory would be for me." Hell, they're already clamping down on a ton of impulses just right now, in this conversation. In that sentence. Being Dirk feels like really hard work.
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Being Dirk is really hard work, and it always has been. If there was ever a time where it wasn't--where the work wasn't overwhelming, constant, and thankless--then he doesn't remember it.
That's the scary thing about what he's turning out to be: that despite his best, or what he at least thought was his best, this is who he is. He already knew something was wrong, different wrong, with him. And he'd known that there was something else about him that was the wrong kind of different. But even having cracked the mirror's surface, he's still... acting like himself. Being 'himself' hasn't changed.
Like, here he is, trying to make friends--or at least making an effort to pretend.
That's horrifying. He's horrifying.
But he feels more okay with that than maybe he should be....?
And now Hope is more okay with him than they should be. Far, far more than they were before, never mind how they would feel if they only knew what he was really thinking and feeling. But that's where all of this proves his point. He's not going to tell them this shit. Why would he? Personal reasons aside, it would be traumatising and cruel. Sadistic behaviour on his part. He might be selfish, but--he can control that.
He's in control.
And as he affirms that within himself, Hope turns his question back on him with a bit of his own smirk thrown in. He blinks.
One of the weirder outcomes of this--this meetup, this conversation, this apologety-and-reformation tour Hope Carassia experience (which includes, apparently, learning that their name is Hope to begin with)--is that Hope keeps taking his suggestions. Considering them and taking them seriously, instead of throwing them back into his face.... or onto the ground.
(Briefly, he wonders if he could consider suggesting that they change their shampoo, and what would happen if he did. He discards the idea, but it tempts him. Both out of scientific curiosity and out of a fervent desire to escape his own brain.)
The playfulness of it--banter, actual back-and-forth--helps to jar him out of his fugue state a little.
Does that work?
"You tell me," he deadpans, rising to the challenge almost by reflex. "I'm not what you'd call 'real sociable.'" Which is about as far as he likes to go, personal disclosure wise. "But I'm about as famous around here as a guy can get without having people crawling in his windows and I still ain't had a hit piece written about me."
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They think for a second about the ways that they themself keep the heat off. Mostly just laying as low as possible and never making any waves, no matter how desperately they want to. Out of knowing that they'll probably have to give up on any broader cause they try to support. Out of fear from the designer boot silently pressing down on their neck. These things stay firmly inside. They can keep some secrets about themself. Maybe that's it—maybe the stuff they share is just stuff that they don't think will actually hurt them to share.
Maybe that says a lot about what they think actually hurts.
"I could try it, I guess?" They try to slip their hands into the pockets of their jeans, but remember that they have a yukata over it and just let their hands slide back to their sides instead. "It would be new. Like—can I be honest with you?" It hasn't stopped them so far; that honesty is kind of what they're both talking about right now. "It feels like there's something inside my mouth that's trying to burst out if I don't say a bunch of stuff."
They try not to spend too much time thinking about it. They've tried keeping their mouth shut before and it just makes them nervous. Whether they're talking about themself or something that they're passionate about, shutting up is something that they just don't know how to do very well. They frown while they think, maybe trying to better contain the words that they're trying to keep stuck in their throat. It kind of sucks.
They break their own tension with a puff of a laugh, no more than a sigh with a smile. "I don't know how you do it."
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Oh. It clicks then, what Hope was... probably? he thinks? doing back at the Midnight Diner. With the constant outflow of... stuff. Words. Personal details. Agreements and disagreements and completely irrelevant commentary mashed together in one messy, disorganised deluge.
Hmm.
That's something to turn over in his head later, he decides. No need to bring up old shit.
Although it is a little ironic that he's just put this together now. Ironic, because his advice to them now is exactly the same as it ever was. So knowing, he can't help himself: he crosses his arms over his chest and looks down at them, seemingly laconic, and delivers his answer with an extra hit of drawl.
"Practise."
He has a lot of it. You know, what with spending more than a decade completely isolated in a penthouse suite at the top of a housing tower. Speaking itself is harder than not, especially when other people are present. The very presence of another living human being seems to change him. And the act requires some kind of active impetus that really challenges his brain. So when it comes to Hope's problem with barely containing themself?
He can't relate.
There's a lot in his head, yes. Sure. Obviously. Too much, without rest and without respite. But only a small percentage ever reaches his mouth. To some extent this is by design. He can keep his mouth shut on purpose, too.
The weird thing is that what does leave his mouth is so often altered somewhere between the origin and the destination. Or rather, it's like the act of speaking itself alters how his brain functions, and so the things he says and the things he thinks are connected, but the way he thinks when he opens his mouth is not always the way he thinks before and after. It's a source of frustration for him, but he has all that practise with its solution.
And maybe that's by design.
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He probably doesn't. He doesn't seem like the kind of person to do things Hope's way. As though that wasn't already enduringly obvious.
Once that instant is over and Hope recognizes that it's their turn to say something, they laugh. Not bitter, not forced. At ease despite everything. "I knew you'd fucking say that," they say, grinning and happy for the chance at it. A little more seriously, they continue, easing out of their laughter with a sigh. "Ahh. I'll do my best. I will. That's a promise. And if it turns out it doesn't work for me, I won't get all stupid and freak out about it."
Which reminds them. "Hey, I owe you some eggs, don't I."
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Which is to say, Hope will have to tell him that he owes them an apology if they ever hope to get one out of him.
Giving him their assurances earns them a nod of rare approval, at least.
Aaaaaaaand then he's lost. Not completely--he understands the idea--but why the fuck they think he needs or wants eggs weeks after the fact is a little. Uh.
"You don't need to do that."
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"But come on, let me treat you to some meal." It's sincerity and it's guilt, sure, but they want it to be kindness, too. They want it to be a real gesture to show that they aren't going to be a dick to him like that anymore. To show that they're dedicated to changing—along with everything else they're going to hold themself to doing. (They want forgiveness. They probably won't get it in as many words. They'll be okay with that eventually.)
"Just to make up for ruining that one. Doesn't have to be a huge thing." Then why, they think insidiously, are they making it into one?
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And it's such a simple expression change: the corners of his mouth turn down, equal parts disapproval and confusion. Nothing else. Just that.
If he only knew how much his face occasionally resembled a cartoon...
Admittedly, it is a bit much to jump, mentally, from the vivid sensory memory of a person's immediate decapitation at his own hands to the idea of eating food in their presence. If only that were the part that was tripping him up.
But what really gets him is the combination of 'eating food' and 'someone else's involvement in that food.'
"It was barely a meal," he deflects, trying to fend them off without being a jackass. Internally? He's sweating bullets.
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So the answer, obviously, is to try to make it make a little more sense. Because that's clearly the problem. "I just—" they start, and then eat the words like so many eggs. Does it matter? Does it matter that they still feel bad even after they spent this whole time apologizing? Ugh. They hate that they can see some kind of resolve build behind their thoughts and then just let it all evaporate like that. With a lovely little hint of defeat to their words, they continue. "Maybe not, but. If you do ever want me to treat you to something to make up for it, then, like, the offer's there."
They glance away, nervous at their own offer, and flit their eyes back to him after a second while they try to smooth it over with a smile that's definitely not awkward now. "We could hang out over pizza or something. As friends."
CW hints towards some disordered eating? With a side of control issues? It's fine,
That's why he knows the broad strokes of the gesture.
And knowing that makes it extremely uncomfortable now to be so adamantly against it.
It's not that he doesn't appreciate it.... or so he thinks, anyway. But maybe he doesn't? Maybe this is 'being unappreciative.'
It's all just so pointless. His Bro didn't leave him much of himself, but one thing he did leave was gobs and gobs of fucking cash. Cash that Dirk has had no trouble turning into even more cash, to the point that it should probably be illegal. Buying him eggs, or a meal, or anything at all, is such a completely asinine, pathetic gesture that it becomes an active insult. First, it makes him out to be some kind of turbo asshole, and second, the other person looks like a total chump.
And that's before he tries to wrap his head around the rest of it. Food is hard to think about when he's not hungry--at least in an appetite kind of way. He has no problem studying the science of it, planning meals and formulating optimal nutritional intake around metabolic balance, bioavailability and convenience. It's the actual eating and remembering that he CAN eat and so on that he gets stuck on, and that's under ideal conditions. Eating on someone else's schedule, or in any way that involves the infinite variables of another human being?
He'd rather do (almost) anything else.
But then Hope hits him with the 'friend hangout' angle, and skewers all of those opinions like so many fish.
Pizza is at least reasonably customisable. Toppings, portions, that's all infinitely variable as long as you're fucking normal about it. He can be normal about that. He can handle one meal. He's done it before. He can make this normal, and then he can be normal.
He tilts his head to the side, still staring at Hope under those furrowed brows.
"How about we just do the hangout part, and not you buying it."
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Really, it's a lifeline that they're taking, just something to swing to so they can escape a burning forest or whatever the appropriate metaphor is. And just because things aren't actively burning down around them doesn't mean they can stop the feeling of dread quite so easily. If they were paying attention to their heartbeat right now, they'd notice it had picked up considerably at some point in the middle of all of this. Thank god that part of their anxiety hasn't kicked in yet.
"I'll try to be more interesting the next time we hang out," they say, lifting one corner of their mouth like they've somehow been lacking this whole time. "Oh, maybe I'll have some more stuff from my sisters. I haven't had any outlet to gossip about my family to anyone before." The anxiety hurts when they say that, too, but they... they trust Dirk not to be an asshole about it. Not to cause problems for them, which would cause problems for their dad, which would be bad all the way around. That's a weird feeling, but not a bad one.