EVENT ★ WINTER WONDERLAND, THE RECKONING

[futurologists]

HAPPY (NONDENOMINATIONAL) HOLIDAYS When recruits arrive back at Oska, they'll find the place already full of other ALASTAIR teams visiting Oska, and the castle and grounds entirely decked out in festive cheer. The castle is draped in purple and white finery, with a light dusting of unmelting snow everywhere -- even inside, somehow. Don't worry, the indoor snow has been enchanted to be strangely warm. Dagny has taken it upon herself to add a little plant life in and around the castle: mistletoe, of course. It can be spotted growing in little sprigs out of chinks in castle walls, around from wooden doorframes, or even sprouting out of other, unrelated trees. You're never really safe from mistletoe. And what would the use of mistletoe be without the enchantment? Dagny has made sure that there are enough variant species of the mistletoe to offer something for everyone. Recruits may find themselves stuck under any manner of mistletoe, trapped until they fulfill the mistletoe geas. The Classic: This is the standard magical mistletoe, that traps people in a lightly shimmering sphere until they exchange a kiss. Any kind of kiss will do, just pucker up! The Papilion: This is similar to the classic, but its berries come in brilliant shades of orange and pink. It will only release its catch after a butterfly kiss. Clinging Merriment: This mistletoe is all wrapped up in itself, and climbs whatever surface it's on in twisting spirals. All it wants from its catch is a hug, but make it a good one! The Lively Stepper: This mistletoe seems to shiver in some unfelt breeze, and if you listen closely enough, there's a gentle chime of bells that fades when you lean away from it again. People stuck under this plant will have to dance together, to whatever music they can find or make. Whispering Mary: This mistletoe comes with deep purple leaves and seems to hide within itself. Only after a secret has been shared from each person trapped under it will it flower open and release them. Evening Gown: This mistletoe is a gaudy display, with brilliant green leaves and splendid white blossoms instead of berries. It will only release its catch after they compliment each other -- and the Evening Gown always knows when it hears a genuine compliment, and accepts no substitutions! Catflowers: Dagny didn't put this kind out, and has named them after the suspected perpetrators. She's been trying to take them down when she finds them, but there might be a few she's missed. This thorny sprig of mistletoe will only release its catch after they've punched each other. Sorry about that. THE WINTER BALL Exciting news, passed from recruit to recruit and team to team: the castle will host a ball soon! It's set to be on the second night of team Audentes's arrival in Oska, and it's going to be a truly extravagant affair. Nothing to wear? No fear! The wardrobes in each recruit's room will open upon an enormous display of fancy clothing in a multitude of styles. Once you've settled on one (and somehow, the wardrobe knows the difference between trying on and settling on), the rest of the outfits vanish the next time it's closed. The festivities start as soon as the sun begins to sink. Music filters through the air, growing louder to guide partygoers through the castle and into the dance hall, which was definitely not a room in existence until today. The music flows from no discernable source, sometimes swirling orchestral pieces, sometimes something with a heavier beat, for a different kind of dancing. The selection is as varied as the ALASTAIR teams tend to be. Listen long enough, and you might even hear something from your own home universe. A large glass flower shimmers in the center of the room, under which various recruits have taken to leaving presents for one another. Be sure to stop by and check the brightly wrapped parcels for your name! Team Audentes in particular gets a special gift. The north side of the room is decorated in an unmistakable Christmas theme, complete with an enormous, glittering tree. The care put into these decorations definitely has a personal touch, it might even outshine the rest of the hall's decor. Each member of the team has a lovingly wrapped box complete with a bow under this tree, and upon opening it will find a small, intricately detailed, never-melting ice sculpture of themselves -- very possibly in a ridiculous pose. Those who were acquainted with former teammate Nicholas St. North will find that their sculpture features two figures: themselves, and North himself. And of course, what party would be complete without the food? The kitchen has really outdone itself with its spread of delicious foods, suited to all appetites and palates. From gently steaming roasted bird to strangely colored foreign piles of tiny quivering spheres, there's something for everyone. Including the alcoholics among us: the punch is delicately spiked with that incredibly strong drink of Nalawi, which leaves a pleasantly fruity aftertaste and an immediate alcoholic burn. (Any children partaking will find that their cups have somehow filtered out any alcohol and are strangely juice-only.) ICE MAZE Outside the castle, the courtyard has been transformed. Giant shimmering ice walls have sprung up seemingly overnight, forming endless, winding pathways: an ice maze. Stepping into this beautiful, gleaming maze immediately cuts off all sound from the castle life around, so loud just a moment ago. Inside the maze is only the crunch of light snow underfoot, the sound of one's own breathing, and the echoes that bounce faintly here and there. Throughout the maze one might find bits of warm, inviting clothing. A pair of bright red mittens, a puffy coat that fits perfectly to the wearer, a scarf woven in brightly colored, warm wool. If a maze-goer chooses to ignore and walk past this clothing, they might find that something begins to follow them. It starts as just an unsettling feeling, but put off accepting the clothing for long enough and it may turn into lurking shadows in the corner of an eye, a black shape that's there in one second and vanished in the next. A faint yowl may float down a corridor, vaguely feline if only it weren't so deep. Whatever that came from must have been large. Accepting and wearing just one of the offered clothing chases away this unwanted visitor immediately, and in just five minutes more the ice maze will finally bring you out the other side. Don't take any of its gifts, though, and the maze may just lead you to meet the Yuletide Cat instead. (Which just so happens to be Cherenkov and Crowley sharing a giant cat costume. Don't laugh, they worked hard on it.) THE VILLAGE Far outside the castle, the village has been brought back to warm, glowing life. Or at least, that seems to be the case. Team Hearthstone was recently on a mission to recover an item called the Time Catch, and has used it to temporarily, visually turn time back to a time when the village of Oska was populated and lively. Humanoid villagers, all in various shades of purple and blue, hurry to and fro, talking and laughing in a language that goes untranslated by the magitek jewelry. They don't react to any of the recruits, though, and trying to touch any of them will have your hands passing straight through them. Even the restored village around them is just an illusion. One can walk straight into one of the villager's houses and find the warmth of the fire and aroma of the roasted fowl to be completely believable -- but trying to take a seat at the set table will send you crashing straight to the ground to sit in the illusion-covered rubble. THE SQUIDGE PARK After the festivities wind down, you may want to visit the newest addition to the Oska grounds -- the brand new squidge park. After Audentes's success in its mission on Zeta-12, ALASTAIR has been gifted with a clutch of squidge eggs to look after. Audentes need not worry about the squidges in their absence; there will always be someone in Oska to make sure the jelly-like aliens are being nurtured properly. The squidge park is located off the greenhouses in the courtyard; it's an enclosure containing many artificial habitats so the squidges may interact with different environments to help them grow. Right now, they are just eggs, but with enough love and care, they may "hatch" (read: their amorphous blob selves will grow limbs and enter the larval stage) before Audentes even ships out again. OOC NOTES Blind date assignments for those working to complete the Lonely Hearts Club bounty can be found here. ICly, the match-ups are publicly posted in the ballroom for all to see. The other ALASTAIR teams present consist of everything from humanoids to strange creatures; feel free to handwave them in your threads! The only stipulation is that transferred characters (ex. those who have dropped) are not present. The party lasts for one night, and the following day the rest of the teams will pack up and leave Oska to Audentes. The ghostly village-that-isn't will revert back to ruins at this point, as well. However, all other winter amenities will remain for the holidays! Following the party, characters can expect to be in Oska for several more weeks, with the next mission starting in late January. A more detailed calendar for next month will be up soon! Questions about this log, Oska, or the game in general should be directed to the FAQ. You may submit mission ideas or player plots at any time.

Comments

[digiorno]

[Giorno bumps Fugo's knee with his own, encouragingly. Good job. Keep eating crackers. He's very happy about this development, and follows up the knee nudge with a smile. A+ pudding.]

I have some embroidery thread, if you want it. [For the suit.] No holes, though.

[A moment's pause, then. He has to focus. Priorities--of course he knows what the priorities are. He should probably heal his hand, he thinks. But first:]

I'll make up a dossier for you. I have one in my head. The first thing you need to know, though, is: there are a lot of civilians here, and a lot of people like us.

There's a boy named Kaz Brekker who dresses all in black. Black gloves, too. Highly touch-averse to the point of hypervigilance. Old injury in his leg. He's got no powers, as far as I know. But he's the most dangerous person here, besides the two of us.

[unholey]

Yes, please. [He has no idea how to embroider or what sort of design he wants. (Strawberries?) That doesn't matter. He'll read a book and pick it up, simple as that.] And it's too cold for holes.

[Come on, Giorno, they've established that already. Fugo's expression is briefly bemused at the knee bump and the smile; while he can guess what prompted them (eating a cracker) he doesn't get ... why they're happening. But also because Giorno's free hand is oddly still. Even when talking business, Giorno likes to gesture. He listens intently, putting each fact to memory while he eats another cracker.]

I would appreciate that. And if you'd like, I'll continue to add to it as I become more familiar with the people here. [He frowns, the expression tight.] I see. I'll keep that in mind when I encounter him. Are any of his people here?

[Fugo doesn't ask if Brekker is one of the people "like them". It's simply a given, if Giorno has deemed him a threat on their level.]

[digiorno]

Of course. I'd very much like it if you did. Your insights will be invaluable. Every has their own biases.

[Even him. Especially him. He purses his lips a little before continuing.]

As of now I've been fairly quiet about us. About what we do, back home. I'd like to continue this for now, in part because Kaz is bent on making himself known and feared. In due time, I will be the necessary alternative.

[One small step down from criminal tyranny. Even in Perdition's Rest it was clear that there needed to be a middle ground between Kaz and the bleeding hearts.]

He doesn't understand compassion. I want to know how he works. It'll be helpful. But I'm also just curious.

[There's no apology for this. It's unfeeling and a little cruel, but so is Giorno, sometimes. Even now--Fugo's question prompts a flicker of that violence in his expression again, along with jealousy, with amusement. A feeling so complicated. To distract from it, he flexes his fingers and starts absently to heal his palm.]

He's got a gunman. Jesper Fahey.

[unholey]

[Fugo nods. He's glad to help with the dossier; together, their perspectives will hopefully provide a more complete picture of the people around them. His brows twitch at Giorno's description of Kaz. He's met plenty of men like that in Passione. Bruno Buccellati was in, many ways, an exceptional man, both in his abilities as a leader and the methods he used to win favor with the population around him. There are so many gangsters like Kaz Brekker, who prefer to use fear like a club to clear the crowd around them; not so many like Bruno Buccellati, whose kindness crept like ivy down the streets.

It's interesting, he thinks, that Kaz seems to have caught Giorno's attention despite that. I want to understand how he works, is a very unusual statement from Giorno Giovanna, whose greatest strength is his ability to read people. Kaz must be quite the puzzle, to be someone who Giorno wants to take down and take apart.]

He might have the advantage for now, but in time you'll have the civilians and the heroic-types. [It's a good tactic. It will take longer for them to build their platform, but their foundation will be more secure for it.] What about Stands? How open have you been with Gold Experience? And if we're keeping quiet about Passione for now, we ought to come up with a cover story to explain our connection.

[Ah. He has a gunman. Fugo's near-complete attention is fixed on Giorno: he doesn't miss those ugly flickers or their connection with his glimpse of Giorno's earlier anger. Kaz Brekker has his gunman. Giorno does not. If Giorno's fingers had kept still on his leg, if he was paying a little less attention, Fugo might have missed the little flush of light that comes with Gold Experience's ability. But they twitched. And he's paying very close attention, so his brows come together and he frowns, distracted from another cracker.]

...

Giorno, your hand?...

[digiorno]

[Already he feels better. More solid. Not more sure of himself, because he was that before--more willing to slow down, rather, and less sure of himself. He knows, because Fugo is here, that he isn't immortal. He knows, because Fugo is here, that he needs to take care. Of himself, so he can take care of both of them.]

[It's too little too late, though, probably. Fugo's already seen; Fugo sees everything, as long as it's not himself. Giorno will have to work on being a better mirror, because this is the person out of all the people here who needs to see his reflection clear.]

[For now, he just sees Giorno, whose hand tenses into a fist instinctively. Hiding.]

. . . Mm.

[He could lie. But it won't work. Fugo will not accept it. He remembers Fugo fussing over Narancia and pushes away the thickness in his throat and uncurls his fingers, showing tiny spots of drying blood on his like-new palm and under his fingers.]

See . . . it's fine now.

[unholey]

[Fugo's expression clouds over with worry when Giorno's hand tenses and then crumples when it opens, like a sheet of discarded paper, with a sadness that all of a sudden makes him look very young and very tired. He says nothing. Just looks at the still-wet memory of four crescent-shaped wounds on the palm of Giorno's hand. Unlucky, he thinks, helplessly reminded of Mista still, and: it must have hurt.

It must have hurt, but Giorno only healed himself after he shared the most important things.]

[Fugo eats his cracker, because if he doesn't he knows Giorno will worry. And then, very carefully, he rolls up the loose packaging at the top of the sleeve, puts it back in the box, and sets the rest of the crackers aside on the bedside table. And then he gently places his other hand in Giorno's, thumb brushing away the blood. It's not fine. But they're together, so maybe it's a little better than it was before.]

We'll look after each other. [Another promise. It's not as poignant, maybe, as the one he made a few weeks ago. But the meanings are very similar.]

[digiorno]

[Oh, Giorno thinks, numbly. Oh . . . I ruined it. It didn't take long at all, did it. He looks at Fugo, at his expression, at how he's holding himself, at the way he puts the crackers away. And he knows he ruined it.]

[Already.]

[Fugo's thumb brushes away the blood, and he hates that. He should have been able to hide it better. He should have been able to hide it perfectly. His vision blurs.]

I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do this, either.

[unholey]

[Fugo shakes his head, bangs sliding out of place over his face. You don't have to apologize. Even though the blood is gone, every sign of Giorno's hurt wiped away, Fugo's thumb continues to brush over Giorno's palm. And he remembers a time when Buccellati came home and was so upset to find him with a handkerchief wrapped around one burnt, cut hand.]

I know you didn't. [He knows anger. And how easy it is to become so caught up in keeping quiet and still, holding it back and swallowing it down, that things like pain become insignificant and distant. Because it's better to hurt yourself than let your anger hurt someone else.]

[digiorno]

[He doesn't know how to ask for what he needs. Wants, yes, that much is easy--wanting is coveting, things you want can be stolen. But Giorno has never had his needs met, and he doesn't know how to make the emptiness feel less empty. He doesn't understand that he can ask and benefit from the asking.]

[However. There are ways, sometimes, to take. To trick himself into believing that he's stealing something, giving something even, instead of reaching out with desperately empty hands.]

[He looks at Fugo. At his face, at his hand, at the movements of his fingers. He thinks of everything he knows about Fugo, every fact that's made his gut go cold with grief or a desire to lay waste to the people who made him who he is.]

[He takes Fugo's hand and, carefully, slowly, pulls his over his shoulder, slips an arm around his waist, and presses his face against his shoulder. And--he breathes. Doesn't let go of Fugo's hand, for both of their sakes, doesn't let himself shatter. But: he's asking. He's begging, because he doesn't know how to get what he needs but he knows he needs something. Maybe it's this.]

[unholey]

[Fugo doesn't think, even to be confused by the way Giorno rearranges their limbs. He knows what this is, in theory; in practice, it's been a very long time since he's reached out to be held. He doesn't stop to compare the similarities and contrast the differences between the way Mista used to hook an elbow over his shoulders to draw him close and whisper conspiratorially in his ear, or the way Narancia would sometimes press his cheek on his shoulderblades and drape his skinny arms over his shoulders when he was tired and didn't feel like being up in the morning.

Instead, he half-leans in and half-pulls Giorno closer by the shoulder. He's probably a little stiff. His shoulder is narrow and bony. His grip on Giorno's hand is probably too tight. But he'll hold him close, for as long as he needs or wants it.]

[digiorno]

[It's not as though there's anything to compare it to, really. Even if there was--Giorno doesn't want to, and he doesn't need to. Comfort doesn't have to be perfect to be perfect. Fugo is, imperfectly, perfect precisely here and in this way, exactly what was needed, what Giorno needed that he didn't know he needed.]

[Somehow, despite the pointiness, it feels like he fits here perfectly. For the first time since he arrived, he allows himself to deflate, to be neither Don Giovanna nor Giogio, to be small. He breathes in the smell of Fugo's uniform, which doesn't smell quite right yet, and turns himself towards Fugo entirely. This is safe. This is his. He will be all right; they both will. He has to believe that.]

I--

[His words come slowly, his breathing deliberate. He has to calm down, to be strong for a little while longer, even if he has to be strong with his face pressed against Fugo's shoulder. It still counts, in this case. They've made that agreement. This is who they are to each other. Maybe it was too vulnerable and reckless a thing for him to give Fugo, a sight of his own heartbreak--but it's given, and he'll never take it back.]

Have to. Tell you the other things.

[unholey]

[Fugo doesn't really know how to comfort people, let alone someone like Giorno. All he knows is that Giorno wants to be held and he can manage that much, at least. It doesn't feel bad or even awkward, which is strange for him. Giorno has somehow managed to fold himself up to fit neatly on his shoulder. He doesn't seem uncomfortable at all. Fugo can feel it when he breathes, the slow expansion of his torso before he lets it go again.]

It's fine. You can tell me in a little while. I'm not going anywhere. Or you can tell me like this. [There is nothing written down anywhere that says briefing and hugging (because that's what this is: Giorno is hugging him and he is hugging Giorno for a mutual hugging experience) have to be mutually exclusive.] I can hear you just fine.

[digiorno]

Okay.

[It's . . . not really clear what he's saying okay to, here. All of it. Acknowledgment: yes, these are indeed the options. These are the things he can do. He has no idea which one he will actually choose.]

[It occurs to him slowly, like mud dripping on a bright clean floor, that he's apologized for a few things, now, but never the thing he really meant to apologize for. The thought makes him frown, burrow in closer. Fugo is holding him very tightly, but in a way that's exactly what he needs, especially for what he has to apologize for, really.]

I promised you that I would be there. That I would be close, for when you needed help. But I broke my promise.

[The promise he'd worked towards for six months: broken, just like that. Maybe it's ALASTAIR's fault--but he is Giorno Giovanna. It shouldn't have mattered.]

I'm so sorry, Fugo. I shouldn't have left you. It won't happen again.

[unholey]

[When Fugo woke up here, in a bed that wasn't his own in what looked to be some kind of storage room, after he'd gotten over his initial shock of falling from one universe into another... he hadn't been surprised. Because out of the four of them, Fugo is the unlucky one; if Mista pulls in good luck, Fugo is the one who draws in misfortune. (Luck and fate don't really matter to people like Giorno and Trish, who sweep the table clear with their arms and play by their own rules.) If any of them had to trip into a hole and fall to a place where the others couldn't reach, it would have to be Fugo.

Because he's unlucky. Because he's poison. Because good things can't just happen to him: if he wants them he has to fight for them, earn his place, force his hands through the muck of his own life and claw his way back. It's not fair, but that's just how it is.]

[So this apology, out of all the confusing apologies Giorno has pressed into his hands, leaves him feeling bewildered.]

That's not true. [His words are thick and clumsy. He's not sure how to say what he means, mostly because he's not even sure how he feels. His fingers twitch unhappily on Giorno's shoulder; but Fugo, steady and careful, doesn't let them clench tightly enough to hurt.] How could you have broken your promise when you're here with me now?

[Fugo hadn't even tried to look for anyone familiar; he numbly accepted the idea that he was alone and on his own again. Instead of believing in the promise Giorno made him, having faith that everything that had happened in the past year there was nothing that could tear apart the stitches of the family Bruno Buccellati pulled together and Giorno Giovanna held close to heart. Maybe if he had tried, they would have found each other faster and this would be a little easier for Giorno.]

[digiorno]

[Giorno is stunned. Briefly but totally, because what Fugo says . . . makes perfect sense. It's true. Fugo showed up and Giorno was there--that is undeniable. So what is it that he's so upset about?]

[It doesn't take long before he puts his finger on it. Oh, yes, there it is: something selfish. He told Jin that he hated himself for not keeping his promise, and that was true. But he was just lonely, besides that. He just wanted someone to hold onto.]

[It's ridiculous and wrong to act like that's the same thing. To put that kind of pressure on Fugo at all. It's an ugly thing, and isn't he supposed to be the strong one?]

I'm sorry. [Mumbled. Tired. Uncertain.] I mean. I don't know. I--

You're so important to me. I just hate the thought of doing . . . anything but my best for you. I don't want to be someone who leaves you behind. That's what I mean.

[He thinks that's what he means.]

[unholey]

[I don't want to be someone who leaves you behind.]

[There's a part of him--(the one who Vladimir Kocaqi effortlessly locked in after stumbling on the steps of the Teato Greco, who wakes up in the night and is falling still)--that hears this and doesn't quite believe it. He's still dreaming. Giorno misspoke. He didn't mean it like that. The rest of him points not, no, he's not dreaming; it's unreasonable to assume his brain came up with all of these vibrant strangers. He heard Giorno perfectly well. That's not the sort of thing Giorno would say if he didn't mean it.

And then when they start to sink in one by one, like skipping stones cast over muddy, murky swampwater, he freezes up. He goes brittle and tense around Giorno, holding himself so tightly that his neck and shoulders start to tremble with the effort of keeping himself still. There's ... something wrong with him. Hearing that should be a comfort. But it hurts. That's what this is: it hurts to have light shone down on his oldest fear, the one that's come true over and over again.]

Oh. [His voice is wavering too. If he's not careful, his hands will start to tremble. There are words in his mouth, balancing on the very tip of his tongue and held back only by his teeth.] Don't... let go of me, then.

[It's self-centered, he knows, to look back at Venice and think I was left behind and to remember none of them looked back. The only person he has to blame for that is himself. He's the one who couldn't step on that boat. He's the one who said all those awful things. Even if no one reached out to catch his hand, he's the one who turned away. It's so selfish of him to push that on Giorno: don't leave me and don't let go of me, even when I stumble and weigh you down. But that's it. That's as far as he can make it. All he can manage is to hold onto Giorno's hand and believe him when he says that he'll help shoulder his grief, because he can't carry it on his own anymore.]

[digiorno]

I won't.

[It's so easy to say it. A foregone conclusion. The truth is that he didn't understand the consequences before, because before he had never had anything to lose. He wasn't close with Fugo then, because he wasn't close with anyone. Now he knows. Loneliness is wrenching. Loss is hell. Having something to lose is terribly dangerous.]

[But it's intoxicating, too. The prospect of not having to shoulder your burdens alone. In so many ways he was stronger before, back when he didn't know he needed anyone. And yet he could never, would never go back.]

[His fingers tighten possessively over Fugo's. He rubs little circles against the small of his back, buries his face in his shoulder and glares balefully at nothing. No one will take this boy from him again. He doesn't care what he has to do.]

You're mine. I won't let go ever again, because you're mine.

[unholey]

[In the cool of an autumn morning, he fell down to his knees, kissed Giorno's knuckles, and promised: my body, my heart, my soul. He swore all he was to Giorno that morning, an oath he refuses to break. And in return, this is Giorno's promise to him: he holds tightly to his hind, you're mine, the fingers of his other hand are making calm and reassuring circles on his back, I won't let go ever again, and his face is pressed into the hollow of his shoulder, because you're mine.]

Okay. [His voice sounds so small in his own ears. Small and young and so much more vulnerable than he wants to be. And then, even though everything he's ever learned tells him that he ought not to:] I trust you.

[Maybe if he were well, Giorno's promise would frighten him. But right now that's all he wants to hear. The lines of tension in his back seem to snap and he sags forward until his cheek hits Giorno's shoulder. He closes his eyes to the light of the room. They're a little prickly with tears, but he can hold them back. He just needs a moment and then he'll be okay.]

[digiorno]

[His poor Fugo. So tired, so weary, with so much still to think about himself without being stuck in this place. For the first time, and for Fugo's sake rather than his own, Giorno feels angry with ALASTAIR. How dare they make things harder for Fugo than they need to be? Who has the right?]

[No one.]

[Fugo sags against him, and he responds immediately, his whole body curving to support his weight. Here they are, the two of them, broken in their different ways but upright, mostly. They wouldn't be able to do it on their own.]

[He would rather die than break this sad and fragile trust.]

Thank you, [he murmurs, closing his eyes and curling close against Fugo's neck and shoulder. His fingers still circle, slow and gentle and coaxing.] I trust you, too. I have faith in you. Whatever is yours is mine, here or at home. Nothing is too heavy for us to share.

[unholey]

[Functioning without much sleep isn't that different from running. The trick is this: just keep moving, just keep thinking, just keep putting one foot in front of the other. The problem is what happens when he stops. Curled up on Giorno's shoulder, he can feel the threat of exhaustion pressing on him from every side. It weighs heavily on his shoulders and in his stomach, makes his head thump and pound. His limbs, down to his fingers, feel like lead. He won't be able to go on for much longer before he has to give up and let himself sleep in one of these closed, cramped rooms.

But he knows he can go on for a few more steps. Giorno's words settle around him in the air and he nods, allowing himself to be comforted by them even though the ideas expressed seem strange and foreign. He's too tired to question them. Neither of them seem able to stay upright on their own but, like this, they can manage to balance. And he counts to himself in his head the soothing motions of Giorno's hand on his back as it tries to convince some of his muscles to let go of their tension; one, two, three, four, five...]

[When his internal count reaches sixty, Fugo opens his still-dry eyes and sighs. He doesn't want to move, really, but he knows they have more to talk about. So he straightens up, though not away; he'll hold Giorno by the shoulder until the other pulls away.]

Thank you. [He still sounds so tired and worn; but it's not the flat, numb exhaustion that hung about him in the hall. It's a rounder sort of weari that wordlessly gives the impression of "it's been a long few days". The usual Fugo tiredness that comes after pushing himself a little too hard after not sleeping well.] I'll remember that.

[digiorno]

[There. That's . . . an improvement. Not an enormous one, but little steps are still good steps. Fugo sounds tired; he doesn't sound dead.]

[And Fugo straightens up, but Giorno doesn't. He doesn't move at all, actually. Sags a bit more, curls up soft against Fugo's side and hums. There is work to be done before Fugo can rest. But then he will rest. Giorno will make it so.]

[Work. Then rest. Maybe, in a hundred years, they can play. His fingers curl possessively around Fugo's hip and he sighs.]

There are chinks in Kaz Brekker's armor. He isn't as hard as he thinks he is. You can investigate, if you like, but do it carefully. Don't get hurt for my sake.

And Jesper--

[Ha. He doesn't want to talk about this . . .]

Upsets me. He may upset you. Kaz covets power; Jesper covets . . . adrenaline, mm, excitement. Fun. His damage is easier to see, but still mostly undefined.

It won't be long.

[On this statement, he doesn't elaborate.]

[unholey]

[As Fugo straightens, Giorno curls further into his side. Fugo feels almost as if he's some kind of trellis and Giorno is strand of ivy that's wound itself around him for support. He's closer than most people like to get to him; more than that, he's staying there and his arm has snuck around his back to keep him in place. He wonders if the reason he doesn't feel that strange about it is because he's so tired.]

I'll be careful. [Fugo is always careful; he's cautious, oftentimes to a fault. But he'll be particularly careful with both his prickles and what he gives away to Kaz Brekker. It's not difficult for him to promise or even think about.

What's harder to hear about... ah, well. Giorno doesn't need to say it, but Fugo knows what he means. Jesper is like Mista. He's probably the sort of person with a winning, glowing smile that gets him out of trouble nine times out of ten. He probably laughs a lot. He probably makes other people laugh too, just by being his own aggravatingly charming self. Just thinking about Mista hurts because he's not here when he ought to be.]

... around both of them.

[digiorno]

Good.

[And that is going to have to be all for now. Maybe forever. He does and doesn't want to talk about how Jesper's easy smile is too familiar, or how the way he moves hurts the way thinking about home does. Whether they talk about it later or never, the point remains: it can't be now. They're both too damn tired.]

[Onward. Better things.]

There is a woman here. Ramir--Ana Ramir. She's from Italia. Sort of, ah--space Italia. From the future, or something. I think she's like us, in one way or another; definitely more trustworthy than most people here.

[He smiles a little, where his face is buried against Fugo's shoulder.]

I told her a story about Trish--no names, of course--and she gave me a blanket with a robot wolf on it. She has a boyfriend who has a cat. She has a pet spider.

[unholey]

[Space Italia, which is from the future, or something. It's an absurd combination of words that might have made him chuckle half a year ago. All it does today is make his shoulders jerk with a sharp sound that could have been a laugh, hah, if it hadn't died halfway up his throat.]

She sounds interesting. And as if she has good tastes. [Spiders are neat. Robot wolves silly, but the sort of thing Narancia would be into. Thinking about Trish, whose strength of personality registers on the higher end of the Beaufort wind force scale, makes him feel as if he's closed his hand around a shard of glass. It's frustrating, how much his own thoughts hurt him when he lets them. But this information is good; it hurts to think of Trish, but he's glad to know that there's someone Giorno trusted with her story, even though he kept her name out of it.] You like her.

[digiorno]

[It's better than nothing, that little chuckle that dies in Fugo's throat. Better than Giorno would have honestly expected. It makes him smile a little himself, fragile and unseen.]

I do. She's . . . [Ah, how to explain this.] I suppose I would say, kind in a believable way. I think she knows that sometimes kindness comes at a cost; I don't think she's an altruist. I believe in her and trust her in that I believe her motives are not civilian.

[And therefore understandable. Criminality is so much clearer as a concept than the idea of being a good citizen. It's more honest: the same ugliness without packaging.]

There is a spectrum here, I suppose, that I'm not used to anymore . . . of people who think like us to people who think like civilians. Mm--you and I are here. Kaz is here. Jesper is . . . here.

[He indicates three points in the air: one just to the left of Fugo's left shoulder, one slightly to the left of that, and then back in the original spot again. After a moment's pause, he moves his hand all the way to the right and taps the air there.]

At the other end of the scale you have Asher Millstone.