dustqold

[dustqold]

ft. glitchmaiden‌.

“Don’t look at me like that. A sour puss don’t look good on you.” Glitch grinned, tilting her head to the side. “I know I’m a distasteful piece of garbage, but damn.”

“pretty sure this is just my face,” baby mentions with a furrow of his brow and an amused quirk of his lip. his voice is somewhere between teasing and honest when he tells her, “and i’d hardly call you distasteful. more of an acquired taste.”

[dustqold]

ft. nikehq‌.

location: the seven nightclub

players: @nikehq & @dustqold

NIKE had been at the seven for too long. she knew it, wasn’t under any illusion that she was handling anything well. the drinks weren’t getting her drunk, just fueling her regret, filling her up with doubt and a dirty conscience. the only thing keeping her sane at the moment was babyface, seated next to her, who had come when she called. always there for her, baby was. more proof that he was better than he believed. she wished she could tell him how sometimes, she thought he might be a better person than her. but that was for another time. 

“did you hear about radish?” she managed to ask, turning to him after sitting in silence since he had arrived at the bar. babyface knew about her friendship with the boy, radish was always visiting her apartment. always too loud, always earning a knock or two against the wall from baby’s side. she didn’t know if she would be able to voice to him what had happened, hoped x was keeping his guild informed for her sake. “and christian?” she didn’t want to say his name, didn’t want to ask about it, but knew she needed someone to talk to. the player next to her, her neighbor and trusted confidant, was the best option. he always seemed to know what to do, at least to get her mind off of things. 

there was also the matter of achilles, wounded just as roughly as the other boys, but it didn’t seem right to out her guild leader for falling. not with jupiter gone, the race against the guilds to replace blood oath on top. baby didn’t have catalyst’s best interests at heart. it was what made their friendship dangerous. she couldn’t say she respected circus, either. “at least you’re okay.” nike reached over, placed her hand on top of his on the counter. “you’re the only one.” 

this, he thinks, is grief.

it’s a familiar sort of pressure in the hollow of his chest, one babyface knows well enough to recognise - but it is not his grief that festers, here. it doesn’t sting and suffocate as he knows it to; rather, it blisters in the air around nike as she sits, quiet and wordless, by his side. the battle on 51 had been difficult, and he knows many lives have been lost, but he hears the screams and the cries as he fights from the fringes; doesn’t lift a hand to help anyone but himself get through this - and so he doesn’t know the right words, how to offer her comfort or regret or reassurance, and so he says nothing.

did you hear about radish? he hears her say, finally, and something catches in his throat at the name. of course, he’d known long before that nike was friends with the boy - but it wasn’t until recently that he realised who radish was, or had been before all of this. (but that’s not quite a conversation he wants to have, right now. easier to ignore the discovery altogether, even if he feels something not unlike worry tinge the edges of his expression.) a hand fiddles with a drink he doesn’t remember ordering, fingers pressing hard against the glass before he answers, only after her second question, “i did.” baby hasn’t been given the details, but through word of mouth he knows just enough. “for what it’s worth - i’m sorry.” and it’s not worth much; he doesn’t even know if he means it. he’s never cared for catalyst, but he does care about her.

and what a terrible thing to admit, he thinks. (for all his talk of enjoying a good wager, of being too proud to turn down a challenge, compassion is a gamble where the odds have never favoured him - and no one wants to take on a battle they know they’ll lose. so he’d buried any hint of his already poor empathy; you could hire his blade or share his bed, but if it’s his life for another, he won’t hesitate to make the trade. ...these days, he worries this has changed.) his fingers twitch under her hand; he curls them toward his palm and then back out, idly tracing shapes against her knuckles. his smile is cocky but half-hearted when he responds, “’course. and i’m glad you’re in one piece, too.” though judging by the looks of it, she wasn’t, really. he doesn’t know how to ask her, though; so he doesn’t. “do you know how they’re holdin’ up? the... those who were hurt?” if he’s prying about one in particular, he certainly isn’t likely to admit it.

[dustqold]

ft. frui‌.

ʟᴏᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ: floor 52, at a bar.

for  a  moment  koma’s  gaze  tears  away  from  the  empty  champagne  flute  within  his  grasp  to  scan  over  the  person  heading  toward  a  free  stool .   ah  great  ,  a  customer ,  and  a  vaguely  familiar  one  at  that .   although  they  certainly  haven’t  met   (  personally  ,  anyway  )   he’s  able  to  recall  seeing  them  around  circus  headquarters  at  least  once  before                     right  ?   his  memory  could  use  some  work .

❝  welcome .   what  can  i  get  for  you  .  .  .  babyface ?   ❞   he’ll  attempt  to  mask  his  snort  with  a  cough  and  continue  wiping  around  the  glassware’s  rim .

as far as baby's concerned, there is never an inappropriate time to grab a drink - and with everything that’s happened lately, he certainly needs one. when he arrives at the bar, he slumps into one of the seats by the counter - doesn’t even need to tiredly wave for the bartender, because they arrive soon as he sits. baby throws a glance up with an arched brow as koma coughs, and his mouth twists into a wry smile. the snort is covered up, but not that well. still, he doesn’t comment on it. “a gin and tonic, if you could.” he’s grown rather tired of the ales and other straight alcohols velia offered; perhaps the new floor could offer an old comfort. he recognises the other, though; seen him around enough to realise their common affiliation. “surprised you’re behind the counter. wouldn’t ’ave expected anyone but npcs to be workin’ willingly for the next week or so.”

[dustqold]

ft. usernametempest‌.

“Then you shouldn’t have asked,” she replied with a smile on her face. When she first met Babyface she was intimidated. Heck she was downright scared finding out he’s a Circus member. But after deciding him to be her project of sorts, she found him almost endearing. If you consider a boa constrictor adorable. “Aha! I knew it. I knew I have psychic abilities.” She smugly grinned, entering his home and following him to the kitchenette. “I thought to myself, you seem like you could use something to eat – especially meat.” Tempest gave a small shrug as she placed the container on the counter. “Shall we dig in?”

is she... sassing him? it’s difficult to tell, with tempest (he normally wouldn’t think her capable) but nonetheless there’s a trace of amusement in the twitch of baby’s lip - an almost-smile, though it falters as he trudges into his apartment. psychic abilities... to sense hunger? “if that’s all your powers are good for, i’d hold off on the crime fightin’,” babyface mutters under his breath. as he talks, he grabs a dish and a set of utensils for the both of them. setting the table feels so very domestic, and he hasn’t really done it since moving out of his childhood home; hasn’t really had a home-cooked meal this way since then, either, if he thinks about it. (so naturally, he decides not to think about it at all.) “kinda weird that you think of me as someone that needs feeding,” he muses, then sighs, gesturing in agreement to ‘dig in’, as she put it. “...but thanks, i s’pose.”

[dustqold]

ft. radishyes‌.

“no, i’m speaking from stupidity. it’s my brand.” he laughed, a little uneasy. he pulled his knees up, wrapped his arms around them and locked his hands together to keep himself from fidgeting. he was a big fidgeter. he didn’t really know fraser. but he knew him enough to feel jarred right out of velia for a second. “is she…like, here?” he knew francine a little more. mostly because she used to talk to tim a lot. they’d been the ones to really connect…ben had been too young and busy figuring his own shit out to deal with an estranged british family. 

did he want to wait inside? he wasn’t so sure he did. but he felt obligated too. likely in the same fashion that fraser had felt obligated to ask. he twisted his fingers in his grip and pressed his lips together. “—yeah, okay.” fuck it. might as well. at least if he died in this game he would have met him, right? that counted for something. “just don’t off me.” cousin or not, he knew what circus was about.

“wouldn’t ’ave guessed,” baby says, and it’s almost a joke. truth be told, this feels... unnatural. all wrong. meeting ben - or that side of the family at all - should not be occurring here, especially without the people who actually, genuinely wanted to meet. baby tries not to shift his weight around his feet, though a finger taps insistently against the doorknob he holds. “...no,” he answers, when the other asks about francine. there’s relief and sorrow and regret all in that one word, but his smile is clipped and curt. “are... either of your brothers?” it’s so strange now to think of people with actual names, so he chooses to stop using them altogether.

it doesn’t look like either of them are too keen on ‘waiting inside’, but it seems to be happening anyway, and fraser - babyface - steps back and to one side to make room for his cousin. (god, he’s not going to get used to that any time soon.) at ben’s last comment, though, he smiles - laughs, almost, a light, breathy huff of a sound. “yeah, no, don’t wanna have to explain that to our folks on the outside. swear i won’t - if ya at least try to return the favour.”

[dustqold]

if you had the chance to instantly win the game, but the person you care the most about was instantly terminated, would you do it?

“mm, that depends. when you say person i care the most about, do ya mean in the game or in real life? because, let’s be honest, i don’t care enough about any of you lot to even hesitate. goodbye, you absolute twits.” (…if it was his sister on the line, though, he knows he’d sooner stay stuck than even think about it.)

[dustqold]

Would you ever leave Circus?

his smile is crooked and amused. “sure. if it ever gets boring, i’m on the first flight out. i don’t stick around for sake’a loyalty, you understand. they say there’s honour among thieves, but i don’t think the same quite applies to virtual reality murderers.”

[dustqold]

ft. bcwstring‌.

          He caught her wrist in his hand and she whirls back to face him, but she’s seen enough to make the situation impossible to hide. So, Babyface goes for deflection. Distraction. Whatever you want to call it, she knows it by the sound of it, though his efforts seem lazy at best, his grip on her telling of his sense of resignation. Had he wanted to, he could probably convince her of anything he pleased. He always seemed to have a way with words — with his smile and his wit, he could sell water to a drowning man — but right now, he seemed too preoccupied to really lie to her. Something pounds in her chest when he draws in close, though, and her first instinct is to lean forward so that their foreheads brush against each other. Too familiar, she thinks of the touch. Too much. But at the same time it isn’t quite enough, so she raises her free hand to press gently against the side of his neck. Her thumb traces gently along the line of his jaw as her eyes meet his. There’s a ghost of a smile on her lips. “Are you just going to try and flirt your way out of this?” she ends up saying instead, trying not to sigh. She drops her hand, then tugs the other one out of his grip. “We don’t have to talk about it, but…” and here, again, she falters. What does she want to say to him, that she came all this way for? “It’s alright, you know. To feel upset about it all. Being stuck in here, missing the people outside… you’re allowed to hurt.”

he hates the way he leans into her touch, like he’s expecting it - maybe even hoping for it. he shouldn’t be, of course - shouldn’t be expecting affection or care from other people, shouldn’t be expecting them to offer what he himself wouldn’t ever be able to give. (but god, with cc, he almost wants to dare it.) are you just going to try and flirt your way out of this? his smile is wide and toothy as he chuckles, lifting his head to gently nuzzle his cheek against hers. “mm, depends... s’it working?” but as soon as the moment arrives, it passes - cc pulls herself away and baby’s left feeling foolish, trying to ignore the way she hesitates, as though what she says will matter. (it shouldn’t, it shouldn’t, it shouldn’t.) he draws back further still when she says it’s alright, lips curling into an instinctive frown, too quick for him to stifle with humour or deceit. “if we don’t have to, then we won’t,” he says, with finality. he slips away from where she stands and heads to the lone cupcake on the kitchen counter - the candle’s melted into the frosting, by now, and baby barely spares it a glance before waving the last of its flickering flame away, moving to throw it in the bin. quite contrary to what she may have intended, cc’s words remind baby that it is not, in fact, ‘alright’ to be upset. not when there’s a whole world outside this one that won’t wait for him while he does. he needs to get out, and allowing himself to hurt won’t solve a thing.

[dustqold]

ft. nikehq‌.

she enjoyed supporting baby, fostering within him all of the good and human things he had left. nike had learned a lot from the game, especially that you couldn’t talk someone out of instinct. she was working on helping them through it, however, and it was the only job she had in the game that gave her any purpose. perhaps it was because she had seen too much light in babyface through living in his vicinity, to seeing his comings and goings, to feeling like she could understand him. but she knew she would never give up on him, wouldn’t let him give up on himself if that’s what it came too. “never mind, i really take it back. fireless baby is A LOT less dangerous.” 

she doesn’t like seeing baby at a loss. she knows it means there’s more going on inside his head. the same internal struggle she’s seen play out over his features time and time again; when she pushes him or he feels a tug. nike’s never quite known how to feel about it, the way he ponders things. she’s afraid of hope. “yes, play magician for the kids,” nike reiterates, a small and devious smirk starting to form on her face as she scans the other’s features. her jaw nearly drops at what he finishes with, her eyebrows shot to her forehead. she hadn’t expected him to bounce back from his pensive state so quickly. “you’re smooth, b. you know i’d do it, too, if means it gets you down there.” she smiles at him, winks despite the fact that she’s completely serious and he knows it. she’d walk through fire for him. she might have to, some day.

the truth is, baby thinks, there is very little of him left to save. his every past action clings to him like shadows, growing over his fading soul, sinking into the spaces between his bones like decay. and yet, here, nike - radiant nike, with the setting sunlight cracked around her and spun like glittering honey, with the voice like morning birdsong when the light is enough to blind - seems to think there is something still in this hollowed out boy worth caring for. some days he would argue - tell her how wrong she is, how absurd - but others, he thinks he needs the light she offers, shining into every crack and fissure. part of him recognises it as selfish - he takes from her and knows not how to give, could never and perhaps would never offer anything in return - but near everything he’s done has been an act of self. his smile is crooked, with a hint of callousness. “but now i’ve got the idea in my head. think there’s any kind of enchantment for settin’ daggers on fire?”

he shakes his head; the sun sets; the light fades. her teasing makes their discussion easier to stomach, but babyface would not count on this ‘magician’ thing ending the way they might want it to. his grin is lopsided and lazy - he fidgets with his cards and doesn’t quite meet her eyes when he laughs. “see, the fact that you probably mean that is a bit terrifyin’, love.” his breath escapes in a sigh. it’s darker now, but the stars peek in from above; he can still make out the suit and number of each card he flicks across his fingers. “but... maybe i’ll see. maybe.” though he says the words, their intentions are hollow. he doesn’t know if he wants to follow through. “might not be too bad, yeah? ’ave had a run with tough crowds. kids probably aren’t the scariest critics.”

[dustqold]

ft. picassohq‌.

the tavern wasn’t usually this busy on a wednesday, was it? picasso honestly didn’t know. the last time he’d been there on a weekday – well, it was only last week, but still. it seemed busier than usual. he found himself bumping up against a lot of people as he wormed his way through the crowd, mumbling apologies in the disguise of his usual ‘my bad.’

a lazy albeit warm smile tugs at his lips at the other’s offer. “well, i can’t turn such a kind offer like that down, then, can i?” and with that, diego plops down across from the other man. there’s a brief pause, and the curly-haired man holds out his hand in greeting: “name’s picasso.”

kind. what a funny word; baby hasn’t heard it in a while. “’course you can, though it might just break my heart.” his smile matches the other’s as he teases, but the held-out hand makes him arch a brow. ...how very civil of this picasso. and here baby was just getting used to having blades at his throat before he could even say ‘hello’. his eyes light up with something between curiosity and amusement, and his grin goes from lazy to brightly cheeky. “babyface,” he answers, returning the handshake with a quirk of his lip. he half-folds the paper he was scribbling on, twirling the pen between his fingers as he says, “pleasure to meet you, and all’a that.”

[dustqold]

ft. thmrrign‌.

          floria always makes her think of children’s books and the soft illustrations inside them, vibrant colors and wind rippling through the grass and flowers. it’ll be dark soon enough and the pale moon light will cast the whole place in uneasy shadows; they’re already gathering by the tree trunks and the feet of the rolling hills. it’s almost peaceful. almost. the polished ebony surface of her shield glints in the fading light and she turns her head to look at him when babyface pipes up. mild annoyance at the petname flickers through her eyes but the_morrigan doesn’t bother to voice it. “i’m not in the habit of asking for details,” she replies bluntly. it’s the truth. asking for names, ages, why they live where they do - it isn’t her job. “some warrior. red cursor. killed someone’s wife a few months ago, they want revenge.” she turns her head to look at the horizon, thinking for a moment. “his cabin is still a while off.”

“damned shame, that,” is baby’s response, because he’s always been fond of a story, though he knows well enough that the_morrigan would likely be one of the last to ever indulge him in one. sure enough, all she offers is the traces of a common tale; baby’s familiar with many in velia who’ve sought revenge at one point for some slight or another - has even been the target of a few ill-attempted hits in its name - and, truth be told, he’s grown a little desensitised to it all. ‘few months ago’, though; that’s a bit interesting. were they scraping up enough money to hire the hit, in that time? or battling with their morality as they decided whether or not to go through with it? the information’s inconsequential in the end, of course, but while many in this line of work do it just to survive, babyface has always liked making it personal in the worst ways. “yeah?” he murmurs at her last remark, lips pulling into a cheeky grin. he can guess at the answer, but still asks, “don’t s’pose you’d be up for a game or somethin’ in the meantime? sake of team bondin’, and all.”

[dustqold]

ft. radishyes‌.

there was a lot happening right now, and he didn’t quite know how to process it. first of all, fraser. yeah, definitely him. if there was any doubt before, their mutual ability to turn this hallway into a liminal space was confirmation enough. second of all, circus. fuckin’ circus, of course circus. had he not recognized the man standing across from him, he might have been a little nervous, beyond just…awkward. he let out a heavy sigh and thumped his head back against nike’s door for what must have been the ninth time. “—uh, i guess that depends on how long she takes…” he brought up one hand and dragged it across his face. well. nothing to do now but bite the goddamn bullet. “hey man. what’s up. funny meeting you here, come here often?” he looked at the cursor over his head, at the name. babyface. “…damn, what bet did you lose?” 

baby doesn’t know how he’s supposed to reconcile who he was with who he’s become, especially in the face of someone who knew him before - however briefly, however vaguely. part of him is tempted to just close the door without ceremony, to ignore the impending problem before it becomes a real one, but ben (or ‘radish’?) decides to crash and tumble straight into the issue at hand. come here often? “wish i didn’t,” he answers, brow arched, a twitch of a smile playing at his mouth. the second question gives him pause - it takes baby a moment to realise ben’s referring to the username, and a moment longer to dare an answer. he gestures above radish’s head in turn. “you speakin’ from experience? ...francine thought it was cute.” the latter sentence contains a hint of affection - but his sister’s name feels foreign on his tongue and it drives home how different things are, here. there’s a beat, then a sigh. “d’ya wanna wait inside?”

[dustqold]

ft. @picassohq.

FLOOR 1.

there’s a poem scribbled on his breakfast receipt. (one coffee, with three sugars. an avocado on sour dough toast, topped with a poached egg, toasted seeds, avo oil. if you ask baby, it’s a rip-off - who the fuck gentrified toast? - but he orders it anyway. munches on it idly as he writes.) it’s a shakespearean sonnet repeated word for word from memory, an old habit of baby’s that he indulges in any time he needs to gather his head back together. refocus. redirect. he’s had a damned crap past few days (though yesterday’s valentine’s could’ve been worse) and there’s a pounding ache behind his eyes, but writing in his cramped, loopy script does help. there’s a shifting near him, and he glances up as he hears the sound of someone approaching his table. eyes blinking, blurred for a moment before he breaks into his customary grin, “bit crowded today, innit? you can sit opposite if ya like.” he gestures at the remaining seat at his table.

[dustqold]

ft. usernametempest‌.

“I made beef stew.” Repeating what she exclaimed, before he opened the door. “And I thought, who could I bring this delicious stew to and share it with them. And I thought of you.” She grinned, rocking on her feet as she looked at him. “Well, are you just doing to stand there? We should eat this. This food is only good while it’s hot.”

“i heard ya the first time, love,” baby sighs as he looks at her, his expression sceptical. truth be told, he never knows what to do with people who are so... incessantly nice. as someone prone to deceit and hidden agendas, their honesty is disorientating. what started as him playing along gradually shifted to a more honest disdain, and yet, still tempest hangs around. “...fine. ’aven’t eaten yet today, so you’ve got alright timin’.” he steps aside to let her in, shuffling into the kitchenette. “should i ask why you thought’a me? lunch dates and i are a bit of a mismatch.”

[dustqold]

ft. bcwstring‌.

As an information broker, CC is privy to many things — not all of it is always worth selling, but there are times like today where she finds a different use for her intel. The baker at the market smiles at her when she passes, asking if she liked ‘the cupcake’ — and of course, CC’s expression betrays her confusion, because she hasn’t bought anything of the sort in a while. That man you’re always with, Babyface, the vendor blinks, he said it was for someone special. I assumed he bought it for you. Her first instinct is to roll her eyes — because if nothing else, she knows she isn’t special to Baby. They’ve spent a lot of time together in recent months, on the battlefield and in each other’s beds, but she makes no mistake in thinking it means anything. So when she hears he’s supposedly bought a cupcake for someone else, she thinks very little of it.

But she is a broker, and as brokers do, she learns there is more to the story.

She finds herself knocking on his door before she even really realises she’s gone, and when he opens it, she peers past him. The kitchen is just in view enough for her to catch a glimpse of the truth, and her answer to his cheeky smile is a pointed frown. “Liar,” she calls, because he’s exactly that. Busy day, my ass. Her arms cross, and she stares him down. (Why is she here? What does she care? …Does she? Care, that is? And what are the implications if she does?) She pushes past Baby and treads into his apartment without invitation. The cupcake sits tellingly on the kitchen counter. “Throwing yourself a pity party?” No, she hadn’t meant to say that. She knows who this cake is for, and she wants to tell him… tell him what, exactly? That she’s here for him? That he needn’t grieve alone? Neither seemed right. Her casual stance falters, and she wrings her hands. “Baby… Are you okay?”

liar, she says. and oh, how he knows it. baby realises it’s not the best attempt at a cover-up; to be fair, he doesn’t expect to see anyone at all today, and isn’t prepared for it. isn’t prepared for cc to show up at his door the way she does, and he doesn’t even have it in him to stop her before she barges through the doorway - but he chases her down to the kitchen, reaching out to grab her before she goes any further. she sees it, though. might’ve even been expecting it, the way she talks, which throws babyface off-guard all the more. his hand reaches for her wrist, pulling her toward him and away from the cupcake.

truth be told, part of baby may very well be ashamed. ashamed that he’s letting sentiment interfere, when right now survival is meant to be his only priority. he hasn’t the time to be wasting on frivolities like this, and it infuriates him that she’s caught him in the act - even if she doesn’t have intention to use that information against him. her remark about a pity party almost has him smiling instinctively, because if she’s willing to tease, then perhaps this can all be brushed off - but then she continues before he can get a remark in, and the air changes. “why wouldn’t i be?” he says with a slanted grin, still holding onto her wrist - but his grip is loose and almost resigned, a contrast to his tightly maintained facade. there’s a tension in the air, like the truth’s already out before either of them were ready for it to be shared, but he ignores it with a mischievous click of his tongue. he draws close, intimately so, playfully wolfish as he redirects, “i’ve got cake, and now your company. i’d say i’m doin’ fantastic at the moment.” he leans his forehead close to hers and smirks, his expression bright and expertly performed.

[dustqold]

ft. @thmrrign​.

FLOOR 37.

the sky fades into the last edges of sunset, the once-blue freckling with heat and leaking gold. shadows gather around his ankles, jasmine-speckled and dazed with pollen. when the breeze stirs, the trees quiver in their trunks; winged seedlings spill from their branches, carrying blossom and honeysuckle in their arms. it’s a beautiful evening in floria - quiet, peaceful, safe - but between the growing shadows is the glint of a sharpened dagger, wicked and jagged at the edges. (nowhere is ever so safe in velia.) babyface trails, light-footed, a mere half step behind morrigan. “remind me, love,” he says with a pointed arch of his brow, weapons sheathed but with his hands hovering at the hilt; his voice is low, though he only dares to speak because he knows they’re still a distance away from their intended target. “who exactly are we out for, again? you’d think anyone who lives in a literal field of flowers wouldn’t ’ave a bloody contract on their head.” of course, he knows better than to underestimate what they’ll be up against. she never asks him along for anything less than tricky.