anywhere but where i am — vin & roe

[fox]

☾

"cleared for the simulation. aftereffects include dizziness, nausea, headaches. you may experience a brief loss of time. close your eyes. prepare biome nine, weather seven. starting point at 13S. District Seven, A. ready."

the temple of brutal shape, of changing forms. the walls split away.

stretched for miles, it is the body of a soft landscape, draped in a blanket, hung over the curves of graying bones. little ponds in the hollows gleam back at the cold, silver sky. the water ripples with every burst of wind. i watch the pine trees sway in the distance, their thin trunks of wood creaking against a bright, new storm in the belly of its creation.

the wind stings like nettles. it smells of decay, wet in the air. bitter. acidic.

i touch the cool earth.

like Fensalir. of the first of Asynjur.

he called it a simulation before the door, metal box in his hands. for survival scoring. comprehensive pre-games stats for viewers. not real, all tech. it feels terribly of Seven.

in the hair of the gale, the reeds wave. a hundred mournful voices in the slender frames. there grows a tree-sprout alone westward of Valhalla. i turn to the blue sun, high in the west. a shadow flickers.

the bog quakes. the sphagnum feels like the skin of a sleeping giant. i step across it. my mother used to tell me stories of bodies buried in the wetlands. and like all children, childhood was haunted by shapeless, ancient fears. i never strayed from the path before i was old enough to find my footing.

parts of the mat rises, dense like pebbles, then dips, soft and fraying. the home of the first Asynjur is a dark and watery grave. i remember.

the figure wavers in the wind, breaking light against his back, and beats like flame in the coldness. then he stands, as if made from real flesh.

"you." the wind howls. i touch his shoulder.

fingers brush on something solid. he is strangely warm. i tense, eyes meeting, lungs lurching.

you're real.

"you're in the wrong place."

[calla]

R O E

The last option is the roof. Trying to get into the vents was a bust. There's too much security on the ground floor. There's only a brief hour every evening where his silly little personnel gives him that before-bed privacy. He's supposed to be brushing his teeth and shit, washing his hair, or whatever it is people with regular access to these fancy perfumed soaps do. Instead, Roe leaves the water running and convinces Marik to make a bit of noise, and then he slips out from the ensuite and hustles his way from the Twelfth floor to the roof.

Easy peasy?

He flings the fire door open and goes for that first breath of fresh air and then immediately stumbles back against the frame. There's noise. There's fucking people up here. And tech. Screens as wide as his wingspan. Even that gentle staticky sound of the forcefield is lost under the murmur of technicians and people milling about. Someone in uniform brushes by him. He might scream, actually.

"You here for the sim?"

"The wha-"

Too late, they're already moving. There's a hand on Roe's shoulder, guiding him into a shimmery sort of box, radiant and alien-like, "Hold on- I'm-"

The walls waver like a mirage. Roe spins around to slap the hands off of him and get the fuck out, but then everything goes dark and boundless. He stares into the giantness of the nothing and very quickly, very suddenly, feels his heart drop. Water starts to fill his shoes. It climbs up to his ankles and then to his knees, cold, it feels like root rot - they're drowning him, "HEY!!"

Grey yawns above, tepidness spilling into the sky like the belly of a flayed fish.

"What-" He breathes, incomprehensible.

What the hell.

All he can hear is the whistle in his own ears. He glances down and sees himself in murky reflection. The long stem grass brushes against his wrist. The panic of it all tastes like mud.

Something in the corner of his eye then, something touching, he jumps out of his skin -"SHIT-" and then steps back in the muck, tripping slow through the drag of the water. It sloshes up against his shoulders when he goes down. His hands sink into the soft bed to catch himself, fingers curling in the peat.

The figure's still there, pale against the weak light. Wraith-like.

"Fuck." Roe spits again, full of feeling, "Spooky little shit - don't do that."

He has to tilt his head to look up at them from the water, squinting, "What're you supposed to be? A ghost? Zombie? Personification of my greatest fear?"

The once-over is derivative.

"Not quite spider-y enough for that one, pal."

ELEGANT

[fox]

☾

at the touch, he lurches from it. from of the motion of his back twisting, the water lapping at his ankles like cold hands from the earth, he trips. i step back from the berth of his fall. a spray of murky water splashes across my feet. the sphagnum is thick enough to hold him, soft cradle of breath.

i was quiet, i guess.

wind moaning, he moans with it. spooky little shit. sharp as an arrow, he spits out the words between his teeth. what are you?

Vin, the sparrow echoes. yes, "Vin."

from the ground, he tilts his head up, meets my eyes. warm and dark. a gale whips through us, his hair brushing from his face, frame of his body thin and wiry. shining one, the little bird chirps. blind one, the raven croaks. no, neither, i think.

he is here, as the mercury sky is, as the bitter, muddy ground, brutal wind curving the lines of green pines in the distance are here. all things strangely unreal despite touch. i bend down by him.

"and what are you supposed to be?" the long grass grazes us, murmuring.

i smile. "a mutt?"

the name of it is mistletoe, coy and deep. no, no –

i give him my hand.

he is blade-limbed and sharp. the peat shudders beneath his movement. i lean, whisper, how mothers did when we were children, stories in playful warning. the teasing was lost on us beneath the fear.

"be careful. fallen travelers often drown. their bodies are seldom found."

[calla]

R O E

"Vin."

"Vin."

It takes a minute.

"You're that cult kid."

They get closer, glowing murkily, silhouette like the reflection of lamplight on a pond surface. Roe grimaces at the water pooled around him. It feels real, despite the fact that it's not. His legs are wet and cold and the wind gnaws at him like a feral thing.

It's not supposed to be real. Somehow it is.

"And what are you supposed to be? A mutt?"

The moment breaks. Roe scoffs.

"That'd probably make it easier on both of us. I could just eat you and be done with this."

He takes Vin's hand, simply because when he tries to move on his own his foot slips against the slickness of the mud and the fumble is nearly impossible to hide. He's barely settled before Vin is leaning again, posture curling, voice half-lost under the howl of the wind.

It sounds like the world's worst nursery rhyme.

"You're creepy as hell, you know that?"

It's just his luck that he gets stuck in here with the world's freakiest little freak. Roe can feel the eyes on the his back, watching, making his skin crawl. He can feel them on his face too. Unsettling. The landscape is open, but it's claustrophobic. He glances at Vin. To the sky.

"I'm, uh-" He points to the side, a random direction, "I'm gonna try going that way."

ELEGANT

[fox]

☾

above the braying wind, his voice turns distinctly from surprise.

cult kid.

funny. of all names, exalted and reviled, i've not heard this one.

i wept here, the long grass rustles. in the hall of mists, the dark pools of water reflect the cloud-spun sky. the end of all things, long before it happened. he ripples the surface as he stands, slipping, then his hand in mine. cold and harsh. edged like a knife.

fingers icy, freckled with mud, he still finds it in him to burn like a little flame. "you're creepy as hell, you know that?"

i laugh, bitter.

"you might be scared easily."

three paces to the west, i see the slight give beneath him as he steps down. a gust of wind cries in loose warning, suddenly gasping, knotted, tightened. it is reflex, how i reach for him the moment the sphagnum breaks from its sodden ground. he sinks a foot, i grab him, pulled back sharply. away from the soft lace cover of the under-lake.

his face is pale with cold. veins blue. his eyes are ash. i hold his hand still, softening the grip. i think, i do not know of his name. well,

cult kid, he said.

"you certain you'd like to go that way, bog mutt?"