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#A8516E ....|..... Rosalia’s Cabin > Arena

Dancing the night away wasn’t how Rosalia had imagined her first night at a training camp for demigods, but she couldn’t complain. She’d learned something, tried something new, and even enjoyed it. And hell if it wasn’t for the best that she’d kept up the distraction; there was plenty of nonsense going on elsewhere that she was relieved to have stayed far away from. A bunch of twenty-somethings running around with magic powers, drinking, getting into it, and fooling around—it was sure to be a mess, and just plain surreal at that. As she stumbled into bed, Rosalia half-expected to wake up back in her old bed.

She awoke in her new bed and checked the time. She’d slept in. Of course she did; yesterday was so eventful. But then, the sun still wasn’t out, was it? She wasn’t late for anything—not that she knew of, anyway. She wasn’t even sure if there was even anything on the docket for the day at all. So she had time to kill, just like the day before. It was at once relaxing and unnerving. There was nothing to do, nowhere to be, and nothing she could prepare for. So what was she going to do with herself? She wasn’t tired. She knew it was silly to get dressed in preparation for activities she couldn’t anticipate. And she could hardly justify cleaning everything she’d just cleaned the day before. But wasting time just felt plain wrong.

Well, she could do something she hadn’t done in ages. She could take the time to watch the sunrise, and actually savor it. So she sprung out of bed, put on a pot of coffee, and did her morning routine. Then, when the coffee was brewed, she fixed herself a mug, put a coat over her pajamas, and sat on the front porch with her coffee and a cigarette facing east. It never used to be so difficult to sit still. But that was when sitting still was a break. It was frustrating. She wanted this. She chose to sit there, waiting for the sunrise. And yet she was struggling to put herself in the space to enjoy it.

She needed to breathe. She needed to make each breath deep and intentional. She needed to savor the crisp, cold morning air. She needed to push the thoughts out and treat the whole thing as a break—as a well-deserved rest, as a well-deserved indulgence. Doing nothing when there was nothing to be done wasn’t lazy; it was only sensible. And she’d earned a sunrise, hadn’t she?

Sunrise was as pretty as she remembered it. The dim blue of night slowly gave way to the sun’s warmth. Its red light gleamed off the melted and refrozen snow in a halo of orange. Her attention drifted to her arm. It was much easier to appreciate the gentle heat of the morning sun’s rays when it fell on goosebumps than on sweat. After a hearty sip of coffee, she sighed peacefully as the drink warmed her from within in turn. She lit her cigarette and took a long draw. She exhaled slowly, watching as her smoke curled before the rising sun. If this was her future, at least this part—this part she could savor. So maybe Helios was real, was he? Perhaps one day she’d meet him, offer her compliments, and let him know she understood. She understood why so many cultures deified the sun. Sunrise changed the whole world, every single day, in a way that was so significant, yet so constant, that it could never go unnoticed.

And yet, reliable as it was, it always seemed to go faster than she felt it ought. The sun had risen. She needed to as well. So what next?

Breakfast. Rosalia resisted the urge to go inside and start cooking for a time, but as the sunrise neared its conclusion, she gave in. To cook was to do something. Cooking served a purpose. It produced results, met ends, and provided something tangible to enjoy in the end. It was familiar and relieving, even when she wasn’t cooking anything altogether that fancy. But the biggest relief? The P.A. announced activities. Training! Straight to business it was—precisely what she’d anticipated when she accepted her invitation. She only stopped herself from eating faster as it occurred to her how chilly it was outside. She could very well get ready now, but it was best not to arrive too early, or she’d end up just standing around in the cold.

She found herself having to stop routinely as she fiddled in the mirror. It felt ridiculous. It was, really. Getting all gussied up to do what? Train? Who did that! It was futile—a waste of time—and just plain decadent. She’d sweat it off. She’d wipe her face and smear it. But that was the point, wasn’t it? To waste time? To prolong getting dressed so she wouldn’t show up so early to the arena that the others would wonder if she’d camped out overnight? Silly. Just silly. She held the eyeshadow palette in her hand and shook it while shaking her head. She couldn’t go that far. She stowed it again, and put on the setting spray. Mascara, lip stain, foundation, and blush was already more than anyone needed for this sort of thing.

And yet, here she was, curling her hair just to put it in a claw clip. Here she was picking her earrings meticulously. Here she was, decadently fooling with athletic wear, as if a dozen microadjustments were necessary to make sweatpants layered over running shorts and a hoodie layered over a tank top over a sturdy sports bra look “good.” But it was worse doing nothing, wasn’t it? She was going to go nuts if she didn’t find something better to do for her morning routine soon. This was madness. It was athleisure wear for serious training. It just needed to work.

And thank God she had run out the clock on herself. She filled a thermos with water, and set out. All that stood between Rosalia and that feeling of accomplishment was a leisurely stroll with a cigarette.



Interactions ....|.... None ............... Mentions ....|.... None ............... Collabs ....|.... None
Nguyễn Nở Vĩnh

The screeches and pops from the lower deck felt louder with the ship in port. Selfishly, Vĩnh still wanted to slip out and pretend she hadn’t heard or even been around to hear whatever was going on down there. But that was a shoddy excuse at best. She gazed longingly towards the airlocks for a moment, then resigned to her fate. She had to at least check. And as much as she wanted to avoid it, she’d have to get in there eventually. She had to do her job, even if attempting to work around someone so intensely territorial wasn’t in her job description. The last time she’d tried to get in there to clean, Jax had stonewalled her and grown increasingly distressed no matter how gently she tried to frame what she was trying to do. She’d approached it from a number of different angles already. Unfortunately, it was increasingly apparent that he wasn’t going to budge if he didn’t absolutely have to. And what would happen if she continued ignoring it? Never mind being fired, if he was just left to his own devices in there, there was always the possibility that he’d blow a hole in the ship. No factor pointed to Jax practicing any reasonable safety measures with whatever he was doing in there.

Now, there was the possibility she was catastrophizing and connecting dots that weren’t quite there. Maybe the screeches of metal and other concerning sounds had reasonable explanations. At least, she’d thought so until she entered the cargo bay. The lights flickered. She snapped her head to look in the direction of Jax’s room. Little wisps of smoke snuck past the old seals on the door. Vĩnh’s stomach turned. Had he set the ship on fire?

She darted for the fire extinguisher, then for the door. She opened it and wheezed as the smoke drifted outwards. Without hesitating, Vĩnh activated the extinguisher. The device roared to life as the vacuum chamber was opened. The smoke rushed towards the nozzle. As the air began to clear, Vĩnh began to dart her head around, trying to discern the source of the smoke. To her horror, there were plenty of candidates.

“Where’s the fire?!” she exclaimed, barely audible over the sound of the vacuum extinguisher.
Who’d have imagined a world where gambling could be boring? A world where the most exciting part was picking which betting system to use on the roulette? Vegas: Stats City! Sam idly scrolled as the roulette spun. His phone vibrated.

“Fuck.”

He cleared his throat. One of the drunks next to him had a snide comment. Sam pulled away from the roulette table and booked it to the cashier’s cage. His eyes darted between the passing seconds and the line ahead of him. Did he have seconds to spare?


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Ruining a feeding was impossible. Every troubling thought and illusion of feeling were washed away from the moment blood passed her lips. The precise sensation differed, and still Caroline couldn’t help but to close her eyes, fall limp, and embrace every new experience. Blood was, in a word, life. It didn’t taste so much as it felt. The experience merged all the best life could offer, in countless different ways she could never imagine a way to articulate. Notes of joy, elements of tranquility, touches of relief—it felt as if her unbeating heart was being caressed by the hands of God and fed Olympian nectar from His very teat. If any living wine could be even a pale reflection of this, she’d have drowned herself in a barrel of it years ago. For all it had done to her, for all it had taken, Caroline could not help but to fully immerse herself in a gift greater than heaven itself.

So then, was it so wrong that she wanted to lap those stray drops of blood off the floor? She hesitated and stayed in place a moment longer, longing for another moment even now. She wanted to return to the dream. Caroline dragged her phone and stylus back into her purse, then stumbled to her feet. She knew she should have been panicking. She should have been running. But a stroll felt right. Everything was going to be fine. Maybe if she could fix some of these problems—maybe then she could slip home? Attend evening galas again? Get Paul to explain? Make things right again? Taste Kelsey’s blood? Take Jerry’s life? She donned her mask again. She’d get better. They just needed to leave and regroup.

She chirped goodnight at the librarian and pranced out without a second thought. It’d take a while for him to find the janitor anyway, wouldn’t it? There was no need to act crazy. After all, running would only attract attention. And why ruin the good feeling with bad vibes? She could just stay calm, act calm, and make a clean getaway.


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Caroline pulled her mask off and snorted. He was still packing? What had he been doing—what kind of mess had he made—that made him take this long? He should have been long gone by now. Was he really this—. Sam looked up from his rummaging. They met eyes. He looked like he wanted to jump out of his skin.

“Do you think this is funny?”

He stammered for a moment.

“What the fuck did you do? All I asked was for you to be careful?”

Caroline smugly crossed her arms.

“And how much tibe habe we washted on what you call ’carepul’?” She punctuated careful with air quotes.

“ ‘Wasted!’ Is trying to cover our asses a was—” began Sam’s retort. But Caroline spoke over him before he could finish.

“We were alwaysh on a timer. It’sh always been about getting our money, and getting—out.”

Caroline approached Sam as she spoke. Sam clenched his fists, darted to the door, and pushed it shut.

“And how are we supposed to do that if the Feds get on to us?” he hissed. “I’d rather waste time than get my brains blown out by a fucking sniper!”

Caroline rolled her eyes and scoffed. Sam retreated and groaned.

“This is serious, Caroline.”

Caroline bobbed her head and wrinkled her nose. She pointed at his luggage and clothes, still strewn about as they were.

“I—you know what? No. I don’t wanna hear it. We’re washting time again. All ober your crazhy conshpirashy t—teo—your crazhy conshpirashies. I killed a damn janitor, okay? Dat’sh all. I texhted you ash shoon ash it happened; to be proactibe. Sho ip it did caushe problemsh, we’d be ahead ob it.” She slipped back to the door and opened it as she spoke. “Don’t act like you’re lessh ob a monshter jusht becaushe you’re lessh ob a p—pr—hr—”

She groaned and sighed, searching for easier words, words her disfigured, clumsy mouth, her new mouth, could fashion.

“Ugly, bullshit...chimera.”

She brought the door to slam it behind her, but halted right before it closed.

“Shee you in a little bit,” she chirped.

She shut the door gently.

Alchemy Chambers

The Aurelians liked things warm. Sitting further from the fire was no bother, really. She could see perfectly well, and even if the room was still a bit warm, there was no reason to fret. It was just like summers always used to be. As for the tea? That posed a different problem—a frustrating one at that. Tea was supposed to be hot, yes, and though steaming was too much to handle even before her change, she had at least been able to comfortably handle a cup with it. It was fortunate that she could levitate it as an alternative, yes, but the fact that it was a necessity to do so? Embarrassing, really. Who couldn’t hold a warm cup of tea? What kind of animal couldn’t enjoy a warm cup of tea!

With no input to offer on the matter of the gem or its inscriptions, all she could do was sit there. She gazed longingly into the cup floating above her hand as she listened to Eris and Nathaniel speak. Of course, the Lead Sage must have gotten the very same impression. Or perhaps it was something else. They departed, and Nesna was left with Lady Rovella. A heavy silence intervened as the other sages’ footsteps grew fainter. At last, Lady Rovella breached it with some minor pleasantries. Even if it was apparent that it was just some idle talk for the sake of formality alone, there was no fault in it. After all, did formality and decency not still have a place?

And so it was with some cognitive dissonance that Nesna perked her ears and soon picked up on a conversation meant to be private. The mention of Lady Rovella alleviated some of her nerves about doing so. It was merely advanced knowledge she was picking up; not anything so scandalous that it would be her secret to keep for some time yet. And besides, the most exciting part of the whole affair in the moment wasn’t, in the end, the gem or its mysteries, but the implication of the breadth of knowledge Lady Hightower must have held in her library. As her mind began to race, Nesna’s smile grew then flickered. Oh, how Lady Rovella must have been composing some remarks on the apparent dullard sat before her. She was looking to be some vapid drifter with only a sense of propriety and nothing more in her eagerness to listen to other conversations than her own—not the keen and useful aspiring academic she’d be better served presenting herself as. And how could the Lady come to see her in such a light if she did not more politely devote herself fully to their conversation? How she’d bungled these finer points! Goddess above, she was rusty and inattentive.

It was fortunate that the others were in a hurry to return.

“Bless you, my Lady,” she replied, “There’s no need.”

“I already look forward to it!”

But if only the cheery tone could have remained! It seemed Lady Rovella was a critical sort indeed—much to Nesna’s dismay. Scarcely had Nathaniel been here longer than her, and already the Lady seemed prepared to cast aspersions. Inauspicious. At least it did come to seem that she intended, in some roundabout way, to be helpful. If only she were better suited in temperament to offering impromptu advice. Soon after, another apparent sage entered the room. Lord Galahad, he was. She’d been halfway to rising from her seat when he commanded Nathaniel not to bow. Was informality truly so normalized here, that most elders save the most abrasive not plainly expect the respect they were due? And what a shame it was, that she would be given a chance then and there to consider the matter—for it seemed to her that Lady Rovella would have preferred not to engage in much further conversation.

But if she was a sage, did they not share some things in common? A keenness for the arcane, perhaps? It was worth trying.

“My Lady…if I might venture to inquire on…a matter which has been of keen concern to me for quite some time?”

A raised eyebrow beckoned the proper question.

“What have the finest minds of the land made of the Blight in these past years? I’m afraid I’m woefully underinformed on the matter…”

Mentions
Nathaniel @Echotech71, Eris @The Muse
You’ve hooked me this time with your Fair Folk shenanigans
Nguyễn Nở Vĩnh

For the first few days, she’d managed to fill the time well enough. Even beyond the systematic neglect the Dullahan had endured prior to Everest, none of the cleanings since had caught little details. With a quiet first voyage, she’d had nothing to do but go above and beyond. But in space, there’s no new trash to bring in, no mud to track, and only so many spills to clean up after. Space is sterile. Space has no outside trying to wriggle its way in. Away from port, the entire world is within such finite bounds. When routine cleaning is handled, there is only so much to do. There are only so many details. There’s only so much to be done.

Besides, there was no overtime aboard the Dullahan. Pay was a daily rate, provided as long as she was there. She could have done the bare minimum. She could have just tidied and kept things presentable. Really, that was the option that made the most sense. It had occurred to her on the fifth day of their voyage, to just do what was necessary and chip away at the extra work. What urgency was there to make spotless places nobody could see, smell, or touch?

She told herself she’d sleep in. It was good for her to get more sleep. She was tired. She needed more sleep. There was no need to pull long nights or early mornings. Yet she found herself awake long after she’d intended to sleep, woke with a start early the next morning, and found herself unable to return to sleep. Her stomach twisted into knots. It wasn’t energy making her so restless, not quite. She just couldn’t justify hanging around idly. It wasn’t deserved, wasn’t earned, and wasn’t necessary either. She tried reading, watching, and playing. All were haunted by this same restlessness. She couldn’t wrestle herself back into the bed.

So Vĩnh came crawling back to superfluous effort. Satisfaction was not to be found by entertainment or self-care. It was lodged somewhere and needed a good vacuuming, scrubbing, and wiping-down. The restroom was sterilized. That had been her primary focus for the first few days. By the time she was considering the futility of her devotion, she’d gotten deep into scrubbing the galley. Was it noticed? Did anyone care? Did it matter? She had seen the undersides of the tables, the little details of the floor, the young grime fused with ancient debris—it all begged for attention. Good enough? How could anyone tolerate good enough once they’d taken a good look at anything! And whether it went acknowledged or not, she could see the difference, however small, after she’d badgered each spot with the effort it demanded. Focus was a beautiful drug. Focus smothered consciousness itself, replacing it with the tranquil bliss of action.

Were it that she could become the automaton she pretended to be as she worked, Vĩnh would have been serene from the moment she became so. But humanity breaches the thoughtless fantasy. As the customer and client always demands more, so too does the crew create new messes to return to. Did Jax cake grime onto the tables? Of course not; his grime could be quickly removed. But even if the entire crew were composed of chaotic litterers, they could not recreate the ancient sediments she’d already removed. So all they offered was interruptions—brief, mandatory distractions to more cathartic tasks. It wasn’t their fault. Being a person is messy. Life is messy. It couldn’t be helped, really. It just constituted something unresolvable—something routinely easy yet enduringly insurmountable. Those little nooks and crannies could be lastingly transformed with effort. But the tables? They were easily cleaned, but never stayed as they were meant to be.

When she had taken the job, her work sounded manageable enough. She had even found a way to find some measure of purpose in it in less than a week. The reality was that the cathartic cleanings were finite, and the simple mundanities would be all that was left. In moments of downtime, even when guilt and disgust were pushed aside, this haunting future prodded at her. If lasting satisfaction was not to be found in labor, where could it be found? Is life just a series of obsessions interrupted routinely by repetitive tasks? Maybe it is, and purpose lies within labor and labor alone. Perhaps the Centauri are correct in their strategy of stripping humanity down into singular purposes preordained at the moment of conception.

In the moments between her music and podcasts, these rambling musings occupied Vĩnh’s mind. A part of her wanted to quiet it all, to turn up the volume and drown it all out with knowledge of things she’d never see. But to what end? At old jobs, there was always real noise to fill the void. There were bills to juggle, numbers to crunch, dates to shuffle, and deadlines to navigate. There was a future, uncertain as it was, that shone in the distance. A guiding light to give direction—a goal to chase and a pride to cherish. She’d come so far. And now she was here. Trapped in a metal box hurdling through the cosmos, surrounded by people of walks she’d long had the good sense to avoid—people with misfortunes different to hers that she’d rather not pile onto her own. The ship had direction. But hers? That of most of her crewmates? What direction was mere survival? What joy could be found in this case, knowing one had worked so hard to climb only to falter at the summit? Had her crewmates followed the same trajectory? What of their efforts, if any? When had history transformed the stars from specks of wonder to beacons of dread?

How does one survive when striving for more is no longer an option?

A part of Vĩnh wanted to take her time on the self-assigned task of refurbishing the interior of the Dullahan. The little tastes of real progress that came from scrubbing the floor panels back into their youth were so precious, she wanted to savour them. But maybe she was greedy in this way. Maybe she had the disease of insatiability. She couldn’t help herself. Every little achievement illuminated the next task. She needed to chase the next completion. Planning her next steps in the ship’s rejuvenation felt familiar. A little future wriggled along, with plans to be made and problems to be overcome. If only she had the good sense not to look further. Optimistic projections, pessimistic projections—they all bore the same harrowing truth. The future of deep-cleaning was finite. Only the little recurrent messes of life were permanent. And with no apparent future beyond the ship, the claustrophobic anxiety of a constrained future got to her every time she went far enough into any forecast.

Every time she approached the problem, she found herself spiralling instead of thinking. By the time they’d docked on Adrastea-1, all she could offer to herself was the proposition of buying time. She could, at least, pile more onto her plate to forestall the inevitable. She could do more than scrub away grime. She could do more than sterilize. She could rejuvenate. Rust was a disease of the metal, after all. Not really, but it was often treated as such. Like a rot in wood, it ate away at good structure and left dirt in its wake. It would only continue until it was handled. The ship’s panels creaked and groaned. Metal was exposed all over the place—weeping after ages endured without protective paint or coating! The crew of the Dullahan had been given a ship already decrepit. As she read and listened for problems and solutions, they revealed themselves in turn. The Dullahan was a great machine drifting in the harshness of space. Nothing was idiopathic. It all could be solved, fixed, rectified. Even if some parts had to be changed. Even if she didn’t know even a modicum of what the engineers and the experienced crew could already feel in their bones, she could learn. The Dullahan was a project. A finite project, but a project all the same. This—this was the future. She didn’t quite know how, but when the cleaning was done, she could chicane these new things to do from under fate’s ruling.

It was just a matter of resources and knowledge. The latter was no problem; there was no shortage of time to research, learn, and ask questions of those more knowledgeable. But the former? The Dullahan was doing better than breaking even, but not well enough that it would be wise to propose such a thing to the Captain just yet. The post-mission reports did not suggest room for even minor new expenses. It wasn’t urgent, not by any meaningful sense of the word. But it felt urgent. And they’d need to have the money at some point, or the rust would become a problem in the long-run. Hopefully there were others thinking of the long-run too. It would be nice, for once, to head off problems before they arose. After a lifetime playing catch-up, it would be the greatest win of them all.

Vĩnh couldn’t help but chuckle to herself. Solving something in advance as a reward—what a funny thought.

But hey, while they were in port, it wouldn’t hurt to waste time window-shopping to gauge actual local costs for the myriad rust-removal solutions. They couldn’t buy them now, but she could use it as a tool to forestall the inevitable wall. The world is such a strange place. Might as well smile as long as there’s still a ride to take.
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