Deer Country IC Inbox

[hearthebell]

audio | text | video | omen

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text; un: younghuman

[terriblepurpose]

I told him.

I know what we're going to do. I want your help, if you'll give it.

text; un: enpawnsant

[hearthebell]

I'm glad.

[He was 99% sure that Paul would. The 1% of any near-certainty has always been what keeps him up at night.]

You're not going to stay out of the water, are you?

[terriblepurpose]

Of course I am. We're fighting on the shore.

[Does he know that's not what Lazarus means? Yes.]

I'm looking for strategists.

sometime into the second week of may! (cw: emeto mention)

[asas]

[ it’s quite unlike shōyō, to be quiet. to go one day, two days without messaging the source of his constant twitterpation, and it would have gone farther than that had the guilt not finally stacked too high for his mind to feel on an edge so great that he was sure he would blow it soon. this wasn’t fair! wasn’t fair at all.

i want to see you, this sad sack of jitteriness thinks, before one set of the fingers from an even greater set of now four hands begins to type up something and make a quick send. oh, it’s so weird. his other right hand is typing too. ]

lazarus?
hey
remember the firework date
i
cant//
i really cant
i’m sick and gross and keep throwing up
im really sorry
i wanted to go w you and i really want to see you but i can’t until i’m better ok

text; un: enpawnsant

[hearthebell]

[L is, as per his wont, squatting somewhere barely habitable. He's veered toward the more dilapidated and uninhabited properties lately, some of which are actually condemned, moving every two days instead of four to keep anyone who might want to find him off his tail.

It's an exhausting existence, but hey, it gives him a sense of action and control, both of which he's desperately needed since April. More so, since he started growing horns and turning into an actual demon-thing.

It might be just as well that Shōyō's canceling on him.]

You're sick? I'm sorry to hear that you are.

If you want to rest, I'll come over and scrub the grout while you're sleeping. If you're throwing up you've probably gotten a good look at what could use a good cleaning. I'll be careful not to disturb you.

[He's gone ahead and just tied trash bags around each of his grey, scorched-up wings, both of which seem to just slough off feathers and soot everywhere he goes. He could do it.]

un: younghuman | voice | 1/12

[terriblepurpose]

[Paul wakes up with fire under his skin.

He is outside of the dojo barely a minute after, bare feet shoved into the boots he keeps underneath his cot, caught up only by the board where he moves his own name from IN to OUT, fingerprints singed on the edges of the white tile.]

Lazarus?

un: younghuman | voice | 2/12

[terriblepurpose]

Lazarus. Lycka.

[There is strain along the words, the incipient bite of fear, but they remain clipped and controlled.]

If you can't speak, send a sign.

un: younghuman | voice | 3/12

[terriblepurpose]

[Fault lines, splintering.]

Answer me.

un: younghuman | voice | 4/12

[terriblepurpose]

Why isn't it-

[A hiss, strained through teeth, hot metal in water.]

-what's happening to you?

un: younghuman | voice | 5/12

[terriblepurpose]

[Minutes later, cold and quiet.]

What is he doing to you?

un: younghuman | voice | 6/12

[terriblepurpose]

What is he doing to you?

un: younghuman | voice | 7/12

[terriblepurpose]

Why isn't it stopping? Why-

un: younghuman | voice | 8/12

[terriblepurpose]

[Retching, muffled and thin. A splatter. Another hiss.]

un: younghuman | voice | 9/12

[terriblepurpose]

Answer me, answer me, answer me.

un: younghuman | voice | 10/12

[terriblepurpose]

[Ragged and seething, the voice of a thing not quite sane:]

I should have burned out his f̵u̶c̸k̴i̸n̷g̷ ̸h̴e̴a̶r̵t̵.

un: thesun | text | 11/12

[terriblepurpose]

̵o̸u̸t̷ ̷o̷f̷ ̴t̴h̶e̵ ̷w̸h̸i̶r̵l̴w̶i̶n̷d̸ ̴t̶h̶e̵ ̵f̸l̵a̵m̷e̴ ̵a̴n̴d̴ ̷i̴ ̶w̷i̶l̷l̷ ̷m̶a̷k̷e̵ ̴o̶f̴ ̴y̸o̸u̷ ̸a̵ ̴m̸i̶n̸i̵s̵t̷r̶y̴ ̸o̴f̶ ̶f̵i̴r̸e̶ ̸a̵n̸d̴ ̴a̴ ̴m̴o̵l̶t̷e̵n̵ ̸l̸o̷o̶k̴i̵n̴g̶ ̷g̴l̴a̸s̷s̷ ̸a̴n̷d̴ ̶a̷ ̶b̴r̴i̸g̵h̵t̴ ̶a̷n̶d̴ ̴t̸o̴w̸e̷r̷i̴n̵g̵ ̶c̴l̴o̷u̷d̷

t̸h̷e̶ ̵b̴i̶n̸a̶r̵y̷ ̷c̴o̵l̸l̸a̶p̸s̴e̷ ̷t̴h̷e̷ ̸t̶y̷r̴a̷n̶t̴ ̶s̵t̵a̵r̴

a̸ ̷g̴r̷e̴a̷t̸ ̶a̵n̸d̸ ̴t̶e̸r̴r̸i̷b̶l̴e̵ p̶̖̞̔̿u̴͈͓͕͕̮͆͗͝r̴̝̂ṕ̷̙̟̙̬͕̆͆̅̕͘ö̷̖͉̼̕s̸̭̻̦̰͒̉͋̆͘e̵̩͂͋͝

not here | 12/12

[terriblepurpose]

[He sets his hands upon the stone and when he burns he burns alone.]

un: FLYHIGH (mid-to-late july)

[asas]

hey
sorry if this took so long
can we talk?

un: enpawnsant

[hearthebell]

I was going to message you.

[He really, truly was, once he figured out what to say, how not to make things worse. Sansa's been helpful in that regard, but as far as L's concerned, he's still in the planning stages. Well into them, mind, but nevertheless still planning, and therefore not quite ready.

His readiness isn't the priority though, now that Shoyo has reached out.]

Of course we can talk. In person would be better.

[Because he can sound incredibly cold over text. Disastrously so; that's become clear lately.]

Holiday gift delivery

[wannasmash]

Midoriya entrusts delivery to his Omen, a large fluffy ram with tan-colored wool half-shrouded in inky-black Omen-smoke, and hopes that a bit of intra-Omen communication with Lycka will see this through.

By now, due to his habit of surprising friends who are feeling down with pastries, Midoriya has gotten good at meticulously sourcing a nice bakery. Carefully wrapped in a gift basket is a variety of seasonal pastries, satsumas (an effort to get L to eat something healthy if still sweet), and a signed note addressed to "Sauveterre-san" with well wishes for the new year.

[hearthebell]

L didn't think of holiday gifts, having never really celebrated them before. Slow to stick his landing when he'd arrived last December, he hadn't really known anyone by the time it would have mattered, but now, he rather feels cloddish.

It's really kind. It's what he'd expect from Deku. He sends Lycka back with a note written in his childish, nearly-illegible scrawl.

Thank you. I like them.

I'm glad you're still here.

Midwinter Gift

[terriblepurpose]

A wooden box with a Go board painted on its shellacked wooden lid shows up at one of Lazarus’ habitual spots, with a note hanging from the side assuring him of its providence (one Paul Atreides). Inside, the box contains the game pieces for the board, as well as a selection of every candy Paul noticed Lazarus having a particular preference for at his party. It also contains a small notebook, which will open to reveal a catalog of local mushrooms and their properties alongside detailed sketches and identification guides - all in Paul’s neat, careful hand.

[hearthebell]

L really should have thought of gifts for those closest to him, but the entire last month had sunk blissfully into the secret, strange world that he and Light have always woven around themselves when they're together. It's a heady and complex folie à deux; probably unhealthy, certainly obsessive to the exclusion of all other obsessions, but it's been productive. They've set up a business together, streamlining the chaotic energy of L's roaming word-of-mouth freelance detective work into a storefront with a name and a clear purpose.

L's genius presents in frustrating, finicky ways. No one gets frustrated with them as beautifully as Light does. The productivity, giving way to bickering, giving way to exhaustion and resentment and then back around to a conceding compromise, has been heaven to the detective, but the gift brings him back to earth.

The gift's thoughtfulness shames him, as well as the impulse to run immediately to show Light the board and ask him for a game. He thinks he's been selfish, and hopes that he can be a better Bondmate in the coming month.

Best to start, perhaps, by touching base.

Hand Delivered Letters

[unchoose]

An anxious looking young person with long braided hair delivers two letters to L's agency. They are written on durable white paper sealed with green wax, both written in a cipher that L will easily be able to decode - it is, after all, the same cipher he used to send a birthday message to a young student, once only a scarce few months ago. They are bare on their exterior, except for two numbers: 1 and 2.

1 is the shorter of the two.

Lazarus,

I know what's in the other letter. I remember writing it.

I don't blame my younger self for it. How could I? Every judgment is irrevocably limited by the body of evidence available to us when the judgment is made. Given what I knew at the time, I couldn't ask you to trust me. From far it.

I won't ask you to trust me, either. Not yet, even with this gesture I selfishly hope will serve as a token of my continued faith in you to discern the truth, whatever that truth is. I won't ask you to judge me fairly, either, because I don't need to. You haven't changed, and I trust you far more than I've ever trusted myself.

I look forward to seeing you. It's been too long, old man.

Your student,

Paul

The second letter is on the same paper, sealed with the same wax. The handwritten 2 on its front is in the same hand as the first letter, but the handwriting inside is a barely noticeable variant, lighter, slightly more hesitant.

Lazarus,

This letter is a safeguard, and if you are reading it, you have either found a reason to investigate my safeguards or the safeguard has been activated. If you are investigating my safeguards, I assume I have been compromised in some way, and any information I might disclose to you in this letter cannot be trusted.

If you have had this letter delivered to you, it is not a guarantee that it or myself have not been compromised. The contingency this letter is intended to safeguard against is one I cannot effectively counter.

This letter has been delivered in the event that any version of myself older than I am manifests in our world.

You know what I am capable of becoming better than anyone else.

Lazarus, if I were a selfless person, and a good one, I would tell you to stay away from me. But if I were those things, I wouldn't have a reason to write you this letter, and if you were capable of walking away at a warning like that, you wouldn't be the person I'd send it to.

I don't know what the version of me whose existence triggered this letter is precisely like, but I am asking you to treat them as a threat commensurate with what you know of me and my capabilities taken to their final logical ends. Assume an immense capacity for strategic thought, manipulation, prescience, violence, and other tools of control. Assume that I am seeking to deceive you. Assume that I am a vector of harm.

If I'm wrong to make these assumptions, you'll be able to discern that. If I'm right, I am asking you to address the threat as you see fit, with the understanding that the priority of the person writing you this letter is to above all else protect the well-being of this world and the people who live in it.

Remember that you are one of those people. Act according to your principles and your best judgment. I'm sorry that I'm asking this of you. I don't have any right.

I trust you.

Your student,

Paul

Action

[hearthebell]

[By the time L makes his way home, almost a full day has passed since he washed up on the beach after his painful death by radiation. Though he knows that Paul has a high pain tolerance, the lingering nastiness of death-by-radiation leave him unsettled and scattered based on the memory alone. It's unfair, even brutal to subject someone Bonded to that, and L's learning that even with that responsibility, he is poor at putting it ahead of the things he wants. He's also poor at managing and maintaining the line between "acquisition of valuable information via sacrifice" and "gruesomely painful way to make a petty point."

He's still addled when he finds the letters, still feeling vaguely disconnected with himself as he reads and re-reads the letters. While John's bomb might have burned away his potential to shed this year, Paul's prepared for so much more than suddenly being pretty. A prophet, to the last.

He reads, and re-reads to be sure he's seen the words correctly. He departs almost immediately for the last residence he knew Paul to keep, Lycka following with his boots in her mouth and his coat balanced like a bonnet just in front of her blowhole.

He's barefoot in his shirtsleeves when he arrives. He glances through the window, tries the door, and knocks, in that exact order. Lycka takes advantage of his impatience to drop his boots on top of his bony toes.]