all of a sudden you're a hostage to things you thought you wanted

[closely]

( open for messages, action, overflow. )

Comments

[extirpator]

[ from here ]

:(

There’s always next time.

Some girls wanted to dance with me for some reason. Guess that might be why we missed each other. I didn’t really want to, but… I didn’t wanna be rude either.

Did you have fun?

[closely]

I didn't stay long, so that may also be the reason.

And no, I did not.

( his brow pinches briefly. "fun"? he supposes others do, based on what he saw at the party, but as is the case with most things, he feels it probably has nothing to do with him. )

[extirpator]

Sorry :( I hope the next one’s better…

It would have been nice to dance with you.

Next time, I’ll bail with you. We could find something to do.

[closely]

It's not a matter of it being better. These things are an obligation.

That is unlikely, as I don't know how.

If you also don't care for them, you could simply not attend.

( he would like that option too, really. but showing face for the actual elan ceres has its requirements. vaguely he surprises himself by wondering if the person he once was would have liked parties or known how to dance. )

[extirpator]

Still, life is about making the best of things, isn’t it? There’s got to be a silver lining somewhere.

I can teach you. I’m not very good at it though.

It’s what my company wants. I might not like it but I’m not in a position to say no.

[ something about fostering more of an image — relationship building and what have you. there was just enough charisma there that they could exploit it, although he would call it something else; the part of him that makes him prone to being taken advantage of. ]

kidnapped my slave buddy to make him assist in my murderous plans. AITA?

[maycry]

Hey, do you know how to work a shotgun?

[If you asked Dante, he would personally assert he was a great planner. Living on the run from age nine, you develop a sort of... improvisational skill that would make a college drama group weep.

Hotwiring a dipshit crime boss's car? Easy. Unlocking a cage door that he didn't even need to steal the keys too? Simple. Grabbing his little conversation buddy out of it in the middle of the day? Jackpot! Dante would be the first to admit he didn’t have a great idea of what came after that, but that was fine! ]

It should be in the back with you? Look under all the boxes, sorry I kinda threw all my junk in here before I picked you up.

[ He looks in the back, squinting to see if Four has even remembered to put his seatbelt on while Dante is speeding. Yeah, they might be on the run but that was the sort of fun that made life worth living. What's the point of hightailing it over to the next town if you aren't going to get into at least one car based firefight? ]

I stole that one from this bar ages ago. I'm thinking of calling it something sick like Coyote-A? Doesn’t feel fair to leave a gun without a cool name, even if I already have some pistols.

PROBABLY but not like 4 was getting any better offers smh

[closely]

No... ( that's what four says. and he means it. but he rummages around in the back anyway, picking up a gun and eying it with...well, with his usual impossible to read look. but he does look at it. a very slight pinch to his brow suggests something but what that is even four doesn't know. some buried memory, or rather, removed. a doll. for amusement. for pleasure if that's what the buyer sought. for novelty. not for protection or defense. anything superfluous was scoured out of him.

or it was supposed to be.

there's a slight sigh.

dante broke him out with so little problem, but that makes sense to four because he was the guard. if the guard changed sides or his mind, then what was there to stop him? but being freed is confusing to four more than a relief or a happiness. add to that whatever drug they run through his system — something to do with memories, something to do with how once you start taking it, you can't stop or you'll die — incapacitates him in some ways, he's not the best partner to have on the run.

but he's also not the worst.

four doesn't have his seatbelt on, but he moves closer to the window, gun in hand, trying to then turn more to peer out the back view to see if they're being followed — probable, since four wasn't a cheap buy. he sighs again. )

It's yours. You can name it or not name it as you please.

( the way four's hands adjust on the gun, it looks familiar even if his mind can't catch up to what his muscle memory provides. so far he doesn't see anyone in pursuit, but that probably won't last. )

Why did you...

( he trails off. but it's pretty obvious: why did you take me with you?

what's the point?

his head hurts. vaguely it occurs to him also that he has no clothes, just the plain shift that the traders put all their merchandise into to keep things simple. annoying. )

[maycry]

Why did I name it that? Pretty simple, the A in Coyote-A stands for Ace.

[ Dante effortlessly evades the question Four can't bring himself to voice. He's glad, because he hardly wants to explain it, or even think about it. He just did it, didn't he? No point in pondering the implications, he's shallower then a dish of water, he is.

Dante doesn't even look back at Four again, just reaching up to adjust the mirror and focus on the car following them. Just one for now, but Dante is sure they might have sent another to cut them off further up ahead. That's what he would think to do!]

Like ace in the hole! Which is what you can be, if you could pretty please shoot the tires out from that great looking car when it gets close to us.

[ Four seems to be picking up the gist of a gun better then Dante ever dreamed (unfair really, he had to spend so much time as a wee kiddo fucking up his wrists till he understood the basics). ]

Oh and buckle up, dammit. If you go through the windshield, I'll cry.

[closely]

( . . .

four, predictably, doesn't respond to dante's explanation, though he does think to himself: that was unnecessary. his hands don't go for the seatbelt at all despite dante's promise/threat to cry if four goes slingshotting out of the window. instead, he tentatively peers out only to dodge back in when, sure enough, shots are fired their way.

there's no sound from four, not a startled yell or even a yelp. even his expression hasn't changed yet, just a soft sigh. he settles for peering over the backseats through the window, waiting until he can tell the car is pulling up with them. )

I might miss.

( an unintentionally cocky warning, though it's only in words. his tone stays fairly deadpan as his body seems to fulfill what his hands did moments ago: remembering where four's mind can't. the angle he gets himself in through the window with the gun is optimal, and, it's four clean shots: two for the front, two for the back. it sends the car skidding angled back and harshly into the guardrail of the bridge they've just started.

nice if it were that easy, but the traders that picked four up aren't that small time.

in the distance, four can tell there's more in pursuit. offhand, he'd say... )

Three more. I think.

( it's five actually! but the other two aren't visible yet. four readjusts his hold on the gun and asks, not picking his timing well at all, )

...why did you take me with you?

[maycry]

Woaaah! Bullseye!!! Where did they get you, huh?

[ Dante takes both hands off the wheel and completely looks away from the road to look at the firey carnage. Coyote-A is a damn good gun, better after Dante dragged her over to some people that could put some real oomf in her, but taking a car down with that level of percision is not Dante's usual MO. Did they load up Four with military training during his...whatever had happened to him?]

Three? Fuck, seriously! You're going to need more bullets...did I pack the shotgun shells?

[ The backseat Four had been dumped into is a mess of old cardboard boxes and pizza containers with records jammed into them. Dante's sword is rattling around there somewhere, along with some crusty gemstone laden artifacts, a strawberry yogurt container and a few old books. Somewhere in that mess, there should be a few ammo containers. Dante wouldn't forget to grab those...probably. ]

Take you? [ Dante spins back around to look at the road. Maybe Four has spent enough time with him to see the nervous way Dante spins his hand around, fiddling with nothing as he chatters. ]

My brother showed up! He's got this whole plan, some tower thing one city over, he crashed my apartment! I have to go kick his ass, you know, win our dick measuring contest. I can't be babysitting you all day anymore.

Anyway, isn't slavery awful? We live in such a messed up world!

[elanprime]

( cont. from here )

[ It's a spectacularly stupid idea, and Elan can't get it out of his mind.

A few weeks have passed since Four sent him that second "thank you." Elan wasn't sure what acknowledgement of his semi-retaliatory shopping spree he'd been expecting, but something so simple, without any questions about its purpose or price, had -- well, pleasantly surprised him. He'd read it as a confirmation of what he'd thought was obvious: Four did like books. In spite of himself, Four did like -- find interest in -- things. (Like he wouldn't! Four might be a clone, but he's still a person!)

And Elan might be a CEO waiting in the wings, but he's a person, too -- a bored, restless person who's rarely had the opportunity to be in his comfort zone, much less know what it is. He just knows what it isn't: Four stinky, sweaty ladies wearing matching outfits who make him speak for them when the time is right. The cash and the freedom to tinker with their scientific operations is the only thing that makes it worth it.

One morning, the desire to just leave becomes irrepressible. Elan's never gone to school. Today, he's going to go to school.

It's child's play to mock up some fake identification with all the access he's been given to Peil's systems. The bribes -- to some choice Peil operatives and a couple people at Asticassia itself -- are a piece of cake, too. The fun part is the costume: Elan bleaches his hair a warmer blonde for the occasion (harder than it looks from the video tutorials), slips into a replica of the Asticassia Academy uniform, slaps some glasses (silver) over colored contacts (blue), and doesn't bother with the make-up for once. No one should be able to tell who he is with skin that pale and eye bags that designer.

The best part is how obsessed with the school Elan feels the second he gets there: A tiny, bustling metropolis unto itself. He makes sure to walk in a way that's less commanding than he's in the habit of projecting, and that gives him the opportunity to enjoy all the cool plants. (He should buy some.) Finally, he arrives at his destination: The Peil dormitories. It takes him no time find Four's door and give it a couple loud knocks. Absently, he wonders what others will think when they see someone's paying Four a visit. Wait, he has a friend? Is that a relative?

As soon as Four opens the door, Elan's got that trademark cheeky smile plastered on his face. ]

You're welcome~ No idea what any of it means but Being and Nothingness sure sounded like something you'd be into.

[closely]

( the last thing that four expects is for elan ceres to show up at the peil house dormitories, and for obvious reasons. suffice to say it never occurs to him that elan ceres would show up by donning a disguise; more likely in four's head that he would not come at all.

at first, when the door opens, he does not recognize him.

it's not that the changes are all that dramatic per se, but as someone well acquainted with the face that he himself wears, it's startling once he realizes. this is all happens within mere seconds, but to four it feels like time slows down and expands in a truly bizarre fashion. more unsettling still: seeing the actual elan ceres like this only makes four wonder what he himself looked like. was his hair lighter? the color of his eyes? was his vision poor? was more of how he looks now closer to the same than he could ever guess? pointless questions. childish questions. they end up neatly boxed and placed away with the others as four inclines his head briefly and steps aside to let elan ceres in.

there are already a few people in the hall casting less than subtle glances in their direction. he doesn't want to have to deal with it, honestly. )

Please come in.

( a polite request, quiet and mild mannered and every imagined iota four down the the last. the books have been promoted from stacks on four's desk to being properly lined up, held together by their own perfect balance rather than bookends, which four would never ask for. the room otherwise is devoid of things. even the bed looks strangely sterile, as neatly made as a picture. the chair by the desk evidences itself slightly askew though, signs of life if ever there were any, as well as four's handbook actually on the desk, the low burgeon of light a reminder that he's still got messages to field from peil.

there's something like an itch under his collar, beneath the fall of his cravat: he wants to ask why elan ceres did this. it is not as though four needs bribery to do his job, indeed what he reputedly agreed to however long ago. it is not as if elan ceres owes him. it is not as if anything. but maybe it isn't so complicated. sometimes when elan ceres messages him, the boredom a considerable presence, four wonders if he's so restless why not do something else? he is his own person is he not? but again he can't ask, or feels he should not. could that boredom be the sole and root reason for the gift of thirty books? they aren't cheap; four knows. with the long-ago digitization of most things, with the near decimation of resources, paper books are luxuries.

four, it seems, is an avid reader to his own surprise and not to that of elan ceres.

he doesn't understand much of what he consumes but he does consume it, over and over, voracious in a manner many would never associate with him.

his handbook goes off again; peil. likely to follow with him on the checkup he had not long ago: how often does it hurt? when does the permet score flare outside of the mobile suit? heartbeat. lung capacity. muscle retainment or deterioration. endurance. reaction time. sleeping? eating? the list goes on. just the thought of it is tiresome. it's not lost on him that when he started, if he reported discomfort, they never did anything about it. yet even now, he doesn't lie; they'll be able to tell from his reactions and all their machines; he just has little to no expectations. a pointless conversation if ever there was one, often littered with belmeria winston's half-there, half-nowhere concerns.

so, for now, he ignores it. elan ceres is also peil, and he is in front of him.

speaking of which, )

If you would like to sit, please do so.

( despite formality and politeness, four doesn't consider it niceness by a longshot. it's easier, he's found in his time at school, to use that general way of behavior as an arm's length barrier. it also offers a guide in how to function at all, if or when he's at a loss, thrown for a loop by a transfer student's kindness or his not-boss's decision to surprise him not once, but twice.

and counting.

four himself does not sit, stays standing close to the desk, as if in some kind of curious gravitational pull with the books standing quiet and strangely adored just beside him.)

[elanprime]

[ Elan hangs his glasses on the uniform collar as soon as Four lets him inside, tugging the door closed behind him with his free hand. It's possible that there's someone with more than half a braincell at Peil house that'll be able to put two and two together -- the mound of books that had been brought to Four's doorstep; an entirely "new" face, dropping by unannounced, claiming responsibility for the delivery (or so one might infer from his words). At most, that half-braincell might say to themselves: Ah, yes. A rich relative. Does Elan Ceres have a secret, ditzy twin? And maybe, with any luck, Elan will be able to run with the lie on those days he wakes up feeling particularly whimsical. It's not like Peil could fire him for this. (His parents, on the other hand...) ]

So~rry for the intru~sion~

[ He makes no attempt to hide his curiosity once he's inside Four's room. Elan can't say the total absence of internal decoration surprises him, but the lack of furnishings is... paradoxically excessive. It begins to dawn on him that Four might be the type to deny himself things just for denial's sake. (They could not have picked a worse candidate for his clone, at least in that respect: Elan's greedy -- in an easy and, for the most part, totally innocuous way. After all, he's never not had the latitude for it; never had to deny himself in any way, even if others have impressed roles and their attendant expectations onto him.)

He inclines his chin to the handbook on Four's desk at the second battery of messages, having made no motion to sit down. ]

You should get those or they might figure out I'm here. Just make stuff up, they don't actually care.

[ Well, he probably knows that.

Elan's eyes follow Four to where he's standing in front of the desk then, juxtaposes the other's posture with how he's lined the books up. They widen in a way that makes his dark circles stand out more clearly, and while he's tempted to go over and take a closer look, Elan reads Four's position as defensive -- as if guarding something he likes.

Elan grins. He was right. ]

It's too bad those earrings don't stream visuals or I might've tuned in for once just to see the look on your face when you got these -- I know you had one.

Incidentally, [ he tugs at his own earlobes ] take them off. I doubt they'll think to listen, but... [ and just like that, the eyebrows scrunch up; the grimace he so often wears comes back ] I don't want to be reminded they exist right now.

[closely]

( at the suggestion, four does in fact answer the most recent group of messages. fortunately for him, his answers are always on the side of brevity and it's barely after elan is done speaking that four looks up again, handbook resuming its place on the desk. )

Hm?

( it's not that he wasn't listening, but it was less than his full attention up to now, though his mind catches the thought up. earrings, right. removing them, much like he answered the messages, without question or conflict, as if it does not occur in the slightest to refuse elan ceres; and that would be correct. the earrings take their collective place beside the handbook, the subtle tink of the glass bead somehow loud in the room. the light in them is so subtle that when it goes out, no longer worn by a living person, it would be hard for even the sharpest of eyes to detect. they used to keep four up at night, but now he can hardly tell the difference.

if four were the type to fidget he might tug at his gloves or tuck his own hair behind his ear. he isn't. he doesn't.

he does:

stare at elan ceres, finding the longer he looks at him the more obvious it is but perhaps not to anyone who would simply not expect the real story here. there's something in his frown (?) -- he's not sure that's the right word --, that makes him even more so and four wonders why that is before he reminds himself not to.

less denial for the sake of it, more a carefully maintained life of only what he needs. the fact that it hasn't worked out all that great, doesn't elude him. that sigh gets bottled and thrown away. instead, he stays standing, staring, waiting. )

I was informed that they found the visual monitoring capacity for the earrings to be "overkill".

( of course this is what he replies towards, not because elan ceres wouldn't know but because it is the most relevant piece of information four has regarding it. that peil knows its puppets to be on strings tight enough to strangle is not even thinly veiled. no need for a camera when a recording and location coordinates provide all they would really need if he defected. )

[elanprime]

[ At the "overkill" comment, Elan scoffs. (♪ Why the fuck they lyin'? Why they always lyin'? Mm, oh my god. ♬) He bridges the short distance between himself and Four's desk to pick up the earrings, considers them as he says, ] No. I just couldn't figure out how to get them to project images that were more interesting than the wearer's cheekbones. They thought you should all wear glasses, but it would've been harder to explain why I had seven different pairs. Still wouldn't have been able to see your face, anyway.

[ He pockets the jewelry-surveillance device then, glancing at Four's handbook as he does so. Often. Occasionally. Erratic. Decreasing. Decreasing. Decreasing. Increasing. Increasing. Poor. Elan suspects that it would ask more of Four to lie than to simply tell the truth, so he takes what he reads at face value.

He feels -- nothing.

They'd exterminated Elan's first iteration quickly, seeing as how Peil had still been troubleshooting their cloning technology; his second iteration had realized what had happened to the first, tried to cut his losses and ran -- that had ended in a predictable fashion; and his third iteration had been so anxious to play the part perfectly in his desperation to live as himself again that he'd burnt out within months. Learning that had made Elan feel strange, though he'd only met the man but the once. He'd retained -- and still hadn't looked -- at his file.

Elan turns his attention back to the books, then, but has no idea what to inquire about them -- no desire, really, after confirming his suspicions about Four's fondness for reading. It's not like he does it for fun. Too passive.

And Four is -- preternaturally so. It's even more obvious when Elan's up close like this. The other man's chest barely rises and falls with his breath; his gloved hands are so white and still they look like a statue in Elan's peripheral vision. Even Four's eyes economize movement -- so unlike the third, who went so far as to exaggerate Elan's liberal relationship with gesture. Then again, Four's lasted longer than all of Elan's previous iterations combined.

He taps the desk near one of Four's hands. ]

It's the strain, isn't it?

happy bir - graduation

[elanprime]

[ What surprises Elan Ceres most in the ceremony of it all is the trinkets -- hat, gown, flowers, all manner of digital documentation and mobile suit paraphernalia, photographs with Four's instructors and Elan's own family, gifts from "friends;" advertisements advertisements advertisements so many prospective employers' advertisements in the form of increasingly useless, ugly swag, all of which Elan abandons in the Peil House dormitory's shared bathrooms; messages and signatures from everybody, scrawled into a copy of Machiavelli's The Prince (now The Ice Prince, per Chuchu's vandalism); an honorary sword for the school's top three duelists -- Suletta's in gold, Elan's in silver, and Guel's in bronze -- begrudgingly presented to them by Miorine; and, of course, the diploma, printed special for an occasion that spares no expense.

It's the most fun Elan's had in his life and everybody notices, concludes he must have detested school and couldn't feel greater relief to be leaving. Even Shaddiq says, most people look more handsome when they smile; you, by contrast, look somewhere between constipated and deranged. Brave words from a man without a sword.

That was half a day ago. Now, Elan's back at Peil headquarters in the black suit, tense despite whatever the practiced ease in his posture might tell. In recent months it's become so suffocating to spend the night in his rooms at their base that he commutes to and from it and his parents' home each day, despite the hours between them. While at Peil, he eats and drinks nothing, cleaves to the sides of rooms, always finds some excuse to avoid the researchers' tests and inquiries -- and, if he can't, lies, fucks the results up on purpose. His reputation as a disrespectful little troll's cover enough, but Belmeria Winston keeps trying to catch him alone for a chat anyway.

Elan stops at Four's door, one of Peil's lackey robots wheeling a large crate just behind him. Inside: All thirty of those philosophy books in three tidy piles, some clothes, piloting gear, all the trimmings from graduation, and a small, green tomato plant courtesy of Suletta Mercury's experiments in genetic engineering. Her private greeting to Elan had shaken him to his core.

This is for... you, she'd said. The other you.
Easily: First Shaddiq says I'm hideous and now I'm unrecognizable? What, do you all like me better when I'm miserable?
No, after a beat; plain and simple: I just wanted to see my friend today.

Two knocks. ]

Open up. I've got your stuff.

[ Whenever Four lets Elan inside, the robot will deposit the crate in a corner of the small room before shutting the door closed behind it, and Elan will come to stand in front of Four with the diploma outstretched in both his hands. A dip of the knee; a wry smile. ]

Congratulations.

[ The space that had borne Elan Ceres' name is blank. ]

smh

[closely]

( it isn't that four is surprised by the decision to have elan ceres himself attend his own graduation; it makes sense. that is what he tells himself. because it is true. if anything, each waking day was a surprise: i'm still here i'm still here i'm still here. he can't even say until it wasn't, because even on the day of the ceremony it happens as it often does on days not beset by the fallout of continued permet experimentation and such consistent dissociation from reality's basics that one would suspect four of being dedicated to it, commanded to it, even.

four opens his eyes, lets the austere room swim into its grayscale view. four lifts one hand, surveys for the subtlest glow of permet which sometimes exists even without the tandem discomfort. four covers his face, which is not his face, closes his eyes and breathes. four turns on his side, lets his refocused vision follow the pale line of his arm out the the thin of his wrist and the upward askance of his palm, the default open soft curl of his tapered fingers. only at peil does he wear something aside from the school uniform: the plain shift which makes checkups easy and tests much the same. there is also no need for the school uniform here, since on premises, clones do not leave their respective units, lest they cause the kind of confusion it's a wonder the world hasn't experienced yet.

even though four has moved through the years between pages and pages of philosophy, he tries not to be philosophical about himself with greater and lesser turns on success. there seems to be no point in wondering things such as: is this some kind of joke? for the past few weeks there hasn't been a day he's woken without crippling pain.

but today, when he can't leave, when he isn't needed perhaps anymore at all: nothing.

he feels fine.

he is fine.

he is.

when he curls on his side again, he pretends to sleep until he's actually asleep.

just fine.


. . .


the first knock brings him awake. the second knock brings him to his feet. autopilot. it's not a voice he wants to hear. your own. not your own. your own. not your own. but he can't ignore him either. even if he did, it is not as though elan ceres of all individuals could not simply waive himself access into the room. master keys exist for this reason, after all. a sigh congests in four's chest, disfavored with abrupt movement and the silent bare footed half stumble that smoothes out before he lets the door open and elan ceres into the room that is as bare as the one at the school, well, more so.

what he expects, he isn't sure. what he doesn't expect: the small tomato plant that sticks out like a newborn star on the overloaded cart, and certainly not —

— this.

he blinks. what is this for?

that question intersects imperfectly perfect: the crosshairs of what is this for and why are you doing this.

his gaze veers away. it takes him a too long moment to understand why it's hard to breathe. his chest feels tight, but it's everything, as if tension often attributed to his economy of movement has taken a further step, the subconscious acknowledgment of no longer serving a purpose. against all odds, he's lived until now but to what end? an antiquated proof of educational promotion. a milestone in a child's life even to this day however many years after the earth was abandoned but not her conventions.

disheveled, four still wears the peil sanctioned earrings as a habit. the soft light in them emanates a bit brighter because the units peil keeps each clone in at any given time are fairly dark. they didn't just fix four's lackluster vision after all; it was improved, some kind of augmentation based more on animals than people, a tricky thing given they still needed the eyes themselves to look human.

like a specific human at that.

identical green eyes to the ones that look at him, look away with a persistence that's frayed and long practiced at pretending it isn't.

four does not even realize he slept through to the next day, not yet putting the pieces of clockwork together to make the reasonable conclusion that of course elan ceres wouldn't have been able to get here on the day of. not that four wanted him to anyway. not that four wants. not.

even in his peripheral vision, the nameless diploma is blinding.

his thought from the day prior resurfaces anew: is this a joke?

at his sides, his empty hands tremble.

"i've got your stuff."

that's what elan ceres had said.

four swallows. it feels sharp and expands like a bad habit in his throat. what should he say? why is he so...

eyes downcast, they take everything in on a multiplied level involuntarily, images laid over one another on repeat as if four has been thrust into a visual loop he cannot step outside of: the books, the tomato plant, the diploma, elan ceres, over and over and over.

he's so...

a moment passes, and four breathes. just like he is supposed to. he closes his eyes and opens them, grasping his own calm in a chokehold as if to say: don't fail in this too. yet his gaze rests not on the items on the cart and not on the diploma, but rather at elan ceres' shoulder. not quite neutral territory but as close as four can manage.

as close as he can afford.

inhale. exhale. inhale —

"elan ceres will go, as we're sure you anticipated. with graduation, your role as a student is of course complete. we will resume focus on making strides with the uses of permet enhanced bodies as you were originally used before the duels for miorine rembran began. you may retire to your unit until we next have need of you. belmeria winston will contact you at that time."

— exhale. )

I don't understand.

( i don't want

i don't know

i don't. )

[elanprime]

[ There's no beating around the bush about it. Four looks worse than Elan's ever seen him, and he's seen him splayed on his bedroom floor back at Asticassia after swallowing his own vomit. It makes sense, in a way: There's no need to keep up appearances when you're as good as stored in a small, dimly lit room by your so-called employers. The decay in Four's clear from his just-suppressed skittishness, the pallor of his skin and touch-too-long hair. It strikes Elan that even from the outside looking in, they've never resembled each other less, not even on the first day he visited Four at the academy wearing that piss-poor disguise. If Elan's burgeoning paranoia at Peil headquarters were to take human form, it'd probably look (something like) Four's.

Elan catches everything, partially because they share the same face and because his senses become that much sharper when they're together, almost as if they're spiting Elan and Four both: Four's telltale glance away from what he's given; the involuntary movement of his throat; that irrepressible urge to look back, to look at everything, to keep looking, to never look at anything a single instant more; the careful breaths; the typical deflection. I don't understand, for lack of anything to say -- even something (else) that would do better as a lie, or as nothing; something like, alright. ]

Is that right?

[ The lilt in Elan's voice is self-consciously -- deceptively -- innocent. He leans forward, slips his free hand into his pocket, holds the diploma up to Four's face. ]

So, I can just throw this out? The stuff in the crate, too? After I went through all this trouble for you?

[ The cold set of his eyes belies his concerned expression, the tinge of hurt when he speaks. Elan's being an asshole and a half -- he knows it -- but it's with a purpose now. Several purposes, if he's pressed about it. There's still something inside of Elan that recoils from seeing him(self) like this at the same time that it wants to bend, bend, bend Four until he breaks -- and that's easy enough to admit. It's just giving vent to his "nasty personality." Buried a bit more deeply, alongside the memory of that afternoon in Four's bedroom, is the desire for that break to catalyze -- what?

It's that, more than anything, which gets Elan twisting the proverbial knife, just shy of outright sneering. ]

You really expect me to believe you wish it hadn't been you?

[closely]

( even reflexes have spent much of their time being habitualized out of him — by the lie peil wants him to uphold but also by himself. the more one takes away from oneself, the less others can take first; by the same reasoning, the lest one allows oneself to have, the less one can lose. a researcher no longer with peil had been running his tests very early on, had muttered as if four had no hearing to speak of: "it's not like you had anywhere else to go." over time that single phrase mutated, and where in another timeline it leads four to feel cursed with or without the gundam, in this one it just feels true. nowhere to go. nobody to be. nothing.

as expected.

that is what he tells himself, presses into the too loud silence of his own head as if he could block out the way elan ceres looks at him, the way his voice takes the perfect sound to make four raise his eyes, to make four's hand jerk forward only to freeze mid-reach for a meaningless piece of paper. there isn't a single emotion that can fit four's expression as he looks at his own hand, slowly curls the trembling fingers and lowers it to his own side again. what had he been about to do? take the diploma? pathetic. so i can just throw this out, elan ceres had said and four had thought: you can't. he feels sick, though the permet in his blood stays strangely dormant, despite its usual response to any actual emotion that thieves out of four's well fortressed consciousness.

he has a moment where he thinks he feels calm, like he's settling back into the careful shape he's made. then elan ceres speaks again.

You really expect me to believe you wish it hadn't been you?

four is familiar with the metaphor of a house of cards. he's not sure he fits. it doesn't really work, does it? when one can no longer tell if one is falling or upright. he doesn't know what elan ceres wants of him, not all the messages often at strange hours where, of course, they were both awake, not the books, not this; even as he knows none of it could be for elan ceres himself. he has no use for these things, four knows enough about him to know that, at least. but no amount of his own distressing and then buried and re-buried curiosity has ever told him much else about his rebirth's point of origin. elan ceres, inescapably in the public eye with the glamor of finance, powerful family, and peil technologies entangled with him for better or for worse.

when did four start to think like this though?

that it might not be good?

for the clones was a given, but even...even...

unbidden, he can hear suletta mercury speaking to him. he is standing outside the rebuilt greenhouse. she is carefully pruning a tomato plant. he is carefully not looking at her, anymore. she is, he can feel, looking at him. he does not want to know that look. at the same time, he does not want to be unkind. suletta mercury shuffles to the entrance of the greenhouse on her knees and wipes her face and smiles at him in a way he cannot meet and says, "you never know what someone else is going through. miorine-sa..... miorine." she laughs, learning to be closer. "is like that. people don't know her...even now."

elan ceres and miorine rembran. between the two of them four is not sure he knows either of them despite all his time spent pretending to be one and being within proximity to the other on a nearly daily basis.

i didn't...

i did.

when four tears his gaze away it's so he can walk over to the cart, an echo of how he had once stood protectively in front of his desk of neatly placed books. he lingers closest to the tomato plant and finds no solace in it, but because this is four, the truth is? he didn't expect any.

thin arms fold closed over his chest. a heart beats too fast, all the time now. over exposure to permet. a reminder and a reality check.

once, four had an actual name. compassion doesn't come from nothing.

neither does a wound.

nausea roils in the pit of his stomach and he can feel the flush of heat up his throat and in his face. still dark though, as if even the permet is done with him, and isn't that a pitiful thought. kinder to end it quicker, but permet is a substance not a consciousness and even if it were the latter, no thing of agency has ever come into the world promising to treat anyone well or feel sorry for the questionable things they've done. four does not, for example, feel bad for how he's behaved over the years nor the cold veneer he's stuck elan ceres with in a way that makes the actual elan ceres always seem like a wildcard when he shows up.

well. not entirely true. suletta mercury. he had felt bad about that. it's the only time he apologized, and while it's hardly something to be proud of, he remembers.

is that what elan ceres wants from him? his mind grasps at broken straws. an apology?

the way four's arms tighten against himself it is as if he is holding himself together and maybe he is, head bowed and "elan ceres'" perfect green eyes trained on the tomato plant...only to shift as if the most natural thing in the world, to the books. why? why bring him these things? why bring him anything? if they weren't even going to let him go —

— you're right. is that what you want to hear?

a whirlwind of ups and downs, four feels the near fever that washed over him collapse out like a fall of cold air. it's hard to breathe, impossible to move, and terrible to feel.

for years he's been as good as he could about not wanting, or playing at not wanting well enough. to think it could all come apart like barely sewn seams. one of four's hands covers his own face; his head pounds. nothing is the right thing to say. everything is the wrong thing. and it doesn't matter. it doesn't matter.

it doesn't matter.

before, elan ceres had asked him to admit to wanting to live. now, he demands a truth, somehow rooted in that same impossible and awful truth. a doll might be motivated by it for a time, but four has always been simultaneously the worst and the best of puppets. he goes where the routine dance pushes his frame, but if they ask him why he refuses to play along. not a huge shortcoming in someone who wasn't supposed to have his own will anyway. but nothing is perfect; even imperfection.

even if it matters...

without looking back at him, four still feels like elan ceres is right in front of him, a gaze so unlike his own, seeming to shrink the room down until four has no choice but to look back again. no, he thinks, and it goes against the obedient nature of the child he no longer remembers being and even the freshly cloned self that responded well enough to that training; but maybe becoming weaker is as double edged as they say. not less to lose.

simply nothing to gain.

i wanted...

four's breaths have become so quiet, so suppressed, if he weren't standing, if not for the vaguest shift of his eyes on the cart, one might wonder if he were a statue. not a person at all. )

[elanprime]

[ Nothing to gain except thirty philosophy books in three tidy piles, some clothes, piloting gear, all the trimmings from graduation, a small, green tomato plant courtesy of Suletta Mercury's experiments in genetic engineering, a diploma, and the most precious thing of all -- a heart that wants them, more than Four could ever permit himself to know.

Elan Ceres cannot fucking stand him. ]

You are so...

[ Just as it had back in Four's academy bedroom, the emotion in Elan's voice disgusts him -- pushes him off the proverbial precipice into something like anger, like real pain. Still, he places the piece of paper on the bed carefully. Still, he does the opposite of what his hands seem to want, flexing his fingers instead of curling them into fists. Still, he steps forward, just the once. ]

If you couldn't admit you wanted to go for yourself, couldn't you have done it for the people who care about you? Do you think I wanted to take that from them -- from you?

[ Graduation was the most fun Elan Ceres had in his life, and all the while -- never a true smile, because it wasn't really his; to enjoy, to desire, to share. Were he the poetic type, the event would strike him as a perverse facsimile of every day he's lived as his parents' son. A fungible investment from the start, where each moment of joy he feels -- or could feel -- is first and foremost in his family's service, and in that sense has nothing whatsoever to do with Elan Ceres himself.

It's a non-thought that makes itself known to him in the form of a tremor in his voice, in another step forward, in words tailor-made to hurt. ]

You are the most selfish, self-absorbed person I've ever met, and you don't even take...

[ Anything, is how Elan wants to finish his sentence, but finds he doesn't have the strength for it. He's not sure what's worse -- whatever he's feeling or its psychosomatic expression -- and as he takes a deep, shuddering breath, he's almost grateful that the crate's absorbed all of Four's attention. ]

you know why im here

[alchemyware]

Your build, complexion... let's see.

[ they close the distance between themselves and the other, reaching out to grab his arm to settle two of their fingers against his wrist. ]

Yep, you're living and breathing. I'm going to cut open your palm, I have to make sure you meet the criteria.

😌

[closely]

( / previously for 2 comments exactly /

anyway. somehow those fingers do indeed touch 4's actual skin, normally efficiently hidden by the combination of his sleeve and his always pristine white gloves. his brow pinches as he yanks his hand back. )

I didn't agree to anything, so that will be unnecessary.

[alchemyware]

Why do you need to agree?

[ doesn't matter to them whether the other does or doesn't, it's more on a scientific breakthrough that they'd rather do what they want. of course, this doesn't work, and medicine pocket normally has to play a certain part in hopes that it does. ]

Don't be so cruel to your new friend Medicine Pocket.

[ they smile, sharp teeth visible. all dogs find something that they're interested in. ]

[closely]

( the slight furrow smooths away not because 4 has become agreeable but because somehow he's even more confused. friend? the blankness may very well translate as a sort of glitch.

then he blinks. the tilt of his head causing his tasseled earring to brush his shoulder. )

You can't make me...and I fail to see how declining counts as cruelty.

( no comment on the name. "4" is hardly in a position to criticize, wearing "elan" for the mask that it is. the name of the face he was given — the complexion a little paler than the original, the build a little slighter. not quite defective but not perfect either.

"medicine pocket" though. are they a doctor???

of course, 4 says they can't make him submit and the universe is a fickle thing. he feels the permet in his system lance uncomfortably but the only visible sign of it is the briefest flex of his fingers. an unconscious convulsion. )

[alchemyware]

I can't make you?

[ it sounds like a challenge.

a bone waved right before them that they can jump and bite onto, not letting go and making sure their fangs dig in deep. they laugh interested in the idea that's presented to them, but with a shake of their head, they choose to follow with their initial idea of why they want him. ]

You're stuck on the human concept of cruelty, aren't you? Hitting, assaulting and doing something you dislike counts as a sort of cruelty. I don't live by those limitations.

[ cruelty is as cruelty comes, this is cruelty being unwilling to help pursue the idea of their fun. ]

You can run if you'd like.