lusi | MINGLE 001

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MINGLE 001

MINGLE 001: FOOD, FUN, FUCKING

Guests are 'gently encouraged' by enforcer robots to gather into what appears to be a central gathering place in the middle of the settlement area. Attendance is quite mandatory. Once everyone has gathered, holographic emitters kick on and display... static. Loudspeakers tell the captive audience to prepare for an important announcement, and moments later a proper but mechanical voice chimes in:

Greetings, organisms! R̷e̶j̸o̴i̴c̷e̸, for the portents foresee a time of glorious providence! We have recorded your actions a̵n̸d̵ ̴o̸u̶r̵ ̵c̶a̵p̸a̷b̷i̴l̸i̷t̵i̶e̸s̶ ̴have upgraded accordingly! The fabricator general automata grant you a boon, and shall provide much glamorous f̷i̶x̴t̶u̶r̶e̴s̷ ̴to aid in your future acts. Frolic and make merrily, all!

To honor your contributions and celebrate your arrival, you will be invited to attend our first sultry salacious soiree. Join your fellow chosen and f̵u̶l̵f̴i̵l̸l̵ ̵y̸o̷u̶r̷ ̷f̸u̴n̴c̷t̷i̶o̶n̶!

And with that, the display ends and characters are allowed to go as they please.

Upon returning, characters now find that dormant manufacturing robots have been reactivated, and will accept requests to build certain household fixtures, i.e., bedding, couches, loveseats. Because who wants to bang on a dusty cot, right? The quality will not be high. Imagine low-end IKEA. Build quality also varies dramatically and seems to depend on how old and corrupted the machine is. (As with all things in this world, quality is improved with intimate acts.)

But what is this celebration you've been invited to? That much is simple as sin. It's a mechanically sponsored party. Of particular note to hungry newcomers will be a fully stocked banquet ample spirits and naturally, a dedicated area for an all-out orgy. It's a good old-fashioned party, Roman style!

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These are no hospital rations. This is a full-fledged feast. It's no less dangerous, though.
Naturally, the robots have seen fit to add a little bit "extra." Some offerings are entirely innocuous, while others have bevy of effects that you'll soon discover.

You may find yourself only able to speak the truth, or maybe after one bite you find yourself instantly smitten with the next person you see. Some foods incite obedience, others rebellion. And some... well, you can't have an orgy without some good, old-fashioned aphrodisiac.

The music has been modulated to change the way you think. Of course it's electro-synth, what else would robots play?

Slower music induces sleep; maybe you fall into a cuddle-puddle with some of your fellow kidnappees. Faster music encourages you to dance. And some music? That's what upstairs is for.

Speaking of upstairs, what's an orgy without the orgy? You may find yourself auspiciously able to fill your decadent A5 squares. In a large room that seems unusually renovated, as if the robots had given it special attention just for this day, a floor covered in pillows awaits the beast with two backs. No one is turned away, and those attending will get a notification from their devices that they have received... additional credits? What could this mean?

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N A V I G A T I O N

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"General James Ironwood."

A familiar growl of a voice surfaces over the din of the party, sharp enough with angry derision to cut easily through the thrum of chattering voices and pulsing electronica. That voice is promptly followed by a clenched fist, tight knuckles and three rings in black and silver sailing right for James's jaw.

The voice is one thing— the detachment from "friend" and the ice cold chill of his rank and name leave him stiffening, on edge and immediately wary, as if he could have possibly picked up on the emotion aimed at him sharp as a dagger, twisting on his heel and metal hand already raising before it turns to a defensive claw, catching that punch mid-throw. He stumbles back a step, two— and tries to keep ahold of Qrow so they don't both go tumbling down, turning his injured side away from the other man with confusion rife in his face.

"Qrow!? What's wrong?"

Was it the arrest orders? Had he seen it? Brothers, it hadn't even been effective and he'd received no word other than Clover's last transmission that they had Tyrian in custody.

There is muted ring of bone hitting metal through the general's leather glove, and it's only a flash of Aura that prevents Qrow's knuckles from splitting with the impact. He hadn't been holding back. Apparently, he had also anticipated that James would be quick enough to block the hit, because is ready for the catch, keeping his balance.

His expression is one of unmitigated fury, his rasping voice thick with betrayal.

Qrow does not, however, bother to free himself from the other man's grip. He knows damn well that he won't be freed if the owner of that metal hand didn't care to let him go. Besides, he is exactly where he wants to be: face to face, up close and personal.

"My nieces, Jimmy! Are they safe?!"

Even knowing Qrow's strength and the jolt it sends up his own arm, aching as the shock travels into his metal clavicle and dissipates down the reinforced spine, jarring where he's fused together, he tries to soften it so he doesn't hurt him. It sounds painful for the other man, too, Aura or no. His own Aura flickers weak and piecemeal in that muted steel blue, that blatant white-hot fury cutting him to the core and leaving him balking, confused and hurt as his brows pinch right up.

It's so easy to forget what all he's done in the last 24 hours when he's never been more exhausted in his life. Orders made and never carried out, a million and one things on his mind for directions to go in and backup plans and evacuation statuses that— it leaves him reeling only until he's yelling, his nieces, and then recognition hits. And he's right; James isn't letting go. He can't do anything to stop the other fist from flying, but he can hold onto this one and try to infuse his sincerity through the metal and leather, grip firm but careful not to bruise or constrict, no matter how unsteady he is on his feet.

"Your— of course they are. At least the last that I'd seen them. Why else do you think I would have put out a warrant? Can we sit and speak? I'm— ...Let me start from the dinner party."

Even if it was painful for Qrow, the man shows no sign of it. That slight tremble in his jaw is not discomfort but sheer force of emotion, fueled by grief that had nowhere to go and raging forth now that Qrow's predetermined target is in his sights. James, it started with James and that damn warrant, and his own sinking, sickening terror when he looked up into Clover's steeling gaze and realized with startling acuity that the Ace Ops were not going to hold back.

Clover wasn't his friend.

James wasn't his friend.

Where would he be if he lost Ruby and Yang, too?

Qrow's lip curls. James's assurance that the girls were safe the last he'd seen them isn't much solace. Qrow has his doubts that the general is the type to stand around and watch his dogs do the dirty work; he'd sure as hell left Clover on his own out there in the tundra.

It is only James's apparent reluctance to express any anger or censure at all that gives Qrow pause. The man standing before him isn't the unhinged despite Qrow imagined in the war room when he'd received Ruby's transmission about letting Mantle fall. James looks... tired, and desperate to be understood. Familiar. Like his friend.

Qrow growls his frustration, but the tension in his arm goes slack. His hands, still balled into tight fists, fall to his sides.

"Fine. You have some talking to do."

No, he doesn't imagine it is. But he doesn't lie. Omitting the truth from the Council for the sake of the entire world is one thing, but he won't lie to Qrow; he could only tell him what he knew. He knew they were physically fine when he'd walked out of his office. He doesn't know what had transpired after, only that they beat the Ace-Ops and escaped. He has no idea if they sustained injury doing so.

All that matters to him right now is Qrow right in front of him, as he's always boiled down to— mind what you can, don't worry about what you can't. Take things one step at a time and deal with what's in front of you. That grief wracks him, tremors running through him and James doesn't know what to do with that, or how to approach it. He wants to take him in his arms and tell him it will be all right, but he knows it won't be welcome. And he can't promise that it will be all right.

He is wrong about one thing, though. James is his friend. He always will be, unless it comes down to him or the world. And he hopes it never will. That warrant was so he wouldn't lose any of them. They'd be safe and monitored until the deed was done, if they weren't going to cooperate and help. It seemed the best choice that also served to keep them from interfering with what he knew needed to be done. Atlas— the entire world— was on the brink. And they had no way to alert the rest of the world what was coming.

When that tension leaves Qrow, despite the frustrated rumble in his throat, James gives his hand a little squeeze before relinquishing his hold. And he's relieved for it. The chance to speak about what had happened and put it in a frame before he can forget. The last thing he wants is to lose Qrow when they're likely alone in this place.

"I do, you're right. I'd like to hear what happened from you, as well. We've been apart too long and there was too little communication. Let's find somewhere quiet."

He has a look around the room for a moment and sees some others wandering off down a hallway, and tips his head to invite him to follow. James moves sluggishly, though he at least keeps his shoulders from completely drooping— and his fingertips come to rest between Qrow's shoulderblades in the slightest encouragement to walk with him, already starting to speak.

"You know that Jacques had assembled the Council to try and have my place questioned, all because of the secrecy surrounding the Arena project. Robin was in the room, as well. I couldn't get a word in edge-wise and Winter and Clover only grew more and more on edge, protective, trying to help— what really ended the interrogation and turned everything on its head was young miss Schnee, with surveillance footage of Jacques in his office with Arthur Watts."

And on it goes from there— the heating grid going offline, getting locked out of Atlas systems, his frustration and sorrow to hear the truth revealed, about Salem, knowing that his fight was... worthless. That everything was worthless. His confusion on how to proceed, his decision to leap into what they could handle— Arthur and Tyrian. The threat they posed and Arthur's insinuations once taken into custody after his fight, the message that Salem was on her way the kids had been privy to, the decision to end evacuations and turn all available forces to defense and retaliation. The lies. The withheld truths that led to his distrust and decision to lock them up to keep them out of harm's way and out of his way. The Winter Maiden decision, and losing her. All while they walk and find a quiet room lined in pillows and cushions, and he takes a weary seat on the edge of the bed, half the recount told with his brow resting heavy in a metal palm.

The long and short of it is: everything was scattered, everything was lost, and he was out of options. And he was scared.

"I was waiting in the Relic chamber for Winter to arrive. All the message said was 'it's gone'. What... was I supposed to do? I didn't have the answer. This time or the last. If only Oz were..."

"Well, lies or no, the answer sure as hell wasn't to throw anyone who could have helped you defend your kingdom in jail. I don't need Oz here to tell you that. Ironic, by the way, since that asshole is the biggest liar in history," Qrow scoffed.

His words may be acerbic and his scowl unsympathetic, but Qrow - settled on the floor across from James, his back rested against a pile of cushy pillows - doesn't look quite as keen on throwing punches anymore. That's an improvement. Perhaps it's that soft, soothing music which fills in the pauses of their conversation that's taking some of the edge off his anger.

Or, maybe it's the recognition of something disturbingly familiar in the other man's countenance: fear. It isn't overt. The danger here is far removed, a planet - a galaxy, a universe? - away, but Qrow can hear it in his voice and see it in the tension that James still holds in his shoulders.

And Qrow knows damn well it was that same kind of fear that drove him to make his own lifetime's worth of poor decisions on that night in Solitas. Heart-stopping, soul-crushing, desperate fear that everything would be lost and hopeless if he couldn't just do this one thing.

Gods, they'd really screwed up. Both of them. In a softer tone, he continues,

"You know I have to side with Ruby, James. That's why my picture was on that warrant too, huh?"

"They weren't going to help me, Qrow. That was the issue at hand. They were just going to get themselves killed trying to continue evacuations while Mantle was overrun by Megoliaths, Teryxes, Nevermores, and Sabyrs. While Salem was on her way with Brothers Know what else. I couldn't let that happen, either. Throwing my troops into disorder by making demands of them or stealing more airships would have shattered every semblance of unity and order I'd had left. And that was all I had. And it already wasn't going to be enough."

But he's tired of this conversation, of no one understanding the sheer scale of the threat facing them, of the severity of the outcome hinging on Atlas' ability to be the first and last barrier before the rest of the world fell. The music does help, even with his head in his upturned hand, metal elbow digging into a metal knee. His breath shakes with sheer exhaustion the next time he exhales, but Qrow is in the same room with him and he's calmer, if across the way. That was an improvement he'd take. But yes, James is afraid. He's always been afraid. Of never being enough and never biding his time as he should, of missing something in the bigger picture, of not preparing for the right things or chasing the right leads.

Then Qrow asks after the warrant, and the sigh he offers as an initial answer nearly deflates him in its entirety.

"Yes. I know. I just— I wanted you all safe." Then, softer, pained: "You're one of the only friends I have left, Qrow. I didn't want anything to happen to them. I couldn't even manage that much. They overcame all the other Ace-Ops, you know. Put them out of commission when I needed them the most. And likely escaped."

"At least if they die out there, they'll die proud of the decisions they made."

There is resignation and a vague thread of guilt in his grumbled tone. So Salem's at their doorstep, the army's exhausted, and they're all doomed? Fine, but the best of them would go down swinging instead of rotting in jail. That's already more than Qrow can say for himself, and he has to be proud of those kids for that. Ruby and her friends stuck to their guns - and their purpose as Huntsmen - while all of the adults around them were falling apart, drawing in on themselves instead of banding together as they should have been.

What if Oz were around to guide them? He probably would have told them to listen to Ruby, rather than play themselves right into Salem's hands.

All of that is a moot point now, however. What can they do from this planet? Nothing, except try to get back to the fight as soon as possible. Not that the three men present and accounted for here were of much use to them, anyway. Ruby already told him as much. They never needed any adult for guidance.

Qrow's back straightens suddenly, like he's reached some kind of epiphany.

"You know what? We're here for a reason, James. The kids, Winter - they're all better off without us. So let's just figure out what we need to do here to stay alive and get back to the fight."

And then, a split second, Qrow falters. Ah. 'Stay' alive. There's that.

"I can't argue that."

And if it were truly the case, he would have allowed it, but— there was a large difference between what they felt was right and being proud of their actions and throwing a wrench into a military's entire ability to protect the world, and it had sounded to him they were gunning for the latter with their disapproval of redirecting forces and resources. He didn't want them hurt and he certainly didn't want them to rot when they could have been helping, when he in fact desperately wanted and needed their help, but they lost all access to his trust by lying to him, and he didn't trust them not to interrupt what had to be done and what they didn't understand.

It seemed the only choice available to him. If he's being honest, it still seems the only choice available to him, with the time and distance from the chaos to think. But he's right that they're not going to be of any use to their world from this one, and even if they were home, what did he have left?

Nothing, really. His own stubbornness he's not even sure he'd come out the other end of this with. But soldiers were trained to be that resolute. He's known his life was on the line with every skirmish, every mission, every visit out to the abandoned mines— that would never change. He always knew that one day he wouldn't be around any longer. Qrow's sudden straightening has James' attention, the rasp of his voice softening the edges of the room as dark blue eyes meet red, and he...

...He has no choice but to anchor himself by those words completely. It's visible when that truth sinks into him, as well, because he also straightens, metal hand lowering from his face to touch his fingertips to his opposite elbow. It's because he has James' hyperfocus that he picks up on that faltering, and then his brows furrow.

"Perhaps you're right, and all we can do is face what's in front of us. Getting back seems... like a complicated matter at best. Impossible at its worst. Getting back is top priority." And, given a moment: "What is it?"

Getting back is top priority. Qrow slumps, his eyes falling to the ground. Of course it is; he'd just said that himself. His top priority is and always has been the girls. Ruby, in particular, may very well be the key to everything in their fight against Salem - Ozpin was convinced of that, too. Qrow has no reason to trust Oz anymore, but there was a reason he'd been so invested in the well-being and combat prowess of the Roses, with their mysterious silver eyes.

But when they go back to the fight on Remnant... what could that mean for the people who shouldn't be here at all?

"It... I -," Qrow stumbles over his words, struggling to press back against the bubble of panic that rises up in him over the singular thought: not again. His anger has fizzled out, his grief put on hold by the strange reality that Clover is here; they'd just spoken moments ago. That left plenty of room for despair.

"James... not all of us are going back," he finally rasps, forcing the words into the open before his jaw clenches and his hands rise to his hair, tugging. Qrow didn't imagine this would be how he delivered that news to Ironwood, curling up on himself and on the verge of sobbing like a wreck. "Clover's dead."

Even as James reiterates and agrees with what Qrow had said, it doesn't seem to be taken well. Concern lines his expression as he watches the other man deflate, crimson eyes dropping contact, and a deep part of him flutters anxiously as it feels like Beacon all over again. Communications dropped and lines cut across the world.

But he hasn't lost contact with Qrow when he's still right in front of him. Even though "right in front" might as well have been across the sea when he's beyond James' reach, so he labors to his feet once more and crosses the room to kneel before him, metal hand reaching to rest on his shoulder with an impossibly careful squeeze. It was supposed to be reassurance. Familiar bracing to keep him upright and able to speak. But Qrow struggles to find the right words, and when he finally does, he's curling forward and James hardly gets a "Hey," out, leading into an attempt to console him, but he... finishes.

His confusion is evident, even as Qrow reaches up to bury hands in his own hair, and he can see the way he tugs at it as his temples draw taught, and his hand raises from his shoulder to settle over laced fingertips at the back of his head, silently asking him to be kind to himself and stop. It ends up almost like an embrace. Only almost— because the dread that Qrow spears him with is solid ice and it about stops his heart entirely.

"...What? No, I was just— he's here." The disbelief in his tone is held at arm's length, because his immediate fear is not what happened back home, but what's happened here. He'd seen Clover earlier, and— had someone... murdered him? Here? Was he dead? His brows pinch and the panic echoes in James, trying not to shake Qrow to urge his attention up to meet his gaze, but his tone conveys that desperation much the same. "He's here, isn't he? Qrow. Did something happen?"

"I know he's here, but in Mantle I watched him die!"

Of course James is desperate for an explanation, but Qrow has none. Only anguish with nowhere to go, now that Clover is here in this Schrodinger's existence of both alive and dead... and the very man Qrow had declared would see vengeance for his friend's fall? Now one of the only people he could rely on in this place. Qrow's own turmoil surfaces in the waver of his voice, muffled by his own arms as he curls into himself. He doesn't pull away, but it's hard to reach out with the memories washing over him anew. Those wounds are fresh, made all the more tender by the fierce denial Qrow has been guarding them with since he arrived.

In Mantle...

In Mantle. Brothers, that's right— the mission, and Tyrian, and the arrest orders. But Qrow couldn't have... no, he wouldn't. He knows that much outright. And he'd only be this upset if he cared about the other man, and he knows then that Clover had done exactly what James had hoped.

He'd befriend Qrow, who had always tried to remain on the fringes of humanity. He had set him at ease the way he believed he would, and if he was gone—

He has every right to hate him. But he doesn't pull away, and that hand slips into grey-streaked hair, shifting closer as he lowers to his knee where he can curl forward over his friend. Even if it's unwelcome and he's pushed away for trying, it felt the only way to properly convey his condolences, and his bid for forgiveness. And acceptance of what has happened, as well.

It directly opposes the acidity in his voice just to murmur Tyrian's name, picture clear. He knows who was behind the killing blow. He knows it would have never been Qrow. When he speaks, properly this time, it's impossibly soft.

"We don't have to talk about it now. I just want you to know I'm here. And I know it wasn't you."

Qrow doesn't pull away. At just the whisper of Tyrian's name there's a twist in his stomach that's so sharp it saps all the strength from his limbs, a choked-off sob that is all the indication James needs to know that his guess was the correct one. It's all Qrow can do to curl up in James's awkward half-embrace, and listen to the words that he knows his friend would say to soothe him. Already, they're so far removed from what happened on Remnant.

"But it was me, James," Qrow murmurs tightly, muffled into the much broader man's shoulder. "It was Harbinger. I -"

Well. He doesn't have to continue. Everyone already knows where the blame goes, where it always goes. Even Clover wasn't lucky enough to be free of his curse.

He's never enjoyed watching others suffer, and he's never wanted to see anyone in pain— it's so much harder when it's someone he cares for, and Qrow's quiet sob nearly pierces through him the same, sure to bleed out. The arm still in a sling is difficult to avoid, but his friend curls in closer and James brings his head to the center of his chest so he isn't pressing his brow into cold metal as his own elbow touches down to his friend's shoulderblade.

Eventually gloved fingers slip from his hair to rub his back in a few slow passes, trying to... help. It isn't much. And it's far from enough. But he doesn't know what else to do. Qrow seems to straighten just enough to be heard when he answers, taking the blame on himself as he always does, and that's James' chin coming to rest atop mussed hair.

"You are not your weapon." It was Harbinger says enough. He dropped it, it was knocked from his hands, it was taken from him, it was thrown— it wasn't by his hand. He would've been able to stop himself even if he was mid-swing and Clover got in his way. He's too astute. And because he knows where that blame was going to go, he tries to nip it in the bud. He just pulls him back in, mindful of his application of force, and his voice is as soothing as possible. "Even Clover makes mistakes. You wouldn't have wanted to hurt him."

Knock him out to escape? Sure, maybe. But never grievously injure another person. Even if he hadn't been clear-headed after some time here, he would have known that. Qrow has rarely ever given him reason to doubt much of anything, but he's never once second-guessed his desire to protect others no matter how he may go rogue on some mission or another. He always came through. It's tentative, but he turns and places a careful kiss atop his head. An act of forgiveness.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

MINGLE 001

the effects/wildcard/i do what i want

u always have ur way w/me... 😔😔😔💕 kya

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