nature nurture heaven and home; i'm the son of one and by them driven

'Hiding places' are high on the list of any good high school outcast, and if there is one thing John Hughes movies have taught us, the library should be the holy grail of these. The Barge's especially so, which Jonah remembers. Find him meandering amidst high shelves exhibiting what appears to be more or less purposeful aimlessness, be startled when you reach for the same book on insect life (...why do either of you want this), or come across him tucked into a corner, safely cloistered by giant texts.

An itty bitty lady with braids is up on a ladder when Jonah wanders around the corner, and waves to him with the hand not holding onto the rails.

"Hello there!"

Edited 2015-01-08 00:06 (UTC)

Jonah tucks the book he's holding against his chest; it's calculated, so not nervous behavior exactly, but why not instantly create the literal, physical impression of a barrier! "Hi."

...what a gregarious fellow. "I remember you. You're--the librarian, right?"

Because really, if he's going to extend himself to anyone, it's going to be the person in that position.

"Yes!"

Someone that comes back to the Barge and still remembers that they were here is a little unusual, but not in a bad way. Chromie clambers down the ladder to offer a hand to shake.

"Welcome back! I'm Chromie. I didn't think you'd remember!"

Edited 2015-01-08 20:45 (UTC)

Jonah shrugs one shoulder and smiles with half his mouth. "I like libraries."

To the surprise of everyone everywhere, surely. The painfully introverted thing in the sweater vest likes libraries. He shakes her hand with the suggestion that his has been practiced, because ...it has.

"So do I!"

She giggles at her own joke.

"Do you want the newcomer pamphlet? It couldn't hurt to be reminded."

One corner of Jonah's mouth perks, uncertainly. He's terrible at jokes, but she laughed, so it was probably funny.

"It couldn't hurt."

What does he have to lose, really.

"I keep them up at my desk. Just a moment!"

She scurries away from Jonah, back towards the foyer.

Abigail doesn't particularly want to read about insect life. She's just bored. Which is incongruous, perhaps, because things are changing with deceptive quickness in her life right now. So maybe bored isn't the word. Maybe she's resistant, and using boredness to cover it up.

Whichever it is - she reaches for a book on, in fact, mantids (including the praying kind) and is, in fact, startled when she sees his piercing gray eyes through the stacks.

She knows him.

"Jonah?"

The book he's reaching for is actually one he's never seen: while he can make a reasonable guess as to its subject matter inasmuch as the title and text seem vaguely Latinate, on Earth he's pretty sure that particular species of invertebrate is not, in, purple.

He's not actually startled into dropping it (while many things surprise him, being startled involves emotional display of an entirely different kind), but he does push it to the side to be forgotten about immediately, which might be as rare.

"Abigail." Without a question mark. "Hi."

Edited 2015-01-12 18:20 (UTC)

"It is you."

An obvious statement; she wants to eat it as soon as it slips out of her mouth, but there it is, sitting between them. She brushes her hair behind her ear, attempting, too, to tuck it behind the ear that isn't there anymore. All she is is absences anymore, it seems like; she wonders if he notices.

"You came back," she adds more softly. There's gratitude in her voice, the hint of a smile, though it doesn't make it to her face. The implicit you were missed gets stuck in her throat.

Acquiescing to her desire for order, she gives him one: "Come over here." Around the stacks, towards her. But not too close. She'd never expect that.

He notices. Absences are all he's ever been; the only places he was present were the ones were Seth wasn't. They were each other's missing pieces, and now--he has one of his own. One he gave himself. Of course he notices.

It's probably unsurprising, then, that the first thing he says upon - automatically - coming around the stacks to exactly the periphery of safe distance, is "Who did that to you?"

Not 'what happened.' In his experience these things are always 'done to,' even if 'who' is yourself.

He's close enough now that she can see the perfect impassivity of his porcelain features, and she knows from his phrasing that he knows exactly how the world works. How cruel it can be, how vicious its denizens. She knows that she should be afraid of him, but she can't make it happen. She missed him too much, and he's too right.

"Hannibal." Her voice still soft, like worn velvet. "Hannibal did it to me. Do you remember?"

Anyone who's ever met Hannibal shouldn't forget him. But time and the Barge do strange things to the mind.

She wonders where Jonah's been.

The library is one of the few places that Philip visits with any sort of recurring frequency. In truth, before everything went to hell, he was never much of a reader. The day was usually too long, his nerves too frayed to really sit and read much of anything anymore. But with the offering of the library and nothing much else to pass his time with, Philip takes full advantage of the library. Generally speaking, he manages to avoid most people while he's in there, but he rounds a corner and finds Jonah with his books.

They meet eyes and Philip apologizes half-heartedly (in that distinctly Southern politeness meant to cover up such apathy) without actually saying the words, "Didn't mean to disturb you."

Hark! A Southerner! More east than Lousiana, if Jonah's ear is any good, though 'more east' is all he can make out. As such, he responds in kind; everyone understands such a disturbance actually is a deep inconvenience, but talking about such things would be simply plebeian.

He pokes his head out of a weighty tome of some kind (... it's still the insect biology book), and examines his visitor, big dark eyes like an inquisitive bird's. "It's fine. Libraries are for everyone."

The last sentence has sort of a brittle, weird humor to it, an implicit understanding that there is 'everyone,' and then there is 'Jonah,' entirely outside that idea.

Philip knows when he's under scrutiny, although he thinks the intensity in which Jonah is looking at him has nothing particular to Philip. The way he speaks implies he looks at everyone like that. Maybe more so upon first meeting them, but there are rare exceptions in which he doesn't try to attend to every last detail and dissect living people with his mind's eye. In return, Philip gives only a mild and rather bland look. He doesn't care to know that much about anyone on-board.

"Seems to me you've sectioned yourself off all the same though."

All the newbs find their way up here, sooner or later; whether or not Jonah qualifies as that this time, here he is. He knows what's supposed to happen if a person goes over the side and he's of a height it would take him like ...half an hour to get over the railing anyway, but--

Still. That doesn't stop him looking. At the endlessness, more than anything else.

It's something of a luxury for him, to be able to look at the stars. He loves them, but with the symbiont curled into his spinal cord, the depthless blackness was always a seductive pit of slow, seething, stillness, an urge towards arctic meditative emptiness. Now it's beautiful again, and yet jarringly blank, bright blazes of possibility and distance, without the infinite subtleties his affected chemistry found lurking in black.

The boy's stare is a keen reminder; not quite nostalgic and not quite perturbing either, something insidious between the two. But in the moments of watching his face, the Emperor realizes abruptly that he's seen it before.

"...do you remember being here before?"

Jonah turns. "I remember enough."

In the moment he says it it's true; truth distilled into three words. He remembers enough. The remoteness in his gaze fractures when he turns, though, flares and peaks and shimmers outward, already wide eyes trailing sunbursts from each outer corner.

"What are you?"

He sounds a little perturbed, actually. The twins owed their existence to science, not magic; what leaks out of the Emperor (that was him, yes?) feels like one because he has no name for the other.

Surprise, first, a clear white flare, and a smoky haze of confusion following that ignites after a moment into twinkling golden sparks of curiosity. He has no idea why the boy is remarking on him, when he looks as normal as anyone, is essentially human once again. But he enjoys the possibility of being an enigma, being noted.

He smiles like the Cheshire cat, sharp toothy delight, like the crescent of his mouth is a living thing all its own.

"What do I seem?"

"Alive."

That's the closest he can name it; he was, like Lazarus, dead. And now he's not. Jonah may not believe in God, but he knows his Bible. "You weren't, before."

His curiosity makes itself evident mostly against his will, in the tilt of his head, the slight sharpening of self-presentation often deliberately removed. He had envied that, a little bit. Being dead seemed--easier.

He raises an eyebrow.

"As alive as you are, anyway." Which is to say - debatable in the theory, but very much so in practice. "No. I wasn't. But the neurological costs became unsustainable."

He says it - not lightly, perhaps, but with an unsentimental clarity that is both true and not true. He feels betrayed by the symbiont, what should have been his ally and his triumph swollen in a ragged rabid leach of ice and inky blackness, peace at the intolerable cost of hollowing out every hand-forged piece of himself, fire stoked hard against the constant chill, plunged into, drawn out, beaten by determination and time into sword and crown and anchor. He misses it and he hates it, he loathes himself a little for finally losing the will to hold the line against it, prides himself on surviving, is full of melancholy tenderness because he did it too for love, at Zane's prompting, life as a sign of willingness for a future. He loves that in itself, the intimate and grand resonance, an indulgent egotistical love of the mythical and symbolic, while in his adoring fevered subconscious impressions Zane is a creature half hurricane and half starlight, a palm cupping a seedling, a voice breaking in relief, the crack-shush of his cloak whipped in his wake beyond human speed.

He feels everything about it, sadness and joy and anger and fear and bitterness and devotion and hope, and yet the crisp assessment is honest, too, because there is a sheer pragmatic core of him that resurrection has not changed: the cost was unsustainable.

Edited 2015-01-17 07:38 (UTC)

Jimmy finds his way up here often enough, considering the amount of spaces on the Barge that are dubbed non-smoking. The infirmary, the fucking dining hall... What's this otherwordly afterlife come to?

Anyway, he limps over to the railing, already lighting a cigarette when he sees Jonah. Sometimes he still expects to see the sea, Atlantic City's boardwalk. He doesn't mind that that's not what he ends up seeing; it's not a place that holds many happy memories at the moment.

He doesn't say anything for a while, smoking quietly. When he addresses Jonah, finally, he doesn't look over. "Pretty sure it's not worth the climb, kid."

Jonah's twin smokes. Smoked. One of those. Either way the smell is--comforting, and immediately hateable because it's comforting; he is not supposed to associate Seth with comfort, not anymore. But smell is the strongest sense tied to memory, and memory is uninterested in 'supposed to.'

So he's fully prepared not to look over himself; perhaps they could have held an entire conversation sans eye contact! What is actually said to him, however, does result in a slow, avian head tilt. "You don't exactly look like a senior citizen."

Kid. They can talk about his potentially great decisions in just a second, surely.

Considering he's on the Barge, at least there won't be any questions about what Jonah wants to be when he grows up. The choices are limited to 'dead' and 'probably on the dining hall crew, at some point', so the topic's exhausted pretty quickly.

He does actually look at Jonah for a second, looking pretty nonplussed. "And I thought you looked like you'd respect your elders, so maybe we're both in for a surprise, here."

Hey now, if he works really hard maybe he can eventually have a key to the Art Room!

Anyway, the sharp little exhalation and shoulder-lift Jonah exhibits at this are pretty clearly a laugh, if not kind of--well. Sharp. As previously assessed. "I'm not a jumper. If that's what you're worried about."

That is an...interesting turn of phrase.

Jimmy taps some ash off the cigarette, sticks his other hand in his pocket. He very briefly thinks of some of the fellas he'd seen in the trenches who'd shot themselves rather than go over the top one more time.

"Worried's not really the word I'd use." He doesn't really care one way or the other; it's not like he knows Jonah. "So what are you?"

Jonah would appreciate the stark lack of sentiment, if he knew, being entirely bereft of such things himself. Different motivation, but the end cauterization bears some similarity.

His shoulders hitch up. "I don't know. What are you?"

He gestures at Jonah with the cigarette. "A smoker." That's all there is to it, right now- one foot in front of the other, getting by. There are two bullet-shaped scars on his face, one on his forehead, the other underneath his left eye, that might identify him as an inmate. They're pretty clear signs of having died, at least.

Jonah isn't sure when he stopped believing there was anything beyond the stars other than more blackness. Maybe it was the disparity between unconditional love and petty vengeance, or how could the universe be this old if it was also that old, or any of a number of other questions tacked to crises of faith. Maybe it was that the Bible seemed to account for nothing like the twins, except maybe witches. Maybe Cain and Abel seemed too uncomfortably symbolic.

Or maybe it was that nothing ever showed up to punish them for what they did.

One of those. What matters now is that it's quiet here, wears a peacefulness he attributes to simple silence. White rooms are supposed to do that.

Weirdly, Dillon is spending less time in the chapel now that he feels stronger in his faith than he has in years. Or maybe it's not weird; maybe it's just that he finally found what he was looking for, with the unlikeliest person.

But he still comes in about once a day, lights a candle and says a rosary, tries to ease himself back into the cadence of freeform prayer.

It's a surprise to find his second new person in the chapel in as many weeks, but Dillon doesn't try to disturb him, just finds a pew an innocuous distance away, and a little in front of him so he doesn't have to worry about Dillon at his back, like some people here would, and unfolds the kneeling bench.

Jonah would appreciate it, if he had enough distance from and data amassed regarding such things: in that instance he might regard them as a kindness, rather than at best a curiosity and at worst a trap.

Assuming Dillon has that useful 5.25th sense most of the populace develops, the one that prickles the back of the neck when someone is staring giant holes into their person, Jonah's sudden notice may be all but audible. If not, he pulls it back in as fast as it focused.

He feels it, wants to rub the back of his neck but doesn't, breathes out slowly instead. It feels - rude, to bother him right off, so he settles in, murmurs his prayers in that particular rote cadence, not dully but as though each prayer is a single interminable German word, a single, simple rich thought, clearly articulated but in a sinuous smooth sound with no breaks, easy to understand or to tune out.

He skips the creed - it still feels a little weird, a little too on the nose with the bodily resurrection bits. Which are important, but - still weird.

"OurFatherwhoartinHeavenhallowedbethynametheykingdomcomethywillbedoneonearthasitisinHeavengiveusthisdayourdailybreadandforgiveusourtrespassesasweforgivethosewhotrespassagainstusandleadusnotintotemptationbutdeliverusfromevilforthineisthekingdomandthepowerandthegloryforeverandeverAmen."

He still feels like nothing but green, bright bottle-green and searing heat, like the air when you open the oven door. But it seethes a little less, crackles less, spins and hums and sings in deep stable patterns. He rubs his thumb over the first olive-pit bead of the rosary.

"HailMaryfullofgracetheLordiswiththeeblessedartthouamongstwomenandblessedisthefruitofthywombJesusHolyMaryMotherofGodprayforussinnersnowandatthehourofdeathAmen."

An image flickers through the green, very briefly, a plain set of underwear, because there has not been a Catholic child since the advent of the brand that didn't snicker a little about the ease of transposing fruit of thy womb and fruit of the loom, and he always has to concentrate hard not to say it wrong.

Another bead, another Hail Mary, emptying his mind and concentrating on the mystery of the Resurrection, whose gift is faith. An empty cave in watercolor children's-bible illustrations, a dancing pigeon, quiet flickers through the green light as he does the repetitions, drowned in it again as soon as they surface, even as he sinks into the meditation of it, lets it absorb him.

His fingers reach the big bead and he finishes the decade. "GlorytotheFatherandtotheSonandtotheHolySpiritasitwasinTheBeginningandnowandalwaysandtoagesofagesAmen."

The silence seems even louder afterward. The beads click quietly as he fiddles, wondering whether to say anything or to continue. He adds the Fatima Prayer, which is less rote than the rest, not more sincere emotionally but which he is more keenly aware of the details of, the tight relevance of the supplication.

"O my Jesus, forgive us our sins, save us from the fires of hell, lead all souls to Heaven, especially those most in need of Thy mercy. Amen."

Edited 2015-01-09 15:25 (UTC)

If you can get here without a warden item, Jonah has been here. Being undersized, giant-eyed, and somewhat creepily easy not to notice. He prefers it that way.

The ...lack of notice, not the creepiness. The creepiness is just kind of the attribute assigned by most people to the aura the twins projected. Maybe it's less so now that there's only one of them. Maybe that kind of preternatural silence will basically uh, always be creepy. Who can say!

She's trying to break into a garden shed while Zane isn't nearby, hoping she can find something to keep the bright flower Ceres gave her living for a few days longer. There's a presence behind her passing by the garden to the deck, and when she turns around from the lock to protest that she wasn't doing what she clearly is, she gasps at what must be a ghost before she recognizes the pale, wide-eyed face.

She only remembers his face, and that Syo had already started to stake him out in anticipation of where Touko's fantasies would have gone and what reality inevitably followed. If he's real and not an early sign of another mirror, she has to be polite. "H-hi?"

Jonah likes the garden.

Or he thinks he does, anyway. That's the problem, isn't it; he can't be sure. Their mother liked flowers, he remembers that, remembers gerbera daisies in a glass vase, but now...now the danger (the devil) is in the details. Did she like flowers? Or did Seth just decide they were something a mother should like? Or worse. Worse, did he think they were something Jonah might like, with his artistic temperament; did he build a mother who would make his brother happy, and by keeping him happy, keep from asking questions.

Touko's gasp shakes him loose from that particularly cheerful reverie, head snapping up, eyes widening a touch before dropping back to ~~tragic~~ resting expression. "Hi."

He's real! And just as outgoing and garrulous as last time!

"Are you real?" Jonah knows he is, but Touko isn't yet sure, and on this ship not even touch proves the answer. If he isn't- she stops hesitating at the door and edges closer. "Have you been here this whole time?"

nature nurture heaven and home; i'm the son of one and by them driven

LIBRARY

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DECK cw: possible suicidal ideation

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cw; mention of suicide

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CHAPEL

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have the catholicest tag ever

CHOOSE YOUR OWN JONAHVENTURE

JONAHVENTURE CHOSEN

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