compnetwork | [Accidental Voice/Video ->Text; Backdated to Morning]

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[Accidental Voice/Video ->Text; Backdated to Morning]

[The feed begins with noise.

It's sharp, sudden. No video, just the sound of something being roughly rummaged through, with no apparent concern about being quiet or subtle about the affair, before it's shoved away across some surface—falling. Hitting the floor. A box, maybe, with something in it.

Then, a voice: tense, frustrated, uneven, breathing rapid, shallow, and unsteady, words strained and laced with panic.]

Dammit.

Where did—

[More noise.

Then, abruptly, the video feed flickers to life. There's a glimpse of a hand touching the screen, shaking, before the device is quickly shoved away. It slides along the surface of an apparent desk, catching a brief glimpse of a ceiling as it tumbles onto the floor, landing not far away from a cardboard box and a beat-up looking radio. The room it lies in is one dimly lit—the only light provided is due to the streaks of sunlight peeking in from the gaps in the curtain and blind-covered window. Makes it hard to discern much in the way of detail, but it's enough to make out a bed shoved at an odd, jutting angle—nearly shoved up against the closet—with tangled covers. A sign of some sort in front of the long curtain that's covering (as anyone familiar with the layout of the apartments might deduce) the entrance to the balcony, and then, finally, an obscured half-view of the desk shoved against a door. There's more movement off camera, sounds of a drawer being pulled open and gone through, until, finally, there's a quieter sound—perhaps of a lid popping open and its contents retrieved— followed by a period of silence.

Not long afterward, Shinjiro finally steps into view, crossing the room and sliding slowly down onto his bed.]

Shit. Can't even—

[He looks down then, eyes settling on the COMP on the floor. He stares at it for a few moments, grimacing, before standing up again, movement unsteady, reaching down to swipe it up off the floor. If he notices the feed is still recording, he doesn't show it, and the feed, after a moment, cuts off.

Then, a few minutes later, a message:]

[Failed Filter/Private Message to the P3 cast]

i dont know where you all are but get back home and stay the hell inside

just do it alright

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[She'll do what he says when what he says is reasonable. Leaving him like this is not an option.

When she hears him start to move objects in the kitchen, she begins to get up hope that he's going to open the door, but instead there's the heavy sound of someone leaning back against it. His voice is close. He must be sitting just on the other side of the door.

...He's good at this.]

Yeah, I do. I want to help you.

[If he could interpret her thoughts, he'd wonder why his request didn't sound reasonable. Because it was. Steeped in cautionary logic.

She could talk to him through the device, couldn't she? She didn't need to be in his room to monitor him like he was two-year-old with no idea what the hell the floor was for and that the tiny things you found could choke you.

Not like there's too many places he could run to if he could get out. Where would he go in the end, anyway? They can't even get out of this city. They're trapped animals. Most everywhere else is dead and this place is going to follow it (it will all become shadow and ash and bone soon, don't you see?).

She was wrong, too, about riding things out yourself. Being alone, after all, has its merits. Means you can't hurt anybody. It's like that saying, isn't it? If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? And does it even matter if it does? No one's around to care and no one will miss its existence either way. It doesn't matter if the tree lives or dies, and it can't hurt anyone no matter what happens to it in the course of its tragically short or infinitely long lifetime. Nothing it does, bad or good, will matter because it may as well not exist.

He pauses then, breathes in, tries to focus on something else besides her and the voices telling him to—(let go, accept death you're dying anyway, run, don't trust anybody)—do things.]

Well, I don't know shit.

[See? That's the problem. He's not sure what is real or what isn't, and not having some semblance of control over himself—he can't even master his own thoughts right now—is nothing good. All it is is an a dangerous invitation that leads to nothing but misfortune from his experience. He knows what he believes right now, but he has no proof. He can't tell her to go look out her window, to look up at the sky and see that it's raining down fire. All he feels is the type of dread that builds before a storm.]

Tell me why you're afraid to let me in.

[Because this is different from the last time. This isn't his guilt building to an unbearable level because of the date on the calendar. Something is frightening him, has rattled him until he's acting erratic and completely unlike his usual self. He hasn't even articulated a good reason for her to stay away. Just that she should.]

[He laughs. It's low sound, dry, humorless. Maybe she can hear it, maybe he can't.

Because, yeah, that sounds like a great idea. Might as well pull up a couch and go over everything since age nine while he's at it. Why does he need to explain? He doesn't do things for the hell of it. There's a reason. Always a reason. But do people have to know why? It's his problem. It shouldn't be on the shoulders of anyone else but his. Can't they just say okay and do it? Because once he says something, then that problem also becomes someone else's to worry about, and that's one person too many.]

Because. [He looks briefly down at his hands, and goes silent for awhile as his gaze migrates over to the far wall. It's probably going to one of the last things he sees if he's right.

She wants an answer then? Fine.

When he speaks again, his voice has a wry, quiet edge to it.] ...I think I'm going crazy. Funny, huh?

[About time, isn't it?]

[She slips to the ground and leans back against the door as well, letting only the piece of wood stand between them. Like a dramatic scene from an anime or a meaningful photograph. Except this was reality, and he won't open the door.]

You're not crazy. Why do you think that?

[And it's not enough, but he'll take what he can get.]

Maybe 'cause I know what normal is. This sure as hell ain't it.

[And he's been crazy once.]

It's not just you. They don't know what's causing it, but other people are acting strangely, too.

[So, it's not his fault. Even locking her out when he's supposed to trust her isn't his fault. It just makes it harder for her to help.]

Then if you won't listen to me, listen to them. Maybe they're onto something.

[Besides, you know, being crazy.]

None of that is a reason for you to lock me out.

Is me asking—[He pauses then. Shaking his head. Maybe the pills were working. Just not on the other voices. Still useless, but at least Castor's presence is fading like a ghost he should have never been able to see.]—Is that not good enough a reason for you?

[Does he have to make a list?

Does he have to admit that he's scared shitless of today and tomorrow for her to get it? That he's holding everything in as best he can but he's a pretty shabby container for it, but has seen just enough to keep it bottled down beneath the surface for the most part. That he doesn't know why he's acting this way or if things are going to get worse or better. Just because other people behaving like him doesn't mean he's not going crazy—that they all are—maybe because of the illusionary fear of whatever it is that's going to drop out of the sky and flatten the world in a second attempt to bring about armageddon, or something more troubling and legitimate, like he and the others are all some kind of broken oracle that people aren't paying much attention to as they should.

It's all one big mess of unpredictability. And that isn't safe for anyone.]

Of course not. Would you want to leave me if I were sick?

[Try and think about how this looks from her perspective for a minute, Shinji. Him admitting any of those things isn't going to make her want to go inside and comfort him any less.]

[She knows the answer to that, but this is different.

But he sighs.]

You have your Evoker with you?

[...?]

It's in my apartment... Why?

[Safety precautions.]

Go get it. I've felt like this once. Safer if you have it.

[It's not quite the same. There weren't voices. Didn't feel like the world was going to end. Anxiety didn't have time to build over a matter of days. But there had been panic and fear, and all it took was a spark to set it off like dynamite. If he's going to even contemplate letting her in, he's not doing it until he's sure she can defend herself quickly if something happens. He might not be able to feel much of Castor anymore, but there's no sense of trust between them. And she shouldn't be walking around without her Evoker in the first place, not right now. She can summon a Persona the new way, but a difference of seconds can mean a lot in the long run. It only takes seconds for something to go wrong.]

[She's not sure she likes the implication behind it, but if it will help her get through the door, she'll do it.]

Okay. I'll be right back.

[And she heads off. It'll only take a minute before she's back.]

[He hopes that she won't come back, though he manages to reluctantly move the table and the chairs out of the way during her absence. Sees if he can call Castor out a moment later, finds him unresponsive—almost invisible when he reaches out for him. Good riddance.

When he hears her come back (if it even is her—could be someone or something else for all he knows—he stares at the door and at the lock that's keeping it closed. Wants to put the table right back against it the door again like it might fall inward on its own now that it doesn't have something to support it.]

If anything happens, you get the hell out, all right?

[Because something will eventually. Just a matter of time. Might not be him, but it'll be something else, whatever it is that's coming to see that they all stop breathing, because it's too much to ask for the world to let him live a normal life for more than a month or two.]

[Minako meanwhile doesn't believe that anything will happen herself, so it's easy to agree.]

All right.

[It still takes time for him to open the door. Even though there's still a very loud, vocal part of him that doesn't want to open it, it still shouldn't be this hard. All it is is turning the lock and twisting the doorknob.

Instead, it turns into a longer process. Paces around the kitchen, making sure nothing's moved since he last looked it over, before moving into his bedroom again. He makes sure everything's covered, closed, and locked, and once he's sure, he checks it again, just in case he missed something, ensuring everything's safe, before finally returning to the door. After a few seconds of internal debate, wondering if there's something more waiting outside the door besides her, waiting where she can't see because she doesn't get it like he does, he unlocks the door quickly, like it might burn him if he doesn't, and opens it before she can get any ideas of her own.

He all ready feels like he's made a mistake, and that he's compromised everything, but he can't take that back now. The door's open.]

[She slips through the door as soon as it opens, moving immediately to hug him. She doesn't let it linger long enough for him to be uncomfortable though, and pulls back to check him over.]

Are you feeling okay physically? [It's already obvious that his mental state is a mess, but she's not sure if there's pain or nausea to compound it somehow. He looks like a wreck regardless.]

[He jerks a little at the contact, but is grateful for its briefness. As soon as she lets go, he slams the door shut behind her, like he was forcing something out. Locks it again.]

Yeah.

[There's nothing out of the ordinary there. Though he'd rather deal with physical symptoms than mental ones if he could choose. He can handle the former. But that would be too easy.

Now to put the table back. He can't leave it where it is.]

[She wants to comment on the table but...]

Nothing's going to get through there anyway.

[...okay she can't avoid commenting on the table.]

Good. [He looks back at his handiwork.

...Not that you can be extremely creative when it comes to defensively positioning a table against something. What he needs are miles of concrete and steel, and he doesn't have that, unless he'd like to construct an army of pots and pans, conscript them into haphazard cavalry doubling as an early warning system.

He doubts it'll hold worth shit, but it will buy them time. Maybe. Seconds.

He'd have moved the refrigerator, but that would have ruined the food. There isn't an outlet near the door.]

That's the point.

[The comment are almost automatic, and it takes him a few seconds to realize how that probably sounds, and shrugs his shoulders.]

Sorry.

Edited 2012-10-26 05:18 (UTC)

[At least he's still himself enough to not ruin food.]

Don't be. It's not your fault.

[She's moving around now, inspecting the rest of the apartment. Trying to see what else he's done to the place.] How long have you been feeling like this?

[The good thing about owning little is that there's not much to throw into chaos. He did go through the cupboards and drawers, but most items are where they usually are, with an occasional pan or plate out of place where it's not supposed to be—on the counter, in the sink despite being clean. There's a knife or two in the first drawer where it'd be easily reachable. But most objects are stored in their usual places, if scattered and disorganized like a child had shoved them inside.

His room is a bit of a different story. But she'll have to get past the desk she'll find once she opens the door first.

He watches her wander around the room, keeping a few feet away, but following, eyes always darting around the room. He grimaces and shrugs again.] A few days.

[Though it hadn't been exactly like this. It had been tolerable then. Uncomfortable, but tolerable. Hadn't felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff with only one way down with imaginary wolves on his heels.]

[To be perfectly honest... her plan stopped at making it through the door. Now that she's inside, she isn't really sure what she should do. She's no doctor, despite her time on the health committee...

Maybe if she can at least get him to lie down, he might feel less frantic.]

And it's been getting worse?

[whoops she's opened the door to his bedroom now...]

Edited 2012-10-26 06:32 (UTC)

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