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

[themortalhalf]

[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

Comments

[greatseal]

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

[themortalhalf]

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.]

[greatseal]

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.]

[themortalhalf]

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

But he sighs.]

You have your Evoker with you?

[greatseal]

[...?]

It's in my apartment... Why?

[themortalhalf]

[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.]

[greatseal]

[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.]

[themortalhalf]

[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.]

[greatseal]

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

All right.

[themortalhalf]

[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.]

[greatseal]

[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.]

[themortalhalf]

[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.]

[greatseal]

[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.]

[themortalhalf]

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.

[greatseal]

[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?

[themortalhalf]

[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.]

[greatseal]

[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...]

[themortalhalf]

[Well, there's a desk there. She gets to enjoy pushing it away or climbing over it if she wants to go further. He wishes she would just stay still and not move around so much, but considers that a lost cause since he can't apparently stop her from doing anything for more than ten minutes at a time.

His answer is silence, which is as much of a confirmation as anything. It certainly hasn't gotten better.]

[greatseal]

[she vaults over it like a boss starts to push it out of the way. Pushing it back into the position it's supposed to be, actually. It's just a hazard the way it is now.

someday, he'll graduate to stopping her for a full twenty minutes.]

[themortalhalf]

[And it being a hazard was entirely Shinjiro's point. He follows her into his room, shutting the door behind him, and fighting the urge to push the desk back up against the door. He'll see if he can wait long enough to see if she wants to head back into the other area, but it's like an itch gnawing at the forefront of his mind, refusing to be ignored.

Everything else is out of place as the desk was, though most of his important belongings were shoved inside his desk—like his Evoker. There's the axe he got from Q in his closet propped up against the wall. His regular one is underneath his bed, which is shoved against the closet at an almost diagonal angle, because it wasn't about to fit inside the closet, so it might as well block it. The covers look like they'd been stripped off once for some purpose or other before Shinjiro had abandoned the idea. The cardboard box is still on the floor along with the radio. The glass and door to the balcony are shrouded by curtains.

He still doesn't say a word, just leans against the desk and watches her, her and the balcony door, just in case anything decides to come bursting through it, just to make his day.]

[greatseal]

[What he's going to see while he's watching is her standing hands on hips, surveying the damage.... and then start to move everything back where it belongs.

Sorry Shinji, your redecorating job sucked.]

[themortalhalf]

[Yeah, well, he wasn't redecorating his room to please her or the Home & Garden network.

And once she starts to move things, he inwardly flinches, because she can't do that. He had shoved them where there for a reason. Admittedly one that appeals to a very skewed sense of logic, but at least moving them to where he thought they should go, appealing to his apparent irrationality, removed a worry or two off his list. It's one less thing for his mind to dwell on, and as soon as she starts moving more of his things back into place he wants to put them back, because they're useless where they were before.

Useless. And they aren't serving a practical purpose like blocking the damn doors or creating an obstacle they'll have to get through. She's making things easier. And he doesn't want things to be easier. He can all ready see things going to hell without her making their eventual demise quicker.

She can't see what she's doing.

Of course she can't.

Everything's fine, and they should all be worrying about aesthetics instead, because whatever's coming is going to be pissed if his room doesn't look right. Might as well roll out the damn red carpet and pull out the welcome mat. He grimaces and shakes his head, breathing in and trying very, very hard not to stop moving his desk back where it should be. He shoves his shaking hangs into his pockets. Keeps them there.]

Leave everything where it is.

[greatseal]

[She does stop when he says that, for what it's worth. Turns around and looks at him, studying how he looks even more erratic.]

...You can't live with it like this. There's no bed and you can't use the kitchen or the bathroom.

[themortalhalf]

[He's glad she stops.]

If I need something, I'll get it.

[And it wasn't like things would stay this way for very long. There are only so many ways all of this can end, and by then, a disorganized room would be the least of anyone's problems—let alone hers. He knows what he hopes will happen, and knows what his mind is betting on. That makes two very distinct outcomes.]

[greatseal]

[Okay. Let's try a different tactic.]

You're afraid something is going to come into the room, right? That's why you're blocking everything off?