ᴛᴡᴏ. [ action; at a bar, evening ]

[secondcomingof]

[ It's been a long, long past twenty-four hours for Casval.

Most of it was spent curled up in the corner of his totaled office, and then his bedroom, lonelier than ever, when staying was no longer feasible. Sheets drawn over his head though sleep wouldn't come in a vain effort to block out the noise of hearing himself scream over and over again of how he'd wipe the world clean, how it was fit for eradication, extinction, Amuro Ray, don't you see? He doesn't know an Amuro Ray and never wants to, never wants to know a Char Aznable, either but he's stuck with him since he's settled deep into his brain with no hopes of unseating his awful presence and that's what gets him the most, because if there was one thing Casval didn't need, it was another voice to join all the rest already prickling at his jumbled thoughts.

Eventually he runs out of alcohol to numb the encroaching madness and stumbles his way over to the nearest bar, disheveled and disoriented. He drinks and drinks and drinks until they say he's had enough but it isn't. It isn't and will never be.

He doesn't remember when he collapses against the counter but he does remember a distinct lack of dignity when it happens, drifting as the hours drag on. There was nothing dignified about this situation and there's no dignified lift to Casval's step when he's ushered out of the bar, sick and stumbling.

He won't remember any of this by tomorrow, and really, that's sort of the point. Because if he did remember, he has a feeling that'd be the last straw to snap him completely. ]

(( So yeah after spending all day attempting to tune out the world Casval has come out of his angsty cocoon and is drinking his sorrows away. You're free to run into him at any point during this endeavor, at the bar, him going or him leaving -- multiple options here. Get drunk with him, make fun of him, start a fight, whatever. Fair warning that he's very much out of it and likely to snap without provocation/do irresponsible things because he's sick of this life he just wants to scream how could this happen to me him. ))

Comments

[comparative_insanity]

[Fay really wasn't feeling too brilliant either, too many things crowding in on his mind, too many questions and thoughts more confusing than he'd ever had to deal with in his life. He tended to pretend he didn't have choices, that everything was just one straight path from A to B. Why stay and fight his family for the right to be who he was, when he could run away? Why let anyone close when moving on was so easy?

But suddenly the world seems full of alternatives and riddles and none of it looks easy. Except getting drunk and possibly high/laid/hospitalized. That seemed like a very good idea right now.

At first he doesn't pay much mind to anyone, only reacts to the tired tone of voice of the bartender telling the man next to him that this really is the last drink. He's used that voice often enough himself. But it makes him look twice at the other man, and... oh.]

Dear god, sugar, this really went rough on you, didn't it? You look terrible.

[secondcomingof]

Nngh.

[ That nngh wasn't in response to anything in particular, by the way—not to the bartender rebuking him nor to Fay chiding him. Just a general expression of frustration and ow, the migraine's coming on sooner than usual this time, not that it's a huge surprise. He knew he couldn't ward it off forever.

Casval shifts from his coagulating puddle of drool, mussed hair shifting with him, but he only winds up further pressed into the counter's surface. So much for making an honest effort to leave as the staff have been advising him to do for the past... while. Sorry, Fay, he's not the most talkative at the moment. Or the most coherent. ]

[comparative_insanity]

Oh dear.

[And usually he would just shrug and go back to what he's doing, not care what some drunk has seen to get him like this. Except Fay has seen it too, and he's still not nearly as wasted, and he feels... responsible, somehow. So he sighs, slipping out of his seat and without hesitating for even a moment lifts the taller man's arm off the counter and slips it around his own shoulders, starting to help him up.]

We're getting you to the bathroom, before you throw up here. Sweetie- [This is addressed to the barman.] -get me an empty glass, he needs some water. Come along, honey.

[secondcomingof]

[ Careful, Fay. That's a lot of weight you're trying to bear almost all on your own. The captain is not a small man by any measure and the tipsiness won't be lending any ease to your otherwise noble endeavor. Not that he's resisting, because he doesn't have the foresight to, but there's little he can do to assist, even if he's ultimately right: the bathroom is definitely the place he needs to be right now. ]

Can't. Somewhere else. They'll find me there. [ He shudders beneath the crushing grip of paranoia. ] They'll shoot me, too. They're everywhere.

[comparative_insanity]

[Thankfully, there is something about your job being a rather strenuous work-out session and the fact that you have to stay really fit to keep it, that means Fay isn't nearly as feeble as his thin frame would suggest. It's taxing, yes, but he can definitely manage it.]

Hush, sweetie, you ain't going anywhere in this state. Just around this table here, there's a darling. We're almost there.

[And he manages to manhandle that towering giant of a man through the door somehow, knowing his back will probably feel it in the morning.]

You're gonna have to kneel down now, you think you can do that for me if I help you a bit?

I APOLOGIZE FOR THIS ICON it was the only "leaning over" one I had sobs....

[secondcomingof]

[ Then he'll thank you for it later when he can find the words to, honestly. Words that aren't preceded (or succeeded) by vomiting. He's still vaguely impressed in his royally fucked up mind of minds that Fay gets them both into the bathroom with only a stumble or two to show for it—and he knows he'll be feeling it in the morning, too, among plenty of other nasty things—but for now, he just nods dumbly. Permits himself to be led along and instructed, because not having to do the leading for once is pleasant beyond description. He kneels without a single question or complaint, if shakily. ]

Never apologize. Never.

[comparative_insanity]

[He's thanking mercy for Casval's compliance, and tries to make sure he doesn't knock himself senseless on the toilet seat at the very least, although the landing probably wasn't too kind on his knees.]

Here, lean. [He gently guides him forward into the correct position for the most humiliating instance of hugging an inanimate object that most people ever achieve in their lifetimes.] Should I get you some water now, or do you think you can... manage on your own?

[secondcomingof]

[ Well, this is a view he's seen before. Several times. Not today, not yet by some unspoken miracle, but yes, him and Mr. Toilet are very familiar with each other. Just never intimate in the company of others, which is why the tattered remains of Casval's pride surge to the forefront and he's shaking his head, refusing to believe this is happening and cowering towards the stall's corner instead.

For a man who looks as though he could send a brick wall crashing down with one well-aimed kick if he so chose, he seems as frightened as a child caught in a storm. A storm he can't escape, no matter how hard he tries. ]

club can't handle me right now

[masterofbling]

[Big Dick bursts into this particular watering hole after a long night of bar hopping. Looks like he had the same idea. He's surrounded by a gaggle of his girls, all competing to impress him by blathering about this and that. One had even seen fit to wrap a feather boa around his neck, leaving feathers to cling to his Armani suit. He spots the back of a familiar blonde head at the bar and swaggers over, taking his entourage of wannabe concubines with him.]

Now pay attention! That is the kind of hair you should be aiming for.

[Is he drunk? Oh, most definitely.]

GIRLS BE UP IN THE CLUB LIKE WOAH, YO

[secondcomingof]

[ The giggling bunch of no doubt finely mannered ladies would've perked the ears of anyone even remotely male—or otherwise interested—from miles off, but they spur no reaction from Casval, who'd much rather ignore their existence than acknowledge the trouble headed his direction.

And Mr. "Big Dick" was always trouble.

Somehow, that familiar voice cuts through the drunken fog, and Casval is lifting his leaden head with a delayed blink, blink, blink, staring at Richard through reddened eyes. What are you doing here? He doesn't ask but he already knows.

This is not going to end well for him. ]

[masterofbling]

["If you hit a deer on the road and it's still alive, shoot it in the head." One of the few good pieces of advice his father had given him. Big Dick is definitely aiming to shoot this particular deer between the eyes. It'd be nice mounted on his wall.]

May, June, Julia.

[He snaps his fingers and three girls step forward: a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead.]

What do you think, Captain Mass? Pick your flavor. Or do you want to go neapolitan?

[secondcomingof]

[ Boy, would it ever. But Casval still is cognizant enough to sense a trap when it's about to spring, especially one as obvious as this. Even if Richard's sporting three heads all of a sudden and those girls smell enticing if horribly, terribly trashy at the same time. ]

Take your bloody cocksluts [ ouch, language ] somewhere else.

[ He manages to groan it out, clawing a few strands of scraggy hair into place and shooting him a look. ]

Not interested.

[masterofbling]

Now, now, let's not be rash. At least let them walk you back to base. Or do you want to be seen all drunk and disorderly?

[A drunken man's mind is easy to fathom. They're looking to make mistakes. They want to make mistakes.]

[secondcomingof]

[ Except mistakes were already made. Far too many. Casval shakes his head. Whines, like a child, and feels like one, lost and abandoned. Turns aside so he can't see them smirking at him. ]

Too late for that. [ Too late for everything. Just whip out your pretty iGadget already so he can be done with this. ] Go. Please.

[masterofbling]

[His girls have already gotten more than enough pictures for him. That's not good enough. Not quite enough potential leverage.]

May, would you please help Captain Mass to his feet? He's had enough.

Still waiting to hear back on an Echo OK, but... fuck it, assuming it was

[reapsthewind]

[Was it time for a drink? Hell yeah it was.

Her skin itched. She pushed the feeling down, but she still had that feeling of wrongness. Wrong body, wrong body entirely. Everything seemed too large, too tall. And then, what she'd heard...

No, felt. Felt was better. Satisfaction. Pride. Relief. And a smugness, and then... terror and fear. Recognition. Violet light. A brief glimpse of an alien sky...

Coronation? This is bad comedy.

Then, a memory of pain and... blackness.

It was a memory. But a fragmented, piecemeal memory, and it was nothing compared to the strange humming in her chest. The humming that made her all too aware of the sloshing of fluids inside her, the way every orifice seemed to ooze and drip. The way she thought she could feel her body rotting from the inside out.

Yes, it was time for booze.

Somehow, she wasn't surprised to see Casval there. She's seen his pictures. ]

Bartender, a Dark and Stormy, would you? It's the sort of night for it. [she says, sliding to a stool nearby. Drink... and then perhaps, after the hangover clears, flying? No, a bad idea. Never fly when emotionally compromised.]

o/ sounds good! did we want to assume they did wind up meeting on base/knowing each other?

[secondcomingof]

[ Truthfully, the pictures—even the not-so-nice ones—did him far more justice than he deserved currently, washed up and trashed in what, under ordinary circumstances, Casval would've considered a dump. But the only dump here is him, twitchy eyes and twitchy fingers in a disaster of a uniform he was once so very proud of. Now, he wonders if he shouldn't just burn it. Throw himself into the flames, as well, as if the immolation might rid himself of the things that seared within.

Ignorant of the woman who's joined him in the miserable activity of forgetting, he's nursing his last drink of the evening, though every swig spills half of it, uncoordinated and utterly inelegant. This is the not the Captain at his best. This is the Captain at his worst, at a level so far beyond worst he can't even begin to contemplate the consequences of such.

Never fly when emotionally compromised. Too bad he only learned that lesson the hard way, the literal way, and now wants nothing more than to fly away from his life and all the nightmares that came with it, as fast as he could. ]

HAHA sure. Also should I start that log? What's the base like? idk???

[reapsthewind]

"Perhaps you shouldn't order another, sir," she says, though the sir is said somewhat sarcastically. "You look a right mess."

She takes a swig of her own drink.

"But then, I can't really blame you, either."

[argents]

[ It's getting late, and it's dark, that electric kind of dark that makes you take a look at things twice, and what once passed for a reasonably ordinary life is looking more and more like a stranger to Banagher. Things that once slipped neatly into place, day after day, have begun to uncomfortably shift, and he's been utterly powerless to stop the seams from ripping. The network, the strangers rallying behind the most brutal show of injustice he's ever seen, things stamped onto his mind's eye, the city he's grown up in distorting into an unfamiliar landscape, strange as the surface of the moon...

He can't make sense of any of it, no matter how hard he tries. His frustrations are levied by throwing himself into coursework at the university—On the weekend, Banagher? his mother had asked—until all he can do is sit in the empty library and stare at his blank computer screen until his eyes burn. After that, he forces himself out into the street, one headphone wedged in his ear to make the walk home seem less severe.

Because he's seen them. The little black dandelions. Alley cats with whites in their eyes, streetwise city birds with feathers articulated like fingers. Nothing on the news has done anything to stop the apprehension of dealing with those things, things that shouldn't be.

So his walk along the avenues is tense, even with people still milling about, bright yellow taxis and emptied buses still ferrying the public along.

Something demands his attention, he's not sure what. The chatter and music from a nearby bar, a howling cat, or the blare of a car horn, maybe, and he's stumbling into someone accidentally as a result— ]

S-Sorry, I wasn't paying attention!

[ What must be a bar patron, if the overwhelming scent of liquor is anything to go by. ]

[secondcomingof]

[ Getting late is just getting started for Casval, though there's no clear end to it, either, the way everything is blurring together and stealing his focus and robbing his posture of its steadiness. He's bumped into his fair of strangers on his journey of wherever he's going, he doesn't care, so to stumble straight into another barely fazes him or whatever feathers are left to even ruffle.

He does, however, glance down woozily at the shrill cry, to the young man that made it. Most of his victims just grumbled and kept walking, or shoved him into the nearest lamp post for his indiscretion, or worse. The fresh shiner on his jaw attests to worse.

Slowly, the dawning moment of recognition filters through the alcohol buzzing heavy on his brain, and he turns half-lidded and thoroughly toasted eyes on Banagher, something coming out of his mouth like words, he isn't sure. Maybe he isn't even here at all, and wouldn't that be wonderful? ]

Amuro.

Amuro Ray.

[ No, not Amuro, Banagher Links. Why had that name come to mind? Amuro Ray, White Devil, Gundam. The scene starts looping in his head again and he steps back, startled. Paralyzed by that fear again.

Amuro Ray... I'll definitely kill you. ]

[argents]

You!

[ Banagher similarly reels back, though confusion quickly rushes in to replace whatever initial burst of surprise took him first. Once he's put space between them, he spares a moment to glance him up and down with an uneasy expression. Spooked, almost. ]

Casval? Who are you talking to? [ Eyes flashing to either side, he comes up with one answer. ] Me?

[ There isn't anyone else around, so that's what he has to assume, but everything about this, from the unfamiliar name to the alarming rate at which Casval had gone from commanding and sharp to... this, whatever it was, seems all wrong. More wrong, everywhere he looked. Kallie's warnings linger in the back of his mind, the decisive companion of the vague defense he'd given in response. No one on the network seemed to be taking the last week very well, himself included, but trying to line up the man in front of him with the one he met at the piano was nearly impossible. ]

[secondcomingof]

[ Nearly impossible, and yet he was the same person—the same person at the piano and the same person who danced with the devil in the atmosphere on a stage of his own creation. Something compels him to reach forward, grasp onto Banagher's shoulder when he retreats a distance. Desperation. You can't go. I'm not through with you yet.

But mostly it's just a gambit to keep himself upright, because this Red Comet is definitely about to fall the fuck over. So much for all that elegant coordinated and air of class from earlier. This is just a washed up, dried up husk of a soldier. A man gone mad.

You might want to move, Banagher. Shove him off, if you can. Otherwise, you're going down with him. ]

[argents]

[ That would be the smartest course of action, obviously, but some tiny, shining beacon of morality still compels him to do the more ridiculous of his two options.

Which is anchor his weight and try not to let them both take the inevitable spill into the pavement. ]

What the hell's wrong with you!? [ Is what he blurts out, even when he's taking the brunt of what amounts to (nearly) dead weight. It ends in sort of an awkward catch-slash-shove upright with his shoulders. To his credit, he's much stronger than he looks, but keeping a knock-down, drag-out drunk nearly three times your size afloat isn't a feat he's going to manage for more than a minute, at most. ] Hey! Stand up, already!

[secondcomingof]

[ The painful impact of heads and limbs on pavement Casval expects doesn't come. Instead, what he gets is a small pair of shoulders straining against his, and an even smaller pair of hands trying to bear what may as well have been the weight of the world. Banagher stands firm and through some miracle manages to will Casval into doing the same, if only just.

He stumbles backward, shakily, finding the support of moldy brick to sink against rather than a bewildered boy. The dazed features, wide eyes, tangled hair, finally fall into place. This was... ]

Banagher.

[ Oh, but of all the people. Shame burns hot in his cheeks and he looks away. ]

I...

[ There's no convenient excuse he can use. Banagher's a smart kid. He's surprised now but he'll put it together soon enough, what the hell's wrong with him. Hopefully, he'd just huff in disgust and dismiss him for the sorry excuse of a soldier he is. Turn his back and leave Casval in the dust.

Hopefully. ]

[argents]

[ Huffing from the sudden exertion, Banagher finds a second or two to be grateful that his effort didn't end up in vain. It doesn't stop him from replacing that same distance between them, however, once Casval seems to dredge up some shred of self-awareness. Right name this time, at least. Even if he gets the feeling that that part was the least of his worries in the long run.

Adjusting the shoulder strap of his bag, a fidget with a good outlet, really, Banagher exhales. Steels. He's breaking the situation down silently, appraising with a look that is stern. And sympathetic. ]

You need to go home. [ Singing is own praises on judgment of character isn't something that he'll do, but there is a sad sense about him. That this man was capable of much more. ] This—this isn't right.