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

[argents]

[ Banagher's only half rising to that obvious bait. In truth, it simmers quietly in some untapped part of an anger that just refuses to blossom, but now is not the time. These streets weren't exactly dangerous, not normally, but little had been normal in the past handful of days. More than he fears the vague concept of boogeymen lurking in alleyways, he fears the rapid silhouettes of animals, the things that could smell you out first.

In light of that, he's done wasting time.

Looks like he's just going to have to wing it and dial the cab anyway. ]

If I believed that, I wouldn't be here.

[secondcomingof]

[ Casval isn't exactly leaping to stop him, but nor is he lending any assistance to Banagher's—yet again, undeservedly noble—endeavors, pouting in his proverbial corner and continuing to rub his wrists raw. There was more than the influence of alcohol and nightmarish visions at work here, clearly, a niggling paranoia that kept his eyes darting anxiously from side to side, though with any luck, Banagher wouldn't notice. ]

Do you believe in anything, Banagher? In this? Or are you planning on ignoring it? Disregarding it? I told everyone, you know, I told them before it happened. [ His tone is beginning to race. Trip over itself. ] Nobody listens because they've all got their heads up their own bloody arses, whistling lalalala, well now it's hitting the fan and there's fuck-all we can do about it and...

[ ...yeah, better hurry up with that call. He's not slowing down anytime soon. ]

[argents]

[ Banagher's already busy talking to dispatch, turning his back on him and stepping off the curb to try and get a good look at the cross-streets. Also known fondly as: ignoring the shit out of your babbling so you might as well calm down. ]

Yeah, immediate pick up—yes. Thanks, you too.

[ Sighing, Banagher glances back at him. Some part of him wants to take his wrists, tell him to stop it. Another part is afraid of what he might find. He's not stupid, he knows there's something decidedly wrong about this, from the inside out. Something is there, chasing him mercilessly in the confines of his own head, and in an attempt to quiet it, crush it, he's turned to...

He disapproves, thinks this might be the last time he'll see Casval. He's even a little nervous at the unpredictability of his volatile nature. But there is something he believes, that keeps him from leaving. It remains unvoiced in the wake of his tirade because sparking another is something he can really live without. ]

The cab will be here in a few minutes. Are you going to take it?

[secondcomingof]

[ Calm down he most certainly does not; if anything, Casval only works himself up even more, though in his feverish ramblings he seems to have forgotten Banagher was there to begin with. Only when Banagher's voice is turned on him again does he blink, blink, blink, cock his head towards the boy and wonder: what was I just talking about? ]

A cab? Why did you call one? I'm fine.

[ But at least it's progress from a bull-headed and defiant no. Casval picks at an old wound etched across his knuckles and peers at Banagher strangely, like seeing him for the first time. ]

I'm absolutely fine. Couldn't be better, though Char's getting annoying.

[ ...Casval doesn't appear to notice anything amiss about referring to a voice in his head as a separate entity, trailing on in a mistier tone. ]

I didn't see where the Gundam went. The technology was impressive; I didn't know machines could fly like that. Did you?

[argents]

You're not fine.

[ Nice try, though. A for effort, solid F- for execution. Shoving his phone in his pocket, he's wracking his brain for a way to wring his address from him without having to manually search for his phone, and pray to god that it had "Go home" a GPS feature.

Weighing his words, Banagher's gaze combs him for any breaks in the apparent calm. Calm that was still riddled with what he thinks is nonsense. ]

Lots of machines fly. Like planes. [ Radar technology, weather balloons... ] There isn't anything called a Gundam, Casval...

[secondcomingof]

[ He's far from calm, in truth. It's just a flickering serene wave in an otherwise stormy sea, fast disappearing once his eyes twitch at what he perceives as ridicule. Not a wise move on your part, Banagher. Don't provoke the crazy person. ]

It wasn't a bloody plane, you nitwit.

[ Casval has to pause and gather the coordination necessary to form a shape with his arms in the air. Vaguely like what he saw, of the bright white machine the red one fought. ]

It was shaped like a man. Encased in metal. Gundam. I don't know... something that dams guns? It had armor, there was an insignia. Somebody made it, and somebody piloted it.

[ He flicks his wrist upward, as if to draw an imaginary sword from a sheath. ]

Sparks. Lots of sparks. They hated each other, clearly. They were out for blood. Char, more than anyone.

[ But no more than Char hated the world. ]

[argents]

[ >Banagher
>wise

There's your problem. ]

So, you remember a fight? Between machines, ones that fly.

[ If anything, he's listening. The change in demeanor, no matter how forced or fleeting, makes all the difference. Concentration plays on his features more than pale, vague contempt, which was really more a product of the way he was acting than what he was saying. If even the slightest memory was capable of invoking the violent pursuit he'd promised, back in the piano room, then he can't imagine what a battle would be capable of. All he can infer is that the only thing that lined up for him was Char. ]

Machines with armor, swords, and pilots. [ Even with an exhale, meant to collect himself, he can't envision it. Why he thinks to ask this, he doesn't know, but... ]

Where was it?

[secondcomingof]

[ There. That's better. Pretending to care is an improvement over eye rolling and brushing off. Even drunk, he knows when he's being made fun of. Casval nods with jerky enthusiasm at armor, swords, and pilots, elaborating further: ]

Yes, yes! Like flying knights, but sleeker. And the swords, well... they glowed. Made of energy, rather than metal. The pilots— [ No. NononononoNO. Don't remember their names. Don't remember Char Aznable. Extinction. He freezes up as though shot by some stray bullet, then skips over the matter entirely to Banagher's question. ] —up there. In the sky.

[ Casval points into the hazy clouds. ]

In space. Far above the atmosphere. Birds gone awry in a sea of stars.

[argents]

[ Banagher's first instinct is to look straight up. Into that sea of stars he knows is engulfed by clouds, city light, human waste—smog and pollution. Instead he resists it, casts his gaze straight back into the ground, down to the pavement and the dust, as if to admonish it.

Greetings citizens of Earth and space...

...Maybe you saw me a long time ago, in your memories. ]

Space...

[ Nothing really coalesces beyond that, not when the headlights of a bright yellow taxi flood across his pensive features as it pulls up to the curb. ]

[secondcomingof]

[ Casval cringes from the encroaching light. Too bright. Too close. Glancing warily at it, nibbling at the crack in his lip, he throws his head from side to side. Grabs hold of Banagher's shoulders, insistent. ]

Listen, I'll—I'll go, alright? But just listen, for now. [ His grip tightens. Unbidden, tightly coiled secrets come undone, perhaps in a last ploy for Banagher to take him seriously. ] I... I see things, sometimes. That I shouldn't. Hear things. Since I was a child. I know it's—wrong. But that's not the point. Listen, Banagher, please.

[ Humbling himself was difficult for Casval, especially before someone half his age. But he strives with whatever focus remains to do so. Tries to pass his will into Banagher's, somehow, through the contact. As if he could understand through such dubious means. ]

This was real. I felt it, it wasn't some hallucination. The man fighting the Gundam, fighting Amuro Ray, he had my face, my voice. He's important. Who he is matters. What he was saying: "I'll wipe it all out." "Those people down there deserve to die." It was my voice saying it. I was in the machine. Sa... [ he struggles over the syllables ] sa-za-bi. And the Gundam.

Space is where it began, Banagher. Maybe... maybe for both of us, I don't know. But it's up there, I know it is. For us to find. For us to seek out. The answers I was talking about! You want them too, [ with all the desperation of a dying, persistent light ] don't you?!

[argents]

[ All he can do is look sorry. Sorry for what, he doesn't know. That Casval was in this state of hysterics, that he was turning Banagher's newborn opinion on its head, that it was an opinion he was now questioning the existence of at all, that this was happening, that he can't shed any light or give any comfort in the face of everything that pours from him like the floodgates have opened and nothing can stop the ugly destruction that torrents out...

So Banagher just looks at him. Takes his raw wrists in his hands and removes them from his shoulders, so he can step towards the curb and open the door of the cab for him. ]

I'm sorry, that I can't make this make sense. It—[ Tentatively, his hand meanders up, up towards the flicker of a heartbeat in his chest that feels so strange, now. ]—this needs a rest.

[ Though he indicates his own, he hopes Casval can at least pick up on what he means.

Rest it, before it's destroyed.

He moves aside. ]

Go home.

[secondcomingof]

[ Before it's...

Except with those words, so few and yet so powerful, he feels as if it's already gone. Casval gapes after him, entirely at a loss. Winded, like he'd just been socked in the gut. Nothing he said had...? But... no, he should've anticipated this. He should've known. Of course he wouldn't understand. That was the isolation of madness.

Of Char Aznable.

His eyes widen to such a degree that it's a wonder they don't simply burst from their sockets. Grimacing in absolute rejection of what Banagher's said. I don't want to be alone. I don't want to be alone. I don't want to be alone. To be pulled down by that insanity. To dance with the devil in a world he doesn't know.

Banagher is treated to a brief look of utter despair, but it is no less intense for its fleeting nature, spreading like shattered glass on the asphalt of his face. Gutted, absolutely, to the core. That's a wound to last a lifetime. ]

[secondcomingof]

[ And then the rage bubbles up, fast and furious, climaxing in an open-palmed slap to Banagher's cheek. It echoes off his skin and down the gutter, an appropriate place for it go. Exactly where he's wound up.

Casval throws himself into the cab, slams the door shut, and the last thing heard is an infuriated roar of drive, a screech of hot rubber as it tears off into the night. You got your wish, Banagher. He's going home.

Your turn. ]

[argents]

[ For a split second, Banagher swears he sees the stars Casval spoke of. Glimmering white-hot behind his eyes as soon as his hand connects sharply with the side of his face, physically cowing him. He's left staring wide-eyed at the ground as Casval makes his exit.

Adrenaline surges through him and fades just as quick, a little firework of a feeling, and his heart belatedly thuds in his chest. Loud, thick, distant—rising to the surface in the heat of his cheek, now staining a bright, sore red. He's never been hit before, at least not like that, and he's too stunned to do anything but let it sink in. Realizing the kind of difference intent makes, that power makes.

When he comes to, blinks the shock away, the cab is long gone. A drop of fear fuels him to finally move, to find his way back home, neither victorious nor defeated.

A draw. ]