[EVENT | Week 9, Day 3 ] Master Network Post
Welcome to Kannagara!
This post is for all visiting characters! You can use this master network post as the network itself and have your character make video, voice, or text posts to the network. Just mark in the subject line whether it is video/voice/text! Feel free to thread jump, comment spam, etc.
HAVE FUN!
This post is for all visiting characters! You can use this master network post as the network itself and have your character make video, voice, or text posts to the network. Just mark in the subject line whether it is video/voice/text! Feel free to thread jump, comment spam, etc.
HAVE FUN!
Spirit cares not for all of that. He just wants to know where the hell he is and how the hell can he call overseas.]
Excuse me, operator? [A shuffle, and a frown.] Is this functioning? I need to make an overseas call.
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He never thought he'd hear it again. His voice is partly shocked, partly happy, despite his current distress at finding himself suddenly in a world that was very definitively not Anatole.]
...S-Spirit?!
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-- ugh why an old man?
Either way, fact still stands, this stranger knows him. So Spirit is ... partially confused. Maybe he is a Meister or Weapon or a representative at some other school?]
Yeah?
[Have a, who-are-you face.]
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You don't--
[--remember me? But no, of course not. It's obvious he doesn't. And it's not the first time, either. People have disappeared and returned before with no memory of Anatole...and this isn't even Anatole. Scar sighs and his gaze turns down.]
Fuck.
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(But you've understood how to read people for years, watch the tell-tale signs of surrender or indignant lines on their faces when you grill them with questions, all in the name of duty. So you know, this is not a medical problem. But you'll play the part too, won't you?)
So right now? Spirit is mildly alarmed.]
Oi, oi, old man, now wait there just a second! Are you all right? Can you feel your left arm?
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It'd be like their usual routine, Spirit annoying the hell out of him and him replying irritably until Spirit shifted the conversation into something more friendly, the way he always did.
But it's not the same if he doesn't remember him.
Scar's expression slides into something a lot more neutral, but there's a touch of sadness in his eyes. Shit. Any of the times Scar had thought about Spirit coming back...he'd never really thought of the possibility that he wouldn't remember.
He never expected it would hurt like it did now. (Since when did he start getting so close to people, anyway?)
He sighs again, and answers, quietly.]
I'm not an old man.
[...Because he supposes, there's something to be said for old times.]
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[Spirit huffs, so much for that. He gives this 'old man' a look that clearly shows the displeased feeling that is bubbling in his stomach. The man knows him, but Spirit doesn't. It's all there in his face, the corner of his eyes, between his eyebrows, and the slight barely-seen lines around his lips, the firm set of his jaw.
Spirit can't help it. He does not know this person.
So Spirit will continue with his charade till he gets the details.]
Sure had me fooled there for a minute. It's a little hard to tell. What with your not-so-pleasant-face and [here he tries to mimic Scar's voice] gruff voice.
[A sigh.]
I thought you were having a heart attack, old man.
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[And maybe there's the tiniest hint of amusement now, at the recollection of Spirit's reaction when he told him that the first time.
Talking to him now, there's a flood of nostalgia at all those old memories from the two and a half months they spent together. It's not even long, in the scheme of things, but...he can't help it. Spirit was the first familiar face in a strange new world, which...if it was anything like Anatole, would keep him here for who knew how long.]
I'm younger than you.
...I know you don't remember. But I met you almost six months ago now, in a world like this one, but called Anatole. We shared an apartment for nearly three months.
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( ... )
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But it's obvious that simply arguing will not move this conversation along. He'll have to prove what he says is true, beyond a shadow of a doubt.]
Your name is Spirit Albarn. You're divorced from your wife and you have a daughter named Maka. You work for someone called 'Shinigami.'
You said you reap the souls of those who have lost their way, and you can turn parts of your body into a blade. Your greatest fear--or at least, one of them, is to be forced to do this to your daughter.
You flirt at practically anything female. You have a soft spot for kids. Your favorite food is pasta.
[All this is said in a detached, clinical tone, as if rattling the items off a grocery list.]
...Is that enough to prove I knew you, or should I keep going?
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(You know what it means, to be exposed like this to a stranger. You know what it means, the sacrifices that must come with it, the distance, the silence -- you have dedicated prayers to avoid this very damn thing! And now, here it is. Right before you and you don't even have allies to cover your back.)
Spirit is silent, he is serious now, no trace of humor or cheery facades or smart ass words or even flirting. The rest doesn't bother him, it is the fact that this man knows about Maka, about Shinigami, and worst of all, his very fear.
Everyone knows of his ability, he is a well known Weapon. The Weapon, even. ]
Well, you are well informed, it seems. You either do your research well or you have people who do their research well ( ... )
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Scar stares at the screen, at Spirit's change in expression. And then the words register. They register, but they don't quite sink in right away. He just stares at the feed numbly for a few more moments.
And then, it hits, the full impact of all that.
Not only did his words not prove to Spirit he knew him...telling him everything he knew, everything about the man that was his roommate, eventually his...friend? (Did he dare to call him that?)...it actually made the man suspicious of him.
It hits him like a punch in the gut. He gives Spirit that look again, one that is shocked and wounded and something in the back of his eyes stings, except he doesn't think he can cry. He thinks he cried out all his tears thirteen years ago into the desert sands over a sun as merciless as any Amestrian soldier.]
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Wh-- Goddamn it, Spirit, I don't want anything from you!
I was your--your [He still...can't bring himself to say 'friend' for some reason] r-roomate, goddamn it! We knew each other for months!
We--you--I...
Aarghh!
[He makes a frustrated noise...and gives up trying to finish the sentence, feeling distraught and upset and confused]
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( ... )
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[The familiar insult escapes from him, and the anger is coiled tightly around the word, lacking the lightness familiarity it always carried.]
Why do you think--why do you think I'm angry?!
[But with the anger is hurt again, a broken, nearly hysterical sort of hurt of someone who is hoping against hope that a practical joke on some grand scale has been played on them]
You're talking to me like, like some sort of fucking enemy spy when we were--
[The word dies in his throat again, but this time he's determined. It takes several moments of struggle, but he finally manages to whisper it quietly] friend.
[He feels a pang of guilt gnaw almost as soon as he says it, because it almost feels presumptuous, to call them that when Spirit had not referred to him as such, back in Anatole, and he flinches a little, draws into himself unconsciously.
But there's still something in his eyes that is wild and plaintive and desperate, and somehow he needs this Spirit who doesn't (and never will) remember him to accept that he's telling the ( ... )
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[ Have a pink blob of joy. ]
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