SUGAR & SAY THAT YOU WILL ● JUNE 2026 EVENT/TDM

[uruz]

TDM & EVENT: SUGAR & SAY THAT YOU WILL

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Prologue: The Pull

Sleep's wave comes unevenly after the heat of the last few weeks stack upon each other, weighed down by something that lingers even after consciousness fades for Veteran Vessels. A newer Vessel's dreams begin in familiar places before the edges darken and lose definition. A tide rolls in slowly, black and glossy, thick like oil spreading across water. Its scent arrives first, unmistakably sweet and heavy, clinging to the senses and pulling you down.

The tide slips through the dream space, seeping beneath doors, climbing walls, pooling around ankles and wrists, remaining close enough to be felt without forcing itself forward. The sensation draws attention rather than fear, offering warmth rather than the pressure of scary resistance.

For younger vessels, or those uninterested in seduction, the darkness softens as it rises. The feeling becomes comforting, like being wrapped in a blanket, accompanied by the sense that something beautiful waits ahead. The promise is simple: a place where indulgence is allowed, where desire is not something to be denied. For older vessels, the closeness carries intimacy: The tide glides along skin with deliberate intent, lingering at throats, hips, and mouths, its presence suggestive without revealing a form. Breath seems to brush against them, and the promise offered is indulgence without apology, to be wanted and consumed without consequence.

The tide does not claim them unless they allow it. Consent comes quietly, through a thought, a movement toward it, the choice not to pull away. When that choice is made, the water surges upward, swallowing the dream and pulling them beneath its surface.

You all will awaken within a Garden.

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Play A Twisted Little Game

( content warnings: substance use, intoxication themes, addiction/temptation, manipulation and coercive influence, loss of inhibition, altered mental state, psychological horror, compulsive behavior, predatory/hunting instincts, animalistic aggression. )

The Garden stretches outward in impossible directions, lush to the point of excess, resembling a marvelously distorted fairy tale. Enormous flowers crowd the paths, their petals thick and glossy, colors saturated beyond reason. Trees twist into arches and spirals, their branches heavy with glowing fruit that hangs low enough to brush against shoulders. Massive mushrooms dot the landscape, their luminous caps casting soft light across the ground like candles and leading the way. Even where you step, flourescense lights your path.

Golden pollen drifts constantly through the air, clinging to skin and hair. Breathing it in brings a spreading warmth that softens one's restraint and dulls hesitation without fully erasing it. Laughter comes more easily, thoughts slow, and the urge to linger strengthens with every sweet breath you take.

The fruit is irresistible, for the record. It looks perfect, tastes even better, and leaves behind a pleasant haze that encourages indulgence. Those who partake may find themselves giving in to impulses they normally deny, choosing comfort over caution, distraction over vigilance, and pleasure over restraint. None of it feels dangerous, is how it entices you. How can it, when it feels this good?

Beyond fruit and flora, the Garden reshapes itself to suit each Vessel's wants and needs. It conjures whatever they love most, presenting it without shame or judgment. A clearing may reveal an entire pyramid of chilled pudding, each cup untouched and gleaming with sugar. A flower may open to offer fragrant tobacco and a lighter placed carefully within its petals. Sheltered spaces may contain alcohol, sweets, games, toys, music, drugs, books, instruments— anything capable of drawing the vessel deeper into indulgence.

The objects are real. They feel real, food tastes real, and they all satisfy, too.

The Garden responds eagerly to its use ever time. Paths widen, flowers bloom brighter, and the air grows warmer as indulgence continues among vessels. At the same time, subtle shifts begin to take hold. The pollen thickens, the sweetness becomes heavier, and vines creep closer to well-traveled spaces, brushing against ankles and legs as though testing their very boundaries. The more vessels indulge, the more the Garden thrives, and the harder it becomes to imagine leaving when everything they desire is right within reach.

Under a pink moon that hangs low above the canopy, the forest responds differently to Beastkin Tokens and Lycan Offerings. Scents sharpen and layer richly in the air. The hum of life beneath the soil grows louder, vibrating through bone and animal instinct. The floating pollen enhances instinct rather than dulling it. Hunger, territoriality, the urge to roam or chase press closer to the surface. The Garden may conjure open stretches of moonlit forest for running, fleeting silhouettes that invite pursuit, or rival presences that vanish just ahead of your grasp. Indulgence here may take the form of movement, dominance, or surrender to instinct beneath that glowing sky. The more these instincts are indulged, the more the forest reshapes itself to accommodate them, you, clearing paths forward, closing them behind, and making your hunts all the more exhilirating.

Token Effects

• Tokens may temporarily lose track of time spent in the Garden.
• A Token who indulges repeatedly may find decision-making delayed or softened, hesitating when asked to leave, choose violence, or break comfort.
• Emotional responses skew toward contentment and nostalgia. Irritation and fear are harder to access unless provoked sharply.
• Tokens may unconsciously rationalize indulgence, defending their choices even when questioned by others.
• After waking, Tokens can retain phantom cravings or habits tied to what they indulged in, persisting for a short time in the waking world.

Offering Effects

• Offerings may feel an increased urge to facilitate indulgence rather than prevent it, guiding Tokens toward comfort, distraction, or pleasure.
• Protective instincts soften; instead of guarding against danger, Offerings may prioritize keeping the Token relaxed and satisfied.
• Offerings might become indulgent themselves by proxy, gaining emotional satisfaction from watching or enabling their Token’s enjoyment.
• When indulgence is interrupted, Offerings may feel mild irritation or disappointment disproportionate to the situation.
• Upon waking, Offerings may recall the dream with unusual fondness, even if nothing dramatic occurred within it.

Beastkin Tokens & Lycan Offerings Specific Effects

• Beastkin Tokens may experience heightened body awareness, reacting more strongly to terrain, scent trails, and movement through space.
• Repetitive motion (running paths, circling clearings, pacing) can become grounding and soothing rather than restless.
• Lycan Offerings may feel compelled to remain nearby without overt guarding, choosing proximity over patrol or vigilance.
• Subtle pack dynamics can emerge naturally, with unspoken positioning, shared pacing, or mirroring behavior during indulgence.
• After waking, both may feel briefly unsettled by confined spaces or inactivity, as if the body expects continued motion.

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I've Developed A Taste For You

( content warnings: sexual content, aphrodisiac/sex pollen themes, coercion and impaired consent, restraint/bondage, dominance and submission themes, group sexual activity, possessiveness/territorial behavior, altered mental state. )

Deeper within the Garden lies a secluded expanse enclosed by dense growth that blocks sound and sight, forming a space that feels deliberately intimate. Vegetation grows close together, walls of leaves and vines pulsing faintly with warmth. Narrow beams of filtered light illuminate patches of soft ground and clusters of flowers that drip thick, honey-like nectar.

The air here is saturated with pollen that acts as a powerful aphrodisiac. Breathing it in heightens sensation immediately, making skin more reactive, touch more intense, and proximity impossible to ignore. Every sound feels closer than it should. Every movement carries weight.

The vines guide bodies together, coiling around ankles, wrists, and torsos, holding vessels in place until closeness is acknowledged. Resistance causes the grip to tighten insistently, while participation loosens it and rewards it with warmth and pressure that borders on pleasure.

The flora actively takes part for those who allow it. Vines may restrain, blindfold, or position bodies, holding them steady or pulling them closer. Some respond to voice and movement, tightening rhythmically, teasing, or delivering sharp sensations when struck or commanded. Flowers open at the sound of breath and noise, releasing thicker clouds of pollen that intensify arousal and blur restraint further.

Nectar drips freely from petals, sweet and sticky, suited for tasting, smearing, and shared indulgence, its effects compounding with every use. For Vessels willing to surrender more fully, the Garden offers deeper participation through vines capable of penetration, domination, and restraint, shaping themselves to suit acts of intimacy, control, and your very desire.

Every indulgence strengthens the ecosystem. The more Vessels give themselves over, the more responsive and possessive the Garden becomes, reshaping itself around desire until intention and influence begin to bleed into one another.

Under the same pink moon, visible here only in fragments through breaks in the canopy, Beastkin Tokens and Lycan Offerings feel instinct surge sharply to the surface of their consciousness. Scent becomes overwhelming, layered with skin, nectar, and earth. Territoriality, dominance, and physical closeness intensify, shaped by their nature rather than restrained by it. Vines will respond readily, coiling like extensions of instinct, guiding movement and contact. The urge to claim space, to press closer, to bare teeth or mark territory grows stronger beneath the moonlight. The Garden magnifies these impulses, encouraging surrender to physicality and sensation as the forest itself seems to breathe in time with their wild pulse.

Token Effects

• Sex pollen dramatically increases libido and lowers inhibition. Restraint becomes difficult to maintain in close proximity to their Offering/Tether.
• Vines respond more readily to Tokens, coiling around wrists, thighs, or hips at their unspoken command, assisting in pulling partners closer or holding them in place.
• Heightened dominance instinct. Tokens may feel compelled to physically position their Offering or guide additional partners into shared contact.
• Delayed climax and intensified arousal curve. Stimulation builds slowly but relentlessly, demanding escalation before release is possible.
• Stronger territorial urges that may manifest as possessive touch, visible marking (bites, scratches, imprints left by vines), or insistence on being the focal point.
• Increased openness to group dynamics. The pollen dulls jealousy and replaces it with competitive hunger or exhibitionistic thrill.
• Sensitivity to visual and auditory feedback. Moans, trembling, and visible pleasure act as accelerants.
• After climax, arousal may reignite quickly if vines remain in contact, creating cycles of repeated stimulation.

Offering Effects

• Sex pollen heightens physical responsiveness. Arousal triggers quickly and intensely, even from indirect contact or vine pressure.
• Vines tend to restrain or spread the Offering more often, guiding posture and exposing vulnerable areas to touch.
• Increased suggestibility. Coaxing from their Token/Tether or physical encouragement from vines feels compelling and pleasurable rather than coercive.
• Shorter path to orgasm. Climaxes may arrive suddenly and powerfully, especially when restrained or held in place.
• Heightened desire to be touched, filled, or pressed against—physical closeness feels necessary rather than optional.
• Greater willingness to participate in shared intimacy. Additional partners may feel inviting rather than threatening.
• Emotional attachment intensifies during and after climax. Physical pleasure deepens the tether bond.
• Post-climax sensitivity spikes; even light contact from vines or skin may provoke aftershocks or overstimulation.

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Won't You Say That You Will

( content warnings: psychological horror, paranoia, identity distortion/impostor themes, stalking and predation, body horror, transformation, emotional manipulation, obsession/fixation, abandonment themes, possessiveness, isolation, anxiety, mistrust, loss of control. )

There is no sense of departure from the garden following the dream's transition, no moment where the air changes or the ground gives way. One second the dream feels familiar enough to be trusted, and the next it no longer behaves according to the rules it had just taught you. Space stretches in ways that do not correspond to movement. Pathways that should lead somewhere simply continue, folding back on themselves, their angles all wrong.

Suddenly, it's quite cold. Terrible winter winds brew and ice creeps through the newly forming geometry. There are no signs explaining where you are or how you arrived to this now strange, blank canvas of a place stricken with the worst of winter cold. The Backrooms assert themselves through repetition and absence, through hallways that refuse to end and rooms that look as though they were abandoned mid-thought. The air smells faintly of dust and something chemical, thick clouds following your breath. The longer you remain, the more your sense of sequence erodes. It becomes difficult to say whether you have been walking for minutes or hours, or whether the others near you have always been there or only just appeared. Perhaps you'll start losing the feeling you have in your extremities.

Beneath that confusion runs a quieter tension, one that does not feel native to the architecture itself. The space reacts strangely to closeness. When you move nearer to another presence, the lights flicker more often. When you pull away, corridors seem to lengthen. There is an impression, difficult to articulate but persistent, that something is monitoring these shifts, responding the most to hesitation. What does it want from you . . . ? No clue.

That uncertainty carries a familiar weight. Somewhere within the structure of this place is One, though he does not appear in any singular form. His influence manifests through moments of contradiction: doors that almost open, sounds that resemble footsteps but never resolve into a source, and the persistent sense that reassurance is being offered and withdrawn at the same time. There is no overt threat in this presence, but there is desperation threaded through it, a need for proximity paired with the fear that closeness will inevitably end in loss. The environment reflects this conflict, holding you near without fully committing to keeping you around. What's worse— Strange encounters here may happen when paths overlap, when attention lingers too long on a singular spot, or when curiosity outweighs caution.

A Skin-Stealer may be noticed first. At a distance, it looks human enough to pass, moving with an awkward imitation of natural motion, but when closer, details fail to align. Skin does not quite fit the frame beneath it, stretching or sagging where it should not. If you interact with it directly, so much as a call, you may experience a strong sense of familiarity paired with discomfort, as though someone you recognize is wearing themselves incorrectly. Yes— They shall take the form of those you know. Prolonged exposure induces disorientation and mistrust with others. Vessels may begin second-guessing the identities of those around them, hesitating before responding to voices or approaching new figures. If the Skin-Stealer makes physical contact, panic responses spike sharply, and the instinct to flee or isolate becomes overwhelming. The safest response is distance and verification through group presence; these entities struggle to maintain cohesion when closely observed by multiple people at once.

Jerry's presence, on the other hand, is quieter but far more . . . Dangerous? He appears as a thin, dark bird, out of place and almost gentle against the harsh geometry of the Backrooms. Encountering Jerry produces an immediate emotional softening. Characters may feel an unexpected calm, nostalgia, or a pull toward simple comforts that do not logically exist here. Physical contact deepens this effect rapidly. Those who touch or hold Jerry may find their priorities shifting, attention narrowing, and thoughts circling around him with increasing intensity. Speech becomes repetitive, often affectionate or reverent in tone toward Jerry. Decision-making slows, replaced by an urge to stay close and keep Jerry safe. Over time, this devotion can override self-preservation entirely. Characters caught in this state may resist leaving Jerry behind, argue against practical plans, downplay obvious threats, and at their worst— worship or even wish to sacrifice for Jerry. Separation is possible, but it is emotionally painful, leaving behind a hollowed, grieving sensation that lingers long after the encounter ends.

Partygoers announce themselves through atmosphere before they are ever seen. Decorations appear where they should not exist as posters promising celebration and bright colors clashing violently with the monotony of the halls. When Partygoers enter an area, the tension shifts sharply to predation. These entities observe first, testing reactions, learning movement patterns. Characters may feel watched even when alone, with pressure building behind the eyes and a rising sense of being studied. Once engagement with them begins, Partygoers will attempt to herd rather than chase, using obstacles, noise, and misinformation to separate individuals from groups. Physical contact initiates rapid escalation of these effects. Those seized by their arm-mouths will experience intense sensory distortion, pain quickly giving way to numbness and intrusive thoughts that do not feel entirely their own. Early stages of transformation may cause affected characters to fixate on group dynamics, viewing others less as allies and more as resources or threats— until they too, may become one of them. Resistance is possible but time-sensitive, and intervention by others is critical to limit a Vessel's transformation. Partygoers do not act alone, and escape from them often depends on breaking line of sight and disrupting their coordination rather than brute force against them— You'll hardly ever win, in that case.

Throughout all of this, One's influence grows increasingly erratic. The Backrooms respond more dramatically to moments of connection and separation, lights stuttering when bonds are tested, hallways bending when someone considers leaving another behind. His presence presses closer in moments of intimacy as scrutiny, a palpable fear threaded through these reactions, and the sense that reassurance is being sought but never believed. Echoes of his internal conflict surface in fleeting impressions: the urge to cling paired with the certainty that abandonment is inevitable, the desire for closeness tangled with the impulse to wound before being wounded. This tension mirrors the emotional core underlying everything here, from promises feeling fragile, even when spoken sincerely, to Vessels finding themselves questioning not only the intentions of others, but their own.

The longer you remain, the clearer it becomes that progression here is not linear. There is no single path forward, only moments of proximity that rearrange the space around you. What follows this depends not on where you go next, but on who you choose to stay near, who you pull away from, and which promises you are willing to believe, even when you suspect they may not last.

The dream does not conclude so much as it fails to hold together. Somewhere within the shifting halls of the Backrooms, One becomes convinced that what anchored him has slipped away, and that belief fractures his ability to remain. The space reacts unevenly as his presence withdraws: corridors stretch and then collapse into themselves, lights hum without source, entities lose their rhythm, and the emotional pressure that bound Vessels together spikes sharply before snapping. For those still inside, sensations intensify all at once, where closeness turns unbearable, attachment feels abruptly severed, and attempts to reach for reassurance meet only distortion— until the dream can no longer sustain shared coherence. One by one, Vessels are torn awake mid-thought or mid-motion, breath catching as consciousness returns too fast, leaving behind the sense of being dropped rather than released, with unresolved desire, fixation, or unease lingering long after your eyes open.

Something else has awakened. "Awareness".

Token Effects

• Proximity dependency intensifies; physical distance from their Offering/Tethers causes agitation, shallow breathing, and intrusive thoughts about abandonment.
• Heightened sensitivity to tone and micro-expressions. Neutral gestures may be misread as rejection or withdrawal.
• Compulsion to seek verbal reassurance, even if they suspect the reassurance may be false.
• Increased fixation on touch as proof of presence. Tokens may repeatedly initiate contact to confirm their Offering/Tether is still there.
• Jealousy spikes in enclosed corridors; other figures in peripheral vision (real or not) may trigger possessive responses.
• Emotional volatility rises quickly from desire to defensiveness if they sense hesitation.
• After separation or forced distance, lingering obsession or replaying of final words heard may persist into waking.

Offering Effects

• Intensified urge to control or stabilize their dynamic; Offerings may feel compelled to define their relationship in absolute terms.
• Heightened dominance or surrender impulses depending on personality baseline, with less moderation than usual.
• Increased temptation to test loyalty through emotional pressure or loaded statements.
• Possessiveness sharpens in tight, enclosed spaces; they may position themselves physically between their Token/Tethers and perceived threats.
• Strong reaction to perceived emotional withdrawal. Reassurance may be given urgently, excessively, or manipulatively.
• Physical closeness feels like leverage as well as comfort.
• Suspicion of abandonment may cause preemptive emotional distancing or sharp, reactive behavior.
• After waking, unresolved tension may manifest as fixation, defensiveness, or a need to revisit the conversation.

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NOTES

➤ Welcome to Somnia's TDM, which doubles as a gamewide event!
➤ This TDM is considered game canon.
➤ Only new characters are free to experiment with the Vessel options to your liking; this is a dreamscape, so multiple/different situations for you to really test which option you like most is possible. Current characters must remain as their chosen Vessel type unless you requested a switch, which can be done on the Taken page.
➤ All TDMs take place within a dreamscape, meaning characters can interact with the setting without needing to apply. Come have fun with us!
➤ This is the last TDM before the game's arc change, which will skip a TDM round— Thus, the next TDM will be scheduled only for October. This App round has no character cap, so please feel free to hop on before our break or another character cap!
➤ Questions? Please direct them to the designated questions comment linked below!

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silco | arcane | current player

[zauns]

info • permissions • plotting • contact: dm / manda@discord / sidereal

play a twisted little game

[zauns]

[Silco, for all his many faults, doesn't have that many vices. But he's not immune to any of this, not the easy languor, not the pollen he breathes in, not the much-too-perfect fruit. He wanders through the impossible garden, knowing that it isn't real, that this is another dream. But he can't quite make himself care the way he might normally. The irritation, annoyance he so regularly feels doesn't rise to the surface, covered with a pleasant ease.

Eventually, he finds a nice, shadowed corner to settle in. A place where he can enjoy the sight of the flowers, the quiet pleasures around him. And he's been provided with his own: a fine cigar, set aside just for a moment, smoking gently in its flower-petal ashtray. Next to him, on a comfortable little hillock of soft grass, a bottle of wine.

Whiskey might be his usual drink of choice, but wine brings back good memories, and who isn't in need of those? He didn't think that hard about it when it appeared, nor about the fact that it's no fine vintage, but rather a just-passable pressing that was all he could afford when he was young and feeling flush.

Silco is in a rare good mood, and he knows it. He waves a hand, loose and easy, at the wine, looking up when someone approaches.]

Care for a glass? I wouldn't mind the company.

[And there is, indeed, a spare glass - as if company is, in and of itself, a sort of indulgence.]

[gorb]

You're the first person I've come across with something actually worthwhile to drink.

( The vending machine and the soda from earlier had been nostalgic to a fault, but if Suguru had to choose he would pick something with more bite. Still, he remains a little further away from this new stranger, a curious gaze passing briefly over him before any concern he has drifts merrily away. To Suguru he seems like the kind of man with information, if a person's outward appearance can give that away. And even if he isn't, there's a certain level of practice charming his elders.

Power, money, curses, wine. It's all the same.

The man in monk's robes smiles beatifically after a second, transferring caution to openness as he joins Silco, shaking out his sleeves once he's settled. )

I wouldn't mind the rest. The gardens are expansive. ( And strange. Suguru's head tips in greeting. ) You seem to be having a good time.

[zauns]

Aren't we all?

[Silco obliges, pouring this stranger a glass of the wine, holding it out for him to take. No matter how much he pours, the wine bottle doesn't seem to run out. A little detail that might break the dream, if one thought about it too hard, but for once Silco isn't inclined to think too hard.

That probably won't last.]

This place seems bound and determined to make sure each and every one of us has a very good time.

[A trap, really, but one they mostly can't avoid falling into. Silco looks Suguru over - there's nothing about him that's familiar, which means he's either a creation of the dream, or a dreamer that Sleep pulled in. And if that's the case, he might end up in the city afterwards, so Silco ought to learn what he can.

Ah, that not thinking too hard didn't last long at all.]

Haven't you experienced it? Something you like, perhaps something you've wished for, found in such an odd place?

[gorb]

The things I wish for wouldn't belong in a place like this.

( Mild, and friendly, no hint of how dark that statement really is. Because if Suguru thought about it, if he focused then he knows what he'd wish for. A world with monkeys. A world unshackled. Here, in the garden, the soft light glimmering, a stranger giving him wine - it does not feel close. He does not find himself grasping for it either. Shouldn't he? Nails clinging, desperate? No, it's fine.

And yet he wouldn't have accepted the glass, were he cognisant of it. He avoids that in the real world. )

There was a vending machine. Near the woods. That was out of place. No power source, but it was cool and lit from the inside. I thought it was strange - ( His brows furrow briefly. ) - do you know where we are?

[zauns]

A dream.

[He says it easily, agreeably. As if it's not a odd statement at all. Silco waves a hand, encompassing everything around them: the wine, the flowers, his cigar slowly smoking away.]

It's all a dream, every bit of it. I'm sure you could find anything you might wish for, if you were willing to look for long enough.

[And though Silco finds himself quite curious about what exactly this man might wish for, that wouldn't belong here, he refrains from asking, for now. A touch too direct. But Silco is quite familiar with the feeling. These are small pleasures, creature comforts, indulgences that aren't so far off from what anyone might like. Designed just for him, perhaps, but lacking most of the things he really wanted.

But he doesn't find himself frustrated by it. Distantly, Silco knows that's part of the dream, too.]

A powerful creature has pulled you in. Maybe she'll keep you, maybe she'll spit you back out. Maybe she'll give you everything you've ever wanted.

[arcanefist]

[The sweet solitude of Silco's little corner of the garden is interrupted by the soft crunch of boots on vegetation. Someone is making their way through, so in a good mood, it seems he's extended an offer to join in the relaxation.

Bit of a wrong move, really. The figure quickly reveals itself to be a young woman with an impressively bad attitude, wandering lost through this dream until she just so happened to land right in the worst place at the worst time.

And Vi can hardly believe her eyes. For the moment there is no anger, only surprise.]

You?!

[zauns]

[For all that Sleep's influence is strong, for all that Silco has been lulled into a pleasant mood, the sight of this woman takes that away. The last person he would want to see here, always a wrench in all of his plans, the one who might so easily take his daughter away from him.

And she'd be more than happy to do it.]

Violet.

[His grip on the wine bottle turns to something a little more defensive, like he might use it as a weapon. But the influence of the dream is too strong to spark him into action. He's unhappy to see her, anger bubbling beneath, but he can't quite find himself inspired to do anything about it.]

Never mind. You are not invited.

[arcanefist]

[The sound of her full name in his mouth pinches a nerve in Vi's chest.]

I don't care about your fucking tea party.

[She cranes her neck to the side. A series of satisfying crrks follow. She could throw hands right now, but she's breathed in a lot of pollen. So the urge is sated. Somewhat.]

This is shaping up to be one of the worse dreams I've ever had.

[zauns]

And I hope it gets much, much worse.

[He had hoped to never see her again - not in a dream, certainly not in Manhattan. But if he's lucky, Sleep will leave her in this dream, and his troubles won't continue.

The thought perks him up a bit.]

Though I'm sure it wouldn't be any different than you're used to, considering the state of your life. Hasn't the whole thing been a bit of a bad dream?

[Silco takes a sip of his wine - appearing casual as he can, though really, it's a fortifying sip. Preparing for whatever comes from this encounter.]

[outofresets]

[Coming across Silco's modest oasis, Bart is immediately reminded of a caterpillar. A comparison that confuses him at first, forcing him to dig through his foggy memories to figure out why that came to mind. Something from a book? Yeah. A book. With a girl who fell through a mirror or down a hole, into another world, where she kept being changed, and her memories were wrong or missing.

Apt.

It wasn't a perfect comparison by any stretch, but even if he wasn't sitting on a mushroom smoking a hookah, there was something to the way the man lounged among the glowing flora, smoke curling around him, with an atmosphere of calculated elegance, mystery, and piercing intelligence, that clicked the parallel into place in his mind.

When he's spotted and invited for a drink, Bart doesn't hesitate to nod appreciatively. Walking forward into the clearing, he takes a careful seat in front of Silco, looking up at him curiously.]

You remind me of somethin' from a book. Can't remember what it's called, though.

[And that was wrong, wasn't it? Usually, he remembered everything. Even the stuff he shouldn't. The stuff that got erased.

The fact that so many of his memories feel so far away, that his thoughts feel so slow, should be alarming. But he can't get a grip on that feeling, it slips away from him as easily as wine slips from a bottle.]

[zauns]

A book?

[Silco can't imagine what book this young man might be talking about, but it does pique his curiosity. He pours Bart a glass of wine, offers it. There's no drinking age in Zaun, so Silco does not for a moment consider that Bart might be too young - he looks mostly grown, at least, so it's fine.]

Hmm. A good one, I hope. Something with intrigue, drama. Maybe a few murders.

[He looks Bart over. No one he recognizes, and he doesn't have the somewhat distinct look of a Zaunite. It's fairly unlikely he's from Silco's world - there have been a few, but all people he knows. Like Sleep enjoys plucking people in clusters. But if the boy isn't from Runeterra, then Silco ought to learn what he can. More information is always better.

Besides. He's in such a pleasant mood, and he did want some company.]

I'm afraid I didn't have much time for reading back home. Is that something you enjoyed?

[In a peaceful world, perhaps?]

[outofresets]

[Taking the offered glass with a soft 'thank you', he can't help giving it a curious sniff, the sharp bite of alcohol confirming that it was exactly what it looked like. A tiny squeak of reason tries to warn him what a bad idea this is. His head is muddled enough, and without his powers to counteract the effect, this can only make it worse. But he ignores it, taking a decent sip, appreciating the hint of fruit in the flavor, and the warmth it spreads down the back of his throat. Distinctly better than the beer Griffin had always insisted they get together.

Idly swirling the contents of the glass as he stared into it, he thinks over whether the book was as Silco described, missing the little red flags that description might normally tick off.]

I think it might have, actually. There was somethin'bout "off with her head". Came up a lot.

[When asked if he enjoyed reading, he gives a quick, matter-of-fact response, before he could even put a solid thought into it. A simple-]

No.

[For a moment, that seems like that might be all he has to say on the matter as he looks down at the lightly swirling liquid in his glass. Almost mesmerized by the movement. But after a second ticks by, he softly adds a hit of context.]

Thought it would help me be better. It didn't.

[Again, a flatly spoken matter of fact.

But after another pause, he looks back up at Silco curiously again.]

Why didn't you have time back home?

[zauns]

[Off with her head. That makes Silco smile, pleasant as he's feeling. Not exactly his style - a little too messy, when all you need is a bullet or a knife blade in the right place - but he can see the appeal.]

I was quite a busy man. Running an organization, keeping my people in line, shouting 'off with her head' when someone got on my bad side. That sort of thing.

[He's joking, sort of. Or it would be easy to take as a joke, in any case, though most of it is true.]

I didn't have much time to relax at all. [And, frankly, he wouldn't have if he did. Silco's been called a workaholic - usually by his daughter - and even he can't say that's entirely wrong. He likes to stay busy.] So this is a bit of a change.

[And distantly, for a moment, he wonders - why is it? Why is he just sitting here, drinking wine and chatting with a stranger, when he could be getting things done? But it's easy to justify. He's learning about someone, someone who might be useful later.]

You wanted to be better? Why? You seem perfectly fine as you are.

[vixenish]

Silco.

[ there's warmth to her voice. she's genuinely glad to see him. perhaps it's the influence of the garden, or perhaps it's their similar natures, but all the same...

... she somehow finds herself relieved to run into him, rather than another stranger.

how odd to see him in a good mood. her smile tips up into something warm and genuine at his invitation.

she'll settle at his side, neither too close nor too far, and won't immediately accept his offer. ]

Such simple pleasures. Of course... in our situation, I suppose little things like this are luxuries.

[ she'll glance at him and the wine he holds. then she huffs through her nose, a very quiet laugh. ]

Well, if you're offering.

[zauns]

Lortel.

[He's pleased to see her, as well. While it's true that Silco's inclined to be pleased with any company currently, coaxed into indulgence by the garden around them, that doesn't mean the fondness is untrue. Just brought to the surface more easily than it might otherwise be.]

Indeed. Likely there's some horrible trap lying beneath, but until it begins to close, we may as well enjoy what we can.

[Not his usual philosophy, which tends to be more like: if there might be a trap, plan for it, create your own trap and ready the jaws to snap shut the moment your enemy makes their move. But he's in an awfully pleasant mood.

Silco pours her a glass, hands it over.]

The vintage might not be as fine as you're used to.

[Not an apology, just a warning.]

[vixenish]

[ really. how unfair, that he's such a strangely likable man. she's always enjoyed his company, from the very beginning.

it's the sweetness of the pollen on her skin, smoothing away any burs in her mood, that keeps her from the whisper of misgiving she might have otherwise felt.

if only.

she'll huff a laugh, smiling faintly. ]

It's funny you say that...

[ she'll accept the glass, swirling the wine and giving it a sniff. her smile warms, and she takes a sip, staring out into the garden. ]

You weren't here for the dream of the banquet, were you? I said the exact same thing, at the time. The night was so long, and we were all dressed beautifully, as befits a grand banquet. What else was there to do but enjoy it while it lasted? So I danced the night away.

The vintage is just fine, by the way. [ her smile goes crooked. ] I've had finer, but I've also had far worse.

i've developed a taste for you [ota 30+]

[zauns]

[Still relaxed, still in a remarkably good mood, Silco is inhaling pollen with each breath. It makes him loose, easy, and intrigued. Eyes tracking the vines that twist around his wrists, his ankles. He pulls away, but not with any real distaste. More interest, to see what will happen, as if he might just as easily allow them to hold him, leaves trailing across skin.

Usually Silco is fully dressed, impeccably put together, vest and tie and long sleeves even in the post-apocalyptic city they spend most of their time in. He's got an image, and he likes to maintain it. He likes to seem just a bit untouchable. But this time he's disheveled, enough to seem like he could be touched if one might wish - strands of hair falling out of its usual slick style, tie gone, vest hanging open and shirt unbuttoned. Not much. Just two buttons, just a sliver of skin showing.

Far more than usual, though, and Silco doesn't seem to mind at all. He traces his fingers over the line of a vine, almost as if he's teasing it, and looks up at the sound of a footstep. Not an ounce of annoyance in his gaze - oh no. Silco looks pleased, and perhaps a touch predatory. Like he'd love to sink his teeth in, sharp as they are.]

Lost, are you? Come walk with me.

[It's not walking he has in mind. That might be clear just from the look in his eyes.]

[creatoris]

( He certainly is a sight, standing amidst the foliage with his hair tousled and his clothing partly discarded. Victor's lips curl into a delightful smile, looking infinitely pleased by the interest he sees reflected back at him. That predatory gaze which sends a pleased shiver down his spine, skin burning with the intensity of a fever, overtaking every sense and thought running through his mind. )

Very well.

( Victor is dressed just as scarcely as the other, in a loose buttoned up shirt and trousers. As he approaches the other man, his fingertips caress along the back of Silco's waist, feather light and teasing before innocently folding his hands behind him. Still smiling, still very much entranced by the sight before him. The thought of having this man under his control, pleasing him, making use of his mouth and body, is far too enticing to ignore. )

Not far, though. I don't wish to tire myself out.

( He can play along with the ruse, feigning exhaustion with an impush tone. )

[zauns]

Victor.

[It's practically a purr, satisfied and very pleased to see him. As if, perhaps, Victor is exactly who he was waiting for. Silco's been interested in the man since the beginning, after all. And there he is, looking just as relaxed and loose as Silco might like. He walks closer, not quite touching.]

Oh, of course not. We wouldn't want the walk to make you weary.

[The flicker of a smile. They can both play the game, for a moment - but since they both know it's a game, Silco doesn't bother walking more than a few steps. Just far enough to find another eager patch of vines, so that he can turn to Victor and press just his fingertips to his chest, leading him back towards it. Encouraging him, silently, to let the vines twine around his wrists, his legs, if he wishes.]

Perhaps you'll allow me to be the one to do that.

[creatoris]

( Perhaps it should shame him somewhat how easily his body responds to Silco's voice, not just growing warming but accelerating his desire. The fingertips against his chest stun him just enough to allow the vines to wind around his ankles — and in his indulgent state, Victor hardly pays them any mind. The ones that wrap around his wrists, however, are not, and Victor wrests himself free just as the leaves brush against skin. )

Silco— you are a devil, aren't you?

( Spoken with as much playfulness and pleasure as Victor is capable of, delighted beyond words. Before the vines can try to snatch Victor again, he reaches out to wind an arm around Silco's waist, pulling him in and close, just so Victor can whisper in his ear, )

Just how bad of one, I wonder.

won't say that you will

[zauns]

[All that ease, all that pleasure, disappears so quickly. Silco, already prone to distrusting anyone and everyone, met someone who looked - for a moment, and was it just a moment, or was it longer - like an old friend. Someone he cared for, someone he lost. Someone he knows is long dead, and yet.

The surprise was enough to hold him still briefly. Enough for him to look closer, until all of a sudden he was certain that it wasn't her. And of course it wasn't, how could it have been? This thing wore her skin for that moment, nothing more, and that's so viscerally unpleasant to Silco that he turned and ran, could do nothing but that in the face of such horror.

Just an encounter, that's all. But now Silco's hand is around his knife, wary and ready to lash out. If that thing tricked him, even for a moment, who's to say another couldn't do better? Who's to say he couldn't be taken in again, with a worse fate? It's always wiser to keep your trust held close, extend it to no one. Safer. So when he turns a corner and comes across someone else, whether they're a stranger or someone he sees every day, he raises his knife.

His voice is poisonous.]

Keep your distance.

[nestingdevil]

It's just me, schatz.

[The stiffness of him should be telling. How he doesn't bother looking directly at Silco, how his sunglasses hang at the curve of his throat and dangle, licked frozen by something entirely unknown. His claws are already out, steely slick and as sharp as anything, and whatever pleasures he'd had only hours before are gone. Gone and replaced with a strain that peels back the upper half of his lip, threatening tusks at his gums.]

[Greed flexes his knuckles, and a thin smear of ice shatters brittle off his nails. The cold is biting. Biting more than he remembers, more than he's ever felt, and when he breathes, it's clouds that he leaves behind. Thunderheads running across his face and along his jaw, hiding away pieces of him in the thick of it all.]

[He should have seen the trick coming a mile away: a face (familiar) smiling and catching over his shoulder only to show its true colors a moment later. A similar play done by the same book and oh, is he more the monster for it.]

[But, honestly, if he had a moment to think about it, that's not really why he feels the way that he does. Why he feels like someone's popped the pin to a grenade, counted the timer, and shoved it straight into the cage of his chest.]

[A tickle of his 'Shield stretches at his throat, screaming points on a chalkboard, and it takes him everything he has to urge back his teeth.] Our deal. [He whispers, still not daring to give Silco even a passing look.] Only the two of us would know about that, right. [Another heave smog(s) over his lips, winding fog around his sunglasses.]

Funny, not really interested in the distance, either. [It's then, only then, do his eyes move; their side-swipe, flipping between their usual slits and solid blocks of red whenever the lights begin their trembling studder. He takes in Silco, knife and all; his expression, a vacant ghost of its former self. Because for the first time, maybe the first time ever, the sensation from his end is strangled. Like a noose of piano wire's been wrapped around his neck, and he can already feel someone (something) urging him to pull.]

[There's never been a collar strong enough to hold him. Not forever. But that doesn't mean he's forgotten the feeling.]

[Greed's glance swings back to the hallway (the bending, constricting, fleeing, staying hallway), and he finally loses his jaw to the carbon.] Don't bother. That knife won't work. [Tin grabs his voice, steals it, and shoves it to a drown.] 'Sides, think we both know it wouldn't matter.

[Much as his defenses are up (and they are, there's no denying that black shine to his skin), the former homunculus pockets his hands, turning sluggishly on his heel. And what cooks between his ears, what burns molten at the back of his skull, oddly enough, is Yuuto. Yuuto, chiding him for all his past and present transgressions:]

["Wouldn't it be better to come clean before you regret?"]

[zauns]

[It's just me. But is it? Or is this another trick?

It would be a good one. There is a very short list of people that Silco would be lulled into lowering his knife for. Not even most of the people he's come to know in Manhattan, for all that he works with them, for all that he might even like some of them. He doesn't trust any of them, especially not in a place like this.

No, there's really only two names on that list. So of course the dream would pick one of them. How better to make him lower his defenses?

But it does look like Greed, without the unsettling feeling that Silco had before, that there was something beneath Felicia's skin, something wrong about her. Greed just seems - like himself. Unsettled, unhappy, on edge, but still the man Silco has come to know far better than he ever expected to.

That doesn't mean he's not a threat. Silco knows all the things that can happen in these dreams. But Greed talks like the man he knows, mentions things kept only between the two of them. Silco doesn't sheathe his knife, but almost unconsciously, he lowers it.]

You saw them too, then.

[That he knows he has to prove he is himself is enough to make that clear. Silco wonders what he must have seen, thinks of all the people Greed has lost. He's not a man prone to sympathy, but he remembers that feeling when it became clear that the person he saw was just - a suit.

He watches the carbon slide across Greed's skin, and oddly, that's what decides him. There's still a whisper in the back of Silco's mind: it might all be a lie. But he remembers seeing Greed like this before, when all his worst secrets spilled out of him, the first thing that really made him think there was something truly different about Greed.

Quick as a wink, Silco's knife slips into its sheath.]

No. I'd rather not break my knife on you. It would be a waste.

[He's still wary. He can't help it. But he takes one step closer, because if that is really Greed -

They'll do far better in this place together.]

CW: Mild Blood, Death, Major Death and Bones in the Image Link

[nestingdevil]

[He hears the knife slip, sinking into its sheath, and a wince grips his shoulders. Barely anything, hardly a wink itself, but a twitch nonetheless. Because every inch of him is crawling. From the way his 'Shield rises and falls, hesitant to eat him up completely, but also vehemently unsure of when and where to go. Uncharacteristic: that's what it is. So uncharacteristic and out of line that it goes against everything that he is and ever was.]

[Coolly, Greed swings his toe out on the hinge of his heel, and the carbon at his jaw carefully slinks down, cutting itself sharp to a neckline at his throat.] Yeah, you could say that. [The way he talks is distancing. As if he's trying to pull where he can't, stuck between two rocks not even all his given abilities could hope to crack. Whatever he saw hadn't been Envy, but it'd been close enough. Something grotesque, taking on shapes that could do the most, possible damage.]

[The Sin steps once and pauses before tipping his head into his shoulder with a resigned, half-exhaled huff.] Can't argue with you there. Better to keep something sharp on you in any case. Might be able to tear through it just fine, but I've got a feeling that won't stop it for long. Whatever it is.

[The space between them grows, purposeful, and when he finds the next bend in the hall, he slows to a crawl. Greed chases a look one way (nothing), then another (more corridors, stretching endlessly absolute), and the points of his teeth grind. The resulting spark, popping off his lip, red and spitting.]

Not that I'd stop you, anyway. If anything happens, go for the arrays. [He clips, shorter than he's been with Silco in some time.] Dad's kill switch. It's how Wrath managed it the first time. I won't hold it against you. [The slits of his eyes shake in their sockets. A ping-pong expression that doesn't have any idea which side it'll land on.]

[He's never had regrets. Least, none that he's ever voiced. But it would improbable, nigh stupid, to say he hasn't found a few in his years. A few that have come back to chase him. To hunt him down like he's been physically (twice, if not more). Wanted men didn't come without strings, and he's no different. No different and as the next chunk of hall breathes (shortening, lengthening, and twisting itself like a squeezed artery), the former homunculus laughs. Bitter, low, and more empty than his pit could ever hope to be.]

Ha - ! That's real, fucking rich. She's really a piece of work, isn't she? [Greed rakes his claws up his forehead, grinding lines into his hair while that core of his crackles violence between his knuckles.] What? What do you want me to say here, exactly? I am what I am. That's all I'll ever be. [Whether he's talking to Silco or the void, it's hard to say. But there's a desperation in their tether that's new. One that has no problem ripping itself apart, tearing itself to shreds, as it fights tooth and claw to find an answer he doesn't fully know.]

[The Sin flicks his fingers, shooting a fleck of blood on the wall, and immediately, it trickles away to ash.] I'll always outlive you. And maybe, this place has taken some things from me, but that's just how it is. Can't change it. [Finally, he breathes, and the ice that traps itself in his lungs has little to do with the environment.] I've been around for 200 years, Silco. Only reason you and I are standing here now is because -

[Because he gave it all up. Because he gave away everything. And he's poised to do it again. To take that same, fucking gamble, if it means he can guarantee something better at the end of it.]

[Greed drops his hand, and his claws scream themselves white.] - no regrets, right? [He turns, then, and the run of his eyes is a different kind of wanting. No longer thirsty, no longer hungry, but almost begging. As much as a thing like him can, anyway.]

Should have turned around and left when you had the chance. Really, it would have been the smart thing to do. [His expression is a blank slate. However, his face tells the real story. One that's conflicted, suffocating, even as the truth of the matter weights itself heavy on his tongue.] Avarice, schatz. I told you from the very beginning, I'm not a person. Not really. So whatever rules you think apply, they don't with me. [Mindlessly, he drags his boot, earning little but dust.]

[And oh, not even he can hold back the coming flood.]

If it comes to it, don't bother looking. We don't leave a single thing behind. [His foot extends, his knee bends, before he quickly retracts himself again.] Not a body, not a scrap. Once the 'Stone's spent, that's it. [He hadn't seen Lust's final moments, but he'd been filled in on the details. How the end of her came in a barraging torrent of fire, smoking her to absolute ash. And it's that, that he shares. Without sympathy, without remorse, and without a single moment of doubt.]

[Greed's closer a second later, though the gap he leaves is obvious.] Kinda been trying to save you the trouble. There's no point. If she decides she's had enough, there won't be anything left for you to find, Silco. [His fingers extend, running scratches up the leather of his thighs.] Nothing returning to nothing. That's the price. And you, ha! Fuck. Well, suppose we already knew where we stood there, right?

[Right?]

[He almost reaches, almost tries to grab Silco's hand. Yet, for a third time, he pulls back; like a thorn, squeezing into itself. There's no words he can possibly say to take back the sting of that reality. There's no excuses he could possibly make to ease away the burden. It's simply the law of things. The law of his making, and the truth of his existence, horrid and final as it may be.]

[He figures, the least he can do is tell the man. Tell him, so he won't have to face a confession he doesn't know how to make.]