driftfleet | One fish, two fish...

[Well, look who's here at the old stomping grounds. Asuka comes in unannounced, as usual, arms crossed, her usual bitter look practically engraved on her face, but she's not feeling any worse or better than usual as she stalks over.]

We already had to sew that thing back together once. [This close, her too-sharp nose can detect the smell of blood under the sweat. If he keeps this up, he's going to hurt himself. Her voice is marginally softer for her next words-- she's pretty ugly when crossed, herself, and though she's not looking for a fight, she thinks she might end up with one if she's not careful. The expression on his face would be scary without his makeup.] You could at least kick it sometimes.

[that sad punching bag doesn't deserve this mess of a crew, man.

while at first he doesn't seem to pay much attention to her arrival, throwing punch after punch even though it's starting to sting, her coming close triggers a little warning in his peripheral awareness. as much as he's zeroed on on his target, real or imagined, he's also hardwired not to hurt innocent humans.

or, at least, things that are... adjacent to an innocent human. his definitions have expanded, some, since he was brought here.

so he slowly winds down. she can watch it--a couple of punches that don't land on center, slower lead-up, his breathing suddenly noticeable as he and his body remember he has a finite lung capacity. his return to the real world brings with it the knowledge that his arms hurt and his hands are raw, and his facepaint must look a mess with how long he's been going at this.

he finally stops with one hand pressed against the bag, leaning on the backs of his fingers, the whole thing creaking on its chains as their weights balance out. he looks over at her--not glaring, at least, not angry in her direction--but he doesn't look like he's having a great time, either.]

What's the matter?

[Something is, that's patently obvious. Zhas wouldn't wear himself out for no reason at all. And the type of punching he's doing, the wild intensity-- it's like he's not just letting off steam, he's trying to attack something he can't really face. That's her takeaway, at least, if only because she'd used the bag that way when she'd first ended up aboard.]

[But he's not new here. Just a couple days ago, he was painting up a storm. It doesn't really make sense. Asuka takes another stiff step forward.]

Get something to drink, at least. You'll pass out.

[his gaze slides to the side and then down towards the floor. he continues half-leaning there, taking a while in answering. maybe he's trying to think of a smart comeback regarding his passing out, even though his form looks incrementally more and more slumped over as the seconds pass.]

I'm... [he struggles with what the next word will be, like he can't decide. and then:] ...Mad.

[and that's it. he doesn't even say "angry" or "upset"-- he says "mad", like a little kid asked to describe why they hit their sibling. still, he finally stops leaning to walk away from her and the punching bag entirely, heading over to where he's left a pile of his things near one of the walls.]

Over what?

[Two words. He talks more over text than he does in the flesh. Asuka lets out a breath, irritation making her eyes narrow. He's definitely overextended himself. If he's going to act all macho and stupid about it, well, that's his problem.]

[And then she realizes her snap judgment's not all that accurate as he passes her and starts toward his stuff. He's leaving. He probably thought she was wanting her turn at the punching bag. Asuka almost leaves him to it, but then she thinks better of it.]

Is that all you're going to do about it?

Shut up.

[that comes faster, spat like a knife over his shoulder. his exhaustion doesn't stop him from squeezing his battered hands into fists.

the funny (sad) thing is that he's trying his best. he's so mad, the only name he can think to give the beast, because the rest of it is such a mess of terrifying, hurtful things to him that he can barely fathom where he'd even start untangling an explanation.

he keeps walking to his things. he crouches down, he rummages for a cloth, and once he's got it--he turns so that he can keep his back to the wall, sit down, and slowly start to scrub all the melting paint away from his face.]

[He's not going yet, but he is keeping his back towards her. Asuka's brow furrows, and she follows him, hovering like a particularly oversized and unwanted familiar about two feet behind him.]

[At least the fact that he's getting rid of his makeup means his hygiene's not all that suspect. That's a relief.]

I've seen your face before, idiot. You don't have to hide that much.

[if he could hide his face behind the cloth, wear it like a mask, he would. he hates his human face. he hates everything that it represents. he hates that one can be peeled away to reveal the other.]

I'm not hiding.

[...which may very well be petulant denial, or maybe he misunderstands. either way, he continues his task, and doesn't move again until the majority of the paint is gone (and he doesn't scrub very well around his eyes; he may just have a permanent case of eyeliner after all these years). his next task is to dig around in his things for a water bottle--and only then does he turn to sit properly and gaze at her from his place near the floor.

AND SAY NOTHING, because he's thinking again.]

Yes, you are!

[She's a hypocrite for saying so. She hides her eye every day-- but an eye isn't a face. An eye's just one feature. Even with the paint off, he never seems to look downright normal. Just less imposing. There's still that aura of grimness and gloom without the skull.]

[She shrugs as if to herself and crams her hands back into her pockets.]

What happened? What's got you pissed off?

[he sets his jaw. he fidgets slowly with the cap of the bottle. he doesn't want to say it, doesn't even want to think about it. Asuka is smart, maybe much smarter than him--and he worries she'll cut right through him. he doesn't want to know what's inside.]

... She's dead. [a beat, and he tightens the cap.] She was my friend.

[he says it with the same dearth of tone or emotion as always, but he stops fidgeting, instead eyeing her very intently, waiting for judgement.]

Syeira?

[Oh. Asuka had only spoken to her a handful of times, not really out of irritation so much as a desire to keep to herself. Still, she'd seemed okay. More friendly than she liked people to be, but really, that was any iota of friendliness at all. She purses her lips.]

I didn't think you knew her that well.

[Zhas hasn't been here that long, right? But he'd taken to everything onboard ridiculously easily. Asuka mulls that over as she takes another stiff step or two towards him. She doesn't know how to deal with loss. Rather, all she knows are ways not to deal with it.]

[well, he didn't think he knew her that well either. apparently what little he did know left an impression. he looks down at his hands, at his swelling knuckles; he's no stranger to loss, but it's been a very, very long time since he's had much of anything to lose.]

...I was here before, when this... show started. Spent a year on this ship. She showed up in the middle. Thought she was a pain in the ass, Coil hated her... but she got better. And she tried learning sign so she could... we could talk more.

[he clears his throat a little, just thinking about it. he finally uncaps his bottle of water, if only to look busy.]

And then I left, went back home for a while. I don't know for how long, Coil says it was six months. I got back here, and I was sick, Coil was... upset, and I couldn't... figure out any of what was going on.

[he forgets just how awful it was. Syeira had grabbed him, sobbing. Coil refused to leave his side for weeks after he returned. he himself barely slept, a stranger in his own home-away-from-home.]

But I walked into the kitchen and she was there, and she was... [again, it takes him an extra second to find what he wants to say.] She said she taken care of Coil while I was gone. She kept my shuttle exactly the way it was when I left.

[Zhas' shuttle is kind of notorious; the doors to the individual short-range shuttles line the cargo bay wall, and his has a big skull painted on it. he goes in there to smoke when he can't leave the ship, or sleep when he doesn't feel safe in his room.]

And now I'm never going to see her again, and there's nothing I can do.

[so yes, he is mad. mad that he's powerless, mad that this could have been avoided. mad that he has no enemy to wage war on, mad that time will continue on without her. mad that he cares, mad that other people think he doesn't.

anger is a secondary emotion: it's how people keep themselves from hurting, keep themselves from empathizing. and he is very, very angry.]

[This has to be the most Zhas has ever said to her at once. Asuka's a little shocked at how he keeps going and keeps going, trickles at first, and then outright puddles of words, halting though they might be. So shocked that it's kind of hard to take in at first. He'd been here at the start. That explains a whole lot about how well he'd adjusted. Then... then that means Coil's probably been here from the start, too.]

[Syeira must not be so bad. Not so bad at all. Asuka feels a twinge of something, not exactly regret, not that strong, but she thinks she's misjudged the woman somehow. She'd helped Zhas and Coil both out, waited on Zhas to come back, even. Steadfast. Asuka had no idea.]

You lost her twice.

[Once when he left, once when he died. She can understand that. The rage of it. She'd felt that when Shinji abandoned her. For fourteen years, she'd felt that, and he hadn't even died, just gone beyond where she could reach. She wonders if maybe Zhas isn't just mad that she's gone-- maybe it's even that she's gone protecting someone else. Like he's jealous. (Like she was jealous of Rei.)]

[She looks at Zhas again. Without the makeup, he's still strange, still imposing, just in a different way. She pushes her hands into her pocket in a stiff, awkward motion.]

I get it. I'm sorry.

[Syeira is worth spending his words. he can't explain the ways in which he's upset, but he can explain why he has reason to be. she thought he was funny, went out of her way to talk to him. she used to punch him in the arm to say hello. one time, he kept her from killing someone, and she thanked him. one time, she let him brush her hair because neither of them could sleep at three or four in the morning. one time, he promised he'd kill her if she ever lost herself to her monstrous curse.

she left before he could. it isn't fair.

he looks up at Asuka again as she apologizes (or conveys sympathy--he's never been completely clear on the difference). it's a funny thing, someone feeling bad for him, or on his behalf. people shouldn't have to feel bad--that's why he does what he does, and lives so far away from people, and keeps to himself.]

... I should be better.

[he looks down at his hands, picking one up to examine his knuckles. one of them is bleeding. there's bone down there, somewhere. metacarpals, the distal ends. this is the kind of shit he berates Coil for all the time.

dully, in so much as his voice could hold emotion to begin with:] Maybe if they split open, I'll stop.

Edited (purely aesthetic icon change) 2016-08-14 04:40 (UTC)

Stupid. You'll still feel like shit.

[God, who needs men sometimes. So destructive. Really, she's no better, but that doesn't keep the condescension from littering her feelings. Apologies aren't any good; they're something you say when you've run out of words, and Asuka rarely has any to spare. Her gaze follows his to his knuckles, disapprovingly.]

But you won't stop until you've had enough.

[well, he's not about to get his feelings hurt. on the contrary, his hand drops and his head perks up as he looks at her again, seeming for the first time like he actually wants to engage.

he's never learned how to analyze himself very well. it's a coping mechanism; things that he considers vital to his identity would unravel if he started giving them more than a moment's thought. he's always depended on Mother Dearest to tell him what to do, be, and think. for a second, Asuka seems to step forward and fill in that hole parental guidance should have been.

she's right, of course. it makes appealing sense.]

What would you do.

[probably meant to be a question, but again. tone.]

Take it out on someone else.

[It's honest, at least, even if it's not a good solution. Her rages always spiral and shove outward at the nearest, meekest target. Ever since she was little.]

[She's older than him. That's what he'd said.]

[Her mouth twists, teeth grinding slightly behind her lips. She's strong, too strong, but out of practice. Her fights, brutal and bloody and mind-wracking as they've been, have always been within the cockpit. Moving so Eva will move, gripping and choking and smashing the cores of Angels. Psychic battles that still left her bruised and covered in blood.]

It's more satisfying that way.

[oh, but that's just the problem. he's always been outwardly violent, since before he even knew that vampires were real. at home, he has dozens of undead to wage his wars against whenever he wanted. he was known to kill the ones on his side at the drop of a hat just because he didn't particularly feel like letting them continue living.

but you can't do that with people. humans don't deserve it, not like vampires do. as much as he'd like to smash Arthur's face in, for example, he knows he can't really justify it. he would kick Coil around on any other day, but right now he's already worried about the kid's injuries to consider it.

and he could maybe try fighting Asuka--the thought does cross his mind--but it wouldn't be something he would want to put her through. he likes her. she doesn't need to see that ugly side of him, the one he's already taken off his facepaint to try hiding.

so his answer is to shake his head.] Not that kind of fight.

Then what kind of fight do you want? [Asuka doesn't have that usual impatient tilt to her tone, for once. She's not smart about dealing with people and never has been good at comforting anyone, but she's making an effort, as brash as it might come across.]

Just don't give yourself too much time to deal with it, or then you'll really get screwed up.

[he wants to crush someone's skull under his boot. he wants a chase--no, a hunt. he wants fear and suffering. he wants it to really hurt.

but you can't say that to other people. Momma would tell him not to be rude. he closes up again, his posture hunching up as he shakes his head a second time. he finally drinks some water, extremely hesitant to stay a part of what's going on.

maybe she'll leave if he doesn't talk. maybe. he doesn't know if he wants that, but as discussed--he's not exactly good at knowing what he wants in general.]

Edited 2016-08-18 06:14 (UTC)

[She looks at him disdainfully. Silences are weapons, too, ones she's accustomed to being used against her, frustrating because it's so stupidly difficult to figure out what they conceal, or if it's even worth the trouble more than half the time. Puzzles make her impatient.]

[She scuffs her shoe against the floor, making a slight squeaky sound, before she says anything else.]

Whatever. I can't tell you how to handle it.

[he's aware that he's ruining something, but it only serves as one more obstacle between his brain and his mouth. he's frustrated, exhausted, not sure whether to apologize or tell her to knock it off.

he says nothing, for a moment, holding very still. his gaze is now solidly down on the floor.]

It's... good of you, to try. I'm sorry. [the prior side wins out after all, because of his own disgust over his state of mind, if nothing else.] They're just... ugly things.

One fish, two fish...

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