#dei logs

[alternianative]

14 / Laughter for my love Deimos pls

"This is dumb," you protest. You're not feeling it - you never are. Cerpin has such wild ideas on how to let loose and relax and perhaps if you'd gotten more sleep you might've been more on board for this little experiment of his but you haven't gotten much sleep and so no. You aren't on board.

"C'mon, give it a try!" He insists, and it takes every ounce of willpower that you have not to roll your eyes at him.

You settle for groaning in exasperation. Cerpin pays this latest bout of attitude no mind, too busy getting the music started. Before long, what you can only assume is the latest pop-y dance music starts blaring through the speakers in the club. Cerpin starts to dance along with the rhythm, effortlessly.

Or maybe you just think its effortless. Honestly you're not even sure if he's a good dancer or not - you don't dance. You remain firmly in place, a proverbial lump on the dance floor watching in flat unamusement as your friend shimmies his way toward you with the biggest grin you've seen on his face in quite some time.

"Don't just stand there, dance!" He says, and holds out a hand toward you.

You hesitate. You're not as coordinated as he is. Sure, the club is closed right now and you two are literally the only ones present, but what if you aren't, actually? What if what if what if???

Cerpin shrugs and dances away. You feel a little bad, so caught up in your own head that you can't accept his invitation properly. Can't appreciate his effort to make you feel better, like you should be able to. The longer you go without sleeping the less connected to yourself you feel - you're not even sure you'd be able to keep up with him in the state you're in right now.

Your train of thought abruptly crashes when the lights turn off without warning.

"Cerpin?" You look around, and after a moment you're barely able to make out the shape of him moving closer.

"Now will you dance?" He asks, exasperated in his friendly way. He doesn't actually take no for an answer this time. He takes your hands in his, and before long you're stumbling along as he tugs you this way and that to the beat of the music.

"This is so dumb...!" You repeat your initial complaint, but- is it? Cerpin laughs, and in turn you can't help but laugh along with him until your lungs burn for a need for air.

This is dumb. But you're having a good time, dancing in the dark with your best friend, once more feeling as if your mind is part of your body and maybe, just maybe, not everything in the world is so horrible after all.

[cerpin belongs to @fishvsbowl!]

[alternianative]

The crunching sound of yet another trap going off filled the night air. Deimos stared in annoyance at the contraption - something he, himself, hadn’t set up in the woods surrounding his hive and yet here it was. A device meant to trap small-to-medium animals that were stupid enough to stumble upon it. There were many, he’d come across more than one trap already that still had a kill inside it. That pesky neighbor of his was encroaching on what was technically his territory.

He supposed this was what happened when one was away from home for extended periods of time. But it didn’t make it okay, as far as he was concerned. He stooped to dismantle the rest of the trap. Took it apart, bit by bit, and tossed it into the hovering wagon he’d brought along. This hadn’t started out as a clean up trip, but that was what it was becoming. Initially he’d come out to find a clearing bordering the area that was technically his property that he’d often visited as a child. Who’d have thought that he’d end up spending a few hours clearing out the results of his neighbor’s slow and steady encroachment?

The latest trap made his stomach sink. A pitfall, one he’d very nearly fallen into himself, at the base of which sat spikes. He would’ve been severely wounded if he hadn’t noticed the odd look of the ground in time. If he hadn’t already been looking for traps. Did he really take the time to dig this thing out? Deimos poked at the edge of it with a stick, as if doing so would make the spikes below disappear.

”I wondered who was wrecking my traps…” A voice drawled from behind him.

Deimos stiffened, then slowly turned to look over his shoulder. The last time he’d seen Phobos, the blueblood hadn’t been that much taller than him, but apparently in his absence the blueblood had shot up like a weed. He frowned- just when had he snuck up behind him? Deimos did not consider himself to be an especially unobservant person, especially out in the murderwoods.

”They’re on my stretch a the woods,” he finally answered with the same casual tone.

Phobos’ mouth twitched into a smirk, but those eyes of his… there was no amusement there. Nothing but blank darkness that seemed to search beneath Deimos’ very skin - looking for something. ”You aren’t using these woods, why not let them go to actual use?” He asked after a moment of silence.

Deimos resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Phobos was the type of highblood to be careful around. The type that wouldn’t hesitate to cull a lowerblooded troll in an environment like this- where no one was around to hear screams. He couldn’t quite say how he knew that about Phobos, despite not really knowing the man, but it felt like an instinctual knowledge he would be extremely foolish to disregard.

”Well I’m usin’ it now, an’ this shit’s in my way. You got plenty a land, don’t you?” He waved a hand at the rest of the forest around them. Land borders were… blurry, sometimes, but this section of woods he knew was definitely attached to his hive. He hadn’t wandered that far away from it, after all. The knowledge of that made something inside him shudder. Just how close to his hive had Phobos been going? Should he be worried about Thypion?

”Using it for what?” Phobos quirked a brow, eyes dropping to the hover wagon- fixing on those dismantled traps, laid out in pieces. Useless.

”I don’t really think it’s really any a your business what I decide to do in my neck a the woods.” Deimos replied, perhaps a bit more snappy than he should have. Something glinted in Phobos’ eyes. Dei gestured to the pit. ”What purpose is this s’posed to serve? You’ll wreck your kills.” He hadn’t known Phobos to do… this, exactly. From what little he knew of the blueblood, anyway.

”Oh, it’s not for animals, clearly. It’s for the Hunted.” He laughed, a hollow and harsh sound. ”They’ve been encroaching on this part of the woods. You’d know that if you were around more often.” He shrugged, nonchalantly revealing that he knew quite a bit about Deimos’ long absences.

The reveal earned a shudder traveling up Dei’s spine. He should… invest in an outdoor security system, or something. He wasn’t ready to fully give up his hive, after all. ”Well, you let me deal with that. No need to trouble yourself over it.” He waved a hand to dismiss the idea.

”You were gone almost… three perigees this time, isn’t that right?” Phobos asked, counting out the perigees on one hand as he spoke. He glanced over to Deimos, that one eyebrow still cocked questioningly. ”I wonder what could keep a troll away from his hive for so long…”

Deimos bristled, wanting to go off on this man, but- no. He was clearly being watched for some reason. He needed to find out what exactly had caught Phobos’ attention. ”Project. Why were you watchin’ my hive?” He gave up the first reason he could think of that wasn’t a complete lie. He’d been with the Phoenix Initiative for two solid perigees, working on the Frozen Facility, and then spent another sort of… recovering at Underworld. He hadn’t thought much about not going home - not really.

”Oh I was just concerned, you know, as a neighbor… There were a few near break-ins, you know? And your lusus was just… wandering about, unsupervised.” Phobos waved a hand, his explanation coming smoothly and without any hesitation. Deimos could not decide if he was being genuine, or was simply that good of a liar. For safety’s sake, he banked on the latter.

”Thy can take care a himself, and he knew where I was. Real nice a you to keep an eye on things ‘round here but really, you don’t gotta trouble yourself.” Dei shook his head, ”I’d ‘preciate it even more if you’d get your traps outta here, since you’re around. Since I’m here ‘n all, they ain’t necessary anymore.” Dei glanced at the ones he’d disassembled, then returned his full attention to Phobos.

Phobos who had moved a few steps closer in that small window that Dei’s eyes were not on him. Silently. Dei jumped slightly, eyes widening slightly, and took a step or two backward.

There was that flash of light in those dull, dead eyes again. Interest? Something else? Whatever it was, it made Deimos shudder uncomfortably. He did not like that, not one bit.

”Of course,” Phobos said with a grin that showed far too many teeth. He leaned over to pick up one of the disassembled traps. ”Good of you to take them apart correctly. I’d surely hate to find them broken. There’s been a vandal going around doing just that lately, you know.” He mused, turning the bit of metal over in his hands. He flicked his eyes up to stare at Deimos, even as he continued to manipulate the trap in his hands.

”Right. Well. They ain’t my traps. Sorry to hear you’re dealin’ with a vandalism problem.” Did Phobos think he’d done it? No, surely not… ”How long will you need to clear out the ones you got in this area? Up to the clearin’.”

Phobos hummed, set the trap back down on the wagon, straightened up- (did he get taller?) ”Give me two weeks and I’ll have them cleared out… Aside from the pits, you surely understand. It would take far longer to get those taken care of while also having to disassemble the others.” He flashed another smile - this one clearly meant to be pleasant.

”Two weeks. Got it.” Dei nodded stiffly. He wanted out of this interaction. Now.

”There aren’t any in the clearing, if you were wondering.” Phobos offered the reassurance without any prodding. Somehow that did not make it very comforting. ”Escapees don’t typically like being out in clear view, after all.”

Dei nodded again, glanced off to one side- toward said clearing. It was at least another fifteen minutes trek through underbrush. All in all the walk from his hive to said clearing should only take an hour. It wasn’t that bad a trip, as far as he was concerned. When he returned his attention to Phobos, the blueblood was up in his space this time. Leaning down, all smiles and dead eyes.

”Planning a stargazing party?” He asked, as if the idea of it were funny.

Deimos stumbled back a few steps, heart suddenly racing a mile a minute. ”I- it’s a good spot, I just want the path to it cleared. We got it settled so that’s that, right?” He floundered to regain his composure- this troll was scaring him. He didn’t like it. The idea of returning to Underworld and just never leaving again suddenly seemed very, very appealing. Cerpin wouldn’t mind, would he? But Tevini…

”Understandable. I’ll let you know when I’m done.” Phobos leaned back, still smiling. ”In the meantime…” he looked down at the wagon, ”I’ll take it from here. Your wagon will be returned safe and sound, rest assured.” He reached for the handle, which Deimos was still holding.

Dei immediately released it, letting it drop to the ground with a soft thud. Phobos’ eyes flicked up to his face, amusement clear in his own expression. Dei could not bring himself to care much about the lapse in politeness. Everything about his body was screaming to get away from this troll.

”Right. Yeah. Thanks.” He sidestepped Phobos, intending to return to his hive as fast as he reasonably could without revealing how freaked out he was. (Alas, he’d already done that, hadn’t he?) ”Just leave it on the porch, I prolly won’t hear you.” He said as he began to leave.

”Oh I know.” Phobos replied casually, with a shrug. That nearly made Deimos stop in his tracks. What did he mean he knew? ”See you later, Deimos.” Phobos waved, then stooped to pick up the handle of the wagon. He didn’t bother waiting to hear anything else from Deimos before he began to tug it further into the woods, headed for the traps he’d scattered within them.

Dei did not risk prolonging the conversation. He’d dissect that little comment later. He made his way, slowly at first, back toward his hive… until he was sure that Phobos could no longer see, or hear him pick up his pace. It made travel more clumsy, but he didn’t care. All he cared about in the moment was putting a solid door with a lock between him and that troll.

[alternianative]

Time seemed to move like molasses. Slow, heavy, it weighed on his body in ways that made moving around feel difficult. His hands lagged, slow to grasp the cup of hot cocoa he’d just finished pouring - mixing? yes, mixing - but the sensation of heat on his palms was soothing and for a brief moment, he thought he might be able to shut out all other sensation and just focus on that.

The warm, comforting heat in his hands.

When he opened his eyes next, five minutes had passed. The cocoa was cooler, but still warm. If he had the energy, he might think it funny how time refused to march forward when he wanted it to, but the moment he stopped paying attention, it zipped by.

He took a sip.

Moving back to the living room took a little more concentration. The pathways built between piles of discarded projects, comfort items, and used dishes were narrow now. It brought some sense of shame to him, honestly. Static had tried to tidy up, but it had only lasted a few perigees before the disarray was worse than it had been before. Though his mind was wide awake (and pointedly mocking his inability to keep things straight), his body was anything but… He did make it to the couch, though. He settled onto it, more or less collapsing, only just managing not to spill his drink. Sleep would probably not be coming here, but he could at least close his eyes and drink.

Normally he tried to avoid sugary foods. Avoid caffeine. Avoid cold foods. Avoid this, avoid that, add this, add that – none of it really did anything, though. The tea from Sephos helped sometimes - it at least eased his mind in the right direction of winding down - but he was, admittedly, afraid to use it too much. Afraid his body would adjust, like it had to the other things he’d tried - and that when he needed it most, he’d find it useless.

So the cocoa would do, for now. Removing one hand from the mug, he felt around for one of the many blankets strewn over the couch, fingers eventually grasping the edge of fleece fabric and then tugged it over himself… and then felt out once more for another - and another - until he was effectively cocooned in warmth.

Still, his mind raced. To nothing in particular, though. Thoughts flitted through his mind faster than he could really decipher them. A half-baked idea on where to go mapping next - a gift idea for Mahmud - what was that sound outside? - there was an ache in his left ankle - cepheid: a star whose brightness is used to measure the distance of neighboring stars - why was the tv screen blank?

He blinked - that last thought more prominent than the others. He’d forgotten to turn it on, that was why. He felt around for the remote, eventually finding it among the blanket catastrophe around him. He’d left a documentary in his playing device - a comfort film, really. He’d memorized it by this point, but it was nice to listen to something familiar while he tried to drown out his own mind. Let someone else do the thinking and talking - he could just listen.

His eyes slid shut, feeling heavy and like they might never open again - wouldn’t that be something? - and he sipped again. Warmth pooled within him, and he sighed. It wasn’t sleep, but it was restful. The narrator droned on about solar systems and far away galaxies, and Deimos really did try to listen - but it was difficult to hear over the volume in his own head.

That’s not right - must be some kind of mockingbird - was that a horn? - nadir: a point on the celestial sphere directly below the observer, diametrically opposite the zenith - the ache in his ankle was growing. He shifted so that his legs weren’t curled up nearly as much beneath him, alleviating the ache, then resettled his head back against a pillow leaned over the armrest of the couch… another sip.

When they’d first met, Cerpin had asked if his trouble with sleep was physical, or mental, more or less. He’d answered both, but really he’d just not had the words, perhaps. Now that he was older he knew it was a mental thing - how could you sleep if your mind never shut up? But what was a safe way to make it shut up? Nothing that would lead to dependency - he loathed the idea of being dependent on something outside of himself. It was difficult enough to put so much trust and weight on the relationships he’d been forming. Mahmud smiling - a bright halo behind his head - safe - Cerpin laughing at his own joke - the thunk of his mace connecting with an ally, unintentional friendly fire - blood spraying as shears sliced off the head of a drone standing before him, Ephias’ dead-yet-frenzied eyes coming into view–

He sat up, suddenly wide awake in every sense, eyes wide and searching the hive - his every nerve on edge. It took a moment before he calmed, both hands now gripping the mug, almost desperate for something concrete. Shadows moved in the corners of his vision - he ignored them, pointedly. The room was silent - how long had he been not-dreaming? The documentary was back on its menu screen.

He sighed, feeling his rapidfire pulse slow as reality sank back into him. Was he meant for this? Fighting, really fighting, dealing a life-ending blow or witnessing such a thing, to someone that probably didn’t even have a choice in what they were doing. No, very likely did not have a choice. It gnawed at the back of his mind, surfacing in moments like this, when he’d thought perhaps he was fine.

But really, was he meant for this?

He had known what he was signing up for, at least in theory, Forera had not sugar coated her experience for him. She almost seemed to have been trying to talk him out of it, upon reflection. Was he meant for this? He sipped again, now finding his drink to be cold, he made a face and set it aside on the coffee table that barely had any space left for such things. What if you aren’t? - It’s too late now, you’re in too deep –

“I wouldn’t want to leave anyway.” He spoke aloud, to himself, no one else was around after all. Whether or not he had the stomach for direct violence - more than just playfighting, wrestling for fun - for practice - for growth - nonlethal injuries – didn’t matter. He was in now and had no intention of leaving, of abandoning- this train of thought was stupid. He grabbed the remote, starting the documentary over again, intentionally derailing it.

Maybe that tea would be a good idea, after all. Maybe a dependency on something would not be so unbearable, if it let him turn his mind off for a few blissful hours of nothingness. Maybe processing would be easier if his mind weren’t constantly stacked with things to go through.

Maybe he would give in, and go to a doctor.

[alternianative]

has deimos ever gotten the better of his pain in the ass neighbor phobos? what’s the gossip there

i put some shit in one a his traps once n like the next fuckin night there was more of 'em borderin' what's technically my territory

an' i gotta say

none a them looked like the kind you'd put out for animals

we ain't live that close to the huntin' grounds, y'know? if i'd been even a lil less observant i mighta stepped in one or somethin'

soooo i decided it ain't worth tryna mess with that guy

might be lookin into movin anyway

[alternianative]

poor precious deimos, weather's still hot for that big comfy sweater... how about taking off? 👀

=> Deimos levels you with a flat stare

an' what exactly makes you think you'd see if i did take it off huh?

creep.

[alternianative]

It’s almost over. The end draws closer in stretches of time that don’t feel real to him. It’s hard to feel time passing when so much of it is spent awake and desperate to distract himself. A night passes. Three nights pass. Two weeks pass- no, a glance at the date on his husktop shows only four nights passing. Each day-to-night cycle blurs together in an endless onslaught of sleepless hours. He is aware of the present moment- yesterday feels like a month ago and tomorrow simultaneously comes too slowly and too quickly. He is also aware that at some point, the program he is in ends. It’s almost over.

Measuring time in hours feels useless, so instead he measures in completed projects. Maps, charts, essays - they demand so much of him to finish but he chips away at the work dutifully. In especially incoherent hours he stops, lies down and stares at the ceiling for an immeasurable amount of time until that sweet creeping feeling of sleep crawls into the back of his mind… When he wakes it always feels too soon. He finishes a project, and sets it aside. He picks it back up later and rechecks it for errors, for coherency, for any sign that it might be obvious just how bad he’s gotten lately.

It’s almost over, but not yet.

He dreads the end almost as much as he craves it. To finish is to graduate is to be one step closer to leaving this horrible planet -

To leave is to almost certainly stumble immediately into the grips of the Alternian military. Snatched up, twisted and commanded and controlled. He rejects this fate with all of his being - he will not allow himself to be controlled by another. And yet… he is powerless to do anything about it. Middle class is still just middle class, and he’s stretched the tolerance for disobedience so far already.

The chances that they may overlook him are slim, and he knows this. Because even if it weren’t almost guaranteed for all trolls, even if he’s stepped out of line by entering a field unrelated to law (his designated Place as a Teal), his scores are among the highest. Despite the ire and flack  he gets for not complying, the work he produces is sound, accurate, and hard to find fault in. The knowledge that he does so well fills him with pride… and a dread so deeply unfathomable he cannot bear to think about it.

Of course he’s good at it. Better than good, if truth be told. The stars practically sing to him with how easily he aligns them- the math comes easy, the understanding of the way spatial bodies work comes easy. Somehow, no matter how twisted and confusing the models become he always seems to know where he’s going, and where he’s been. He was practically hatched for this.

But he was not hatched to take orders or be commanded and controlled. His wonder and curiosity for space holds no desire to conquer it, merely document. He holds no interest in war or conquest, only discovery of what hasn’t yet been seen by anyone else. Despite how he may like to play at fighting he doubts he has no real interest in killing. He is not meant for warships, and not meant to have his mobility confined to what some other person wants of him.

Often, he wishes he had been hatched somewhere else. Anywhere else. Perhaps even that he wasn’t a troll at all- just some other alien species that didn’t base its entire being on an endless expansion of an already exhaustive empire. These wishes are not things he allows himself to spend much time thinking about - to do so only feeds the ever growing pit of despair in the back of his mind. The longer he stays awake, the harder it is to corral his mind into focusing on more productive things. It isn’t like he had any control over where he was hatched, or as what. 

It’s almost over.

The closer the end comes the harder it becomes to ignore these things he’s done so well at pushing aside. The anger, frustration, fear, anxiety - all things he pushed away and bottled for some undecided “later” - it threatens to all come undone when he runs out of things to do and lies awake, sleepless, attempting to count down the hours until “the end” finally arrives. He does not know how to unpack it, how to sort it out in a safe manner. He is just one troll staring down the merciless machine of an intergalactic empire that always hungers for more.

To be vulnerable is to risk being culled, and despite all his dread and rage at the way things are he has no desire to die.

He gathers his projects. He dresses nicely, makes an effort to control the curly mess of hair on his head… he puts concealer under his eyes to hide just how bad they’ve gotten. These things hold him together like thread keeping an overstuffed plush toy from bursting at the seams. He looks presentable, normal even. Like nothing is wrong at all.

The end is here. It’s all over.

[alternianative]

h☉w d☉ y☉u like, get ☉ut ☉f neg★tive th☉ught spir★ls

★skin f☉r ★ friend

☉bvs.

[alternianative]

Deimos, bottoming for your bf doesn't count as fighting

wh★t the fuck --

where did i even suggest th★t w★s ★ thing???

fuck ☉ff!

i C★N fight i just D☉N'T