— [ THEATER ] GHSnowswept2025 ❅
Naivety can often be charming. A novelty or an art form - to watch others discover the world around them. Cause and effect rather than actions and consequences, if only because the general person will hear a negative ring in the tune of consequences and fail to take away anything more.
Belobog’s eager acceptance of the outside worlds is no exception, suddenly overrun with information and technology. But it is the people, who bring personal prejudices that poison every open mind they can reach.
It’s a shame that he’s going to miss the show, he mourns, but he has always been cursed with the kind of awareness that changes plans from one second to the next.
The alleyway is a block from the theater. Jing Yuan notes that the guard stationed here daily is conveniently absent, so the only outsider around to hear the jarring thud of Aventurine’s back being slammed into stone is himself. “I know it was you!” The person is snarling, and the three others chime in with slurs that even Jing Yuan has not heard for at least a decade or so. “Don’t even try to deny it! IPC or not, all you people can do is lie!” Another laughs, adds, just cut out his tongue!
If only because there was only one known living man to aim it towards. Up close, Jing Yuan can tell that these are not natives of Belobog.
In an instant motion, there is a knife in that hand, Jing Yuan’s expression tightens. By luck, by miracle, the knife catches a ray of sunlight that doesn’t extend to this alley, the general’s reflection shining for a second, announcing his presence.
As a unit, they turn to face him. “Hey, this doesn’t concern you! That ticket in your hand? Just take it and enjoy the show.”
There is nothing to be read in Aventurine’s easy posture, the Avgin's eyes half-shadowed. Jing Yuan allows himself to blink slowly, assessing. Finally, a yawn overtakes him, subtly stretching his shoulders as he lifts a hand to cover it. “Of course,” His tone turns mild, “I merely thought you looked familiar from a distance. While I was not present for your proposal, you and your colleagues of the Space Station’s Galactic Geopolitical department have made significant strides in recent years. The excerpt detailing the Xianzhou’s specific seclusion was well informed.”
In unison, the group flounders. Pales. Panics. Jing Yuan’s eyes remain sincere. “Oh! Uh. Th-thank you…sir? Gen-general Jing Yuan. Uh…we…”
“Don’t mind me. I’m sure there are more important places for you to be than indulging an old man’s appreciation for the finer details.” These are minor researchers. Which means, their names aren’t known to him…yet. They scatter down the alleyway and Jing Yuan’s pleasant smile is neutral once more, a friendly distance from the Stoneheart. “Pardon the intrusion,” He's confident that this man was in no danger at all, won't ask after potential injuries unless Aventurine speaks concern into existence.“Were you planning to see the show? I’m sure we’ve missed the opening act…”
NAIVETE WAS ALL TOO OFTEN A DEATH FLAG. ♤ it's hardly the first time it's happened to him: when the senses blur and the perilous fog starts to take over, and the golden whispers start to peter in, his brain supplies him the strangest thoughts——old, unnameable sensations ; memories buried in the subconscious ; feelings so lost to former lives that they might as well be relics worthy of archaeology, worthless things only jackpots in the eye of the right beholder.
"dya, look at this i found! the colors are so bright."
"naive child! where did you get that?! throw it away, right now. that is a katican knife holder. it will bring us terrible misfortune."
they said that the sheaths the katicans used to house their notorious skinning knives were made from the hair and clothes of their avgin victims. whether or not this was true wasn't important ; the lessons they formed on survival protected and served them better than whatever was real. but naivete? that was unlearned quick, shaved off down the genetic tree like bad branches halfway to dead already when natural selection had its way. it was the naive who were caught ; the cunning survived.
the only time dya ever talked about his dad, she'd called him naive. without knowing it, he'd always assumed that this must be what had landed him in the quicksand the day that'd claimed his life.
the wind is driven out of him in a sharp stab——of a fist, or a knee, or the butt of a weapon——into his gut, and nausea wells up dizzyingly fast, wetting his mouth. he spits bitter saliva on the ground, roughly aiming blindly at their feet, barely seeing. "all you people can do is lie!"
and there's it, a suggestion about cutting out his tongue. playful, casual——a throwaway joke, in theory easily laughed off. but the cloth in his hand, carefully clutched behind his back, told another story, whispered a different line of probability etched, all these years later, just as deeply into his bones as the need to eat, to sleep. for now, the three were too focused on beating him to notice, and if his lip weren't so sore from what he's sure is a thick split, he'd dare a smile just to test fate.
but instead he stands there, somehow still keeping his balance against the rough stone wall, waiting for whatever came next. some possibilities:
more pain. a symphony of it, dealt from fate's very own rigged hand. more old memories, dya calling him naive like a mantra, her substitute for ' audacious ' because avja didn't have a word that big and, even if it did, calling him that would be like inviting Her to take him right back, would be as good as sending him to death
the true end(?), or something close enough to it, the kind he used to spend his life fearing until it stood so close that it practically walked his days alongside him, until it became an anesthetic instead of a boogeyman——if hell manufactured anesthetics, that is. until he learned to love and kiss it just as well as he hated and abhored it, much like everything else in those days
his thrice——cursed, blessed, damned ; pick what you want——luck again
oh, there's the sunlight, slanting across the stone. soft and bleak, through overcast clouds, casting its long shadow across a bar of wire. a thunderstorm ready to come, or maybe just-receded. through the golden fog, he claps a hand on the general's forearm, and that's the first step away from the tricks his mind likes to play, appreciating his light demeanor, something as easy as a question when he remains miraculously——if it was even worth it to call it that——untouched on the outside, but is sure without a doubt that there's at least one or two things wrong on the inside.
smoke and mirrors. small prices to pay for the wins he took with both hands and held onto for dear life. "ahaha. . . maybe, before that——i should. . . catch a nurse around here for a check-up."
and from his palm it unfurls, presents itself in strands of sandy blond and earthen red just for his eyes, artifact-made-jackpot, stitched hollow and preciously worn. he smiles for satisfaction, finality falling into place. the one who'd talked about cutting out his tongue. . .
this was something more than just naivete. call this one fate, dya——a name for the old ways that just kept coming back.
