[ open ] birthday time!

[picky]

WHO: Marcille, Ryoji, and YOU!
WHAT: A party for the April (and May) birthdays!
WHERE: LILICO Game Center in Akihabara
WHEN: April 20th
WARNINGS: TBA

No matter who you are, you receive a text early in the morning from Ryoji (memors):

Good morning! Did you know it's a special someone's birthday today? Actually, we have several birthdays to celebrate, so join us today at the LILICO Game Center! There will be cake! Lots and *lots* of cake. Hope to see you there!

This is an open log, so feel free to tag out or top level or respond to the prompts below. Have fun!

Comments

🫂

[picky]

[ why would you do that to me.... thread with me more wtf? also, we both know the soju would have made her so much worse. she's saving her worst for you, bestie.

Marcille makes a face at the I'm not really sure, like she's trying to look at something Very Far in a Very Bright place. She can't tell if she wants to burst out crying or give up on it.

She picks the latter. She reaches up her hand and wipes her eyes. Her face returns to normal. ]

What contract?

[wheft]

[ yessssss putting a pin on that for the future hehe. but also girl are you okay....... altho ish can't really talk considering the stress puking she did, huh. ]

The contract I signed with my current company. Well, the one before I got here, I mean.

[ well, she already told wriothesley and ereshkigal this. might as well tell one more person so long as she's careful about it. ]

We have a manager back home. They can bring us back from the dead no matter how awful the injuries are. So long as they're still alive, I can't die.

[picky]

[ Surprisingly, Marcille seems to take this information well, even while drunk. She nods and sets a hand on her glass again, but she doesn't lift it from the bar. ]

That sounds like magic. S'kinda like the Dungeon. People can come and revive you if you get killed. Not always, but... Anyway, that's different here, right? Your manager can't do that for you.

[wheft]

It's really not magic. I'd explain, but I'd be breaching the contract. We take contracts very seriously in the City, and I'm not keen on finding out what happens if I violate it.

[ it's mostly death. permanent death. and she actually wants to live now, thank you very much. ]

But yes, they're not here right now. I think that's for the best. [ RIP dante........ ] So that patch-up job you did is common where you're from? In the dungeons?

[picky]

[ She closes her eyes and nods vigorously, like she fully and completely understands. She's too much of an honor student to ask anyone to breach contract for her.

She doesn't fully understand what I think that's for the best means, but before she can get into that, they're talking about the dungeon. Marcille finally picks up her drink and looks into the glass, watching the ice spin around with the inertia. ]

Mhm. The dungeon is full of magic.

[ She raises up her finger in front of her, putting on her lecture face. ]

A spell gets cast right when y'walk into the dungeon. It binds your soul to your body. S'long as you don't [ she counts on her fingers, clearly concentrating: ] disintegrate or get an incurable disease or lose pieces of yourself and... things like that, someone can revive you if you die. It doesn't even matter how badly you got hurt!

[wheft]

I... I see... [ that's very convenient? ] That's kind of like how Dante's revival ability works. Our soul is linked to them, and vice versa. Though I'm not the person to ask when it comes to the nitty-gritty...

[ seriously. where is faust when you need her. ]

Why were you asking anyway, if people can just come back to life so long as they're in a dungeon?

[picky]

[ She nods vigorously. ]

Yup! 'Xactly like that!

[ Your soul being linked to your body, etc.

She takes a sip of her drink and nearly chokes a second later at Ishmael's next question. She wipes her mouth, clears her throat, and sets her glass down again. She's deflated and miserable all over again. ]

'Cause we're not in a dungeon. [ She folds her arm on the bar and rests her cheek on it, looking away. ] We can really die out here. And all the Outsiders can be different races, so... I wanted to know.

[wheft]

[ mm, makes sense. she's going to fill this pause with a sip of her grape juice first. ]

Then we'll just have to try and not die. Of course, that's easier said than done. [ she exhales. ] I can't... feel my connection with my Manager right now, so I'm also at a risk of dying here. I'm also trying to wrap my head around the idea of being able to die permanently now, but...

[ she turns to marcille. ]

At the moment, there's just nothing we can do but survive. Maybe it's about time you learn how to deal with it while we're here.

[picky]

[ Marcille quiets down, deflating as Ishmael meets her eye. She folds both of her arms over the bar, making a little nest for her head. Any mirth escapes out of her like a tide pulling back. Exhaustion rushes in. ]

S'not like we really have a choice...

[ She murmurs, petulant. Her gaze slides off to a corner of the bar. ]

You would if you could though, right? Live a longer life.

[wheft]

[ that's... a rather heavy topic to have during a birthday, isn't it?

ishmael swirls her non-alcoholic drink in her glass, wishing she weren't sober right now. then after taking a long drink from it - ]

...No.

[ a slow shake of her head. ]

I mean, I don't have plans of dying anytime soon. [ not anymore, thank the wings. ] But when my time comes, I'll just come to accept it. As much as possible I'd like to pass away gently, but that's practically asking for the impossible now.

[ after all the close shaves she's gotten back home, it'd be a miracle if she dies a peaceful death. ]

[picky]

[ While Ishmael's focus is kept on her glass and some faraway thoughts and memories, Marcille's gaze on her is steady, glassy, and vulnerable. Her face is still half-tucked into her folded arms, her mouth pressed against her hand.

If Ishmael looked at her, she would see a hint of desperation—a half-hearted hope that the answer Marcille wants would come out of her mouth. It's an answer she hasn't heard all night.

It doesn't come. She knew it wouldn't, but she let herself irrationally hope for it because she's drunk. Instantly crestfallen, Marcille feels her body grow heavier with an invisible weight, bearing down over her shoulders and head. She closes her eyes. From her eyelashes, two tears roll out and slip into the fabric of her sleeves.

Enough. Marcille sniffs and quietly mops them up. ]

It's impossible? How?

[wheft]

[ ishmael can only stare wordlessly at marcille's sorry, drunken state.

it's a familiar sight, after all; she used to be like that, when she was still young, bright-eyed, and naive as she boarded the pequod for the first time - how her fellow mates used to leave her alone to cry over every traumatic little thing that she'd soon grown out of over time, among other things. because if she had time to cry over the death of every coworker she'd come across, she'd have time to get good at keeping herself alive at sea so as not to end up as another meaningless statistic. ]

...Because it's a luxury. [ to put it matter-of-factly, almost coldly. ] I don't know anyone who'd ever just laid down and rolled into their grave. Not in the City.

[ even her dearest friend, who had made herself a coffin for that seemingly unattainable peaceful death, had never gotten to use it when her time had arrived. ]