[ 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]

[ 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. ]