these days the years thin till I can't remember

[somebadnews]

WHO: Five and OPEN
WHEN: Days 5/7/8 (choose your own adventure)
WHERE: All around Sa-Hareth (Merchants Arena/House of Dew/etc.)
WHAT: Dealing with unforeseen events, briefcases, and adorable wanted posters
WARNINGS: PG-13 / will update as needed

Day 5

These are strange days.

From the beginning it didn't feel like your typical time travel. Despite the similar symptoms -- the jet lag, the headaches -- it became clear early on that he's facing a far more complicated problem than simply having to avert an apocalypse that he had the foresight to predict. Part of him still expects doomsday to pop up out of nowhere, at any moment, and the other part wonders if this is just a new version of it. One where even the dead can survive. (An army of the undead. He'd almost love it if he could blame it all on his brother polluting the timeline, or at least... whatever, it's a pipe dream to think Klaus of all people would be able to deal with them.)

His obsessions are what they are. When he can't figure something out, he tends to forgo all other distractions until something starts to make sense. That gave little time to attempt to make an honest wage, like so many of those that came with him seemed inclined to do. Once his abilities recovered, Five didn't have any trouble taking what he needed, which was minimized somewhat with the ever-helpful handouts from servants at the brothel. Those who he rarely corrected when they mistook him for a child. It is what it is. For his part, he reigned in his temper enough that he hadn't yet offended the entire staff.

He took down names he could gather from the others, where they came from, what they had to offer. He talks to himself whenever he's by himself, which is honestly what he prefers.

Those things he saw stay with him long into the night. Like so many things that keep him awake, as he hunches in the far corner of some room in the servant quarters while the rest were going about their lives like none of this was at all unusual. He hasn't stopped looking for any signs that his family is still out there, but for now, he's alone in solving what happened to them. Not like he wasn't used to doing everything himself, if need be, but what he wouldn't give for a day...

--

Day 7

Haltham had, surprisingly, been true to his word. The Academy uniform showed up at the brothel days ago. Just when he was losing sight of home. The pockets were of course empty, and it has a certain musk to it, but he quickly traded it for the ill-fitting garments he was first handed. At least the layers give him better protection against the cold, although... he needs to do something about the shorts.

Though he dared to hope when every delivery came in, he hadn't really expected to get anything else back. So when a cart showed up with a familiar briefcase nestled in amongst the flour and spice barrels, he thought he was seeing things. In a blink, he grabbed it and disappeared through a ripple of space to the nearest closet. About damn time.

He barely made a note of how fast his heart was racing. It should have struck him immediately that it wouldn't have been here if they'd so much as looked inside, but he managed to get caught up in the possibilities anyway. Traveling through time could be disastrous if he did it on his own, but with the briefcase, he could get back to exactly where he left off. Warn them never to fall into this trap.

Moments later and he's noting the busted corners, the scuffs, the dents. Shit.

"No no no no....," he mutters as he undoes the clasps and the truth slowly settles in. There's a reason they tell you never to let these things out of your sight; for all their technology, one bad drop can fry the whole thing. And damned if he knows how to fix it. "Come on I told them to be careful."

Nobody could blame him for the tantrum that follows; and he's fortunate for the bustling noise outside that masks the sounds of something breaking. Several things. The briefcase lands in a heap of his endless frustrations, perfectly useless. Why is nothing ever easy? Clenched fists glow in a wavering blue light as he tries to swallow his desire to just throw caution to the wind and see how more screwed up he can make this.

A while later and he's sane again. Back to square one.

--

Day 8

The raids the previous night has him on edge. While he kept from causing a stir, it's becoming increasingly obvious that he can't afford to stay in one place any longer than he needs to.

Five sits on the briefcase in the dirty alleyway, finally having found something to use it for, taking notes about the structure in front of him. One thing about being in a smaller body is how easy it is to disappear behind almost anything. Despite his frustrations, he prefers to focus on his advantages when he can, like maybe he hadn't made such a careless mistake. He'd lost the servant who had followed him out in the crowd, but if need be, he knows where she went whenever he needs a cover.

He used to call this working. Back when his job was surviving day to day, bringing Dolores news of whatever victory he deemed worth celebrating. And it was work. He knows how to survive on his own better than anyone, so he should be able to handle this with or without help.

But it became apparent after those initial days that he's eventually going to have to work with the others. From what he's gathered, they might have something strangely in common with him. Whatever that means. Abilities that can be useful as long as they have a common goal. That means going ahead with their plan to travel away from here for answers. Which in turn, means pushing them along so they actually stand a chance.

He's on his way back to their little safe house when he notices some new posters decorating a wall and slowly comes to a stop. They're crude, but he can pick out some of the features, including one that looks just like... well. That's sort of unflattering.

"Son of a bitch." When he looks up, he can see at least three merchants looking his way. Quickly, he turns a corner, then teleports to the next alley over. He gives a brief glance over his shoulder to see if anyone notices, then briskly continues on, briefcase in hand.


--

ooc :: will action spam or prose so don't even worry about it

Comments

[downswing]

"Circling his twentieth summer," says a man blessed with the appearance of having barely just surpassed that time himself by a handful of years. Shier, softer, possessed of every virtue: Sizhui becomes his youth, a blade untried but for kind combat. When war next strikes —

Lan Sizhui will rise, never to meet battle a victim once again, and the shiver that courses Wangji's back wrecks his form, suspends him.

"He was young, once." All sons survive their childhood. He speaks truths known, with an indulgence Cloud Recesses would incriminate: perhaps to weigh the steeled measure of his voice, to partake of nostalgia. To taste its bitterness and bile and know the swallow tense, a cat's shifted toy, moving his throat in petty undulations.

"Cared for toys." The same piece that grazes the warm belly of his palm now, rejected by the boy beside him would have gladdened every Wen remnant, irrespective of age. Refugees do not decline charity. They hardly deny themselves anything.

[somebadnews]

That isn't the answer he thought he'd get, and it earns the man another glance. Although as soon as the phrase 'you're older than you look' enters his head he immediately lets out a short, bitter laugh. How well could he judge ages anyway? Everyone looks young to him. All of them. Even the natives here, peddling their meager wares to stave off death, seem too innocent to be burdened by the soul crushing weight of time. Is it any wonder they can't recognize it in the face he wears now?

So he has an adult son.

Five doesn't really want to bring up the past, or the memories of his childhood that he clung to in the decades he spent trying to get back. Not with a stranger following him like he's still in desperate need of a father. But he can tell that he offended him when he didn't accept his gift. He only has no idea who he offered it to, because people see what they want to see.

"It's wasted on me." He thinks he might have told him he wasn't a child before when he lost his temper, but of course he didn't understand. Children say that all the time, and somehow part of him doesn't have the heart to tell him again. "That's not your fault."

As close to an apology as he can manage.

[downswing]

Tension retrieves long claws off his back, leaves wounds and scars. He does not crawl in wake of them; angles, rights himself, keeps the pace. The five-forked fire of aching cold laps up his limbs and spine, spills out in snow that deepens in slates of shrieked dark ice. Here, where carts and mules never broker frequent travel, and the washerwomen pass them by with careful steps to balance the pains of their basket loads.

The boy gives his reasons, if not his excuses. They will do, for a gift inflicted like a summer sickness. Arched, the tumble of the spinning top, relieved from Lan Wangji's hand, down the seemingly nebulous, endless repository of his sleeve. A wretched habit, ruining the form of his silks. Uncle would disapprove.

Uncle is not present.

Another will take it. The pinkened girl Mina, the boy Eleven. There are options in their small contingent, despite the refusal of the most pertinent, the plainest recipient. "Fault is mine. You made no request."

But bore the indignity of a stranger's gift with something resembling aplomb.

"My friend will accept it." Twice the boy's age, but Wei Wuxian never did refrain from... small, shiny, moving things.

[somebadnews]

That seemed to have patched things up. Good. He's capable of tolerating others when he chooses to, and even he can recognize that it's better that he not make an enemy out of the few he still needs to rely on. Another reason why he refuses to go into any detail about who he is; aside from his family name and those of the siblings he's still so desperate to find. It's a delicate balance that he's struggled to maintain, to stay comfortably isolated from them but close enough to see what's coming. He can't afford not to pay attention and too much animosity, them knowing too much, can result in information being withheld.

"I'm glad that's settled." That comes out dismissively, with a one handed gesture to the air beside him. It really is starting to drive him crazy that he's refusing to walk beside him. He's left in a vulnerable position, no matter how little the threat actually is. Another irritation he has to shoulder to keep from burning bridges.

A few more steps and he shakes off the feeling. There's something interesting in what he said. It's not that he hasn't picked up on familiarity between some of those who arrived, but he hasn't outright asked any of them.

"Do you have a lot of friends here?" That question could be misinterpreted, so he clarifies: "People you knew before."

[downswing]

"The heavens smiled," he counters, tongue slack and drenched in bitter bile, doubt rearing its trifecta of heads. What do you know of friends, all you who came here bare-handed?

Enough to miss, to lack, to hurt. To look at the precious privilege the likes of Lan Wangji has been awarded, without earning, and covet. No. Better for Wangji to still and slow his step and settle beside the child, better to raise his sheathed sword now and then and intercede between him and careless passers-by, inserting a barrier. Better to divert.

Bichen snaps back beside him, true to form, like the arc of a winding toy. "You gave no name."

One matter to refuse Lan Wangji's alms. Another, to deny him the dregs of courtesy. And true, in Cloud Recesses, a child would be introduced by his elders, presented for his name and feats and honoured relations. They are deprived of coal and cloth and the warmth of fresh-stretched linens on their beds here, let alone the iron grasp or protocol.

Let the child name himself. They share the intimacy of their quarters, Wei Ying says, in a house of pleasures. Only fitting for a boy of that shelter to lay claim to his own father, to pave his own path.

[somebadnews]

That was a non-specific affirmative to his question, which serves as little more than a confirmation of what he knew. If he'd had his choice, he probably could have tried to pry information from someone more susceptible to interrogation. Maybe he will later, because these are relevant details. Anything that could help determine why he was separated from his siblings, and why others stayed together, is key to finding them. This is one time he can't blame it on his lack of control over his own powers. But the man has also shown no signs that he recognizes the briefcase he's carrying. His only focus seems to be on escorting him safely back to shelter.

A thought occurs to him then. And with that thought, the pull of nagging paranoia as his companion moves around him again. Five makes it a point not to trust anyone outside of his family, and even they were consistently unreliable. Going to this level of care, protecting him from the looks of any harmless pedestrian, is worth noting.

He keeps a steady gaze on him before he decides to answer his question.

"Number Five." He doesn't usually throw in the 'number' bit, but it is his real legal name. There's part of him that's always waiting for recognition when he gives it. Some clearer sign of the enemy who has so far managed to get the better of him. However unlikely, there's not one of them in their group that he's ruled out entirely.

"You didn't give me your name either." That comes out more casually, like he wasn't contemplating anything along the lines of what he's done to people who decide to follow him in the past. Although none of them tried to disarm him with toys and plays of sympathy. If this is an elaborate plan to lower his guard, he's good. "I was going to check my notes later, but you could save me the trouble."

[downswing]

...Eleven. Now, Five. Perhaps the times have changed, and men of new truly name their offspring by their count in the succession of sons. Four, preceding this sullen creature. Small wonder he throws his puerile cruelties like bone dice at the world, if he never stands to rise to rank within his family, to make his fortune, to inherit. Zewu-Jun is the culmination of a thousand moments of gasped effort, his brother, Lan Wangji's only yet another stepping stone. Will Five learn the grace of yielding, so his four other brothers might lift themselves on the ladder of his bowed back?

Around them, walls of worn brick strain, and the winds smack and gust, and the cold breathes between them. Here, it takes life and becomes as the villagers mill, a known and inescapable entity, like their swollen sea of iced tide, their aching salt. In this citadel, no man walks alone, or unharmed, or easily. Every shadow's whipped by winter's whispers.

"Wangji, sect Lan." Lord chief cultivator, a Twin of Jade, his excellency the Light-bearer. Verbal pittance. Better still, gaze dark and slanted, "You keep records?" A pause. "How old? And deep?"

Share them, he need not ask, because a child's work cannot be thieved from his hands, and the boy Five might not have yet mastered the viscera of ink and his calligraphy, besides. Perhaps he is not yet suited, prepared to display the intricacies of his work.

The world does not wait on wayward vanity.

[somebadnews]

That train of suspicion isn't so easily derided when he freely gives his name, and Five files it away to compare with the rest of the information he's gleaned. When Wangji goes as far as questioning his note taking, he nearly laughs, but ends up shaking his head. Whoever isn't keeping records is obviously just in it for the ride. Those people aren't his concern.

Much like this man shouldn't be a concern. Usually by now Five would have dissuaded anyone from showing him sympathy, and it's become apparent that he's faced with some limitations based on historical and cultural beliefs that aren't so easily overcome.

Being underestimated should be a benefit. As little as he knows about any of their motives, passing for a child gives him an undeniable leeway. Five has fed into that with his silence about who he is, but there's a limit to how long he can go without snapping again. Two steps and he stops to turn towards him, leaning in. He can't do much about his height, but he can still make an effort to be imposing. No matter how capable the opponent appears.

"Deeper than you could hope to comprehend." On a whim, he fishes out the book he'd been scribbling in before and holds it out. It's not the first that he's filled at this point, and he'll need to find another one soon. There are some notes that are in English. Names and dates in particular stand out, but the majority is filled with complex equations and probability calculations that stretch on for pages. The most recent entries include times and movement around a certain building, but he's only showing it now to make a point.

"Knock yourself out." In this weather, he's counting on him taking one look and handing it back to him. On the off chance he understands the significance of it, well, that tells him something too. Highly unlikely, but he's always prepared to be surprised.

[downswing]

Records, stretches of tattered parchment, tremors of cinnabar. Not a book, a binding, an annex. Not a history of mathematics, to spy the lines of fruitless calculation, crowned in haphazard occasion with strings of drawing — cipher? — Lan Wangji will not retaliate against with the full, vocal extent of his frustration.

The boy Five has gone through no indifference of trouble to amass his knowledge, however eerily illustrated, and Lan Wangji celebrates it with a nod, then the soft perusal of his thumb and fingers where fresh rows start, as if physical contact with paper might acquaint him better with the content, a blind man learning his lover.

She would not be well pleased with him — by the end of the first page, he is as ignorant of the book as the boy may intend him. By the third, brows pinched, he drowns in restless confusion, the same symbols that had plagued the previous copy now reunited in a different sequence.

Not cipher, then... a different manner of writing?

No matter. They are exposed, and the boy stubborn in his vulnerability, ill dressed for the occasion despite the battered correction of Lan Wangji's cloak. They occupy too much space on an open road for passing horses or any sentinel that's ever watched Wangji's step to appreciate their loitering.

He calls the book closed — "Thank you." — and carefully deposits it in the endless chasm of his burdened sleeve, restarting their walk.

"Returned to you within the sennight." If Lan Wangji is ill matched for the task, Wei Ying may yet meet it.

[somebadnews]

To his credit, Five hasn't met many who make an effort to decipher his calculations. Watching Wangji carefully scan through the pages is oddly satisfying. Though he's still going too quickly for him to believe he's getting anything out of them. Still. As tired as he's been, wouldn't it be nice if he finally found someone who could check his work? Make sure he doesn't make any other catastrophic mistake. If only.

It's in those extra moments standing there that he can feel the wind whipping through him, and he shivers despite himself. He hasn't experienced winter since reverting to this body, not counting the phenomenon surrounding the barn in 1963, and he's quickly reminded of his own shortcomings. Any victory at the reaction to his work can be squashed by a display of weakness, and he shifts the briefcase awkwardly so he can fold his arms to keep still.

The cold is forgotten as Wangji tucks the book away. He makes no word of protest, just a raise of an eyebrow and a shrug of his shoulders. Only a minor inconvenience to find something else to write on until it's returned, and he can remember where he left off. It's kept him occupied, awake most nights, but it's almost a compulsion at this point. He hasn't had a breakthrough.

"Call it a work in progress," he mutters without prompting as they resume their walk. Apparently his mood swings are still acting up, because he's back to conversational in no time at all. Like he's offering a reward for making the attempt. "Deconstructing our situation is the key to reversing it, but it's... a complex problem. Too many variables."

That's all he says. No reason to go into specifics, but on the off chance he shows that to someone, well. They can get an idea of what they're looking at.