I Like To Push Until My Luck Is Over

[polariity]

With a few exceptions, alliances in the arena are destined to be constant ever changing things. It's something he knows the second the rules are explained to them. There are a few amongst their number, of course, that automatically gravitate towards those they know. Him and Signless are an example. Yet whenever they gather in those cold nights that they come to know... It's with a sense of unease and wariness.

Psii doesn't care for it. He stays with Signless, the two of them on their own. It's like being Alternia all over again as they keep close and forage for their survival. The scene isn't unfamiliar... Especially not the part where other people want to kill them.

If only it could have lasted forever.

But one night the cannon sounds off, that familiar face in the sky, and Psii finally appears at the nearest gathering of people. The light of their fire is like a beacon, after all, and he's wordless as he settles down near it with no question. Around three others, and he keeps a wary eye on them all even as a part of him is apathetic to the idea of one of them leaping forward and bashing his head into a rock.

It'd be a relief.

There's not much talking, which he appreciates, and he just enjoys the warmth for what little pleasure it can give him as he squeezes a sharpened stone in one hand. It's the sound of rustling that them all glance up again, bodies tense. New arrival, someone with murder on their mind, or beast? It could be anything.

Comments

[guilty_by_design]

"Relax, I'm unarmed."

It's not surprising that no one relaxes when the owner of that rasping voice steps into the firelight; Schuldig's never made a secret of his telepathy, and his not having a weapon doesn't convince anyone he's not dangerous. It's more the look of him that seems to convince people to settle back, wordlessly tolerating his presence.

He's clearly not doing well. He's too pale, too thin, eyes a little too sunken for it to be just a lack of sleep. The way they blaze out of his face says fever or madness, possibly both. And there's something in the way he moves as he folds himself in front of the fire - a careful economy of movement, as though he's calculating every expenditure of energy. Every now and then, however, there's a tremor in his hands - weakness or the jitters of an addict in deep withdrawal, there's no real way of saying.

At first there's no indication he even knows Psii is there. But then - a purr in Psii's head, so assured and his mental voice so entirely at odds with the mess his body is. One might suppose that people hear themselves the same in their heads no matter what condition they're in.

{You don't think I'd let you die to just anyone, do you? You're my property, and I'll let you know when I'm done with you.}

Wreck or not, Schuldig hasn't lost his talent for getting under Psii's skin in record time.