Seasons - Lucifer's Voicemail

[dadbeatdad]

Why hello there. You've reached Lucifer Morningstar. Sorry I can't come to the phone right now. Leave a message after the tone and I might get back to you. Make it good~ Byyyyyyye~

Comments

[castaside]

Lucifer isn't wrong, but Macaque calms down as he listens to his daughter talk. She dealt with these with aplomb, mostly -- shouldn't have had to, but she has -- what right does he have to get angry? And what good would it do?

He draws a breath, slow.

"I agree. It'll be much better, and much safer, without those weighing you down."

[bluediligence]

N-No, it's — um, I don't mind. [ Korone smiles briefly. It's genuine enough, though it's also something of a bandaid smoothing over that momentary stammer. ]

[ Squishing Ringo transitions to fidgeting, tracing small circles across the toy's fur with her thumbs. 3 clockwise, boop, 1 anticlockwise, 4 clockwise, 1 anticlockwise, 5 clockwise… ]

Being able to hide the list has helped? But it doesn't — it just, all it does is slow down people like Relius … [ who saw everything the moment he deigned to look at her, and used it, and please hold: there's been a minor oopsie on the Thought Process Monkey Bars. A missed ring. A fumble and a slip. She trails off, both words and fidgeting left hanging, incomplete. ]

[dadbeatdad]

[Lucifer gently reaches over and squeezes Macaque's arm. Just a small confirmation he understands his feelings and is here too. Then Korone talks about Relius and trails off. Oh. Uh oh. Okay. He reaches out slowly to wave not too close to Korone's face to see if she would react.

Then he gently moves his hand to settle on the nearest hardest surface and starts to tap a steady sequence on a four beat. Tap tap, tap tap. Tap tap, tap tap.]

[castaside]

The arm squeeze helps a little. He reminds himself that this is done, in the past, and nothing to be angry about. The point is to get them gone.

He reaches out and stops Lucifer from waving his hand, saying "just wait" mildly enough, then stops Lucifer's finger from tapping. "The Fibonacci sequence is better." He taps the floor himself: one, one, two, three, five, eight...

[bluediligence]

[ Like Relius.

Three simple words.

Two. That's all it took. Two. One. Just one. Her name. The true name, true blue, too blue, shattering into ones and zeroes and shrieking static static static and that — that's where they're stuck. A voice that isn't their own caught strangled and silent in a throat they do not have. Lines of code. They don't. They don't breathe. Computers don't breathe. They don't feel. Can't feel. There's nothing to feel, nothing to feel with, only memories and it hurts.

Glazed blue stares past them. Through them. A minute passes. Two. Are the lights on? Is anybody home? Every breath, any breath is a thin, hitching spasm, too tight for comfort, skipping like a broken, forgotten thing. Shadows flicker. Little things, wisp-like; gentle as fallen feathers and sharp as knives, coiling close around her.

(Maybe it's a good thing Macaque stopped him?)

(one, one, two, three, five, eight)

They don't tap back.

(one, one, two, three, five, eight)
(one, one, two, three, five, eight)

Chest aches. (one, one, two, three, five, eight)

The shadows settle.

Fingers tense. (one, one, two, three, five, eight)

A faint twitch, slow as molasses. Fingers. (one, one, two, three, five) (four plus thumb) Four fingers and a thumb on a hand. Flex. Curl like they've forgotten how. Chest aches. (one, one, one, one — one, one, one one — one, two, three, four — one, two three, four) Remember to breathe. Remember how to breathe. Four count. Box breathing.

C'mon. Unstuck. Breathe. Four count. Fibonacci.

Lashes flutter. Glazed. Teal bleeding into blue one drip (one, one, two, three, five, eight) at a time. Th…ey? … They waver — too heavy, unsteady and unstable and fuzzy, listing dazedly in their … seat?

Their seat. Chair. Table. Seat on a chair at a table.

Lashes flutter. Teal eyes open, unfocused, focusing. Close again. Open. Fingers curl, uncurl, still so slow, and — still, still slowly, so slowly — they find the table-top. With their fingers. And also their forehead, a wobbling waver slumping into controlled crumple.

Tap. Tap. Tap, tap. … Tap, tap, tap … Following the sequence. The sweet, sweet Fibonacci sequence.

Chest aches. Tight. Loosening. Can't find their tongue. They definitely have one, where is it? Give them a moment.







… The shadows stir again.

But this time it's to pulse 'hiiiiii hello hi' in morse code. ]