exsilium | voice; forward dated to past midnight (action open to anyone around?)

voice; forward dated to past midnight (action open to anyone around?)

( there's a slight sound of rustling after the feed clicks on, as oz makes himself more comfortable on a seat in the observatory. why he's there late at night — night by circadian rhythms, anyway, simulated nights on the moon — is anyone's guess, or maybe it's obvious enough. in any case, when he speaks up a moment later, he sounds to be in a good enough mood. )

What's your favorite story? Scary ones are probably best for late at night, but what I really want to hear about are everyone's favorites. For instance, something about a princess and a dragon, or maybe a mystery with a twist ending, or something out of history....ah, if you make it up or adapt it from a book, that's fine too! Or even if it's a real one that's happened to someone you know, ( and a light laugh ) — don't worry, I don't tell anyone!

But it's rude to ask without giving my own preference, right? I can start with mine, if anyone wants.

( he'll tell people about holy knight. all about it!!!! don't ask him about it. )

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Whichever you like! It'd be a little too much to insist you tell the whole story even if you might not want to, right?

Alright. I'll tell you a short one I remember.

Once upon a time, there was a man who was made up of other men. Millions and millions of them, smaller and smaller and smaller than the last.

[ her voice is quiet, for the late hour. ]

He had men in his ears that did his listening, and he had men that opened and closed his eyes. There were men in his stomach to digest his food, men pressing his lungs to make him breathe; there was even a man drumming his heart, to keep it beating. They were his muscles, his limbs, his fingers and toes. Every part of this man was made of smaller men, and that was the way he always was.

One day, the men that lived inside him spoke to him, not the same way that thoughts do, and they whispered to the man they made.

We have something to tell you, they said.

The man heard them, of course, and although he heard the men living inside them, he loved them in the same way he loved himself, which wasn't very much at all, so he ignored them. He went on with his morning. Dusting his jackets, doing his crossword puzzles, drinking his morning coffee. The same sort of thing he did every day. That afternoon, which was much the same as any other, the men inside him spoke once more.

We have something to tell you, they told him again. Their voices were quiet, like the way a breeze rustles through curtains.

But again, the man ignored their voices. He went on living as he always did—though, for him, this meant telling the men in his hands to keep writing, or the men in his eyes to read his bills, or the men in his mouth to pound his food into mush. He was a very busy, important man, he told himself, but not the selves who made him. He didn't have time to be distracted by little voices, or little thoughts.

The day went on as it normally did for him—for as busy as he was, it followed the same patterns as usual, like forest trails or railroad tracks. But that night, after he made the men in his hands untie his ties, and the men in his belly break up his dinner, after he'd freed the men who made up his feet from the shoes he wore all day, after he laid down in bed to rest, it was then that the men in his ears and his brain spoke to him a third time.

We have something to tell you, they said. We have something to tell you, and it's very, very important.

This time, the sound of their voices made him pause his own thoughts, a curious feeling moving up his spine. This time, he devoted his attention to the men inside him. He sat up in bed, pushing his hands made of men into the covers, digging his heels made of men into the sheets. But just as he was about to ask the men who made him what they wanted to say—just as he was finally going to listen—they left him.

All at once, they left him. They fell all over the mattress, these men who made him—the ones that made up his fingers left the ones that made up his hands, and the ones that made up his ears left the ones that made up his face. The ones that held each brown hair on his head left him, and so did the ones that held each eyelash. All his features were made up of men, smaller and smaller than the last, and each of them left. Even the men inside him, that made up his ribs, and his liver, and his veins, they left him too, until only the very last of them—the man who was the drummer of his heart—was left. But with all the other men gone, there was nothing to support him, and he left, as well, leaving nothing left but a thousand small men tumbling to blankets, and to the cold floor.

That's what they tried to tell him, of course. They wanted him to have the chance to prepare. To say goodbye, before his messy life came to a messy end.

( wow no that's not the way he thought this was going. )

So because he didn't listen, he lost his chance...that's sad. Why did they leave?

( because it was his time, he imagines, because everyone's time comes one of these days and not everyone gets that opportunity to prepare. )

[ this is what you get for having expectations.
even her answer doesn't match pattern. ]

Everyone leaves. Everyone leaves, or is left.

Why would this be any different?

That's —

( almost says something, swallows it down, tries and fails not to be startled into honesty. he wants to say pessimistic but that'd only make him a hypocrite )

( more of one, anyway. )

So you mean, it was inevitable.

Maybe.

But, maybe not... if he'd done things differently. I couldn't say. I only know one ending to this story.

But they would've left anyway. Even if not that day...well, no one's really immortal.

( though one never fully knows here. )

At least, that's usually true.

Usually. Where I'm from, anyway, the living die, and the dead stay dead.

[ what a weird way to put it. ]

I'm sure it's very different for some people here.

It's the same for me, but there are people from all kinds of unbelievable places here.

( even this place, 500,00 deaths they're trying to undo to say nothing of keith's whole world —

which brings them back around to why he (and likely most of these people he's talking to here) is awake in the first place. )

But, I almost forgot to thank you for the story.

Sure. [ shruggin' ]

It seemed like one you wouldn't have heard before.

You were right about that. How have you been?

The same as ever, really.

That's good to hear!

I suppose it could be.

It definitely is!

Hah. What makes you so confident about that?

Edited (wait right this is still audio HABITS) 2013-10-14 23:00 (UTC)

It's definitely better than "I've been doing worse lately."

Have you?

[ turning this thing around without expressing genuine sentiments of concern!!! ]

( ruka pls )

I think that'd be impossible.

( at least on a scale of "okay" to "experimented on by scientists" or "exile friends dying unavoidable horrific deaths" )

[ never ]

It's always possible.

Thinking otherwise is a set trap, waiting to be triggered.

Well, that's true.

( considering his life you'd think he'd know this already. )

Luckily, in that case, I haven't had any reason to be doing worse.

[ god oz get it together ]

Do you think you'll hold on to that for long?

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