Open Post 002

[2020mod]

• Step one: start a thread in this post!
• Step two: specify who the thread is for (or open) in this post!
• Step three: make people reply to this post!
• AND THAT'S THE WAY YOU DO IT.


And don't forget, there's still the ooc discussion post! And nothing needs to be contained to this post! Create new logs to your heart's content! This AU is yours, so have at it!


musebox • rules • character list

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[amoray]

One.

That's all it takes, to unravel a complex tapestry of blood, deceit, and copious amounts of ass kissing Eridan has been steadily weaving for the past six, long, miserable years. Just one person. One wrong person to see what he's thinking about doing next.

Is Edward Nygma — childhood idol, savior, and boogeyman all wrapped into one crisp green package — really worth that risk? Not really, Eridan answers mutely, and it's the truth. Not really. He knows what happened to the rebellion's riddling darling; swears he heard the screams a few times, though after a while all screams start to sound the same. Damaged goods. A man locked in a war with not only his oppressors, but himself. And logically, the sea dweller knows he should keep walking.

But he's what you might call a romantic. A roemantic, even. And his helleborus-tinted glasses don't lie. Eridan steps into the alley and gambles it all.

"My maker never wants me, my buyer never uses me, my user never sees me."

Eridan, tall and broad and always vaguely smelling of brine, blocks the view of passing pedestrians with his body. Even if they cared to look past him, he doesn't really think they'd interfere; by interacting first, by stepping in, the haggard and possibly delusional man in the alley has become his problem. They won't even pay attention unless given reason, and Eridan certainly hopes Eddie won't.

His accent is impeccable — crisp vs, with a strongly southern tang. It makes him unique and noticeable in a very mundane way kind of way, and that's all he can afford these days. His lean against the brick is an easy one.

"What am I?"

[enigmaestro]

He's slipped down, hands at his own throat, clawing. Strangled gasps etching pain down his throat, and he starts choking. Coughing.

"Coffin."

Down to his knees in an alleyway, and he seems barely cognizant of it. The tones hit his ears, soft and breaking and bold simultaneously. Eddie nearly lost his grip, shuddering down his spine. He doesn't look at Eridan, he doesn't turn around. He doesn't need to. The dossier on one Ampora, Eridan had just grown an inch thick before Eddie was unduly captured by Norman.

He had never worked on Eridan. He had never grasped the chance.

The accent, the Latin-prone self-imposed dialect. That was gone. Never, not newer. He knew that. He remembered Roman, from when the alias was in nascent months, a childhood figment, an idle toy to a bored teenager. He had plans for Eridan, and then came the war, and then Eddie was forced into new plans. Ones he never wanted to execute.

"Eridan Ampora," he says as he leans against the crook between brick wall and soiled cemented floor. "Who says your maker never wants you?"

[amoray]

If Eddie's miserable state strikes an emotional chord in him — pleasure, pain, or just pity — he muffles it well.

"It's Roman." Roman Fairchild. Pretentious, pleasantly musky with historical reference, and positively oozing blue blood all at once. He'd barely realized what the name entailed, when he'd first picked it on a lark. Now he loves it. He's learned to love it. "Your Eridan is dead and buried."

There's a certain manic delight in playing along to a theme. He'd never fully appreciated it until adulthood.

"Feelin' ballsy today, I take it?" Half a cigarette hangs out of his mouth, trailing lazy smoke up into the smoggy City sky. Eridan's tone is impassive, unreadable. Practiced. "I figured you'd already be runnin'."

It's a taunt, maybe. Or a threat. Or neither. Eridan doesn't pretend that Eddie doesn't know what he's been up to these past six years, or the line drawn in the sand between their causes.