A Multifandom Asylum RPG

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Day 52: Lunch
[x] your tattered wings
purpletaint wrote in damned
[from here]

It was a race. A fight against patience and a Song's call. Still, the sedation's dredges churned through him. Two close at hand had a potent effect--much like the night that they were left in that town, and the morning after. Rubedo had came then. Came for them like something out of place, and wasn't that so ironic afterwards--when Albedo knew what he knew now? How many times would a twin appear to abandon him to harshly? How many times would Rubedo make promises only to break them--tear them to pieces like he did Albedo--in the perfectly precise way of those who knew how to break you down because they knew you so perfectly.

Was that how Rubedo had killed him? Or had Albedo forced him to it? His twin wouldn't say before, and asking now was too much like dead blood rotting in veins--he no longer cared, no longer needed to know how easily it was for his twin to rip him asunder. How joyous Rubedo must have been. If that night was any hint, his twin hated him with a passion to rival man's hatred toward god. And wasn't it the same. This. In ways it was the same. An existence meted out, for what it's worth, and then you were simply trapped in it. Trapped in it and stuck stagnant where you were, bound by that other, unless you forced your hatred forward to strike down the other.

To kill god? It seemed too quaint to entertain.

Be it that he woke as the last shift was ending, Albedo had been escorted to the cafeteria early. He took what was offered without a word, sat in the back without a sound, and sipped at the water put in front of him politely; a hand curled around the cup lightly, fingers loose. Eyes burned into the entrance--for Nigredo or Rubedo, either would suffice. The doubt that his twin would come to him was faulty--to ignore them for a week and then vanish as if they were nothing spoke of only distain, whatever Nigredo chose to believe. The eldest of them hated them both. This was truth. The only truth that Rubedo had shown Albedo, in thought, word, action, and deed, in the two weeks that they had shared here.

So Rubedo was to kill him. Well. Never say Albedo accepted his destiny. Yes, he would die by his twin's hand. But first he would rip Rubedo's throat out, claw out his eyes and press them into his beloved's mouth--see the lies you spew--lift his tenderly beating heart for all to see and then crush it.

This, Rubedo, is what you've done to me.

[...for the twin.]

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Though the nurse cut Edgar's conversation short, he was less irritated about the interruption than he normally would have been: if he was getting to the cafeteria before most of the other prisoners, he had a better chance at spotting Locke as he entered the room. It was unfortunate that the thief was so skilled in his craft- it made finding him difficult, and there was a lot they needed to discuss. He'd not replied to the note on the bulletin board, either.

Edgar sighed as he grabbed some food for his plate, deciding the day wasn't entirely lost. Locke was probably just getting acclimated to the institute. It would serve him well to discover the sharp contrast in the building from night to day first-hand.

Edgar took an empty seat (he must have been very early, as there were so few patients in the room), pulling his journal from his sling. Even without finding Locke, the day had been surprisingly productive so far: he'd acquired a map and managed to speak with someone who wasn't afraid to take a stand against Landel; however, not all of it was good business. Raphael was truly gone, and the patient population was as stubborn as ever to share information regarding the basement, whether on the bulletin board or in a face-to-face conversation. He could understand secrecy and unwillingness to trust just anyone- he had a lot of experience in those areas- it seemed so backward that the patients wouldn't share information regarding the institute with one another. They all had a common enemy, after all.

Well, it couldn't be helped. For now, he could continue working on his plans. With any luck, he'd have a new tool finished within the week.

[Oliver Queen]

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