reflectedlight | 🌙 Inbox - Marc Spector's Dead Drop

"...I don't know if I know the difference, then."

What are goals? He has never thought about this before.

"S'alright if you can't. Uh, when I'm in it a stab or gunshot will just go clean through. No blood. It'll leave a hole, but it won't ... hurt. It's weird.

And, yes, I know I should really not have, uh, got shot died if I had the armor, but I didn't ... have it, I was trying to be a little subtle. The thing summons in bright white and with a cape, it's not really stealthy."

"So same defensive capabilities, less flash for an entrance. Got it."

May as well get it over with. He pulls his communicator out of his pocket and makes a quick request.

"Anything else?" He asks glancing over.

"... I don't know what you mean by goals."

He's been ambling up and jumping around things casually this whole time, and here he stops and thinks.

"Bright told me I needed to see myself as having value, but first of all, I don't like that guy.

Second of all, if it were that easy I'd just do it. And I don't think I'm an inmate because I don't like myself enough."

"You know it's multiple things, right?" He cannot speak to self-value whatsoever.

"If that's not why you're an inmate then what is?" He holds up a hand. "Don't say murder because I'm still doing that and I'm on the other side right now so that's not it." Granted he's far more selective about it than he used to be but murder is murder.

Marc - who normally is so completely emotionally flat that he reacts to being stabbed by grimacing a little, and seeing a new form of magic he didn't know was possibly by raising 1 eyebrow, slightly - laughs hysterically.

It's a WILDLY out of pocket display of emotion, because, oh boy, isn't that the million dollar question? Isn't it? ISN'T IT?

"See! See, that's the thing! See, who even knows?? You graduated and you're fine, why am I not already just fine! There's no way I'm killing better people than you, right? Hah. Right??"

He's actually rounding on Kylar now, smiling weirdly, gesturing. It's like the thing he uses to keep his emotions leashed has very suddenly broken and uh, maybe underneath he is really, really not okay and never was?

"Because I actually kind of try! I kind of try to give a shit, and you don't. And that's fine, right? And if that's fine, then what's left? What's left that's still my fault?"

He laughs again, a short little burst of stress releasing.

Edited 2026-03-19 02:22 (UTC)

What the... fuck. Kylar watches him carefully. It's the swap of it. Everything he's saying is fine, it makes sense to be frustrated or annoyed or anything but he didn't even know Marc could laugh and now the man's in hysterics.

Even if his eyes are watchful and he's a bit more wary, his demeanor stays visibly calm, flat even. Where has he seen this before?

Dorian.

He doesn't say anything about it. Where'd Marc go?

"Nothing, Marc. Half of the time they're things that aren't your fault." He figured that out the hard way. "Half of the time it's how you put up with what life throws at you." Or death. He doesn't mention that.

"But it's not about the murder. Not explicitly." He can say that with certainty.

"Oh, I'm just messing with you."

Marc goes to do - something - maybe a clap on the shoulder - and the Dancer behind him, that's otherwise been entirely silent, snaps out a restraining loop of cloth. Marc doesn't even look, just tugs at it, doesn't stop staring at Kylar.

"Oh, whoops. Nope, can't do that, hah hah. I know what this is about, I've always known, right? Only I can't freaking do anything about it at this point, because it was thirty years ago!"

That's like, actually sooooo funny.

"I know what I did, I do! I know what I did. Been told it all the time, I already know. And how do I put up with what it throws at me - pretty well, I'd say! Pretty well, ha ha, only every time I think I've got it it just gets a little harder, so what's that supposed to be? And here you are, and you're the good guy therapist now, and all you ever wanted to do your whole life is hurt people? Maybe I wasn't doing it ENOUGH!"

The next maybe-grab motion is faster, and the Dancer's got his other wrist now digging in its heels to pull Marc back. Like, no offense, Kylar, you can probably handle this no problem, and it honestly isn't even positive this is about to get violent, but also, uuuuh, what the fuck is even happening.

His face can't help but sour. There's a quick calculation in his head, guesstimates, really. But he thinks he knows the dosage that shouldn't be fatal. He'd be out for an hour if he's right, thirty minutes if he's wrong. It's enough time to move him somewhere else easily.

It's a very quick but smooth motion as Kylar's arms drop across his belt and down at his sides. He takes one glance at the dancer. Can he move faster than it? Is it going to retaliate? Surely, this is a unique, necessary circumstance to overrule its usual protections, right? Doesn't matter, he has to try and it's for Marc's sake so.

It's a quick reach out, a dab of something from a cloth Kylar wadded into his hand within that earlier motion. He only slides it over Marc's hand, acting as if he'd hold it for just a moment. It might seem comforting. Fifteen seconds... "Marc, pal. I think you've got it all wrong." He pats his hand, ensuring the knockout poison is on Marc's skin.

Ten seconds... Oh, please catch him, Hat guy. Kylar's figuring out the angle but if Marc's knees buckle first, the dancer would have to do the catching. Even if it wasn't the knees, the tension on his wrists would still send him backward once the tension eased.

"We'll talk about this later. Promise."

Five seconds... Fuck it, if the dancer doesn't catch him then he can apologize for the impending concussion later.

Marc goes to snap his hand around Kylar's wrist when he's touched - the Dancer prevents it again, which leads to minor wrestling,

"Oh, you've got no idea how wrong I've got it, let's - " wait. His head twitches to the side. Fuck. "No -"

Marc feels something kick in, a chemical sedative, and explodes into motion, screaming and thrashing. He's trained to fight, Kylar's seen him calmly fight a hold before, but he's showing no sign of it at all. He's just screaming in wordless rage and pulling without thought or strategy, so hard that the Dancer has to reel out six more lines, that the joints in Marc's shoulders strain out of their sockets.

It flashes a card, reassuring Marc that it'll take care of Steven, which he does not have the brain power to comprehend or be reassured by at the moment, but will later really really appreciate when the hangover for this ends. Right now NO this is just like when they were thirteen NO NO NO -

"NO, YOU CAN'T MAKE ME -!"

Dancer catches him as his spine gives out and his head flops like a ragdoll even as the face contorts in rage. It takes a lot of bands, Marc no longer cares if he gets hurt as long as he can escape.

There's two ways the system can switch. One is the front naturally falling asleep, the other is the front being completely overwhelmed and pushed past what it can handle. The body survives even when Marc should be done. Broken, knocked out, or catatonic. That's how this works, that's how this is adaptive. That's why it's a survival mechanism, not just something debilitating.

A switch like this is technically safe it's just ... messy. Ugly. Gritted teeth, eyes rolling, almost a seizure.

Edited 2026-03-19 21:01 (UTC)

The Dancer sets them down and in the space of a second the body's eyebrows have lifted, its face and posture relaxed into something unguarded and timid. Steven blinks softly, all baby deer eyelashes and open, confused expression.

?

His face is smushed into a bit of metal?

The Dancer's been fast; in a fold and whirl it compresses down to something the size of a housecat, nudges Steven with its head.

"Um. Sorry, what? Nedjem, what? Oh god. Where am I now?"

Not againnnnnnn, bloody hell.....

Oh, that is.. not how he expected any of this to work. The thrashing, the realization, Kylar expected it. He was rushed and he couldn't be subtle so that's on him. Things he can explain away later. But this?

He was really hoping to have time to... I don't know. Come up with lies to tell. That cloth that was in his hand is tucked away in some hidden pocket as he crouches down next to.. oh, this is Steven. Definitely Steven. The voice is changed, everything's changed. He wants to tear into Marc a little for whatever that was. But he can't even mention his name, can he? Ugh. He fights the scowl with pleasantries and pats Steven's shoulder.

"Hey, you were uh, sleepwalking for a minute there. I followed you for a bit. Just checking on you. Your friend here caught you. I think. Lucky I was here to find you when I did though." Easy lies, easy smile. He offers a hand to help him up.

"You.. feeling okay? I can get you checked out at the infirmary, if you want."

Oh, it makes no sense, promise. The body itself should be out, that's how it works in systems in real life. But that's not how these specific weird guys work.

"Oh -"

Steven winces in deep humiliation.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. Oh, thank you, that's ... very kind."

He hauls himself up, sways on his feet, looks around in complete bafflement.

"Am I ... still on the Barge? Oh, please tell me we're not at port, I can't have done it again."

He covers his own mouth before he says more. Shit. SHIT.

He's not panicking yet, but there's a kind of threat of panic-tears at the back of his throat. Holy shit, don't cry in front of Barge people, they're magical and cool. They can't know he's got something really wrong with him, they won't let him warden.

"Fine," he squeaks. "Really good, just - fine. Just doing alright, promise, thanks mate."

Edited 2026-03-19 21:29 (UTC)

"Yes, we're on the barge. No, we're not at port. You're in the Enclosure."

Is he.. is he going to cry? What in the— Steven, it's not that deep, my guy. He doesn't ask about the 'again'. He doesn't want to poke at hot coals.

"Promises appreciated, but I'd still feel better if we double checked. I can get you a painkiller or something, maybe something to help you sleep in case this happens again. It'll take five minutes." Placebos, if he was honest. He's not sure giving the man nightshade is a good idea. He didn't even truly react to an arguably perfectly dosed knockout poison. He'd probably just laugh in the face of nightshade.

Oh, Marc is going to be out for exactly one hour. On the dot. Again, how does that even work, and why are they like this? Do not worry about it.

"I'm so sorry to have been a bother," Steven says. "I ... this happens, not to worry." He sends Kylar a panicked smile. "Just a bit of a sleep disorder. It's all under control, I've got it."

He scoops up the Dancer, in cat form now. This Dancer has seen some shit, but how many of them haven't seen some shit, honestly?

"If you like, I'd be happy to come with you, but I think it's just going to be a bit of a headache. Usually is."

"That's fine, infirmary has things for headaches, too." He shrugs. He's trying to act as casual and nonchalant as he can. Meanwhile he's fuming at Marc in his head. But as confused as he is, he understands this is not the time to accost Steven.

This is fucking weird though. Actually fucking weird. He hopes you know that Marcven or Stevarc. He's looking at both of you on this one.

Maybe he should figure something out to talk about. Something useless. He hops down off the rooftop chatting as he goes. "There's this kid I know. Just a baby. He's cute. It's disgusting." He has mixed feelings about kids. "Holding him is nice but he gives you these... prophetic dreams." Nightmares, honestly. "It's not magic. He's five months old, he can't even talk let alone do anything besides eat and shit." Where's he going with this? Nowhere. It's not supposed to. Just to snag Steven's thoughts in a different direction.

"Anyway, imagine being his mother or his father. It's rough."

Oh. Right.

"Need help getting down?" Should've asked before he jumped down but he can easily get back up if need be.

"What the fuck," Steven says. "No, if this is the Barge we can - we can just think about the Waypoint, right?"

Here's Steven's function in this whole mess: Steven got the brains.

" ... Haven't done it yet, didn't want to vanish right away without warning, that'd be weird. Why would holding a baby giving you prophetic dreams not be magic? Alright. Look. Just - teleport and follow me, if you like?"

"He can't cast spells or use Talent or anything. He's just a baby." He shrugs. Seems like the topic changed work. Better 'what the fuck' than panicked to the point of tears. He'll take it.

"I'll walk." He doesn't trust it. "Meet you there?"

Edited 2026-03-19 22:39 (UTC)

"Suit yourself," Steven says. And - pop - he vanishes.

It doesn't take Kylar that long to catch up. Two floors from the deck isn't a long jaunt. He'll be at the infirmary door looking around for Steven in less than five minutes.

Steven is happily seated with a mug of tea when Kylar arrives, looking calm but embarrassed.

"Oh! Hello there. Really, mate, I'm so sorry about the trouble, I'm an absolute blockhead for forgetting to lock the door like that. Could have ended up anywhere, could have walked ...clean off the deck."

Imagine! Gosh.

He should say something reassuring like 'no problem' but instead he asks: "So you sleep walk a lot?"

Kylar might seem a bit distant, but his brain's just busy. He's over by a shelf trying to find what he needs. Steven got a nod for a greeting and some relief that the man followed instructions to come here. He could have taken the waypoint and then used the spare time to fuck off. And yet, he didn't.

He's very polite!

There's a hell of a lot of complex stuff under the hood with Steven to make it look like theres absolutely nothing going on under the hood worth mentioning. Marc's function is to grimly take a punch and not flinch. Steven's function is to makes it so nobody punches you in the first place.

How many people here would bother to hurt him? How many people would actively defend him as a helpless civilian if someone tried to hurt him? He's a nice little nest cuckoo. Only notice me if you plan to like me, please.

Case in point: there's a Dancer in his lap, shaped like a kitty. Awww.

Steven grimaces - sheepish. "Yeah. Here and at home. It was going well, I think, and then I got a bit scolded for taking my panic attack medications wrong by Dr. Varker. Really thick of me, glad he was here to help, but, well-

Taking them normally always makes it worse. The sleepwalking. Really, mate, it's so kind of you to come and find me, I can't thank you enough. Were you - sorry if I've got your voice wrong - were you Verso's temporary last month?"

"Kylar, yeah. We spoke briefly after it happened."

He finds what he needs and pulls it down from the shelf. Squints at bottles and their descriptions, directions, dosages. He disagrees with something, that much is evident in his expression, pockets two bottles and goes looking in a cabinet next.

"Panic attack medication, what's in it? How were you taking it wrong?" He's a bit demanding, but maybe just because he's focused, maybe not because he's still displeased by the situation he's found himself in. The medications probably won't conflict with what he can offer now but better to know for another time. Just in case.

"I think they'll be cross if you walk out with those," Steven warns. "It's a - well, you won't know what a benzo is, but it's a sedative? More than that and you might need to ask a chemist. The, er, I could call a staff member in, if you like."

Steven, honey, he IS a staff member.

"Do you want to sit with me a bit once you've got this squared? I could do us both some tea. Seems to me like you're taking on a lot."

Huge, sincere bunny rabbit eyes.

He glances back. "Oh. No need. I'm one of the on-call wardens for this place." So he agreed to come down here with him and didn't even think he worked the infirmary? Steven, we gotta talk about your trust issues. As in, too trusting.

He grabs what he's looking for two cabinets later, it's a mortar and pestle. The two bottles are back onto a table. He takes a few pills from both and starts crushing them. He only glances over at Steven when he makes his request. Don't worry, no eye contact, but he still sees the bunny eyes in his peripheral. "I don't really do tea." He can. He's trained to put up with the stuffiest of nobles and their tea time and their gossip. But here, he can decline. Imagine, free will.

"But if you need someone to sit with you, that's different." He can tolerate that and he sort of feels like he has to because eventually he needs to talk to Marc without blatantly telling Steve 'hey, fuck off for a bit, need to talk to that other guy'.

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