Welcome to Gaia! ::

Photinus had had much to think about recently. He was afraid of the staff members, of course, and had heard rumors of experimentation on patients in recent days that had really put him on edge. Couple that with a few run-ins with scary patients, and Photinus had been feeling more paranoid than he really wanted to.

He also had to consider the one friend he seemed to have made so far, and her offer to become room mates. This had several problems attached that he had difficulty explaining to her for fear of damaging their fragile, fledgling friendship. He was so distracted by these thoughts, despite the fears that flooded through the back of his mind, that apparently he was thinking in alliteration. That's all I need, he thought tiredly, to be waxing poetic in the bowels of a dungeon.

He felt a sort of love-hate relationship with the Asylum, and some days could also call it home, whereas today it felt more like the eerie setting of a nightmare. He heard sounds that echoed from far away, voices that may not have been there, and shadows crept along the edges of his vision, causing him to shiver and roll his eyes.

Holding tightly the image of Dimas' nightmarishly pretty smile in his mind like a security blanket, he heard something like the shudder of a distant furnace kicking to life followed a moment later by a violent rattle in the pipes over his head. Gasping and throwing himself off to the side, he bumped his shoulder into the wall. The glow of his hands flared briefly in his haste, ironically offering a glimpse of a large rat scurrying across rusty set of pipes, dislodging them from their brackets and spilling their contents onto the floor where he had just been standing. The resultant smell was foul. "Ugh!" he gagged, thanking whatever fates that exist that he had been too nervous this morning to eat much at breakfast.

He heard more footsteps then, this time approaching him. With wide eyes, he hissed fearfully, "Who's there?"

His misfortune, he realized quickly enough, was that he had opened his mouth. Just because his hands glowed did not mean that his eyes were well-attuned to their varying brightness. He was just as blind to the darkness around him as a person carrying a flashlight, or two... When he had called out to her, he had not realized that she was unaware of his presence, only the mess. If I had said nothing, would the she have left me alone? Perhaps the obvious answer later on would be 'no, of course she would have seen him,' but for now he felt in error. And possibly in danger.

She did not reply, only shuffling after him with a wide-eyed, entranced, slightly vacant expression. He was new enough to his hibridisation that such reactions, while not unusual were still disturbing and sometimes terrifying. So far he was terrified. His shoulder slid along the wall as he tried to retreat, then backpedaled as his sandal slipped in one of the puddles. Do I even want to know what that stuff was? he wondered dimly. He found himself at an odd angle, half fallen and half balanced, when she took hold of his hand. But that was all she did.

His eyes widened, but he sighed in relief and ventured a small nervous smile while slowly rising to his feet. He was glad she wasn't attacking him. He was glad he hadn't actually fallen, he would have inadvertently pulled her with him, and getting the muck over both of them. That would have been an awful mess. "Ah... hello?"

He frowned, suddenly getting a whiff of something. "What is that smell..." it was like... "...fresh paint?" Not wall paint, a different kind of paint.

"Ah... no..." Photinus replied faintly. The smell of the sewage or... scarier things?... was repulsive. He probably would have burned his clothing rather than try (and fail) to wash the stink away. That might be the fate of these sandals, come to think of it...

The young woman managed to sound matter of fact despite her obvious distraction with his hands. He wondered briefly that, if they could detach, would they continue to glow and would people still be enamored of them. He was unsure whether to pursue the paint inquiry, or if she was too far gone. It would be nice to know how she had scored such a coveted item as paint, and if it was possible for him to get some too, perhaps to offer to Dimas...

Then she apologized and he took the opportunity to shove his hands into his pockets. The resulting darkness seemed absolute. "Don't mention it," he muttered. "Everyone stares at them." He was glad that his frown and dark blush were hidden from sight, if not his voice. Nothing he could do about that, unfortunately. What I wouldn't do for a pair of gloves though...

Naturally, Photinus was curious as to whom this David person might be, though the likely answer was either 'a friend' or 'room mate' so he didn't ask. "Ah..." he almost said what he was thinking, I'm not dangerous, but that could be dangerous for him, in a place like this.

The fact that she didn't know many people, based on the fact that she avoided them, was not very surprising. How many residents were like her in this way? Would there always be someone he had never seen but nevertheless had been here longer than him? And of course with that thought, he had to wonder just how long she had been here.

"Oh, right, of course," he stammered, blinking rapidly. "I'm Photinus. Nice to meet you, Liberty." He hesitated to remove his hand from his pockets to shake hers lest he draw more attention to the glow. Otherwise, it was one of those automatic replies borne of necessity to reply, but she did seem nice enough, and certainly interesting enough. That is, without being too dangerous. Who knew, she could always turn out to be a murderer that preferred to bring 'friends' home before offing them in some creative way. The very idea did not make him any more nervous, but a little more awkward certainly.

The paint! "Yes, well, you see..." he admitted with a sheepish chuckle, "the smell from these pipes is so vile that when I caught a whiff of paint it was like perfume, almost. Perhaps the smell clings to your hair or something." He pressed his lips together briefly in determination, "Where did you come upon fresh paint? You do know that most anyone would love to have painted walls..."

"All right, I'll call you Libby. I don't know what you'd call me instead, that's the name they gave me." Liberty's comments of 'you don't have to do this,' really made him feel awkward. And of course, when that happened, his face seemed to like to darken. But she seemed to be restraining herself from doing certain things, which seemed to be making her feel awkward too. He smiled sheepishly, "And you can act naturally around me. Just, I'd prefer a lack of violence... if you have to lash out please aim for my back. My shell will block most casual attacks."

He followed her to a place down the hall that smelled less offensive. He glanced back at the spill with a small frown on his face, thinking, I wonder if they'll bother to clean that up? Perhaps if it was a main line they would, but it's not...

"Well, around here, most people would steal or scavenge something like that. It's not like they'd have any other choice." His hopes fell when she told him that she had received everything from home. No wonder she stays locked up in her room. The rest of the asylum must seem like a nightmare or horror film by comparison. My room's just more of the same; I'd actually feel safer outside, sometimes... He could hardly believe she had several pairs of clothes. A care package? It must be nice to be rich... and to have a family.

"Yes, you probably have one of the best rooms in this place, if not the best. Most people are here because their families wanted to get rid of them, or the government's experiments had undesirable effects. You're a lucky girl." But he wasn't jealous. He'd never had even a taste of that kind of life; he wouldn't know what to do with all that if it had been given to him. But a room by the courtyard? Though he liked the fact that his room was warm, dark and moist, he wondered briefly if Liberty had seen him meet Dimas out in the courtyard the other night. Yellow-green and translucent-red filling the dusky air must have been an interesting sight. "Why are you here? That is, if you don't mind me asking."

Photinus gave her a baffled look. Photo? Like 'photograph' or maybe 'photosynthesis'? Why? "Photinus is fine."

It may not seem nice but sometimes it's best to put something like that out there. He really was not sure about Libby yet, and he simply could not shake his first impression of her out of his mind. So he found himself thinking in terms of, If she did happen to fly into a rage wouldn't it be nice to know where to aim her frenzy so she didn't actually kill someone? He took a deep breath. All right, it's still morbid. He could easily agree with anyone who would have said that.

"Yes, a locked door, whether you're there or not, would certainly be a requirement in this place," he agreed a moment later. That there had been no lock on her door when she found it made him think that the room had been broken into and lost its lock (or that it was stolen). In addition, he had to wonder how new her window's bars were. Again he found himself thinking how lucky she was to have found a premium item like a lock.

He listened to her talk of how every room has a flaw. She seemed to pin him with her eyes at a key point that left him wondering. Why was she looking at me that way? Sure, there was a certain amount of leeway if one was a good scavenger, found a room mate, or took one by force (or luck), but to listen to Liberty one would think that one would have free range of the asylum to choose the perfect room for them. Real estate, was the phrase that came to mind. And so he had to wonder if perhaps she was looking down upon him somehow. It was an obvious thing to wonder, just as it was obvious to him how different their worlds had been even before the asylum. How easy is it for the upper class to look down upon those less fortunate. But he wasn't upset, angry, or envious. Only, perhaps a little sad. Things should be different in a place like this, but perhaps people never change.

David again. The name continued to rise into discussion but he could not tell what kind of importance the person might have to her. She seemed rather reluctant to discuss it with him, though only because she spent so long explaining all the ways she could condense it. While he busied himself untying his brain from the knots she had inserted there, wondering why she wasted so much time speaking thusly, he merely replied: "Well, if it's that complicated, I don't want to trouble you with it. Everyone has secrets and stories they'd rather not tell."

"Hm? Marks?" Probably some sort of graffiti, he thought. One patient came to mind and she too liked painting walls. Closed rooms also came to mind and he found himself reluctant to venture in. Paranoia perhaps, or perhaps it really was from experience. He intended to take that little voice with a grain of salt and go with her anyway.

Plasmid? If he had been enrolled in school like a normal boy, he might be in ninth grade right now. "Ah... get?" She seemed suddenly scientific in her thinking. How could she possibly understand government experiments and how they worked if she wasn't a subject herself? Perhaps she had been one of them, or perhaps this was actually a staff member! How terrifying. "I really don't know what you mean. How do 'they' get anyone?"

He moved on ahead. He could try to be brave. He could try. "Well where is it? This room you were talking about..."

Photinus frowned slightly while he considered her question. How would you break up this name, anyway? There were worse ones than 'Photo.' Pho... Tin...Tiny? some would like to call me that I'm sure. Tinus? That's a lot like 'tinitis'... "Yeah... I mean, Photo isn't that bad. It might just make people think I'm into photography. I don't think I've even held a camera. You know I used to have a normal name, but I feel like all of that doesn't really apply to me anymore. Sometimes it feels like I didn't exist before the experiments, so why use any other name?" His tone had gone from lighthearted to vaguely sad. But there was no reason to mourn the past. It hadn't been that great back then, anyway.

Photinus felt himself gradually getting used to Liberty. Their first meeting had been a strange combination circumstance and no one could look wonderful at a time like that. It did not help that he had become so paranoid in general, and that could be attributed to the traumas suffered thanks to the government. The more time he spent with her, the more she seemed like a regular kid, someone he could have gone to school with once upon a time.

"Er, yes. Sorry. I do have a lock. I was very careful when I chose my room. You never know when you'll need a secure place to hide." There it was, 'real estate.' If her ideal room had windows and a view but his was a windowless closet somewhere in the bowels of the asylum, they had still been chosen, hadn't they? He ran his fingers through his hair, for a moment forgetting that he had been hiding their glow. He almost chuckled, and a grin tugged at his mouth.

"Oh, the paint? Well, to tell you the truth..." he looked a little sheepish, "I like my room is very dark even though my fireflies light it up and color doesn't really matter. But I was thinking of someone else... a friend... thought she might like paint on her walls. She used to go to the beach when she was little. I thought she might miss all the colors." He walked silently and thoughtfully for a moment. Was it strange to think this much about someone in this place, even if they were a friend? Would it be because they were in a place like this, where friends were hard to come by, and he had no one else to think about? "But as for this friend of yours... if you'd like to talk about him, I wouldn't mind listening. I just don't want you to think that you need to talk about him or yourself if you don't want to."

The markings she had seen were intriguing to him. Would she really make a fuss if they weren't as curious as she made them out to be? She sounds pretty smart... just because she knows science doesn't mean she'd know archaeology and other social sciences. Maybe all those books I've read would come in handy for something. "Well, they sound interesting to me. I don't know if I could help much but I'd like to see them."

He frowned. "I'm not really sure how they 'got' me. I lived at a group home run by the state. There were lots of kids my age, mostly older, who were never going to be adopted. Once you get to a certain age adults don't want to bother. But we were all experimented on..." His voice broke and he fell silent.

"Ah. Do you... need my hands?" He pulled them out of his pockets and lifted them. They lit up the passageway as if he had held out two lanterns with greenish-yellow flames.

Of course, now that the subject had come up, he had to wonder if he should try to come up with a nick name. Maybe he would seem more normal if he had a nickname like Libby did, which was far more normal than ‘Liberty.’ It made her parents seem abnormally patriotic. He smiled before he could catch himself. “Ah, I do remember it…” Vaguely. Or was that another boy’s name? He frowned. “I think. Yes. I know it.” Yes. “I’d just,” he faltered; it wasn’t that he didn’t remember it, it was just that… “I’d rather not think about it. Sorry, Libby.” He had become noticeably pale, or at least in normal light it would have been.

But thoughts of Dimas, whom he’d only just met but whom strangely made his heart race for several reasons, were welcome distractions from those others. The past and the future were so very different from one another. Both were terrifying, but only one held any semblance of promise. A broad smile broke across his face. “Thank you, I really appreciate it. I think she will too.” The amount of trust she was offering them was vast. It really made his paranoia seem unjustified.

And the smile shattered entirely when Liberty told him about David. “Oh. I’m so sorry…” he said gently, voice just above a whisper. Was it possible that she had been there when it happened? Her reaction was suspiciously suggestive of it. Without thinking, he reached out to touch her shoulder but she was already pressing on ahead. Shocked, and feeling a familiar weight, he hurried after her.

He had a difficult time finding his voice after that. “L…Libby. If you need a shoulder,” he cleared his throat, “that is, when you’re ready to deal with it, you shouldn’t bottle up your pain.” He frowned and nodded, a picture of determination and sincerity. “Anyway. I like to read all different subjects. In here there isn’t a huge selection so I’ve tried to read what I can find. Maybe I can at least venture a guess about their nature.”