summonthesuit | IC Inbox

[Indeed, Steven has no real idea who he's meeting with beyond 'Naphil'. Considering how rare they are, though, the chances of running into someone else who fits that description at the cafe are just about zero. Others might have reservations about meeting with someone whose name they don't even know, but Steven doesn't think twice about it. Just because he likes to avoid confrontation doesn't mean he'll avoid potentially-unpleasant people.

This is why he's the 'stupid one' to some.

He comes up to the cafe with a bit of a jog, the part of his face below his nose hidden beneath a blue scarf. Unlike most Nephilim, he doesn't have horns and his extra pair of eyes is mostly hidden beneath locks of curly hair, but there's still no mistaking that halo. His wings are smaller and more colorful than those one might expect from an angelic being, but they're wings all the same. His tail is more difficult to spot, the bushy tip only just poking out beneath his jacket. (He doesn't like having it go through the jacket, it feels weird and pins the jacket to his body too much.)

He walks through the door and his gaze falls on the person he's meeting with pretty much immediately. Diavolo may not be as huge or bright as Cervo, but he's still a sight. Steven stands frozen in the doorway, ethereal glow flickering into existence in his eyes for a few seconds before subsiding again. When he approaches the table, it's with almost humbled awe.]

Ah- Hi! Wow, you... [He has to actively stop himself from calling this person huge; Cervo hadn't liked that either.] You're a Naphil, alright.

I am. Steven, correct? Sit.

[Diavolo gestures to the empty chair. It's a table for two, and Steven will certainly have an easier time settling in at it than Diavolo did. Even now, as comfortable as he can possibly be, he's nearly comically large compared to everything else in the building. But at least he doesn't have it as bad as Cervo. More comparisons between the two can be easily drawn — their size, yes, but also their intense looks (though Cervo's were nigh-indistinguishable in the glow of his halo), their overabundance of pink. It's in Diavolo's hair, in his feathers, and in the cozy coat draped over the back of his own chair.

He takes one more sip of coffee, staring quietly at Steven as he does. He did not think this entirely through. Where does one begin in a conversation like this?]

[Steven sits before he's even realized he was moving. When someone so huge and intense tells him to do something, he does it. The abundance of pink is noted, but... Well. Some folks just really love pink and that's cool. Steven's more of an aquamarine person, himself.

Once he's fully startled himself out of his initial stupor, he quickly holds out a hand across the table.]

I'm Steven, yeah. And you are? [Please do not leave him hanging, please do not leave him hanging, please-]

[Eight months. It has been eight months since the tangle of thorny vines and the threat of looming death forced Diavolo into giving his name away for the first time. Eight months, and yet it hasn't gotten any easier. Steven's question is enough to make Diavolo tense up. His eyes stay fixed on the other, his expression cold and unreadable as he lowers his cup to the table with a clunk.

There's so much he wants to spit back in response. Diavolo's name is not his to know, how dare he, honestly — but he swallows all the words that threaten to spill out. After all, there's probably no harm meant. Plenty of people know him by name already — one more is no great risk to him. Really, after the debacle on the network days before — it's likely even those who don't know him know his name. Those who know may not be able to put a face to it, or any other details, but ... it's out there, forever. Years of secrecy, all eroded away.

This one piece of knowledge can't be used to hurt him — not anymore. So, eventually, he answers.]

Diavolo.

[He sees the hand offered to him and tries not to let his gut reaction show on his face. No, in fact, just to prove how truly earnest he is in his attempts to socialize today — slowly, hesitantly, he reaches out.]

[However long that silence actually lasted, it just seems to stretch on into eternity for Steven. He's gotten much better at socializing over the past half year, but occasionally he still becomes aware of how awkward he is and it makes him nervous. Has he done something wrong? Already? He's only just sat down-

But then, at last, a name comes out into the open. The Italian word for "devil"? And he's a Naphil? Steven's first instinct is to comment on the irony, but something else beats it back down. It's the memory of a different enormous, pink-haired Naphil snapping at him for 'always chattering'. So he fights the urge to spout that light-hearted remark and instead resolves himself to not say things that could ruffle feathers.

His gaze shoots down towards the slow, almost cautious hand coming his way. He waits for it to get close enough, then closes the distance entirely to take it with his own. His grasp is firmer than one might expect from a meek guy like him, but probably still nothing compared to whatever the norm is in Jojo Land.]

Well, it's good to meet you, Diavolo. It really is nice to have a proper chat with another Naphil.

[Only a few comment on his name. Perhaps it's the Italian, that little detail of its meaning lost in translation; perhaps it's the nature of some of the people who arrive here. Most monsters were once humans — but when some were hedgehogs or robots or princes of hell, who would question the presence of a "devil"? Ah, but it's only a name, a fact Diavolo has had to explain before to a demon who seemed intrigued by the prospect. He keeps eyes on Steven, looking for a reaction, internally preparing some speech in response — and he thinks he sees something. The flash of recognition, something bordering on amusement — and then it ebbs away, Steven's expression dulling into something else entirely.

Curious.

But he can't complain. The touch to his hand is firm and brief and as soon as Diavolo has room to pull away, he does. He resists the urge to wipe his hand; the lingering feeling is deeply unpleasant but there is nothing to scour away. The touch wasn't laced with poison, there was no electric jolt, nothing. It was ... just a handshake. A standard — if ridiculous — ritual. No harm meant. All is fine.]

And it is nice to meet you. [To see with his own eyes what threat this other poses — and what they may have in common.] Where were we?

[Truthfully, the fact that Diavolo draws his hand back as soon as possible comes as a relief to Steven. He's perfectly fine with touching people he's more familiar with, but when it comes to a first impression, he becomes overly aware of what he's doing. What if his hand's too clammy? Or his grip too weak? Nah, best to get the handshake over with and then quickly retreat back into his chair, hoping that was a job well done.

The question causes his brow to furrow lightly, as his memory backtracks towards the conversation they had on the network.]

We... were chatting about meat versus souls, and what happens to those souls once devoured. I dunno, is that... something you wanted to keep discussing?

[He's fine with dropping the topic, because he's not sure a true answer could be reached either way, but if Diavolo wants to keep waxing philosophical about it, he's fine with that too.]

Yes... And, as I recall, you have reservations on the subject. Something about feeding distresses you. [There's a note of something in Diavolo's voice as he says it. Sympathy? Pity? Concern?]

Tell me — how often do you need to consume souls to thrive?

[A waitress, here to ask the new arrival what he'd like to have, stills at the bluntness of the question. Diavolo pays her no mind.]

[Steven would think it's obvious what the 'something' is that distresses him. It's murder, no matter how one slices it. He tries to share his 'prey' with Quentin, so at least the amount of death is halved to some degree, but death is death.

He sees the waitress approach from the corner of his eye (and from behind the shroud of curly hair half-covering the eye on his temple), but the question jars him a little as well. There's a few seconds of pause before he turns his attention to the waitress entirely, telling her "Coffee- the usual, please. Thanks so much" and allowing her to quickly go on her way. Once she's striding away again, he folds his hands on the table's surface, shoulders hunching.]

It's... about once a month, usually. Or a bit more often. Once every four weeks...? Feels like that's enough.

Hm. I take six weeks between larger hunts, aligned with every third fog. This, for me, is a matter of preference. [He hunts with Cervo, but this is a secret he does not trust Steven with. Word of that must not make it back to Doppio's ears; however unlikely it is, he does not want to risk it.] I will take the occasional soul or two in between hunts for maintenance. [Diavolo raps his fingers against the table, deep in thought.]

Could it be that you are not consuming enough? That may be why the act bothers you so. You are simply ... unused to how it feels. To what it means to take a soul and make it yours.

[Six weeks between hunts sounds impressive to Steven, but the 'occasional soul or two in between' means Diavolo is actually consuming more than him. Not every monster needs to feed as often as others though, he knows that. And maybe Diavolo being bigger than him factors into that too. Who knows?]

I am unused to it. It feels funny and... wrong. But I dunno if feeding more often would fix that. I'd rather just keep feeling bad about it if it means less people die. And I know for sure I haven't gone too hungry in a long while. That's a- a whole other thing.

[A tilt of the head.]

You are concerned with how many you kill. Admirable. I, too, avoid death in excess. It is wasteful and wholly unnecessary. When I spent time as a carnivorous monster, I fell into the trap of enjoying the hunt. The thrill was not in victory nor in the rewards I reaped from it — it was in the bite, the blood, the moment of death. I would find myself killing more than I could eat.

[He shakes his head then, and adjusts the hair that resultingly falls in his face. It's grown so long ... he's overdue for a haircut.]

It was ... entirely unlike me. Killing another is a means to an end, not a goal in itself. But you can do it mercifully, Steven. There is nothing to feel bad about.

[No, Diavolo cannot relate — but he's seen enough posts on the network, the words of people distressed by their new monsterhood to know that it is not an uncommon feeling. The two, as Nephilim, are not similar at all in this respect. It only serves to make Diavolo curious about what they do have in common.]

[He feels bad about it- Of course he feels bad about it. Even if it's done mercifully, even if the target was ready to embrace death, it's just not right. Maybe the Naphil's inherent thirst for justice is clashing with the injustice of murder without due trial, but most likely, it's just Steven's own inherent pacifism. Even so, being told by a fellow Naphil- especially one with such a grand presence- that he has nothing to feel bad about... It helps.

His hunched posture eases up a bit more, but his hands remain folded on the table, tips of his index fingers idly tapping together.]

I... Yeah, thanks. I reckon, all things considered, this was probably the best form for me. If I had to go out and hunt for something like meat, like a vicious animal, I wouldn't really be myself anymore.

[Diavolo's priorities are centered around himself, now just as much as they did in his human life. "Justice", as a concept, inherently revolves around him. What is just is what benefits him. His enemies are unjust by virtue of their existence; all that they do is tainted because of it. The morality of killing another and eating their soul is not always black and white. When Diavolo does it, it is a virtuous act — he guides the soul to where it belongs, to where it has always belonged, long before Diavolo arrived, his from the moment it burst into existence. But when someone kills and consumes him — or, for that matter, anyone in the small circle he has slowly grown protective feelings for — then it is abhorrent, a vile deed that deserves due punishment.

Steven, in Diavolo's mind, is gently nudged towards that tiny category of people he feels some vague urge to nurture. Steven is like him — he ought to be living to his fullest. How he copes with daily life when eating is distressing is beyond Diavolo.]

Don't misunderstand me. You can devour the flesh of others and not lose yourself completely. Resorting to such base instincts is demeaning, but, at the end of the day, it is still you in control. But ... it is easier said than done. As a human, when desperation forced me into action I would never otherwise take, it wasn't nearly so hard to stop and return to normal. As a monster, with a monster's drive to consume ... it can feel as though someone else is in control entirely.

[He remembers, months ago, blinking awake from a nap he was not taking, so far from home, lost and amid a pile of corpses bearing gashes from his own bloodied claws. He remembers the terror he felt then, the thought that it was not him.]

[And there it is. There's the threat that ensures Steven will feed of his own volition, despite how much it unsettles him. What happened out in that foggy wasteland beyond the mountains, way back in August, was even worse. Losing consciousness and then snapping instantly back into awareness beside a corpse is familiar to him in all the worst ways, and it'd become a continuing nightmare. He'd gotten himself caught in a vicious cycle of using so much of his own power to hunt down prey, the feeding barely helped. If not Marc, then who was responsible? Was it him, or...?

He's already talked this over with both Atem and Cervo. It's not really a secret he's trying to keep.]

Yep... That's how I know I haven't gone too hungry for a while. 'Long as I feed about once every four weeks, it's me doing the feeding. I've got the control and the memories, all of it. But there was one time where I waited too long and... [He sits up straighter, his hands slipping from the table into his lap.] I dunno. I dunno if that was me. Maybe it wasn't.

Oh? [Now you've got Diavolo curious. He will poke at this small revelation, untangling it in search of any common thread that binds them.] I have heard that it is not uncommon for those who deny their instincts to fall victim to them entirely. The inner beast — or whatever you wish to call it — takes charge and takes all that it needs to survive. But, for most, the difference is purely metaphorical. They and their instinct are one and the same, no matter how far they try to distance themselves from it.

["For most". There is at least one glaring exception to this rule, and it comes in the form of Cervo. In Diavolo's best estimation, Cervo is a bundle of monster instincts turned whole, a second being fully forming in a body built for two but left imperfect and hollow.

It could be a coincidence. He has not sat and interviewed all of the monsters who have lost control, he has not searched for patterns. All he has is Steven's story, which is starting to paint a familiar picture.]

You say you have the memories of the times you feed. An interesting detail to point out... Do you not remember this incident, then?

[The 'inner beast', huh? Steven would like to think he doesn't have one of those. That he wasn't put together to include something that vicious. Trouble is, things are different from back home. He's on his own now, and unsure how that affects him. Maybe, with enough time, he'll grow into something he wasn't intended to be. Maybe all those empty spaces in his mind- or his heart- whatever one calls it- will be filled with less than desirable things.

Or maybe someone hitched a ride with him to Ryslig. He never got to confirm it back home, but he does have a suspicion that maybe it wasn't just Marc and him. But that's too hypothetical to take seriously.]

No, I don't. It was back when we were all teleported across the mountains to that old mining town. I dunno if you were there [and he's not leaving any pause there to answer that, because the words are flowing from his mouth like a waterfall now-] but the fog was a bit funny there. And I hadn't fed once before then, 'cause I was only just getting settled as Naphil. So the second I set foot there, things already felt... off, but then I used my powers to purify some water and I just... [He makes the strangest motion with his hand, like mimicking an explosion with his fingers right in front of his own face.] Lost hold of myself, I s'pose you could call it. Next second, I'd already fed on someone.

The loss of control is a terrifying thing. But — you reclaimed control in the end, and you keep it even now. If — as you worry — there is another ... and if eating is enough stave them off, then their only concern may be consuming enough souls for sustenance.

[Again, Diavolo pictures Cervo, who lives only to eat. It feels so natural to Diavolo that two could coexist, entwined so deeply in each others' lives. He doesn't realize how much he feeds into these ideas, how he entertains the thought. It would be ... nice, he thinks, to have someone to relate to on that level. If any of this is factual, if it isn't just the work of the overactive imagination of a man desperate to avoid taking responsibility for his own actions ...

Then, with his missing memory and his body acting on another's whims — more than anything, Steven reminds him of Doppio.

Ugh. That is far too much to project onto someone he's only just met. Still. With Cervo and Doppio, he maintains a balance. He does not speak of Cervo to Doppio; it is Cervo's choice to reveal himself, if he so desires. He lacks that respect for Steven or the theoretical other with him. So he pries further.]

That is, assuming feeding was the only goal. Were you unaware for long? The one "you" fed on — were they anyone to you? Someone you were familiar with, or just an unfortunate bystander?

[There's a lot of factual errors being thrown Steven's way right now. And it's his own fault, he realizes, for being vague about what happened. Of course Diavolo would assume he fed on just one person. Of course he would assume Steven regained control on his own, in the end.

He's about to respond when he sees the waitress lift up a cup of coffee, over by the counter, and the haphazardly-chosen words die in the back of his throat. Probably for the best. Waiting for the waitress to approach and set the coffee down gives him time to try and phrase it better. He gives her a quick, vague nod of the head in thanks and watches her retreat again. His right hand finds the coffee cup, the warmth seeping into his palm, and he finds himself unable to meet Diavolo's gaze.]

It wasn't... just one person. It started out that way- someone I know- but I got hungry again within four days. So I ran into the woods. And then... [He falls silent for a few seconds, his eyes scrunching shut.] I was lost for days. I'd snap out of it for minutes, an hour at most. But it was the fog over there, I reckon. And the powers used for... for hunting. I just... I kept losing myself over and over.

[Diavolo takes in the new information, comparing it with what he knows of Cervo, of Doppio, of himself, of this world.]

I suppose it could have been a side effect of the fog in that wasteland. An outside force altering your nature and driving you to feed, rather than an inside force acting on its own desires. [He acquiesces, and his tone is so different than it was when he was questioning Steven. For a moment, he sounds nearly disappointed. And why wouldn't he be? For a moment he dared to imagine that this table could be seating three — that someone here just might understand him.] That would neatly explain why it has not happened since. It — hasn't, correct?

Nnnot since, no.

[Which might already imply something to Diavolo, but... Well, Steven's already talking now. And for some reason, he feels like he can really open up to this man. It might be because Diavolo has been a very nice, reasonable listener up until now. Or it might be because Diavolo's evoking a sense of kinship. Either way, it spurs him on to keep going.]

Um. It felt similar to something that'd happen back home, so that's not very nature-altering, is it?

[That draws Diavolo's attention. He leans in, elbows on the table, for a closer look. It's scrutiny at its finest, and it isn't Steven's expression that he's examining. He had tells, he knows, in brief moments surfacing — a flash of the eyes, a twitch of the lips, a subtle shift in posture. Cervo's physical presence may be bound to the fog, but, until Diavolo has proof that that rule applies to others as well, he will look for signs of another with them. And, if he finds any, he will dig in and pry whoever he finds out.]

I know of someone, [he says, softly, not breaking his intense stare,] who might say the same. Go on. Tell me what is so familiar about losing control.

[It could be nothing. He could have been a man prone to wild mood swings and nothing more — or it could be the answer Diavolo is searching for. What connects them? Why did the Fog fashion them into forms so similar?]

[Diavolo knows of someone else like that, huh? He wonders if it's Doppio, but doesn't want to assume. The name was left out for a reason, Steven assumes, so he knows better than to pry.

Steven's tells, at the moment, are entirely his own. A pained frown, the thinning of his lips... His index finger taps against the side of the coffee cup. Marc scolded him for telling others, that first day he came to Ryslig. But really, what was that? Two weeks in more than six months- just a meaningless speck of time, and Marc might never come back again. Just as it always does, that thought fills him with a combination of loss and spite. He swallows thickly, his gaze still stuck on the table's surface.]

Back home, it's not... just me, living in this body. My mind- Our mind got split up over time. It started when we were young lads, but me, the way I am now... I didn't really exist as a full person 'till a few years ago, I expect. And I didn't... [He breaks off for a second, interrupted by a sharp chuckle-like breath that doesn't hold a shred of amusement to it. It's strained and almost desperate.] I didn't even know that he was there. I didn't know my memories were just made up. 'Cause he didn't want me to know, did he? The whole point of me was to live a normal, carefree life. But he'd have to take control sometimes- when I was in danger, and that... That was what it felt like. 'Cept, he's not here now. It's just me. So it can't be him, can it?

[It's a lot to take in, a lifetime packed into a few sentences. And the confession weighs heavily on Steven, it's obvious in everything from his stammering to his harsh laugh. There is so much to focus on, so much to unravel, and he can barely process it. He will take it all in, but — first things first.

If Steven were to look up, he would see the smile playing on Diavolo's lips, slight at first and quickly growing into something he cannot fully contain.]

No, [he agrees.] It can't. It is beyond the Fog God's capabilities to pluck two souls from a world and place them into the same body. I know this to be true. I have asked her. But ... that does not mean you are alone.

[He does look up- only a fraction of a second at first, because he's instictively curious whether Diavolo might be disgusted. Or laughing at him. Or just full of disbelief. His gaze is already averted again before he's fully processed just what it was he saw. ... A smile? Why...?

With that realization, he sits up straighter, lifting his head upwards again to look Diavolo's way properly.]

Oh... Why is that? [He's got several answers coming to him, one more literal than the next, so he'd like to know what exactly Diavolo's getting at.]

WELCOME TO YOUR PRIVATE CHANNEL, HASNOFEAR. FOR SECURE COMMUNICATION, USE 13.15.15.14 * HASNOFEAR has joined 13.15.15.14 <HASNOFEAR>** Hello! This is Steven Grant! If you need something, just leave me a message and I'll get back to you asap!

(very understandable tbh)

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normal behavior

Just two guys having a normal conversation

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