epitaffio | IC Inbox

Ho ho ho! Your Secret Santa giftee is OTTO OCTAVIUS, imaginatively called "Octavius" on the network. These call-signs, I swear to God...

Buy or make Otto a gift by December 26, or Santa will come down your chimney and box your ears.

If you need more information, contact me C/O Hawkeye Pierce at Crowe Clinic, and I'll delegate him to tell you to do your own research.

[Isabela doesn't know Vinegar very well, but she remembers him. On Christmas day there's a knock on his door. When he opens it, he'll find a neatly wrapped package. Instead of paper, it seems to be wrapped in fabric. When he unwraps it, he'll find it's been neatly wrapped with a scarf. The box, itself, is quite warm. Inside of it is a small stack of arepas con queso. They're clearly homemade. They're different sizes and some look like they've been cooked a little longer than others, but they were made with love. See? She took his advice!

A little card pinned to the scarf reads Merry Christmas, from your Secret Santa in neat handwriting.]

[For the first time in his entire tenure at the Crowe Clinic, Giorno makes the voluntary choice not to go to work.]

[Voluntary-ish. There are some things one simply cannot allow to continue if one is to maintain an even remotely professional reputation. In Giorno's opinion, drifting into the main clinic to see Doppio just doing his job and responding by immediately levitating everyone in the waiting room out of rage is not an event that can repeat. Sure he thinks of doing violence to Doppio every time he lays eyes on him, but people aren't supposed to be able to tell. God.]

[So he avoids the clinic. Unfortunately, he's too wrapped up in the convoluted workings of his own mind that he forgets the obvious: he has businesses. Everywhere. Even areas he doesn't have actual fingers in pies, he knows people who do, people whose businesses he visits from time to time. The only way to be completely certain that he won't see Doppio is to stay home. He doesn't. The only way to be completely certain that he won't confront Doppio is to simply go in the other direction if he sees him, and, well.]

[Okay. He doesn't do that either.]

[The first couple of times he does! But by the third coincidental sighting — and it is coincidental, even Doppio isn't stupid enough to be following him right now, no matter how poor an opinion he has of the man — oh, his temper's just about snapped. It's just insult to injury. Unintentional insult, but who cares? It's bothering him.]

[Which is how it comes to be that Giorno darts his way out of the coffee shop that until seconds ago contained his ire, possesses a passing pedestrian, and yeets a rock square at the back of Doppio's stupid cervid skull. His aim is frustratingly good for someone who just learned how to possess people. The poor guy whose head he just occupied is almost immediately freed, staring at his hand in confusion and distress before turning to look behind him. The fuck?? You're a real one, Matti Meikäläinen.]

Sir, how quickly did your organs regenerate after you ate them? Do you remember?

[The rain hasn't stopped. Time, Diavolo was sure, would put an end to the torrent, but the weather has only worsened with each passing day. He curls against a pillar, gazing absently into the drenched courtyard as he runs his fingers through his hair. Two weeks unmaintained, and it only just shows in scattered buds that fight to thrive despite the storm. It's not quite the picture-perfect, manicured island that Mana plucked free from Venice for him.

Perhaps it's something better.

This slice of the world, after all, is his. To make his own, to do with as he pleases, to reshape into something that suits him.

Him and Doppio both...

It was far earlier in the day he came here, chased off any lingering humans, and set to examining the place — or, at least, that's the excuse he made for coming here. More than anything, he needed a breath of fresh air and was determined to get one, as miserable as it may be outside. His scrawled list of tasks to be done has barely changed in the hours spent here, and he's done far more idle, thoughtful wandering than anything productive.

He isn't quite thinking when he reaches for his laptop (close at hand, of course — always, now — because if he must part from Doppio on days when he is burdened by work, they can at least keep in contact) and sends a message.]

<sleepless> Meet me at San Giorgio Maggiore as soon as you are free.

[He isn't thinking at all when he fires off the second.]

<sleepless> I want to see you.

[It's been a month. In hindsight, Sparkling...had wanted to do this sooner. But things being as they were (or maybe it was the selfish part of him letting his own cowardice take hold) meant that he kept putting it off. Other things took precidence. Then, he was grappling with the task of returning to the dead after being alive again for a few months.

It had all been...arduous, and mentally, emotionally exhausting. It's made him want to simply curl up for a few months and cease to exist. What a wonderful option that would be, could he actually take it...

But here he is now, back being a Vampire, actually alone with his thoughts for the first time in a while. And...he knows he has to do this.

He has to.]

Hello, Doppio. This is Sparkling Cookie.

I am certain I am the last person you want to hear from, but I wanted to write you a message to express how deeply sorry I am for what I did to you. I could easily blame it on my time as a Demon influencing my actions, but I won't. I take full responsibility for all of it.

It was unfair, and cruel, and you do not owe me an acceptance or even a response. I just wanted to give you this. If you would rather I not speak to you, or interact with you in the future, I understand and will respect your wishes on this going forward.

I am so sorry.

[In an ideal world, this would be a phone call. But with Trish mere feet away behind a wall, her bear ears sure to overhear anything Diavolo says, he must resort to the second best option.]

Trish came to San Giorgio Maggiore.

[Yes, only that: the tiniest note, hurriedly typed out as soon as he hears the shower turn on. A warning, perhaps.]

[When does Doppio make it back home?

If he comes early enough in the day, Trish will be there in her day form and distinctive tourist chic look, staring blithely into the middle distance. It's not helpful or productive to marinate in her fugue state on their front lawn. That being said, she's surprised she's staying too, but they so far the energy of her presence insinuates her tenure is merely a temporary measure. If she's still here after more than a week, well...no, she won't be. That's what she tells herself.

The only change that will happen if he arrives late at night is that she'll be a bear doing this.

And if she sees Doppio?

Her first response, as if to signal the fact she realizes this whole situation is absurd, is to raise a hand (or paw) in greeting in a way that echoes Atem.]

Yo, Doppio.

[Talking to him is illegal and also she's still mad at him, but annoying her father by talking to his underling is more enriching than stewing over how much Doppio sucks.]

[Doppio is being followed.]

[It starts subtly, but doesn't stay that way for long. Whatever's got its eye on him, it's impatient. So the first night, it trails him in short spurts, for a few minutes, maybe up to half an hour, and then leaves him be — but after that, it sticks on him for hours, especially at dawn and dusk when sunrises and sunsets are luminous and warm. While it takes care to stay out of sight at first, the physical presence is palpable and menacing, and as the days go by, it gets closer and closer.]

[More careless, too. By the end of the first day, Doppio will have heard at least one barely-audible noise, a sucking sound that ends in a pop that makes the ears hurt, followed by the complex scent of rotting vegetation. Not nearly distant enough for comfort, either. Just a few yards behind his shoulder — except when he turns around, there's nothing there.]

[By the second day, it's not even bothering to hide. It sits at the top of buildings more like an architectural gargoyle than anything, knelt on the edges of roofs, window ledges, and once or twice on the top of a streetlight. A warm pink and white, its eyes reflect gold tapetum lucidum in the growing or departing dark; or if night has already fallen, the backs of its eyes seem pink, like a white rabbit's.]

[By the third day, Doppio is starting to see things. Or maybe he isn't? Tongues of flame lash from nothing in his peripheral vision, far enough not to pose him any direct danger but close enough to register as deeply psychologically uncomfortable for a creature so flammable. He no sooner turns to look at them than they disappear as though they were never there. That smell stays, though.]

[And then—]

[Sometimes you're walking home to San Giorgio Maggiore by yourself, minding your own business, and the entire street in front of you is engulfed in flame, cutting off your path entirely. You, a desiccated deer husk, are forced to back up. But there's someone behind you.]

Buona sera, Doppio.

Edited (what's time) 2023-07-14 23:31 (UTC)

Ho ho ho! Your Secret Santa recipient is Katurian Katurian!

Get Katurian a present by December 26, and if you can't figure out how to deliver it, you can drop it off (clearly labelled, please!) at Crowe Clinic up until the 24th.

THINGS TO KNOW ABOUT KATURIAN:
- I didn't mis-type, he has the same name twice;
- Goes by "wilhelm" on the network;
- Likes books, stories, that kind of thing;
- Shade.

Be nice to him, he's delicate.

[The pooka's maddening presence is finally gone. It would be a relief, if not for what settled in its place. Rather than a return to glory, it seems as though something fizzled out in its wake. A flurry of activity slowed to a crawl; endless words and touches have been reduced to silence and absence. Diavolo has been distant, preferring the sanctity of his room to the rest of the island. The gardens can wilt in the cold for all he can bring himself to care; the fish get by with the bare minimum of fussing.

It's something like shame. Regret. Two months of his life, a whirlwind of ceaseless action, and none of it was his will. None of it was his choice, but, puppeted by needs and desires he should not have, he had no alternative but to give in. Shame has driven him to quiet solitude, and it shows no signs of ebbing away even as the month drags on.

—which is precisely why it comes as a surprise, one winter morning, that a sweet scent fills the halls of the monastery. When Doppio's nose leads him to the source — his Boss, frazzled in the kitchen, a tray of freshly-baked cookies in his hands and a deep frown on his face — Diavolo speaks more than he has in days.]

Doppio. You're awake. Taste this for me.

[One of the not-quite-strays is perched on a counter amongst the baking supplies, tail flicking as he watches. He's been guided to the floor half a dozen times already, but he cannot be tamed.]

[One morning, a duo of gifts is delivered to the island of San Giorgio Maggiore. One gift is for Doppio, one is for Diavolo, and both are wrapped in similar, red & green wrapping paper. The gift for Doppio is a pair of green mittens, and a pre-paid gift card for dinner and a movie showing at LIGHTS, CAMERA, COFFEE. (They have delicious meat, or so he's been told, so a Waldgeist will love it.)

It also comes with a card, which reads:

"Happy Nattensfest!

Just thought I'd get you a little something. Hope next year will be a better one for you! (I tried rubbing some of my luck onto the mittens just in case.) Enjoy your holidays if you celebrate them!

Cheers, Steven"]

WELCOME TO YOUR PRIVATE CHANNEL, PURPLEPIPER. FOR SECURE COMMUNICATION, USE 541.26.365.77 * PURPLEPIPER has joined 541.26.365.77 <PURPLEPIPER> Am I doing this right? <PURPLEPIPER> Pretty weird to just leave a message like this is an answering machine or something <PURPLEPIPER> ME leaving a message I mean! <PURPLEPIPER>** You can leave one if you want and I'll just get back to you whenever I can.

<KrisKringle>

[Backdated to 12/25]

jan. 2023, shade event.

< r.gardner >

no subject

Backdated to the end of April; un: <Sparkling>