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If only Veritas had the luxury of wearing his bust today.
The sight of Aventurine jogging around a tiny version of the Golden Hour, his entire body barely larger than Veritas’ hand, is stirring up unnecessary feelings. Fear is not an emotion Veritas tolerates often, preferring the practicalities of action or, failing that, a redirection of his attention towards something that can be acted upon, but today it nearly chokes him.
But he cannot break even for a moment, as he is being watched.
On the bannister above them perches a raven, one that Veritas has noticed several times throughout the Dreamscape with too-sharp golden eyes and uncanny timing. And across the room, leaning against the wall, a red-eyed Bloodhound slides a piece of candy into his mouth as he watches Veritas watch Aventurine.
“Neat lil’ trick, isn't it?” The Bloodhound prompts, his voice low and coarse. “‘S not finished, though, as you can see.” He gestures to some of the malfunctioning characters within the sandbox, twitching like broken dolls.
“Does Mister Sunday make a habit of abandoning half-completed projects?” Veritas asks, watching Aventurine play with one of the tiny slot machines from the corner of his eye. He seems happy, at least.
The bird shuffles above them. The candy clacks against the Bloodhound’s teeth as he rolls it and the question around in his head. “Mm. There are a great many responsibilities on His Lordship’s plate. It’s natural that some would be set aside for a while when more pressing matters arise, right?”
The way the Bloodhound speaks is… discordant with his words. Mocking, maybe. Something about his disheveled appearance and informal tone demands Veritas’ attention, but so does—
“Hey! Ratio! Give me a hand?”
Aventurine’s voice is faint but Veritas snaps to attention — too quickly, frown for emphasis and wait for a heartbeat, two — and peers down at the scene. There’s a massive capsule machine there, with a hand crank scaled and placed for an outside hand to operate it. After another breath, he obliges, turning the crank and waiting to gauge the speed of the massive capsule’s descent (and the risk a collision with it posed to his dear little gambler) before withdrawing his hand.
When Veritas tears his eyes away, satisfied that Aventurine is safely untangling the latest clue, the Bloodhound has moved to Veritas’ side of the room, heaving himself onto one of the orange couches and making it impossible for Veritas to watch both people at once.
“Forgive me askin’ but, you don’t seem the type to enjoy the indulgence of the Golden Hour. Why tag along?”
“The Stoneheart cashed in an old favor I owed him,” Veritas intones carefully. “I took the opportunity to even the score.”
The venom is his tone is subtle but audible, a carefully measured bit of acting to set up his imminent betrayal. Yet a sudden movement from the Sandbox catches Veritas’ eye - Aventurine on one of the skyscrapers, trying to fix a faulty pinball machine by perching on the railing and trying to force a lever loose. The needle-thin metal groans and snaps—
And Veritas catches Aventurine before he fell more than an inch.
“Whoa. Thanks, Doc,” comes the distant voice. The sensation of a tiny gloved hand patting his thumb does little to soothe his elevated pulse, and only highlights Aventurine’s vulnerability.
Veritas eases Aventurine back onto the skyscraper, flicks the lever on the machine with no small amount of irritation, and turns his attention back to the other man in the room.
The Bloodhound grins, crunching on the hard candy as he watches Veritas with hooded, deep-red eyes. “Didja now?”
Strike one.
A lesser man would panic at having their weak spot flashed in front of a threat. Veritas bites a tiny spot inside his cheek to ground himself before speaking again.
“Mister Sunday seems to have time enough to waste mine with these poorly designed games.” This anger is not feigned. Tension redirected, an indulgence in an authentic critique of the man who has rigged an interrogation to paint the defendant a sinner regardless of his intent. He cannot stand that disingenuous priest.
“I don't pretend to know the man's mind,” the Bloodhound sighs, spreading his knees. “I’m just a lowly guard dog.”
“Are you,” Veritas echoes the Bloodhound’s earlier doubt. “I assumed you were above the rank and file. My mistake.”
The obnoxious sound of the pinball teleporters shatters Veritas’ focus; he exhales through his nose and dares to glance again at Aventurine in the Sandbox. His companion is as unbothered as he has been throughout this endeavor, infuriatingly flippant about his own health and safety despite the decades of danger he faced alone. How does he feel, being forced into such a vulnerable position again? Veritas could decapitate him with a flick of his finger.
When Aventurine fell, did he feel relief that Veritas caught him, or fear at being so totally at someone else's mercy?
Oh, he hates this awful planet. This cacophony of shallow indulgence, the hypocrisy of the Family that dares to cover up the death of one of their own. Everything about Penacony is an assault.
The Bloodhound whistles a trio of notes; one sharp, the second a little lower and the other third strong and clear. An Origami bird pops into sight above them, startling the deep purple bird who flies straight up into the skylight and vanishes in a huff. Unperturbed, the Origami bird flutters through the air to land on the Bloodhound’s offered finger, greeting him with its odd little voice.
“Shouldn't you be on your way back to the Great Tree?” the Bloodhound asks the bird fondly, his smile softening.
“Doo-doo! I heard the capsule machine turn and I was hoping for a chance to get a prize!”
“Next time,” he tells it. “Don't wanna bother our guests here, do we?”
“Nuh-uh!”
“There we go. Fly home, now,” and as he raises his hand, the little Origami bird flutters away as well.
The air around the Bloodhound is different now. Veritas isn't sure if that is a good thing or not. At least now he's only being watched by one agent of the Dreamscape.
“I'm pretty fond of most of the birds here, you know,” the Bloodhound says as he gets to his feet with a groan, ambling across the room towards the Sandbox. Veritas shifts his weight to place himself between the Bloodhound and Aventurine, watching his approach. “Especially the song bird. I wouldn't let anything happen to her.”
Song bird, singular. Robin. Veritas narrows his eyes, searching for the intent behind the Bloodhound’s coded phrase.
“It is your job, is it not?”
“A man’s allowed to have favorites,” he chuckles, stepping right up to the Sandbox.
The image of that scarred hand crushing Aventurine in his grip flashes behind Veritas’ eyes. Terror and rage hit him in quick succession, and he forces himself to weather the impact without flinching.
Veritas can feel his teeth grinding together at letting someone else so close to the Sandbox. Damn the plan, damn the dream, damn the whole IPC while he’s at it. Aventurine is his—
“Stoneheart, you said. That the Avgin?”
Veritas dares a glance at the Sandbox. Aventurine is deeply engrossed in some conversation with one of the figures down there, and it is hard to tell if his obliviousness is an act or not. Panic rises like bile in his throat.
The Bloodhound raises his hand. Veritas takes a step forward. Red eyes meet red eyes, and the unkempt Bloodhound smiles.
Strike two.
Veritas cannot bring himself to be alarmed this time. The chill surety of a decision made has settled his nerves. If the Bloodhound moves another inch, Veritas will break his arm.
“You know what always bugs me about this thing?” The Bloodhound pulls his hand back, takes a half step away from the Sandbox. “There's no sand.”
The sudden de-escalation catches Veritas off guard. “Pardon?” he stalls, mentally recontextualizing their conversation.
“There's no sand,” the Bloodhound repeats, rooting around in his pants pocket for something. “The name implies you should go digging.”
Veritas straightens as the clues begin to fall into place, tension sloughing off him. This man is helping them; for Family politics, maybe, or his own individual desires. Right now, the reasons (or the price the help may cause) do not matter to him. All he needs are results.
With a grunt of satisfaction, the Bloodhound retrieves another piece of candy from his pocket. Scraping off the wrapper with his teeth, he makes a point of checking his watch.
“Well. That's my lunch break. And uh, sir?”
He side steps and drops his voice, his features shifting for a fraction of a second into a different man’s face.
“Don’t ever play poker,” he murmurs, then saunters away, whistling the same three notes again. A whippoorwill’s song, Veritas notes.
The rush of Memoria behind him startles him out of his thoughts. Aventurine stretches one arm behind his head, wincing as if it takes effort to settle back into his ordinary-sized body again.
“Oof. Glad I’m not prone to motion sickness. All right,” he says, “I think we can head up the stairs to the second level. Shall we?”
“If you’re sure,” Veritas replies. “I have no interest in backtracking if you have missed something.”
“Hey, don't complain. You just got to stand around while I sprinted around several city blocks.”
Veritas falls into step beside him as they head up the stairs, continuing their argument by force of habit. “The entire space is barely more than two square meters—”
“It's a lot of steps when you’re tiny, Ratio. If your feet are sore already, you should wear more practical shoes.”
“Do not lecture me about practicality, you obnoxious little peacock.” His feet are fine. His nerves are what ails him. “You spend more credits on cologne in a week than some people make in a month.”
“Scent is the strongest sense tied to memory, Ratio. I've got to make a good impression on folks, and a good smell is a great shortcut.”
At the top of the stairs, Veritas catches himself. He’s having fun. They’re not supposed to have fun.
“Just focus on solving the puzzles, will you?” he grouses as he watches Aventurine’s hand trail along the bannister, and tries very hard not to think about how it would feel to have it grasp his own instead. If he’ll smell Aventurine’s cologne on his clothes later like he often does, and miss him even more.
Strike three.