in space, no one can hear you scream

[nocteconsilium]

[ Once upon a time, there was a ship, drifting alone in space. It was a dead ship, but not empty — a tomb for a single man, asleep and on the verge of death, watched over by a ghost in the wiring. Years passed. Weyland-Yutani followed the ship's beacon, poured through its logs, boarded the silent vessel. Men cracked open the sole occupied stasis chamber, and Noctis took his last breath.

But that wasn't the end.

There was no money to be made in that death, and in the death of the creature that slaughtered the ship's crew. And Weyland-Yutani cared only about making a profit. They took his corpse, the remains of the alien creature, the data held on the ship's memory banks. They even took the AI that had observed the incident, that had faithfully performed its duty and safeguarded the company's interests to the best of its limited abilities. No, there was no money in death, but in creating life...

Creating weapons.

Not mindless beasts that sought only to devour and procreate. No, Weyland-Yutani sought a more sophisticated creature. A creature that could think and obey and fight for its masters, that could pass undetected among star systems.

A clone. A hybrid. And an android minder, because the subject had an unfortunate tendency toward breaking limbs. ]

Back so soon, Ignis? [ Noct grins at the android — the ship's AI, given physical form, and Noct is still wondering what lies IGNIS had learned to tell to manage that — from behind the glass of his cell. It's a predatory grin, something feral to the sharp tilt of his mouth, the focused interest in his eyes, but still, Noctis is undeniably pleased to see Ignis again. He presses a deceptively human hand to the glass and leans in, eager. ] Time for walkies already?

how sweetly the caged bird sings

[persius]

[ Lancelot's been watching Percival for years now. Ever since they met as children at a company party, two young not-heirs to their families' (adopted, in Lancelot's case) million dollar conglomerates. Percival had been dazzling, rambunctious and fearless against Lancelot's shyness. The kind of person that Lancelot couldn't forget.

And he didn't. Years passed, and they orbited each other, through expensive schools, family dinners, distant, two ships traveling the same routes but never meeting again. But Lancelot heard about Percival, listened when his father indulged his curiosity, puzzled but relaying whatever he'd heard of the Wales family's youngest son, and Lancelot would sit and listen and drink in every word. He grew up hearing of Percival's successes, measured himself by them, determined to be a match. Someone who could stand at Percival's side to support him.

Meeting Percival again at university had seemed fortuitous, childhood acquaintances reconnecting by chance, but of course it wasn't. Lancelot had worked himself to the bone to make sure he'd be accepted, not just on his family's name but on his own merits. He has to be worthy to stand at Percival's side, after all.

And meeting Percival again... Percival is everything he'd imagined. Smart and funny and kind under his gruffness, truly noble.

But he takes so much on his shoulders, carries such burdens. Lancelot can see how it wears on Percival, sleepless nights, shadows under his eyes, stress when every human mistake cuts Percival to the quick as though it's some monumental failure. There's trouble with Percival's family, Lancelot hears about it in his weekly phone calls home. And it's Percival's nobility that makes him believe he has to carry all these burdens alone. That nobility that Lancelot so admires him for — but that's alright. After all, now that they're reunited, Lancelot is going to be at Percival's side to help him.

The light falling on Percival's face is what wakes him — bright, unfiltered light, the kind that only comes from being high up, pouring through clean, clear glass. The entire eastern wall of the room is windows from floor to ceiling, gentle, translucent curtains billowing in a summer breeze, giving way to a view of the city stretched out below. A penthouse suite, with the furnishings to match, all smooth modern lines, leather and brushed steel, subtle art deco aesthetics to go along with the plush richness of the deep colors and lush decor. The bed Percival finds himself on is no exception, a king-sized canopy, perfectly firm mattress, down pillows cradling his head.

The lap of luxury, except for the carefully padded leather cuffs binding his ankles and wrists. And the lingering, heavy haze over Percival's thoughts that speaks to a drugged sleep rather than a natural slumber. ]

Good morning. [ Soft, with a cheerful note, and Lancelot leans into view, a smile on his face to match the warmth of his voice. ] Feeling better? You slept so long, I could tell you needed the rest.