Addison Basil Vasiliy 12.25.2024
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Logfile from Liberation (Basil)
Log opened 25/12/2024 - 22:28:10
═══════════════════════════ Historic Core ‒ DTLA ════════════════════════════
The Historic Core was the original center of Downtown Los Angeles.
After World War II, the center shifted west. Different sources provide
different definitions of what constitutes the true core but most agree that
it extends no further north than 1st Street, no further east than Los Angeles
Street, no further south than 9th Street. Within the Historic Core's borders
are the often overlapping neighborhoods of The Old Bank District, Gallery Row
and the Broadway Theater District. Since 2000, it's undergone significant
redevelopment, spurred by adaptive reuse laws, revitalization and restoration
efforts - although there are still millions of square feet of unused property
in the upper floors of many buildings.
The Old Bank District is a few square blocks of early 20th century
commercial buildings, most of which have been or are in the process of being
converted to residential lofts. The bottom floors often boast fashionable
eateries and boutiques. The 1999 passage of the citys adaptive reuse
ordinance was followed by the 2000 opening of the first repurposed lofts,
which sent ripples throughout Downtown and spurred much of the area's revival.
‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒ Players ‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒
Basil 0s 5'8" pretty goth fellow. Cha 4, App 4
Addison 8s Slim. Male. Caramel Skin. Glasses. Cha - 4; App - 3
‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒ Locations ‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒
Farmers and Merchants Bank <FMB> Spring Arcade <SA>
Historic Mansion <HM> Grand Central Market <GCM>
The Bradbury Building <BB> Pershing Square <PS>
Mason Opera House <MOH> The Last Bookstore <LB>
‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒ Directions ‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒
Civic Center <N> Little Tokyo <E>
Financial District <W> Gallery Row <S>
══════════════════════[ +Influence | Historic Commercial | Resources: 3+ ]═══
+STOPLIGHT> All Green
---<Addison>---------------
Basil might just catch sight of Addison lingering around Pershing Square. There's an orange bicycle propped next to him and he seems to be enjoying a bowl of Ramen while he watches the endless throngs of humanity go in and out of the Market.
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--------- New Activity ---------
<OOC> Addison says, "oop we're one square off..."
Addison exits towards Pershing Square.
Addison has left.
You exit towards Pershing Square.
══════════════════════════ Pershing Square ‒ DTLA ═══════════════════════════
Pershing Square remains a public access space that allows community
members and visitors alike to sit, talk, meet-up, and relax in the middle of
DTLA. The four and a half square acre park offers an area for concerts,
gatherings, political rallies and public celebrations. The Square is
decorated with fountains, monuments, statues, a large seating platform, two
children's playgrounds, a chess area, a pet area, and an open elevated
Mayan-Revival style amphitheater. The venue is surrounded by hotels,
restaurants, cafes, bakeries, and local businesses.
The Square features more hard-scapes than grass areas so much that
it's become an after-dark attraction for intrepid skateboarders seeking to
test their skills in an environment practically designed for their sport in
mind. This is much to the chagrin of those invested in the upkeep of the
space's cleanly appearance. After dark there is a constant battle against
"delinquency". At any time of day it's easy to find a cluster of food trucks
corralled around the square offering a buffet of various fusion
street-cuisine, albeit most of them are a bit overpriced. Visually the park
is intensely geometric in its design with sandstone covered floor blocks
rising to meet large purple concrete obelisks. The looming towers of the
Financial District are always in view of the park.
‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒ Players ‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒
Basil 0s 5'8" pretty goth fellow. Cha 4, App 4
Addison 11s Slim. Male. Caramel Skin. Glasses. Cha - 4; App - 3
‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒ Locations ‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒
The Rhythm Room <RR>
‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒ Exits ‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒
Leave <O>
════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════[ +Influence ]═══
+STOPLIGHT> All Green
---<Basil>---------------
It's still weird for Basil that November in LA is T-shirt weather for him, and yet he's out in one (ignore the desc) - black t-shirt and jeans, sneakers, his hair up in a ponytail, and no makeup on. It's Basil alright, if one needs to make sure - his eyes are that feral light gray, but he seems absorbed in his thoughts. Perhaps he's been walking just... randomly, thinking on his feet, needing to move. It's chance that he stops and squints into the golden setting sunlight, frowning and looking away from it to let his eyes regain their better vision. And in this looking away he spots Addison, eating his ramen. He debates. He looks very understlept. And he decides, opting to move over to where the taller man looms. Loiters? Luncheons? One of those. He doesn't say anything, though he does slide his hands into his pockets, looking less than relaxed.
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---<Addison>---------------
Possibly more bizarre to Basil are all the people unapologetically dressed in Patagonia vests and North Face hoodies, complaining about how cold it is. To many Angelenos, temperatures below 73 are simply ‘frigid.’
Addison is not so heavily bundled. His windbreaker is light but does its job. Though he might not be dressed this way because he's 'cold'. The collar is popped, and the bill of his cap tilts low over his face as he eats.
The decor of this ‘park’—if you can call Pershing Square a park—is unfathomably ugly. Grotesque purple obelisks loom ominously overhead, like relics of a bargain cell phone company’s branding from the early aughts. One of them, ostensibly, is a clocktower.
Addison, however, isn’t looking at the decor. He’s people-watching, his gaze fixed across the street toward the markets. He doesn’t get up from his spot while he eats. A few food trucks are starting to circle the park like a wagon train, looking for parking for the evening shift. It’s not as busy as a Friday or Saturday, but there’s still going to be a decent crowd here for the next few hours.
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ROLL> Basil: Willpower vs. 6 -> 3 successes. (10 9 9 3 2)
ROLL> Addison: Willpower vs. 8 -> 3 successes. (9 9 9 5 4 2 2)
---<Basil>---------------
Summoning some mental energy, he pushes aside his mental fog and depression to pay attention to what Addison's doing, and how he's doing it. Hat down so people can't see what he's looking at, clothing to blend in and hide more of his face, noodles to give a reason why he's there, standing still. Watching the markets.
Unsure of if he's busy or actually just people watching for his own entertainment, the goth pulls out his phone and idly pulls the elastic from his hair, letting it spill down his shoulders and around his face. Hunching his posture a bit, as if he's quite focussed on answering emails, his tresses provide a pretty serviceable curtain for his face against whatever prying eyes might be here. The ache in his feet reminds him why he's even out in this part of town at all, and he presses his lips into a tense and antsy line, murmuring something only the other man can hear.
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You whisper "Have I caught you at a bad time?" to Addison.
---<Addison>---------------
The streetlights around Pershing Square are beginning to flicker on. The frames of Addison’s glasses catch a glint of light just before his eyes swivel in their sockets to peer at Basil.
He stares at Basil for a long few seconds, his dark eyes threatening to burn a hole through the goth, smoldering like a pair of coals.
"It is neither a good time nor a bad time," he says, his voice carrying the weight in portent of something a shaman or a wizard or even Coyote might say. "It’s dinner time." The words land like a universal constant, delivered with a dry, deadpan wit.
Addison holds the stare a moment longer, then lifts his chopsticks to his lips and slurps noodles and pork bone broth with an ironic sense of ceremony.
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ROLL> Basil: Willpower vs. 6 -> 0 successes. (9 9 3 1 1)
---<Basil>---------------
"Okay, Gandalf-rhya..." comes a smiling murmur, and his phone gets switched off and pocketed. The buzzing and mechanical clicking of the lamps nearby get his attention idly, his back straightening a little. If Addison isn't really here to hide his face, maybe there isn't any reason Basil ought to.
It's a good minute that the goth mulls over what's on his mind, debating what to share, what to keep secret. It's tiring. "You've been trying to tell me that I can't pour from an empty cup." Sucking in a breath and holding it, he laughs without any mirth, mostly in amusement at the absurdity of his situation. "My cup's empty. It's been empty for days. It won't fill." It's not even got a lurid twinge to it - he's being sincere.
"Vasiliy is succeeding socially. He's meeting people, tolerating new environments, keeping his anger contained. The... group... more or less accepts him without judgment. There is no danger to us. Which is great! It's great..." His fingers slide up into his hair, eyes not really looking at anything, but directed in the direction of the market. "...I'm not necessary anymore. He doesn't need me anymore." A glossy sheen glitters in his vision but he blinks it away, still tensely smiling. "My cup won't fill... because I'm not real, Addison."
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---<Addison>---------------
Addison sits and he listens. Though it's impossible to tell if he's just ignoring Basil to focus on his noodles or he's being deeply attentive. The Ragabash probably likes it that way. Still, he doesn't interject to cut Basil off. He let's Basil speak his piece. By the time Basil finishes it's clear that Addison has been listening. His head is tilted in one of thost vaguely canine expressions of skepticism.
"Don't you think that's a bit..." Addison trails here as if he's searching for the right word, "severe?" A beat. "I mean, to talk about going away forever just because the Soul you share a body with is having a good week." He smiles here. His tone is light and easy. Teasing but encouraging. "Don't you think that's a little mean to Vasiliy? To just take off and bail on them? Because their week was better than yours?" Then he asks. "Did Vasiliy /tell/ you to fuck off or did you just come to this conclusion yourself?"
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---<Basil>---------------
It's hard to stand after all of those questions, and with a notable lack of grace he moves to sit as well. Not huddled up close, but not too distant. Still close enough to speak quietly and be heard, but far enough to feel comfortably unassaulted by, well, most physical things in the universe. "It is not just a good week. He has been training for months, learning how to live, how to function. His success is not an accident but one earned through hard work, dedication, and a desire to face the challenges himself that I used to face for him."
Basil gathers up his skinny legs and hugs them, resting his chin on his knees, still looking towards and past the market into his own thoughts. "I thought I was the original. I thought he was created to protect *me*. So I kept him chained, in the dark, when life got easier. I told him it was for the best, but he became dissatisfied with his cage since we arrived here. He has finally broken out, and has the means to stay out.... and I pushed so hard to leash him because I was afraid he was the real one. I think I knew he was the real one for a long time. It's why I threw myself into mundane pursuits, affairs, relationships. I want to feel real, but after that wedding? After... well, it doesn't matter. I realize those aren't real either, and they are all finished."
Bit of delayed processing, and he blinks, turning his head to rest his cheek on his arm, looking at Addison. "He didn't tell me with words. But don't his actions make it clear?" Another few blinks, and he flushes, frowning, turning his head back to face forward, chin on his arm again. "I'm sorry. I use you as a therapist, and that's presumptuous."
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---<Addison>---------------
If Addison minds being a "therapist," he doesn’t show it. He slurps another mouthful of noodles, listening to Basil while his gaze drifts off into space, as though his thoughts were somewhere far away. When Basil finishes, Addison chews thoughtfully on a piece of pork—and on Basil’s words—before responding.
"If he did that to you," Addison posits, "kept you in a cage." A pause. "I think you’d want to come out too, no? Generally We don't like being kept in cages. Wyld hearts aren't meant for confinement." The questions seem to come naturally to Addison. Intiutively even. His dark eyes flick back to Basil, glinting over the rims of his glasses.
"So, what do you mean when you say he shows you with his actions?" Addison presses. "Has he been behaving badly? Getting into trouble?"
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---<Basil>---------------
His shoulders sag with the guilt of it, with the toxicity of how he's treated his companion all this time. He's ashamed, and that radiates off of him, his whole frame pulling inward. The magnet of Addison's dark gaze draws the goth to look over to him again, his expression looking fraught, like he's holding back a great deal (likely so as not to scare the straights in their hoodies).
"He has been behaving perfectly, so far as I've seen. Controlling himself... for the most part. As much as any of us can. Not making a scene in any public place, not drawing attention to himself, attending to the needs of others." With a little laugh, he adds, "We have even signed on to be a keeper for Lynn. So civic minded..."
His teeth grit, and his eyes squeeze closed, arms hugging his legs tighter, his face burying in his arms. The goth's body doesn't look like it's in the throes of weeping... it looks like he's furious, and doing his best not to give in to it. It comes up like a wave and back down again, muscles taut everywhere on him, frame tightly wound, and then it's gone again, leaving him very very tired. "I'm so angry and I can't risk..." he starts, the andrenaline clouding his mind a little too much to finish the sentence, his heart racing.
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---<Addison>---------------
Addison listens, unhurried and calm. He hasn’t pried into what exactly has Basil so wound up—at least not yet. Perhaps they’d get there, or perhaps they wouldn’t. One thing at a time. His wary gaze takes in the subtle tremors that ripple through Basil. Though the Shadow-Moons were known for having the least Rage among them, Addison is no stranger to the signs of anger in his Septmates. He certainly isn't stepping in to call Basil a freak. His tone, measured and steady, doesn’t betray judgment. After all, Addison is the kind of guy who has full-on conversations with city stop signs. According to him, they talk back.
It’s hard to gauge what Addison thinks about being likened to a "therapist." His sky-blue ballcap reads: Good Medicine. He maintains a placid posture, even as the sudden quakes of Rage ripple through the air, calmly watching and listening.
"You can correct me if I’m making the wrong assumption," Addison begins, vaguely fishing around with his chopsticks for the elusive quail egg in his soup. "I only know what you’ve told me, but—" he pauses for emphasis. "If what Vasiliy is ‘for’ is doing all the things you couldn’t be bothered to do," Addison says, speaking of Basil’s other self, "and he is doing just that… then what is the problem?"
He raises a brow, his point seemingly straightforward. If Vasiliy was doing exactly what he was designed to do, how could Basil be upset about it? "And," he continues, "if Vasiliy gets a little more time in the sun as a reward, what’s the harm in that? You both share the same tan at the end of the day." Addison pauses, briefly wondering if the Goth might catch the euphemism. "–Or is there something else—some other problem?"
Was there, perhaps, something deeper at play? Addison leans slightly forward, maybe to inspect his bowl for signs of the egg, his tone still calm and measured. "If you’re—" he pauses, glancing to the side as if weighing his words carefully. Eventually, he decides that simply mentioning Rage won’t breach the Veil. After all, mortals call their anger "Rage" just as much.
"If you’re struggling to contain your Rage, know that there are places you can go where you won’t be a danger to yourself or others. I think there are open rooms in the Fremont." His statement is calm, practical. He adds after a beat, "Though I have once heard one of your people"—meaning the Children of Unicorn—"say that too much Rage is often healed by finding a productive outlet for it," then, in a quieter tone, "like finding something evil to kill." And letting fate take its course.
As he finally locates the quail egg, he moves it to his mouth without another word.
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ROLL> Basil: Willpower vs. 6 -> 0 successes. (10 4 3 2 1)
---<Basil>---------------
All Basil can do is sit there and shake and try to compress his rage back into his body like the licking flames of fire back into a coal briquette. Anxiety wells up now too - will he lose control in public? Why did he stay out so long?! His head lifts suddenly and looks as the sun just starts to sink below the horizon now, and his anxiety turns to panic...
And then stops. He's still for a moment - there is no struggle, only a pause to grow reacquainted with their shared living space. When the goth opens his eyes, they are dark, irises all black with silver rings, and though the distress is gone from his features, he still looks tense and uncomfortable. In a deep, russian-accented voice, he rumbles slowly, "I only just awake to find him endangering us in a park... if only this were the strangest occassion I have come back into." Vasiliy glances at Addison, who's just caught his quail egg. "It is not, in case you wondered."
The adrenaline, the cortisol, the tense, hurting muscles - it makes him grimace as he stretches out his legs, leaning back on his hands to try and open up his chest to breathe properly. Deep breaths in and out, to calm the furious pulsing in his temples and up along his throat. It does die down, now that someone is at the helm who is calmer.
"Basil is not himself these days. I have guesses as to why, as to what upsets him." Another wince, and he flexes his foot inside his sneaker, trying to stretch out one calf muscle and then the other. "He believes he is the creation, and it does not sit well with himn - we have heard from two people that the creation can be removed through talents... We did not know that was possible before. So you see, being the creation is to face destruction now. And he is afraid I will demand it."
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---<Addison>---------------
Addison seems to intuit the ‘switch’ without even glancing up to see Basil’s eyes change. It’s likely the shift in pitch that gives Vasiliy away. Addison greets the new personality without a hint of surprise, treating it no differently than if someone had simply walked into the room.
"And how are you doing?" Addison asks, his tone casual. "Good?" A wry smirk plays across his lips. "I was just about to ask him what the fuck ‘real’ even was in this context."
Because, honestly, what was /real/? Basil had been asking a man who spent his days digging for secrets in what might as well be the butthole of God. A philosophical endeavor, sure, but one laced with the absurd.
"I didn't think you would do that," Addison says, crossing his boots at the ankles, "banish him, I mean."
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---<Vasiliy>---------------
"Ah yes, hello. I am doing... sore? I am sore, yes. I could not let him lose control... it is not my preference to deny him his agency, but it must happen sometimes."
"If we cannot tell if we exist in an illusion or reality, what can we do but treat the illusion *as* reality?" Philosophical? Eh. Russian? Yes. Difference? A hearty inherited dose of contrary thoughtfulness. "There is little else to do, and still less to worry about. But he worries... if he had appeared later, after memories remained in the mind. To come 'online' I think is the phrase. If he had appeared later, he would have had time to accept it. But he was made before, and we cannot remember a time apart. That has always thrown it in doubt, in greater or lesser degrees. The doubt now is simply... as low as it has ever been." He shrugs a little, gathering up his hair again to put it in his elastic.
"Would I not destroy him? He himself admits to caging me within my own body, as he would say. And I know, in his heart, if he was in my place, he would choose destruction for the insult. But I am not him. I have no desire to punish him. And I would miss his commentary, when I am faced with..." he wrinkles his nose, trying to think of the best way to put it, "...attraction."
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---<Addison>---------------
Any interlopers might notice Addison perched on one of the hideous purple concrete blocks, a monument to bad urban design. A sunset-orange mountain bike rests on its kickstand nearby, and a bowl of noodles balances in his lap. Basil is close by, looking fussy… fidgety… anxious. And then, just as suddenly, Basil isn’t anxious anymore. He might not even be Basil anymore.
"He is coming to terms with the fact that he is less adapted to Chaos than he previously believed," Addison prescribes, his tone casual, but not clinical. He punctuates the observation with a shrug, as if this revelation were no more consequential than discovering a slightly mismatched sock—not something warranting eternal damnation or destruction.
"Whatever has happened to trigger that feeling... this is what it seems to be to me."
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---<Vasiliy>---------------
"Oh, that is simply answered," Vasiliy comments, taking another long breath in and a long breath out, still working on his jitters. "His p... group? It has disbanded before it begun. Such things happen. His mortal lovers are not his lovers any longer. One by choice, and one not. Despite one being an amicable parting, the rejection and loneliness he feels is beyond what he can tolerate. That both lovers were... mundane," he is measuring his words so carefully, "...he feels that the side he chose to seek acceptance with was a mistake. It is rejection, and his pride is wounded of course."
Vasiliy thinks, knitting his brow, mulling some things over, his posture a little less stiff and sore looking. "He was created to charm those who might harm us. Rejection means pain is coming. He does not understand this is no longer true. It is his instinct. He is more instinct than he admits."
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--------- New Activity ---------
---<Addison>---------------
"Polycule?" Addison finishes the word that Vasiliy can't parse, his tone mildly inquisitive, though the word is far from foreign to him. He’s urbane enough to know its meaning—it is California, after all, not Milwaukee. Still, his expression betrays a faint dubiety about mortal lovers. "So, it would seem the people he has charmed have hurt him."
Unfortunate how that works out.
"We are a Changing people. We change all the time. The shape of Us is forever Becoming and Unbecoming." His lips curl into a taut smirk. "It might not have beeen as easy for me to learn this as it seems to you both," he adds, his gaze flickering as though sensing Basil’s watchful presence on the other side of Vasiliy's eyes, "but I too had to learn it. One of Coyote’s many Lessons. I was born stupid, and I am still stupid. So I am thankful for every lesson."
He tilts his head slightly, a thoughtful gesture. "There are harder ways to learn these things," he says, but does not elaborate. "There will be other lovers, surely. Was he even right for these ones? Will he miss them terribly in a week or so? He should maybe take a nap before considering going away forever."
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<OOC> Addison would appreciate a log if you must go, Basil
<OOC> Vasiliy says, "sure, no prob"
---<Basil>---------------
"More complicated still. And not good for him. But I am not experienced that way. I do not blame him for rejecting my advice." The knowing look that Addison gives to Vasiliy's passenger princess is seen, evidenced by how Vasiliy himself takes a moment to look down and concentrate on something only he can hear inside his own mind. "Yes, he knows you are listening. No, it is not obvious, except that we both know you would." A pause, and the goth looks over at Addison tiredly. "He sulks now. But he is calming down."
"What you say - it is like 'All I know is that I know nothing', yes? I know very little, but enough. As for how right or wrong these people were for him, eh? Is anyone perfectly right for anyone else? Or is it a scale that, once it tips into the side of 'better', it is enough so that we ignore all that weighs it down on the side of worse. It is merely up to us to decide how low the scale ought to tip towards 'better'."
Feeling calm enough now to stand up and stretch, Vasiliy does so, feeling a few things pop along his back and grumbling about it in Russian. His shoulders are rolled a little, hands shaken out, and he leans towards where Addison still sits a little. "He will settle down. He is unanchored, homeless. I will find him purpose. Perhaps to charm the..." a pause, and he elects a less telling word, "...more flighty residents of our neighborhood, hmm? Put his singing to good use." A lean back to center of mass, and he inclines his head. "Enjoy the evening, Gandalf. And thank you." He will head away towards his neighborhood after that.
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---<Addison>---------------
Addison, beardless, never the less smirks about being called, Gandalf...
Especially when he's more of a Sparrowhawk kind of Wizard.
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