with a thousand lies and a good disguise

[ooc: subsequent to this.]

With Raven hopefully reassured and now upstairs shepherding the kids, Magpie has swung into action.

The tangible shit is easy—check the first aid kit, start water for tea, make sure the stocks of bottled water, soup and so on are reasonably intact, and that nobody's left an upturned Featherman figure or spiky dinosaur anywhere too immediately lethal.

After a moment's thought, he switches on the kotatsu, even though spring is creeping closer. Then, with everything done that should be done, he checks over everything again, like an anxious hen. It's hard to shock him for long, and he's settling on a response, which is that if Sparrow's Ren wasn't already dead, he'd kill him.

It's been almost a month, and there's no sign of Akechi reverting to his former self. So, of course, he shows up where he's perhaps least expected—in Rose's poison garden, to continue their conversation from the party.

Or perhaps he is expected. Who knows? Goros are like that, after all. Regardless, he pokes his head around the door to find her, as if he expects her to bite it off. Or as if he's hoping not to be seen.

For all the talk of blowing up the Diet Building, and his little rampage through Shido's office the day he arrived, Akechi doesn't try his father's keywords until the day after he learns everything. Or at least... some things. The shadow of how things might, or might not be.

The ship is right there, no different to how he remembers. He moves through it uncostumed, unmasked, just as he always has, in that mossy green jacket that's slightly less tailored than his shirt and pants; he belongs. The guests titter and giggle about their privilege; the cognitions look through him as if he isn't real. Sometimes he feels eyes on him and looks up, only to realise he's looking into a mirror.

Eventually, far inside the ship, in the balconied chamber with the plants that the Shadows patrol, he drops down into a chair. Could call Loki and run rampage here, if he wanted. Could pull his gun and put a bullet through each of those patrolling Shadows, one, two, three. Could use his claws, tear those plants from their holders for a start. Shred the velvet, punch through the walls. Scream and scream and scream. Beat the palace hollow till whatever's lurking in its deepest depths shows up to finish him.

But he doesn't. One mustn't, after all—heh—rock the boat. Even if you want nothing more than to tear a hole in the hull and go down with it. Even if you've been running, and running, and someone's dropped a brick wall into your path.

Abruptly, his head snaps up, eyes sharpening. Someone's here.