revivalproject | Mermay!!

Entry tags:

Mermay!!

WHO: Steve Rogers
WHERE: all around
WHAT: MERMAY
WHEN: MERMAY
WARNINGS: ....MERMAY

darling it's better

Steve can be found on his now early-morning swim around town, zipping past anyone. He'll happily deliver anything to anyone within the confines of Temba, for any reason, in the early morning, since he makes a whole loop around. He's faster than a shark, but he's got a rather ostentatious blue tail, with red and white striped fins.

He seems to be in a decent mood, if only because he's having trouble with a lot of his memories of the past that don't reconcile with his ones of being a merman. Anytime he tries too hard to wonder why there's a lack of water if he thinks too hard, the memory disappears like seafoam.

He's having one of those such moments, paused mid-fin flip, eyes in concentration as he starts to sink, but then, he shakes his head, and keeps swimming. That was weird!

down where it's wetter

Sitting on a rock somewhere, Steve's drawing things into the sand. If you ask, he could make a whole series of drawings, each of them replacing the last, ephemeral in nature, washed away by the waves.

"I can try drawing you next," he offers. He's not sure how portraits will work out in the sand, but he'll give it a good college try.

take it from me!

[ cw: injury ]

Having swum through a whole nest of sea urchins in order to grab one, somehow Steve'd accidentally loosened a whole bunch of them, and they'd fallen, mostly on his tail.

He swims out of there quickly, but he has lots of barbs sticking out. He pauses to pull one out, only to manage to accidentally shatter a few of the ones in a cluster and leave them further embedded into his tail. Trying to violently flip it doesn't really help, either. He needs to swim somewhere he can sit down and address this as best as he can.

"Tell me you have tweezers on you," he requests of the nearest He-Row that he finds.

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A cephalomer and he was small, too, compared to others who were far bigger than him roaming the city waters. York doesn't look really convinced, or impressed, and crosses his arms over the LED still in his chest. Bioluminescence around it glows in the matching teal color. His tentacles fidget here and there to keep him in place.

He shifts until he's in front of Steve, with the drawing between them for space. "You're not too bad of an artist at least. Think you can capture me with your skills then?" York looks a little smug, like it'd be a challenge of some kind.

Steve nods, taking a once-over at York. The tentacles might actually be easier to draw with the moving sand - the way the muscles expand and contract is so different to how they do on fins and tails, and it's something that Steve thinks the energy and ephemeralness of the sand might be able to capture better.

He picks up a stick which is his current stylus of choice, and starts on a little drawing for York. If nothing else, the likeness of his face is surprisingly good for something made in sand.

His tentacles only have a little movement, curling and uncurling a little as he bobs in the water with the current. York doesn't mind that he's different from everyone else. He's always been different and he knows it. It's always been like that.

There's patience, apparently, as York holds as still as he can and keep in one place, while Steve draws. The drawing is easy to follow along with, those teal eyes watching the movements easily. "That's definitely my face. At least you were nice enough to keep the scars off," he gestures with a couple of waves towards the sand to indicate what he was referring to. "Maybe you do have a talent. Look really buff to be an artist though."

"Artists come in all shapes and sizes," he says, as he continues the drawing. Once he finishes it up though, it starts to fade. Its ephemeralness is part of the charm, to Steve. It's only meant to be viewed by the two of them.

"But - thanks. I'll take the compliment."

"I know that. Painters, scupltors, different mediums for different artists. I wasn't built yesterday." Maybe like, a few years ago. Don't think about his age too much. It's weird for androids.

Even as the drawing starts to fade, York swims over quick, committing it to memory as the current pulls at the sands. "It really does... did, I guess. Did look good. Looked just like me even though all you had was sand at your disposal. Too bad there's no way to make it permanent."

"No," Steve says, shaking his head. "I guess I could carve you into a rock," he adds. "But then you'd have to be carved into a rock."

That seems like a lot. Honestly, Steve's seen paintings too - he's definitely heard of them. But he'd no idea how paint got to dry underwater. It's a mystery for the ages.

"And you'd have to carve, which will take too long. I'm not sitting here for all that shit, you can fuck off with that." He flicks some of his appendages like he's annoyed. "I guess you could make it out of other things. Like putting other materials together like seaweeds and rocks and shit but again."

More tentacle flicking. "I'm not sitting still for it. You do drawing all the time? You're good at it at least."

"You don't have to sit for it," he says. "I'm good at remembering faces; I could continue your portrait without you." After all, people always moved when he tried to draw them. They were often terrible at sitting still. So he'd gotten used to it.

"And I think so. I think I used to draw on something like paper... that's silly, right? But I have dreams about it."

"The one time I don't sit still for something is when you'll forget and any art of me will look terrible," York counters with a dismissive wave of his hand. He thinks for a long moment, studying Steve. "You could always work on the portrait while I'm asleep. Stasis keeps me pretty immobile."

A weird word to call his sleep, but York is used to it. Somehow, for whatever reason. He lifts a hand to trace over the raised scarring on his cheek and jawline.

"Sounds silly. I don't dream, but usually you can only dream about stuff you've seen before, right?"

"Oh, I don't know about that. A lot of my dreams are fantastic," he says, smiling. "I dream of new places and things and people. I think it's just whatever's in my imagination."

So he supposes maybe it's just how strong one's imagination is.

"And, well, do you daydream?"

"No." Which was weird. Why couldn't York dream or daydream? Didn't seem fair. The bio-luminescence of his chest glows strangely from teal into gold, then back to teal. "I guess I just sleep and there's nothing strange about it to me."

Hm. "I suppose I do daydream, but it's all building things. Bridges, buildings, stuff like that. But it's less... creative and more rigid mathematics. Calculations, measurements, that stuff. Does that fall under the daydreaming category?"

"Yes," he says. "As long as your thoughts wander, and that's how you get to the bridges and buildings." Funny thing that now that he knows a bunch of scientists that he assumes that York is in good company with all those numbers and analytics instead of the thing that other people daydream about.

"And maybe that's what your dreams would be like. It's okay. Lots of people don't have 'em."

"They don't really wander. My thoughts know where to go when they need to get to designing something. I've made..." What was it? He can't grasp it now, the image of a mansion embracing the cliff face fleeting from his mind too quick for him to keep hold. Same with the bright beacon of lights marking each story for a tower in a city. No, not just a tower. A tower that scraped against the sky.

He turns to look up towards where the light filters in from above. "I can't remember."

Then he looks to Steve again. "But you dream. Must be fascinating, seeing things while you sleep like that."

"Oh yes," he answers. "It's great. Sometimes I dream up a whole story while I'm asleep, wake up and it's like none of it ever happened. I usually forget in ten minutes, but sometimes it stays with me. Merman memories are weird like that, aren't they?"

Like right now, how he keeps forgetting little details about his life. Very odd.

But he is a fish. There's always those sayings about fish.

"Do you keep one of those journals? A dream journal I think they call it?" He taps his lower lip before tracing a scar line along his jaw. Everything feels weird because he doesn't dream, and he doesn't need a dream journal at all. But why doesn't he? It doesn't make sense. Like a puzzle with pieces missing somehow. "I guess they are weird. Merman memories that is."

"What kind of places could you even dream about? Trenches? New coves that no one's found here yet?"

"I don't," he says. "I think I have a perfect memory, which is strange, because lately I've been having some problems trying to remember things from a few years ago."

Which would mean he doesn't have perfect memory, but why does he think he does?

"I guess we must dream of catching fish. I was dreaming of old friends I used to know. They must've left the bubble and gone to different seas."

That makes York frown. Someone with a perfect memory having problems? "Doesn't sound so perfect to me. Unless you and I have different definitions of the word." York watches the current already start to wash away the drawing of himself. He lowers, curling the ends of one appendage in the sand before it's pulled away by the current as well.

"I don't dream, but I remember weird things sometimes. A table. A second body. It's really weird. Maybe I came from a different sea to this one, but I can't really remember being anywhere else but here."

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Mermay!!

darling it's better

down where it's wetter

take it from me!

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