orderfromchaos: (chiaroscuro)
[At some point, as the sha are being mopped up, Dillon drops out of contact. It might be reasonable to assume he's just busy. But after his confrontation with Jean, he is nowhere to be found. He doesn't show up at meals, or his infirmary shifts, or his usual haunts on deck or in the 8th floor common room. His door won't open, and he doesn't answer his communicator.

In the chapel - which looks a little different now, the wood of the doors lighter and thinner-grained, some of the pews distinctly smaller, with layers of thin wood dust and the faint smells of ash and ozone. Near the pew Dillon usually visits is a dark, amorphous stain, sunk into the floor and furniture. An antique olive-pit-and-silver rosary is broken somewhere nearby.

Beckett - Dillon's blobby, levitating, excitable lavender pet, and the barge's friendly neighborhood maybe baby eldritch jellyfish - has taken up something of a guard position around the mark, making occasional sad coos and trills. It will try to hug anyone he sees as a friend, but may be unexpectedly ferocious if anyone tries to remove it or disturb the spot.]

[OOC Note: I will play interactions with Beckett if you want, or characters can react among themselves. Dillon got blasted to particles by Jean as of the conclusion of this thread, but is not tolling on account of his powers slowly reconstructing him over the next couple of weeks.]
orderfromchaos: (Default)
[He tried this a year ago, when he was new. He was unconscious when it happened last. Maybe no one heard him because he wasn't capable of saying what he needed to say.]

Winston, Lourdes, if you guys can hear this. I know you don't trust me, I know you don't even like me. But all the souls Okoya took, all the souls he fed you - they're okay. They're...wherever they're supposed to go.

And I love you.

I'll be home before you know it.
orderfromchaos: (iiii dunno)
[Public, video]

[Dillon looks a bit - frazzled. Which is kind of impressive, for someone whose hair is always perfectly neat and whose shirts are constitutionally incapable of holding wrinkles. He has managed to put his on inside-out, though, and his shoulders are sagging, and he has a gelatinous pastel-purple thing with at least four tentacles clinging to the the side of his face. It has no apparent skull but bright white human-like buck teeth, and abyssal black eyes from which no light escapes at all.

It giggles. For a moment there's a flickering, like static - only it's not the comm that's affected. It's like the reality of Dillon's room went momentarily on the fritz. And then it's adorable again. Still.]


...does anybody know how to train a baby eldritch horror?

[He KNOWS one of you gave him this for Christmas. He. Knows. But that's not important right now.]


[Private to the Admiral]

By the way, can I add one more thing to my gift list? Since you've been delivering them kind of staggered.

For the new girl, Tiffany. I'd like to give her a copy of the gospels - just the gospels - with like, really nice leather binding and gilt edges and stuff. I don't think she's had a lot of well-made things. A translation she'd be comfortable with, one of the modern-but-poetic versions. Jerusalem Bible or New KJV, maybe? You decide.
orderfromchaos: (Default)
[Public, video]

[They're the kitchen of Dillon's parents' house: relentlessly suburban, a few southwestern touches, from the touristy Navajo-ish vase on the table to the sepia color palette, well-coordinated. There are floral magnets on the fridge, and one Hannibal Lecter humming as he makes what appears to be gourmet tomato soup and fresh-baked bread. He's wearing an open lab coat over his suit that he grabbed while attempting to join an infirmary shift, right before Dillon hurriedly hustled him out.]

I kind of...fixed him.

[Not like you fix a car; Hannibal wasn't broken, he was himself. Like you fix a dog.]

I thought it would wear off but it hasn't, and his room is the same so it doesn't count for graduation but I don't. Actually know how to undo it.

He's not faking, either.

[Voice pitched more deliberately across the room, though he hasn't been been whispering or anything; Hannibal could have heard him before if he was listening.

Hey, Hannibal, say sorry to the nice people.

[Hannibal pauses, sets down the wooden spoon and turns to the comm, contrite, shifting, a little uncertain.]

I'm terribly sorry for what I've done. It seems almost unreal, but I do not mean to belittle anyone's suffering. I apologize.

[Dillon waves him back to the soup.]


[Private to Jean]

I'm pretty sure what you do is more. Versatile, than mine. I know it's a lot to ask, but could you check and see if you can reverse it?
orderfromchaos: (Default)
[Public, video]

So, uh. Some of you who frequent the eighth floor common room might have noticed. An extremely geometrical tree where your coffee table used to be.

I can fix that. I mean, I'm going to. Fix that. Unless you guys like it? I mean. Whatever. It's not my floor. Let me know.



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Dillon Cole || Scorpion Shard

March 2025

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