Don't fall down when it's time to arise.

[oceantier]

Who: Lapis Lazuli, OPEN
What: Multiple prompts
When: Early February. After ghosts.
Where: Locations different for each prompt.
Warnings: None.
Background: Lapis has gotten herself a job as a dancer for Pride Records. Shapeshifting used for a human appearance, so no blue showing.


A. Lost? - Open to anyone in Pride

The keycard is new, unscratched from passes through the machine. After exasperated explanation from the guard, she finally manages to turn it in the proper direction, checking in. It's hard to say if she really absorbs the torrent of directions that he gives her as far as where she's supposed to go for practice; she stares back at him with grave, dark eyes as he rattles them off, gives the slightest of nods, and heads off on her own, a map of the building in hand.

Thankfully, she came early, because over the next couple of hours, she can be found wandering areas of the building that are decidedly not the practice room she's been assigned to report to for her first day of work. She doesn't manage the residential areas, but it seems that she hits nearly every other hallway.

Probably a good thing she arrived early.

B. End-of-day - Open to anyone in Pride

Practices are done for the day -- at least the formal ones. The late sun slants through the windows as the city lapses towards darkness in last notes of shimmering gold.

The remaining inhabitant of one of the practice rooms hasn't bothered with the lights yet, paying little attention to the dimming of the walls around her. Music is on -- something soft, more rhythmic. She seems to have slipped into it like warm water, almost floating, letting it flow in and around her, absorbing her in its grasp. She dances, twisting, bare feet feather-light on the floor, hands and fingers tracing through the air.

The music builds; her body arches, leaps more powerfully than it should be able to manage, lands and twists into the next movement. She's paying no attention to the world around her, absorbed into the strike of her feet against the wood, the currents of air shifting against her skin. Note by note, she translates the music into physicality, each phrase given weight and meaning.

C. Ocean - Open to anyone

The beach is cold, especially this time of year and this time of day, and the tides are higher, the water thrashing against the shore. The moon is high and clear, washing the sands in silver light; the stars are bright in the darkness of the night sky.

There shouldn't be anyone out . . . but there is. A figure perches on a rock on the remaining ribbon of sand, watching the water sweep in and out.

This is the temporary home that Lapis Lazuli has found for herself. Without much need for sleep, the Gem can often be found on the shore -- or in a fairly deep indentation in the cliffs. If her skin appears blue . . . it's probably just a trick of the light, right?

D. Have another idea? Want interaction with Lapis, but none of these will work? PM or poke me on Plurk!

Comments

D

[panspermia]

Even after what happened last time he slipped out, Greg can't bear to be cooped up in Virgo any longer. He's too worked up to play or write music, and he ends up with his thoughts spinning around in circles. He needs to get distracted, and to be somewhere else. Security is tailing him somewhere, but he isn't keeping track of them. Even with a new disguise he's feeling antsy about getting recognized.

Without any actual plan for where to go, Greg wanders, picking at a case of french fries he'd bought. As a result, he isn't paying enough attention to stop himself from knocking into Lapis.

"Oh--oh jeez, I'm sorry, that's my fault, are you okay--oh." He winces upon realizing he's mashed potato bits and ketchup all over her top. "Ohhhh gosh, I am so sorry."

[oceantier]

There's a pregnant pause of the sort that one sees in movies, where the dark-haired young woman stares down at the mess made of her front for a very long moment. Gravity pulls a fry free from her chest, sending it plopping to the ground in an ooze of ketchup.

She stares.

[panspermia]

Her silence makes it worse. Greg begins to escalate from apologetic to beseeching, fishing out the napkins from his pocket and holding them out to her.

"I'll make it up to you, I--I'll pay for... um, dry cleaning?" Do only some clothes do that? He can't tell which ones do or don't. "Seriously, whatever you need."

[oceantier]

The fries and the ketchup aren't exactly a worry, per se . . . but admittedly it is a little disgusting. What she's supposed to do about it -- or about his fussing -- she doesn't know. It's not as though she's ever had food spilled on her before. She's barely had food spilled on her in the first place.

Her eyes rise back to him then, flickering briefly to the napkins he holds out . . . and then upward to his face.

That steals her attention. Something in the line of the jaw, in the nose . . .

The ears.

Her lips part slightly, her body suddenly stiffer, more alert.

Her fingers reach out to draw the glasses off his nose.

[panspermia]

Her reaction--or really, her lack thereof--has sent him floundering. She's not mad, but she's not saying anything, so she's upset, but she's not responding to any of his apologizing, so...?

Greg's just about stammered himself into giving up and handing her some money when her eyes settle on his face. Her flash of recognition is apparent, and he tenses. Oh jeez, he really needs to come up with a better disguise, fans are having too easy a time picking him out.

Her hand reaches out, and he flinches back. He's still too jumpy after last time. "Ah... hah." But, Greg is nothing if not obliging. He slips his shades down a touch to peer at her over them. "S-sorry. Low profile, you know?" He gives an apologetic smile, strained at the corners.

[oceantier]

"You look like him." Her voice has a strange note to it, wondering and . . . almost pleading. Her eyes never leave his face.

"You look like Steven."

[panspermia]

The smile vanishes, and Greg goes pale. It would be one thing if a fan were making a comment on their appearances--he'd laughed off such observations, once upon a time--but this was different.

She knew Steven's real name.

"Wh...who are you?"

[oceantier]

Hesitation, bare . . . and then a shake of the head, quick. She can't give him that.

"You know him, don't you?" There's still that strained note in her voice. Anxious. Searching.

[panspermia]

The child from the concert, the man Luce met before--this woman could be another one of them. Greg grits his teeth. He understands the need for discretion in this dangerous city, but he's hungry for answers. The fear and hopefulness is plain on his face.

"We were... were close." He doesn't know how much he can give her--how much she'll believe. "But they don't want us working together."

[oceantier]

"Were?" The past tense isn't lost on her; she's on it immediately. She's as hungry for answers as he is.

"Who . . . are you?"

[panspermia]

For a moment, he wonders if he ought to play it careful, like her, but... it's a moot point when you're a celebrity. She'll find him sooner or later, if she wants to.

He gives a dry little laugh, shrugging. "They call me Mr. Universe."

[oceantier]

There's a little lift of the eyebrow at that in spite of her anxiety; it just sounds strange. The last name is potentially something, but the first . . .

". . . Your name is Mister?"

[panspermia]

His eyebrow quirks right back, and this time his chuckle is a little more genuine. This feels distantly familiar.

"Only on the stage. Otherwise it's Greg."

[oceantier]

"Oh." Well, it's better. Somewhat. She's heard the name before, but can't immediately place it. For the moment she nudges it aside in favor of the other, more important topic at hand.

"You said you were close," she reminds him. "You didn't explain."

[panspermia]

"It's... sort of complicated." His mouth twists as his head gives a faint throb. He's fully embraced their relationship, but it still boggles him to figure out. "I can't remember all of it. But... we're family."

[oceantier]

"You're . . ."

She remembers then. The man. In the van. Who came with the Crystal Gems to confront her on her ocean tiers. They'd called him Greg.

Steven had called him "Dad."

Her eyes drift over him again with new awareness, taking him in anew.

"You're . . . supposed to be rounder."

[panspermia]

"Um."

How does someone respond to that. Is that even a thing you say to people?

"What?"

[oceantier]

Blink.

"Rounder?"

The word is open, guileless.

[panspermia]

There's a few layers of processing that Greg needs to get through, here. Most importantly, though...

"You're saying you... know me?"

[oceantier]

When last she saw him, she hurled his van into the air with him in it, sending it plunging front-first into the ground. And broke his leg in the process.

. . .

Somehow it seems best not to mention that for the time being.

"From . . . a distance?" Unconsciously her arms come up in a cross, hands bracing at each elbow. "We haven't ever really met."

A pause. "You had hair growing out of your face, too."

[panspermia]

He unconciously rubs at his face. A beard? And... a gut, she means?

"You, uh. You're sure it was me?"

Though he definitely knows he's older, he hasn't ever seen himself in his memory-visions, so he has no way to be sure. He doesn't want to assume unless it's confirmed.

[oceantier]

She stares at him a long moment more. No. There's no mistaking it. Steven is there in his face. The name only cements it.

"Yes."

[panspermia]

"So I'm.... really..."

His hand cups over his mouth. He's been looking for a way around it for a long time. Any explanation made more sense, it didn't add up. Maybe she's mistaking him for a relative, or an alternate version of him, or she's lying, or...

Or he's old.

He scratches under his cap, finding eye contact suddenly difficult. "Do you know what happened to us?"

[oceantier]

His reaction worries her a little. Especially the way that he cups his hand over his mouth like that. His face looks like it's too much. Maybe it is too much.

She's been told to stay low. Is this staying low? How much are the captured ones supposed to know?

. . . She doesn't want to be a part of that -- keeping them in the dark.

She also doesn't want to risk the people she has come to know.

This makes answering his question so much harder. She's not looking at him either, eyes half-shadowed by her hair. Her shoulders hunch, stiffening upward as though bracing.

"I know . . . some things."

[panspermia]

A headache is roiling in his skull.

"I... who were..."

He keeps stopping before any questions get out--he's not sure how to ask what he wants to know. He's not sure he wants to know what he wants to know.

Greg's courage fails him, and he casts a glance around.

"It's not safe to talk." His security guard is likely to be lurking nearby. "Is there some way we can meet again, or...?"