Chapter Text
There is a ghost who haunts the halls of the Intelligentsia Guild.
He lingers in the whispers of passersby, pressed around the softened vowels and consonants of nostalgia and mourning—the passage of time, tempering the sharp pinpricks of envy. They murmur of a man who revolutionized civilizations of entire planets; of a truly extraordinary individual who heralded the dawn of humanity's advancement.
Obscurity, their mouths would carry, had meant little to this infallible being. The intangible, undoing to become the tangible. The unsolvable, unraveling to become the solvable.
A genius! Their lips would utter next—a sentiment that bordered on the edge of taboo, barely restrained by the slimmest of margins. An unparalleled genius who was woefully wronged! A waste! What a waste!
He lurks in the countless documentaries, biographies, and the myriad of patents to inventions that saved many worlds. A man-shaped figure that resides in narratives that spelled out the most sterile factoids—mathematics prodigy in middle school, taught by Professor Rond, recommended for tertiary study at a young age, and his tenure at the University of Veritas Prime.
The bright light of a monitor and the cold, noisy keycaps beneath poised fingers.
Tap, tap, tap—somewhere, a manuscript begins to spill onto an unforgiving screen. The computer and the red, squiggly lines under words that don’t exist in any kind of dictionary.
“In my view, Mr. ▇▇▇▇▇ is a genius in the truest sense of the word, as his inventions have propelled many worlds forward. Is a scholar who heals the universe destined to be worthless than a genius who is confined to their own ivory tower?”
Tap, tap, tap.
Tap, tap, tap.
“Sorry, I’m getting a little worked up. Please remove that statement—”
Backspace, backspace, backspace—not quite right, not quite wrong. Again, for the memory of a bright mind; for the steadfast silhouette and a story gone (horribly) wrong.
He lives here in the hallowed halls of the Intelligentsia Guild, joining the ranks of the many other eminent figures immortalized in the galleries of portraits. Among all the other ghosts, suspended in time and enshrined on proverbial pedestals for all to behold.
Wavy dark hair, side face profile, dawn-colored gaze casted to the upper left corner of the frame. A gold laurel hairpin nestled between thick strands and an academic cap adorned like a crown. Humble, modest. Forever young. Just a man in a sweater vest and a lab coat; a codex held close, tucked in the space between his chest and forearm.
An outlier in the row of somber and wizened figures, in the row of long-life species and mechanical parts.
Here is the ghost who roams amidst the living; a man that exists only in tabloids and hushed whispers.
(Lapis Lazuli of Stratagems, the inauguration invitation had declared—elegant letters curled in delicate calligraphy. A pretty name that rolled off the tongue in prettier lilts; a befitting name for the apparition who played the Armed Archeologists like a fiddle on the golden sands of Egyhazo.)
(It’s a shame that he had an upcoming trip that couldn’t be rescheduled, on the very day of the event—which would not only prevent him from attending the stifling Pier Point auditorium for three excruciating hours, but also leave him completely unreachable for those lengthy weeks. Pure coincidence. Yabuli will surely understand.)
(The IPC is expecting a Guild representative; she would complain to him later that week—the embodiment of consideration to his unfortunate circumstances. You can't keep using luck as an excuse to evade every social obligation.)
(Utterly swayed by this display of magnaminty, he had promptly sent his superior the prepared document that listed alternative candidates capable of replacing him before politely excusing himself.)
(That was six years ago.)
How long has it been since he last set foot in these familiar haunts? Three years?
It’s strange how that works—time.
Before, there would’ve been bitterness. Something coiling and unforgiving, as reality shatters rose-tinted expectations beneath a grinding heel. Wryly, dryly, disbelieving. Then, the gnawing of disappointment; the monochromes of detachment.
Sour and rotten—a lapse of judgment. A moment of forgetting: people are people. Complex, multifaceted. Imperfect.
Now, he knows better; has (hopefully) learnt to be kinder. There is nothing to be changed (beyond, of course, a switch to a healthier lifestyle and a decrease in alcohol consumption), and really, it was his own doing for those preconceived notions.
And now, as he stares up at the grandiose portrait hung high, there’s almost a hilarity to it all. The sort of dry humor that only a fresh perspective can provide.
A realization that gradually became clear to him, after years of “running errands” to maintain the IPC and Intelligentsia Guild relations. After every project, after every bar and casino that he had to haul the now-gambler away from.
▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ is not a dead man—he has never been one. The ▇▇▇ is very much alive in all the ways that matter, even if he now parades himself as a fool dressed in gold.
(Even if the man himself has yet to recognize that.)
And now, the portrait’s existence is like rubbing salt to a wound that has never fully healed—a relentless reminder of perceived shortcomings and failures in the guise of applause and celebration.
▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ is not dead. But if he was, he would likely hate this. He hates this, presently.
Everyone knows that once you become a Stoneheart, everything is discarded: your old life, your past accomplishments, your own name. It’s a decision not meant for the faint-hearted—and while he understands the sentimental value of keeping old, bygone things…
Respect the living, as they say.
Respect the dead, as they say.
(And yet, they still trample over both in one fell swoop.)
Not for the first time—ever since that gambler had strided into his life with a revolver in hand and a bet on his tongue—his fingers itch to do something more… uncouth.
And so, a thought rises:
How much chaos would he stir up, if he were to deface the portrait of the Guild's most treasured asset?
(And here, another thought unfurls: what would he say to his musings, if the fool was right here with him?)
(Something teasing, perhaps. Infuriatingly so, because the gambler’s desire to break through his composure hasn’t waned over the years. A low timbre, a purr.)
(Maybe: Oh? I didn't expect the little doctor to have such a mischievous streak.)
(Then, cue the deadpan answer: And? Whose fault do you think that is?)
With a sigh, he finally turns his gaze away. Lest he actually entertains those thoughts.
Speaking of that gambler, didn't that fool invite him to dinner? Already, he can feel whatever sticky warmth that had clung to his rib cage shrivel and wither away—in its place, a brewing headache that’s all too familiar.
Not that he doesn’t appreciate the gesture! No, the headache is reserved for the reports that he has yet to finish.
Despite what everyone claims, Yabuli has favorites—and for those special individuals (read: her most valuable pieces on the chessboard), she shows her appreciation in the form of heaping a never-ending stream of excessive tasks onto an already overburdened schedule.
These past few weeks were even more hectic than usual, leaving him with no time to delve into his research. Something is happening—the rumor mill is working overtime within both the Guild and IPC ranks, and that something is not coming close to him without a ten-foot pole between them.
Overtime, he grouses in the privacy of his mind. Against the sterile white floor, his quiet footsteps reverberate loudly through the vast corridor; a passing shadow along the silent assembly.
Well, the ever-benevolent Yabuli will have to understand that her precious chess piece is calling it quits early today. He has three odd little cats and a gambler to entertain, whether he likes it or not.
“Ah, Dr. Kakavasha! A moment of your time, please—!”
Kakavasha doesn’t as much startle as he gently lets out a breath and turns around. The wide-eyed stare of a newly-admitted researcher greets him, a little out of breath with cheeks flushed from exertion.
“Yes? Is there an issue?” A pause, and Kakavasha bites the inside of his cheek; he racks his head for a possible explanation—it can’t be about the filing expenses; it's still too soon for his proposal to be reviewed (no less accepted), and as far as he's aware, his students haven't caused another laboratory to go up in flames just yet.
(Just yet—due to the recent influx of work, Kakavasha had to move a few things around in their program. And while those gremlins were understanding, it was clear that they were growing antsy with how often they felt compelled to check up on their mentor.)
Briefly, his eyes flit to the folder protectively clutched close to the new researcher’s chest; a note is clipped to the cover, one with very familiar handwriting.
Ah.
However, before the looming dread could fully sink in (and with it, the last bit of free time flying out the window—the dinner, dammit), the new researcher firmly shakes her head—a resounding no in all its conviction.
“No, it’s just… ah,” she adjusts her hold on the folder. Oddly hesitant, she continues after a hum, “There’s… a strange man in your office. He says he’s waiting for you.”
Ah?
Kakavasha blinks. “My office?”
It’s an unspoken rule in the Intelligentsia Guild to never encroach Dr. Kakavasha’s places of (relative) privacy without prior permission—and how that came to be still eludes the very man himself to this very day. That nonsensical rule even bleeds into other unrelated areas as well, and at this point, Kakavasha is just too tired to even question it anymore.
As for strange… anyone could fit that description. Especially these days, when it’s difficult to even define what is normal.
Subjective to the person and the surroundings; ever-changing—and, as someone who has worked with the Guild since his late teens, Kakavasha can confidently state that no one is “normal” here. Eccentric, for a kinder word of choice.
Ergo: someone is in his office without his knowledge, and, well.
Well.
There is only one person that Kakavasha can think of—one person that could’ve waltzed in there without knocking. Aeons, he even gave that someone a “spare” key to his study; though, and he digresses, he never actually expected it to be used due to that individual's rather particular aversion.
Which… can only mean one thing.
(And that one thing being no-good-things. Meaning—a ten-foot pole isn’t enough.)
(Meaning—he might have to consider borrowing a page from his students' proclivity for pyrotechnics.)
Taking his silence as bewilderment, the new researcher's gaze darts to the portrait of a man in a lab coat before returning her attention to Kakavasha. She makes no effort to hide the silent pleading in her complicated expression.
Fuck, Kakavasha thinks; his face betraying none of the turmoil he feels.
No, no—he should be glad that the fool is finally taking the initiative to reach out unprompted for matters that aren’t related to booze and slot machines. For matters that aren’t related to testing out luck.
(That last thought immediately gets banished to Nihility. It wouldn’t be the gambler if he wasn’t obsessed with luck. After all, it’s the main point of interest that made their partnership feasible in the first place.)
Kakavasha manages to keep the corner of his lips from twitching downwards. He nods at the frazzled researcher, “I see. Thank you for telling me—as for the papers in your hands, I can take them now.”
“Ah?” The new researcher blinks twice before remembering the folder clutched in her arms. She shakes her head, oddly-placed hesitance switching to oddly-placed insistence, “No, no! It’s alright, Dr. Kakavasha! These documents can be put off until tomorrow. There's no hurry.”
Had he not been feeling the weight of exhaustion in his bones, Kakavasha might have allowed a small huff of amusement to slip out.
“But you were planning to drop them off, right? Let me guess, they’re from Yabuli?”
The new researcher gives him a small nod. The file folder that she hands him is fairly thick; individual color-coded tabs strewn through the stack, along with the occasional binding clip for certain sections—likely connecting instances.
It's impressive how none of these papers managed to spill from her arms, despite the researcher’s haste to catch up to him. No less trying to find him; these sections of the Guild were deliberately tucked away from the gleaming lights of laboratories and classrooms.
As Kakavasha peruses the note paper-clipped to the cover, the new researcher explains further, “It’s just some informative essays and reports for the upcoming big project relating to the Asdana star system. She said that it might prove to be a helpful resource later on—a frame of reference. But nothing imperative!”
And yet, Yabuli chooses to send it as a tangible copy rather than a digital one—no less having someone else deliver it.
“Interesting,” is what Kakavasha says instead, not unkind. He glances back at the researcher, a brow raised, “Did she compile these herself?”
“Yes! I was instructed that it's crucial no one else reads these documents before you do, Dr. Kakavasha.”
Kakavasha lets out a breath—he has an idea of what angle Yabuli is trying to aim for with this. And given the gambler’s timely and rather discreet appearance, his superior must have had a hand in it.
Nothing escapes Yabuli’s notice. But she generally prefers granting her “people” the freedom to make their own choices and judgements. She only intervenes when it aligns with her interests and, conversely, stays uninvolved when it doesn't. Yabuli comes and goes at her own will—her presence, looming in the background as she carefully maneuvers the pieces on the board to serve her own desires.
Yabuli has her favorites, and as one of those favorites, Kakavasha knows a thing or two about reading between the lines.
After exchanging a few more quick pleasantries, the new researcher gives him a small bow of her head and turns on her heel. There's a giddiness in her step as she walks away, and he waits until her figure fully disappears from view before focusing back to the folder.
Carefully, Kakavasha unclips the nondescript note attached to the folder’s cover. He gives the slip of paper a once-over, just to make sure.
Then—in a blink, sparks of Imaginary Energy warm at his fingertips and combusts. The soft, golden glow simmers to a volatile existence, and then, it engulfs. It sinks into the paper, into spaces naked to the eye, into the fundamentals that make up each curve and line of writing on that note and murmurs: let’s change that.
A moment passes, then another—two seconds in total.
Kakavasha flicks his wrist; the Imaginary Energy follows.
Light glides off the paper, the tangible becoming intangible. The moment it brushes against the air, the trickles of Energy slow down until it vanishes completely—the glittering remnants sparkling like stardust before fading into oblivion.
Get this done by the end of the week, the note now reads in Kakavasha’s pristine handwriting. Check the phone for any further updates.
To those who are unfamiliar with Imaginary Energy or aren't Pathstriders themselves, there’s no discernable difference—no distinction between a before and an after. It has always been Kakavasha’s writing on the note; nothing more, nothing less.
As it was, the gambler is familiar with Imaginary Energy and is a Pathstrider of the Hunt. But given Kakavasha’s penchant for using his Energy and incorporating such a revered force into ordinary, everyday tasks… he can think of six viable reasons for why the paper was imbued with Energy, if it ever comes to that.
(It won’t—six years of history; six years of push-and-pull, of trust-me-trust-me, of blind spots safeguarded and instinctively accounted for. Questions may arise, but won’t be aired until the other broaches the subject.)
(That’s how they work: a doctor and a gambler.)
With a deft motion, Kakavasha reattaches the note back into place, adjusts his grip on the folder, and heads towards his office.
He takes the more obscure routes, hallways that he himself has mapped and personally used. Fifteen minutes of walk time gets shortened to five—and five will get condensed to three when Kakavasha hastens his pace.
Two minutes pass, and the door to Kakavasha’s office is left ajar. An invitation; a finger crooked and beckoning.
A breath, then two.
Kakavasha pushes the door open, his touch featherlight.
There is a living man lounging on Kakavasha's office chair—a man who remains silent and ever-so still, observing the doctor as he enters the threshold with dawn-hued eyes and a gloved hand under his chin.
Wavy dark hair, face tilted ever-so slightly to the side. A lapis lazuli earring dangled from one ear and purple-tinted shades crookedly perched like a jester's cap. Flashy, excessive. A little older. Just a gambling addict dressed in fur and tight material; a tantalizing, uncaring display of bedazzled wealth.
Here is a living man who sits in the dim shadows of lamps and gaze unreadable even without his tinted glasses; a ghost who isn’t really a ghost, pulse and nerves and bones.
Here is Kakavasha’s strategic partner; a man that continues to keep up pretenses despite their years of working together.
And here, before Kakavasha could act (perhaps to shut the door behind him or turn on the lights), the other man rose to his feet. A fluid movement, a well-practiced one—in a few languid steps, the gambler stands in front of him. Towering, looming. A large hulking shadow.
Their eyes meet.
Another breath, then two.
Then, Kakavasha watches as those shoulders unwind a little. They hunch just slightly, in a way that makes the other man’s stature less imposing—none of the mocking, and more of the exhaustion that they both have. Being saddled with something far above their pay grade.
It’s a shared misery that keeps Kakavasha from quipping at his partner’s indefinite stay in near darkness.
And so, when the gambler procures Kakavasha’s bag from somewhere, the doctor quietly places the folder on top of the existing stack within it. He lets the fool casually hoist his bag over one lax shoulder and carry it without protest.
(Throughout the entire exchange, the gambler doesn’t so much as spare a cursory glance at the folder.)
And so…
They were long past pretenses, and for some inexplicable reason, he was the only one who understood that—Kakavasha eyes the space on top of his partner’s head, heaves out a breath, and gives a light tug to the bag strap.
The gambler lets out a huff in response, but wordlessly bends down. Indulging.
Kakavasha rolls his eyes, having to reach up regardless. Careful hands adjust those crookedly-placed shades, and for good measure, he smooths over the unruly strands before pulling away—they always stick up oddly whenever the fool runs his fingers through them.
When the gambler straightens up, Kakavasha confronts the proverbial elephant in the room. “Penacony?”
Lapis Lazuli, senior manager of the IPC’s Strategic Investment Department, holds his gaze and smiles.
“That’s right, my lucky charm.”
Two months into their (very tentative) partnership, Lapis drags him to a casino.
The lavish building that the Stoneheart leads Kakavasha into is a dizzying array of bright lights—a playground of neon with high ceilings and plush carpeting. The air buzzes with a cacophony that echoes through the vast hall, and all around him, there is simply noise.
At the bars, the clink of ice and glasses being filled to the brim mingles with the clatter of cards and chips in the hands of the patrons. On the gaming floors, the clack and roll of roulette balls and the shuffling of cards and tiles in the hands of dealers add to the raucousness. Overhead, a chorus of whirring slot machines screech in discordant symphony, their mechanical voices punctuated by victorious cheers and the clatter of winnings.
Expensive liquor and the haze of cigarette smoke. Sickly-sweet perfume and pungent cologne.
(Frenzied bodies, wandering hands. Leering, boring gazes as Lapis drags him deeper into this den of salivating wolves.)
(Their gazes would dart towards the Stoneheart’s unbuttoned shirt, fixating on that expanse of toned chest—lingering on the tight material that clung to certain assets.)
(Then, their stares would be drawn to the figure of prim and proper Kakavasha, hurrying to keep pace with Lapis’ longer strides. A new face; a new interest.)
(It’s obvious, that momentary shift in their demeanor when they catch sight of his distinct Avgin eyes. And Kakavasha, who is used to such objectifying attention, merely readjusts his high collar and trudges on.)
The reason for the doctor’s presence here is quite straightforward: “Gamble with me.”
For a bit of context: Lapis had suggested this idea as a way to “relax” before their upcoming mission—one that would have them cooped up on a backwater planet together for a month.
A bonding activity, if you will; outside of assignments and projects, their interactions with each other had been virtually nonexistent—neither one keen on engaging with the other devoid of a professional veneer. An unspoken but unanimous agreement after that shoddy first meeting.
And there is, for once, logic in the Stoneheart’s words. A month would become a very long month if their relationship outside of work wasn’t (at the very least) amicable. Thinly-veiled politeness had its limits in an environment that demanded them to be practically glued to each other's side.
As time goes on, these missions will only get more intense and perilous—demanding their utmost attention and skill. A natural progression, per the IPC’s (and the Guild’s, if he’s being candid) greedy nature. They have also cooperated on less and succeeded, as these past months have shown.
Therefore, there was no harm in using this opportunity for better rapport; the benefits outweigh the detriments.
Yet—gambling.
Cue: the first mistake.
Kakavasha wasn’t quick enough to hide the flash of contempt that crossed his face.
Cue: the second mistake.
“Oh?” Like a piranha to a drop of blood, Lapis seized the opportunity to be antagonistic—a faux playfulness. Behind those tinted glasses, those dawn-colored eyes glint. “Are you still upset over that, dear doctor?”
Cue: the third and final mistake.
Memories, best left forgotten, came crashing back to the forefront.
A gloved hand tenderly cupping his chin, while the other firmly forcing his own hand. His finger poised on the trigger—a distant feeling, coupled with the unfamiliar thrum of a heart that isn’t his own beneath the cold, unfeeling muzzle. That beatific smile beaming down on him; a dulcet croon in the air.
(Shall we test that luck of yours? And the doctor is suddenly somewhere else, stranded in a different time. It’s raining, and yet the world is on fire.)
(He can’t, he can’t breathe—)
“Upset?” Kakavasha had begun smoothly, lowering his gaze to the file that held the contents of their mission briefing. Calm, collected; that same finger that had pulled the trigger now traces along the margin. “Far from it. I've moved beyond mere upset and entered the realm of profound disdain.”
Calm, collected—it’s in the past, he wanted to say. Can we move on? I know what you’re trying to do and I’m tired of this charade.
“But don't worry, I’ve grown rather resilient to your attempts to rile me up. You’ll have to try harder if you're intent on getting under my skin, gambler.”
Aeons.
Even to Kakavasha’s ears, his words are harsh—steadfast and deadpanned as they were. He wasn’t one to lose his temper, but Lapis makes him want to get violent. It’s an awful thing; it makes his stomach roil in upset. He has had enough violence for a lifetime.
For a long moment, Lapis doesn’t answer. The silence was suffocating and Kakavasha opened the file in an attempt to distract himself. He doesn’t retract his words, nor does he spare a glance at the Stoneheart’s expression.
He should do many things, but he doesn’t.
He should leave.
An attempt has been made, Kakavasha thought to himself. A month stuck with this gambling addict on a backwater planet—the detriments far outweigh the benefits if he has to linger here, in this meeting room, longer than absolutely necessary.
They have cooperated on less and succeeded—this time will be no different. An attempt has been made.
(Click, click, click goes the spinning chamber. His hand is numb and the heart below the barrel still beats. One-in-six chance; you ought to trust yourself more, doctor.)
He is leaving.
“Wait. Kakavasha.”
The sound of his name, free of titles, shouldn’t have left him so terribly off-balanced. But it does, somehow; it rattles him in a way that he does not like, not one bit.
Lapis is one of the Ten Stonehearts—his ranking far exceeds a mere researcher’s. And while Kakavasha may be an accomplished man, his achievements are severely lacking compared to the accolades that Lapis has long since discarded.
Whether Kakavasha likes it or not, they aren’t equals. The Stoneheart had made it very clear in his mannerisms that he sees the doctor as a shiny plaything. They were only partners for the sake of convenience—whatever those conveniences may be.
(Immediately after hearing that news, he had bombarded Yabuli with a flurry of question marks. Her answer? A single smiley emoji—followed by a string of thumbs-ups in response to his lengthier messages.)
That must be the reason, the only reason, why Kakavasha had found himself sitting back down—not because of the barest hint of hesitation in those lofty tones. Not because of the slightest fissure in that smooth, suave demeanor.
Calm, collected; the file now sat on the table between them. He fixed his high collar, neatly folded his hands on his lap, and waited.
Kakavasha will not break first.
“Just a few games at the nearby casino,” Lapis said at last. His voice is—well, it’s certainly less grating to the ears. Not kinder, but considerate. “We'll keep it simple: cards, coin flips, slot machines. No need to worry about any firearms, and you can leave anytime. But I assure you, I'll make it worthwhile.”
The doctor’s surprise must have shown on his face because Lapis suddenly leaned back into his chair. The smile on his face is—crooked, just a little. “Are these terms not generous enough for you? Ah, you’re asking too much from this lowly gambler…”
“I—” Kakavasha had started, but quickly decided against it. His brows furrowed just slightly. He can read the room just fine—this was an olive branch.
An attempt has been made, his thoughts reiterated as he tried again: “Fine. What are we betting with?”
“Are credits not enough for you?”
Kakavasha huffed, an almost-laugh. It’s not derisive; it just is. “No, it’s not that.”
And it wasn't. No, it was because no matter how deep the Stoneheart's pockets were, there would always be a bottom, and Kakavasha would wring every last credit from him. How could it be otherwise? With his luck, any other outcome would be insanity.
Now that’s asking too much from the man in front of him. No, if they’re doing this under the guise of companionship, then Kakavasha can do better.
So the doctor said this, “I just don’t see the point in betting what we have in excess.”
Lapis accepted that; his gloved fingers drummed against the table in thought. At a certain angle, his gold rings caught light and shined.
After a brief moment to ruminate, the Stoneheart snapped his fingers—an epiphany.
“How about this: some exclusive, one-of-a-kind, unpublished research, penned personally by yours truly? Is that intriguing enough for you, doctor?”
Hook, line, and sinker—Kakavasha made the necessary calls, sent some emails, and clocked off early.
Which brings us to now.
Kakavasha goes through the motions, letting the other man do this and that. Cards, coin flips, slot machines; just as Lapis had promised, they were all low-risk games.
(And, for some inane reason, had even offered to let Kakavasha pat him down if the doctor was still skeptical about the lack of revolvers. Which is just—no, just no.)
Kakavasha goes through the motions, and it’s not confidence that directs his movements.
It isn’t arrogance that allows him to effortlessly show his deck of perfect twenty-ones and full houses; it isn’t egotism that prompts him to call out heads or tails with absolute certainty, witnessing the coin land on its desired side each time; it’s certainly not vanity that enables him to pull the lever and hit the jackpot every time.
No, what guides his movements is—a sense of detachment, perhaps. He feels none of that dopamine rush, he feels none of the thrill that came from so-called victory.
(He feels nothing.)
In sharp contrast, Lapis is growing more and more visibly agitated as the night goes on. A few games become many games, and Kakavasha (kindly and politely, unlike someone he knows) keeps his mouth shut; lest he doesn’t get that unpublished research.
You could just ask, Kakavasha thinks dryly as the Stoneheart takes out the coin again. Distantly, the word tails leaves his mouth; numbly, his eyes track the arc as it sails through the air.
Dr. Kakavasha—an Avgin doctor from the Intelligentsia Guild.
Not only is the doctor exceptionally smart, having become a successful and recognized scholar despite being illiterate until his late teens… the man is also very lucky. No matter the situation, the lucky doctor has always escaped unharmed; even experiments that should have proven lethal to anyone else are merely shrugged off as minor inconveniences.
And rumors? Rumors say that Dr. Kakavasha wants to get rid of that divine luck. That his primary goal as a scholar is to sever that connection.
Which is—just absurdity, is it not? Who in their right mind would voluntarily give up such a blessing? To constantly taste triumph, to consistently secure favorable results, to effortlessly bounce back despite overwhelming odds—Dr. Kakavasha, is this true? Is this true?
(He feels nothing.)
Gambling—sure, Kakavasha can concede to that reason; as well as an impromptu bonding activity. He can excuse a lot of things right now, just for the lack of tension between them to remain.
Benefits, detriments; better rapport. A luck demonstration. Research made by a dead man.
(This means nothing.)
The coin lands on Lapis’ waiting palm.
Tails.
For a man who proclaims himself to be a gambler, Lapis has a terrible poker face.
Without the artificiality in place, it’s a little endearing.
Kakavasha studies the Stoneheart, takes in the man’s body language and the flash of something crossing his features, and sighs.
Alright—that’s enough. They’re starting to attract attention. This should be a sufficient sample size for Lapis, right? Sufficient bonding time.
“…Another tail. Seems like I won again,” Kakavasha extends a hand, patient. “Surely, fifty rounds of continuous victory is enough to prove my point. Yes?”
Lapis lets out a slow breath, averting his gaze. Eventually, he drops the coin into the doctor's outstretched hand, “I admit my defeat.”
Perfect.
Kakavasha closes his fingers around the gold coin. It’s warm to the touch—a strange detail to take note of. The stuffiness of the casino must be getting to him; the gazes too.
“Let’s go then. We wasted enough time already.”
Another strange detail—this time, Lapis’ strides have shortened considerably. Instead of Kakavasha having to jog up to his side, Lapis keeps at a pace that the doctor could comfortably meet.
Kakavasha keeps his gaze forward and feigns ignorance to the intense stare boring into the side of his face. He can practically hear the Stoneheart’s thoughts whirring furiously—scrutinizing and analyzing.
Obsession over his brain is better than his body, Kakavasha supposes. For a whole month, he could work with that.
The moment Kakavasha opens his apartment door, he’s greeted by a chorus of meows that squish against his ankles and wobble for attention. Xy and Phlo purr happily at the sight of takeout boxes in his arms—Camby, on the other paw, wastes no time and turns her focus to his bag brimming with paperwork, batting at it with gusto.
“Yes, yes, you little hellions,” the doctor carefully nudges them away with his foot. The door clicks close behind him. “Hello to you too.”
Camby gently bumps her face against his fingertips when Kakavasha reaches down. Her siblings crowd around for their own share of pets, and there’s something frighteningly warm in that—in the ease with which he finds himself giving into their demands.
One day, Kakavasha was greeted by a white package with small holes poked into the side on his doorstep. To some, this might have warranted suspicion—and it would have, if the doctor hadn’t received similar gifts before in the same fashion.
Although years had passed since their prior “collaboration” and the consistent flow of monthly packages had long since ceased, Kakavasha was all too familiar with the writing on the little note attached to the top of the box.
Dear Kakavasha, you might enjoy these.
Turning the scrap of paper around revealed a set of detailed instructions (dietary notes, hygiene suggestions, and methods of ethical disposal, in case he desired) and a series of equations that likely pertained to the unknown creatures (?) hiding within the box.
No return address.
Embroidery, candies, and the occasional articles of clothing—and now, after years of radio silence, sentient (and preferably, non-hostile) lifeforms.
Lifeforms that proceeded to render Kakavasha of the past half-deaf for the rest of that evening once he opened the lid and peered inside. Needless to say, the rest was history.
By the time Kakavasha finishes putting everything away in its designated place, freshens up, and returns wearing sleepwear, he finds that the critters have already migrated to the desk he kept in his study. Phlo, in particular, warbles at his approach before hopping down from the chair.
Penacony.
It’s a headache, that’s what it is—especially the so-called “plan” that Lapis had explained to him during dinner. It doesn’t escape the doctor’s notice that the gambler was deliberately being vague.
With a sigh, Kakavasha takes out the folder that Yabuli had technically assigned to him and sits down, murmuring a soft thank you to his generous cat. It’s a treasure trove of information, one that she wouldn’t have given freely without anticipating some form of payback or potential gains in the future.
He thinks about her note.
Kakavasha checks his phone, one last time.
Still no message; still no email.
That settles it, Kakavasha thinks to himself, and pretends that his heart isn’t sinking in his chest.
Some time later this week, he'll be appointed as the Guild's chosen delegate to attend the Charmony Festival. Then, Kakavasha will be “assigned” as project manager to the Penacony mission—a ploy, in actuality, to provide the doctor with the authority to access the enchanting, golden dreams of Penacony.
It would be best, Lapis had told him, if the IPC executives believed I was acting alone.
And they will—because Yabuli doesn’t dip her hands in matters that technically don’t belong to her. That is why, on paper, Kakavasha is technically not a part of the Penacony reclamation mission. That is why, on paper, his role is to be a supporting character.
It is in that technicality that, while the Intelligentsia Guild is not part of the Interastral Peace Corporation, the de facto leader of the Guild so happens to be the Head of the Technology Department for the mega corporation. The very faction that wants to recapture Penacony back into its greedy claws.
Here is a crude truth about Dr. Kakavasha: he couldn’t care less about the Guild, about the IPC, about the world, about the assimilation of knowledge.
Here is another crude truth about Dr. Kakavasha: he cares deeply about the people who have passed through his life, his three odd little cats, a certain gambler, and above all—his freedom and autonomy.
And Yabuli knows that.
It was, after all, one of the many requests that a much younger Kakavasha had asked for. And she has, without fail, given that; has even turned a blind-eye to certain antics when she shouldn’t have.
(In another life, Kakavasha could easily see himself wearing a gilded slave collar. He can see himself wasting away, but he can also see himself clawing back from those same depths.)
(It’s a life that Kakavasha can see himself not regretting, even if it brought him more pain and misery than benefit. It isn’t a happy life, but who is to say that he is happy in this one? For such a simple word, happiness is a rather complicated concept.)
(And regret—another strong word. No, it was more like willingly lying in the grave that he himself had dug. He had chosen this path, and as a consequence, he had no other option but to see it through to the end.)
(Kakavasha can understand that sentiment. Very, very well.)
(But that is not this life.)
Because it is in that technicality, just as she is an IPC leader, Yabuli is also merely the head of a flourishing academic institution. And what is the premise of learning, of knowledge, if not to go off the book?
Yabuli is well aware that Kakavasha truly does not care about this mission. She fully understands that he's only participating in this mission because Lapis has asked, or rather, has entrusted him to do so. If it had been anyone other than the gambler, they would have “likely” been met with a firm rejection. “Coincidentally,” it works out in her favor. That is all.
She will not force Kakavasha, but instead—she will offer certain incentives to gently nudge him towards a course of action that aligns with her objectives. And ultimately, the decision rests in Kakavasha’s hands; ultimately, Yabuli will get her recompense—in some way, in some shape and form.
She is only intervening because she believes that Kakavasha needs that extra push. Other than that, Yabuli is being very hands off. Like she tends to be.
Understanding his superior’s convoluted reasoning is a futile endeavor, but he can deduce some aspects of her true motive—whether this mission bears fruit or not, Lapis' demise in Penacony would constitute a substantial loss for the IPC (and consequently, the Guild’s).
Stonehearts are easily discarded; the roster is forever ever-changing. To die for duty is the greatest honor—or something along those lines. They all serve some sort of “higher purpose” that reduces them to mere cogs in the machine, and results are often favored over individualistic well-being.
(But a loss is still just that—a loss.)
Kakavasha stares at the papers he laid out. There are cases about disappearances, about unrest in the land of dreams. There are rumors about investigations that never went elsewhere, about a power-struggle between the Family’s five great lineages.
There is something here to pick at.
Killing two birds with one stone—Yabuli has always valued efficiency. And it’s in that efficiency that leads hours to pass like this: a doctor hunched over his desk, scribbling away, and his three cat-cake creatures slumbering peacefully—one nestled on his lap, another resting on his desk, and the last cozily pressed against his ankle.
And when Kakavasha finally sets down his pencil, his wrist twinging in protest, he glances at the clock and notes it's already two in the morning.
Looking back at the annotations, sticky notes, and other additions he added to the documents, Kakavasha rolls his aching shoulders with a grimace.
It’s a start.
Kakavasha gathers up his sleeping critters, shushes them before they could start screaming, and gets up.
With a resounding click, the door behind him locks shut.