Bastille could feel the faux control slipping. He'd been near breaking before he finally gave up and gave into the temptation to drink, with his souls emerging rapidly and desperately, throwing everything off balance. Rad's little trial runs had blissfully muted everything: his emotions, his souls, his powers. Everything was reduced to white noise and apathy and it was... blissful, almost. If he could feel bliss.

Now, tripped up by his own hubris, Bastille could feel everything shifting out of his grasp. The first few days after his overdose, he had been too tired and shaky to really feel anything other than the urge to vomit and shiver and possibly just die; as the withdrawal symptoms seemed to fade a little bit, his stubbornness winning out, things were getting... rough around the edges. He could feel the vague disturbances of his souls, never quite aligned properly. Things were getting under his skin and sticking. That morning, the lights in his room had flickered, betraying the thin veil of control he had on his elementals. The burning temptation eating him alive seemed to get worse the more he realized that his little cure for soul issues was finally failing.

He was headed for the Circle when the chills hit him out of no where, and Bastille coughed as he came up short, swallowing down the bile in his throat at the sudden frost in his veins. He hadn't had cold sweats for a day or so, but the feeling was a familiar one: it sank in deep and held, and he knew the only thing to thaw his insides was a handle of the shittiest vodka he could find. He grit his teeth, however, and told himself that he didn't want it, didn't need it--

Except that he did. He wanted it bad, and why shouldn't he have it? It wasn't like his family cared -- the Bellators would only encourage him, urging him on, trying to break apart the soft tom they'd gotten and craft him into what they wanted. Zaniel was no good to them the way he came, but he could be, if he wanted. If he tried. A little bit of liquor of his lips and he was already a lot closer to what they needed from him, and hey -- who was going to care to see the old Zaniel die? His little ex-family back in the Elite weren't a good fit for him, but they could be.

It was so easy to give in, both to their encouragement and to the burning in his veins that was urging him on. That was him, though, wasn't it? Facillimos. He remembered them looking at him and deciding right away that he was going to be an easy one, easy to initiate and easier to get to go along with whatever the family wanted. Zaniel was a Bellator the second they wanted him to be one, and he would live that lifestyle to the core, with or without them. Easy.

Bastille didn't even realize that his thought process had slipped and slid straight into Zaniel's until he was standing in the Circle, gaze flickering around with intrigue. Idly, he caught the track of his memories and the fact that the temptation had faded slightly, that he'd already decided to give in. He recoiled, startled, but the slip up was already too deep: the second he told himself to get it the fuck together, he was countering with the fact that everything was better when he drank.

"Hey, where's the cute nurse?" he drawled, cocking his head to the side in a manner that was similar to Bast's usually mannerisms but different: whereas he usually tipped to the right, Zaniel tipped to the left. His eyes flickered briefly to those teal-toned light blue, but his actions seemed to be caught in an in-between: mostly dominated by Zaniel, with the fainted of traces of Bast. That was until he grinned, and it was sly. "C'mere, doctor, come clear me for weaning off. You said I get a little bit, right?"

The first one he recognized — she was the overbearing one from before, getting in his damn way and yelling at him to be a good boy, essentially. Hot but mean, Zaniel might categorize her as, if there wasn’t something telling him that bad mother was possibly more accurate. Which, he could work with “hot but mean” — they were often biters and he could support that notion — but he couldn’t work with the bitter roadblock filtering in from his— Bastille’s memories. What was her name again? Hotel? Sweets? Something of the sort. It didn’t really matter either way, he supposed. She was about to not be a problem, as long as she actually fucked off this time before she did any more damage.

(Oh, there it was — the flickering recollection of anger and betrayal, flames of irritation; he could feel the surge of distaste towards her that seemed misplaced, and maybe that was how Bastille felt whenever they made an appearance. Huh. Sucks to suck, kid.)

”Who else would I mean?” he drawled, giving her a patented you dolt look. There was a moment of consideration before he alighted on fuzzy impressions of the other healer, the fun healer, and he grinned. ”That other one is cute, I guess, but only in the I-stomp-on-your-throat kind of way. She might bite a little too hard,” he supplied, before glancing away from her dismissively. Not in the mood? Everyone was always in the mood when he was finished with them. Besides, he didn’t care for her opinion, because her opinions were shit. If she wasn’t a target she was useless to him, and the vague tinges of annoyance eating away at him in response to her presence were starting to get... well. Annoying.

Never mind that, however: Rin was here and he was grinning at her fully, all teeth and delight. As expected, she didn’t seem pleased, but she was tired and deserved a break, clearly. Zaniel was an excellent break. ”Hi, Rinny,” he greeted borderline affectionately, rolling his eyes at her assertion before he teased, ”We both know that I am Bastille, babe. I don’t even know who this chick is and I dislike her,” a head tilt towards Suiteheart, ”Which, if you ask me, is evidence enough. I like all pretty things, so clearly, something is amiss. And that’s your boy.”

Zaniel would not pretend to truly understand his mess of souls, if only because Bastille didn’t even seem to get it, and it was hard to know what he himself didn’t know. But he could grasp the fact that he wasn’t himself, not really. These were his memories and his mannerisms, but they were all filtered through Bast: his memories mixed in along the way, bit by bit, and if he thought hard enough he could recognize that he was only Bastille, really. His name had stopped being Zaniel a long time ago: it was just easy to forget when his memories of that life were so prominent and he could convince himself that he was Zaniel, still. (Or rather, Zaniel could convince Bastille, but he supposed that was saying the same thing.) And Zaniel wasn’t about to disagree with that.

”This withdrawal can and will kill me,” he pointed out, giving Rin a wide-eyed look of innocence like he wasn’t trying to figure out how to get her to take something with him. ”Wouldn’t you rather I do it with you than Rad?” he added, with a hint of a sly smile, because— well. Innuendos were fun, but also he could very easily track the other healer down and get something from her. His — Bastille’s — reservations about disobeying Rin were starting to slip very, very rapidly.

Zaniel's gaze locked on Suiteheart, her voice (nagging, always) dragging his attention away from his Cleric. He arched a brow at her question, and cocked his head to the side -- again, wrong direction. "Well, no. I mean, I know you're a cold-hearted bitch," he supplied, offering her a winning smile as if he might like that about her. The pangs of irritation and frustration said otherwise, but whatever. "I mean, in reality, there's one soul comprised of three. We're interchangeable. I could remember if I wanted to, but it's harder to do that when my Zaniel memories are here. I'm Bastille, sadly, just Bastille with my memories at the forefront. S'hard to juggle everyone's memories all at once, so ya boy gotta compartmentalize." A grin. "And then you get me, sort of. A knock off of my true glory, really -- I mean, c'mon, what is this fur? Far cry from my looks. And sometimes it's hard not to remember everything all at once and then you lose me, which is unfortunate for you."

Zaniel seemed willing to talk, though it was hard to tell just how in control he was: was he naturally that much of a talker, or was that the shades of Bast sliding through? He'd talk up anyone he needed to, but evidently he didn't really like this Suiteheart (oh, there was her name -- yes, Bast was recalling more of his own memories), so perhaps he was losing his grip. Yikes. Nevertheless, he settled back a bit, and drawled playfully towards Rin, "Bast never seems to remember how hot you are, Rinny, but I'll hold onto it for you. Don't you worry, your beauty will not go unacknowledged."

Something tugged and pulled at him, a twisting in his gut, and his head went up. He scowled slightly, but before he could wonder what the fuck was going on, his gaze was landing on her. Oh. Princess. Of course; who else would it be, really? Zaniel had never been bonded before, but he was down to test out the feedback loop on that -- he would bet it was divine, and he smiled slyly at her as his attention shifted gears.

There was a split second between her gaze meeting his and her greeting him, beating him to the punch. And for another second, Zaniel just looked back at her, before he started laughing. "Boy-toy? Oh, sweetheart, that is rich. If anyone's the toy, it's you -- you're tiny." He had little to no read on auras; the faint blurs of color and sensation passed right over his head, but he wasn't stupid: this wasn't Princess. Princess' soul, coming out to play? Interesting. His grin went predatory the second he realized that she was a lot less up-tight, and he switched targets entirely.

"I will not, however, protest to the "Hazel's" portion of that statement -- not if you come part of the package," he said, easy, settling on the smile that he labeled boyish charm. He got the impression that giving her sharp would backfire, if only because she wanted to be the baddest. Worked for him. The girl was hot, and evidently fun. There was a fluttering mix of memories there, something trying to convince him that this was a bad idea, but it was dull in comparison to the heat of her attention. (And maybe it was harder for Bastille to resist Zaniel's influence, his memories, when that focus fixed on Hazel. She usually grounded him but it was a fine line identifying Zaniel's draw to her and his own.)

He decided to let her commentary on last time slide -- it didn't mean anything to him, anyway, other than the potential for this to be a lot easier than anticipated -- and instead rolled his eyes at her taunt. "A guy's gotta eat, babe. But by all means, let me just keep puking and shaking with the withdrawal and drag you through it, too. I don't know about you, but that sounds like a lot less fun than what I had in mind." A radiant smile, all innocence. (Bad idea bad idea bad idea, but it was faint, an echo in the distance as thing shifted and stirred and things were starting to fill the gaps in his memory of the present, but slowly, subtly.)

[b]BASTILLEPRISONER AURELIUS — ASTRAL SERAPH — THE ASCENDANTS — TAGS

[b]"What's with all the ruckus? A girl's just trying to enjoy her lunch in peace without- Oh."

It appeared as if Bast and Hazel had both brought someone else out to play today. How interesting. She was aware, through Margaery's memories and general perception, that Bast had three joint souls, but whatever had seemingly seized control of Hazel was left a complete mystery to her. Genevieve wasn't quite a fan of the unknown but let her lack of understanding of Hazel slide, instead opting to study the both of them through narrowed eyes. Different. Unhinged. Unbothered. Gods above, could she relate. And nobody seemed to be demanding that Bast or Hazel return to them, that it was awful that they were here instead of them. Why? Why were they treated differently?

The girl that so easily called Bast a 'boy-toy' reminded her of herself and yet, none of her clanmates had their panties in a bunch over the occurrence. She struggled to understand where anyone drew the line and determined that Genevieve would be alienated for being apart of Margaery whereas these two were not. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair. And there it was again: that impulse to slaughter everyone where they stood and feast upon their blood until there was absolutely nothing left. But she couldn't do that, not with Margaery stirring in the back of her mind and demanding Genevieve to ask if Bast was okay. She didn't humor her. All she could feel was that programmed hatred and her own, burning hunger. It would be so lovely to rip her "friends" apart... why did Margaery insist upon so fiercely protecting them?

A surge of unfamiliar calm suddenly enveloped her, the breath that Genevieve had been holding escaping through parted lips in that moment. Margaery had sensed her agony, her desire to kill, and neutralized the situation before she could impulsively dig claws that had unsheathed themselves into the nearest person's - Suiteheart's - neck. No clanmates would fall due to Genevieve's fury, not today anyways. Talk to them, love. Maybe you'll actually make a friend, Margy's voice rang in her head, causing red-hued eyes to roll. A friend? Her? That was ridiculous. Aerona hadn't even been her friend, just a business partner, and she failed to see how she could ever be anything more than intrigued about Zaniel and Ti.

"Who's the one with the nice ass?" She finally inquired devilishly, her typical wicked charm reappearing. She had caught that bit upon arrival and well... it was Genevieve for goodness sake: she had to know. A glance would be cast in Bast's direction, a laugh following the action. Withdrawal was a bitch, she most certainly could attest. Poor baby, he must feel like he's dying. "You could always drink with me," She offered with a wink, "I will say: I make a mean bloody mary." Who cares if Bast drinking and partaking in drugs or whatever was against the rules? Rules had never applied to Genevieve nor would they ever and neither of the medics did much to particularly scare her. "You could come too, sugar. I'm sure we'd all have a wicked good time." Especially because they don't seem to have excruciatingly long sticks lodged up their asses... it'll be good for me to partake in a little fun with people more my speed.