MY EMPIRE OF DIRT // MOON

[GABRIEL]

[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-size: 9.4pt; line-height: 1.4;"]Gabe was barely visible, a mere blur of a dark shape as he walked along the tombstones, stirring the fog with every step; it was quiet here, and he might not have minded finding solace here -even knowing what the toppled angels represented- but the mausoleum was his destination, and each movement felt heavier the closer he approached. The night and the cloak he wore shadowed him, but he still went cautiously, searching for any glitter of eyes or shuffle of a body, because he was risking his cover coming here to see the lion. Risking much more than that, in all honesty. Lives could hang in the balance, and he would rather not tip the scale when he could not control the consequences. The weathered faces of the stone angels seemed to accuse him, solemn as they were, and while he did not quicken his pace, he was certainly tempted to. He would rather not be out here in the open for longer than he had to be.

The hybrid pushed inside the domed structure, descending the staircase carefully, talons clacking softly, and the area meeting him had very little light, illuminated only by the flickers of small candles whose flames cast ominous, dancing shadows on red limestone walls. They kept prisoners in the catacombs here, though they did not have many at the moment, and so it did not take Gabriel long to locate Moon, dark eyes reflecting the low light as they laid on the lanky feline. He didn't move for a few moments, and when he did, he dropped the basket from his beak and shrugged away the hood from his face. "If you're going to yell, do it quietly." 

He nodded to the basket. "Put some food in there. Water. Some shit to patch yourself up."

[align=right][i]——INFO

[MOONMADE]

[size=9pt]There's a leak in the corner. It drip, drip, drips, bounces, bounces, bounces off the ground and fucking echoes and Moon's gonna' lose his fucking mind.

He's severely messed up. Cuts running down his neck, tooth marks in his hind leg, blood caking under his chin and one eye stained crimson, shut tight He had his head resting against the wall, for the cool temperature of it, if anything. He was weaker than he'd ever been, muscles shaky even as he sat, and his head was throbbing. He was just not doing good. He'd seen the movies; this is where the protagonist reminisces on their life, on their loved ones, on their accomplishments and their faults, and comes to terms with their inevitable death. The problem was, Moon had had a short life, and he really didn't think anyone fucking loved him, and his accomplishments were non-existent next to his faults. So he didn't think about that. He thought about the dripping. Besides, he'd be a shit protagonist.

But he failed to remember the trope next in line; the savior. In enters a knight in shining armor, hushed whispers and a disguise, to save him so he can continue his story, reach his character arch. But here came clicking talons and cloak. He blinks his eyes open, gazes steadily at Gabriel, waits a beat, and promptly shuts them again. "'Thought you were the Grim Reaper. Don't get my hopes up like that." He stares into the blackness his eyelids cast, and when he speaks, his voice is scratchy and torn. "If Panchair sent you, tell him I've kicked the bucket and joined the God Squad. I ain't talking."

It's the sound of the basket that gets the better of him. Curiousity killed the cat. Moon blinks his one good eye open, cartoonish as he always is, and looks from Gabe, to the basket, back to Gabe. Clearly they're trying to fix him up, fatten him up for sacrifice, because they've realized his good lucks under all the skin and bone and they're willing to backtrack on the torture. He's hesitant to trust. Besides, at this point, he's too out of it to even chew up a poultice or tell the difference between Comfrey and Coltsfoot. He'd sooner poison himself than heal himself. When he speaks, it's flat and humorless. "What the fuck are you doing here, man."

[GABRIEL]

[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-size: 9.4pt; line-height: 1.4;"]Yeah, the kid looked like shit. Gabriel didn't need a bright light to see that, and if there was something he could've done without getting them both fucked over, he would have, but he was one person in the middle of an entire clan. If some of The Ascendants showed up, maybe, but forgive him if Gabe didn't have the highest confidence in that situation working out, so in the end, not intervening was the best option for them both. Coming here could undo that decision, though; Moon could distrust him all he wanted, could believe what he wanted, and Gabriel didn't have the time to explain much considering how risky visiting the lion was. It might have been less incriminating if he hadn't brought the basket, though only slightly, so the hybrid was completely aware that he shouldn't have gone anywhere near the mausoleum when he knew The Typhoon wouldn't need much more than that to put him out on his ass. After they left him in a similar state as Moon.

If he were a hero, he might have been willing to risk more, but he wasn't a knight in shining armor. He was more in line with the character Moon mistook him for, just less- less. And also not here to reap his soul, or whatever else it was said the cloaked bastard did. Probably not anything like bringing the tortured food and supplies.

Gabe gave Moon a moment to come back from wherever his mind had gone off too, although seeing him open his eyes again didn't convince the hybrid that he'd settled into his senses. Maybe that was too much to expect of the kid, but whatever conclusions he was generating, he didn't need to know them to assume they were all wrong. Most of them. If it was an issue of trust, he- really couldn't blame him, so he accepted the coarseness. "What does it look like? I'm taking care of a dumbass."

[align=right][i]——INFO

[MOONMADE]

[size=9pt]Moon's not a complete idiot; he knows Gabriel isn't here to save him. Despite the Archangel name, he's not some swooping flurry of holy wrath, powerful enough to rain down on the Typhoon's mass of members and drag Moon off to safety. But it's fine. He doesn't expect him to. In fact, in that moment, Moon can't find it in himself to care about escaping. He'd never been one particularly fond of life and all it's blessings; perhaps this is the early end younger Moon had always asked for. Perhaps he was being overdramatic.

He coughs a laugh. "Yeah, 'taking care of'? Fuck off, Feathers. That's my job. 'Bet you've already adopted half of this shithole's messed up kids, anyway." He'd planned on saying, 'I'm not another one of your charity case sons,' but, in the moment, his speech was slow and slurred enough for him to genuinely think, if only slightly, about what he had to say. And he had no interest in reminding Gabriel of Lazarus and whatever the fuck went down between them. He knows a complicated situation when he sees one. Hell, he's a fucking walking complicated situation, himself. [b]"But, yeah, whatever, dodge the question if you want. I don't give a shit. Keep your secrets. Allies and enemies and sworn loyalties. It's all a load of bullshit."[/b]

Gathering all of his strength, he pushes himself from the wall and tugs the basket over to him. The sight of the water makes his tongue feel as dry as Gabriel's wit, and he realizes just how long it'd been since he'd last had a drink. Back in the Ascendant's, he'd been having a busy day when he was knocked out by that Grandma Wolf bitch, but even if he hadn't-- Moon had never been one to take care of himself, anyway. He bends and laps at the water for a moment, and it hits him, then, just how exposed he feels. It's incredibly uncomfortable, the whole situation. The fact that he'd end up with Gabriel, out of everyone, visiting him when he was such a ragged mess was definitely karma paying him a visit. He lifts his head, gaze remaining on the ground, and collapses back against the wall. "You come here often, Tweety? Wallowing in someone else's indignity seems to be right up your alley. Or am I just special?"

[GABRIEL]

[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-size: 9.4pt; line-height: 1.4;"]//alsdkjfsd sorry this is so late

If Gabriel were privy to Moon's thoughts -truth be told, if he were telepathic, that would be one of the last places for him to go- he'd probably have smacked him upside the head. Maybe. Considering his physical state, he didn't want to magnify the wounds already there, so he'd have to settle for a scolding. Gabriel wouldn't have been critical of the fact that he wanted to quit, because the hybrid had been there not even a full year ago; he would have judged whether or not he actually did give in. That wasn't a road anyone should take. In the best case scenario, they ended up looking something like Gabe -and he knew for Moon that would be fucking awful- and worst case scenario, they lost themselves completely. But then, did he even have a place to offer any kind of advice anymore? Had he ever?

Moon wasn't his son. He was a smartass who had that odd strain of youthful pessimism, buried in banter and witty comments. He wasn't Gabriel's son, but he would spare him the weight of such skepticism if he could. Unsurprisingly, that was one of the many things he wasn't capable of. "Believe me, I was tempted, but that's too much paperwork." The owl-cat lowered himself to sit, tucking his good wing close while keeping his attention between Moon and the stairs; if he heard anyone coming, he'd have to go with plan b, which he doubted Moon would appreciate. Not that he even wanted Gabriel here in the first place. "Didn't dodge the question. I didn't bring the basket to play Little Black Riding Hood." He tugged the dark cloak for emphasis, the muscles around his eyes raising. "It's just not the whole answer."

Watching the lion move, hindered by his injuries, sent a sharp prickle down his spine that he didn't care to analyze. He forced his fur to remain flat, and didn't move after that, more a statue than a creature while Moon drank his water. The way he refused to look at Gabe as he fell back spoke louder than anything the kid could say- an impressive feat, all things considered. "I'm not wallowing. Maybe you are. You could use a bath." Gabe rolled his shoulders, ignoring the sharp pull of his ribs in protest in favor of considering his reply. "Look, kid, hate me if you want, but I'm down here because I want to be, and I'm in The Typhoon because I need to be."
[align=right][i]——INFO

[MOONMADE]

[size=9pt]/npppp i took just as long rip

Moon raises one brow. One side of his lips tilt. 'It's just not the whole answer.' Very Hollywood. Though he doubted Gabriel would know what that meant. Still, the words sparked a hint of humor in Moon, despite the situation. "Oh, he's mysterious. Where's the cameras, Mr. Bond? You got your script hidden under that cape?" He grins, but he's distracted and he moves his side against the wall slightly. The exposed skin grates against the brick and he sucks in sharply through his teeth. For a moment, his shoulder sets on fire, and he clamps his jaw shut tight, but he breathes in and out in steadily and slowly, it fades. He's back to his nonchalance, lightning fast. "It's fine, man. Keep the other half of the answer. I get it; I wouldn't wanna' get castrated at the hands of those Jack Sparrow scum, either. Saving your own ass comes first, right?"

Moon manages to find some poppy seeds in the basket. The sight of them comes as such a relief, he feels weak in the knees. It's possible he's slightly too reliant on the sleep-inducing seeds. It's possible that, on more than one occasion, he'd abused them, as some other Medics would say, for the sake of some shut-eye. But now, here, he knows he needs them. He knocks them back with some water, feeling the heat of his tongue starved off with the rush of the freezing liquid. "A bath?" He frowns, once the seeds have been swallowed. "Yeah, sure. Just direct me to the fuckin' Spa Resort, Feathers. Hey, maybe you can get your talons painted and I can get my claws filed, while we're at it." His grin has disappeared. Instead, he stares the hybrid down, borderline defensive. He knows he needs a fucking bath. Hell, it's not as if he enjoys sitting, leaking crimson from parts of his body he'd never even known existed, before. He doesn't need the criticism, and his disgruntlement shows. His next words are just as gruff, though, perhaps, not as resentful. "I don't hate you. Don't be dramatic. Do whatever you need to do. Don't blame you for getting sick of all that Star talk, anyway."