G I L E M O R Y G A L A H A D
G I L E M O R Y G A L A H A D Location: The Chimera's Lair - Pacific Royal CampusWelcome Home #1.061: Bullet: dodged.
Interaction(s): //
The piercing alarm from his phone, buzzing away on the carpet floor, woke Gil sharply from what he was sure had been a very pleasant dream, even as the details dissipated from memory like smoke. He lay on his back, duvet tossed and thrashed and askew across his half-naked frame, taking long hard blinks as the morning sun drifted through half-closed curtains, dust motes twinkling in the beams. He drew long, deep breaths, willing himself to wake up. The phone blared and buzzed, and eventually he pulled himself up at the waist to sit on the edge of his bed, duvet slipping off completely and rumpling on the floor. He lent down to scoop up his phone and shut off the alarm, rubbing his eyes with the back of his other hand as the light from the screen forced his still-sleepy eyes to squint.
Seconds later he was up and scrambling for clothes. He'd overslept, having gotten in later than expected from the beach - despite Amma's outburst, he was determined not to end the final night of freedom before the year began in earnest end on such a soured note, and so he'd assisted in emptying out Rory's cooler with not only the dwindling members of Blackjack, but also any late-night beach-goer who'd wandered close enough.
Now, however, he was in danger of missing breakfast before the opening ceremony for the academic year, and he was well-aware that manual labour would feature heavily in the days' agenda; not only the trials themselves, but also the construction and setup of the trials, on which senior students were relied upon for their assistance, and he needed to be well-fed if he and Gils 2 & 3 were going to be of use. Speaking of...
Gil finished pulling on his uniform in a hurry, getting the bulk of it on - trousers, shirt, socks and shoes, tie - before he shimmered and a similarly-scruffy Gil stepped forth from him.
Bleary-eyed, hungry, and ever-so-slightly hungover, Gil immediately recognised this exertion as a mistake, feeling instantly woozy and stumbling backwards; his heel hit the foot of the bed and he tumbled onto the bed, hand pushed against his forehead as vision swam and nausea washed over him. Gil2, though also bleary-eyed, hungry, and ever-so-slightly hungover, remained standing, and proffered a hand to Gil when he looked up again, dragging a hand down his face. He took it, and Gil helped himself to his feet again.
As Gil2 made his way out of the dorm and toward the mess hall to collect a sizeable breakfast, Gil threw on his blazer and took a couple minutes to himself to toss a far-too-hot espresso shot (with more sugar than many would find acceptable) down his gullet, ignoring the burning in his throat to focus instead on the blossoming warmth in his belly. Steeling himself against the coming day, he took one last once-over of himself in the mirror, used a single hand to tousle his hair (still smelling of smoke from last night's bonfire) just-so, and went to follow himself down to breakfast.
Gil stood outside the main doors of the Mess Hall, quietly chatting with Rory and passing the usual good mornings to whoever walked by, awaiting Gil2 to return arms laden with pastries and fried protein. The hall was abuzz with activity, the anticipation of the semester's first proper day thrumming through the student body, freshman and senior alike. He was considerably un-prepared for the arrival of Lorcán - or, more specifically, the arrival of Lorcán's hands.
He startled as Lorcán slapped his and Rory's arses with considerable fervour, and he was sure that had Gil2 been stood here, and he collecting breakfast in the Mess Hall, his friend may have traumatized himself and several other students by catalyzing Gil's sudden disintegration into nothingness with little more than an overly-fond physical greeting. As it was, Gil turned around, craning his neck for his copy in the mess hall as he did, and smiled as best he could as the three friends greeted each other, once again, as academic peers.
“Hopefully, you dudes don’t have to sit down too soon, but man, bros, you missed out on some legen-lactose heavy’-dary swells this mornin’. I am totally going to get you both out on a board before we graduate.”
Lorcán fumbled with his belt, dropping his trousers to the ground in the process, and Gil was silently thankful that he clearly wasn't the only one struggling with this particular morning.
"If you can score me a board for a day, I'll be there, bro." Rory replied, in typical 'up-for-anything' Rory fashion, and Lorcán grinned in return, turning his gaze expectantly to Gil.
"I think I'll let another Gil give it a trial run first. Wouldn't want to damage the money-maker in an errant wave." He said, offering a hand for Lorcán to shake, greeting him warmly as other members of Blackjack began drifting in.
On cue, Gil2 pushed open the doors of the mess hall with his back, turning as he came through to reveal two well-stocked trays balanced precariously between two mug-bearing arms. Steam drifted from the rims, and Gil felt himself coming alive just from the smell of the tea within. The trays, meanwhile, held croissants, a couple chocolate pains, a handful of bacon rashers each, two hard-boiled eggs (pre-peeled), and a banana. Gil carefully helped Gil2 with the mugs and trays, and the two gorged themselves, supping down great glugs of sugary tea between bites of their respective breakfasts.
By the time Blackjack arrived at Chimera's Lair, both Gils were thoroughly sated and slaked, and felt far more prepared for the day with full stomachs and slow-boil caffeine beginning to circulate. Gil2 departed - he had no need to sit around for the speech, and would instead use the time to fulfill Gil's community contribution obligations - but Gil himself filed into the stadium alongside his teammates, fidgeting and shifting in his seat as he tried, without success, to find a comfortable position in the hard-backed plastic chairs. He paid little attention, clapping when others clapped, whooping when others whooped, and only eyed the Foundation staff momentarily until their identities were confirmed; of little consequence, or so he thought.
He stopped fidgeting and found his attention laser-focused and breath hitching as Jim dropped the bombshell on degree accreditation; wasted years and futile plans cascaded in front of his eyes, vision swimming with images of scripts being burnt and casting calls passing him by - and then Jim followed up and said,
"our degree programs in the engineering, law and medical fields,"
and he breathed a heavy sigh of relief and sunk backwards into his chair, reassured his programme had not been set askew by the sudden upset. He could feel his phone sitting heavy in his pocket - he would certainly need to discuss the implications with Artie, and there was no guarantee that invalidations wouldn't stretch further into PRCU's course offerings and dismantle the university's credibility entirely - but, for now, at least he was safe.
Not that he could say the same for many of his teammates, and their reactions spoke for themselves in this regard. Gil felt himself shrinking into his seat, not wanting to be noticed or singled-out for how he had dodged such a mighty blow. This announcement would derail a strong majority of the team, and he wouldn't blame any one of them for spiraling out; he thought back to only the night previous, the twelve of them gathered around the warm glow of the bonfire beside the ocean, spooling out their futures into the fire. Only one of them hadn't indulged in such optimism.
Gil heard her laugh, and the feeling of a full stomach was suddenly distinctly unwelcome.
Had she known?
It didn't do to dwell on it. Even if she had, what use would knowing have been? To any of them?
Gil watched each of his teammates make their exits, each bearing a weight upon them he couldn't know. There was an odd sense of remorse bubbling up within him, a survivor's guilt shouldered for people who were still very much alive. A future that had seemed so attainable and assured less than merely eighteen hours ago had been suddenly and viciously ripped away from beneath them.
He'd need to catch up with Lorcán, undoubtedly; Rory too, but the pair were away from him, and Aurora had gone after the former hurriedly - her compassion was far better suited for this sensitive moment that Gil's brand of superficial charm and 'easy-breezy' philosophy. The plateau would be better, when they could talk without looking at each other, focusing on the construction instead of connection.
As the crowd of students, no longer buzzing with anticipation but now dour and deflated, began to filter out of the stadium, Gil found himself simply washed along amidst them, sympathizing for those affected, but clinging onto the future that was still within reach.
In his pocket, his phone buzzed, and he fished it out to look at the screen. Artie was calling. Gil hung up, and slowly made his way toward the fleet of vehicles ready to ferry students across to the Southern Plateau.
The sun bore down, now high in the sky as the day moved through the morning and into midday and the afternoon proper. The Gils alighted from the Minotaur, aware they were on the second-wave and therefore in danger of being late again; still, the pair took the time to stretch out, looking reminiscent of an Olympic swimming duo as their movements inadvertently synchronised. Shaking off the last of the stiffness, Gil shimmered again, and Gil3 stepped forth; they all three figured to save time and multiply now, rather than wait to be asked. Gil lifted his bag onto his shoulder as his copies forged ahead, trekking to the campsite.
Up ahead, the trio could see a neatly-arranged ring of tents, pre-fabricated and already setup, positioned with care and forethought around the firepit. It felt communal, village-like; even the tents' openings were all organised inwards. Past the tents Gil could see a similar cluster of tents, and wondered which team they were situated near; then, in the noon sun, there was a paired glimmer of rich orange and shock-white blonde, and Gil knew it was Firebird. That pair of heads couldn't be anyone other than Alyssa and Luce, inseparable since their return from an extended gap-year after the Hyperion incident. Alyssa was a redhead and a stunner, an all-smiles socialite down to the hilt; Luce was even-tempered, measured in her reactions and words, criss-crossed with scars and in possession of a gaze equally haunted and haunting. He wondered how Firebird were handling the morning's news.
His own teammates, meanwhile, had gathered already, and were busying themselves with the important task of arranging bunking partners before the evening descended and a hard day's work would cut into their patience. There were obvious obvious pairings - namely Banjo and Calliope - but also subtle obvious pairings: Lorcán and Aurora, Rory and Haven, that sort of thing. It was like co-ed bunking was mandated. Speaking of...
"So, Barnes... you want to sleep together tonight?"
If Haven didn't choke on the water, Gil choked on the air in her stead.
2"Smooth." Gil2 said, fishing a spare water bottle of his own as the copies congregated with the original.
3"We should really go and help bail him out. One of us, at least." Replied Gil3. Gil himself simply held up a hand.
"No no. He needs to learn. Besides, it's more entertaining this way...and probably a better gauge if Haven actually reciprocates."
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