“If you say so,” he wholeheartedly smiled back at Attis and it was obvious that he trusted the man to do what was best, or to at least try. That was the most Dagan could ask of him (or anybody else.)

All bravado ceased at the mention of Sera; no, more to point, Dagan just seemed to instantly become depressed, his shoulders dropped, he frowned, and a sigh of frustration escaped his throat, partly by accident.

“Oh, you know: she hates me, I don’t remember her, she hates me, and she hates me.”

There was a moment of awkward playfulness in his voice, but it was more of a defensive mechanism than not. Honestly, he didn’t really know what to say to Attis’ question.

“Did I mention that she hates me?”

"E-eehhhh?" Attis replied aghast.

He nearly felt like he was going to have a heart attack. The New Arrival, shocked by Attis practically jumping back in his seat, leaned away from Attis and gave him a strange look. Attis took a moment to regard the New Arrival with a quickly formed apologetic smile and two open hands to display his lack of threat. It seemed to calm the New Arrival down enough, who cautiously leaned back to where he was in the first place.

It was only then that Attis fully addressed his concern. His apologetic smile faded almost instantly the moment he looked to Dagan again.

"H-how could she hate you?" He asked, a downtrodden tone assaulting his voice, "I-- I mean, you two were practically inseparable back then!"

He paused at length. A conspiracy theory quickly dawned upon him.

"It's not . . . Nike, is it?" He asked then with the utmost caution--and care, to make sure that Nike wasn't in the room when he asked.

“I don’t know,” he said and straightened back up, just enough so that he didn’t look entirely out of it, but it definitely bothered him. “Were,” he emphasized, “but not so much now.”

Shuffling a bit, Dagan lifted his head to better face Attis.

“Nuh-uh,” he gestured with both hands in front of him; “no, no way! Wasn’t Nike,” he sighed, looked down, and then re-fixed his gaze: “It was all me, man. All of it,” he paused momentarily to think of what to say. With words, he wasn’t too bad, but sometimes he just really needed a second to think.

“I don’t remember Nike at all and almost nothing of Sera,” smiling sadly; his words were bitter and soft. “She didn’t like that.”

In hindsight, maybe suggesting . . . that wasn't such a good idea. It could've had Dagan taking arms against Nike, and that was the last thing anyone needed.

"A-ah . . ." Attis trailed off.

So, that was it. Well, it was kind of better than what he was thinking. Kind of. This was maybe fixable . . . maybe. Hopefully. In the best case scenario, the two of them would work out their problems. If it were what Attis was thinking, well, then maybe the problems would be too complicated.

Though, wasn't this extremely complex as is? Attis thought for a moment.

"Dagan . . . do you ever wonder why?" Attis asked. He paused at length, a bit vague, but he elaborated soon after: "Why you forgot."

“H-uh? No, not really,” he paused in thought for a moment, like he was considering the idea, or considering why he had never done it before: “I mean, I just found out myself when I met Nike, and then it sort of just went off from there.”

To Dagan, Attis’ question was kind of absurd, it might have seemed an obvious question to propose to one’s self, but Dagan had never even given it thought; he kind of liked Nike’s idea that he’d eventually remember, but that was perhaps his inner hopeful.

“But--I mean, I do want to know, or for it to stop; I just haven’t thought about it. Why do you ask?”

"Ah, um, well . . ." Attis rubbed the back of his neck nervously. "Well, see, if someone forgets something, it's always for a reason, you know?"

Attis dropped his arm to his side again. He wanted to help Dagan, he really did. After all, Dagan had already done so much to help him out. He didn't know what ways he could help, though. The most he could do was talk with Dagan, Nike, and Seras to figure out how and why things went so wrong, and possibly attempt to mediate accordingly. But . . . well, Attis wasn't too good with people, especially when it was something important that he could potentially ruin if he were to say the wrong things.

"I don't know why you've forgotten so many things," Attis admitted, "But I can help you find out, if you want. I'm sure the New Arrival would want to help, too." He looked to the New Arrival, a pleasant smile upon his face. "Right?"

The New Arrival stared confusedly.

“Maybe,” he admitted. “But I don’t know what that reason would be,” his shoulders shrugged, but he refused to hang his head lower; he composed himself.

In all honesty, talking to Attis helped Dagan a bit more than the man would believe, and it really was nice to get some of it off his chest; after all, he had been ignoring it ever since his fiasco with Sera had ended. It was not a particularly healthy choice for Dagan to keep things emotionally buried.

“W-well,” he paused for a moment and bit his lower lip in thought. “No,” he shook his head and smiled: “I should be fine, Attis; I mean ... You don’t have to bother. I just needed to get it off my chest, you know?”

"Yeah," Attis smiled, "I know how it goes."

It was the knowing kind of smile; the manner of expression that said more than any thousand words ever could: that Attis was a house to everything Dagan was trying to avoid. Pent up thoughts and feelings that he'd never get out, never tell a soul--so many ideas and desires that he'd never act upon, because it'd be improper, it'd tear down all their moods, and altogether make life worse for these citizens of the Unreal as a whole. He couldn't take those risk, but he knew how nice it'd be if he could. Dagan, however, wasn't taking such a risk.

"But . . ." Attis lifted his finger to express the point, and he shut his eyes and nodded sagely as he continued: "If I happen to come across anything, I'll be sure to research it and tell you all I learn."

Which was maybe a tad bit weird. What if the problem was directly related to Dagan? That'd entail researching Dagan--which might have been off putting for someone, to be explicitly researched like that, were it not for the fact that Attis was the researcher in question, and the man simply didn't have a judgmental bone in his body.

This did, however, prompt something:

"Re . . . search . . ." the New Arrival whispered; his voice bland, toneless, almost mindless--but his expression befit one of the utmost curiosity.

“I’d appreciate it,” he half-laughed and smiled knowingly at the red-haired, more-informed Attis.

While Dagan didn’t know what ‘research’ would entail (he knew what the word meant, in the most basic of sense), it wouldn’t have mattered to him if Attis did have to examine him, because there were few others that Dagan probably trusted more than his friend, Attis, despite the short amount of time the two had (consciously) known each other.

Indeed, perhaps he was too trusting, but at least with Attis there was only small chance that it’d be misplaced, if at all.

“Did you--?”

Curiously, Dagan looked around, he had heard the voice, but it hadn’t quite registered with the New Arrival, though that soon changed as Dagan finally looked over the young-like man.

“T-that’s an improvement, huh?”

Attis's reaction was nearly simultaneous to Dagan's. They both seemed to look over the New Arrival at once, both with the same confused and curious expression. Neither seemed to expect the New Arrival to talk, let alone repeat something one of them said. The New Arrival stared back at them with his head tilted to the side and eyebrows lifted, an altogether curious expression. He didn't say anything after that, though. Something about the word just seemed to ring a bell, however small, and he repeated it without much thought.

Letting himself get over the surprise of hearing the New Arrival talk, Attis composed himself. He could barely contain a laugh. This was a great development! It actually got him to forget about what the Seeker was talking about earlier, if only briefly.

"Definitely," Attis replied with a wide smile.

All signs of improvement seemed to fade away in an instant, however, as the New Arrival's head bobbed to one side, then the other, and then back as he parted his lips and let out a long yawn. His eyes were half shut by the end of it, and he seemed mostly in want of sleep more than anything else.

Dagan frowned a bit, but refrained from allowing the New Arrival’s fluctuating demeanor from further dragging his mood down; Dagan had gotten used to the New Arrival’s shifting (though improving) lucidity, after all.

“Guess he still needs more time,” he stated casually, before turning his attention towards Attis: “Huu-h,” he yawned, stretching his right arm high into the air, and bracing it with the opposite.

“I guess I’ll head for a walk or somethin’ then,” Dagan made to turn towards the door, stuffing his hands into his pockets, but turned to face Attis one last time, “I’ll check back later. 'Bye.”

Unless stopped by Attis, Dagan would exit the Great Hall, and pause only momentarily outside the building, before setting off on his aimless walk.

"Yeah," Attis smiled to Dagan, "See you."

Attis needed to get the New Arrival back to his place, anyways. Give him a soft bed to sleep in or something, now that he seemed actually capable and willing to sleep, rather than distrustful and cautious of the whole idea.

Amidst his aimless wandering, Dagan would find himself upon the corner of a four way intersection. The cobblestone streets all broke off into four cardinal directions, and tall multi-layered structures marked every corner. The north road was the shortest. It led directly to the city walls--but before that, there was a lot. It was far from empty, but dead all the same. Gray earth marred the lot up to the tall wall that separated the Unreal from the dead gray world beyond. Barred structures were erected within the center of it, metal and mildly rusted, from which chain links dangled in an odd pattern, all held together by rubber seats. A swingset. There were about four swings from a single set. Two other structures inhabited the lot, but those bars were all fallen and decayed.

It looked old and run down, like something Dagan would've never crossed or visited before. But yet, because of recent developments, it would seem all the more familiar and--more importantly--valuable, enough, perhaps, to pay a visit.

Heavy thoughts on light steps; Dagan walked with a vagrant’s determination through the streets of the not yet named city and could scarcely, if prompted, recall anything about what he passed, despite his focused gaze running over every nook and cranny of the city, and his usual eye for detail; this would, however, die down, as the scenery began to change, and a more worn down part of the city started to show itself.

He couldn’t remember if he had ever been to this part of the city before.

At the intersection, splintering off in three different directions, not counting the one that he had followed, he would choose to give pause for a moment, looking about the area, surveying it, even, but would eventually start walking again, continuing (shortly) north bound.

Crossing over into the slightly barren lot, Dagan’s brow unconsciously furrowed, though he could name everything he saw, even the rusted swing-set, and, if he thought hard enough, focused hard enough, he might have even been capable of naming the decrepit-looking pile of scrap metal that composed the other two fallen structures, though it may have taken a few tries and possibly a hint.

Coming closer to the swing, his steps seemed faster, his shoulders, which had been slouched, were no longer so, and he seemed to even lean forwards a bit as he walked, determined.

Such determination would be short lived, though; he came to a stop at the swing set and removed his right hand from his pant's pockets and clutched onto the structure's closest (front) leg, running a hand up the rough, rusted metal. Curious.

So close to the swingset, Dagan would experience mental static in the truest of sense: vision fading in and out of gray, lined, and chalky, hearing fading in and out from perfect to riddled with noise, all nonsensical and unpleasant to the ear. Yet all the same, it was subtle. Natural. Something so obscure, yet something so normal. Sometimes, it was there and strong, other times it faded and was light. It was always a bearable thing, though, and familiar to boot. A repetition of a repetition of a repetition . . .

What would come to him betwixt fades from vague static to normal, however, would not invoke the feeling of normality that the static itself provided-- but instead, a foreboding one. Displeasing feelings so easily forgotten, unpleasant memories so easily misplaced.

The sound of creaking metal brought Dagan out of a stupor he hardly recalled entering; his first thoughts were not on what he had just experienced, but on the grittiness of the rusted metal’s texture and the fading static that still beat itself against the inside of his head; and his ears were ringing, he felt.

“A-W-w …,” his voice got caught in the back of his throat, words weren’t forming like they should have, and it almost seemed criminal to speak; it was like his body refused to go along with his wishes.

His vice-grip on the swing set’s leg released, he had only slightly dented the metal, but it was noticeable in so much that it was there.

Thoughts and emotions were swimming in competition to reach the forefront of his mind and dying just as soon as they reached anything remotely resembling articulation; Dagan’s face contorted and distorted in confusion.

“What … was that?”

He would seem to wilt under the shadow of the swing-set, as he instinctively curled back, taking a few steps in reverse, as though he were afraid to even touch the thing, ‘less the event repeat itself, and if not for that fear, he’d have probably sat down--he needed to, now that he thought about it.

He really wanted to sit down now.

“No -- “ he strained to look at the structure again, this time retaking the ground he had lost, though still refusing to touch it again, and thought about his predicament, about what had just happened.

“Don’t … yell? Hate?”

The palm of his free hand was pressed onto his forehead, as his fingers snaked through his bangs, and his neck allowed his head to bob down, just a bit.

Several deep breathes were taken as Dagan’s chest heaved up and down, he wasn’t out of breath, it hadn’t taxed him to a physical extreme, but instead, he was preparing himself.

A shaky hand was taken from resting against his head and would be reached out, again.

It would seem like miles: the distance between his outstretched arm and the swing set, but he’d only hesitate just before it; he would gather himself and push forwards, stepping into the act, and pressing the hand onto the rusted metal once more.

He hoped and hated the idea of the event maybe repeating itself and he could not even begin to tell which would disappoint him most.