lestercraft | TLV: IC Inbox

That gets a small laugh, smug and vindictive. "You're fucking welcome."

He tips his drink up, and after a moment's hesitation, downs the rest in one hit.

"Christ, she's the most infantile, dismissive- you know," he says sharply, as he stamps his glass down. "I'd appreciate if Quigley hated me for an actual fucking reason, I can understand that, God knows there's enough of them. But no, she hates me because she thinks I hate her, because I said I didn't want to be friends because our better halves were fucking paired. It's- honestly it's just stupid at this point."

No he's not over that, why do you ask?

Edited 2023-02-02 21:26 (UTC)

"Well, you know what they say: 'Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor Hell a fury like a woman scorned'," he says amiably enough as Arthur goes off on his tirade. Then he snorts and laughs.

"Well, actually, what people say is 'hell hath no fury like a woman scorned' but that's because most people haven't actually read The Mourning Bride... which is fair as the whole thing is mostly just an excuse for Congreve to be clever and doesn't hold up at all compared to his other work."

Beat.

"Also she's entirely delusional. She's not responding to the reality of your lesser qualities any more than she responds to the reality of what anyone says, just her perceptions of them. Which are usually twisted beyond comprehension by literally anyone else. Well, anyone other than Pagan. Bless that man. I gave him groceries since he missed the port."

He groans, lifting his hand to rub his face briefly. "God, I've had more than enough of women scorned back home. I haven't even been the one scorning them but they seem insistent on killing me about it."

Between the hag and the wraith and the fucking widow...

He goes for his glass and visibly frowns when he remembers he already finished it. "Damn. But, er, no, I quite like Pagan, actually, sensible bastard. John's been knitting him a few gifts to make up for the bullshit we keep forcing him to deal with. He gave me some bath bombs for the same reason."

"I'm not quite sure if things would have happened as they did were it not for the large quantity of queer feral women that I tend to attract. Only two of them have stabbed me at various points and one of them threatened to shoot me, constantly, but I can certainly understand your frustration."

Arthur will feel a bottle against the back of his hand.

"More?"

It's an offer to pour.

"He's been entirely reasonable given his inmate, I'll say that. Completely understood my reasons for banning her from the library. A ban that stands if you ever need to flee."

Edited 2023-02-03 03:42 (UTC)

"Everyone here is fucking queer," he mutters without a hint of irony or understanding of the modern definition. But the bottle makes his hand twitch, and he gives a short, "Please."

He'll hold his glass steady for Jon, at least. "I'll consider it, though I'm certain I'll only manage to get lost there. I've been told how bloody big the place is, and as much as I can map a place out in my mind I'm not sure how far that limit is. Nor that Quigley wouldn't try and stop me from getting there if she wanted to make her fucking point."

He pours.

"Well, if you get lost, I'll come to find you, like those Saint Bernards that go tromping through the Alps. I still remember the whole of the library, after all. Probably better than anyone else. I'll just sniff you out."

"I'll certainly consider it," he says, and when he hears the bottle get set down again he's already taking a fresh sip. "Though I must admit the largest part of the appeal is wasted on me these days."

His middle finger lifts slightly to tap again the glass, and he's suddenly acutely aware of the sound missing thanks to the rings he's taken off, and that gets another short swig as he grimaces at the memory.

"Fuck, I miss reading."

"Don't take a swing at me if I point out we have books on tape," he says as he sips his own, "as I'm well aware it's not remotely the same. But it is something. We've also got the readers in the library even if we don't have something on tape, exactly."

He sighs.

"I'm assuming that will be your second deal then? Restoring your sight and all?"

"Yes, uh, John got me a-- a few things for Christmas, actually, from the Admiral that make sure I can read on my own, which- is a fucking godsend, frankly. But-- yeah."

It's not the fucking same.

"I'm--" he sighs, and takes a sip. "Fuck if I know, honestly. Probably? But I don't know what that'd to do John, then. I don't exactly want to just drop him on the fucking curb like a- a-a feral fucking cat or something."

"You should take a moment, talk to the Admiral, see if you can get him deposited somewhere properly and your eyes, accordingly, restored. Despite what some people might say, there's nothing wrong with taking more than one deal from this place. Especially for people like you and I."

He finishes his drink and immediately goes to pour a bit more.

"Our worlds are shit. There's no benevolent fucking God making sure that good things happen for good people. Or even that if you say a prayer or sprinkle some holy water, something bloody awful has to stay outside. All there is is evil and madness and bullshit." He shakes his head ruefully. "It's the only non-devil's bargain we get."

He drinks pretty much from the moment Jon suggests getting rid of John, and clears most of the glass before the burn proves too harsh to finish it.

"Luckily I haven't believed in God since I was a child," he mutters bitterly. "The only good in the world is other people making efforts to create it, it's-- fuck me for being a walking fucking stereotype, but it's a good poem. It's the people, who- bring you out of your shell, care for you when there's nothing left of you to care about. Good food, good company, good intentions."

He stares at his glass, feeling the cool, smooth texture, and resists the urge to pitch it as hard as he can.

"But no matter how good they are, how hard they try, how- how much they fucking matter. Something always takes them."

Jon nods to what Arthur is saying; it's essentially his own belief, his own creed.

"'Take the universe and grind it down to the finest powder and sieve it through the finest sieve and then show me one atom of justice, one molecule of mercy.'"

He finishes his glass the-

"Takes them?'"

Edited 2023-02-03 06:54 (UTC)

He's silent for a few seconds, knuckles tight around his glass, before he lifts it and finishes the dregs.

"Everyone I have ever cared about has died," he says plainly. "And don't- give me some trite shit about hyperbole, I mean exactly what I said. My parents-" killed themselves "- Bella-" because of him. Faroe. "- even my last partner - Peter, Yang. That was our office. He's the one that got me into the whole investigation business to begin with."

And John killed him.

He puts the glass down, holding it steady with quiet expectation.

"I know there are entities out there, who can witness the entire stretch of my existence and- and pluck through the moments like stills on a film reel. I know I'm to meet one in the future, thanks to these new memories. And now-- I'm not certain, anymore, if these are all truly my own fault, or- or something larger, with its own unfathomable plans for me, enjoying my suffering."

Edited 2023-02-03 07:06 (UTC)

He makes a face at the mention of hyperbole; he wouldn't have dreamed of it, and he's the last person to tell anyone off for blaming themselves for things. No, no, he understands all too well.

"Someone once told me something, and I'm not telling you it because I agree, because I don't, fuck him, fuck him even if he's gone," and he doesn't explain who He is even if there's a swallow of something that isn't alcohol that says it's more than complicated. He shakes his head and downs a bit more liquid courage to bolster his own.

"But he told me, he told me back then, before I knew just how much he was the one making my life a horror show, he said 'You never wanted this, no. But you absolutely did choose it. In a hundred ways, at a hundred thresholds, you pressed on. You sought knowledge relentlessly, and you always chose to see. Our world is made of choices, Jon, and very rarely do we truly know what any of them mean, but we make them nonetheless.'"

He looks over at Arthur.

"And this fuck is the one who was using me, using my need to know, using my empathy, to put me into situations that made me what he needed, that fulfilled his needs. And that's- that's what they do, these fucking bastards, they- they find someone who'll do what they need, not because we're awful or terrible or hateful. But because we won't fucking give up. Because we're human. And they put us in- in a fucking Xanatos gambit where no matter what you do, no matter what turn you make as a pawn, it serves them. And it's your fault, yes, it's your fault, your hands with blood on them, your fucking- you pull the levers, sure, but it's also not your fucking fault because they've got eternity to find you and figure out how to set this shit going, like the worst bloody Rube Goldberg machine."

He finishes his drink.

Edited 2023-02-03 15:23 (UTC)

Arthur is still and silent as Jon speaks, knuckles white around his empty glass and mostly wondering if it's crass to just reach out and take the bottle.

It doesn’t matter what I say, Arthur. We both know that you’re going to pull it up.

You continually put yourself in a compromising position based on poor decisions. It’s not even a judgment, Arthur. It’s just a fact.

A dark look furrows his features.

"Not long before we arrived here, maybe- a few hours, at most. John and I found a hotel, in Leerie, that the King's followers were using as their meeting place. We thought it was abandoned, we snuck in and got seen by one of the cultists - but when he saw us, he just... smiled. And slit his own throat, looking John dead in the eye all the while."

He rocks his glass against the table, lifting it almost idly. "We stole his robes, his- fucking pallid mask as a disguise, before we were found by the seat's leader who took us to his office and... for lack of a better word, interviewed us."

He can still remember the man's voice intoning the questions, but his own is quick and dismissive, rushing through them. "'A woman lays dead before you, a second woman weeps by a fire. She holds an infant in her arms, she smiles at you and extends her arms out, offering you the infant. Do you take it?' 'A man asks for your help. He explains there are voices in his head that make him do terrible things. He asks if you hear them too. Do you tell him?'" And he sculls his new glass in one. "Recounting the actions we took, as if they were- preordained. That he couldn't possibly have known about, when we were alone the entire time, unless there was- something else telling him. Something driving us to the point where we could only have made it to this time, this place, here and now."

His scowl softens, and leaves just exhaustion in its wake.

"It made everything we did together feel so... so pointless."

Even before getting beneath the city, and learning the truth about John.

Jon is quiet for a moment as he pours another and when he's done, he leaves it resting against Arthur's hand again. He's not trying to hog it, after all.

"...when nothing you do matters, everything matters." A little more momentum. "It's not pointless, Lester, it's anything but pointless. Whoever that man was, whoever that infant was- it mattered to them. And to you. Probably to people you'll never even meet. I bet you're not counting all the people who won't be dead because you killed the thing that would have killed them."

He sips.

"You'll never know every story of every person your choices touched. And you'll never know if you're dancing to their tune or stepping off beat. Worrying about it? That way lies madness."

He sounds a little more sober.

"Help the people you can see. Try not to be too much of a bastard. Stay alive. Stay alive long enough to fuck them over."

He gulps down his drink, then hisses and coughs a little.

Edited 2023-02-03 23:25 (UTC)

The cough gets a faint smirk. "You sure you can keep up with me, Sims?"

He picks up the bottle, and with a little less care now he's several drinks in, tops up his own glass; to his credit, at least, he doesn't spill it.

"I killed him, anyway," he says flatly. "The man hearing voices. Kellin."

"Fuck off," is his ever-polite answer to the first. He tastes things so much more now, not to mention his nose. It's new.

But he knows how this game works.

"Was he trying to kill you or someone else at the time? Evidence of having a basement full of victims or something?"

"He looked as though he was going to lock me in his cellar, since he brought me down there at gunpoint after he refused to let me leave his truck when I asked for a lift."

He's not guilty about Kellin, at least.

"He was... damaged. Insane- but, when he asked me if I could hear voices, I- I said yes. When I told him I listen to mine, he left - and when we followed him, we saw him fish his sister's severed head out of a cage off the dock nearby. Kellin couldn't hear us, but she- t-the vanguard possessing her head, it could."

He gives a flat hum, and knocks most of his drink back. "And then Kellin stabbed me, so."

"Exactly," he says with a snort and a huff as he reaches over to pour out another drink. He'll take this one just a bit slower.

There's sympathy in his tone.

"I really do hate when they just stab you like that."

"Better or worse than stabbing yourself over the entire fucking affair?" he comments dryly, finishing the rest of his drink.

"Haven't done that precisely," he says honestly, "but I did volunteer my own ribs to be taken out. And walked into the Buried of my own bloody volition. We blew ourselves up.

"Six of one, half dozen of another. But yes, I hate it more when other people do it. The surprise certainly doesn't add to the experience."

"Yeah? Imagine my fucking surprise." He lets go of his glass, reaching for his left hand and tracing his pinky finger. Feeling it whole, the skin unmarred by the roots in his veins, knowing what he'll do to it...

"I will, though." His voice isn't pitying, or scared, or even resigned. It's just... a fact. "That's the fun part about knowing bits of the future, I expect. Preparing yourself for the worst."

He gives him a very flat look that's audible enough.

"You don't actually know that," he says mildly. "I lived through a future I know I've prevented during all that, not just once but twice. Two separate deals make that future impossible and yet there I was, walking around monstrous and terrible."

He huffs a little.

"You know a possible future. You've been warned. I won't pretend it can't happen; I know too well it certainly can. But it's hardly your irrevocable fate."

"You'd already sorted your shit out before being hit with what could have been," he snipes back readily. "You have already conquered your fucking fate, Sims, congratu-fucking-lations. Meanwhile I'm stuck facing down what will be if I can't make a fucking deal of this place. Because if the Admiral hadn't found us I would already be in the fucking Dreamlands, suffering under the King's hand. Breaking me to steal back a part of himself that doesn't want to return but cannot leave me."

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