contractuallybinding | (no subject)

Oh, oh is that how it's going?

"Would you say then, that you're entitled to Wisp's as well?"

Wisp's paper sure is sitting out on the table. And Wisp himself is still absent - though both men can dimly hear him rattling about outside, water sloshing as he fills a couple buckets.

Edited 2020-04-09 21:01 (UTC)

Fawn snorts derisively. "I don't think Wisp is quite as driven to secrecy as you are."

He picks up Wisp's statement between two fingers. "Are you sure? I imagine we all have a few skeletons in our closet." And folds this one as well.

Fawn jerks forward snatching for the paper. "Give that back! He's going to notice if you steal it. "

"Hold-" He hisses. The Bastard takes a step back, shoving it in his pocket, hurriedly. "I'm merely-" Fawn really only has a second to act here.

It's a second in which Fawn doesn't act. He freezes. That Bastard's thought has found it's way to Fawn - what exactly is he going to do?

Kill his team mate?

Without the pressure of the game, the notion that he might physically overpower Elias seems ludicrous. If Wisp doesn't notice his own is missing - it's not Fawn's problem.

And perhaps -

Perhaps That Bastard had a point.

And... the Bastard seems to relax at that. Intimidated? ... Yes, actually. Maybe a little.

It doesn't last long before that smug composure slithers back in.

"Done? Good. I'll give it to him if he asks."

"It would do him some good to be a bit.. more assertive, don't you think?"

Jon grimaces, but his fingers uncurl from their clench. It's annoying to agree with the Bastard on anything. "Magnanimous of you," he mutters as the door opens.

Wisp struggles with a pair of buckets, dragging them back over towards Fawn. And ... stops after a moment? Sensing some tension here.

"Wh - what happened while I was out?" he asks, looking between the two of them.

Edited 2020-04-10 00:01 (UTC)

"Just getting to know each other," the Bastard answers. He steps out of Wisps way, and settles to lean against the far wall, watching.

"Perhaps you should groom our scrappy one outside."

Wisp looks down at the buckets, than back up at Fawn. The terminology is ... terrible, but. Not wholly inaccurate?

"I - I suppose this would be less messy outside," he admits after a moment. "Er, if you want to, Fawn?"

He hasn't noticed that his paper is missing. Yet.

"I can bathe myself, thank you." the Bastard gets most of the glare; Fawn strides over to Wisp to take the buckets. The memory has thoroughly knocked him out of his initial fugue, and he's back to his normal self. He feels... restless, and less concerned about the blood, now, but there isn't anything else to do but bathe.

"Perhaps the two of you can spend some time bonding while I'm out."

There's a look of real fear on Wisp's face for a moment at the prospect of bonding any further with Bastard. But. He can't very well insist on - on bathing Fawn, good lord. So he just presses his lips shut and glares at Bastard, staring at --

His. Pocket. And the bits of paper poking out. "Wh - is that my memory? What are you doing with that?"

Damn. Faster than he'd anticipated.

"It seems Fawn had laid claim on it, having paid for it in blood, so to speak. Mine as well." He sidesteps lightly, after all, they haven't been ASKED for.

Now Wisp whirls towards Fawn, a little less high strung but still not particularly pleased. "That's not fair," he says. "It's - it's my memory, even if. Even if I wasn't helpful."

He's not going to argue even for a moment that he deserves it.

Fawn snatches for the bucket, sighing with irritation.. "I was going to see if it had anything useful in it, but I highly doubt that." Fawn makes a sharp, indicative gesture toward the Bastard and the statements. "By all means. I can always get it out of you later."

"How presumptuous," the Bastard purrs, casting a paternal smile at both of them. "Does that mean you didn't find your own useful? Or more of a character judgement."

Wisp, meanwhile, flushes a bit, not enjoying having his self-deprecation used against him. Or the insinuation (aimed at him or not) that he'll just have it pulled out later.

"Just - just let me have mine, thanks," he says stiffly, reaching to try and take a paper from the Bastard's pocket.

Fawn ignores Bastard except for one backward glare, snatching the water and leaving.

And Fawn's sloshy, huffy exit is enough of a distraction that the Bastard doesn't react quickly enough to stop Wisp. Though, really, he's a bit surprised Wisp had that much initiative.

He quickly checks his pocket to make sure HIS memory is still there.

Already underestimating Wisp, Bastard? You might regret that one day.

But - this time, Wisp has only taken one paper, because he's a nice person, so there's one left for the Bastard to still take. Wisp himself backs up a few paces, still glaring at the Bastard for taking it to begin with. "Right then," he says, looking down at his page with a huff. "Let's get this over with before you steal it again."

And he reads through the statement, memories flooding back ... but instead of the memory he should have gotten (which involved a lively round of baked goods with the other newly "promoted" Archival assistants), he sees something different.

Whether Martin read it out loud or not, it is a very different memory that floods him, real as he reads over the following words:

The Statement of an Unknown Man extracted directly from the subject, recorded ??????, committed to memory by the Blank named ~~Bastard~~ Wisp, Day 1 of Cycle ?????, North Block. Regarding a timely attack.

I take it all in.

It is such a crucial point that it would be foolish not to savor it just a little. These indulgences are so rare, so precious. In a few moments, I will know if my choice was well founded or not. A high stakes gamble I've made with myself, though at this stage, I can hardly lose dearly. I have nothing but time.

I watch her first. She's sluggish and weak under my gaze. She knows I am studying her, and her hate screams through each one of the bulbous white worms, larva promising only ruin. As far as tests went, she was ... perfect.

That was one of the ... joys... of the Corruption, I suppose. They didn't plan, didn't wait, didn't have much cunning. Oh, they could overwhelm if they went unchecked, and they thrived in ignorance, like my Archivist. [The feeling here is warm, possessive.] But all in all? They thought of little other than the primal, basic art of feeding and breeding.

Given my Archivist has chosen to wrap himself in the very sustenance of denial, blinded himself at every turn... it was no wonder, they wrapped him up with such vigor. I hold my hand on the very device that will save him, though not yet.

Not as their mouths chew into his skin, shrieking their victory in voices too small, too insignificant to be heart. Not as they wriggle deeper, while he chokes and thrashes. His terror, his heartfelt, mortal panic only encourages them, and they would, if they could, make him into a bed for thousands and millions of eggs. A thriving ground for all of the children, chewing at his brain delicately, jerking him around like a puppet, just enough in him to know how doomed he is. That it is bad, and to know it was only going to get worse.

But they can't have him.

The gas floods the rooms, and their shrieks of joy became ones of death and suffering.

He's mine.

Oh. Oh god. Wisp doesn't quite read it fully, but his lips move, and the knowledge pours into his head like it was always meant to be there. He remembers standing at the button, remembers somehow - somehow seeing what's going on despite not being nearly close enough to know what Fawn (the Archivist?) is doing. He recalls, dimly, paying a hint of attention to another man with him (Thomas? Terry?) but nothing else.

Just ... Fawn. Fawn with his spots. Spots that Wisp now recognises as worm holes, which only exist because he waited a moment too long to kill them - because he wanted them to hurt Fawn --

Wisp drops the paper with a strangled sob, shuddering. (He's mine, the statement continues to whisper in his head.)

Watching it was an experience... Martin's expressions twisting over the memory, the movement of his lips and words he can't make out.

"Wisp?" It's not the tone of concern, but burning, intolerable curiosity. "That seemed ... different."