contractuallybinding | (no subject)

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."

Wisp stumbles back against the table, one hand clapping over his mouth. A sharp headshake, though it's more traumatised than angry; he's not going to indulge Bastard's curiosity unless forced.

"It - it was - terrible," he manages after a moment, shoulders still shaking. "I did something terrible."

He's a humane and understanding person. He'll try nicely first.

"And that thing was?"

Wisp shakes his head even harder. "I - I don't want to talk about it." But his gaze trails towards the door where Fawn just left.

Gosh what if I just. Step into that space, between Wisp and his curiously lingering stare.

"Might I read it, then?"

Wisp's face jerks up at that unhappily. Clearly, it had something to do with Fawn. "N - no," he says, trying to stare him down. "I'd rather no one else know, please."

Clearly. And Fawn was certainly going to ask, if not pull it from Wisp at some point. This? This might benefit from some patience.

He spreads his hands wide, plastering an amenable expression on his face. And he steps back aside, with a sweep of his arm towards the door and their brilliantly snappish dormmate. "Very well," And then... goes to one of the small chairs in the common room??? Leaving him unbothered and unforced??? "Since you asked so nicely."

What. WHAT. That was not what Wisp had expected? He had been so sure that a compulsion had been coming that he'd nearly strained a muscle in his neck bracing for it. And then it simply ... doesn't come? He just stares at the Bastard for a moment, trying to figure out what just happened.

"I - well - thank you," he says, still flabbergasted. "Aren't you going to take yours?"

"Quite welcome," that Bastard answers, politely. He pulls his own out of his pocket and turns it over. Which would it be, he wonders. There's a great deal he doesn't know of his life. The snake of trauma or a morsel of a world rich and apart from this one.

Well.. he does want to know. And frankly, if Wisp is going to try to kill him while distracted, it would be good to find out early.

"Who I am is still a mystery, isn't it? Well. Here's to clarity." He unfolds it and begins to read.

Wisp settles in to watch him, cursing his own curiosity, which will surely result in Bastard insisting that Wisp tell him about his own memory. But ... he is curious, and if he does see some hint, well. He'll take it.

As for the Bastard, he gets the following words:

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

We had a ritual, you know? A - a rather nice one, or at least I thought it was. Started because we'd all been moved to the new Archivist and all had crap hours as a result. Plus, you know. New boss, bit of a bear, pretty dedicated to that whole "I'm in charge so I'm going to make sure you remember it" sort of thing. I really think it's nerves. Sasha said he was just a dick, but...

And the statement continues to describe the aforementioned ritual: getting up terrifically early to cook scones. The flat around him is small and frankly a bit shit, but it has an oven, and Bastard gets a very intimate knowledge of exactly how to cook scones properly, down to which flavours pair together well with which teas. The statement lingers for a bit on this tangent, then continues onto the workplace itself.

They make their little baked goods camp in what appears to be an Archive. Soon enough, he's joined by a (much hotter) guy complaining about the shit chairs in here, as well as a woman about his own age who makes grumbling comments about being assigned to the exact position she was turned down for. All three of them are content to pass around baked goods and complain about said who is this grossly incompetent weirdo who sent you, like, five times on the last statement because he didn’t get enough information each time. Tim (the hot one) is sure that (Jon) is just a masochist that gets off on making you go back for increasingly obscure factoids. Sasha thinks Jon's trying to throw his weight because he's insecure. And you ... are pretty sure that Jon doesn't actually know what he's doing or what he wants, but you feel something bright blooming in your chest anyway. A determination to do all you can to help him succeed. That's normal feelings towards a boss, right?

They have to hush quickly as the man himself walks by, though there wasn't really any need: (Jon) is thoroughly distracted by the files in his hands, glowering down at them. He looks different from Fawn: hardly any gray (if any) in his hair, no worm scars, no burn scars. Generally better put together too. You watch him pass, trying to suppress the small amount of heat rising to your cheeks.

... It was nice. To - to have those friendships. I really miss them.

End statement.

It must be interesting to watch him. The fascination bridges into an earnestness that seems foreign on the man's face. Something of the edges around him ease a little as his posture droops, and his expression finds some fondness, if not a little longing.

It's hard to tell when he's done. Perhaps because the tangent about scones took quite some time to read, given how many paragraphs they involved, but he ends up staring down at the words, just... processing the answer to the question he'd had.

How long ago was it? Long enough for Fawn to go grey. That he was just... a new employee. So... open. Nervous, feeling in over his head. It seemed... remote. Far from how he felt now... and yet. Is it nostalgic to just learn it again?

But he'd certainly just relived it, it settled into his mind as if had always been there, an anchor to base the world upon.

His fingers find his own cheeks, still flush from that blossoming of affection, a determination to be of... assistance. Quaint. Irrelevant. Useless, beyond all else. Still.. it. Lingers.

Well, to one's own self be true.

He finds his own gaze slipping back to the doorway beyond Wisp, contemplative.

Wisp watches all of that with fascination, nearly entranced - only really startled when Bastard comes back out of it and looks ... right at Wisp. Oops.

"What - what was it?" he asks quietly, knowing damn well he has no right to. He's still curious. Especially given that ... blush? Why the hell would this Bastard blush.

Likely a horrifying, nefarious plot. That's the only real explanation. His gaze sharpens on Wisp and the Bastard raises a single perfectly arched brow.

"I don't believe you are entitled to that," he returns, folding his hands primly. "Unless you've a change of heart..."

Wisp flushes at that, not surprised, of course, but ... Frustrated with himself, honestly. "Fine. Fine. Tell me one thing about your memory and I'll tell you one thing about mine."

"Ah, now that's the spirit, my lad." The Bastard smiles at him and holds up one finger. "I believe we should talk equivalency, first."

"Fine," he spits back. "What sort of rules are you thinking, then."

"Oh, simple enough. It would be such a shame to have a memory of great import matched with a feeble detail, like a statement such as 'I was wearing a nice warm coat that day.' Wouldn't you agree?"

He spreads his hands. "Not that I would think any of us would consider slighting each other."

The Bastard carefully folds his statement, arranging the creases to square to the edges perfectly. "But if one does, I believe something would be owed."

Wisp colours at that, but - well, he doesn't want to get shorted either. So it's not the worst point Bastard could make.

"Agreed," he says, arms folded over his chest. "Something - something relevant and descriptive."

"So. How much do you want to know about mine?"

Wisp thinks of a number of questions he could ask. Practical ones, like who he saw, or what he was doing, but -

"Why were you blushing?" he blurts out instead.

"Ah, a specific detail. That is easy enough."

He looks Wisp straight in the eyes, with absolutely no hesitation or embarrassment. "Apparently, in my other life, I was quite keen on our Fawn." Though he presses a hand over his heart, mockingly, he... does cut an ever-so-brief speculative glance back towards the door.

"Well, specific detail for specific detail." He's quick to sink his teeth back in "What was the terrible thing you did?"

Incredible. He regrets this already. He - he shouldn't care what feelings anyone else has about Fawn, given he barely knows the man, but - his memory surges up like bile in his throat. He's mine, it whispers, with all the thrill and power and horror of truly feeling entitled to another person. (He can't see how it's real, given how little power he has in this dynamic. And yet ...)

He flushes, deeply.

"That's an obvious lie," Wisp snaps, not answering Bastard's question just yet. "You're entirely too old for him."