epidemiology | EVENT ★ BACK TO THE FUTURE

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EVENT ★ BACK TO THE FUTURE

BENDED TIME

As outlined in the OOC post, things start to slow down and grow quiet in Oska for a few days as the bugs crawl away and slowly disappear. But then the cocoons hatch. Fully grown temporal insects claw their way out of them, each about the size and temperament of raging bulls.

They come out far more aggressive and eager to fight, are are willing to take on anything that moves with jaws and claws alike. Except, of course, another insect — when two of them encounter each other, they enter into a mating dance and then slip away into another dimension, leaving behind only the temporary ghosts of years gone by. If you can’t find a way to pierce that thick shell to take one down, better find another one to pair it off with instead. Just try not to get bit while leading them around and find yourself suddenly 5 years old again.

The insects aren’t the only thing going on in Oska, though. As it turns out, unicorns really hate this adult form of the temporal insects, and will start kicking their way out of their stalls in the stables to get at the insects in an attempt to impale or trample them. According to Uruz they’re gallant warriors, but not always quite cut out to take on a bug, and can easily get themselves hurt or killed. She would really appreciate recruits taking a moment to recapture any stray unicorns they may come across and leading them back to the stables. Try to avoid any insects on the way, or you’ll find yourself suddenly fighting insect and irate unicorn, which is no one’s idea of a good time.

The lake is getting more active, too. All the fighting has woken up something in the depths of it. Dark red tentacles sometimes creep up onto shore — and don’t worry, this time they don’t belong to a sea goddess. The tentacles don’t attack unless attacked, and can in fact be quite agreeable. Nodes along the length of them act as primitive eyes, which see well enough to interact with anyone nearby. They’re also all a little peckish. Toss a tentacle a bit of food and watch it curl around and ingest it using tiny mouths on the underside. It might even be willing to play a few rounds of fetch or slap a bug into the sky for you if you put it in a good mood with a morsel of food.

The senior ALASTAIR members can be seen out and about and doing their part, too. Uruz and Dagny fight as a team, centaur and elf, sometimes fighting back to back and sometimes as mount and rider. They’ll stop and lend a hand, but the cats are a little less generous. Cherenkov and Crowley fight inseparably and use magic and science in deadly combination to ward off and destroy the bugs, but can usually only be seen darting on their way from one place to another. They have a lot of magitek to repair in the destructive wake of the insects. Pomarr, neither as senior nor as invested in actively picking off the bugs, offers shelter near a tentacle-free portion of the lake, calling down storms to toss away bugs for her and anyone in the vicinity.

OOC NOTES

This log spans a week ICly. Characters will find themselves beginning to understand each other again as the bugs first vanish, as the effects of the cats’ work on the magitek pays off. The translation problem will be completely fixed by the time the cocoons hatch. All of the bugs will have been killed or shipped off by the sixth day, leaving the last day before their departure to the next mission blissfully relaxing. Any temporally misplaced recruits will be back to normal by the last day, as well.

A reminder to anyone still texting: the texting feature of magitek jewelry operates based on thought! There are no physical keyboards, recruits merely think the message that they’d like to send to another recruit.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Unfortunately for Ramir, being unlikely to run into too many of the people she knew here in the library doesn't mean she's unlikely to run into any of them.

It's disgustingly late at night, for all consistent reckoning of time really means to anyone at the moment. Still, the castle does manage to be a little quieter. Probably because those who aren't currently occupied with exterminating the infestation are out finding somewhere bug-free to sleep until the sun comes back. The sensible thing to do, if you're not prone to being both nocturnal and hyperproductive with the proper motivation. Which Jason certainly is. Losing hours to bug bites is more than reason enough to get to the bottom of this mess. (Even moreso when you come back with scraps of fuzzy memory and a feeling of vague dread about what they might entail if he could just get a better hold on them. At least the general chaos means that people won't be entirely concerned about sussing out a kid in a mask.)

And step one is always to know your enemy.

It's been an eventful week, and he's been digging around the archives for a while for some Bug Background, and even the experienced nocturnal types can get tired. He'd ducked out for a brief break, and by the time he's wandering back in to work—steaming mug of coffee in one hand and a list of crossed out reference numbers in the other—there's someone else in the aisles, back to him, examining the spines of the books.

No one he knows, from the silhouette. (But then, that's a hard judgment to make lightly, right now.)

He sets his notes down on a table so he can lean against it, both hands wrapped around his cup of joe. By way of a hello—]

Really makes you miss the ol' Dewey Decimal system, y'know? [Where's a Batcomputer when you need one.] But I think I'm getting the hang of it.

[This would probably be easier without navigating alien ideas of reference organization. Lucky he's always been a quick study.]

[ One book in particular had just caught her interest, but she freezes mid-reach at the sound of — of Jason's voice. God. There's a voice she knows. There's no way she could ever forget it, in fact.

She carries out the reach, moving slowly and methodically as her mind races. He clearly doesn't recognize her. This encounter would probably already involve weapons if he had. So he's — he's young too, isn't he? He belongs to this timeline, he wasn't thrown back into it like she was. He's from before... everything, honestly. What had they even been through together at this point? A few monsters, maybe. Almost nothing.

This could be a chance, some part of her mind whispers. It might be too late for her, but with just the quick snap of a neck, she'd save this timeline's Ramir a whole lot of grief in the future.

She turns to face him with the book held at her side, face carefully blank. A little too blank, if he doesn't recognize her, no one meets someone else so neutrally — and a lot too blank, if he does recognize her. It's a rare thing that Ramir ever tucks away emotions, even now. ]

It's size. [ She watches him carefully as she speaks, tone just as carefully impassive as her face. ] It's supposed to be size. Subject, then size. They get out of order sometimes.

[She turns. (And for a split second, he thinks—inanely—of Talia. Just for a second.) But then he gets a real look at her. She answers him, carefully, and he listens with half an ear—because really, it's not the reference system that really matters, anymore. He's not necessarily the biggest brain to ever wear the big yellow R, but he still learned his lessons from the world's greatest detective. And he learned them pretty damn well.

Besides, you don't need to be Batman to put two and two into a timeskip, this week.

Ah. Well. Jason blinks as the realization pings in, brows jumping up toward his hairline, shoulders dipping slack before squaring back up. He's quiet for a second. Settles back against the table to sit. Feet crossed at the ankle, coffee held in both hands between his knees, head canted back at her to take a longer look. Cataloging what's different—decades different, if he's not wrong—against what's the same. (Shifting through the cold thrill of apprehension climbing its way up his spine, the alarm bells of uncharitable and wordless caution that come from the off-tempo evenness of the answer. The way she's looking at him like he might bite her if she gets too close—or, y'know. Vice versa. It's not too obvious. Most people probably wouldn't notice. That's sure different.)

There's plenty of space between them, still. Plenty, and almost none at all. He doesn't move to close it, or to widen the gap. Too soon for that. He just eases his fingers out from around his coffee and moves to set it down on the table beside him. Slow and deliberate, just like his answer.]

Well, that does seem to be going around.

[Getting out of order.]

[ Ramir stands squarely, solid in the way she always had been, but with the grace of self-assured complete confidence that she'd only been beginning to build when she'd met Jason. She doesn't so much as shift her weight uncomfortably.

This isn't the man she knows. She's aware of that. To hate him would be unfair, he hasn't committed any of the sins that make her stomach feels taut and heavy under the weight of her hatred for him, of all the years of it — but that isn't stopping her heart. ]

How old are you, Jason?

[ It's out suddenly, with a slight sharp edge to it. She has to say something. She can tell he's recognized her, a few years and a style change wouldn't cloud her very much. And more than that, she's certain he's read her reaction by now too. He always could, no matter how well she guarded it; he's always been keenly observant and sharply intelligent. She used to love that, until it was turned against her. ]

[Her carefully constructed neutrality drains away in favor of holding her ground with conviction, picking up sharp edges. Not hostile like holding a gun to his head—not that she'd need one, of course—but he's not stupid enough to kid himself about what that means. As realizations go, it settles in a slow and bitter burn under his breath. A kick in the teeth that tastes like sick and acidic vindication. Isn't that always the kicker. That other shoe waiting to drop.

(Stupid of him to be so surprised by it, really. Words are cheap. Hadn't she said that to him, once?)

The quiet in the wake of her question lasts just long enough to feel tense. If she'd been expecting a straight answer right away, she doesn't remember him very well at all. Then the corners of his mouth cant up, crooked and wry. He spreads his hands out in front of him, as if to let her get a proper look at him. Gloves off, fingers empty. Harmless, right?]

Wow, not even a hello before the personal questions, huh. Should I be flattered or concerned that you have to ask?

[Hey, maybe he just ages that well. One more parting gift from the Lazarus Pit. Hah.]

Or has it just been that long?

[Not like he's planning on sticking around in ALASTAIR for years on end if he can help it. Too much unfinished business back in Gotham.]

[ For a second there's a quick twinge of irritation in her otherwise composed face, but it doesn't stay long. In a second it's a smile, muted and faint, as she dips her head for a quick huff of a laugh. ]

I forgot you were always like that.

[ The cagiest man she's ever known. She starts forward toward him, steps slow and measured, gaze back on him again. ]

It hasn't been as long as I might hope it'd been, actually. You pop up a little too often. [ If he doesn't move, she'll come to a stop right in front of him. Not close enough to do anything like cut off a retreat, but well within a space bubble. ] Things got... complicated. You probably picked up on that already.

[The aggravation, he expects. As much as he can expect anything from this Ramir—part friend and part stranger. An unknown quantity in familiar skins. He'd pushed a little for the reaction, in no small part to see what would happen of he did. Some petty and contrary sense of spite borne entirely from the caustic way she's been looking at him. It's the smile that surprises him again. Quiet and small in a way she rarely is.

He watches her move with a sharp eye, but doesn't yet stand. Feet uncrossing so he can plant them, palms braced against the edge of his seat, but weight still settled down against the table. He has space to move, if he needs it. She stops just shy of too close for it. Is that courtesy, or oversight?

(This close, he can see there's a scar under her eye. Makes him wonder how she got it.)]

Plenty of library for both of us. [So, a decade or so and he's still kicking around in space. Turning up like a bad penny. Theoretically.] Would you rather I came back later?

[Not that he's offering. Just asking.]

No.

[ The last thing she wants is for him to leave, it's about time she admits it to herself. It's been so long since she'd seen his eyes on hers so... calmly. He may be wary now, but he's empty of the hate she'd come to expect in every snatched glance. They don't see eye-to-eye much, literally or metaphorically. Too busy trying to find ways to hurt each other. Her own anger feels a little lost with nothing to feed it, and finishes draining away. The sadness under that, always present under that, remains.

Her face shifts again, any remnant of the smile fading away. She'd been caught off guard by the initial sight of him, and sealed away her generally open expressions, but now she's beginning to settle into a course. There's no need for the professional mask, and regret comes to bear plainly over her face.

She's not going to kill him. She honestly couldn't if she tried. ]

You're so fucking young. [ She lifts a hand, aimed for a gentle brush against his cheek. ] God, you've only known me for — what, three years? Two?

[His fingers twitch on the table when she reaches out. Chin lifting on reflex, eyes narrow. Not just because if she moves too fast or pushes too far, she could break his jaw. Snap his neck. Cave his skull into his brainpan. (And that's always been true, but it hadn't yet actively crossed the boarder into a threat.) Just for that, it would be tempting to be the one to blink first. Fold and flinch away. Grab her wrist to stop it—as if it would matter, if she really wanted to push past it.

But as shifts in tone go, this isn't a subtle one. The honesty is, by default, a more familiar look on her than the careful composure—and it makes his teeth itch even more. At least the implied hostility made it easier to know where they stand. Without it, this is not a situation he has very much control over. He's playing Ghost of Christmas Past, but she's got all the cards.

He doesn't need to know what they say to figure that slow, sad look isn't really meant for him.

And that's the real straw that has him sitting back, shying just out of reach. He doesn't take his eyes off her for a second. It shouldn't be that strange on its own right—she's always been a touchy girl. But like the easy confidence and the scar under her eye, the gesture is just off book enough to add up to someone else entirely.]

Six months.

[More or less. Maybe if it had been years, he'd have a better idea how to navigate this. Ramir as he knows her is a friend—he's at least admitted that much to himself by now. He certainly hadn't made it very easy for her. Can he claim to know her well enough to predict her this far down the line? That's not a leap he's ready to put money on.]

[ It doesn't really surprise her, that he draws back. Of course he would. He doesn't know yet to make of her, but he is aware of her capabilities. Still, though, it's been a long, long time since she'd been in a place to be reaching out to him that he wouldn't allow it. It doesn't surprise her, but it does still sting.

Her hand hovers for a moment, then falls slowly back to her side. It may sting, but she has the grace these days to accept it. ]

Six months. [ She repeats it with a small, wistful smile. Even younger than she thought. No wonder he'd pull back. ] Looks like you've got a ways to go.

[ She's been strongly opposed to dropping any hints that could get back to her younger self, who she's sure will be replacing her again at some point — but there has to be something she could say to Jason. Anything to prevent an ugly turn five years ago — fifteen years ahead, for him. Killing him isn't an option, and really, she's not sure the bad turn outweighs all the good years. But there has to be another alternative. Her brow pulls into a small frown, unhappy and thinking fast. ]

Mind if I take a seat?

Suppose it does.

[Look that way. Maybe it's just the Gotham skeptic in him, but he's not banking on following any timespace script as a matter of course. Really calls the whole free will thing into question, otherwise. (But then, isn't the whole purpose of this organization to subvert timelines they don't find to be acceptable? Not as uncommon as you'd think, maybe.) Given all the metaphysical nonsense surrounding alternate earths, different timelines—the known multiverse is a much bigger place than it used to be. Makes it hard to keep it all straight.

Still, there's right now to worry about. And you never know what might come in handy one day.

It's not lost on him that she's making a point of giving him the chance to say "yes, as it turns out I mind a hell of a lot." It's also not lost on him that she's got something eating at her behind that frown. Only one way to find out what.

He picks his coffee up off the table as if to free up the space for her. Then, as if in afterthought, he hooks a foot around the leg of the nearest chair so he can tug it over and pull it out for her. The Ramir he knows wouldn't have any problem hopping up next to him on the furnishings instead of taking a proper seat. But that is a very nice dress to be being unladylike in.]

Plenty of library for both of us. [Isn't that what he said? A little more incisively—] I'm sure hopping back a decade or two really takes it out of you.

[It's rude to ask a lady her age. But go on and tell him how far off the mark he is.]

[ It's nice of Jason to offer out the chair, but she steps forward only to push it back into its place under the table. It is a nice dress, and she has 30 more nice ones at home if anything happens to it. She hops up onto the table next to him, not quite shoulder to shoulder, but very close. She gives him a couple inches of grace.

She's still considering her personal dilemma, but in the meantime she obliges, distractedly: ] You said six months? I was... 19, then. Two decades exactly.

[ You know, just in case he was wondering. ]

[Despite himself, he cracks a wry smile when she foregoes propriety to hop up beside him. (The more things change, et cetera.) Probably for the best that the grace inches are there, but he's doing a good job of not looking too tense. He wraps his hands around his mug again, balanced on his knee, and finally remembers to take a sip of it while she does the math.

Two whole decades.]

That's a long time to be in service.

[To ALASTAIR, that is. Unless, of course, she wasn't. Since she's looking preoccupied, he'll keep on with the leading questions thing while he's getting bandwidth out of it.]

[ Ramir holds the book she'd pulled from the shelf in her lap — something on the basics of casting geological magic. All the knowledge of the multiverses, and she'd gone for rocks. She keeps her eyes on it, although it's not what she's looking at. ]

I only spent five years with ALASTAIR before they determined I'd earned enough energy, or whatever it was. Then I asked you to come back with me. [ Her finger slides along the spine of the book, idly thoughtful. ] I used to say that was the mistake.

[ She'd thought so for a long time, too. It's only the last ten minutes that have made her question that — the reminder of the Jason she'd invited back with her. She'd loved him as much as she did for a reason, after all. ]

[Well, looks like Lloyd's a man of his word after all. That's still some timeframe. Less than actual decades, at least, though she still catches him visibly off guard with the rest. Too busy fidgeting with her book to catch it, maybe, but his fingers freeze on his mug. His brow furrows. I asked you to come back with me. Carefully—]

Didn't realize that was an option.

[It surprises him, almost as much as the implication that he'd apparently accepted it. That, he doesn't actually understand at all. He can see where it might be tempting to someone in his particular position—legally dead, almost no real ties save for the kind that are complicated and painful. Getting a fresh start on a whole new plane of reality. But he's not the type for fresh starts. Got too much baggage and too much unfinished business, and he never was much of a quitter. Did he just give up? Throw in the towel? Doesn't feel likely on its own.

It's almost beside the point, really. The fact is, it seems to have happened somewhere, unless he's reading this very wrong. And clearly, if the past ten minutes are any indication, she'd regretted it bitterly. His jaw locks the way it always does when he's kneejerking to defensive, bracing for the worst. He won't apologize. He won't even ask for details—he very much doubts he'll find out what happened unless she's planning on volunteering it on her own. But when she leaves it like that, the rest just asks itself.]

And what would you say now?

[ That's the question, isn't it? What would she say now? These aren't feelings she's questioned for at least a few years, going back to reexamine them now and look past the deep-seated anger is a challenge. There is no readily apparent answer — and certainly not one she'd share so easily.

But then again... these hops through time are temporary, she's had that proven for her already. What harm is there in opening a little more to as Jason that she won't be staying with? And he used to be such a good confidant... it she reaches deeply enough, it's still second nature to think through her process out loud to him.

She closes her eyes and starts with an admission: ] I'm not sure.

[ She can do better than that, though. It takes her a few seconds of silence, but she does press on. ]

I think I would say that I've realized I miss an old friend. I would question if pride and principle are worth the loss of him. [ A little lower: ] I would wonder if I can even get him back.

[If nothing else, he's a good listener—maybe some karmic balance for the fact that he's so bad at sharing, so much of the time. Or maybe just because it's good occupational practice. Helps that the lack of context is really doing a number on his ability to have any control over this situation. The hints she drops are enough to start sketching in the barest ideas of what's in play. Complicated, in the bad blood kind of way. Pride, and principle. Doesn't it always come down to that.

It's a strange dissonant feeling. Being utterly removed from the situation and deeply entrenched at the same time. Out of step and uninvolved and integral, and trying to get an handle on it only makes it that much harder remove himself. It would be easier to be objective, maybe, if the looming idea of it didn't up and confirm a lot of his more uncharitable doubts. (Hardwired insecurities, hard learned lessons.) Didn't strike out of the blue at so many still open wounds. Get burned often enough and you stop looking for trouble by opening yourself up to it. But sometimes, it's just the kind of thing that creeps up on you. (And maybe he'd let it, because some part of him is still starved of the novel idea that someone might just give a damn about him after all.)

Never enough for principle, though, is it. He is hyperaware enough of the sharp sting of betrayal to feel it start to cut through timelines. Rationally. Irrationally. He breathes out in a scoff, sharp and bitter. Then he sets his mug down on the table and pushes himself off to stand. Movement brisk, posture pulling tighter of its own accord. Those grace inches she left him don't feel like very much, all of a sudden.]

I think asking me is looking for an easy way out.

[Easy way out, because he's ostensibly the same man, but he's got none of the cards, and she's not yet wronged him, right. (Or vice versa.) So he can absolve her. Better yet, he can tell her no, it's impossible, and take the need for a decision or a course of action out of her hands entirely. No muss. This is not a kind response, but he's not really a very kind guy. When he's feeling backed into a corner, his first instinct is always to bite back.]

Sure you really know what it is you think you're missing?

[That she can see him as he was and regret is one thing. (And it rings bittersweet and hollow through his foundations, despite himself.) But twenty years is a long time. If she really needs him to tell her what's worth more to her, maybe she's got her answer already.]

[ He pulls away, prickly and offended like a splashed cat, and Ramir almost cries. She's even missed that. These days he wouldn't try a move like that without a weapon involved — although he's smarter than to waste time trying most of them on her. At the very least, his offense hasn't been nonviolent for years. This is a nice callback.

She even laughs, quiet and mostly under her breath, and the smile she turns on him is nostalgic and deeply warm. She isn't seeing Jason at all, of course. Not this one. She's seeing years of memories he can't imagine, retracing a dozen golden moments she'd give most anything to relive. They all show plainly in that incongruously pleased look. ]

Yeah, I know. [ She lets out a long, slow breath, and lifts a hand to brush through her hair from her forehead. Her old nervous gesture, slower and more deliberate as it pulls through much more hair. ] I'm not asking you, but you're still helping me. I guess it's the least you can do, after all the fucking grief you've put me through.

[ Even that is out more teasing than bitter, which is something of a new leaf for her. It feels nice. ]

[At least one of them is enjoying this. It's not the kind of rise he'd been angling to get out of her. Does the fond tone make it better or worse? Worse, probably, because kneejerking to defensive means jumping to the parts of him that can be contrary and spiteful. She's got the upper hand, leading him around by the nose, and there's something about the gap it leaves that he hates. That he can't get a handle on her—and more and more he's not even sure what he wants from her, and being aimless is not a thing he's very good at. (Besides his ground back. Or a more familiar version of her here instead, and even that is feeling sort of debatable at the moment. If he was smart, he would have nipped this in the bud already.) Or maybe it's just that he can't know what she's seeing behind that soft look—but much like the animosity and the remorse, it's clear enough that she's looking right through him to someone else.

He grinds his teeth through a violent uptick of irrational and unavoidable frustration that further muddies his rationale. Chokes on it, paces just far enough away to let it settle.]

Hope you're not holding out for an apology.

[She's not going to get one. Not for something he hasn't had the chance to do, that he doesn't even know the extent of. (Doubly not for something he did for a reason, and he very much doubts he'd cause her that much grief on a whim.) And she probably doesn't have all night to wait around for it.]

[ As she watches Jason she's aware, in the back of her mind, that she's probably not going to make things very pleasant for the version of her that should be returning to all this. There's a little guilt for that. But really, what can she do? She's already gained from this interaction, and isn't that the important part? A younger Ramir will have years to smooth over anything that spikes up between them due to this. ]

Not really. Not from you.

[ She shrugs, and drops her hand again with one last sweep of her hair back from her shoulders. She studies him for a few moments more, the smile fading out again. ]

I've been trying to keep things out of the ears of the me that lives here, but I think you've already gleaned enough to raise a few concerns no matter what I hold back. So, I'll answer three questions for you, if you have them.

[ A generous offer, she feels. And she used to be so honest with him, didn't she? It feels fitting to make it. ]

[She's throwing him a bone. Generous of her. He stops pacing to face her, canting his head back to watch the smile fade off her face. What happens in alternate timelines and alternate Earths isn't really your problem, probably. Still, knowing where the line gets drawn is tricky business. Does she think he's going to rat her out and fuck up the course of spacetime? Or worse, get a head start and undermine her from here? The best way to keep information from getting to the wrong ears is to make sure it isn't out there at all. But here she is indulging him.

There's a pressing temptation to walk away without indulging her back. Not as pressing as the sliver of opportunity to fill in the blanks. Assuming, of course, she's being straight with him. (She used to be.)]

But no wishing for more wishes. [Three whole questions to cover twenty years of it got complicated. He doesn't pause to see if that particular reference registers—not the time or place for a running cultural tally.] Okay. Sure. Why don't we start at the top.

[He's simmered a bit, regained just enough of his balance to get back on the level. But there's a hard edge on him that isn't usually directed at her. Not at this point in time. Number one—]

What's waiting for you at home? Once you're done taking a walk down memory lane.

[Not the first question one might expect him to jump to. (Not 'what happened' or 'why.') Always helps to have some context before making any big moves. (Just whose side is he potentially being a thorn in?)]

[ She'd almost expected him to spurn the offer and stalk away. But even this long ago, he has better manners than her most recent memories of him. The Jason she knows doesn't bother with these little games anymore. She's already running a dozen potential plans through her mind for getting through to him; the first challenge, as ever, being finding him at all. Ever the cagey, slippery frustration.

But his question, which really doesn't surprise her too much, deserves some solidity in its answer. He's always been handy with the detective work, which involves knowing what questions to ask. A smile plays briefly around the corners of her lips, but fades out again more quickly this time. ]

A hundred little things to do. [ She says it with a sigh, a touch theatrical, definitely exaggerated. She wouldn't have built this life for herself if she didn't love it. ] And fifty big things. I don't hold the whole city, that'd be a bit much, but I have my modest little corners to keep running. And the sooner I get back to it the better, really. As much as I love mine — a collection of almost no one you'd know — you just have to do things yourself to have them done right.

[ Solid as intended, she decides. None of the details, those won't benefit anyone, but a rough sketch. With none of the rolls filled in, of course. He'd asked what, she's not answering two questions for the price of one. ]

[There we go. A little more to go on, put together with what he knows of her—and of the person she'd looked up to the most. He grew up in Gotham, he doesn't need to break out the detective work to put together what she likely means by holding the city.

He takes a beat to chew on it. But not long enough to let the conversation lull. Deliberately—]

Sounds like you're selling yourself short. [Of course, that's just guessing.] I don't think I've ever seen you do modest.

[Not a question, but fishing nonetheless. Indirectly egging her into giving more away on her own. Can't blame him for trying it.]

[ It isn't a question, so it's not part of the agreement. Ramir just quirks a smile, watching him evenly. ]

There's a lot you haven't seen me do.

[ Because, as previously established, this Jason is so young. It's almost bewildering how much he hasn't seen yet. And in any case the bait isn't a very tempting lure to her these days. She knows the extent of her accomplishments and prowess, and while there's a time and a place for bragging, this isn't it. She gestures a vague wave of one hand, because generous gesticulation has never and probably will never left her habits. ]

Unless there was a question in there that you forgot to make a question, we're ready for number two.

[No dice, which only really helps hammer back how far removed they are from each other. Temporally—or otherwise. Swallowing his agitation (and his stupid irrational hurt and his stupid screwed up head) is a learned skill—and not one he's ever been very good at, at length. It makes him stupid, and sloppy, he knows. He's mitigated it, worked around it, worked with it to weaponize it. But that doesn't make it go away. He becomes aware of the vice clamped around his chest long, long after it had started to squeeze the life out of him. (Right around the time she'd said she'd missed an old friend.) He has to consciously stop to take a deeper breath. Pulled in through the bared white of his teeth, a wry smile that's sharper than it is sincere.

There's a lot you haven't seen me do.]

Oh, don't worry. You've made that much perfectly clear.

[His teeth grind together again. Two more questions in reserve, out of the kindness of her heart, but he's not sure he really feels like playing this game any longer. Maybe his manners aren't that great after all.

One more to split the difference. He spreads his hands out in front of him with exaggerated ease.]

So, was it all a bunch of crap, or did you really think you meant it? Just curious.

[All that crap she said after Nalanni. She'd made him a promise, and he'd doubted her because he is shitty and unkind and twice-shy enough to do it. But he'd also been stupid enough to think that maybe this time it was safe to consider banking on it. Talk's cheap, she'd said. But you'll see. And that's the crux of it, isn't it? It's not even about how long it's been, or who's some kind of future space mafiaso or if any of this is even going to come to pass from his perspective. It's just that he's been stupid enough to think that maybe she was serious about having his back—and not just because it was convenient for her to do so. And he's only known her a spare number of months, but the way the kick in the teeth hit when he realized it wasn't true and that it had surprised him shocks all the more for it.

If she needs to ask what he's talking about, it's probably answer enough. Unfair, after twenty years between conversations, but that's life. He'll take his last question for the road.]

EVENT ★ BACK TO THE FUTURE

using bookworms for my own purposes in the meantime

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