[It’s not pity, and it’s not a limited resource, but she knows a rebuke whens he hears one. (…This one, anyway.) Shuts up.]
Yes, as well. [Looking back in Whelk’s direction, now, if through him. Easier to steel her face that way. Her first answer should have established this, but because the game only seems sated by examples:] Forgery, for one. In most [all, really] instances of unlawful behavior, however, I have been above the law.
This is [nodding slightly, arms folded again] a certain sort of hell. [Half a thought spared to the lack of a roll. He didn’t provide an example, maybe that’s it.] But I am fairly sure I’m not dead.
[Well. Not in any way she’s aware of. Wouldn’t be the first surprise....]
I don’t suppose you think answers could release you.
[“Whelk.” “Caitlyn.” And there’s so much more to a person than even the names they give for themselves.]
I’m the last person who should be ferrying anyone anywhere. [Dry, but… inquisitive, now that the possibility’s floated by. A hand lifts, knuckles by her chin, as her eyes flick away, thought to thought, and back to the dead man again.]
You strike me as very much alive. [Half musing aloud.] But I suppose in classic stories of the reanimated dead [“classic” specified for… reasons], the lost need to find peace.
[Half a joke, too. Invasive questions as a means to that? Hardly....]
[Whelk rolls his eyes, but at least he feels like he's not the only one.]
There's no peace.
[Dreary, even given the circumstances. He hears how miserable he sounds, how tired, always so tired, like he's just waiting to get back home and go to sleep.
[But he doesn't sleep. Peace. No...]
I look alive. You're right. But I don't do anything. Before I was here, it's not like I was anywhere else. I don't even think I'm a ghost...
[“I look alive,” he says, sounding less lively than he has this entire question-conversation. He doesn’t want “pity,” as has been keenly established. So Caitlyn keeps her expression to its typical stern, and aims for the less revealing detail:]
You seem to have a clear idea what happened to you. [To cause his death.]
[Really? This lady thinks the secret to Whelk passing on from this never-ending liminal Hell is to sit around and talk about Adam fucking Parrish? He almost thinks to lunge for her throat.
[Doesn't. Says:]
He was my student.
[Straight A's. Always did his homework. Terrified of losing his precious scholarship.]
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pantheraliam) wrote2030-03-12 03:03 pm
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Save your pity for someone more deserving, I beg you.
The answer is yes. What's yours?
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[It’s not pity, and it’s not a limited resource, but she knows a rebuke whens he hears one. (…This one, anyway.) Shuts up.]
Yes, as well. [Looking back in Whelk’s direction, now, if through him. Easier to steel her face that way. Her first answer should have established this, but because the game only seems sated by examples:] Forgery, for one. In most [all, really] instances of unlawful behavior, however, I have been above the law.
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That, or you're a cop.
[Just as quickly as his rage rose up, it seems to have died. He's tugging at his ear lobe, moving his jaw around like he's trying to get it to pop.]
Which is it?
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[A short sigh.] Both. [The mild exasperation is for only one.
[His agitation shifted. Less explosive. A beat, Caitlyn’s focus returning to Whelk proper; then,] You’re not under arrest.
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Not by you. I suppose dead men are above the law too.
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[She blinks.
[Gives him a split-second (but very blatant) skim-over, head to toe and back again.]
I did mean for other reasons. [Flatly.] But that would be in your favor.
not the BLINK
[He doesn't look any more amused than he did a few seconds ago.]
With my luck it wouldn't matter. And it doesn't. Because we're here.
I'd assumed Hell, but you seem surprised.
somehow not the first Caitlyn tag I’ve used that in
This is [nodding slightly, arms folded again] a certain sort of hell. [Half a thought spared to the lack of a roll. He didn’t provide an example, maybe that’s it.] But I am fairly sure I’m not dead.
[Well. Not in any way she’s aware of. Wouldn’t be the first surprise....]
I don’t suppose you think answers could release you.
what is this thread becoming omg...
[He's tired. That's true. He still hasn't seen Czerny.]
Who are you, then? [When did his voice get so hoarse? He clears his throat.]
Why you, of all people? If this is meant to...ferry me across, or...
[He looks frustrated with his own words, making a dismissive gesture with his hand, scoffing at himself.]
Whatever...
who knows! not ever us
[“Whelk.” “Caitlyn.” And there’s so much more to a person than even the names they give for themselves.]
I’m the last person who should be ferrying anyone anywhere. [Dry, but… inquisitive, now that the possibility’s floated by. A hand lifts, knuckles by her chin, as her eyes flick away, thought to thought, and back to the dead man again.]
You strike me as very much alive. [Half musing aloud.] But I suppose in classic stories of the reanimated dead [“classic” specified for… reasons], the lost need to find peace.
[Half a joke, too. Invasive questions as a means to that? Hardly....]
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There's no peace.
[Dreary, even given the circumstances. He hears how miserable he sounds, how tired, always so tired, like he's just waiting to get back home and go to sleep.
[But he doesn't sleep. Peace. No...]
I look alive. You're right. But I don't do anything. Before I was here, it's not like I was anywhere else. I don't even think I'm a ghost...
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[“I look alive,” he says, sounding less lively than he has this entire question-conversation. He doesn’t want “pity,” as has been keenly established. So Caitlyn keeps her expression to its typical stern, and aims for the less revealing detail:]
You seem to have a clear idea what happened to you. [To cause his death.]
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Yeah. I was there for it.
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[Vaguely bemused huff.] Could have been sudden.
But, yes, the circumstances of your death. Why you may be trapped in this game at all.
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[Christ. For as awful as it was, it sounds...extremely lame.]
After a ritual sacrifice.
Not my own...
[It would have been, had things gone his way.]
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[It sounds extremely awful, but she will keep that off her face. Instead:] Whose?
cw: major classism
Some piece of trailer trash with his dad's gun.
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[“Trailer trash.” Doesn’t take a detective to hear that connotation.] And did this… individual, how [if at all] did he know you?
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[Doesn't. Says:]
He was my student.
[Straight A's. Always did his homework. Terrified of losing his precious scholarship.]
do it buddy fuck around and find out
[The interrogation has shifted from some omnipotent roll to person-to-person. Jury’s out on whether that’s preferrable.
[Without a trace of irony:] Did he ask you lots of questions? Not only regarding school. [or: Did he want to get to know you?]
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He barely spoke to me. He was terrified of me.
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[Blue eyes narrow.] And why was that?
cw: child abuse :')
What? [Low, lazy.] You think I beat him after class? No. I'm sure his father did that for me.
Re: cw: child abuse :')
[Her brow furrows deeper. How people can talk so flippantly of gross injustice, it’s—
[Besides the point. Here. Reel back. Student remains suspect but is pushed temporarily out of line.]
The sacrifice— “Not your own.” Do you know the intended cause?
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Yeah. I do.
The ley line. That place.
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read this a second time and started crying
8,)
:tailsshock: WRAPPED?????? I'M SO????