quicktoanger | Fourth Casefile: Damage Control. [Voice/Written/Action]

Entry tags:

Fourth Casefile: Damage Control. [Voice/Written/Action]

[Voice]

I paused, staring at the journal, not sure what to say for a moment.

What the hell do you say?

"Right. Sorry ab-"

Let's try this again without the accent, Harry.

"Right. Sorry about last week. If I was... off, or confused anybody, or offended anyone, or whatever."

I paused again.

"I lost the jacket, Richard, but did you at least get to keep the rifle?"

I sat for a moment longer, then chuckled.

"Least the hand didn't stay shot. Alright, I think that's it."

I shut off the feed and set to work on a filter. I suck at those, for the record, but this kind of needed to be said and was private, so...

Hell's bells, those things are more trouble than they're worth.

[Written- Locked to Molly Carpenter, filter at 2% 5% 6% 9% 9% 13 ~~16%~~ 20%]

Kid. Molly. I'm sorry about last week. Really, really sorry.
~~I never meant to~~
~~It was like I~~
Forget it. Look. Let me make it up to you somehow?

[Action]

That done, I tucked my journal in my pocket and went into town. I felt a pressing need to talk to people, which, let me tell you, never happens to me. Ever. Plus, there were a couple awkward conversations I wanted to have.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"The bar?"

I wasn't sure what to call him. My brain kept immediately supplying "Major" or "Sir," and of course that was ridiculous. I'd never been in the army. I hated the army.

This, I guess, was my first shift. Richard's too.

I guess I could have shared it with worse people?

[ he suspected the bar was a touch too...public. and the major needed to rail.

so: ] No, B--Dresden. I'll be at that fountain we met at last...well, there. I'll be there. With a bottle of brandy.

I picked up on the implications of that loud and clear. This wouldn't be a discussion for a quiet corner of a bar, then. Fair enough.

It didn't take too terribly long for me to make my way to the central plaza. I may have lost my taste for Arthurian adaptations, but I certainly had to admit that the fountain was still attractive.

Sharpe stood at something almost like attention -- the blasted (but loved) rifle on his shoulder. He woke up this morning only to find the gifted gun to be his own, familiar weapon instead. The Shift had made him identify it with Harry. Or perhaps the departure of the Shift had qualitatively changed it. Richard hardly knew; hardly cared. Other problems to untangle.

He cleared his throat when he saw the man. A hesitation found its way into his features.

As soon as I hit the square, there was a pause.

He did get the rifle. Good on him. I'd had different reasons then, obviously, but still. The man deserved his rifle.

And then there was awkward silence.

What do you say to something like this? 'So how about that thing where we remember years of our lives that never really happened?'

So I went with something a bit less personal.

"So. That was a Shift, then."

"A Shift," he grunted. Dissatisfied.

"A bit like being thumped on the head and the whole world going mad, Harry."

"I suppose this isn't very comforting, but back where I'm from-"

-where I was really from-

"- that's actually a pretty good description of most of my life. Except the damage isn't considerate enough to stay localized to my head."

I sighed, then went for a smile. Not much of one, but still.

"But hey, it wasn't too awful, yeah? Couple of fake memories, and you get your gun back."

He hugged the rifle a little closer to his body. Aye, Sharpe thought, but at what cost?

"They'd say I was off my rocker, back home. Barmy. I'm not entirely sure I'm not barmy." Wings had been one thing. But an altered mind? "Witchcraft, Harry."

Oh, hell. Danger, Will Robinson.

"Yeah, well. You ever hear the saying about sufficiently advanced technology?"

I shrugged, nonchalant as you please. "They can do some weird things. Mess with reality. Why couldn't they also mess with your memory? Doesn't seem that far-fetched to me."

But then again, as somebody who knew exactly how to both conjure fire and meddle with somebody's mind, I knew that the latter wasn't really that difficult.

That was part of what made it terrifying. Part of why it was such an addictive form of black magic. Even an indelicate brute of a wizard like me could still manage some pretty insidious manipulation if he was willing to get into somebody's head.

"I'd say I don't think you're... barmy," I continued, "but I don't know how much that would mean, given my proximity to the latest madness."

It was harrowing. For what else did Sharpe have in this place but his own bloody mind? His rank meant little and -- except for last week -- is place in society even less. Of course, he realized, now Harry knew. Had even been in his bloody home to meet Harper and some of the men and see how unfair of a shake the Major routinely received from his commanding officers. And the quiet pride with which he accepted their guff. Obedient but strong.

And although the memories were fading, Sharpe himself could remember feeling proud of Blackstone. Dulled by his academic pursuits, perhaps, but a good soldier and a great Chosen Man. And for a week, he'd had a friend from home. Here.

It was hard to hold that against Dresden even if Sharpe still felt wary.

"...I think it still means a fair lot, Harry."

When he said that, it stung, a bit. All of the insanity in this village, and my opinion was one that meant something to him. It seemed he had classified me as on his side, in the general schema of him vs. the crazy. Which was good, because as far as I knew, I was.

I'd seen the sort of guy he was. I still remember that quite well. Noble despite his upbringing, brave to the point of foolishness, refusing to accept less than the best of himself. Never leaving anybody to face danger alone, even if they brought it on themselves, even if they had done him injury. A good man.

It stung because I hadn't told him. Couldn't tell him. I didn't think he'd kill me for being a witch or some silly crap like that, not anymore.

Now I just didn't want him to put me on the other side, in his head. This guy who respected me for whatever bizarre reason, who had proven himself, during that false history, that fake lifetime, to be all the things I tried to be myself. Only instead of looking crazy and addle-minded, he somehow made it look genuinely noble.

"Yeah, you're not crazy, Richard. It's this damn place that's crazy."

What can I say? Zen never really suited me in the first place.

He ruminated on these words. Chewed them other. Tasted them; listened to them; turned them inside out.

"And we're supposed to stay here. Like pigs, penned in."

"Not a whole lot to do about it, I guess. Be glad we got stuck with friends, with people who understand. But other than that, we really can't find a way out, can we?"

... Yeah. That tore it. I was going to find a way out.

Stuck with friends.

Sharpe cleared his throat. "How's Miss Carpenter taking it?"

"I haven't spoken to her."

I sighed, trying not to look as pained as I felt.

"I... when I was all Chosen-Manned last week, I didn't recognize Molly. And it... upset her."

"...Poor lass."

He felt rather genuinely for her. For Harry too, in a way. He hated to see two friends at odds.

"Yeah. I'll make it up to her, though. I'm sure she'll find some sort of suitable penance for me."

Oh, hell, I was going to have to stop drinking coffee for like a month, wasn't I?

"...The womenfolk always do."

He muttered -- just to get his requisite dose of era-specific sexism into the conversation.

"... I kind of deserve it, in this case."

Wow. Note to self: If Murph ever comes to Luceti, keep her the hell away from Richard.

"You believe she'll blame you, Harry?"

"Probably not. That isn't the point."

I blamed me.

"...Should I speak with her?"

He DREADED that.

Oh holy hell.

"No. No, no. But I appreciate the thought."

Jesus, I just added a new nightmare to my portfolio.

"...Wouldn't know what to say, anyway."

"It's alright, I think. A little grovelling, some..."

I grimaced.

"... Orange juice with my breakfast and salad for lunch, we should be right as rain."

Fourth Casefile: Damage Control. [Voice/Written/Action]

[ voice ]

[ voice ]

[ Action ]

[ Action ]

[ Action ] Bloody tense shifts. >.>

haha.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Longtag is long

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Oh, Sharpe. Never change.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)