ataraxionlogs | 03 ▒ EVENT: STRELA OUTPOST ▒ ASSIMILATION

"Miles?"

Not Edgeworth right now. Edgeworth is too distant a name for the man--the boy curled up on the floor, he's so fucking young to Libby that usually she feels like the adult. Especially right now. Right now, with Jesse trailing immobile behind her and blood splattering her face and body and drying in her hair and there is just so much, coating the edges of her floating metal shards to marr the purity if their white paint job. ("I don't know if you really feel this," she said, pinning a guard to a wall, "But I really fucking hope you do.")

"Miles--" she jerks forward and grabs his shoulders, shaking him, "What the fuck are you doing? Get up! Get the fuck up, you fucking moron!"

He doesn't understand her. Her voice might be forming separate words, but to him, in his ears, it registers as nothing more than a long scream. And yet he feels her hands on his shoulders, and that frightens him, because it's something different; there was no physical contect, not that he remembers, because Dad kept him away, and so it's out of sequence and wrong. This memory, so sharp right now, is of when he was the most fearful he's ever been, when he huddled helpless and afraid and watched his life end, and yet there's a comforting sort of familiarity to it; when she grabs him and shakes him, he's jolted out of that familiarity.

He cries out quietly, and presses his head down further into his knees, but she keeps shaking and so he looks up. He knows who this is, though her name passes from his subconscious right to his lips. His voice is level and reasonable, but his eyes are glassy and rimmed with red.

"Libby," he says. And, in that level voice, "I know you said you couldn't run, but you're going to have to try. Do you understand?" He draws his knees in tighter to his chest. And then, without knowing why, he says, "I'm sorry."

"You fucking people," Libby spits, because whatever capacity for tenderness that raggedly clings to her she has is crippled right now. She's exhausted and sick and traumatized--touching Edgeworth makes her want to scream, she wants to claw her skin off even with Jesse's mouth pinned shut as he fights her because she can't listen to him sounding so fucking reasonable after he tried to kiss her.

She stands up and kicks him, hard, in the small of his back.

"Get up, I can't fucking carry anyone else and I can't put down the metal so--get the fuck off the ground, you stupid motherfucker! I'm not fucking leaving you here, so unless you want us all to get fucked again you better get your fucking--" she kicks him again, her voice ragged like sobbing "--shit together!"

Edited 2012-07-29 20:11 (UTC)

That hurts. It hurts a lot, and he grunts and straightens his back involuntarily, trying to draw away from that foot. Suck a lemon, he'd been told - it would bring him back to the present moment, because when one was suffering a flashback one needed a strong sensory stimulus to bring one out of it. But he looks down, looks at that blood - doesn't even know if he wants to come out of it, doesn't even know...

"Stop," he says, and presses his eyes shut. "Don't you want to survive this?"

The answer should be obvious and quick: yes, of course, I always do. But the first few hours after--sometimes Libby doesn't want to, not really. She bounces back, eventually, but right now if not for Jesse--

"Get up." She doesn't kick him again, but she will if she has to, and she sounds so fucking tired. And scared. She is so scared of going back in that room. "If I leave you I might as well not go back anyway. They fucking need you on that ship, not me. Please, just--come on, we don't have time--"

As is illustrated by two new guards appearing. Libby snarls, which is almost comical in her little voice. What happens next isn't.

She flicks metal forward and sheers off one man's arm, pinning the woman to the wall and--her stomach bulges and then rips as intentines explode outward to spool crazily on the ground. Libby leaves them like that, the man lurching forward until blood loss collapses him and the woman trying to crawl through her own guts making a gurgling noise.

Libby wants them to suffer.

Edited 2012-07-29 20:34 (UTC)

He watches, his eyes wide and blank once more, as the both of them collapse in showers of their own blood. They don't scream, either of them - no personality left to scream, nothing left to feel pain or fear - he wishes they'd succeeded, so that he wouldn't be afraid anymore either, because he's just scared and good for nothing except getting people killed, and these people are dying too because of his inaction, because -

"No - "

His voice isn't level anymore. It's a strangled sob, and he buries his face in his hands but he can still smell the blood.

"Stop, stop - please, stop, please - " He can hear the both of them panting and can tell from the sound that they're close to death. His breath hitches, and there aren't any tears but he struggles to hold back sobs.

"They hurt Jesse." Flat and distant, like she's watching all of this from somewhere else.

Terrorism is common in 2083. Libby has seen carbombs and little kids with vests of C4. She's been caught in drivebys and held a little kid in her lap when she was supposed to be babysitting and ended up trying to fill a hole in his guts again. She's desensitized to violence. People die. What difference does it make that it was her who killed them this time? She's wanted, desperately, to kill plenty of people--and now she can do it.

"They hurt Jesse and they hurt me and I swear I will fucking hurt you if you don't get up, Miles. Get up."

And he opens his eyes, and he looks down at that woman who is twisted in her own intestines. They loop around her like tinsel on a Christmas tree. The man is stained dark with his own blood; his expression is slack in death, but there's something solemn and serious about it. Miles doesn't have any sense any longer of where he is. It's all confused, strange; he doesn't know who he is, even, save that he is Miles, and there are things he doesn't understand.

And on a certain level he recognizes that this is like a nightmare, and that he needs to escape from it, but he can't - He pinches himself hard, twisting his flesh, trying to ground himself with the pain of it. He tries...

It's the space station. It's the space station, and you're not a child.

"I need to find who killed Dad," he says, he thinks, though his mouth seems a far distance from his ears. He slowly and shakily climbs to his feet, and then it registers to him what he said - "Who was responsible, who - No, I'm sorry - I'm - " He presses a hand to his eyes; it shakes. "Who was responsible for this. It's my duty as...prosecutor, and...Please go before you kill anyone else."

Libby screams with frustration and punches him, hard, in the ribs. A stupid punch, and she feels a knuckle crack like a glass bead and she does not give a fuck.

"Stop being so fucking stupid!" There's a bright glistening in her eyes, frustration and misery and hate, and she feels like her bones are working through her shaking body like dull metal bars pulverizing meat. Her skin is foreign and somehow constraining, or like it's lined with sand that scrapes her flesh and can't be washed out.

"I need you! That's your fucking responsibility!" It's insane; she's ranting, desperate, her blood roaring in her left ear and clotted in her right one as she shoves him as hard as she can. "I fucking need you right now! Why won't you help me? Why won't you--come on!"

She presses her hands to her eyes and shudders, her voice dropping, and it's the voice of a scared girl facing broken promises and betrayal, again, and it shouldn't hurt anymore when people let her down but it still does: "You said you wanted to help me."

The punch is hardly enough to hurt him. What hurts more is her misery, her terror, and he's weak in the face of that. If he were strong, he would tell her to use her power to rip his throat out then and there. If he were strong, he would have her kill him. Because he will only slow her down; he's clumsy and useless, with a subpar intellect and no moral fortitude, and he couldn't stop these people from dying. And she just murdered those people and he can't ignore that either, so if he goes back he'll have to bring suffering to her too. But instead of doing the responsible thing, instead of being strong, his heart aches and he reaches out to touch her on the head softly before remembering her fears and drawing back again.

"I...do," he says quietly. "Me being alive won't help you."

He was questioning whether it was worth it, to be quite true. There was plenty to see and do on Strela but when the ants became angered he found walking in place was not enough. More magic, and more energy depleting from him and that constant pressure, and if he were to go through all this he might as well do something useful. In the end, it would be useful. Play the hero. Defy what was thought of him. Gain trust, and build an army. Everyone had their place, even the pawns.

The conformity here, the absolute single mind -- it disturbed him. He wanted out but he needed followers for the grand scheme of things and that is what brought him here. Taking the last bit of his energy to mask himself. He looked unwell even if he carried himself with the same haughty steps. Sweat on his skin, stress in his brows -- he'd been through this before. The mind warping, pushing limits, fighting a fight that seems just impossible to fight.

"Teh, you mortals." A beat, "well, one and a half." Only they could hear him, only they could see him, and soon only he could hear and see them. "You'll get a better response from of arguing with a brick wall, Edgeworth. Might I remind you that she's a sixteen year old. Get up and let's go."

He will sort through everything seen here today at a later time. Until then, getting out was the primary goal.

Libby stands still.

The first thing she thinks is how long were you there and, correctly, intuits that it's been a while--not like Loki to play his hand too soon, not while there were secrets he could rob from people. Her secrets. What did he see? He's seen her beg before, but never this level of her hate, and some of that is leveled on him when she turns to face him. She's battered and bloody and awful looking, shaking like struck ice barely hanging to eaves, but then again.

She wants to scream accusation at him but they don't have time for that, and she can't risk punishment. Her metal shards revolve dizzily in the air as she thinks, and in the end she just gives him a look like you handle him.

Then she crouches and calls over a cattle prod, skinning its inner workings neatly and moving wires after only a second of examining it.

"I want something to burn," she says, quietly. He'll understand that, won't he?

Shame twists in his stomach. He's present enough mentally now to be able to grasp what's going on and all the possible ramifications...It was all right - not good, but all right - that Libby saw his distress. His irrationality. She herself had suffered pain and misery; he would be able to, perhaps, make excuses to her. This man, on the other hand -

He isn't certain who this is, and he didn't know how long he's been watching. Miles turns away at once, trying to angle his face so that the man cannot see it or the evidence of his crying and his idiotic weakness. That places him looking fully at Pinkman, though - previously unnoticed save in passing - and at Libby muttering something about burning...

Burning? God - Do these people, these blank-faced people, even know how to put out fires? They don't need to all be slaughtered; they needed to be brought to trial for their crimes... (Even if he wants revenge for that tiny room, that pressure on his mind that he still doesn't fully understand.)

"Libby," he says - "I will come with you, and make no more trouble for you, if you let it be. No burning and no killing. Otherwise - " And now he does glance over at that dark-haired man who knows him, seeking his support. "I'll sit on this floor and not budge."

This man, on the other hand, did not entirely care. Not on an empathetic level but as Libby suspected, to know such secrets was a benefit to him. Although Loki was one who hoarded them; he did not boast them to the world, not usually. They were his to have as he found them and he was awfully selfish.

These people around them now seemed to stop in their motions. What must it be like to have no idea what was going on around you? When things disappear, does it matter? Would they attempt to look for them. For now, Jesse, Libby, Edgeworth and himself were not available to the eyes of anyone but each other. Yet it was taxing on him and it might show in the slowness of his walk - so usually quite swift.

"No burning, Libby. Save it for elsewhere. You get Jesse. And you," those green eyes look to Edgeworth, "get off the floor and lets go."

You get Jesse.

The only thing he could have possibly said to make her abandon the bomb she was building--sorry again, Miles, but Libby is all hate and retribution now, an engine of destruction. But Jesse. If the price of saving Jesse is letting go of violence it's easily paid.

"Fine." She stands, numb and compliant. Just tell her what to do now, and if it gets them out of here it's done--with one caveat.

"If we have to kill anyone, I do it." She walks over to touch Jesse's side, then closes his eyes and leans her forehead against him. (Come back, Jesse. Come on. Come back to her.) "That's mine."

Edited 2012-07-30 23:08 (UTC)

So if you go, it's saving her from more violence and suffering. He gets slowly to his feet. If you go, you'll keep those lives from her conscience.

He wishes he had to ask what was wrong with Pinkman, but he already knows. He wonders if the boy will ever speak or act of his own volition again. He wishes he had the energy to ask why it is that those people suddenly are looking past them, but he can't really deal with the answer any longer.

Instead, he just steadies himself and nods once. He just needs to know, before they go, in case something happens and he loses the opportunity to ask of the green-eyed man -

"Who are you?"

He knew it, too. Such was why he told her to do so. Once everyone has been rallied and ready, it's simple. They walk out. Quiet and easy as anything. "Well deserved," is his answer to her claim over anyone in their way. "If necessary. Until then, we walk."

This magic is not going to last long enough to get them back to the ship and he knows it. Whatever it looks like out there, they'll have to fall back in line. At least this buys them some time. As for Edgeworths inquiry, he passes it over his shoulder with a serpentine smile.

"Loki."

Libby falls in line neatly, and in a rare moment of sense she keeps her mouth shut. She's about as expressive as Jesse unless anything gets in her way. Well deserved? She thinks he can have no idea, but she doesn't care. She doesn't care about anything except getting everyone out of here.

She thinks she'll try to punch a hole in the station after they get on the shuttles. Let them all choke. Blow up a ship, maybe, and send fuel flaming through the air. There are so many ways to tear the world down and such a small span of time to do it in. She drops most of her metal but keeps two shards molded to her forearms, in wait.

She wants someone to get in their way, that's obvious. But it probably won't happen.

Loki. Edgeworth's eyes widen for just a moment; then, for just a breath, he looks over at Pinkman. This is him, then - the man who terrorizes Libby, of whom Pinkman is terrified, the man he calls a god -

Saving their lives.

Why? Has the man been slandered? Is he not the monster Pinkman said? Or is he playing some longer game?

Questions to be explored away from this slaughterhouse. Far away, once he's had time to...come to grips. To process the blood. To stop feeling like this.

"Please keep her safe. And hidden." It's a dangerous thing to say to Loki, who might be his enemy. It's giving knowledge of his feelings, and such knowledge is dangerous. But he must ask that of him, because...No more of this.

Loki just tips his head to the other man with a look as if he were puzzled. What would he be expending so much energy for? Well, truly it was a game a game far larger than anyone truly understands. It did not matter, though, what matters is that he is getting them out and he knows that will form questions that he can manipulate further.

"Of course," it's spoken with such emotion, "you'll have to hurry with us, now." Libby has already begun to walk. They just need to get out of this facility. He just needs to push a little longer and they'll be fine.

"You--if you can. Take from me."

It's all she'll say. Still, it matters. Use her, if you can, to get them all out. She loves everything and anything more than herself. Libby is worthless. These two--they're a thousand, trillion times what she is. Easy, to sacrifice for them.

Libby shrugs.

"Miles, do what he fucking says. He's my friend."

"He's - "

He makes you suffer. That was clear from Pinkman's manner. A friend wouldn't make this boy who cares about you afraid. A friend wouldn't cause him to worry for your life and your safety. A friend wouldn't...

Wouldn't what, come along and potentially save her life? Save her from killing others? No matter his trepidation, the fact remains that Loki is doing them a kindness right now.

So Miles nods. He nods with reluctance, yes, but he nods, and he begins to walk as well. They just need to get back to the ship.

"I understand."

03 ▒ EVENT: STRELA OUTPOST ▒ ASSIMILATION

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