[OOM] you favor the truth

[collects_strays]

He wasn't in the river.

Graham had been lying on his cot. Or had been asleep. Either way, rather than needing to retreat to the river, the door of his cell had unlatched. It's something that had happened before, and whatever state he was in, it hadn't concerned him. What he should do was simple, straightforward. He rose from the cot, stepped forward, and gently pushed the door open. The hall beyond his cell had been unrecognizable the moment he stepped out – he couldn't make out the ceiling, only scattered strips of light among dark branches; high dark trees climbed up along the walls; concrete petered out into small stones scattered among leaves and soil. Something glinting among the bars, and trees, before him.

On the other side, he's sitting on a rock near the Lake. Not making the same side trek through his mind has meant he's still dressed in the blue, numbered uniform. Graham isn't planning on entering the Bar.

Comments

[collects_strays]

His eyes drift back to the forest. Graham does smile, but it's thin and bitter, and his voice is low.

"Home."

[themysciran_diana]

"I'm sorry for that."

Diana's voice is quiet.

"And there's no hope for changing those -- circumstances?"

[collects_strays]

The smile slips. He looks back to the lake.

"You, um - made me an offer, before."

[themysciran_diana]

"I did," Diana acknowledges, inclining her head very slightly. "And it still stands."

She remains unsmiling, blue eyes focused and clear.

"Are there particular answers you're looking for? Beyond the metaphor of shadows and rooms."

[collects_strays]

"It's... hard to know what I don't know."

Graham looks to her, briefly meeting her eyes.

"How particular would I need to be?"

[themysciran_diana]

Diana huffs out a quiet breath.

"Not much, truth be told. Though it can be dangerous, in its way, to look for all the truths you don't remember, all at once. Are there particular blank spots or false memories you hope to recover or remove?"

[collects_strays]

He gives a slow nod.

"I can think of a few."

[themysciran_diana]

Her smile is a tiny thing, but real.

Having a way forward helps.

"That's enough for going on with -- or it has been, historically. The difficulty will depend on how exactly you lost what happened. Some magics are more tenacious than others, for example. As are some technologies."

[collects_strays]

Graham blinks away, quiet for a moment. He can't be entirely sure what that answer is, but -

"I've - already recovered some of it," he offers. "With a different kind of - help."

[themysciran_diana]

"What kind of help?"

Diana's smile fades away again, though not to any expression that could be called 'grim'.

Focused, maybe.

"I ask because depending on the similarity, or the difficulty of whatever technique you used -- it might help keep us from brute-forcing anything. Which -- seems like it would be preferable here."

[collects_strays]

Graham nods again, closing his eyes briefly before he answers -

"Um, sodium amytal."

After a pause, he adds, "Is what I was told."

[themysciran_diana]

"It wasn't voluntary, I take it."

Her delivery is calm. Controlled.

But somewhere she might be a little bit angry.

[collects_strays]

"I signed a release and everything."

But he flashes a rather wry smile with it.

[themysciran_diana]

"Legal documentation covers a host of ills."

Her observation is dry.

(It isn't the only thing that does.)

[collects_strays]

"Yes it does," Graham mutters, looking back to the lake.

[themysciran_diana]

"But back to your request."

Her hand rests lightly on the coils of her lasso.

It's a familiar posture, for her.

[collects_strays]

He notices the movement in the corner of his eye, and lowers his head.

"What, um - does it involve again?"

[themysciran_diana]

"You loop the lasso around your hands, I loop one end of it around mine and -- "

This would be easier in Ancient Greek.

" -- we find the truth in your mind."

[collects_strays]

The idea prickles at his nerves, the thought that it can't be worse than his earlier 'interview' not doing much to help.

But rather than dismiss the fear, or try to shunt it aside, Graham sharpens it in his mind, holding it with him as he rises from the rocks.

"All right."

[themysciran_diana]

Diana unhitches her lasso from her waist, uncurling one end and handing it over to Will.

The other end she wraps around her own hands.

"When you're ready."

[collects_strays]

Graham takes the end of the rope, but stays still until she speaks again.

Then, he does the same, exactly imitating her movements.

[themysciran_diana]

Behind both their eyes the world goes black.

Featureless.

Until it's just the two of them, connected by a glowing golden cord, standing on nothingness, looking into nothingness.

Diana's voice is frighteningly clear when she speaks, and resonant.

"What's the last thing you remember before what you think you've forgotten?"

[collects_strays]

Graham blinks a few times, like his eyes are adjusting to a change in light. He peers around the empty space, openly curious, and only glancing back to Diana when she speaks.

He takes a breath, and then turns slightly, just enough to look over his shoulder. Wisps of light and color appear in the dark space, gathering and coalescing into the form of Alana Bloom, white flowers patterned over her blue blouse, her dark hair down over her shoulders, the glazing bars of a window splitting her image. She closes a folder, sets papers down, her actions flickering and jittering, like she's moving backwards.

He moves his head the other way, and sees Abel Gideon standing in the dark space, eyes forward as though he were looking past Graham to watch Alana. His figure slips and flitters, and shifts in to Garrett Jacob Hobbs, blood splattered across his shirt, bullet holes in his chest, eyes glazed over – and then back again.

The light scatters, and reasserts itself briefly into the form of Dr. Lecter, removing his coat. Then Jack Crawford's voice sounds around them: "You've got to let go of as much of it as you can. You've just got to let go."

"It's hard to shake off something that's already under your skin," Graham answers.

And abruptly, they're standing in snow, about three inches deep. On a small hill, not too far off, there's a round white building, with a blue door and domed top. At first, only moonlight touches it and the dark trees beyond it, but then flashes of red and blue crawl up along the bright walls – a police car and two black SUVs are behind them, and figures in black uniforms and helmets are quietly climbing the steps toward the building. Mostly – one has a long brown coat, and is holding a shotgun.

And Graham has lingered behind the rest. This version is wearing jeans and a dark green jacket; his steps are slow, and even in the dim light it's apparent he's drenched in sweat. He comes to a stop at the base of the stairs, looking up at the building, and then off toward the woods.

"The observatory," answers the one who's holding the rope with Diana.

[themysciran_diana]

"One of my sisters would say there is a sign in that," Diana says, very quietly. "But even so -- "

She takes a breath, tightening the loops around her hands.

"Time to take another step."

And another after that.

And another . . .

And . . .

[collects_strays]

"It was planned."

There's movement at the edge of the forest – it comes into form as Graham looks to it. A black stag, with high antlers, that turns away and steps between the trees. The other man breaks off from the swarm around the observatory, and staggers through the snow after it.

"All part of the performance..." Their surroundings slip out of focus as he recalls his words to Prurnell. It's just not my performance you're watching.

The light contracts and sharpens over a single space in the darkness, like the glow of a film projector. It takes the shape of a car windshield, dark trees against the night sky visible through it, until a car door creaks, and someone climbs into the driver's seat.

"I was expecting the Chesapeake Ripper," says Gideon, looking back to them. "Or are you he?"

"H-he was an escaped killer," Graham murmurs. "I thought he was someone else. I was seeing – a suspect I'd killed."

Gideon turns back toward the windshield, but his eyes flash to them in the rearview mirror. "You are looking a little peaky, Mister Graham. I may be crazy, but you look ill."

"I had encephalitis. I didn't know it then, but –"

As if on cue, Gideon asks, "Who is your doctor?"

At this, Graham takes a sharp breath, and his grip on the rope tightens.