collects_strays | [OOM] you favor the truth

[OOM] you favor the truth

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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?"

He gives a slow nod.

"I can think of a few."

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."

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."

"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."

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

"Um, sodium amytal."

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

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

Her delivery is calm. Controlled.

But somewhere she might be a little bit angry.

"I signed a release and everything."

But he flashes a rather wry smile with it.

"Legal documentation covers a host of ills."

Her observation is dry.

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

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

"But back to your request."

Her hand rests lightly on the coils of her lasso.

It's a familiar posture, for her.

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

"What, um - does it involve again?"

"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."

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."

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."

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

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

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?"

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.

"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 . . .

"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.

Edited 2014-05-18 22:41 (UTC)

"Will?"

Diana's voice is quiet but intent.

Concerned, even.

Some memories are harder to bear than others.

Graham looks to her, and the image fades into the blank expanse around them. For a moment, he looks like he wants to tell her something.

But before he speaks, there's another sound. No light, no image to go with it, but the noise of a door unlatching, and swinging open. There are no voices, only footsteps, before it swings shut again.

Then, strips of dark blue begin to streak along one side of them, thick stripes of cobalt blue and thin, lighter shades between them. On the other, there's dark stone, shelves forming against it and leafy plants blossoming up from them, like dark green water running over a stone fountain. At the end there's a sheen of light that forms into two glass doors, looking out onto the white winter evening beyond. They're standing in the corner of a large dining room, the sort of place that usually makes Graham feel like a weed that's cropped up in a rose garden. The long table is set only with a decorative plate in the center - it looks as though it were made from black feathers, and holds three large eggs. Abel Gideon is sitting at the end of the table, in front of the glass doors.

The other Graham is standing in front of the darkened fireplace, sweat glinting in the lamplight, shaking and breathing unevenly. "I'm having a hard time thinking," he tells Dr. Lecter, who watches him with patient concern, and considerable calm, given what's happening. "I feel like I'm losing my mind. I - I don't know what's real."

Dr. Lecter observes him for another moment, and then looks down at his watch. "It's 7:27 PM. You're in Baltimore, Maryland, and your name is Will Graham –"

"No, I don't care who I am," Graham snarls. He looks over to the man at the end of the table, and raises his gun toward him, shaking becoming more violent. "Just tell me … if he's real."

"Who do you see, Will?" asks Dr. Lecter, eyes on him. From this vantage point, the man at the end of the table remains sharp and distinct. His edges don't flicker, no glimpses of blood on his chest or blank film like dust over his eyes. Though the other man answers, "Garret Jacob Hobbs," Graham watching now only sees Abel Gideon, still in his seat, nervously eyeing the gun trained on him.

"Who do you see?" the other man asks.

Dr. Lecter looks to Gideon. "I don't see anyone."

Graham doesn't move this time, but the other man begins to panic. His shaking worsens, he breathes faster -

"No, no you're lying –"

"We're alone," Dr. Lecter insists. "You came here alone. Do you remember coming here?"

His voice rises, pleading – "No, please don't lie to me –"

"Garrett Jacob Hobbs is dead," Lecter reminds him. "You killed him. You watched him die."

"What's happening to me?" The other man presses his free hand against his face, lowering the gun to his side. Dr. Lecter calls his name, but he doesn't answer; he's shaking all over, and when he lowers his hand, his eyes have rolled back into his head.

Edited 2014-05-19 21:05 (UTC)

"There will be more."

Diana is not dispassionate at all. Coldly furious might be a better way to phrase it.

"With such evil as this, there is always more."

Dr. Lecter continues to call his name, as Graham looks away, over to Diana. Her fury swells up in him; it drags on him, and tastes bitter, and he feels like he needs to cough it down. He lowers his eyes, and murmurs, "It must have been quite a show for him."

Lecter has pried the gun away, and presses his hands to the other man's face, looking into his white eyes, checking his forehead. There's no response now - he doesn't seem aware of Lecter or anyone else in the room. Graham, now fully aware, glances back to the end of the table.

"I knew he was inducing the seizures," he says, quietly. "But something's wrong, I was - I was wrong -"

He hears Miriam Lass' voice on Jack's phone, I was so wrong -

"He's had a mild seizure," Lecter announces to Gideon, retrieving Graham's gun from where he left it on the mantle, and taking a step toward the table.

Gideon has been silent up until now, but at this, he observes: "That... doesn't seem to bother you."

Lecter looks to him. "I said it was mild."

The doctor takes a seat at the head of the table, across from Gideon, setting down Graham's gun and sliding it aside. "Are you the man who claimed to be the Chesapeake Ripper?"

Watching him, Graham's face changes. His mind runs up against the question Gideon asks a moment later -

"Why do you say claimed?"

"Because you're not."

"He would consider it rude," Graham mutters, over Dr. Lecter's answer -

"- and you don't know much more about who you are beyond that."

"Are you the Ripper?"

His eyes fall to the plate between them, the black feathers, the ravens collected over the stag's head as though it were a dinning table, this girl's killer thought that she was a -

"Terrible thing." Lecter looks up, not to Gideon, but over to where Graham and Diana are standing. Graham meets his eyes. "To have your identity taken from you."

The moment he turns his eyes from Lecter, Graham jerks away, untangling his hands from Diana's rope.

Diana doesn't flinch back, from Will, or from the memories (or from the memories of the memories).

She does, however, re-coil the Lasso and attach it back at her hip.

Quietly.

Then --

"Will."

Silence.

"Did that help?"

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject