[He does look old. The dark of the interior doesn't help.
It's not until Anders takes his seat and pulls the door closed that he senses how old. The smell of putrefaction is soft in his nostrils — still seared from the sewer, after all these years — and Karl's neck makes a squishy, muffled noise as he looks back to the road. Pulls the car back between the white lines and follows the signs. Only 8 miles more.]
It's been some time. [He intones, and the voice rasps.] We need your help with something.
[ he can't bring himself to look over, to see more than he already has. to check if the mark is still there, burnt into his forehead-- no. not worth thinking about right now. drumming his fingers along the passenger side door, letting his head tilt back and his eyes close and the smell of the grave exist. this is why they burn bodies. like andraste on the pyre.
[ his senses deaden to the smell as he turns to look out the passenger window instead, his own reflection in the glass. karl is gone, he has always been gone, but it feels like it always does. as if his sightless corpse is just out of the field of his vision.
he'd asked him once to stay, and he is asking again for something. he could never deny him anything he truly asked, except maybe the truth. ]
[He may look away. It's understandable. There's very little that begs to be seen in the driver's seat. In this portion of his past. Or many other portions, for that matter.
Karl removes a hand from the wheel and points to the glove compartment.]
[ sitting up from where he was watching the ditch along the side of the road - broken fences and signage, litter and roadkill. glancing over at karl in the driver's seat. ]
I'm sorry. Do you know that I'm sorry? I know you asked, but-- ... It doesn't matter.
[Karl's head creaks on its slow pivot, turning to regard the man that put this festering hole in his gut. He is only quiet, and only watches.
In the glove compartment there is a knife. The blood still hasn't been cleaned off it. He's too fond of using it in ways that hurt him more than they hurt the people it cuts into.
There is also a note, a jagged penmanship in all capitals.
[ he doesn't look back, frozen by the sight of the knife - all of its dried and cracked blood still embedded in the handle, sunk into the grooves of the elven inscription. it's funny, he's never known what it actually says. if it means anything at all. he remembers the way it slid into his back and it felt like relief. if he could not be loved, if he could not be saved, he could be free. it's always here at the worst of times. maybe - it's funny - this knife is his longest, closest friend. the one who never leaves.
[Karl continues to stare. The agreement is good, but it isn't enough. He already ran once, here. He's run a hundred times before.
He leans over, raising his thumb and pressing the squishy pad to the center of the other man's forehead. The skin is unpleasantly soft, like an overripe grape. A mark blooms beneath it, and his mind flattens to a singular purpose.]
Go get them.
[They've stopped already. Pulled into the parking lot of a six storey inn and cut the engine, all in the blink of an eye.]
[ he will keep running, over and over and over. he cannot be trusted on his word, it's true. he leans his head into the touch as it happens - even though the flesh gives too easily, the smell of putrefaction is stronger up close, it doesn't matter. anywhere, to belong. his eyes squeezed shut and then relax as all the noise and color of the world fades into a tunnelled point, softening like the light.
none of it matters, none of it will ever matter again. there's a certain safety in the sensation, in the dullness of it. the vice grip of grief on his chest loosens, the boil of rage roiling beneath his thoughts soothes into calm water, and the festering knife wound of love ceases to pulse with every heartbeat. anything he believes in, all the fire of the sun, cools to nothingness. the pendulum stills. whatever is inside his mind can no longer hurt, can no longer feel anything beyond its own confines. the fade, the world, all of creation is gone, along with all of its beauty and horror.
he pulls back. he doesn't lift a finger to touch the mark - the flaming sun of andraste herself. why would he bother. it does not hurt. ]
If that pleases you.
[ taking the knife and exiting the car, not bothering to look back. there is no purpose in it. room 213 first. it makes sense, to begin there, with the most efficient route. ]
[It's for the best then. What's needed is a loyal dog, not a skittish one, and Anders could do well to come to heel.
Into the entrance and up the stairs he goes. There is, curiously, no attendant at the front desk. About twenty minutes prior the man had blinked slow and gotten a funny feeling that a nap was in order. He was never in the habit of such things, but once in a six year track record couldn't hurt, could it? No one would be coming and going at this late hour. He trekked into the managers office, closed the door, and cut the lights, and will remain there until he gets a funny feeling he ought to wake up. Just a hunch, no reason for it.
Anders goes up the stairs. Knock knock on 213. There's a rustling inside, and eventually a groggy boy in grey-green pyjamas swings the door open.]
...Shouldn't you find your own room? I don't know you.
[ he experiences no flash of recognition, no emotion, no hesitation upon seeing this face. that was for other people, in another time.
purpose. it's nice to feel useful. if nice is a feeling he could feel. perhaps the word is more fulfilled. he has been set to a task, and now must see it through to the end.
pushing the door open further with an arm that has surprising strength, stepping inside regardless of what the boy attempts. ]
This is where I am supposed to be. Do not scream, it will prolong the process.
[ and with no warning, no hesitation, pulling the knife from his belt and sinking it into his neck in one quick, practiced motion. what room was next again ... ? ]
[Why would the boy expect anything of the sort? He doesn't live here, he's only visiting — hence the rented room. He doesn't know what to expect in Derry, and he doesn't know what to make of the sodden-sounding man at his door in the middle of the night.
But this is a boy who rarely understands. He's always had trouble grasping the whys and hows of social niceties, or what the value of a relationship is. He expects very little of the grown ups around him, because they've given so little in the past.
Maybe it shouldn't be so surprising. He gasps. He doesn't fall back. Rather he's still standing as Anders moves away, gasping desperately in the doorway. Leaning on it, clutching at the blood as if it might be scooped back inside. It's over very quickly, though not painlessly. There's no such thing as a painless death.
Kaworu topples forward, sprawled and leaking into the hall.
404 is next, consecutively, then 504. He can take the stairs.]
[ he has absolutely no thoughts or feelings about this sight, about what it could mean or who this person is or was. he's not even annoyed by the blood leaking across the door jamb and getting onto the bottoms of his boots. it is simply what was required of him.
it's funny (not to anders) that this procedure is supposed to make mages less dangerous. he doesn't wipe the knife off. that seems like it would waste time.
[ the way you are trying to delay my killing spree by having them not open the door immediately.
well that's fine. his tone is cold and unaffected, calm. like a lake with no breeze. there's no reason to be afraid, but it's still frightening. no person, no real person, has nothing behind their voice. it is the voice of a ghost, or a memory. ]
[Maybe some of these people have reason to be wary, it's like two or three am man
There's more silence. Then, some movement. Eventually, there are footsteps up to the door.
It yanks open in a flash, and there's a sharp, viscious slap across his face with a walloping metal finish. A belt, buckle end out, whipped fast and true to the head.
The man with the rest of it looped around his fist may be hard to place, even to Anders' usual state of mind. He's lost all his childhood weight you see, and turned into a handsome, mild-mannered man with broad shoulders and sturdy arms to match.
It's Ben Hanscom's eyes that give him away. Eyes that widen in shock, placing him at once.]
[ his head twists to the side viciously - it's not exactly difficult to knock him off his center. he's an average adult man, far too on the skinny side. it sends him crashing back against the opposite wall with an exhale of breathe from the force of it but it doesn't slow him down much. he does not feel pain, because pain is an emotion that is unnecessary.
he isn't angry about the hit. he isn't swayed by the recognition. he simply is. a bit of blood drips down his temple, curving around his chin. ]
It has been a long time, Ben.
[ not with any nostalgia. simply a fact. it has been a long time. years. ]
[Ben is frozen, stunned stiff. Then he speaks slow, cautious.]
...That it has, Andy. I can't say I was expecting you.
[He doesn't move. The door is only partially open, and between two men of a size and a grit, who could both make it over quick. Shut it or kick it open. Ben's eyes are locked dead on Anders, feeling out the stand-off.
[ if there is one thing the Tranquil are good at, it is single-minded purpose. It is why the Chantry values them so much. their minds are well-suited to tasks that no one else necessarily wants to perform. they can be set to research a dull subject for years on end, with no sign of boredom or fatigue. they can put to cleaning duty, to washing every linen in the tower with no complaints of dried hands from scalding water and harsh soaps. they can be made to work the lyrium - a substance that in its raw form can sicken and kill a true mage, but once worked into enchantment, can be sold for astronomical sums. they are made to work as templar secretaries, as shopkeepers, as uncomplaining bed partners, as bodies that are disposable and valuable. they are vital, and necessary.
he does not feel fear. he does not feel irritation that ben has placed an obstacle between them. he merely stands again and shoves his arm into the door to stop it from closing. if it breaks the bone, then it will break. shoving his way in, regardless. ]
Edited 2025-03-13 02:47 (UTC)
CW: Mentions of bullying, mutilation, attempted child murder, patricide
[It's a single-minded purpose Ben recognizes. Not of the Tranquil of course, but of an old schoolyard foe. Andy, Jen, and Del may not have borne the brunt of the Bowers' gang's wrath, and they died before that wrath turned bloody. Henry Bowers, a bitter, bigoted, violent brute had begun the summer trying to carve his initial's into Ben's stomach. He ended it by taking a switchblade to his own father's neck and chasing all seven of the Losers into the sewers, gone in the brain and dead-set on killing them. Made into a loyal dog for It.
He assumes, half-correctly, that something of the same ilk is happening here. Except Andy should be dead.
The brawl that ensues is a mess. Anders has a knife but Ben has muscle and smarts. He flings a chair at the other man in a pique of adrenaline rage, knocks him down. The two wrestle for the knife. Anders may not have the bodily advantage, especially once Ben straddles him and cracks a fist into his face, but his single-minded determination wins out. The hand with the knife is pinned, but he strikes at Ben's neck with the other, and that grants him the leeway to wrest free. The knife strikes above his collar first. Then his neck, punched in through the jugular. Ben slaps at the damage, stunned, and slumps dead on top of Anders. His still gushing blood soaks his cloak and trickles around the back of his neck.]
[ he should be dead. but there are fates worse than death.
the feeling of a body slumped on top of himself after a stab through the neck, after violently wrestling on the ground for control of a knife in a life or death struggle, should evoke something. how many times will he find himself here. it should cast a shadow so deep and dark he might never rise from the floor again. but it doesn't. it doesn't.
he isn't sure if his arm still works appropriately. it will be a disadvantage, but he is a healer. he can tend to it later, after the work is done. pushing the body off and onto the ground, and rising to his feet.
504 is directly above 404. It wasn't symbolic or intentional, don't read into it. But it does cast an unseemly echo to trudge up the stairs with fresh wound and hop right back to it. Anders knocks, and the person behind the door curses. They roll out of bed and land on their feet with a hefty thump, and open the door with zero cause for concern.
It's hard to get the jump on them, anyway, when you look that much like trouble.]
...Oh boy. What do we have here?
[He'll counter any strike in an instant. Eyes flashing, teeth in a devious grin.]
[ it's a blessing, to have single-minded purpose. it allows the Tranquil to do the work that must be done, without fear of boredom, or distraction. if he had any feeling on this, then it is a place so far away that it is inconsequential. in a sense, it is already being dead, wandering the earth like a sleepwalker amongst the living.
his arm hangs by his hand uselessly, and his lone thought is an idle wonder if he should have paused to set it before carrying onto this portion of the great work. if it will hinder him in any way from doing what must be done. it isn't as if he doesn't have memories. he does. he remembers everything, in a distant and hazy way, as if seen through the fog of the Fade. he knows what it is like to be a dog, trailing behind its master, begging for a scrap of attention and resenting himself when he is too eager for any of it. what is it like to remember to be a wolf, a creature of vengeance and blood, who is willing to do the work that he could not bring himself to do.
and now he is neither of those things. he does not know what he is, because he does not think about it. those are the thoughts of a broken, haunted creature, and he is not that animal anymore. it is safe, here. ]
I will not be any trouble.
[ in that even, unaffected tone. he will not be any trouble. but he should hurry. time is running out. if a strike is countered, he begins again - relentless. ]
This is a man even bigger than Ben. But he is a hungover one. Bear-like and brash, confident and broad, whereas Anders has become a weapon. Thoughtless and numb. The damage done to his body hinders little of his aims in the fight that pursues.
Hawke goes for the nerves. Punching into the sternum in rapid succession. Anders goes for the neck and catches the thick muscle of his shoulder instead. Hawke snatches the hand and wrenches it back out, snarling as his blood leaps out alongside. He improvises, snatching a vase and dashing it against Anders' head.]
Who the hell are you, anyway?
[He roars, half serious and half amused. This is the last thing he had on his bingo card for tonight, but what the hell. Why the fuck not. Why fucking not?]
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holyspirits) wrote2025-03-09 04:46 pm
no subject
It's not until Anders takes his seat and pulls the door closed that he senses how old. The smell of putrefaction is soft in his nostrils — still seared from the sewer, after all these years — and Karl's neck makes a squishy, muffled noise as he looks back to the road. Pulls the car back between the white lines and follows the signs. Only 8 miles more.]
It's been some time. [He intones, and the voice rasps.] We need your help with something.
This town is tainted. You have seen it yourself.
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humming in response. ]
And am I the cause of Derry now?
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[Karl never once looks away from the road.]
There is an infection here. It can be cleaned.
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he'd asked him once to stay, and he is asking again for something. he could never deny him anything he truly asked, except maybe the truth. ]
Ask it, then.
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Karl removes a hand from the wheel and points to the glove compartment.]
Open it.
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I'm sorry. Do you know that I'm sorry? I know you asked, but-- ... It doesn't matter.
[ opening the glovebox. ]
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In the glove compartment there is a knife. The blood still hasn't been cleaned off it. He's too fond of using it in ways that hurt him more than they hurt the people it cuts into.
There is also a note, a jagged penmanship in all capitals.
ROOM 404
ROOM 213
ROOM 504
And if the request weren't obvious already:]
Kill them all.
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fishing it out with a shaking hand. ]
Alright.
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He leans over, raising his thumb and pressing the squishy pad to the center of the other man's forehead. The skin is unpleasantly soft, like an overripe grape. A mark blooms beneath it, and his mind flattens to a singular purpose.]
Go get them.
[They've stopped already. Pulled into the parking lot of a six storey inn and cut the engine, all in the blink of an eye.]
no subject
none of it matters, none of it will ever matter again. there's a certain safety in the sensation, in the dullness of it. the vice grip of grief on his chest loosens, the boil of rage roiling beneath his thoughts soothes into calm water, and the festering knife wound of love ceases to pulse with every heartbeat. anything he believes in, all the fire of the sun, cools to nothingness. the pendulum stills. whatever is inside his mind can no longer hurt, can no longer feel anything beyond its own confines. the fade, the world, all of creation is gone, along with all of its beauty and horror.
he pulls back. he doesn't lift a finger to touch the mark - the flaming sun of andraste herself. why would he bother. it does not hurt. ]
If that pleases you.
[ taking the knife and exiting the car, not bothering to look back. there is no purpose in it. room 213 first. it makes sense, to begin there, with the most efficient route. ]
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Into the entrance and up the stairs he goes. There is, curiously, no attendant at the front desk. About twenty minutes prior the man had blinked slow and gotten a funny feeling that a nap was in order. He was never in the habit of such things, but once in a six year track record couldn't hurt, could it? No one would be coming and going at this late hour. He trekked into the managers office, closed the door, and cut the lights, and will remain there until he gets a funny feeling he ought to wake up. Just a hunch, no reason for it.
Anders goes up the stairs. Knock knock on 213. There's a rustling inside, and eventually a groggy boy in grey-green pyjamas swings the door open.]
no subject
purpose. it's nice to feel useful. if nice is a feeling he could feel. perhaps the word is more fulfilled. he has been set to a task, and now must see it through to the end.
pushing the door open further with an arm that has surprising strength, stepping inside regardless of what the boy attempts. ]
This is where I am supposed to be. Do not scream, it will prolong the process.
[ and with no warning, no hesitation, pulling the knife from his belt and sinking it into his neck in one quick, practiced motion. what room was next again ... ? ]
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But this is a boy who rarely understands. He's always had trouble grasping the whys and hows of social niceties, or what the value of a relationship is. He expects very little of the grown ups around him, because they've given so little in the past.
Maybe it shouldn't be so surprising. He gasps. He doesn't fall back. Rather he's still standing as Anders moves away, gasping desperately in the doorway. Leaning on it, clutching at the blood as if it might be scooped back inside. It's over very quickly, though not painlessly. There's no such thing as a painless death.
Kaworu topples forward, sprawled and leaking into the hall.
404 is next, consecutively, then 504. He can take the stairs.]
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it's funny (not to anders) that this procedure is supposed to make mages less dangerous. he doesn't wipe the knife off. that seems like it would waste time.
onto the next. ]
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The next room is 404. This time there's not an immediate response. Then, hesitantly, a man's voice calls out.]
Who is it?
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well that's fine. his tone is cold and unaffected, calm. like a lake with no breeze. there's no reason to be afraid, but it's still frightening. no person, no real person, has nothing behind their voice. it is the voice of a ghost, or a memory. ]
Please open the door.
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There's more silence. Then, some movement. Eventually, there are footsteps up to the door.
It yanks open in a flash, and there's a sharp, viscious slap across his face with a walloping metal finish. A belt, buckle end out, whipped fast and true to the head.
The man with the rest of it looped around his fist may be hard to place, even to Anders' usual state of mind. He's lost all his childhood weight you see, and turned into a handsome, mild-mannered man with broad shoulders and sturdy arms to match.
It's Ben Hanscom's eyes that give him away. Eyes that widen in shock, placing him at once.]
Andy?
no subject
he isn't angry about the hit. he isn't swayed by the recognition. he simply is. a bit of blood drips down his temple, curving around his chin. ]
It has been a long time, Ben.
[ not with any nostalgia. simply a fact. it has been a long time. years. ]
Would you open the door? I have a job to perform.
no subject
...That it has, Andy. I can't say I was expecting you.
[He doesn't move. The door is only partially open, and between two men of a size and a grit, who could both make it over quick. Shut it or kick it open. Ben's eyes are locked dead on Anders, feeling out the stand-off.
Then he jolts forward to ram it shut.]
cw: reference to SA
he does not feel fear. he does not feel irritation that ben has placed an obstacle between them. he merely stands again and shoves his arm into the door to stop it from closing. if it breaks the bone, then it will break. shoving his way in, regardless. ]
CW: Mentions of bullying, mutilation, attempted child murder, patricide
He assumes, half-correctly, that something of the same ilk is happening here. Except Andy should be dead.
The brawl that ensues is a mess. Anders has a knife but Ben has muscle and smarts. He flings a chair at the other man in a pique of adrenaline rage, knocks him down. The two wrestle for the knife. Anders may not have the bodily advantage, especially once Ben straddles him and cracks a fist into his face, but his single-minded determination wins out. The hand with the knife is pinned, but he strikes at Ben's neck with the other, and that grants him the leeway to wrest free. The knife strikes above his collar first. Then his neck, punched in through the jugular. Ben slaps at the damage, stunned, and slumps dead on top of Anders. His still gushing blood soaks his cloak and trickles around the back of his neck.]
no subject
the feeling of a body slumped on top of himself after a stab through the neck, after violently wrestling on the ground for control of a knife in a life or death struggle, should evoke something. how many times will he find himself here. it should cast a shadow so deep and dark he might never rise from the floor again. but it doesn't. it doesn't.
he isn't sure if his arm still works appropriately. it will be a disadvantage, but he is a healer. he can tend to it later, after the work is done. pushing the body off and onto the ground, and rising to his feet.
heading for the final room. ]
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504 is directly above 404. It wasn't symbolic or intentional, don't read into it. But it does cast an unseemly echo to trudge up the stairs with fresh wound and hop right back to it. Anders knocks, and the person behind the door curses. They roll out of bed and land on their feet with a hefty thump, and open the door with zero cause for concern.
It's hard to get the jump on them, anyway, when you look that much like trouble.]
[He'll counter any strike in an instant. Eyes flashing, teeth in a devious grin.]
I hope it's not trouble...
no subject
his arm hangs by his hand uselessly, and his lone thought is an idle wonder if he should have paused to set it before carrying onto this portion of the great work. if it will hinder him in any way from doing what must be done. it isn't as if he doesn't have memories. he does. he remembers everything, in a distant and hazy way, as if seen through the fog of the Fade. he knows what it is like to be a dog, trailing behind its master, begging for a scrap of attention and resenting himself when he is too eager for any of it. what is it like to remember to be a wolf, a creature of vengeance and blood, who is willing to do the work that he could not bring himself to do.
and now he is neither of those things. he does not know what he is, because he does not think about it. those are the thoughts of a broken, haunted creature, and he is not that animal anymore. it is safe, here. ]
I will not be any trouble.
[ in that even, unaffected tone. he will not be any trouble. but he should hurry. time is running out. if a strike is countered, he begins again - relentless. ]
no subject
[And he means it, too.
This is a man even bigger than Ben. But he is a hungover one. Bear-like and brash, confident and broad, whereas Anders has become a weapon. Thoughtless and numb. The damage done to his body hinders little of his aims in the fight that pursues.
Hawke goes for the nerves. Punching into the sternum in rapid succession. Anders goes for the neck and catches the thick muscle of his shoulder instead. Hawke snatches the hand and wrenches it back out, snarling as his blood leaps out alongside. He improvises, snatching a vase and dashing it against Anders' head.]
Who the hell are you, anyway?
[He roars, half serious and half amused. This is the last thing he had on his bingo card for tonight, but what the hell. Why the fuck not. Why fucking not?]
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