It’s hard to catch Lucky off guard. Impossible, even.
...Impossible, they thought. When everything around them is there in their sights—when a room can never hold a surprise, can never have something slip by a periphery that never ends—when they’ve decided, subconscious or not, that they understand exactly how humans can be—
(They do not look to Fox when he speaks, but they see him all the same. There is a rustle of their wings, and nothing more is said.)
—and yet, when the votes come in to spite their final words spoken at this round table—
(They could not help but flinch when the lightning struck. Puffed up, defensive, they made a grumble of sound and pressed deeper into their chair, but moved no further.)
—they cannot pretend to not be surprised. Their feathers ruffle; their beak clicks; their eyes undulate, pulsing their strange glow into the room. It’s an unexpected turn of events that pulls them into simply watching Khloe bleed, red pooling from her as gently as a leaf dripping rain after a storm.
(Threat Level... No. They understand.)
They watch as Fox fusses, as Flick pushes, as Khloe explains, as Jules—
(So angry, and yet Lucky cannot be surprised by this. He is consistent, is he not? He will hunt to survive; what, though, does it do to his heart?)
—blinks into a room with a bomb and a book and mere hope to guide him.
They watch as he reads, as he fumbles, as he slips deeper into something panicked and cornered and desperate. They watch him back as far as he can away from the thing like it’s a bear trap ready to snap closed, but that’s the problem, is it not?
The bomb is not the bear trap; the room is.
When the bomb goes off they again flinch, their beak clicking, but between then and now is all it takes for Jules to return to his seat.
They gaze at the state of him as the masses swarm—as they carry him away, desperate and terrified and terribly human in all the ways Lucky simply cannot understand, and yet, and yet—
(Subconscious or not, they understand exactly how humans can be, do they not? Why else would they be here? Why else would they bother?)
Once the recovery group has cleared from the room, Lucky slips their bracelet back on. They stand up. They leave the room and take care to be unseen as they head straight for the train’s exit.
They do not ponder after Jules. It is likely he will survive. He is being cared for.
The best thing they can do for him, now, is simply to remove any lingering bad luck.
Post-Trial 2.3 》 I'm Never Gonna Stop The Rain By Complaining.
Tick.
As if he's never left, Julius Vachon is back in his seat, though markedly different. Completely unconcerned by the fact that Jules is in pain - as if unaware or perhaps unbothered - The Conductor once again appears on the screen.
"Well, I know who not to call to dismantle the collars around your necks!"
He lets out a short laugh before swiveling around in his chair, once, twice - it'd be dizzying if he were to go around a third time, but he stops.
"The timing of all of this is rather inconvenient - I mean. By the time you get out of here, I won't be able to reset your clock until a few more hours. No matter! Please exit Car 8 - I've unlocked the medicine cabinet as well for the time being. You know. For no particular reason or anything."
The Conductor nods his head, and a rush of cold wind causes a door you previously didn't notice to swing open.
"Don't waste time before treating those injuries, my fellow friends!"
A small bit of 'advice' imparted by The Conductor before the screen goes dark.
It’s always something with a countdown around here, isn’t it?
That’s what Jules thinks while he tries to orient himself, eyes catching first on the timer and second on the bomb that it’s strapped to. It’s starting to feel a little bit trite to be honest - like, a countdown on top of a countdown, a bomb on top of the guillotine he’s already wearing? If he was as brave as he is committed to being a hater, maybe he’d use the last breath he’ll ever take to get Barnaby to come up with some new material. Ruri gets the stage and fancy violin, all Jules gets is a cement room with a bomb on the table and five minutes on the clock to figure out what to do with it?
Right, he thinks. Figures.
But sure, he’ll play.
Five minutes on the clock, and the fact that there’s a clock at all is only the second most interesting thing about it to him. There’s something else on the table too, and he’s quick to identify what it is: instructions. Thick as an encyclopedia, sure, but that they’re there at all has to be a good sign. Evidence that, loathe as he is to admit it, the ethics brigade was onto something - that a punishment in this case doesn’t always have to be lethal, that there’s an opportunity for him to pry his foot out of the bear trap and live to die another day. That has to be it, right? Otherwise, what’s the incentive for him to try at all?
Five minutes is more than enough time to pick out the useful bits, anyways. He flips it open and starts reading, and for a couple seconds he thinks this might really be doable. It sounds a little tricky, but he anticipated as much - they weren’t just going to hand him the answer, he knows he’ll have to work for it. And he can work with this. Filter out the information that he can tell is only there to clutter up the page, separate the things that apply to this specific device from the things that don’t. There are a handful of hopeful seconds, focused nods and looks back and forth between the device and the instructions, confident turns of the page, where it makes sense.
And then, right when he’s gotten comfortable, there’s a point -
(one that feels frustratingly familiar, a sinking feeling in his chest, an unsettling doubt that creeps over him-)
- where it just stops making sense. Something that slips away from him in the space between one page and the next, a sentence switching halfway through into a language he doesn’t speak, symbols that look like maybe they should mean something, but he can only guess at what.
(Jesus, Julie, is it really that hard?
Like, nooo judgement, but - )
Which is annoying, but not impossible to work around. Sometimes you have to push yourself a little harder to get where you want to be, sometimes success requires more than just showing up. Jules knows that. He’s always known that, it’s other people who never seem to. He flips back a page, tries to pinpoint exactly where it lost him, find a way to make it make sense. It has to make sense. If he just reads it a little more carefully…
(It’s like, not at all that complicated. What, you can’t just bang out it now and be done?
You’re such a fucking bore, dude.)
Right, there it is. At least, he’s pretty sure he’s got it - it’s the only thing that he can think of at all, reaching his fingers carefully inside to disconnect one of the wires. And that -
No, no, that’s definitely not it. That’s so far from being it, as a matter of fact, that sixty seconds vanish off the timer and an alarm starts going off overhead, so loud that he nearly knocks the damn thing off the table as he scrambles to clap his hands over his ears. He loses four more seconds waiting for it to stop, and hurriedly returns to the instructions when he realizes it isn’t going to. Maybe the strategy is just not to look at the clock at all, try not to think about the time he’s wasting or the headache he can already feel coming on, and maybe this whole fucking section is a bust and he just needs to look a little further ahead.
He may not be counting the seconds anymore, but he counts the pages as he flips through, it takes seventeen of them just to find something written in a language he can fucking read. It feels for a second once he’s there like he’s found it again, like something has clicked, and he really should act before it disappears again, so he reaches in again and yanks something else out. And no, that’s not it either - he yelps, flinches back as a couple of sparks fly out at his face, the lights above him start flickering like they’re threatening to go out. He tries not to look but can’t stand not knowing; he’s not sure how much time that one took but he’s down to almost a minute now and no closer to understanding anything about how he’s supposed to beat this.
Because he’s not really supposed to beat it, is he? That’s been obvious all along, he’s just the last poor sucker to realize that there was never any point in trying at all. What was it that Lily said? Crabs in a bucket trying not to get boiled? That’s about how desperate he feels now, tripping over himself and clawing at the walls even though there’s really not anything for him to grab onto and pull himself up; scared, desperate, fumbling pathetically.
(Has he been this scared the whole time? Palms sweating, legs shaking, heart pounding; he takes a deep breath and tries to focus back on the instructions but he doesn’t even know what they say. Fuck.)
He yanks another wire out, because he may as well do something. All it does is send more sparks flying out at him, stinging his hands, and his time slips into the double digits. Thirty seconds isn’t going to be enough but he still tries, scrambling for a foothold, backtracks again like it’s going to make any more sense than it did the first time -
(Fuck.)
Twenty seconds isn’t going to be enough. His head pounds, and his hair keeps falling into his eyes, and he removes one hand from the device so that he can slam it against the table and push the stupid, useless instruction booklet off the edge. It doesn’t matter how many times he reads it, it’s never going to make sense; it either clicks or it doesn’t, and there’s nothing more pathetic than trying to force something when it isn’t working, so he really may as well just quit-
“Fuck!”
Ten seconds definitely isn’t going to be enough, and at this point he’s trying everything short of picking the goddamn thing up and slamming it against the table, which really doesn’t sound like such a last resort now that he’s down to the single digits and he’s probably fucked anyways, like how he’s probably been fucked all along.
He lets go. Hands up, eyes wide and panicked. Takes one hesitant step back, and then another, and then realizes that taking as many steps back as he can with the few seconds he has left might be all he can do, and that maybe that’s what he should have been doing the whole time - not like there’s anywhere to go, his back hits the wall soon enough. And really by this point it’s too late to worry about what he should have done, and all he has time to do is figure out how to brace himself for whatever happens when the countdown reaches -
00:00
A flash of light fills the screen, fire and smoke billowing out from the point of detonation; even from where you’re standing safely in another room the sound is startlingly loud. The image on the screen shakes, still largely obscured by smoke even as those initial flames die out, and as it begins to clear, Jules…
Post-Trial 2.2 》 But That Doesn't Mean My Eyes Will Soon Be Turning Red.
Like the panels on a slot machine, the portraits begin to merge into one large blur until finally the "winner's" portrait flashes up on the screen:
Julius Vachon.
It's a blink-and-you'll-miss-it (and you probably did miss it!) moment, as a resounding tick seems to shake your vision and by the time you instinctively whip your head around to catch the reaction of the one freshly named for punishment - he's already gone.
And the screen above you flickers once again, illuminating to show you the consequences - as The Conductor put it - of your choice.
Post-Trial 1.1 》 Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head.
Perhaps it's too short a time - or perhaps the time is mercifully short - because suspense is one hell of a thing - but before long the jumbotron starts flickering and a sound emits from the overhead speakers, drowning out any further conversation (or noises of surprise).
Before you can lift your hands to cover your ears, however, the song is abruptly cut off as The Conductor appears before you on the screen once again, looking all too pleased with himself despite a moment of what can only be considered scuff:
"Whoooopsie! Did you all miss me? Preparations have been complete, my dear passengers and fellow friends!"
The Conductor lets out a laugh before clapping his paws together.
"Your eyes up here, please! Let's see who has the displeasure of taking responsibility for our Accuser's actions!"
The image of The Conductor is then once again replaced by the somewhat familiar pre-vote tally screen, your faces flashing by one by one...
Now, before we get into things, I’d like to make one thing perfectly clear: what happened here tonight is beautiful, and I couldn't be happier for Khloe.
Jules, on the other hand -
“Un-fucking-believable.”
(Maybe anger wasn’t quite as productive as he thought it would be, but he’s got his claws in it now, and if he lets go then he has to feel something else. It’s easier to lean in, find someone to blame other than his own incompetence.)
“He started running and what, Khloe? I’d love to hear. I need to hear, actually. You were afraid he was, what, going to tattle on you? Come back with a mob? Who do you think would have joined? You think Fox, or Liss, or fucking Tali would have helped him do that? Did he bring, like, a weapon that nobody found? I mean it’s, it’s - it’s fucking unbelievable!”
Abstain, abstain, abstain. What a joke. Closing their eyes to it, refusing to pick a side at all. Like that’s better. Like they can close their eyes to it, excuse it, let Cross’s body vanish into nothing without making anyone answer for it. He turns his gaze, furious and accusing, to the rest of the room. It wasn’t everyone, he knows that, but he’s not really thinking about it right now. He’s getting way too worked up.
“Is this the new precedent we’re setting, then? We’re all okay with this? We’re okay with letting people get away with fucking murder as long as it means that we don’t have blood on our own hands? Do you think you can just put your hands up and decide not to be a part of it? Whoever’s name Barnaby is about to pull out of his stupid little hat, whatever happens to them, that is who you just cast a vote for, and you all have to be okay with that. And fuck Cross, I guess! Not like he jumped to a completely reasonable conclusion based on the information he had, right? Not like anyone here had a better lead to follow.”
Back to Khloe, seething, a withering look that Fox gets caught in too.
“If you didn’t do it, do you at least have anything useful to tell us? Could you tell the storm was coming? Was there anything weird about it that might be able to point us in the right direction, tell us if the storm and the accident itself killed Sou, or if that’s all coincidental and someone just killed him in the chaos? Anything?”
I'm Running Out Of Weather Report Songs || Khloe 2.6||
Khloe Hartmann never thought of herself as an optimist. A realist, perhaps, who ended up enabling optimism with sheer stubbornness. Perhaps she could have convinced more people if she were cunning like Lily, pragmatic like Jules, or as charismatic like Venetta. But Khloe knew better than to hope for that. Khloe was a shark who only knew how to keep moving. But… even she knew when the walls closed in. She’d taken the bait and felt herself pulled to the surface. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and worked on keeping the storm at bay.
The TV buzzed to life, carrying over hundreds of tiny wires the news she was dreading. She knew this was coming the second she chose to bring that rock down on Cross for the last time. They’d all agree she was someone dangerous, some threat that had snuck into their midst and must be eradicated. She doesn’t even look at the screen as the tallies roll in. She was… She was…
…?
Her hand falls away from her face, squinting as the lights hit her eyes. They… they spared her? They had nothing tying her to the scene -she made sure of that- but she’d assumed her Otherness would always be enough to convict. Her brain had barely processed the information before Fox was upon her. She only gets in a few light slaps and a little ‘Hey!’ before he is holding onto her like a koala. His professionalism was astounding, if only she hadn’t had nose bleeds since she was a child.
“Easy, easy-” Her voice is muffled by his sleeve, staying still for his sake. But not for too long. She presses away on his chest to get some needed distance. “I remember the last time,” Though it was far from the most memorable moment of the night, club members would remember Fox futzing over another one of her nose bleeds with the coastguard. “Easy, Doc. It’s all dried.” She reaches over and pats his shoulder with… more gusto than she usually allows herself.
But Flick was next. With questions that deserved answers.
“Mm.” She starts. Though… Perhaps more words were needed. Earned. “I… I did. Think about that. Since...” Every extra word was like getting her sea legs. "Because that's what Cross thought. And he wouldn't listen- He just started running, and I-" Her voice trails off. Perhaps she shouldn't go into the details, not when Cross wasn't able to defend himself. She reaches up, running her finger along the brim on her hat as she puts it back in place. Deep breath. Her face steels.
“Let’s get one thing clear: I did not kill Sou. I didn’t cause the storm that night.” There is a new sense of resolve in her voice. That strength of mind she’s had, that self assuredness she radiates is now as strong as lightning. She faces Flick particularly, “You have my word.”
2.4 | flick | so get me out of this mess | results reaction
Flick likes a finger press to a hot stove, but they’re not the type to go and lean on it. After figuring out exactly how hot it was, they resigned themselves to watching again, only meeting Khloe’s gaze levelly when she’d fixed them with that cold look.
But their eyes flutter shut as the rain starts. With the sound, they can feel the snap of an iceplant between their fingertips, wind playing with their hair, the cooling heat of the rocky cliff under their legs; they can smell the bitten peach they use to collect the flies that would be landing on their skin otherwise, knowing the incoming rain will drive them away now; they can see the first smatterings of ink on their journal pages. Santa Monica was never enough, and the open window of the train doesn’t come close. There’s a part of her that wishes the roof would blow off, that they could all feel something aside from the stale air they had all been breathing in since they’d arrived.
It’s a short lived thought. This close, the all-encompassing flash of lightning and the thunder are almost simultaneous. The light sears even through closed eyes, and they blink open with a start. Their free hand falls heavily on the piano keys, pressing them down soundlessly.
Their vision clears; they look at Khloe for only a couple of heartbeats before their head snaps to the side, free hand covering their own nose. While their hand rubs by their upper lip -- maybe out of some deeply empathetic feeling, maybe as if their doing so will transfer the motion to Khloe -- an uncomfortable feeling bubbles from their stomach, thick enough that they could grit their teeth and bite it. The physicality of the blood on the table, like wiping sweat from a brow after lifting something, the evidence of the work….
…Well, there’s no point in them opening their mouth and letting that feeling spill over. They pull their hand from their face, tap their POM quickly, and rest that hand on the piano. With their eyes hazy and their fingers slightly curling and with their distance, it’s hard to consider their thoughts. After the vote tally, they finally look back over to the group again.
She’s grateful for Fox, and she’s grateful for the space between herself and the action. She’s quiet immediately following his commands and, after allowing for some time, she calls from her safe position by the piano.
“So… like… you got what you wanted, didn’t you, Khlo?”
The quality of their voice is lower, resonant. It’s not a yell, but it has the volume of one, clear despite the fact that she’s not at the discussion table.
“You’re not dying for this, you know? But we’re gonna have to live with not knowing if we made the right call or not. You know, since we’re not gonna be sure about you like how we’re sure about Ruri, Lucky, and Cross, now.”
A flex of the hand on the piano again, shaking their hair back from their face.
“Jules was right, wasn’t he? You were scared we’d kill you, thinking you killed Sou because of your powers. And like… we didn’t. You owe it to everyone to offer some kind of assurance, don’t you?”
A tilt of their head, a scrunch in their eye visible even from the distance.
(Maybe if they think about this, they won’t have to think too hard about punishment, about what that means for the rest of them.)
