A. Kendrell, OVC @voidtheovc - Tumblr Blog

wizardhuntingwright:

“… Right. Getting back to business…

“’Who is spreading rumors about you’…? I’m sure, as a journalist, you understand that everyone has some information about them floating out there. It’s just a matter of finding it… and reading between the lines.”

Will looked deeply into Estrellita’s eyes as she stared back at him, the two seeming to have some sort of intimate conversation outside the need of vocal communication or body language, as he rubbed the side of her face.

“… Excuse me. My work isn’t official, as you’ve probably guessed. You can rest easy knowing that I don’t have much interest in your personal affairs… but I did have some questions about where you come from.

It was a routine list of questions, and Will rattled them off as if he had recited them a thousand times before. ‘What kind of world do you come from?’ ‘Do you have any clues as to why the scientists kidnapped you?’ ‘Have you seen anyone else from your origin world?’ ‘Do they know anything?’ ‘What was the last memory you had before you were taken?’ ‘What was the first thing you witnessed when you arrived at Hive City?’

Then, after he got the formalities out of the way, Willard went into more detail. His interest wasn’t just in where Asher had come from or why he was kidnapped… if it was, he wouldn’t have picked him out, exclusively.

“So… you were a journalist…? Then, tell me, what was your first impression of this place? … Do you have any suspicions as to the real intentions of the Hive…?”

An artificial city, constructed on highly advanced technology, designated around manipulation, deceit, and experimentation conducted by a shadowy puppet organization on its citizens for reasons unknown.

What was Asher’s opinion on that…?

Intriguing. Still a little bit suspicious, but intriguing all the same. “I can’t say I’m a stranger to working in an unofficial capacity myself. Very well.”

He answered all of Willard’s routine questions. He’s a journalist, not an investigator, but the questions are familiar, or perhaps the act of exchanging questions and answers is. In any case, his replies were sincere but brief. He didn’t trust this detective Wright much, despite Estrellita having warmed up to him unusually quickly, but that was her instinct for gravitating towards whoever was likely to provide attention and affection at work.

“As for why I’m here...I still have no idea. It could be the same reason you were taken. It could be different. Our benevolent overlords have certainly not been very forthcoming in that regard.”

When Willard’s questions became more pointed, Asher looked away. Estrellita’s gaze darted back at him, as though she had sensed the subtle shift in the tone of the conversation.

“I was, though I didn’t realize I had a reputation in this city.”

He looked back at Willard with renewed wariness, then slowly rose to have a seat on the couch. He gestured for Willard to do the same, if he wanted.

Asher crossed his legs and sat back, arms folded. “I don’t like this place. Didn’t, from the moment we appeared here. It isn’t just that it’s different--there’s something off. Besides the feeling of being watched all the damn time, of course.”

He didn’t say how much Hive City sometimes reminds him of Cloudbank. He didn’t say that he’s seen this before, that he’s been this before: the watcher, the keeper. Someone has to keep watch, don’t they? Someone has to intervene when things don’t go as they should--

Asher frowned and was quiet for what was probably a suspiciously long time, and when he returned to the conversation, his expression was closed and hard. No sense in dwelling on all that right now. He had all the time in the world to dwell.

“As for their intentions, I believe I know about as much as you, unless you know something I don’t.” A pause. “Why are you asking me all these things? Are you--”

The scientists had said they would be watching. For all Asher knew, they could be listening right now, but after a moment, he decides he doesn’t care. “Are you going after them? To get to the bottom of this?”

#wizardhuntingwright #willard01 #I'm sorry this took yonks

unheiring:

[ TEXT ] Asher, what are we doing?

[ TEXT ] Communicating, I should think.

[ TEXT ] You should be grateful. Estrellita does not deign to speak with just anyone.

#unheiring #dorian02

gildedmic:

She’s heard it already– from him, from Royce. Too many times and in too many lives, but Asher wouldn’t know anything about that.

For all the similarities she’s drawn, all the humanizing she can’t help but do, when he tries to connect the two of them like dim and blinking spots on some sad constellation, she can’t help be recoil.

“Don’t–”

‘Don’t say that, don’t tell me that, don’t make that excuse, don’t throw me under the bus with you, don’t try and take this from me–’ The words wrap around her tongue like a web, like a net, has her so tied up her fingers lose the rhythm they’ve picked up. It’s all distracted taps now– no organization, no rhyme, no reason.

“No.”

The bartender makes his return trip and instinctively reaches for another glass and bottle. Red puts up a palm and puts on a sheepish smile, one that doesn’t really reach her face past her upturned lips.

“He’s good– really.” She adds the last bit with a stern sort of finality before Asher can protest. She doesn’t know if he will, because she doesn’t know him– but she doesn’t want to end up feeling responsible for him, feeling responsible for this vague looming thing that isn’t even her fault.

The bartender retreats, goes to look after his other sad patrons. Asher’s cat curls herself around the Transistor. It glows in acknowledgment, shimmering in the dusty light like it’s got something to say to it, like it’s finally introducing itself.

“Well, this was about as unsatisfying as I’d always feared it’d be.” Her voice is flat, a click of her tongue punctuating her words as she stares at the shelves of liquor facing her. The sound echoes and reinforces just how hollow and empty whatever meaning she was trying to derive from this entire endeavor really was.

Or maybe she’s just mad. Mad because she didn’t get any of what she’d wanted out of it. Mad because Asher Kendrell refused to bend to the scenarios she’d concocted in her head, used to get herself through every loop and endless stretch of liminal space.

“You probably haven’t thought about it much– this conversation, that is. But I have. Lot’s of times, I had too much time to think most of the time.”

Red surprises him with her sudden outburst. Her voice is no more than a hiss, a shadow of its former self. She’s lost her rhythm; it’s apparent from her hands, from her face.

He could feel sorry for her but he doesn’t. He doesn’t. He can’t.

He remains stonily silent as Red speaks to the bartender on his behalf. Putting in his own word at this point seems useless, so let her have her little bit of control. He could be wrong -- an unlikely possibility, but a possibility nonetheless -- about her needing that, what little grasp she still has on their conversation, on the terms of their interaction. She was the one to approach him, after all. Is she disappointed? Angry? Hurt?

Estrellita flows off the counter, leaving his side again. She doesn’t go far, but relief turns to bemusement turns to horror when he sees her curl herself around the Transistor, its heavy translucent blade close to her sleek fur. A dim light begins to emanate from the sword, pulsing as though with interior life. It reminds him of the glow of a terminal screen. It reminds him of a heartbeat. Asher recoils, stumbling half off the bar stool, before he leans forward to reach for his cat. “Lita, get away from that thing--”

Estrellita ignores him in regal feline fashion, her spine and limbs and tail curving around the huge blade in a familiar manner. Is it warm or cold? He’s never touched the Transistor, never had the urge like Royce or Grant to wield it, a hand on the hilt or on the pommel. It had always given him a bad feeling, a feeling of being watched or weighed. Now it looks like it’s speaking, like the rhythmic pulses of light are the cadence of speech. Asher shudders but settles back on his stool, careful to not let even the hem of his trousers brush against the damned thing.

“Unsatisfying--yes, that’s one word for it. For this.” Asher follows Red’s gaze, but doesn’t see anything besides the rows and rows of liquor bottles, his many and varied old friends. “It’s strange--part of me has always wanted to have a conversation with you. Not--the journalistic side, either.” He sighs. “Though I suppose that isn’t going to come to much anymore, is it?”

Too much time to think. He knows the feeling. “In your own mind, time seems infinite.” How many nights has he lain awake following his thoughts around in mad, desperate circles? How many days?

How long has she been imagining this interview, exactly? It could have been an age, for all he knows. The Red he sees before him now is so altered from the one he knew (they knew, didn’t know at all) that he could almost pretend they’re different people. But her voice, her voice--no. She’s always had that, even when they couldn’t hear it anymore.

“Red--” He could say this isn’t my right to ask, which is stating the obvious, but he’s not that polite, not here, not with no one left to judge him but the person who hates his guts most anyway. “What happened to you?”