He hears it, loud and clear, even if the name goes unsaid. Jon had spoken with Mortanne, during a ritual to bring about a dream, and knew that the center was a working of Eligos in general, but such a great length for a single betrayal is a surprise.
Jon presses his lips into a thin line, and the conflict is written all over his face, try as he might to furrow his brows and push it aside with thoughtfulness. He's quiet for a moment.
When he does speak, it's tentative, yet level. A contemplative push for that same evenness.
"I... did find that out, yes. I'd spoken with him," Jon remarks, shifting to lean his elbows against the table. "He didn't have anything of use to say about the incident, so I... picked at any thread I could find, I suppose. Just to come out of it with something to show for it beside a headache."
A beat. Perhaps, in his own bitterness, and his desperation for vindication in his own wrongdoings, he's putting that same justification on Daisy's. He doesn't dwell on it too deeply, at least not yet. Instead, he simply gives a slow, short nod, before letting out a quiet, derisive huff of a laugh.
"Couldn't have been a more lovely person to send to the Buried." He pauses, before he continues, more serious, doing what he can to snuff out that edge of uncertainty. "And... now, none of the royals could see fit to let him wreak havoc here, right? He's soundly out of reach."
"No one comes out of there. No one but us." Which isn't exactly an answer, but there's a firmness behind it anyway. She's not naive enough to truly trust the demon of betrayal to keep his word, but what she does believe in is the nature of the Fears to be what they are. One may have come when called upon by Eligos, but it will not bow down to him and let him take back what is rightfully its.
No. The Buried will not relinquish Calvin Benchley, not now it has him. Not without a fight.
"I shouldn't—" mm, "it's not— it's probably not... good. Doing that. I know that. But he wouldn't. Stop. Calling me Alice. Even when he was begging. He couldn't shut up and— and understand. He didn't understand."
"...No. No, I don't think he ever would have." Stopped calling her Alice? Understood? One was a symptom of the other, of course. Maybe it wasn't the nature of what he was anymore--- perhaps it was just a symptom of who he was always meant to be. If one couldn't manage it while staring down an inescapable eternity of what they fear most, they were doomed.
What a weight on the conscience that must be, to have done such a thing. The Buried somehow still manages to get its due.
"The way I see it," Jon tries to reason, half to Daisy and half to himself. "Is that, if demons could bring him to the Visitor's Centre, they could have brought him anywhere else. Who knows what could have happened?"
He shifts a bit, uneasy. He offers a small shrug and a frown.
"I know that doesn't make having done remotely any easier, though. I'm sorry. But... for whatever it's worth, I think it needed to be done."
"...yeah. Yeah." Until he says it, the idea of the demons sending Calvin not back to his many graves, dead as he ever was, but to somewhere else to wreak more havoc never crossed her mind as a justification. Dead or Buried, it makes so little difference in terms of the harm he could do—but left alive and free, wherever that may be, that would be different. "You're— right. He was dangerous. Always was. If they'd used him somehow— people would've got hurt."
It's all too easy to reshape her worldview to fit, like flexing an old muscle that despite deliberate misuse still clings to memory.
"He's dangerous, he's got personal ties to someone here, and they've used him once already. It's better this way," Jon agrees, and seals that one way neatly with a fully justified sticker. No reconsideration for Daisy about having done it, no dilemmas for him for having gotten the information into the world. All is as it should be. Everything is fine.
Well. Maybe not everything.
"...To tell you the truth, I--- had a similar experience. At the Centre. It was, ah." It's time for Jon to turn uneasy, for that guilt to seep back in, the two reflecting the discomfort and internal conflict back and forth like funhouse mirrors. "...It was a man there to represent a friend of mine, John Rambo. One of the farmers."
The words stick in his throat, the specifics of it difficult to will to Daisy, of all people. For his first act of inflicting violence with his brand of terror to be upon a sheriff committing unspeakable acts of brutality.
"He'd really--- fucked him over, and I couldn't get him to see it, no matter what sort of angles of it I pulled out of him," Jon forces the words, but skirts around the deeper nature of it all. "I don't know what came over me. I'd just--- I'd never been so angry, in all my life, and so--- desperate to get someone to hear themselves. So, I... I tore it from him, over and over."
Secrets and retelling of tales of wrongdoing until the lungs collapsed under their own weight, a perfect blend of Eye and Buried. The notion makes him feel no better about any of it.
Daisy listens quietly, does him the courtesy he's done her, watching him from the other side of the table and over the rim of her glass as she drinks. There's a flicker of undeniable surprise in her gaze, but judgement doesn't follow.
If he hadn't claimed this as a similar story she's not entirely sure she'd have put together the implication in his final words, but with all pieces together and the subtle taste on the air...
His agreement borders on panicked, but he reels it back in, carding a hand into his hair for a moment. A second later, and he settles on a long drink to be the best thing to do about it.
"...Martin didn't condone it, of course, but he didn't condemn it when I told him, either. I almost wish he had. And Mr. Rambo--- all but told me that he wasn't worried about it. I should still have reservations about having done it, and should be doing what I can to make sure it never happens again."
The but attached to the end of the sentiment hangs loudly in the air.
Daisy laughs grimly. "Probably not. I— I haven't even told anyone else about Calvin. So. Yeah."
They're each other's only port in this particular storm. There might be a couple others that wouldn't judge her for it, maybe even understand in the abstract, but this is different. They're different.
She sighs. "I get it, yeah. Lot of people I know I shouldn't've hurt that I still can't bring myself to regret hurting. Some people are... some people are like that. And— look, this is the first time you've done it. I don't think you're going to suddenly start suffocating people on mass. A sudden lust for murder isn't really your brand."
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hadnoright) wrote2022-11-01 01:56 am
no subject
Jon presses his lips into a thin line, and the conflict is written all over his face, try as he might to furrow his brows and push it aside with thoughtfulness. He's quiet for a moment.
When he does speak, it's tentative, yet level. A contemplative push for that same evenness.
"I... did find that out, yes. I'd spoken with him," Jon remarks, shifting to lean his elbows against the table. "He didn't have anything of use to say about the incident, so I... picked at any thread I could find, I suppose. Just to come out of it with something to show for it beside a headache."
A beat. Perhaps, in his own bitterness, and his desperation for vindication in his own wrongdoings, he's putting that same justification on Daisy's. He doesn't dwell on it too deeply, at least not yet. Instead, he simply gives a slow, short nod, before letting out a quiet, derisive huff of a laugh.
"Couldn't have been a more lovely person to send to the Buried." He pauses, before he continues, more serious, doing what he can to snuff out that edge of uncertainty. "And... now, none of the royals could see fit to let him wreak havoc here, right? He's soundly out of reach."
no subject
"No one comes out of there. No one but us." Which isn't exactly an answer, but there's a firmness behind it anyway. She's not naive enough to truly trust the demon of betrayal to keep his word, but what she does believe in is the nature of the Fears to be what they are. One may have come when called upon by Eligos, but it will not bow down to him and let him take back what is rightfully its.
No. The Buried will not relinquish Calvin Benchley, not now it has him. Not without a fight.
"I shouldn't—" mm, "it's not— it's probably not... good. Doing that. I know that. But he wouldn't. Stop. Calling me Alice. Even when he was begging. He couldn't shut up and— and understand. He didn't understand."
no subject
What a weight on the conscience that must be, to have done such a thing. The Buried somehow still manages to get its due.
"The way I see it," Jon tries to reason, half to Daisy and half to himself. "Is that, if demons could bring him to the Visitor's Centre, they could have brought him anywhere else. Who knows what could have happened?"
He shifts a bit, uneasy. He offers a small shrug and a frown.
"I know that doesn't make having done remotely any easier, though. I'm sorry. But... for whatever it's worth, I think it needed to be done."
no subject
"...yeah. Yeah." Until he says it, the idea of the demons sending Calvin not back to his many graves, dead as he ever was, but to somewhere else to wreak more havoc never crossed her mind as a justification. Dead or Buried, it makes so little difference in terms of the harm he could do—but left alive and free, wherever that may be, that would be different. "You're— right. He was dangerous. Always was. If they'd used him somehow— people would've got hurt."
It's all too easy to reshape her worldview to fit, like flexing an old muscle that despite deliberate misuse still clings to memory.
no subject
Well. Maybe not everything.
"...To tell you the truth, I--- had a similar experience. At the Centre. It was, ah." It's time for Jon to turn uneasy, for that guilt to seep back in, the two reflecting the discomfort and internal conflict back and forth like funhouse mirrors. "...It was a man there to represent a friend of mine, John Rambo. One of the farmers."
The words stick in his throat, the specifics of it difficult to will to Daisy, of all people. For his first act of inflicting violence with his brand of terror to be upon a sheriff committing unspeakable acts of brutality.
"He'd really--- fucked him over, and I couldn't get him to see it, no matter what sort of angles of it I pulled out of him," Jon forces the words, but skirts around the deeper nature of it all. "I don't know what came over me. I'd just--- I'd never been so angry, in all my life, and so--- desperate to get someone to hear themselves. So, I... I tore it from him, over and over."
Secrets and retelling of tales of wrongdoing until the lungs collapsed under their own weight, a perfect blend of Eye and Buried. The notion makes him feel no better about any of it.
no subject
Daisy listens quietly, does him the courtesy he's done her, watching him from the other side of the table and over the rim of her glass as she drinks. There's a flicker of undeniable surprise in her gaze, but judgement doesn't follow.
If he hadn't claimed this as a similar story she's not entirely sure she'd have put together the implication in his final words, but with all pieces together and the subtle taste on the air...
In a hushed tone, "You can do that? ...damn."
no subject
His agreement borders on panicked, but he reels it back in, carding a hand into his hair for a moment. A second later, and he settles on a long drink to be the best thing to do about it.
"...Martin didn't condone it, of course, but he didn't condemn it when I told him, either. I almost wish he had. And Mr. Rambo--- all but told me that he wasn't worried about it. I should still have reservations about having done it, and should be doing what I can to make sure it never happens again."
The but attached to the end of the sentiment hangs loudly in the air.
no subject
"But you don't really regret it either. Even if you wish you did."
Christ. Just look at the two of them. Messy as ever they were, still caught between the right thing to do and what feels right to do.
Daisy breathes out heavily and worries her lip between her teeth.
no subject
"...No. I don't," he admits. "And I don't know I know much of anyone besides you who could understand as much."
no subject
Daisy laughs grimly. "Probably not. I— I haven't even told anyone else about Calvin. So. Yeah."
They're each other's only port in this particular storm. There might be a couple others that wouldn't judge her for it, maybe even understand in the abstract, but this is different. They're different.
She sighs. "I get it, yeah. Lot of people I know I shouldn't've hurt that I still can't bring myself to regret hurting. Some people are... some people are like that. And— look, this is the first time you've done it. I don't think you're going to suddenly start suffocating people on mass. A sudden lust for murder isn't really your brand."