logsinthenight | EVENT LOG: BURY A FRIEND

EVENT LOG: BURY A FRIEND

characters: everyone.
location: around town.
date/time: october 9-17.
content: the hallucinations begin...
warnings: psychological horror. please cw tags appropriately.

it's probably something that shouldn't be said out loud

October 9 feels like a normal day at first, save for the red lighthouse beam cutting through the darkness overhead. You know by now—or you've heard—that the lighthouse is only active during ferry arrivals and events... And there's definitely no ferry docked at the, er. Beach. The town is quiet, the forest spirits behave business-as-usual, Rastus doesn't know what's up. Whatever's going on, you'll have to figure it out for yourself.

And you will, though the hallucinations are subtle at first: objects moving when they shouldn't, people's proportions looking just a bit off, voices in an empty room, and so on. Is it just your mind playing tricks in the darkness? Might be! Will did warn you all about the effects of living without a sun and a proper day/night cycle.

As the days go on, the hallucinations are harder to ignore, no matter how much you may wish to wave them off as flukes. What's wrong with everyone's faces? When did all the howling start? Who do you hold onto when the world drops out from under you? And those hands...

While you might know it can't be real, it certainly feels real. But at least it can't last forever!

...Right?

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You think that gives you the right to act as my priest?

( He's irritable, much more so than usual. But she's just as stubborn as he, and Javert knows he may not be able to run from this conversation, not without hurting her in the process. It's irritating, having to care for something other than his pride. )

Very well. If that it how it must be, I will tell you. Her name was Fantine. She was a prostitute I tried to arrest in Montreuil.

( She asked for a name and he gave it to her. Somehow, though, he knows that isn't going to be the end of it. )

[Of all the things she'd expected from him, it hadn't been that. Truth be told, she'd thought it might be Valjean, and who else could be so important as to merit attention?]

An action you regret?

Apparently.

( It isn't Fantine that he's grief-stricken over. The woman is dead, and Javert feels no remorse at having hastened her passing. It is merely the circumstances that have been eating away at him. Could she have been telling the truth? Was he wrong to not have shown her pity? )

That is the thing that vexes me. I should not be questioning such problems. Least of all now, when it no longer matters.

Tell me more of it.

[It's as much a command as any of her words ever are, but at least her tone is slightly softer. She takes a seat next to him, one leg tucked beneath her, those icy eyes locked firm on his expression.]

What problems arose from it? From the start.

( Javert falls silent, his expression reluctant, but contemplative. She frames it as a command, and considering how much the disgraced inspector respects her, it's not one he feels he can rightfully refuse. She already knows that he is not irreproachable, so what is the difference? )

You remember the arrest I told you about? The one that caused me to denounce Valjean to the Prefect of Police?

( He scratches his beard, and lets out an exasperated sigh at himself. )

I was out on patrol one evening, making my rounds through the town square, when I came across a man and a woman. The man was defending himself, and the woman was assaulting him, kicking and clawing at his person like a frenzied creature. I broke up the fight, dragged the woman off to the police station, which was nearby, and charged her with assault.

I did not take any statements. I did not care what had started the fight. To me, the woman was guilty, not because of what I had seen, which was damning, but because of what she was. I could not conceive of a man, upstanding and well-off as he, of doing anything unsavory. So the woman must have been lying. And why was she lying? Because she was a prostitute.

( He falls into silence again, his hands resting on his lap, looking down at the floor. There's no pride in his stance, just simple humility as he says, in a softer tone, )

I was simple minded. It brings me great shame to admit it but it's true.

[It's far from the most flattering thing Javert has ever told her, certainly, and there's a part of Rosalind that judges him for it. Of course there is. She'd judge any man who arrested a woman without hearing her say; Javert isn't exempt from that. But he regrets it, and that matters.]

And her spirit haunts you?

[She says it softly, her expression still.]

Her memory does.

( Her judgment is well deserved. Javert's not going to hide the worst parts of himself — he's always been an honest man, especially when it comes to his own failings. He scrutinizes himself far more than he ought to, and perhaps that's why the voices have been so constant. He fiddles with the buttons on his shirtsleeves, still not daring to look up. )

She begged me for her mercy, and she begs for it from me even still. She had a daughter, you see, one that she feared may be thrown out onto the street had she not the money to pay her caretakers. I should have pitied that, given my — ( He stops, a brief moment of hesitation, ) Given my history. But I did not, and perhaps I should have.

I do not expect I will be getting much sleep tonight.

[It's a horrifying story, objectively. It's not a story Rosalind has ever faced-- god, when has she ever truly wanted for things? Never. Scientific funding, perhaps, but never food or shelter-- but it's one whose wretched quality she can appreciate at a distance. It's a story that paints him horribly, too, and she takes note of that. His casual cruelty, his indifference, his black-and-white thinking.]

No. I imagine not.

[There's still no judgement in her gaze. No forgiveness, either, and certainly no sympathy. But she stays still, neutral, as is her wont.]

What happened to her?

She died. I was there when it happened. She was in a very bad way, frail and complaining of a burning in her chest. Valjean took her to the hospital, and that was where she was when I came to arrest him. I did not care that she saw, and I when told her the truth about her benefactor, about Valjean, she died from the mere shock of it.

( And that, perhaps, may be the most monstrous thing that he has done. The indifference in which he treated her condition, both at the police station and in the hospital, is unforgivable. Javert can still hear the accusation, the anger in which Valjean spoke to him about it afterward. )

Valjean sought out the woman's child, after he escaped from prison. He has been raising her all these years as far as I am aware, but that is all I know.

[Ah. And that is why he is haunted, she thinks. The other things were awful, yes, but not damning, not like this is. He has her blood on his hands, no matter that he never drew a sword or struck a blow. He killed her all the same, and he will never forget that.]

And it's a mistake you'll never be able to rectify.

[And that's really it, isn't it? There's no words of comfort she can offer him, even if she was inclined to try. He is the villain here, and how ironic, that this man so obsessed with being righteous should fail in such a clear way.]

( Javert doesn't rebut her. It's true, there's nothing he can do, nothing he can say to make things right, to bring the mother back to her child, and that is the issue. He's never had to live with mistakes like this. Everything he's done has always been right, always just, he does not know how to go on being so reproachable. He holds his hands out, palms out, and says with a note of defeat in his voice, )

So now you understand my discontent. It is not a dilemma that can be solved by words alone.

( He wriggles awkwardly against the couch, his hands falling back to his lap, before he continues, clearing his throat. )

But, ah — I have spoken too long about myself. Is there something else that bothers you? Did you find it difficult to sleep?

[Oh, god, her. This was much easier when they were talking about him and his vulnerabilities; her own are much less comfortable to talk about.]

I find it difficult to sleep, yes. It's easier to ignore them when I'm working.

[But at night there's nothing to do but linger in silence and listen to them whisper. Rosalind glances away, her fingers playing idly at her throat, before meeting his gaze firmly.]

You aren't the only person who wronged a parent and child. The girl-- the child-- is grown now, but lingers in the corner of my eye.

[A few seconds pass, and then:]

My employer, my patron, wanted a child, you see, but was infertile. He was a man religious to the point of delusion-- he began as a preacher, but soon styled himself a prophet. And he could not fathom not passing on his legacy. So he tasked me with finding a solution.

You know something of my inventions. But the most marvelous of all was a device I had that could create a doorway between worlds. They exist, you know. Universes in which almost everything is the same, save for a choice or two. A world where you hadn't arrested that woman . . . or where Valjean was not so merciful, perhaps.

A world in which my patron had not become religious, but instead turned to alcohol and gambling. He'd had a daughter, an infant that he loved, but who lived in the worst sorts of conditions with him.

He sold the infant to me, in exchange for payment for all his numerous debts.

( It's an extraordinary concept for him to grasp. The existence of parallel universes and the ability to move between them. He has no doubt that she is telling the truth, that she did create such a device, that she travel to another world, he just doesn't have the imagination to conceive it. There's no confusion in his expression as he listens to her, though, his gaze fixated and contemplative. He hums and says, )

Perhaps that is not such a terrible thing. I have known men such as him. Lazy drunkards, con artists. They never make good fathers.

( But there is more to it, and so he feels compelled to ask, )

What happened after you brought her back?

[Later, she'll tell him more of those devices. She'll share the wonder she felt, the shock, the awe, the giddy way she'd stolen glances at the future, so terribly eager to learn more and more. It was a wonderful thing, once.

But that's for later.]

The father regretted his decision at the last moment. He grabbed the baby out of my patron's hands, and a fight ensued. The baby was caught between-- but thank god, at the last moment, one man one. She was pulled through to my side, but a bit of her-- a pinky-- was sliced off, the digit staying in another world.

That has its effects. The universe . . .

[How to say this.]

We aren't meant to jump between worlds like that. Having parts of you in two worlds . . . the baby began exhibiting strange behaviors. The ability to open doorways between worlds, created on her own impulses. She'd long for-- oh, I don't know. Sweets, say, or a puppy. And she'd make a doorway to find them-- or at least try. Instead, she'd sometimes open doorways to a furious dog or the middle of a street. She was a danger to herself and others.

So. My patron decided that he would task me with building a cage for her. A place for her to be kept like a bird, isolated from anyone and everyone save her books and an artificial guard. For her own good, ostensibly, but more his.

( There's no look of compassion that crosses his features, but all the same, he understands. A child like that should be locked up, for the safety of her and for everyone else. He knows that but — despite the logic, despite everything, he of all people should know that a cage is not a place to raise a child. It is a harmful, distasteful thing.

He's quiet for a moment, before looking over at her evenly and wondering, )

You feel guilty about this?

( That seems to be the point of it all, doesn't it? To make them feel poorly about themselves. )

I regret it.

[Guilt is a strong word, but somewhere beneath all those repressed emotions there's a tendril of enormous regret. Robert had felt it far more keenly, but of course he had.]

It was . . . foolish. I was twenty, and desperate for funding, but neither are excuses. I had no idea where his adoption of the girl would lead, but I ought to have paid more mind to his insanity.

. . . it's why we died. Robert and I felt guilty, but for eighteen years, we did nothing. But then . . . we used our device to see the future, and found a horrorshow. The girl's mind had snapped, and she'd used her powers and her adopted father's technology to destroy whole countries, burning them to ash.

We had to stop her. But her father found out, and he had us murdered.

And here I am.

Do you believe such a thing could come to pass?

( The future that she's seen. Without her there to stop the girl, it seems a very likely thing. Javert isn't particularly invested in whether Rosalind's world meets its destruction — but he's invested in her, odd as it is — and that makes him care. He looks down, then back at her, muttering softly, )

You did what you could. There's no fault in that.

Oh, yes. Comstock's tortures are very effective. The girl's mind will break, and she will continue her father's legacy, and the world will be destroyed and cleansed in a rain of hellfire.

[She says it with a grim sort of inevitability. She isn't--]

Robert had to blackmail me into helping.

[It's said quietly, because truly, she does not deserve his comfort. It's not a self-pitying thing, but rather a statement of fact. Rosalind is practical and cold and cruel, and Rosalind is not someone who deserves to be soothed after all she'd done.]

He told me he'd leave me, you see. Not in general sense, but a very permanent one. He isn't from my universe.

[She glances up at him, wondering what he thinks of that. Of her, and if his opinion has lowered after the revelations of all these things.]

So he told me he'd go home. And I cared more about him than I did the world, so I helped, for all the good it did us.

( She does have a flaw after all, it seems. He's not going to pretend he's not disappointed, hearing that she would one elevate one life above that of others. It's incredibly sentimental, and more than that, it is selfish. But it is not so distasteful to make him despise her. He contemplates all of this for several moments, staring down and away with a somber expression. )

And so you lost him regardless. Perhaps that is punishment enough.

( He isn't going to punish her any further for it. He certainly isn't going to give her the cold shoulder, lecture her, or anything of that sort. Instead, he just says, )

I do not doubt that we deserve this. If we weren't, perhaps these hallucinations would not be bothering us so incessantly.

Yes.

[It's simple, and maybe that's worth something. That at the very least, they can acknowledge their faults and their crimes. It's more than most do, she knows, and sighs softly, stretching her legs out for a moment, before glancing over at him.]

Well. Now you know my flaws, and I yours.

Did talking help?

No.

( He doesn't understand how it could, but that isn't any fault of Rosalind's. Javert's just too ill-equipped to deal with his feelings, after not having acknowledged them for so long. He makes a dismissive noise, something between a grunt and a huff before saying, )

The voices have ceased, but it is only a short reprieve. Tell me, are there any other visions that you've experienced?

[She huffs softly, an acknowledgement of wry amusement.]

Robert, of course.

[But little surprise there. Rosalind shifts, curling up a bit into herself.]

But I expected no less. His specter haunts me regardless.

Yourself?

( His lips curl into an irritated scowl. )

Besides the hands? It is the same man that always haunts me.

( The first time Javert saw him was perhaps the most terrified he's ever felt since coming to Beacon. He shifts uncomfortably on the couch, and without even really thinking about it, he asks, )

They appear so real, don't they?

Yes. I feel as though I could touch him.

[But she can't, of course-- because she's tried, of course, and she wishes she hadn't, but she couldn't live with herself if she hadn't.]

. . . do you miss him?

( Perhaps that is just another layer of the torment. Javert had no such compulsion, partly because he knew it wasn't real, but also because he was afraid of what would happen if it was. The question catches him off guard, and Javert gives a start. Does he miss Valjean? It is impossible to even fathom. )

I don't know.

( He says, and it's the truth. He's not certain what his feelings are anymore, and he doesn't wish to examine them too closely. )

We've encountered each other so many times across the years, it almost seems inevitable we'd find each other. But he is better off not here. As is Robert.

( Good people like them don't deserve this. Javert may not be certain of much these days, but he is, at the very least, certain of that. )

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