RP Chasing Memories

[HighVoltage]

It’s truly remarkable how long the smell of smoke and charred particle board can linger in the air, especially when nobody opens a window. Scorch marks splashed black starbursts on desks and on the carpet, long since cooled but somehow no less pungent. The burned spots dotted amongst the rest of the wreckage, torn bits of metal and splinters of wood that twisted and twined around the empty office. A loud crack echoed through the empty space, followed by a hiss and the dull thunk of metal on fake wood.

A figure sat amongst the carnage, black combat boots kicked up on one of the few relatively unharmed desks, poking out from the baggy bottoms of her dark red pants. A simple black top gave way to ripped crimson arm sleeves, traveling down her arms until they terminated in black fingerless gloves, the occupants of which were busy shuffling a deck of cards. The figure paused, tucking a strand of hair back behind their ear; black, fading into and streaked through with gray-white, too stark to be natural, too rough to be professional.

Fate picked up her deck and resumed shuffling, eyes scanning her kingdom of ruin for movement. Not that she expected anyone to suddenly appear. She’d made sure of that when she was here last. But why return to the scene of the crime? Simple, she’d wanted to see what Lark had done. Did they throw a tantrum, wrecking the place even further? Did severing them from the timestream cause them to erupt in a massive emerald fireball that leveled the building? Or did they simply collapse and never stand back up?

Sadly, or perhaps interestingly depending on how you looked at it, none of those futures came to pass. Fate returned to find the body gone and nothing else changed. A little disappointing, but it just gave her a greater opportunity. She’d given them a day, a day to come to terms with their continued existence, for the white-hot rage to settle in their stomach, before she returned.

She sat at one end of a desk, her open can of Monster dangerously close to the edge. An empty chair sat opposite her, a sickly green can set in front of it. After all, what kind of host would she be if she didn’t offer her guest a refreshing beverage? The scene was set, the curtain rose, and Fate waited for Time to catch up with her.

 

[Katpride]

It takes Lark longer than they want, to stop trying to be clever about it. They set out with a fire in their heart that carried them through the first three hours in a dizzy haze of scouring the streets, but by the time that ran out they were no closer to finding wherever Fate might’ve holed herself up. Just tired and hungry in a dingy alley that looked so much like all the others they’ve found themself in over the years.

They still had a twenty in their pocket, sliced at the corner by a shuriken that nearly cut a new line in their pinky when they fished it out. It was enough to grab a bite at one of the McDonalds they hadn’t been kicked out of yet, and after they ate they took a few minutes to freshen up so they could at least stop looking like they'd crawled through a coal mine. Mirrors were still hard, so they left, again, scuffing their beaten-up boots on the sidewalk all the way to the library.

Bless the library, honestly. They didn’t find any answers in the books, but they did catch an hour or so of some kind of rest, and by the time they left they felt a little steadier. Steady enough to consider the facts, anyways. Where would a woman obsessed with drama and pastiche go, after presumably murdering someone?

Back to the scene of the crime, of course.

The door they broke the lock on so long ago has been repaired. Lark stares at the doorknob when it doesn’t turn, then wastes a good fifteen minutes sitting against the wall and trying not to think of anything. It almost works, and then they can dig a bobby pin out of their pocket and jimmy the lock in a peaceable kind of daze. At least the cameras are still out.

God, it feels like it’s been years since they were here. They linger at the door to the stairwell, looking in through the window. Are they really going to do this? What if she isn’t here? What if other people are? Could they really face a night watchman or someone come to pick up paperwork, in the state they’re in?

Do they really have a choice?

They push the door open. They lay a hand on the handrail, and step onto the first step. They step back down, turn their back on the stairwell, and try to push down on their nausea. They can’t do it.

This building has to have an elevator, right? They wander around the first floor until they find it, and press the button to call it. It lights up. Promising.

It’s a slow ride to the fifth floor. Lark has plenty of time to lean against the cool metal wall of the elevator and reconsider their life choices. The most pressing being: did they really trudge up five flights of stairs when there was an elevator this whole time?

The attempt at humor fails to bring a smile to their face. They stare at the doors to the elevator and meet the gray eyes of their own reflection. “Like you could do any better.”

The silence where a response should be makes their head pang, and they close their eyes until the doors open again with the wrong sort of chime.

A familiar scene greets them when they open their eyes. God, they really wrecked this room, didn’t they? Well, Lark sure isn’t footing the bill. They’ve already paid more than enough.

They stroll out of the elevator with measured strides, eyes raking over destroyed cubicles and burnt motivational posters. They don’t give Fate the courtesy of lingering on her any longer than the scattered office chairs. They don’t even take the bait of the chair set across from her own, strolling to a window instead and taking a seat on the sill. The sky is still heavy with clouds, though they’ve stopped spitting snow. Now they just hang there, stirred only by a slow, faltering breeze.

Lark lets the silence sit, turning to stare at Fate only after a minute of studying the clouds.

“I didn’t take you for someone who leaves a job half-finished,” they finally comment, mild as anything. The window behind them is intact, and they lean against it like the effort of keeping themself upright is beyond them.

 

[HighVoltage]

Fate’s gaze shifted from her shuffling as the elevator dinged. The doors slid smoothly open, revealing the silver-clad figure inside. She watched them survey the space, pausing her shuffling to wiggle her fingers at them as their eyes slid over her as though she was just another piece of rubble in the room. The hand falls as they turn away, and the shuffling resumes. Her guest chose not to sit in the chair, instead perching on the sill of a nearby window. They sat in near-silence for almost a minute, only the repetitive sound of card against card filling the space. Fate was fine waiting, she knew they would break the silence first. After all, they had the same amount of time to work with.

Lark Athali turned to meet Fate’s gaze, and a predatory grin crept across her face. The eyes were the window to the soul, after all, and she had gotten quite the look at their eyes as they fought for their sweet little life. She’d seen all shades of green, from Monster to emerald to forest. But not once did Lark’s eyes come anywhere close to the dull, pale gray they were now.

“Sometimes, if the job’s boring enough or the person in charge is an ass.”

Fate set her deck down on the table before bringing the can of Monster to her lips. Dramatically shuffling and waiting for your newest source of entertainment to show themselves was thirsty work.

“Bold of you to assume that you were one of those jobs.”

She took a sip and set the can back down before meeting Lark’s gaze once again, steepling her black-tipped fingers, a small smirk on her lips.

“So what brings you to my neighborhood, Lark? Seems a bit early to reminisce to me, but I suppose your timing’s always been a bit off.”

She made no attempt to hide the bright note in her voice, nor the shine in her eyes. She gestured toward the chair in front of her and the still-cold can.

"I got you a drink. Dunno what flavors you like, but it's the thought that counts, yeah?"

 

[Katpride]

Lark continues to stare at Fate for a long moment after she’s finished speaking, their gunmetal gray eyes focused somewhere near her nose. They blink slowly, then raise their hands to press to their eyes, raking them back and through their hair. God, they’re tired. They’ve gotten, what, three or four hours in the past forty-eight? Non-consecutive, of course. Not that they’ve ever been much a fan of doing anything consecutively.

They snort, hands still tangled in their hair and pressed against their neck. “Yeah, sure,” they mumble, and slide off of the windowsill. They plod their way over, reaching out to drag the chair noisily across the floor until it’s far enough from the table for them to turn it and sit with their arms folded across the back of it.

They rest their head on one of their arms, reaching with the other to pick up the Monster and inspect it. It’s green. Unopened. Zero sugar, so not something they’d normally touch. They set it back down. “Funny,” they deadpan.

Nothing touches the exhausted, nearly dead set of their features, not even the trace of a smile pulling at their lips. They rock the can of Monster with the tip of one finger, a seemingly mindless gesture.

“I came to bargain, Fate. You seemed to have a lot of questions, last we met. Figured we could trade some ‘info’.” They make the finger quotes and everything, though their eyes remain focused on the motion of the Monster.

 

[HighVoltage]

Fate observed Lark with a collector’s eye, fascinated by how literally the color had drained from them. There were the eyes, sure, but it was more than that. Their feigned indifference to her jokes and mannerisms was gone, replaced by apathy. Their hair somehow seemed to have lost its shine, its glittering silver now a matte, dull silver. This wouldn’t do, absolutely not.

“Dealing with Fate?”

An eyebrow crept upwards along with Fate’s tone.

“You know that’s never a good idea, Lark. Centuries of stories exist where the moral is just that.”

A pause, a sip, a shuffle.

“Although you do have a track record for disregarding advice, so that’s probably a moot point.”

Fate let the silence drag out a little further, watching them again. Their stillness was unnerving, not in an upsetting way, but unnatural, like watching the second hand on a clock tick but not actually move forward. The witch set her deck down, lacing her fingers and resting her chin upon them, pale eyes staring into the deep gray of the weary traveler sat before her.

“Okay, Lark. Let’s play a game.”

Fate smiled sweetly, sharply, as her deck began to move on its own, the cards shifting and snaking along the desk with the soft clatter of something harder than expected moving against the desk.

“Three questions. Ask one, flip a card. I’ll give you an answer.”

As Fate talked, her eyes seemed to glow faintly, edges of red reflecting in the glassy pale blue. The cards shuffled and arranged themselves, six perfectly neat rows of thirteen cards, all face down.

“No magic, no tricks. I just want to see what you pull.”

That vulpine grin remained, not budging.

“And I promise that every answer will be completely and utterly accurate, to the best of my ability at least.”

A black gloved hand draped in tattered crimson extended across the table. An olive branch, a ceasefire, a fool’s bargain.

“Do we have a deal?”