RP Chasing Memories

HighVoltage

Active member
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.
 

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.

 
Last edited:
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?"
 
Last edited:

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.

 
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 lifted into the air, spread out in an uneven, snaking line. Every card was face-down, and if Lark tried to peek at them from below, they would only find the back of the card staring back at them.

“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?”
 
Last edited:

Lark sinks their chin more deeply into the folds of their hoodie, looking for all the world halfway to dozing. It’s the eyes that give them away, like always - watchful, alert, lingering too long on every movement. Perhaps it was a terrible idea, to come here in search of answers. To deal with her. But she’s right, in a way. They were never very good at following anyone’s advice, least of all their own.

They don’t bother trying to avoid the eyes of Fate. Oh, they stay very still, statuesque in their consideration, but the only time their eyes flick away is when they glance at the cards as they clatter against the table. Such a loud sound, for such slim shapes. They don’t really want to know what those are made of, do they?

The gears turn all the while, grinding into motion as a machine never allowed a speck of rust, one that may stutter but never stop. Are they really going through with this?

Do they really have a choice?

Have they ever had a choice?

“Deal.” Their hand shoots out, viper-quick, to clasp Fate’s brusquely. They allow for the barest of shakes before drawing back again, wiping their palm on their skirt.

It’s a calculated insult as much as an effect of their own instincts, reluctant to allow any touch to linger lest they be trapped. They suppose they don’t have to worry so much about that now, they think in a spasm of grief. It passes, pushed back into its cage, and they take a surreptitious breath, slow and quiet.

Their eyes sweep over the shaky line of floating cards. A part of them is surprised, in an abstract way. They would’ve thought she’d be neater with them, for how insistently she plays at being an old hand at this sort of thing. But no, there are plateaus and valleys, some cards completely eclipsed by those on top of them.

They raise their hand, then hesitate, fingers curling lightly as they ponder which card to pull. There’s no question of what they’ll ask. The query is solid in their mind, the only question they need an answer for from her, specifically.

Finally, their eyes settle on a card, stacked so closely with another that it almost seems to be one item. They slide the top card away and pluck the lower one, keeping it face down in their grasp.

“What did you do to my powers?” They ask, and turn the card.

X - The Wheel of Fortune

 
Lark’s grasp could only charitably have been called a handshake. Their hand darted out, made as little contact as possible, applied just enough force to move Fate’s hand in a vaguely downward direction, and then retreated, slinking back to brush against their skirt. They rubbed their hand, as though Fate may have been coated in a toxic substance that needed to be removed as quickly as possible before it burned them.

Fair enough. She’d burned them before. If Fate took offense to this reaction, she didn’t show it. She simply grabbed her can of Monster, took a sip, and watched Lark make their decision. She watched them with blatant interest in her eyes, drifting along the cards as though she could see what each one held. When they finally drew their card, Fate was already almost leaning over the table to see what they’d drawn. In her eagerness, she nearly missed their question.

The spokes and beasts that greeted her caused Fate’s eyes to flick back up to Lark’s, searching for something, anything, any sign of understanding of the card’s meaning or significance. But alas, there was nothing to be found. Nothing but wariness, a bored mask, and someone who wanted to be angry but was just too damn tired.

“Oh, simple. I cut you off.”
Another flicker of red power as the cards shifted away from them, forming two neat stacks off to the side in the air. After all, it would be rude to have them floating in her guest’s face! The Wheel of Fortune remained separated, floating out of Lark’s grasp and into the air, hovering gently near Fate, slowly spinning. The card had an odd depth to it, almost lenticular, as if the card itself was a window into something else.

“The High Priestess, when reversed, is all about isolation from your peers, a disconnect from yourself. And, well, when you are your peers, that tends to make things a little messier.”
All this was said with the intensity and eagerness of someone who had been waiting ever so patiently to explain how they’d solved a problem.

“Simply put, you’re it. You’ll never see any versions of your younger self, and they’ll never see you. No more time travel for Lark.”
An oddly chipper note to end on, a sweet smile with a head tilt. She was enjoying this. With a movement of her hand, the Wheel of Fortune shifted so it was parallel to the table, slamming down into the wood as Fate dropped her hand. The card evaporated, the design burning itself into the wood with a sickly sweet smell on her right, their left. Fate’s gaze lingered on it for a few moments before returning to Lark’s, peeking out from behind the line of tarot cards that moved back in to take their place.

“Your turn.”
 
Last edited:

Lark lets go of the card almost too quickly when they feel it start to pull out of their grasp, and don’t quite manage to hide their wariness as it floats away under Fate’s power. It was such a bad idea to come here, they think again, but they’re in far too deep to turn back now.

So they listen, and they keep Fate in their periphery, and they dig their nails into their arms until they can think past the instinctive wave of dislike and listen to what she’s saying. This whole interaction will be an exercise in futility if they just tune her out like their instincts are telling them to.

It still takes them a moment to piece it together, and though they glance at the line of cards they keep their hands curled tightly around the back of the chair, pulling at Time-

Time keeps ticking on. They close their eyes, and breathe out. Right.

There’s a part of Lark that wants to be hysterical, to sink into the fear that they’ve been running from for so long. It’s right there, and they’re so tired, and isn’t it unfair that they have to keep going, when they thought they’d finally get a chance to rest for once? It’s the same part that keeps prodding at them like a burr in their boot, reminding them that their escape options have narrowed, that they’re in more danger than they’ve ever been in before, that they no longer have their emergency exit.

They breathe past it, and open their eyes again. They don’t have a choice. They never have. They just have to keep going.

They don’t bother pretending to put any thought into their choice of card, just picking another from the bottom of a molehill. For a moment they hesitate, but there’s really only one question worth asking, in the wake of that. “How do I reverse it?”

The card they flick onto the table, face up. It’s upside down, but they can’t be bothered to right it. Their eyes linger on the burnt markings of their first card, on the twisted beasts in front of circles they can only read as clocks, before flicking up to meet Fate’s gaze with steel in their own.

8 of Cups

 
Back
Top