You don't need to apologise. I've died more times than I can count.
[ a blase admission, meant in play - but it's an in joke with himself, and every word true. it makes him pause. maybe that's half the reason why what she's said holds weight: hundreds of deaths in their boxes, rendered insignificant. shouldn't he grant it more gravity?
maybe. but if he gave everything the weight it might reasonably be owed by a person whose life existed within the usual constraints, he'd have gone mad years ago. ]
And thank you.
[ a gentle dismissal. a dismissal all the same. she doesn't need to carry something he regularly forgets he's holding. ]
[ their experience isn't comparable: most of his deaths have been - at least in some capacity - the product of his own decisions. he's gone in knowing it was possible, usually intending for it to happen, and always for some cause greater than himself: saving the world from extradimensional beings, a quest for knowledge in the hope of saving lives, the fate of the multiverse.
she, on the other hand, hasn't had the luxury of self sacrifice. even in dying he's been privileged.
for a moment, guilt. enough that her kindness chips a little into his resolve. ]
Primarily it's occupational. I've been fine.
[ there's no use banging on to your colleagues about the hundreds going on thousands of times an other-dimensional entity destroyed you when that was always the plan. when technically, according to linear time, it never happened at all. but... ]
The death here was unexpected, though always a possibility. But I wasn't the only one to go that day and unfortunately resurrection here requires a body and precision. I was collected by a friend. I've spoken to a few people about it since.
[ the other people trapped under the earth with him when the soldiers came. those who answered his plea to carry his body to the nearest medi-unit.
it's a death that shook him in ways he hadn't know to expect. the only human death of his own that he's lived through, the first time anyone had however brief a chance to mourn him. the first time his death has had consequences for others.
but not the last time. it's a death that's recently been wildly overshadowed, but one which creeps back under his skin now as he's given cause to remember. lid pushed off the box where it had been shelved with the rest.
a small thing, dying. a familiar thing. but dying by bullets and taken mostly by surprise was somehow very new. and despite the things that have passed in the time between, in this world and another, the memory still isn't very old. ]
It's less frightening walking into it with eyes open. I understand. Even easier when you know your body won't be going home to anyone.
[Maybe she never chose to die, but in spite of everything she'd found a way to choose her angle. They'd fought to see beyond the fog, to understand what happened after the gas. Eventually he'd opted to forego it entirely -- he'd wanted the last of the movements as much as the rest of them did.
She can still remember it vividly, Hap's face warped through the glass and then through the water. The growing pressure in that tube. The restraints holding her to the chair. Burning lungs. The fraying at the edges of her vision, brilliant spots of light, and nothing. And everything. And through it all, until that penultimate blindness, she'd kept her eyes fixed on Hap's face.
That hadn't felt like powerlessness. By his expression, it hadn't felt that way to him either. That thought still gives her a certain vindictive pleasure.]
Aren't there any telephones in this place? Some things were never meant to be written down.
[It takes a moment, a bit of fumbling, before the request is accepted. The first sound that comes across the feed, once opened, is a heavy sigh of relief.]
Thank you.
[A beat, and then, with resignation but still some vehemence:]
it's rare that he uses the implant for anything other than text-based messaging. talking out loud to another person while sitting in an otherwise empty bar feels more than a little unnatural. ]
You'll get there. It's not an overly comfortable experience, but you adapt.
[ having aural data processed directly by your brain rather than first coming through as external stimuli is certainly something. still, it translates as the same process. he's 'heard' everything she's said. ]
[There comes a quiet, amused little scoff; the soft rustle of OA running her fingers through her hair.]
It's better than all the reading. None of this was designed for the blind. I guess nobody is anymore.
[There's a gentle moroseness to her tone. It feels, strangely, like a loss. But that's another matter, only a small part of why she wanted to converse this way.
She pauses; there's a rustle of clothing and the distant, dry sound of bare feet on bare floor as she takes to pacing.]
You said you didn't go anywhere this last time, you didn't travel. Can I ask -- have you ever? Have you ever... gone anywhere in death, spoken to anyone?
[A beat.]
I did. We all did, in our NDEs. It's how we learned.
[ there's a lot happening here. he's caught on the none of this was designed for the blind detail, holding onto it ready to turn back when he answer the question she' gearing up to ask, only then there's the brief moment of translation from NDE to near-death experience and the following intrigue.
gone anywhere. spoken to anyone.
it's how we learned. ]
No. I've died many times in many ways, but none of them took me anywhere except back to life. The mechanics of those revivals were different depending on location and circumstance, but they were all the same in that respect. No traveling, no conversation.
[ it's a weigh-up now. what to go back to?
she contacted him for this topic. he's interested too. his curiosity over her little drop of something personal can wait. each thing in its time. ]
All of you experienced the same? Destination, conversation partner?
[It's the most succinct way she can think to express the ways in which a simple yes or no would be insufficient.]
We all died. We were all offered a choice, and we all all chose to come back. There were... others, there. Some we could speak to, some we couldn't. The ones we could talk to, we called them our guardians. Each of us had a different one. They gave us different pieces, different perspectives on the same whole.
[A rustle of clothing; a sigh.]
I'm willing to tell you anything you want to know. Lying only delays the inevitable, and I don't know how much time I have. I just want to know one more thing: are you still willing to learn?
Maybe nothing. Nothing concrete yet. What we learned, it's impossible to explain without context. There's still so much I don't know; half of it is body, a felt thing, buried in the story. From what I've been hearing, it might not even work.
[A faint, dry sound of skin on skin -- she's run her hand over her face.]
I'm trying to decide if I could forgive myself if I didn't at least try. If I do, I'll need at least five people. Strong, flexible, willing to listen. I'm sorry; I can't say more than that. In time I think you'll understand why.
[A beat; a wry huff of laughter.]
Maybe you already do. You've also touched the impossible.
[ he does understand. not the specifics - he doesn't know how things work for her outside of the basics, of the suppositions of a man whose fascinations outweighed his conscience - but they've too many similarities in story for him not to understand that all things have their own time.
hers will come when it comes. and he's in less of a hurry than he ever has been. ]
When you're ready. [ when, not if. the lure of reaching for what's out there, the hope inherent in it, isn't something that can be resisted by anyone with a sense of either wonder or responsibility. there's an uncomfortable intersection implicit with those who have less noble aims, but that doesn't limit the inevitability of action. at least, not in his experience.
if there's a chance, the chance will be taken.
and in the meantime: ] You mentioned you were blind.
[ not exactly what she said, but unless she's an incredible actor with excellent other senses the implied blindness isn't current. let's talk about that. ]
[Not directly, but she already knows he's sharp. It's no great surprise he picked up on that.]
I was. After my first NDE. A bus accident. I was eight.
[A beat. For all the weight of the words, she says them with no more than their due solemnity. Speaking casually about all of this makes it lighter, easier to carry. Besides, this part of it happened so long ago it feels almost like someone else's life.]
I was blind for most of my life. Until my second NDE. Or... the second that I can remember, anyway; that timeline is a little confused.
[ he knows all about confused timelines, doesn't so much as blink. neither does he do her the disservice of dwelling on the wrong points of focus. they're not here to share commiserations for accidents of yesteryear. ]
You died, traveled, spoke to your - guardian? [ not doubt, just checking in on the terminology again ] chose to come back and came back changed. Medically induced, or a part of your choice?
[ doctors would find any number of ways to explain the loss and regaining of a sense after trauma. he would, once upon a time. it's not what he's asking. was her sight and lack thereof a consequence of her journey, or just of her deaths? how much physical influence did that other dimension have over her in the one she returned to? ]
[There's a short intake of breath and then a pause before she continues.]
Khatun. Her name is Khatun. She was there in my first NDE too. That was the first choice. She said... she said she couldn't bear for me to see what lay ahead.
[Another little beat, this one more thoughtful than hesitant.]
The second time, Hap said it was the only non-scientific death he ever had. No pulse for seven minutes. He'd... hit me, back of the head. With the butt of a rifle, I think. When I woke up, there was... light. Colour. I didn't choose that, it just happened. The rewards and costs of that one were... different. I don't know, maybe it was the blow on the head. Maybe it was part of it. Maybe I'd already moved past what she didn't want me to see.
[ With the butt of a rifle, I think. Christ. Another flare of anger at a man he ought never to meet, but that's not the conversation. He's been given the freedom to pry, yes, but he's not going to pry into that. Not yet.
Khatun. Not a name he recognises specifically, not in this context, no being he's met.
That's less important than the fact that her sight was removed by someone from another dimension, and potentially gifted back in the same way. ]
Khatun... Do you get the sense that she's always been with you? That each of you have always been tied to one of them?
[ From before, maybe. Cycles, connection across dimension and time, the linear only linear now because human experience needs a focused channel if its to understand itself, needs a narrative, a story to contain meaning.
He's seen too much not to speculate. Doubt is a rarer phenomenon than travelling through the multiverse, and that in itself is a self-perpetuating reality.
He thinks on the Ancient One. He only knew her for a short time but she knew him much longer. She knew his past, his future. His potential. And without her, he'd never have breached the boundaries of his life - never have died and been reborn, never have stepped beyond the reality he knew into the vastness of everything else. She changed him. It's not the same story, but he did have to travel through dimensions to really see her. And although not fatal, it did take a death of sorts to deliver him to her to begin with.
Perhaps their universes aren't so different after all. ]
[OA lapses into another thoughtful silence; there's a soft hum and a rustle of hair and clothing as she rubs the back of her head absently.
They're good questions, good enough that she doesn't mind taking her time to consider them, savour them, and she's sure Stephen won't either.]
I was so young the first time we met; everything was so strange already, it didn't occur to me at first, but she did speak as if she knew me. What had happened to me, what was going to happen to me. I don't know if I can call that 'always'.
[Another pause; a soft tch.]
Mm, no, maybe it is. The second time, I asked if I was like her, the same... the same kind of person, creature she was. The NDEs are like dreams; they have their own logic, things that can't be put to words outside of them. I know why I asked and what I meant, but I don't know if I could explain it.
She... shook her head, no. She said I was the original. I couldn't tell you what that means. Maybe I knew then; I don't now.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[Now she mostly just feels like Hap, trying to quantify the unquantifiable, without regard for the human cost. Thus the follow-up message:]
Maybe you still are. Talking about it can help. I'm not saying you need help, but I do know it saved me.
no subject
[ a blase admission, meant in play - but it's an in joke with himself, and every word true. it makes him pause. maybe that's half the reason why what she's said holds weight: hundreds of deaths in their boxes, rendered insignificant. shouldn't he grant it more gravity?
maybe. but if he gave everything the weight it might reasonably be owed by a person whose life existed within the usual constraints, he'd have gone mad years ago. ]
And thank you.
[ a gentle dismissal. a dismissal all the same. she doesn't need to carry something he regularly forgets he's holding. ]
no subject
[While we're being confessional.]
But at least I wasn't alone with it. I can't hope you aren't either, given what that would mean.
no subject
she, on the other hand, hasn't had the luxury of self sacrifice. even in dying he's been privileged.
for a moment, guilt. enough that her kindness chips a little into his resolve. ]
Primarily it's occupational. I've been fine.
[ there's no use banging on to your colleagues about the hundreds going on thousands of times an other-dimensional entity destroyed you when that was always the plan. when technically, according to linear time, it never happened at all. but... ]
The death here was unexpected, though always a possibility. But I wasn't the only one to go that day and unfortunately resurrection here requires a body and precision. I was collected by a friend. I've spoken to a few people about it since.
[ the other people trapped under the earth with him when the soldiers came. those who answered his plea to carry his body to the nearest medi-unit.
it's a death that shook him in ways he hadn't know to expect. the only human death of his own that he's lived through, the first time anyone had however brief a chance to mourn him. the first time his death has had consequences for others.
but not the last time. it's a death that's recently been wildly overshadowed, but one which creeps back under his skin now as he's given cause to remember. lid pushed off the box where it had been shelved with the rest.
a small thing, dying. a familiar thing. but dying by bullets and taken mostly by surprise was somehow very new. and despite the things that have passed in the time between, in this world and another, the memory still isn't very old. ]
no subject
[Maybe she never chose to die, but in spite of everything she'd found a way to choose her angle. They'd fought to see beyond the fog, to understand what happened after the gas. Eventually he'd opted to forego it entirely -- he'd wanted the last of the movements as much as the rest of them did.
She can still remember it vividly, Hap's face warped through the glass and then through the water. The growing pressure in that tube. The restraints holding her to the chair. Burning lungs. The fraying at the edges of her vision, brilliant spots of light, and nothing. And everything. And through it all, until that penultimate blindness, she'd kept her eyes fixed on Hap's face.
That hadn't felt like powerlessness. By his expression, it hadn't felt that way to him either. That thought still gives her a certain vindictive pleasure.]
Aren't there any telephones in this place? Some things were never meant to be written down.
no subject
[ and, in example, a request is passed via the implant to open an audio feed.
not that he's overly keen to talk about this voice to voice, but he's learned better than to turn tail and run from the things that unsettle him. ]
no subject
Thank you.
[A beat, and then, with resignation but still some vehemence:]
I hate these things. Is-- can you hear me?
no subject
it's rare that he uses the implant for anything other than text-based messaging. talking out loud to another person while sitting in an otherwise empty bar feels more than a little unnatural. ]
You'll get there. It's not an overly comfortable experience, but you adapt.
[ having aural data processed directly by your brain rather than first coming through as external stimuli is certainly something. still, it translates as the same process. he's 'heard' everything she's said. ]
no subject
It's better than all the reading. None of this was designed for the blind. I guess nobody is anymore.
[There's a gentle moroseness to her tone. It feels, strangely, like a loss. But that's another matter, only a small part of why she wanted to converse this way.
She pauses; there's a rustle of clothing and the distant, dry sound of bare feet on bare floor as she takes to pacing.]
You said you didn't go anywhere this last time, you didn't travel. Can I ask -- have you ever? Have you ever... gone anywhere in death, spoken to anyone?
[A beat.]
I did. We all did, in our NDEs. It's how we learned.
no subject
gone anywhere. spoken to anyone.
it's how we learned. ]
No. I've died many times in many ways, but none of them took me anywhere except back to life. The mechanics of those revivals were different depending on location and circumstance, but they were all the same in that respect. No traveling, no conversation.
[ it's a weigh-up now. what to go back to?
she contacted him for this topic. he's interested too. his curiosity over her little drop of something personal can wait. each thing in its time. ]
All of you experienced the same? Destination, conversation partner?
[ who? where? ]
no subject
[It's the most succinct way she can think to express the ways in which a simple yes or no would be insufficient.]
We all died. We were all offered a choice, and we all all chose to come back. There were... others, there. Some we could speak to, some we couldn't. The ones we could talk to, we called them our guardians. Each of us had a different one. They gave us different pieces, different perspectives on the same whole.
[A rustle of clothing; a sigh.]
I'm willing to tell you anything you want to know. Lying only delays the inevitable, and I don't know how much time I have. I just want to know one more thing: are you still willing to learn?
no subject
[ if there's one thing he can say with full and total certainty, it's that.
and for all that everything she's said has opened many doors to many more answers, one question sits waiting, glaring brighter than the rest. ]
What is it that you're looking to teach?
no subject
[A faint, dry sound of skin on skin -- she's run her hand over her face.]
I'm trying to decide if I could forgive myself if I didn't at least try. If I do, I'll need at least five people. Strong, flexible, willing to listen. I'm sorry; I can't say more than that. In time I think you'll understand why.
[A beat; a wry huff of laughter.]
Maybe you already do. You've also touched the impossible.
no subject
hers will come when it comes. and he's in less of a hurry than he ever has been. ]
When you're ready. [ when, not if. the lure of reaching for what's out there, the hope inherent in it, isn't something that can be resisted by anyone with a sense of either wonder or responsibility. there's an uncomfortable intersection implicit with those who have less noble aims, but that doesn't limit the inevitability of action. at least, not in his experience.
if there's a chance, the chance will be taken.
and in the meantime: ] You mentioned you were blind.
[ not exactly what she said, but unless she's an incredible actor with excellent other senses the implied blindness isn't current. let's talk about that. ]
no subject
[Not directly, but she already knows he's sharp. It's no great surprise he picked up on that.]
I was. After my first NDE. A bus accident. I was eight.
[A beat. For all the weight of the words, she says them with no more than their due solemnity. Speaking casually about all of this makes it lighter, easier to carry. Besides, this part of it happened so long ago it feels almost like someone else's life.]
I was blind for most of my life. Until my second NDE. Or... the second that I can remember, anyway; that timeline is a little confused.
no subject
You died, traveled, spoke to your - guardian? [ not doubt, just checking in on the terminology again ] chose to come back and came back changed. Medically induced, or a part of your choice?
[ doctors would find any number of ways to explain the loss and regaining of a sense after trauma. he would, once upon a time. it's not what he's asking. was her sight and lack thereof a consequence of her journey, or just of her deaths? how much physical influence did that other dimension have over her in the one she returned to? ]
no subject
[There's a short intake of breath and then a pause before she continues.]
Khatun. Her name is Khatun. She was there in my first NDE too. That was the first choice. She said... she said she couldn't bear for me to see what lay ahead.
[Another little beat, this one more thoughtful than hesitant.]
The second time, Hap said it was the only non-scientific death he ever had. No pulse for seven minutes. He'd... hit me, back of the head. With the butt of a rifle, I think. When I woke up, there was... light. Colour. I didn't choose that, it just happened. The rewards and costs of that one were... different. I don't know, maybe it was the blow on the head. Maybe it was part of it. Maybe I'd already moved past what she didn't want me to see.
no subject
Khatun. Not a name he recognises specifically, not in this context, no being he's met.
That's less important than the fact that her sight was removed by someone from another dimension, and potentially gifted back in the same way. ]
Khatun... Do you get the sense that she's always been with you? That each of you have always been tied to one of them?
[ From before, maybe. Cycles, connection across dimension and time, the linear only linear now because human experience needs a focused channel if its to understand itself, needs a narrative, a story to contain meaning.
He's seen too much not to speculate. Doubt is a rarer phenomenon than travelling through the multiverse, and that in itself is a self-perpetuating reality.
He thinks on the Ancient One. He only knew her for a short time but she knew him much longer. She knew his past, his future. His potential. And without her, he'd never have breached the boundaries of his life - never have died and been reborn, never have stepped beyond the reality he knew into the vastness of everything else. She changed him. It's not the same story, but he did have to travel through dimensions to really see her. And although not fatal, it did take a death of sorts to deliver him to her to begin with.
Perhaps their universes aren't so different after all. ]
no subject
They're good questions, good enough that she doesn't mind taking her time to consider them, savour them, and she's sure Stephen won't either.]
I was so young the first time we met; everything was so strange already, it didn't occur to me at first, but she did speak as if she knew me. What had happened to me, what was going to happen to me. I don't know if I can call that 'always'.
[Another pause; a soft tch.]
Mm, no, maybe it is. The second time, I asked if I was like her, the same... the same kind of person, creature she was. The NDEs are like dreams; they have their own logic, things that can't be put to words outside of them. I know why I asked and what I meant, but I don't know if I could explain it.
She... shook her head, no. She said I was the original. I couldn't tell you what that means. Maybe I knew then; I don't now.