Day 50: Chapel

[full_score]

The last thing Claude heard was the Head Doctor's voice faintly filtering into the corridors of the ship before he found himself tucked beneath the sheets of his bed. It took a moment to register he'd even changed locations, but then he he abruptly sat up, fought the wave of nausea that washed over him, and felt the blankets beneath his fingers.

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[finalwitch]

Body language was telling, distorting one's view like tiny ripples in water. Although Ange had her answer far before she caught the set jaw line, Jonah's movements gave away far more detail than initially asked for. The glance aside, the fixed stare at no human eye. Here was a young man in silent distress. And Ange, the inadvertent cause.

What more could she expect? When the lines of reality and fantasy blurred, your existence came into question, pulled apart with reason and logic and fallacy. A person is taught to trust the real world, and experience makes them abandon the rest as trivialities. What were you to do when you learn the things that once held weight--became so dear--were not real? How was that not supposed to bother them, as Jonah put it in no uncertain terms? How could she entertain this prospect so smoothly, as if considering a simple math problem?

Because. Because once upon a time, she had been in his shoes. Had allowed the realizations and the doubts destroy the ones that might have brought her a shred of happiness in that dull, gray world. Somewhere, she had let explanations like this slide through without a single regret. Somewhere in her heart of hearts, she had made them matter very little.

Ange, too, turned to watch the fountain, her movements calm despite the subject. It took a minute for the girl to speak, but speak she did. Otherwise, their conversation couldn't continue. "I'm not going to belittle your feelings," she began, "nor am I going to try and reason them out. You're right in that it's worth a bother."

Her tone lowered. "That kind of thing...is the worst."

[finalwitch]

The timing of that question was a tad off the mark, in the sense that she had answered internally before it had been presented. Ange, however, did not mind. It wasn't like Jonah knew of her past or any of its intricate details; he might find some use in what she had to say. Not to mention, the fact she could control how much to divulge was a privilege she could accept, even if rehashing parts wasn't high on her list of subjects to talk about.

She continued her watch on the fountain, making no movements that would betray her current perceptions. Eventually, the young woman spoke, and for once, she displayed a kind of amusement. Like there existed a punchline somewhere in the conversation.

"Not anymore," replied Ange. "It used to, but not...now." Not after she found out it never really mattered to begin with.

[finalwitch]

What a question to ask. Ange briefly considered laying out the full story in detail, but the vague, mysterious route seemed more desirable. She could keep certain parts under wraps while allowing Jonah to digest the implications. Then, neither would have to feel strange about the situation--any more than they were right now, that is.

She drummed her fingers, mulling on exactly where to start. "I wonder," she started quietly. "My family attracts gossip and legends as a rule, but that isn't it. People can never fully adjust to the idea of fantasy crossing into reality; we're too stubborn to accept anything but truth. Except--" There was a sharp cutoff, and for a moment, a tired expression crept into her features. Only to disappear in the next. "There's something about loss that breaks that barrier down."

For others to take advantage of. So maybe it made sense. Maybe Jonah's viewpoint made perfect logical sense. "You might be right, then. If you blur the line between fact and fiction in a high-stress environment, you're more likely to accept the dissonance. You would want to take in whatever was thrown at you." Like how they were all insane.

[finalwitch]

Only a handful of truths could be derived from body language, and those observations could be taken as faulty. She could believe her short account had impacted Jonah in a meaningful way; a subtle response could give way to clarity over one's internal logic. It was interesting in a sense. Being regarded as someone without the taint of infamy or position, having suspicions reciprocated without mockery was an entirely new experience.

Therefore, she couldn't trust it. The impact, the effect. You couldn't wonder about another's loss without comparison. She might have done so in the confines of Saint Lucia or the world of 1998, but here was hesitation. It suddenly didn't seem right to compare, to think you might have said the wrong words. The people she met here appeared willing to divulge into truth without the messiness of the other place.

Ange would continue, then. Ignore everything that touched on subjectivity.

"It's hard to say when only a few seem to be aware of it." She lolled her head then, thoughts slipping when the younger mentioned an oddity. "What's I.R.I.S.?"