OOC [Memory 001]: You're One Microscopic Cog in his Catastrophic Plan
Memory Reference: Sight and smell. Canon-implied, before the playable timeline of the games, occurring at the Von Karma estate in Hanover.
The finger pointed accusingly at him, less than a foot away from his face. He would have taken a step back in that first instant, had the surprise of it not immediately been followed by a panicked realisation that he was powerless to control his own body. That in the blink of an eye he was no longer in his home, and instead was a passive observer as he stared at the reflection in the darkened window, grey eyes staring back solemnly at him just like they did from the mirror every morning when he shaved, only... not.
He wanted to blink, rub his eyes, and he desperately willed himself to move, a part of him struggling to remain rational even as every nerve and every instinct screamed out at the sudden loss of control, at the sudden silence where sound should have been, at the sudden awareness that he could feel neither his breathing nor his heartbeat. That every sensation seemed lost to him except sight and smell, and that the information from both was suddenly overwhelming - the details of the room swamping him in information, the smells of wood and polish and the lingering scents of food; the dark wooden panels, the long table and the half-familiar portraits on the wall that reflected back at him in the glass; woodsmoke and soap and the patterns of the frost on the window. Too much detail and not enough time to take it in before his field of vision narrowed, a sickening sense of vertigo that dizzied him for a moment.
Oh Christ, make it stop.
The face - his face - mouthed a word in response that he could not hear; the index finger, the hand - the arm it was attached to tensing slightly, as if to emphasise the point. Three syllables, that was all he could recognise, the word itself lost to him amid the confusion of his thoughts. But it was enough to curb the tide of panic, enough to still the clashing of sensory input and deprivation; to pull his rational mind to the fore and deal with the necessity of solving the puzzle.
He knew himself, even when the self gazing back at him was so painfully familiar and yet not - his own reflection in the body of a child, taller than his features suggested he should be, and the latter sharper than he was used to, the eyes red-rimmed, the cheeks slightly hollow.
Had that ever really been him, or was it another of the Sphere's tasteless jokes?
Too tall, too thin, and dark brown hair peppered unevenly with grey - everything about him was ungainly and lacking in grace, his clothes expensive, plain and slightly ill-fitting - black slacks and a grey pullover, a starched white shirt collar open at the neck. And over that, completely incongruously, was a blue woollen jacket in a military style that was several sizes too large and several centuries out of date. The memory - of himself, of the jacket - pulled at him, as if he should remember, as if someone should remember - that it was somehow important. Justice searched his mind, waited for that nudge of recognition - but there was nothing - and he had the sudden and sickening conviction that no-one had and no-one did.
Child Justice caught his attention again as he glanced around quickly, hair falling into his eyes as he bobbed his head, seemingly nervous, and the Justice that was not of the memory found his vision impaired by it as he tried desperately to seek out any detail, any hint that would tell him where he was, that would jog any sense of familiarity. He could see the apprehension when his face was caught by the darkened glass, the pinch of fear when his head turned again and he saw the outstretched arm shake slightly. But there seemed to be nothing there, nothing moving in the faint reflection of the room, nothing to warrant the reaction. Had he been a child with an overactive imagination, perhaps, or... he remembered his dream. Was it something entirely more unpleasant?
And then the boy stilled, staring full on into the window, arm lowering slowly. And Justice took it all in, watching himself hitch the oversized jacket forwards to stop it slipping back off his too-slight shoulders. The sleeves hung down comically past his finger-ends, the black, silk collar was tall enough to engulf his ears, and the hem almost reached beyond his knees. It was almost large enough to reach twice around his body, no matter how much he tried to stand to attention, shoulders straight and chest out. Justice saw his lips move again, this time understanding the curse - the language one that he spoke by second nature even in the Sphere, but yet could not put a name to.
He saw himself frown, instinctively knowing that it was born of frustration and disapproval of how awkward he appeared, but his child self still seemed unwilling to abandon whatever was the illicit thrill of the moment, and he watched his fingers skim over the tightly woven braid and the silken frogging. A long sigh that fogged the glass slightly as they lingered on the golden buttons, tracing the engravings either with reverence or avarice. He followed the movement, trying to see what the fingers that were his and yet not his had discovered, peering at them and making out letters that might be a V and might be a K, a symbol that might have been a bird. His hands covered them, and he noted the ink , the callous on the middle finger of his right hand that spoke of too much writing and too little rest. When he glanced back at the glass he caught himself staring into the window with an intensity that made him uneasy, that made him want to take charge of this body that belonged to his younger self, to open the window and to run.
His eyes followed the thought; a glance beyond the glass into the darkness of the cold winter evening as he willed it. Snow; the faintest sparkle of frost caught in the long rectangle of light cast out from the room - a picture postcard scene that didn't seem real, that didn't feel like home. He saw himself shiver, then, pulling the jacket close, and as if in response to that increased contact with the garment his child self stiffened, almost standing to attention as he watched himself earnestly, pushing the hair out of his eyes and his shoulders back. Pathetic, he thought, but in a voice that was not his own.
Raising his arm again, Justice extended a finger and wagged it from side to side, his lips curving upward - and the Justice who was not there, the one who was forced to play observer in his own body - knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he was imitating something... someone that he had seen so many times,. It filled him with an anger that he could neither explain or understand; a feeling of powerlessness that was compounded by his inability to control or influence what was happening. And when his child self raised one eyebrow, the concentration required for him to do so painfully evident in the reflection, he had the urge to laugh, although whether in embarrassment or in shame or in sympathy, he could not tell.
And then suddenly the boy turned slightly, as if his attention had been captured by something to one side of the window. There was a perfectly formal nod to someone that Justice could not see but that his child self clearly could, and heels clicked together lightly; an imperious tilt of the head as a finger met a thumb and they snapped together in a gesture that was painfully familiar, that tugged at his memory and filled him with a mixture of desire and regret. Who? He tried to see, to make out any figure at the edge of the glass, but all he could see was an empty room, and a few portraits on the wall depicting gaunt men with scarred faces holding sabres or surrounded by dogs.
A moment of stillness and he focussed back on the boy, the pose held overlong, head turned slightly to the side, still watching himself from the corner of his eyes. He jutted out his chin in an apparent attempt at striking a noble pose and as if on cue the jacket slipped back again, sliding halfway down his arms before he caught it with a swift movement and hitched it back up, hair slipping over his eyes and his shirt collar half-crushed and pulled out of shape underneath. Another silent curse, and outside the memory Justice smiled at a mispronunciation that only added irony to the scene.
Child Justice pulled the oversized jacket tighter round him again. Inside his mind, adult Justice couldn't feel it, but he knew that the blue wool was pressed against his skin, the smell of it suddenly filling his senses - the faintest hint of lavender; fainter still when he lowered his head and put his nose to the cloth was the aroma of Earl Grey and the slightest scent underneath it all that was unmistakeably HIM, a badge of ownership almost woven into the cloth itself and that he recognised immediately, but could not put a name to. The Justice in the memory pulled his face away, cheeks suddenly flushed although whether it was from shame or excitement it was unclear. Outside of the memory, Justice clung to the scents for as long as he could and despite the roiling of his stomach that told him he did not want to know. Who?.
A step closer to the glass and Justice could see the tears lurking in the corners of his child-self's eyes, the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallowed hard, the sudden flash of anger at his own weakness that gleamed out at him from the glass. He didn't want to see it, and he desperately wanted to look away, but lacking the control over his actions he could do nothing except watch.
And this time the words that were voiced silently in the mirror were perfectly clear, even if not spoken. And they were as painful to him now as they seemed to be to the child speaking them.
"Please save me".
He pulled the jacket collar up around his face, pressing his cheek against the silk. And then darkness, as he closed his eyes, shutting out the room and the reflection, and a suddenly overwhelming rush of sensory information once more as he breathed in that mixture of scents so deeply that it almost made him dizzy, and suddenly filled with a longing and a desperation that would have made him hitch his breath, had he known how to take one.
“They're all guilty, boy. You know that.” said that deep and melodious voice from deep inside his nightmares, and he knew without a doubt then that his child self heard it too.