Feb 27, 2010 07:16
Now that the supplies in this wretched place seem to be being replenished again on a regular basis, the next area of concern should be what one is meant to do for entertainment. After all, I cannot go about my usual business in this world, and I am unaccustomed to having unlimited amounts of leisure time.
life is meaningless without murder,
bored german prosecutor is bored,
c: tir mcdohl,
c: yuri volte hyuga,
c: musimo toshiya,
c: franziska von karma,
c: sweden,
c: miles edgeworth,
miles edgeworth won't stay dead,
c: [blu] soldier,
c: korea,
c: seguchi tohma,
c: manfred von karma,
c: yukari yakumo,
c: ryuichi sakuma,
all your suggestions are foolish,
c: damon gant,
gtfo tits,
!ic
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Maybe, one day, she will have that experience. It is, somewhat regretfully, that he realises that he'll never be a part of it. He wants no part of it - he does not want to be reminded of her - no, his failures, every time he looks upon them, cannot bear to see what his family name has become.
...yet, Franziska's last statement hits home more painfully than most, and while his mind is immediately coming up with the rebuttal, years of training and preparation have made the act instinctual by now, he represses it, holding his head in his hands, only because he knows she cannot see.
All of a sudden, he feels very old.
He is but an old man, an old fool, trapped nowhere with no company but his own mistakes. Even the most logical means of escape - the most cowardly, but sometimes necessary - is inaccessible here; in this land of deviants, men walk back from their graves.
- and yet? If one didn't want to return, would they sent to the world once again, as mysteriously as they came, forced to live with their mistakes? There is only one thing worse than the imminence of death for an old man, and that is the curse of eternal failure.
He wonders when his life became cursed like this; wonders where he took the wrong turn, wonders if he defied some greater deity, wonders if when that gun was placed before him fifteen years ago, if it was a test of character, a test of his perfection, which he had failed so utterly.
He had tried to redeem himself, but maybe that had been impossible.
Maybe Franziska was right, and that was frightening. This girl, his daughter, he had raised her, moulded her, perfected her, she couldn't be better than him, and yet, wasn't that what he had hoped?
There is nothing to do, nothing to say; he cannot admit to his failures, cannot make himself look any more worse in Franziska's eyes than he already has. He may be a fool, but he is a proud one, and he will take that trait with him to the grave - or the lack of one, in this depraved hell-hole.
Tension builds within him, and he wants to scream, but he has better self control than that, considers flicking the communicator off. For a moment, cockiness and bluster fails him, and so does confidence. Then he raises his head out of his hands - his voice won't be clear at all, if he keeps it there, and talks. Simply the first thing that comes to mind. Despite all his attempts, his voice sounds strained, though genuine, like a tired party host asking his guests if they would like a cup of tea.]
...
[He stares at the communicator for a few more moments. Surely it would be wise just to cut off communication completely now; pretend that he never had a daughter called Franziska.
But they've always been as stubborn as each other.]
...Are you well, Franziska? The weather has been horrible of late, and I do hope you've been taking care of yourself.
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For her to point out his failures, though he had done the same to her, is-for a few reasons-very foreign to her, it feels out of line, impudent, disrespectful. And although doing so had momentarily filled her with a vindictive satisfaction, she knows how deeply and how completely having one’s failures thrown in one’s face can break someone who’d placed their entire worth upon remaining perfect and invulnerable to defeat; she feels uneasy, almost nauseous, much like the way she’d felt when she’d heard the result of that case, and again, when she’d received news of his death. She braces herself for his response; though she knows she will not like what he has to say, a part of her feels as if she deserves it.
And yet, against all expectation, he remains silent, until at long last, he speaks, putting forth a question that, though drastically different in nature from his previous one, has an identical effect on Franziska-his words stun her, almost physically, throwing her off-guard and rendering her temporarily speechless. The voice emitting from her communicator is so quiet, so tired and non-combative, that she almost fails to recognize it.
And that - despite relieving her, however temporarily, of the burden she’d bore on her shoulders every time they spoke - scares her, shakes her more deeply than anything he could’ve actually vocalized. Manfred von Karma was not a man who let a challenge pass by undefeated, let alone unacknowledged, and to have him completely ignore what should’ve rightfully enraged him does not sit well with Franziska. She almost wants to apologize, though she knows she is right, in statement though perhaps not in execution; she wants to ask his forgiveness, bear fully the brunt of his anger, anything rather than hear her father sound so defeated.
What’s more, she very almost actually answers his question, as if that were the normal reaction to the situation, to sit and engage in idle chatter about the weather and her health, as if that had ever been normal for either of them; she catches herself, though, and instead lets out a statement that sounds highly plaintive to even her own ears, which has her wondering if she’s a glutton for punishment:)
... is that truly all you have to say to me?
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What would you have me say to you?
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Even if I had conceived of some specific desired response, it would not hold much worth if I had to state it outright.
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[He doesn't know either - a possibility which had frightened him - but he almost expected Franziska to have some manner of trick up her sleeve, to utilise his vulnerability to her advantage.]
...Maybe I was wrong.
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It is not the sort of statement that one heard pass his lips often, though this certainly seemed the day for unlikely conversations; wrong about what, though, was the question here - his answer could go either way, and she is apprehensive, afraid to push the already-delicate balance currently existing between them, so she remains silent and waits for him to continue.)
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Every time I think you've stopped being foolish, you only act in such a way that disappoints me further.
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And how, precisely, am I being foolish now?
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You're acting like a child; not to mention I have, unfortunately, come to expect far too much from you. I thought that despite your continual failures, you had some chance of redemption - but as I said, it appears that was an erroneous conclusion.
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Then it appears that we have both made a grievous error, for I admit that I foolishly thought the same of you.
(...)
And I doubt that your idea of redemption would belong to any set of standards to which I'd consider holding myself, anyway.
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You have no business talking of matters that you do not fully understand.
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Oh? To which part of my statement would you be referring?
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All of it.
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Do you really believe there's knowledge of the situation that would change my opinion, should I come to know it?
(Her words are doubtful, but wasn't that just what she and Miles had discussed that day in the hospital, the necessity of learning all circumstances, of examining all possibilities in order to further pursue the truth of the situation? Somehow, though, she knew that this wasn't quite what he'd had in mind; there was a truth, and she knew it, and there was nothing that she could learn that would change that.)
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As things are, I believe any explanations I have would only be wasted on you.
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