5th Formulation [Audio//Open Commentlog]
Well, the world is a depressing place lately, isn't it?
[She's way too chipper for that statement: the good doctor is at Sergei's, and there's an empty brandy glass on the table as she debates round two.]
I just keep thinking... there must be something we can do for each other?
Me, anyway. I feel so useless here. You all have these... skills. I don't ( Read more... )
[She's way too chipper for that statement: the good doctor is at Sergei's, and there's an empty brandy glass on the table as she debates round two.]
I just keep thinking... there must be something we can do for each other?
Me, anyway. I feel so useless here. You all have these... skills. I don't ( Read more... )
She sighs. Those two words write themselves into novels in her head. There is understanding there, and it annoys her, because it preys at her guilt, her uncertainty.
It would be so easy just to hang up on him: give him silence, than nothing. It was safer that way, for both of them. But she was still young, still proud on some level--or delusional--believing herself able to keep things from him: her loneliness, her unrest, her sense of impending doom that drove her to be a self-fulfilling prophesy. Something like regret was eating her alive, but the idea of asking for forgiveness and repenting never crossed her bright mind. Easier just to run off in a new direction and hope for the best.
Making a mental note to keep any future work here as private as possible, she forced a gentle laugh, her tone taking on a strained, lightened quality.]
Thank you for your concern, Vincent.
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You're welcome.
[And THEN comes the awkward pause. He needs to talk to her, needs to ask her something, needs to speak. But...he was never really sure how to do that to begin with; after everything that happened, everything he knows, what little he thought he understood about communicating appropriately with Lucrecia went out the window.
So he just takes a deep breath to keep himself steady, and asks as succinctly as if she were anyone else.]
What kind of "beautiful things" have you been learning to do?
[There's a faint, stifled, low note of concern there. Whether it's for her or the people she could work with is once again a matter of debate.]
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Her voice drops--there's a little tremor, there's an edge to the tone that Vincent might well remember, though she isn't aware: "If it only concerns me...]
There are... none of my gods. There is no Jenova, not even any Cetra.
Are you... really interested in what catches my mind, what occupies my conscious, what speaks to my being?
Or are you simply trying to stay one step ahead of the sociopathic scientist?
[She regrets the words as soon as they're out, biting down hard on her tongue to stop the sob. But it's a little late. So she just waits quietly for the click on his end.]
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I'm trying to understand you.
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]The word hangs in midair, dying into weighted, buzzing silence. What had she expected him to say? He had said he loved her. After everything he went through, everything she did--was going, was going: she had to remind herself those atrocities belonged to the burden of her future, not her present--he still loved her. And he wanted to... understand?
In digging for her voice, she found tears, the evident tremble of quiet weeping in the soft phrases she finally found.]
Can't... do this. I would give anything... But not now.
I'm sorry, Vincent.
I'm... I'm so sorry.
[Click. She's gone again.]
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Click.]
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