There's an impulse in Eli to stop Brickett, to put a hand on his shoulder and squeeze until the kid can't ignore him anymore and he just has to listen. Then Eli'd explain to him that no, it's not 'Pallas'. Not in the shadow of the library, not when he's still got stamp ink on his hands and is wearing his Saturday tie. --there are rules for a reason okay, all types of rules, and they make it so the stuff that's in stays in; in you and in me, where they're supposed to stay-- The impulse is strong enough to get his hand in the air, but not quick enough to finish the gesture. In the end, it hovers (fingers flexing) and lingers before falling away to be stuffed pathetically back into its pocket.
Because Eli's seen inside that of Brickett's head, after all -- not just this time, but the last time as well -- and he knows exactly the kind of animal the kid is on the inside. Hungry and obsessed to the point of simple-mindedness; so full-up on anger that there's never been any room to figure out how to be sad. Admittedly, Eli has no concept whatsoever what living like that must be like; he's thought about it in the abstract, of course, but never for very long. Impulse in a guy like him does nothing but get innocent people turned inside out. So Eli builds walls on the inside of his head, around the pylons of his life; tiny rooms that keep his powers in check and contained, that keep this part of himself removed and separated from the others.
Eli knows it's not the sort of answer Brickett's looking for, so silently he follows, heading down the stairs for a second time that evening. If he couldn't manage to give Brickett an explanation, or the answers he was looking for, the least he could do was give him 'a walk'.
Absently, to fill the tightly-coiled silence that follows, Eli says: "You should get your hands looked at. They hurt like hell from where I'm standing."
THESE WERE* clearly i shouldn't be allowed to type after midnight. 8|highdamageJanuary 22 2010, 15:04:52 UTC
He thinks he hears Pallas say something to him as they turn their backs on the library-- rules for a reason-- and it's enough to make him glance over his shoulder with sharp eyes. But, he only looks in time to see Pallas put his hand into his pocket, mouth clearly not moving at all, and Brickett's eyebrows draw together in an annoyed, perplexed expression at the sight. His paranoia, he thinks, is starting to catch up with him. (Or is it something else? Suspicion makes the muscles in his fingers curl tight.) He has a host of untreated, undiagnosed mental illnesses, surely, and it honestly wouldn't be the first time he's hallucinated voices.
The next time he hears the librarian, he almost ignores it. Half because he almost thinks he imagined it again-- too real though, less inside his head and more from the space around him-- and half because something in him hates that sort of advice. He doesn't have time for the things ordinary people do. No time for doctors or teachers or lovers. Not while his sister lays unconscious in the local hospital, and not while the filthy bastard who made her that way runs free.
"Leave it alone," Brickett answers with a touch of bad temper, "What are you, my mother? I'm not some stray on the street that needs taking care of. If you wanna help, then answer my damn questions."
His feet move almost automatically. He isn't sure consciously where he can take this man for their little talk-- he doesn't know the restaurants or shops here, even after years of living around them. He doesn't pay attention. Doesn't go out much, except to weed out the city's criminals. There's only one safe place he knows. Home.
ffffft /welcomes your midnight typings with open armsalevelheadJanuary 22 2010, 15:28:33 UTC
Perhaps unsurprisingly, this is not the first time Eli's been asked the mother question. It's a line Pallas gets from his teammates sometimes when he starts asking too many questions, worrying too much and thinking too hard about things that would simply wick off the minds of the others. It makes it easier to take Brickett's denial in stride even though the corners of his mouth tighten to prevent a frown.
"Whatever it is you think you're going to do? It's not going to help. It won't change anything." As soon as the words pass his lips (Pallas talking, Eli listening), he immediately regrets them, not entirely sure why he even bothered to say them in the first place. A hand tugs itself free from its pocket to raise up again, begging pardon. "Which isn't what you want to hear, I know. You want these answers I supposedly I have." He looks off across the street at the cafe where he has his morning coffee; down the block is a decent Chinese place that's good for greasy spoon take-out. There are plenty of places Eli can suggest, but he doesn't take the initiative to do so; just lets Brickett call the shots in the hopes it'll keep him calm and focused. Besides, he wants to talk to Pallas, which automatically makes half of the neighborhood null and void and off-limits.
Sucking on the inside of his cheek, he finally asks: "What if you're wrong and I don't have them at all? Your answers?"
It's as if Brickett wears a set of metaphorical blinders that prevent him from looking any direction but forward-- from seeing anything but the vengeance that has defined his existence for the past five years. He dismisses the people and places around him, turns a deaf ear to anyone who tries to tell him revenge will help nothing. Brickett has long forgotten how to exist without this purpose. He needs it. Needs his justice. Needs to crush the life out of the gang leader responsible for his sister's beating.
And this lifestyle, it's a form of justice too. Punishment to ease the guilt of having led wolves to Emma's home. Denying himself happiness of his own, because she can't have it. Because she might never have it again.
Brickett does a fine job of ignoring every word that comes out of the other man's mouth until he poses that last question. That's when the corners of his mouth tighten and his eyes narrow to slivers of blue. His steps come to a halt outside a questionable bar-- noisy, he thinks, full of drunks who won't give a damn what they're talking about-- and unceremoniously, he turns to catch Pallas harshly by the upper arm, pulling him in uncomfortably close so that Brickett's words are precise. Unmistakable.
"Then you're useless to me." His grip betrays a hint of his power, that unnatural strength. "I'm a good, tidy American boy. I throw out my trash."
Even though it's Eli that Brickett's caught by the arm and has reeled in undeniably close, it's definitely Pallas that speaks when he finally opens his mouth. The difference between the two is clearly there, though perhaps slightly lost to someone as perpetually preoccupied as Brickett is. But there's no mistake that the grimace that might normally crawl onto Eli's face just never comes, and instead of pulling back, Pallas leans his face in a little bit closer. So close that all either of them has filling his vision is the other guy looming. That way, when Pallas talks, what he says is equally undeniable -- along with his face, a seriousness in his eyes, a certain heavy defiance in his lowered voice (not entirely the pushover and Eli spends so much of his life being). His own hand comes up to take a hold of the arm that's already busy grasping his and although Pallas's grip isn't any stronger than the next guy's there is an unnatural pressure that suddenly starts and then spreads up and down the length of Brickett's arm. It doesn't hurt, per say, but it's difficult to ignore, especially since it starts to cut off some of the blood circulation after a little while.
"You don't want to do that," Pallas says without missing a beat. "Trust me. It's not a tree you want to be barking up right now."
There's a clear moment of hesitation-- he falters. And for a split second, Brickett looks as young as he is, openly startled by this defiance and quickly wary a beat later. It's as if he's unused to having someone fight back, too accustomed to the ritual of ruthlessly beating men to death with sinful ease. His head gives a little twitch when Pallas leans in closer, as if he almost flinches but stops himself. This close, his eyes are very blue, filled with that special unfocused anger and calculating, judging with the uncertainty of a cautious beast now that his challenge has been met.
It isn't until his hand starts to go numb that Brickett seems able to tear those wild, wide eyes away from the other man's face. He pulls at the grip on his arm with an abrupt, instinctive jerking motion, exhaling sharply through his mouth.
Even when Brickett looks away, Pallas's attention doesn't waver; he just keeps on staring into those strangely feral eyes, long after they've broken contact to look at anything but Pallas. Eyes, Pallas knows, are the easiest way to work his way into somebody, to peel the layers of a person's mind back in order to reveal what's hiding underneath. 'Windows into men's souls', that's what someone had called the eyes once, and by god were they right. Eli's already seen into Brickett's soul, whether it was on purpose or not, but Pallas takes another lingering moment to take a look of his own before finally stepping away.
In all honesty, it'd be easy to dismiss Brickett, to brush him off at face value. Peering inside of him seems like the kind of thing that would only seal the deal (too much anger, too much obsession; both in one place, it's not healthy) but for some reason it only makes Pallas want to look harder, dig a little deeper. Maybe it's the hero in him that's desperate to find something redeeming about the kid standing in front of him; maybe it's about saving someone, someone who -- without a doubt -- isn't looking to be saved. Whatever the reason, Pallas doesn't dwell on it for too long, not with Brickett's arm going numb; he'll leave it for Eli to do later.
"Let's just get one thing straight between the two of us," Pallas says. "Eli's a pushover. He's a librarian." When he finally releases Brickett's arm the pressure there immediately dissipates. Blood rushes quickly back to where it wasn't previously as Pallas ducks in again to add a pointed: "I'm not."
He doesn't understand it-- can't possibly begin to understand it. This separation of selves. Brickett Slater never stops being the Rifter. It's a state of existence he entered when his sister slipped into perpetual unconsciousness, and he hasn't been able to differentiate between the two for years. The line where Brickett ends and Rifter begins has grown blurred, made more and more obscured with every bad man that dies an ugly, painful death underneath his fists and bootheels. He couldn't stop being Rifter if he wanted to. That's the trouble with being obsessed. You forget how to live without your obsession.
It makes a person wonder what will happen, the day his revenge is finally fulfilled.
"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about." That's half-true. He knows, and he doesn't. But either way, there's tension building in his shoulders, a quickened pace to his heartbeat that makes his fingers restless. He can't decide what his body wants more right now-- to run or to fight. Has he finally bitten off too much? Has he? "And I don't care."
He hesitates, brows furrowing. "Are you gonna answer my questions or not?"
Pallas knows (and Eli does too) that it's not the sort of thing that most people are built to understand. And even if they were, he's not sure whether or not sympathy to his situation would necessarily be a healthy thing. Because it's true -- Brickett might be obsessed with revenge to the point of blinding tunnel vision, but in a lot of ways Pallas and Eli are just as bad, if not worse. After all, who can say which is the lesser of two evils: a young man who is single-minded to the point of self-destruction or a grown man who willingly fractures his own psyche down the middle in order to find some semblance of self-control?
They're both damaged in their own ways; being what they are does that to people, irregardless of whether or not Brickett can bring himself to care. Eli does -- Pallas does -- which is why he eyes that slow churning hesitation in Brickett's expression for a moment. Eventually, Pallas nods and then tips his chin towards the bar door.
It's strange-- as if the potential violence of the situation has suddenly dissipated into a tentative, wary understanding. Brickett hesitates a moment longer, unsure what to do now that Pallas has agreed. There's no longer any need to force answers or intimidate or threaten. At least, not for the moment. It leaves him at a bit of a loss. A rare moment of stillness. Then, finally-- almost grudgingly-- Brickett moves towards the door, pulling it open and glancing one last time (suspicious, curious, cautious always a little angry) over his shoulder at Pallas before heading inside.
"Fine. Come on."
It's a noisy place. Crowded. Nobody will notice them if they pick a dark booth in the corner. It's the kind of place Brickett prefers, because he's forgotten how to deal with people in ordinary settings. Grocery stores, schools, even Emma's hospital. No. This kind of place, shady and chaotic, is a better cover for him. There's no one here that would look at him or Pallas twice, let alone remember their faces.
For someone who spends a good portion of his life dealing with the criminal element, Pallas feels decidedly out of place in a bar like this one. It's parts of Eli creeping in at the edges of his mind, those parts of himself that like quietness and comfort, that wanted a normal, disinteresting life. Pallas inhales deeply in an attempt to steady himself and gets a mouthful smoke and beer and the grease that's coated everything with a thin grayish grime. Even though the patrons are disinclined to give either of them a second glance, he presses out the suggestion anyway. They might as well not be there at all now.
Brickett leads the way past the bar and through the scattered tangle of tables and chairs. Pallas glances around, assessing the situation (exits, entrances, employees, any elements that could be considered dangerous); he was well-trained like that. Or quite possibly just neurotic. When they find a table tucked in the back, far enough from the main cluster of patrons to be considered out of the way, Pallas drops down into a chair and stares at Brickett, a little measurably. With the previous threat now tempered so suddenly, he could feel his reserve to remain Pallas petering off slightly. He speaks preemptively in the hopes that it will help stave off that feeling.
There's something inherently restless about him. Even when he sits himself down, he can't seem to keep entirely still. His fingers-- the most obvious culprits; uneasy fingers betray a violent man-- absently tap against the tabletop, blunt nails scraping faintly over the worn wood. It's a habit born out of discomfort. He doesn't precisely like this, these face-to-face type conversations. Especially not with people that make him just ever so slightly wary. It's easier, so much easier to just methodically beat the answer out of some spineless lowlife.
Pallas, of course, is no such thing.
"...Well, you were wrong. I thought you were supposed to be some kind of psychic," Brickett answers a bit shortly, his mildly clipped tone betraying his instinctive discomfort. "The gang from 24th street. What do you know about them?"
Because Eli's seen inside that of Brickett's head, after all -- not just this time, but the last time as well -- and he knows exactly the kind of animal the kid is on the inside. Hungry and obsessed to the point of simple-mindedness; so full-up on anger that there's never been any room to figure out how to be sad. Admittedly, Eli has no concept whatsoever what living like that must be like; he's thought about it in the abstract, of course, but never for very long. Impulse in a guy like him does nothing but get innocent people turned inside out. So Eli builds walls on the inside of his head, around the pylons of his life; tiny rooms that keep his powers in check and contained, that keep this part of himself removed and separated from the others.
Eli knows it's not the sort of answer Brickett's looking for, so silently he follows, heading down the stairs for a second time that evening. If he couldn't manage to give Brickett an explanation, or the answers he was looking for, the least he could do was give him 'a walk'.
Absently, to fill the tightly-coiled silence that follows, Eli says: "You should get your hands looked at. They hurt like hell from where I'm standing."
Reply
The next time he hears the librarian, he almost ignores it. Half because he almost thinks he imagined it again-- too real though, less inside his head and more from the space around him-- and half because something in him hates that sort of advice. He doesn't have time for the things ordinary people do. No time for doctors or teachers or lovers. Not while his sister lays unconscious in the local hospital, and not while the filthy bastard who made her that way runs free.
"Leave it alone," Brickett answers with a touch of bad temper, "What are you, my mother? I'm not some stray on the street that needs taking care of. If you wanna help, then answer my damn questions."
His feet move almost automatically. He isn't sure consciously where he can take this man for their little talk-- he doesn't know the restaurants or shops here, even after years of living around them. He doesn't pay attention. Doesn't go out much, except to weed out the city's criminals. There's only one safe place he knows. Home.
Reply
"Whatever it is you think you're going to do? It's not going to help. It won't change anything." As soon as the words pass his lips (Pallas talking, Eli listening), he immediately regrets them, not entirely sure why he even bothered to say them in the first place. A hand tugs itself free from its pocket to raise up again, begging pardon. "Which isn't what you want to hear, I know. You want these answers I supposedly I have." He looks off across the street at the cafe where he has his morning coffee; down the block is a decent Chinese place that's good for greasy spoon take-out. There are plenty of places Eli can suggest, but he doesn't take the initiative to do so; just lets Brickett call the shots in the hopes it'll keep him calm and focused. Besides, he wants to talk to Pallas, which automatically makes half of the neighborhood null and void and off-limits.
Sucking on the inside of his cheek, he finally asks: "What if you're wrong and I don't have them at all? Your answers?"
Reply
And this lifestyle, it's a form of justice too. Punishment to ease the guilt of having led wolves to Emma's home. Denying himself happiness of his own, because she can't have it. Because she might never have it again.
Brickett does a fine job of ignoring every word that comes out of the other man's mouth until he poses that last question. That's when the corners of his mouth tighten and his eyes narrow to slivers of blue. His steps come to a halt outside a questionable bar-- noisy, he thinks, full of drunks who won't give a damn what they're talking about-- and unceremoniously, he turns to catch Pallas harshly by the upper arm, pulling him in uncomfortably close so that Brickett's words are precise. Unmistakable.
"Then you're useless to me." His grip betrays a hint of his power, that unnatural strength. "I'm a good, tidy American boy. I throw out my trash."
Reply
"You don't want to do that," Pallas says without missing a beat. "Trust me. It's not a tree you want to be barking up right now."
Reply
It isn't until his hand starts to go numb that Brickett seems able to tear those wild, wide eyes away from the other man's face. He pulls at the grip on his arm with an abrupt, instinctive jerking motion, exhaling sharply through his mouth.
"Stop it."
Reply
In all honesty, it'd be easy to dismiss Brickett, to brush him off at face value. Peering inside of him seems like the kind of thing that would only seal the deal (too much anger, too much obsession; both in one place, it's not healthy) but for some reason it only makes Pallas want to look harder, dig a little deeper. Maybe it's the hero in him that's desperate to find something redeeming about the kid standing in front of him; maybe it's about saving someone, someone who -- without a doubt -- isn't looking to be saved. Whatever the reason, Pallas doesn't dwell on it for too long, not with Brickett's arm going numb; he'll leave it for Eli to do later.
"Let's just get one thing straight between the two of us," Pallas says. "Eli's a pushover. He's a librarian." When he finally releases Brickett's arm the pressure there immediately dissipates. Blood rushes quickly back to where it wasn't previously as Pallas ducks in again to add a pointed: "I'm not."
Reply
It makes a person wonder what will happen, the day his revenge is finally fulfilled.
"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about." That's half-true. He knows, and he doesn't. But either way, there's tension building in his shoulders, a quickened pace to his heartbeat that makes his fingers restless. He can't decide what his body wants more right now-- to run or to fight. Has he finally bitten off too much? Has he? "And I don't care."
He hesitates, brows furrowing. "Are you gonna answer my questions or not?"
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They're both damaged in their own ways; being what they are does that to people, irregardless of whether or not Brickett can bring himself to care. Eli does -- Pallas does -- which is why he eyes that slow churning hesitation in Brickett's expression for a moment. Eventually, Pallas nods and then tips his chin towards the bar door.
"If I have answers, I will."
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"Fine. Come on."
It's a noisy place. Crowded. Nobody will notice them if they pick a dark booth in the corner. It's the kind of place Brickett prefers, because he's forgotten how to deal with people in ordinary settings. Grocery stores, schools, even Emma's hospital. No. This kind of place, shady and chaotic, is a better cover for him. There's no one here that would look at him or Pallas twice, let alone remember their faces.
Reply
Brickett leads the way past the bar and through the scattered tangle of tables and chairs. Pallas glances around, assessing the situation (exits, entrances, employees, any elements that could be considered dangerous); he was well-trained like that. Or quite possibly just neurotic. When they find a table tucked in the back, far enough from the main cluster of patrons to be considered out of the way, Pallas drops down into a chair and stares at Brickett, a little measurably. With the previous threat now tempered so suddenly, he could feel his reserve to remain Pallas petering off slightly. He speaks preemptively in the hopes that it will help stave off that feeling.
"Honestly didn't think I'd see you again."
Reply
Pallas, of course, is no such thing.
"...Well, you were wrong. I thought you were supposed to be some kind of psychic," Brickett answers a bit shortly, his mildly clipped tone betraying his instinctive discomfort. "The gang from 24th street. What do you know about them?"
Reply
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