singillatim | nature offers a violence

nature offers a violence

NOVEMBER 2023 EVENT

PROMPT ONE — WHITEOUT: Methuselah makes an unexpected early return to Milton to warn Interlopers of an impending monster storm, and boy does it surely come.

PROMPT TWO — A CHOICE: Following the storm, sightings of a mysterious stag prompts a hunt down in the Basin and out in the Outskirts.

PROMPT THREE — REST MY WEARY BONES: While the storm causes a great deal of mess, it also uncovers some far more pleasant surprises. Hot springs.

WHITEOUT

WHEN: Early to mid-month.
WHERE: Milton.
CONTENT WARNINGS: extreme weather; storms; blizzards; themes of survival; possible character cold-related injuries; possible themes of peril.

In the times that he is no longer occupying the Community Hall in the center of town to help tend to the newcomers, Methuselah is out in the wilds. Despite his growing age, he is a hardened survivor, and has been more than accustomed to life living as a nomad, out in the thickest, deepest parts of nature. Sometimes he can be encountered, sheltered in a cave or out in the woods, huddled by a warm campfire, or busying himself with his latest game catch. He seems to be always on the move, never staying for too long, and never coming into town — unless it’s to begin preparations for the latest batch of new arrivals.

To see him returning to Milton outside of these times is a curious sight, and the grim expression he carries is enough to make anyone wary. Even his voice is grave. The warmth and kindness usually found in his expression is gone, replaced with a deathly seriousness. He doesn’t speak in jest.

"I am long used to this world and its weather, even with the changing times to more bitter nights." he will say. "I have seen the years rise and fall, too many to count. Please, I beg that you hear me with this— a storm is coming. Greater than some of you may have ever known. It is in the air, and we must prepare to see it through. We do not have much time. Three days, perhaps. But no more."

He will tell anyone and everyone; encouraging the word to be spread around. He will instruct on what needs to be done, what needs to be gathered. The storm will be long and hard, and will last for some time. With that, Methuselah will begin to prepare the Community Hall as a place of refuge with a stock of food, fuel and water to get through the storm. Interlopers will be free to join Methuselah and bunker down together, or can choose to bunker down on their own in their own homes, or with others.

You have only three days.

And sure enough, the storm comes. Maybe you can notice the signs too: the sudden updraft, the slow gathering of clouds, the drop in temperature, the changes of pressure in the air.

Halfway through the third day, the storm rolls in: a ferocious snow-storm unlike anything you’ve seen before. Even with the fading amount of daylight as mid-winter approaches, the sky turns as dark as night as will stay like night for the duration. Strong howling winds batter the town, and even the sturdiest of buildings creak and groan under the weight. Trees will be felled, some buildings might not fare the storm.

Relentless snow that falls so hard it’s a complete whiteout, and will be impossible to navigate if one were to step outside. Even then, it isn’t advisable. The temperature is bitter, with a frigid windchill. Going out in this kind of storm would be a death sentence. Staying out in it for longer than a half-hour will certainly kill you.

It would be best to wait it out, to huddle around warm fires in the darkness. It may certainly be a test of patience, depending on your choice of place to stay. The storm will last a full week, a stark reminder of what you are, the words you have heard in your arrival: thrown to Mother Nature’s mercy, the Interloper in her design.

But will you persist?

A CHOICE

WHEN: Mid-month, onwards to end of month.
WHERE: Milton Basin, Milton Outskirts.
CONTENT WARNINGS: survival themes; themes of hunting; possible animal death.

After the storm passes, there’s a certain kind of hush that falls upon Milton and its surrounding areas as Interlopers are left to pick through the wake. While the temperature certainly doesn’t get that much warmer, there’s days and nights of clear, calm weather — short afternoons of weak sunshine and nights of chilly peace, the moon hung high in the starry skies. Winter is drawing ever-closer, but it’s still for a little while.

In the early evenings, before the sun sets, there’s strange sightings of a particular white stag that can be found roaming the area — particularly down in the Milton Basin. It seems quite elusive, but there’s plenty of Interlopers that have been able to capture a glimpse over the coming days. Even Methuselah himself has seen this beast before, remarking there has long been tall tales of a ghostly stag that roams the Northern Territories and is said to bring good fortune to those who manage to hunt it down.

Perhaps you’re a little low on luck. Perhaps you’re feeling lucky. You’re going to find that stag.

Hunting down the stag, however, will take a great deal of patience and time. You might find yourself waiting several hours to wait for it to appear. Building a snow shelter, or hunkering down in some old shack might be needed in order to keep warm. But if you’re patient enough, and able to withstand the cold for long enough — the beast will soon make an appearance.

In the dying light of the day, it is there. It’s unlike any deer you’ve seen before: tall and majestic, with thick, soft fur of brilliant white. It almost looks ghost-like in some angles, it’s an incredibly beautiful creature. But it seems to have also noticed you, just as you have noticed it. It doesn’t dart away, however. Instead it stands before you, waiting for you to act.

You have a choice: slay the creature, or let it go.

It will not move until you make your decision, holding your gaze until you raise your weapon or until you lower it and give up your hunt. But there is a consequence to either action: if you choose to kill the stag, you will be rewarded with a sizeable bounty of venison. Eating said meat will help you feel fuller for longer, and the meat will keep for far longer than any other deer slain.

However, if you choose to spare the stag, the creature will lower its head, as if bowing to you. Then, it will disappear with a swirling of powdered snow. When you return home for the evening and go to sleep, the next morning you will find a gift at the foot of your bed: a pair of deerskin boots, or a deerskin blanket. These boots are supple, tough and waterproof — allowing for a great balance of mobility and warmth. The blanket is incredibly toasty, and will provide a great deal of comfort in the long nights ahead.

REST MY WEARY BONES

WHEN: Mid-month, onwards indefinitely.
WHERE: Milton Outskirts.
CONTENT WARNINGS: n/a.

The storm has blown in plenty of snow to make traversing the area much more difficult, but there’s something else of note that comes with its passing. While the storm has brought much devastation, and some places have been buried in snow drifts, plenty of snow in areas has been blown away, uncovering otherwise lost secrets within Milton. Clouds of what looks like steam can be noted not too far from town, towards the mountains of the north.

If Interlopers head to explore the clouds, they will find old trails leading up towards the mountains. It isn’t a particularly difficult journey, for once, and they will soon discover that the storm has blown away the previously blocked access to a cave. It appears that this is the right place.

The air is warm here, pleasantly so. Warm enough that hats and mittens and coats seem a little unnecessary. One might wonder if someone lives within, and that a great fire is stoked to keep the place warm. But there’s no one in sight, no sounds of life: human, animal or otherwise. If they press on, they will discover that the cave floor is well worn with footfall: plenty of people have come here before, and the reason why is soon revealed.

The air grows even warmer, and more humid. The space opening to reveal small pools of slow-flowing water, warm water. The stone houses a natural hot spring, and following the cave out the other side will lead to another space in the rock open to the air, where there are even larger pools of warm water, perfectly sized and deep enough to bathe in. It seems that this place was frequently used by the people of Milton, where their life of hardship could be forgotten for an hour or two.

The water is pleasantly hot, and incredibly inviting. After so long in the freezing cold without modern appliances and utilities, a natural hot spring sounds like an absolute luxury.

FAQs

WHITEOUT

1. Characters are free to play around with this prompt how they want. Maybe they're dumb enough to go into the cold and get injured or sick. Maybe they're stuck in the Community Hall for the week. Fights might break out as tensions run high whilst everyone's stuck together, or maybe you're actually having a nice time.

2. For those stuck in the Community Hall: there are board games and old school textbooks stored in cupboards. There is also a piano.

3. A floorplan of the Community Hall can be found here.

A CHOICE

1. .... Yes, you can pet the ghost stag.

2. Characters will get one choice only with the ghost stag, meaning they can't keep going back to find it to get extra gifts.

3. If characters can't agree on a course of action, whoever acts first will get their gift. The second character will have a chance to try again another time.

4. If both characters agree on sparing the stag, but players want different gifts (ie. one player wants the boots and one wants the blanket), characters will get the gift the player wants their character to receive.

REST MY WEARY BONES

1. The hot springs will now be a permanent fixture in the Milton Area, enjoy!

PLOTTING POST

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Seeing the other man's smile appear helps ease the lingering anxiety in Edward's own features, though he still manages to look slightly shaken for a moment or two longer. He's a fretful man, prone to worrying deeply... and he carries it in his expressions like a weight, although he is also quick to find his manners, immediately offering his own gloved hand to shake the other man's.

Ah — police. There's an immediate relief to hear that word. A man of the law. Someone with experience..... 'I can more than back you up if you need.' He's extremely glad to hear that, and is finally able to offer a smile in return, even giving a soft exhale as though a sigh of relief.

"First Lieutenant Edward Little of Her Majesty's Royal Navy. A pleasure to make your acquaintance — is it 'Officer'?" He makes sure to ask, not wanting to assume. He's not quite familiar with the Imperial Polite, and wants to be respectful.

As to the question, Edward's smile turns a bit grim at the corners. Even to speak of the weapon seems to make him slightly uneasy. "Yes, I've been well-trained in the use of firearms, so there is no concern of my accidentally shooting it off." It's the closest thing to being playful that Edward gets.... but that grimness deepens after a moment.

"...I have never used it against a person, however."

Raju's eyebrows rise a little in surprise. Royal Navy; that makes two of them that Raju's met. Where there's two, there may be more. If he'd actually arrived here in an English ship, if they all had and then forgotten it, that would make more sense than just suddenly waking up here. Raju makes a note to write down the possibility later, while the rest of him focuses on watching the man's body language. Relief, he thinks. Good.

"'Officer', no. Not unless you're trying to convince me not to arrest you." Raju's smile tightens, minutely. It's the kind of joke he would make to any Englishman who asked him that and comes out without thinking, even though Little couldn't seem more different from the smug, untouchable, confident men who would hear the idea of Raju arresting them as a great joke, impossible and bizarre. First Lieutenant or not, the man in front of him seems too frightened to be thinking about any of that.

"Or if you prefer Lieutenant," he goes on, shoving his hand underneath his other arm, back inside the warmth of the blanket. Strange to have a title offered to him by anyone, and respectfully. Raju may as well offer the same, especially if he's about to go back to a topic Little seems to like so much less. "I suppose you've never had to shoot anyone, in the Navy."

It's more a question than a statement. Whatever expedition sheltering here has Little thinking of, it'd obviously gotten ugly. It seems strange, to be in a position like that and have a weapon and not use it. Maybe he hadn't had it then.

Edward almost gives a smile of his own at that — he's not one for playing around much, what most modern folks may call "a stick in the mud" — but he understands that the other man is teasing with those words. Still, he's mostly Perpetually Serious, giving a quick nod — "lieutenant" is a title he's of course well-accustomed to, and he's happy to refer to the other that way as well.

The next sentence has his brow knit for a moment, that nod turning into a full tilt downwards of his chin, eyes lingering on his own hands upon the tabletop. Ah.

"No, there was.... little need for such things, fortunately." Though trained in the use of guns and whatnot, Edward's own naval service involved less of the wartime affairs and more stationary or exploratory. None of his stations were on the battlefield, so to speak.

.....Until the men of the Franklin Expedition created their own battlefield. Until he was forced to aim his gun at one of the crew. Once, then twice. Neither time had he fired.

"....I can't imagine what it would be like. To shoot a man. I suppose it might... change a person."

So it isn't that Little didn't have it. An officer, and he's never used it at all. A grown man, and still wondering about something Raju has always—

Some minute change shifts Raju's expression. Eyes a little wider, mouth and jaw held a little more tightly. His chest is tight. He can hear his heart beating loudly in his ears. For a moment—

"It—"

—only for a moment. Then Raju breathes out again quietly, making his expression settle. He should have expected this line of questioning would make him think of it. He hadn't expected the... the honest curiosity in the answer. He'd expected events, a simple recitation. This happened, and this, and then this. I did this, but I never did that. How would it feel is different. More thoughtful.

Worry, and now a tendency toward philosophy. Little is odd, for an officer. Maybe you see more of that in the navy.

"It's why we join, isn't it?" Raju's voice isn't sharp or abrupt as it had been in that one syllable, now perfectly composed and casual. The blanket is tighter around him than it was, reassuringly restrictive around his shoulders and his upper arms. "Because we can change. So others don't have to."

That's the official line too, or said so often it may as well be official. Something like it, anyway. The foreign officers believe it, or tell themselves they do, but he doesn't know how the rest of them say it with a straight face. Raju has always believed it. The truth of it is settled deep down inside his bones, since long before he and Uncle had even decided Raju would become an officer.

"If the need had been there, could you? If you're worrying about it, it might be for the best you never did. Hesitation and fear will ruin your aim."

Attuned to the man sitting across from him, Edward sees that shift — between the both of them tonight, there have been a couple here or there. It... means something, the catch in the other man's expression, as though he's been struck by something. Edward knows that feeling too well. And considering the topic of conversation.... He feels the ache up under his own sternum, tight and cold.

Immediately, he feels a regret for what he's just said. Clearly it's snagged against something in the other man, and he doesn't mean to upset him. Even if Raju regains his composure in the next moment, continuing on, Edward's painfully aware that all of this may be territory he's not meant to breach.

But he's continuing to listen, attentively, even if all of it is a particular discomfort. It isn't often he has the opportunity to sit and... speak to someone else about such matters.

'It's why we join, isn't it? Because we can change. So others don't have to.'

Edward sits there, absorbing those words, that discomfort swelling within him. The idea of changing... it's the opposite of that concept, for him. That he's clung onto for all of this time, that he still clings to even now. To do whatever it takes so that he doesn't change. So that he stays who he was before. (A good man. A decent one.)

He doesn't reply to that sentiment, finds that he can't. Not just yet. It's still too... raw for him. (In the end, he was the only one still holding onto the idea of staying the same, and look what had happened. It had meant nothing. It had saved no one. Only further damned them.)

But the next question... Ah. Edward shifts uncomfortably, gloved hands tightening against themselves. The need was there, and he hadn't been able to do it. He doesn't know how to convey that, how to... cope with it.

"I... do not know. Even if I could, I... I do not think I would. I do understand that for some... roles, it may be a necessity, to keep order." For he means no offense if this man before him has had to take such measures in his own position.

"....But for my own role.... I am not meant to shoot men. I would only apprehend them so that they could be tried, court martialed."

...And how well had that worked out? Edward swallows, offers a soft exhale.

"I realise some may consider that weakness, but... I believe we must still try to hold onto decency, even if our situation may be less than ideal."

The set of Raju's eyebrows flattens, and the set of his mouth. The lieutenant — is he one? The idea seems stranger and stranger, the gentleness and respect and hesitance more and more out of place — has tried very hard to say it as inoffensively as possible but the memory is still alive in Raju's head, though he'd been able to push it back, and memory clashes against Little's hesitant words, his insistent morality, in a way Raju can only meet with an expression that's gone hard. Only a little hard, and he should try to keep it out of his voice. But the change is always there.

"Is it decency?" Raju might sound matter of fact, to anyone who wasn't looking for the anger running underneath his tone. The anger is kept faint, distant; there are certain boundaries it doesn't pay to cross when speaking to a superior officer, even one in a completely different chain of command, even one who seems soft-spoken and kind. But even saying it is enough. He'd never say something like this to a man like that back home, in the middle of civilization and duty and everything else. Here in a quiet basement in the middle of no place Raju doesn't have to control himself into complete friendly politeness, and so he can't. "To betray what others need, just to keep clinging to what we want? Or is it..."

Selfishness? Even angry it's difficult to say it to a man who seems to want so badly, so genuinely not to fight him. Even if Raju doesn't say it, does he believe it, still clinging to the blanket Little himself gave him when he didn't have to give Raju anything at all? But kind isn't the same thing as not selfish. Is it? There's the anger, and the bitter smoke twisting itself around it, and it's impossible to see through the dense cloud of all of that clearly enough to say for sure.

But, little need for such things, Little had said. Maybe he's never had to choose at all.

Raju realises he's started to lean forward and leans back again, straightening up, taking a slow breath, letting it out as he gives Little a small smile, maybe polite enough to serve as apologetic. "Luck. Maybe it's only luck. Your time in the royal navy must have been very lucky, lieutenant, so you can keep a gun that's never needed to find its mark."

Edward freezes again, caught off-guard by the question — something in his gut curling unpleasantly, tight and coiled. It may be meant conversationally, or curiously, or perhaps as something a bit more than either of those things, but to Little, it's a challenge no matter how it may be framed. A discomforting notion presented that challenges the security of his own thoughts and reasoning and everything he has known. Held onto.

'To betray what others need, just to keep clinging to what we want? Or is it...'

But what others need is decency, isn't it...? That's what he's fought so hard to hold onto, to protect. To keep men decent, to remind them of who they are, not who they have to become in order to survive. There is still a choice, there— there must be a choice. That is what must be held onto.... right?

He's silent, a little stricken, even as he tries still to maintain his composure. But it... strikes against a very, very specific place within him, and he only realises the other man was leaning forwards closer when he straightens back up; Little blinks widely, looking up at him, swallowing. It's very clear that this matter strikes against some particular place within his new companion, as well.

His mouth tips open a little, stays like that for a beat or two, and then he's trying to breathe out the tension from his own shoulders, though his stomach stays uncomfortably tight.

Luck. It's certainly not a word he would use in association with his time — at least, not in recent events. Although, he'd been serving in the Royal Navy for most of his adult life, and nothing so harrowing as the Expedition had ever happened to him before, so perhaps one could say he had been lucky up until then....

...But it was never supposed to happen. They had prepared against such horrors. The ships were strong, and fortified, advanced at the height of scientific discovery. Luck was never meant to be a consideration at all. He pauses, considering. He'd mentioned to the other man that he'd been trapped out on the ice, that food became scarce, but.... that hardly touched on the true horror of everything.

He doesn't know how. How to... talk about it. Once again, he finds himself wanting to flinch away from this conversation, but it's a rare opportunity to... ask a man a question that perhaps has been living inside of him for all of this time, along with all of the ghosts whose deaths he feels some responsibility for.

"If someone.... did have to make such a choice, then how would one.... know? Whether it is the right call to make? To shoot a man in order to spare others... How does one know if a life is meant to be taken or not?"

He swallows, and meets Raju's eyes.

"How does one know what 'the greater good' truly is?"

Raju's lips begin to part, expecting to speak, because of course he has an answer, of course. Of course you always know. Of course he's always known. Even when greater good, what needs to happen to take him there, doesn't mean what he wants— Since he grew tall enough to hold the training-rifles, long and awkward enough that you need the height even if the weight on the real thing was bound to be different, he's known. His father had explained why, though they all already knew, but no one had ever really needed to explain the what.

Or the how. For Raju, there was never any how. There was only ever going to be one greater good for him, and either he will reach it and then he will rest, or death will take it away. Only one of the two. That's the way it has to be. But that has nothing to do with this other man, does it, living another life. What for him? Without that greater purpose driving all the smaller ones, how on earth does Raju explain?

He'd never expected the question. He'd never expected the source. But Little's desperation is real. His fear is real.

"Most men in your position would say it's dictated by the will of the man giving the orders." It's impossible not to speak quietly, in this moment. The corners of Raju's lips twitch up in grim and quick-dying humour; asking this question to an Englishman. "You don't agree, Lieutenant?"

Does he agree? He does, he thinks, even if it's a strangely difficult thing to agree to. But it shouldn't be; it makes sense. The man giving the orders is the man in charge, which means that he has earned his position, which means he is qualified to lead. To be responsible for the lives of others, and what decisions he thinks is best. He relies on his training, and when circumstances might fall outside of that safer boundary — his instincts.

....But he was never meant to truly lead, was he. He's the captain's right arm, an extension of leadership, but not its source. A proxy. He was safe like that, comfortable; he enjoyed his role. It suited him, and he was good at it, being that sort of middle management.

Until he wasn't, because his role changed, because everything changed, and he was no longer just Crozier's second, but the person left in charge here and there and in ways he never anticipated. And he did what he thought was right, but in the end, none of it was.

"That... is true, yes. The man giving the orders.... what he has been trained towards, studied and prepared for.... it is his will. He is the one responsible for it."

But he's wounded by his own words, eyes softening.

"....Forgive me for such... severe inquiries. Things became very dire out on the ice, before here. I found that much of my training was... challenged." His mouth twists into a discomforted frown. Guilt gnaws at him, again and again.

"I know it is my responsibility to do better, here... I appreciate your wisdom on such matters."

The corners of Raju's lips twitch into something brief, polite, something like a smile. He looks down with a soft breath. I appreciate your wisdom on such matters. Strange, and strange. Again and again, the way that this lieutenant acts. But it does all add up, at least, into the kind of man who might well hold onto what he calls decency, tightly and with both hands. Even when he shouldn't. Even when clinging to it makes things worse. Even when desperate. Even when angry. To act in that way. To still have what it makes you.

Something twists at Raju's stomach. It doesn't matter what it is. It pulls his lips into a crooked twist, too, that's mostly flattened out by the time that he looks back up.

"Dire?"

There are consequences for holding on that way. There are. To the wrong thing. They matter. If Little remembers that, really remembers it, then the both of them will.

"You said food became scarce, and... 'agitated', I think, was the word you used." His voice and gaze are steady as he says it. Less curious, and more intent. "What happened? When you didn't fire your gun?"

Edward pauses, torn. He hasn't spoken of this with... well, with anyone. Not even with those from his world and time. But, again, being faced with this opportunity could be.... the learning experience he's desperately wanted. Needed. No matter how nervous it makes him to think of voicing it aloud.

How ashamed.

He sits there for a moment, staring at the table, uneasy. Then....

"....As things were falling apart, some of our number... committed horrendous acts. There was murder. And... that same murderer staged a mutiny against our captain." A sharp sigh, gloved hands folding in front of his mouth for a moment before he lowers them again. He hasn't processed any of it, not fully. The horrific murder against his fellow lieutenant, and the Inuit... the six-year-old child. The unspeakable brutality of it all.

"One of his number was the sergeant of the Marines... I found myself face to face with that sergeant in the midst of it all. He wanted me to join them — I, of course, refused."

There's so much to it. How does he convey any of it? That the... creature was attacking? That men were being torn apart all around him? That he could barely think or do anything? It all felt dreamlike, as though happening to somebody else.

".....I had my gun aimed to him. I knew I needed to stop him." He swallows against the lump in his throat. "But I hesitated. And then one of the others struck me, instead. They got away. I let them get away. And they— ....they did terrible things, after that. Things I cannot even speak of."

He closes his eyes, agonised by the memory. By the knowledge that his inaction very well played a part in what came after. If he'd shot Tozer... what could he have prevented?

"But he was... a crewman. I knew him for years, I had responsibility for him, I—.... How could I take his life?"

There it is. Again there are stories between the words, details Raju will never know but he can see the shape they make, can see that Little knows what Raju knows, too. Or he should. He should. That there's no place for what Little keeps when others need you.

Lucky, still, to only have to start doing away with it so late. But it's harder to look at the man and see luck just now, because Raju knows what he is going to say, and is sure the words are going to hurt. But he needs them said. One of them needs the words said. Little knows them. It's clear a part of Little knows. But he needs it said out loud.

"Was it decency?" Raju begins leaning forward. The tight grip of his arms around himself loosens. Maybe the words should be gentle. They come out flat, the way it feels when Raju holds a weapon in his hand. His gaze drifts down, weighted, and he watches his hands drifting toward his thighs as the cold air creeps in. "Letting your crewman live, to do what he did after. If his victims were in front of you when you had your gun aimed, would you see the greater good then?"

To share this story is, assuredly, a risk. A risk of judgement, scorn. In some ways it's easier to share it with a stranger than with one of the people here who have come to rely on him, who might look at him with changed eyes afterwards. But it still isn't.... pleasant, and he feels no relief after divulging what he does, even if much has been kept beneath his own tongue.

No, this is no confession, no hope for mercy or appeasement. He shares it with this man because he is an officer himself, and has offered words relevant to Little's own experience, even if some of them have not been easy to hear. He shares it because some part of him is so desperate simply to have someone else hear and know and understand. He is so lonesome with this burden; there is no one here he can reveal it to. Not even his fellow crewmen from the ships who have wandered to this place; his captain is no longer acting as a captain. His companions have given up their roles. He is the only one still clinging to his own.

What comes from Raju are questions, and they might as well have been conjured up from Edward's own soul. Things he's asked himself, agonised over, and he's lowering his head again as though ashamed, wounded.

'Was it decency?'

He thinks of the men Tozer helped kidnap. The men who ended up in that devil Hickey's camp. Hodgson... Mr. Diggle. The captain himself. Gibson and Goodsir, whose fates were...... a particular nightmare. His gloved hands tighten against themselves, mouth tugged back in a pained grimace. It hurts; all of it hurts. All of those men haunt him.

"I thought it was decency, I— I tried." Doesn't that count for something? Anything...? Or does it matter at all, in a situation such as that? None of it mattered. (If he'd known what was going to happen after that, would he have made a different choice?)

'No one can see you now. You're invisible,' Tozer had said to him.

"You... would have shot him. The mutineer. Wouldn't you?" He's not deflecting, but genuinely asking — miserably, slowly lifting his head to look up at Raju again, eyes aching.

Raju can hear it, the way his words hit. He sees movement on the edge of his vision, the lieutenant's head lifting. If any other officer were asking him something like this, it wouldn't be in this way; it would be suspicious, or proud, or trying to make a point. But they would expect Raju to look into their eyes as he answers, and so he lifts his head to look into Little's eyes. They would be listening for him to answer confidently, no regret, no hesitation, and no room for doubt.

"Yes," Raju says, voice deepening over the one word, tone flat. Then it lightens a little, his pitch lifting with it into something more casual. "If I couldn't deliver them to justice." A polite smile flickers into existence over his face and disappears just as quickly. He looks down again.

Confirmation, then. What he'd wanted to hear. The regret that comes in pain. The agreement implied in it almost, almost there. Had Raju wanted to hear it?

He watches his fingers flexing over his thighs. The air is colder over his hands and forearms than he wants it to be. He had needed to hear it. Little can't go on not knowing. Not carrying a gun the way he still does.

"You said you knew him for years," Raju says, voice still casual, not knowing whether he's saying it to try to get away from the heart bleeding in front of him here or to drive deeper into it. "Did you care for him?"

It's the answer that most men might give, although something in Little still can't see it as anything but the worst outcome, the last possible decision that should ever be made. To take a life... to face a man, to look into his eyes and shoot him. Certainly, there may be differences in their respective times, home worlds; Victorian England is all about reputation and decency and one's character. Beneath everything, that force drives so many others.

(....But even beneath that concept, his heart itself.... shudders so deeply at the thought of taking a life. At times, his nightmares take the form of shooting Tozer, of feeling his weapon jolt in his arms, watching the body violently snap and then crumple, bleeding, and those dreams give him just as much terror as any other.)

So when the other man does mention that shooting would have come if they couldn't be delivered to justice first, it is a small flicker of relief in Little, and he nods, certainly agreeing, even if the discomfort lingers over the question he'd just asked and the answer the other man had given.

He hesitates again at the question asked of him, this time. But still, he remains honest, earnest, speaking slowly as he thinks it through.

"It was my duty to know all of the men — their backgrounds, their dispositions. I cannot say I knew him well. The Marines were something of their own entity. But... we were together for a very long time. I did see him often."

But that isn't what Raju asked. Little pauses again, trying to draw the right words up from himself. They weren't... friends, certainly. Companions by virtue of working together, being in positions of leadership, but little more than that. Tozer barely knew a thing about him. And yet...

"...I did care for him. I cared for them all."

He swallows again. Much has been said, tonight.

"He was not a bad man. One of his fellows — the Marines — became... injured. He could no longer move, or speak. He seemed almost dead." Something quietly disturbed hardens his features for a moment; Private Heather's condition was...... like something from a nightmare.

"Sergeant Tozer cared for him. He stayed right by his side, making it his personal responsibility. ...He was gentle with him, attentive." Little had noticed, of course. They all had. It was almost unnerving at times, seeing Tozer treating Heather as though he were still... lucid, but it showed much to his character.

"He was not a bad man," he repeats, more softly this time. "Not before everything went wrong."

Edited 2024-02-10 22:10 (UTC)

...I did care for him. I cared for them all.

It's genuine. What follows from Little is genuine, and when Raju hears that he finds himself looking up into Little's face, in spite of himself. There's plenty to see there, while Little's baring himself. More the longer they talk it's clear Raju's life and the life of Edward Little couldn't have been more different. That he's able to bare himself like this in the first place is something strange, and that he's able to care this way for a man who, it seems, wasn't even a personal friend is something even stranger. It hurts to see even as it must hurt to speak. They each lived different lives but the lessons they taught themselves from there, what Little is trying to teach himself even now, with those last words—

But it doesn't do Little any favours. That's clear, Raju can hear it in his voice. Raju can see it in his face. And it didn't do the men around Little any good, either. The spaces around Little's tale of inaction contain horrors. It's important to remember that.

Raju looks down at his hands again. "What does that," he has to say, very quietly, flatly, "have to do with need?"

What Little learned. And what he was taught. The grip of Raju's is hands tighten. He takes a slow breath. He holds the breath, and then he lets it out though barely parted lips, and then his grip relaxes again. His voice isn't pressed so flat, it's more matter-of-fact now, still quiet. "Whoever put that gun in your hand did you a disservice, Lieutenant. They didn't teach you what it was for. Maybe that isn't your fault."

He's quiet for a few long moments, thinking, processing. As uncomfortable as this conversation here in the dark of the basement is, it's a way to work through such thoughts. But even now, he's confused by the other man's reaction, once again, feeling the particular sting of awareness that much seems to be different between their mentalities. It's a consistent ebb and flow of understanding and a lack of, and it's a strange thing. Again, perhaps it's to be expected when speaking with someone of another culture and time, but no matter how his hands may shake, he is resilient in his own response.

"Our guns were never meant to be used against one another. That is not... how we served Her Majesty. The men who did choose to turn them on one another.... it was heinous. Monstrous."

He knew his job, his role. He knew what his weapon was for. His weapon, his responsibility. Others were shoved at him — even the captain handed Little his personal pistol, and the weight of it was almost unbearable; he had set it down as quickly as he could. It was not meant for him.

"I do believe it matters. That he was a good man before. If somewhere were to turn their gun on me and debate whether to pull the trigger or not... I should hope they might consider my character, first. I should hope that... it would matter."

The men who did choose to turn them on one another.... it was heinous. Monstrous.

Raju's eyebrows twitch and draw together, corners of his lips twisting. He watches his hands sitting on his thighs, still.

It's different. Whatever Little is talking about is different. And the bonds he's talking about are the bonds of empire, anyway: not how we served Her Majesty. Still an Englishman, despite everything else. Enough of an Englishman to still be loyal to the old queen, even after all this time.

But— Raju thinks it as he listens, as Little pushes back in a way he hasn't for the last few minutes of their conversation, insists on the logic of morality —But maybe it was monstrous. Maybe it was monstrous, and the distinction is Little's problem.

"Why does it matter?" Raju asks, voice quiet control with an edge of something hard in it. "More than why the gun is on you? Is your death going to help, or hurt? If you die, are others going to live who wouldn't have before? If you were the most saintly man in all creation, that could still be true. Why does the weight of your soul matter, compared to that?"

Edited 2024-02-18 15:02 (UTC)

These are the questions that were never meant to be asked, or answered — not to Little, not to the men he'd served with. There may have been soldiers among them, but the expedition was one for exploration and the pursuit of knowledge, advancement, not battle. They were never meant to know what it is to have to turn one's gun on a fellow crewman, or how to react to being on the opposite end of a barrel. None of it was supposed to happen. (And yet all of it was doomed to, from the very start; he knows that now.)

But none of it was meant for him. He sits there in the face of such questions, and although still rattled by this unpleasant conversation, continues to find a bit of a foothold now. No matter what he may be uncertain of, no matter the guilts that gnaw away at his insides along with the poison that lives within him now, no matter the challenge this fellow officer provides, there are truths he does know, does hold fast to.

"It has to matter. If it does not.... then we are no better than animals, are we? If the goodness of a man's character and soul means nothing.... then what is the value of living at all? What is there to... strive for? To hold onto? We cannot know whose deaths may be prevented, what one life taken might spare or save afterwards. We cannot predict it. So... we must choose what we feel to be right in that moment, mustn't we?"

He gives a sad sigh, deep and heavy and one that moves through his entire body. He thinks of Commander Fitzjames, a proud man reduced to such agonies. But until the very end he was noble. He remained a great man. They were all proud to know him, and his leadership.

"Even after our deaths.... I believe it is important what we are remembered for. How we held to our duties, our roles. How we did not falter from them. Whether we remained decent men or became like animals."

"And are they the same?" Raju stares down at his hands, at nothing, expression trying to be neutral but missing the mark, pinching at the corners of his mouth, tightening at the corners of his eyes. "Decency and duty. If one would strangle the other in its cradle? Do your duty, and good men suffer. Do the decent thing instead, and the suffering grows. And you could have stopped it. You say we can't predict it, but sometimes we can. What is the value of living, for a man who's abandoned his duty? Just so he can..."

So he can...

There's a trembling in his lips. He presses them tightly together, clenching his jaw.

There's no point in imagining it. He is what he is now. He is what he will be. His stomach churns.

"And if an animal still knows its duty?," he demands, at the space above his knees. "That has to matter. That you act as it was right to act, unselfishly. As you were needed to. You would put goodness over that? For whose sake? Your own?"

Once again, signs of the other man's distress are there, palpable, even if he might restrain himself in ways. Edward sees that shudder of the mouth, that tightening of the jaw. He knows what it is to tense like that, to fight to keep everything inside, some turmoil — and even anger. He knows anger, despite what some may assume of the tender-hearted and sensitive first lieutenant. Oh, he knows anger, he's found himself shaking with it, forced himself with every ounce of willpower to swallow it back down into his stomach, where it has festered and festered for years.

This conversation has been an ebb and flow of emotions peeking through, of challenges, and none of it has been comfortable, but it has been manageable. Now, though... that alarm rings in Little again, and he realises that he may have touched something too sharp. Perhaps it was inevitable, when speaking of such things, so personal. The nature of a man, the greater good, the decisions made in the spur of a moment. He looks up again, eyes widening at Raju's questions.

"I—" A hand lifts, and he feels a guilt pooling in, deep and unpleasant. "No, I— Please, forgive me. I did not mean to cause upset. I know that this matter is complicated, and I... I do not disagree with you so much as it may seem."

'What is the value of living, for a man who's abandoned his duty?'

The irony is that holding on so strongly to the concept of "decency" is how he thought he was maintaining his duty. Perhaps at the core, they speak from a similar place. It's on the surface that the differences are damning, upsetting to the other, unable to be related to. Little does look deeply remorseful, genuinely distressed and desperate to diffuse the situation.

"I deeply apologise. I have spoken too much."

At the apology Raju's eyes move off his hands and move up, and surprised regret comes over his face as his head moves up too, off the angle at which it's been fixed. He takes a harsh breath in through his nose. He closes his eyes, swallows, and opens them again to face Lieutenant Little's distress and regret, not cutting into him because of the past or himself but because of Raju, this time.

"I— no." Something shaped like a smile tries to put itself on Raju's face. "You were only answering my questions. I don't know why I pressed that way."

His hands lift from his thighs, fingers curling slowly and thumbs rubbing hard against them. I do not disagree with you so much as it may seem— Politeness only. Of course he does. A decent man, sitting down here in hopes of keeping the horrors of his past from happening in the here and now, and what is Raju down here for? Sitting with the blanket this man gave him around his shoulders and doing what for him?

"I apologise. I came down here to help you. You didn't need an interrogation."

There's a relief that the other man seems to allow the apology, that his own distress seems to fizzle — that he gives understanding in return, and that something more vicious and unpleasant can be avoided between the two of them; Edward never wanted that. But his heart aches with the realisation of everything he's shared and possibly stirred forth in this man; it gives him no pleasure to wound anybody.

"No, please — it's quite all right. I asked questions of you that were perhaps... inappropriate. I must admit, I've not voiced much of this to anyone before."

A beat, as he trudges through his own awkward hesitancy, brows pinched for a moment.

"But I do appreciate everything you've allowed me to hear. I will reflect on what you've shared, and the wisdom that may come of it." No matter how uncomfortable the conversation has been, Raju's still given him much to think on, and Edward will revisit all of it in the days to come.

And perhaps in the near future, in ways he never expected.

Raju nods, taking a slow breath which sounds steadier, this time. He's going to need a lot more before he's really fit for conversation. He can't sound natural just now, can't look natural. He can feel the way that too much of what's inside is managing to show. There's a certain strain, a tension in places that there shouldn't be. He's going to have to breathe, and be calm, and put all of it back where it belongs. It's going to be harder here, with so many people stuck living and doing and making noise in the same space, but he has the practice to make it work. The sound of the storm might even help, wind beating against the walls and roof and windows reminding him of times that were...

Well, still terrible. A world that is still the living world and a self that needs to be everything it is that Raju is still needed to be within it. But the sound of the wind against the walls will remind him of times that were, at least, warmer.

"Your questions need answers. It would be more inappropriate not to look for them." Because this man, this... decent man, still carries a weapon. Regardless of what Little says, those are two choices that can't keep living in the same house. The weapon, or the decency; refusing to make use of only one will ruin both.

Strange, then, that the urge to take Little's weapon from a hand that will hesitate and put it in one that won't is even quieter now. There's a feeling from some place that Little should be the one to keep it.

He won't find those answers to his questions if he doesn't. Maybe that's it.

"Because you can't hesitate. Whatever you choose." Raju leans forward, hand flat on the table and looking into the Lieutenant's eyes, but the moment of intensity goes sour inside his stomach and he sits back again with another one of those slow breaths, lips thinning. He swallows, and goes on speaking anyway. "Whether you use that gun or don't, until you've decided when you'll be even more dangerous than a man who uses it too much. Power needs to know how it's going to be used.

"But I, ah..." He looks around himself. Lieutenant Little had been guarding this room and all its stores, sitting by himself in the quiet down here, and then Raju had come. "I don't think I'd be helping much by staying here with you and pressing the point. I'm told I've never known how to leave a problem alone. And there's more that needs doing upstairs anyway."

Is there? There might not be too much that someone else in the sheltering crowd hasn't already covered. There will be something, if Raju is lucky. He does need to sit and breathe, but something he can do with his hands might help. He can figure something out.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

nature offers a violence

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Apologies for the delay! No worries if this is too late!!

I'm happy to keep going, you're good!

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