PEACE / CHAOS.

private, selective, low activity, dash-only harriet morse from deathloop (2021).

“Hmph,” Came the soft, amused sound in Frank’s throat, served with a crooked smirk to match, “I’m taking it then that that ain’t your style.”

Another sip of whiskey and Frank was leaning forth to set his glass down onto the coffee table.

“That’s alright though. Shit’s not exactly my style either,” He rubbed his middle finger over his bottom as he sat back, “Just was the first thing that came to mind considering your uh—“ Frank made a vague gesture with his hand towards her while the phrase ‘weird cult shit’ came to mind.

“Anyways—don’t matter! Like you said, misunderstandin’ and all…Never was the most religious man myself.”

“Neither was I.” The ‘until’ is left unspoken. It doesn’t need to be said. “But we’re equals, Frank. I’m not interested in proselytizing at you.”

The truth is, she doesn’t want Frank dipping his toes any deeper into Two-Path Divinity than he already has. The two of them both have their own cults of personality - her religion, and his music. His stage presence is electric. He’s told her the same thing, and meant it as a compliment. But to Harriet, Frank’s talent is a threat. It’s imperative that he stays compartmentalized neatly in the radio sphere, doing just enough to swing his most zealous weirdos her way and otherwise minding his own business.

Maybe it’s true. Maybe Harriet would have made a good performer. But Frank would make an amazing preacher. And if that ever happened, she’d have to kill him. 

Which would be unfortunate, because she likes Frank.

  Coming with her. Keeping her head high and her back straight as she fought back the rising bubbles of sobs and giggles that were dancing macabre in her throat. Madame Zborowska might be on the edge of disowning her, but she raised her daughter to be strong in the face of catastrophic meltdowns.

 She’s able to see frantically thin clouds of vapor as she steps out into the night. Fractured Image behind her, thumping of overwhelming bass getting more and more distant. She misses the vibrations. Misses how they scrambled her thoughts.

  She’s lucky Harriet’s holding her close. Unlucky to be here in the first place. What a spiral. Where was the balance?

She matches the gesture that Harriet offers. Palms forward, track marks on her arm glowing slightly from HAVOC injections. Residual Residuum making her veins throb unsightly in the night. She’d have to start wearing long sleeves. Thoughts flitting around. Chaos.

In. 1. 2. 3. Out. 1. 2. 3.

    “I have pills for this. Tinctures. Potions. You don’t have to… I’ll be fine, I swear.”

"Of course. A little cake that says ‘eat me’ and a little potion that says ‘drink me.’” She can’t imagine Fia as small as a caterpillar, but what she can imagine is Fia twice her usual size, rampaging across the island in a fit of destruction. Her anger, at times, feels just as large. 

There’s a mystic quality that Fia gets from her substances, like the Oracle of Delphi and her vapors - but Harriet likes to think her presence is stronger than anything Fia could swallow dry. She wonders what her simpering boyfriend does during his girlfriend’s moods, if he’s not too blinded by his own self-obsession to even notice them.

“One time Elanor took me to Fashion Week in Karnaca. I must have been... oh, seven? Eight? Back then the fashions were so ugly. And I was a child, so I was terribly bored. And it was so long. I went to the restroom and got lost on the way back. I was so small, just this little thing tangled in a sea of people’s knees. It felt like drowning. It feels like that, doesn’t it? Being trapped in a crowd? It’s like drowning, I think.”

What is she being so ornery about? She wouldn’t even have her stupid secret submarine if he hadn’t found it for her. This island is full of ingrates–ingrates!–but he isn’t going to hold it against a fellow Visionary. That would be childish. Of course.

“Your concern is–is entirely unfounded,” he huffs as he starts descending the ladder. He stops when he gets to the bottom, staring down at the floor. “No-one sees me.”

He pauses for a moment to see if she’ll feel bad for him. Then he realises he’s left the hatch open and reaches back up to close it like she’d asked. A small gasp of snowy wind gets in first, a few flakes tangling in his hair.

“I’m sorry,” he says, wetly, as he finally turns around to face her. Soon, though, he’s pacing a tight circle in the narrow space. “I didn’t know what else to–someone messed with my equipment, Harriet. What if it was Colt? But then why would he–and Charlie, and Fia–and–and, well, I can’t go back, obviously, but I can’t just wander around like a headless chicken, so…”

Shrugging broadly, he finally stops pacing and steps a little closer to her.

“W-well, anyway… we’ll be safe here. Right?” He offers a queasy smile. “And–and on the bright side, now I can keep you company?”

Why Colt would waste his time on Egor’s equipment when he’s ostensibly trying to kill all of them before the day is over is completely beyond Harriet. Whatever gadgets Egor is playing with in the Complex probably broke on their own due to his incompetence. Unlike most of the other visionaries, Harriet isn’t convinced Egor is entirely useless. Some of his ideas have genuine merit. But he’s a moron, completely out of his league in ideas much bigger than he can handle. He’s like if the first caveman to conceptualize fire tried to light it with water. Now that he’s found out about Colt, he wants to feel like his research is some important step within the hysteria.

It’s tempting to give him a reality check, but she bites the meat of her tongue. It’s too late to start a fight with someone she’ll be stuck with for the next ten or so hours. instead, she straights up, folding her arms across her chest.

“Fine, Egor. It would be idiotic to try and send you out, at this point, now that you’re already here.”

Company. Company is the last thing Harriet is interested in, especially when there’s a giant target tacked on to the word like an asterisk. Especially when it’s Egor.

It’s not that she hates him. Harriet hates very few people. It would be like hating tools. Most people have their uses, and anything worth using is valuable to some degree. But Egor is just so... much. And the nature of Harriet’s self-crafted image has backfired, with Egor. It’s essentially turned her into his favorite repository for venting. The rest of the day, she realizes, will be filled with rambling about his anxieties, his frustrations, his fears, his nightmares, his vexations, his aches, his pains, his puzzlements, his allergies, his gastrointestinal distresses, his rashes...

@hopecaged said: [ GAZE ] from wenkie 😔

The evening winds down with the two of them on the couch, sharing a pot of decaf coffee and dessert cookies while the rest of Aeon says their goodbyes. Harriet doesn’t mind this. She likes her conversations with Wenjie, animated and furious and rousing. Few people challenge her, the way Dr. Evans does. She does not think it’s a stretch to doubt that few people challenge Dr. Evans the way Harriet does.

Wenjie is brilliant. Wenjie is infuriatingly naïve. She’s like a child who figured out how to skip rope with the hair of a giant. Their brilliant alchemist, who discovered how to synthesize the spirit realm into a distilled and measured substance. Still, in her duality, she’s ever seeking, ever searching. 

(Her eyes, now, on the plush of Harriet’s lips. Seeking. Searching.)

Would Harriet be an experiment to her, too? The indulgence of a lingering curiosity? How much of Wenjie’s affection could circle back to her insatiable need to find out What If?

Harriet takes her by the chin, her thumb just barely brushing the bottom of Wenjie’s lip. She observes the physicist serenely, mirroring her fascination.

Ice cubes lightly clunked around the glass of whiskey they resided in as Frank idly shook his drink around in slow circles. A bit lost in his own thoughts as to how he might approach his desired subject matter with his current guest, Harriet’s words manage to get him to return to the present moment with an amused huff.

“Nah.” Frank let his back relax against couch and lifted his drink, taking a small sip. The familiar burn of alcohol was a welcomed sensation. Helped take the edge off.

“Personalized greetings are reserved only for the prettiest faces on Blackreef—“ Frank’s free arm slid over to rest over the top of the couch’s backrest, “—or I guess, the only faces Blackreef really sees, but that’s besides the point. Glad to hear you enjoyed yours though.”

Harriet feels the weight of Frank’s arm on the couch rest behind her. He thinks he has a pretty solid veneer, but she’s gleaned on to his song-and-dance. She, too, is a performer in her own way. She knows the tricks.

Frank’s favorite defensive, more so than his temper, is his flirtation. It’s disarming. A way for him to gain solid control of any given situation.

“Silver-tongued as always, Mr. Spicer,” Harriet says, sipping her drink. She’ll let him do his flirting, if it makes him feel more at ease. If he’s more at ease, he’s more likely to talk to her.

“‘Join hands with me and sing Kumbaya, Harriet’ does feel like a slightly fundamental misunderstanding of Two-Path Divinity’s purpose, but I won’t hold it against you.” 

By the time he comes down from the hills, Charlie and Fia are dead. That shred of hope he has of reasoning with Colt frays a little further–he’d never been cozy with Charlie and Fia, but he’d never hurt them–and continues to unravel throughout the afternoon. Aleksis’ party doesn’t feel like the safe sanctuary he needs by the time he gets back to the lab to find his equipment tampered with. He turns right around again and heads downhill–not to Updaam, but down to the coast.

Egor’s always felt things–voices, presences, things he used to try and ignore–but tonight the sense of being watched is stronger and more terrifying than ever. He allows himself to be visible only where the shadows are darkest and deepest, melting into them easily despite his bright orange coat. Finally, he picks his way down to the shoreline where the sea is frozen solid. It usually is, in this part.

That’s why Harriet had chosen it–that, and it’s so remote only Egor has nosed around enough to notice what he looks for now. A beached metal behemoth, half buried in snow and black sand, paint long since scoured away by the sea until only a few meager chips of yellow remain.

He tries the porthole but the wheel seems to slide out from under his hand. He tries again. Kicks it. Finally he knocks–quietly, at first, still feeling eyes on his back.

“Harriet?” He doesn’t want to be too loud in case his voice carries… but, after a few more tense seconds, his panic is stronger than his common sense and he bangs frantically on the metal. “Harriet?! I know you’re there! Let me in!”

@hangarsermon & egor have a slumber party, only bad

The submarine feels, fittingly, like the opposite of the airplane. Both have the distinct reminiscence of giant metal tombs, simultaneously enormous and compact, curved walls and tight quarters. Tight for a military crew, no doubt, but perfectly suitable for a single 4′9 visionary who has no intention of sharing.

Or rather, had no intention of sharing.

The porthole cracks open, marginally, just enough for Harriet’s eyes to be visible.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Egor?” she hisses. That, of course, had been the one downfall of taking this as her hideout. It would have been utterly undetectable, if not also known of by the biggest mouth in Blackreef. He’d probably lead Colt here, personally, if their former Head of Security was smart enough to try and sweet-talk him.

“Just - DAMMIT.” In his big, moronic orange coat, he may as well just paint a giant target on his back. Two Visionaries have already died, today. Harriet refuses to let that number get any higher. “Just get in before someone sees you.”

The hatch swings open, and Harriet hops down from the ladder to give him room to climb down inside. She’s already feeling claustrophobic at the idea of his enormous clown shoes tromping down behind her. 

Harriet wrinkles her nose, staring down at the device fixed to the back of her hand, still tingling from where it punctured her skin. 

It’s excessive (especially before the Loop has even begun), but she can’t entirely blame Frank for being careful. Harriet has her own barriers, her own insistences for privacy and exclusivity. She can’t understand why he would deny godhood in the palm of his hand, but she can at least understand when a person has their limits.

Cocktail in hand, she sinks down on to the couch beside the host and leans forward to take an hors d'oeuvre from the spread on the coffee table - thinly toasted bread, garnered with salmon and hagfish caviar.

    “You.” 

She who bore an aura of swaying psalms, oscillating between obsidian and alabaster. Wielder of The Nexus. A lone friend among a group of Visionaries that seemed so dedicated to keeping her isolated. Charlie, her Charlie, was her beloved. Her dearest, she would follow him everywhere, and he in turn would always have her heart. But Harriet was a friend. An ally. Her wellbeing meant something to Fia.

  Fingers tighten around Harriet’s grasp. Not trying to cage her in, just trying to hold her near, to keep grasp on something solid amid her own confusion. 

She had purpose. This fury, this constant, simmering… FURY it was meant for something. It was meant for this. Her soul distilled. Divinity honed into razor sharp voidstone set to pierce her veins, to poison her blood and produce… produce what?

    “I hope it burns me up. I’m so scared it will, but I can’t help but hope. I hope it sets a pyre from my bones, and scatters what’s left onto you, and the others. Does for the faithful what it can.” Laughter. She’s laughing. Or is she sobbing? Is that just regular breathing? Not so sure. Not anymore.

It’s poor Fia’s party, and she’s on the verge of tears. Just like the song.

“Come with me,” Harriet says sternly.

She leads Fia by the wrist through throngs of guests - trust fund art students in neon-bright fashions, asymmetrical mod haircuts and bold eyeliner. Their heads swivel as the two visionaries pass by, whispers of curiosity floating like wisps of smoke. Gossip is an indulgence of the rich and the bored, mishandled by those who lack foresight. She pays no mind to them.

Now Harriet’s taken Fia outside, up from the oppressive tomb of the bunker into the cold night air of Fristad Rock. In the distance, fireworks crackle across the ocean vista. Their shoes crunch in the snow as Harriet 

Hello world. She feels you in the way that anything can be felt at all these days. In half-tones, and half-measures, barely remembered and simultaneously overly registered. It feels like Harriet is jabbing her with a shard of ice. It feels like Harriet is grazing her with a goose feather. 

    “Are you not having a peaceful time with your own?” That’s what finds its way to her mouth first. Its not her first thought, doubt its even the strongest, but it is the one that reaches the open air the clearest. “I would’ve thought you would absolutely love your new aspect… You and Aleksis and Charlie… all of your SLABS are so- amazing. So free-flowing, so beyond the self.”

  Fangs to tear a person apart. A portal through space! A oneness with all? All beautiful, all wild, all grand! And then, where was she? Trapped in a blaze, screeching at the stars, moments from imploding, ever spurred on by the last embers of her own soul. Dying. Always dying. Dead. 

  She turned fully toward Harriet then. Moving strings of hair away from her eyes, looking down at the aspect of infinity that she called friend. “Ashes and Ashes. Dancing with Dusk, huh?”

“Me?” There is a brief slippage, perceptible only in how quickly Harriet answers. She gives a dismissive titter, a laugh still tinged with uneasiness. She doesn’t like when the lens is aimed at her. “Of course I am.”

And she does! How could she not? The divine oneness she can weave with her very own fingertips, the sacred control that the universe has blessed her with.

(She will not dwell on what flaws it might reflect, because Harriet does not interpret any of her traits as flaws. She refuses to.)

Harriet tilts her head up to look at Fia, pityingly. Poor little rich girl, always trying to run away to different worlds - in her paintings, in her pills. Will the Great Beyond finally give her the peace of mind she’s been seeking?

HER VOICE IS A SOFTNESS THAT KNOWS HOW TO COMMAND ATTENTION. The kind of voice that can soothe troubled hearts, frenzied minds. It’s easy for Colt to envision her with a following of faithful; with worn and wandering souls seeking solace even just in the warmth of what advice she might offer through smiling lips. It just makes his guard solidify all the more in iron.

He wants to give her the benefit of the doubt, however. There’s always the chance that he’s being too harsh. That she holds a ring of keys that could help unlock all the chained-up doors of a psyche still reeling from more than a decade of the same day. And also the dark, dank walls of a cell that had been too small, too tight.

“That’s– Yeah, okay, that’s fair,” he admits. And allows Harriet to guide him down to the sofa with her. He still makes sure to pull his hands away once they’re seated, rubbing his palms over his knees instead. “Er, well, I guess the start of it all isn’t anything special. One minute I’m a soldier stationed on some remote island with a bunch of scientists. The next, I’m volunteering for some big, top secret project. Y’know, ‘cause why not?” He laughs to deflect from even the smallest sliver of tension tightening his throat. He also keeps it intentionally vague. Doesn’t want to pluck apart all the hows and whys when he still can’t glean the poise of her angle.

But the images are there just behind dark, averted eyes. Being hurtled through the air, dials spinning, machinery groaning, time warping around him and a flash of light. Blinding, harsh, enveloping light. And whale song? Far-off voices stretched and distorted? High, eerie pitches of sound? He swallows the knot that’s formed behind his tongue.

“Turns out it involved getting shot into a damn time rift in the sky. Which, uh. It’s still hard to remember everything, but it… wasn’t fun, if that’s what you’re wondering.” 

One leg crosses over the other, and Harriet leans on the arm of the couch, resting her chin in her hand and watching him with rapt attention. This is the universal poise that says “I’m listening”, weaponized by television personalities and ministers and unhappy housewives alike.

It’s not like she’s faking, this time. (Harriet is usually happy to listen to everything he followers tell her, but, well - some are a bit more loquacious than others, and even her wide expanse of patience has its limits.) But she needs to deliberately ensure she looks properly engaged, properly sympathetic, to glean as much from Colt as she possibly can.

He’s terse. Nothing he says gives her anything different from Egor’s ramblings. What matters is the way he holds himself, the way he grits his teeth. She rubs her thumb across her lips, thinking.

Wenjie steps away from the monitor with a slight sense of trepidation; like leaving a burner unattended, a substance simmering over in an unwatched corner. By now, she knows there’s often a difference between what Harriet says and what she really means; their conversations would be far simpler if she would only do away with the psychobabble. Wenjie isn’t a lost little lamb waiting to be guided back into the flock. Harriet doesn’t need to treat her like one.

(Or maybe she is, and maybe she does.)

She comes back to the minicom a few minutes later, fully dressed (there’s an unworn dress suit that’s been languishing in the back of her wardrobe for just such an occasion; outside of the lab or the bedroom, Wenjie doesn’t really go below business-casual) and starts pinning her hair up, occasionally freeing one hand to type.

[ EvansLaw ] As will the FDA, I’m sure. [ EvansLaw ] That place Frank showed us. We’ll go there.

Last time they’d gone with the Aeon group, Wenjie had quickly discerned that it was one of Frank’s mob-connected hangouts. However, the service was fast and friendly and they made good coffee; also, Frank had made a big show of introducing them to the owner, who communicated mostly in scowls and nods (and appeared to be carrying a gun under his apron) but had assured them they were welcome any time.

Harriet seemed to like it there, but the others had been mostly unnerved. This made it even more ideal, as it meant they were unlikely to run into them.

[ EvansLaw ] You remember where it is? [ EvansLaw ] I’ll be leaving shortly.

[ Harriet ] Oh, yes. Their coleslaw was divine.

That place was most certainly a front for shadier practices, but at least the owner was committed to making it an enjoyable dining experience nonetheless. She can respect the effort to maintain the veneer of legitimacy through a grift, even if it’s just a matter of soup du jour and fresh-baked pies.

[ Harriet ] I remember, Wenjie. See you soon.

It’s a fifteen minute ride on her scooter. The weather is brisk, but sunny. The café is in a seedier part of the city, parked neatly between a laundromat and a package store. This area reminds Harriet of her younger years, when Elanor had first kicked her out of the nest and she was scrambling to catch up with the world, washing plastic forks, lining her windows with socks and cellophane during the winter, counting pennies from couch cushions. Money is nothing, until it is everything.

She parks her scooter out front and locks it on the bike rack. Bright red and fashionably mod, it should be indication enough for Wenjie that she’ll already be inside.

The waitress gives her a table for two by the window, where a wilted plant spills across the sill. Poor thing’s being used as an ashtray. She has half a mind to take it home with her and repot it in new soil. Everything deserves a rebirth.

  Calling out in a chaotic cadence only one could comprehend? Humming in a hymn only Harriet could hear? These colors, these brushstrokes. A journey into the expanses of the visual spectrum, started after a night spent before the pulpit. When words were put to the faint, always unreachable but never far visions clinging to her pineal gland. It was…

  Silent. Can’t hear it? Don’t want to hear it? Anticipating the best, but expecting the worst.

    “That’s something else, man.” Anxiety hanging on the wall, all high notes with the low ones just missing. It was incomplete, torn apart not externally, but internally. Oh. “I was on fire.” Some of the strokes were jagged. Heavy, even. “But I was… I was trying to find an extinguisher. I think I would’ve turned to ash if I hadn’t.”

  Someone passes by with a tray. Dabokva Mule in hand, she lets the tension in her spine well up and escape in a full body shiver. “Maybe I did turn to ash, and I just don’t know it yet…?”

What are you thinking, Seeress? 

Harriet wants, very much, to be able to crack inside Miss Zborowska’s curious little head, to divine her thoughts like the meat of a walnut - not entirely unlike the way Dr. Evans had to Fia’s paramour, though preferably without carving out any brilliance. It should be kept intact, encouraged to flourish.

Will Blackreef inspire her? Or will the impermanence drive her mad? Fresh paint will never dry in a timeloop.

Delicately, Harriet places a gloved hand on Fia’s arm. The height difference between them is too great for her to tenderly rest it on her cheek, as she’d like to.

(It’s the most physical contact she’ll allow herself.)

and by that point the novelty of doting on this easily manipulated orphan has worn off, and she has to contend with this petulant adult asking too many questions. now elanor's hosting dinner parties in the morse estatement, and oh harriet you're still here? you can take care of yourself, now, can't you? maybe get a job? tell you what, i'll let you stay in the attic for free if you clean up around the house, just until you can get on your feet.

also im envisioning a point where they did the weird matching outfits thing.

HARRIET IS SMALL, BUT TAKES UP ALL THE FOCUS OF A ROOM. Maybe it’s the gleam cut off the edge of eyes that see too deep or the ease with which her smile creases her lips. Maybe it’s the uncanny feeling worming its way into his gut that tells him to stay on his guard.

Still, he’d said he’d see this through. That begins with meeting Egor’s weird little club members.

Colt also offers up a grin once he steps into the room. Not as warm or practiced; half-strained, even, at its edges in his beard. Army training never prepared him for this. “Harriet. Right. Yeah, Egor said you’d, uh, definitely be interested in a conversation or two.” Had mentioned an accident, had elaborated about how she’d found meaning in some kind spiritualism. So he’s expecting either a complete wackjob or a conman. Maybe both. Maybe neither…? 

Whatever the case, he takes her hand in a firm shake. His gloves on her gloves.

“…Everything?” He chuckles weakly. Looks around and wonders if he should sit. There’s still a tension between his shoulder blades that doesn’t want him to. “Well, where should I start? I’m sure you were probably informed about… most of it. Don’t know what else I can tell you that hasn’t been talked about already.”

Colt is a large man, towering well over a foot above Harriet. But he doesn’t carry it the way some men do. He drags it behind him like a burden, folds himself in half to accommodate the rest of the room. It is as if his very existence imposes. 

It’s not the desperate, pathetic kind of insecurity that Egor has. She’s not sure if she would even identify it as insecurity at all. Perhaps, more... hyper-awareness. Like all of his surroundings are brighter and louder to him than everyone else.

(The screech of metal, the blinding white-hot threat of death.)

Perhaps she recognizes this so acutely because she knows it in herself. But where Colt is trying to position himself as far from the window of introspection as possible, Harriet seeks to fully bathe herself in its light.