à l'aube.

I  had  hoped  to  start  a  medical  practice  and  settle  into  a  nice,  steady  existence.

the  life  I  found  was  anything  but  nice  and  steady.

my  friend,  my  partner,  my  burden  ...

hhmm,  good  cigar.  who  do  you  work  for?

perfect  timing.

nice  hat.

is  that  your  blood  or  theirs?

knew  I'd  forgotten  something.  thought  I'd  left  the  stove  on.

what  a  shame.  that  wou've  been  fun.

you  should've  waited  for  my  help.

I  can't  imagine  why  they  thought  you'd  need  any  assistance.

what  will  I  do  when  you  leave?

I  smell  burning.

it  needs  work.  may  I  see?

i  can't  but  agree.  my  mind  rebels  at  stagnation.

give  me  problems,  give  me  work.  the  sooner  the  better.

there's  nothing  of  interest  to  me  out  there,  on  earth,  at  all.

have  you  proposed  yet?

it  really  is  a  thrill  to  meet  you.

the  little  details  are  by  far  the  most  important.

you  have  the  grand  gift  of  silence,  name.  it  makes  you  quite  invaluable  as  a  companion.

i'm  sure  I  can  find  my  own  way  from  here,  if  you  have  other  duties  to  attend  to.

so  now  you're  curious  as  to  whether  there's  a  larger  game  afoot,  and  that's  why  you're  really  here.

i  thought  i  might  keep  him  company.

allow  me  to  enlighten  you.

your  mistake  is  to  imagine  that  anything  earthly  has  led  to  this  moment.

your  error  in  judgement  is  to  assume  I've  been  holding  the  brush  at  all  --  I  am  merely  the  channel.

my  only  wish  is  that  i'd  caught  you  earlier.

those  lives  were  necessity,  a  sacrifive.

you  must  widen  your  gaze.  i'm  concenred  you  underestimate  the  gravity  of  coming  events.

you  and  i  are  bound  on  a  journey  that  will  twist  the  very  fabric  of  nature.

I  sense  fragility  beneath  your  mask  of  logic,  and  it  worries  me/

steel  your  mind,  name,  i  need  you.

I  must  say,  you've  come  a  long  way  down  from  the  place/title.

but  i  will  rise  again.

pay  attention!  three  more  will  die,  and  there  is  nothing  you  can  do  to  save  them.

you  must  accept  that  this  is  beyond  your  control,  or  by  the  time  you  realize  it  was  you  that  made  it  all  possible  it  will  be  the  last  sane  thought  in  your  head.

death  is  only  the  beginning.

i  prefer  to  travel  in  the  winter.

i  thought  we'd  have  a  little  tea  party  to  cheer  us  up.

he  has  a  palace  full  of  them.

let's  not  dwell  on  the  past.

by  the  looks  of  things  you're  between  cases  at  the  moment.

why  are  you  so  suspicious?

look  at  you,  i  can't  believe  you  ran  after  her  like  a  schoolboy  again.

allow  me  to  explain.

don't  you  remember  what  she  did  to  you?  she  turned  you  inside  out,  she  made  a  proper  idiot  of  you.

you've  had  your  fun.

these  are  lovely,  thank  you.

it's  nothing  to  do  with  me,  but  leave  this  case.

well,  i  may  not  have  a  choice.  a  man  has  to  make  a  living.

you  know  what,  I've  had  just  about  enough  --

i'll  leave  this  one  in  your  capable  hands.

it  is  not  my  reputation  at  stake  here.

" i think that's a lovely plan, " she agrees after some time spent in thought, properly mulling over gustave's dream with the amount of consideration that it's due. it's a rare beast, dreaming — with it's familiar face and jagged teeth.

he lets himself revel in the warmth that blooms in his chest, as though someone had taken a couple of logs from the campfire and stuck them within him to burn slowly but surely. Fatherhood is an idea now well out of reach, but he knows he has something similar with Maelle: he's a father - brother figure, a hybrid of a caretaker that truly fits neither role entirely, and all he wishes is to see the day when his daughter - sister grows into an even finer woman. He chances a look over his shoulder at the slumbering Maelle. Would she still feel alright back home, or would she take him up on the possibility of traveling the continent? It's too early to say.

" what are you thinking about ? you seem a million miles away. "

WHO AM I, LOUIS ? AM I MY HISTORY I HAVE ENDURED ? AM I THE JOB, I DID NOT WANT ? I DO NOT KNOW ANYMORE .. NO ONE HAS PAINTED ME IN OVER 400 YEARS.

“ you are right, mon ami. i wasn’t sure if anyone would recognize me at this point, ” she grins, admiring the many flowers within the hanging gardens.

“ for many years, i performed for the lumiére opera house. not anymore, considering … ” she trails off, referring to their impending doom of the gommage, as there weren’t nearly as people to watch theatre anymore. soline did appreciate the fact there were still people that appreciated musicality even as the world came crashing down on them. petals whiz past them as the breeze goes by, it’s at least a nice day. one of the last few, she supposes.

“ I'm sorry, a certain feel? ” he echoes, tapping the end of his fountain pen on his notebook in a hardly subtle display of nervousness. “ I have to say, I'm curious about what you think that feel is, but but no, I don't. I mean I can sing but I don't do it, I just never thought of making a career out of it. Engineering was far more in the cards for me than any artistic pursuits. ”

THE TOPOGRAPHY OF HER PSYCHE is a never-ending marsh, the terrain too murky to be mapped, let alone traversed. her head swims, fighting a losing battle against her sluggish cognizance, as it turns every thought into a slurry. ❝ it feels… ❞ the barest of pauses. lips part again as if to speak, but the words die on her tongue, extinguished. how does one even begin to explain this? he means well, she knows that. they all do, in their own ways. while she appreciates gustave’s gentle optimism, the careful encouragements meant to bolster her resolve, she can’t help but find them to be a waste of breath, better saved for someone else. someone who could benefit from them. not her. no, SHE IS A LOST CAUSE, has been so since the moment the flying manor became her prison. perhaps before that, too. maybe she’s always been one. ❝ …surreal. ❞ the answer pulls free with some reluctance, knowingly insufficient in describing the enormity of her experience.

clea can’t admit that how she really feels, is utterly disembodied. AN INHERITED LIFE IN TATTERS, cut haphazardly with a pair of rusted shears. little more than a passenger existing on borrowed time. a mere spectator, watching as she attempts in vain to hide the shakiness of her hands, knuckles blanched a sickly ashen colour. she can’t tell gustave that she longs for oblivion, not when he and the rest of the expedition so clearly want to live. but there is nothing left here for her. not anymore. the only family she’s ever known is gone, as is the man she’d once thought would be her happy ending, if such things could even be afforded to their ilk. and verso… verso is still as adept at wearing his masks as she remembers, but he’s hardly present himself. it’s possible that the only reason she sees through his façade, that faraway, glazed look, is because she recognises it in herself, a twisted mirror image. it’d be cruel, then, to burden another with the unbridled despair that rises up in her windpipe. as though this world isn’t merciless enough already.

he wonders, maybe somewhat morbidly ... if Clea wishes she'd been allowed to rest instead of having the damage done by her actual self undone. [ He tries not to think about how it feels to be born from someone else's imagination, and he certainly tries not to think about Maelle. That conscious effort hurts him more than anything. ] Gustave accepts Clea's listless smile and offers a faint one of his own. She wishes to take her thoughts somewhere else? He won't be the one to stop her.

and gustave knows more than he does, talking it out without bribing a coin out of him for every spec and detail. he listens carefully, eyes attentive and brows boyishly furrowed. ❛  i want them, ❜  he said quietly, mind made up given gustave’s recall; if the optics were out of production stateside, then there was a chance netrunner’s in night city may flinch at the unexpected copyright. that was all he really needed: a second’s hesitation could turn the tide in a knife fight. ❛  done. i’ll get your scratch. ❜ 

slowly, he presses two fingers to the casing, and after a beat, slides them further up gustave’s desk, handing them over. arms crossed, he debates saying more. his mouth even parts to speak, before it all clams shut and tight. turning about, his voice murmurs out before he’s gone. ❛  tschüss. ❜ 

work alongside his Parisian contacts is a clipped but remarkably fast endeavor, and he's happy to be calling Kenneth two days earlier than his offered deadline but he receives no answer. It's hardly a surprise, especially in this particular line of work. He leaves a text, too, just in case. The worry begins to creep in when the fourth day since he called and texted rolls by without a word.

he's sipping on a cup of Matapang when the motion sensors at his door trigger a holo - call, and a pop - up from the monitor shows Gustave what, or rather who, he's been waiting on for almost two weeks: Kenneth. It takes Gustave a second to actually do as the merc commands, if only because there's no fucking way Ken is simply walking in, taking the repaired cyberdeck, and walking out without some sort of medical attention. The delay is a trap that Gustave can only hope works.