Tainted by Malady

A glimpse of delight pulls the hard lines from Bartholomew's expression, and he allows himself the briefest sigh of relief.

"Ah, I almost thought you would've denounced me for being this way. But we're like two clams at high tide," he says, edged with a chuckle. Those worries slowly dissipate like fog curling away from the warmth of a morning sun. Bart bridges what distance is left between them, until they are face to face once more. Finally, he gives her a familiar smirk. "Then, sea star, please allow this pirate to continue being selfish —"

Chaldea isn't going to like this, cutting off the current contract without prior agreement or administration. Yet another betrayal under his belt.  Still, Bartholomew grasps the binds within his spirit; one twist, one nod of agreement from his question, and he'll snap it clean.

Well, the least he'll do is let the kid know; they probably expected it by now.  

‘ Bart….a-are you asking me to… ’

No, it can’t possibly be that, and the barely recovered whisper of her voice fizzles out again. Her thoughts turn feverish, frantically searching for some other meaning his words could have. Contract—right, he mentioned that word before. What was it? The memories sluggishly return, but no matter how she looks at it, she can make no sense of it all.

‘ Ummm, I-I mean… ’ She clears her throat and swallows hard, the gesture hopefully drowning her embarrassment. ‘ You…You told me you have a contract with this Chaldea place…It’s what gives you this body…right? So how could we… ’

In her fumbling, she finally finds a thread to pull, something to dive into and technicalities to focus on. With any luck, it’ll distract Bart enough to take no notice of Highmore’s original interpretation of his words.

‘ Can you have more than one contract? How does it all work?—Wait… ’ In the end, not even this approach can free her from the impact of those various implications, the multitude of meanings they could have. ‘ D-doesn’t this mean you ‘belong’ to Chaldea…? ’

Bartholomew settles for watching the arch of her scythe, eyes the bubbles that form and pop, ironically ephemeral, and releases a stiff sigh. Were it anyone else, this gravitas would have rushed along as quickly as a bubble pops with charm and near truths. Out of his element, he feels more forlorn than he would like.

Yet his glaring expression softens considerably upon hearing Highmore's voice, Bart instantly attentive and lifting his head to meet her eyes — only to frown for a different reason. Ah, yes — betrayal.

Bart spends a few seconds of furious wondering if denial will serve any purpose here.

"Well, you haven't given me a reason to. Nor do you need to worry, because . . . " He catches himself falling into habit, and Bartholomew drops the rest of the sentence like a stone. "Sea star — Highmore. Now that you know . . . I need to hear your thoughts," he tries again, stepping carefully in her direction.

‘ How I feel… ’ she echoes Bart’s request, frown deepening, and Highmore’s grip on her weapon tightens. After a moment’s contemplation, she shakes her head. ‘ I don’t have the words, and you lack the experiences to fully take my meaning. But I’ll summarise my thoughts the best I can. ’

Shifting her weight, her scythe now serves as a pole to lean against, the barest minimum of support, lacking anything else.

‘ From my perspective, we are opposites, and also the same. I won’t claim to enjoy your methods, but I understand. You take things you want by any means. The root of your actions lies in selfishness. ’ She takes a deep breath before continuing.

‘ When I was younger, I thought I had nothing left to lose—yet I lost…much more. I don’t want to lose anything else. I know my motivation is no less selfish than yours, and my methods… ’ She lifts the scythe a few inches, eyeing its blade with practised indifference. ‘ …no less fatal. So if you believed telling me these things would change my mind—it does not. ’

Highmore finally raises her eyes to meet his once more, but her gaze is sharp, narrowed by the weight of feelings left unexpressed.

Nothing like him, of course. Waste of resources, waste of time. He knew they were watching as he stalked the trail of this Rhode Island operator in the drizzle and misery of this marshy hell. He knew he was being offered up for something like her to chew him up and spit him out in pieces, scribbling their little notes, yearning for just what it might take to get their hands on something so valuable.

Becoming an operator for Rhodes Island came with its own set of complications, after all. Not everyone at camp was suitable for combat, not to mention the civilians the medics were treating. If there was a threat pursuing Highmore in particular, it was only logical to lead it far away from the others, towards battlegrounds more suitable for her purposes.

This guy had happily followed her, and so Highmore had accomplished her first goal. But if the Doctor were here, merely removing the dangerous element wouldn’t be an option. Considering the report she’d undoubtedly have to write up later, she required more information. And from what little her opponent declared, it was already obvious that he was a mere pawn. Then, who was pulling the strings?

Highmore slowly turned to face the stranger, soundlessly sinking her scythe into the water, wetting the blade in preparation of a seemingly inevitable battle. Her diplomatic skills certainly wouldn’t be up to preventing it, but she supposed she at least had to try. It would look better on the report.

So, instead, that hand raises to rake through the dark curls of his hair, pulling them back in its wake—and along with it: mirth. The pirate lets out a heavy sigh, rueful and weary, letting its weight fill the air before flashing Highmore a look that lacks all the warmth prior.

He wears a sharply proud expression, lips curving into a mocking twist fit for dastardly villains of many tales told. Except, this time, it is no fanciful story.

"I am a pirate—a scoundrel who pillages and kills as he pleases on the high seas," Bart says, the words cool and to the point. "Not for fame or money, although either is welcomed. I am a pirate because I want to be, Highmore. We've made our choices—the difference lies in our regrets afterward, and I have none." Except for death.

Having said that piece, his demeanor begins to fray when a profound sense of worry hurriedly catches on, forcibly drawing his brow together. There's more left to say, but he would rather go back to coveting—silently praying this satiates Highmore's questions, no matter the consequence.

Yes, it’s not matters. Does Bart think his admissions would appal her? If so, he still thinks too highly of Highmore. Certainly, there are many things that require further clarification, to uncover the precise nature of his morals—or lack thereof—and motivations. Truly, though, there’s little need. Humans are selfish beings after all. Some more, some less, but their nature remains all the same.

And he’ll know, he’ll finally see exactly what kind of person Highmore is if she asks the one question that matters to her. Though the thought of a murder spree on the high seas doesn’t exactly elate her, she can’t claim to feel all that dismayed either. After all, those people have nothing to do with her. And besides…at least Bart didn’t mention slaying his own kin.

Sighing, Highmore rests her weapon’s blade on the ground, and the last remaining bubbles burst with the tiniest pop.

...but she's also really worried about her friend! So she does pull herself away, however reluctantly, and takes back to the streets of Laterano, dripping the whole way. Perhaps this earns her favor with the populace, for having joined in with the event, but it lends no benefit when she comes to a sliding stop before the gloomy girl.

"Highmore! Oh my gosh, Haiiiimoooo I'm so sorry I ditched you there!" No, it does not occur to Malkuth that it was Highmore that left, only that she should have been quicker to come along. "But don't worry! I avenged myself! And you! I hit this one guy in the face so hard the pan warped around his head! He deserved it! Haha... ha..."

Malkuth takes a seat next to the other on the bench. Her casual attire mired with pie fragments to say nothing of the bits in her tail and hair.

Malkuth, however, fits right in. And when the Kuranta shows up to give her report, Highmore listens intently, quietly fighting off the urge to distance herself from her friend’s pie-smeared clothing almost touching hers. If it did, though, would the Sankta mind if Highmore jumped into one of the fancy fountains to rid herself of the stains?—Ah, that’s probably not what she should wonder about right now.

‘ Malkuth… ’ she begins, momentarily unsure how to proceed. But there’s a misunderstanding here that needs clearing up, and even if admitting so might have detrimental effects, it is the right thing to do. ‘ I’m the one who ditched you. I’m…sorry. I should’ve stayed to cheer you on at least…But I’m glad you had fun. ’

Highmore found entertainment in staring at the sparse clouds floating by overhead in the meantime, but that’s a little too embarrassing to report, so she falls back into an awkward silence. Malkuth is right though. What were they supposed to do before all this…?

Despair, once established, can be difficult to uproot. Bartholomew knows this and will always be ill-equipped to trench through Highmore's melancholy until she begins with herself. Still, he tries to bargain with the chips in his hands.

"Alright, then, let me correct myself,"   he says, clambering to shore toward his generous pile of clothing.  "Foolish? Perhaps. But, in shared folly, we pirates are nothing but grand fools. I could never criticize you for that, love." 

In hindsight, if Highmore were not one bit foolish, she would not have chosen to stay in his company for so long. Ah—a fact that may soon go belly-up.

"As for a failure?"  He pushes onward, gesturing animatedly.  "Well, had you not failed to become what and who you are, we would not be talking here. Now, isn't that a tragic thought?"   Bartholomew abruptly shifts into spirit form and disappears along with his garments. When he reappears, it is at her side, fully clothed and dry, stroking the fringe of her hair.

‘ I see. I don’t know whether to feel relieved or worried now, ’ Highmore finally says, opting for the truth, as always. Though she attempts to speak clearly, there’s a subtle tremble in her voice she can’t banish in entirety. ‘ I’ve…betrayed humankind and you don’t even ask me why… ’

If only not believing his words were the problem, but it’s far from so. And to be honest, Highmore can’t fault him for his claims. They are, after all, only variations of the things Bart has always said. No more, no less. Most likely, he still doesn’t fully understand what it truly means to become Seaborn either. He’s not from Terra, let alone Iberia. Of course, he wouldn’t understand.

No, Highmore is the one who continues clinging to all too fragile things. She’s the one who chases phantasms. Though this entire conversation started as an attempt to correct this, so far, she’s done a poor job of it, with no improvement in sight.