hypocritical oath

❝'Cause I'm not trapped with you, you see. You're the one whose trapped with me. My head's not yours its mine, and I'll take my fucking time. 'Cause I know, I know....❞ 

#BRAINBURROW, AS PRAISED BY JACKALOPE. A FANTASY FOCUSED MULTIMUSED WITH PRIMARILY BG3, ELDER SCROLLS, AND DND LORE. FEATURING TWO INTERCONNECTED OCS, ALSO CONTAINING OMELUUM FROM BG3 AND GIDEOS FROM INFERNAL TIDES

          TO  SOME;  HE  WAS  A  NIGHTMARE  GIVEN  FLESH.  But  to  the  Lord  of  Dreams,  he  is  only  Corin  Reveck;  yet  another  gifted  mind,  plagued  with  an  insatiable  desire  for  knowledge.  Dissatisfied,  even  in  the  face  of  success.  It  is  not  his  place  to  interfere  on  behalf  of  those  he  torments.  Even  if  he  himself  find  this  pursuit  of  his  to  be  as  distasteful,  as  it  is  curious.  Corin  is  an  alchemist  who  holds  the  key  to  longevity  in  his  hands,  an  escape  from  his  own  beloved  sister death.  But  the  doctor  remains  unable  to  save  that  which  he  adores  most.  Now  Corin  is  no  Roderick  Burgess  ,  he  has  not  turned  to  profane  arts-  to  taboo.  But  wonders...  if  given  time,  would  he  too  try  to  capture  death  and  demand  she  spare  his  daughter?

Dream  watches  in  the  shadowed  corner  of  this  small  room;  a  perfect  rendition  of  his  lab  in  the  waking  world.  It  comes  as  no  surprise  to  him,  that  even  in  the  rare  moments  of  sleep  he  allows  himself-  he  would  spend  it  here.  Studying,  remembering,  going  back  through  notes  he  has  put  to  memory.  Corin  is  trying  to  perfect  his  craft,  before  subjecting  his  child  to  it.  He  understands  that,  understands  too  how suffocating the  love  for  one's  child can be.  He  does.  Or... he  believes  he  does.

"  Why?  "  his  cold  tone  sounds  from  his  hiding  spot.  Form  merging  to  solid shape  from  the  dark.  This  'Singed'  startles,  but  only  barely.  "  Why  would  you  hope  for  your  own  daughter  to  endure...  this,  "  gesturing  to  a  glowing  vat,  a  tank  with  a  suspended  body  illuminated  within.  This  is...  perhaps  more  within  the  ream  of  understanding  for  his  younger  siblings,  the  twins  (  desire  &  despair  ).  But  still  he  wonders;  wonders  how  he  might  feel  if  he  had  to  endure  the  same  guilt  he  has.  If  he  will  be  able  to  face  his  daughter  when  she  asks  for  the  peaceful  quiet  of  death.

     His body may be slumped against the chair next to his daughter's encased bed, having finally succumbed to the inexorable demand for rest, but his mind continues to toil away as it always has; once the doctor has succeeded in curing death, perhaps his next endeavor will be to rid himself of the need for sleep in its entirety. The fruits of his brief but productive reunion with Viktor are still fresh in his memory, the polyhedron his former understudy had dubbed the Hexcore carved into every available surface of his 'dream' lab as he attempts to decipher its properties from the notes he'd studied.

     A voice the doctor does not recognize startles him out of his ruminative state, and he turns his head towards its source to find a figure he, again, does not recognize: a tall, thin man with bone-white skin and black, tousled hair. Instinctively, he knows this man isn't a man at all, but something more; he has witnessed beings beyond this realm of reality before, though this one is... new.

     Why, the stranger asks. Is there a hint of disgust in the question? The doctor's gaze follows the other's motion towards the stasis chamber. For some reason, he is unable to recall what currently occupies it, only that it is serving its purpose in progressing his goal — just as every occupant before it has and every occupant after it will.

"She won't," he says almost too quickly, and it's as much of an assurance to the stranger as it is to himself. The doctor suddenly feels the locket containing her picture in his palm, and he holds it close to his chest as if to protect it — protect her.

     Then, little more than a whisper: "She has endured enough."

     There is resolution in his voice, but something else Dream may recognize: guilt.

"Whatever pain and violence are necessary for the grand catalyst of change," the doctor continues, the empathetic traits he displayed mere seconds ago melting away to reveal something more insidious underneath, "others will endure for her."

THE MUTATION HAS SURVIVED — FOR NOW.

The animal's approach is unwarranted, unexpected, and currently entirely unwanted. He will come to appreciate Rio later.

For now, Silco accepts the water greedily, receiving it as if he were an infant.

He drinks like it's his first glass, the only one he's ever had, and attempts to even grab it from the doctor. Silco finds himself too weak to hold on to anything other than the man's bony wrist with a limp grip.

❝ Boundary Markets, ❞ he murmurs. ❝ I've been there before. Stolen from there. ❞

The doctor is right, of course. His throat hurts despite its recent lubrication, and his system feels shocked, as if even his bones are unrecognizable to him. He is half-blind (for now). Silco's ragged breathing, his ribcage struggling as it restrains his rattling lungs, and his heavy limbs all account for one thing.

Without much other choice, he settles back and stares at the ceiling.

How are you feeling?

❝ Alive, ❞ he concludes. ❝ I lived. ❞ But at what cost? ❝ How long has it been? Since you found me ... ? ❞

And he wants to ask where he is, what Rio is, and who the hell are you?

But that will come later. One at a time.

     The doctor silently observes Silco as he ravenously gulps down the water offered to him, arching a brow when he displays enough strength to not only lift his arm, but also wrap his fingers around the doctor's wrist despite the immense fatigue he must be feeling right now. The subject continues to astound. Is it due to the serum, or is it simply human resilience? Can such a thing be quantified?

"You may pretend the dishes were pilfered rather than purchased if that helps to bolster your appetite," he dryly replies, setting the now empty glass down on the nearby counter. 'Alive' is a more ambiguous response than he expected, but it's a start.

"Nearly a month," the doctor answers, momentarily turning his attention towards Rio as she nudged her snout against his hand. He takes something out of his pocket and gives it to her, which the waverider appears to eat. "You were asleep for most of it."

     Yet awake for more than the doctor could have anticipated.

     He gives the animal a few strokes on top of her broad head and then sends her away, looking back at Silco. The doctor's reconnaissance during that time had proven fruitful; the name 'Vander' was already vaguely familiar to him, and following it had led him to a bar in the upper levels of the Lanes district called The Last Drop.

     And its drunken patrons love to gossip: protest, bridge, Enforcers, riot, death, Silco.

"I trust there will be no more swimming in the channels going forward, hm?"

Though he lacked the muscular build of a stereotypical miner, Silco found the adrenaline to drag his injured comrade the remaining stretch of the journey. At the end of the alley, glistening with an unrelenting thunderstorm, slimy with mold and runoff, darkened by shadows lingering under arches of dilapidated buildings -- It was rumored there was a clinic. An establishment that took in men and women off the streets. No questions, pennies for treatment, truly a deal that sounded too good to be true.

Silco figured that might well be the case, but Razor here --with his bowels just barely contained inside the confines of his abdomen-- wasn't exactly in a position to be picky about the credentials of his medical provider.

With a final grunt of effort, Silco heaved the man the remaining stretch to the clinic's stoop. It was slippery under the streaked stone underfoot, Silco nearly lost his balance while catching his breath. They'd staggered most of the way together, with Razor still vertical, hanging off Silco and bleeding all over his last good jacket. Razor's brother, Mugg, had ran in the opposite direction as soon as the enforcers had charged them. It was unclear which one among them the bullet had actually been meant for, and yet Silco maintained his suspicions.

It was why even as the wounded's own flesh and blood had fled, shouting to leave him behind, that he was done for, Silco had pushed on stubbornly. Managing to ditch the enforcers by relying on their estrangement with the Under City, and helping Razor hobble down this peculiar little, cobblestone nook.

'm sorry, Silco. He'd moaned. You're better than I gave you credit for. 'm sorry, 'm sorry. 'm sorry.

Silco didn't answer, but for a grimace. He strained against the effort of transporting an injured man twice his size to... A doctor.

Momentarily abandoning the now mostly unconscious Razor, Silco stood up and pounded with an urgency against the sodden planks of a wooden door.

This, he considered, as the pelting rain flattened his wild hair against his face, would be an opportunity to find out first hand who was behind this shady medical operation. And if Razor didn't make it through the experience, well... he should have thought of that before selling Silco out to their foes.

Plip... plip... plip...

     The torrential downpour leaks through an unseen crack in the building's parapet, dribbling down into a bucket as if to remind the doctor of yet another expense to add to his ledger. He sits in front of a gurney — now a makeshift desk — and counts out coins, jewelry, and anything else of potential value that can be used to purchase or trade for what he needs. The last subject he'd acquired had only a half-empty coin purse to their name, barely enough to cover a single shipment of lidocaine...

     He ignores the sudden barrage of knocks at the door, thoroughly uninterested in dealing with what will undoubtedly be another disappointment today, and continues the arduous task of determining what the clinic can and can't go without. The knocks are persistent, however — as are the accompanying cries of its maker — nearly rivaling the storm in its cacophony. After releasing a long exhale, the doctor hastily stows the valuables into a nearby drawer and stalks towards the entrance.

"I hear you," he calls out, a tinge of annoyance in his voice. The doctor unlocks the door and opens it just enough to get a look at the one responsible for the disturbance: a male who appears to be in his mid-twenties to early-thirties with no visible injuries, who's both conscious and alert, as well as soaking wet. He opens his mouth to tell him the clinic is closed and to go away, but catches a glimpse of a shivering figure that's crumpled onto the stoop just behind the man before he does.

Ah.

"Very well," the doctor says instead to no one in particular, holding the door wide open and stepping off to the side. "Inside. Quickly."

he's not asking for immortality. just a way to buy time. if anyone can do that, it's the doctor. viktor looks at rio again.

she is not in any pain. a noncommittal noise. viktor is overcome by the absurd urge to accuse the doctor of lying. a foolish impulse, and for what purpose would he feign honesty, anyway? to soothe viktor's ever delicate emotions? hardly. he wills himself to shake it off and move on, to imitate the doctor's unflappable demeanor (as he ever has, though he may not realize it).

viktor swears that rio shifts in her tank, but that is impossible. she cannot possibly be conscious enough to recognize him all these years later. he's unable to tear his eyes away, refusing to show his embarrassment. too soft-hearted? perhaps. but if she can see him...he glances at the doctor's desk, stomach twisting with unease.

"...i do see." he doesn't. viktor feels like a little child again. he unintentionally walks near an emotional landmine when he asks, voice slightly strained, "then have you had success with rio and...your quandary?" a quandary he never quite figured out, even as a boy.

yes, viktor admires the doctor even now, despite his discomfort. one's childhood heroes are difficult to lose, especially for a young boy with no father to speak of. viktor does not think the doctor's aspirations have ever pointed to simple money or influencing the drug trade--but admiration does not make him blind to reality, either. the clues pointing to it are all over the lab--and whatever the doctor's hand in the sociopolitical situation in zaun, facts are facts. the deceptively pleasant color of what must be shimmer is unmistakable.

     The doctor makes an airy, hum-like noise at Viktor's pithy quip about the eponymous city above them; perhaps it's the closest sound to laughter he is able to produce, and with that in mind, it's not difficult to imagine the 'laugh' being accompanied by a smile hidden beneath his cowl — assuming, of course, he still has the ability to. "Progress is a 'nice' word," he says, "especially to those who are afraid of the word 'change.' They often forget that one is a motivator for the other."

     He looks at Viktor with an expression so foreign that the other man wouldn't be able to recognize it even if he'd been paying attention to his former mentor: sympathy. "Your frustration is understandable, but you give yourself too little credit. Change will always take time; the greater the change, the greater amount of time required."

    Time — the one thing Viktor does not have nearly enough of. The doctor knows that Viktor did not return with his latest research in hand the way a child excitedly runs up to their parent with a drawing in hopes of being praised for their good work. What Viktor came here hoping for, what he so desperately needs, is results.

     Fortunately for Viktor's conundrum, there is nothing typical about the man he's sought out. It remains to be seen whether or not this is fortunate for Viktor himself.

"Typically speaking, of course," he adds so casually that it's almost an afterthought.

     The doctor's good eye settles back on Rio as he considers the question. Viktor had been a smart child, and the years have molded him into an even smarter man; there is no doubt in the doctor's mind that he has already begun making connections with the iridescent purple fluid he's seeing in the lab to the substance he's likely seen on the streets of Zaun colloquially known as Shimmer.

     What Viktor has not yet seemed to realize is that he is looking at its source.

"The mutation has been invaluable to my own research," he says. There is something that compels him to be honest with Viktor, just as he's always been, but perhaps the doctor need not be forthright; it would only distract from the matter at hand, and the clock is ticking. "And as with any advances made in the pursuit of knowledge, it only begets a desire for more — something you may already be familiar with."

     The doctor lightly runs a finger over a sketch of what appears to be a polyhedron. Fascinating. "And what of your quandary, Viktor?"