Time passes altogether too slowly, oozing past at a crawl. The room's corner becomes a sanctuary, arms domed over their head, fisted into their hair in a protective shell. As if that might shut the words out. As if that might make any of them less true. It drags on in a continuous drone of facts and words they already knew, that everything, everyone, would have been better off if they'd just - if they'd never done what they did. If they hadn't come here at all. If they'd just stayed in the ground, dead.
It never said the latter, of course. But they've always been good at reading between the lines.
When the doors hush open and shut again, the tension quivering in their lungs, clamped in iron around their fingers, their wrists, their legs, wavers and relaxes in a slow, painful release.
Why didn't they FIGHT? Why couldn't they have snarled, spit, fought back cruelly, tooth and nail, with every word, subluxated the intermediary and everything it represented by spitting back its own laws into its face? The heat in their cheeks, the unrelenting burn of its gaze had been - impossible to ignore, to speak out against, in the moment. But now...?
Too soon, it returns. Far too soon. Stand up, straighten up. Try and smile, but it falters. Fades. Knowing it is too cheap a tactic. Too overcome with shame, with how small and unnecessary they are, every inch of them, for what they've done, for the same mistake they've made, time and time again. Bereft of dignity, and everything else.
The intermediary smiles.
It smiles.
Something in the pit of them drops to their toes.
"My apologies," it says pleasantly. "There's been a horrible error. You see, LCDR Jane Shepard has already confessed to orchestrating the crime. How terrible of her to risk consigning someone else to such a fate."
Shepard -
Shepard.
Their mouth opens to profess an argument, to say something, anything. These are their consequences, theirs. She's not - this is nothing to do with her. She shouldn't be placing herself in their crosshairs like this, as if that might alleviate them of anything. It was true, every word of it, every ounce of it.
She's taking their fall.
She's taking their fall.
These are their consequences, and she's -
"It truly is for the best, that we'll be taking her in," the intermediary continues. "It's best that she not continue to be such a toxic influence on someone so young and impressionable. It's just terrible, really, how people like that can agitate others into harm's way for no reason at all."
A quintet of crescent-shaped marks burn into the skin of their own forearm as they grip it, tighter, tighter, straining to muster the words necessary to speak out, to refute this - this whatever it is, Shepard prostrating herself for their sake, taking responsibility for their crimes, their consequences! This is their burden to bear, theirs, theirs.
"It's not - "
"In any case," the intermediary says, smoothly overriding them as it steps aside, "you are free to go. Your clearance levels will be adjusted accordingly. No solo Ingress use will be permitted for the time being; we wouldn't want you to be influenced by anyone else of Jane Shepard's - persuasion."
Be quiet, Chara. Shut up, Chara. What do you really know anyway, Chara? Let the adults handle this. Let the adults do what they're best at, and take everything over.
To bail you out.
To clean up your mess.
To take the burden of your errors.
"Ah. I'd forgotten." The intermediary turns, still smiling, and deposits something upon the table with a quiet click. "We had this scanned and examined, of course, in case Jane Shepard was making any further attempts on your delicate ideology. She insisted it was quite harmless. As it has passed our routine inspections, we have returned it, as permitted. Your other belongings are being held in the nearest terminal outside."
It waits. Doubtless for them to make their exit.
But first, they have to retrieve it. The small, gold disc, gleaming on the table, emblazoned with a plus sign on one side, and a minus on the other.
The coin she offered them.
Wordless, head bowed, Chara retrieves it, the weight cold and heavy in the palm of their hand.
no subject
It never said the latter, of course. But they've always been good at reading between the lines.
When the doors hush open and shut again, the tension quivering in their lungs, clamped in iron around their fingers, their wrists, their legs, wavers and relaxes in a slow, painful release.
Why didn't they FIGHT? Why couldn't they have snarled, spit, fought back cruelly, tooth and nail, with every word, subluxated the intermediary and everything it represented by spitting back its own laws into its face? The heat in their cheeks, the unrelenting burn of its gaze had been - impossible to ignore, to speak out against, in the moment. But now...?
Too soon, it returns. Far too soon. Stand up, straighten up. Try and smile, but it falters. Fades. Knowing it is too cheap a tactic. Too overcome with shame, with how small and unnecessary they are, every inch of them, for what they've done, for the same mistake they've made, time and time again. Bereft of dignity, and everything else.
The intermediary smiles.
It smiles.
Something in the pit of them drops to their toes.
"My apologies," it says pleasantly. "There's been a horrible error. You see, LCDR Jane Shepard has already confessed to orchestrating the crime. How terrible of her to risk consigning someone else to such a fate."
Shepard -
Shepard.
Their mouth opens to profess an argument, to say something, anything. These are their consequences, theirs. She's not - this is nothing to do with her. She shouldn't be placing herself in their crosshairs like this, as if that might alleviate them of anything. It was true, every word of it, every ounce of it.
She's taking their fall.
She's taking their fall.
These are their consequences, and she's -
"It truly is for the best, that we'll be taking her in," the intermediary continues. "It's best that she not continue to be such a toxic influence on someone so young and impressionable. It's just terrible, really, how people like that can agitate others into harm's way for no reason at all."
A quintet of crescent-shaped marks burn into the skin of their own forearm as they grip it, tighter, tighter, straining to muster the words necessary to speak out, to refute this - this whatever it is, Shepard prostrating herself for their sake, taking responsibility for their crimes, their consequences! This is their burden to bear, theirs, theirs.
"It's not - "
"In any case," the intermediary says, smoothly overriding them as it steps aside, "you are free to go. Your clearance levels will be adjusted accordingly. No solo Ingress use will be permitted for the time being; we wouldn't want you to be influenced by anyone else of Jane Shepard's - persuasion."
Be quiet, Chara. Shut up, Chara. What do you really know anyway, Chara? Let the adults handle this. Let the adults do what they're best at, and take everything over.
To bail you out.
To clean up your mess.
To take the burden of your errors.
"Ah. I'd forgotten." The intermediary turns, still smiling, and deposits something upon the table with a quiet click. "We had this scanned and examined, of course, in case Jane Shepard was making any further attempts on your delicate ideology. She insisted it was quite harmless. As it has passed our routine inspections, we have returned it, as permitted. Your other belongings are being held in the nearest terminal outside."
It waits. Doubtless for them to make their exit.
But first, they have to retrieve it. The small, gold disc, gleaming on the table, emblazoned with a plus sign on one side, and a minus on the other.
The coin she offered them.
Wordless, head bowed, Chara retrieves it, the weight cold and heavy in the palm of their hand.
And they exit the room.