etrayalogs | songe, sombre

Clea's Workshop

cw: renoir drinks chicken soup from a can

[There are images one cannot forget. The vision of buildings tearing from their foundations and rising into the stratosphere, seismic quakes and violent tornadoes breaking the world, leaving deep fissures and ruptures in the earth. The people who depend on you learning you are unable to answer their questions and solve their problems. Children you defend learning you are powerless as your broken corpse bleeds upon the ground.

These images are what he sees every time he gathers her paintings. Framed pictures and portraits of a personal nature, sketches and drawings of private affairs. Canvases are heaped against the wall while watercolours are strewn across her worktable. The space is dominated by a statue on a plinth: an unfinished plaster sculpture surrounded by aluminium wire and clay molds. This human representation is both a friend and a stranger, a mother and a daughter, with features both foreign and familiar.

Whether the statue is his work or hers is difficult to tell.

The workspace now claimed as his own is saturated by the overpowering smell of paint and turpentine, mingled with the scent of moist earth. Her friend might notice one wall has been repainted with no signs of colour beneath. Her family might notice she is no longer here.]

Lux’s Garage

cw: sciel commits vehicular manslaughter

[Is this world worth saving? That is the question everyone asks themselves, exploring this wild and lawless land. Renoir asks another question. How can wetlands thrive on the border of a desert, and tropical rainforests in the presence of jagged mountains? He wonders about aesthetics and artistic sentiments - and examines the application of logic.

There is nothing to be gained in worrying about a world he will never revisit. So he leaves at dawn, completes his assignments within days, and returns at dusk. His team departs in different directions, seeking respite or solitude. The impersonal approach to their mission works better than the idea of befriending strangers. He leaves the garage, balancing a chromatic orb of light within his free hand and his cane in the other. Soon his distinct figure is outlined by the headlights of a vehicle.

Other days he remains within the base, sometimes taking stock of supplies, otherwise exploring or working alone. He tours every nook and cranny of the facility and begins taking notes of damaged circuits. One might think him attentive to what has been proved a problem. Others might believe him to be looking to cause a problem. He can be heard rummaging around inside a room in the garage, the small space illuminated beneath and behind the door.]

[Any world is worth a solid try, but it feels unsurprising to Sciel that this one might slip away. The creatures here are transplants themselves, after all, residents of some long-gone people's bottle world, while the rest of their kind live on elsewhere. It makes it tremendously easy to preserve a lot of worlds at once, but it feels like a cold inevitability that this place should end: after all, at some point, their populations will dwindle regardless of any force extinguishing them. Any Lumièrian knows that.

This is what she thinks about when she is driving, in particular with precious cargo in the back. (Not Maelle, precious as she is –– these are specimens.) Six eggs, each the size of a whole ham, are bundled in the back, wrapped in burlap so they don't jostle against each other too terribly. Sciel keeps looking in the rearview mirror to check on them. She still wishes someone had ridden in the back to keep an eye on them, but at least this way, the three of them can take care of each other on the hike back.

She is looking in that rearview mirror when she turns the steering wheel, hand-over-hand, to turn into the garage. She says aloud, cheerily:]

Almost there!

[This is exactly when she realizes she is about to run someone over, and she gasps and slams the breaks. The car lurches to a tight stop, Sciel's knuckles white on the wheel, her eyes wide –– but was she fast enough?]

[Renoir remembers how bustling city streets were before the Fracture. He pictures cars and people fighting for scraps of space, trying to squeeze through the same space at the same time - but cannot remember the detailed shapes of their bodies. He struggles to recall the colour of their lights. He cannot recollect the names of their creators.

(Because the one who created them was not their creator.)

Does he remember the name of the woman driving this vehicle? He recalls meeting her once before, but cannot think of a reason she is important enough to remember, by name or appearance. He cannot consider it good or bad that her vehicle strikes him on his better side. Because he just understands that he cannot die or experience being hurt.

But for a second he can feel it. Then he is collapsing into a heap on the floor.]

[Sciel’s vehicle is now officially a battering ram. Her foot is all the way down on the brake, and as the man is knocked down with a dull thump, she wonders whether she should have stayed on the gas. Augh! Of all people to run down.

She could swear.

She undoes her seat belt and jumps out of the car, rounding it quickly. Her weapon is close at hand, but she doesn’t pull it out of her pictos space, not yet. Her heart is hammering. She approaches anyway.]

Still in one piece?

[Strange is the first word coming to mind in the moment. Surreal comes second. Shock comes third when he hears the scrape of gravel against the leather of his coat. Four seconds later his mind is telling him he is lying on the ground.

Blood is pooling along his face, along the length of his thigh, around his knee and down his arm and across his shoulder. There are no signs of fear and he does not shake in confusion. This moment feels like a dream, trapped within the act of clenching his teeth, while understanding there is nothing to fear.

Low and frustrated groans and growls echo around the garage as he rolls onto his back. His fingers grasp his opposite shoulder.

This is not the first time in his life they have been in this position. But he had accepted that moment would be the last. He could have struggled then but did not. He does not in the present.]

Of course.

[His mind refuses to focus on metaphor, and he knows she knows what he means. There is no need for pretense.]

[She stands over him, assessing the damage. There is some small bit of satisfaction seeing Renoir sprawled out like that. She’s seen him bloodied, of course, but never prone.]

You must be joking.

[But this is a mission, and they’re far from the Continent; she can no sooner ditch another Etrayan bleeding on the floor of a garage than she could throw a drink in his face in San Francisco. There’s no point in explaining it to the others.

She puts a hand out to help him up. Just one. She might need the other.]

I’d be justified in leaving you here, you know.

[Each cannot trust the other. Each cannot believe the other will not resort to violence. There is a momentary flash of something approaching consideration - but in the next moment his fingers are scrambling across the ground, groping for his cane.

Which is just out of reach, of course.]

I would have no reason to complain, I suppose.

[Is it her fault for being distracted or his for not observing the road? That is not the question. Why would each help the other? He has no right to her support and the expedition has no right to his trust after all their fellows have done.]

While you might never be forgiven for never learning how to drive.

[Mask the serious nature of what happened? Well, who has done that before?]

[She takes a few steps to where his cane has rolled away, and she nudges it back towards him with the toe of a muddied boot. He's so smug. He can't accept help, can't give up being smug and dignified even when he's sprawled out and bleeding. Well, if he wants to crawl back to his feet on his own, that's his prerogative. It's odd that it stings, though –– the absurdity of offering help to someone who doesn't at all deserve it and being declined anyway, like she's a fool for being nice. Sciel likes to be nice, even to people who don't deserve it. It's a point of pride.

But to each their own.]

That's a little melodramatic.

[She should feel a little bad about her part in it, but it's hard to summon up. She just stands over him, waiting for him to figure out what he needs to do, where he needs to go. She glances briefly at the vehicle, at what little she can see of the back seat; she hopes the eggs are okay.]

[That familiar cane rolls in his direction, clattering across the asphalt. His fingers close around lacqueted metal, climbing towards the handle.

He rolls onto his side and sees nothing but the tips of her boots. Once he understood people who were nice. He could point to why without questioning their motivations, but did he ever trust them? There was his family and the outside. Two worlds that intersected but never came together.

So he can only take her momentary lack of attention as a good thing.]

Then perhaps you will decline my gratitude as another example of melodrama.

[Fortunately, he is not emotionality blind and willing to deny the fact she chose to offer assistance. Accepting help from outsiders is another matter.]

[Her gaze moves back down to him, an uncomfortable thudding in her chest even though the rest of her is very still.]

Actually... it would say good things about you if you were grateful about something.

[She'd never expect it here –– she did hit the guy with her car –– but she'd never decline it. What would the point in that be? It'd be nice to feel he had more humanity in him, to see him capable of connecting with another person like that. Even the way he talks, it just feels...

Sciel breathes out a sigh, still lingering in case he's in more pieces than he thinks. No way to know until he actually tries to stand, and all.]

[The pain recedes; a brief memory in a life lived more than a lifetime. His blood is matting his hair while disappearing from his face. Some parts are less important to heal - but that scar dividing his face remains as present as ever.

His gravelled voice groans in frustration, an unforgiving tightness squeezing his heart as he supports himself with a struggling arm. It would be easier to ask for assistance to rise to his feet but he cannot ask for assistance from somebody he caused harm.]

I acknowledge you made a difficult choice.

[His gaze looks away at nothing, fingers stroking the damage from his coat. She did stop her vehicle, and did not drive away. To stop her vehicle and not reverse into him in a deliberate show of anger? He might not be grateful in display of gratitude. But keeping his emotional distance is, in his opinion, a sign of respect.]

[She feels mean watching him struggle, but that's the plight of a person who cares about others. She takes a small step back as he gets up, lingering.]

Wasn't that difficult.

[If anything, that'll be the inevitable hi, I spoke with Renoir again. She's promised quite a few times not to, but it's easier said than done, in a place like this.

She folds her arms.]

Can you drive?

In some fashion.

[There are memories of speeding through the streets; of driving and being driven from the manor. He feels no need to boast about the former or latter, and cannot remember the experience in great detail. Seventy years crosses a long time, and this last lifetime has seen him place his efforts into survival.

He flattens his shoulders and looks towards the ceiling.]

Though I have not touched a wheel in decades.

[There has simply been no need, once he found himself capable of what he could do.]

[Her brows raise. Decades, obviously, of course it's decades, but imagine having that much time to blow.]

Well, then you should to keep your opinions on my driving to yourself.

[But he's on his feet, so no one can say she strolled off without making sure he was on them. She turns to head back to the car, to the driver's side door, which she opens with one more glance at him.]

Look both ways in the future, yeah? I've got cargo that doesn't heal.

[Renoir checks his right sleeve, his left and finally the matching sides of his coat. He glances over his shoulder and notices the wool remains intact. She has a point of watching the road and so there is no need to address his mistake. Actions in this case are more important than words.

But who hit who with their car, anyway?

He walks around the driver side, passing by the window close enough she might see thoughts etched into his face. She continues to protect him in this place. First from that man, now from this woman. People whose names he has never come to know.

What point is there? That and more is on his mind as his cane gently strikes the ground.]

[Sciel has become accustomed, in some strange way, to these encounters being less and less of a threat. He could have struck out at her any number of times, and yet he's never pushed back any time she's pushed her luck. She's halfway into her seat and pulling the door closed behind her when he starts moving, her other hand on the wheel.

But the way he comes to the window is an ice-cold hand on the back of her neck, and she freezes in the driver's seat, one hand still on the door to pull it shut behind her. Her eyes swivel to him, wide despite how passive she keeps the rest of her face, and she does not move. What is he coming this close for?

She hears the cane and she shifts her weight on the seat so she can get a foot on the gas pedal, just in case.]

songe, sombre

The Louvre (Clive & Verso)

The Spire (Gustave & Sciel)

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