sixthiterationlogs | uncover our heads and reveal our souls

Entry tags:

uncover our heads and reveal our souls

WHO: Percival Graves
WHERE: The fountain, the inn, town hall, by the houses. Graves is curious and is out and about exploring, feel free to bump into him anywhere.
WHEN: 16 January morning, afternoon, evening
OPEN TO: Open to everyone!
WARNINGS: Nah, none. Will warn if it comes up.
STATUS: Open to new threads!

Fountain;
There is an incredible indignity in drowning, especially when one has been nowhere near any particular body of water prior to this episode. It's the disorientation that wrongfoots a person, skews survival instincts just enough for that damned mouthful of water before it really kicks in. Water down the throat means air is not where one needs it to be, and Graves' nose lungs are burning as he swims towards the surface, desperation powering every stroke before he breaks through it and breathes deep, coughing out the water he'd wrongly swallowed.

He grips the edge of the fountain and hoists himself out of it, soaking wet in a pair of red scrubs that is very distinctly not what he's been wearing before he ends up here, under wholly mysterious circumstances. The surroundings are jarring, rustic and wholly unlike the bustling rush of city that is New York; and he's certain no fountain in the city has inexplicably deceptive depths. Confused, disgruntled, and entirely annoyed by the unfavorable shift in circumstances, Graves runs a hand through his hair to slick it back (he'll look like a drowned rat otherwise), his mind runs through predictable questions. Where is he, how did he get here, who had enough magic to haul him right through without him knowing? He damn well hadn't touched a Portkey, he'd know if it turns out to be something like that, and it cannot have come at a more inconvenient time.

He perches on the edge of the fountain as he shrugs off the pack that's somehow been attached to him. Another unsolvable mystery, but as it turns out -- offensively cheap clothing, a blatant absence of his wand and the rest of his usual clothes, and of course, this day is the day that keeps on giving.

The lack of a wand is bothersome but not incapacitating, and he has half a mind to dry himself off with magic (it'll only take a fraction of a second), but Graves hasn't made it to where he is now by being careless. There are No-Majs here, and more importantly, there are others, the ones who feel different, the likes of which he hadn't experienced before. His senses feel blunted, but he senses them nonetheless, as if through a foggy veil -- which definitely doesn't help. Snagging his pack and getting to his feet, the chilly air more an inconvenience than danger, he poses the ever-important question to the person nearby.

"What is this place?"

inn;
They say clothes make the man, and Graves contemplates mistruth in it -- after all, he might still be in ridiculous scrubs, but it hasn't made him any less imposing, not after he's decided to make the most of it, and bear with the undesirable clothing items he'd been left with. No, things had been worse; Graves is used to worse, he plans to make the best of it, despite the fact that things are far more inconvenient when you can't use magic.

Like drying clothes, for one. Instead of an instantaneous drying spell that could have taken care of his wet clothes in an instant, but no. Of course he has to dry out in front of the fire like every other No-Maj; there are too many pairs of eyes on him, and Graves can never violate their most sacred, highest law, not when he's the one charged with enforcing and upholding them.

The fire is comforting at least, and he asks. "Does everyone come through the fountain?"

closed to credence
Speaking of too many pairs of eyes, however. Graves doesn't look away from the fire, aware of the shadow on his periphery. Graves been here nearly two hours, drying himself off and getting information, and he'd picked up on presence's the abrupt disappearance the first half of the visit -- as if that presence is looking to hightail it somewhere far away, the spike of distress acutely felt not so much through thought but a flicker of power that is both familiar and alien at once.

Interesting.

He straightens up, a hand on the warm brick above the fireplace as he watches the flames surge and dance. When he next speaks, his words are neutral, even, and clearly directed to the observer a distance behind him. "Are you planning to talk, or just watch me all night?"

town hall;
Graves finds himself exploring the area, mapping out the village in his head as much and accurately as he can. You never know when you're going to need it, and it never hurts to be prepared. The town hall is always a place to be when you want to take a measure of the village, of what it's like, and so far it's not very comforting.

Graves is ever-watchful and on the alert for more potential signs his dislike for current circumstances set aside in favor of more pressing concerns. There are no answers to be gleaned or extrapolated, the loss of his wand and the inexplicable diminishing of his magic leaving him unpleasantly vulnerable in a place he doesn't recognise. This is nothing like New York City nor its neighboring outskirts -- if the city had a heartbeat and pulsed with life, then surely this village is barely a shadow of it, bereft of everything Graves had grown accustomed to. Worse, he's dressed to a degree of drabness that he's ultimately unused to; even battlefields did not subject their soldiers to the indignity of unpractical outfits, but he supposes that, too, is a relatively minor concern in the face of bigger problems.

He bumps into someone when he turns to go, and reaches out to steady them if they need it. "Apologies. I wasn't paying attention."

wildcard, hit him up with anything you like!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Credence," He corrects, and he swears he feels a tang of copper in his mouth when he does. He shouldn't be correcting someone like the man who isn't or is Mr. Graves.

It feels like he's walking into a trap. All of this does. But he's here, sitting, waiting, trying to sense the other. He can't--he's not magical, not in that way at least, or if he is he doesn't know how--so he has just his intuition and his gut instincts. Right now, everything the other is saying is telling him to run.

But here he is, hands moving to clasp together tightly. He does it as a mimicry of his mother when teaching lessons to the younger kids. The ones that don't realize, yet, how cruel Mary Lou Barebone is.

"I'm not sure there is a winning side when it comes to war," he says cautiously, but then quickly remembers that even if this is the Mr. Graves he knew, he wouldn't want him expounding wisdom. He'd just want the answer.

"We did."

The correction, quiet but firm, is unexpected. Credence looks like he wants more than anything to fold into himself and disappear.

"Credence." He concedes, and the way he pronounces is name is both familiar and alien all at once. It's not a lover's snare like the other's, but it's spoken with care.

"We didn't. The people on our side just took a longer time to die."

Graves continues simply; the words of a man who has seen war up close and personal, and what he has seen is repulsive and ugly. And that's the whole, entire point. Too many people died from both sides, and his gaze is steady. "I don't know how he discovered you, but I can tell you he's willing to bleed you dry if it means he gets his war."

He gestures to the necklace briefly. He's leaning forward, eyes dark and filled with purpose, a powerful charisma fueled by the pillars of his beliefs, his oath to protect and defend, and the nightmares he does not acknowledge. "This is what your necklace means. Dominion over the No-Majs, and he will pay for it with your life, the lives of wizards and No-Majs alike. Did he tell you what your condition entails, or did he just venerate you as blessed?"

Credence. The way he says it, Credence feels a strange flash of something. Confirmation, maybe. It's not the same way the other had said it--either when he was trying to get him under his thumb or when he had found him useless. It's far more distinct.

He feels a small bit of hope. It's there, a spark, that he's not lying to him. That this is real, that this is the one he doesn't know at all. He doesn't like the feeling of constantly weighing the pros and cons, but the idea of just trusting him doesn't sit well. Not with after what happened.

But something happens--there's a shift, and Graves' words are simple and straightforward as he explains how the man that isn't him will work. He's right--he's right, and Credence wants desperately to cry out that he knows, he knows all about bleeding for a purpose he thought was pure. That it's happened.

The words die in his throat. Instead, he follows Graves' train of thought. War. That matches what he'd heard--or thought he heard--during that hazy moment where he was dying. Or is he dead now, and this is Hell? He's doomed to never be able to make out whether or not this is him? It would be a very fitting Hell.

That lean--however small it is--is noticeable. Especially to Credence, who knows when to stiffen when something like that happens. When Mary Lou looks a certain way, or her knuckles turn white, or a certain set of her jaw--Credence knows. Microexpressions that cause him to clam up. Cause him to dart, knowing full well what's about to come. This is the same scenario, just a different person.

Credence shoots back in his chair. He leans as far back as possible and his hands grab the edge of his seat, knuckles shining white. His head is also tilted back, but he looks at Graves, looks him right in the eye, frightened. A deer in the headlights as he speaks.

This is a different kind of power, Credence realizes, and his adam's apple bobs as he swallows, rooted, listening. This isn't the power the other version of had. This is something else. Credence's voice nearly cracks as he answers.

"He told me a lot of things, sir. I don't think I believe them anymore."

I'm not sure I believe you, either.

Credence looks terrified, and Graves is startled by that unexpected reaction. He draws back in turn, realizing he's in wildly uncharted territory. He draws back carefully, restoring their distance. Grindelwald must have done more of a number on him than he'd thought -- the fact that he recoils like this from him speaks volumes, although what, exactly it means, it's not too clear.

Only that he's afraid of him, frightened and distrustful, and Graves feels an anger bubble anew -- not at Credence, but all that's been done to him that he cannot quite reach. He tells him he doesn't believe all that Grindelwald has fed him, but he picks up readily on what Credence doesn't say, either. Credence doesn't trust him, and that's to be expected, but what's more disturbing is what occurs to him.

"Did he punish you?"

You should know that, too. there's a lot of things he's finding he wants to say but can't. He's not sure if he's suppressing himself or if it's that scratching down the back of his spine that's doing it for him, but either way, despite his mouth opening, no sound comes out.

He at least loosens his grip on the chair. Graves has backed off; it's a sign. It's a good sign, because at least this one knows patience. Or maybe that, too, is a game. Maybe this is the same one that knows about everything. One who knows how to handle him better.

Graves asks that question, and it cuts deep, sending shivers down his spine and causing him to bite at the inside of his cheek to contain himself. There it is again; that heated, feverish whisper. 'I can help,' it says. 'I can take care of you.'

Credence speaks instead of it: "What's the last thing you remember, Mr. Graves?"

He's not giving him a proper answer. He's startlingly straight when he leans back to his normal posture, and his movements have stilled, staring pointedly at Graves' chair leg. If he concentrates, maybe it will break, he thinks, even though he's well aware it won't.

The last thing he remembers is classified, and Graves guards his community's secrets fiercely, prizing them above all else. Their safety is in his hands, and if he slips up, if he is careless, he could expose them to war, to death; and he will not allow this to happen.

But Credence Barebone is a part of them, whether he knows it or not. He will be hunted down -- if he hasn't already -- but fearful No-Majs and wizards alike, but Graves sees the boy before he's ever seen the monster, and perhaps they can again perform a miracle. Credence's unique, continued existence has been a miracle thus far, what is another?

But to do that, he has to get through to him. Graves is fighting something else, mending a wound of Grindelwald's making -- the problem is that he still doesn't know how deeply it goes. Credence evades him like wisps of smoke and mist, unwilling to be caught, and what hangs in the balance between them is crucial. Credence is raw, a powerful, fearsome creature, but he also just a boy, abused and neglected. One of their own, left out in the cold and forgotten; no more. Graves protects his own.

And so he gives him an answer, inasmuch as it's within him to give without compromising secrets.

"The last thing I remember was your family's file on my desk." He leans back, deliberately adopting a non-threatening posture by crossing his legs. He meets his gaze evenly. "My Auror, Tina. She broke our laws to save you."

Tina. Credence visibly perks up--he knows Tina. He trusts Tina. And he was right--because Tina stopped all of it, once. Tina pulled him close and let Credence cry. Tina.

Was that what she was? An Auror? Was that what they called those brave witches and wizards interfering in mundane life like that? Credence ought to thank her. A terrible part of him hopes she'll come out of the fountain, too, just so he can. That would be selfish, and wrong, but the last time he'd seen her had been in the subway.

He doesn't want to think about the subway. Not now. Now, he wants to think about how what the other is saying is looking like it's possible. Like maybe, he's not lying. He'd said they'd never met, but the mutual connection is there.

Credence presses full lips into thin lines, and lets his gaze flick over the other--even, briefly, meeting his gaze before dropping down. This time, it's to his own lap and not the chair leg. He doesn't want the chair to break anymore.

"Is she in trouble?" Because that thought occurs to him, suddenly--that if Tina broke laws like he'd said, then surely there were repercussions. Especially in a place so secretive.

If there were, then Credence has one more thing to blame himself for.

They can never interfere in mundane life, not in that way, not when it puts every witch and wizard at risk. The hatred for magic and wizardkind is etched into Mary Lou's bones, burned into her psyche at birth, the result of a legacy that stretches back to MACUSA's very roots and beyond.

"Yes." Lying to Credence is an unnecessary risk at this point in time -- Graves intends to foster trust, not cultivate a false image the way Grindelwald ostensibly did. His words are low, quiet, out of anyone's hearing. "Our laws protect us from the No-Majs, and they keep the peace between both." And Graves breaks it for none, not even for one of his best and most promising. Nonetheless, he had quietly spoken for her, negotiated a punishment that kept her out of prison and in the depths of MACUSA's most convoluted bureaucratic hellhole.

Which, if you asked Graves, isn't much of an improvement. But it is what it is. He catches the look in his eyes, parses the intent of that question, and simply adds. "She's fine."

Edited 2017-01-30 06:52 (UTC)

He's sure this is the truth. It's stark but firm, like the verbal equivalent of a neatly pressed white button-up. Credence had almost been expecting a yes no matter what. Perhaps this was the real one choosing not to lie to him? The man who was and wasn't him--the one who gave him the necklace--had said so many things just because Credence wanted to hear them. This is distinctly different.

The reassurance doesn't help. In a strange way, it makes Credence's stomach churn.

"She's a good person, sir," Credence says in spite of himself. "She--she helped me, after. In the subway, when you--" He stops there, voice soft and quiet.

"I'm sorry. It's confusing, you and... him."

Him. Of course. Graves will be in his shadow, as far as Credence is concerned, the man that he is overshadowed by the one that's usurped him, and perhaps had gone on to cause untold damage. Credence is too guileless to carry off a convincing lie, so Graves rules out manipulation, and accepts his confusion as genuine.

But it sticks in the craw, the things Credence lets slip, and the more he speaks, the more questions Grave has. He frowns.

"What happened in the subway?" After what?

Credence is quiet for a long moment. He falls silent with no indication he's going to speak, not at first, simply staring at his scarred palms. It's a difficult thing to do, to explain.

How do you tell a total stranger you've killed so many people? How do you tell them you wanted to, even if that moment was brief?

How do you tell the one who spurred it on that it worked? That his plan to some extent was still carried out? Credence isn't even sure if it's fixed. He could have very well broken the secrecy forever.

Instead, he avoids the question altogether. He looks up, lips pressed into a thin line, and while he doesn't look at Graves, it's as close as he can get.

"If you need anything and can't find it, I'm in room 3. May I please be excused?"

Edited 2017-01-31 00:09 (UTC)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

uncover our heads and reveal our souls

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject