exhalation of the ambivalent god [ota]

[candor1]

WHO: Erik Lensherr, Percival Graves, Cassian Andor, and YOU NICE PEOPLE
WHERE: (i) The Greek ruins with Erik / TBD with Graves. (ii) The waterfall. (iii) The hospital.
WHEN: After Fin/Annie's Town Meeting through Now
OPEN TO: (i) is closed; (ii) and (iii) are OTA
WARNINGS: vet struggles, speculative projection of ECT +/ EMDR, reproductive choices, murder, self-endangerment, physical injury, and "too much exposition"^[Urinetown].
STATUS: Closed


i. [closed, attn. Erik Lensherr and Percival Graves]

To a child of the Esoteric Pulsar, you must ask, "Show me the secret pages of the Book of Stars."
~ [Document #DN4624 ("Faith and the Force of Others"), fragment excerpted from the archives of the Order of the Esoteric Pulsar; author unknown.*]
You may not be able to get outside. The only escape is to another room.

War is made of experiences humans shouldn't be good at processing. If they did, the species would already have died.

The Alliance and the Empire had devised methods of getting around that, to prolong a soldier's shelf life. For the Empire: brainwashing. (Part of the appeal of cloning: it had the dual benefit of quick replenishment and neurological shortcuts.) The Alliance used STERC (stress trauma electroreconditioning) procedure. It didn't desensitize the subject to future trauma (as clone neurodesign did), nor removed the past trauma (as brainwashing could), but at its most effective, it lessened severity—made effects less extreme. One could remember events without reliving them. The pain could be felt without rendering one nonfunctioning. The problem was, it wasn't preventative, nor necessarily carried over if new trauma compounded the old. Other ongoing treatment was needed for the old memories, and new ones could need a whole new round of the procedure.

The procedure had been performed on Cassian twice.

It had done what it needed to. Kept him on his feet. Able to move forward.

What he'd never mastered was what to do if one ever stopped.

…He hadn't had to. It was an interstellar Rebellion. There was always the next problem. The next assignment. More than could possibly be accomplished. He'd probably avoided going through the procedure more than twice by diving from one mission into the next. Always moving forward.

Without a cause, we are lost.

Here was the first time he'd been without a galaxy-given cause, something to believe larger than himself, with external impact and infrastructure, since…

…? Huh. Ever.

Before the war subsumed all else, he'd still had something to serve and answer to beyond his own life. His father. His school. His father's school. Less life and death (…mostly) than the later things… but, happening before those bases for comparison, they'd still felt like it.

But surviving Scarif to have to go on without the others—and be out of the Rebellion entirely—was simply not a thing he could process.

To outlive the others and never know what happened next…

No.

He didn't know another exit. So, if no one would give him a "next assignment", he made one.

Since arriving, he'd been working on a map—making his own parchment on down. He'd shown it to a few people and hadn't hid as he worked on it from others, sometimes making notes in front of them, sometimes from them. When it didn't defeat the whole purpose. Which was: not to let others' discoveries dictate what he might see himself. Looking for something expected blinds you to anything un-. Well, they were stuck here, and "here" was small, so turn those into assets. In most locales, there would be too much ground and too many other variables to get as familiar with the terrain as would serve optimal strategy. Here, it seemed the root of many of the community's problems was pure not knowing.

All right. He might not find anything new, nor answer any questions. Given the diversity of the people who'd been working on the problem so far, that was likeliest. But disproving is a positive result. Narrowing down is progress. He could at least eliminate the possibility that he might be able to find more than had already been found.

So he spent the month combing over all the least-known parts of their canyon world. Taking what measurements he could without tech. Getting so familiar, he could choose the best vantage in any zone; possibly could have found his way around blind.

Which Chirrut could have done without the legwork. But Cassian didn't have… that relationship with…? the Force

For the most part, he avoided having company.

(Not entirely unlike how he was avoiding committing to indoor accommodations.)

But another wanting familiarize themselves with their new surroundings, too (which he couldn't begrudge); help explore (as far as was compatible with his parameters); or just see how he gathered his data in a metric they didn't know (he surmised)… exceptions were made.

He'd mapped the Spring with Johanna.

The day after the Town meeting, as planned—hoping the other man wouldn't find this attempt to preemptively learn more about him too calculating—he went to the Greek ruins to meet Erik.

The day after that, as promised—wondering if he should resist or enjoy how spending time with this relative stranger felt comfortably like spending time with Draven—Cassian went to Cabin 19 to call on Graves.

So far he hadn't picked up that anyone wanted to join him to prevent him from finding something. But he wasn't trying to map anyone's claimed territory, after all. If it was purely on this plane of existence, between them prisoners, he wasn't interested. Not until he had to explore the option that someone here was one of/a plant of their hosts. But that could get ugly fast, too much to be worth it when the field was still wide open. For now he preferred the other model, of them all as fellow prisoners. Hopefully not because it reminded him… of whatever he'd ever had… of home.

* * *


ii. [OTA]
To a faithless man, you must ask, "What power enables prophecy and sorcery in a world controlled by logic and law?"
~ [Document #DN4624 ("Faith and the Force of Others"), fragment excerpted from the archives of the Order of the Esoteric Pulsar; author unknown.*]
It happened at the waterfall.

Cassian was sitting on a large rock, his feet propped up on another to avoid the trickling water below. He'd just made a full sweep of the area, checking for any openings in the cliff wall or behind the falls, checking the depth of the pool and consistency of the water, and was jotting down final measurements and observations. He finished and broadened his focus to check the work. And belatedly noticed that, with that, he'd closed the loop. The map was finished.

He sat for a moment, looking down at it.

It was good work. He rarely got to do much like it. There were always more pressing things—too much ground to cover—too many other forces at work—insufficient stability—to indulge in such detail. But there it was. Their known world laid out and annotated in two dimensions. A single square of parchment.

His new life spread out on his hands.


The falls roared in his ears. Under him, he felt the spinning planet.


His hands were shaking.



.:. "So," came the voice across a narrow stream.

Cassian looked up. .:.



To an outside observer, Cassian was sitting all alone in that place, his head still bowed over his map. He wouldn't move.



.:. Cassian looked up.

General Davits Draven sat another rock a few meters away.

He was facing Cassian, one leg braced on the shore, a hand resting on that knee; an attitude of relative ease; but the set of his arms and shoulders always, as ever, were taut, at the ready.

"So," Draven repeated, "phase complete. What next?"

Cassian spoke low. "There wasn't supposed to be a 'next'. I was finished."

"I wish we got to decide when we were finished," said Draven. Gruffly unapologetic. They both knew there was apology at the bottom of it nonetheless. "You've learned your surroundings. That was to a purpose. This is a prison. The first responsibility of a prisoner is…?"

"No one has escaped," said Cassian.

"And you don't seem inclined to try," …said Chirrut Îmwe.



before the tide can go back out, you have to let it come in



The Guardian now sat on the rock where Draven had just been. Instead of a leg braced on the bank, it was his staff. He held it with both hands and stared sightlessly out past them, wearing his eternally knowing smile. "Indeed, you don't seem concerned with being imprisoned, at all. Do you know why?"

Cassian let out a measured breath and tried not to roll his eyes. "You said it was because—"

"—you carry your prison wherever you go," agreed Chirrut, turning that unseeing smile to the falls and the trees. "But you'd broken out at last. You and Jyn. She escaped her physical prison and you your metaphysical one. Where neither of you had ever made choices for yourselves. You made your own choice at last. You finished free. So why did the prison come back? When you came here?"

K-2SO: "When he didn't die."



Cassian looked in all directions for the source of the voice. But Kay was nowhere.



"I'm done with that," said Cassian. "I'm not back where I started when I first arrived."

"Yes because anyone can get over such loss in a single night," said Blue.



Cassian's shoulders hunched as he recoiled in on himself.



it's better than not letting it



Blue now sat in the place of Chirrut who'd sat in the place of Draven. Unlike both of them, who'd leaned forward, she was leaning back on the boulder on her palms.

She met his glare expressionlessly.

"You're overdue for treatment," she said.

"Go to hell," he said.

"Even if she came here," said Blue. "Even if a dying moment could translate to the beginning of… anything. If she wanted a new start with you. Freedom. A life like neither of you ever had while living. Do you think you'd know how? Could either of you could stop being who you've always been? You wouldn't buy it. …And would that fantasy involve children? Would she care you couldn't give her any? You made sure—"

He muttered, "Callaté, Azúl."

"You don't even hallucinate my name, huh? I did it to save you."

He made a derisive choking sound. "No you didn't. I meant nothing to you."

"Who means anything to anyone?" said—


—Tivik.


walked away from something I'd want to forget


He was braced against nothing, his good arm cradling his bad one. Cassian's last contact, who'd set Fracture in motion, whose intel would end in Rogue One, looked over both his arms at Cassian with baleful, accusing eyes.


I couldn't live with myself


—You look your terrified source up and down. A man who's just given you valuable information. A man who's done his job in spite of his own nature because he shares your cause. A man only standing here because you personally recruited him. Trained him. One of your people. An ally. A human who is weaker and more frightened than you because he actually has something else in his life. A man who can't possibly escape or withstand what's about to happen no matter what and there's only one way to make any of this worth it.
—"Hey—" you touch his shoulder, gently now, voice stripped of all force. "Calm down. Calm down. You did good. Everything you told me—it's real?"


"Your job," said Tivik.


Without a cause, we're lost


"Was to give your life to the Rebellion. And die with her."


—They will catch you, Tivik. You will be broken and you will die and neither of us will be able to deliver your message.


Cassian could barely hear himself.


"I did."



"So," said Tivik quietly, "do the next one."



—His confused eyes and faint voice are those of a frightened child. "It's real." .:.



That outside observer would see only Cassian sitting bent over his clasped hands, over the map. Its exhaustive intricacy and detail. It had taken weeks of reconnaissance and study. Other people here had been involved in making it and expressed appreciation of it. He'd toyed with the idea of giving it to Kate to have at the inn for anyone to use.


.:. —Cassian turns to the stormtroopers and puts on a winningly guileless smile. "Of course. Just… my gloves?" .:.


The observer would finally see a change. Cassian sitting up straighter.


.:. —You soothe Tivik, with genuine care, once more, "All right. We'll be all right." .:.


Cassian slides off his boulder, splashes down into the stream.


.:. —You turn your gentle grip on his shoulder into a half-embrace, putting the warmth of your body against his. .:.


And rips the map over the rocks.



The parchment's too good. It won't tear into shreds. But slamming it against the rocks leaves it sodden and tattered. While turning the water red.


.:. There are no med droids here, Draven would ream him out. Stop. Think. All your childhood injuries were on your right because everyone's involuntary reflex is to shield themselves with their dominant arm. Even instincts can be changed. You learned better. Do better. .:.


Stopping, panting, on his knees in the stream, Cassian curled his wet, bloodied fingers around the map, and the map around a stone, and pulled them up.

He tossed the map, wrapped around the stone, into his left hand.


.:. —With your other hand, put your blaster gently to Tivik's back .:.


He stood.


.:. —And shoot him through the heart. .:.


And hurled the stone-weighted map into the falls.




Then as now, he watched the

stone, body

fall.



.:. —you hear the sickly electric squawk, smell burning fibers and worse as Tivik falls to the ground. Lets out one last little groan, like he'd been troubled in his sleep, and goes still. .:.



Cassian's motionless except for trembling.


.:. —Hands shaking, he launched himself up to the handholds he'd already scoped out on the wall. Pulling himself along pipes and stained sills. Kicking the surface for support. .:.


Cassian looks up now at the cliff face and the falls. Slippery, unsecure rocks. Delicate roots. Inverted planes and uncertain destination. And knows he'd never make it.

He takes a running start at them anyway.


Would you like me to tell you the odds of this going against you?


He grabs at the rocks and roots and crevasses and moss, and actually gains a hold. Something sharp catches his already smashed-up hand and he lets out a sound.


Do you think anyone's listening


He actually makes it a little way. But the inevitable asserts itself and he falls


shot off the datacore by the man in white

a heartbeat before transparisteel rushes up to meet him

he thinks he hears Jyn yell his name

If we come here through water, can we leave the same way



He doesn't go in the water below the falls. Slowed by a branch, scraping him on the way down from his wrist to the side of his face, he lands more softly than by any justice he should, in a mossy hollow. The impact only hurts, not damages. But enough still to force out of him a louder sound. This one…

with the water and the planet pounding in his head…



Jyn. Kay.
Don't leave me behind.



…a sob.* * *


iii. [OTA. attn. medical professionals (Claire? Ravi? Rory?) & anyone]

I ask you to believe this not because it is true, but because it is a beginning.
~ [Document #DN4624 ("Faith and the Force of Others"), fragment excerpted from the archives of the Order of the Esoteric Pulsar; author unknown.*]
Maybe someone's on medical duty that evening. Maybe whoever had helped Cassian back into town had to run to fetch them. But whoever answers the call to the hospital is greeted by Cassian Andor, favoring a smashed, bloodied hand; face almost as bloodied with an ugly but would prove to be superficial (just plant-matter-crusted) head wound; and sodden head to toe with water, chlorophyll, and mud.

"I'm here for medical assistance," he says blandly.

Comments

II

[thekittenqueen]

She was unaware to the torment in his mind, only coming in time to witness the sudden destruction of something that looked like a map and the blood that coated his hands. Margaery had been at a distance, overlooking the falls from a hill nearby as she had paused in her walk to eat and rest. It was only when the man began to climb that she became alarmed.

Leaving behind her basket, she pushed through the snow and trees, stepping before the falls as he cried out in pain and began to tumble down. She let out a small cry, rushing to his side as he landed in the small mossy hollow.

"By the gods! Are you all right?" She asked hurriedly, looking for any signs of massive injury or broken bones. She felt anger overtake her concern, drawn to the surface by her fear for him. "What in the Seven Hells were you doing? You could have been killed!"

[candor1]

As much as it had broken his fall, lying in the snowy moss would cause its own damage if he lay in it too long. For a moment, he ignored that knowledge. It felt peaceful.

How that could happen mid-battle once you've been shot.

The falls had quieted. The world still turned rather than spinned. The tree canopy and sky above… were blocked suddenly from view by a woman's face. Such keenly intelligent eyes on one of the most beautiful humans he'd ever seen… he decided he was still glitching. Though it was odd for his subconscious to project a stranger.

He started to lift a hand to her face.

He belatedly noticed what a mess his hand was and (delusion or not) thought better of touching her with it. If she was insubstiantial, he'd find out later. If she was real, he didn't want to inflict his state on her.

"I'm all right," he answered, hearing his own voice as if from a distance. For the moment, he was no longer bothered by earlier concerns with life or death—nor more updated aspects of those concerns. (Externalizing the pain can make it more manageable. If stupid, growled Draven.) He was mainly annoyed at himself for drawing someone's attention and loathe to cause her any problem. "I am sorry. You don't have to help me. It's my fault. I did this."

[thekittenqueen]

Not fully understanding what he was about to do, Margaery took hold of his outstretched hand. Gently, she helped pull him up into a sitting position. Not releasing hold of him, she glanced over his hand and the ugly wounds that were weeping along his fingers and palm. It hadn't fully occurred to her that she had never seen this man's face before. Her concern for him had been at the forefront of her mind. Now having a moment to catch her breath, she met his eyes curiously, trying to remember if she had seen him about before.

"Someone should tend to your wounds," Margaery said, brushing off his dismissal. Her concern was not easily set aside, no matter if he caused these injuries himself. "We don't want those to become infected." Given how little resources they had, an infection could be dangerous.

As much as she didn't want to, she tore the hem of her linen dress. She dipped the cloth in the water and brought it back to wipe away the blood gathered on his hands. "This will have to do for now. There are a few doctors in this place, they could do a better job of treating these than I can."

[candor1]

The physical pain hadn't really reached him.

Her kindness suddenly did.

Overwhelmingly.

Jyn taking his hand on the beach
Mon Mothma telling him of someone he'd never know and had saved
d'Djiera drawing him into her tent under the stars
That Imperial nurse slipping the pill into his pocket so he could make his own choice
Narede staying at his side and never telling anyone else when he threw up after his first
Khroiu stroking back his hair as they cut the shrapnel out
A quickly snatched away and never again seen render that had to have been his mother

Perhaps it was a lie that he "was unable to stop himself." Maybe he was unable to want to try. Maybe that was the same thing.

But his fingers curled around hers.

Then he was gripping her hand. (Not tight enough to hurt her, but more intimately than could possibly be acceptable, as if his life depended it.) His head bowed so low he partially doubled over; silent and motionless, but with tears streaming down his face.

[thekittenqueen]

She didn't think very much of how he held her hand, not whether it was proper or intimate, but whether he was hurt or in need of comfort. There was something haunted in him, something that she recognized and understood. Gently, she placed her free hand over his, a warm gesture to remove any sadness that he might feel.

As he cried, she urged him a bit closer, finally moving her arm around his. She didn't know him or what his name was, but she knew that he needed someone in that moment. A friend, a bit of kindness and gentleness.

"Are you all right?"

It was a bit of a ridiculous question. How could anything here be "all right?"

[candor1]

He has no answer to that question. But, with eyes closed into her shoulder, his breathing has slowed and tears stopped. He turns a bit, not pulling the rest of himself out of her extremely welcome, anchoring hold, but at least turning his face again to the open air—to avoid taking further advantage of her generosity. And focuses on his breathing a moment longer. Making sure his voice is normal again when he speaks.

"Better than before," he said. Not as well as he'd meant to be. He starts to wipe his face, but the tears have become indistinguishable from snow melt, tree residue, and drying blood; his muddy injured hand wouldn't improve any of that anyway; he glances at the water and mud he's inevitably transferred to her clothes; and he has to laugh at the mess he's made.

All there is for it is to turn the grip he still has on her hand, with his good one, into a weakly self-depricating handshake. "Hello. I'm Cassian."

[thekittenqueen]

She pulls back, looking over him with concern and worry. It was some welcome that he received from this world. It was a difficult adjustment, even for those that weren't haunted and carrying painful memories. There was little that could be done to help someone like Cassian, save to offer comfort and kindness.

"That is a good first step." He was at least better than he was. "Once you are somewhere warm and have had your hands cleaned, you should feel much better. Come, let me take you to the inn." She slowly got to her feet, trying to help him up as well.

"It's nice to meet you, Cassian. I am Margaery."

(Sorry for slowturtling! Happy to handwave rest if you prefer)

[candor1]

"Margaery." Not a name he'd heard before but a satisfying one to say. (Like Narede. Though the women themselves seemed very little alike.) "Hello. Thank you."

He gripped her forearm, theoretically only for balance, but ended up putting more of his weight on her than he'd intended. The moment he was more vertical, his head began to spin.

"Yes," he murmured, "the inn… that's a good idea. Thank you." Quick self-inventory: bruised and bleeding hand, possible metacarpal and/or nerve damage, sprained wrist, bruised arm, mild head trauma. Extremely lucky there wasn't more.

He absently wiped what he thought was water dripping down the side of his face, to find it was blood. Upgrade severity of head trauma. Probably still not too bad—the head tended to bleed disproportionately to level of damage.

Not a prob!

[thekittenqueen]

She noticed the blood on his head. Not having anything to treat the wound with, but frightened at what might be a severe injury, she tore her sleeve. There was enough material to allow him to staunch the wound, at least until they could reach the inn.

"Here," she placed it against him, urging him to hold it tightly. "Put pressure on the wound. Tell me if you begin to feel dizzy and you feel close to fainting." They would have to take it slow.

"What were you searching for?" She asked, assuming it was simply an escape from this place. She had seen men dive into the fountain and chase any means of leaving, but it had always failed. Never had she seen anything so serious as this.

[candor1]

Belatedly—too late—he tries to protest her tearing her clothes for him. But he did indeed feel dizzy and so complied with her instruction. —except the part about telling her. He knew he'd be able to make it. Telling her would only force her to go to greater lengths on his account, possibly bring someone else into the situation. He'd manage.

…Being able to handle himself hadn't been the issue. Wanting to was what had failed. For a moment, she's provided what he needed to remedy that: someone else, outside himself, to protect, or prevent from having to take care of him.

"I may have gotten it," he murmured, splitting his attention between choosing words, not putting too much of his weight on her, but paying attention to her movement to guide him and keep him focused on now.

That he felt a faint stir of attraction to her was tactically helpful. That meant he felt invested with being alive. And functioning in anyone else's society. It need no further action or analysis than that.

Not to pick apart how her accent was like Jyn's and the shape of her face like Blue's and her capable kindness like Khroiu's and her hair like a half-glimpsed photograph of a less-than-half-remembered woman who must have been his mother… …Actually, that helped. A slight internal shiver of mixed emotion made his head feel a bit clearer.

"I suppose I wanted an answer. I'm not sure what the question was. But the outcome seems… unambiguous."

I'm alive and I'm here.

He stops speaking to focus again for a moment on breathing, not bearing down too hard on her shoulder, and walking in a straight line.

It's not the most difficult self-retrieval he's had to do. But it does matter to him (for whatever reason; strategically, the reason matters less than the effect) not to collapse—physically or emotionally—in front of her—Margaery.

And don't think about Jyn where Margaery is now, holding him up…

Don't.

…Which might be why he can't quite bring himself to fully accept her support. Give her all of his weight, or vulnerability.

That had been for Jyn.

STOP.

"…Actually," he said suddenly, "I think I do need to sit down." And withdrew his arm from her to lower himself.

It wasn't his head that was spinning. It was his thoughts and sense of time and dimensions and…

The spell was relapsing—or hadn't ended…

I'm alive and I'm here…

Dammit don't make me be.

He pushed his uninjured hand into his hair, as if to hold his spinning head, but also to hide his face.

No. He doesn't want anyone to take care of him.

Not even himself.

"You should leave me here," he said, eyes closed into his own palm. "I'm not… ready to… be saved."

[thekittenqueen]

There was so much about him that was confusing and strange, yet she couldn't fault him for any of it. This world had a way of drawing out the darkness they each bore. Left to their own devices with nothing but survival to consider, it was easy to think back on the grim moments of a life. The decisions that had been made and the actions that were regretted. All that was done to them and by them to others.

She paused in her steps, letting him sit when he needed, sensing something deeper going on in his mind, but unable to see what it was. Instead, she stayed at his side, gazing down at him gently and with understanding.

"Don't think of it as saving you. Surely there is no harm in helping yourself? All I intend to do is assist you in going some place warm. Whether your are saved or not, that is for you to decide."

[candor1]

Some place warm… Somewhere in another life across a shaking bunker, Blue raised an eyebrow at him— how to soar free when there's no where else to go—

Skies he needs to break something… break himself free… his ribs are too tight… he needs a way out of his own skull and roaring blood.

At the fountain with Finnick, he'd also been asking a beautiful stranger to kiss him or kill him.

…But Margaery had offered neither (as Finnick had purported to) and Cassian wouldn't ask it first.

But he can't be trapped in himself a moment longer. No harm in helping yourself… the harm was in being himself.

The prison you carry with you—

"Tell me about you," he said, raising his eyes to her; words and eyes making it a supplication. "About your world before you came here… anything you're willing to share. Anything to remind me… reality is wider than… what I know about."

[thekittenqueen]

It's a peculiar request, something not often made while someone is injured and cold, but perhaps she could understand. This strange place was confusing and he likely felt out of sorts. He certainly seemed out of sorts. If this would help him feel safe and at ease, there didn't seem to be any harm in telling him about Westeros.

The parts that were wise to share, at least.

"I come from the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. I'm of the Reach, from a palace called 'High Garden'. It is where the crops are grown that help feed the rest of the kingdoms. It's lush and beautiful, always smelling of fruit and flowers. Our palace was on a hill with three stone walls around it. Protecting it was a large bramble maze that outside soldiers couldn't navigate, but when I was a child, I would play in alongside my cousins."

It was a warm memory, one that she had forgotten in King's Landing. "I was later married and lived in the capital, King's Landing, alongside my husband. It was very crowded there and the smell was strong, but it was near the ocean. It could be beautiful...at times."

[candor1]

He closed his eyes.

He must resist the desire to sleep. That was the cold and the shock. He mustn't make her an accomplice.

"I've been many, many places," he murmured. "I'm not sure I've ever been somewhere like that."

The only points of reference he can dredge… are Yavin IV and Scarif.

But neither had had flowers.

He let the story and the mental images calm him. But there was only so slow he could allow his respiration to get. All right. Move out.

Stirring himself, he pushed himself once again to his feet.

"Thank you," he said. "You're right… time to go indoors."

III.

[oncewasroman]

Rory didn't want to say 'I told you so,' but he was certainly glad he'd started cleaning up and organizing the hospital when the first true patient walked in. The hospital was by no means finished -- but it looked a hell of a lot better than it had a week ago.

Plus the raccoons and rats had finally be officially evicted...for the most part.

But now wasn't the time for that. Rory had been sitting on one of the cots, making a list or inventory of sorts, when he heard someone walk in. The man's blaise tone really does not match the injuries he is sporting. Rory is on his feet rather quickly, tossing the paper to the cot. "Clearly! Get to that cot over there," he says, crossing the room to get a better look at the man.

[candor1]

Cassian obeys, not limping, only wincing a little as he walks.

Not nearly as bad as Scarif. Of course, even without the Death Star, he'd probably been about to die.

…The thought doesn't take him completely out of his current surroundings. Well. There's one substitute for STERC. If only there were a way to simulate it without taking up resources and others' concern.

(Don't get addicted to self-harm now, rebuked… everyone and no one in particular in his mind. You've seen how that goes.
There are more kinds than one he reflected, but also without much feeling behind it. And not in argument.)

He's suddenly struck less by the pain as by how filthy he's let himself get. Even under the results of today's climb.

"I'm sorry in advance," he murmurs to the (…med tech? healer? something in between) other man.

[oncewasroman]

It's obvious that he needs to be cleaned before Rory can give any kind of proper medical attention. It would also be nice if there were more people here because he doesn't want to leave the man unattended, but he also does not have running water. Luckily, he had thought far enough ahead to keep a few buckets with water in case of emergencies. He made a point of changing it out daily so it wouldn't get stagnant or too dirty, but it was the best he could do. He walked to a corner of the room where he'd set the buckets out of the way and grabbed one along with a clean cloth. He looked over his shoulder and then grabbed a few more.

"What are you apologizing for exactly?" He'd had patients say things like that before, but mostly he wanted to keep the man talking so he could focus on something besides his injuries. "You'll need to tell me what happened," he added as he approached the man again. "Let's start with a name. I'm Rory. We're a bit limited on supplies here, but I've been trying to prepare for something as best I can given the situation." He set the bucket down and started a cursory exam, eyes drifting over Cassian's body. The bloody head injury was a concern because it could be a concussion as well, but so too was the smashed hand. Rory dreaded to think about possible broken bones in the hand. There was no way they were going to be able to perform surgery -- certainly not by himself. He decided to start with the head -- a head injury could potentially be more serious and it looked to be the dirtiest part.

Rory soaked one of the rags in water and started to dab at the gash, he needed to get a better look before he could be certain of anything.

[some possible medical triggers in here]

[candor1]

Cassian did his part by sitting perfectly still. Except to answer the questions in the order put to him.

(He'd prove an excellent patient: disciplined and nigh unspookable. Though high pain tolerance could just as often be a liability; he wouldn't always report in a way that drew enough attention.)

"I've been bivouacked in the forest," he explained to the first point. In this weather, that wouldn't involve much… freshening of layers. To the second: "I was mapping the waterfall. …"

…As a rule, agents would give accurate readout to attending medics. Their training involved learning how to most accurately report their conditions. But in those cases, said medic would have been someone who'd been present for the injury and didn't need further telling; or it would be someone addressed by serial number who didn't judge organic emotion. (Except Kay of course.)

Rory was neither a member of his unit nor a medical droid. Cassian paused, deciding to consider how much information to share.

He glanced up to read Rory's face. Rory's eyes, whatever emotion lines his life had drawn, his microexpressions, his stance.

Cassian set to tell him absolutely everything.

"I arrived last lunar cycle. Our situation finally hit me. I had an irrational moment and did this." He lifted his arm to indicate the battered hand, "I hit it half a dozen times on a rock. Then I tried to scale the cliff and got this," he indicated the head wound, "when I fell. I know it's luck not to have worse. I also know our resources are limited and I'm grateful for whatever you can do."

The last sentence was genuine. The rest was… accurate… but in such a dispassionate, clinical way that… either was ironic or made sense of how he could have successfully repressed feeling their shared captivity for so long.

He knew it was possible he'd lose some of the function of that hand. The last time he'd done such a thing, the med droid had had to do nerve repair. (Though that damage had involved severing. This damage had been more broadly distributed and might be milder.)

Meanwhile, he closed his eyes to keep out the dirt as Rory dabbed it away.

[oncewasroman]

Rory was good at multitasking, so he listened as he cleaned. He'd scraped together a few supplies from the various people in town, so he could probably do a rough patch job. The hand was a little more concerning, but he'd get to that point when he could. The dirt and grime cleared away easily enough and Rory started to get a better look at the head wound. Rory sighed after he'd heard the full extent of the story. He still hadn't gotten a name from the man, but for the moment he was too busy letting his mind roll over the other details.

"I realize our situation is rather dire, but I fail to see where punching your hand into little bits was going to help anything," Rory remarked dryly. Still, the man had admitted it was a moment of irrationality. Rory could very well understand that, to some degree, but then again he'd always been fairly rational about most things. He had to stipulate "most things" because when it came to his wife all rationality went out the window. That made him wonder if perhaps there was more to the man's reaction that merely 'reacting to the situation.' Rory frowned thoughtfully, "Was it just the fact that we're stuck here or was there something else that made you lash out like this?"

The forehead gash was now as clean as it was going to get. Rory peered at it closely and was pleased to discover that it wasn't as deep as it had first appeared. "We're in luck...the head wound appears to be only superficial. You won't even need stitches for that. You'll probably have a nice bruise though, along with the cut," Rory said as he set the now dirty cloth aside. He started to pull out some bandages he'd manage to get from around the village, placing them against the wound to help stop the bleeding. "You aren't feeling dizzy or seeing double are you? Feeling tired or having trouble staying away?" He asked because he wanted to be sure the bump on the head wasn't anything more serious.

He'd get started on the hand soon enough.

[candor1]

Cassian answered in reverse order. The calmness of his responses would have been unnerving if there hadn't been just the faintest note of sheepishness too. "No, no symptoms of concussion. I'd been resisting accepting the reality of arriving here making me the sole survivor of my previous team. And it was a short-term solution to externalizing distress to physical pain, but the longer-term cost is too high. So I guess I'd better… try to accept it."

Cassian's eyes flickered to Rory's, a look of rueful respect or recognition, before he briefly closed them. "It's good for me that you're here. …I hope you don't mind my asking where you were, before this?" Genuinely interested as well as tired of talking about himself, if there was no more medically relevant info.

[oncewasroman]

Sole survivor. Rory considers what that could probably do to a person. It certainly couldn't put someone in a very good mental state, that was for certain. Not that he'd studied a lot about mental health -- but he'd had similar experiences to being left behind. He shifted his attention to the man's hand, since he was obviously clear in the head injury department. The hand was concerning because broken bones in the hand would be difficult enough back home with the latest technology, but now he was here. Still, he's doing his best and at least cleaning the wound is a start, he holds the hand gently, careful but firm in his touch.

"Don't rush it...physical pain sometimes heals a lot faster...but I don't recommend using it as a replacement for other kinds of pain," he said. He wasn't sure if it was a good idea to poke into the man's distress or not. So he took the bait of the following question, sometimes it helped to talk about other people, right?

"Ask away," he said, starting to wrap and bandage the hand, "Before I came here I was in a city called New York. That's not where I'm originally from though, just where I'd most recently ended up." He decided not to mention it was New York of the past, and while he was used to space travel, there was no telling if he actually needed to specify his planet of origin or not.

[candor1]

Cassian only nodded in agreement with Rory's assessment and recommendation. He had nothing to add… he'd already agreed before… but unfortunately agreement hadn't been enough… nor can he entirely promise or predict it would be again. He'd need to fully make up his mind on… several things, first.

Right now, he feels calm, and there's an odd but pleasant feeling of familiarity with Rory. Whatever comes next, he'll take this right now.

"I've heard others here talk about New York," said Cassian. "Though they referred to it" not "a" but "the" city "more as if it were its own planet."

[oncewasroman]

Rory chuckles, "I suppose in some ways one might consider New York City to be it's own planet." It was certainly strange, but not as strange as other places he had been. Honestly, New York City was rather tame when you compared it to the whole of space and time. Certainly bustling and thriving, but just like any major city on Earth. Oh, sure, it had it's specialties and quirks, but it was hardly out of the ordinary.

Maybe that's why Rory hadn't minded ending up there too much, especially not now that he was reassured that Amy would more than likely (somehow) end up there with him.

However, the comment does make Rory curious. Most people are going to have heard of New York City if they're from Earth -- past, present, or future -- so it's strange that Cassian seems to be unsure about it. "I'm guessing you're not from Earth."

[candor1]

Cassian doesn't judge anyone based on the technological level of their home civilization; but in his compromised state, it is something of a relief to talk to someone who just demonstrated a comparable perception/perspective of scale. Spacefaring. Thank the Whills. It means he doesn't have to conceal his own.

"Many planet names in the language of their inhabitants mean 'Earth'," said Cassian. The next with the wry self-deprecation one can only use for their own origins: "But the name of the one I was born on means 'Rock' so, whichever one is yours, no, probably not. Where were you 'originally from'?"

[oncewasroman]

Rory hadn't thought of that before. The Doctor had mainly taken them to planets with exotic names -- if they had heard the name of the planet at all. Of course, it could be that the names had meant Earth/Rock. It did make a kind of sense. Rory shrugs it off though, smiling to himself, "That makes sense. Guess I never thought about it before. Well, the planet was Earth. The country was called England and the town I lived in was barely a blip on a map. I suppose I could try to explain the universe and galaxy--but I'm not sure if it would really mean much."

"People don't get very creative with names for planets, do they?" he adds, focusing once again on the hand he's supposed to be working on, he's wrapping it in cloth now, since that's about all he can do.

I

[frankensteinian]

He's not sure why he agreed to go explore the ruins, when they've been explored already, and he's not much of a people person, but he is curious about this place where he's found himself, and he wants to have at least some idea of what's going on here. So after some contemplation, he decides to show up anyway.

He meets Cassian at the agreed-upon place. "Good afternoon."

[candor1]

(Cassian isn't sure why Erik agreed either. Nor entirely why he himself offered. …Chalk it up to… "assessing possible allies or enemies" was too grim. Call it "networking". Still, he hadn't taken for granted that Erik would show up. He wasn't really feeling things like pleased lately, but he appreciated the other man's decision.)

"Afternoon," repeated Cassian with an amiable nod. He indicated the scene before them. "How would you like to proceed?"


[OOC: how'd you like to proceed? could handwave actual exploring/notating and skip to lunch? or one of them finds something that gives them feels from their past? or have one of them fall down a hole with something metal around? or…? ;-) ]

[frankensteinian]

"This was your idea," Erik reminds him. "I want more of an idea of what exactly is happening here, and who's doing it." Which he supposes is what everyone wants right about now. "It makes no sense to go over the same areas twice, so I'd start with something systematic."

[ooc: I want both the feels and the metal stuff. Hmmmm. Maybe we could find a way to do both? Whatever gives them feels would have to be more esoteric, because there aren't actual objects from either of their worlds here.]

ii;

[repressings]

He thinks Cassian is touched. He has to be. People have accused Credence of being soft in the head too, of course, because Credence is quiet and when he does speak up, it's usually something strained or blurted, something strange and unusual. It's why he tends not to talk.

The village hasn't changed that--with the arrival of Mr. Graves he's been keeping a steady eye on him, unsure and hopeful all at once. He supposes Kira is most likely glad that he's no longer shadowing him like a small child or an unwanted pet. Eventually, though, he walks.

Credence finds solace in walking, and ever since Jess had given him his first knife he keeps it on him at all times. The necklace he'd received from the observers is a strange addition to his person, not on him but tucked in his pockets. It's both wanted and unwanted, like the whispers he hears in the back of his head during times of extreme duress.

Here, Credence isn't touched. He's simply a strange boy--man, he's seen as a man here, twenty-one: this isn't Mary Lou Barebone's church--that sometimes says strange things.

Cassian doesn't give him that impression. The strange impression, yes, but also touched. Sick, maybe, not physically. Credence doesn't feel pity. He empathizes.

Today, on his walk, he spots Cassian and the way he's behaving strikes him as nothing unusual. Odd for others, maybe, but for Cassian--the strangely temperamental Cassian, the man who started off horribly on the wrong foot with him, only to soften once he caught Credence in a whirlwind of panic--it seems par for the course. A thrown rock with something on it, a jump and a miss, and Credence, brows knit, can only stare.

Is he...

Is he crying?

"Sir?" Credence keeps his voice soft and level, deeming it unwise to raise his voice--not that he ever does.