trans_9 | He Holds His Crayon Rosary [Open]

It's been a long time since Howard engaged in some harmless graffiti. Two years, if not a little more. He's exhausted from a long shift in Med Bay and then hitting the Media Library for his new Leon-appointed position, but it seems like the urge to vandalize things has been pent up for so long that he has all the energy in the world to do this.

The memory-statues and painting under the giant lit-up head in the Art Hall are as good a place as any. Using permanent marker, some pink spraypaint and his knife, he starts to carve and mark things into the shifting wall.

DGIG KILLED 1ST CREW

STACY WIPES MINDS

DON'T TRUST THEM

The paintings and statues shift and mold to his memories, images both calm and terrifying, images he remembers and ones he's long forgotten. There's him playing basketball in his driveway. There's Orc's face torn open by flesh-eating worms. There's a massacre, and there's a busy cafeteria, and there's Disneyland, there's the first time he broke his nose and there's him sleeping in math class. The statue becomes a child's corpse and then an impatient P.E. coach and then his grandmother. On the wall, the images keep shifting, but the marks he's making stay where they are, black and pink and chiseled.

WRITE IT ALL DOWN

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"He might be in the pods somewhere. I've seen more useless people than random wizards," Howard says, both completely tactless and almost reading Cedric's mind.

Howard nods. "I don't know. Maybe. I liked the swings, it was something you could do by yourself." He shrugs and his mouth forms a self-effacing smirk. "I was never really the best at making friends, obviously."

"Er...thanks." Cedric thinks that's the right answer. He doesn't know anymore.

"I figured that was the case," he says gently, finishing one carving and starting to find a place for another. "But here we are."

Howard glances over at Cedric as the statue and painting shift again, aging a few years, them as pre-teens. Howard's probably eleven or twelve in the painting, grabbing something from a locker, but the guarded, skulking posture has already set itself into his body language. His young face has already set into a shrewd, calculating smirk.

"We're friends?" He doesn't ask sarcastically, but curiously. Like he's not sure he'd call it that but not ready to just deny it.

Cedric almost smiles at his own scene. He's perched on a stool in robes that are slightly too big, an enormous wizard's hat covering his head down to his nose. He's gripping the sides of the stool tightly, hoping for a good Sorting---what will his friends at Hogwarts be like? That was so long ago.

"I'd say so. He's loking at the painting with a quiet resignation. That's Howard's life, it always has been. Wishing won't change that---now is all the time he has. "You still disagree?" he asks in a neutral tone.

Howard feels like his mouth's dry. He chews on his thumbnail. "I don't know what I think right now, okay? I mean...is that okay?"

Weird to see little Cedric looking so excited. Howard realizes that while he's seen Cedric happen or anticipatory, there's a pureness Cedric lost too before arriving on Stacy. Maybe the shadow of death is following them both.

It hurts, but it's not as if Cedric's not used to Howard's uncertainty. It's his job to understand and be patient.

"It's okay," he says, staring intently at the painting. Howard's gotten bigger, far more cynical---it's just how things are, as hopeful as Cedric still is that there can be happiness.

As if to complete Howard's thoughts, the statue shifts to the image Cedric dreads most: the graveyard. Cedric's standing with another teen, both their wands out. A shorter man stands in the shadows, cradling something that looks like a deformed infant in one arm. In the other, he's also holding a wand, pointed at Cedric.

The nature of the short man's spell is made obvious by the expression on Cedric's face: pure horror. His life's blinking out, and there's nothing he can do to stop it.

TRUST THE DALIGIG AND DIE, Cedric carves in response.

Howard does something generally unusual for him, breaking that personal bubble. He reaches over and grabs Cedric's wrist, not in a violent or restrictive way but in a silent show of support.

He stares at the statue, at the look of terror on Cedric's face. He's seen that expression on other people's faces too, other children, but he cares about Cedric, so it's different. It twists something up deep in his stomach.

Which, he guesses, means they're friends.

And the statue begins to shift again, to something benign, but the damage is done.

It's probably good that Howard intervened when he did. Cedric is seconds away from some rather violent stabbing in his efforts to make a mark, but the hand makes him pause. He turns his head to look, surprised.

You try so hard to pretend not to care.

And that thought brings the smile back to his face, if only a small one. He mouths silent thanks, lowering his carving implements and sitting back on his heels. They can talk now, at least.

"You said you know things."

Once Cedric seems to have calmed down a bit, Howard retracts his hand. The same way he does with Orc, a touch here or there to keep rage from boiling over into something dangerous, something the people he cares about would regret.

And internally he's cursing that he's let Cedric join that circle. It's not that he tries to pretend not to care - he tries not to care at all. People to love are people to worry about, people to take on as responsibilities, and he has enough of those.

"I know everything. That's how I stay alive." Where others make do with strength or magic or superpowers or charm, all he has is his wits. A keen instinct and smarts have always been the thin divide between him and death - that, and luck. "What do you want to know?"

Cedric nods. Howard's always keeping his edge with knowledge---I know more than you, I can handle this better. That's what he does. So if anyone's to know what's happening, it's going to be Howard.

"What's going on here, for a start," Cedric whispered, gesturing to the messages "I know this, but are the others really going to...?"

"Going to what? We've put the information on the comms. It's in the Media Library. And we're writing it down everywhere. The only way I could make it more obvious is if we announced it over the loudspeaker every morning." Howard tilts his head over as if that isn't the worst idea he's had lately.

"There've been rumors going around about forcing the Daligig off the ship. Command thinks there's a way we could get control of the ship but they have reason to believe the Daligig could repod us. Not to mention Stacy's running on a pre-programmed course, and if we don't diverge they're going to be waiting for us at every single pitstop."

"That's what I wanted," Cedric whispers in response to the last half. "I want it. I mean...we're alive, but what's the point if we're being pulled like marionettes?"

Life can feel like a puppet show, but the manipulation here is far more blatant.

"There's plenty of point to being alive even when you're being tugged around. The point is not being dead." As much as quality of life can be quibbled over, a little evil overlord control isn't enough to make Howard pop an existential questions. "I think Ildraniath's organizing something."

"Agreed," Cedric can finally say. He thinks he's finally starting to get better about that.

"So I should go and find her if I want to know?"

"She's holding a meeting soon. That'll fill you in, and I'll keep you in the loop for everything after that."

He Holds His Crayon Rosary [Open]

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Thought I tagged this back, /failboats.

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/wrap?