bigapplesauce | History Obliterates [closed]

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History Obliterates [closed]

Steven is finally gone, and the Balladeer is alone with himself.

He needed this. He hates to be alone, but he needed this. For days the knowledge (and lack thereof) of what he's done has been crawling under his skin like a physical itch - the one assassin he should be most familiar with, and all he knows is what Greta relayed to him second-hand, from a search somebody did on their cell phone. It's funny. It's really very funny.

One way or another, he ought to know everything about this lost assassination. Either it's his job, or it's his. So once he's alone, he takes himself to a library and gets out every reasonable book he can find, plus a few documentaries on DVD. There seems to be a lot of ridiculous conspiracy theories surrounding the whole thing; sadly, he can't quite convince himself any of them could be true. If Lee Harvey Oswald was a patsy, the Balladeer would never have any connection with him at all.

(The stop at the liquor store is an afterthought, a whim built on memories of a thousand morose drinking sessions he never joined. He wonders bitterly if Sam would laugh, and buys whiskey the man could never afford.)

He goes home and spends the day reading. At some point, he opens a bottle. He meant to eat something with it - that helps, right? - but instead he ends up putting one of the documentaries on to watch. He just needs to know.

He loses track of time.

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"Prob'ly not," the Balladeer disagrees. He hasn't been here long at all. The metaphorical blood is clearly still on his metaphorical hands. But he lets Greta tug him upright anyway, and gets his feet underneath himself once he's in a position to. She's probably not going to let it go, and he doesn't want to make her try and drag him around.

Once up, he stumbles a little and catches himself on the edge of the sink. "I just - I went in here 'cause I heard you coming," he admits. It didn't make any difference anyway.

Greta slings his arm over her shoulders, ready (and hopefully able) to take on some of his weight if he needs her to. She's not sure if his admission is meant to double as an apology or not, but that seems like the most sensible way to take it. There's plenty for her to disapprove of here already; she doesn't need to add 'made a rubbish attempt to hide from me' to the list.

"It's all right," she says instead, helping him out of the tub and over to the doorway. She wavers there for a minute, weighing the benefits of 'closer to the kitchen' against 'farther from all the research materials,' then elects to steer him out towards the couch. It'll be easier to keep an eye on him out there. She doesn't like the thought of him re-immersing himself in Lee Harvey Oswald's exploits, but as far as research goes, the damage has been done. He probably won't be able to do much reading in his current state, anyway.

They lurch unsteadily out into the living room, Greta nudging bottles and books aside with her foot until she can deposit him onto the couch. He comes perilously close to taking her down with him, but she manages to catch herself with a little squawk. "There we are," she says a bit breathlessly, straightening. "Sit tight. I'm going to get you some water."

And then what? she wonders as she putters to the kitchen. Tidy up the incriminating library books? Somehow convince him he isn't to blame for any of this? Much as she wants to help him, she doesn't really know what she's doing. This is so much more complicated than a timed scavenger hunt.

The Balladeer flops down onto the couch. Time to go back to what he was doing before Greta arrived! At that point, that consisted of staring at the documentary's menu screen and rethinking his life.

Steven said that he'd been himself up until he passed out on the couch. But the Balladeer doesn't remember any of that. What if it keeps happening that way, with him not there and no one knowing any different? Is he even safe to be around? He makes a sad humming noise in the back of his throat and turns to pick up one of the books.

It's true that he's not in a state to be reading right now. Fortunately, he has already read some of them! "Did you - " He holds one up above his head so that Greta can see from the kitchen. It's got his picture on the cover; not his, exactly, but close enough to be uncanny. "Did you know that I was a really shitty husband?" He snorts and drops the book. "'S the kinda stuff I'd put in a song...but I'm not doin' one. It's probably cheating?" No, no, that would definitely be cheating.

Greta leans back from behind the refrigerator door to take a dutiful look at the book the Balladeer's waving at her. She can't help wincing at the sight of Lee Harvey Oswald's face, so like the Balladeer's, but not. Similarly unsettling is his talk of being a terrible husband. She hadn't really thought of Oswald being married, having children - god, his poor family - but she also can't reconcile such details as applied to her friend. It's hard to imagine the Balladeer as anyone's husband, if only because he'd never seemed particularly interested in such things. But it's especially hard to imagine him as a bad one.

She crosses back to the couch, glass in hand. "Here," she says, making sure he has a good grip on it before letting go. Probably best not to damage library books with an accidental spill. Actually, that's a fine excuse to move some of these away. Greta makes a stack, starting with the ones closest to the potential spill zone.

"Do you remember any of it?" she asks, glancing up at him. "Wife, family...?" Oswald hadn't remembered anything of being the Balladeer, as far as she could tell. She'd assumed it would go both ways, but what if she's wrong?

The Balladeer shakes his head, wrapping both hands around the glass. "Nopeeeee," he replies, popping the P. "Not even a little. Weird, right?" He can't imagine himself being married. He can hardly even imagine himself in a relationship with anyone. Maybe it's just because Greta and Iman are the first people he's ever known who were romantic and...well, not deeply disturbed about it? It does seem like the kind of thing all the normal, not sort-of maybe fictional people are into.

He takes a sip of water, folding his legs up onto the couch like an unnecessarily pointy pretzel. "It was Marina, and June, and...and...shit, there's another one. Where's...gimme one o'the books." Isn't he supposed to have a good memory for detail? It's sort of important.

"Not that weird," she says, gathering the last of the books on the coffee table and adding it to the stack. "When I saw Oswald, and spoke with him..." she hesitates, frowning at the memory, then lifts her head to give the Balladeer a level look. "There wasn't even a crumb of you in him. He was a complete stranger to us - and us to him. Maybe it's not so surprising that you don't remember his life at all."

Frankly, it's a relief that the divide between the two of them is still so absolute. She's not sure how she would have felt if Oswald's life and memories had started bleeding their way into the Balladeer's mind. It's better that he doesn't remember, she thinks - better that this all be something he read in a book or watched on television and not something he lived.

She arches an eyebrow at his request, then pointedly slides the stack down to the far side of the coffee table, out of easy reach. "Drink your water," she orders. "You'll have to sober up a bit before you're ready for more reading." She gathers up the empty bottles, then straightens and gives the Balladeer an assessing look. "When was the last time you ate anything?"

The Balladeer struggles a little to reach the books - without actually moving - but manages to stop himself short of actual complaint. Fine, forget the other kid. He'll figure out their name later. It'd be rude to include them in the song anyway; they're only kids. They have to live with it their whole lives. "It's weird," he insists instead, and takes another sip of water. "There's...nothing about it that's not weird. Like...like my entire life is weird, Greta."

Honestly, that doesn't seem to require further explanation. She gets it. He chugs some more water. "I got lunch when - when the library. Trip." It's like she doesn't trust him to feed himself!

...granted, lunch was quite a few hours ago by now. But he hasn't had an appetite.

"Fair enough," she mutters under her breath as she takes the bottles over to the sink. She returns with one of the muffins, sets it within easy reach, and then settles down on the couch beside the Balladeer. "You should eat that," she says, giving his knee an encouraging pat. "You'll feel better."

From here, she can see the DVD menu screen looping on the television. Ugh. She casts about for the remote, finds it wedged between the cushions, and pries it out so she can turn off the screen. Better. She sets the remote aside - also out of easy reach, lest the Balladeer decide it would be easier to torment himself with a film than a book - then shifts to face him, propping her arm up on the back of the couch and her head up on her hand.

"So, have any of the other assassins gone on guilty drinking sprees, or just you?" she asks dryly. She can guess at the answer.

The Balladeer tilts his head back thoughtfully. "Guilty ones? Naaaaah. Usually Sam'll just...y'know, he's always talkin' about his stupid beer, and then they'll all relax for a while." Those times might have seemed like respites. Maybe for the others, they were. Not for him. At least being out in the field was generally a one-on-one situation. Everything became more volatile in groups, and sitting quietly in a corner while the assassins conversed was never quite his style.

"Usually ends up with a fight," he concludes, waving a hand dismissively. "Leon'll get pissy, or...or someone says somethin' about Jodie Foster." It could be any of a hundred things. None of them were exactly emotionally stable people.

It occurs to him that Greta doesn't know who most of the people he just mentioned are. "Jodie Foster's an actress." Is that helpful at all?

Greta listens to his slurred explanation, trying to picture it in her mind. It's been some time since she saw the Balladeer's universe (or it's dream-based equivalent), or heard him talk about it. She hadn't really wanted to press for details after that first time. It had all sounded so unpleasant - and, yes, weird - that just letting him enjoy the break had seemed... kinder.

So much for that.

He's naming assassins she's never met (though she recognizes 'Leon' - that's the Polish one Johnny mentioned), but the details don't matter as much as the larger picture she's trying to put together: that the Balladeer is nothing like the rest of them.

She suspects he already knows that. Even now, he's talking about the pack of them as if he's not included. She wonders, suddenly, if it was because the Balladeer kept himself apart, or because the rest of them never tried to draw him in.

"Did any of them ever... I don't know. Say anything to you? Hint at anything?" She frowns thoughtfully. "Do you think they knew? About Oswald, I mean." It's hard to imagine Sara Jane keeping a straight face, or Booth not being insufferably smug about it, if so.

Then again, maybe that explains why they tolerated the Balladeer's antagonism instead of lashing out at him. Maybe they knew he had things to do besides just telling their stories.

The Balladeer runs a hand through his hair, curling in on himself a little. "I dunno."

He's been wondering that himself for days. He can't begin to define the amount of time he spent there, but he's been running through it all in his head. Were there signs? He's always thought he knew them like the back of his hand - they can't all keep secrets that well. Even if he never discovered exactly what it was, he'd have realized there was one.

Wouldn't he?

"It's like..like, time's weird," he tries to explain. "So if I were gonna...go, it'd be hard to tell?" There wasn't enough continuity that he's certain he'd notice a blackout. Finding himself somewhere new suddenly was commonplace. "They never really acted like it. Except maybe at the end? Things got scary right before I left - like, right before." He sounds morosely thoughtful. It's a topic he hasn't dwelled on much until now; he ended up here and safe, so it didn't seem to matter.

Greta hums in agreement. She'd taken it as a given that the Balladeer would never have remembered turning into Oswald - he didn't when it happened here, and that was without the added complication of time behaving oddly. But that only excuses him, not the rest of them. Could they really have kept it a secret? Would they have even felt the need to? How many secrets can there be in a universe where the same stories play out over and over, and they all sit around and drink between sessions?

The Balladeer's explanation takes a sudden turn for the alarming, and Greta lifts her head off her hand. She hasn't heard this part of the story before, but there's already something a little too resonant about things getting bad just before a Rift intervention. "What happened?" She scoots a bit closer so she can lay her hand on his shoulder. "What did they do?"

"Iiiii don't...know," the Balladeer replies, focusing hard on the memories he has. They're clear enough, but a lot was happening all at once. "I said some stuff - nothing new, but they got pretty upset. And the music went funny! It was sort of a - a mob situation?" He sounds pretty casual about it. Mobs happen from time to time!

But he frowns, gesturing at the air. "Usually, it's not...I know they're not gonna do anything. They don't like me, but they're not gonna shoot me for real. That'd be stupid! But this time they were just...different."

The Balladeer shrugs. Despite the time that's passed, he seems somewhat wounded by the recollection. He'd felt like he was in real danger. It's not that he'd trusted them, exactly. It's just that he thought he knew where they all stood. The whole thing felt like being at home and having the floor suddenly drop out from under you. "So they were all comin' at me, and I was cornered, so I kinda tried to get out somewhere else, but it didn't go right. Rift got me instead." He's still not entirely clear on if he got out and then was grabbed, or if he never would have escaped at all otherwise. "It was confusing for a minute. I thought - " he snorts " - I thought maybe it was just a new one, like they'd let the President go to Central Park for some reason."

"They mobbed you," she repeats, caught somewhere between concerned and stunned. That doesn't seem like them, from her admittedly limited perspective. What were they even trying to do? Kill him? Would that have allowed Oswald to sort of... step in? The thought makes her shiver, but it's only a guess, and not much of one. There's just no clear path between 'the assassins ganged up on the Balladeer' and 'the Balladeer became Lee Harvey Oswald' (if that's even how it happened, or what would have happened).

It's not as if he needed anyone else's help for the change to occur here. Steven is about as far from a gang of murderers as it's possible to get, and the Balladeer didn't die, he just fainted for a few moments. But the assassins turning on him feels too significant to just be a coincidence. She can't see how it relates, but she also can't see how it wouldn't.

"Nothing like that happened before?" she asks. If it did take mobbing him to make him turn into Oswald, and it's something that had happened over and over, would he at least remember the 'being mobbed' part? Maybe he wouldn't.

Ugh. This is all so... mad. She might have a whole stack of personal reasons for wanting to downplay any connection between that horrible man and her friend, but even if she didn't, it's proving to be an awfully elusive connection.

The Balladeer shakes his head in the negative, shrugging in an expansive gesture. It was a very vivid experience, being cornered. He feels like he'd remember if it had happened before. If he didn't, surely they would. And then it'd be all over their faces every time he argued with them.

"I'm - I know when they're lying," he insists, and immediately doubts his own certainty. He's been certain about a lot of things. They've all been proven wrong. "I think. Who knows what I know?"

He lets his head drop back against the arm of the couch, letting out a rather weak chuckle. "I'm such a - a hypocrite."

And down he goes. Greta watches him keel over, wincing in a sort of weary resignation. It's good that they're talking about this, but she still wishes--

... Well. There's not much point in wishing, anymore.

"No, you're not," she says, giving his arm an encouraging rub. "You didn't remember any of Oswald's business. You still don't. I'm still not convinced you're even the same person." She leans forward a little, trying to catch his gaze. "Regardless, you can't blame yourself for not remembering. That's not your fault."

The Balladeer pulls his arm away, draping it over his eyes. He can't quite bear to be comforted, and certainly doesn't want to meet her gaze. "I should've known. Why'd there just be killers and a - a guy with a guitar?" Ugh. It sounds ridiculous when you say it out loud. It sort of always did, he supposes, but...it's all a little more logical now.

"And here's me acting like - " Like he's superior. Like he's not just as much a monster as anyone else in that place. Like he speaks for the country. There's too much to say, so he just waves his other hand in a sharp, hopeless gesture.

Greta sighs when he shrugs her off, but pulls her hand back. She doesn't want to smother him, and she certainly knows how it feels to not think you deserve any comfort.

Still, that doesn't mean she has to take any of this quietly. "No disrespect to your universe," she says with a disapproving little frown that suggests all the disrespect, actually, "but it never did make that much sense. It wasn't even just you and them; there were other people - crowds of other people. How could you possibly have known?"

Edited 2016-04-02 22:48 (UTC)

"They don't count. They're not even real." He regrets it as soon as he's said it. That's not fair. At some point in time, somewhere else, they were. The Balladeer has never discounted the presidents, after all, even if they're just as oblivious to him as all the bystanders. It's a slippery slope. Even if they weren't dead at the end of things, they matter as much as anybody.

He sighs and tries to figure out how to correct himself. "No, I mean - they weren't there." It was only memories of them. They'd done nothing to deserve being trapped like that. He snorts. "They might've been more real than me, I dunno."

There's a considering pause as Greta wonders how best to respond to all this. She's yet to plainly state some of their collective theories from the other day. Part of her worried that 'it was all some sort of fiction' would be too overwhelming on top of everything else... but if he's drinking himself into a state because he feels personally responsible for things that happened decades ago in this universe, well. Maybe the thought that he was just playing a role would be a comfort.

"You know," she starts cautiously, "the other day, when we were trying to figure all this out, we thought... well, we guessed that your universe might not be... real, exactly." That might not be the best way to put it, but he used the term, first. "That it sounded more like a story, with the way things kept repeating. Maybe not a book, because of all the music, but something like a - a show, or a play."

It sounds a bit mad, and she's not sure she's helping, but she barrels onward, anyway. "We were looking up some of the assassins, like Booth, and none of the pictures from history look quite right, not like how I remember from that dream. Maybe none of them were really who they... were." Her brow furrows. Is that really the best she can do, clarity-wise?

She rubs her forehead and sighs. "I think I might need a drink," she mutters.

For such a wild theory, the Balladeer barely seems to react. Instead, he lifts his arm from his face, tilts his head, and peers in the direction of the television without really seeming to see it.

"History, story," he says, turning away again after a moment. "Same thing after a while. 'S no audience here, so this is probably realer." There never has been, to the point that he stopped looking for them months ago. He can't even see the space where they used to exist, but he hasn't yet lost that trick of the eyes that let him distinguish it to begin with. The absence was one of the first things he noticed when he arrived; he just never let it bother him terribly. Before, working himself into an existential crisis when he so clearly did exist hadn't seemed worth it.

As it turns out, his physical presence is maybe not the sure sign of reality he thought it was.

Reaching down, he fishes around for a bottle. Greta's moved them, though, and the ones here were probably all empty anyway. "'Smore in the kitchen, I think. Didn't know what I wanted." If he bought enough alcohol, surely he'd hit on at least one he liked.

Greta's midway through getting to her feet when the Balladeer mentions an audience, and she then she wavers for a moment before straightening. Has he ever mentioned that before? No, she definitely would have remembered.

And she definitely needs a drink.

Iman has given her enough in the way of cocktail lessons for her to not be at a complete loss. Granted, she doesn't have the usual ingredients at her disposal, but there's vodka, and juice in the fridge. It's not terribly sophisticated, but it'll do.

"There was an audience?" she asks as she pours a modest measure of vodka in the bottom of a glass and fills the rest with orange juice. "You could see them? They saw you?" She gives her head a slow shake, rejoining him on the couch. "That sounds... distracting."

The Balladeer remains prone on the couch as Greta goes to make her drink. See, she understands the need for alcohol now.

Her careful comment - she doesn't know what to say, that's why he never told - just makes him shrug. "Seems like...like it'd be weird not to know your future." Actually, it's incredibly normal. But linear time was an interesting thing to get used to. It could have been distressing, to live in such uncertainty after an utterly predictable existence, but he's always been able to roll with things.

Point being, anything is normal if you've always lived with it. "Nobody else saw 'em. Just me, just sort of - " He lifts a hand, and it wavers up and down for a few seconds before he finishes, " - thereish." It's not a good demonstration, but he's not sure how to really indicate it. "Like one of those trick pictures."

"So it was like a play," she says, taking a pensive sip. "And if no one else could see them, that means you were different from the rest of them. Like the narrator." Iman was right. Or so it seems, anyway.

She falls into a thoughtful silence for a few moments. There's still no obvious connection between the Balladeer and Oswald, no obvious reason why the narrator would suddenly turn into one of his own subjects. The only inciting incident they might have is the assassins mobbing him, though she can't - or perhaps just doesn't want to - imagine how that would lead to Oswald's appearance.

"Maybe," she hazards, speaking slowly as the idea takes shape, "when they all ganged up on you, whatever they were trying to do... maybe that would have led to you turning into Oswald, but the Rift took you before it could happen. That might be why you don't remember any of it. It just... didn't happen, for you." She raises her eyebrows at him. "Even if it could have happened, I mean..." she gestures towards the stacked books with her glass, "you didn't do any of this. You're not even from here."

"It's the same thing," he insists fiercely. His world had that much reality; it had to have done, or there was no point to anything. "If I didn't do it here, I did it somewhere."

The other part is a little more tempting. But he can't really buy it, after a moment. "If it didn't happen, why'd it just happen?" He has, pretty incontrovertably, turned into Oswald. It didn't last, but who's to say it won't sometime? What is he going to do next November, or on the anniversary of Oswald's birth, or literally any other important time?

(The man's deathday has come and gone already with no change. That's some comfort.)

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