bigapplesauce | an unexpected failure to journey [closed]

Current Location: The Ramble
Current Music: August 27th

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an unexpected failure to journey [closed]

Usually he wakes up from disorientation in the woods, not to it. But today he's stirred by wind on his cheek, rustling leaves and branches, birds sounding much more present than they would from beyond a hotel window. He feels suspended somehow, no solid support beneath his back. He's upright, but he's not on the ground either. What...?

Full consciousness comes abruptly and painfully when he jerks and flails, or tries to flail, quickly stymied by the thorny tendrils that are tangled all around his limbs and torso, pinning him to the unruly underbrush growing around the trees. The brambles aren't very extensive, but he is definitely in their midst, held him fairly fast a few inches off the ground.

Okay then.

Ordinarily he'd think he was dreaming but he's gotten a little too good at knowing the difference. He's definitely awake. He doesn't remember leaving the hotel, doesn't remember anything happening that could possibly explain this. Even with that he doesn't quite panic. This might as well happen. Rift life is already so goddamn weird. Every day is a gambit of refreshing normalcy and staggering weirdness.

He's not tightly restrained and the branches aren't that thick - he's pretty sure he could escape if he could just...

"Ow!" he snaps as the thorns snag at his clothing and prick him all up and down his arms. God dammit. He lets out a frustrated sigh. "Cool. All right."

He pulls his hands into fists and tries to move his legs. His jeans protect him little, but he really can't get good enough leverage to tear himself free. He tries again, a few different ways, and finds it becoming almost increasingly difficult, every time making the minor pains a little worse. He can't even reach his hand to his pocket, though he can feel his phone in there. Finally he just releases his tension, hangs there, defeated.

So what is he supposed to do, just wait for someone to stumble upon him? Maybe if he can get some animal's attention he could ask it to find Daine? He looks around for squirrels or birds but none are close enough, and if a person does happen along he'd really rather not be entangled in brambles and yelling at random birds.

This is the Ramble, right? It has to be. The TARDIS must be somewhere around here, not close enough that he can feel her, but. Maybe she can see him, send someone to help.

Or he could just pray.

No. Not like this. If they're going to talk again it's not going to be for something like this. It's going to be because Johnny goes back on his own.

Which leaves him with nothing to do but wait.

He settles in as well as he can and definitely does not sulk.

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As nice as it would be to get out of these fucking brambles, Johnny finds himself marginally uncomfortable with the offer of help from someone he doesn't consider a friend. "I don't know if that's gonna work out well for any of us," he says hesitantly. He nods toward Greta's scraped up hands. "I don't want you getting hurt." (Is that the plural or the singular 'you' there? Does it matter.) "Any more than I want anyone trying to pull me out of here." He's cut up enough thank you.

"Anyway, look, if the rift is actually cursing us, like if you can't stop lying, I don't know that it's going to let me go. You should see if you can get her out of here." He's not wholly certain what Greta's affliction is, perhaps other than a failing sense of direction. This asshole seems like her and vice versa, so maybe they can help each other. And if this doesn't wear off someone can come back with shears.

"They're only brambles," Greta says, hands akimbo. Is he really asking them to not even try? "And they don't seem inclined to, er, come after anyone else, so we should be able to handle them without getting bound up."

Whether she could get out of here or not comes second. She, at least, isn't rooted to one spot and in constant discomfort. Fixing Johnny with a stern look, she adds, "I'm not just abandoning you here, and I don't mind a few more cuts and scrapes if it gets you out." To illustrate her point, she resumes plucking and tugging at the outermost layer of tangled vines, her lips pressed together in a determined line.

"Are they really that bad?" The Balladeer agrees with Greta that they should be able to get Johnny out of there. He isn't that wrapped up. Johnny isn't exactly his favorite person in the city, but Greta seems to like him, so they can't just abandon him here. Were they alone...well, that'd be a little different, but he thinks he probably wouldn't ditch him then either.

As Greta goes after the vines, he steps forward as well, watching her work for a moment before circling to pluck at another likely-looking snare. "We won't even try. If it works, we can stay here and not go get some tools." He figures it won't take too long to see if this is going to work out or not. From there, they can either get him out altogether or get out of these woods already and try to regroup. If nothing else, someone's going to have to bring him some food and water if these curses really DO last a few days.

There's a lot happening here. Greta's not willing to abandon him, that's - that's something, he's not sure what, touching, maybe? But he wouldn't think of it that way anyway. She'd be taking care of herself. Leaving behind something that shouldn't be poked at. That thing he never did. People should trust him when he tells them to leave something alone.

And speaking of, this other guy, Johnny had sure fucking hoped never to see him again. He'd never be so lucky. He doesn't want that guy anywhere near him, especially not when he's with someone else. Greta already knows too much about him, and this guy is like a ticking time bomb of knowing shit he shouldn't.

Come to that, would sending the two of them off alone really be a good idea? He could tell her anything and Johnny wouldn't be able to stop him.

Meanwhile he's still being infuriatingly helpful and friendly. This would be so much easier if he would just be an asshole.

Johnny winces, sucking air through his teeth as one of them pulls something that ends up tightening the loop around one of his arms. He gasps softly as the thorns dig back into his flesh. "Okay not helping," he says somewhat raggedly. "Seriously, Greta, I don't know if this is gonna work."

Greta stills when Johnny hisses in pain. Maybe it's just a result of the Balladeer's efforts, but she could swear she actually sees the vines resettle themselves more snugly around their victim. She drops her hands with a huff of frustration. They're getting nowhere, at least like this.

"I'm sorry," she says, brushing a few stray hairs out of her face. "Maybe if we had scissors or something, at least we wouldn't be making things worse."

She turns to the Balladeer, wondering how much she can fairly ask of him. It seems he and Johnny know one another, and it doesn't seem as if they're exactly friends. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to go get something? We could, er," she flounders a moment, arms gesturing vaguely as she tries to come up with a plan that will make everyone happy. "What if you did try to get me out of here? Then we could both bring back things for Johnny if it works, and if it doesn't, you can get something sharp and some water or something, and I'll just try to find my way back to this spot."

That seems reasonable enough. The two of them could carry more than just one of them, and if anyone wouldn't mind leading her out of here by the hand without it being uncomfortable, it's the Balladeer. And either way, she's going to end up back here - she won't just leave Johnny to his own devices.

As soon as Greta stops her efforts, the Balladeer does as well, stepping back to eye the vines - and Johnny. He's not at all willing to leave this guy alone with Greta. Sure, they've apparently been alone together all day without any issues, but he's also been strung up in thorns. What if he happens to get down?

"That's a terrible idea," he says agreeably as she changes her plan. Good; he needs to talk to her about this anyway. The leaves crunch beneath his feet as he circles back around to Johnny's front, offering her a hand and nodding his head in the direction out. "Not worth trying at all."

Johnny shoots him a look. Suddenly he wishes he hadn't suggested this at all. He has a very bad fucking feeling in the pit of his stomach that if Greta goes off with this guy she's going to be learning a little too much about him. She's seen it firsthand, of course. What she knows is almost just as bad - but it's different. She's different.

But what can he say? He doesn't want to expose any of it in front of her. She seems to trust this asshole, and anyway she can probably take care of herself.

"Good luck," he says weakly, nodding his head toward them.

"We'll be back," she promises Johnny, pressing her lips together in a determined expression that doesn't quite qualify as a smile. For all that he initially suggested that the two of them try leaving, he doesn't seem too pleased by the idea, now. She can't say she blames him - goodness knows she wouldn't like being left alone like this - but it is, unfortunately, the best idea they have.

Well, best to get it over with. She takes the Balladeer's hand and lets him lead her out of the clearing. "Having someone drag me out by the hand is the only thing I haven't tried," she says, keeping her tone conversational in the hopes of lending Johnny some courage for as long as he can still hear her. "If I stick to the path, I just end up going in circles, and if I try to follow someone, they vanish right before my eyes. I tried just picking a direction and walking straight, but I think I covered more ground than I should have been able to, and that's when I stumbled across Johnny."

"Yeah?" The Balladeer doesn't look back to bid Johnny farewell, but he does dart a concerned glance at Greta. That must have been scary for her, to get so turned around in what is really not a huge piece of forest. Luckily he's got a good enough sense of direction; he's confident in how to get out himself.

That's an interesting curse though. Almost labyrinthine, and the thought that Johnny's here at the heart of it gives him a chill. He still doesn't entirely understand what he heard from that man, but he has fragments of dark hallways and spiral staircases, of mazes and ink. "How'd you end up here in the first place?" he asks, careful to keep his tone light. He wants to put more distance between them all before he tries to warn her about Johnny.

Greta glances up at him, a bit thrown for a moment by how sensible his questions sound as opposed to everything else he's been saying. Maybe his curse doesn't apply to questions. That makes more sense than the thought of him being deliberately disinterested in what happened to her, and she's definitely done assuming the worst of him.

"I just walked out of my apartment like... well, like I was under a spell," she admits with an embarrassed flap of her free hand. "Didn't think to bring my phone or anything but a little food. I don't even have my keys. I just... it felt very important that I go to the woods, and once I was here, I couldn't leave." She doesn't bother speaking of older curses or necessary journeys into the Woods. It doesn't matter now. There's no potion that will get her out of this mess.

Questions actually still work very well for him! He figures it's the difference between stating a fact and just asking for information. Probably. Who really knows?

"That explains nothing. Iman wasn't looking for you," he explains. She must not have even locked the door behind her when she ran out. "She was completely unconcerned." And...he'll just not even try to elaborate on their conversation any further. He doesn't know Iman well at all, but her feelings for Greta are her own to deal with - he's not going to risk spitting out anything bizarre about that.

They're farther away from Johnny now, almost back to the path. The Balladeer pauses for a second, glancing around to make sure they're properly alone. Once he's assured, he asks with a nod back over his shoulder, "How do you know him?"

Poor Iman. Greta can only imagine what it must have looked like, her door unlocked and her things left behind and no trace of her anywhere, and she winces at the thought of Iman just stumbling upon that scene. And then she texted Johnny and the Balladeer - goodness, how many people think she's missing? At least Iman knows she's all right.

"Johnny? I met him in a dream," Greta explains. "The poor lad's had a... a rough time of it, I think." She doesn't know that much about him, and he seems so private that she's not inclined to share what little information she has. But that rangy sort of quality that he has seems so evident to her, others must have noticed it, too. She doesn't expect a vague suggestion that he hasn't had the easiest of lives to shock anyone who's spent more than two minutes in his company.

Besides, it seems the Balladeer knows him already. "What about you?" she asks, though she quickly follows it up with, "Though I don't suppose you'd be able to explain it very well." What a bother. This must be driving the Balladeer mad.

Words fail him right now, but there's nothing convoluted about the Balladeer's scoff. "He heard me playing in the park. Everything was peaceful and great." Tilting his head slightly, he taps at the fading bruise along his cheekbone. That should speak for itself.

"Listen." He stops, lets go of her hand, and turns to speak to her in a low tone. "That guy is completely normal. Nothing wrong with him at all. I'm sure he's absolutely safe to be around." It's frustrating, trying to say something so vital in such a roundabout way, but his tone is obviously tense and wary. "I don't think that - there's nothing - "

He cuts himself off with a grumble. What is he trying to say? "He didn't do anything, and it's quiet!" is what he ends up saying, with an edge of desperation. Both because he knows that wasn't very helpful, and because it really is far too loud when he lets himself hear it. He can't pick it apart, he can't even understand all the words, and it's scary.

Wait, what? "Johnny struck you?" she translates, eyes widening. It's not that hard to imagine the lad lashing out (verbally if not physically), but it is hard to imagine the Balladeer doing anything threatening enough to warrant such a response. He might be blunt and unkind to one of his assassins (in a dream, no less), but to someone in the waking world? Someone who isn't even a murderer?

... He's not saying Johnny's a murderer, is he? He can't be.

She stops when he does, frowning up at him dubiously. "So you're saying he's... not normal." She knew that already. "Not safe." That's a bit more alarming, and harder to swallow, at least as far as she's concerned. He's talking about a young man who shrank from her as if her gentlest touch was a--a vicious blow, and that was before the poor lad fell apart in her arms. She can more easily imagine him harming himself than harming her.

"And he... did something... loud?" That part just doesn't make sense. "What, like he shouted at you?"

Edited 2015-03-30 22:22 (UTC)

"Well, no..."

The Balladeer winces, wagging his hand from side-to-side. Johnny certainly did shout, but that wasn't at all what he'd been trying to talk about. That didn't bother him.

Let's retrace this. He lifts his head, peering through the trees again for passerby even though he knows full well he'd have heard their footsteps in the leaves. This just sits wrong with him. "Do you remember what happened with Guiteau?" he asks in a low tone, clearly unhappy to be speaking of it in the waking world. It isn't that he's ashamed; he refuses to feel that, he's got nothing to hide. But now he's dragging his work after him, where he hadn't wanted it to come. Sure, he's supposed to keep those stories alive, but...

...okay, maybe he's holding a bit of a grudge.

Greta wrinkles her nose. That dream was some time ago, but she hasn't forgotten that oily little man. "I remember he was rude," she says. "And... stubborn." She furrows her brow, trying to call up details from what had been a rather complicated dream, when all was said and done. One resurfaces, and she looks at the Balladeer in alarm. "You said he tried to kill you."

But it can't have been that bad. He only has one bruise (at least that she can see, and there's an unpleasant thought). She can't believe Johnny would have honestly tried to kill the Balladeer, though - him or anyone else.

"No, he didn't," the Balladeer acknowledges, slightly impatiently. Everyone from back there tried to kill him at one time or another; it's not much of a novelty. "Johnny did too."

Honesty compels him to clear Johnny of that particular crime, but he doesn't mean it as much of a reassurance. "Okay, what I didn't do there...with the singing?" The need to resort to so many questioning statements, for once, actually does reflect his own complete confusion surrounding all of this. "I can't do that anymore. Especially not with Johnny. And I didn't hear anything - "

He shakes his head, looking at her with wide eyes. " - wrong."

Once she's parsed the first bit, she nods, relieved. So Johnny didn't attack the Balladeer in earnest; that's good news. But what follows is a bit more difficult to translate, in part because her understanding of what he used to do is a little vague, at best. She'd thought he knew their stories because he was forced to repeatedly view them. Is that... is that wrong?

"You sang about Guiteau," she says, her tone wavering from dutiful repetition - see, she remembers - and growing confusion. "About what he'd done, and why he'd done it, because you... knew. You can--you can still do that? With people besides the assassins, people just," she makes an all-encompassing gesture, "out in the city?" That doesn't seem possible, not unless he's repeating days without anyone noticing. And Johnny's nothing like Guiteau; he would never demand that someone sing his life story from the rooftops.

It's not technically wrong, but it's not really right either. The Balladeer had just assumed that she'd understood how he did what he did. Audiences always got it right away. If they started questioning where exactly his narration was coming from, nothing would ever get done. Then again, audiences didn't get to hear him explain how he lived out the same scenes over and over endlessly...or actually tend to interact with him as a person at all. Someday he's really going to have to learn not to use them as a benchmark for "regular folks".

"No, it's totally not possible," he says with a shrug, casually. As if reading people's lives through song is just a normal thing. Of course he's always known it isn't, and since talking to Bee he's coming to understand a little more how it must seem to other people, but...he'd just sort of thought Greta knew.

Greta did not know, thank you very much, and she's having a fair bit of difficulty processing this. How can he know the details of people's lives without witnessing them? How much does he know, or--or hear? He did say he'd heard something.

Her stomach sinks as she thinks: something like a song?

"Is that how it works?" she asks, before realizing she hasn't been thinking aloud. "You just hear their stories like--like songs? Even when you've only just met them?"

Maybe she should be saying 'our,' not 'theirs.' Maybe he can hear her story, too. She can't bring herself to ask.

She lowers her voice, not happy about what she's piecing together. "And then you met Johnny, and heard his story, or his song, and it... it sounded wrong. Is that it?"

"No." The Balladeer shakes his head, expression earnest. If he's aware that any of her growing discomfort is due to him, he isn't showing it. He's just glad that his point is finally coming across. It's not a fun thing to know, but she needs to; the only reason he hasn't tried to spread the word more is because he still isn't exactly sure what the word is. He just knows enough to not want his friends getting too close to the man.

"It's..." He sucks in a breath through his teeth. "It's simple, really. I've heard lots of things like it before. The songs I hear are usually...fun." You know. They're murder ballads. Not bad songs in and of themselves, the sound is fine, but the subject matter is never going to be anything other than death. "But this is...right."

The vague horror with which he says that could have been comical.

Greta shuts her eyes and fists a hand in her hair as she mentally translates: yes, she has it right; it's complicated; he's never heard anything like it before; most of the songs he's familiar with are unpleasant (well, of course they would be - she's met enough of the subjects to know that much), but Johnny's is apparently so terrible that even the Balladeer is spooked by it.

She doesn't want to know this. She shouldn't know this. It's none of her business, and it's none of his business, either, even if he's coming across his information accidentally. And what does 'wrong' mean, anyway? They're all from different universes. Maybe everyone's song-stories sound bizarre where Johnny comes from. She paces in a little circle, lips pursed, then turns back to the Balladeer and lets her hand drop to her hip. Enough of this.

"If Johnny wants me to know his story, he can tell it to me," she says firmly. "Otherwise, it's none of my business. He's never done anything to--to hurt or threaten me, even when he had the chance." The monster in his nightmare didn't go for her, after all. "And unless you're telling me he tried to kill a president, then..." she lifts a hand, then lets it drop, losing steam. She can't tell the Balladeer that this doesn't concern him; that wouldn't be fair, either. "I'm sorry," she says, her tone gentler than it was before. "But I'm not going to abandon the lad just because his song sounds weird to you. That's not enough to go on."

She sighs, shoulders drooping, then holds out a hand. "Can we please just focus on getting out of here?"

The Balladeer arches his eyebrows. It's not that he's totally shocked that Greta didn't just completely drop Johnny on his say-so; she's not that kind of person. But he knows that there's something wrong here! "Weird? It's - "

He trails off, turning his hand in the air vaguely. Honestly, things would be a lot easier if Johnny had just shot a president. Even if he could communicate properly right now, what is he going to say? There's too many competing sounds? Johnny's life sounds like a madman with too many instruments on his hands? It's got an echo? Greta doesn't know what lives are supposed to sound like to begin with, and he can't begin to play this for her even if he wanted to.

That would be a terrible idea. It's not easy to forget once you've heard it.

Sighing, he drops his head into his hand for a moment, rubbing at his temples. Today's just been a real headache in general. " - okay. Yeah. Let's just stay here." Maybe some other time he'll try to revisit this, but for now he just takes her hand in his and starts walking again. "It's a long way still."

"Thank you," she says softly, giving his hand a grateful squeeze. It's obvious that she hasn't convinced him of Johnny's relative harmlessness, and she can't help regretting how fractious they are when Johnny isn't exactly in need of enemies. The poor lad already dislikes himself enough for three people, from what she's gathered.

But at least the Balladeer is willing to let it lie. If he'd been her husband, she wryly thinks, she never would have heard the end of how dangerous Johnny might be and how she must keep away from him at all costs. At least she's being afforded some small measure of trust, here.

Or maybe he's just waiting until he can fret at her properly before he tries again. That's possible, too.

The border of the Ramble is visible up ahead, and she unconsciously tightens her grip. "Look, if this doesn't work, don't worry about where I've wound up." She's already been through this several times today; what's one more? "Just get the things and come back. All right?"

The Balladeer's steps slow, and he casts a worried glance back at her. "Have you tried this already?" She sounds like she expects to just vanish the second they try to step out of here. Maybe she will - if her curse is just being stuck in here instead of only being lost. Hopefully she'll be able to find her way back to Johnny at least, if she does, because if the two of them aren't together he's absolutely going to find her first. Johnny can wait.

He stops just short of the border and turns to take her free hand in his as well, holding on firmly. "I'm definitely not going to worry, but I'll stay. Be back in two hours - no, five minutes." Damn numbers. "I'll take as long as possible. Okay - ready?"

At her assent, he steps backwards over the border and out of the Ramble, keeping his eyes on Greta. Whatever happens, he wants to see it.

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