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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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.

"Not exactly," she admits. She'd found Johnny before becoming quite desperate enough to accost a stranger into helping her - probably just as well, since she has no idea what's about to happen. The Balladeer's grip on her is reassuringly firm, though, as he steps backwards and--

Several things seem to happen in the space of an instant. The air before her thickens into something that feels more like the consistency of molasses, and she is struck with a sudden, intense conviction that this was a terrible idea and she shouldn't go this way, shouldn't want to go this way. But the Balladeer still has her, and she remembers that that's a good thing despite the uncomfortable strain on her wrists, and she pushes forward, squinting as if faced with a high wind.

The resistance gets worse. "Um," she squeaks.

And then she's teetering atop a slope of exposed stone amid the trees. There's no sign of the Balladeer, and her hands are numb. She regains her balance, then tsks in frustration. So much for that plan.

The Balladeer, on his side, feels absolutely no resistance. One moment Greta is about to follow him out of the Ramble, and the next she looks like she's suddenly moving in slow motion, straining against the air. "Um. Greta?"

There's nothing there. It must be her curse trying to keep her in. The Balladeer's eyes narrow and he tightens his grip, digging in his heels. He isn't going to give up that easily. They can beat these damned curses! This one, at least! "Okay, on the count of five! One...two..."

And then his momentum sends him tumbling backwards. He catches himself just before falling, but only because his hands are now free - Greta is gone.

"Greta?" He darts back over the border and looks around. Not a sign of her. Completely vanished.

The Balladeer turns about and goes to flop down on the nearest park bench and bury his head in his hands. Anyone nearby may hear a quiet, muffled series of "Hooray"s and "Yipee"s.

He puts up with a lot of shit. This is all brand new shit, however, and it is uniquely frustrating. He didn't even let go!

Oh well. Being angry at the curses won't actually fix them. He stands and starts off towards the boundary of the park. There's got to be someplace nearby selling shears or something. And he'll swing by one of those food trucks on the way back.

Well, at least she warned the Balladeer that this might happen. Their plan accounted for this possibility. Greta picks her way down to the closest path and chooses a direction at random. Trying to find Johnny is probably the surest way not to, so she doesn't bother puzzling her way back to where she left the Balladeer in the hopes of retracing their steps. Instead, she just keeps up a steady pace, calls for Johnny every few minutes, and tries to wring some feeling back into her hands.

It seems like a fucking hour that Johnny's left hanging here on his own, thirsty and annoyed and really uneasy about what the busker might be telling Greta about him. When he hears Greta's voice, his head snaps up in embarrassing (and somewhat inapproriate) relief.

"Greta?" His voice is hoarse and cracked from dehydration and disuse. He clears his throat painfully and tries again. "Greta! Over here!"

Super helpful, but there's not exactly anything else he can do.

By the time she finally hears a faint reply, her hands have mostly recovered themselves aside from a faint, persistent tingle. She definitely won't be trying that method of exiting the Ramble again. Following the sound of his voice, she strikes out from the path and soon finds herself back in that familiar little clearing. It looks like some of the local wildlife have found her muffins - only a wrapper remains of one, and the other has been toppled off the branch she rested it on. Well, it's no great loss. She expects they both need water more than anything else, and that will just have to wait until the Balladeer's return.

"Hello again," she says to Johnny, somewhat dispiritedly. "Things didn't go entirely according to plan, but the Balladeer should be back soon." She tries to sound encouraging, despite having a better idea of how little the two like one another.

"How are you, er... holding up?" She winces. "Not the best choice of words, sorry."

'The Balladeer', huh. Is that his name, or is Greta just being weirdly vague?

"Sorry," he says. "Worth a shot, anyway. I'm... doing okay, you know. No change, really." He shrugs as best he can, gives her a faint smile. "So he's, um... a friend of yours?"

It's not very subtle, especially not if the Balladeer asked her about him, but if he did, all the more reason to get to the heart of things quick.

"Yes. I, er, found him when he first arrived." It seems it's now Johnny's turn to quiz her on the Balladeer, now that the Balladeer's had his go. At least Johnny's capable of expressing himself clearly, provided he's not too busy being nervous and generally mistrustful to get to the point.

Maybe it'll be easier if she just gets to the point for him. "I take it you didn't get off to the best of starts when you met him." She manages not to sound as if she's assigning particular blame to either party, but she does raise her eyebrows at him in a silent request for any explanation he might care to offer.

Johnny sighs, but he's a little relieved that she's just getting right to it. "Not really, no," he says. "I kinda punched him in the face."

That sounds bad. But he wouldn't be surprised if 'the Balladeer's' already taken care of making him sound bad.

"He, uh... knows things about me. Things he shouldn't know." He really doesn't want to allude to any of this, but what choice does he have, if he doesn't want to come off looking like he's in the wrong. "Things that I don't want anyone knowing. Because it wouldn't be safe to know, right? Remember?" He looks at her, needing her to understand, needing her to believe him. "I had to stop him, I panicked and I punched him. It didn't go well after that. I need to know if he told you anything. Anything private. Please."

If that asshole is spreading this shit around, spreading it to Greta of all people - well. Johnny hopes he isn't going to have to finish that thought.

Greta knew about the punching, but she tsks disapprovingly nevertheless. There are other ways to get someone's attention, and the Balladeer's already been subjected to more violence than she'd like. Johnny couldn't have just said something?

Then again, knowing what she does now about the Balladeer's abilities, she can't entirely blame Johnny for being upset, either. There are parts of her story she wouldn't want casually broadcast to anyone within earshot, and that's only because they're embarrassing, not because they're dangerous.

She sighs, ducking her head a little to better peer in at him. "He didn't tell me anything specific. It wasn't easy for him to get anything across, his curse being what it is, and I... I told him I didn't want to know, anyway. Whatever he heard, it's none of my business."

After a beat, she adds, "But I don't think he could help hearing. It's his Rift Power - rather like what he used to do, back where he came from. He can just hear people's stories, like music." It's not easy to politely convey what he seems to have thought of Johnny's story, in particular, but she eventually settles on, "I think yours... startled him."

Good. At least Greta knows when things aren't her business.

And yeah, it's not his fault, fine. That doesn't mean he had to sing it out loud. Certainly doesn't mean he had to be such a fucking creep about it afterward.

And it doesn't mean he's not still dangerous.

"Okay," he says after a moment, trying to get his head around this 'hearing stories like music' thing. He shifts a little, winces against the thorns and sucks in a quick breath at the slow tightening of the vines around his arms. God, dangerous or not, he really hopes the dude comes back soon, with water and fucking scissors.

"Well I don't know how much he heard," he says, "or what it even... sounds like to him, what he thinks he knows, but if he can he needs to stop listening. It's none of his business either, and if he's going around fuckin... talking about it, that needs to stop."

Maybe if he gets Greta on his side with this she can talks sense with the Balladeer or something. She seems like a good sense-talking candidate. And the Balladeer actually likes her, so.

And she's supposed to... what, box the Balladeer's ears if she catches him thinking about Johnny? "I'm not his mother," she points out, not unkindly. "Maybe if you spoke to him properly instead of--of throwing punches, he'd be more inclined to listen to you."

She falls silent for a few moments, focusing most of her energy on reaching through the vines and trying to loosen some of the tightest-looking snarls around his arms. "Not that throwing punches is in the cards for you at the moment, anyway," she murmurs as she works.

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