[ she doesn't physically recoil from the words like they're blows; she's far too well-trained for it.
she thinks about arguing: that those are not the only ways people can be made miserable, that life can be survival only, that her point still stands because the possibility to make a difference exists either way.
she doesn't.
they're both the product of their world and respective histories.
her jaw clenches with it.
did you mean to say that doesn't need asking, because he chose those words deliberately, to make a point. the reminder hurts as much as the deliberate cruelty, though she always knew he had the capacity for it, at least.
( that she didn't expect it is her fault. )
she gives it away in the pause before she answers, the breath she drags in, the clench of her jaw. it's in the controlled tones of her voice, too, inflection bleeding out of it. ]
You don't know my world.
[ let that be clear, first. ( there are people owned, experimented on, their thoughts controlled, in her world. she's seen all that, if on a different scale than he has.
there are more ways than once for that, too. )
and by his reasoning, shouldn't she be the first to think that this isn't life but only survival? and yet — when there is adversity, you try harder, you deal with it.
what was real and what wasn't was taken away from her, and she'd taken it back.
this is still life, for her.
( she thinks of roy, too, and of everyone that she's come to care about aboard.
they're allowed to love, here. ) ]
You accuse me of being blind about the negative aspects of being here, but you're just as blind to the potential for making it worth something and trying to make a difference without throwing that away.
[ Her ethos, the trust and power vested in her by the state, inasmuch as the state exists in her world to vest anything in anyone. ]
Have you ever carried out an execution without mens rea? Your world hasn’t forgotten what freedom is.
[ He’s unmoved, disinterested in ‘making the most’ of slavery despite being subject to the same temptations. His mind goes to Charles, and the way last month ended (in bed, together) opposite the way this one began (with a dull ache). He can’t afford to stop and reflect on the worth of what’s been taken from him since he’s been here -- not when he has to keep Raven motivated (sitting beside her, looking down at their feet, warm with relief that she’s still with him). Not when the rest of the ship is at risk of accepting their fate.
And not when Anderson is so dead set on polishing this turd of an existence. The longer he looks at her, the heavier he feels: already mentally prepared to cut her as another loss. ]
The only difference that matters is stopping this cycle. Anything beyond that is a distraction.
[ but that doesn't mean that others haven't. there are corrupt judges and there are far too few judges and far too many crimes. scarcity of resources is as effective a limitation to freedom as anything.
but she doesn't want to argue with him about how free her world is or isn't. her point stands: he doesn't know her world. he knows her, but not her world, and to assume that he does just because he knows who she is, at her core, is willful blindness.
she doesn't want him to cut her as another loss. she cares for him, despite their not inconsiderable differences, despite the fact that she doesn't think him a good man.
( she understands some of it, even if she doesn't agree with it. )
he came here. she doesn't know what that means, if it means something, but she's lost enough people that she knows she doesn't want it. that doesn't mean she'll bed, or agree with him. ]
At what cost?
[ she's not saying stopping the cycle is irrelevant. she is arguing for a measured and careful approach, and if he's not willing to take one, then their differences might be too great to overcome in the end. ]
Comfort, [ says Erik. ] Peace of mind. The false sense of security that allows these people to sleep at night. [ He nearly says ‘humans.’ ]
You know what happened on Arima.
[ The heat and pressure mounted under his sternum is bleeding out of him into his chair. Her chair. His spine conforms to a better fit, muscle settling through his shoulders. Complacency is so much easier.
He can feel it too, inexorable as gravity. The maybes and what ifs.
He closes his eyes. ]
Everyone who resists is in the line of fire. There is no easy escape.
[ these people, he says, and means humans and this is one thing they will never see eye to eye on. they are human, too, and mutants are no better or worse than humans. they are all judged by the same standard, in anderson's eyes.
the reminder of arima has her tensing again, jaw clenched. this time, her fists clench with it, but it's his next words that she answers, not the first. ]
No.
[ she forces her hands to unclench. ] Comfort, peace of mind and a sense of security, those things can go if necessary, for a while, but any change has to be for the betterment of everyone.
[ we're in this together is good — it's the truth, and it's something they agree on, at least. some of the tension that's crept into her posture bleeds from her shoulders, her spine.
( she hasn't forgotten the cruelty, is unlikely to, but she's willing to put it aside for now.
this is more important. ) ]
Then don't push people into the line of fire because they're inconveniencing you.
[ she will oppose him on that point, fight him if she needs to. ]
[ Erik’s eyes roll open like a dragon’s, quicksilver pale under fluorescent light. Cool fury hums through his nervous system at the same resonant pulse and ebb of magnetism through metal.
Fine hairs on his arm are slow to lift; the back of his neck prickles.
Ice courses in his veins.
The idea that he’d force them into a meatgrinder, as if they aren’t already in one. The idea that this is an inconvenience. The idea that anything he’s done since he’s been here has been for his own benefit -- that he hasn’t suffered for them, that he doesn’t have the scars to show for it.
Pricked feelings contract and retreat, jetting ink into the darker recesses of his mind, leaving the toxic churn of his temper to fill the space. A moment ago he was drifting off to sleep in her chair. Now he’s winding up into a poisonous coil against the back, adrenaline and scotch and blind indignation.
All of this and hes hardly moved save to keep himself still, breath roiling hot enough behind his teeth it feels like it should flash to steam. ]
Is that what you think of me, [ he asks, quiet. ] Is that what you believe this is about.
[ his reaction doesn't feel all that different from the way she'd felt when he asked if she was allowed to know what was real and what wasn't, though with more anger.
she didn't set out to be deliberately cruel, though. ]
Was saving Heather not an inconvenience to you?
[ his attitude towards those he thinks of as mere humans is a point of contention. she doesn't believe that is what this is about, but it's still a point that needs making.
but — a moment later, softer ( though no more willing to give in ): ] What is it about, Erik?
I still cough up ash from that day. [ There’s an odd falter in pitch, confusion mingling with anger to hood his brow and muddle thoughts already thick with smoke and ash. They could have died. He’s never complained. ]
Do you imagine that humans have inconvenienced me?
[ Disbelief lurches against the shackles of his self-control; he’s forgotten how to blink, full to the craw with hate. She’s seen what they can do. She’s seen what they have done, to him. He breathes it, tastes it, can barely think his way around it, raking after eye contact as if he expects to see through to the answer in Cassandra’s brain. ]
I’m trying to help them.
[ The mutants aboard are too few to manage on their own.
[ they could have died; he could have died because he'd come to rescue her, and she — she is thankful for that. she's thanked him, but words aren't really enough, sometimes.
tiredness makes itself felt in a slow drag, and she finds herself looking away. ]
Humans have done worse than inconvenience you. So has a mutant. [ there are good people there, and bad ones. it doesn't matter whether they're mutant or not, is her point. and still her voice is far gentler now; there is no cruelty to echo his, only empathy. she's felt and seen some of what shaw did, after all.
One. [ One mutant among the millions of humans that set the events of his life into motion, through action or inaction.
Now that he has her empathy he doesn’t want it: she looks away and he looks down, hard-nosed and stiff in the jaw. His unhappiness sits on his heart like a lead weight, pressing it down against his diaphragm. It’s not likely to let off any time soon.
He already knows she wants to help them. All of them. No matter what.
Que lastima.
Still unsteady, he picks himself up out of the chair once the ensuing silence is sufficiently awkward. He should go. ]
Out of how many mutants, compared to how many humans?
[ mutants are not, by definition, kinder.
he's so unhappy and she has to swallow and push that unhappiness away from herself because she might otherwise drown in it, or at least that's how it feels like.
( the thought of drowning is uncomfortable — it's something she connects with morgoth in more ways than one. she could have drowned in his mind even when they were friendly, and he actually made her live through drowning in an ocean of her own blood while on arima.
she never wants to feel like that again. )
she also moves to stand. ] Erik — [ one hand reaching out, but not connecting with his arm. ] You're right. I do want to help all of them.
[ jaw squaring. ] I'd rather do it with you than fighting against you.
[ Cassandra reaches and Erik draws his arm back, away, what might otherwise have been a subtle aversion to touch amplified by the loose suspension in his shoulders.
It’s polite, as get back mothafucka you don’t know me like thats go
but still caustic in a narrow cut at his eyes and a flinch at his nose. Out of how many.
It’s not even that he thinks she’s wrong. He’s just drunk and tired and morose, slouched like the world’s most shambled male mannequin before her bureau. ]
[ his arm draws away, and anderson's hand falls to her side. a moment later, she falls into parade rest (back straight, shoulders back, chin lifted), message received loud and clear.
she doesn't want to fight him, but not for the reasons he seems to think she doesn't. maybe when he's less drunk and tired, he'll figure that out. maybe he won't. the state he's in, she's not certain she wants to try and explain it, or that he'd even listen. ]
[ He realizes a (sluggish) moment later that goodnight is goodbye, and that she has effectively told him that it’s time for him to leave, and that he has already agreed. The only thing for him to do, then, is to sigh at her like a dog with a cat in his bed and sidestep away for the door. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
she thinks about arguing: that those are not the only ways people can be made miserable, that life can be survival only, that her point still stands because the possibility to make a difference exists either way.
she doesn't.
they're both the product of their world and respective histories.
her jaw clenches with it.
did you mean to say that doesn't need asking, because he chose those words deliberately, to make a point. the reminder hurts as much as the deliberate cruelty, though she always knew he had the capacity for it, at least.
( that she didn't expect it is her fault. )
she gives it away in the pause before she answers, the breath she drags in, the clench of her jaw. it's in the controlled tones of her voice, too, inflection bleeding out of it. ]
You don't know my world.
[ let that be clear, first. ( there are people owned, experimented on, their thoughts controlled, in her world. she's seen all that, if on a different scale than he has.
there are more ways than once for that, too. )
and by his reasoning, shouldn't she be the first to think that this isn't life but only survival? and yet — when there is adversity, you try harder, you deal with it.
what was real and what wasn't was taken away from her, and she'd taken it back.
this is still life, for her.
( she thinks of roy, too, and of everyone that she's come to care about aboard.
they're allowed to love, here. ) ]
You accuse me of being blind about the negative aspects of being here, but you're just as blind to the potential for making it worth something and trying to make a difference without throwing that away.
no subject
[ Her ethos, the trust and power vested in her by the state, inasmuch as the state exists in her world to vest anything in anyone. ]
Have you ever carried out an execution without mens rea? Your world hasn’t forgotten what freedom is.
[ He’s unmoved, disinterested in ‘making the most’ of slavery despite being subject to the same temptations. His mind goes to Charles, and the way last month ended (in bed, together) opposite the way this one began (with a dull ache). He can’t afford to stop and reflect on the worth of what’s been taken from him since he’s been here -- not when he has to keep Raven motivated (sitting beside her, looking down at their feet, warm with relief that she’s still with him). Not when the rest of the ship is at risk of accepting their fate.
And not when Anderson is so dead set on polishing this turd of an existence. The longer he looks at her, the heavier he feels: already mentally prepared to cut her as another loss. ]
The only difference that matters is stopping this cycle. Anything beyond that is a distraction.
no subject
[ but that doesn't mean that others haven't. there are corrupt judges and there are far too few judges and far too many crimes. scarcity of resources is as effective a limitation to freedom as anything.
but she doesn't want to argue with him about how free her world is or isn't. her point stands: he doesn't know her world. he knows her, but not her world, and to assume that he does just because he knows who she is, at her core, is willful blindness.
she doesn't want him to cut her as another loss. she cares for him, despite their not inconsiderable differences, despite the fact that she doesn't think him a good man.
( she understands some of it, even if she doesn't agree with it. )
he came here. she doesn't know what that means, if it means something, but she's lost enough people that she knows she doesn't want it. that doesn't mean she'll bed, or agree with him. ]
At what cost?
[ she's not saying stopping the cycle is irrelevant. she is arguing for a measured and careful approach, and if he's not willing to take one, then their differences might be too great to overcome in the end. ]
no subject
You know what happened on Arima.
[ The heat and pressure mounted under his sternum is bleeding out of him into his chair. Her chair. His spine conforms to a better fit, muscle settling through his shoulders. Complacency is so much easier.
He can feel it too, inexorable as gravity. The maybes and what ifs.
He closes his eyes. ]
Everyone who resists is in the line of fire. There is no easy escape.
no subject
the reminder of arima has her tensing again, jaw clenched. this time, her fists clench with it, but it's his next words that she answers, not the first. ]
No.
[ she forces her hands to unclench. ] Comfort, peace of mind and a sense of security, those things can go if necessary, for a while, but any change has to be for the betterment of everyone.
no subject
They were only humans doesn’t quite soothe lingering unease.
He wasn’t in control. ]
We’re in this together.
[ His agreement is easy.
Practical.
Whether he likes it or not: there’s no use in trying to convince himself otherwise. ]
no subject
( she hasn't forgotten the cruelty, is unlikely to, but she's willing to put it aside for now.
this is more important. ) ]
Then don't push people into the line of fire because they're inconveniencing you.
[ she will oppose him on that point, fight him if she needs to. ]
no subject
Fine hairs on his arm are slow to lift; the back of his neck prickles.
Ice courses in his veins.
The idea that he’d force them into a meatgrinder, as if they aren’t already in one. The idea that this is an inconvenience. The idea that anything he’s done since he’s been here has been for his own benefit -- that he hasn’t suffered for them, that he doesn’t have the scars to show for it.
Pricked feelings contract and retreat, jetting ink into the darker recesses of his mind, leaving the toxic churn of his temper to fill the space. A moment ago he was drifting off to sleep in her chair. Now he’s winding up into a poisonous coil against the back, adrenaline and scotch and blind indignation.
All of this and hes hardly moved save to keep himself still, breath roiling hot enough behind his teeth it feels like it should flash to steam. ]
Is that what you think of me, [ he asks, quiet. ] Is that what you believe this is about.
no subject
she didn't set out to be deliberately cruel, though. ]
Was saving Heather not an inconvenience to you?
[ his attitude towards those he thinks of as mere humans is a point of contention. she doesn't believe that is what this is about, but it's still a point that needs making.
but — a moment later, softer ( though no more willing to give in ): ] What is it about, Erik?
[ it can't be about the freedom of dead people. ]
no subject
Do you imagine that humans have inconvenienced me?
[ Disbelief lurches against the shackles of his self-control; he’s forgotten how to blink, full to the craw with hate. She’s seen what they can do. She’s seen what they have done, to him. He breathes it, tastes it, can barely think his way around it, raking after eye contact as if he expects to see through to the answer in Cassandra’s brain. ]
I’m trying to help them.
[ The mutants aboard are too few to manage on their own.
This is the tradeoff.
They need each other. ]
no subject
tiredness makes itself felt in a slow drag, and she finds herself looking away. ]
Humans have done worse than inconvenience you. So has a mutant. [ there are good people there, and bad ones. it doesn't matter whether they're mutant or not, is her point. and still her voice is far gentler now; there is no cruelty to echo his, only empathy. she's felt and seen some of what shaw did, after all.
how did they get to having this conversation? ]
I want to help them, too.
no subject
Now that he has her empathy he doesn’t want it: she looks away and he looks down, hard-nosed and stiff in the jaw. His unhappiness sits on his heart like a lead weight, pressing it down against his diaphragm. It’s not likely to let off any time soon.
He already knows she wants to help them. All of them. No matter what.
Que lastima.
Still unsteady, he picks himself up out of the chair once the ensuing silence is sufficiently awkward. He should go. ]
no subject
[ mutants are not, by definition, kinder.
he's so unhappy and she has to swallow and push that unhappiness away from herself because she might otherwise drown in it, or at least that's how it feels like.
( the thought of drowning is uncomfortable — it's something she connects with morgoth in more ways than one. she could have drowned in his mind even when they were friendly, and he actually made her live through drowning in an ocean of her own blood while on arima.
she never wants to feel like that again. )
she also moves to stand. ] Erik — [ one hand reaching out, but not connecting with his arm. ] You're right. I do want to help all of them.
[ jaw squaring. ] I'd rather do it with you than fighting against you.
no subject
It’s polite, as get back mothafucka you don’t know me like thats go
but still caustic in a narrow cut at his eyes and a flinch at his nose. Out of how many.
It’s not even that he thinks she’s wrong. He’s just drunk and tired and morose, slouched like the world’s most shambled male mannequin before her bureau. ]
I wouldn’t want to fight me either.
[ He says so quietly.
(Humble, charming, noble: Magneto. ) ]
no subject
she doesn't want to fight him, but not for the reasons he seems to think she doesn't. maybe when he's less drunk and tired, he'll figure that out. maybe he won't. the state he's in, she's not certain she wants to try and explain it, or that he'd even listen. ]
Goodnight, Erik.
no subject
Goodnight.
[ He realizes a (sluggish) moment later that goodnight is goodbye, and that she has effectively told him that it’s time for him to leave, and that he has already agreed. The only thing for him to do, then, is to sigh at her like a dog with a cat in his bed and sidestep away for the door. ]