lostcarnival | The Harder I Try [Closed]

Who: Foster and Rita
When: S2: D22
Where: Trailer 18
What: Foster and Rita learn the power of teamwork(?)
Warnings: Foster. Specifics to be added as they come up.

He's both disappointed and relieved that Rita is so prompt--there was a small hope she'd protest against working with him, but he's sure the reasonable conclusion would have been orders to surrender the book to her, and he...

...well, he would have obeyed, but it would not have been in good faith that he did so.

Anyway, the extra-large door of trailer 18 is already open when she gets there.

If she lets herself in, she'll find it... clearly demarcated between the two owners. Foster's side is actually neater, if only for want of so many material possessions. It's also arguably less sanitary; there are spots and smears of dried blood on both the bedsheets and the wall.

Foster is on the floor next to the bed. He's on the floor because he's about the size of a child's rocking horse, and his... well, he could best be described as a 'teddytaur,' covered in soft golden curls and clad in a costume to match 9S', pink and all. There's a heavy book in his lap, his paws resting on top of it.

He doesn't say anything, just looks at her. His round, plush little face is hard to read.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

At some point, Rita pauses to flip back to the very front, then the very back of the book, looking just in case she missed some mention of the author's identity.

"Who wrote this, anyway? It must've been a fae..." considering how eagerly the author asserts the fae's essential role in the multiverse. "I wonder how objective I can expect this information to be..."

The part she's at now, at least, seems more firmly grounded in facts, making it easier for Rita to digest.

For someone Foster is genuinely trying not to antagonise, she's working awfully hard to antagonise him. He actually opens his little mouth, and the beginnings of a syllable are out before he snaps it shut again--and he closes his eyes tightly, covering his mouth with two crossed-over paws like a small child.

It takes him a few seconds to regain his composure.

But no matter how hard she looks, there is no author information.

"Was that a question?" he asks, finally--brightly.

Instead of being snide or reproachful, it's almost... guileless in tone. He's even smiling. And not in a creepy way, but sincerely.

Rita glances up and furrows her brow at his bizarre expressions. She doesn't know how to read Foster, and when he brightens suddenly, she leans back a little in alarm.

Seriously, what's wrong with this guy?

"...It is if you know the answer," she says after an awkward delay. He doesn't... does he?

That's not a 'no.'

It's also not very specific. Which answer? Because no, Foster doesn't know who the author is. But he also has no reason to mistrust the information in the book, and is in fact deeply perturbed that she's so quick to do so.

The veracity of the contents is not untested. It told him more about the Pillars of Creation than Noa did. It organised the truths he already knew, had almost and always and already known into something more tangible, more correct, more real. It proved the Ringmaster and his purpose.

And, speaking practically, if he (and she) served fae, subverted fae, negotiate fae for the benefit of their lives and their master, then what form of reality is more important than that seen by fae?

No. He isn't interested in entertaining her doubts.

"I think you'll find you can trust the author," he offers in an assuring--and assured--tone.

Yeah... that isn't much of an answer.

"We'll see about that," Rita murmurs, looking back to the book. "These theories on time and space are pretty interesting, I'll grant. They're consistent with what I've observed so far, too." Between their long lifespans and ability to traverse the multiverse, it's not a stretch to think some fae would have advanced understanding of such concepts.

It's the answer you asked for, Rita. Which leaves him a little nonplussed, especially when she dismisses it for not agreeing with her prior belief. He's starting to wonder what Lambert expects him to do if she doesn't even want his input.

The pages she's on are effectively reflecting on the existence and nature of timelines, and the dramatic instability of worlds with many of them--splintering off and collapsing and merging and so on, as timelines do. Unfortunately, as with everything else in the book, it's meant less to be a technical manual or research publication and more like a cross between a religious tome and a long dissertation. So this takes a while to get through--moreso if she's reading every word.

There is a brief mention of Realms by way of contrast, but in a way that implies she might have missed something in a previous chapter.

She's barely touched most of the book, though; she could spend days getting through it.

Rita may be a hell of a speedreader, but even she has to recognize that there's no way she's getting through this in one sitting. She gets to the end of the current chapter, then stops, crossing her arms and taking some time to mull over what she just read.

"Never knew that divergent timelines could grow to be so volatile..." she murmurs, then gently closes the book and holds it out for Foster. "You can have this back now. I'll have to come back and continue this another day."

Come to think of it... they've been here a while, and Rita spent most of the time absorbed in the book, but Foster? "And, uh... you don't have to sit and watch me the whole time, you know." He does know that, right?

Foster looks mildly startled--some of it is from how quickly and decisively Rita decided she was finished, and then actually returned the book to him. Sure, there was his little gesture when she came into the trailer, but he did not actually expect her to take it seriously.

He accepts the book gingerly, reverently, with both paws.

The other reason for his surprise, though--

"Of course I do!" He turns his head to the side a bit, his eyes staying on her enough that the whites can actually be seen. Which proves there are whites to them, finally.

"I'm no use to you if I'm distracted elsewhere." Obviously.

Rita stands, brushing the creases out of her tunic with her hands, and frowns.

"You can answer questions just fine from somewhere else in the room!" she protests.

Foster looks at her. Then, slowly, he turns, looking over Taako's detritus-rich side of the room. Skirts, shoes, snacks, at least one book, sad-looking paper aeroplanes, and so on are scattered variously under his bunk, on top of his bunk, on top of the dresser, and... well, Taako doesn't care where things end up, is the point.

But where Taako's stuff isn't, there's... not a lot of anything. No other books besides the one in Foster's paws and the two under Taako's bed. No food that isn't Taako's, no art supplies, no evidence of hobbies of any kind.

Unless the gratuitously wicked-looking knife on the tiny kitchen table is a hobby.

He glances back at her.

"No," he says simply.

The Harder I Try [Closed]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject