CHARACTERS: Oswald, and you.
DATE: March
LOCATION: Oswald’s memories, and Arcadia.
SITUATION: Meet the men behind the mask.
WARNINGS: Death, murder, manipulation, gaslighting, vintage homophobia, and the
very real potential for Bad Ends.
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Reply to the comments below. ]
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In the shock of unpleasant familiarity, it's a moment before Dimitri recognizes Ossie. That genteel seething isn't a look Dimitri's seen before, and the flesh-red hair and eyes are a distinct change from ... whatever color they usually are.
For the moment Dimitri will follow the path of least resistance -- whatever keeps him below notice, avoiding the Master's eye as long as possible. That won't be easy. The Master of the House fancies red this week, but Dimitri -- as he often is -- is dressed in blue. ]
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I say, [ Ossie purrs, so familiar and yet without any of his characteristic softness, ] what a remarkable shade that coat is. Have you ever seen a blue that... blue? [ Aimed at one of his dining companions, and indirectly at the Master, who remains too distracted to notice. Not to worry, Ossie's an old hand at working him by now. ]
What did you say your name was, again, young fellow? Terribly clumsy of me to have forgotten.
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He can't restrain a skittish glance over his shoulder, but the crack he'd stumbled through is gone. That's fine. He can do this. He's spent some time comparing etiquette with Ossie of the present-future, and he can paper over the rest with courtly poise and quick mimicry.
He'll be fine. ]
Dimitri Alexander, sir. [ A polite bow, deep enough to be deferential but not fully subservient. ] The fault is my own. I've only just arrived from a -- another land -- [ Obviously true, given his accent; is that Welsh or Russian? ] and in my awe at this magnificent setting, introductions must have slipped my mind.
[ That rolled off his tongue far too easily. ]
It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, mister ... ?
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Wuthridge, Mister Wuthridge. Charmed.
[ One of the Master's eyes turns over to the lad, albeit lazily and only for a brief moment. Apparently he's got a femur really jammed up in one of his gums presently, and if Ossie knows anything about the Master, it's that his base wants come first. A different tactic, then, Ossie indicates with his hand to his surrounding dining companions, ]
This is Mr Fawkes, Ms Ruthers, Mr Zuill, Ms Lightbourne, Mr Ratteray, and Ms Decouto, [ And permission finally given, they give Dimitri smiles in various states of nervousness, and all of them in some way look remarkably similar to Ossie. Sometimes it's just a nose, sometimes a brow or even just one eye, but... the resemblance is uncanny. ]
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He could --
The thought is crushed mercilessly before it can form. ]
Mr Fawkes, Ms Ruthers, Mr Zuill, Ms Lightbourne, Mr Ratteray, and Ms Decouto, [ he echoes, returning a smile as genuine as any he can give in a setting like this. There's the seed of another idea in the back of his mind; a very, very stupid idea, but not to have it would make him someone else entirely. ] And Mr Wuthridge, of course. I'm most grateful that someone so close to the seat of our eminent host can spare the time for introductions. [ Please please please let that be taken as submission and not a threat or insult. ]
Speaking of which, [ His smile turns sheepish, ] it must be rude of me not to present myself to the Master of the House, but I hate to do so when I'm so obviously underdressed. My deepest apologies [ Think think think ] I dressed in the colors of my homeland, but it appears I misunderstood the invitation. Is there any way at all I might correct myself?
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But of course- to err is human, and I'm certain our generous host should want you to correct that little indiscretion, [ he stands up from the table to gesture over Dimitri's shoulder with an open hand, ] you ought to go see the Tailor right away. I must insist my own personal Valet takes you, [ which would be a great honour, if Dimitri did not know what he knows. ]
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It would be my pleasure to escort you, Mr Alexander, Sir. [ Giles's voice is flat, and his countenance flatter, whatever he's thinking it's entirely unreadable behind the perfect poise required of him ] If you would follow me, Sir, it will take but a moment.
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Oh -- I couldn't possibly -- I don't wish to trouble you so --
[ But he's backed himself into this corner. He literally asked for it. ]
... but I am most grateful for your accommodation, [ he finishes weakly.
Oh he hates the cold look he has to turn on Giles, and he can't quite crush another flicker of pain and grief that's all too personal for a supposed stranger. ] Lead the way, [ and he clamps his jaw shut on a name he isn't supposed to know. ]
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[ And then a little tinkling wave, just in case Dimitri thought there was any way he was getting out of this. ]
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[ Giles moves fairly quickly, not looking to see if he's being followed just trusting Dimitri to keep pace. Out through a stately door and into the wide and lavish hall beyond, down some stairs (but not Downstairs) and finally coming to a halt in front of a pair of doors. ]
The Tailor does not take kindly to interruptions, Sir, so if you would be so kind as to wait in there, I shall warn him of your presence first.
[ One of the doors is opened, and Giles gestures politely inside. He does not seem to notice the smell of decay that lingers within. ]
cw gore, decay
He tourniquets his reaction, and does as Giles indicates. As with a tourniquet, something, slowly, starts to die. ]
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A new Guest who wishes to rectify his indiscretion, he didn't realise the favoured colour is red
[ And then the door is slammed shut behind Dimitri, a figure- or two? approaching him with wicked grins ]
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The approaching figures, now seen more clearly, two of them but Dimitri could easily be seeing double. Mirror images of each other, a line of stitching down their middles joining two disparate halves together. ]
Always a privilege to work on a Guest, isn't it? [ Which of them speaks is hard to say, they seem to move as one, but whichever it was the other gives the reply ] Such a privilege, but oh look at those poor sad blue eyes, that just wont do will it?
No that wont do at all.
[ They reach for Dimitri together, one arm each to drag him further in ]
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Dimitri's sight isn't his only edge. Most Guests are not seasoned warriors. And most Guests do not come armed.
The world snaps clear and crystalline. The ragged tear of his breathing smoothes and slows. His lunge is fluid, blade flying from its sheath at a Surgeon's midsection. ]
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can't ruin the Guests can't ruin the Guests can't ruin the Guests [ the other mutters over and over, a chant that grows louder and less coherent the longer it goes. They reach out, grabbing for the blade that damaged the other part of them, smile never dropping from their face despite the anger and distress ]
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CW: uhhhh body horror?
There's no sound as they go down, just a rush of air as they deflate, eyes wide and glassy, staring in... delight? ]
You are a strange one, aren't you? [ The first one is up again, they still clutch at their stomach with one hand, but otherwise you'd never guess they'd been hurt a moment before ] How did you become a Guest? We'd like to study you, we would, we would. Have to fix your eyes first though, send you back. But a brute like you wont last long, if we do our very best work maybe we'll have you to ourselves when you die.
[ On the floor, the one that was sliced in half makes a few quiet noises of agreement. One hand grasps at flagstones, dragging head and shoulder along at surprising pace, leaving not blood and gore in its wake but an ooze of green liquid that smells strongly of chemicals. The rest of the body follows, crawling on hand and knees. ]
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He bares his teeth. Never let it be said a Blaiddyd went down without a fight. ] Try it.
[ How does the downed Surgeon feel about a sword through the head? ]
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The larger part of the body is entirely unaffected, however, and continues crawling to whatever its goal is.
The whole one still staggers forward, slow but steady, chattering the whole time in broken sentences, playing both parts of the call and response. They reach and grab for whatever part of Dimitri they can get to, aimlessly, but tirelessly. ]
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He digs in his heels and rams his shoulder against the door, Crest flashing like gunpowder. Scrabbles at the seam until his nails tear and fingertips bruise beneath his gauntlets. Hammers at it, snarling, still crushing fear into anger into movement into -- fuck-all. No hint that there's even any hinge or mechanism. He might as well throw himself against a solid stone wall. And the Surgeons just keep coming.
Battered, exhausted, he's ground down. Limbs leaden heart sluggish breaths ragged. Kept upright by the door he beats against like a bird at glass. Until finally a hand closes on his blade and twists, ripping it out of his grip, while another seizes his upper arm.
Dimitri screams, and hurls a punch clean through where a sternum should be. ]
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It's the other that wrests the blade from Dimitri's hand and grabs at him. That stares curiously down at the fist through their chest. That watches with a growing smile as the green fluid that oozes from the wound burns Dimitri's flesh.
A mere moment later two pairs of hands take hold of Dimitri, strong despite numerous injuries, they drag him away from the door not to the slab in the middle of the room, but an imposing chair that sits just to one side. They shackle him to it, and even with his Crest-given strength Dimitri will have no way of breaking these bonds. They're fashioned from the very story of unbreakable chains, after all. ]
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CW: eye surgery
Although the Surgeons themselves are haphazardly stitched together, their desperate parts made somehow more visible by the work done to join them, the work they do on Dimitri is so clean and precise that it blends seamlessly into him as if it had always been that way.
First the burn is fixed, new skin grafted over bubbling flesh, erasing all visible trace of the damage; but not the pain.
Then comes the reason he was locked in here in the first place.
The eyes.
Scalpels so small that even less than an inch away they're barely visible. There's nowhere to move, no way to escape. Everything starts to blur as the blades sink in, vision turning red and watery. It doesn't hurt exactly, but only because it's so far beyond what the human brain is made to understand, frozen heat, piercingly dull, soft itching, contradictions layered on top of each other in the futile attempt to comprehend.
How long it takes is unknowable, but each slice seems to take an eternity. It's only when Dimitri is on the verge of passing out that it finally stops.
Bindings he can't see properly are loosened, and his eyes are finally left alone again. ]
Perfectly beautiful, some of best work, crimson suits you ever so well
[ Dimitri's vision will be blurry for a while yet, each blink brings it closer to clarity, but there's not enough time for time to deal with it given the sound of the door opening once more. ]
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