And I'm tryin' my best to believe in the best left in me [OPEN]

[pointofhonoria]

Who: Honoria Crabb & you!
What: Mostly memshare
When: March
Where: Memories & the Serena Eterna
Warnings: Nothing really to start off, added as we go
Notes: Feel free to flip me to brackets I am comfortable with either style. The only prompt with any particularly notable risk of death is Prosperity Bridge, and only if things get screwed up majorly.


1. Oh your cryin's a test of the veins, of my fluid beliefs [4v1 fight, day she met Tom Broadfoot]

Gallery, in the dead of winter. New South Gallery Orphanage, or, more accurately the burned down husk of the old orphanage next door. The ground is covered in a thick layer of snow and there are children playing in places they shouldn't be, but none have strayed within the fenced off perimeter that Crabb is currently exploring.

She doesn't notice the arrival of four other adults until they're already there with her, two coming from the same gap in the fence she did and two more coming from behind her. The two men behind her are nondescript thugs she doesn't recognise, but the ginger woman and tall man are a different story.

"Y'know, I'm actually glad to see you two. Felt like I left a job half-done back at the bulletin—"

"Ooh, sounds like fun," the ginger woman taunts, "but I was thinking instead that Cork and the fellas here could go ahead and stomp you into something a little more lumpy. Something to show your boss at City Hall he needs to keep his beak out. And for me?" She pulls out a knife, holding it up like a demonstration. Crabb grits her teeth, already squaring up for a fight that only seems inevitable. "Well, see, I met this Lady back in the pen, and she's paying out large to anybody who can put another scar on that big face of yours. And I'm saving up for a new flat."

It's then that the four legbreakers move, and Crabb has to think fast to avoid getting killed right here and now.

2. When people burn bridges, the rivers, they don't seem to mind [Prosperity Bridge, the night it collapses]

Prosperity Bridge. Eight minutes to nine o'clock.

Prosperity is a hub for the rich socialites of Gallery. Fine dining, high-end shopping, a place to show off and be shown off to; a place for the upper crust to socialise and hold themselves separate from the rest of the city around them. A place that is mere minutes away from crumbling out from under their feet.

Unbeknownst to anyone here tonight, there is already a fight for their lives ongoing in the clock tower. A fight that will ultimately only end partially in their favour, preventing the bridge from collapsing quite as quickly as the Black Note intends.

Well. One person outside that clock-tower knows. Crabb arrives in a skidding frenzy, automobile coming to a screeching stop across from the tower and in front of an employee. She clambers out of the car, looking up toward the tower.

"E-Excuse me! Ma'am you cannot park your automobile here—" The poor employee protests, only for her to shut the door. "Ma'am! I said—"

But Crabb's distracted, listening to a strange, high-pitched eeeeeeeeeee sound coming from above, "Wait. Shut up. I know that sound—" Right then, a spiderweb crack appears between the 7 and 8 marks on the clock, and without a second more to waste Crabb turns and grabs the guy by his collar. "Listen to me. You gotta take me to your manager's office right bleedin' now. 'Cause there's a real good chance this bridge's minutes are numbered."

3. There's a violence I've found, in the regular things left behind [Margrave Ballroom Fundraiser, date with Tom]

The Margrave Building Ballroom. Extravagant and lustrous and filled with members of Gallerian High Society milling around discussing the latest theories about Lavender Jack, the Black Note and frankly paying very little attention to the supposed point of the evening: fundraising for the South Gallery Orphanage.

Honoria Crabb and Tom Broadfoot stand out like a sore thumb, sat where they are at the bar, dressed in police dress-blues and a cheap suit that don't match up to the glamour of those around them. Both even look like they feel out of place, sticking by each other and generally keeping out of the way rather than mingling.

"Cute," Crabb sneers, watching the politicians on stage. "Not every day you see a wolf making nice with a bear."

"Plenty of livestock to go around, I guess," Tom sighs, and Crabb snorts a grim laugh.

4. And I'm tryin' my best to believe in the best left in me [Bastrop Manor] (Sols will hop in to play Ducky, unless someone has any objections to a 3-way!)

It's two in the morning, and Crabb and Ducky are waiting for Bastrop to return from a mission, of sorts. Crabb seems fairly comfortable, here, with her police uniform's jacket shed, her tie tossed aside, and her sleeves rolled up where she and Ducky have been playing chess between cups of coffee. Speculative chatter about parts of the case has been most of the fare tonight, though Crabb's found herself drifting more and more into more mundane topics the more tired she gets.

They are the only people in this entire manor, hidden away in the canopy with a giant telescope and Bastrop's tools. The mansion is expansive and silent.

Until, of course, you arrive.

5. Oh this world is a mess [Blue Horsehoe Pub, mundane day]

In this memory, Crabb looks the closest to the Crabb that everyone knows from the boat. No police uniform, no skirts, just her go-to white button down, brown trousers with suspenders and her trenchcoat draped over the stool underneath her. Her tie is loosened a little and she's at ease, at the bar, wielding a glass of mid-tier whiskey and chatting occasionally with the tall, muscular blonde man who serves as the place's bartender.

It's a matter of business, more than it really is about relaxation; Ducky isn't here to come and gather information that Masters has picked up anymore, so while Johnny continues to run the high-society end of things, Crabb's taken to coming down to the Blue Horseshoe to see if there's anything they need to know.

It is, however, still one of the few things she does that comes close to taking any time off, during this stretch of her life. And there's space at the bar beside her.

6. But it's prettier, than what lies beneath [Serena Eterna]

Crabb is trying her best to hide the fact that this 'reality breaking apart at the seams' thing is actually shaking her up more than she'd be proud to admit. There's a part of her that can't help but wonder if this is her doing, at least in part, what with Friday MIA thanks to her actions and after she smudged the sigils in the first place. Sure, there's the whole feeding a corpse to a ghost thing, and who knows what else, but...

So, she's doing what she does best. Bury it in other work. She tries to keep track of memories she's been into or had entered, she tries to see if there's any sort of pattern (not as far as she can see), she even tries to dip back into her project writing up the story of Lavender Jack, but she's still a bit all over the place no matter what she does.

Find her in any of her usual spots around the ship, places like Windjammer or the Drunken Sailor, Tauva, the Library, the gym and sports deck, or just around.

7. Oh where do I go from here [wildcard]

Find me at bluecitrine or at artisticblueteam#5757/in the discord.

Comments

[pointofhonoria]

Cragen couldn't have seen this coming if he'd tried. The masks are foolproof, until touched—they don't quite feel like real skin, the glue can't hold up to direct manipulation, all the little faults that add up. So foolproof, in fact, that this mask is able to fool a childhood friend of both himself and the real Tom. He's made it weeks interacting directly with Crabb without him refusing to let her touch his face being suspicious.

No one should be able to recognise that he's wearing a prosthetic. No. One

So when the hand goes so quickly for his face, he has only a split second to think wait, what? before the glue is tugging at his real skin, peeling away in one sharp motion, sending his glasses scattering to the floor and revealing a deeply scarred face that looks nothing like the man that Tom Broadfoot was and a lot like the man his biological father is.

Besides them, multiple things happen in quick succession: Crabb stands bolt upright with a 'hey!' on her lips as Smith reaches across. She attempts to shove him back with a hand on his shoulder. Her eyes flick towards Cragen. Her eyes go wide. And she stumbles as her distraction causes her to miss slip from the rung of her stool, barely catching herself as her breath leaves her.

[be_seeing_you]

"My apologies, Special Inspector Crabb," Number 6 says coolly as if he hasn't just upended her entire world. "I knew that if I'd tried to warn you any other way it wouldn't have been nearly so effective."

He puts and arm under hers to steady her, and reaches for the whiskey he'd set down. "Here. This is for you."

[pointofhonoria]

"I-I— I don't— what?" She slumps back against the stool, the legs scraping across the floor beneath, and just stares at Cragen, utterly aghast. Not at the scars, not at the uncanny resemblance to Gall, but at the mere fact that this is not Tom Broadfoot. "Who— who are— what?"

Every muscle in Cragen's body is pulled taut, turning him into a pillar of stunned anger that's nearly shaking in his seat. His fists are clenched, his jaw is twitching, his eyes are wide and wild, and yet he doesn't seem to dare move or speak. This is, as scenes go, relatively contained—Crabb's reaction barely turned any heads, leaving the bartender only other person that's noticed that anything at all has happened.

And so for the moment, Cragen is using every last drop of the very little restraint he possesses as himself to not. Draw. Attention.

[be_seeing_you]

"I know this is quite a shock," Number 6 tells her sympathetically. "And I'm sorry to have to deliver it to you this way. But, while I am in the business of doing so, I'll add that I believe this man, Cragen, is planning to blackmail an associate who goes by the name Johnny Summer. I mean to put a stop to that and all other nefarious plans he may have."

Now, Number 6 levels his hard glare at the man. He must give Cragen this much credit; he is keeping his cool remarkably well, considering. Perhaps he hopes to avoid attention, to slip out of the crowd and disappear. Well, they can't have that.

"Please drink your whiskey, Special Inspector, and allow me to give this man one last 'message'." It will not be with words.

He winds up with his fist clenched, and lets fly a punch aimed right at the exposed part of the man's face. Try to keep the crowd from noticing that.

[pointofhonoria]

The forced composure in Cragen snaps in the split second before the punch lands. Not enough time to block, not enough time to roll with the blow, just enough for his face to twist into a picture of anger before the strike connects and the momentum throws him from the stool.

He doesn't stay sprawled on the floor long, though. Eyes are already on them from the second the stool clatters against the tile, whispers and gasps and all the sounds of scandal filling the room, and though Cragen would certainly prefer to bolt, he's also prone to bruised pride.

Which means as soon as he can get his feet back under him, he's launching at Smith to strike back. But the thing about Cragen is he was never the boxer; he has an eye technique, and tactics, and he's learned over the years, but a bare knuckle fight is not his speciality.

And as all this happens, Crabb just... stares, still stunned, and grabs the glass Smith gave her to down half of it in one go.

[be_seeing_you]

That split-second moment of fury he spots in the eyes of his enemy is satisfying beyond words. Burn, he thinks, as his fist connects, watch all your plots go to ruin right before you.

And he relishes this fight. Cragen launches at him, but he's more than ready. He easily dodges the first throw Cragen makes at him, and goes low to hammer the man in his gut, hoping to knock the wind from him. He'll follow that up with a jab to the side of his head, meant to disorient and stun. He wants to keep this man right here, for all to see, as he raises his voice to the crowd.

"You see this man? This wolf in sheep's clothing? He has been lying to all of you. But now the truth is revealed. Tom Broadfoot is dead. And this is his murderer!" At that last, Number 6 does turn sympathetically to Crabb again and says, apologetically, "I'm very sorry you're learning it this way."

[pointofhonoria]

The dots start connecting one by one, the longer Crabb sits there in stunned silence—the never letting her touch his face is just the tip of an iceberg with the power of hindsight. There are still missing pieces, bits of information they just don't have at this point in time, but there's enough to paint a picture.

(Somewhere in the room, Endo Gall is this close to a heart attack.)

The sounds of scandal erupt anew with every strike, with every word out of Smith's mouth. Crabb doesn't care about that. Crabb doesn't care about how many people are watching this right now. She tosses back another half of the glass, wipes her mouth, pushes herself off the stool and rolls her shoulders.

"Yeah, well, ain't like he was gonna go telling me, was it?"

And then she grabs Cragen by the front of Tom's cheap suit, yanking him up away from where he's half-collapsed against the bar after those hits, and slugs him hard enough that something audibly cracks.

She doesn't even let him fall to the floor. His knees give, but she keeps hold of his shirt.

"You— after the bridge— you slimy bastard!"

[be_seeing_you]

"That'a girl," Number 6 says approvingly. He can see that fire lit behind her eyes, so he steps clear to let her have at it.

That crack is utterly satisfying. He'd held back, wanting to give her the honor of breaking a jaw or a nose. Maybe both. It's her right.

While she 'interrogates' him, Number 6 turns to the bartender again. "Another two whiskey, if you please? Make them double."

[pointofhonoria]

It must be his nose, going by the way his voice is distorted when he tries to speak up—the facade of Tom's voice is long since gone, but even his rougher, natural voice is now nasally and pained. "Honoria—"

Crabb drags him further upright and throws him against the bar's edge, far enough down that the poor bartender jumps but isn't completely disturbed.

"Keep my name outta your mouth! You don't get the bleedin' right to— to—" She grits her teeth, fist rearing back again, though she doesn't strike right away. "You've been using me, playing me like some Goddamn fool. I knew you were a piece of work but this—"

Because she knows who this is, who this must be. And terrorising the city is one thing, that's what you expect off a terrorist who thinks themself a vigilante, but everything between them...

The second punch lands, and its his jaw that cracks this time. She doesn't bother to try and hold him upright, letting him collapse in a heap on the floor beneath the bar. Everyone is watching and no doubt some kind of security will be here soon, but Crabb goes nowhere. She just leans against the nearest stool that hasn't been knocked over and grabs one of the new glasses of whiskey as they're put down.

Finally, aimed at Smith, low enough to not be heard further out, "...how in the Hell did you know?"

[be_seeing_you]

Oh. Wrong move, Number 6 thinks to himself cheerfully when he hears Cragen utter that first name. He's watching this like he's ringside at boxing match, taking a casual drink of his whiskey just as the crack of the man's jaw reverberates trough the air. He lifts his drink to her in cheers as the man slides down the bar to the floor in a heap.

"Let us just say that it is my occupation to know things," he tells her in a low voice that won't carry. "More than that, I cannot divulge."

[pointofhonoria]

"Hm." She throws back half the glass at once, again, and looks idly out over the mass of stunned swells. More police will probably be here soon to clean up the mess and she'll have to try and take charge, then. This wasn't a great look for someone technically in uniform, but frankly that's the least of her concerns right now. "Considerin' who that is, you just saved a Hell of a lot more than my dignity. Caused a right mess too, mind, but..."

Cragen moves as if to get up and Crabb pushes him right back down with her foot, doesn't even bother standing up straight again. "Don't even think about it. You've got more bones that can break."

[be_seeing_you]

"Yes, well, it was more fun this way." He laughs dryly as she pushes Cragen back down with her boot. "The publicity was, arguably, necessary to keep him from weaseling out of it. I have the utmost confidence that you will be able to sort it out from here."

He looks to the side when he notices a flicker. Ah, that must be the crack opening up. Just in time.

"I'm afraid you will have to handle that part without me. I really should be going before reinforcements arrive to ask me some difficult questions." He stands up and throws back the last of his drink. Once he's set that aside, he offers her his hand. "It was a pleasure. I wish you the best."

[pointofhonoria]

Crabb takes the hand to shake while at the same time her brow furrows, a processing delay between the offer and realising exactly what he's saying. The handshake turns a lot firmer after that, she has quite the tight grip when she tries. "Hang on, wait a Damn minute, whadaya mean you're just popping off just like that?! You make a habit of causin' absolute nightmares and just— running off?!"

Well, you see, Crabb, he's a spy from another world, so...

[be_seeing_you]

What a tight grip she has. Seems she isn't so eager to let him go just like that. Not that he's surprised. He doesn't flinch, doesn't even act as if he's felt the pressure increase.

"As a matter of fact, I do. When I can get away with it." The smirk on his face as he says it... there's not an ounce of guilt to be seen. "It might become awkward for both of us if I stay. I cannot divulge how I knew this information. So, I think it would be best if you claimed full credit for this. the paperwork would be simpler, don't you agree?"

[pointofhonoria]

Her eyes narrow, and she doesn't let go. Not immediately. There's enough fuss towards the far end of the room that the reinforcements are likely about to arrive and so her options are trying to stall or force him to stay, or just letting the bugger go and see if she can find out more later. Ducky might be able to get a line on him... (yeah, good luck with that, Crabb.)

"'Simpler', he says, like I have any bleedin' clue about the details—" She grits her teeth and grumbles, grip tightening another notch before she huffs and lets go, pointing at him instead. "I ain't gonna forget about this, mister."

[be_seeing_you]

"Yes. Simpler. I guarantee it." Since he is a ghost in this world and no amount of checking his identity will fix that problem. Best of luck to anyone who tries.

"You'll tell them you noticed something odd in the light. A blemish that led you to look closer. That's when you realized he was wearing the mask. You ripped it off, saw him for who he was beneath, and rightly laid into him for the deception. He fought back and you were forced to break his nose. If any of the witnesses insist that there was a man involved, well, you know how chaotic things can become in a fight."

[pointofhonoria]

Crabb props a hand on her hip and huffs, glancing towards the discarded pieces of the mask and shuddering a little. God's teeth it is creepy...

"...ugh, fine. But I ain't kidding. I ain't gonna forget this." Both in a good way and a way that would absolutely mean she wouldn't stop until she hunted him down, if this timeline of events wasn't about to end as soon as Smith leaves.

[be_seeing_you]

"No. I don't suspect you will. I'm counting on it." He smiles, and it's a frustratingly enigmatic smile. "I'll be seeing you."

With that, he turns and walks away into the crack. For that one moment of transition, it must have been quite confusing for her. But it's over now, and here he is back on the ship. He wonders how long it's going to take her to come looking for him. Maybe he'll go to Tauva and have a drink while he waits.

[pointofhonoria]

Crabb's lucky she grew up in an age where instant communication was very much not the norm, or she'd be even more fed up with this dead phone business than she already is... look, she doesn't really mind having to hunt people down the old fashioned way, but even so.

It really isn't that long after he comes out that she comes to find him and Tauva is one of the first places she checks, luckily for her. She comes over and leans forward against the back of the seat opposite him, raising an amused brow.

"You enjoyed that."

[be_seeing_you]

"You didn't?" He asks, smugly. He's not going to bother pretending that wasn't a top-five moment for him watching her deck that man until he couldn't stand.

[pointofhonoria]

Crabb nods her head to the side, "Enjoyed might not be the right word for how I felt at the time, but in hindsight? Sure I bleedin' did, been wanting to do that for years, now."

She snorts a laugh and flips the chair around to sit on it backwards, arms across the back.

"Rather remember that night like that than how it really went, if I'm honest. How it really went was uneventful, sure, but it was also a date with him, so..."

[be_seeing_you]

"My gift to you, then. A much more satisfying memory to dwell on." It was satisfying. So satisfying.

"You pack quite a punch, I must say. You and I ought to box. I could use the challenge."

[pointofhonoria]

"I'd say cheers to that but I ain't got a glass yet," she says with a snort, which is when she does order a drink. Not because she needs it for the conversation, but because she just wants a drink.

"I ain't exactly trained or nothin', my parents had their ideas about what hobbies a good Catholic girl should have and never were fans of the scraps I got in, but I picked up a thing or two over the years." She flashes a bit of a grin. "And folks never do see how hard I can throw comin'."

[be_seeing_you]

"Best remedy that." She can order her own this time.

"If you wanted to be trained, that could be arranged. In my younger days, I was on an Olympic boxing team." So, he's got the chops for it. "Learning some technique to put behind that power would make you formidable indeed."

[pointofhonoria]

"Erin's been teaching me some, but it sure ain't boxing. So, yeah, sure—Hell, I could probably do with some more variety to keep me on my toes myself." Since she's only been sparring with Erin at all, for the last few months. Not that she's ended up in many situations where her right hook has been helpful anyway, here, but... you don't want to go getting rusty, do you?