savetheearth | 001 — handwritten [scrap] & action.

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001 — handwritten [scrap] & action.

( HANDWRITTEN )

[ Banagher's found himself a little bit of free time at the library on Pierre-Simon, meaning he's taking a break from sorting through the insanity of the return bin to card through a few old books in search of some kind of meaning to assign to the words he can't seem to keep quiet in his head.

On the back of a forgotten, yellowing library punch card he finds tucked away in a book, he starts copying down things in no order, just to remember—first up is the sequence of numbers that's equally persistent. He'd never thought to put them down physically before, here or otherwise, by the virtue of the fact that he doesn't feel like he'll forget them anytime soon. Thusly: ]

[ Sorry, network denizens, for the nonsensical scraps of texts, notes, and printings you may receive as a result. Also the disconcerting doodles. ]

( ACTION )

[ It's early evening, the time when all the streetlamps begin to wink to life outside and natural sunlight is exchanged for halogen. He's currently seated in the lower level of the library at one of the broad cherry wood tables, chin in hand, mindlessly scribbling on the punch card. There's an assortment of papers spread across the table's corner, dotted with books and pens, suggesting he's been at this for a bit. While usually a diligent worker, he seems pretty distracted.

Don't happen to need a book or the use of a computer, do you? ]

(ooc. this is his first use of the network, but if you're going for action and your character is a frequent visitor to the library or a high school/uni student, you're welcome to assume cr!)

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So it's been awhile.

[ His eyes flicker away to the floor, drawn back to that memory. Sunlight beside the windowsill and soft notes and laughter and earnest pleas of can't you stay just a little bit longer, always met with the same response.

Someday, maybe.

But someday never came. ]

That's a shame.

[ Casval's hand drifts back to the keys, idly playing chords with a lazy set of fingers. ]

My mother taught me. Just the basics, really; I mostly played on my own. It was something to do, I suppose.

You're lucky you could pick it up.

[ Despite the fact that the answer he receives seems loaded, somehow, nostalgic and yet very close in presence, Banagher chooses instead to focus on the softness of the notes. Sweet without dipping into indulgence.

A good supplement to things that go unsaid. ]

My mom tried everything to teach me, but it didn't work. Something just didn't stick.

[ And there are so many things that have gone unsaid, here.

The chords join into a slow, ambling form of Air, two or three keys at a time. Sweet. Nonindulgent. A sluggish afternoon beneath the shade of a tree, a morning slumbering in the meadows. ]

Perhaps it simply wasn't meant to be. [ Humming in thought. ] The piano is a demanding creature. If you don't give it your full attention, it will turn away from you.

[ Ironic, given that he's barely paying attention at the moment. Drifting. The dozy notes of Bach had that sort of effect on a person. ]

Things like that happen, right?

[ Though he doesn't remember ever not trying. He knew the lay of the keys, from the time he was old enough to see over the towering tops of the ivories. Even the progression of notes was familiar, the way elegant pianist fingers could draw well-worn paths across them, over and over. Repetitive, comforting, timeless as he knows it insofar.

A story with letters but no words. ]

Maybe you just have to show it once.

A pessimistic way of looking at it, but yes. Things like that happen.

[ Not that he could speak much on the pessimistic front. Yet some optimism did remain, deep down, inexplicably, that people could do better, live better, work better. Push themselves beyond what was possible and light a path to a brighter future.

Show the world just once that, in spite of its vices and its dangers, it was still a place worth living in after all. ]

Yes... wild horses to be broken. To be tamed. [ The corner of his mouth lifts into a wry sort of half-smile. ] The very nature of music itself, one could argue.

You can tame something without breaking it, can't you?

[ Frequently called "trust", but you know. Banagher realizes he hadn't really meant it literally, but he can't help but think of how awful a broken piano would look. Or sound. It's actually a little hard to imagine, which might color him with a more subdued shade of optimism, if not some kind of faith. ]

[ It's that subtle whisper of faith that gets Casval to glance up, which lifts his fingers from the keys, more so than his initial entrance had. It speaks to a gentleness Casval can't quite understand, though he remembers brushes, traces of it when he was younger. When he didn't know that this world was worth living in because its evils kept it spinning. ]

You still haven't introduced yourself to me, young man.

[ It's said teasingly enough, absent its usual sternness. Casval could be obstinate, sure, but it's hard to dole out any fire when you're receiving nothing of the sort in turn. ]

[ Briefly snared in whatever image that's taken up residence in his mind's eye, a second passes before Banagher realizes he's being spoken to again in the absence of the music. As if he'd been lulled to sleep by it and then suddenly jarred awake by the following silence.

Blinking it away, his gaze darts up apologetically. Strange. ]

Sorry... I'm Banagher. Banagher Links.

[ A pause at the piano's side eventually gives way to the offer of a handshake. He's not really used to it, but it seemed the most appropriate option. ]

[ With considerably less hesitation on his end, Casval takes the hand. It's warm and small in the cold grip of his glove, meant for sealing business proposals, greeting his comrades-in-arms. But today, in this moment, it's reserved for meeting a boy. Banagher Links. ]

My name is...

[ Well, most people seemed to know his name already. Less of a name and more of a garbled address all run together by the media, Captain Casval Mass, former pilot of the RAF, renowned British politician and foreign dignitary. The stripping away of identities in favor of titles that no longer held meaning, only old comforts. Hints of what he once was.

Maybe this time, it could be different. ]

...Casval.

[ Maybe this time, someone would understand. Even if they were only just a boy. ]

Casval?

[ Banagher repeats, not quite having anticipated the weight of his grasp. It'd be easy to feel insignificant in light of it, like well-crafted iron, but instead he takes away some kind of regard.

And he could ask about it. Or the uniform. Or why he'd come into the library in the first place—looking for books, presumably, and when people were looking for books they were either looking for enjoyment or for answers. What he'd found was a piano.

So all he comes up with is: ]

You play really well.

[ Casval doesn't add anything to what's already been said, either; no didn't you see me on the news? or that's right, so straighten up, young man, you're slouching. Just an honest look, free of judgment or appraisal, what he sees reflected in the young man's eyes.

To shed his skin, if only in this moment, if only briefly, is far more liberating than it has any right to be. ]

You speak too highly of me.

[ His fingers are reluctant to retreat. He doesn't like being cold, truth be told.

But he pulls them back anyway, for his own good. ]

I simply play.

No way. [ Far was he from someone who'd argue a point just to argue it, even if it was just a matter of differing trivial opinions. But there are some things he just knows. Once Casval relinquishes his hand, his own falls away in turn. ] Lots of people "simply" do things. But if you really meant that, then the simple part is what makes it talent.

[ Skill could be learned, fine-tuned. Brought into place. Talent was natural. ]

[ Casval had entertained compliments, all frivolous and all for so long, that a genuine one sounds like a foreign language to his ears—confusing, unsettling, and carrying with it a hint of embarrassment. Praise from the mouth of a child was distinctly different from praise from the mouth of an adult. Children didn't have angles to work, ulterior motives to pursue. They said what they felt, whatever came to mind. They didn't have a filter, or at least not the same kind their parents and grandparents did. That's how he knows Banagher is telling the truth.

Casval really doesn't know what to do with the truth, other than avoid confronting it. Avert his eyes from it and hope it didn't notice his true colors bleeding through. ]

...thank you. [ The fingers that were so elegant before twitch now, both a nervous habit and a dead giveaway to a darker addiction. ] You attend school nearby, then? You seem a bit young for a university student.

[ Banagher gazes at him with momentary curiosity, but doesn't point out the rather apparent gap between his assessment and the following response to it. Eventually he looks away too, figuring there were any number of reasons for someone to shy from a compliment, no matter how decorated they appeared. ]

Locke High. I'm a senior. [ Absently, he swirls shapes in the patches of dust still undisturbed on the piano's lid with an index finger. ] I take a few entry level classes at the university, though.

[ Out of the dim shapes, numbers begin to appear. About three or four in, Banagher realizes what he's doing and thinks better of continuing. ]

What about you? I can't remember seeing you around before.

[ Not that he knows everyone in the city, of course, but having spent his whole life in the area, he's pretty sure he'd remember someone with such a... unique appearance. ]

[ Not a terribly surprising revelation. There's a quiet glimmer of intelligence in Banagher's expression, he'd noticed, an understated dedication to plodding along wherever life's path took him. He doesn't fault him for not immediately placing a name to his face; if he were the boy's age, he'd avoid the news, too, for the lack of good on it lately beyond superficial fluff. He could barely watch his own public appearances, these days, strained as they were.

But the numbers. The numbers grab his attention and don't let it go. They couldn't possibly be related to... and yet.

And yet.

Slowly, cautiously, Casval reaches over to begin etching his own number into the dust. The number that connected them all to that strange new world, a number very much like Banagher's. ]

Maybe you have, and just didn't realize it.

[ Done. Now broadcasting live, from this piano. Though there's not much dust to left to write in, it gets his point across. ]

Maybe you even saw me a long time ago, in your memories.

[ At this point, nothing would surprise him. ]

[ The world as he knows it is very small. An apartment about a block and a half down from an intersection, ground floor, where pots of mint grow on the kitchen windowsill and a piano takes up one whole corner of the living room. A short bus ride along streets wedged between office highrises and a walk to school from there. The lazy gold windows of the coffee shop he passes on the way to the library, full of people trying to escape the evening chill. Daily obligations that stack up until he no longer remembers what the evening news sounds like beyond drowsy inklings, shut out as soon as his head hits the pillow.

All it takes is a set of numbers to make him realize the world is much smaller than he thinks.

Banagher recoils from the complete sequence like he'd been burned by it, stepping away from the piano and the power he knows it now possesses. Brows knit, he passes a disconcerted glance between it and Casval. ]

...I know this.

I know you do.

[ And Casval rises, to full height, coat sweeping to the floor. Eyes losing their distant luster and gaining a focused intensity, trained upon Banagher, upon this newest addition to the mystery that daunted him so. Yes, this was only to be expected. It was only right that they'd be connected, somehow. It fits, from that initial, tentative draw to the absolute moment of now. ]

Char Aznable. That is the name that was given to me, along with this number, and that is the name I seek out. The answers to this riddle that have drawn us together. The solution. The final piece in the puzzle.

[ Their differences in size, in stature, in presence, come to the forefront. This man exudes power and drive and all the will necessary to obtain his one sole desire. ]

I will find my answers. I will stop at nothing. That is who I am... the Red Comet. A shooting star to pursue whatever and whomever is foolish enough to elude me.

Char... Aznable? [ The Red Comet. Banagher repeats, as if to try and disassemble the concept of the name syllable by syllable. All it does is sound foreign, a broken link—if a link at all—in the complex sequence that somehow spans between them. In that moment, he's caught unaware of just how much a difference in demeanor something as simple as standing can make, especially when your company stands a good head and shoulders over you.

Frowning, Banagher tries to settle on what to say. What can he even say? From that little tirade alone, he can tell this was an impenetrable wall to tear down, not a distant flicker to reach for. ]

You've felt it too. That heartbeat. The things that rush in to take its place.

[ Words. Words that aren't in his own voice. Static on a forgotten radio. ]

[ Casval guides a hand to his thrumming heart and clutches firm, as if to say yes, inside here. Inside there, he felt it, confused and lost and alone with not a thing to answer for it and now, this name. This name to guide him through the darkness. He would cling to it without shame and follow it all the way through, to wherever it led.

Now more than ever, he knows it will lead him to the truth. Perhaps the only truth he won't shy away from. ]

The name that isn't and the things that shouldn't be. The empty space where someone once was.

I will find it and I will fill it. By any means necessary.

[ Compelled by the gesture, one that reminds him of what it was that accompanied his own set of numbers, Banagher averts his gaze to Casval's own, scrawled out in the dust. If he's intimidated by the single-minded path Casval speaks of and intends to walk with all his bearing before him, he does a decent job hiding it. ]

Maybe it's not really empty.

[ Of course he felt it, despite his answer. The kind of literal emptiness that rippled through him: that, for a brief moment, had made him privy to what seemed like the sound of someone else's heart rooted deep in his chest. In its place rose knowledge without origin, and from there, something like a tree with so many branches. Convoluted, difficult to navigate, and undeniably linked at some kind of center. ]

It is empty for me and that is enough.

[ Another reply fired off resoundingly, unflinchingly. If Banagher wished to simply pay the situation no mind, so be it. But it wasn't the same for him. It couldn't be the same for him. He felt too much of a connection to a name he should never have known and that's exactly what compels him to know. It's a beacon for someone hopelessly adrift at sea and he would be a foolish man indeed to choose drowning over rescue.

He's not through on this planet yet. And until he was, until that day when the responsible were made to answer for their crimes... he'd keep on living.

The undying, unyielding Red Comet, blazing a trail endlessly through the skies. That is the being that stands before Banagher Links now. ]

[ ...Hidden. Was going to be his next guess. Maybe it was just hidden. The best sounding of the lot, perhaps the most hopeful.

But Banagher doesn't know what he expected, exactly. Why he had any expectation at all, in light of all the questions that arose from something with no definitive answers. Only that it prompts something akin to a flash of disappointment that he quickly leverages with movement. He wipes the dust off his hands and shoves them in his hoodie pockets, cleanly avoiding that hammer coming down. ]

I should get going.

[ Banagher breaks away from the piano and from Casval. ]

Thanks, for the song.

[ The footsteps are hollow in their retreat, and proud and blustery as he was mere seconds ago, Casval finds that he's swept up in the descending calm that rushes in to take the place of bull-headed drive. What had this boy heard? What had this boy seen? More importantly, what did he know, and what had he left behind? What laid in store for him?

But it's too late to ask those questions now, he senses; the opportunity's passed. When Banagher slips by, he softens his tone some. One last bit of advice, for the road. He's sure their paths would cross again. ]

Even when your heart stops, Banagher, don't forget. It's still inside you. Beating, within your chest. Strong. Alive. There.

[ His eyes narrow. ]

Don't let anyone or anything take that away from you.

[ Banagher stops in the doorway, lingers for a half-second more. Enough to cast a glance over his shoulder, inquisitive, but also puzzled by the advice that sounds so profound, when really... ]

Isn't that true for all humans?

[ He says it like it's the most basic thing in the world, a building block that even a child could grasp the definition of. Stack them and they tower. But he doesn't wait for an answer. It's obvious neither of them had that, yet, and he's not sure he'd know what to do with his even if he were to find it. ]

It was nice meeting you.

[ One step forward, then two, until he disappears from the doorway. ]

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001 — handwritten [scrap] & action.

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