asgardmeridiem | BURNING BRIDGES, PART ONE

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BURNING BRIDGES, PART ONE

Who: EVERYONE
What: The The BURNING BRIDGES Mingle Log (Part One of Two)
When: Days 421-422 (March 21-24)
Where: All over the city.
Rating: PG-13. Anything higher than that should be taken to a private log, please!

Day 421 ( Mar. 21/22 ): All throughout the day, the inhabitants of the Holy City will occasionally hear low rumbling sounds not unlike the beginnings of an earthquake, but nothing shakes or stirs beyond the quiet trickle of rain for most of the day. However, as the rain picks up and blots out the sunset, the rumbling grows louder just before a rift opens in the ground. Though it's not terribly deep, the split is two feet across at its widest and travels several hundred yards, starting from beneath the city wall at the corner of the Thor district and moving quickly into Loki's district. The ground nearby shifts somewhat with it and any buildings unfortunate to be affected will start to sink into the gap.

Any shouts of surprise or cries for help from this tear in the earth will be short lived, however, as large shards of ice begin to rip through the wall in various places throughout Sigyn and Hel's districts, piercing holes into anything - and anyone - in their path before shattering or melting. These are not directed or precise by any means; they fly in random places at random times. It may very well seem like the least coordinated attack ever and the Giants have really lost their game, but as the rumbling reaches its loudest peak, a burst of flame far outside the city wall may hint that it is not an attack at all. At least, not one intended for the Travellers.

To the east of the city, not nearly far enough from the thick wall that separates Asgard from the rest of Yggdrasil, a massive battle between the Frost Giants and the Fire Giants is being waged. What splinters off and reaches the city is purely by accident; collateral damage, as it were.

The shattering of rock and the splintering ice as well as bursts of flame and cracking of trees can be heard all throughout the night as more debris and stray projectiles find their way over the city wall. This can be anything from more needles of ice and much smaller cracks in the ground to flaming stones and sheets of hail. For now, these will remain small things that come over the wall rather than through it, but feel free to play around with what exactly comes your way.
Day 422 ( Mar. 23/24 ): The battle continues on into the next day, and by early morning, the city guard will ride through the city to alert everyone as to what's happening beyond the gates. From what they can see, Thiazi's army is pushing Surt's back and away as the Fire Giants attempt to encroach forward. They know of little else, but the battle is coming closer and closer to the city, which means the collateral damage will continue to worsen.

This is where the decision whether or not to fight will come in! The decision will be left to the Travellers in whether they ride out to force the Giants out of Asgard's land or simply bunker down and wait out the war. All action and inaction comes with a list of pros and cons, so consider it carefully before settling on your decision today.

[ OOC NOTES: This is the mingle log for the first half of the Burning Bridges event, leading up to the decision on how the Travelers will react to the battle. The poll, though closed, is located HERE for reference! The mingle log for the second half of this event will be going up soon, and a link will be provided here when it is.

A Special Note: As of the beginning of this event, god-given powers will now work outside of the Asgard. More information on this OOCly is forthcoming, and characters involved in the plot please be on the lookout for contact from us! Please feel free to assume that all Travelers have been made ICly aware of the fact that they can now use their powers outside of the city now.

Please put [OPEN/CLOSED] in the title of your comment, along with the time and location. Let us know if you have any questions! ]

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[For the first time he takes the chance of looking at her, properly looking for the space of a few seconds, brow furrowed in honest curiosity.]

Do you really think it works that way? If you suffer enough you can pay back a debt? I had imagined you'd a better sense of temporality than that. I know you haven't a better sense of people. Good at using, not terribly good at seeing. I've no doubt you cared about the idea but that's hardly the same thing as a person, and that you don't; if you did you'd have a better sense of entropy.

[A glass falls and spills and shatters in Sherlock's head and John Watson's hands try very hard to close around his throat as he rests flat on his back on the floor of that ridiculous restaurant. He closes his eyes and shoves those disparate thoughts back into their appropriate boxes.]

You can... glue something back together once you've broken it but it's never going to be the same as it was, believe me, circumstance is hardly any different -- and before you bother to claim that you weren't out to break anything I remember very well what you said to me the first time we met. And what you did, following. If my well-being had mattered to you in the slightest you'd not have insisted upon insinuating yourself where you weren't wanted to watch me squirm for the sake of your own amusement, and if I made any mistake it was in not matching that to your employer.

[His mouth sets itself in a faintly unhappy line. So much ought to have been sussed out earlier. Conclusions drawn, all reasonable, but Sherlock is hardly immune to escapism. His fondness for the needle was plenty of evidence of that.]

In retrospect a glaring oversight. You're astonishingly well-matched.

Of course not! [ her fragile hold on her temper shatters as she closes her hand around her arm, which was throbbing. how long was she going to sit here in the rain and try and reason with him when he'd already made up his mind? with that in mind, she gathered up the remains of her pride and struggled to her feet, leaning back against the building to brace herself. ] If our brief encounter was enough to show you exactly what I am and what I'm not, I see no reason to try and convince you otherwise.

[ there was so much he didn't know about her - her past, her life, her reasoning and justification behind using him, how she thought of him beyond the attachment that he'd exposed. she certainly wasn't interested in telling and he wasn't interested in listening. in some ways, she felt it was foolish to try and argue - how do you prove to someone who has only seen you manipulate that you never meant to hurt them? how do you prove that the game had become much more complicated than ever anticipated?

she couldn't, not to him. not with words, at least. it was better to stand and take what he had to throw at her. much of it didn't surprise her - of course, she was manipulative and evil and she'd hurt him. but his allusion to her being like moriarty..

that made her physically flinch, and she couldn't resist a quiet snarl, hands curling into fists. ] I am nothing like him. I do wonder, if you truly believed I was, why bother saving my life? Why not leave me to die? Heaven knows the world would not miss me, and neither would you.

[Sherlock’s nose wrinkles and he scoffs, the noise both derisive and indignant.]

Oh please, I hardly have to like you to think the world is a more interesting place with you in it, which is frankly more than I can say of most people. Though you’re doing quite a good job of challenging that at the moment; you’re far too good a liar to really expect me to believe you’re suffering under the delusion that who you are matters a jot next to what you do.

[There’s an uncomfortable edge of anger to his voice and in the curl of his lip. It’s not quite dangerous, but it certainly isn’t safe, either. The conviction comes from somewhere deep-seated, clearly. If she knew him at all she might pinpoint the whole of him: the years spent not mattering, a cycle perpetuated by her as much as anyone else. He has no confidence at all in her ability to figure it out, however.]

I know; believe me. Only children think intent matters.

[Sherlock Holmes has been wrong all of his life. Always, inevitably; nothing he does is anywhere approaching the margins of good regardless of what he means and everyone, every single person he’s ever met has been intent upon reminding him that it doesn’t begin to matter what he meant.]

What I think is only of consequence when it serves someone else and what I feel is so wildly inconsequential that it doesn’t warrant a variable, but here you are asking me to give you more regard than you’d have ever imagined giving me; you have an incredible audacity, but then we had established that much at our first meeting.

[He sits back, lips pressed into a thin line, livid, though the anger isn’t directed wholly at her. Circumstances are infuriating in general, here and elsewhere, and he wonders if he’ll ever manage to recall what it was like not being furious.]

You hurt people for a living. You sort out their nasty little secrets and then you use those secrets to hurt them. Fact. What you think you are is an idea, and nobody ever cares terribly much for anyone else's ideas.

[ her expression mirrors the one she was wearing the last time he caught her off guard significantly; or at least, it does until she notices her lack of control and attempts to school her face to something akin to neutrality. it's a miserable effort, but what about the scene isn't miserable? the rain, the blood, the derision. it just adds to the entire wrongness of it. ]

Demonstrating your god complex? I'd rather have died there than lived to feed your constant need for something interesting in the world. We're not all toys to be discarded and picked up again at your whim! It's a quality you dislike in others but conveniently ignore in yourself. Perhaps you resemble him more than I do.

[ she'd feared that there would be this explosion sometime, but now was the wrong time and she felt that she was at an inherent disadvantage, one that he could and/or would exploit. it was already making her more forthcoming than usual, she didn't want to wait and see what else she would share. ]

If this is your way of telling me that I hurt you, you're doing more than an adequate job, thank you - not to mention providing an insight into your lack of self-esteem. The only person who thinks how you feel doesn't matter is you.

[ after all, she could have left. refused to hear him out. and she was still here, weathering the storm. partly because she had a feeling that attempting to avoid it would only make it worse, and partly because she feared that they would never have a chance to speak of it again. despite growing increasingly pale, she was determined to see this through. ]

Would you want me to deny my work? I manipulate people. I blackmail. I manipulated you, to a certain point. I was manipulated, in turn.

[ her work. irene had been wondering when that might come up. sooner or later, they all threw it back in her face; though, she had to admit that he was being rather unique. manipulation and blackmail was one thing. she couldn't apologize for that and wouldn't. but killing people? or having a hand in their death?

it was very not her. ]

You place so much importance on our first meeting, but what about our last? You have no idea of my regard for you, or lack thereof; I've had a lot of time to think about you.

I've never been anything but forthcoming about my lack of concern for people. I was under the impression you'd researched me before our first meeting, I know it would've come up. People are... dull, hardly distinguishable one to the other most of the time, impenetrably dense; most of them never manage interesting and most of the ones who do only manage it once they're dead.

[He looks up at the sky, searching for any sign that the rain is abating.]

I'm not sentimental about myself; I know that while they're not dead the only value I have to any of them is what I can do for them. Solve a murder, recover something stolen, put up shelves... solve the puzzle hidden in a set of numbers, perhaps, you know that one. If you're still following, I'm not accusing you of being monstrous, I'm accusing you of being human, though I can see why you'd still manage to be offended; humanity isn't flattering.

[Somewhere in the middle all of this his anger has twisted to become an icy bitterness, almost darkly humorous -- at least to Sherlock, judging but the faint upward turn of his lips.]

I suppose it doesn't appeal to you either. You like to maintain your veil of mystery, keeps you safe, but it hardly means anything if you're human and I know human.

[He falls silent a few moments, thoughtful, sucking on the inside of his cheek.]

Why do you think I do it? My work, reading people, why do you think I'm capable? Do try to give an honest answer, lashing out is clearly getting you nowhere.

Your lack of concern for people, yes, but you hardly care as little as you'd like everyone to believe. Your behaviour towards Doctor Watson demonstrates that much, but I wouldn't consider it your weakness.

[ she had done her research and his lack of concern had been intriguing. she felt that in some ways, it matched her own - at least where her clients were concerned. she wasn't a judge, she couldn't pretend to claim that all those she had exploited were bad people. several were, but several weren't. it hadn't mattered, at the time.

she wondered if it would matter to her now. ]

Only you could make humanity sound like an insult. [ she was comfortable in this, at least; she knew who she was. she knew who she wasn't. and she was so unbearably human, a point he'd made when he'd typed those four letters into her mobile. ] At least you're no longer pretending that you don't try and hide your humanity.

[ she'd prefer dark and bitter sherlock to angry, though something feels wounded and it has nothing to do with her arm. she was already making plans, coming up with ways to avoid him, ways to keep him at an arm's length because he's safer there - for both of them. at least, that seems to be what he's decided about her.

she owed him that much.

irene is quiet for a few moments, however, after his question, the rain loud on the pavement. she can manage honesty, but would it hurt him further? and how much would it hurt her to reference her time as a child, ignored as it had been? ]

When I was a child, adults were... changeable. I could never understand them and not understanding was .. dangerous. [ her voice is quiet, almost lost in the rain. ] The way you feel about yourself tells me that you don't understand others; how they see you - or each other. So, you learned another way.

Yes. I know.

[Which could, if he were feeling spiteful, be the perfect opportunity to bring that mess up, entirely on his own terms. To exert more control over the situation and the conversation than he already has.]

Nobody changed. Nobody ever changes, not really. You benefit from experience; you see the causes and the reactions become clear in retrospect so you take what you learned before and you do what you're doing now: you project and then you extrapolate. You work to notice things and you miss them; I couldn't stop if I wanted.

[He's silent a few moments, deliberating. He'd said it to Mary; she knew. Not because she was like him, but because she had had more cause to see it.]

Which you failed to account for. Projecting. I observed, observing is what I do, I didn't learn and I certainly didn't find another way. I hardly expect you to be able to appreciate the distinction but I assure you that the consequences are quantifiably significant, which I know you haven't worked out because you're still insisting upon treating me as though I share your foundations. Or anyone else's. I'm not a bit like any of you.

[Saying as much might hit on some of it, if she's been paying attention. Painted in the marginalia of the words is a picture of a man who has spent the entirety of his life in the profound isolation of the neurologically bizarre, neither understanding nor understood, tolerated only out of deference to his brilliance and hardly to his personality, which he knows, having lived among people, leaves by the standard assessment a great deal to be desired. She had offered him the pretense of attempting to understand, however poorly, however selfishly, and proven herself in the end to be so utterly normal in her motivations, ultimately similar to all the rest. Of course he'd been snared; nobody had offered before. Not interest. Not in him, in the brain and not simply what it produces. But that was wrong, wasn't it? From the start he'd been a means to an end, at best a case study, and however sentiment might have intervened he doesn't believe for a moment that she meant well for him, beyond perhaps some twisted and misguided conception of the word.

Whatever the marginalia portray, though, Sherlock's tone and expression are flat, not quite bored but not terribly engaged either.]

John doesn't have it right either, not remotely, but he doesn't bother to pretend. For the best, really; he's a terrible liar.

It never occurs to you that you might be wrong; that people do change, that experiences change people and we've both been changed by the last few months. As intelligent as you are, you can be so blind.

[ he's being condescending, something she normally wouldn't have minded except it felt cruel. he'd asked for her honesty, she'd given it to him and he was throwing it her face along with her intelligence and under the circumstances, she wasn't certain how much more abuse she could take. he was angry because he was hurt - or was it more than that? it felt like more than that, if he was bothering speaking to her at length in the pouring rain, while she was bleeding heavily. what, then? because she was partially to blame for his death?

that would do it, wouldn't it. ]

You asked me what I thought. I told you. My apologies if I was incorrect. [ her response is stiff, particularly considering his reference to her 'foundations' - something she never would have allowed him to find out about if she had the choice. but she hadn't and it was far more than tactless of him to bring it up, it was personal and she refused to allow it to affect her.

perhaps that was why she'd disappointed him. she'd been affected, by the world they lived in and it's petty motivations. sherlock holmes who did what he did because it entertained him (or so he would have the world see), not for the money or for the benefit of it.. she could see how he would find her disgusting, a person who arguably had been so corrupted by what power could offer. then again, he hadn't lived in fear, though she supposed that extreme isolation could produce a similar affect.

wanting to understand him was not a lie. had not ever been a lie. it would continue to be a truth about their relationship, regardless of his thoughts on her motivations. ]

I'm not John. [ she doesn't bother insisting that she wasn't pretending. he won't listen. ] And I can't be sorry for what I am, either. I won't be.

[Sherlock scoffs and waves a dismissive hand in her direction, shaking his head.]

I am aware of the effect of trauma on the human psyche; that's hardly what I meant.

[His brow clouds. How does one explain... ?]

There are fundamental constructs that I don't have, I have other ones, different shapes, and everything you build from there is different, has to be, and you're trying to match our shapes in places they couldn't possibly, do you see? Of course you don't, you're not listening; hardly know why I bother--

[He squeezes his eyes shut, expression almost pained as his hands come up to rub at his temples, droplets of water wetting the skin.]

The angle of approach is wrong. The assumptions are wrong.

[Firm, angry, but whether or not the anger is directed explicitly at her is becoming steadily more obscure. Certainly an edge to the frustration is internally-directed, one side of the blade meant to cut at and punish the parts of himself that can't possibly make the language work, twist it in ways that mean what he wants to the both of them -- either English is broken or he is, and the latter has always been a safer assumption.]

One works in relatives, out of necessity; average, not average, builds models based on systems of expectancy which are in turn built on a foundation which is by necessity constructed of shared elements. Obvious. But that's statistics, and there are always outliers, can't try to bend them into the same shape, it doesn't work, the concepts are wrong, you get it wrong, do you see now?

[Not likely. Not ever likely.]

No, I can't get it--

[--boxed into shape--]

--but you're not paying attention, either; if I'd meant for you to be sorry I'd hardly be bothering trying to explain it, would I?

You can't fit a circle block inside of a square hole.

[ she understands what he's saying, at least to the point where she can simplify it down. the pain is making it difficult to think - really, sherlock, must you insist on having this conversation now? - but as long as she felt less attacked, she'd try and linger as long as she could. he was trying to help her understand. she couldn't squander that chance, even if it was rather poor timing. ]

You don't fit the model that most people construct to try and describe others, and you can't be described under the same terms. In short, you would need your own model, constructed from the outliers or even just from you, to 'fit'. [ she was aware of this - or at least, had been aware of this. in some ways, it was part of the curiosity that drew her to him in the first place. but there was a difference between simply 'odd' and 'out of any conception', and if this was truly how he saw himself..

it would be a lonely existence. ]

Not fit, I can't, it isn't possible, I've tried, and that's hardly the point.

[He opens his eyes and sighs. The rain has flagged somewhat, just somewhat, and the chaos abated. For now.]

We're trapped here until we're not needed any longer, and it isn't a terribly big city. If we're to coexist harmoniously you're going to have to alter your approach.

[He pushes himself to his feet and moves to peer around the corner, back towards the fissure and the ice.]

Stop imagining I'm out to revenge myself against you, for one. Says a great deal about you and none of it flattering.

[He looks back towards her, hesitating between moving on towards the mess and leaving. He might be needed elsewhere. More importantly, there might be something to learn elsewhere. But you're not supposed to, are you?]

There's a clinic. Might suit you better than the hospital. I can take you there.

[ speaking of trying, she feels as though she's trying and she doesn't have the right words to say what she means - for the first time in many years, she can't express herself appropriately and he .. doesn't understand. whatever he is saying, he's reading it literally and not the intent behind it and there is a loss in the translation -- though she can hardly blame him. he said it himself - intent doesn't matter.

even if she was intending and trying to understand him. ]

I never thought you would take revenge against me. [ another truth. she hadn't considered he might even be angry beyond what she had actually done, though she was well aware of how she was implicated in his death. ] I thought you ambivalent. You've certainly proved me wrong.

[ she stiffens at the mention of his taking her to the hospital, back straightening slightly. no, no. she wouldn't allow that. couldn't allow that. she'd had quite enough of this 'taking care of' business, and could read enough in his expression that escorting her to the hospital was the last thing he wanted to do. wasn't this icicle thing a mystery? ]

I'm perfectly capable of taking myself there if you give me directions. Don't you have a case to solve?

[ falling back upon his preoccupation with knowledge was safer than admitting that her pride wouldn't allow him to help her. ]

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BURNING BRIDGES, PART ONE

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