Inbox

[skeletonkeay]

INBOX OF GERARD KEAY

Point of contact for Pumpkin Hollow. Gerry can be reached by phone, mail, or a visit to his shop during business hours. Pinhole Printing and Binding is open from 11am to 6pm every day except Tuesday, because fuck Tuesday, or unless Gerry deigns otherwise.

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[skeletonkeay]

"Wow! We finally made it past the Earth's backyard in terms of the universe and we managed to find sapient beings that were more xenophobic than we are. Amazing." Perhaps that's reductive, but Gerry can't help but be bitter. Every universe is just like his own.

No gods of love or hope.

No aliens whose ideology is as progressive as their technology.

Nothing capable of complex thought is anything but hostile and selfish.

Isn't the multiverse amazing?

"Well, you're here now. New things to fight with, but you're in good company. I'm absolute shit in a fight against anything other than another human, but intel? I got that covered in spades." He flicks his lighter closed and pockets it again. "True sight, they call it here. Easy enough way to explain the Beholding. I can see things others can't. Mostly things related to people's fear, since that's the name of the game where I come from, but also passkeys, lock combinations, secrets... I can see through illusions, pick out small details. The more someone doesn't want me to know something, the easier it is for me to see."

[cyansoldier]

She matches his bitterness blow for blow, nothing but contempt for the alien race who'd attacked her people. "Yeah, they weren't a welcoming bunch. Not that we made it any easier for ourselves. Factions— Outer Colonies, most of them— had the great idea to revolutionize while this was happening. Wars within wars. We couldn't even manage to hold ourselves together."

Humankind's propensity for dissevering never ceases to amaze, does it?

True Sight, Beholding; they're ancient-sounding words from ancient script she's never had the misfortune to read. "Banks must hate to see you coming."

And it's all innocuous enough; magic to unlock doors or see through mirages beyond her non-magical comprehension. Like a parlor trick. A practical skill, like York's. Then he continues. A natural propensity to see through things extends to fears, to people, and she goes cold. I can see through illusions, pick out small details.

The more someone doesn't want me to know something, the easier it is for me to see.

What a treasure-trove she must be, then. Her lifetime of masking, compartmentalizing and crushing her emotions to a fine, numb paste is suddenly rendered useless, and she feels naked. Seen, although she can't be certain what he sees, and somehow that makes it all worse. Carolina's flight instinct begs her to leave. To give him no more than crumbs. To wrap the thick black cloth over herself and disappear.

When she speaks, it's through a battled-tightened jaw.

"Sounds more like a curse than a blessing."

[skeletonkeay]

"Yeah. It is." His transparency comes unflinchingly. It's only fair. If he can know her so well, then she can know whatever she likes about him. "I lived in a world governed by malicious gods made of primordial terror, hiding just on the outskirts of the world. My mother brought me into that space without my consent, before I was even old enough to meaningfully give it, and once you know it, you can't escape it. Eventually, there came a point where I had to align myself with one of them to survive. Even then, it didn't keep me alive forever. But I stood a better chance with it than without. All that's left now is to try and use it to help."

[cyansoldier]

He sees you.

He said so himself. The harder you try, the easier it is.

She doesn't know how to reorient herself. How to make her face into something less... threatened. It's fine, she thinks. It's not as literal as you're thinking. It could be— an aura or an energy. He doesn't really see—

She never imagined a simple statement could paralyze so utterly. Of course she's seen; he's got a pair of working fucking eyes and then some. But it isn't the seeing that's the problem it's the knowing. She hadn't walked into this conversation expecting to be filleted. It's fine. It's not what you're thinking.

Gerry speaks candidly about the horrors he's born within, more so than she anticipates. A mother who took his hand and lead him into her world's cacophony without first considering his own, then marrying him to it. She gropes at his every syllable to keep herself a float. Feels herself recoil from him and lean forward all at once, a horrible ebb and flow

There's a heft in her chest she'd usually address on the training floor. She's sitting at full attention. Her body wants to move.

"What an awful thing for a mother to do to her son." Carolina forces the words up her throat.

And she means it.

And she needs to know what he sees.

And she needs to walk out through the door.

To help, he says. He wants to help you. He thinks you need help. He thinks you're wrong and weak and need fixing.

"What happened to you?" Carolina asks. Because asking about him is easier than addressing herself. "To bing you here. What happened?"

[skeletonkeay]

Gerry cannot read her mind or know her thoughts, he is no Archivist. But he doesn't have to be to see the halo of eyes upon eyes upon eyes engulf the air around her head, all ogling her, drinking in her insecurities, her fear. Oops. Yeah Gerry can tell he did that.

"Cancer," he replies bluntly. "Brain tumor caused intense seizures. I really shouldn't have been capable of standing up for months beforehand, but I just... didn't notice. After everything I dealt with, cancer got me. Insulting, really."

He shrugs.

"You can relax. I'm not psychic. I can't read your mind. If you have questions, I'm---" He stops a moment to laugh at his own joke. "I'm an open book."

[cyansoldier]

"You chased abstruse curses and monsters who flay people and evil clowns— and cancer is what killed you?" She doesn't mean for it to come out so flat, so dry. It's an awful, awful thing to have experienced and Christ she's an idiot—

"That's... horrible. And insulting, yeah. Like... Elvis dying on a toilet."

Oh my god, shut up.

He tells her to relax. She tries, and when Carolina tries to do anything she really does give it her all. These attempts don't always amount to anything, like when she'd told herself she ought to try and be nicer, but the intention is there. He's right, anyway. She's making a fool of herself. Her shoulders go minutely slack. Her eyes drift away from him, toward the door or the number of print presses at the back room.

"You see everyone's fear? If you look in a mirror, can you see yours?"

[skeletonkeay]

At the "Elvis dying on the toilet" remark, he howls with laughter. "Christ, it really is! God, that's fucked. I didn't even think about that," he says through tapering chuckles.

She relaxes. The eyes diminish. Smaller, less. Imperfect, but less intense.

"Yeah, I can see my own marks," he says. "I try not to look too hard at 'em. It makes me... dwell. It's not worth it."

Red raw Desolation marks up around his neck, crimson stains of Flesh set deep into his hands, sickly spinning Vast at his temples, Stranger-shaped vivisection lines, Spiral snaking up his jawline, Buried seated heavily at his shoulders, and a big veined End mark that takes up his whole chest. Lonely sprawled out around his feet, lingering like a bad smell. He knows why they're there. He doesn't need to reminisce.

"No sense focus on the negative, right? It's in the past." Most of it.

[cyansoldier]

She wants to ask him how he does it. How could he not dwell on his past when he wears it like a mismatched costume? It's not worth it, Gerry says, and the statement bewilders that innermost cruel part of her. Forgiving to himself in a way she can't afford. Won't allow. You deserve this, it says in protest. Their deaths were your responsibility.

She gets far enough to open her mouth, but the words dry out like sand on her tongue.

"You make it sound simple," Carolina scoffs. "Do you also give seminars on self-forgiveness and embracing change?" Okay, that one she does mean to deliver dryly. Even so, there's no real malice to the tease, just incredulity. Curiosity, at an arms length. Safely far away.

"...What do they look like? Generally."

In other words; not mine. God, not mine.

[skeletonkeay]

Gerry snorts. "Not yet, but I gave a seminar on queer theory once, so maybe I ought to. It's definitely a learned skill. Originally it was just apathy, you know? But this is---"

He hesitates a moment, rolling the idea around in his head until the words look right.

"This place has been good for me. In spite of everything, it's a hell of a lot better than where I came from. I spent my original life being passed from one set of chains to another. For the first time ever, I've got none. So I taught myself to allow myself to start fresh. Things got better." Finally, he shrugs.

What do they look like? God, what a question.

"Scars," he admits. "Sort of. They're like... spider-web. Shimmers of something you can only see half the shape of, when the light hits right or when a person turns just so. The shape of it depends on the fear. Fear of agony and loss looks like burn scars. Fear of being controlled looks like spiderweb. Fear of madness is spirals. Fear of scrutiny and judgement looks like... well." He holds up a tattooed hand, waggling his fingers.

[cyansoldier]

Things got better.

He would give a good seminar.

And Carolina is glad for him; she is. That being said, the idea of staying in this place for any longer than what's required makes her stomach summersault. Triggers some animal instinct to flee, knowing it cannot within the confines of the cage it finds itself, driven closer and closer to madness.

This is temporary, she tells herself. That's fine. She'll figure it out. Make the most of wasted time. It doesn't have to be wasted so long as she does something productive. Something useful. Work, train, run, climb, stretch, train, run, work, work work work.

And she'll be out of here in no time. No time at all.

"Finally got the chance to figure out what it is you want. Were newspapers always part of the plan?"

Carolina leans forward to inspect his hand, her own eyes partially narrowed as if she were unconvinced by the entire thing.

"What happens if someone has an obscure fear? Like... the fear of odd numbers. Or eating out for dinner. Do they get a special scar? Maybe the irrational ones don't count."

[skeletonkeay]

Gerry snorts again. "Nah, that's just part of being the guy with the printing press. I knew I wanted to make things, figured book binding was something that could be both useful and beautiful. They asked me to help print the paper, paid decent money to do it, so I said sure." He shrugs lightly.

Pent up like a caged tiger, this one. And with that red hair and those toned muscles, she kind of looks like a tiger, too. Some wild Bengal in a circus trailer.

"That fear, however, irrational, is probably rooted in one of those deep, primal fears that's built into us to keep us alive," Gerry muses, entertained by philosophical questions like these despite the occasional bratty answer. "So it's like--- why is that person afraid of odd numbers? Is it because broken patterns or imbalance makes them nervous? That's probably tied to the Spiral. And that person afraid to go out to dinner probably is just a very specific flavor of agoraphobic. That's the Lonely."

[cyansoldier]

"I haven't held a book in—" A strangled laugh. "Forever. We used data pads back home, mostly. Books were one of those things they left behind. No one wanted to spend the money to have them published, not when they could be funding more... lucrative commercial ventures."

Like the military; unbelievable amassments of wealth funneled into weapons and technology, into soldiers and human experiments, the products of which could decimate the enemy like never before. Like her. Who has time for books when war wages right outside your window?

Her lips part into a noiseless 'ahh'. It makes sense, after all. Intrinsic fears; the parents we're born with who steer us away from harm long before words enter the equation. It begs the question;

"Can't people overcome them? We all start off afraid of loud noises, and that's an instinct too, isn't it? How many of us actually maintain that fear later in life? Everyone learns how to get over things." Get over; were it only that easy.

Carolina pauses, curiosity pushing at the edges of her conscious mind begging to be acknowledged. She indulges it after a minute of deliberation. Leans forward a little.

"You ever meet someone with no fear?"

[skeletonkeay]

"Sure, people can get over them sometimes. Fear marks, like scars, can fade. Takes effort and time to heal them, and they still linger faintly, but they can get better, yeah," Gerry explains. He's a little pointed about the time and effort bit. Yeah, that means the scary work of confronting those fears instead of swallowing them.

She leans forward, conspiratorial, and asks the question that Gerry loves and hates answering. A ghost of a smile curls his lips. The answer is plain and simple.

"No."

What else is there to say?

[cyansoldier]

Time and effort better allotted elsewhere. What use is training a muscle she can't see? Half the pleasure of a hard day's work in the field comes after, in micro-torn muscles and skin tacky with sweat. In the ache down her legs and feet, and in the bruises she's sustained from her efforts. In black eyes and busted lips. In knuckles turned purple. The body pushed to its limit. A win.

If she could drive her fist into the ugly mirages that surround her, maybe she'd be more willing.

Maybe.

For now, Carolina pitches her back against the seat, crossed arms, disappointed but not surprised by the answer he gives her. The single word is proceeded by a long, chary silence.

She stands.

"I'll make sure to come find you when I'm ready for my nature retreat. We can therapize each other."

Aaaand that's a wrap!

[skeletonkeay]

Gerry snorts. "If that's what you wanna take from that, be my guest. You're the one who wanted to know, and I answered."

With a shrug, he hops off the counter, keen to get back to work with the departure of his guest.

"In any case, like it or not, you're part of the community now. So if you need intel, that's me. Let me know if you need anything."

And with that, he plonks down unceremoniously into his workshop chair and begins stitching the spine of an unfinished book, boots kicked up on his desk. There is a certain release of pressure that comes with his eyes leaving her.