Qubit (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
superposition) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
redshiftlogs2020-07-01 01:14 am
superposition) wrote in redshiftlogs2020-07-01 01:14 am
[open, backdated to May] like i'm losing my mind
Who: Qubit, open
What:Belated amnesia shenanigans! Watch Qubit steadily grow more and more frustrated-
When: month of May 2020
Where: around Anchor
Warnings: TBD
[ OR: PM or hit me up on Discord (Kae#6067) for plotting or another prompt! ]
What:
When: month of May 2020
Where: around Anchor
Warnings: TBD
01 | try { qubit = new Identity(); }
[ So, Qubit's behavior has taken a turn for the weird.
For one thing, residents get to see a lot more of him over the month of May, because he's started living out of an actual dorm instead of his lab. The more astute may notice what he's not doing. He's not performing maintenance, or doing lab experiments... or showing up for meals reliably.
His ability to sit still already wasn't stellar, but now it's more pronounced. You might catch him coming and going at odd hours, or pacing the halls muttering to himself, or taking notes on a pad of paper with a pen.
He even looks slightly different. His hair, for one - there was already some variation in his signature quiff from day to day, but now they're not as tall, the styling is a little more experimental, and whatever kind of product he's using doesn't hold quite as well.
But perhaps the most obvious indicator something's wrong: he's occasionally wearing colors other than green. ]
For one thing, residents get to see a lot more of him over the month of May, because he's started living out of an actual dorm instead of his lab. The more astute may notice what he's not doing. He's not performing maintenance, or doing lab experiments... or showing up for meals reliably.
His ability to sit still already wasn't stellar, but now it's more pronounced. You might catch him coming and going at odd hours, or pacing the halls muttering to himself, or taking notes on a pad of paper with a pen.
He even looks slightly different. His hair, for one - there was already some variation in his signature quiff from day to day, but now they're not as tall, the styling is a little more experimental, and whatever kind of product he's using doesn't hold quite as well.
But perhaps the most obvious indicator something's wrong: he's occasionally wearing colors other than green. ]
02 | while (true) { read(); }
[ One place he ends up pretty regularly, though, is the library. He's found he hates the feeling of not knowing things, and this leads him to devour pretty much any book he can find that has to do with science. Physics, chemistry, biology, astronomy, anything. He piles them high and reads them quickly, impatient to get to the next one.
They're somewhat advanced texts - university level, certainly - but not advanced enough that they'd be useful to him under normal circumstances. Even then, he's not finding it easy to focus. It's like his mind wants to absorb information faster than his eyes can serve it up, and because of that, it's latching on to every distraction it can find. Even if you think you're being quiet, anyone who dawdles more than a minute or two will be getting an irritated glare and a stern reprimand. ]
Would it kill you to keep it down?
They're somewhat advanced texts - university level, certainly - but not advanced enough that they'd be useful to him under normal circumstances. Even then, he's not finding it easy to focus. It's like his mind wants to absorb information faster than his eyes can serve it up, and because of that, it's latching on to every distraction it can find. Even if you think you're being quiet, anyone who dawdles more than a minute or two will be getting an irritated glare and a stern reprimand. ]
Would it kill you to keep it down?
03 | catch GatewayFailedException e { Gateway.lockdown(); }
[ Inevitably, though, he eventually finds his way back to R&D. He may poke around in unlocked areas to get a feel for the place, but his primary target is one lab in particular: the one that he's determined is his.
He thought it would be relatively simple. Sure, he can't remember any of his passcodes, but his biometrics haven't changed. Of course, nothing can ever be that easy - the thumbprint scanner works, but the keypad locks him out after a few random passcode attempts, prompting a sigh and some more self-directed muttering. ]
Suppose I should've expected that. Fine, Plan B it is.
[ It's an electronic lock, after all. He may not be clear on how to create anything with this power of his, but he's remarkably good at breaking shit, and for once that may actually come in handy. A moment's concentration, a wave of his hand, a brief cascade of blue light, and the mechanism comes away from the door in pieces, which clatter onto the floor as he releases them.
Did it work? He actually looks hopeful for a second... until the door emits a quick series of loud ker-thunks, and he realizes with sudden dismay that that's the sound of more locks engaging. ]
A fail-safe...?!
[ He might need some help. ]
He thought it would be relatively simple. Sure, he can't remember any of his passcodes, but his biometrics haven't changed. Of course, nothing can ever be that easy - the thumbprint scanner works, but the keypad locks him out after a few random passcode attempts, prompting a sigh and some more self-directed muttering. ]
Suppose I should've expected that. Fine, Plan B it is.
[ It's an electronic lock, after all. He may not be clear on how to create anything with this power of his, but he's remarkably good at breaking shit, and for once that may actually come in handy. A moment's concentration, a wave of his hand, a brief cascade of blue light, and the mechanism comes away from the door in pieces, which clatter onto the floor as he releases them.
Did it work? He actually looks hopeful for a second... until the door emits a quick series of loud ker-thunks, and he realizes with sudden dismay that that's the sound of more locks engaging. ]
A fail-safe...?!
[ He might need some help. ]
[ OR: PM or hit me up on Discord (Kae#6067) for plotting or another prompt! ]
no subject
To what end? So I would not see a side of you of which I was already aware?
[And perhaps Carlisle had wanted to deny that side's existence, same as he'd wanted to deny ever being the Blight Heir, but deep down, he knew. Neither of them can fully change who they are, for better and for worse.
And yet, they are so quick to condemn themselves. Qubit might not be as vocal about it as Carlisle is, but he's seen the guilt in his friend's eyes, recognized the look of a man angrier at himself than anyone ought to be. It was a look he advised against in his church, but so often wore himself. Perhaps they are both hypocrites.]
no subject
No, but that - that can't be all, can it? Carlisle actually cares about him. He must. But doubt sneaks into that, too. Qubit was supposed to help him with something, and he can't do that with his memory full of holes, so restoring it would be in Carlisle's self-interest. And - that'd be fair. He can't blame him for that.
Whatever the case, he cares about Carlisle. He can't be sure he did before all this, and that's its own kind of gut-wrenching, but he does now. ]
So I wouldn't have hurt you-!
[ He barks it out louder than he meant to, and immediately regrets it. He draws the reins tighter around himself, straining to bring the monster under control. It's an exhausting effort, but after a second he tries again, and this time his voice comes out lower, more even. Not perfect, but - better. ]
I've hurt you.
[ Maybe not physically, but... ]
no subject
Perhaps. You are not the first, and I doubt you will be the last.
[He finally pulls his eyes from Qubit as he turns away, stooping to pick up the fallen chair. Once upright, Carlisle sets himself into it, his gaze on his own hands. There's a unique and terrible torment in hurting those you cared for, especially unintentionally. One may wonder just how it is Qubit could possibly harm an undead creature as powerful as a Revenant, but Carlisle knows good and well how damaging emotions can be. Not all wounds leave physical scars.
Maybe that's one reason he's quick to try and treat Qubit's — he doesn't want to see him suffer, especially from the weight of his own guilt. That, too, is a torture with which Carlisle is intimately familiar.]
But you apologized. You are clearly remorseful, more so than most have been to me. And I would rather have you here than facing yourself alone in the dead of the night.
no subject
Yet Carlisle's still here. He's still talking to him, still reaching out. Still trying to help. Would he be doing all that if he didn't care? Qubit shouldn't have doubted. (Add that to the growing list of "shouldn't haves.")
God. He's been so absorbed in himself through all this, he's barely even stopped to wonder what's going on in Carlisle's head. But... they're alike in a lot of ways. A lot of ways. Maybe... maybe Carlisle actually gets it. What it's like in here. The noise, the chaos, the obsession. Fighting your own impulses at every turn.
Maybe there's more than one reason he always looks so tired.
Qubit sighs, squeezing his eyes shut. He doesn't have the words for this. There aren't any strong enough, and emotion is already hard to encode at the best of times. ]
... I can't function like this. I ... I need ...
[ Why did he come up here to begin with? It wasn't to talk about the maze. It was to talk about anything but. He's obsessed. He's stuck. It's eating him alive. And he can't fix it on his own.
It's hard to admit it. The words stick in his throat. But he gets them out, eventually, quiet and strained. ]
... I need help.
no subject
Or he was a problem-solver, rather. That was the Qubit who had a lifetime of experience behind him... as well as guilt and regret. He'd faced other worlds, suffered the loss of his friends in Paradigm, experienced unfathomable, unfixable horrors. He'd struggled with acceptance, and had seen Carlisle do the same. The Qubit before him, however, is a Qubit without all that knowledge and the solutions born from them, his problems laid bare rather than hidden.
Admittedly, there's something in that honesty that Carlisle likes. Awful as it is, it's a welcome change that he's the one needed rather than the other way around — that he's the one that Qubit has come to for help. While Carlisle knows just as much about how to solve his memory loss as Qubit knew about magic, he does have ample experience in dealing with a mind plagued by unending, all-consuming thoughts. That was largely the last few years of his life. Carlisle finally feels he can, in some small way, return the help and patience Qubit has given him thus far.
Maybe all he thought he knew about Qubit before was a part of some larger facade, but the technomancer trusted him to be sure he returned from the maze. Carlisle has yet to see or hear mention of anyone else who did the same; it stands to reason he was the only one trusted in such a way... and that has to mean something. Perhaps Qubit simply had no one else, but Carlisle isn't about to let him down when he's the one who needs help.
And certainly not when he openly admits it. Carlisle is his friend, as afraid as he may be to admit it these days, and he'd never forgive himself if he did otherwise. He nods, resolute.]
I swear to you I will do what I can, but for now...
[He pushes the mugs toward Qubit, the green one as well as his own.]
Drink. It will help.
no subject
He spends another moment sitting with it, eyes closed, focusing on his other senses. The hot ceramic between his palms. The warmth of steam rising past his face, and its bold, earthy aroma. And from elsewhere in the room, the soft inaudible hum of a bottle lamp (which he made himself, about a week ago, and left here as a gift, pretending it was spontaneous and not something he'd planned and prototyped before he came, to be sure he got it right - )
Finally, he drinks. Slowly at first, but then with more zeal, letting the warmth suffuse into him. In the end, he downs about half of it in one go, and lowers the mug with another sigh. Not relaxed, precisely, or relieved, but... marginally less tense than before. ]
... Thank you.
[ For everything. His patience, his help, the simple act of giving a crap... and the tea, obviously. It does help, somehow, even when he thinks it's just tea. Though it's a new blend, maybe. The flavor's sort of familiar, in that way a lot of unconnected things have struck him as familiar these past few weeks. Isolated data points overlooked in the purge. ]
It's good. Chai?
no subject
Paw plant. Colloquially, the 'Breath of Night.'
[He collects the little bottle from the shelf and sets it on the table before Qubit, wanting to give him something to consider other than his own worries, if only for a minute. The leaves inside do look rather paw-like, what with the row of curled thorns growing on their ends.]
A plant from my world. I believe I told you I've been growing some of the seeds.
no subject
[ Qubit looks over at the bottle, but not all that closely. Right - one of the many herbs in Carlisle's garden. He recalls asking about this one a few days ago, actually.
But it doesn't feel important. The whole situation feels distant. Surreal. As if they peered into an alternate reality for an instant, then came home in time for tea. It's almost farcical. They can't just play-act like it's all business as usual -
Stop that.
He takes another long sip, forcing himself to focus on the taste. Cinnamon overtones. Just the right amount of bite. Whatever else he does, Carlisle Longinmouth makes an excellent cup of tea. ]
These are... cultivated by "kitten-kind," wasn't it?
no subject
[Qubit's knack for remembering the minutiae of their conversations may come back to bite him from time to time, but there's no denying that he's paying attention, and Carlisle can appreciate that.]
As I mentioned, the kitten-kind don't normally share such things with outsiders, even those in Bear Den. With my family being an exception, I had several of these in my garden back home. I don't make tea as much now as I used to, but having them around, reminding me of the places I cherished the most...
[He pushes a sigh through his (lack of a) nose, trying to remember the vibrant colors of his garden when he was alive as opposed to the dreary, overgrown mess of entangled vines and withered shrubs it was when he last saw it.]
It's comforting.
no subject
[ You know. Remembering those things. Your family, your home. Does he even have either of those? Hell if he knows. What's in that room? What if it is connected? He ought to go down there right now-
STOP. THAT.
Maybe it's the tea, or maybe his exhaustion is finally catching up to him. Or both. Whatever the case, it's a little easier to wrench his thoughts away this time... albeit harder to focus them toward anything. He shakes his head; it feels odd, though, as if it's suspended in a viscous liquid. ]
... Your family. Tell me more about them.
[ They've touched on it briefly. The distinguished house of Longinmouth, a proud family of adventurers. The warrior, the hunter, the magician. There are stories there. ]
no subject
He's about to ask what it is Qubit would like to hear about them, but he sees that shake of his head, and decides to just make a decision himself to save his friend another decision. Let his mind rest.]
How about a story? Something to digest while you drink.
[And something far from where they are now.]
Uncle Benistad — a magician by trade — and my father, Kevin, could be quite competitive when it came right down to it. It was one afternoon on a long journey that the two of them — and my Uncle Boris with them — found themselves in a town that was hosting an archery contest. The prize was a night in the inn's most popular room: the Duke's Suite, a lodging practically fit for a king.
Now, my uncles and my father could afford lodging when they wanted it, but the fact of the matter was that there was a competition to be had among them, and so Uncle Benistad challenged the other two to the contest. The winner of them would get the suite; the losers would share a bed in the cheapest available room.
One would think my father, as the natural archer, would be the guaranteed winner, and indeed, he hit the target with deadly aim from the first shot. Uncle Benistad was a clever man, however, and when his turn rolled around, he enchanted his arrow to target my father's. His shot split Kevin's down the middle, and the hosts had to call it a draw. They would make shots until there was a clear winner between the two of them. Turn after turn and arrow after arrow they went. Every time Benistad would make sure his didn't miss, my father would match it. When my father fired a perfect shot, Benistad would manipulate the wind to move it ever so slightly from its mark. Eventually, they were down to one arrow.
It was then that the judges realized they still had one competitor who had not yet made a shot: Uncle Boris. Uncle Boris, though he'd been trained with the bow when he was younger, had not used one in well over a decade. The bow they had for him to use was not a greatbow, but a standard one too small for his brawny arms. He drew it back and it unceremoniously snapped in half.
Thankfully, the arrow itself remained. Both my father and Benistad began bargaining, attempting to appeal to Boris' mercy so that he would allow them the final shot. My father promised him the pelt of his next kill; Benistad offered advanced enchantments. When bribery wouldn't work, they pleaded. 'I was always your favorite brother,' insisted one; 'Ah, but it was I who sucked the venom from your leg when bitten by the Wayward Eel of the Alabaster Cliffs,' said the other.
This devolved into further bickering, until finally, Uncle Boris could take no more. In a rare moment of anger, he hurled the final arrow at the target, lack of bow be damned. The shaft pierced the dead center, cut clean through, and struck the leg behind it, knocking the whole thing over. The judges were so impressed with his immense strength that they awarded him the victory on the spot.
And when Kevin and Benistad tried to argue, those same judges insisted Boris was the clear winner: after all, he'd had to put up with them for nearly his entire life. What better man to allow a night of peace away from the two of them in lodgings fit for a king?
Kind and generous as Uncle Boris was — and he was the most generous of them by far — he did take the room for that night, and often said it was the best sleep he ever had. As for my father and Uncle Benistad, they shared a bed that night that was too small for either of them, but at least they came to an agreement: they would never again drag Uncle Boris into their petty squabbles.
no subject
The longer it goes, though, the more the paw plant starts to work its magic. (It's not magic.) His thoughts haven't slowed much - there's still part of him that wants Carlisle to stop rambling and get to the point - but they're not generating the force they were a few minutes ago. As if he's a steam turbine and someone's opened the relief valve. But it's not exactly relaxing. That explosive pressure was the only thing keeping him going, and now all of a sudden it feels like his head is only precariously balanced on his shoulders. It's not a sensation he enjoys.
Struggling to keep his eyes open, he tries to focus on the story. It has to be apocryphal to some degree. Obviously Carlisle wasn't present for the events, and by the end, it's not hard to guess which uncle he heard it from. He frowns, unsatisfied. ]
That's not a win. That's not even archery. They just gave it to him because the other two were being obnoxious. [ He leans his elbow on the table, propping up his head with one hand. ] You ask me, Benistad should've had it in the bag.
[ It's super trivial, it doesn't matter at all, did this story even happen - whatever, he's still got some Opinions about it. ]
no subject
Were we going on skill of archery alone, it would be my father who won. However, the judges were allowed to deem whomever they agreed was the winner. Uncle Benistad was clever, and my father talented, but Uncle Boris was probably the most deserving of the prize, as yes, the other two were being obnoxious.
no subject
[ He peers into his mug. Just dregs and tea leaves. ]
... Might as well have a ... "kiss up to the innkeeper" contest. Save everyone some time.
[ Sort of looks like a face in there, if he unfocuses his eyes. But... then he finds he can't get them to refocus. He rubs them with the hand he's leaning on, squints into the cup. No dice. The paw plant's still readily visible against the black tea leaves, but otherwise...
Heeeey, wait just one second. ]
What'd you say this stuff does aga...
[ That's all the further he gets. The mug slips from his hand and clunks onto the floor, and Qubit slumps forward, his face smacking the table as the rest of him goes limp.
Good night. ]
no subject
Easing out of the chair without even a smidgen of urgency, he quietly collects the mugs, setting them on the counter before the shelf, inspecting the green one to be sure it didn't crack when it hit the floor. No, it seems fine, with hardly a scratch on the rim from the impact. At least that's one thing in good condition. As for himself and his guest, well... there's only so much he can do.
It takes a certain degree of effort and awkward positioning for a literal husk of a man to finagle the completely dead-weight Qubit from his chair and onto the bed, but Carlisle finally manages to get his friend there, wondering if he's actually bulkier than he seems under his usual getup. While Carlisle has seen Qubit's body plenty of times now from the standpoint of an internal inspection, it's a different perspective entirely when he's actually having to haul Qubit out of a chair all on his lonesome, his skeletal legs threatening to buckle beneath him as his joints creak from the pressure. Maybe Qubit would get along with Uncle Benistad, Carlisle muses, as he often played up his intellect while keeping what physical prowess he had hidden beneath his robes, just in case he should need to take someone by surprise. While he doesn't think Qubit would win any brawls with someone like Kabal, perhaps he has more skill to protect himself than just his technomancy.
Just one more thing he doesn't quite know about Qubit, and probably ought to find out when he remembers himself — granted Qubit would even answer his questions, of course. Then again, it's not as though Carlisle has revealed just what he's like beneath all his layers, either. He's certain Qubit — before the memory loss — suspected something that's close enough to the truth. He still doesn't know how this Qubit would take it.
He can save further ruminations on the comparison between his body and Qubit's for a more appropriate time (i.e. never). For now, he folds Qubit's hands across his abdomen, takes off his shoes, adjusts the pillow behind his head, and lets the poor man sleep, deciding he can deal with the envy he feels while washing the mugs.]
no subject
When he wakes, it's slowly and without fanfare, though for a split second he wonders What am I doing at Carlisle's? But it comes back to him soon enough, with all its baggage. ]
Ughhhhhh.
[ Yeah, that... that about sums it up.
Once he's got the guttural groan out of his system, he swings his legs off the bed and sits up, getting his bearings. He doesn't remember lying down. Carlisle moved him? Given how frail and emaciated his friend is, that must have been a feat. When he was shaking him, it was like he weighed nothing at all...
Qubit frowns. No, that... that's none of his business. He doesn't have the right.
The man himself isn't home, it looks like. But that's just as well, considering everything that's happened. He finds his shoes (laid out neatly beside the bed) and starts putting them on. He's still not sure what the hell was wrong with him, which is frustrating, obviously, but that's beside the point. What matters is that he shouldn't have been around anyone in that state. He was completely out of control, a danger to himself and others. It's inexcusable. It's disgusting. The way he treated Carlisle... it's no wonder he didn't want to be around when Qubit woke up.
First order of business, then: find Carlisle, and apologize. Properly. He pauses for a second to smooth down the bedsheets, but after that heads directly out.
The search doesn't take as long as he expected. He pokes his head out the door, and there's Carlisle, sitting in the garden with his sketchbook, for all the world as if it's just any other day.
... Well. Hop to it, then.
Qubit approaches at a casual pace, hands in his pockets - although halfway there, he decides to arc his path a little rather than coming up directly from behind. (He's frightened the poor man enough.) Once he's in earshot, he says matter-of-factly: ]
Paw plant is a sedative, isn't it? Should've remembered that.
[ He doesn't look great, of course. He hasn't shaved, his clothes are all rumpled, and don't even get me started on his bedhead. But he looks better, even at a glance - he may not be smiling or anything, but there's none of the fidgeting and nervous energy he had going on last night. ]
no subject
I'm not surprised you didn't, given the circumstances.
[There. It's not perfect, but it'll do. He caps the pen and turns Qubit's way, and though he tries to keep his expression impassive, his eyes are as tired and laced with concern as ever.]
Did you sleep well?
[He looks like he slept well enough, despite his disheveled appearance. Carlisle can't say his hair ever looked well after a rare night of restful sleep, either.]
no subject
Well enough.
[ He rubs the back of his neck, taking a moment to choose his words. There's an important detail that didn't escape his notice, and that's that Carlisle had already spiked the tea before Qubit attacked him. He was planning to knock him out from the start. And Qubit certainly isn't pleased about that. He feels like he might have agreed to it if Carlisle had just offered, but instead Carlisle took the choice out of his hands.
But then again, it was in self-defense. ]
... I don't blame you for doing it. Honestly, I'm not sure what else would have stopped me, at that point. But ... I'm sorry you had to. I'm sorry you knew to. I -
[ He takes a deep breath, as if trying to vent some of the pressure building in his chest. Then, steeling himself, he looks into Carlisle's eyes. ]
Carlisle, please - tell me honestly. Had I done that before?
no subject
No. Not that I know of.
[That's the truth, but not satisfactory enough for Qubit, and Carlisle knows it. He pulls in a breath, the air rattling dryly through his throat.]
I have long suspected you must have a wild temper simmering beneath your skin, but as I have said, you've always been adept at hiding such flaws, as though they would ruin you were anyone to know of their existence. I may be one of the few here who has seen you buckle beneath the pressure.
[His fingers curl against his legs, the fabric pulled taut against his skeletal knuckles.]
I have been there many times myself. You have seen it, even if you do not remember. I know what it is like, the burden of a mind that just... won't stop.
no subject
The Qubit he was before the accident is, in many ways, a black box. It all comes back to his preoccupation with his image. There's a certain way he wanted to be perceived, clearly - the way Carlisle first described him. "A good person." "Someone I can trust." And maybe, optimistically, that's what he was trying to be. But he's not - and moreover, he's not fooling anyone. Everyone's seen glimpses of the man behind the curtain; Carlisle's just the first to see the curtain pulled aside.
Yet he's still here. Why?
That question's been bugging Qubit for a while. Why does Carlisle put up with so much from him? The erratic behavior, the psychological deterioration, the general uselessness... et cetera. He has some theories, but Carlisle's confession finally fills in some of the gaps.
He finds he's actually not too surprised. You wouldn't expect it from this mild-mannered priest, but it's not the first time Carlisle's alluded to Qubit having "seen him at his worst." Out of politeness, he's never asked what that entails - but in this context, the implication is pretty clear.
They're kindred spirits, then, in a way. Men with brilliant minds, but unstable psyches. Good intentions, but poor execution. Qubit used to be better at hiding it, that's all.
He tilts his head to one side, sympathetic. ]
Do you want to talk about it?
no subject
About what? What it is you used to know about me? What you've seen? I think I preferred talking about you for a change.
no subject
Fair enough.
[ Honestly, he's not even sure what he thought he could offer. Or why he thought he had any right to, given how secretive he's been. But... the sentiment is still there. He steps over the low stone wall and takes a seat nearby, resting steepled fingers between his knees, his gaze toward the strange plants in their neat rows. ]
I just thought... I don't know. [ He sighs and shakes his head. ] You once said I was someone who's always there when you need him. But I haven't been that, lately. All I've managed to do is make your life difficult. At best.
[ And at worst, well... gestures at last night. ]
no subject
You are currently more in need than I am, but... I appreciate your concern. It's—
[His expression falters with a tinge of uncertainty.]
It's... nice to be asked. [He says that as though he's only just now realizing it himself.] I think there were times before you cared more about solving the dilemma I present, as though that were all I needed. And maybe you were right, smart as you are. Maybe that would have made everything suddenly fine, but—
[He shakes his head, unsure of how to vocalize exactly what he's feeling. It's more difficult these days, as are so many things, but in all fairness, he's never been that good at expressing how he feels when it comes to himself.]
no subject
- but the point is, I never asked.
[ He still isn't sure what the dilemma is, but from context he's starting to piece together an outline. It's related to Carlisle's magic, but also has a psychological dimension. At some point, maybe more than once, it's caused him to lash out violently at Qubit. This is what Carlisle needs his help with. And whatever it is, it's probably had him stumped for close to a year.
And if there's anything Qubit knows about himself, it's that he doesn't handle frustration well. The rest, he can extrapolate. He fixated on the parts of the problem he did understand, because he couldn't just do nothing. But in doing so, he ignored anything he couldn't quantify. Such as, say, magic. Or emotion. ]
I never asked you what you needed. Just acted like I had all the answers.
no subject
You once did ask me what I needed, but admittedly, it may have been a question born of desperation rather than concern. We were both out of our element, drawn into a red shift, and it was made clear that for all your quick thinking, even you hadn't all the answers. You snapped at me in a way I hadn't seen before, and it was evident that with my tenuous grasp on my energies, I was more a danger to you than anything else. You would have preferred me to remain quiet while you thought of a solution to our predicament rather than allowing me the agency to choose for myself.
[So much had come to the light that day in the shift, but they still hadn't bothered to address it all after the fact. Qubit hadn't even wanted to talk about the painting, the place, the skeletons and the person who'd brought them there — he'd only done so when it was evident he couldn't get away without acknowledging his connection to them, and perhaps even then, it was only because he felt he owed Carlisle an explanation of some sort. As for the clergyman himself, he hadn't pressed further after that. He didn't feel he had the right to, as Qubit had never done so regarding Carlisle's frustration with his own undead state. When it came to their individual quandaries, they'd touch on them, and then move onto the next problem, not delving any further than surface level at any given time. They would never talk about the deep-seated roots of said issues after the moment had passed — not like this. It wasn't the immediate dilemma, and if it didn't threaten Anchor at large, it didn't matter if they put it off, did it?
One would think after a lifetime of that exact practice — of burying his insecurities, hiding them behind a mask for the sake of his lineage, letting them fester in his heart until they poisoned him even beyond death — Carlisle would know better.]
You didn't trust me that day, and I cannot say I blame you for that. Even now, I wonder why it was you agreed to help me with a magical problem so beyond your scope. Magic was unquantifiable, unverifiable, frustrating for you, and yet you insisted you could and would help me. I was grateful, but I never thought to ask you why you felt you could. Maybe you saw me as a challenge. Maybe you saw me as a problem needing to be fixed for the good of everyone else rather than an individual. I think that's how I've been seeing myself for far too long.
[Perhaps they are both insecure, worried what the other would think, only allowing themselves that honest expression when they've lost their composure. Maybe they haven't wanted to face the truth themselves: that they don't like seeing their own weaknesses laid bare. Qubit is — was — better at hiding his, whether it's because he's better practiced or not constantly at odds with an undead nature that colors his perception of everything around him. How much of the Qubit he used to be was the mask, and how much did Carlisle really know about him?
With whatever experiences that so tempered his pride lost to him, Qubit has now had to ask for help. He's vulnerable, and Carlisle cares too much for the man — his friend — to simply let him be. Ignoring their own problems and focusing on others has done little to help either of them. They may not be able to help anyone until they help themselves.]
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