"Was the profanity really necessary?" A dry voice asks, one that Matthew should be very familiar with by this point. Death is sitting in one of the armchairs, a glass of scotch held lazily in one hand. He motions with the other to the empty room, inviting Matthew to sit.
His eyes pause curiously on the pigeon. "... a new friend?" He asks, brows raising in some sort of surprise or interest.
Matthew lets Nancy go, and she immediately starts flapping around the room, making herself at home. Matthew appears to ignore both her and Death's question about her entirely.
"Moebius," Matthew says, in a flat voice. "You ran it. You and Devil, making everyone who was around back then die, over and over. And not even because of murder - which I could at least understand as a reason for it, even if it sure as hell doesn't justify what you did in return. You did it because they dared to not play along. So yes, the profanity is necessary, because you can fuck yourself on the way to hell."
He knew this was stupid. Here he was, snarling insults in the face of a being that had power they couldn't even imagine. But somehow, he couldn't care.
For a being of unimaginable power, he seems to be taking all of this extremely well. He takes a few moments before downing the last of his scotch, setting the now empty glass with a light thunk onto the endtable. He snaps, and Nancy is given a perch - a rather simple perch made of dull brass and old wood, but a comfortable perch nonetheless. Then he sits up, formally, placing his hands on each armrest.
"You would dismiss everything I say in my defense, before I even say it... yet you would take that petulant shrew PSYCHE at her word?"
Nancy ignores the perch entirely, in favour of landing on the ground
bird-walking all over the floor. Pigeons aren't parrots. Perches don't
really feature in their worldview. There's just 'things they walk and sit
on sometimes', which tends to include most things in the world.
Matthew, meanwhile, is silent for a moment.
"Are you going to tell me that she lied, then?" he says quietly. "She
wasn't the only one to say it was you, you know. You...you made them
die..." Despite themselves, their voice catches.
He never went to moebius. They escaped that particular hell. But it
features in their nightmares, all the same. And even more so since the
Floor, when it became all too easy to imagine death after death after
death, except instead of coming back to a cold table in a morgue they'd be
under the ground, web walls pressing in around them in the darkness with
nothing but Altair's flickering life sign on their senses...
...but no, he's not alone. Not in the Floor. He can sense Nancy's life,
clear and strong, and he clings to it like a lifeline.
Death is rather used to his offer of seating not being taken.
"I did not make anyone die. Just as I did not force your overlay to kill Altaïr. MALBOLGE's mien is more suited to murder than mine ever will be."
He eyes Matthew for a moment, a concerned frown on his face, before he stands and approaches, his hands carefully resting behind his back.
"I am not saying Miss Arrows lied. I am saying she is only telling the truth in part, to cover her lover's leather-clad arse, if you'll pardon the expression. I wanted to ensure the Travelers did not interrupt the game again, for fear that either Pendu or Abaddon would upset the delicate balance of power we Arcana have amongst ourselves. Zie is the one who demanded blood for the Traveler's punishment. So the two of us agreed upon Moebius, and the rest of our kind who condoned such punishment consented."
He gives a soft sigh, then, clearly displeased with the memories this brings with it. "When you are sent on a Jaunt, either your subconscious attaches itself to a compatible host of that world... that is, Infiltration... or your consciousness is uploaded into an ectoplasmic body and sent out into the world, meaning Investigation." He draws his hand up and a small ball of clear, gelatinous substance appears in his hands.
"The theory was that, given your physical bodies were not in any danger, you would be out of harm's way. And further, when you Travelers regenerated after death at the beginning, you would not suffer as many psychological effects as you had in previous Jaunts. You must understand one thing, sirs. I did not expect the aftermath. Copying your consciousness to new bodies in such rapid succession caused memory errors, lingering effects... it is a shame what I learned about the mortal mind that Jaunt. And I cannot in good conscience condone such atrocities again, now that I know what effect they have on you. Such a Jaunt had never been attempted, previously to this round."
Mortimer makes the ball of ectoplasm disappear, as he bows his head solemnly. "I will be the first to admit I was wrong. About all of it. But I am not the one solely responsible for that massacre of a Jaunt. I intend never to let such a massacre happen again."
They tense at the sight of the ball of ectoplasm, memories of being encased in it, smothered in it, flashing through their mind. Before he even realises what he's doing, he's stepped back several paces.
He takes in a sharp, deep breath. Then another. Then another.
Hold it fucking together, Swift.
"You better not," he says hoarsely. "Not ever. Because if it does, there is nothing we wouldn't do to get rid of you. You might not be the only to one to blame - and I am damn well giving Devil plenty of fucking blame - but you were still a part of it. You might not have pulled the trigger, but you set up the scenario where people were doomed to a cycle of death. And like all the rest of the Arcana, you let it go on. And I might not be able to do anything to stop this game of yours, but I could do something about stopping you. So I am damn well going to hold you to that."
They weren't going to offer to help. That was, all things considered, more than Matthew was willing to give. It did mean something that Death was actually able to admit that he was wrong, that he was able to feel regret. But even so, at this point the best Death could hope for from Matthew was a lack of active opposition.
"But here's the thing I don't get. You're Death And yes, I bloody well know, 'Tarot' Death and not Kicking-the-Bucket Death - but you're still the one that's meant to be all about finality and endings and transitions. How the hell do you, of all of them, not get that there might be psychological effects? How do you not realise that just because you come back from death, it doesn't mean that everything's okay? You realise, don't you, that there are some Travellers who think that death doesn't matter, just because it's not permanent? But it matters. Even when you come back, and the scars are all gone. It's still fucking matters."
As he sees the change in Matthew's eyes, Mortimer keeps his movements slow and nonthreatening. Even as Matthew takes a step back, Mortimer has his hands behind his back again, unmoving. "I know you have no reason to trust me, but please believe me when I say - you are safe here. You are in no danger here. I can return you to your friends as soon as your questions are answered."
The likely ignored comforting aside, Death frowns at Matthew's words. "I did not set up the scenario; it was already there. Just as all of them have already been there. You can certainly stop this version of me, true, but I wish to work with you to prevent such a tragedy from happening in the future."
Mortimer pauses for a moment, stepping over to where Nancy is poking around, before he carefully draws his hand up and trickles some birdseed into a pile for her. Surely that would catch her interest. "It is the life before it that gives the death any meaning. While I agree death is important, it is life I protect. I will not let you Travelers die permanently in this. That is far too great a sacrifice to ask of any of you. It is my duty to revive you all should your biological functions cease, though the method is grisly. That is... something I wish I could have done for those of us who have died. But wishes rarely solve any problems, do they?"
He looks at Matthew, straight on, adding, "I understand that 'kicking the bucket' death can negatively impact you, but as I said before, such a quick transfer to new ectoplasmic bodies had not ever been tested before in Synodiporia's history. I had also never had someone die in such rapid succession to note any psychological trauma it might have inflicted until the third repeat of Moebius. That is when I knew for certain that it should be stopped... but all parties involved have to agree to a shutdown. MALBOLGE was not going to give you that. So I had to do the best I could, under the circumstances. The only good that came of it was that none of you could remember in much detail the horrors you had just experienced."
The slow, nonthreatening movements, the assurances that he's safe...it's meant to be reassuring, he knows. It's meant to make him feel safe. Instead it just feels patronising, even if that's not how Death meant it. It feels like they're being treated as something frayed and broken, someone that needs to be coddled.
Death was right to expect the comforting to be ignored. Matthew says nothing in response to it, his expression stony and closed off.
But Nancy, at least, is now warming to the man. The way to a pigeon's heart is through her stomach, and it only takes a few curious bobs of her head before she's inching over to the birdseed, and tentatively beings pecking away. She'll fly off at any sudden movements, of course, but she'll come back to the allure of food.
"We used to think we understood life," they say, suddenly. "We were gods of the telephone wire, we born from life, we were power and light and magic. There wasn't, we thought, anything that we did not already know. And then...and then we became me, and we learned that we were wrong. We learned that we understood nothing. We were not prepared for how bright and loud it is, for how in every moment our senses are overwhelmed, for the rush of our blood through our veins. Because life is beautiful, and it is terrible. We would not give it up for anything, but with life there is...pain. And even if the mind forgets, even if the memories fade, the body remembers the terror and the agony and the horror."
"You say you want to protect life. That might even be true. But I don't think you understand it. You can't. You're only observing from the outside, like we once did."
He does not move much, both for Nancy's sake and for Matthew's.
"Of course I do not understand it. Life is not in my idiom. But I understand the process of life. Death. Goodbyes. Regeneration. Transition. Deep change. Loss. Death. And the cycle continues." He frowns visibly, then asks quietly, "Are you sure you're not still observing it from the outside? You only know your experiences, not others'. You do not know life in other worlds, other contexts, only your own rebirth as You."
Death pauses again, this time turning his eyes away to one of the vases with the dying and fresh roses. "I understand now that I do not understand. That none of my kind understand. That we will never understand. And that is enough for me to want to protect your lives as best I can. I wish to learn from you and your example."
"No, I don't know what life is like for other people. No one does. That, too, is the nature of life; you only ever get to experience your own. Well, at least when you're not getting thrown into other worlds where you have to live as other people, you don't."
Matthew may sound just a little dry and darkly sarcastic at that. Just a little.
"But my life, our life, we can understand. We are not observing it. We are living it. It is more than just a process, more than just one life stage followed by another. It is...an experience."
He falls silent for a moment.
"Thing is, though, that sometimes that experience fucking sucks. Sometimes it's pain and terror and soul-crushing horror. That's what your...infirmary...is. We love our life, and we do not want to give it up for anything, but while we were there..."
They trail off, not wanting to finish that thought. Not wanting to admit, even out loud, that in those moments they would have gladly accepted oblivion if only it meant that their suffering would end.
He takes a deep breath.
"You can't just protect existence alone. You can't just make sure something's alive, and call it a day. Because...quality of life, or whatever you want to call it, that matters. There's a reason that immortality is, on the whole, a really fucking bad idea."
Death purses his lips a moment in thought, then, after a moment, answers:
"There is a good reason the old Veterans did not wish lives to be lost in Liminal Space. I do not wish to use my 'infirmary' unless it is necessary. To remake your body is easy, but your sentience..." He shakes his head, wearily. "Your sentience must be preserved at all costs. Not only because you are integral to this tournament, but also because I would be lesser for it were I to allow one of you to die needlessly. And I am growing rather fond of you all, for what that's worth."
He shrugs his bony shoulders. "Sadly I am not given much space to perform my art. I understand the tight quarters were troublesome, but were you to get out of it before you were healed, you might have merely died again. Futher, to allow for greater freedom of movement within the ectoplasmic chamber might cause... unwanted side effects. You saw the side effects merely from your struggling."
"We don't want to talk about the side effects!" they snap. They want to do anything but talk about it, to have to think about what it was like, how it felt...
He falls silent for a moment.
"I'd like to go back now," he says flatly. Because right they're just arguing about the Floor, with Death trying to persuade him that it was bloody necessary and that he actually gives a damn about their wellbeing, and Matthew finding it very hard to believe it.
And right now, he's just tired of this conversation.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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His eyes pause curiously on the pigeon. "... a new friend?" He asks, brows raising in some sort of surprise or interest.
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"Moebius," Matthew says, in a flat voice. "You ran it. You and Devil, making everyone who was around back then die, over and over. And not even because of murder - which I could at least understand as a reason for it, even if it sure as hell doesn't justify what you did in return. You did it because they dared to not play along. So yes, the profanity is necessary, because you can fuck yourself on the way to hell."
He knew this was stupid. Here he was, snarling insults in the face of a being that had power they couldn't even imagine. But somehow, he couldn't care.
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"You would dismiss everything I say in my defense, before I even say it... yet you would take that petulant shrew PSYCHE at her word?"
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Nancy ignores the perch entirely, in favour of landing on the ground bird-walking all over the floor. Pigeons aren't parrots. Perches don't really feature in their worldview. There's just 'things they walk and sit on sometimes', which tends to include most things in the world.
Matthew, meanwhile, is silent for a moment.
"Are you going to tell me that she lied, then?" he says quietly. "She wasn't the only one to say it was you, you know. You...you made them die..." Despite themselves, their voice catches.
He never went to moebius. They escaped that particular hell. But it features in their nightmares, all the same. And even more so since the Floor, when it became all too easy to imagine death after death after death, except instead of coming back to a cold table in a morgue they'd be under the ground, web walls pressing in around them in the darkness with nothing but Altair's flickering life sign on their senses...
...but no, he's not alone. Not in the Floor. He can sense Nancy's life, clear and strong, and he clings to it like a lifeline.
"You made them come back," they whisper.
He made them come back.
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"I did not make anyone die. Just as I did not force your overlay to kill Altaïr. MALBOLGE's mien is more suited to murder than mine ever will be."
He eyes Matthew for a moment, a concerned frown on his face, before he stands and approaches, his hands carefully resting behind his back.
"I am not saying Miss Arrows lied. I am saying she is only telling the truth in part, to cover her lover's leather-clad arse, if you'll pardon the expression. I wanted to ensure the Travelers did not interrupt the game again, for fear that either Pendu or Abaddon would upset the delicate balance of power we Arcana have amongst ourselves. Zie is the one who demanded blood for the Traveler's punishment. So the two of us agreed upon Moebius, and the rest of our kind who condoned such punishment consented."
He gives a soft sigh, then, clearly displeased with the memories this brings with it. "When you are sent on a Jaunt, either your subconscious attaches itself to a compatible host of that world... that is, Infiltration... or your consciousness is uploaded into an ectoplasmic body and sent out into the world, meaning Investigation." He draws his hand up and a small ball of clear, gelatinous substance appears in his hands.
"The theory was that, given your physical bodies were not in any danger, you would be out of harm's way. And further, when you Travelers regenerated after death at the beginning, you would not suffer as many psychological effects as you had in previous Jaunts. You must understand one thing, sirs. I did not expect the aftermath. Copying your consciousness to new bodies in such rapid succession caused memory errors, lingering effects... it is a shame what I learned about the mortal mind that Jaunt. And I cannot in good conscience condone such atrocities again, now that I know what effect they have on you. Such a Jaunt had never been attempted, previously to this round."
Mortimer makes the ball of ectoplasm disappear, as he bows his head solemnly. "I will be the first to admit I was wrong. About all of it. But I am not the one solely responsible for that massacre of a Jaunt. I intend never to let such a massacre happen again."
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He takes in a sharp, deep breath. Then another. Then another.
Hold it fucking together, Swift.
"You better not," he says hoarsely. "Not ever. Because if it does, there is nothing we wouldn't do to get rid of you. You might not be the only to one to blame - and I am damn well giving Devil plenty of fucking blame - but you were still a part of it. You might not have pulled the trigger, but you set up the scenario where people were doomed to a cycle of death. And like all the rest of the Arcana, you let it go on. And I might not be able to do anything to stop this game of yours, but I could do something about stopping you. So I am damn well going to hold you to that."
They weren't going to offer to help. That was, all things considered, more than Matthew was willing to give. It did mean something that Death was actually able to admit that he was wrong, that he was able to feel regret. But even so, at this point the best Death could hope for from Matthew was a lack of active opposition.
"But here's the thing I don't get. You're Death And yes, I bloody well know, 'Tarot' Death and not Kicking-the-Bucket Death - but you're still the one that's meant to be all about finality and endings and transitions. How the hell do you, of all of them, not get that there might be psychological effects? How do you not realise that just because you come back from death, it doesn't mean that everything's okay? You realise, don't you, that there are some Travellers who think that death doesn't matter, just because it's not permanent? But it matters. Even when you come back, and the scars are all gone. It's still fucking matters."
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The likely ignored comforting aside, Death frowns at Matthew's words. "I did not set up the scenario; it was already there. Just as all of them have already been there. You can certainly stop this version of me, true, but I wish to work with you to prevent such a tragedy from happening in the future."
Mortimer pauses for a moment, stepping over to where Nancy is poking around, before he carefully draws his hand up and trickles some birdseed into a pile for her. Surely that would catch her interest. "It is the life before it that gives the death any meaning. While I agree death is important, it is life I protect. I will not let you Travelers die permanently in this. That is far too great a sacrifice to ask of any of you. It is my duty to revive you all should your biological functions cease, though the method is grisly. That is... something I wish I could have done for those of us who have died. But wishes rarely solve any problems, do they?"
He looks at Matthew, straight on, adding, "I understand that 'kicking the bucket' death can negatively impact you, but as I said before, such a quick transfer to new ectoplasmic bodies had not ever been tested before in Synodiporia's history. I had also never had someone die in such rapid succession to note any psychological trauma it might have inflicted until the third repeat of Moebius. That is when I knew for certain that it should be stopped... but all parties involved have to agree to a shutdown. MALBOLGE was not going to give you that. So I had to do the best I could, under the circumstances. The only good that came of it was that none of you could remember in much detail the horrors you had just experienced."
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Death was right to expect the comforting to be ignored. Matthew says nothing in response to it, his expression stony and closed off.
But Nancy, at least, is now warming to the man. The way to a pigeon's heart is through her stomach, and it only takes a few curious bobs of her head before she's inching over to the birdseed, and tentatively beings pecking away. She'll fly off at any sudden movements, of course, but she'll come back to the allure of food.
"We used to think we understood life," they say, suddenly. "We were gods of the telephone wire, we born from life, we were power and light and magic. There wasn't, we thought, anything that we did not already know. And then...and then we became me, and we learned that we were wrong. We learned that we understood nothing. We were not prepared for how bright and loud it is, for how in every moment our senses are overwhelmed, for the rush of our blood through our veins. Because life is beautiful, and it is terrible. We would not give it up for anything, but with life there is...pain. And even if the mind forgets, even if the memories fade, the body remembers the terror and the agony and the horror."
"You say you want to protect life. That might even be true. But I don't think you understand it. You can't. You're only observing from the outside, like we once did."
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"Of course I do not understand it. Life is not in my idiom. But I understand the process of life. Death. Goodbyes. Regeneration. Transition. Deep change. Loss. Death. And the cycle continues." He frowns visibly, then asks quietly, "Are you sure you're not still observing it from the outside? You only know your experiences, not others'. You do not know life in other worlds, other contexts, only your own rebirth as You."
Death pauses again, this time turning his eyes away to one of the vases with the dying and fresh roses. "I understand now that I do not understand. That none of my kind understand. That we will never understand. And that is enough for me to want to protect your lives as best I can. I wish to learn from you and your example."
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Matthew may sound just a little dry and darkly sarcastic at that. Just a little.
"But my life, our life, we can understand. We are not observing it. We are living it. It is more than just a process, more than just one life stage followed by another. It is...an experience."
He falls silent for a moment.
"Thing is, though, that sometimes that experience fucking sucks. Sometimes it's pain and terror and soul-crushing horror. That's what your...infirmary...is. We love our life, and we do not want to give it up for anything, but while we were there..."
They trail off, not wanting to finish that thought. Not wanting to admit, even out loud, that in those moments they would have gladly accepted oblivion if only it meant that their suffering would end.
He takes a deep breath.
"You can't just protect existence alone. You can't just make sure something's alive, and call it a day. Because...quality of life, or whatever you want to call it, that matters. There's a reason that immortality is, on the whole, a really fucking bad idea."
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"There is a good reason the old Veterans did not wish lives to be lost in Liminal Space. I do not wish to use my 'infirmary' unless it is necessary. To remake your body is easy, but your sentience..." He shakes his head, wearily. "Your sentience must be preserved at all costs. Not only because you are integral to this tournament, but also because I would be lesser for it were I to allow one of you to die needlessly. And I am growing rather fond of you all, for what that's worth."
He shrugs his bony shoulders. "Sadly I am not given much space to perform my art. I understand the tight quarters were troublesome, but were you to get out of it before you were healed, you might have merely died again. Futher, to allow for greater freedom of movement within the ectoplasmic chamber might cause... unwanted side effects. You saw the side effects merely from your struggling."
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He falls silent for a moment.
"I'd like to go back now," he says flatly. Because right they're just arguing about the Floor, with Death trying to persuade him that it was bloody necessary and that he actually gives a damn about their wellbeing, and Matthew finding it very hard to believe it.
And right now, he's just tired of this conversation.
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"Come on, Nancy," he says, before sweeping out through the portal, the pigeon fluttering along behind him.