Arthur (
paradoxlol) wrote2011-04-28 10:11 am
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Goodbye, Sanity~
Have you known such a savoury grief as I?
Do people say "Strange fellow!," whom you meet?
— My amorous soul, when I was due to die,
Felt longing mixed with horror; pain seemed sweet.
Anguish and ardent hope (no factious whim)
Were mixed: and as the sands of life ran low
My torture grew delicious yet more grim,
And of this dear old world would not let go.
[There's a long pause in the text, then he switches to voice.]
It's Baudelaire. I can't remember the rest. I just wanted to share, because... because I woke up, and it was like when you get a song stuck in your head. An idea that replays over and over again, and you try to get it out, but you can't. [He lets out a soft snort at the thought. NOT THAT ANYBODY WOULD KNOW, but Arthur's tone sounds more like his normal, pre-Invasion self.]
The thing about an idea is... If it isn't yours, you can always trace it back to its genesis. Your mind-- your mind is-- it's this incredible tool; it retains so much more than you can even comprehend. Some speculate that you never really forget anything-- you may not recall something, but it's still there, locked inside your head. You can't, you can't make a person believe in a lie forever, not if you don't go deep enough. [He laughs hollowly] Any memory can be retrieved.
Anything...
[Murmuring:] It's on the tip of my tongue.
[He lets out a soft sigh and begins to recite, his voice going flat:]
J'étais comme l'enfant avide du spectacle,
Haïssant le rideau comme on hait un obstacle...
Enfin la vérité froide se révéla:
J'étais mort sans surprise, et la terrible aurore
M'enveloppait. — Eh quoi! n'est-ce donc que cela?
La toile était levée et j'attendais encore.
That's it. That's what I was forgetting.
[OOC: CUE ARTHUR GOING CRAZY. Or beginning to. He knows something's wrong; he knows that he should be able to check that this is reality, but the whole concept of a totem is basically gone, so he's left in a daze. IF I'M FEELING INTELLIGENT ENOUGH, his comments will become more and more surreal, but if I'm not, he'll just be in a weird malaise. By tonight/tomorrow, he'll start trying to "kick" his canonmates and himself. With a gun. The poem is "The Dream of a Curious Man", and I'm using the second translation here. OH AND: Arthur's on the deck right now, staring down at the "sea" of stars, so that's where you can find him.]
Do people say "Strange fellow!," whom you meet?
— My amorous soul, when I was due to die,
Felt longing mixed with horror; pain seemed sweet.
Anguish and ardent hope (no factious whim)
Were mixed: and as the sands of life ran low
My torture grew delicious yet more grim,
And of this dear old world would not let go.
[There's a long pause in the text, then he switches to voice.]
It's Baudelaire. I can't remember the rest. I just wanted to share, because... because I woke up, and it was like when you get a song stuck in your head. An idea that replays over and over again, and you try to get it out, but you can't. [He lets out a soft snort at the thought. NOT THAT ANYBODY WOULD KNOW, but Arthur's tone sounds more like his normal, pre-Invasion self.]
The thing about an idea is... If it isn't yours, you can always trace it back to its genesis. Your mind-- your mind is-- it's this incredible tool; it retains so much more than you can even comprehend. Some speculate that you never really forget anything-- you may not recall something, but it's still there, locked inside your head. You can't, you can't make a person believe in a lie forever, not if you don't go deep enough. [He laughs hollowly] Any memory can be retrieved.
Anything...
[Murmuring:] It's on the tip of my tongue.
[He lets out a soft sigh and begins to recite, his voice going flat:]
J'étais comme l'enfant avide du spectacle,
Haïssant le rideau comme on hait un obstacle...
Enfin la vérité froide se révéla:
J'étais mort sans surprise, et la terrible aurore
M'enveloppait. — Eh quoi! n'est-ce donc que cela?
La toile était levée et j'attendais encore.
That's it. That's what I was forgetting.
[OOC: CUE ARTHUR GOING CRAZY. Or beginning to. He knows something's wrong; he knows that he should be able to check that this is reality, but the whole concept of a totem is basically gone, so he's left in a daze. IF I'M FEELING INTELLIGENT ENOUGH, his comments will become more and more surreal, but if I'm not, he'll just be in a weird malaise. By tonight/tomorrow, he'll start trying to "kick" his canonmates and himself. With a gun. The poem is "The Dream of a Curious Man", and I'm using the second translation here. OH AND: Arthur's on the deck right now, staring down at the "sea" of stars, so that's where you can find him.]
SPAM
Arthur. What are you saying? I know it's not easy, and I know you're still his friend, but— [She shakes her head in protest.] I will never hurt you, Arthur.
SPAM
I know you won't hurt me, Mal, because you're not Cobb's projection of you. [He pushes his jacket to the side and withdraws his glock, pointing it at Mal.] You're mine. My projection, my temptation to stay in Limbo. A link to happier times.
SPAM
I'm not a projection, Arthur. I'm real. I'm me, I'm Mal, and I'm your friend. [Her voice cracks.] You told me yourself this wasn't Limbo, when I first came here. And I didn't believe you for so long, but now—Don't you remember?
SPAM - GODDAMN FFFF LOST MY TAG
I was wrong. That's what Limbo does to you; it traps you in lies and memories. And then, it finally hit me. [He blinks, voice cracking a touch.] La toile était levée. You were right. You were trying to warn me, and I didn't listen.
SPAM - HATE IT WHEN THAT HAPPENS.
[Or is it? Maybe he's right and all that struggle was fighting against the truth, and -- No. Something's wrong with Arthur now, it must be, if he thinks that she's a projection, a shade, because she knows she's not, damn it. She stops backing away, holds out a beseeching hand, while still clutching her pillow to her breast.]
Please, Arthur. Don't do this. You are real. This is real. Look at your totem.
SPAM
You're so perfect. [His aim wavers as he says that, a hint of despair lacing his voice.] Just like I remember. [He swallows.] Cobb never had my attention to detail. [He starts to lower the gun. This projection is too... too real. He doesn't know if he can do it.]
Re: SPAM
[She moves closer as he lowers the gun, still holding the stupid pillow in defence.]
Dom's a romantic. [Tiny smile. She's hoping to tease him out of this, perhaps.] Your precision is why we liked you. But even you couldn't -- I promise you, I'm no projection. I'm real.
SPAM
[He squeezes his eyes shut.] No. No, he's... He thinks of you differently. [He opens his eyes, allowing her to come nearer.] We're all splitting in two, Mal. Those of us who are dreaming. Me, Ariadne, Cobb... [Because obviously that's who Archer and Costigan are. He leaves Fischer unspoken.] You go back far enough in the network, and you'll even find another Eames. [By the name of Shinzon, apparently.] This isn't reality. It can't be.
SPAM
[She's close enough now to touch him and reaches up to lay a hand lightly on his cheek.] I know it's dreadful here. I know it's hard. But it's not a dream.
SPAM
SPAM
[Arthur, you've got a funny idea of "no lasting harm".]