applesaucedream | A Time to Rise and a Time to Fall [Open to Multiple]

This is more like home, and Greta finds herself breathing a bit easier as they leave the prison yard behind. Granted, all the black is off-putting - what happened? - but she doesn't ask for an explanation. She can guess that the city is in mourning; any description of what they're mourning would be a longer, grimmer lecture than she wants to request. She'll just let the Balladeer steer the conversation.

She's not surprised when he steers it into the mild waters of local architecture. It's an improvement over 'death.' His wording is a little strange, though, and after a few moments of token monument appreciation, she glances up at him. "'For a while'?" she repeats. He almost sounds like Andrew, talking about the present as if it's history to him. But isn't he from here? That's what she'd assumed, since he seemed to know the locals, and took a strange but important role in that execution.

Outside of music, the Balladeer knows about two things: death, and American history. This is the friendlier portion.

"Give it a few decades," he replies with a shrug, "It'll probably lose the title before the turn of the century, even." It doesn't occur to him that his phrasing is odd at all. Traveling about is just natural; it's staying here so long that's strange in a way. He knows Washington like the back of his hand, he's spent so much time here...but none of that time was spent actually exploring the city. Strange.

The National Mall is always a good place to be a tourist, at least. It seems like it should have taken them longer to walk here than it did, but they're much nearer the Washington Monument now. Even unfinished, it's an imposing obelisk, all smooth white marble. "The construction ruins the effect a little," the Balladeer admits, considering the tall wooden scaffolds. "In a couple years they're going to - "

He turns to point up the Mall, and stops dead. Is that the Lincoln Memorial down there? That doesn't seem right.

A few decades? The Balladeer doesn't look much older than a few decades, himself. Greta's brow furrows in deepening confusion as he continues, unable to reconcile how he could be from this general time period and so familiar with what was to come. But before she can ask him just how he knows all this, he cuts himself off abruptly and stares at some other impressive-looking structure some ways off.

"… Is everything all right?" she asks. It obviously isn't, but maybe the little verbal nudge will encourage him to explain himself.

"Uh...yeah," the Balladeer replies, still staring dubiously at the building. How is that even here? It's definitely 1882, or he wouldn't have just done that whole thing with Guiteau. "I'm very sure that building shouldn't have been built for another forty years..."

"I shouldn't have been built at all," opines a nearby man with a thick Southern accent.

"No, nope. Not today." The Balladeer does not turn around; he just starts walking off very quickly, dragging Greta along with him. "He died years ago, we don't have to deal with him right now."

"Wh--" Greta starts, but any of the several questions she might have asked him is abruptly cut off as he tugs her forward. She glances back over her shoulder at the man who interrupted them, catching an impression of curly hair and a wispy mustache. Then she looks back up at the Balladeer in astonishment. "He's dead? But how…?" What sort of life has the Balladeer been leading? It's one thing to know history, it's quite another for history to know him, too. "Who is he?"

"No one."

There's a pause, and then the Balladeer sighs. Erasing history really isn't to his tastes. "That's John Wilkes Booth. He's a murderer - he killed him." He lifts an arm to point towards the Memorial; while it's still pretty far away, there's clearly a statuesque figure inside. Obviously this is more than just a common criminal if his victim got a giant marble temple built in his honor. "And trust me, you don't want to hear about it from him. He's horrible and he won't stop talking about himself. Someone shot him a good twenty years ago, he really has no business being here."

Unless, of course, Booth's business is with him. He really hopes that kind of thing doesn't grant all the rest of them the ability to move through time and space the way he does. God, they might just go out and start inciting assassinations.

Greta stares up at the Balladeer, trying to reconcile his familiarity with all these murderers whose crimes, it seems, span decades, with the fact that he doesn't seem that old and certainly doesn't seem like the sort of person who would associate with murderers on purpose.

"But how do you know them all?" she asks, which might not be the most pressing concern considering that one of them is probably following them. But this Booth fellow, from the sounds of it, isn't much more than a shade, anyway. "How do they--how old are you?" she finally blurts, baffled.

The thoughtful pause that follows Greta's question is probably not comforting.

"I didn't actually wait through all that time," the Balladeer explains, instead of giving an actual answer. He's certainly not centuries old, like his span of history would imply. Exact numbers escape him, but he's younger that that. "I just skip ahead to where I'm needed. It's just my job. To keep their stories alive."

He waves a hand vaguely over his shoulder. Is Booth still following them? Maybe if he doesn't look or pay him any attention, he'll just leave. Because that's what John Wilkes Booth does: he gives up and leaves quietly when he isn't wanted. "They're not good stories, but those who don't remember history are doomed to repeat it." There have been too many repetitions for his liking. ~~Honestly it took three assassinations for the Secret Service to be formed, what are people doing with their time~~

"But…" Greta trails off, pinching the bridge of her nose with her free hand for a moment. This isn't the easiest thing in the world for her to get her head around. "So you… you travel through time," she begins, the well-worn phrase carrying none of its usual, implicit familiarity when she says it. It's a wholly foreign concept to her. "So you can tell people stories about… about murderers. That… that… is your job."

She still has no idea how that's possible, let alone an occupation. "I don't suppose we could sit for a minute," she asks, sounding just a bit strained. To be fair, it's hot out and they've been hustling along for a few minutes in an attempt to evade one of his--his subjects, she supposes. Is he even still following them? She's slightly concerned that if she turns to look, she'll fall right over.

The Balladeer sighs. "I know." There's a reason he didn't lead with that when he met her. He isn't ashamed of what he does by any means; he thinks it's important. Normal, though? That's something entirely different.

"Let's just get up these stairs." He's slightly worried about looking as well. Booth isn't someone he wants to deal with in general, but he certainly doesn't want the man realizing that he's got a friend now. Guiteau is one thing, but Booth is a devious bastard. They're at the foot of the memorial now, and he starts up the many (many) steps, though he's clearly tiring too. "I don't think he'll follow us in."

That's based on no real logic. It isn't as though this is a church, and Booth a vampire. It just doesn't seem like a place he'd want to hang out.

Granted, Greta's life has hardly been 'normal' by modern-day Manhattan standards, either. But at least it's been linear. How does he travel through time? What does he do when he's not working? He does do something besides his job, right? And he must be from a certain time period, regardless of how much he travels.

His sigh makes her feel a bit guilty for prying, though, so she swallows her multitude of questions and focuses on the staircase, instead.

There is nothing 'just' about that staircase.

"Right," she says as they start up the steps toward the massive monument. Then, she falls silent, most of her energy going into putting one foot in front of the other. It isn't until they're crossing the broad landing halfway up the slope that she quietly asks, "What if he does follow us in? How dangerous is he?" That would be good to know before she finds herself needing to break up another fight.

The Balladeer grimaces a little. "I don't know if he'd hurt you. Doubt he'd bother if you weren't with me." As much as he hates Booth, he doesn't have any illusions about the man being a genuine mass murderer or anything. He's very specific in his targets; he takes pride in that. You don't listen to him rant about Shakespeare and Rome for hours without picking up that much.

But the Balladeer has certainly made that list, and he doesn't trust that Booth would quibble about a little collateral damage. If he'd seen him before Booth spotted he and Greta together...well, too late now. "He's dangerous, more dangerous than Guiteau. He thought history would vindicate him, it didn't - " See: the giant memorial they're scaling. " - and he's one to shoot the messenger."

After a moment, honesty compels him to add, "I also burned some of his writings." Back when he'd been sure they needed him too much to hurt him, it'd seemed like a good idea.

...ah, hell, he'd do the same thing now if he had the choice.

Greta's beginning to really miss the Woods. At least in the Woods, dead people don't come back to life just to murder the living out of revenge. How has the Balladeer survived any of this?

"So, he probably wants to kill you," she summarizes, "and he might kill me just for being with you. And he's already dead, himself, but he's also alive enough to murder people." Despite the apparently real danger they're in, she finds herself biting back a mirthless smile. "Your world," she informs him, "is completely mad."

Well, hopefully this Booth fellow will just leave them alone. If not… she's not sure what they'll do, but she's not letting anyone murder her friend. (How she'd stop it is another matter entirely, but she will cross that bridge if she comes to it.)

As they finally top the stairs and pass between the towering white columns that support the structure, she gives the Balladeer's arm a bracing little pat. "We'll be fine," she says firmly.

"He's alive enough to murder me," the Balladeer clarifies. "Don't think he could manage normal people." He steps in and out of time with the rest of them; he's basically on their level, enough so to get attacked. Greta...well, she's out of any timeline she might have belonged in right now. Best not to take the risk.

"But yes. It is." He doesn't bother to bite back his humorless grin. He smiles for real at the pat, though. "Of course we will."

He'll try to see to it that she's fine, anyway. She really shouldn't have gotten caught up in all of this. The Balladeer moves in past the columns to one of the side walls, where presumably no one will be able to shoot them without at least making themselves visible first. He needs to catch his breath anyway; that is an extreme set of stairs. "But please don't do what you did with Guiteau. Booth'll be armed. He always carries a gun, and I think he's got a knife too."

Despite what she's just learned, Greta feels a knee-jerk, instinctive urge to defend the Balladeer's normalcy (or perhaps to question what 'normal' even means anymore). She bites it back. All she can do is take him at his word as far as Booth is concerned. Apparently he's armed with a knife (and a 'gun,' whatever that is).

"No scolding him, then," she says. She might sound faintly disappointed. It worked so well last time. She releases the Balladeer's arm, leans back against the wall, and tugs off the scarf, using it to mop her forehead. At least it's cooler in here.

She nods up at the statue, idly twisting and untwisting the scarf around her hands. "Who was he?"

The Balladeer leans back against one of the tall columns, following her gaze. "That's Abraham Lincoln. He was president, a long time back." He assumes it's been a while, anyway, given that the memorial's even here in the first place now. Who knows what year it is?

"There was a civil war at the time, and he kept the country together. Also helped outlaw the practice of slavery." This is, of course, an extremely simplified explanation of that entire chapter of American history, but Greta doesn't want a long lecture. Also, the most relevant part is that - "Booth's side lost, and he got pretty upset about the freedom thing, so he shot him." - John Wilkes Booth is a terrible human being.

"Oh," Greta says in the tone of someone who has just discovered something unpleasant and desiccated curled up in the bottom of the pantry. She can understand why such a grand monument was built for this Lincoln fellow - it sounds like he was a good ruler - but more to the point, she can appreciate the Balladeer's complete distaste for Mister Booth. "Well, that Booth fellow sounds loathsome." No wonder he was so quick to haul her off.

... And speak of the devil. It looks as if they've been followed after all. Greta groans under her breath, shifts a bit closer to the Balladeer, and nods toward the not-so-new arrival.

Ohhhhh, god.

He sees, alright, and the Balladeer promptly straightens and moves to stand between the two. "What do you want?" He isn't afraid, and he won't be intimidated. He's just annoyed.

Booth turns from leering up at the statue in distaste to face him, flashing the pair a charming smile. He is far better than Guiteau at playing the gentleman; the Balladeer's glad he already told Greta all about the fellow. "No need to look like that," he drawls, stepping closer. "I was just hopin' to finish our previous conversation. Now, are you hidin' a new member of our little society from us?"

He nods over the Balladeer's shoulder towards Greta. The Balladeer bristles visibly. Oh, come on, she doesn't look like she'd haul off and try to kill someone in the least!

Fortunately for the both of them, Greta's recently learned to be wary of 'charming.' Mister Booth is quite handsome - she's not blind - but she believes the Balladeer's assessment of him, and she's not about to be taken in by pretty manners.

She's also not about to let that comment go unanswered. "I am not part of your society," she says crossly, planting her hands on her hips. Say what you will about the things she's done with one of her universe's ruling parties, but she definitely hasn't murdered any of them in cold blood.

"Well, isn't that a shame?" Booth asks, completely rhetorically, and turns back to the Balladeer. If she's not one of them, then she really has no part in this.

"Right. And this is 1882. Or something," the Balladeer adds, a little uncertain as he glances around at the clearly anachronistic building they're in. Seriously, what is even happening? "Either way you shouldn't be here."

"Oh, come on." Booth smiles amiably, taking a few steps closer. The Balladeer stands his ground for now, but he's clearly very tense. What's he planning? "Weren't you the one who wanted us to keep on tryin'?"

"Not at killing people," the Balladeer scoffs. It was a little late, obviously, to tell them to focus on self-improvement rather than pinning all their problems on one guy, but there was always the audience to consider. He really wishes there were a way out of here that wasn't past Booth. Does he really want to kill him that badly? What does he stand to gain?

Greta lets out a choked-off, indignant sound when Booth pronounces it a 'shame,' but stops herself from objecting more strenuously. He's ignoring her completely, now, which might be a good thing. She doesn't want him to be interested in her. But she doesn't like the wolfish way he's looking at the Balladeer, either, and she's never been in the habit of standing idly by while someone else takes care of business.

"Perhaps you should try leaving everyone else alone," she suggests, sidling out from behind the Balladeer to stand beside him, instead.

The Balladeer darts a quick side-glance at her, not sure if he should be grateful or not. He doesn't want her in any danger. But he hadn't known what to do last time they cornered him, and even with Booth alone, he doesn't know what to do now. Having someone else on his side changes things a little.

"I appreciate your concern, miss," Booth says, instantly flicking the charm back on. "But he made himself a part of this a long time ago - "

"Okay, I wouldn't put it like that - "

" - and NOW," Booth raises his voice over the Balladeer's objections, "he's just gonna have to deal with it."

He still hasn't drawn a weapon. That should be comforting, but it almost strikes the Balladeer as odd. Booth is not the sort of man to kill bare-handed; that would be uncivilized. He's certainly got a flair for the dramatic, though, and there is very little that could be more dramatic than cornering them in the damn Lincoln Memorial. He's probably just got some kind of monologue he wants to deliver before moving onto any actual violence.

In what he hopes is a subtle manner, he reaches out to take Greta's hand in his. "But you're right," he says aloud, contrite. "I shouldn't be slacking on the job like this. History waits for no man. We'll just be going, then, lots to report on!"

And he tugs on Greta's arm, and everything goes sideways for a second, before going dark altogether. There's a feeling like pushing through a curtain, and then the pair is standing in the lobby of what appears to be a reasonably nice hotel, being completely ignored by everyone present. The Balladeer breathes a sigh of relief. "Ohhhh, wow. That really worked!"

She knows she shouldn't scold this one, but it is awfully tempting. Greta has to grit her teeth to stop herself from saying anything foolish. Still, something has to be done; this is escalating more quickly than the argument with Guiteau, and Booth doesn't sound lost or confused, he sounds as if he's building up to something deliberate and unpleasant. She looks down at his currently weaponless hands, wondering how long it will be before that changes and what they'll do when it does.

And then the Balladeer takes her hand, and she glances up at him in surprise, not knowing what to make of it. Is it meant to be a show of solidarity? Is he just trying to reassure her? No - he says they're leaving, and she squeezes his hand in return, readying herself to run.

But that isn't what happens.

The Balladeer gives her a good tug to the side, and for a moment she's certain they've fallen into some kind of pit (falling again; why does this keep happening to her?). The sensation only lasts for a moment, though, followed by what feels like a brief envelopment in heavy cloth. Then they're standing in the warm light of a completely different place, a richly decorated (by her standards) room, whose inhabitants ignore them as fully as the crowd at the scaffold had.

"... Oh," Greta breathes, still clinging to his hand unthinkingly. It's like the Rift all over again. "Was that..." she glances around the room, confirming that there's no sign of Booth anywhere, then looks up at the Balladeer in astonishment. "Did we just travel through time?" She's not sure what else it could have been. Unless the Lincoln Memorial has a secret trapdoor that drops people into fancy rooms. She checks the ceiling just to be certain, but sees only smooth, unbroken plaster.

The Balladeer lets out a slightly breathless laugh, moving to flop down in an empty chair. "Yeah. And a little space." He really hadn't been sure if that was going to work. Normally he waits until he's supposed to go, and just takes the natural path through. He's never tried just shouldering his way through.

Slinging the banjo off, he sets it on the ground and tries to relax. When did everything take such a turn? Booth's never been friendly - most haven't been - but he's gone a long time without ever feeling threatened. Maybe he really shouldn't have done what he did. Even if they did deserve a good dressing-down.

Sighing, he glances up towards a large clock on the wall. "Okay, don't be alarmed." As if on cue, there are several loud gunshots outside the front of the building, followed by yelling. Most of the people in the lobby duck, or rush to see what's happened, but the Balladeer doesn't move. "They've got him, he won't come in."

Yes. Sitting down. That is an excellent idea. Greta plunks herself into a chair opposite the Balladeer with a bemused giggle of her own. Well, it's either laugh or curl up in a catatonic ball, and she doesn't fancy the latter. She's just... traveled through time. And space. Again. As if it's nothing. She buries her face in a fold of her husband's scarf and giggles again.

She's in the process of rearranging the scarf around her neck when the shots ring out. Despite the Balladeer's warning, the noise practically levitates her right out of her chair, and she ends up clinging to the upholstery in a panic. She hasn't heard anything like that since the giant stormed the Woods; it sounds as if entire trees are being snapped like twigs. "What was that?" she asks, wide-eyed.

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