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

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

Greta dreams of falling (again, and again).

The path ends abruptly. Maybe there never was a path, only a deceptive stretch of ground, free of any undergrowth, that looked like it could be one. Either way, she's left standing on the edge of a sheer cliff, looking down at the leaf-strewn forest floor far below her. A small rock tumbles down, as if for the sole purpose of illustrating the length of the drop. It seems to take ages to reach the bottom, clattering off exposed roots and finally thudding to the ground.

There's a roaring in her ears like a great wind, but it isn't the wind. The earth shudders beneath her feet. She reaches out wildly for something on which to steady herself, knowing even as she does so that she'll miss; she always misses, it's so stupid. Maybe she deserves whatever comes next.

But she doesn't miss. Her hand closes around something - not a branch. An arm? Whatever it is, she isn't letting go.

[ooc: whoops, Greta's dropped into your dream. Or you've dropped into hers. Whether you want them both to be in her giant-plagued forest or in a setting more familiar to your character is up to you. Poor Greta's just gonna have to roll with it either way.]

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"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.

"That was a gun," the Balladeer replies, apparently unsurprised and very deliberately not turning to look towards the commotion outside. Maybe if he ignores it, this will be less likely to backfire. "They're...it's a weapon, they fire little metal slugs very fast. Faster than a car."

Should he have explained that before Booth showed up, doubtlessly carrying a gun? Oh well. "It's over now No one's died out there," he assures her. "They'll all survive."

So that was a gun? Greta gapes at him, mostly thrown by 'slugs' (because those are soft little garden pests, not deadly projectiles, and why forge metal ones? It makes no sense), then shakes her head. She doesn't really want to know more, and the Balladeer seems deliberately disinterested in discussing it.

So she leans back in her chair, still a bit tense and unable to keep herself from casting wary glances toward the doors. "Are you supposed to be out there singing about it?" she asks. Not that she wants him to - his current posture suggests he has no intention of going anywhere - but if someone's going to get all huffy because he's not out there... well, forewarning would be nice.

"No. Well..." The Balladeer grimaces a little, shrugging. "I'm sure he'd like it if I did. But I never have before, and I'm not starting now. He didn't even kill anybody."

His tone makes it obvious that he doesn't feel he owes anything at all to non-successful murderers.

Still, Greta's concern is a little contagious, and he glances over his shoulder as well, just to make sure the door is clear. It is; well, as clear as anything's going to be while everyone outside panics about the President being shot. Hinckley is not incoming. Even if he did, well, the Balladeer imagines that between the two of them, they could handle Hinckley. "We should be okay here for a little while."

How long? Well, that depends on if he's actually being actively hunted now or not.

All right, then. That's reassuring; so long as no one really expects him to be out there strumming away, they won't have any reason to complain if he doesn't. And if he's never done it before, then…

… Wait.

Greta turns her full attention to the Balladeer, the commotion outside momentarily forgotten. "What do you mean, you never have before?" He can't possibly be saying that he visits the same times and places repeatedly. "Isn't this the first time you've been here?"

It must be, right? He might have an unusually detailed understanding of what's going on, here - she remembers the way he glanced at the clock before warning her of the gunfire - but… well, she'd assumed it was all history to him, something he'd studied from the future before visiting, not something he'd picked up after seeing it happen over and over again.

"Here?" The Balladeer looks a little confused by the question. Obviously he did not mean to give her that impression. "I don't come here very often, normally there's not much for me to do. But I've been a few times. I was out there the first time, just to see what would happen."

He gestures towards the doors, where sirens can now be heard wailing in the streets. The first time it happened, he'd been just as concerned as all those people; it's really just that now he knows everything's going to turn out fine. (Mostly fine. Poor Brady.) He's not yet so callous that he doesn't care when someone gets shot. It's just that after a while, well, you just learn to take things as they are. Besides, he doesn't like to give the assassins any reaction - it's what they're looking for.

"I pass through every now and then," he continues. "But this is still pretty recent. People know about this."

What. Greta sits up straight in her chair, then leans forward. "So, you… you visit the same places more than once? Repeatedly?" Suddenly, Guiteau's comment about cues makes a bit more sense. All in all, though, it paints a rather horrifying picture. Does he just hop from murder to murder, over and over, like being stuck in some kind of purgatory? That would be terrible.

If more gunshots rang out, Greta wouldn't notice. She's too busy giving the Balladeer a searching look. Finally, tentatively, she asks, "Is this all you do?"

"Um..."

The Balladeer opens his mouth to answer, then closes it, looking a little uneasy under Greta's scrutiny. It seems to be throwing him off more than literally standing on a scaffold was when she showed up - he's used to that. People showing concern is something else. He knows it isn't normal, what he does, but it's normal for him. He's fine.

"...yes? I mean..." For a moment, he casts about for something else he does. "...pretty much."

She can't decide what's more upsetting: the fact that her worst guess was correct, or how genuinely confused he looks by her question - as if there's nothing wrong with doing literally nothing but jump through time and space and provide musical accompaniment to murders. It wouldn't have struck her as the worst job in the world, but that's presuming he has a life outside of it. And he's really making it sound as if he doesn't.

"You don't have family?" she presses, albeit gently. "Friends? A--a home you can go to when you're not doing this sort of thing?"

The Balladeer leans forward, resting his arms on his knees and folding his hands together. His gaze is on the floor now, rather than her. This is making things he's always accepted sound a lot worse all of a sudden. "No, no family." And no friends, unless you consider his occasional friendly interactions with...well, mostly Guiteau. That guy's always genial, until you flip the wrong hidden switch.

As for home? "There's a..." He trails off, brow furrowed. How to put this? "There's somewhere else I can go. It's not really in time. But they can all get there too." He shrugs; the problems with that are obvious. "I stop and rest there sometimes, but it's not a home."

It's probably just as well he's staring at the floor, because for a few moments, all she can do is sit there and look stricken. How can he live like this? Even if he didn't know what he was missing (and she feels a sharp pang of guilt as she realizes she's rather ruined that for him, if so), how does he do it? Can he eat and sleep with people like Booth on his tail all the time? What sort of terrible universe is this?

Greta gets up out of her chair without making any conscious decision to do so. A moment later, her hands close over his. "I'm sorry," she says, throat tightening. "I'm so--" she cuts herself off, pressing her lips together tightly. She is not going to start crying in front of him. She already regrets the damage she may have done with her questions and her sympathy; the last thing he needs is for her to get all weepy on his behalf.

Sorry, Greta, he's contemplating his life right now.

He starts a little as she clasps his hands, having not noticed her movement. But when he lifts his gaze to hers, it's with a smile. It's faint, but it's there. "It's okay." Lightly, he extricates his hands to take hers instead. "Really. It isn't usually like this. They've just been worked up lately."

Which is totally his fault. He recognizes that, even as he still doesn't really regret it.

She recognizes that this is her cue to get ahold of herself. He's not upset, he's being optimistic about it all, as if the spat between him and Booth will blow right over. 'Worked up,' he says, as if these dangerous criminals he has to confront again and again are no worse than a herd of ornery cattle that he is entirely equipped to handle. Which he is - he must be, to have made it this far.

But it is absolutely not okay.

And it would be horrible of her to say as much. Though her expression is probably projecting her feelings loud and clear, regardless.

"I just…" she sinks to her knees and stares at his hands, wavering somewhere between apologetic and helplessly perplexed. "I don't--I don't understand how…?" How is any of this even happening? Who designed this system? It is a terrible system.

Indeed, the Balladeer is arching a slightly worried eyebrow at her. This is really upsetting her, isn't it? Maybe he's just so used to it, it doesn't strike him as worth getting worked up over. Should he be upset? Oh, that's a disturbing thought. He's never really considered himself desensitized before.

"It...just does." He shrugs apologetically. It would be nice if he could give a better explanation, but he really can't. It's been this way for as long as he can remember. Sometimes new assassins turn up, so he knows time has passed, but it's a little hard to track when you operate like he does. And the audience always mostly looks the same, when he can see them.

Honestly, they've never been very helpful at all.

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(I vote YES because I'm terrible)

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