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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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.

She needs to stop this. She really needs to stop this. "I'm sorry," she apologizes again, extricating one hand so she can swipe at her cheeks. "I shouldn't, er. It's just… very different from what I'm used to, but that's really no reason for me to, um." With an embarrassed and somewhat watery little huff of laughter, she gives up and just sits on the floor, her free hand pinching the bridge of her nose. After a few deep breaths, she tries, "It's just been a very strange day." And she has had some strange ones.

"I know it's strange," the Balladeer says with a slightly apologetic wince. He hadn't thought it was strange enough to cause other people to weep on hearing it, but okay, note taken. Shifting forward, he lowers himself to sit on the floor as well. There, that's better! "It's not like everybody does this. My universe is not really that different from the one with Manhattan in it, for most people. It's just - "

"Oh! Oh, dear!" He's interrupted by a loud voice, as a woman comes bustling over to them. She doesn't look especially out-of-place here, dressed in fairly similar clothing and rustling about in a large handbag as she draws near to stand over the pair. "Just hang on a minute, sweetie - what DID he say to you? Oh! Here you go!"

She leans over to offer Greta several wadded-up tissues. The Balladeer watches her with the air of someone watching a car swerve dangerously along the freeway. There is about to be some kind of spectacular disaster here.

His attempt at reassurance is having the opposite of its intended effect: if his universe allows most people to live normal lives, that makes him being singled out for this repetitive existence even worse. Why him? What could he have possibly done to deserve this? How is she supposed to respond to this without making things more awkward than they are already?

Fortunately - or not so fortunately - she is spared the task by a timely interruption. Greta looks up at the new arrival in bemusement. Is this another one of the Balladeer's charges? She must be; it's only the assorted guilty parties who have actually acknowledged them thusfar. But rather than act menacing, this one is just... fussing over her. Offering her tissues. Calling her 'sweetie.'

Greta opens her mouth, shuts it, and opens it again, at a loss. Then she realizes the woman's trying to blame the Balladeer for her current state, and while it's technically true that his words are what upset her, it's still not his fault. Greta can't allow a probably-armed murderer to think such a thing.

"No, it wasn't him," she blurts, accepting the tissues awkwardly. "I, er, was frightened by the gunshots." That's believable, right? Greta adds a helpful gesture over her shoulder, towards whatever commotion might still be occurring outside, then pats the Balladeer's arm. "He was helping."

"Oh, I know!" The woman settles down herself, flopping onto the ground with the pair. "I've been doing this for years, and I still jump every time I hear one! People always firing them off into the air like it's the Fourth of July!" She laughs, before turning to the Balladeer and adding in a rather accusatory tone: "You've never been very helpful to me before."

He just rolls his eyes. "Hello, Sara Jane."

Sara Jane Moore huffs. "You know, I don't know why you're making such a fuss. John's absolutely right, enough is enough - we've all had enough of his lip," she adds for Greta's benefit, apparently feeling the stranger needs an explanation. "Stick around long enough, dear, you'll see."

"I'm sorry!" The Balladeer throws his hands up, clearly not at all sorry. He'd wanted some kind of distraction from the apparently distressing facts of his life, but this was not it. "Did you want a medal? And she's not one of yours - why are you all assuming that? I can talk to other people."

"Since when?" Sara Jane asks. It's a totally valid question. On the bright side, she appears content to sit on the floor of the hotel and talk for the moment.

Well, this is uncomfortable. The woman - Sara Jane, apparently - makes herself right at home on the floor as if this is all the most natural thing in the world. And she says she's been doing this for years. Greta wishes she hadn't heard that, and she winces before schooling her expression back into something more neutral.

She wants to argue against the idea of the Balladeer being lippy, but he puts an end to that idea by immediately sassing Sara Jane. Is this really the time? Granted, the woman seems far more easygoing than the others were, but still. Greta gives her head a little shake.

"He's right," she says. Maybe if she steers the conversation towards herself, Sara Jane will forget about the Balladeer's supposed transgressions. "I've never murdered anyone - never even tried." She might have things like 'theft' and 'swindling' and 'unfaithfulness' on her list of shameful deeds, but at least 'murdering' isn't there. "I'm actually from a completely different world," she offers.

"Oh, it's the TRYING that's important. I tried, but it didn't really go the way I'd hoped - don't you dare," Sara Jane snaps, pointing a finger at the Balladeer, who looked like he was about to launch into a very funny story. "Anyway, it's not murder if you kill a president, it's assassination. John puts it SO much more beautifully, but it's true."

She nods firmly, then draws a small compact mirror from her bag and begins to casually adjust her hair. "So you're from another world? What's that like?" Unnoticed, the Balladeer catches Greta's eye and shakes his head. He's not really sure what they would even be able to do with that information, but he operates on a general policy of not giving them anything.

'Assassination,' then. They probably call themselves assassins, too - sounds a bit more glamorous than 'murderer,' for all that it's the same thing. Greta tries not to look disgusted and probably fails. "I see," she says dryly.

"Oh. Um..." she flounders a little in response to the Balladeer's head shake. It had seemed like a safe enough subject shift to her, and she's not sure just what she shouldn't be telling anyone. She's assuming none of them can go to her world, so what does it matter what they know about it? Well, perhaps she can just stick to the more universal traits. "Quiet, mostly," she ventures, keeping half an eye on the Balladeer in case he signals her again. "I live in a small village. And we have Kings and Princes, not presidents."

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(I vote YES because I'm terrible)

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