This is My Island in the Sun [Open to All]

[applesaucemod]

The Rift wouldn't say it's sorry for the fit it threw the other day, because the Rift never needs to apologize. It is (mostly) perfect, and all of its decisions are well reasoned and just. Obviously. But perhaps it has fallen into a bit of a post-tantrum sulk, because this dream is milder than one might expect. In fact, it's downright nice.

The dreamers will find themselves in an archipelago of small islands - most only a few acres in size - connected by narrow strips of sand or pebbles. The surrounding waters are calm. Little waves lap against the shorelines, and no rising tide will cut the islands off from one another. The islands themselves seem to have been lifted from every climate zone on Earth and several from beyond. Some are tropical, some colder and home to hardy conifers, some mossy and boulder-strewn, some covered in multicolored sand and odd, coral-like trees.

Most of the islands boast some kind of manmade or otherwise non-native structure, be it as small as a bench or as large as a pavilion, though there are no houses or shops to be seen. It's more like parkland, just civilized enough for a nice picnic. Some of the islands even have little grills, and a sufficiently motivated dreamer might be able to rustle up some hot dog or burger fixings if they poke around a bit.

And they'll have an extra pair of eyes to help with their searching, because their beloved dæmons have returned… again. Or perhaps they're being introduced for the first time. Regardless, it's the bi-annual dæmon dream party!

Comments

[lottawork]

Arista's ears flick against the spurt of hot air, eliciting a short sneeze. She says nothing but glances sidelong at her counterpart, eyes dark and unsettled. It appears she would be equally reluctant to engage in the the summation of their most recent experience.

"ROMAC," he says listlessly, as if that in and of itself could encapsulate the manifold complexities of the more recent days. He holds up a hand, baring the thin, ragged scar encircling the circumference of his wrist, present even in the construct of a dream. "They kept me as their guest for some time."

The cat at his feet makes a low, rising sound akin to a growl, and her tail lashes once.

"Even after leaving their custody, I couldn't afford to draw attention to you or - your pilot." He drops the hand back to his side, the sentiment hesitant but not begrudging. "They were still looking for me."

[theoldgirl]

He might as well have left it at the name; it tells her all she needs to know about the source of his strain and even his injury, cut deep enough to leave a mark on his mind. She may not be very skilled at deciphering human euphemisms, but if there was any doubt about the nature of his stay with Romac, the cat's subtle contribution, half aggression, half fear, makes it abundantly clear. She knows all too well what they're capable of inflicting, even to beings far more powerful than small, fragile humans. Her frown turns cold and hard with anger, and the Unicorn shakes its head like it's looking for someone to impale.

"You should have come to me," she says, voice tight, because it's one thing to have lacked the foreknowledge necessary to protect him, but another to hear he'd endangered himself for her sake afterwards. "I am hidden. I am impenetrable." He can't know how much it has galled her, how much it has vexed and frustrated her to be potentially vulnerable to a bunch of scheming cruel humans. "I am safety, I am freedom," the Unicorn reiterated softly, melodiously, to the cat, nudging her side tenderly as though checking for injuries.

[lottawork]

The TARDIS's fury is immediate and undeniable, and Arista's ears flatten. She looks at the unicorn in reluctant apology as Rush shakes his head, a short lateral jerk, jaw locked.

"They were building cages to contain angels," the cat says quietly, regret heavy in the calculated emphasis. "They were planning something - city-wide containment, maybe. We couldn't have taken that risk."

Not on their own behalf. Not for their sake.

"None of it matters now." Rush folds his arms in a fluid, taut reraveling. The dissolution of all ROMAC had built had been satisfaction enough, repayment for the application of pressure they'd seen fit to exert upon him, inelegantly and unsuccessfully. "They're gone. All of them." He does not suppress the edge of satisfaction to the words, their hard, unrepentant glint. Fring had exacted the level of struggle to be expected from a dying man who knew he was dying, and Rush had completed his objective.

[theoldgirl]

At the mention of angel cages, the TARDIS bristles visibly and her gaze darts to the cat, disgusted with what she's hearing. She knows too well how effective those are, has suffered their power herself, has seen the terror in Gabriel even after he'd been freed. Although something quite different would be needed to contain her, it likely would not have been a great leap for them. She's been trapped and even damaged by human technology before. The Unicorn expels a hot angry burst of air, just barely missing the cat.

But he's quite right, that threat seems to have passed for now. The Doctor has settled in enough to be aware of all the convoluted politics and little upheavals the humans have been causing themselves here, though he wasn't directly involved in this one for once. Rather regrettably, the TARDIS thinks; overthrowing a corrupt organization or two would have done him good.

"Yes," she agrees with forced calm, hoping that Rush will at least come to her the next time he is in danger. But there is something in his tone of voice and his air of personal satisfaction that gives her pause, and she raises her eyes to meet his again. "Did you have a hand in it?"

[lottawork]

One side of his mouth twists, viciously pleased for a moment. "It was a multi-pronged effort. To my knowledge, several individuals were involved."

He studies the pale cicatrical line running over both wrists, unable or unwilling to meet the TARDIS's eyes fully due to some instinct he cannot put a name to. It had been reasonable to explain. Reasonable, and he owed her that. That much had been obvious.

"Asadi and I may have been among them," he concludes, refusing to fall into the atypical sensation of guilt whose origins are quite beyond him. "We may have caused - significant damage to the organization at large." They may have headbutted the proverbial snake, severing the head by strangling the neck, driving the rest of the writhing, squirming thing into the dirt. After what was done to him at the snake's metaphorical hands, he had been equipped to generate the fallout and had seen no reason not to do so.

[theoldgirl]

That is not as clear of an answer as she would have liked, and she frowns even though he isn't looking at her. "Commendable," she says pensively, "I'm sure your actions saved many lives and prevented future ills." She has no doubt that his and Iman's intelligence were effective tools in the endeavor, and after his capture he'd certainly felt justified to cause all this damage both for personal reasons as well as the general welfare of others. Not unlike Gabriel and his rampage. The comparison is both unwelcome and bitter, and perhaps, regrettably, not entirely unwarranted. Still, her voice is even and quiet when she asks, "So why do you speak as though you have something to hide?"

[lottawork]

He looks away. Arista stares at him in helpless silence, offering nothing. There is an unspoken trepidation, both in her tone and in the silence that follows, that halts the certainty of his demeanor regarding decisions previous. Fring's death had not been optional, it had been bright and clearly defined and a fixed point in their respective futures, and this had been obvious to him from the moment Asadi dragged him from the lower levels against his will.

It had not occurred to him what the TARDIS may consider necessary or optional in this context. He has walled himself in, unable to seize a rational exit to the question and unwilling to seize an irrational one, and he is left with few choices but to answer.

He searches himself for guilt or regret but finds he can unearth none.

Though he regrets, perhaps, the omission of certain events in his impromptu summary.

"I'm not hiding anything," he says evenly, unable to prevent the creep of the defensive note to his tone, which unfortunately leaves him with a clear logical progression he does not want to progress toward. "I took the actions I deemed necessary."

[theoldgirl]

She takes a breath at his reply, even and quiet, and its exhalation carries the heaviness of a sigh. Surely he knows that his tone and wording betrayed him even while he voiced them. "I have heard that sentiment more times than even I can count," she says, though there's no reprimand in her voice, only weariness. It wasn't too long ago that Topher reminded her what violence and savagery any human might stoop to, even those in her high regards, so she doesn't have the heart to be surprised this time.

"Very well then," she settles on, clasping her hands behind her back and not seeking his gaze any longer. "Keep it to yourself. I must simply assume you did something regrettably human." She could look, of course, see it in his mind, but what would be the point, and does she really want to know? Not even pilots are without fault, and human ones even less so. The Unicorn merely stares down at Arista out of dark old eyes, unfathomable.

[lottawork]

Regrettably. A muscle in his jaw twitches briefly and he looks away because he must. He did what he considered necessary for a purpose, a purpose he has acted upon in the past and would do so quite willingly again because it was, as he saw it and still sees it, completely and wholly necessary, and he is just as disappointingly, frustratingly, conventionally susceptible to the flaws of his species as anyone would be.

"The man who tortured me," he says, the defensive bite rising despite the uncertain tightening of his shoulders. He looks at her with building momentum, a silent challenge, an absurd defiance to whatever judgement she may pass on his actions' behalf. "I killed him."

Immediately the justifications present themselves, multifaceted and manifold. "It was necessary. He was going to kill Ms. Asadi as well as myself, and I acted - "

He did not act in self-defense.

He acted recklessly, and drove the other man into the ground with the ruthless tightening of fingers around his throat before Fring could initiate any sort of offense, exerting pressure until the man's struggles faded into choking then silence.

"It was necessary," he concludes, the ferocity of his defense dimming for reasons he cannot map or track or delineate. "For all involved."

[theoldgirl]

His defiant explanation doesn't come as a surprise and her gaze returns to him, an eyebrow raised in perhaps more judgement than she is intending. "Not for the man you killed," she points out when he stops, the only time her voice takes on a sharp edge. "Not for the future he would have contributed to. And perhaps it wasn't just him, perhaps there were guards or scientists whose lives were easier ended than redirected?" That's what Gabriel had done during his attack on Romac. Not that she holds Rush to the same standards, and she shakes her head softly.

"I don't care to judge whether it was necessary. But in my universe I see the infinite number of potential paths anyone might take, and I know there is always another option." She meets the challenge in his eyes with a calm, searching look. "And so do you, I think." Someone who genuinely believes in a fact generally doesn't feel the need to restate it quite as often as he has done.

[lottawork]

"There was no other choice." The insistence is flawed, his premise is flawed, and the entire line of reasoning stemming from it and extending beyond is a perspective rooted in inherent bias. "We couldn't risk his survival - as a threat to the city. To you."

The old argument. The hard divide. The greater good.

Perhaps the rationale would be more effective had that been his true reason for action in the heated moment, but there had been the clear choice and the option to release the unrelenting press of fingers and leave the man to wither in the foundations of his own crumbling organization, and Rush had committed himself to the mounting pressure and that occluding airway and he had known it would engender consequences as such actions typically do and he had not exercised foresight to predict said consequences and so this is his consequence.

"If I hadn't, someone else would have." A less easily-supported thesis, though he has little doubt Asadi would have allowed Fring the luxury of survival after his use of Ms. Baker as bait, obvious and unapologetic.

[theoldgirl]

She has been calm, disappointed more than angry, willing to accept the inevitable flaws of his species. But then he has the gall to claim he ended a life for the safety of others, for hers, and any patience she had evaporates. As though it isn't obvious that his main motivation was revenge. And so much like Gabriel again, pretending he was protecting her, expecting her to be grateful. It is an association Rush would have done well not to draw upon himself. Her eyes narrow, her expression darkens, the Unicorn jerks its head away from the cat, lashing its tail once.

"But you did," she states, stark finality in her voice; why should she concern herself with any would have beens that did not transpire in this instance of reality, why should anyone? "Tell yourself what you like, but I take lies as a sign of disrespect. And if you were to think of me while exacting violence, I would not thank you either."

[lottawork]

"It's not a lie." A distortion of the truth, potentially, but he is not inclined to devote thought to the minutiae of deviations from that subjective baseline. The flare of his frustration and its building velocity reaches an inevitable peak that he does not altogether see as wise but has no means of preventing. "You asked what I was hiding, and I told you. I didn't expect you to see my actions as favorable."

Asadi, possibly, had understood - she had not questioned it, but she had shot him the look heavy with warning, that they would never by any accounts mention or discuss the incident further - and the only other individual present had not been in the same room to witness it. It was not the first time he had murdered in cold blood, it would never have been the first time, and perhaps prior to this to everything he would not have committed such an act, he would not have acted rashly - but the linear, careful reasoning constructed around that argument dissolves because retrospect is, as it is in all circumstances, utterly useless. There is little point in debating the intricacies of whatever version of himself existed prior, not when he has already long since executed the necessary action.

"You don't know," says Arista, quietly, more contained, her ears laying flat, "what he did. What he was going to do."