robowest | [ DEPARTURE ]

DEPARTURE

It's time to go.

Most people are on the train by now. Settled into their cabins and among friends and loved ones. There are only three new arrivals left to board and once they do, Hal pulls a conductor's hat out from underneath the bar, tugs it on, and steps around it to the middle of the train. He opens his mouth to talk, voice filling the train.

"It's time to go. Stops happen once a day until everyone's departed and I already have your stopped listed. If you'd like to be prioritized, let me know, otherwise we'll go in order of death. Settle in and enjoy the ride. If there's anything you need, don't hesitate to ask, folks."

This, of course, means that those who died earliest (Manfred, Higekiri) will depart first while those who died latest (Barnham, Damian, Percy) will depart last. There's a stop for everyone, though those who want to get off together are more than welcome to. Hal pulls a notepad and pen out of his pocket later and people will notice that he goes around the train confirming stops with everyone. Whatever feeling Hal may have had to a character back in town isn't noticeable here -- he is simply a robot assigned with a job.

After that, it's all a matter of settling in and enjoying the ride. If that's possible for you, at least.

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[ It isn't fine, and she sees it. He sags, limp and creased, spine wilted, shoulders set at an apologetic angle. Her prediction had proven correct: he hadn't won; he had shattered. Yet, she gets no joy in seeing it, had never thought she would. It had been so clearly stated, I hope I am wrong. ]

...

[ Her frown deepens, somewhat, at being identified like that.

With a gesture, she bids him to rise, or tries to. There's paper in her hand, mercifully, and even a pen, but that's waiting a moment. She's not going to "say" anything to him until he proves he can stand like a person. ]

[Stand up, face her like a human being, lift his chin, meet her eyes.

Those are all things he can do, almost robotically. He's been clinging to his duty to get him even this far--but it's been a long, long road, and whatever broken pieces of duty he had left are long gone.

He has nothing.

He only has the broken pieces of what's left of his beliefs now, and those...are fading fast, knowing what he did. No matter the reason behind it...he did terrible things. But she's right. He had to face her properly, or not face her at all.]

...What...can I do for you?

[It's echoes of past conversations, but more tired now, wearier.]

[ The moment he says that, she pushes both hands into his chest, sending him back into a seated position with seemingly minimal effort.

There's a point to all this, really. But, for the moment, she just looks very unhappy, a grievious scowl at her lips. ... ]

[AND DOWN HE GOES toppling right back into the seat. He's strong and sturdy but he wasn't expecting her to just shove him like that. Damn, Chane, cruel.

He blinks slowly, looking up at her from that seat, a question on his lips but not yet spoken.]

[ At her side, her hands seem to curl, loose but dangerous, a precursor to fists. She's not quite aware she's doing it. At the same time, she makes the command known as clearly as she can. Her lips form the words, get up. ]

[What is she... he stares at her for a long moment, almost blankly.

But he can't miss that order.

His brow furrows a little, but he drags in a slow breath, and he stands.

He's up, feet planted, shoulder squared.]

[ At least he's not asking what he can do for her, however narrowly he might have meant it. The frustrated realisation that Barnham is still trying to serve when he's proved himself incapable -- can he even come back from this? There's something sickeningly familiar in the way he had been sitting, an anguish she's never seen outwith an immortal before.

She seems to relent somewhat, but not completely. Tension is still there, furled in her limbs, if not as palpable.

She writes -- ]

I would have done it in your stead, had you asked me to.

[ And she would have remained standing, not hunched, not drowning. ]

[He reads it, and reads the tension in her shoulders and and expression. He knows that she was concerned about this.

He knows that in the end, she was right about him. He broke. He shattered into a million pieces--but he kept going anyway, because he had to. There was something he could not given in for. There was a duty he had to accomplish and he wasn't going to stop until he'd seen it through.

But her words... hurt. He knows it's true. He knows he could have told Milla and gotten the same assurance. Noct, too. Percy, too.

But he didn't want to put that on their shoulders.]

... It was my duty, Madam Walken.

And I would not have asked this of you, even knowing that you would have done better than me. I chose to take on this responsibility. The outcome of my actions...is mine alone to bear.

[ Well, then. ]

...

[ Part of her wants to contest, but a larger part of her has reached a threshold that has to be abided: a strict inability to make her point any further, whether lacking in the words themselves or the medium to share them.

It wasn't his duty, or -- it didn't have to be. He chose it, he could have turned away, saved himself.

Now, she isn't sure there's anything left to save.

Finally, she disagrees outwardly, shaking her head. ]

I would like you to do something for me. Will you agree first, without knowing what it is?

[... A request, from a tired woman to a broken man, and one she won't even tell him what it is. He's quiet for a moment, inspecting her, before he dips his head in a nod.

There's little that can be done to hurt him now, not now that he has already harmed himself.

And--]

You are asking if I trust you.

Indeed I do, Madam Walken.

[He's trusted her...all along, even if that was, perhaps, a poor decision.]

I shall do what I can.

[ He says he trusts her. In the end, that makes a muscle in her cheek twitch, but it's surprisingly easy to make her request. ]

Wherever you end up, forget duty. Live quietly, and consider your own personal happiness to be the highest form of wisdom.

[Forget...duty.

He's quiet for a moment, head bowed--and then he sighs.]

I...shall not be returning to Labyrinthia. What I have done... it would--and has--disqualified me from being a knight of the inquisition. I do not deserve to return there.

[...]

Where I shall go from here, I do not know. But I...shall try. I shall try...to leave duty behind--perhaps...it is truly time.

[Hasn't he done enough in the pursuit of his duty?]

[ ...

choosing to believe that, and knowing that once he gets off this train she'll have no way to verify, Chane only writes one more word. ]

Goodbye.

[That's it then, isn't it? This is it. After everything in this past few weeks...

This is farewell.

He takes a slow breath, and lifts his head.]

...Farewell, Chane.

[This is goodbye--for good.]

[ DEPARTURE ]

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