open } choose your words and etch them on your soul make them heard when crowds drown out your call

[transmutate]

Who: Edward, Georgia, YOU
Where: Actual Hell
When: over the course of the event
Rating: PG-13, possibly verging into R
Summary: Ed's arm and leg and superpowers don't work, but that's not going to stop him. ....or yes, actually, it is. Meanwhile Georgia's going to interview the shit out of everything.
The Story:

Ed

[Edward wakes up and everything is definitely even more wrong than it's been ever since he arrived here. They're clearly somewhere... different, not somewhere he knows from home or from Wonderland. He starts to stand up, ready to try and figure out what's going on, but before he can get very far, he flops over as his automail arm doesn't react to his mental commands.]

What...?

[Ed tries to move it again, to know avail. He pushes himself up with his left arm, then tries to move his leg. It works, right up until he gets to the automail part. He tries to move his toes and they don't react at all. His leg may as well be a metal block for all the reactivity he's getting from it.]

No, no, this can't happen now!

[He claps his left hand against his limp right hand and touches it to the back of the limb, trying to at least straighten it into a more useful position. Nothing.]

What? No.

[He claps again and touches the ground, with no result.]

NO!

[Eventually, he forms a makeshift sling for his useless automail arm and finds a stick long enough to help him hobble around. But alchemy still isn't working, even when he draws a circle rather than clapping. It doesn't stop him from leaving the settlement area, but it does keep him from going very far. Because he literally can't. His leg and arm are never very light, but they're not doing anything but weighing him down like this. It's impossible, and he's weak and helpless and he hates it.]

Georgia

[There's an itch Georgia has that never goes away. She's had it ever since she took her first journalism class, maybe even since before that. The News is an addiction, one that generally leads to pain, frustration, and ratings that aren't as good as the people who put on a show rather than tell the truth, but it's one she can't kick. The truth is out there, and it will set you free.

Of course, there's a hell of a lot of monsters between her and the truth right now, and her gun and tape recorder both don't work. Not that it's going to stop her. She's never craved danger like Shaun does, but she's no coward. Sometimes getting to the truth involves a hell of a lot of taking risks.

So she's quick to wander out of the compound, armed with nothing but a notepad, a pen, and a heavy stick, ready to find out everything she can about this strange place.]

Comments

[postictal]

I don't do that.

[Carry weapons, that is. He's got a switchblade secreted in one of his pockets, but that's not for fighting. It's not for anything important, and it's definitely not anything George needs to know about.]

Like I said, I didn't expect things to go that way.

[choosetruth]

[She just stares at him for a moment. When she speaks her voice is quiet, just this side of angry.]

You dumb fuck. I hope you understand exactly how little sympathy I'll have when you inevitably get eaten by something.

[She has no patience for people who go into the field unprepared. So many wannabe journalists die every year because they think they can go into the field without being properly prepared. They're always, always wrong.]

[postictal]

[Great. Yeah. Not that he didn't already know she thought extremely little of him, but it's always nice to get confirmation.

Clever of her, though. Very clever. He can't refute it or offer any reason as to why he doesn't carry anything sharp, anything that could conceivably be used as a weapon. If he gives a reason, even the truth, she'd pounce on it, and pursue to its end.

He's not about to let that happen. So she can find him to be some kind of arrogant or unaware idiot. Fine. Anything's better than being a puzzle to crack.]

No, you've made yourself pretty clear about that.

[choosetruth]

[She glares at him through her sunglasses for another moment, waiting for him to argue back or defend himself or say anything else, then just scowls harder.]

Don't go out in the field without proper preparation again. It's not just yourself you could get killed.

[postictal]

Yeah, I'll be sure not to risk it.

[He's gotten really, really good at cultivating a sufficiently neutral tone that borders just on the edge of sarcasm but doesn't quite cross that line. Plausible deniability and all.]

Thanks, Mom.

[And then he decides, fuck subtlety, who needs it?]

[choosetruth]

[Her scowl stays firmly planted, but she's honestly kind of relieved. Anyone who can't even push back against her is definitely doomed when they come across something that wants to eat them, not just yell at them, and despite her cold words she actually doesn't want Tim dead. She doesn't like him, but she has to a lot more than not like someone before she actively wishes them harm. She's just... frustrated by incompetence.

That being said she is not a mom, has no interest in ever being a mom, and actively hates her own mom, so it's not exactly a welcome comparison.]

I don't get you.

[postictal]

[He was expecting a little more scathing, something of the hard-bitten snark variety since that's been the general theme of most of their conversations. Instead he gets...that. A flat pronouncement of how she doesn't get him.

All right.

He huffs out one last breath as his heartrate evens out somewhat, and he lifts an eyebrow dryly in her direction.]

Really? Never would've guessed.

[choosetruth]

[She ignores the comment, deciding instead to scrutinize him from behind her sunglasses.]

You don't strike me as a total moron or particularly heroic. Why go into the field so unprepared? Why go into the field at all?

[postictal]

Like I said. Quick in-and-out deal. That was it.

[And again, this is where they end up, because it's where they always end up. She's got a question for everything he does. And he's got a deflection for every question. This whole song and dance is starting to get a little too familiar for his taste.]

[choosetruth]

Are you telling me you were actually dumb enough to think there was no way things could not happen according to plan? Was this the first time things have gone wrong for you, ever?

[She raises an eyebrow behind her sunglasses. She is pretty sure the answer to the second one is no, but the first one? Jury's still out.]

If my brother had found you he might have killed you on principle. Just to give Darwin a helping hand.

[postictal]

[She's good at those leading questions, isn't she? As if insults to his intelligence are any likely to make him start talking. He already knows he's not particularly brilliant.

So he loads his proverbial brush with sarcasm and paints some broad strokes.]

Sure, let's go with that. I'm a dummy, moron, idiot - feel free to add to the list. Go on, really. You seem like you're on a roll.

[choosetruth]

[She doesn't look amused, but then again, what else is new. She'd probably break something if she tried to smile.]

Do you think I'm calling you names cause it's fun for me?

[postictal]

[Hey, well she can join Tim's club of "literally never smiles, ever." Except in Tim's case he's at least got a medical excuse.]

Gee, I dunno. You sure seem to enjoy doing it.

[choosetruth]

[Georgia might not have a medical excuse, but not smiling is definitely in her job description of being a tough-as-nails reporter. Shaun does enough smiling for the both of them.]

You don't get me very well either. If calling people stupid made me happy, I'd be over the fucking moon all the time. I'm trying to figure out why.

[postictal]

Yeah. As always.

[If the words sound bitter, it's because they are.]

You practice interrogating yourself in the mirror in the mornings or something?

[choosetruth]

Sure, everyone else breaks too easy. Have to interview someone who's a challenge.

[Her tone is deadpan enough that it's hard to tell if she's being sarcastic or not.]

[postictal]

[At least deadpan lands pretty solidly in his purview. One corner of his mouth twists.]

You want a challenge? Here's one for you. [He levels a look at her that's just a few inches south of a glare.] Quit it.

[choosetruth]

[Her look is pretty solidly a glare, mouth a sharp line under her sunglasses.]

Fuck that. Quitting's easy.

[postictal]

Not for you, I'm guessing. Hence the challenge.

[That's pure Jay, right there. Giving up had been damn near impossible, pressing forward an almost pathological requirement.]

[choosetruth]

Not a challenge I'm interested in taking you up on, then. I don't quit.

[She's Georgia fucking Mason. She'll follow a story to the bitter end even if it kills her.]

[postictal]

[A sigh. Not that he's surprised but, you know.]

Yeah. I figured.

I knew a guy like that once.

[choosetruth]

[She arcs an eyebrow.]

Let me guess: you were best friends?

[postictal]

No.

[Best friends? No. Just...friends? That'd be taking a few liberties at best. Allies, maybe. Acquaintances out of necessity.]

Just a guy who got in over his head.

[choosetruth]

[Got in over his head, huh? Georgia knows how that is. A little too well. She could tell him. But only telling the truth doesn't mean she has to tell every truth. She can still have secrets. And Tim hasn't impressed her nearly enough to want to share any vulnerabilities.]

Not quitting can have that effect if you're not careful.

[postictal]

[Frankly, he wouldn't blame her. He raises an eyebrow at her, tiredly.]

Know that from experience?