starlightcalliope | We do what we must because we can

We do what we must because we can

A hooded figure sits atop a small dais and waits. Around her, a cave of ice expands into the void, harsh and bright and indifferent. Lava flows past her seat, patiently searing away the ice and the rock, carving streams through the ceiling like veins about to burst.

There is no way to measure the eternity she has spent here, waiting.

There have been visitors, pawns to move with her words and her stories to assure that her signal would arrive, but those have been few and far apart. Her own company has always had to be enough.

Which is not to say that the strange presence suddenly entering this dream bubble is of no interest, however. Not her signal, she knows without a doubt, nor the enemy, and she doesn't think there are any more game pieces to account for. So who? She raises her hollow eyes to meet his, and waits for his approach.

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Looks like his kind of place, to be honest. Fire and ice. Full of time and purpose. Maybe it has a title involving that? Nah, that would just be grandiose and silly, and he never endorses that. This is age and emptiness and why did he come here, again? He forgets in the middle of wondering. The sense of purpose can only carry him unknowing through this dream for so long. But it holds for the moment.

There's a hooded figure, because of course there is. The universe is full of hooded figures, it's practically a universal constant. He'd be more surprised if there weren't. What did he set out looking for? Not knowing seems normal enough, for now. He won't question it. Instead, he will question the creature on the dais, approaching with careful, precise steps, watching from under furrowed brows. It's hard to suppress a shiver, but then why wouldn't it be? There's ice everywhere, of course there's a chill. He'd look up the word 'foreboding' but he left all his dictionaries back on the TARDIS, sorry. Anyway, this isn't frightening, it's just solemn. Nothing wrong with solemn. Like museums, cathedrals, he'd prefer open air, maybe some ruins, but we can't always get what we want. Can we? Asking for a friend. Time to take this show on the road. "Nice place you've got, here. Really covers all the bases. Lava, ice, soulcrushing abyss. Please, let me know if anything else opens up in the neighbourhood. Maybe something with a fireplace."

Her first impression of the visitor holds true when he speaks. A strange creature, wholly out of place, a piece of the story she isn't familiar with and doesn't understand the meaning of. It's disquieting. She hasn't felt uncertain in a very, very long time.

"This is a memory of Echidna's lair," she says, even voice betraying nothing, while the circles of her cheeks glow brighter in anticipation. "Welcome. What purpose brings you here?" No one should be able to wander into her dream bubble without her guidance. Something means for him to be here, for them to meet, she can feel it. If he won't tell, she will puzzle it out for herself.

He stops dead still at her words, welcome or not. It isn't the words themselves, though they are very poetic words, mythological even, that sound like they probably mean something. He forgets the specifics instantly and deliberately, though he scans their surroundings like he's checking them for accuracy. Like he'd be able to dispute it. I Can't Believe It's Not Echidna's Lair. That's not important. Something here is. He gives up his inspection of what may or may not be Echidna's Lair and inspects the creature making the declaration instead. The eyes are deep in the shadow of the hood--no, they're ghostly hollow, and he's seen that before, seen and grieved, and--

"A memory? A dream. And a ghost. Why are you a ghost?" Callie is a ghost no more. That's what's important, one death undone even if not by him. Especially not by him. And yet, and yet. Is this just his dream? Well, he doesn't like it. "What purpose brings anyone to a dream? Suppose I fancied a nap." He rather wishes he had a dais to sit on, but he'll have to settle for being borderline flippant at ground level. Imperceptibly, he hesitates to ask, "Callie?" Possibly he should learn to hesitate better.

So he knows where he is. Knows he is dreaming or dead, and knows what she is. Though his question is oddly worded, surprising even; another feeling so old and forgotten as to be troubling. This is her penultimate place on the board, there is no room here for surprises or uncertainty. Although she does not move she becomes more focused, more purposeful, empty sockets returning his measuring gaze unrelentingly. The steps she takes in this encounter are going to be important.

"My name is Calliope," she responds to his almost imperceptibly reluctant question. "And I am a ghost because I died, a very long time ago." In the blink of an eye, the forked tips of her white tongue flick out of the darkness of her hood, considering, curious. "You know me?" Not her, of course, but if he is referring to another version of her, if he knows the cue that will illuminate her way out of this eternity, then his reason for arriving here is becoming clearer swiftly.

No, no no no. That isn't what happened, Callie's miraculous undeath is too potent a talisman to be undone, even in a dream. It's not allowed, for both death and life to be meaningless. He'll grudgingly accept the one condition, but not both. How can she be the standard-bearer for what the universe occasionally gets right, if he still has to face her ghost in a dream? This is all very well and Dickensian, but what does it mean. He doesn't recall depriving any impoverished clerks of their coal. It's almost like neither Callie's new life nor this vision of old death have anything to do with him at all. Preposterous. Offense is quickly (and mercifully) taking the place of horror and outright refusal.

"I know you were murdered." Is this what a sphinx's age of running and hiding does? Well, isn't it? He answers his own question, though the voice may not be entirely his. There, but for the grace of every distraction in the universe, etc. "The you I know is alive again." He manages to keep that from sounding accusatory; would she be offended, hurt? He has no idea, moreso than usual. It's hard to hold the idea of this solemn and inscrutable being in the same category as the little alien he periodically has to retrieve from warm basking spots in the TARDIS' inner workings. "Safe and sound and away from the universe you know." More or less. Isn't all time borrowed, really? May as well stress about having books out from the library. "I didn't save her," never even got the chance, "But I look after her now." He doesn't think for even a second that the knowledge will put this ghost to rest, he's not that much of an idiot, but he wishes he were. By now he's gotten used to the feeling of being a very distant witness to the working of a very strange universe.

After the stranger has said his part, Calliope is as still and silent as a stone angel for a long moment. She is considering his story, its veracity and ramifications, sees the consequences unfolding before her mind's eye. "She has been removed from the Furthest Ring?" she asks at last, voice tinged with emotions for the first time; apprehension, disbelief, and well restrained anger. There is no doubt that he is speaking of her signal, as her brother's very class and aspect assure that there can be only one timeline in which he was successful, and one where he was never allowed to mature. But if her weaker self is no longer where she belongs, how will she know when it is possible to navigate the Furthest Ring? How will she leave this place behind and keep her promise to Echidna? How will her brother be stopped?

Matters are more dire than she had thought.

"It was a mistake," she says, calm once more and allowing no disagreement. She knows how the story must continue, regardless of this stranger's unpredicted influence, whom apparently not even the mother of monsters was aware of. "She didn't require saving. Nor... looking after." The words, the very idea feels foreign in her mouth, but then her other self has led an existence she could never understand. "Return her to her place in the Void, so she may serve her purpose." A quite reasonable instruction, really.

The Doctor stares at this apparition blankly, without any sign that he comprehends her words. Return her to...? A mistake? Now listen, ghostie, the Doctor knows a thing or two about mistakes, he just about wrote the book and then refused to learn from it. No matter how long she's been rattling around this weird ice-lava dream-cave, that counts for something. He doesn't feel quite up to making that argument, however. She had sounded...very absolute. And even more beholden to the laws of causality than his version of Callie. Not unlike the TARDIS, honestly, if she'd always been as prone to making vocal arguments as she is now. He'd rather that argument, actually. At least that wouldn't be so unnerving.

He reigns in his incomprehension, his still-spiking levels of offense, and shrugs experimentally. "Can't. No idea how. Rift only goes one way. I said I didn't save her," he says, without apology, without anything, all his grief and disappointment behind shutters. He's not going to argue with this monolith about the looking after or anything else. It's well past last call, this bar's closed. And never mind that he's already promised Callie to send her back to whatever purpose she thinks appropriate, when she's ready. Or did he promise, who remembers. ~~How important is a universe like this, really.~~ "Her purpose. Your purpose. As the Muse of Space? What does that mean?" Something about questioning this creature about Callie's fate feels presumptive, feels a bit like cheating, but what else is new. He can always decide what to do with any knowledge he gains, later. Aren't all responsibilities uncomfortable? What else is new. Nothing, in any universe, not really.

Calliope doesn't believe for one moment that he is as powerless and blithely unconcerned as he is acting. He would not have found his way here, for one thing, and he wouldn't be such a serious disruption to the familiar narrative. Also, she simply cannot accept that all of creation may be doomed, that her choice was in vain, with nothing for her to do about it. No, he is yet another puzzle to solve, a new game piece to put in place so events may unfold as they need to.

"My purpose isn't her purpose," she corrects him, another flick of her tongue all that belies her agitation. "I think you ought to hear a story. Sit, please." She raises her arm in an inviting gesture, one long claw pointing at a rock of suitable size and shape conveniently appearing behind him. Though she doesn't much care whether he accepts her offer and continues without pause. "We began the same. Weak, uncertain, vulnerable, our brother cruel and unrelenting. But while she found those who were drawn in by her flaws, who supported her naivety and offered her comfort and distractions, my only choice was to fight or fade. So I became strong, and I killed my brother." The echo of victory rings in her voice, and it tastes cherry-red. "I wore him down. I ate his soul. And I consumed his strength. But it was not enough. The game was rigged in his favor, only a Lord of Time was ever meant to succeed. Having gained immortality, all I could do was to watch the planets detonate one by one as the dead session became my living grave. So I sought council with Echidna, and she offered me a simple choice. She mercifully ended my life, and in exchange I must wait here for the signal that will allow me to leave and defy my brother once more." There is hunger in her words that she doesn't bother to restrain, nor does she doubt that the stranger is familiar with her brother. He is as bound to both her selves as her title, after all.

"The signal is my weaker self. Would you like to hear her half of the story, too?" It's a challenge more than an offer; that half contains the monster her brother has become due to her other self's weakness. She isn't telling him all this because he has a right to it, not as the unknown variable that he is, but because he must understand the importance of his cooperation.

With a surprising degree of meekness, the Doctor takes the proffered seat. Keeping his mouth shut throughout Calliope's story takes visible effort. The words are delivered so neutrally, at least to start, and yet they may as well be blows. Weak, vulnerable, comfort, distractions. She doesn't know him to know that the flaws she's outlining are everything he stands for. And yet, this Calliope survived, at least for a time. Should it be vindicating, that she still wound up a ghost? But he hates that thought too. Everything, everywhere he turns, this is bitter medicine. By the time he can hear her brother's death in her voice, his face is stony and remote, as ever it was in that dark dream forest where he first met her ghost. This isn't his judgment to deliver, nor can he even make one, not really. What would even give him the right? And there's that title again. Just a coincidence. Are there coincidences, in any universe? Is he, are Time Lords being condemned even by other universes now? Well, fair enough. He would, too.

That's enough, he's had enough of sitting on this stupid rock and listening to this, the weirdest, most judgment-free castigation of everything he believes in, succeeded by a vague promise that the worst is yet to come. Stupid ghosts. Stupid dreams. He stands up from the stupid rock with an ungainly lunge, turning that into agitated free-form pacing, his favourite sport. "Has anyone ever asked a question like that and meant it to be an actual choice? If I say no, right now, if I turn and leave, slap myself awake, whatever, maybe I don't have to listen to this. But if I stay, you're going to tell me regardless. Am I right?" It's more an accusation than a question. His face has resumed its animated nature with a vengeance, rapid-cycling through outrage, pleading, resignation. He doesn't wait for an answer, naturally. "So go on. Tell me how my friend is nothing but a signal for more violence. And then you can tell me how to explain it to her."

At last, no more flippancy. She watches him pace, satisfied to see her story has stirred him, is moving him with vigor. Soon enough, his outrage and vehemence will be directed towards her brother and he will be inspired to do what he can to protect Paradox Space.

Though for now he is strangely concerned with her other self. She's observed this in others, the caring for someone else's comfort, for their feelings and safety, the sadness when those things are lost. The meaning of it eludes her, but she has long since decided there's no sense in wondering what it would be like to understand it. "I lack the frame of reference for understanding your friendship with her, or your reluctance to tell her what you have learned here," she informs him, unfazed. "But I'm sure she knows she has a role to play. She wouldn't shun her purpose in defeating her brother, being the one of us who gave him the chance to murder her and begin his endless path of destruction through every universe." There's no obvious judgement in this; the game itself assured that her brother would create the alpha timeline. The only way all this could have been avoided is if a pair of cherubs had never been allowed to play the game at all.

But he did agree to hear the rest of the story. "As I said, with the company of other players and fanciful distractions she remained weak, never attempting to usurp her brother. So he grew stronger, more vicious, more obsessed with the need to destroy not only her but every other living being. He found a way to exploit the game and erase her prematurely. After she had gone to sleep for the last time, he entered his session and won the impossible time challenge with relentless perseverance. He gained godhood and mastery over his aspect and although he suffered one defeat at the hands of the heroes, this defeat assured he would become an indestructible amalgamation of forces that allow him to infect every universe in existence." Is this enough? It is technically the end of her other self's relevance in the story, but she can't stop until the stranger knows why her brother must be abhorred and destroyed.

"He is a demon that marches on throughout every history with nothing but hatred and cruelty. He has altered the timeline of a peaceful race to become violent conquerors simply because his sister was fascinated by them, caused genocides, slaughtered billions of souls and dark gods, ripped universes apart and is now shattering reality itself." Her voice, having grown grim and harsh in condemnation of the monster's crimes, softens for a final verdict. "She won't need this explained; she already knows. But she needs to be given the choice to take her place."

Yes, Callie knows she has a role to play in the preservation of the universe, or suspects, or...wants to believe? Whatever the case, he fervently hopes she doesn't feel the passage of time too keenly over it. She deserves to forget, at least in the meantime. And she deserves the benefit of real preparation for whatever trials she is meant to face. And to go forward in life without the conviction that friendship is a 'fanciful' flaw. In life, not some weird dark perditious void. She deserves a million things that aren't this. "Doesn't sound like much of a choice, to me," he says, but it's just a noise he's making, not a real argument. Whatever goes on in this ghost's skull, it's probably got very little to do with questions of deserving and choice. Or maybe that's unfair of him, but his thoughts are his own, anyway, and clearly fairness isn't on the table. Justice, perhaps, but that's frequently less palatable.

Not that she's wrong. The monster she described certainly needs to be stopped, at any cost. Logically, realistically, he can believe that, internalise it, even as he's outwardly sulking. What sort of spite and malice and entitlement can make a creature take those kinds of liberties with reality. Warping whole other species, genocides, destruction of whole universes. He's as good at recognising work he should be opposed to as he is at recognising its opposite. And somehow this is Callie's problem. "What place is that? Alone, and dead? How is that her role?" Not to lend weight to Callie's fears about her own usefulness, but what exactly is she meant to do, as a ghost? "What do you want me to do?"

"Whatever you can to bring her back," comes the answer without hesitation or doubt, as straightforward as a cherub may ever be. "I believe you must have the means, or will have. Otherwise you would not have found your way here." It is difficult to fathom but all signs point to the fact that he isn't from any universe in Paradox Space, or the denizens would have known, Echidna would have warned her. But it is impossible to think his presence here might not follow the same narrative laws as all creation.

Her clarity of expression and thought is short-lived, though. "Return her to the Void and her presence itself will fulfill her purpose." And then she is free to live as she pleases, but that's hardly relevant to anything. What matters is that events remain intact as they have been foretold, that everything every hero in every session has fought for is not rendered meaningless by a glitch. She rises to her feet and strides down the steps of the dais until she comes face to face with the stranger, the better to impress upon him her next words. She is a good bit taller than the child he knows, yet still finding herself looking up at him, fangs and cheek circles gleaming in the icy light of the cave. "When you have the choice to return her, don't hesitate. She doesn't belong with you. And I will not be forced to wait another eternity until her brother comes to slaughter me like all the other ghosts."

Edited 2015-12-07 22:00 (UTC)

The Doctor stands his ground, grudgingly meets her empty eyes. No, he doesn't have an argument to make. No, Callie doesn't belong with him, not really, she's right about that much, though maybe not the way she thinks. No one belongs with him, not ultimately, he's only a temporary steward, and that doesn't change even if his stewardship is over an utterly forsaken child on the other side of death. But looking after Callie is still the right thing, the only thing to have done. This ghost doesn't seem to understand, for all his backtalk and attitude he really had no way to immediately ferry her back to her void. Still doesn't. Isn't going to make it a priority. Who can blame him? He didn't ask to be indirectly responsible for the survival of this universe he knows almost nothing about. He was just a man investigating a spatio-temporal (and that's a conservative estimate) rift, when he found Callie in the woods. And now he's just a man having a dream. He didn't invite this. At least, not this specifically.

Why is there always a catch? Callie was supposed to be a consequence-free reversal of death, just one little token of justice, outweighing the sad realities of life not just in spite of her smallness and ultimate inconsequentiality, but paradoxically because of it. He can really only promise this being what he's already promised Callie, though something in this grim figure's bearing at least makes him consider honesty, even if it doesn't compel him to it. "I've already told her I'll help her get back to her universe if I can," when she's ready, when she feels capable, "And I know how she'll choose." It's not even a question. Her new life is anything but wasted on her. She deserves that and so much more. Braver than he'll ever be. "But why can't she live a little, first? You don't know me, but getting her back on time wouldn't be as difficult as you think. Basically a Sunday crossword, for me, if I'm really trying, if it's possible, as you say. Everybody wins." He looks at her, almost fearful. "Don't you want that, for her? Wouldn't you have wanted it, for you?" This is chalk and cheese, this is the limit of his ability to understand that which is alien, and he isn't sure at all.

He contradicts himself, claims he doesn't know how to return the signal, isn't sure if he can, but says it would be easy. If he is 'really trying', and that's the crux, isn't it, as expected. The fate of Paradox Space rests in the hands of his willingness, and he is here to be sent on the correct path. Not quite there yet, though, still wheedling and bargaining for her other self's, what, comfort? Life? Nothing of significance to the ultimate narrative she is striving to preserve.

Calliope is about to dismiss his questions accordingly, considers them meaningless, nonsensical even. But there is a plea in his voice that gives her pause, an appeal to her neglected imagination, stirring yet more feelings she thought she'd long forgotten. It's disquieting, chafing like an old cloak, but compellingly familiar nonetheless and she lowers her gaze, letting her hood obscure her features. "I used to wonder, once I had learned of her existence and her life, what it must be like..." she confesses, soft and distant. "And why I was punished for being strong, for doing what a cherub is meant to do. Her weakness earned her peace, for a time, while my efforts earned me martyrdom." Perhaps her other self's upbringing affords her the perspective to understand the justice in that, if there is any, but she has learned to settle for inevitability. Grim again, she adds, "But there is a limit to my imagination, and no comfort in futility."

That's not entirely truthful, though. Whatever limits to her understanding she may have, there is one thing she can always relate to. And so she does, suddenly and achingly, looking up at the stranger as a hesitant question escapes her, fragile like an icicle. "She isn't lonely anymore?"

The Doctor would hesitate to call Callie weak, though that's not an objection to raise at the moment. It's debatable, at the very least. Is adopting compassion against the nature of your species a weakness? Is it? With the knowledge of the consequences, it never is, but did she have that? Sometimes he does and sometimes not, but he's relieved to know that he usually chooses the same, whether ignorant of the outcome or spitefully aware. Callie, would she have gone forward with her 'weakness' and her friendships? He knows very little about her actual downfall, but he sees enough of himself in it. She gave out enough second chances that she deserves one or two herself. Was she weak? This ghost is altogether wrong; sometimes futility is the only comfort there is.

Still, he can see enough of the Callie he knows in this ghost to break his hearts. She understands more than her native love of rules would suggest. Just a little, just around the edges. That feeling of injustice, he could probably do a lot with, given a thousand years. Maybe it's for the best he won't be teaching her anything about justice on a less cosmic scale. He grieves anyway. Once again, any of his help is just too little and long past too late. Callie deserved and got better, so why doesn't she? Nothing could make Callie's resurrection meaningless, but how much comfort can that be, to this sad creature? He shouldn't have asked. He stares back at her, looking hurt, almost accused, before he breaks away, takes a tired seat with his back to the dais. It's as much running as he feels capable of, at the moment, though he wouldn't mind escaping entirely, if it were an option. "No," he says, with all the finality he can dredge up. "She isn't lonely anymore. She has friends. She's very well looked after." He scrubs at his face with his hands like that might break up these words enough to make them less potentially hurtful. "Safe, alive. No shackles. No murder. She's happy and free," moreso than this Calliope will ever be, can she even understand, or does she just feel an incomprehensible lack? "And I mean for her to stay that way."

In the wake of his sudden retreat, Calliope attempts something like empathy for the first time in her life and death. Although she can't fathom an absence of loneliness, doesn't understand friendship or being looked after or assured safety, she now sees her other self is allowed to consume the fruits of that existence into which she had been shaped. And while said existence, with all its pleasures and pains, will be barred from her comprehension forever, she knows that is a worthwhile thing to have. Even in the face of its ultimate irrelevancy to the greater good, perhaps. "I think I would have wanted that," she muses quietly, answering his earlier question half to herself.

But where does that leave her? This stranger holds the key to her fulfillment, too, and his final assurance hangs in the air like a threat. "I won't be free until she returns," she reminds him, the realization sharpening her voice to a bitter point. "If she lives now, she may die without ever serving her true purpose. Am I to wait another eternity, no longer even certain of my ultimate fate? What makes her more deserving of freedom than me, in your eyes?" It's more accusation than question, uttered at his indifferent back with a degree of fierceness that surprises even herself. Paradox Space can't be held accountable for her suffering, her unjust failure followed by endless empty waiting, and she had accepted that. Both her selves had sacrifices to make, both of them had roles to play. But now all that is in the hands of this stranger, this meddler, who presumes to risk all of creation for her weaker self's happiness, and his judgement can be questioned.

For God's sake, Doctor, when will you learn not to ask? He sidles guiltily past that question as well as the voice it's asked in. He's always the meddler, who should know better but somehow never does. Poor Calliope, doomed to mirror him just like her other self, but there's absolutely no comfort in that kinship now, not in her bitter hurt and futile questions. Oh, not all of them, some of what she says is as level-headed and practical as ever. Nothing in life is free, not even cosmic orphans. But the real question is the last one, he can safely ignore everything else, of course the fate of a universe and a sad ghost rests on his ability to return one child to her proper place in the gears of creation, what else, sure, why not. It's her final demand that really hits home. Doesn't she deserve, just as much? Can't reality ever offer any reward for the strife it imposes? He never wanted a mirror for this. On some level, he's exceptionally impressed, relieved even, at just how bad it hurts to have one.

Because the answer is no. It's always no, no matter how deserving she is or he isn't. His hopes are treacherous things to teach and offer. Beautiful and right, but on a level that doesn't matter. Because nothing in life is free, there ain't no justice, there's no such thing as a free lunch, whichever old timey science fiction aphorism is at the top of the pile. Because only an idiot believes otherwise. Even though all those lines of thought are barely the tiniest scratches on the surface of the universe's impartiality. "Why ask me? I met her dead in a dream, and she turned up alive on my doorstep." Well, the doorstep of a space-and-time ship belonging to an earlier incarnation of himself, so really it should be expected he was working through some things. But why complicate the issue, which is that he didn't save her then and can't spare her now. If it had been you, it would have been exactly the same, he doesn't say, because even idiots get it right sometimes and he knows or at least suspects that there's no comfort in that thought for this duty-bound creature. At last he's been dragged around to honesty, internally kicking and screaming all the way. "I've already promised her I'll bring her back," he says, exasperation poorly covering all the awful realness of pain in his heart, but still such an improvement over cold resignation. "I promise you, too. And this isn't the first time the fate of the world has rested on some decision of mine." Maybe what makes her more deserving is that she could accept freedom, for a time. Could this Calliope? Is that what makes people undeserving, some inner capacity to bear what must be borne? Or is that just something that people tell themselves for a consolation prize? It's not much of a consolation, if so, not to him and unlikely to be for her either, here, alone. "If the only fairness there is is what we make, would it make the world a fairer place, to swap your freedom for hers?" It doesn't matter, of course. "It will be her choice, to go back. I can't take that away."

It is a particularly harsh kind of disappointment to realize that the stranger, much like Paradox Space, has no good answer to offer her. No longer is her martyrdom solely a narrative inevitability, someone is now responsible for her stay in limbo, for her release from it, but still there is no justification, no reason given that consoles her. All he does is deflect, trying to shake off the responsibility that some glitch in reality has placed upon him, as though it mattered to her which version of her had been taken. She understands perfectly well that it hadn't been his choice or doing. But correcting the mistake and thus granting her freedom very much is.

It's infuriating and it hurts in ways she hasn't felt for an eternity, since the day the worthlessness of all her efforts had dawned on her, to be denied justice once more. He promises and claims experience with the role of a hero like it's supposed to reassure her, when he may well be a Bard, equally likely to save or doom a universe. It's clear he is affected in some way, but he hasn't offered anything new, nothing to make her think the fate of Paradox Space and her own is safe in his hands. "You know how she'll choose, you said," she points out between agitated flicks of her tongue. "You also said you can return her if you try. Will it be her choice, or yours?" Tired of speaking to his back, she moves around to face him again, allowing no escape from her anger and determination. "Will your sympathy for her grant her brother his final victory? If friendship is to risk everything that countless generations of players have fought to preserve, it truly is a wretched thing."

There, now she understands perfectly. That's as good a definition for friendship as any, bizarre game language aside, and it's undoubtedly more wretched than she can fully understand, in this incarnation, but at least it's a start. He's tempted to say as much, too, but that would be just as confusing for her, no use in ranting at a ghost, as grade-A Scottish as that would likely be. And as tired and frustrated as he feels, he isn't quite to the point of antagonising her deliberately. She didn't ask for this, either. She's right to be angry. It's an improvement over her eerie cosmic detachment, for sure. How can he possibly convince Calliope that taking these kinds of sentimental risks, preferably with an entire universe at stake, is precisely the way to knock an impartially harsh reality down a few pegs? It's a conviction one either carries in their bones or doesn't. May as well set out to teach the real Callie to make lasagna. Without any candy substitutions.

She likely doesn't want any philosophical reassurances that the work he's doing couldn't be more diametrically opposed to her brother's victory. And he's not one hundred percent on the unphilosophical specifics, it would start off with 'I have a time machine...' and just roll downhill from there. It's tempting to start thinking about those specifics, just so he can stop thinking about his current circumstances, but Calliope would probably be less than appreciative of a speculative lecture. What else can he appeal to? "If this universe is worth saving from her brother, then Callie's worth a little friendship, risk or not. When she wants to play whatever role she has here, I'll make sure she's there on time. That's what I can do, that's all I can do. Keep her safe, and let her see a little of what she's supposed to help save." There are rules, damn it. But what else is there to say? Your freedom is important, please stay on the line. How long has she been in this stupid lair? Longer than he's been letting people make sacrifices? "You'll get your freedom, too. I promise." Always making promises to these green children, but he really means this one. He'd do more if he could, but they've all been dealt just a really stupid hand, and this ghost probably cares about meaningless apologies as much as she cares about friendship. He'll spare her that, out of an almost military respect. "It's wretched, but it isn't weakness. You, and her brother, are wrong. I can promise you that, too."

Promises. They're meaningful, they're binding, but she isn't so sure, with this stranger. He is too alien, too out of place in her cosmos, how is she to know how steadfast he is, or how capricious, if she doesn't know his role nor title? If there is no telling what his part in the story will turn out to be? He has the means to return her other self, that much is certain, so perhaps he can also keep her safe and deliver her to the right place in the Void. And perhaps he can't. Perhaps his selfish friendship will doom a creation he has no rights to. It's this uncertainty that burns the tranquility she had reached so long ago, like the lava flows through ice and just as painful.

Calliope stares at him for a long wordless moment, a scowl of anger, frustration, and fear. A soft, strained clacking emerges from her fangs as she considers, tries desperately to think of another move to make, another way to wring certainty and justice from him. But in his eyes she sees a weariness and timeless age so familiar, she almost doesn't recognize it on someone else's face. And then she understands, his place on the board is as immovable as her own. She has lost an impossible challenge once more.

The rims of her empty eyes glisten wetly before she turns away, gazing up at the dais where she had met the mother of monsters and received her purpose. But there is no one there to guide her now. "The only thing that made eternity bearable was the immutability of my agreement with Echidna," she admits, barely even addressing the stranger. "The promise that I would be free to make a difference to Paradox Space despite my failure, if only I waited long enough." He made her that promise, too, but he is no mythical denizen. Briefly, incongruously, she wonders if her other self finds it easier to believe his promises. Yet another peace she will never know. "When you look at her, will you remember this?" she asks and turns back to him, cold and harsh and despair refined to a point. "Will you remember that you hold the fate of a reality in your hands that was never meant to be yours?" She doesn't care how many worlds have depended on his judgement before; he has never even set foot into this one, has never braved any of its challenges, no innumerable ghosts of his form the foundation of a successful timeline. Paradox Space has its own heroes, and he has stolen one of them off the board. "You must assure her safety."

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We do what we must because we can

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