lieutenantxsinclair
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Indie Helga Sinclair from Disney's "Atlantis: The Lost Empire". Low Activity. Primarily canon-divergent and headcanon-based. Fandom nonexclusive. Sideblog to @izousaito.
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Helga gave a hollow smile and twisted her hand to pull the chain up, then closed her fingers around the crystal. She was safe - it was safe - for now.
"Thanks. There's a lot to that story, and I really don't want to go back into it. Can't have myself looking less-cool now, can I?"
She tapped the ash from her cigarette into a glass ashtray and contemplated snuffing the thing out half-through. Was it time to swing wildly from one addiction to another? Had smoking gotten old?
"So yeah, now you sort of know. The whole age thing isn't a gimmick. It's not some sort of mental psychosis. It's the truth. It's the thing that keeps me going and the reason I can't stop.
"This isn't gonna get my benefits docked, is it?" Because if this caused her medical coverage to get suspended, she would need to have a serious talk with Xu.
No. Just that she'd never been healed like magic like this before.
Helga needed to stop being surprised by the question Xu asked. Everyone wanted to know. Sometimes they were curious about how and why such a thing existed. But here? Here it was different.
She knew the context. It was not her first rodeo. No matter how far she separated herself in time and space, someone, somewhere, had the same intent.
"Funny story, that." Helga took another drag. "I can tell you how I got there. I can tell you what I was doing there, and what I found there. I can even tell you how I got out. But the one thing I can't do is tell you exactly where it is. Think of it like an NDA that I'm perpetually suffering under."
She couldn't even tell Seifer.
"It was part of the terms of my release. I tell no one, ever, and this little thing that keeps me alive doesn't kill me." She picked up the crystal by the chain it hung on and let it dangle. "It's almost... sentient. It knows intent. So I get to shut up or toe the line as best I can."
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"Wendigos sound good? Or do you have something else in mind?
"And warning taken. I'll grab some tomorrow." Helga accepted the cigarette from Seifer, leaning in a little further to kiss his cheek. They would last long enough until they got back to the apartment, and then she had her house-pack to rely on. Car-pack could be replenished on the way to Garden.
She took a drag and exhaled before putting her window down enough to vent.
"Don't worry, you'll be right as rain in no time. This little baby has handled much worse than a bum ankle."
Seven hours? Seven minutes. There had to have been some strings getting pulled in the background. Maybe it was Garden influence. Maybe it was sheer dumb luck.
"Can't get rid of me that easily," Helga joked. She stood, then helped Seifer into the wheelchair because the nurse would not let them proceed otherwise.
Four hours of X-rays and prodding and questions, and they were finally out of the hospital. She helped Seifer into the car, then flopped into the driver's side next to him.
"Want anything particular?" She could kill for some chili fries.
"Or should we stop by the house first, fix you up, and then go? Because I can do either. And I know those things fucking itch."
Helga pulled out of the lot and took the left turn, and fumbled around in the center console for the pack of cigarettes she knew was there. "Hey, want one? The Fun Police aren't gonna come for us.
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Still in or out. Helga ran her tongue over her teeth to keep from grinding them. Little shit. She chose not to answer that one.
As if on cue, Manuel pulled up in one of the assigned Jeeps. Was it a good-looking vehicle? No. God, no. This was an outing based on a bet based on a hunch. They got what they needed, and would get nothing else until it was proven that the first expedition was worth it.
And if they didn't? There simply would not be a second one. Hopefully, at least, her pay would not get cut.
"Hola, Ramirez," Helga greeted, tossing her sack into the back of the truck with Seifer's. "How's camp settling?"
"Well enough," the driver replied with a kind smile. "Cookie made soup."
Helga pulled a face and opened the side-door of the truck. "Glad I ate before we got here.
"Almasy, you either get to sit in my lap, or back with the gear. Pick wisely." Not that she gave him time to choose; Helga closed the door as soon as she was settled.
"Ride's about an hour. Better get comfortable. Nap if you can. Things are going to be busy once we hit camp."
Nap, she said, as if the ride was not rocky and horribly treacherous. The truck chugged along, barely hindered by the hard-worn road that seemed not really a road at all. The truck was in no way heated, and as if things could not get worse, it began to snow.
Base camp was a circle of tents and equally beaten-up trucks. To one side, there was a large digger, three times the size of any truck, with a giant drill attached to the front, running on chain-linked treads. In the center was a roaring fire, around which a full score of men and woman bundled in winter wear huddled for warmth.
"Wake up, Almasy. Welcome to your home for the next month."
“Paid. Trust me, we’re all getting paid.” Helga finished her tea. It was going to be a long night.
–
It took days to finalize the added provisions and accommodations for Preston Whitmore’s newest hand-picked addition of the team. Was she still a bit bothered by it? Certainly. Almost every member of the crew had been hand-picked by way of a network of extensive contacts. To have an intruder, a stranger, with nothing to him but an attitude and a weird gun, fast-tracked into everything? It rubbed her wrong.
Don’t worry too hard on it, Lyle had said one evening after cigars and brandy, sitting in her office as Helga paced the wooden floor. We work in surprise variables all the time. One man isn’t going to bring everything down. It’s just another rich man’s passion project. There’s nothing that can go wrong.
That’s not it, she had replied, sitting on her desk, hunched over with her hands on her knees. It’s the principal of it. It’s… I don’t like this. Not one bit.
And he had just smiled, walked over to her, patted her head. Tilted up her chin. It’s going to be alright. Trust me.
That was a week ago. Helga held onto those words with her as she sat in the belly of the last plane off of the Faroe Islands. Everything - everyone - had made camp in Stafafell already. Lyle had gone on the first plane. She begged to go with him. She had been told to bring up the rear.
The last equipment, the last supplies. The last man: Seifer Almasy.
How dangerous was it to fire a gun in a plane?
“First Lieutenant. United States Army,” she answered. The question was grating, if not unfounded. She was a woman. It may be the 20th century, but the Suffragettes were still fighting to let women vote. One with military credentials was not a common sight. “Lied my way into enlistment. Became too valuable to kick out… and too embarrassing to admit they’d been fooled.”
It was a point of pride. She did not hide her smirk. Helga heaved a rucksack over her shoulder, pushed her bangs from her face, and motioned for Seifer to follow.
“Our ride should be showing up shortly. Driver is Manuel Ramirez, formerly Mr. Whitmore’s personal head mechanic. His English is fine, but he’s not a big talker. That’s Vinny.” And Vinny… well, he would meet Vinny soon enough.
“We’re camping in Stafafell, and from there our geologist and cartographer will have mapped our path inward towards the dig site.
“Any questions?”
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Seven hours? Seven minutes. There had to have been some strings getting pulled in the background. Maybe it was Garden influence. Maybe it was sheer dumb luck.
"Can't get rid of me that easily," Helga joked. She stood, then helped Seifer into the wheelchair because the nurse would not let them proceed otherwise.
Four hours of X-rays and prodding and questions, and they were finally out of the hospital. She helped Seifer into the car, then flopped into the driver's side next to him.
"Want anything particular?" She could kill for some chili fries.
"Or should we stop by the house first, fix you up, and then go? Because I can do either. And I know those things fucking itch."
Helga pulled out of the lot and took the left turn, and fumbled around in the center console for the pack of cigarettes she knew was there. "Hey, want one? The Fun Police aren't gonna come for us.
@lieutenantxsinclair | x
"Maybe I'll shove my stump right up your ass."
But he's smirking as he says it, leaned back in the chair with a pen and clipboard in hand to fill out all the requisite bullshit for the visit.
"Seriously, we gotta get you a little novelty keychain or something to keep your rock on. Then it's conveniently at hand."
He signs the bottom line with a flourish, handing it back to her to return to the desk. At least he's on her insurance now, and sticking Garden with the bill.
It's only fair.
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"I'll pick one up at the gift shop."
He's right. She can't drill into the crystal, and she's had to get creative over the years with non-invasive ways to hang it on different things, but a keychain would be useful.
At least they wouldn't be paying for this. Helga had forgotten just how nice being insured could be.
She took the clipboard and walked it back to the counter and the bored intern behind it. They punched in some information into the computer, and asked her to go wait until a doctor was available.
So she did. She went back to Seiger, flopped into the stiff waiting room chair next to him, and rested her head on his shoulder.
"Holding up well enough?" If she couldn't take away the pain, she could at least distract him a little.
@lieutenantxsinclair | x
"Maybe I'll shove my stump right up your ass."
But he's smirking as he says it, leaned back in the chair with a pen and clipboard in hand to fill out all the requisite bullshit for the visit.
"Seriously, we gotta get you a little novelty keychain or something to keep your rock on. Then it's conveniently at hand."
He signs the bottom line with a flourish, handing it back to her to return to the desk. At least he's on her insurance now, and sticking Garden with the bill.
It's only fair.
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"Maybe I should take you back to the trail. I heard the bears are out this time of year."
She doesn't mean it, of course. And, frankly, a busted leg is something she could heal without issue. If she had thought to bring the damned thing needed to do so. It was a run. Nothing strenuous. Nothing dangerous. Standard activity.
And all it took was a half-buried rock to mess things up.
"If you were a horse, we'd have taken you out back already with Daddy's old shotgun. This? I'd say there's a 50/50 chance they'll cut it off. Everyone around the camp will call you Stumpy from here on, and you can tell them you lost it in the Avalanche of '37."
❛ don't give up on me now. ❜ (lietuenantxsinclair)
@lieutenantxsinclair
"I think I'll survive," he replies with a roll of his eyes, leaning on her as they limp into the emergency room. At least it's Timber's ER, where no one really knows them.
She dumps him in a chair near the door, and Seifer scowls at his leg-- it hadn't even been a job. It had been a goddamned run, on some well-groomed trails through the woods, and his foot coming down on a rock he hadn't seen.
"If I completely fucked it up, though, you're gonna have to wait on me hand and foot. Hope you're looking forward to that. Might even buy you a cute little nurse outfit."
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No. Just that she'd never been healed like magic like this before.
Helga needed to stop being surprised by the question Xu asked. Everyone wanted to know. Sometimes they were curious about how and why such a thing existed. But here? Here it was different.
She knew the context. It was not her first rodeo. No matter how far she separated herself in time and space, someone, somewhere, had the same intent.
"Funny story, that." Helga took another drag. "I can tell you how I got there. I can tell you what I was doing there, and what I found there. I can even tell you how I got out. But the one thing I can't do is tell you exactly where it is. Think of it like an NDA that I'm perpetually suffering under."
She couldn't even tell Seifer.
"It was part of the terms of my release. I tell no one, ever, and this little thing that keeps me alive doesn't kill me." She picked up the crystal by the chain it hung on and let it dangle. "It's almost... sentient. It knows intent. So I get to shut up or toe the line as best I can."
Helga absently tilted the pack of cigarettes to Xu, not watching as the other pulled one out.
"Maybe." Some of them, yeah. Some of them? Hell no. Those secrets were going to be between her and whatever sick, twisted Gods existed and she would never meet.
She took a deep drag and felt the familiar, delightful burn in her lungs. Time to pick this one back up again.
The way Xu touched the source of her wound was not lost on the blonde. She knew exactly what it was like.
She should be dead. Should be more scar than skin. And in the course of minutes, she was whole and unmarked as if nothing ever happened. Alive for another day, against the will of higher powers and stronger beasts.
"You'll get used to it," Helga assured dismissively. "Like a haircut. It'll be weird at first. You'll keep looking at it, thinking something's going to be there that isn't. And then one day, you'll stop."
At least, that's what it was like for her.
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Helga absently tilted the pack of cigarettes to Xu, not watching as the other pulled one out.
"Maybe." Some of them, yeah. Some of them? Hell no. Those secrets were going to be between her and whatever sick, twisted Gods existed and she would never meet.
She took a deep drag and felt the familiar, delightful burn in her lungs. Time to pick this one back up again.
The way Xu touched the source of her wound was not lost on the blonde. She knew exactly what it was like.
She should be dead. Should be more scar than skin. And in the course of minutes, she was whole and unmarked as if nothing ever happened. Alive for another day, against the will of higher powers and stronger beasts.
"You'll get used to it," Helga assured dismissively. "Like a haircut. It'll be weird at first. You'll keep looking at it, thinking something's going to be there that isn't. And then one day, you'll stop."
At least, that's what it was like for her.
continued from x with @corditeheart
"Eventually. Results may vary."
Helga tapped at her thigh, trying to resist the urge to take a cigarette for herself. She said he was going to quit. All cadets had their vices they had grown into, but she was supposed to be better than them.
But the stress gnawed at her. This was not how she wanted Xu to find out her pretty little secret. If Helga had it her way, Xu never would have found out. It would have been between her, Seifer, and a million dead men and women that got just a little too close for comfort.
But she did not want to see Xu die. She was too valuable. Too powerful. Too...
No. Stop that.
But it didn't matter what too Xu was. She was dying, and Helga had a split second to weigh her options and act.
So out came the crystal she kept on her key ring, and she pressed it against the gaping horrible wound, and prayed that she had the ability to do what had been done to her.
It worked. For better or for worse, it worked.
"I'd take the next couple of days off, at least, to make sure you've got feeling in your fingers before you go back."
Fuck it. She grabbed a cigarette and lit it with a practiced flick of the lighter.
"...You've probably got a lot of questions."
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continued from x with @corditeheart
"Eventually. Results may vary."
Helga tapped at her thigh, trying to resist the urge to take a cigarette for herself. She said he was going to quit. All cadets had their vices they had grown into, but she was supposed to be better than them.
But the stress gnawed at her. This was not how she wanted Xu to find out her pretty little secret. If Helga had it her way, Xu never would have found out. It would have been between her, Seifer, and a million dead men and women that got just a little too close for comfort.
But she did not want to see Xu die. She was too valuable. Too powerful. Too...
No. Stop that.
But it didn't matter what too Xu was. She was dying, and Helga had a split second to weigh her options and act.
So out came the crystal she kept on her key ring, and she pressed it against the gaping horrible wound, and prayed that she had the ability to do what had been done to her.
It worked. For better or for worse, it worked.
"I'd take the next couple of days off, at least, to make sure you've got feeling in your fingers before you go back."
Fuck it. She grabbed a cigarette and lit it with a practiced flick of the lighter.
"...You've probably got a lot of questions."
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"Paid. Trust me, we're all getting paid." Helga finished her tea. It was going to be a long night.
--
It took days to finalize the added provisions and accommodations for Preston Whitmore's newest hand-picked addition of the team. Was she still a bit bothered by it? Certainly. Almost every member of the crew had been hand-picked by way of a network of extensive contacts. To have an intruder, a stranger, with nothing to him but an attitude and a weird gun, fast-tracked into everything? It rubbed her wrong.
Don't worry too hard on it, Lyle had said one evening after cigars and brandy, sitting in her office as Helga paced the wooden floor. We work in surprise variables all the time. One man isn't going to bring everything down. It's just another rich man's passion project. There's nothing that can go wrong.
That's not it, she had replied, sitting on her desk, hunched over with her hands on her knees. It's the principal of it. It's... I don't like this. Not one bit.
And he had just smiled, walked over to her, patted her head. Tilted up her chin. It's going to be alright. Trust me.
That was a week ago. Helga held onto those words with her as she sat in the belly of the last plane off of the Faroe Islands. Everything - everyone - had made camp in Stafafell already. Lyle had gone on the first plane. She begged to go with him. She had been told to bring up the rear.
The last equipment, the last supplies. The last man: Seifer Almasy.
How dangerous was it to fire a gun in a plane?
"First Lieutenant. United States Army," she answered. The question was grating, if not unfounded. She was a woman. It may be the 20th century, but the Suffragettes were still fighting to let women vote. One with military credentials was not a common sight. "Lied my way into enlistment. Became too valuable to kick out... and too embarrassing to admit they'd been fooled."
It was a point of pride. She did not hide her smirk. Helga heaved a rucksack over her shoulder, pushed her bangs from her face, and motioned for Seifer to follow.
"Our ride should be showing up shortly. Driver is Manuel Ramirez, formerly Mr. Whitmore's personal head mechanic. His English is fine, but he's not a big talker. That's Vinny." And Vinny... well, he would meet Vinny soon enough.
"We're camping in Stafafell, and from there our geologist and cartographer will have mapped our path inward towards the dig site.
"Any questions?"
reveromantique:
“It might’ve been the fifteenth. I don’t know. I was a little fucking busy.”
1911.
That’s not right. That can’t be. Seifer stares into the fire for a long time, and ignores everything they say at his back (if ignoring can be translated into, everything they say fades into nothingness, static, emptiness.)
He snaps his fingers, and a fire starts between them, a small flame that he bounces across his knuckles out of sheer reflex, something to do with his hands.
1911.
Maybe she hadn’t failed at it after all– there’s no way this could be possible, if Ultimecia hadn’t succeeded in some fashion at her grand, monstrous plan.
If he falls into the wrong hands–
At that, Seifer’s head raises, and he whistles sharply to interrupt the conversation, the flame still in hand.
He’s not entirely unarmed, sweetheart. He’ll burn the place down if he has to.
“Hey. I’m not anyone’s goddamned property. Unless you can give me a good reason why I should stick around with you guys, I’ll take my weapon back, and see myself out.”
He may not have thought much about the fire, but the keen and curious eyes of Preston Whitmore did. This changed things. A person traveling through time, and now this strange ability to conjure fire? His guest was certainly a man of many talents. And yes, Helga was correct: if he fell into the wrong hands, things could turn disastrous. The Butterfly Effect was a terrible thing. So he thought, watching the flame dance over-under Seifer’s knuckles, and he began to think of a solution.
“No man is property,” Whitmore said, slow and easy. “And I have no intention of treating you as such. So, I want to make you an offer, my boy. It’ll be a good opportunity for you to learn more about where you’ve found yourself, and maybe getting yourself back where you need to be.
“How would you like to go to Iceland?”
Helga almost choked on her tea. Iceland?! This man had not been among them for an hour, and he was already being invited on an expedition that had been years in the making?
He’d lost it. He must have truly lost it.
“Because I’ll be honest, kiddo, we’re very much about to not be here for a bit. And if I know anything about the young people, they don’t exactly like sitting around! It’s an archaeological expedition. Nothing too fancy. But it’s a time out of the house, around people. You’re a military man, right? You’ll fit right in!”
Blue eyes looked from her employer to Seifer as Helga finished cleaning the tea from her chin. It was such a clever solution, as much as she hated it.
“I’ll have to rework the calculations for supplies and space-”
“In the morning. Besides, it’s getting late, and this isn’t a decision to make while tired.” As if to punctuate his point, Whitmore stretched his arms over his head. “I’ll have Minnie set up one of the spare rooms for you, Mister Almasy.”
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corditeheart:
The boss feels like a dagger aimed directly at her back; Xu keeps hers straight, and gestures in acknowledgement of the request.
At least the restrooms here are serviceable and clean; she spends longer than she intends washing her hands, like she can somehow wipe off the feeling of the damn steering wheel leather being molded into her palms.
Home would be so nice. The apartment she just rented, and hasn’t stayed in a whole week yet. Hell, her stuff is still in boxes. Home would be lovely.
Eventually, she emerges, shouldering open the door and grabbing a basket from the stack nearby to peruse the aisles. Chips, crispy wafer things. A shitload of coffee– and this place has a bunch of the ones in cans. Xu fills the basket with mostly those. They’ll keep, even if they don’t really have a cooler to chill them with. The next motel will have a tiny refrigerator, and they don’t have to drink what the lobby tries to pass off as coffee.
She adds way more gummy peach rings and sour strawberry candies and little peanut butter cups to the basket than is strictly necessary, throws in a couple of wrapped sandwiches and assorted fruit from the cold bar, and pays for the whole thing in cash.
“Wait. This, too.” Because thank any god who’s gonna listen that they have aux cables at this station; Xu buys two for good measure.
Just in case.
“Good news,” she says, tossing the keys to Helga as she emerges from the store. “We have music again. And I got lunch.”
Just standing outside of the car, leaning against the pump as she watched the numbers go up, was enough to calm the tension in Helga’s shoulders. It had been hours since their last rest, and having these few minutes were damn near therapeutic. Also the idea of snacks. Snacks made things much better.
The pump stopped with a thunk, and she reached over, squeezing the nozzle. She used to play this game a long time ago: try and hit an even number before the tank refused to give more. Right up to the dollar was best. It hit... and stayed. Perfect!
Seeing Xu come back, though, she tempered her joy. Time for professionalism again. She caught the keys, and Helga smirked at the good news.
“Perfect. Shotgun picks the music. Want me to pull from the pump so we eat here, or are we going right back on the road?”
Not that she particularly cared either way. It was easy enough to eat and drive when you were the only living beings on the road.
“You got lunch, I’ll get dinner tonight.”
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reveromantique:
“It might’ve been the fifteenth. I don’t know. I was a little fucking busy.”
1911.
That’s not right. That can’t be. Seifer stares into the fire for a long time, and ignores everything they say at his back (if ignoring can be translated into, everything they say fades into nothingness, static, emptiness.)
He snaps his fingers, and a fire starts between them, a small flame that he bounces across his knuckles out of sheer reflex, something to do with his hands.
1911.
Maybe she hadn’t failed at it after all– there’s no way this could be possible, if Ultimecia hadn’t succeeded in some fashion at her grand, monstrous plan.
If he falls into the wrong hands–
At that, Seifer’s head raises, and he whistles sharply to interrupt the conversation, the flame still in hand.
He’s not entirely unarmed, sweetheart. He’ll burn the place down if he has to.
“Hey. I’m not anyone’s goddamned property. Unless you can give me a good reason why I should stick around with you guys, I’ll take my weapon back, and see myself out.”
He may not have thought much about the fire, but the keen and curious eyes of Preston Whitmore did. This changed things. A person traveling through time, and now this strange ability to conjure fire? His guest was certainly a man of many talents. And yes, Helga was correct: if he fell into the wrong hands, things could turn disastrous. The Butterfly Effect was a terrible thing. So he thought, watching the flame dance over-under Seifer’s knuckles, and he began to think of a solution.
“No man is property,” Whitmore said, slow and easy. “And I have no intention of treating you as such. So, I want to make you an offer, my boy. It’ll be a good opportunity for you to learn more about where you’ve found yourself, and maybe getting yourself back where you need to be.
“How would you like to go to Iceland?”
Helga almost choked on her tea. Iceland?! This man had not been among them for an hour, and he was already being invited on an expedition that had been years in the making?
He’d lost it. He must have truly lost it.
“Because I’ll be honest, kiddo, we’re very much about to not be here for a bit. And if I know anything about the young people, they don’t exactly like sitting around! It’s an archaeological expedition. Nothing too fancy. But it’s a time out of the house, around people. You’re a military man, right? You’ll fit right in!”
Blue eyes looked from her employer to Seifer as Helga finished cleaning the tea from her chin. It was such a clever solution, as much as she hated it.
“I’ll have to rework the calculations for supplies and space-”
“In the morning. Besides, it’s getting late, and this isn’t a decision to make while tired.” As if to punctuate his point, Whitmore stretched his arms over his head. “I’ll have Minnie set up one of the spare rooms for you, Mister Almasy.”
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corditeheart:
“If there’s nothing there, I’m coming with you.” And robbing the grocery store, just so this doesn’t happen again.
Xu flips through her stack of reports– didn’t she just empty her inbox? This is chocobo shit of the highest order, that it keeps refilling. Expenses, expenses, seven mission debriefs, fourteen flight requests. Good god.
She’s got half a mind to take her lighter to the whole stack, just so she doesn’t have to think about any of this. Instead, she turns her back on it, leaning against her desk as Helga fidgets, and contemplates murder.
“And if you do kill someone, at least get their ID so I know who it is and how much paperwork I have to do later.”
“I guarantee nothing.”
But she knew the similar look in Xu’s eyes as she looked at the never-ending pile of work. Work that could not reasonably be done while homicide was on the brain.
There was only one solution.
“Come on. Block out an hour. We’re leaving. We’re getting a proper fucking coffee. You can write me up for it later. I’ve got an extra helmet.” There was no way she was going to trust a Garden-loaned vehicle over her own motorbike.
“This place is going to learn to survive without you for a change.”
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reveromantique:
“No, not really. It’s magic.” It’s a crystal, harboring magical properties. She could’ve dug a similar rock out of the grass somewhere, if she found a source magic point that hadn’t been turned into a paramagic refinery by Garden.
It’s a cool trick, though. And obviously has earned its keep– many times over. She doesn’t age, she’s never shown so much as a gray hair or a wrinkle; she keeps going, no matter what tries to drop her.
He’s always just kind of thought she was extremely resilient, or like him. Maybe a product of a sorceress’ bloodline; they all seem to be hard to kill. Magic, and eternal life, and a shining crystal– sure. He can roll with that.
Seifer leans, kisses her neck, and keeps her close for a moment. “Listen, nothing would change any of this, you know. You can tell me, or you don’t have to. I’m not gonna drag it out of you.”
She’s here. She’s with him. That’s all that matters.
The lack of questions was more shocking than anything he could have thrown at her. Helga had run a similar scenario through her mind ever since things got serious between them: he would ask, and she had five answers depending on the mood surrounding it all. But this? Nothing but pure acceptance? This was not a scenario she had been prepared for.
“Thank you,” she said softly, leaning into Seifer’s closeness. Her head tilted and rested against his. She needed to hear that.
“What matters most is that you feel better. Can’t guarantee how long it will last, but it’s part of me, so it’s going to be part of you now. If you want it, of course.”
Granted, she couldn’t fracture the crystal and give him a piece, as much as it could help him. If it went nuclear just by being threatened, what could it do when directly attacked? Not that she wanted to find out.
“But now you know my best-kept secret.”
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reveromantique:
Oh, he doesn’t miss Helga’s sneer in return, and her great desire to simply murder him where he stands. Clearly, they’re going to be the best of friends.
Especially as he watches her get shot down by Whitmore, and he’s starting to like the little guy more and more as this evening stretches on– as goddamned weird as it’s turning out to be.
He adds a sugar cube and a splash of cream to his own cup of tea, then drags it and a chair closer to the fire to dry off. He’d really rather prefer coffee, but Seifer knows he’s not exactly in a position to be making those kinds of requests, and the tea tastes like the kind of thing Cid had in the cabinets at Garden, for those rare times Edea brought Ellone back to shore.
(And invited Seifer up to join them, like he was a goddamned afterthought, in his own family.)
He scowls briefly, and drinks the damn tea.
1911?
That’s gotta be bullshit. A sentiment he’s quite willing to express, with a disbelieving snort: “There’s no way it’s 1911. It’s January 11, 2000.” The new millenium, and all that shit.
Or, at least, he thinks it’s January 11– it’s been a minute since he’s had a chance to look at a calendar.
2000.
The silence following the declaration consumed the assembled at the table, leaving the crackling fireplace to take over. Brows raised and furrowed, and wordless glances were exchanged between Helga and the oddly-silent Whitmore.
2000. If this man was not lying, then this was big.
“It’s January 15, 1911,” Whitmore finally said, slowly. “Whatever brought you here did so almost to the day. Maybe with a few leap year calculations factored in. And you have my curiosity and attention, young man.” He set down the tea, letting it sit half-finished in favor of his guest.
“And while I’m mighty curious what may have transpired in the eighty-nine years between now and when you’ve come to us, I think that might be a discussion for another time.”
Whitmore leaned forward on his elbows and laced his fingers together. “And, in fact, I think there’s a greater reason for you being here than you might think.”
“Sir-”
“I’m not one to believe much in chance. Too old. Seen too much. But I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Because things are about to get really messy around here. You might have a purpose.”
Purpose. Helga wanted to disagree, but she didn’t have a counter to that. While he rarely believed in chance, she never believed in it. Everything happened for a reason. What was this reason? Why was this man here, now, instead of anywhere else in time?
“Sir, what do you propose we do with him?” Letting him roam the streets would be hazardous if he really came from a hundred years in the future. “We can’t let him go. If he fell into the wrong hands...”
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Anyone else, he’d call bullshit on.
Helga, he knows, is not that kind of bullshitter– he’d accepted at some point that she was telling the truth about being incredibly old. Ancient, even. He’d played into it, too; her engagement ring is from the forties, dug up in a charity shop.
He knows she’s telling the truth, because whatever she’s doing to him, it makes a coldness spread like starlight throughout his body, skin crackling like radio static. Seifer breathes, and forces himself to remain still, to not move away from the strange touch even as it comes up against the heat in his bones and doesn’t flinch.
His heart slows, his muscles ease.
It’s like he’s gotten every hour of missed sleep in his life in a minute and a half– and, hell, it’s even cleaned up the messy damage from when he’d taken a hard hit from a Rex a couple months ago.
Holy shit.
He sits up slowly; everything seems clearer, sharper, like it’s pulled away the last few times his head had met some sort of hard surface, eradicating any fuzziness at the edges of his vision.
Mild, hardly noticeable, but still there sometimes. Now, it’s gone.
“Can I?” he asks, holding out his hand to touch the crystal before she puts it away. It practically hums in his palm; Seifer studies its facets, and eventually gives it back to her.
“I feel… good.” And that’s hardly enough of a word to describe it.
The moments between her question and Seifer sitting up were the longest that she had experienced in some time. But he did. He sat up, hale and whole, and Helga let out the breath she held.
“Yeah, yeah you can.” He had earned it’s trust... for now.
Helga placed the crystal into Seifer’s hand, still half-expecting the glow to change and the gentle hum to deepen menacingly. It never happened; it sat motionless in his hand, content to be held. After a brief examination, the crystal was returned, and in her hand, it felt at-home.
“Good,” she repeated, closing her fingers around the stone, the glow disappearing. “I should have told you about this sooner, but I guess I just... didn’t think you would believe me. Hells, I was there and I wouldn’t believe me.
“But I’m sure you have a lot of questions.” She did that first morning, when she woke surrounded by shamans who would rather have let her die. Thatch was called for. Unnatural blue eyes all looked away. Maybe ignoring her would send her back to the wrath of the volcano. Their dwindling resources wouldn’t have been used on a traitor. A thief. A murderer.
She reached over and set the crystal on the bedside table, and the glow faded. For all anyone knew, it could be glass.
“I’ll answer as best I can.”
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Walking into the house is like walking into a goddamned museum and the past, simultaneously, the glow of the amber bulbs illuminating masterwork paintings and photographs on the walls (all thrown together like this guy was just trying to cram as much as he could up there, possibly covering a bad paint job.)
It reminds him a little of Ultimecia’s castle, and all the art she’d stolen from across time and space– all thrown together like this. It makes him faintly ill, thinking about it; Seifer sheds his coat instead, letting it drop onto what’s undoubtedly a priceless antique rug, and grabs a towel from Helga’s stack.
“Thanks, cupcake,” he sneers, and yeah, this night is probably gonna end up with him getting shot.
Towel over his head, squeezing out some of the water from his hair and leaving it to dry however the hell it wants, drying off his face and then down until he’s only mostly damp, save for his clothes, Seifer moves closer to the fire, and the portraits above it.
What? He was invited to do it.
“Where, exactly, am I?” Alexandria? Virginia? Neither of these places ring any kind of bells– although, he thinks there might be an Alexia in Trabia. It’s not cold enough here for that, though, if it’s still January. “And…” a shrug, because there’s no way not for this question to sound insane, “when?”
Time travel. Time compression.
If it weren’t for everything he’d done in the last year, he would think he had gone off the deep end. Around the bend. Permanently certifiable or something. He might still be crazy, but no one’s running for the phone to call Garden and alert Leonhart that he’s emerged from the war like a cockroach.
Seifer’ll take what he can get at this point, and the cup of tea that’s pushed into his hands by the housekeeper.
“Because, yeah. If you’ve never heard of Balamb, and I think you’re making up somewhere called Virginia, we might be talking about time travel.”
Thanks, cupcake.
Was it too late to throw him back into the pool and hold him under? Helga’s upper lip curled into a sneer that matched Seifer’s, and lingered after his back was turned. If Whitmore noticed, he said nothing. Hell, he seemed to be entirely disinterested in anything that wasn’t going on in his own head. For a moment, she was pretty sure that the old man had finally lost it.
Especially since he was letting this man drop his clothes right onto the Carvaggio. She hoped the indigo leaked and would stain it. It would serve him right.
But they moved into the kitchen – warm, cozy, somewhat quiet save for the crackling fire – and she succeeded to will her mouth shut. The more Whitmore got this man to talk, the more information she would have to make a proper decision on how to handle him and report it to Rourke. There was no doubt he would want to know about this.
“Where are you?” The old man reached for a small sugar bowl. One, two, three cubes. No cream. “Well, that’s the easy part! You, sir, are in Alexandria, Virginia, United States of America! Just outside of Washington, D.C. If you were just across the river, this would be a whole different story.
“As for when? It’s January 1911. The first photograph taken in the air just happened in San Diego. There’s an Englishman that just landed in Antarctica to get to the South Pole-” he leaned in conspiratorially to Seifer “-my money’s on the Norwegian he’s racing there. Those Nordics know a thing about the cold!”
“Mister Whitmore, Scott explored the Arctic first. He knows the cold,” Helga interjected. “Amundsen may have crossed the Arctic first by air, but air and land are two different beasts.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t like that Scott man’s attitude. Too cocky.” And, as far as he was concerned, that was the end of that.
“But as you were saying: no, I’ve never heard of Balamb. I’ve been around this globe more times than any man has a right to be, and I can assure you that there’s no such place.” Whitmore’s teasing tone had turned serious. “So I have two theories: Either you’re from a time that’s well ahead of us... or you’re from a whole different dimension. I really do wish you’d been able to meet Jules; he knew far more about this stuff than I did.”
Preston Whitmore blew across the top of his tea before taking a sip. “But luckily for you, I have no intention to send you off to the looney bin. No, sir, I think it’s some sort of fate that caused you to land where you did. I believe you entirely.”
Helga frowned into her cup, glaring daggers at her employer. He really had lost it. “Sir...”
“Easy, Helga. There will be time enough for skepticism later.”
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