text. anonymous.

[obediences]

Is there anything about yourself that you would change, if you could?

And do any of you have the ability or powers to change people's physical bodies? Like with magic, or something.

Not science.


[ Science has already let him down. Science led him here. Luther doesn't much savour the idea of another brilliant person with brilliant inventions trying to get beneath his ape-like skin, when he and his father already tried and failed.

There is something to be said for acceptance, and coming to terms with yourself and your new capabilities or lack thereof. Luther isn't there yet. And he has too many memories now, of an entire decade in the City without this albatross around his neck, this anchor around his ankle. Every time he thinks he might have readjusted to his malformed body again, this world delivers him another goddamned reminder of what he's lost: accidentally remaking his own form when dreams became real; his siblings winding up in others' bodies; waking up looking like his teenaged self, from a far simpler time. It rankles; makes it harder each time to feel comfortable again.

So. He asks the question, finally. ]


& ooc: I don't want to permanently 'fix' Luther, but if your character can do it, I would absolutely be open to a change backfiring or working temporarily! Feel free to plot ICly, or reach out OOCly to hash out some details!

Comments

[obediences]

[ A roll of Luther's eyes, a purse of his lips. ]

Not sure if you've noticed, but magical powers are a hell of a lot more effective here than snake oil.

Anyway. It's not baldness.

[timehit]

And what evidence do we have of that, exactly? Sorry, but I'd rather trust my fate to something solid and quantifiable than to some idiot murder magician.

[ And there it is: a tell, tiny, casually, too obscure for anyone to catch hold of surely? ]

It might not be baldness, fellow Anon, but you're awfully cagey about this nonetheless.

[obediences]

[ It is a tiny tell.
Inconsequential and insignificant and meaningless... to anyone who isn't a Hargreeves. It instantly snaps Luther to attention, narrows his eyes, makes him reread the entirety of this conversation. It could just be a coincidence in phrasing, but—

He ought to know that arrogance anywhere. So he goes fishing. ]

I'd be less cagey if we'd already exchanged more than #00.05 texts.

off-anon + permaprivate

[timehit]

Luther.

[obediences]

Yeah.

[ Called out; like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar. So to speak. ]

1/2

[timehit]

I'd expect this sort of thing from Klaus, maybe.

2/2

[timehit]

Just be careful what you wish for.

[obediences]

[ A flicker of defensive irritation at being compared to Number Four. Out of all their siblings, Klaus is perhaps the one who feels the least like Luther. He and Diego have always been neck-and-neck; he and Ben were the most doggedly loyal; he and Five share a particular pragmatic streak, even if their expressions of it are entirely different. So he wonders, and assumes the worst, and just has to dig: ]

What do you mean? About Klaus.

[timehit]

[ Does he need to always explain everything out for them? Can't they just, for once, take a damn hint? Five's reaching for the flask hidden in the underside of his work desk, but the flashbacks are already coming along again, unbidden.

Bodies covered in dust. Days of trying to peel their bodies out from the debris, just little Number Five in his tiny young frame. Luther was too big to really carry, he had to devise entire cart and pulley system to get him over to a plot. To bury. ]

What do I mean? That it's reckless and selfish and you aren't thinking about the consequences. And yes, truth be told I have come upon such a deal before. From the Temps Commission, in fact; what else could they possibly entice me with to try and wheel me back into their fold?

A man's body, my real body restored from my own miscalculations, not this relic of the past that doesn't want to age.

But I turned them down because I have bigger debts to pay. Because some things, Number One, are more important. Here's hoping, in an already dangerous and chaotic place like this, that you won't likewise have to figure this out in the same way.

[obediences]

[ It's been unfairly, incorrectly easy for Luther to forget that his brother is actually a fifty-eight-year-old man. The boy's body looks right for what Luther remembered, so part of him always half-accepts on some level that Number Five is thirteen. And yet... he's realising now, like a bucket of cold water flung in his face, always too late and too slow on the uptake— that Five must be undergoing a similar disorientation. The face that he sees in the mirror is his face but it isn't his face. Familiar worn lines gone, no need to shave anymore, something robbed from him. The size all off, suddenly small and short, and besides that: underestimated by others. Luther had gotten a glimpse of that experience a few weeks ago and it had been irritating enough, although Luther's not stuck with it permanently.

But Five is even better at hiding it; doesn't let on if this does bother him.

Some things, Number One, he says, and even through text, Luther can hear that voice like it's hauling him out of his seat, forcing his spine straight, standing to attention. A touch of Reginald in that imperiousness; they'd been similar in that, too. ]

I didn't know.

What did they offer you in exchange for it? Stand down and let the apocalypse happen?

[timehit]

Something like that.

[ Five knows that Luther hates this, how he can manifest away from a confrontation, coming and going without any further explanation. Surely enough he's attempting to do so here; this answer is barely that, hardly the tip of the iceberg in terms of what the devil in a tight black dress was willing to offer him.

Accolades, a lofty position in the Temps Commission; the promise to see his siblings separated from harm. Just let events unfold as desired, as the apocalypse, The Handler said, was always meant to occur. But Five, if he's anything, is defiant and full of arrogance and damn determined to find a way to save his family on his terms.

But how do you save a man from himself and his own desires? Five did what he wanted and look where it got him—stuck at the end of the world, scrawling arithmetic over crumbling walls and willing to barter every decent peace of himself for a chance to get his family back.

There's no good way to explain it all, and so he doesn't. ]

[obediences]

[ They are both so, so terrible at communication. Out of all the Hargreeves, they're the two least-socialised, the ones least well-adjusted where it comes to other people. They've grown too accustomed to solitude, to doing things on their own. So Luther sits and chews over that revelation for a moment, tries to come up with the right words, and fails. 'I'm sorry' doesn't really seem to cut it.

Maybe: 'You're a better man than me.' ]

Then I'm glad you were strong enough to say no.

There's a difference, though. There's no apocalypse to avert here. No strings like that attached anymore.

[timehit]

[ Five sits on his bed with his flask of scotch, peering down at the communicator with eyes that sting with exhaustion. The footsteps down the hall are able to remind him that there's people here around him now, but it's a cold comfort. Luther misses the entire point, like so many of their other siblings—it's simply trading in one danger for another.

How many possible, calculable ways can his family turn out, dead, dead, dead. ]

If that's how it's going to be, well, what else is there to say?

[ Goodnight, Luther. ]

[obediences]

Five.



[ But there's no response.
It's not that much different from Five bailing out of a conversation in-person, disappearing in a flash, but it still leaves Luther feeling restless, antsy— before his bedroom door suddenly slams open and a furious Allison storms in, and it's time for the second talking-to.

Sigh. ]