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You know when you get a voice stuck in your head and everything starts coming out in it? Well, shit.
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penwiper26 and yunitsa mostly, although anyone else can read (spoilers for my original work, yes, but pretty much incomprehensible ones):
*
Friedman paused and turned; then his gaze shifted to over George's head, as if he'd caught sight of something up the cliff side. Stepping toward the rocks, he held out an arm and whistled, a brief sequence of notes George could not place, though they smelled Mozartian. A rush of wings became a pale gray bird, subsiding into pigeon plumpness as it perched and folded its wings. For a moment Friedman held the pose as the dove trembled on his hand -- sorcerer, summoner of wild creatures out of flight -- and then he brought her closer and kissed the feathered head. "Shanti, my pretty," he cooed, with a look of abashed self-consciousness. "I told you about birds and symbolism," he said. "People have been giving me pictures of doves for years -- figurines, tea towels, knickknacks of all descriptions -- but the live bird was the last straw. I could hardly keep her; I'm never home. She seems happy here, but I do like to visit now and then."
"Where's her olive branch?"
Friedman laughed. "Up there, actually," he said, and pointed. "Take that path to the left and you're in the Mediterranean. Early twenty-first century climate zone. Pleasant place to spend an afternoon."
"No thanks. So," George added, "not to change the subject or anything, but what did you mean, 'quite the contrary'? Olivia hasn't met with an ill fate, quite the contrary. What do you know about her? Where is she?" His mind suddenly flooded with all the ways in which Olivia could be hurt or killed in the dangerous territory of France 1940; his fixation on the threat of Brant had blocked the knowledge of these other threats until now.
"Oh dear," sighed Friedman. "If only it were a simple matter of where. Or even when."
"I bet there's a train to Paris this very afternoon." Friedman's gaze settled on George's shoulder and burrowed in till the identity chip burned under his skin. "And damn Simone. Or let her catch me; she'd be more help than you. She wants Brant."
"Does she?" Friedman appeared to consider this. Shanti cocked her head to one side, seemingly helping him to concentrate, although the sustained interest more likely had to do with expectation of food.
"Yes. In the way that kite up there wants dinner. But I have something you want, too. I know why you need to send Halsey to Holland."
"Mr. Merrill, you are in no position to bargain," said Friedman in irritatingly logical tones. "Madame Jardine no longer trusts you, and you have no definitive information on any of Mr. Brant's possible locations." The words were dismissive, but for once Friedman's face betrayed him; his interest had been piqued. The dove gave George a glinty-eyed stare, either as a surrogate for her master's curiosity or because she was wondering how this stranger tasted. Docility, softness and vegetarianism were, she seemed to be suggesting, merely a veil to hide the dinosaur within.
George shook himself. I could wring your neck in two seconds, he thought at her. You'd be nice roasted over coals. Another involuntary twitch from him and she became a flurry of wings and a mewling screech, rising into the air. Friedman ducked, watched her retreat to the rocks above, and gave George a frown of gentle reproach.
*
and:
*
"Do you feel lacking in free will, Beatrice?"
"At the moment, yes, but--"
"Compulsion under peril does not negate choice. You could have fought back at any time. I think you were curious."
"She let me, so she must have wanted it?" He questioned the accusation with one raised eyebrow. Refusing battle, she hurried on. "And at the moment I'm referring to Tony's free will."
"You think I compelled him toward his death? Or his other life, rather. I suppose I did. Though one might as well say he was compelled to it by the U.S. Army and the Department of Security and Intelligence." Mirich made the regulation hand-to-forehead salute a mockery. "Just following orders."
"But they didn't know what would happen."
"Ah, I see. This is about omniscience and the doctrine of predestination." He sighed. "I'm not God, Beatrice. At most, I possess a degree of what the Jesuits term scientia media, the divine knowledge of contingent events. What needs to be, that the future develops as it should."
"And who gets to decide how it should develop?"
"Why, we all do. You, me... well, not me so much, really. I'm never where I should be." His eyes seemed to gleam at her in the dim red light of the parlor. "If I had more power, Beatrice, more choice, more will... but now I'm frightening you. I'm not the Devil either. I do not tempt toward evil courses."
"But evil happens because of you."
"You think of Tony's disappearance as evil? It wasn't. Won't be," Mirich corrected. "It is something that has to happen. From the perspective of the future, it did happen. But it need not have happened, because Tony had the will to change it."
"You usurped his will, by coming here."
Mirich shook his head. "I was always here. And so were you."
"How can you be sure?" she said desperately.
"Tony knew me."
She tried to make sense of this. "He didn't know me," she said.
"Which means you were right not to interfere. If you had--"
"What time travelers do to each other shouldn't cause breaches."
"A complete fallacy. We don't exist in a vacuum. If I were to pull out a knife and cut your throat" -- his hand lingered near the pocket slit of his djellaba, and her breath caught -- "it would be an inconvenience not only for the two of us, but for poor Abu and his wife, and the police, and perhaps two foreign consuls. Not to mention a matter of great confusion when they checked your identity chip."
Inconvenience? "Well, it's a good thing you're not a violent man."
"Or an unsubtle one."
*
I know this is my brain playing overexposure tricks on me, and I have his voice noted as "mildly British with heavy gutturals" not "sinister Iowa," and the physical appearance is not quite what I had in mind either... but dammit, he could do it. In Ben Linus mode more than Harold Finch, of course.
Oh, get it out of my head now. Ack.
For
penwiper26 and yunitsa mostly, although anyone else can read (spoilers for my original work, yes, but pretty much incomprehensible ones):*
Friedman paused and turned; then his gaze shifted to over George's head, as if he'd caught sight of something up the cliff side. Stepping toward the rocks, he held out an arm and whistled, a brief sequence of notes George could not place, though they smelled Mozartian. A rush of wings became a pale gray bird, subsiding into pigeon plumpness as it perched and folded its wings. For a moment Friedman held the pose as the dove trembled on his hand -- sorcerer, summoner of wild creatures out of flight -- and then he brought her closer and kissed the feathered head. "Shanti, my pretty," he cooed, with a look of abashed self-consciousness. "I told you about birds and symbolism," he said. "People have been giving me pictures of doves for years -- figurines, tea towels, knickknacks of all descriptions -- but the live bird was the last straw. I could hardly keep her; I'm never home. She seems happy here, but I do like to visit now and then."
"Where's her olive branch?"
Friedman laughed. "Up there, actually," he said, and pointed. "Take that path to the left and you're in the Mediterranean. Early twenty-first century climate zone. Pleasant place to spend an afternoon."
"No thanks. So," George added, "not to change the subject or anything, but what did you mean, 'quite the contrary'? Olivia hasn't met with an ill fate, quite the contrary. What do you know about her? Where is she?" His mind suddenly flooded with all the ways in which Olivia could be hurt or killed in the dangerous territory of France 1940; his fixation on the threat of Brant had blocked the knowledge of these other threats until now.
"Oh dear," sighed Friedman. "If only it were a simple matter of where. Or even when."
"I bet there's a train to Paris this very afternoon." Friedman's gaze settled on George's shoulder and burrowed in till the identity chip burned under his skin. "And damn Simone. Or let her catch me; she'd be more help than you. She wants Brant."
"Does she?" Friedman appeared to consider this. Shanti cocked her head to one side, seemingly helping him to concentrate, although the sustained interest more likely had to do with expectation of food.
"Yes. In the way that kite up there wants dinner. But I have something you want, too. I know why you need to send Halsey to Holland."
"Mr. Merrill, you are in no position to bargain," said Friedman in irritatingly logical tones. "Madame Jardine no longer trusts you, and you have no definitive information on any of Mr. Brant's possible locations." The words were dismissive, but for once Friedman's face betrayed him; his interest had been piqued. The dove gave George a glinty-eyed stare, either as a surrogate for her master's curiosity or because she was wondering how this stranger tasted. Docility, softness and vegetarianism were, she seemed to be suggesting, merely a veil to hide the dinosaur within.
George shook himself. I could wring your neck in two seconds, he thought at her. You'd be nice roasted over coals. Another involuntary twitch from him and she became a flurry of wings and a mewling screech, rising into the air. Friedman ducked, watched her retreat to the rocks above, and gave George a frown of gentle reproach.
*
and:
*
"Do you feel lacking in free will, Beatrice?"
"At the moment, yes, but--"
"Compulsion under peril does not negate choice. You could have fought back at any time. I think you were curious."
"She let me, so she must have wanted it?" He questioned the accusation with one raised eyebrow. Refusing battle, she hurried on. "And at the moment I'm referring to Tony's free will."
"You think I compelled him toward his death? Or his other life, rather. I suppose I did. Though one might as well say he was compelled to it by the U.S. Army and the Department of Security and Intelligence." Mirich made the regulation hand-to-forehead salute a mockery. "Just following orders."
"But they didn't know what would happen."
"Ah, I see. This is about omniscience and the doctrine of predestination." He sighed. "I'm not God, Beatrice. At most, I possess a degree of what the Jesuits term scientia media, the divine knowledge of contingent events. What needs to be, that the future develops as it should."
"And who gets to decide how it should develop?"
"Why, we all do. You, me... well, not me so much, really. I'm never where I should be." His eyes seemed to gleam at her in the dim red light of the parlor. "If I had more power, Beatrice, more choice, more will... but now I'm frightening you. I'm not the Devil either. I do not tempt toward evil courses."
"But evil happens because of you."
"You think of Tony's disappearance as evil? It wasn't. Won't be," Mirich corrected. "It is something that has to happen. From the perspective of the future, it did happen. But it need not have happened, because Tony had the will to change it."
"You usurped his will, by coming here."
Mirich shook his head. "I was always here. And so were you."
"How can you be sure?" she said desperately.
"Tony knew me."
She tried to make sense of this. "He didn't know me," she said.
"Which means you were right not to interfere. If you had--"
"What time travelers do to each other shouldn't cause breaches."
"A complete fallacy. We don't exist in a vacuum. If I were to pull out a knife and cut your throat" -- his hand lingered near the pocket slit of his djellaba, and her breath caught -- "it would be an inconvenience not only for the two of us, but for poor Abu and his wife, and the police, and perhaps two foreign consuls. Not to mention a matter of great confusion when they checked your identity chip."
Inconvenience? "Well, it's a good thing you're not a violent man."
"Or an unsubtle one."
*
I know this is my brain playing overexposure tricks on me, and I have his voice noted as "mildly British with heavy gutturals" not "sinister Iowa," and the physical appearance is not quite what I had in mind either... but dammit, he could do it. In Ben Linus mode more than Harold Finch, of course.
Oh, get it out of my head now. Ack.
