#i hope they were having an affair offscreen cause they deserve that

[friendlylocalwhumper]

interviews

colby | colby released | desmond and kip | desmond and kip released | sonia | sonia released | major | major meets nona | state of affairs 1

Interview 1: Remy

“What’s your name?”

Long black curls frame an elegant face. Kind eyes are shadowed by thick eyebrows and circles underneath from exhaustion. Bruising spans across the cheekbone catching the light from offscreen, blue and green and yellow. He cradles his left elbow like a single wrong twitch will get him writhing in pain.

“Remy,” He whispers to the person behind the camera.

“Remy. What happened to you?”

His eyes flick to something the camera isn’t pointed at. His fingers flex slightly with nerves. “I… got caught sneaking in someplace.”

“Why were you sneaking?”

The shirt that he’s wearing, heather grey and wrinkled, has blood on it. There’s a smear of brown by his nose: dried blood. Remy lifts his good arm, leaving the injured one alone, to tuck his nose into the crook of his elbow and inhale. It appears to calm him down.

“Is there something special about that shirt, Remy?”

He glances up and nods, talking into his sleeve, speaking above a whisper now but it makes no difference, his voice is muffled. “Yeah. It’s… I borrowed it. I was sneaking in, to see… his parents wouldn’t approve. They were never going to. A warlock, a boy… I just wanted to see him. Not even do anything. We’ve only kissed.”

“I’m not judging you, Remy.”

Nervous tapping fingers still. He offers a jerking nod. “I know. It’s just… this is all I have, his shirt. My shirt. He gave it to me, said it’s mine now. It still smells like him. It won’t forever. And I won’t see him again. I promised I’d keep coming back, even if it wasn’t safe for me. As long as it was safe for him.” Remy falls silent, haunted. “...He said it was safe.”

The interviewer allows him a moment to collect himself. Then, they ask, “Was he wrong?”

Tanned fingers scratch idly at a scabbed-over cut on his cheek. “...He was really wrong. I got… we got caught. I never used magic in that house, I swear. Never even talked about it. I just wanted to be with him. His brother came in. Tried to kill me.”

“What exactly happened? What made you think he was trying to kill you, not just scare you off?”

Remy snorts. “Grabbed me by the neck, tried to shove me out the window I climbed in. I almost fell. M-... my… the guy I was with, he defended me. Got into it with his brother so I could run. I tried to grab my shirt off the floor, but I got his instead. He might be dead. He might hate me.” Remy is staring at the floor, shoulder scrunched up to his cheek like the pressure can replace a warm hand cupped there in support.

“What happened to your arm?”

A twinge of pain rolls through the limb as Remy’s reminded of it. “Oh. The brother, he pulled on it. Messed something up, inside, I think. I don’t know any healers.”

“And what’s it mean for a magic user, if you can’t find a healer?”

Dark lips angled into a frown, Remy looks into the camera for the first time. “You find a place to hole up and you hope it heals on its own.”

“No hospitals means you’ve gotta make do with what you can find. Can you always find supplies when you need them?”

He snorts, eyes back on the interviewer. “Barely ever. Mostly you can find the basic stuff, or trade for it. Wrappings, uh, rubbing alcohol, bandaids. But the painkillers, the suture kits, the, uh, splints and slings, that stuff is impossible to get. I’ve seen…” Curls ranging from pitch black to a deep warm mahogany, depending on how much light they catch, get thrown dense and wild as he shakes his head. “That’s dark stuff, though.”

“Go on. Just the truth, that’s all I’m looking for. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Remy scrunches up his nose, itching at the blood clinging to the skin there. “Um. Yeah, okay. I was saying… I’ve seen people die from not being able to get bandages, using hoodies and stuff instead. Infection. Seen kids… there’s just, a lot of bad stuff happening, that doesn’t have to happen, just ‘cause we can’t get what we need.”

“So your arm? What are you going to do about it?”

With his good shoulder, he shrugs. “I don’t know. Get drunk and find someone to shove at it until it pops back into place, I guess. Or just try not to move it, for a couple weeks, and hope it’ll fix itself. Even if I do find a healer, I don’t have anything to trade. So, um… I guess I’m kind of screwed.”

The interviewer doesn’t answer. Remy’s eyes find the camera again, brown twinkling with the same light that illuminates the colors of pain at his cheek. The image freezes, the video finished playing, lingering on the face of the warlock who was resigned to pain and little hope of finding any help, even from his own kind.

Interview 2: Nona

The video starts with a blur of movement. Brown carpet that’s been crushed into a grimy, stale, solid mass. Stained walls, a torn beanbag chair, limp hands with split knuckles.

“Tell me about the safehouse.”

The witch tips her head, eyes narrowed. The camera is aimed at her, and she looks like she wants to fight it. “Why.”

“Because it matters. You matter. Someone, someday, is gonna ask how we survived. You’re part of the answer.”

The interviewer’s explanation doesn’t flatter her. Lilac hair goes flying as the witch tosses her head back, clearing the straight strands from her face.

“I’m Nona,” She starts, mouth hanging open on the last vowel. She tests the camera’s patience for a handful of seconds before continuing. “I’m a witch. I run this safehouse. It’s a grimy shithole but ask anyone who comes through, they know I’m in charge.”

“So I’ve heard. Does it matter, that they know?”

“That I’m in charge? Fuck yeah. You’ve gotta make it clear. No one’s in charge, anyone can throw their jacked-up muscle around, then people are getting the shit beat out of them all over power struggles. One guy wants the living room to himself, the other’s decided he rules the kitchen and if you want food, you gotta pay an entry fee. Stresses everyone out. Gets people more hurt than they already are. That’s why I kick people out, lay down a couple rules, show my face every now and then.”

“You’ve got to remind everyone that there’s someone keeping the place running.”

“Abso-fucking-lutely. It doesn’t work, otherwise. And they could take over anytime. I think about it all the time. But they know I keep the fridge stocked. They know I forgive shitty mistakes and let the worst ones come back when they’ve been fucked up by cops, or something. I found this place and I built it up myself. Boarded up the windows, got the electricity going, sewed up the shitty cushions so you can sit down without fluff shooting out of the seams. And you know how long it took me?”

“No. How long?”

“One motherfucking day. I did it in one day. You know why I busted my ass for sixteen hours?”

“Why?”

“Because if I didn’t finish, if I didn’t get a lock on that front door to keep the dumbest non-magic criminal fucks out, I wouldn’t have a place to sleep that night. I put the lock in last, because if I couldn’t manage the rest in time, I didn’t deserve to fucking sleep. I wanted to make this a place that people could sleep, at least. And I did it. People know that. Ask me why they don’t do it themselves, make a new place, get to be in charge.”

“Why?”

“Because they hurt. They’ve been sleeping on floors, and getting beat up, and they’ve been walking in shoes that don’t fit them. Because they’re angry, and paranoid, and tired all the time, and they can’t pick a lock without their hands shaking, so they sure as shit can’t fix up a whole house. And they’re so focused on fighting each other, watching their own back, making sure their stuff isn’t stolen, that they can’t stop to pick up a project and see it through.”

“Are all magic users like that?”

“Mmh…” Nona taps her chin. “Most of them. It’s the easier way to be. You get stuck in a loop of getting hurt, running, hiding, going out again to get something you need, and getting hurt again. It’s hard to get out of that. The only ones who can really try to do more are, like, witches who get tired of the loop. The guys, they don’t get out of it as much. But we don’t live long, anyway, so it’s not like anybody gets much of a chance to change through the years. There’s no plans, just trying to live through the day to get to sleep again.”

Nona cracks her knuckles and stretches, lounging in the beanbag chair a moment before sitting upright again and scuffing the heel of her boot against the floor.

“Does anyone ever challenge you? Try to take over?”

The witch nods, hair falling forward over her shoulders to brush her cheeks. “Sometimes. I knock ‘em on their ass with magic, though, so they never get far.”

“Get far?”

“They never do much. I don’t let ‘em.”

“Never do much? What is it they try to do?”

Eyes dark with makeup glint with anger. “They try shit. You’re not stupid. This talk’s over.”

“What do they-”

“You get that camera out of my face,” Nona growls, knocking it off whatever held it, sending the picture flying with blurry smeared colors, “Or I’ll-”

The audio cuts off, and the video stops on a blur of brown and grey, the chaos of escalating fury falling into silence.

Interview 3: Lux

“Okay.” The camera shifts, settles, shifts again. Someone breathes heavily from beyond its line of sight. “Okay. It’s safe here. Can you talk? We got away. Can you talk now?”

The camera turns, finally set up securely against some steady surface, to focus on a shaking warlock with a hand pressed to his stomach. Blood seeps between his fingers.

“Ye-eah, I can - th-this is important, you said?”

The interviewer gasps a few more harsh breaths. It sounds like they’ve been running hard, and can only now catch their breath. “Yes. Yes, it’s important. Tell me - tell the story of what, just happened.”

Blue eyes flick up to the camera, then the off-screen interviewer, then back to the camera. “Um. O-okay. I can… I can, talk about it, just, hnn - I-I, what’re you gonna use this for? What can I… is it safe, to t-talk about…? Anything?”

“Lux.”

“Mnh?”

“We already talked about this.”

A shudder runs through him, a wince twisting his features. “Oh. S-sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. It’s just that I explained all that, like, twenty minutes ago. Do you have trouble with your memory?”

Tense shoulders tilt inward. “I th-thought, thought you wanted to hear ‘bout, what happened.”

“I do. I also want to hear about you. Why can’t you remember things?”

His breaths, jagged and quick from running, too, don’t even out. “...What happens if I don’t want to talk?”

It’s silent for a moment. He looks like he’s prepared to get hit.

“That would be disappointing. But I’d leave you alone. I don’t interrogate people, I just try to collect their stories. You don’t have to do anything, Lux.”

An uncertain hum slips out of him and he lifts his head from where it fell, his body uncurling from the defensive position it settled into. “Really?”

“Really. Can I ask you something?”

A shoulder scrunches up toward a dirt-streaked cheek in a half-shrug.

“Did you really think I would hurt you, if you didn’t want to talk?”

There’s no audible guilt in the interviewer’s voice, but sadness flickers across the warlock’s face. “Oh, it’s - it’s okay. You didn’t do anything, to, to scare me. I don’t think. It’s just… I’m just like that.”

“Why are you like that?”

The fingers of his free hand twist a loose thread of his ripped sleeve. Lux stares at the floor.

“Lux?”

“Hmm? So-orry. Um. What did you ask?”

“Why are you like that? Why do you get scared? I’ve done a lot of these interviews, and most people are angry, or tired, or sarcastic. Most don’t let it show that they’re scared. You seem very open about it.”

It’s hard to tell, in the poor lighting of the video recorded at the first snatched moment after some escape from danger, but Lux is paling from his wound. He glances down at it, curls hanging. When he looks back up, he blinks, searching for words to answer with. “Um, I… got made that way. I was, I was… do you know who the Hunter is?”

“The Hunter? He made you open? I thought he killed everyone he took. Did he kill someone you knew?”

“Mnh - uh - ye-eah, but - that was just part of it. He-e, he used to kill, everyone. Mostly. Then he… he took me. I was there, he had me, for… for a year.”

“A year? How did you survive a year with the Hunter?”

“He… I don’t know. He just liked me. It was a l-lot, a lot of pain. And… mind magic.”

Lux glances up, as he mentions the taboo magic, and cringes. He must’ve seen a reaction in the interviewer.

“So your time with him wore you down, took way your defenses. He… did that, to you, and now… what is your mind like now?”

Sweat beads across the warlock’s brow. He doesn’t ask for the interview to stop. “It’s, it’s a mess. It’s just all mixed up, and I forget things, and… everything is hard. M-my… my magic, ‘specially, it, it doesn’t like to work anymore.”

“Do you think that was part of his tactics? He kills a lot of magic users, it seems like he’s trying to cripple the community. Did he mix you up so that your magic wouldn’t work, so you wouldn’t be a threat?”

His frown draws lines into his face. “No. He just, he just liked it. Scaring me. Changing me. It’s not about… he doesn’t do it for, like, society. Going after magic users, it’s just because they’re already hurting, no one cares about us. We’re just easy to target. He’s not like the feds.”

“You sound like you know him pretty well.”

Lux takes a breath, holds it, then nods. His head is heavy on his shoulders. “Better tha-an anyone, I guess.”

“Better than Quinn Mae?”

He blinks. “Quinn - you mean, Quinn, who, who let the Hunter take them, to try and… make a difference?”

“Yes. They sacrificed themself to learn about the Hunter. And it seems that they were successful. But do you know more about him than they do, even after that mission?”

Emotion gets Lux fidgeting. “Th-they - they did a good job. I think they probably learned really important stuff. It wasn’t… I don’t think it was a good idea, but I, I’m proud of them, for trying. I just - I was there for so long. I know more than the facts, I know how he feels about stuff. The Hunter loves, loved me, I… was close to him, for a long time. And I, I haven’t been much help, even though I know all that. Just knowing about him doesn’t make him that much easier to take on. It, um - it actually makes him angrier.”

“Angry enough to start torturing his way through every witch and warlock alive?”

“That’s - you’re out of line.” The assertion is quick and anxious. “It’s not Quinn’s fault. It’s no one’s fault. The Hunter likes to hurt people, he likes to punish people for being brave. Quinn did the, the bravest thing in the world, and that - it just, I guess it set him off. But it’s not their fault.”

“Sounds like cause and effect, Lux.”

“No. I - if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine, he - he wanted me back, he wanted to hurt me, and I said no. I said no to him. He’s punishing me.”

“How did you say no? Did he ask? Why didn’t he just take you anyway?”

The trembling has gotten worse in Lux again, and it jars his hand against his wound, adding tension to the way he sits. “He-e, he called me. On my phone. I said no. I said - he could take me, but I wouldn’t make it easy. I wa-as trying to be b-brave. I was - healing. But… but I guess, he’s been frustrated, and, and I… set him off. I don’t know. He’s hurting so many people, and I’m trying to, to find them all, to make sure they don’t die, to help them process it all. I know what it feels like.”

“So you’re trying to help with the spree, on this end, after they get hurt.”

“Ye-eah. Trying.”

“There’s no way you can save them before they get hurt? You can’t stop him?”

The warlock’s brows twitch. “I-I… no. I’ve thought about it. I’ve… I tried to offer myself up, instead. He loves me, I thought maybe he just wanted me to, to break, to take their place… but he doesn’t want me. He said, said maybe some other time. He just wants to… he’s having fun.”

“I see. Alright, Lux. I’m sorry for bringing up a painful topic. I didn’t mean to accuse you of anything. It’s not your fault. I try not to step in with how I feel, but I wanted to say that. It’s not your fault.”

Lux’s head is dipped down, leaden with guilt. “Yeah, well… you don’t know him like I do.”

[suchawrathfullamb]

all of you who keep posting these will/hugh dancy gif sets are just further justifying hannibal's actions. the more I see his angel face the more I understand hannibal. the true victim.