i_speak_softly | Sixtieth Theory [Action]

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Sixtieth Theory [Action]

[Luceti is a cruel and perverted world. That's the only possible explanation for why Don revives from his death-by-drowning at the bottom of the lake. He thrashes for the surface with none of his usual graceful movement, and crawls ashore, panting and trying to figure out what happened.

He knows he died.

He remembers there is a price for being restored to the living world.

He lies in the rain, wondering if it will ever end.

When he has enough breath back to sit up, he does so, and carefully checks himself over for what the Malnosso took. Limbs, senses, memories… all seem in order. He stands and walks, and his legs work. He speaks a few words, and his voice is still there.

It doesn't seem possible that the Malnosso brought him back for free, and he's scared for what hidden deficit might reveal itself later.

He has his mask, belt, and pads. All his other gear is absent, hopefully still at home where he left it.

He starts walking.

He knows it will take some time to travel from the western lake to the village, but he knows the way and he's not in a hurry. It will be good to get his thoughts together before he sees his housemates.]

((Don's death penalty is a language disorder called aphasia. Reference post is here, and linked from the index post at the top of his journal. Meet him anywhere on his way back to House 55.

Plotting note: In the near future, Don will want to go to the clinic to find out what's wrong with him. If your character works there, and especially if they would recognize aphasia, please hit me up via PM.))

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[Don circles 7, and begins to write "July" at the top of the column - but stops after J, his pencil hovering uncertainly.]

[This is not good.]

[Robert waits patiently for a few seconds, but when it rapidly becomes apparent that Don cannot write "July" -]

... You cannot sp-spell it?

[There is an unintentional mild note of what might be pity or horror in his voice. Perhaps both.]

[Don shakes his head. He's also having a really hard time thinking backwards to what comes before July. He drops the pencil, no longer interested in the seemingly-simple question of how long he was dead.]

[... That's a level of awful Robert's not even really sure how to say anything about.]

...

[Still looking down at the paper, he asks:] Do you... w-wish for me to continue instead...? [Because he can't just let it go, obviously. He needs to unintentionally make it worse.]

[Don passes the paper to Robert, but he doesn't seem invested in it, the way he usually does when they work on a problem together.]

[And why would he be? This isn't cooperation at all.

Robert, of course, doesn't realize this. He takes the pencil, carefully finishes "JULY" at the top of the calendar, and then, next to it, recreates the calendar shape. This one is drawn with lines as precise as Robert can make them - he visibly winces a little when one line wobbles, and has to go back to erase it.

But eventually he has a matching calendar, which he then labels with "JUNE".]

[Don watches, but listlessly. He wants to know what this is, and he understands Robert's desire to follow the problem through, but part of him would rather not try to deal with this until he's had some food and a long nap.]

[Oblivious to Don's internal feelings, Robert continues the problem - he labels the calendar quickly and efficiently, numbering off the days after writing the names of the days themselves above.

Then his gaze ticks up and over to Don again.

"How many was I there?" The sentence seems like it should make sense. On the surface - grammatically - it is meaningless. But, Robert gets the impression that there is a meaning in it, struggling under the surface.

Come to think of it, didn't "tomato" seem to have a meaning too? Don kept using it. If he's speaking in cipher - like a word-substitution program - then maybe there's something else that should go where "tomato" did.

Is that true for this sentence as well?]

[Uncomfortable with being looked at like that, Don gets up on the excuse of finding some food. He'll just rummage around the kitchen while you draw calendars.]

[That's okay. Robert throws himself mentally into puzzling out the words as Don does.

Somewhere in between, his mind - still a little sluggish and addled from the week's trials - finally makes a connection.

"Many" is a quantitative term, he realizes, staring down at the calendar Don drew. But he obviously meant days. How many days -

There's only one context it would actually make sense to ask that question in.

... How long he was dead.]

[Don recognizes a eureka moment when his partner has one. He gravitates to the kitchen doorway, eyebrow raised, to see what's up.]

[Not quite looking at Don, but - with a hopefulness that belies the tone the question should inspire -]

... You... a-asked me... how long you were... well, dead?

[And this question leads itself to other questions. If Don was trying to convey a meaning and it just wasn't getting through correctly, then maybe the damage is different than Robert suspected.

He'll need to test this.]

Yes.

[He hastily retrieves something from the microwave, then comes back to the couch to see what Robert has figured out.]

[There's a sudden light in Robert's eyes, the intense look he gets when he's absorbed in a problem, and right there he begins to write out the foundations of a fairly complex math problem.

If Don is still Don - if whatever this is hasn't ruined the core of him - then this should be immediately recognizable to him.

Softly:]

You have been... d-dead for over a w-week. You were... gone, entirely, by the time of our... a-arrival, from after the draft.

There was... l-little information associated with your death... [He looks up at Don, teary-eyed but still intense.] It was... d-difficult to tell what had happened, others said...

...

... I n-need to know what this has done to y-you, Don. You speak to me, and it... is n-nonsensical, but you mean something.

[Don is shoveling food into his mouth, but his eyes are on the math problem.]

[Until Robert looks at him.]

[Slowly:]

April says I'm... footwork.

[Again, with the surface-nonsensical sentence. This time, Robert pushes away the immediate reaction of frustration and incomprehension. He needs to get to the bottom of this.]

Wh-Who is "April"...?

[Should he know this person?]

[Casts around. Where is a journal when you actually need one?]

[Would Robert pulling the piece of paper over help? Though he has his journal nearby - Don could probably gesture at it.

Though good luck getting Robert to realize what he means at first.]

No, that one.

[He juggles his food to make a beckoning gesture at the journal.]

[... Oh, okay. That's simple enough!

Robert gets up, goes over to his largely-neglected journal, and places it on the desk in front of Don before sitting down.

... This has to be frustrating for both of them.]

[Don flips through rapidly until he finds the index of Luceti residents, then scans the pictures until he sees Buffy.]

Her.

... Ms. Summers? [Is "April" a nickname of hers'?]

And, er, why did she... say you were... "footwork"...?

[His question is tentative and awkward - he's not sure what this word is supposed to mean.]

[His shoulders slump. How is he supposed to explain that?]

[Oh, Don.

When Robert doesn't get an answer, his expression softens a little, and he reaches out to take Don's hand.]

... M-May I ask you... something else, then?

Could you... finish this mathematical problem for me...? [He presents the paper to Don, with an obvious air of nervous hope.]

I... want to see... [... it's terrible, but he doesn't know a nicer way to say it...] ... whether your intellect is i-intact.

[A range of reactions to this: Sadness. A nod. He reaches for the paper... and looks at Robert with disbelief.]

[After a moment he passes his plastic bowl to Robert so he can take the pencil. He re-reads the problem, then quickly fills in the missing numbers. He's apprehensive as he hands it back - he thinks it's right, but what if it isn't?]

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