velocette | (no subject)

The first dyes the royals used, indigo and purple dyes, came from mollusks. But since a mollusk is [he holds up two fingers, barely apart] tiny, they had to fish millions of them to put out anything to sell. The whole city reeked of rotting sea food...that's on historical record. I mean every city then--well hygiene wasn't like it is now, every city was coated in waste. Worse than now. So for them to point out Tyre and say that city reeked...?

[He has a point. He's getting to it. Slowly.] We don't have a chance to fish much here, so I'll have to get creative. [He has a pile of objects in one corner, which is sometimes visible , especially when he pauses to light a cigarette]

Harvey, I've got the fish. They seem happier.

I need deeply colored objects--scraps, trash, whatever--but I can't... [a wan smile] It's not something I can figure out. Can't tell which of these is blue. [Which is a hint at a certain someone.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

velocette

[He nods, and hands it to her. Sharing a smoke is never a bad thing, in his book--even if it does cause cancer and a host of other complications that he's aware of.

The tone of her voice carries just enough that, even though he misses the last half of her question due to his ears going dead, he tells her the truth.]

I led them to gang warfare, mostly. I made them believe that fighting over intersections and sticky alleyways was noble... I made them think we were like Arthur and his Knights, that we were Crusaders, except instead of ramming ideals into a distant culture, we killed each other for the fun of it. Cowboys and Indians crap, same thing you'd find on a playground, except I armed them with switchblades and lead pipes.

From:

rhapsody_in

[She holds it the way he does, easily and accustomed, although it is a new experience for her. When she takes a drag she holds her breath for a second, forcing herself not to cough, before exhaling the smoke.] How do you do this?

[She meets his eyes as he talks, nodding occasionally, and as he finishes she reaches for his hand, intending to weave their fingers together.]

The Crusaders killed for the fun of it, Piper. So did knights. Cowboys, Indians, children; they all do it. It's nature. Stupid and natural, as so many things are.

From:

velocette

How, or why? [He doesn't look down when her hand touches his, but instead just takes it, fingers laced between hers, as natural as anything.]

It is. I think if my instincts weren't so far removed, I'd have been very happy, leading my "men" from gutter to gutter.

Have you ever heard of a war that went the way the soldiers dreamed it would?

From:

rhapsody_in

How. I'll find out the why on my own. [She likes that easy intimacy, strokes the back of his hand with her thumb.]

Nothing ever goes the way anyone dreams it will.

From:

velocette

You draw it in slow, let it fill your lungs...if I go long enough between smokes, I can feel my heartbeat change with the first drag.

[He draws on the cigarette to show her, blows it out toward the leafy canopy.]

Does that mean you've never seen a dream fulfilled? Not even close? [From another person it would seem like a leading question perhaps, but from him it's almost the same curiosity of a historian.]

From:

rhapsody_in

This is a skill you'll have to teach me.

[She hesitates, reaching for the cigarette again.]

No, some dreams come true. But never in the way you hope.

From:

velocette

[He offers the cigarette to her, a crooked smile as well.]

Tell me a dream that went wrong.

From:

rhapsody_in

Mine, or someone else's? [Accepting it, she lifts it to her lips and takes a slow, short drag this time. It's easier than the first breath, and as she exhales she notices a slight lightheaded feeling.
]

Have you ever heard of a man named Vincent van Gogh?

From:

velocette

Yes...he signed all of his 'Vincent'.

[Considering he has never seen the paintings in all their color, that was the thing that stood out most to him: that amid all the little blocks and dabs of paint, the artist had signed his name in the same forthright, personal manner of a child.]

From:

rhapsody_in

You do.

[Obviously he does and Bleu is surprised; Vincent was very talented, but had accomplished little fame or monetary success in her time, as she knew him.]

Do you know his story?

From:

velocette

[He frowns, considering the question, before finally shaking his head.]

The things I've heard would be rude to believe without hearing from a better source.

[There's no better source than a muse, he's pretty sure. He smiles at her and squeezes her hand; go on.]

From:

rhapsody_in

He was a passionate man. Mad, brilliant, talented -- he saw things no one else could. He wanted to show what he saw, and I believe he did.

But he died for it.

From:

velocette

[He doesn't quite look at her as she speaks; instead he watches a low branch, and his expression is soft, like they're discussing a favorite cousin.]

What killed him?

[It's a very different question than 'how did he die'.]

From:

rhapsody_in

A gunshot. [Her laugh is a little harsh. She regrets Vincent's murder, had been furious with the Colorman for pulling the trigger over his hidden painting.]

I knew him, of course. [She pauses for a long time. What she's about to reveal is dangerous, frighteningly true. It would be the second time in her existence, and she weighs the decision carefully.]

I loved him. And I know he loved me.

From:

velocette

[He studies her, subconsciously leaning closer. This time, though, it's because he's intrigued and his hearing is unreliable. It's unusual to find any story he still cares about, so when one comes along, he'll be damned if he misses a word.]

Then you know who pulled the trigger?

From:

rhapsody_in

[She looks past him for a moment, eyes still on him but gazing at something far away. Then she nods.

It wasn't me.

From:

velocette

Have you ever...?

[It's such a surreal question to ask of her.]

From:

rhapsody_in

What, shot someone?

From:

velocette

Or killed, in some other way.

From:

rhapsody_in

I have.

From:

velocette

What did it look like?

[This isn't the poetic question from before. He's indifferent to death, be it murder or not, so he usually would have nodded and shrugged. How can you resist asking someone like Bleu about something so personal, though?]

From:

rhapsody_in

Like death. Loss. Light fading away.

It's probably the same in gray.

From:

velocette

...Maybe. I mostly wonder what mine looked like. Different at every angle, I suspect. [His little brother had been there; and the fish must have been, too, dying along with him. (What did death look like to a fish?) Cops, who knew what they saw.]

How did you meet Van Gogh?