great minds against themselves conspire

[collector]

[Sometimes, it won't all stay locked away. Sometimes the seal can't take the pressure. Sometimes the maze won't keep the monster in. Sometimes the jar cracks apart and all the evils come pouring out into the universe.

Sometimes, you just can't hide the pain you're in.

And Irving Braxiatel can't, though he tries to make it to the forest before he cracks, because that pain is written all over him. Oh, his clothing is as immaculate as ever, his skin is unblemished, not a single hair is out of place. But his bones are all jagged angles, his muscles constricted, and his mouth is sealed tight to try to contain any expression suffering.

Braxiatel covers his face with his hands, presses at his head with his fingertips. He staggers in his walk—sinks to his knees, shaking. His mouth opens—not to scream, but to soundlessly recite ancient equations, one last incantation against something terrible and old. Because if he holds on just a little longer, he can overcome this, he can take back control, he can draw it all in. If he holds it together just a little longer, he can win.]

[And then Braxiatel goes perfectly still. He closes his mouth and, slowly, draws his hands away from his face. He gets one foot out from under him, pulls himself up, stands for a moment in silence. Then he straightens out his suit and looks himself over without a reflection. Braxiatel sighs a breath of relief, for victory and for hard-won control. Slow, steady, his eyes rake over the Plane. No monsters drawn by his faltering. Good.]

Well. That was more trouble than it ought to have been, wasn't it? I'll have to get something for these migraines.

Comments

[bit_impossible]

[grins] But it doesn't. It was only a matter of time before the rumours of my madness became true.

[collector]

[Braxiatel sighs, then steps away. The Doctor's slings and arrows have been missing their mark all this time, and he is so clearly not himself that Braxiatel can't be hurt by anything he says. It is simply madness: pathetic, pitiful madness. In an exceedingly detached way (for that is how illness takes him: it stills his heart until black blood oozes out from the ice), Braxiatel assesses that the Doctor needs a psionic examination, and Brax, in his current state, can't give it. Being placating has had no effect, so Brax'll give one more offer to reason.]

This is all really very dreary, so if it isn't too much trouble, I'd like you to come with me and we can find another of your selves to take a look at your mind.

[bit_impossible]

[his grin slips bit by bit, his eyes narrowing as he glares at Brax. what part of 'free' doesn't he get?] Too much trouble? Ohhh, I couldn't imagine it'd be anything but for you. Or, for that matter, the others. [a bitter tone seeps into his voice now, barely masking the abandonment for more people leaving him, even on the Plane. it doesn't occur to him to recognise that, in this case, they probably didn't have a choice. he's perfectly entitled to think this way] Wherever the hell they've got to.

[collector]

[As the Doctor finishes speaking, Braxiatel takes out his staser to shoot the Doctor in the leg. He doesn't feel he has enough time to switch it to stun, so the most efficient way to deal with the problem would be to incapacitate the Doctor, stun him, and then heal the injury. But is he fast enough?]

[bit_impossible]

[he isn't, in fact, fast enough but any shred of naivety regarding Brax he has left is certainly gone now. he hisses, crying out from the staser blast as he crumbles to the ground and clutches his leg. his glare turns positively toxic.]

[through gritted teeth:] You...you shot me! [begins to chuckle despite the pain running up his leg] What, no knife to use on my back? Haven't got a group of armed people waiting in the forest for me, have you?

[collector]

[switches the setting to stun] And you tried to punch me out of anger. This is for your own good. Moral high ground's still mine, I think. [Braxiatel aims and this time, fires to knock out.]

[bit_impossible]

[this time, he's expecting it and rolls away, narrowly missing the stunning blast. as good of a retort he has to what Brax had said, he keeps it to himself and simply unleashes a kick of his good leg aimed at Brax's own.]

[collector]

[Braxiatel is sure the Doctor's would-be retort would have made Wilde himself break into applause. But he's far more occupied by the kick aimed at his leg. His shields are down, so it's enough to make him stagger.

But then he pulls out something new. The air around them goes dry as the moisture is drawn out of it and pulled into mirrors to box the Doctor in. All Brax needs is one good shot, and so he aims at the torso and fires to put his troublesome relation to sleep.]

[bit_impossible]

[delivering the kick sends rush of adrenaline through him, a wicked little grin gracing his lips--but that feeling quickly turns to horror as those mirrors close in on him. he's knocked out just as the beginnings of an angry, scared scream leaves his mouth.]

[collector]

Such a shame to be so afraid of one's own reflection. [Brax disperses the mirrors easily, puts away his weapon, and then sighs as he looks down on the Doctor] Now how am I meant to drag you off until I can get someone to take a look at you?

[bit_impossible]

[if he was awake, he'd protest about being dragged anywhere. since he isn't, it's probably a good thing he's wearing that long, brown coat of his, even if there is a sword tucked into the folds of it. probably a good thing he forgot about it, or things could have gotten ugly...]

[collector]

[Though Brax isn't able to get the Doctor psionic help, he does get the leg healed. He frowns at not being able to do more, not being able to save or protect. But a pattern appears in his head, and he wonders . . .]

[Braxiatel leaves the Doctor in the woods, where he will be safe from monsters. And he steps away so the Doctor may, he hopes, wake up to be himself again.]