worthallthis | IC Inbox: In the Night

I always cheat in solitaire.

[Quentin says with a small smile, shrugging as he pushes three peanuts in to the pile to join Soldat's one and he discards two of the cards in his hand.]

I know, I know. I'm only cheating myself, but... I really hate to lose, you know? And really, who's going to tell me not to.

Not going to hold that against you, pal. It's Solitaire. Should do what makes it fun. Raising, I guess.

[They add a second peanut to the pile in the hopes that maybe their pitiful pair of Jacks is better than what Quentin has.]

[Eyeing the small pile of peanuts, Quentin pushes another one in and looks back down at his cards. Nothing. And it would be so easy to just--]

It still makes me feel guilty, isn't that weird? Even here and I mean, if I can't cheat in Solitaire after I'm dead, then...

Well, if you feel guilty, then it's not having fun, is it.

[Soldat takes a moment to frown and try to remember what you say to show cards. They've got no desire to waste any more peanuts on this dumb, terrible hand.]

Call?

Clearly, you haven't really met me yet. [Because really, feeling guilty about something, anything, was practically the baseline of Quentin's whole existence.]

Sure thing.

[And he places his shitty cards face-up on the pew between them and flips the wild. A pair of three's, but that's it.]

Huh. Pair beats pair.

[Maybe a pair of Jacks isn't so pitiful after all. Soldat puts their cards down, and pulls in the winnings. Then tosses their cards into the discard pile to get a new hand dealt.]

Do you like feeling guilty, Quentin?

[A pause. A drop of knowledge without context into their head, and a frown.]

Are you Catholic?

[He makes some kind of startled laugh and Quentin looks up, quirking his eyebrows.]

No, no I am not-- [and he deals them both another set of cards with a small smile.] I mean, I get why you might think that? But I am not really anything. I think my dad was protestant? We never really went to church. Did you?

My ma was Jewish. Don't know what my pa was, but I remember. A thing with lots of kneeling and getting back up again? A lot of being bored? Not sure what kind of church that was.

[It was Catholic, all right. They just don't have the label properly assigned to it in their memory. Soldat accepts their cards, shuffles them around in their hand.]

Steve was Catholic, though, I know that. My friend from Before.

One of my friends? From back home. He's Jewish. And- [Quentin barely glances at the cards before putting them back down.]- I think most of them have the whole kneeling thing?

My dad didn't... after my mom left, and it was just the two of us, there were other things to do than go to church. [Garden work when a therapist suggested that Quentin needed more structure and fresh air. Projects with paint and chopping up wood when someone suggested that that might help Quentin and his broken brain.]

And? What are you? Like your mom, your dad or your friend?

I don't know. Probably nothing.

[They shake their head.]

A little hard to believe in any kind of purpose to the universe when you spent a normal person's lifetime programmed to murder people on command.

[And they set the starting bet, discard two cards, and nab two more to replace them.]

What?

[After everything, after Fillory and the Beast and Plover turning out to be even worse than the Beast. After life and death and quests and castles placed on the flip-side of world that saved his life when he was younger... this is still a lot.

The cards are on the pew and Quentin just grabs two at random and takes two new ones.]

Programmed to what? Who?

[Oh, did Quentin not know about that? This is gonna be a fun conversation.]

Programmed, brainwashed, whatever you want to call it. By a group called HYDRA. I was their pet assassin. They're the ones who took my memories. Repeatedly. Apparently even with the programming, they needed me to not know who I was.

[They rearrange the cards in their hand.]

Raise you two.

I see that raise, and I raise you, uh... four?

[He tilts his head and just... frowns.]

They what? Did that on purpose? What the-- that's fucked up. I mean, not you. [Quentin holds out a hand, fingers twitching] Not you, but them? And what they did? Is that... how you died?

I died on a mission, not because of them. A flying aircraft carrier with a lot of guns fell apart and crashes with me inside.

[Because it's literally only peanuts, Soldat puts in the four, then makes a "show me" motion with their free hand. What cards you got, Q.]

They did do it on purpose. They wanted to use me. There's no magic on my world, but we do have. I guess you'd say supersoldiers. Stronger, faster, better aim and improved processing power, heal more quickly. Assets. If you can control us.

[Quentin turns his cards over- three of the same. All eights.]

Jesus, that's-- so fucked up. I mean, I know there are spells that would do the same thing and- and it's not like there are that many forbidden spells. But just... sometimes I don't get people.

[So, it's disjointed, Quentin's voice low as he bites his lip and looks up at Soldat only in short glimpses from underneath his bangs. But it's heartfelt. What-]

Dicks.

[Soldat gets pretty disjointed at times. They at least can pick up the gist of it.]

I don't get them all the time, either. This, though, I understood just fine. They required order for their version of peace. And order only comes through pain.

[This time, it's not a slogan popping out of their mouth without thought, it's as close to sarcastic as Soldat is capable of getting: bone dry and pointed. They set their cards down, a small straight of four, five, and six. A straight beats three of a kind, but just barely. Two hands to Soldat.]

My pain. Pain of the people they want to rule. Never theirs, though.

[Order through pain and Quentin can still remember dean Fogg's speech when he was enrolled in to Brakebills. Magic comes from pain, and the underlying theory that what sets them apart- what makes them special is how deep the pain goes and how willing they are to channel that pain in to magic.

It's bullshit.

Quentin's magic had never been better than it was when he'd been happy. Truly happy.]

What a load of dicks.

[Quentin pushes the pile of peanuts to Soldat and starts shuffling the cards again. He holds the deck out-]

Are you... okay? With that?

I don't think like they do. If that's what you mean.

[A pause.]

Mostly. I try not to. Sometimes it just happens. Familiarity. The goddamn HYDRA slogan popped out of my mouth a few weeks ago.

[So embarrassing. They take the offer card deck and deal themselves, instead.]

But I don't like it. Ain't right. Not just because it fucked me up pretty good, wouldn't want their kind of order for anybody.

[Looking at the cards he's been dealt, Quentin puts them in order and pushes two peanuts in to the middle of the pew.]

I didn't think you did, you just don't seem like someone who would do that to someone. But also... dicks.

[There's not much else to say to that - mind-control? Yikes. And in to doing things that fucking awful? The Margolem had been bad enough, and that had only been Margo's image and some of her magic. Not her whole self. Jesus.]

I'm sorry? That that happened to you?

[They meet the bet, then trade out... three cards. What a crap hand.]

It's okay.

[Well, it's not okay, but Soldat is never really sure what to say to apologies like that.]

I'm. Getting better, or so people tell me.

It's really not.

[Okay. But then again, growing up means figuring out how much of the crap happening was so not okay on any level and sure, nothing in Quentin's life was ever as bad as being mind-controlled in to killing people. But that was probably only because Alice as a Niffin never seemed to want to kill people. Just magical being and most days, Quentin tries to just not think about how many she killed while using his body.

Or what else she might have done while wearing his skin like a cheap suit.

He trades one card, and places the new hand face up on the pew.

Three of a kind. All nines.]

Nothing like dying to put everything in to perspective?

[Beats Soldat's shit hand of one pair of Jacks, easy. They push the pile of peanuts Quentin's way.]

I guess. Being free and not getting brain-fried every other day probably did more than dying did.

[They discard both hands and deal out new ones. This is kind of nice, the motions are familiar and comfortable, like they've done this so many times it's just ingrained.]

Did dying put things into perspective for you, too?

Oh. Right, yeah. So, that tracks.

[As he picks up the new cards, discarding three before he pushes a handful of peanuts in to the middle.]

It-- uh, yeah? Yes, maybe. At least until I woke up on the ferry and found out that I wasn't done with saving the world after all. And I really, really wanted to not do that anymore.

[Oh, this is a much better hand. Soldat sorts, picks one card, adds to the peanut pile. There's a raise in there.

That's a curious sentiment, though. They have to ask:]

Why don't you? It seems like a good sort of goal. Saving people instead of hurting them.

IC Inbox: In the Night

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