worthallthis | IC Inbox: In the Night

[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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