stilljustandrew | (no subject)

Ava's more or less used to moving through creepy existential blackness.

She follows him.

There's no way of telling how far they've walked, or how long they've been walking.

"Wait," Andrew says suddenly. "Up ahead, there's something. I ... I think it's a place...."

It could be a place. It's definitely a something, in the midst of the formless void.

There is light of some kind there; existence of some kind.

(Entropy always wins, in the end.

But here and now -- wherever and whenever this is -- the end is not quite yet.)

Ava can see it too-- for some value of 'see' and 'it.'

"There's a light ..."

A glance to Andrew.

"Should we go for it?"

She's already becoming annoyed at the nothingscape, for robbing her of real options and meaningful direction.

He glances back at her, pale in the darkness, and nods. "Yeah."

Something about this is familiar. Something.

Ava sighs.

"Lead on, dude."

Andrew leads on.

There's a song in his head that he can almost identify; he's humming it, half consciously, as he walks.

(over at the frankenstein plaaaace)

It strikes Ava as naggingly familiar ...

Or maybe just nagging.

Still, she decides to focus on this most-likely-a-place they're approaching. Ultimately, it's more relevant than snapping at Andrew for humming.

It's definitely a place of some kind.

That is all that can definitely be said about it: there is no telling whether it's an artificial structure or a natural formation or an organic growth, or some bizarre amalgam, or something else entirely.

There's an opening that might be a door, and a figure standing in it.

Huh. They're not alone.

Ava looks between Andrew and the mysterious figure.

Low, "Do you see that?"

"Yeah." No louder. "It's ... "

It's a she: blindfolded, robed and crowned, and holding a set of scales in one hand and a sword in the other. It's also peculiarly indistinct, as though many different figures stand there, overlapping, constantly shifting in and out of phase with each other.

Something about it is maddeningly familiar.

The blindfolded head turns as though to look at each of them as they approach. "New faces," she says, sounding pleased. "It is long and long since we had any new faces here."

Ava was about to feel cheerful about their odds against a blindfolded chick, but ... she seems like she's got something to rely on other than vision.

"Oh," she replies, sneaking another glance to Andrew.

"Um." A nod. "That's great ...

Where is 'here'? Ma'am."

(She feels like if she looks too long, she'll start to go cross-eyed.)

"Let me look at you," she says. If she's heard Ava's question, she gives no sign.

The hand holding the scales stretches out toward each of them, fingers spread: first Andrew, then Ava. "The Scholar. The Knight of Shadows. Who were you? Of what spirits are you composed?"

Andrew's eyes widen. "Terminus," he breathes. "The Castle Terminus. Is that where we are?"

Knight of what?

Okay, all of this evidently means something to Andrew, which is good. (She can't help wondering, though: Does 'no new faces' include magic spiderbots?)

"What's the Castle Terminus?" she whispers.

"We do call this place Terminus," the blindfolded woman says, "for there are no more journeys to be made from here. This is --"

"-- the only place there is," Andrew whispers along with her, and then raises his voice. "And you're ... Justice?"

She nods.

Swiftly, in an undertone to Ava: "It's the place nearest to the end of time, in the world where Baby's creator came from --"

Ava stares at them both like they're speaking in secret code.

"Her creator," she says, seizing on the part that seems to have potential.

"Okay, so, she could be here?"

"She could be."

He looks to Justice, spreading his hands. "We're -- we aren't from around here. We came looking for a friend of mine."

The woman regards them with serenity, or seems to --

(her blindfold is a hood, a veil, a smooth expanse of eyeless skin)

-- and says "One may ask. Come with me, please. The others will be so pleased to see new faces."

Ava cannot suppress a look of extreme misgiving.

Mostly because her brain finishes that sentence with to wear as skin masks.

But she looks to Andrew and shrugs.

"I don't think they'll hurt us," he says, very low. "I don't think they can. They can't ... change anything."

Ava frowns.

She'd ask him how he knows, but if it's Baby's creator's world-- maybe he's been here before or something.

"You're the boss," she replies, at the same volume.

"The Hermit would agree with you," Justice says, turning to lead them into the castle. "He used to say that we do not exist at all; that we are merely echoes of what once was, poppets for the universe to play with in her dotage. Memories of what once was. And surely a memory can do no harm."

They're walking down a corridor, or a spiral stair, or a catwalk over a vast gallery.