ACF: A Child First [Closed]

Laine didn't know how to say it. That wasn't unusual - words could be hard, if you didn't know the right ones. She could know, and knowing was half the battle. She could also... know. That was more than just the battle, that was half the war. Not that Hal knew much of anything about warfare, but he did know enough and Know enough things, cracked a hole in their minds, to peer through. Some of them had even cracked a hole back. It was enough to leave a man fractured, but fractures and fractals let the light come through better.

Laine did not like fractures. Or if she did, they had to be the kind that could be resealed cleanly, like a broken bone. Maybe not even that. There were some things that were right messy, that didn't slide back together.

He was beginning to understand why she was good at puzzles.

"Can't change what's done, but you can prevent it from happenin' before the doing does." It sounded like nonsense if you didn't get the idea. Most everything here sounded like nonsense if you didn't get the idea, though, and Hal was good at puzzling through the bits that made non-sense. And if she didn't understand the string of words, she had a dictionary for that, even if it wouldn't help if the strings led into a knot.

She liked puzzles, her file said, but not that kind, the kind that had to be undone to make sense. Things that clicked into place. It wasn't stimulation, because a jigsaw was too easy to be stimulating. The lines were made for her, the faults all in alignment and ready to be pressed. They were the illusion of being able to fix before the breaking even happened. It grounded her, it kept her from being pulled off into the sea of the destructive unknown, it was an...

He reached for his pen very suddenly, which like most things seemed too small in his hands, and was far more permanent than the child's pencil. He didn't set it to the file, though. He instead pressed it to the pages on his notebook for one word without context: Anchor. He didn't want to forget the word, because it felt right, even if he didn't know why. A fragment chipped off, one that could be examined later and possibly put back together if someone else decided it should stay.

The kid's words started to take shape. Hal was a man of many words. Too many, by most people's judgment. He could talk for hours just to hear the sound of his own voice. But he also understood the value of WORDS. The spoken word could be powerful, given the right circumstances, the right rules. Another observation little Laine had made that seemed beyond what most folks might notice: rules had their place, in the chaos that made up Hal's existence. They just had to stay in their place while the rest of his reality spiraled, until he needed them again.

Her words were about knowing and doing. Both important things to say, to note. Hal mulled them over while she mulled over the word on his paper, apparently not much minding the scrawl so long as it was legible. They were surrounded by unknowns, by maybes and couldbes and haven'tbeenyets, but they were important, solid words. Like rules, they were set in stone while the rest of the sentence ambled off into uncertainties.

Now, he knew he could be quite the contrarian at times, but he was a researcher first. The girl's request caught him in a sharing mood. He only had one pen on him, but that was alright. He wouldn't have much more need for notes if this was going where he thought it was.

"'Course." He rolled it across the table, a simple ballpoint that was standard-issue at the Foundation. She could've gotten almost the same pen from practically anyone here, but Hal's was the one on hand, so Hal's would be the one she received. He wasn't sure what the procedure was for her exactly, given her ability seemed now to be rooted in permanence.

But he'd always been a curious sort. Paperwork could be done after he saw what happened.

She thanked him for the pen. Good manners, bad form. He let it go because it was meant to be a gift. It was a small thing. A pen. It wasn't like some other things she could've asked him for. That she almost asked him for. Not with the same force that some things might've requested with, but enough force to be noticed.

Hal might've suddenly seemed very sharp. Maybe it was the shift of his smile, or the glint in his eyes. He wouldn't feel endangered by the half-asked question, but there were some questions that didn't belong in situations like this. And yet, unlike most things, she seemed to have an instinct for that. The confusion followed by hesitance as the world seemed to pause - not anomalously, but in the long moment of uncertainty that followed questions that weren't finished or answered.

The sharpness fell away as he seemed to consider a number of options - he was a man of many names, after all, given he didn't ever want one to become a Name like his real one - but there were a few he'd taken a liking to. Ones he'd used with beings that would break a person not already apparently shattered into sharpened bits, ones for strangers on the impromptu field trips he'd taken as a younger researcher. And yet he, too, felt an instinct, like the one he chose here would have... permanence. Like a puzzle piece that gravity should claim from the edge of the table, but which would stick.

"Strings."

It should've just been a word - one with too many meanings. Banjo strings, puppet strings, the frayed threads at the edge of humanity, the intricate patterns of a spider's web. The lines that all led to a Gordian knot at the center that could be pulled loose or outright destroyed for the right answers. Maybe that was why he felt it was the right word to secure into this moment. And he added nothing else, no rambling explanation for his motives that he might've given to something else with less permanence. The silence didn't suit him, even more than sound didn't.

Or, maybe, people grossly misjudged him, and he was grossly overestimating her. He was just a man, after all; she was just a child, after all. But it was best to assume the worst in cases like hers. Just to see what happened, until all the pieces were in place.

There was a test, and there was an answer. There was a moment of freedom and a moment of binding. There was a gentle chord under his fingertips and then a much sharper Note in the air between them. There was a doctor, and there was an anomaly. There was a man, and a girl, and a Name.

And there was something in between it all that said he'd chosen right. Was it that the Name had always fit him, or was it that he was stretching to accommodate it? You never knew with anomalies. Or most didn't, and some could, but they'd need time to figure it out, like a name taste-tested before use. And there were certain breeds of anomaly that were even less predictable than others. Laine, though, had been quite accommodating so far. There were a few things to do, before Strings considered himself done here, but he had all the time in the world for his little experiment. Or at least the rest of the afternoon.

Settling didn't suit him, but he did it anyway, leaning back into the chair and gently retuning his instrument. It'd be a little tidier, make the subject a bit more comfortable - even more than she already was. He did let his fingers wander for a little while, looking for the right song - a background experiment while waiting for the next one to be ready. See if there was any music she thought might be right for the occasion, but without asking deliberately. And if not, he'd find some chorus or another to pick from the strings.

He never actually settled on a song, bouncing between choruses that settled well enough together but weren't quite right, weren't quite there. Waiting wasn't quite right for a man like Hal - a man like Strings - who in the span of a moment had become a man of two Names. That could be useful in the future, in trials too unlike this one to occupy his mind for very long. As little as he cared for the idea of one being tied to the anomalous child in front of him, it certainly wouldn't hurt that someone else already had it. Safer that way.

Maybe that suited her. It wasn't quite there for him.

He waited, though, because he was a researcher more than he was whatever-else-others-guessed, and even if it was rare it was important here. He did not quite wait until the puzzle was done - that might be too long. But he let her work, and worked through his songs until there was one piece left. A corner, of course. The corner of Hal's mouth twisted back up from the soft neutrality he'd assumed, and anyone with real experience would know that trouble was brewing.

"Hold on a second, Laine," he said, one crooked finger held up as she reached for the last piece. "I wanna show ya somethin' first."

A piece of chalk appeared in his hand. That wasn't on his list of equipment, because, well, that would spoil the surprise. It wouldn't be very tidy to press it against the metal of the table, draw a white symbol there and a small arrow in the direction of the cardboard. He gestured to it, like a showman showing there was nothing up his sleeve. Once he was sure she was looking, he'd hold his hand over it, mutter a word that certainly wasn't in her dictionary, and snap his fingers.

The chalk would ignite like gunpowder. A flash of light, a loud bang that cut the quiet he'd let grow as full as his nature would allow. That was just for show, however. A distraction from the main event: the wave of force that rippled across the lei-line of the arrow, and attempt to shove the pieces apart while she was distracted. It'd make an awful mess if it really did break with her concentration.

Then again, Hal had never claimed to be a tidy man.