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rainbowfic2025-04-15 02:47 pm
paradoxcase) wrote in rainbowfic2025-04-15 02:47 pm
Entry tags:
Ecru #20 [The Fulcrum]
Name: Mental Block
Story: The Fulcrum
Colors: Ecru #20: Resume
Styles and Supplies: None
Word Count: 1194
Rating: T
Warnings: Fantasy Drug (Ab)use
Characters: Setsiana
In-Universe Date: Summer of 1904, 1911.8.5.1
Summary: Setsiana tries to overcome her fears.
They returned after the Governor’s address, or at least, after the Vrelian portion of it; they had not stayed to hear the version that he delivered in T’arsi, for the benefit of any of the merchants who cared, of which there probably were none. The address had indeed been the strangest and funniest thing she had ever seen, although she had been a bit too distracted to really enjoy it, though the other Fair-goers had seemed just as bored by it as they usually were in Setsiana’s time.
She had not tried to escape. She had not attempted to use the knife. Wherever she looked, there had been guards armed with guns, regularly placed between the market stalls, and a large number surrounding the raised platform from which the Governor delivered his address. Had they brought her to the Fair specifically so she could see them? Ordinarily she wouldn’t have entertained that idea, but ever since the conversation with Cyaru at the rug stall she had been feeling oddly hyper-vigilant and a bit paranoid.
The short travel back to 1911 returned her to a more normal state of mind. Three drops under the tongue, and most of the stresses of the day were washed away, replaced with a feeling like being wrapped in a comfortable blanket, and she found herself thinking that she would like to just stay in this mental place, and gaze at the multiplicity of timelines, and forget her troubles, although she knew from her experience earlier that day that the effect would only last for about 30 minutes. They did not return to the wooden circle outside the apartment for this — after a brief discussion, Qhoroali chose a disused patch of greenery on the way back from the Fair for the time travel, and then they continued from there back to the apartment house.
The others chatted happily among themselves about the day and the things they’d seen and purchased, slightly high and invigorated. Qhoroali seemed better disposed for having seen the sun directly and not through her glass window for what Setsiana knew had to have been a couple weeks at least. They retired to Qhoroali’s apartment and sprawled themselves around on her furniture. Setsiana left them there and went to the small room she’d been given, where she sat on the bed and waited to fully come back to three-dimensional reality.
When she could once again only see one timeline, she found that it looked slightly better than it had earlier. She no longer half-expected to see more men with guns, and had stopped actively imagining what it would be like to be killed by one. They were a problem for sure, but they couldn’t be everywhere. She didn’t think anyone she’d met in the house had one, although who knew about the other apartments. She would just have to plan more carefully, and learn to recognize opportunities where guns were unlikely to be involved.
And, to take advantage of those opportunities, she would have to be prepared. She’d had her knife today, but it hadn’t been enough. Maybe for the best, given the proximity of the guns, but there had been long moments when she thought it was the perfect time to stab Cyaru, and she hadn’t moved a muscle. There was a mental block, she realized — a disconnect between the thinking and the doing. She wasn’t quite brave enough to really stab an actual person. This had to change.
The only way to get better at something was to practice. She knew this from years of practicing first reading, then writing scholarly papers, and the way that her skill at teaching had also improved over the four years she’d been doing it. She didn’t have four years here… well, maybe she did. If she spent four years learning how to stab someone and finally got free, she would still be free. It still counted, and she’d still go back to 1647 and resume her life at the same point it had left off.
As she got up off the bed, she noticed that the chatter from the main room had ceased. She left her room to check and, sure enough, they seemed to have gone somewhere else, and left her alone in the apartment. All the better.
She returned to her room anyway, in case they came back, closed the door, and stood in the center of the small space. Wasn’t there a particular way you were supposed to stand when fighting? She couldn’t remember, and had no idea what it might be. This was nonsense, though. She wasn’t really going to fight anyone in her skirts and her easily-grabbable braid with her kitchen knife in its makeshift cloth scabbard. She just needed to surprise and disable her enemy long enough to flee.
She reached into her pocket, pulled out the knife in a fluid motion, and stabbed it into the air in front of her. That seemed simple enough, when there was no one there. She tried to imagine Cyaru standing in front her the way he had been at the rug stall, and angled her body and extended her left hand so that she was in the same position she had been then, relative to him. She wished she had something solid, a doll or a pillow that she could actually stab, but if she actually stabbed something in the apartment the others would probably find out about it.
She put the knife back into her pocket, closed her eyes and imagined with all her willpower, and then replicated the fluid motion from before.
The knife cleared the pocket, but her hand jerked and it fell from her fingers. Even imaginary Cyaru was safe from it.
She picked up the knife and tried again. She was able to carry through this time, but it was a very tentative stab. She tried to imagine his injury if she actually got it right, but she had nothing to go on — she’d never stabbed someone, never seen someone stabbed. Maybe if she’d worked at the pharmacy she would have had experience in bandaging such a wound, but she hadn’t. She wasn’t remotely prepared for this; her only skills were research into the nature of Sapfita, teaching 10-year-olds, and languages that were no longer spoken.
Her third try was better — it might have actually hurt someone — but she knew she needed to get it to be faster and more automatic; she was still having to mentally prepare for her attempts. After a couple more tries, she seemed to be making no more progress, and lay down on the bed, feeling momentarily defeated and somewhat mentally exhausted. Sapfita had promised her she would escape, but how? If she drank some unhealthy amount of qoire the way Qhoroali did, would she be able to just see along all the future timelines, to observe the ones where she managed, and learn how? Probably not; if it actually worked that way, Qhoroali would have also seen it, wouldn’t she?
She must have dozed for a time, and came to to hear Qhoroali knocking on her door and asking if she wanted dinner.
Story: The Fulcrum
Colors: Ecru #20: Resume
Styles and Supplies: None
Word Count: 1194
Rating: T
Warnings: Fantasy Drug (Ab)use
Characters: Setsiana
In-Universe Date: Summer of 1904, 1911.8.5.1
Summary: Setsiana tries to overcome her fears.
They returned after the Governor’s address, or at least, after the Vrelian portion of it; they had not stayed to hear the version that he delivered in T’arsi, for the benefit of any of the merchants who cared, of which there probably were none. The address had indeed been the strangest and funniest thing she had ever seen, although she had been a bit too distracted to really enjoy it, though the other Fair-goers had seemed just as bored by it as they usually were in Setsiana’s time.
She had not tried to escape. She had not attempted to use the knife. Wherever she looked, there had been guards armed with guns, regularly placed between the market stalls, and a large number surrounding the raised platform from which the Governor delivered his address. Had they brought her to the Fair specifically so she could see them? Ordinarily she wouldn’t have entertained that idea, but ever since the conversation with Cyaru at the rug stall she had been feeling oddly hyper-vigilant and a bit paranoid.
The short travel back to 1911 returned her to a more normal state of mind. Three drops under the tongue, and most of the stresses of the day were washed away, replaced with a feeling like being wrapped in a comfortable blanket, and she found herself thinking that she would like to just stay in this mental place, and gaze at the multiplicity of timelines, and forget her troubles, although she knew from her experience earlier that day that the effect would only last for about 30 minutes. They did not return to the wooden circle outside the apartment for this — after a brief discussion, Qhoroali chose a disused patch of greenery on the way back from the Fair for the time travel, and then they continued from there back to the apartment house.
The others chatted happily among themselves about the day and the things they’d seen and purchased, slightly high and invigorated. Qhoroali seemed better disposed for having seen the sun directly and not through her glass window for what Setsiana knew had to have been a couple weeks at least. They retired to Qhoroali’s apartment and sprawled themselves around on her furniture. Setsiana left them there and went to the small room she’d been given, where she sat on the bed and waited to fully come back to three-dimensional reality.
When she could once again only see one timeline, she found that it looked slightly better than it had earlier. She no longer half-expected to see more men with guns, and had stopped actively imagining what it would be like to be killed by one. They were a problem for sure, but they couldn’t be everywhere. She didn’t think anyone she’d met in the house had one, although who knew about the other apartments. She would just have to plan more carefully, and learn to recognize opportunities where guns were unlikely to be involved.
And, to take advantage of those opportunities, she would have to be prepared. She’d had her knife today, but it hadn’t been enough. Maybe for the best, given the proximity of the guns, but there had been long moments when she thought it was the perfect time to stab Cyaru, and she hadn’t moved a muscle. There was a mental block, she realized — a disconnect between the thinking and the doing. She wasn’t quite brave enough to really stab an actual person. This had to change.
The only way to get better at something was to practice. She knew this from years of practicing first reading, then writing scholarly papers, and the way that her skill at teaching had also improved over the four years she’d been doing it. She didn’t have four years here… well, maybe she did. If she spent four years learning how to stab someone and finally got free, she would still be free. It still counted, and she’d still go back to 1647 and resume her life at the same point it had left off.
As she got up off the bed, she noticed that the chatter from the main room had ceased. She left her room to check and, sure enough, they seemed to have gone somewhere else, and left her alone in the apartment. All the better.
She returned to her room anyway, in case they came back, closed the door, and stood in the center of the small space. Wasn’t there a particular way you were supposed to stand when fighting? She couldn’t remember, and had no idea what it might be. This was nonsense, though. She wasn’t really going to fight anyone in her skirts and her easily-grabbable braid with her kitchen knife in its makeshift cloth scabbard. She just needed to surprise and disable her enemy long enough to flee.
She reached into her pocket, pulled out the knife in a fluid motion, and stabbed it into the air in front of her. That seemed simple enough, when there was no one there. She tried to imagine Cyaru standing in front her the way he had been at the rug stall, and angled her body and extended her left hand so that she was in the same position she had been then, relative to him. She wished she had something solid, a doll or a pillow that she could actually stab, but if she actually stabbed something in the apartment the others would probably find out about it.
She put the knife back into her pocket, closed her eyes and imagined with all her willpower, and then replicated the fluid motion from before.
The knife cleared the pocket, but her hand jerked and it fell from her fingers. Even imaginary Cyaru was safe from it.
She picked up the knife and tried again. She was able to carry through this time, but it was a very tentative stab. She tried to imagine his injury if she actually got it right, but she had nothing to go on — she’d never stabbed someone, never seen someone stabbed. Maybe if she’d worked at the pharmacy she would have had experience in bandaging such a wound, but she hadn’t. She wasn’t remotely prepared for this; her only skills were research into the nature of Sapfita, teaching 10-year-olds, and languages that were no longer spoken.
Her third try was better — it might have actually hurt someone — but she knew she needed to get it to be faster and more automatic; she was still having to mentally prepare for her attempts. After a couple more tries, she seemed to be making no more progress, and lay down on the bed, feeling momentarily defeated and somewhat mentally exhausted. Sapfita had promised her she would escape, but how? If she drank some unhealthy amount of qoire the way Qhoroali did, would she be able to just see along all the future timelines, to observe the ones where she managed, and learn how? Probably not; if it actually worked that way, Qhoroali would have also seen it, wouldn’t she?
She must have dozed for a time, and came to to hear Qhoroali knocking on her door and asking if she wanted dinner.
no subject
no subject
Thanks! I hope the resolution to this does not disappoint when we get there.
no subject
no subject
Haha, thanks!