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...Rosalind. There's something I want to tell you, before I go on, and I hope you'll take it to heart.

[He glances up at her, all green eyes and a solemn expression, but in a way that for once actually makes him look young from its earnest sincerity, as opposed to old beyond his apparent years.]

You are brilliant. And you are ruthless. But never forget that whatever evils you may or may not embody, necessary or otherwise, you are nowhere close to comparable to the worst that humanity has to offer.

[Her breath catches, and she stares back at him, her eyes widening in surprise.

It isn't as if she'd believed that about herself, of course. She's aware of her crimes, but that awareness is just that: knowledge of a fact, unburdened by an inordinate amount of guilt or self-loathing. She and Robert have atoned, and so while nothing can make up for the fact they committed those crimes to begin with, they at least have made things right.

No. It's not some absolution of guilt that has her pausing. It's just--

It's the sincerity in his voice, maybe. It's the underscoring of the fact that they're on the other side of her confession, and he still cares for her. This is an assurance, and the raw honesty of it is what leaves her a little stunned.

But there's an implication there, woven between his words, one she'd be a fool not to see.]

What did they do?

They sold the thrill of murder.

[He says, quietly and simply.]

The experience of torturing and slaughtering the exotic novelties that came through the tunnel. They didn't keep them or exploit them. They held parties and reveled in murdering them in increasingly elaborate and creative ways.

. . . ah.

[Her expression doesn't change a bit, but the color drains from her cheeks. Her fingers curl and uncurl, and she stares at the counter as she thinks about all the implications of that. They unfold one by one, a little layer of horror that she realizes and then pushes away, only to reveal yet another beneath it.

Parties, first of all. Parties, plural. Suppose the demonic population is as numerous as humanity is. Kurama had once told her lesser demons were far, far more common than powerful ones, so surely there was a steady stream of them emerging from the tunnel. So how many had been killed, then? How many-- hundreds, surely. Hundreds, tortured and slaughtered for the amusement of the elites of--

Not Columbia. But it's their faces that fill her mind as she imagines this. Fink and Saltonstall and Marlowe, all those pompous, wealthy men who'd made up Columbia's upper crust, all those Founders, this would be precisely up their alley. The slaughter of creatures so beneath them they didn't even register as people anymore. Just things. Things that lived and died for their amusement.

Another layer: Kurama somehow knows of this, and yet that such practices must have been a relative secret, or else no demon would ever leave Makai. How precisely had he learned of it? But there's only two real options available there. Either Kurama had known of a person who had escaped, and listened to their tale. Unlikely, given that she imagines such a tale would spread. Which leaves her with the other option: that Kurama had, at some point in his long life, experienced such an event firsthand.

She looks over at him. His expression is as still as hers, but there's something deadened in his gaze that chills Rosalind.]

. . . your friend's sister. The one who cried gems. They coerced her to cry, you said. Were these the same people?

[But Urameshi had rescued her. And it's absurd, really, that such a thought is comforting, when hundreds have already died, but perhaps it's because she has more of a connection to the girl than some anonymous demon.]

Edited 2017-03-16 01:11 (UTC)

I believe it's very likely. The one who had her was something of a collector, and housed a menagerie of demons on the premises of his estate. But he was one member of a group.

[He hums under his breath, turning his attention back to his bowl of work and stabbing at it with the spoons a little more forcefully than necessary.]

That group of people comprises a group of men so wealthy that normal entertainments have lost all meaning to them. So they gamble, or engage in black market crimes, because the only things left to them in the world are the prospect of increasing their income, and the thrill of victory.

I'm familiar with the type.

[Not to that precise degree, but oh, that had been Fink all over, hadn't it? He'd been the wealthiest man by far in Columbia, and yet he was obsessed with increasing his fortune in all kinds of ways. And in the meantime, he'd indulged in everything he could think of, because why shouldn't he?]

You . . . did you . . . witness such an event for yourself?

No.

[It's quiet, but gentle. Her hesitation — even fear, perhaps — stings him with a sorrow that surprises even him; it's not that he didn't think she cared about him, of course, but she sounds so apprehensive about receiving the confirmation that he might have been present for one of those aforementioned orgies of cruelty, even with firsthand confirmation right in front of her that he'd survived it if he had.

So he seeks to comfort her. He speaks gently, and reassures her immediately before elaborating.]

Spirit World often turns a blind eye to crimes committed against demons, but these incidents were so heinous that even Spirit World couldn't feasibly ignore them. I caught wind of it through them — certainly that group of individuals are on Spirit World's figurative radar for a number of ongoing transgressions, not just those events.

[Thank god, and some of the tension eases out of her. Not all of it, no, but-- god, thank god, and Rosalind has to duck her head and focus on the pie for a moment, her fingers clenching and loosening, til she can get control of her expression once more.

And as she stares at nothing, she wonders at that confession. She'd known little of Makai, yes, but from the way he'd spoken of it before, she hadn't thought them some kind of-- of oppressed population. God, the way he'd spoken of Youko, he'd made it sound as though he was some kind of king, swaggering around, too powerful to ever be contained.]

Are you all so hated?

[Certainly the word demon doesn't bring much good to mind. But her world is entirely separate from his, and anyway, demons don't exist at all in her home. She'd assumed the rules were vastly different.]

Edited 2017-03-16 06:05 (UTC)

[Oh. Now that's a good question, isn't it? Are you all so hated, and the easy answer is no. No, of course not, certainly there are degrees of tolerance. Certainly a demon that causes no harm is at least judged differently than one who plots to harm humankind and overrun the earth.

And yet even as that kneejerk impulse passes through his mind, it occurs to him just how unlikely and naive an impulse it actually is. Why were two paroled demons sent to assist the Spirit Detective in his attempt to quell a rebellion and uprising? Certainly something like that couldn't reasonably be construed as "community service" on the part of Spirit World. Was it because they stood a high chance of success at best — and were expendable at worst?

And why, furthermore, did Koenma link their two sentences, so that any transgression on Hiei's part would be reflected back on him as well? His deeds have nothing to do with Hiei's. Not unless his selfish interest in his own freedom would incentivize him to control Hiei.

And Hiei was ready to kill humans for the sake of his sister. Why had Koenma moved? Was it really for Yukina's sake — or was it out of concern of what Hiei might do in the course of rescuing her?

Are demons all so hated?]

Hated, feared. Demons tend to be a fairly straightforward breed — immensely powerful, generally violent. In intelligence we tend to vary widely from little more than beasts to creatures with perception on the level of the human conception of gods.

But I don't know that we're inherently any more evil than humans are. A few humans have come to conclude that, thankfully, but not many, and they're few and far between.

[She isn't certain how to respond to that. I'm sorry? Only that's both pathetic and useless, even if she truly does feel the sentiment. I'm sorry your entire species is hated and feared, I can't possibly imagine-- no. He knows her well enough to see her sympathy and horror, and that's enough. Not every emotion needs to be articulated.]

I should think humanity a bit worse, frankly.

[Not that he's confessed every demonic crime. But Rosalind has seen too much of humanity's worst to ever think particularly fondly of the species as a whole. And frankly, there's something refreshingly straightforward about the label of violence, especially as a means to acquire power. It isn't good, but it's a far sight better than, say, something being mutilated and told it was for their own good.

Perhaps someday she'll tell him of the Handymen. Of the Firemen, of all of Fink's terrifying inventions, all the horrific little details that had made up day-to-day life in Columbia. But not today.]

. . . we've strayed a bit from pie-making, I think.

We have. But I think it comes full-circle, in terms of the scope of humanity.

[He offers her a faint smile, finishing up with the apples and then tipping the bowl toward her for a taste of the same.]

Your range, I think, is far wider in scope than demonkind's. Capable of far more cruelty, to be sure, but also sometimes...a model for how we could be better, as well.

You're speaking to the wrong twin if you'd like that perspective, Kurama.

[But her voice is a little brisker now. It's a tart reply, lighter and easier than the slow, somber replies she'd given before. Rosalind steals one more apple piece, humming softly in pleasure as the sweetness hits her tongue.]

Especially on the heels of thinking of Jeremiah Fink.

I would've said that's a case in point. You've seen a world whose human race encompasses both Jeremiah Fink and Robert Lutece.

[What endpoints. The worst and the best of what the world has to offer — from one person's very biased viewpoint, at least.

But then, that's sort of the point.]

But I'll tell him the same, if you like. Someday.

Someday.

[Someday, someday. Someday, he will come to get her, Rosalind knows. He'll find his way into her arms once more, because Robert is as attached to her as she is him, and a life without her will be very nearly intolerable. They tore open the universe once to find one another, and he will again. But . . .

She remembers Booker. Seventy-two years, Elizabeth had once waited for him. Robert will come for her, yes, of course he will, but there's no guarantee it'll be anytime soon. A year? Two years? But ah, does it truly matter? He'll come for her, and they'll find a way out, and time will once again cease to have any meaning for them. They can spend an eternity making up for lost time.

(She dreams of him sometimes. She dreams of him stepping off that train, of falling asleep in his arms, his fingers tangled in her hair, his breath slow and even. The way he'd look, dressed down the way she is, his crisp waistcoats and suit jackets traded in for nothing more than an Oxford shirt. The way he'd act, giddy that they were in a place where they could act as a proper couple, delighted by all the friends she's made for them. She knows him so well, her mind knows precisely what he'd say, what he'd do, right down to the way his hand would feel in hers, and--

And then she wakes up, and her longing grows all the worse for it).]

I suppose I'll brag to your mother on that day. Your son's by far the best pie maker I've ever met, even if he lets people sneak bites, something like that.

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