tushanshu_logs | people just want to see if it's true, if it's you

There's enough visible injuries that even Bruce is somewhat concerned. And he might even pursue it, push a little farther than is customary for them, out of that concern-- but Costigan derails him so thoroughly with what he says that the thought vanishes from his mind. His intense desire to know wells up instead, resounding, compelling him to discard all the other concerns bubbling around in his head.

Bruce's hand tightens on his drink, and he looks back at him levelly. "You have to ask?" he exhales. "If you have anything, I want to hear it."

Handing him information on the cloning like this, without any preface or conditions, just because he knows it's something Bruce cares about, is endearing him to Bruce probably more than it should. They have a relatively business-like, if amiable relationship; but the business of being able to clone him, clone the Hulk, is personal. It can't help but be personal. And helping him out on that by default is also personal, and merits some gratitude.

The undercover is glad that his question has the desired effect. It's not as if he means to completely distract Bruce, be he wants to talk about something far more important than the state of either of them individually and the man's extreme willingness, perhaps even eagerness, to discuss what Costigan feels he can't speak to anyone else about quite yet is a welcome relief.

He lowers the volume of his voice in accordance with the secrecy and importance of the information. "The technology they have access to here is a lot more advanced than they admit to."

Costigan runs a hand through his hair, trying to think of where to begin or how to explain how little he knows. "They take us from out of whatever our time is by replicating our DNA. I don't know for sure, but I don't think they're getting any new samples from us, which means that whatever we come here with, that's how we'll come back each time we die."

A pause as he catches sight of a random kedan passing by their table. He continues as soon as the alien is out of earshot again.

"They have cloning facilities. I don't know how many, but at least a few. Big enough to fit everyone in each facility. The clones are grown in tanks, which someone described as looking like lightbulbs screwed directly into--" He hesitates a fraction, still unwilling to admit this is a giant turtle. "--whatever this is. Allegedly, there are multiple physical forms of us at any given time, which makes me think they take some time to- to grow."

The Bostonian was never too knowledgeable about science. He understands the basics of these kinds of things and how important they are, which makes him teachable, certainly, but he doesn't know enough to explain things as well as someone with a scientific background could.

Bruce listens with an intent focus that reveals how seriously he takes this information. He's taking notes in his head, clearly and distinctly packing away what he's told to refer to later. If anyone's used to not trusting some information written down, it's him; and he'll put it on his laptop later when he gets back, but that's unconnected to the network and will remain that way, and is something he assiduously guards. Not even Batman managed to steal it.

But in lieu of that, he's listening closely, expression tightening with each piece of information that Costigan reveals. Although he does wish he had a more scientific bent to his understanding, Bruce isn't about to complain that he doesn't. He'll take what he can get, and he's gotten to know Costigan well enough by now to understand that he'd never pass along information with this much solemnity unless he was one hundred percent certain it was accurate.

"What about those that disappear?" he asks in a low tone, eyes catching his. "Then they show up again without any memories. Is that a new clone? That's the only explanation I can figure out for why there's never someone who remembers being here before, and had time pass at home."

That's not something Bruce has been told directly; that's a fact he'd acquired after trawling the network long and hard for revealed information on the cloning process, by those who'd seen the original facilities firsthand. Some interesting tidbits had been revealed, this being one of them.

"And, even more importantly..." He hesitates a brief moment, as if he's not sure he wants to even voice this fear out loud. His voice goes soft as he says, "What happens to the originals? Are we-- still back there living our lives?"

Bruce doesn't need to explain why that would be horrifying. They'd be people without anywhere to go back to, when most of them had been clinging to the promise of returning home. But it'd make them extraneous, superfluous, created only to fight this war for the Emperor. Bruce doesn't really have anything waiting for him at home, but he's no more ready to accept the idea that he's a copy created to serve a purpose. The resentment he feels at even the possibility is a burning ember, ready to be fueled into rage.

Contrary to Bruce's hatred of hard files, Costigan has written records stashed in his suite because he doesn't trust technology or the network. Written files have to be physically stolen or burned to be damaged and he trusts that they're safe enough what with his lack of visitors and all. Besides, he was a fucking undercover cop. He's learned how to hide things such that they'll never be found.

"I don't know about the ones who leave and come back amnesic," he replies, shaking his head slightly. For every question answered, there are two more than remain unknown. There are far too many angles to get all the answers without rummaging for them like a stray dog begging for scraps, a dog just as likely to gobble up the inedible with the edible without taking the time to discern fact from fiction.

To the latter questions, he gives pause. Costigan told Evandau that he wouldn't share the information, but the man's declaration chastised him for demanding an explicit statement. In that sense, the kedan had already given him the answer before he promised its safe keeping and had not even answered entirely to the question he most wanted to know, the one he had offered such a valuable contract of secrecy to.

He can sense in Bruce that same desperation he felt in his moment of asking, that same concern for the much deeper implications that accompanied it. Carefully, answering without answering as much as his employer did, he responds, "No. We're right here. That's all."

The Bostonian resists the urge to seek the medal at his neck or to sign himself with the cross. They're such automatic gestures, reassurances of beliefs that sometimes seem forgotten.

Bruce sucks in a breath at that bald admission, at the unequivocal finality of it, and there's a conflicting mix of relief and unease that results. This is huge and immense, all of this, and although Bruce is used to dealing with concepts beyond the fundamental limits of human understanding, both in science and within himself, this is immediate and real. It's a reality they're all living with every day, without knowing it.

His mind leaps to the next logical conclusion. “So they have a way to transfer our consciousness,” he says after a beat. “That's the only explanation. They can transport our-- minds, our memories, but not our physical forms. A sample of DNA is simple to obtain. And maybe it's our internal expectations of reality that bring our powers with us, and-- objects or physical realities like Tony's arc reactor.

“The kedan can change their shape, but we've been assuming that's an innate ability they have. What if it's not? We should be taking it more seriously when they call this the In Between.” Bruce is confident of his conclusions, quiet voice ringing with finality. There's no other explanation that can make sense. He only needs that one verified fact taken as truth to jump to the next three.

Costigan heaves a deep sigh of thought before he finds solace in his drunk, taking a few long sips one after the other. His thoughts on the topic mirror Bruce's silent sentiments and, though he doesn't know for certain what the other man feels, he can guess that their reactions fall within similar emotional sectors.

Bruce's jump to the unsaid, the thing Evandau has told Costigan, is met with silence. A tacit confirmation. The latter theories, the science and philosophy, are something the undercover listens to with slight skepticism. He doesn't know much science and he doesn't care for much 'powers' talk, but he agrees with the concept of the spirit's presence in the body. What scares him the most is that he believes it, that this may truly be a place between life and death and their souls remain trapped here without willing ability to leave and be judged. There is the very real possibility that they may exist in this place indefinitely.

"I assumed it was biological," he mutters about kedan changing their shape before he takes another sip of his beer. Because it's clearly not magic or anything and the alternative, given Costigan's mind, would be that, perhaps, they have already been judged and this is a form of Hell, that the kedan are demons or lost spirits. Those trapped in Purgatory. None of the options sits better than having the biology that allows cells to rewrite and repurpose. It's still close to a power, but just real enough that he can almost accept it.

"What do you suggest?"

As staunch an atheist as he is, Bruce isn't entertaining thoughts of hell or Purgatory or anything like that. God has never been present in his life, and if he had been, Bruce would like to let the Hulk at him and see how that turned out. Since he doesn't believe in it, he's left with the simultaneous comfort and callous ruthlessness of scientific truth. Although public perception would see it as uncompromising truths, it was more of a sliding perspective, revised and reviewed constantly. It was comforting in its lack of moral ambiguity, in a way religion and all its judgements and guilt had never been to Bruce, but it was in other ways difficult to swallow.

Facts couldn't be disputed. They couldn't be argued away-- interpreted, but not ignored. Not made easier or intrinsically better by some faith-based argument. Bruce had to accept what was proved to him, and he had to accept what wasn't. Right now the former was just as hard as the latter.

"It might be biological," he cautions, reining himself in, his hand leaving his glass absentmindedly to tap his fingers on the table in an uneven rhythm, uncharacteristically restless. "I'm not sure. I don't know if the kedan would really answer our questions on that, or know how to answer them.

"I'm trying to look into the nature of the energy present here. It's somewhere between electricity and, and something more mystical. But the real priority needs to be understanding this plane." Suddenly his gaze sharpens, Bruce focusing on Costigan again instead of brainstorming. "Did you see the post Annabeth did about what they saw? With the Death plane."

Edited 2013-08-07 06:41 (UTC)

Costigan's mouth tightens as he listens to Bruce and an idea he's not entirely certain the other man will approve of crosses his mind. Perhaps it's a testament to his time undercover that it even enters his thoughts as an option. Regardless of agreement or disagreement, however, he trusts the other man not to dismiss it without proper reason and not to think less of him for simply suggesting it. So, after a beat, he replies.

"Maybe we don't need to ask." His eyes flash up to Bruce's, a sort of silent test to see if he should continue. He's not suggesting to kill one of them, but to maybe rough them up or knock them out and steal a sample of their DNA. It's the kind of thing having a scientist on your side comes in handy for.

To the latter, he takes another sip of his beer. Magic again. "Yeah, I saw it." A beat. "I asked Sabriel to help me look into it. She can teach magic, apparently, and knows a lot about the stuff. Doesn't do death magic herself, but knows about it. Even if it doesn't work the same here, she'll sure as hell know a lot more than me."

Costigan takes another swig of his drink. Anyone who knows him well enough will understand how important that means that he's taking the issue. Just getting the Bostonian to acknowledge magic is hard enough, let alone to ask for help from someone who uses it. Or to ask for help in general from someone outside his small circle.

It takes him a second for his mind to jump to the right conclusion and figure out what he's saying. "You mean like take a strand of their hair, offer them a drink and take the saliva?" Bruce still doesn't immediately think of the more violent alternative of that, and says wryly, "That's a little spy movie for me."

Plus getting a clear DNA sample through those methods is harder than said movies made it look.

Bruce is, admittedly, somewhat surprised to hear Costigan involving himself in magic, but can't deny the practicality of it. He needs to do the same thing himself, however reluctantly. "I've never met her. Pass it along if you get anything good?" A slight query, just checking in that they can assume to continue an open exchange of information. It's just easier and more efficient, and they are, really, in the same boat together.

"Yeah, something like that." Costigan can't help but smile a little at Bruce's innocent assumptions. He's confident that the man has done and seen worse, but that Bruce's mind still doesn't leap to those places is almost entertaining to the undercover. "I was thinking more along the lines of their blood."

He gives Bruce a quick glance. Not murder, just roughing them up.

Then he rolls his shoulder into a light shrug and takes another long sip from his beer. He still doesn't like magic. At least Bruce understands that he'll give what he can, no more and no less, and he understands the same. "Always do."

There's an instinctive refusal to the suggestion, largely based on how blatantly he denies anyone access to his blood. Bruce does try not to be hypocritical. It's less a moral absolute for him than a general distaste toward violence, and toward betraying privacy without permission. Yet he can't deny its potential usefulness here, and if they want answers, sometimes they have to make sacrifices.

This isn't one they have to make yet. "How about we try asking them first," he answers, cautious. "We don't need to get-- drastic unless we're desperate."

He gives an indifferent shift that can almost be construed as a shrug. Whatever gesture it might represent, it's clearly a silent acceptance of Bruce's suggestion. Costigan follows it with more drinking, the only way he can handle all of the ideas in his mind outside of the pills that he has run out of, minus an emergency handful hidden away to help with withdrawals.

"You ask," he replies finally. Costigan talks to the Emperor. He find access to resources that are not easy to get. He plays a strong arm when one is needed, though he may question his judgment on the matter later. He collects information. If there's one thing he does not do, it's politely ask the kedan for some of their bodily fluids.

Sadly, Bruce has never had the luxury of relying on crutches like that, whether alcohol or drugs. He'd never allow himself them even if he could, too rigidly determined to prop himself up on his own without help, but having the option removed entirely is nonetheless somewhat irritating.

His morals are just a hindrance sometimes, but he still can't get rid of them. He taps his fingers speculatively on the rough wooden table. "Alright. You'd be surprised what people will give you if you sound like you know what you're talking about." Bruce's ability to sound like he knows what he's talking about is never in question.

"We need answers to that," he decides finally. "I'll work on it. My next project."

Costigan chokes a little on his drink at Bruce's first remark with an unintentional laugh. He immediately coughs the liquid back up without too much difficulty and waves a dismissive hand to settle any potential concern from Bruce or the waiter. Once he seems alright, he takes the intended sip of beer, a smile still on his lips. Yes, Bruce. He knows what people give you if you sound like you know what you're talking about. His profession is based on it.

"Sure," he croaks. After clearing his throat, he begins again. "Sure, guy. I'll keep asking around with the other issues."

He finishes his drink and sets the empty glass on the table between them. "Anything else?"

He watches that choked laughter with an exasperated, wry look, not even attempting to guess what it was about.

"No. You're released." Bruce shakes his head, relaxing back into his seat more comfortably and making no move to leave himself just yet. "Maybe some day we'll do something not work related." Because this is work, undoubtedly.

"Sure, yeah. Anytime." Which, between them, is really code for 'yeah, maybe someday.'

Costigan gives the man a respectful nod as he stands, grabbing his empty glass to carry over to the bar. There are waiters, of course, but he's found that they appreciate him a little more when he shows signs of small favor like this. Setting his glass up at the bar, he and the bartender exchange nods and then he makes his way out of the place, leaving Bruce to his own thoughts.

people just want to see if it's true, if it's you

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delicious boomerang nom nom nom

this is the opposite of a boomerang

in soviet russia, tag boomerangs you

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i have multiple icons of hayley with alcohol but none for costigan wtf

teenage drinking is pervasive like that

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