[ The Judge listens to all Armin has to share, listening in his quiet way with the occasional soft noise of understanding or the tilt of his head. And then— he has things of his own to share. Collections of papers, some scraps, some full sheaves. Writings of a man that many of them have met, a man that has seen others come and go. His writing is shared amongst survivors, kept in another chest in the dilapidated building nearby. Much of what they know of what Baker calls 'the Entity' is due to his exploration and subsequent writings.
Other things the Judge has to share: more... hands-on knowledge. Things that will (hopefully) keep Armin alive long enough to make use of the information Baker had to share. Instructions for handling a generator, written on a scrap of paper with charcoal from the bonfire. Instructions, too, for how to find items the Entity leaves them, hidden in chests that take precious time to open but sometimes that risk is worth it, saving time in other places, or offering escape from an otherwise grim situation. And finally, the way to escape aside from either gate: the hatch, an unpredictable thing that might spawn anywhere within a trial. The last survivor might escape from it, so long as the killer didn't find it first.
Outside of that, the Judge joins Armin in his drills, forgoing heavy jacket but taking particular care to keep the balaclava - and mask affixed to it - from being pulled astray. But the mask can hide neither the Judge's skin, scarred countless times, nor his hair; long, black, plaited neatly down his back and tied with leather cord.
When Armin is taken to another trial, the Judge can only wait anxiously that the other is alright, that he will survive on his own. The Entity seems not to want for his anticipation, though, seeing fit instead that the Judge is sent to trial himself. His adversary is a man for whom the title 'doctor' is even less fitting than it was in life. When he returns to the bonfire, nerves still afire from electrical shocks, Armin's relief surprises the Judge.
Pizza is something the Judge has forgotten the taste of, but he is quite sure it's nothing like what the others have come up with. He cannot fault them their attempt to recreate something of home, though. He follows Armin into the gas station instead, rubbing idly at his shoulder and occasionally flexing his fingers. As Armin sets the teddy bear back on the shelf, the Judge comes close, lifting a gloved hand. He reaches to grip the other's chin, gentle, and turn his head to better see the cause of blood on his collar. Gone, now, whatever it was. Armin is fortunate to be able to heal in such a way. Other survivors might not feel the same. He lowers his hand away, a brief grip on Armin's shoulder.
Some survivors have escaped, according to Benedict. Not just back to the bonfire, but back home. If it's true, maybe Armin will escape one day, too. The Judge watches Armin for a moment, still and silent, and then finally turns away, moving instead behind what once served as a checkout counter, and ducks behind it. A moment later, just his hand reappears to place something atop the ruined countertop: a small spiral-bound notebook, its pages yellowed and the cover faded and bent. ]
( in his peripheral, the Judge approaches. Armin turns, only for the other to take his chin. for a moment, Armin's breath catches in his throat. swallowing, ) ...it was just my ear this time.
( his touch is warm: weighty and comfortable. Armin must remind himself it's normal, the intimacy that something so harrowing nurtures and breeds, easily confused, perhaps more so for a man whose words are few, whose face is hidden, reliant on nigh every gesture. (but it is not only the gestures that linger, wanting that Armin is for a hand firm against his neck, but the image of skin and muscle, flesh peaked in the twilight. Armin remembers the shape against his hand.)
silent, a little uncertain of the hand on his shoulder, Armin returns the other's gaze, then follows him to the opposite side of the counter. curious, taking the notebook, ) What's this? Benedict's writing?
[ The Judge lifts his head only long enough that Armin might see him shake it, before returning to his rummaging. Finally, his search bears fruit: two pens.
He sets either on the counter, and waits silent for Armin's curiosity to be satisfied. The notebook is a remnant of whatever facet of the world the Entity recreated here. Some pages are written on, but illegible all the same with ink smudged and faded. Finally, he motions for the return of the notebook, and tests the first pen. After a long moment of attempting to make the ink flow - and failing - the Judge tries the other. This one, after a moment more, produces a visible scribble.
Turning to a blank page: So I can communicate with you. The Judge turns the notebook so Armin can see. ]
( realizing the contents are of little import, Armin pages, half interested, through the notebook. he glances to the other, rising into his vision, obliging after another page or two.
offering a small albeit pleased smile, ) Why don't you keep any paper with you?
[ The Judge glances to the notebook for a moment, then: I will now.
He has written on scraps of paper before out of necessity or very rarely out of desire, but never really sought out anything to be able to write more than a few words or sentences. To be sent to Autohaven Wreckers, and for there to be a notebook, is lucky. But he could surely have found one at either of the two schools he's seen - including where he met Armin.
The real reason, then, is that he hasn't wanted to. But to explain that invites question to why he wants to now. The answer to that... the Judge isn't really sure. He likes Armin, beyond the drive he feels to protect the other (or maybe that is a symptom of liking the other).
( another smile. a slight pause. Armin's gaze lifts to the other as he finds his footing. )
Not that... I mind if you don't talk but we've spent a lot of time together. Getting to know each other is good. ( a beat. ) You saved my life again, by the way.
[ The Judge listens, still as Armin speaks. He cannot explain why he does not speak— not yet. But writing, he thinks... writing is alright. If he's here, surely that means that he is being punished, and therefore he no longer has a chance to atone.
(There is more to it, surely, the fact that he does not speak so that others will not know him. The fact that he did not speak because speaking brought forth more sin. If writing is circumventing that, he is choosing not to think of it now. He has always been weak, though his Pride did not allow him to admit it. Perhaps now he is simply ignoring his weakness. He chooses not to think of that, either.)
Armin's assertion that the Judge saved his life earns an inquisitive tilt of his head; a question that needs no explanation from the newly acquired notebook. ]
[ The Judge makes a low sound as he nods, pleased that Armin was able to make use of his instruction. He writes: You are a quick learner. He cannot claim all the praise. There have been others, unable to adapt, relying on those who know more (or are more willing to learn) of technology to secure their escape. One can only run and hide for so long. They are gone, now. That Armin was able to repair generators with only hasty demonstration and written instruction speaks to his intelligence and will both.
The Judge glances around the gas station once more. The single cup coffee maker sometimes works, sometimes doesn't. He has been here a handful of times before. He points to it as he comes around the counter, an offer that Armin can agree or decline without otherwise interrupting their conversation. ]
( with a slight smile, ) That isn't always useful without a teacher.
( turning, ) Is that... The coffee pot? ( Armin is accustom to more archaic methods, but one of the others had mentioned coffee, and the stack of mugs suggests what nothing else does. attention returning to the Judge, ) Does it still work?
[ The Judge glances to Armin, huffing a sound somewhere between amusement and agreement.
He nods that yes, that is the coffee pot, but an exaggerated shrug says 'we'll see' as to whether it works. Setting the mug on the grate, the Judge points to the buttons to indicate what to press. To his surprise, the machine gurgles to life, and a moment later the mug begins slowly filling. ]
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Other things the Judge has to share: more... hands-on knowledge. Things that will (hopefully) keep Armin alive long enough to make use of the information Baker had to share. Instructions for handling a generator, written on a scrap of paper with charcoal from the bonfire. Instructions, too, for how to find items the Entity leaves them, hidden in chests that take precious time to open but sometimes that risk is worth it, saving time in other places, or offering escape from an otherwise grim situation. And finally, the way to escape aside from either gate: the hatch, an unpredictable thing that might spawn anywhere within a trial. The last survivor might escape from it, so long as the killer didn't find it first.
Outside of that, the Judge joins Armin in his drills, forgoing heavy jacket but taking particular care to keep the balaclava - and mask affixed to it - from being pulled astray. But the mask can hide neither the Judge's skin, scarred countless times, nor his hair; long, black, plaited neatly down his back and tied with leather cord.
When Armin is taken to another trial, the Judge can only wait anxiously that the other is alright, that he will survive on his own. The Entity seems not to want for his anticipation, though, seeing fit instead that the Judge is sent to trial himself. His adversary is a man for whom the title 'doctor' is even less fitting than it was in life. When he returns to the bonfire, nerves still afire from electrical shocks, Armin's relief surprises the Judge.
Pizza is something the Judge has forgotten the taste of, but he is quite sure it's nothing like what the others have come up with. He cannot fault them their attempt to recreate something of home, though. He follows Armin into the gas station instead, rubbing idly at his shoulder and occasionally flexing his fingers. As Armin sets the teddy bear back on the shelf, the Judge comes close, lifting a gloved hand. He reaches to grip the other's chin, gentle, and turn his head to better see the cause of blood on his collar. Gone, now, whatever it was. Armin is fortunate to be able to heal in such a way. Other survivors might not feel the same. He lowers his hand away, a brief grip on Armin's shoulder.
Some survivors have escaped, according to Benedict. Not just back to the bonfire, but back home. If it's true, maybe Armin will escape one day, too. The Judge watches Armin for a moment, still and silent, and then finally turns away, moving instead behind what once served as a checkout counter, and ducks behind it. A moment later, just his hand reappears to place something atop the ruined countertop: a small spiral-bound notebook, its pages yellowed and the cover faded and bent. ]
no subject
( his touch is warm: weighty and comfortable. Armin must remind himself it's normal, the intimacy that something so harrowing nurtures and breeds, easily confused, perhaps more so for a man whose words are few, whose face is hidden, reliant on nigh every gesture. (but it is not only the gestures that linger, wanting that Armin is for a hand firm against his neck, but the image of skin and muscle, flesh peaked in the twilight. Armin remembers the shape against his hand.)
silent, a little uncertain of the hand on his shoulder, Armin returns the other's gaze, then follows him to the opposite side of the counter. curious, taking the notebook, ) What's this? Benedict's writing?
no subject
He sets either on the counter, and waits silent for Armin's curiosity to be satisfied. The notebook is a remnant of whatever facet of the world the Entity recreated here. Some pages are written on, but illegible all the same with ink smudged and faded. Finally, he motions for the return of the notebook, and tests the first pen. After a long moment of attempting to make the ink flow - and failing - the Judge tries the other. This one, after a moment more, produces a visible scribble.
Turning to a blank page: So I can communicate with you. The Judge turns the notebook so Armin can see. ]
no subject
offering a small albeit pleased smile, ) Why don't you keep any paper with you?
no subject
He has written on scraps of paper before out of necessity or very rarely out of desire, but never really sought out anything to be able to write more than a few words or sentences. To be sent to Autohaven Wreckers, and for there to be a notebook, is lucky. But he could surely have found one at either of the two schools he's seen - including where he met Armin.
The real reason, then, is that he hasn't wanted to. But to explain that invites question to why he wants to now. The answer to that... the Judge isn't really sure. He likes Armin, beyond the drive he feels to protect the other (or maybe that is a symptom of liking the other).
No, it's easier to dodge the question entirely. ]
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Not that... I mind if you don't talk but we've spent a lot of time together. Getting to know each other is good. ( a beat. ) You saved my life again, by the way.
no subject
(There is more to it, surely, the fact that he does not speak so that others will not know him. The fact that he did not speak because speaking brought forth more sin. If writing is circumventing that, he is choosing not to think of it now. He has always been weak, though his Pride did not allow him to admit it. Perhaps now he is simply ignoring his weakness. He chooses not to think of that, either.)
Armin's assertion that the Judge saved his life earns an inquisitive tilt of his head; a question that needs no explanation from the newly acquired notebook. ]
no subject
( nonetheless, he was the only survivor to escape. )
no subject
The Judge glances around the gas station once more. The single cup coffee maker sometimes works, sometimes doesn't. He has been here a handful of times before. He points to it as he comes around the counter, an offer that Armin can agree or decline without otherwise interrupting their conversation. ]
no subject
( turning, ) Is that... The coffee pot? ( Armin is accustom to more archaic methods, but one of the others had mentioned coffee, and the stack of mugs suggests what nothing else does. attention returning to the Judge, ) Does it still work?
no subject
He nods that yes, that is the coffee pot, but an exaggerated shrug says 'we'll see' as to whether it works. Setting the mug on the grate, the Judge points to the buttons to indicate what to press. To his surprise, the machine gurgles to life, and a moment later the mug begins slowly filling. ]