systemcritical | open! / got a blank space baby.

Watch where you're going!

[ Not actually an uncommon phrase to hear on the crowded market walkways of the civilian level, as Zion comes out to barter away what's useless to them for something they need, cinnamon sticks traded for dresses, mechanical components swapped for heavy boots, sweet candy blocks sold on a song. Anders comes here often: people pay the clinic with all sorts of odds and ends, and this is the best place to turn those into bandages and medicine, food and clothing. He's got a box full of miscellany in his arms and it very nearly spills everywhere when he collides with—

Oh. Fenris.

The elf isn't easily recognizable on first glance, dark tattoos blending into his skin, hair growing in dark, ears round. Anders, on the other hand, still essentially looks like Anders, even if he no longer wears feathers or carries a staff. A quieter, tireder version of the Anders Fenris knew, grey coming in early at the temples and his eyes all crows feet when he smiles.

Not that he's smiling. His scowl at being so rudely collided with doesn't even waiver when he sees who (he thinks) is responsible. Hawke had told him Fenris was here, of course, and that hadn't actually bothered him until all that talk of Justice over the network, dirty laundry getting aired after two years building a different life for himself. So. Not exactly pleased to see him, though at this point the annoyance is so familiar it's almost nostalgic. ]

You.

[He's been adjusting, really. Fenris stumbles less over his own two feet; he's better acclimated to his new center of gravity; he's even begun the difficult psychological work of accepting this place as the truest form of reality. He's had to reject not only Thedas as a world, but the very concept of his race. The notion that he was human, and always had been, apparently.

Chewing on that bit of cognitive dissonance distracts him, and that's dangerous in the wild sprawl of the market. It's a chaotic mess of bodies and shouting, of the heavy, oily scent of street food and sweaty skin. As a result, Fenris--trying to slip deftly through the throng but mostly just being jostled roughly forward--crashes into Anders as though shoving against a solid wood door.]

I'm sorry, I--

[His apologies die in his throat as he gets to his feet. Anders isn't precisely as Fenris recalls, but the important bits are there. Long nose. Broad forehead. The sharp angles of his cheek and jaw, the thick blond hair. And the unmistakable, aggrieved quality of his voice, the quality with which Fenris is most directly familiar.

He dusts himself off, returns scowl for scowl.]

Yes. Me.

[His lip curls as he bends over to collect a small, surprisingly durable vial of spices.]

You've dropped some of your trinkets.

[ Anders crouches, puts the box on the ground. As absolutely vital as it is that he and Fenris have a spat, possibly right here in public, it's sort of more vital that he doesn't lose anything to the crush of people walking past, and he risks his fingers snatching a necklace out from under stepping feet and tossing it back into the box. ]

Yes, thank you, it's not as though the entire economy is based off of trinkets or anything.

[ He snaps it, though then he relents because Fenris did apologize (even if, Anders can't help thinking, he didn't know it was Anders at the time and would doubtless not wish to extend benevolence to a mage however long said mage has been without magic.) ]

Someone needs to introduce Zion to the concept of convenient money.

You seem rich enough.

[Fenris drops the vial into the box; he has courtesy enough for that, at least. On some distant level, he's aware that much of what between them has a new cast here; a different meaning. Anders is no longer an abomination.

But he's still a murderer.

Fenris stands beside the box, arms folded over his chest. He doesn't quite have the presence he used to, but he's hoping that he can project an air of unfriendliness so strong it's tactile, and people will just step around rather than on him. He's got a good glare on, at least.]

So tell me. How have you sold yourself to these people?

Not that its any business of yours, but I work for one of the clinics here.

[ A couple more grabs and all of the dropped possessions are finally back in the box, and he stands again, picking it up, drawing himself up to his full height. He's annoyed to be accused rather than comisserated with about how stupid the lack of definite currency is here. Especially when, as he's remembering it, Fenris was the one who lived in Hightown for years, squatting or not.

Anders looks down his long nose at the elf &mmdash; no, man, he's a man now, but still the same bastard he was in the Matrix. ]

We take donations for our services, and it's my job to convert this— [ he rattles the box for emphasis ] — into whatever we actually need.

[ So, you know, not so much sold as giving himself away. And obviously really, really bad at letting go of his "fake" Matrix life. ]

[Fenris folds his arms over his chest. Is he spoiling for a fight? Maybe a little. Like everyone else, he was told to forget his old life. None of it was real; none of it was true. But it still happened.

They had all parted ways after Kirkwall. Fenris had stayed loyal to Hawke's wishes: he had let Anders alone. During the final confrontation, they had all fought side-by-side, as though nothing had changed. Fenris kept his mouth shut, and while he wasn't exactly content with the situation, he had done nothing to aggravate it.

Hawke was here, too. Not the Hawke that Fenris remembers, but it's Hawke, sure enough. Sure enough to stay Fenris's hand.

Mostly.]

You've slithered right back into your old position, then. I suppose you must be happy.

[Every word drips with bitterness, especially the last.]

[ Slithered! Anders fumes, eyes narrowing. What he's doing is helping people, and he remains stupidly self-righteous about it after how long it took him to regain the ability to do so. He's worked damn hard for the clinic, and yes, for happiness. ]

Yes.

[ Short. Firm. His actual happiness is dubious on the best of days, but he should be happy, and it pleases him to be so when Fenris is so obviously not. ]

Don't be too jealous, Fenris. I'm sure people will have plenty of work for a man who can... what is it you can do again?

[ Biting, deliberate cruelty obvious beneath the seemingly mild words. It's unfair, to point out someone newly unplugged's incapabilities, but Fenris just brings out the absolute worst in him, every time. ]

[Fenris's eyes widen, just slightly. His muscles, such as they are, tense. Anders doesn't deserve happiness. He doesn't deserve to flee from what he did, to forget it ever happened. To build a new life. Anders hasn't earned that, in Fenris's eyes. He hasn't answered for anything.

It's infuriating.

He stops himself from looking away, keeps his eyes--still as piercing green as ever--fixed on Anders's smug face.]

Mmm. Hawke and I are working on it.

[He should turn on his heel now and just walk away, but he can't help himself. Never could, with Anders. So he goes on, his deep voice soft and cold.]

I'm glad, though. You wanted to run away with him, and you have. You wanted a new life, and you've got it. No harm will come to you here.

[He inclines his head to one side.]

No justice.

[ That one word, and Anders' smirk drops away. His eyes narrow, shifting the box to the side. ]

You say that like you know anything about Justice.

[ It's audibly a proper noun. Anders' teeth grit, and he feels the familiar flare of anger deep within, that cold rush in his veins he always thought of as inhuman, the rage that wants to imbue his limbs with violence. It's a part of himself he's always thought of as the spirit's presence in his body, but perhaps his emotions are not so easily delineated, because there are no spirits in the real world.

Still, when he clenches a fist, he doesnt entirely feel in control of it. ]

He thought we should pay for what we did, too. Maybe just as much as you do. But he's not here now.

[ Even though he thinks there's more justice, true justice, in the workings of Zion than there ever was in Kirkwall. ]

It's just me.

[True, Fenris doesn't know much about the actual spirit. He knew only the facts he found relevant: the thing had fused with Anders, it had made an abomination of him, and its influence had directly lead to widespread chaos and death. What else was there? What else that mattered?]

And what do you think, Anders? Or are you simply relieved, to be so abruptly and fully absolved?

I think that you should keep moving.

[ Because it's none of Fenris' business how much he hates himself on any given day. The relief is there, yes, and the guilt, and the lessons that Zion therapists taught him to let go of the Matrix as well as the absolute bulldog refusal to let go of his past, to allow himself any sort of meaningful new beginning. ]

And stop spreading my past all over the network. You already lost me one friend.

Tch.

[A number of cruel, gloating thoughts run through his mind, thoughts about how it's what Anders deserves, how he isn't sorry. Petty, squabbling thoughts about how Fenris had just answered a question, honestly, and Anders just had to get involved.

The two of them had always been at odds, if not each other's throats. Fenris can't deny the surge of rage and contempt he had felt in the wake of the Chantry's destruction. But he knew Hawke would never kill Anders, no matter how much the man asked--begged--for death. Hawke had reacted exactly as expected, as always: with tempered compassion. Everyone, Anders included, had fought together one last time.

Fenris had gone along with it, just as he had so many times before. He had seven years of something with Anders, and he can't easily forget it, whether he wants to or not.

He turns away, speaks to the ground.]

She seems like a soft touch. I'm sure the two of you will be perfectly fine.

[And then he takes Anders's advice, and he goes.]

open! / got a blank space baby.

Fenris.

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