Work Text:
Gertrude doesn’t stop a Lonely ritual in 2012.
She stops seven.
It’s a personal best, beating the previous record holding year (1989, with five rituals intended to bring forth the Lonely ended before they had even begun between the months of February and September). She would be proud, were it not for the fact that they make it so easy. If anything, the repetition is somewhat soothing by now, and on the days when the rest of the tasks facing her feel positively Sisyphean, frustrating the ambitions of one of the Lukas family puts the warm glow of accomplishment in her cheeks.
Or perhaps that warm glow is the fire.
Yes, probably the fire.
She eyes the blaze in front of her with a certain amount of satisfaction. Burning down an empty warehouse-converted-to-dance-hall is diverting without requiring a significant reallocation of her time or resources, and the company is good.
(It’s certainly more enjoyable than her brief recognizance into the venue the night before, the music too loud for conversation and the bartenders avoiding even the most determined of eye contact, every part of the whole calculated to turn a crowded place into a study in isolation for those who had undoubtedly come out with the intention of desperately trying to form some kind of connection. Not even Gerard had much seemed to enjoy himself, and she assumes that this is—was—the kind of place where he takes his limited free time. Or perhaps not; there had been nary a Wall of Death in sight, presumably because flinging one’s body against other bodies in some kind of delirious melee is far too sociable for the Lonely.)
“Thank you for bringing the kerosene,” she says.
“It was my pleasure,” Adelard responds. Undoubtedly they should get moving soon – it’s the middle of the day, and someone will have alerted the authorities – but he seems as content as she is to stand and watch the fire burn. Perhaps it makes him feel nostalgic. “It wasn’t a bad attempt. They’d have much better luck if they ever talked to each other, or tried to coordinate their efforts.”
That’s rather not the point of them, but Gertrude doesn’t say it. She knows that he knows. “Thankfully, some of them talk to you.”
“Hmm. I had drinks with Lukas the other night.”
“You’ll have to narrow it down, my dear.” There are a lot of them. Fewer who make it into adulthood, but still, a lot, which has always been something of a mystery to her.
“Peter.”
Gertrude has an excellent memory, and it takes her a moment to concede that she can’t summon a face to match the name.
“Bearded. About so tall. Sea captain.”
Memory ignites. “Smug. I want to say... the tower block, yes?”
“That’s the one.”
“I can’t imagine the conversation was particularly enthralling.”
“I did most of the talking.”
It doesn’t take her very long to catch on. She’s passing fond of Adelard, but his theory has turned into something of a fixation as late. “As I said.”
“Cruel, Gertrude,” he murmurs, but something in his tone speaks more of appreciation than rebuke; he has always liked that about her.
She says nothing, and makes no further inquiries into how Peter Lukas had reacted to learning about the so-called Extinction. She sees the moment when Adelard gives up on waiting for her response, but the truth is that Gertrude has other things to worry about than a man who has already gambled and lost at his bid to offer his patron entrance into this world.
Were she someone else, she might convince herself that she feels some regret for disappointing him, but Gertrude has few illusions, least of all about herself.
Standing beside her has always been a very lonely place to be.