He hears all sorts of stories. He hears all sorts of tales. In this city, on this line, at this time of night – well. Most are only heartbreak. The rest are something worse.
He does what he can – he does care for them, despite himself – but in the end he has heard it all before, a thousand ways from Sunday, as the expression runs, and his job is only to get them there, not to ensure health, happiness or even the ability to cope with their destination.
He wonders if they ever realise how much it helps just to have someone to listen. He wonders if they realise how many stories he holds.
[3.25] Last Battle (X/1999)
He can’t remember, now. He’s found stories, of course, but he can’t verify them. There are too many years in the way, too many stories that are larger than himself. Sometimes he recalls a fragment, but never when he is trying to – always, they call to him from something else. Not even his own story – his own peripheral, unimportant story – is original. How did anyone come so far in the footsteps of another? But the answer was there, and always had been: it’s all we know to do.
Not even the question was original.
[4.11] Have You Got It In You (Imogen Heap)
Ash is the sort that’s hard to read, a character of the periphery like himself. He’s wrapped up in too many stories not his own, and that makes his path harder to recognise.
By the time he recognises it, he also recognises how unacceptable it is.
[4.11] Battle with the Red Queen (American McGee’s Alice)
“I admire your determination,” he said, hands fisted on his knees despite his careful attempts at calm. “But—”
“But nothing,” says Vaughn. “I’m not going to wait around for him to—”
“Ash—”
“Shut it. Maybe this is good enough for you, but it ain’t for me. I’ve got a job to do and I’m damn well going to do it. Hang the consequences.”
Charon believed him.
[4.15] Twenty Years (Placebo)
There is an aborted gesture, aimed for his hand, unexpectedly tender, and Chaz watches the detective’s shoulders hunch, the tightening muscles in his neck, and says, softly, “No?” It is not precisely hope, but not precisely curiousity, and Ash shoots him a look that is black and full of embers.