Long Sight


gabriel_icon.gif ghost2_icon.gif teo_icon.gif

Scene Title Long Sight
Synopsis Gabriel had this planned all along, and he tells Teo as much. It's only half true.
Date June 29, 2009

Warehouse on Staten Island

Sometimes, Ghost just sits.

Really. Just— sits.

He has been, here, for about forty minutes, his lean legs pretzeled in front of him, the quilted stuff of the foam training mat quiescent and soft as moss between his hindquarters and the concrete of the warehouse floor beneath him. Beneath them.

There's something choreographed about everything here. The absolute trigonometric centricity of his seat on the rectangled floor, his solitude, his posture, his back perfectly straight as a strung bow, shoulders relaxed in the way that discipline actual cultivates in the mind rather than laziness allows to tangle the headrows and choke the gutters. Fingers loose on his thighs, pale eyes shut against the denuded blackness of night time on Staten Island.

Breathing controlled. Speed, depth, each contraction and distension of muscle styled down to the start and finish of the sinoisoidal phases, as a swimmer perfects his stroke. Only it's dark, here, a physical fascsimile of serenity caged behind his sealed eyes and locked jaws, thunder in his lungs, the chemical lightning and neon dervish long since faded from his optical nerves.

It's certainly no spectator sport, meditation.

Mostly because it's boring to watch. Whatever it is that summons Gabriel out of his catatonic silence is inexplicable. To say that Eileen's presence the other day had anything to do with it would be both romantic and generous - awareness comes and goes no matter what's going on outside, which is only so much rain against the windows, without bearing of what goes on within the cramped confines of this analogy. Whether he chooses to say anything, well, that's where the scenery does matter.

So perhaps it's a little strange that here, in the deliberate silence and the absence of much anything, that Gabriel chooses to speak. He could just be being an asshole.


Seeing which one takes the bait. He hasn't called this man Ghost.

Hhhwwff. One breath. Inhale or exhale, it doesn't matter: Teo isn't moving it through using his lungs anyway. Sometimes, storm gales drone like this against the window panes, tuneless, toneless, moisture, force, and air without music or voice, the sort that can wrench houses right off their pilings like the clock off a dandelion's stalk, but never carry a note.


Always one to be articulate, this Sicilian. There's no mistaking him for the other, not really; inside the resonant chamber of the skull they share, the ghost's voice tends to carry two or three strains, one of them steel and the others coiling with human accent, draconian in their chords and psychic lung capacity. It's easy to talk in run-on sentences when you don't need to breathe.

There's just that, for a moment. 'WHAT.' And then—


The serpentine presence of Gabriel's consciousness could hiss. Annoyance and discord simmers beneath the cacophony, coiling tight with tension, but loosens again in easier satisfaction as the roll call does what it should. He has his eyes closed, Gabriel says, far quieter but in some ways more textured than the metal ladle bouncing around the tin pan that is Teo's voice. Gabriel's words ease languidly through the shared territory of neurons, veins, the creases of brain matter.

I'm still here, he thinks to tell the other prisoner. And you don't need to shout.

Or maybe he does, but it doesn't serve Gabriel's purpose. If he has one. A plan that is both well thought out, accidental; running perfectly, critically flawed. If he were less of a sociopath, perhaps he'd be more unpredictable, too. I've been listening, lately. Has he always been this unpopular when not bothering to play make believe?

You could discern as much in terms of nuance and subtlety from a mouth breathing wet across a microphone. After sprinting a mile. It's the best approximation to indignation that Teo can summon up under the circumstances; it takes him another moment or two to corral meaning into words. After he does, they chafe and bite and kick hooves at the fencing anyway. I'M NOT SHOU-

He really isn't. Not trying to, anyway, but it's what happens when things are quiet and people whose distance may only be measured in liquid gray inches nevertheless come through watered down and stretched over it. He bumps, jostles, rotates a few times, settles on what he approximates to be a — socially-acceptable volume.

This is just how I think. A beat's nothing, colossal with the awkward weight of this unexpected intimacy. Not merely of sharing a body that shits and fucks and tests the staleness of its breath against rough fingers in the morning, but of what Gabriel mentioned. The unpopularity of a categorical monster.

Hardly unimaginable, really, that Teo harbors the dragging inkling of shame. Si. I think so.

It's a wonder how people like us get anything done.

That was Gabriel, again. At least in here, his voice is distinctively his own. He remembered the dawning horror of listening to Kazimir's shed the timbre of Santiago's and putting on the low purr of Sylar's occasionally sibilant and ice-sharp consonants. No, in here, he's clung to his own voice, perhaps because he's unable to really become the man he's inhabiting.

Or holding back. It depends on how much faith you have. Gabriel hasn't sounded panicked for a while. His voice veers, sounds sharper, louder, a verbal tap-tap-tap on Ghost's skull. Needling accusation. What did you show Eileen? What was that place? The future that you showed— were you lying?


Would imply that someone's been selling Gabriel the truth. The dragon turns, smoke and light curling from its armor-ridged nostrils, claws racketing along the graven stone of its floor, belly a seven-ton rasp and eyes contracting slit-pupilled from focus. It is tangible, this errant burst of noise, breath — and now Teo is hissing irritably, Why are you talking to him? Oh, merda he's coming around — thought without sentiment. The walls here are, in some ways, more permeable than they had been when Kazimir held Gabriel in the helpless thrall of his ability, but in some ways infinitely less.

Maybe even if Ghost did dream, Gabriel wouldn't glean a thing. I'm trying to concentrate. It's a rumbling shriek, avalanche, dense with subterranean intent. Ghost's eyes sliver open, a streak of pitted wall easing through the seam between eyelids. That's a stupid question. True or false, what you want to know is more, isn't it? The words construct a taunt, no doubt; the right shape, the right size, but there's no color to it, no incendiary flush of heat, only empty expectation, the staid predictions of a sterile corpse.

Teo's jitter-like concerns are near brushed aside, or at least ignored by Gabriel, who would likely sneer at the response he gets. This close and personal, both the ghost in the shell and the prisoner himself will know a bristle of annoyance, but much like aggravating a wound, it only bleeds uselessly. In this case, it's not blood. No. If that was my question, it's what I would have asked, Gabriel responds, words snipped at the edges. I'm asking if you lied to her. If you're just attempting to get her on your side with false dreams and promises that you don't have to keep.

Now he's becoming louder, although certainly not the din that is Teo's voice. He shifts restlessly around in Ghost's skull, as if he desires to pace around and hasn't the body to do it. To throw something, or grab someone, some form of alpha-male posturing that escapes him when he's reduced to a voice full of memory.

I've been fed lies about the future before, do you really think I want more? Answer the question. Did you lie?

It's a stupid question, oh, it's astounding Ghost's pillow doesn't stick frozen to the side of his head when he lays down at night, his mind's voice is that cold, because the answer would be the same either way. If I'd told her the truth, I'd owe you the truth. If I needed to spin her a lie for whatever fucking reason, you wouldn't be exempt just because you're on a brief vacation from the dimensions of physical interaction.

— He was telling the truth. That— isn't the ghost.

Not from the 'sound' of it, the blunt traumatic drub-a-dub of syllable and volume beating on the inside of his head. Not from the way Ghost hitches and scowls midway the process of pulling himself out of the lotus position on the floor mat, either, his shoulders seizing into sharp right angles underneath the thin weave of his wifebeater. He doesn't answer. He's busy pushing the foam sheet into a thick scroll, glancing over his shoulder at the steel shelf set across which he'd tossed his shoulder holster.

If Teo could do 'wry' in his head, he might sound it. Instead, the blustering drone of monotone remains clumsily factual, after its fashion. Whenever it sounds really bad and really shocking, enough to pursue about, it's the truth. That's how you tell.

There is a sound that goes a lot like, How would you know?, pointed and heated in Teo's direction, but it's half-formed, stifled and muffled. Unable to stop the train of thought as it begins but managing to diminish its clarity. There's something to be said about choosing your enemies, as Gabriel had rather pompously told Teo a long time ago, out the mouth of of a pale and pointy teenager.

It's strange, being here, in a body more muted than he remembers it should be. If Gabriel concentrates, he can feel the ground beneath Ghost's feet, the tension and relaxation of muscle. The outward stuff is vaguer than the pump of a heart and the drawing of breath, the twinge of injury. Not enough, certainly, no wonder he went dream walking.

Then what was it? The words are bitter and grudging, unable, finally, not to ask. What do you know? You killed her, I killed you. But before that.

Half-formed or not, it's a question that can be echoed back at Gabriel between both of the Sicilians shut up in the bone vault of his skull with him. How would you know? Neither of them ask, though.

Teo, because Teo assumes he'd merely missed something. His silences stretch longer and longer as time wears on and the space availability diminishes in proportion to occupants; sometimes he suspects he may not come back at all. Ghost, because he's a cagey bastard like that. He figures he'll find out. Soon. He thinks that Gabriel will show him, sooner or later. Neither Sicilian's thoughts are entirely transparent to the clockworker breathing nightmare and fury through the existential membrane that separates one consciousness from the next, but it's there all the same.

The absence of questions, negative space as stark as half a canvas ripped down by the fist of a brute critic. "It's ironic— " Ghost answers aloud, this time, as he hauls up an armload of training paraphernelia, "you suddenly put stock in this future after prioritizing Teo's freedom has cost you your body. I'm getting pretty fucking sick of irony." Quieter, that latter statement, a mutinous mutter.

Ghost props the matt in the corner, two-handed, between crates that Gabriel has never seen the inside of. Emptily, he says, "It was good. It was why I lied to protect Arthur Petrelli for eight years. It was— " His jaw stalls around the syllable, jigging up, down, mute. How could he describe it? They have seen the house. The orange-cheeked finches and their balsawood home within the home, maybe even the cartooned scrubs installed in the closet, the pantry, the pink gloves lumped over the lip of the kitchen sink, "good."

The sound of Ghost's voice outloud, changed with his face, is more ambient echo, godlike. Gabriel listens, though, as much as there is criticism and facetiousness and, more infuriating, vagueness. You protected Arthur, and now you want to kill him. Not the people coming back to change the future, but Arthur, Gabriel surmises. I can see how you might be sick of irony.

Teo's absence, or silence, which is basically the same thing in here, is notable. Worrying, on some levels. He's required, if this was to be worth anything at all. But it's hard to nudge him awake when there's no reason to be so, or in ways to escape Ghost's attention.

It just seems like everything you're fighting for is obsolete, and your method is suicidal in at least two different ways. The chances of me having a good future are slim. Butterflies create storms. Word of advice - don't show people exactly what you're destroying, whether you intend to or not. It might make them angry.

Words and posturing. In the same way Gabriel crept around grey matter in an attempt to find the on-switch in dreamwalking, Ghost— and likely Teo— might be able to feel those same prying psychic fingers digging through, to find the point of separation between ghost and man. By the way, it might pay for you to recognise a hostage situation when it's inside you.

Annoyance is a familiar hum of adrenaline washing through the chemistry of Ghost's veins. He cracks his knuckles, once, the row of them along his left hand and then turns sharply through the cold of the warehouse's cold belly, beelines back to his firearm repository.

Snags at cut leather, puts one arm through the loop, then the other. I'm not destroying jack shit. Well, the transition back to thought-speech is not entirely seamless, but goes seemingly without effort; he squints his left eye, hoods it irritably. That's an exaggeration. But I didn't destroy the future I came from. I kept my hands off for long enough. It's too late now, that's all. Whether it was Helena, one Ray or the other, some infinitessimal stone that slid out of place in the margin between her departure and the return— I don't know.

I think the actual point of no return was when Arthur took your ability. He's out of his fucking head now, isn't he? The future I came from is his. You don't join SCOUT without it. Eileen doesn't get her conditional pardon, you two don't turn on the Vanguard for a paycheck or sign Bai-Chan's adoptive paperwork. You can be angry. You ought to be angry.

'I'm angry,' the old soldier thinks but doesn't say. The flat panels of his jacket flip onto his shoulders over the assembly of arms and he pulls them straight with a grip of broad fingers between buttons. Teo shifts restlessly; mutters something that doesn't sound like English or Mandarin. Recognize? Acknowledge? What do you want?

Teo had asked the same thing of Gabriel when he'd had no memory and just like the first ten times, Gabriel doesn't have a response. I don't are two words that have no ending, cut short and lapsing into processing silence. He did warn the man, didn't he, about false promises, but it's not anger that rears its ugly head. Just silence, the same quiet that spans through Ghost's dormitory skull for long hours here and there, until moments like these where one thinks to say something.

Manners, Gabriel finally states, a shimmer of mirth through his voice, one that sours quickly into bitterness. Or maybe to go back in time.

Ha ha! Funny joke. And with that, whatever it was Gabriel was doing, trying to insinuate a telepathic crowbar, finding purchase with metaphorical fingernails, something, there is really no real life analogy for the separating of two consciouses via the insidious presence of one— happens. Not outwards, but inwards. There is a place you can go, that has nothing to do with dreams, and only something to do with memories in which they act as rules.

Teo is falling, inside himself, only to land—


— on cool astroturf.

Bright white fluorescence picking out the artificial vegetation's infinite blades. Green, striped by segments of contradicting directed brushwork like velvet, each band a hundred feet wide. Bleachers rise stainless silver up on either side, seizing toward a deep black, night-time sky— and if anything was equipped to take a bite out of pure void, it might be the Stadio Renzo. Palermo's most famous football stadium.

Famous, infamous— the latter if you've seen the riots. Despite that none of its lean, leggy athletes or screaming technicolor pinwheeling of fans are here. Not tonight. The stray powder granulation of celestial stars are conspicuously absent as well, deleted from this digitally remastered recreation of a place long ago.

Heat hangs slack and humid in the air like a sea creature wasting on a hook. Mediterranean weather. Means home.

"Wha-" Teo sits upright. Astroturf, being astroturf, leaves no pieces clinging to the back of his bristly, dirty blond head, but he rakes his fingers at it anyway, then claps a palm down on the sleeves of his arms, furrows his brows, knees spiking upward, heels digging in. The last thing he had heard was some incipient sauce from Ghost about teaching Gabriel manners— but from here, there's nothing.

The only echo is of traffic, outside, far away. "What— what the—" Always the articulate one. It's amazing he ever reaches any cognitive conclusions whatsoever, if this is the rate at which he thinks. "What did you do?"

"Time travel."

Probably a cruel jest, but— perhaps not surprising. With the manifestations of his voice comes his visible appearance, Gabriel stepping into frame like something of a badly editing ninja movie. There's a flash of spider-leg shining black plastic and glass that stretches across his face, possibly the dorkiest glasses in the known world, but it's only for half a second, already taking them off. They disappear, too, cut out of the world.

It's only a slight improvement. Gabriel could look better. A grey cardigan that looks dirtier than any real deliberate choice in colour, buttoned high, and worn jeans that fit, you know, okay. Leather boots, scuffed, are near soundless against astroturf as he approaches the other man, lifts his amber-brown gaze up to take in this new place. "Or just a magic trick. But I figured you could use the vacation."

His bare hands come together, runs a palm over the other, some sort of fidget that he couldn't otherwise do without some mental manifestation of himself. He can certainly feel the glide of sweat and skin. Just, he knows he isn't really. "You've been too quiet."

After the jokes that Teo's been the butt of for the past month or so, the dig about time-travel's like a flick of a forefinger on his arm. Doesn't even really sting. Unbidden, he puts a palm up on his shoulder as if he'd actually felt such a gnat-prod, though. Then rough knuckles underneath his jaw, a thumb under his lip. It's been a long time since he had a body, or even a reasonable fascimile thereof.

It takes his face a moment, maybe two to decide that he's clean-shaven. The incline of his cheekbone catches stadium light, is planed sharp against the bevelled line of his nose, making a profile oddly austere and young at the same time, despite the unkempt scratch of his overgrown hair. Ghost carries the same look about him. "Yeah. I keep— phasing out or some shit, I don't know. I don't know why."

Teo sets one foot on the grass and leans onto it, almost experimentally. Gets up onto his feet, straightening lean shoulders, coasting work-rough hands down the front of his scruffy jacket. He's wearing a hoodie under— and another shirt beneath that, despite the heat, the onion layers he defaults to while New York feels cold. New York almost always feels cold, to him. It had in the last weeks he had spent occupying the space inside his own skin. "More since you came in.

"Not your fault," he adds, automatically, despite that he wouldn't have really expected Gabriel's sensibilities or ego to sustain injury from an inferred accusation anyway. He breathes deep. Thinks he can smell popcorn, although he can't. "Are you short-sighted or long-sighted?"

That gets a dismissive, exhaling snort, as if to say, is that relevant and/or necessary, Teo Laudani?, but perhaps surprisingly— "Long-sighted. I'm also left handed." Because currently, they have, while not all the time in the world, a good slice of it. There's a wry pull to Gabriel's mouth, although his eyes show anything but a smile. "I suppose it's only fair, I've been getting to know your ins and outs too."

As it were.

"When Kazimir had me, I had places I could go. Memories. Mine, but not just mine. I have an ability, one that lets me collect pieces of people in my head. It didn't guarantee privacy, but it was— a place to go. He won't be far away. If the clouds start rolling in or dust starts settling or the ground starts to crack— you'll know."

Gabriel's arms come to wrap around himself, folding, as if cold when it's not that at all, and even the heat is artificial. "Why here?"

As it were, Teo wishes it weren't. Wonderfully, his face actually darkens. Four shades; he jerks his head away, suddenly, sifts the spectacle of their setting with his eyes. An ability, one that lets Gabriel collect pieces of people in his head. A good gift— and apparently useful in unimaginable ways, but Christ.

Teo hopes to God that Gabriel doesn't take a piece of him away; not after all of this. "My favorite football team operates out of here. Ah— my old one, when I was a boy. Citta di Palermo, la aguilas. I used to riot for them outside, but in here I was good. Mostly— I used to take Rommy here to play, although he was pretty bad at it. I think I am, by now, too."

A football. Bright round relief, as an egg dolloped onto the fibers of a nest, sitting in quiescent repose between the toes of Gabriel's shoes.

Clouds and dust and cracking earth sound like the makings of a nightmare. 'The makings of a nightmare' — a bitter grin seizes the corner of Teo's mouth when that phrase crosses his thoughts. "I don't think he'd look here. He disdains Romero, I think, and what Rommy means to me. I think that's why." A beat's pause. "Better weather, too. What was that about? Eileen— your future with her… I guess— I don't remember him speaking with her about that. I remember most of the things he does, even if it takes me awhile."

Gabriel's gaze angles down towards the football sitting still and inert between the toes of his boots, sides perfectly around and designed for freedom of movement. Spheres are likely that. He listens with his eyes tracked downwards, and then her name comes up. It's only then that he lifts a foot, experimentally nudges the football— soccer ball— up onto the top of his other, a precarious balance for a moment.

"He's been in her head," he explains. "I don't know if you'd remember it at all. It's his ability, or a part of it. Some kind of— projection. Not like mine." There's a soft sound of the soccer ball rolling, hitting the astroturf again, and it's with some petulant frustration that Gabriel lets his leg swing, lets his toe hit the sphere, lets it bounce off after a sharp smack in Teo's basic direction.

It feels good to move. Gravity works, here. "He sent her dreams, about a house she lived in. Will live in, with me. I think we're together. We adopted a dead man's child. I think some things are better left unsaid, don't you agree?" Bitter, bitter, all the cageyness of a cornered wolf.

You're not supposed to kick a football with your toe, but Teo only manages to get his mouth open to point this out before he decides that would be rude. Seriously. It's a dream. It's not like Gabriel is going to really learn how to play in here. It's enough that there's room to play.

Hexed red-and-white stop, bouncing neatly off the hollow of the Sicilian's foot. He swerves his heel over it, tucking it back along a half-stride, brakes, twists on the sole of his other shoe, tilts against his vertical axis, easy and fluid as a calligraphic pen against parchment. The ball jolts into the air, bumps on the crown of his head. Abigail would be making a joke about brain-damage right about now. Probably not unjustified.

"I don't know. That sounds like the kind of marathon act— " of silence, he means, "— that turned me into a psychopathic lunatic for eight years."

Correct, you're meant to kick off the side of your foot. And other reasons that Gabriel was picked last for all the teams, which would later lead to him also being a psychopathic lunatic. The more you know. Gabriel watches movements with casual interest, watches the ball go arcing off from its directed trajectory off Teo's skull.

"People change," is the— reassurance?— he offers to the other man. People change and not often in good ways. Twisted metal semblences of who they used to be, like a car crash. "At least you know what not to do when I get him out of here."

The sole of Gabriel's boot comes up to fix against the ball, to stop its roll once it makes its way back to him. His arms go out in an effort of balance, blinking rapidly, entirely the former geek to Teo's former jock. So much for people changing. "I didn't exactly come in here to keep you company. I have a plan." He feels the need to say this out loud, to make all of this less of an accident that comes with having more abilities than you can count on one hand. Used to be two, anyway.

Punt. The ball is kicked again, however wrongly, and Teo may have to do some running when it goes off the wild angle of the curving boot-toe. "Sorry."

You're not supposed t- Teo begins to articulate proper instruction, this time, with his hands. However, again he aborts halfway, only getting so far as making a fist to represent the ball and the flat of his other palm to indicate trajectory of foot, contact them, before the verbal accompaniment necessary dies on his lips. He's halfway over to the ball by then, anyway. Running.

Moisture clogging up in his sleeves, cupping in his pores. The air is heavy enough that the breezes feel like passing objects, each one redolent with sunshine. "A plan," he repeats. "For— him, or for Arthur? One and then the next?" There's a beat's pause, surprise and incredulity showing on his face when he whips back around, circling the reacquired ball. It scoots ahead of him with another kick.

Dribbling his way back, though his voice is loud enough to carry, despite it. Not quite an echo, the noise of conversation nevertheless eddies, retransmits itself through the vastness of the stadium's cavernous concave, funnelling the miniscule impressions of small bodies through with all the augmenting grandiosity it was designed for. "This was your plan? I mean— I'm assuming Arthur or whomever grabbing your body wasn't, but-" He stops, eight feet off, foot on ball.

"I'm listening."

"If I can kill two birds with one stone. Otherwise, Pinehearst is a different fight." Not to discredit the elaborate web that's been woven with Pinehearst at its sticky centre, Arthur plucking its strings like the spider Gabriel used to imagine Kazimir to be. Gabriel is still where he stands, feet casually apart, hands coming back together to finger the sleeves of his shirt. There's a watch beneath one of them, although try as either of them might, the ticking is too soft.

He glances upwards, eyes judgmental, as if looking out for rain. He kind of is, just not for fear of getting wet. "I don't know what will happen. But I assume whatever it is will be better for you than playing backseat driver for however long he keeps you both alive. Ideally— you'll have your body back."

A noble ideal to uphold, certainly. But there's a seam of experimental concern running through Gabriel's voice. We'll see. "This is only mostly my plan. It's been delayed. I didn't think he'd be this strong, and now Arthur has my body. Fortunately, we all want the same thing."

It might be something of a presumption, given Gabriel hasn't exactly, individually consulted Teo on his position on 'the whole Arthur Petrelli issue,' but it's such a logical deduction— and true, that the Sicilian isn't about to let a little ego get in the way. Yes, his personal expressions have been somewhat absent from the stage as of late, which galls him but, frankly, other concerns.

Getting out. Getting Arthur. The glint of ribbed metal on Gabriel's wrist warrants a brief glance, a slight downward twitch of brows. He wonders what time Gabriel's subconscious thinks it is. He can't tell or remember, now, himself.

"Conveniently, we'd both die if we had to, to see it happen. Ironically, I trust you more to do this thing than I trust him. Take into consideration, if you can or need to use it, he's told people his ability's astral projection. So— shoot." The verb, he means, not the exclamation of rancor. He drives forward to swift steps, the pull-strings swinging at his collar, aims a pass at Gabriel of the side of his shoe.

A few degrees off, but not bad. For a very much ex-jock, not long after turned maladjusted amateur terrorist operative.

A few steps to the side, and a knee goes up in effort to block the ball's path. It hits Gabriel's shin, rolls upwards, bounces on the false green grass. "He made mistakes," Gabriel says, eyes on the rolling soccerball, a foot out to halt it. "I could have killed Arthur if I had of known what I was going up against. It's not like he never knew where to find me."

Or so he believes. As far as Gabriel is concerned, the effort was never made. It makes sense. Teo crucified on the white wall, stark red, puppets trings cut. He did kill the man. Gabriel takes a few steps back from where he'd stilled the soccer ball, eyes going up from it to look at Teo, a sort of brightness in brown eyes. "No one has to die. I need to get to Pinehearst, he needs to get to Pinehearst - we can all go together."

A running few steps, a skip, a kick— the side of his boot connects with the ball which lifts up off the ground and arcs towards Teo with far less randomness than before. "And I'm not leaving before I know it's you I'm leaving behind."

There's other stuff to talk about. Gabriel edges around the mechanics of how such things work. Maybe he doesn't know. Maybe not knowing is less dangerous, or a secret is best kept to one person. But he says that much.

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