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[The video opens up on a man sitting too close to the screen, poking at said screen to confirm that the settings are all appropriate for his purposes. He looks positively pissed and has a wad of tissue stuck up one nostril. Though the ship-induced insomnia has ended at last, the subsequent identity issues have been especially taxing on a man who has spent the entire last month working through the meaning of life after death while delirious with lack of sleep, antagonizing his closest friend (entirely on accident), and still acclimating to the various ... quirks of the future and The Tranquility.

Not being able to think as himself has thrown him for a loop that he is not best equipped to handle -- and which he tries so valiantly to resist.

It has not ended very well, if the constant nosebleeds and piercing headaches are any indication.

So it has come to this. Bahorel clears his throat and looks directly at the camera, now reasonably spaced away from it, though still not at the most flattering angle. He'll never quite figure this thing out.

His voice is a little gruff and stilted at first, as he is not exactly sure how to address this matter, let alone a full ship as audience. But he sure as hell is sick and tired of this unnecessary invasion of his usually manageable headspace, so he's going to get this out, one way or another.]

Hello. For those of you who do not know, my name is Ambrose Bahorel. I hail from Paris, France, of the 1800s, and am often associated with a handful of others who call ourselves Les Amis de l'ABC.

[A pause. This is so dumb and awkward, and he is really fighting the urge to roll his eyes into the back of his head.

... Nope, lost that fight pretty quickly there. That was less a fight and more a massacre.]

To be absolutely frank, I hope that anyone who recognizes me or my voice from one of their foreign memories will contact me immediately. After the travesty that was last month, now is not the best time to be playing mind games, and I would appreciate settling this matter promptly.

[He contemplates turning the goddamn thing off already, then adds as an afterthought,]

Thank you.

{{ OOC: This will be Bahorel's catch-all for all mid- to late-stage links! Naturally is open to all, and for anyone who wants moar empathy links for any of the stages, you can find a quick ref of Bahorel's available memories here! PM this account or

paraverbal if you need/want more deets. :3 }}

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[Well. Here it is then. How potentially awkward is this exactly, on a scale again. A question of stolen memories themselves, which somehow strikes him near so bad as a stolen identity. In any case, he's turned on the communicator to answer, and has a video going before he's quite worked out what it is that he is going to say here.]

I may have managed to pick up a few of those memories myself, yes. You and Monsieur Prouvaire have had some...difficulties as I saw it. As I have seen them now, if you would like to speak at length, I place myself at your disposal despite hardly knowing what to say. I have not proved as good a friend as I imagined myself, once, but even so.

[Courfeyrac is somber. He knew those memories were Bahorel's, but how does one approach a friend and let him know you've been infused with some of his thoughts?

He's chewing on his lip for a moment, glancing up and down from the feed anxiously before finally speaking. Quiet and not nearly as boisterous and excitable as he usually is. ~~He'd hate to be smothering.~~]

My friend, I believe we must speak... I have been privy to rather-- ah-- difficult memories of yours, I'm afraid. I can only imagine, then, that you must be with some of mine.

[And he is frightened beyond reason about which memories those might be.]

Monsieur... I think I may have some of yours, or-- someone else in your group. Might we talk in person...?

["How potentially awkward" is perhaps the understatement of the year. Bahorel is mortified when he views this transmission, and has half a mind not to respond. That a stranger (more than a friend, as they had not spoken again since that last jump) had seen one of his worst moments in his life...! What more could he speak of, and to what end would the man use this knowledge against him?

It had not fully hit him that even that could fall in the hands of another...

Though if that were the case, then this man must have been the only one whose memories he had been unable to recognize, the man in that dream of a dark cell, of the guilt that plagued he whose birth name had struck the angriest chord in the streets of Paris.

A third party may be helpful in this situation, and there was perhaps some way that he could provide some assistance of his own.]

Ah, er, I see. [A bit of a pause, and a slightly uncomfortable shift.] What exactly are you privy to in particular, Monsieur-- [He is hesitant to speak either name before settling on neither.] --?

And as you have been privy to mine, I, too, have seen more than I believe a man is meant to see of another's life, and that you are the owner of such memories. ... For you are, in fact, the Marquis St. Evremonde, no?

Edited 2013-10-22 07:50 (UTC)

[With the post sent out into a public forum, Bahorel is preparing to send those whose memories he recognized a direct message when Courfeyrac's face appears on his screen.

His jaw tightens involuntarily, as Courfeyrac had been the last one he had wanted to address, for fear of which thoughts the other man had gained from him, if Bahorel had received ... well, those images from his friend in turn.

But being that they are, in fact, still friends, there is no point in avoiding him forever.

His voice is tired, rough around the edges as a frown pinches his expression into something resembling irritation of a much softer shade, directed inwardly rather than at the man on the other side of the screen. There is none of the brawler here tonight, only the thinker (something he, himself, had not originally expected), and, besides, there is a whole ship and a piece of glass which separates the pair from one another, so Courfeyrac has little to fear from this man tonight.]

I must admit that I was hoping this phenomenon did not necessitate a binary exchange, but perhaps this is for the better.

Courfeyrac, I have been meaning to speak to you for some time now, and depending on which memories you speak of... [A sigh, and a rub to his face.] Perhaps I will need to share with you even more of my own.

But of course, Albert. Would you like to meet me at the bar on floor 12, or would you prefer a more private venue?

The bar is well-suited; I'll meet you there.

[Albert is somewhat in need of a drink.]

[Blinking, Courfeyrac bites down on his lip and glances away from the screen. He may die ~~again~~ of mortification by the end of this exchange. He's taken to anxiously wringing the fabric of his clothing, giving off a far more wrinkled appearance than he's comfortable with...

Then again, he's not particularly comfortable with Bahorel knowing what he does. Might. May have seen.]

I will make my way to your room, if I am welcome.

[He'd hate to be too suffocating, mind you.]

These chats are not suited for anything other than face to face.

[Bahorel bows his head, and though there's still a bit of a frown between his brows, his lips tighten upwards a smidge in his acquiescence.]

You are a good friend, Courfeyrac; you are always welcome.

[If that is not enough to reassure Courfeyrac that he intends him no harm or any further slander, that such is the tone of their imminent conversation, he is not sure how else to proceed.]

And you are right. I shall await you here.

[With a final nod and agreement, he cuts the feed and proceeds to Bahorel's room, fingers still fidgeting anxiously with his waistcoat as he goes. Chewing anxiously on his lip, he knocks on his door and announces his presence before opening it slightly to see himself in.]

I'm afraid I come bearing no gifts but my own company... I do hope that will suffice.

[And what may have usually been accompanied by a great laugh or smile only receives a faint one instead.]

I will see you shortly.

[When he has arrived at the bar, Bahorel makes himself comfortable at a booth slightly tucked out of view, though it is not especially difficult to make him out, as the room is mostly empty at this hour, anyway. It is quiet as a result, and perfect for speaking comfortably, leisurely, though he is sure that this has every opportunity to be far less than either of those.

He ran through the voices of the younger man's friends as they scoffed at his attempts at shedding his worldly values, and could not help but remember vividly his own youthful evolution from bright-eyed student to motion-oriented revolutionist.

Nursing a young tumbler of scotch, Bahorel smiled graciously once Albert arrived, rising to welcome him with a hello-handshake and a gesture for the bartender.]

Albert, it is good to see you again. I hope that all has been well with you in general.

[There is the smallest hint of a flinch on the screen. When the memories had begun trickling in, Charles should have known that this one would creep out, and the shame and scandal associated with that name is flooding over him now, even as he thinks to what he witnessed.]

I was.

[Is what he settles on at last, because the revolution did rather do away with his title, so far as he can tell, not that he had not already done his best to discard it already. And as for the man before him, well...]

You and your Jean Prouvaire...you are best friends or closer than that, I can guess. It must be hard to find oneself seemingly outside of things that you once shared, and others in your place.

My wife and her...our friend were much the same and I never could understand where I fit in between them as it was.

[Shaking his head lightly, Bahorel waves the man inside, gesturing at either the bed opposite him or the chair situated near the bureau.]

Certainly; do make yourself comfortable wherever.

[Similarly, the booming cheer that one is usually accustomed to with the brash man has been reduced to a slightly gruff mutter, a hardened smile, and a generally stiff countenance. He settles down onto his own bed and leans against the wall, eyes and fingers idly tracing along the infant spider plant's tiny leaf-spears. Once Courfeyrac has settled somewhere, Bahorel began to speak without much other preamble.]

I know-- That is to say, I've seen that you and-- [A small but noticeable falter over the name here.] --Jehan have gotten very ... close since his arrival here on The Tranquility.

[A long-ish pause.]

I cannot say that I am especially happy about the circumstances, but that does not change the fact that your memories have shown me the truth.

[Another pause, slightly shorter this time.]

Jehan seems to be happy with you, and you ... felt happy with him. [Remembering the memory a bit here, reliving the scene through Courfeyrac's eyes, in his skin, in his heart and mind. He almost reluctantly pulls himself back from the vision and returns to his own harsh reality. Leaning forward, bringing both callused hands to clasp in front of him and rub against one another in thought.]

I am not his caretaker, just as I am not him, so I do not have a say in this matter-- But know that I will not stand by and watch if you hurt him.

[Eyeing Courfeyrac carefully, Bahorel's expression tightens in both warning and his own guilt, and it takes a moment before he finally drops his gaze to the floor again, and adds, reluctantly,]

As I have.

[With a short nod, he finds himself on the chair, sitting not quite so comfortably, despite being asked to make himself comfortable. There was no way that it could be so, really. Not knowing what was about to be spoken up and what he might have seen.

And there it was. Courfeyrac's face, if it were possible, caught nearly on fire at the admission. He nearly interrupted, nearly barked back at him about these 'circumstances' that he wasn't happy with.

Still a furious red, the dandy falters for just a moment, watching as Bahorel essentially threatens him if he hurts Jehan.]

You will not have to stand by and see such a thing, dear friend. You have my memories, haven't you? Felt them as thoroughly as I have felt yours... As such, you should very well know how sincere I am-- if slightly suffocating.

[He could not bite back the quip, knowing that Bahorel had only said it out of lack of sleep and frustration. It still hurt just the same to hear it, feel it, with such conviction. Still, it was a low blow, so he hastily adds after a moment...]

I am, admittedly, embarrassed that you have seen such things as I am certain they may have come as quite a shock to you... But I hope you understand why nothing has been said on the subject otherwise.

[Albert returns the handshake warmly, but in truth it is lacking his usual enthusiasm.]

It's good to see you as well, monsieur. In general... yes, I'm fine. But... honestly, this recent business with-- with the memories, it's all a little...

[Albert shakes his head, at a loss for words to accurately describe how unsettled it makes him. Waking up from his own nightmares is one thing. Waking up from other people's is another.]

[Javert had been reluctant of speaking to the young man. He was quite honestly tired of dealing with the boys from the barricade and people from his own world. Yet, he couldn't afford to ignore this post as he believed he had some of the young man's memories.]

I believe we should talk. Preferably in person.

[Bahorel started at that voice, familiar but he could not quite place it until--

Ah.]

L'Inspector. [A little gruff, a little formal, but all the same, not especially pleasant or otherwise, and a curt nod to the device in his hand despite the video being off.]

As you wish, monsieur. Where would be of convenience to you?

[He nods grimly as they sit back down.]

Something on the strong side, then? [More to the bartender than Albert, really.

He looks down at his own glass and swirls the amber liquid around a bit as he speaks.]

I... I would imagine that you have seen something of my life, then, as I have also seen those of yours.

[A small hesitation.] Would it do you better to speak first, or shall I?

[At the other's flushed response, Bahorel knew immediately what Courfeyrac must have seen, even before the sharp bite of his own verbal attack returned to snap at his coattails. His eyes stayed to the floor as the other continued, and he nodded his agreement slowly.]

It is of shock to me only in its sincerity, and that is by far the most pleasant of possible outcomes. I am ... genuinely happy to know that you are both well.

I do understand, and I take it that you have been discreet with the others, as well. Though I imagine you have little to fear of their judgment, either, I will not fault you on that decision.

[Uncharacteristically, he bit back the comment that the pair were still doing their friends a discredit to think that no one would have noticed, not even become somewhat suspicious, but who was he to speak for men whom he had been out of touch with for nearly half a year, if not more? Besides, he assumed the other had gotten the sentiment from the memory, as well, if perhaps in a slightly more cantankerous rather than a truly hurt and lonely tone.

No matter, if it were actually to become a problem, surely it would get addressed.

... To be honest, it was all very frustrating, and Bahorel had to take a moment to calm the slew of thoughts that began again and focused instead on the single point of addressing the unkindness he had imparted upon Courfeyrac's person to give him a semblance of order in his mind.]

My friend, I must apologize to you for the words I said that night. They were not well-formed even in my mind, made worse only by the fact that you may not have known as intimately the habits of our poet friend back-- back in Paris. [As he, himself, had also denounced that night. His jaw tensed slightly, but he continued, regardless.] No doubt you know it now, considering your newfound intimacy, that, as an only child and a free spirit, Jehan always sought his own refuge and kept himself separate from much else; the very thought of prolonged company in his private space was not one that he would treat so lightly, let alone a roommate.

[Well, that didn't quite come out as he intended, either, and he was prepared for another angry backlash at his potentially patronizing tone -- not intended of course, as usual, but intention was clearly overrun by antagonization every time he tried to speak of these ... bitter emotions.

He tried again, more to the point this time, and perhaps a little exasperated.]

I spoke out of a frustration stemming from jealousy, and for that I am sorry -- to Jehan, certainly, but to you, as well. I do not need you to forgive me, for I realize it was unprecedentedly rude as words in their infancy usually are. But I imagine that such is in order, regardless.

[Bahorel notes that flinch and nods gravely to acknowledge the other's response. His expression is softer, though, as he replies.]

Then Charles, or M. Darnay, however it is that you prefer to be called: I must say to you that a name is only a name, and it takes on whatever significance which you deem worthy of it. Your name is your own to make, especially in a place like here where others know naught of your past.

[Had the other man been in the near vicinity, Bahorel's hand would have come to his shoulder reassuringly, firmly, as he gazed steadily into the camera. Instead, his hand rose a little awkwardly before settling itself on his knee, as he had forgotten again that they were not in the same room. (Still a little disconcerting, despite all this while.) He is otherwise serious in his next statements.]

And let it be known that the act of your predecessors do not mark you as a person. You are your own person, and a title or a name should never change that person.

[At the talk of Jehan, Bahorel quietly sighed a little and nodded a little glumly. Great. Opening up to (semi-)strangers. Exactly what he was hoping to do tonight. ... Well, Bahorel supposed it could've been much worse.]

It is not a feeling I'm familiar with, no, and it's ... difficult, as you've said.

[And it is still so odd to hear someone speak of this, and not address him in terms that are, well, less than glowing. Charles has spent the last year hearing the jibes associated with his name in court, from jailers, everywhere else one might think, and before that, the seclusion had also been necessary for matters more than those of the revolution, but of other matters instead.

So the slight smile he is giving Bahorel is still this side of hesitant. It's not that he does not believe him, but to hear such, and from one whom he knows to be a revolutionary from a later time is...slightly irregular to say the least. ]

Indeed, this is a better place for such, another chance of starting over as it were. If one must do so, then I've found a decent moment, I suppose.

[Decent enough but for what he now knows, of Carton dead for his sake, of that final letter, and Carton's choices, that the man had been a better friend than any of them knew...well that last one perhaps can feed into Bahorel's problem for the moment.]

It does occur to me that awkwardness between friends can be the most difficult sort, and were there any way of resolving it, well I might advise attempting to, if that is within your grasp. The last man whom I ought have broached the subject with is dead. I did not realize what a friend he was until some time after that death, and speaking as one who is there now, that place is still far worse, I'd say.

Discretion... Comes as old habit. [It's more murmured than anything else as he bites down on his lip.] There are more important things to be concerned with than who is with who.

[Still, he allowed Bahorel to continue... Fingers fidgeting with his cravate and waistcoat all the while.]

I do wish you would have come to me with your concerns, mon ami. Your jealousy is not unprecedented... But it would do better to fix such things before they've boiled over and we say things that hurt... That we do not mean. I accept your apology only if you can accept mine in that we have kept this knowledge from you and the others for seemingly silly reasons.

[But this has him wondering, now, which of his memories Bahorel saw... The ridiculous love letter to Jehan's waistcoat and handholding at the barricades? Jehan's return from being lost around the ship... He prayed that it was not something too compromising.]

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