versusnurture | first ♢ voice

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first ♢ voice

[Abigail's voice quavers, as though she's uncertain of the connection, like someone making their first long-distance call. She starts out firm and then peters out into uncertainty, the tail end of her first sentence almost a question.]

My name is Abigail . . . Hobbs.

I'm not sure how I got here, but I'm here now. [A pause; who to ask for?] I'm looking for Dr. Alana Bloom. She's tall with dark hair. She was supposed to check in with me this morning, but instead I'm here.

Are there - [And here she inserts a little more tremor than necessary into her voice, because she doesn't know what else to do right now - ] Are there letters home? That kind of thing? How does this work? Because I need to talk to my dad.

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Port Haven Psychiatric Facility.

[She wields this information like a weapon, though against what she's not sure. Regardless, she watches his face as she tells him for any signs: concern, fear, pity, surprise. She doesn't look like a crazy girl. She just looks like a girl.]

[This is something she knows, and also uses.]

[Ben does look her way for a moment, but it's curiosity behind his eyes. He's vaguely aware of psychiatric facilities, wondering at them from the outside like he had churches. How he felt about them changed with the day and his stability levels, but all that means is that they're as much a mystery to him as the rest of the world he left.

He doesn't know what she looks like. He only just met her.]

You did not enjoy your experiences there.

[He's strange. Beyond the obvious - the obvious is incredibly obvious - but underneath it all he's not right. She wonders briefly what it would be like if Hannibal got his claws into Ben, and to her credit doesn't flinch at the thought. She is sure that it would be ugly.]

[Her smile, now, is faint and vague, but not teary, like she might make it for someone more likely to pity her.]

I didn't. No. I ran away a lot. But they always brought me back.

I understand.

[They only ran once, and he'd died rather than be taken back, so there are differences. He does, however, understand.

He glances ahead of them, thoughtful while he considers.]

Some find it to be better, here. Others never will. I hope you are amongst the former.

Why? I'm not important to you.

[This is not a dig, although it can easily function as one. She presents it reasonably, as a logical argument. She just got here. She's not important to anyone.]

Not that I disagree. I'm just wondering.

[Ben accepts it exactly as she presents it, lifting his chin slightly by way of acknowledgement. She's right, after all.]

Because it's no way to live, being held captive.

It's no way to live, not expecting better.

[This, too, is a statement of fact, but it's one with which Ben is intimately, thoroughly familiar.]

[She smiles at him. It's easy to transition from sadness to happiness with him; it almost feels natural. He is an odd thing.]

You know.

I wasn't captive for very long. Were you?

All of my life.

[Ben does not even consider smiling back, though his tone carries through with his reply: he says it like most people would say they have blonde hair and blue eyes and like the color green. It's a piece of who he is, no more and no less.]

Including, technically, here until approximately a month ago. I did not mind as much as others do.

You were like me.

[Abigail marvels at this, but doesn't find it all that surprising, really. She knew there was a story there.]

How did you get out? What did you do? Why didn't you run?

Where would I have run?

[He's about to point out that the reasons for not running are every bit as obvious as why a fear of flight and darkness and space would be unfortunate when he realizes he's not sure which time she's asking about, not certain why he's like her. He hesitates.]

When?

When you graduated. Why didn't you run then?

I kept running even though they kept putting me back in. I didn't want to be stuck anywhere.

[She's been stuck enough. She wanted to fly.]

I don't have anywhere else to go.

I would rather be brought back here, than where I was before.

[Her lips form a soft 'oh'. She understands this, too, and wonders if she might feel like she should be brought back anywhere specific, someday.]

Why were you locked up?

[She isn't afraid. She just wants to know.]

Because they didn't want us to know they didn't own us.

They only wanted us to know what they taught us. So they created us, and then they kept us.

[Ben is still working that out for himself. He's becoming, slowly, attached to people but not yet places; slowly because he remembers that had been his mistake, before.]

You?

I was locked up because my father killed a lot of girls who looked just like me, so he wouldn't have to kill me. They thought it would cause problems.

They thought maybe I helped.

[She did.]

They wanted to keep me safe and sane and ask me questions.

Did you?

[Overall, Ben doesn't have much of a reaction to this. He doesn't understand the connection between fathers and daughters, though Anya is teaching him. He also doesn't understand, on the gut-level that any human is supposed to, the discomfort with death, with being an instrument or an excuse for it. Oh, he understands that it's wrong as well as the next person, but he doesn't have the kneejerk horror reaction that others do.

If anything is strange to him, it's that someone wanted to keep her safe and sane enough to lock her up; but Ben has learned about that, too, thanks to Alex.]

[There is a bizarre temptation to tell him. To say yes. I did. I was kind to them. I was their friend, with the knowledge that they'd die soon. Quickly, but painfully. I knew what would happen after.]

[She wonders what would happen. If he would make that same non-expression upon hearing what she's done. If he would have too many questions, or none at all. If he would feel fear, revulsion, an urge to distance himself. Or if he would be curious, like Hannibal was - would help her, like he had.]

[Instead, she dons offense like a mask, lip curling. She looks like she's been smacked.]

No.

[Ben reacts to that, not overly so, but all the more pronounced for his lack of reaction to most of the rest. He swings a bit wider as they round the current landing in the stairwell, pulling away ever so slightly in a way that has little to do with his physical proximity, eyes cutting to her, steps slowing.

He's cautious, but it's difficult to tell why.]

I'm sorry.

[She chooses to believe that it's worked. If it hasn't, and he's angry with her and chooses to retaliate, she's got no hope. And maybe hope is something she still wants to cling to a little bit.]

[Shaking her head, she follows him, keeping the space between them as he's defined it.]

It's all right. That's what everyone else thought, too.

[Ben gives no hints as to what he's thinking; he continues to lead the way up the last two flights of stairs, though he does glance back long enough to protest - however mildly - her words.]

I didn't think anything. I was asking.

[But he's already insulted her and it had not been his intention; he doesn't linger.]

Did it work? Were you safe?

Most people, when they ask a question like that, it's because they think they already know the answer.

[She doesn't believe he's any different, no matter how strange he seems. He's still human, to her mind. He still does what human beings do.]

No. I wasn't safe. I died, didn't I?

I don't understand what differentiates a question such as I asked from any other question I have asked.

[He doesn't look at her strangely for the followup question. He doesn't show anything, now.]

I meant did it keep you safe from what they intended to keep you safe from. How did you die?

It's just different.

[She looks at him curiously. It's an interesting question, she thinks. Hard to answer, at least the first part.]

Well, they wanted to keep me sane, but I don't know . . . how can you tell from inside your own head if you're insane? How would you know?

[A brief pause, and then--]

My throat was cut. [By whom, is the obvious follow-up.] By a friend of mine. [Family.]

That is not a sound explanation.

[He's just pointing it out. There's no followup expectation for a better attempt.

Similarly, he doesn't much hesitate over her counter-inquiry.]

It depends on whether an individual is entirely insane or only partially insane. If the answer is partially insane, one becomes aware of it once one has passed out of the state. If the answer is entirely, then no, it would be impossible to tell as the state of being would be considered by the individual to be normal.

[He does, at least, pause at the explanation of her death. He's not made completely uncomfortable by discussion of it like most, but it doesn't mean he's immune to feeling empathy for the act. It's just much more commonplace than it perhaps should be.

Nonetheless it also answers his question: she wouldn't refer to her father as her friend. That much, Anya has taught him. Father is always Father, unless he is Enemy.]

I'm sorry. Fortunately, you are amongst a population that will understand, for the most part. Many of them have died to come here. Most did not find the experience to be pleasant or desirable.

Partially . . . like temporarily?

[She's never felt insane, not really. Out of control, yes, but that's not the same thing, is it? So logically, either she's completely insane or she's completely sane.]

[Not that it matters; sane and insane are legal terms. She's learned this, as events unfolded. She might have been charged as insane or sane in court, were she brought to trial, but that wouldn't define her. She has to define herself as sane/insane, just as she has to define herself as predator/victim.]

[She cants her head at him. He's sorry. She's not sure what she is, yet. Other than betrayed.]

I mostly found it surprising. [This is her version of a joke.]

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