versusnurture | fifth ♢ private + voice + spam

fifth ♢ private + voice + spam

private/voice } ben

[She contacts her warden as soon as Hannibal makes his announcement. Last night, when she checked in, she was distant; this morning she seemed more confident. This afternoon, she's shaky, uncertain, every bone in her body trembling, it feels like.]

Ben. I lost time. [This is an excuse, she knows.]

He made me dinner, Ben.

public } voice

[She cuts the feed on, then off. On/off, on/off, in strange but rhythmic patterns like Morse code.]

[She's fishing. Questions, accusations will come - she remembers that much from last time, with her real father, with Garret Hobbs, the Shrike. She wants them now. She doesn't want to wait.]

public } spam

[She doesn't change her routine, not even slightly. Which is not to say she's not afraid: she's terrified. There's no Freddie Lounds here to publicly doctor this story, to minimize her shame. Even if there was, she honestly isn't sure she'd want that anymore.]

[So she walks the halls and accepts what comes, goes to the art room, goes to lunch, visits Ben on his shift. Sometimes she goes to the CES and forgets where she is and how time passes. Hours and hours go by as she sits under a tree with her knees pulled up to her chest.]

[This is the only vulnerability she shows, and it is accidental.]

private } zane

I know what he wants from me so I can ask him for information if that's what you want.

[It's about the Emperor, of course; she no longer has the privilege, in her own mind, of contacting Zane for any reason other than business.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It's a very...direct culture, here. He did it, he claimed it, he'll be the target. You aren't his warden, it's on him.

And the community is small. Everybody's connected to someone who killed someone.

[It's a statement about how people will react, mostly; whether Abigail carries some part of the blame in truth or not doesn't really factor into it. She could have told his secrets. But then, so could Ben. It's one of the social rules that makes the barge minimally habitable, the assumption that people will keep secrets, that inmates' crimes will come out in their own times and their own ways.]

[She makes a small noise of doubt.]

I'll see. One way or the other. What'll come will come.

[Unless you take it in your hands and break it until it fits the mold you want it to. An option she's strongly considering.]

You might get one or two people who are - more expansive, in their resentment. But most people won't, as it stands.

The only time I ever really saw anyone take flack for someone else's crimes here, it was because the person who did it wouldn't answer anyone, and he made a great big deal about defending her and insulting her victims in public, so that was mostly about him being an ass.

[It's not arguementative. Abigail's right enough, about all of it.]

Useful to know. My experience in different settings has been. Different.

It's his design, but I participated. You do realize that. You're very smart.

[There's a pause this time, before she answers. Then, quiet and calm and even,]

I used my brother to do some of my killing.

[She's seen this from - something like, somehow like - Hannibal's side. There's no way to know how Abigail will react to that but Anya figures she has - something like a right to know.]

I'm smart enough to know that was still on me. And I know what it feels like to have no good choices. I won't pretend you're innocent. I'm just - not interesting in blaming you, either. How much of it you have to carry is for you to figure out.

Edited 2013-10-11 22:17 (UTC)

[It doesn't actually bother her that much. Nor does it really surprise her. Anya is dangerous; this isn't news.]

You know, it's funny. When it's you presenting me with the ability to choose, I'm sure you're mocking me. And I don't think that's rational, but - still. There it is.

It's not a choice, really. Not here. Except in the sense that you can either muddle your way through or give up. So it's something like a challenge, I suppose.

[And then she laughs, softly, ruefully.]

...the last time I tried to mock someone I called him a meddling twit. I'm actually sort of terrible at it.

That just makes you sound like a supervillain.

[Abigail is genuinely appalled at the lack of style here.]

[She makes a muffled noise, almost giggles but more embarrassed.]

It wasn't my plans he screwed up, at least? He was totally amoral, so calling him incompetent was the only way to get on his nerves. It made sense in context, I swear.

[It's the sort of protest that is both the lady doth protest too much and self-aware as such; a defense that admits itself a lost cause with sheepish, tacit chagrin.]

I guess that makes a little more sense. It's still kind of terrible, though. No offense.

I really want to mock you, but I'm not doing it because Ben likes you. He's not very well lately.

[And she's terrified this is just going to make everything worse.]

I know.

[To all of it. There's a soft huff of breath. She worries. And it's her fault. Not all of it, but - a lot.]

You can if you want. I only get high-strung and touchy about people who remind me of my family.

What kind of people are those? I don't really know anything about you.

Brash, thoughtless idiots. Imperious or angry father figures of various stripes. People who give up.

You're a lot more like me than any of them.

[She laughs quietly. There's regret in there somewhere.]

Why do you think I don't want to mock you? It'd be self-flagellation.

We'd never do that.

[Dry, more rueful than sarcastic outright.]

Not without a lot of circuitous reasoning in addition.

[That's - not quite true, she thinks, blinking once. Circuitous reasoning gets them to doing terrible things; it's when the consequences come down like a sledgehammer that they hate themselves for being just not clever enough. But that seems - either cruel or stupid to say aloud. Both, maybe.]

Well, my circuitous reasoning about you hasn't really gotten very far.

[Definitely both. She knows it's a lie as she says it, at least. That's more than she would have once.]

You could reason less circuitously.

I'm being as straightforward with you as I know how to be.

[Blunt and plain.]

You said you didn't know much about me. You can ask. I might decide some things are too private to answer, but - not many.

We could trade. If that's easier. Veto power on both sides.

[It doesn't have to be equal. Abigail is more afraid than Anya now, and Anya feels stronger these days when she uses the truth about herself anyway; she doesn't need Abigail to reveal anything in return. But then again, Abigail will trust what she says more if it isn't free. Abigail may or may not want a reason to talk about things she cannot bring herself to simply volunteer. And it's worth noting that when she gets to specifics, it's not the questions she mentions, but the protection of privacy. This, Anya thinks, and manages not to grin in spite of her amusement, is definitely as straightforward as they can be.]

Sounds fair to me.

Why do you love Ben?

[This isn't the question she meant to ask first. But maybe it's the most important. Ben is the other common thread between them, besides precocious overthinking.]

[Again, she finds herself defensive of him. It's probably unwarranted - but she is, just in case.]

[She breathes sharply, just a touch. She hurt him badly, recently, probably more than Abigail knows. They're fixing it, but Anya still feels terrible about it. And - it's so much. But she'll try to put it into words.]

We're similar, in a lot of ways. Or we went through similar things. We were both very isolated, for a long time. We both lived in fear of masters that had nearly unlimited power. We were both treated like less than - real people.

And he came through that, and he's so kind and brave and smart, even when he doesn't understand things. And - he always was, you know? He used to tell stories, to the other kids he was trapped with, trying to give them hope, trying to give their lives meaning and safety and brightness that was so stripped away from them. It's who he is, trying to understand, trying to make things better.

He's helped me through some terrible things. Even when he barely knew me yet. He's strong and brittle and gentle and - he's just. He's Ben. I don't know how anybody doesn't love him, not if he lets them see him at all.

[She exhales - swiftly and loudly. This isn't a good answer. It's not a logical answer. He's Ben doesn't make any kind of sense. But it's also the only right answer, the only one Abigail would have believed. Ben is just what he is.]

[Unseen, she presses her hands to her lips and finds herself grounded by his strength and brittleness and gentle heart, by his tenacity in the face of insanity, his stubborn strength. These are also the reasons she loves Ben. These are the reasons Ben should be loved.]

Okay. [A fluttering breath, and again:] Okay.

Your turn.

How do you feel about Ben?

[The one thing she really wants to know, the one thing she wouldn't rather wait and let Abigail reveal in her own time. But she's tied to Ben, he feels a duty toward her let alone his personal care and concern, and Anya more than anyone knows what a multitude of sins protectiveness can hide.]

Edited 2013-10-18 21:03 (UTC)

fifth ♢ private + voice + spam

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