fifth ♢ private + voice + spam

[versusnurture]

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.]

Comments

[myironeyes]

[He starts burning brass, just a little, very tentatively, aims to brush away the sharp edges of fear, sorrow, guilt, and its fiercer twin, self-loathing. He thinks about listening to it from the other side, about the subtle changes in timbre of soothing different emotions. Then he burns a little more. His arm is still around her, and - he doesn't think that should make it less horrifying, but it does. A little.]

Better?

[versusnurture]

[It helps. She's surprised. It doesn't blanket her and smother her, like the psilocybin did. It pulls off the damaged skin of her psyche and leaves her fresh, raw, but quietened. His touch, his presence, is all aloe.]

A little.

[She breathes.]

A lot.

[myironeyes]

I'm glad.

[And he is, not just for her sake. He feels a speck less monstrous, wielding it in a way that is - if not healing, then comforting.]