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eighth ♢ private + spam

private/video, backdated to shortly after white flag } megamind

[She takes care in her appearance, in a convoluted way, making sure she's dissheveled and exhausted-looking, hands wrapped tight around her upper arms like she's cold. In truth, and unfortunately, she doesn't have to do much work at all, just wrap her scarf securely around her neck and check herself in the mirror before cutting on the feed.]

[She's just naturally exhausted-looking, these days. The tentativeness is all fake, though.]

Hi. Um. I know we don't really know each other. But I was wondering if I could ask for a favor.

spam, tuesday night } elena

[Hannibal's hunt week frayed her nerves. The other Barge pulls a few stray ends out. But Abigail will realize later that the last straw was when she had to be sweet to him. Not that there wouldn't have been some other last straw - this just happened to be it. This is how it played out.]

[She knocks on Elena's door while shoving her scarf into her pants pocket. There's no way the other girl can't hear her heart hammering, she thinks, and tries to calm herself down for about five seconds before giving it up.]

spam, wednesday morning } ryan

[It's important, when hunting, to step quiet, to breathe calm. She was afraid before but she isn't afraid now. She's done this before. Kind of.]

[Besides, she isn't even sure he'll be here. The CES is a good bet, yes, but there are plenty of days when you go out looking and get nothing at all for your trouble.]

[If Ryan is here, or anyone else on the vague, short list she's got tucked away in the angriest, most vicious part of her hindbrain, nothing about her will change once she sees him. Not right away, anyway.]

[There's a dagger tucked into the back of her belt, under the bulky knit of her long sweater, a taser tucked up her sleeve ready to drop into her hand. She will wait until he reaches the edge of the woods, because that's where he is going to have to die. Between the open and the enclosed. Where he could run, if he was really looking at her face.]

spam, thursday morning } nathan

[And now she's nervous.]

[Which is not surprising. What is surprising is that she's not sorry. Not yet. She knows she'll be caught, she knew that from the beginning, but regret hasn't surfaced yet. This worries her. If she isn't sorry, how will she know she's separate from what she was trained to be? How will she know she's her own precise kind of monster?]

[She thought she might throw up after Ryan. She didn't. She just washed her hands and the blade and hid the dagger under the mattress. Business as usual, despite the fact that she knows Ben will find it as soon as he steps in there, despite the fact that she can't reuse that weapon. But he made her another one.]

[She hasn't inserted herself into the investigation, such as there's been so far. She is returning to the scene of the crime. This is, however, mostly because she wants a walk.]

[That said: as she walks, she's armed. Her hands are steady. She's nervous, but not sorry. Definitely not afraid.]

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Oh, ah, ollo?

[ The hero in him sees a young woman in need; immediately, Megamind is solicitous and concerned. He has a a soft spot for young inmates. ]

No, I can't say we've met. I'm Megamind. Are you-- alright?

[She hesitates. Not for long - the space of a breath, and then she shakes her head.]

Not - I'd like to say I am, but I'm not. Not really. Sorry.

[The brief appearance of an internal war. Then:]

I'm Abigail. Abigail Hobbs. I know you . . . were an inmate. Weren't you?

I'm-- well, yes.

I was. Eight months. Almost nine. You-- the Toshiko Takeover. You weren't there. I graduated out of that mess.

[ Which he is exceedingly grateful for. The longer time stretches between it, the better he feels about it. Though... he's creeping up on anniversaries now, instead. ]

Why do you ask?

I'm asking because I don't understand how people keep safe. People who aren't - who don't have powers, or anything like that. I'm just human.

[Human and small and frail and damaged.]

And if I'm being honest, I'm asking because I heard that sometimes you help people who don't have a good way to defend themselves. I don't. I mean, I'm learning [very, very quickly] how to fight someone off, but.

[She sighs, frustrated.]

I'm scared. [It sounds almost angry.]

[ His heart goes out to her; the great, green eyes are wide, aglow with sympathy. He's a easy read, if you get past the inhuman features; the strange colors that don't match human reactions, the press of his lips in a brief purse. ]

It isn't easy. Last October, a couple of my 'fellow inmates' cornered me in a stairwell. Broke my fingers. Both of them graduated. Not a word of apology or regret...

I...

[ He shrugs; it still bothers him, to this day. Just like what Dean did over the engine room bothers him. But he takes it, for the job. Like he can be hurt and it's completely inconsequential. But he takes it. He has a job to do. ]

I suggest you find friends, first off. A good support structure is a must. As for something more... direct, I can probably help.

I have friends. Some friends. But they can't be everywhere, and - I want to be able to take care of myself. I want to have at least a little power if I have to be stuck here.

Would you mind? I just. Want all my bases covered. As covered as they can be.

No, I wouldn't.

Have you spoken to your warden at all about your concerns? [ He's got no problem either way, but it's still one of those things he has to ask. ] You do have a warden, yes?

I do. Ben. He's been good to me. He's helping me with a lot of things - self defense. [Lie.] But I'm not very good at it yet [lie], and I still want to be armed.

I mean, I - might be being paranoid. Do you think I'm being paranoid?

[Elena can hear Abigail's footsteps as they come down the hallway, recognizing the gait and particular weight in each footfall as distinctly Abigail. She's up off her bed and at the door in a blur, but when Abigail gets closer and she can hear her heartbeat, she stops short of opening the door.]

[The thought of pretending she isn't in her room crosses Elena's mind. It wouldn't be that hard and it isn't like Abigail is going to barge right in. (Even if she did, Elena's confident she'd be fast enough to leave without Abigail knowing she was ever there.) But there's something inherently wrong about turning her away right now that Elena can't put her finger on.]

[So she opens the door, but not quite wide enough for Abigail to come in.]

What's wrong?

[When the door opens, Abigail looks up and catches Elena's eyes. Her own are wide, pupils dilated. She's afraid, excited, angry, everything.]

[She rests her hand on the doorframe - the outside of the doorframe, though, not crossing over until and unless she's invited.]

I think it's time. Let me in?

[Elena almost frowns, stopping herself just before her brow can crease. She nods and steps aside, opening the door wider.]

[Truth be told, hearing those words makes Elena feel numb and hollow and not in a way she's used to.]

Come on in.

[When she steps inside, Abigail feels like she's crossed a threshold. Like there's no going back. Like only details need be finalized now. It doesn't matter that she's frightened, so much so that her fingers are cold from the second knuckle: it doesn't matter. She'll get past it.]

[She can't sit, though. She stands, back to the wall, and looks just past Elena to a spot on the wall just like every other spot.]

I think Arkin might not even punish you.

[Elena doesn't reach out to touch Abigail, folding her arms instead to resist that impulsive urge to grab her by the shoulders and possibly shake her. Abigail is bordering on... Well, not hysteria per se, but something close to it. Like a manic stroke of genius that's started to go horrible wrong.]

You think.

[She frowns. Just slightly. Not happy with being doubted, especially since there's a small part of her that's still uncertain.]

Yes. I think. I can't know what he's going to do. He's unpredictable.

Since when does he have any effect on you, anyway?

He doesn't, [she says tersely, just barely not snapping.]

But since when have you talked about any of this in maybes?

[Maybe Abigail was trying to hide it, but there's not much that can be hidden from a vampire. Especially one you've been confiding in and relying upon.]

[Elena's learned to read Abigail like a book.]

I told you to take the opportunity if you got the chance, Abigail, but that doesn't mean take it if you've got a maybe or possibly.

There's no possibly. I want to do it. I want to do it now.

[She doesn't. She does. She doesn't. It's a lie and it's true and she doesn't want to see him die but she wants to rip him apart and feed his heart to the sharks. She wants to see him lose control and become the ugliest, basest scavenger he could ever conceive of.]

[There's no possibly. Possibly implies at least partial resolve.]

Okay then, walk me through your plan. What have you got?

[Elena folds her arms. She's pretty sure Abigail hasn't worked out many, if any specifics. She might want that revenge. She might want to tear Hannibal apart. Nothing will probably rid her of that feeling, not even the revenge itself. But wanting revenge is a different thing from wanting to carry it out.]

[Abigail folds her arms in response, a perfect mimic. Her fingers are trembling; she clenches them tight on her arms to make them stop. She's angry, but she's also terrified. And how dare Elena know her well enough to see that?]

Just like we talked about. Put the blood in a strongly-flavored drink - I have several ideas - have him drink it. Then you break his neck.

Nothing to it.

And have you thought about where you're going to give him this drink? Or how you're even going to get him to drink it without suspecting anything?

[Elena steps forward and holds Abigail's face in her hands.]

Abigail, it's okay if you aren't ready for this. You don't have to. It's still a choice. It's still your choice.

[She tears herself away, hands balling into fists at her sides. No, she doesn't have a choice, not really - or she doesn't think she does. She has to do it now. Now.]

I'm ready! Why won't you believe me when I say I'm not ready? I'm telling you the truth! I always tell you the truth!

[She's lying.]

[Elena lets her go.]

I don't believe you because you're freaking out. I told you that when you had the opportunity to strike to take it and not hesitate. But that doesn't mean start being impulsive. That's just going to get you killed or worse.

Come on, Abigail. You're smarter and better than this.

I'm not -

[But she is, isn't she. She's freaking out, she's having a tantrum. Like a child.]

[Maybe she means she's not smarter or better.]

[She turns away and grits her teeth, says nothing more.]

Yes, you are.

[Regardless of whichever Abigail meant.]

[Elena grabs her arm and turns her back around roughly.]

You want to be mad at me? Fine. Be mad. Hate me even. I don't care. I'm doing what I have to to keep you safe.

[Her eyes narrow at being manhandled. Her lips thin in a frown.]

Fine. Then the deal's off. Compel me if you want my blood, but the deal is off.

[Elena's temper that had not been there before, not until Arkin pushed, finally snaps.]

[She grabs Abigail by her throat and slams her against the wall, pushing her up high enough that her feet no longer reach the ground.]

How dare you say something like that to me after everything. If you want to die so badly, I'll happily do it for you, Abigail. Just say the word and I'll end it for you. Over and over if you want.

[She can barely breathe - Elena's grip is too tight. And she hates this, hates being in someone else's power so effortlessly. Tears form in the corners of her eyes, but they're bitter and sharp and angry.]

Let. Me. Go.

[Elena holds her there for a few seconds longer before dropping her. She folds her arms and looks away from Abigail, refusing to look at her even out of the corner of her eye.]

Get out.

[One of the annoying things about the Barge is it didn't let him keep his treadmill. One of the few doctor's orders Ryan's ever listens to is strengthening his heart with exercise.]

[Okay maybe CES is better than a treadmill. Maybe. Anyway, it's not a very strenuous run, nothing his pacemaker can't keep up with. It is designed to keep up with a moderate amount of exercise. He still needs to rest more than the average person. Which he's doing now, slowing down near a clump of trees. He leans a hand on one as he tries to control his heartbeat.]

[She walks at the edge of the trees, sedate, leaves crunching under her shoes. She waits until he's close, until he's resting.]

[Then she drops the taser into the palm of her hand, still concealed by her long sleeves, and takes a few steps towards him.]

Ryan?

[Just turn towards her. Just turn.]

[He's breathing a bit heavy, concentrating on his heart to get the pounding his ears to stop. But he hears his name and turns.]

Yeah?

[Her eyes narrow. She smiles. And she points the taser right at his chest.]

[The electrodes both land clean, one just to the left of the heart and the other several inches to the right. She hasn't forgotten the pacemaker; if anything, it'll be an asset. She doesn't need to see him suffer. She saw Nick Boyle suffer. It wasn't helpful. She'll probably feel remorse eventually anyway.]

[She watches with total calm until he goes down, curious to see what will happen.]

[As soon as contacts hit him, he convulses for a few seconds then collapses. He tries to keep conscious but his vision is already going. His eyes are open but all he sees is blackness. Lack of circulation took his vision, he knows that, a precursor to unconsciousness. ]

[He tries to move but nothing responds right. Despite a last effort he slips into unconsciousness.]

[His breathing is heavily labored. His heart beat has slowed dangerously and color starts to leave his face. His pacemaker might have been fried.]

[She saw Joe's file; she saw about the pacemaker. She could have tried to avoid it, or aimed for it specifically. But either way, the end result would be the same. She isn't going to torture him, because there'd be no point. She has her own kind of control now, and she doesn't need to hold it over him to know it's real. She doesn't need to gloat.]

[Leaning over him, she listens to the drag of his breathing for a few moments, until she's certain he's unconscious. Then she takes hold of both of his arms and drags him into a dense patch of trees.]

[Crouching in front of him, she pulls out the dagger, testing its weight, as if she hasn't practiced. As if she isn't perfectly ready. He'll bleed out quickly, she knows. He probably won't even wake up before he dies.]

[She presses the tip of the blade just under his sternum, pushes in, tugs down. She doesn't perforate the guts. She doesn't disgrace him. She just kills him, because he deserves it.]

[Her eyes are wet, but she doesn't cry, and she doesn't smile. She just watches.]

[ Working here, in the heavy hang of perfume mostly gone to the chemicals left once stripped of anything pretty, makes Nathan a little light-headed. Not enough to pose any real danger, but that cloying scent is also all he can taste.

He's angry. It's calm, the kind he pushes through and makes an asset, not boiling to the point that blots out all else, but--still. People keep dying. Maybe that's just something he's supposed to take for granted on the Barge, just supposed to accept, but he doesn't really have that in him. If this were a different set of circumstances, with rules and a legal system and an authority higher in the department than Nathan himself, he wouldn't be allowed to work this case. Or at the very least, someone would be watching him. He's too close, not objective enough.

But that's his prerogative and there's no one to check him, so here he is, digital camera snapping away from every angle. The photos will be printed out and tacked to the ~~murderboard~~ easel in his office festooned with notes, what evidence there is, the still-unsolved arson-homicide its twin. Like very upsetting flipbooks. ]

Edited 2013-11-20 11:11 (UTC)

[Nathan is a liar. Of this she's absolutely certain. She knows the patterns of his voice and body, an unkind man disguised as a kind one. If not a monster hidden under the guise of a person, then at best inefficiently cruel. She doesn't believe him, and she doesn't believe in him. Believing in people has gotten her nowhere.]

[She steps close, hesitant, while he focuses on his photos and his anger. Her brows draw together in concern. It's all a matter of balance: she isn't Ryan's friend, but she knew him tangentially, was worried for him in a small way after Hannibal and is more so now. A matter of balance, of degrees.]

[(Her neck is uncovered. Her scar stands out pale in the sun.)]

Anything?

[ This is the thing about Haven and working on its police force. When lately the majority of its 'crimes' are perpetuated by the Troubled, a person starts thinking in can't helps and how to help, at opposite ends. It doesn't affect the way Nathan does his job, but that kind of experience seeps in, affects the whys and hows.

Mostly the whys. Abigail is, at this point, on a certain list of possibles, and maybe that should make Nathan warier than he is. He is not given to think the best of people until they prove otherwise (nor is he particularly given to think the worst, but that's the other thing working in Haven does: the Troubled didn't ask to be what they are, but that doesn't remove the damage those Troubles can inflict); what he misses, in the midst of things that should have his back up, is her perception of him.

As things are he takes the camera out of his field of vision but doesn't put it down, straightens up and turns to face her. ]

Can't tell yet.

[ Faintly apologetic, but also procedural in its slight double meaning. Active investigation, etc etc. ]

Edited 2013-11-23 12:35 (UTC)

Oh, of course not. I didn't mean . . .

[She trails off, looking faintly apologetic herself. From her shoulders to her toes she projects I should know better than to ask, a tired and light self-flagellation that is applicable to an unfortunate familiarity with the workings of a police investigation, from the wrong side.]

[Glancing away for a moment (because it's her eyes that'll give her away if nothing else does), she worries her lip. Nerves attributable to being in the proximity of an unknown and unpredictable killer, as well as to talking to a cop.]

Did he wake up? Ryan. [And then, because wake up isn't right at all:] Did they bring him back, I mean? I haven't heard.

[She hasn't been listening. But the fact that nobody's said word one to her means Ryan had no information to share. Even if she was, she did come prepared. She walks everywhere prepared, now. Has been for weeks. It's just the taser that's a new addition.]

[ Nathan's problem has always been a tendency to believe what he wants to be true, rather than necessarily the immediate acceptance of what's right in front of him. He works in a town where his objectivity isn't much compromised, and his intuition is good enough that physical evidence most often supports it, but--

There are exceptions. (Of these, Duke would probably claim to be the most significant.) What this means, though, is that it's not hard to manipulate him; ever since he started letting himself feel anything again he's close to dangerously ruled by his emotions. He's nowhere close to capable of understanding a position in space, and time, in the world as it's touched on and shaped by others, where the track back to oneself can only be blazed by cauterization, limned with and loosened by blood.

On the level that means he's been going everywhere armed since he came back, he understands the need for preparedness, and he'd have to be much blinder, more stupid and more cruel, not to grasp the difference between a grown man with the authority and freedom to wear a gun, and a young woman with a taser--he just doesn't understand how they intersect. Where Abigail sees him standing.

So at her posture his voice and stance soften visibly, reflectively, the camera hanging loose in one hand now. ]

Yeah. Doesn't remember much, but he's okay. [ As okay as death tolling is, which is terrible, but there's no point in belaboring that point. He tilts his head at her, solicitous. ] Are you?

[ Steph found that as time passed and her wounds healed (the last stitches come out tomorrow morning!) she was more and more restless. This meant, sadly, leaving the relative comfort and safety of her room. However it also meant that people saw her up and about and maybe stopped worrying after her all the time. She was just sort of walking through the halls when she came across the girl. ]

[Abigail was - twitchy. Then again, she very rarely wasn't, in one way or another. She just usually hid it better than she was doing today.]

[Her nerves manifested mostly in a sense of social anxiety, not looking at people directly and avoiding eye contact in the hall. She had to maneuver awkwardly around Steph, though, and didn't quite manage to get past her without a nod and an awkward smile.]

Sorry.

[ The behavior was just plain weird. She wouldn't have noticed it in high school, where anxious people can escape from view easily. In a prison it seems downright suspicious. She raises an eyebrow at the woman as she passes. ]

Hey. You okay?

Yeah. Yes, I'm fine.

[She sighs and tucks her hair behind her ear, her expression going a little wan. Tired, more than anything. Which she is, but exhaustion is also an excellent cover.]

Sorry. Really. It's just - it's been a long few days.

[A pause, and then she amends:]

Weeks.

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eighth ♢ private + spam

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