versusnurture | eleven ♢ spam, private + open

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eleven ♢ spam, private + open

spam } open

[The mask is secured in her room before she goes anywhere. She goes back to check on it frequently, bordering on obsessively, straightening it in its place of pride hung above her desk. She wonders what it's like to live life, day in, day out, in a few square feet, never allowed to breathe free air but through that grille. It's so much easier to imagine through Hannibal's eyes than Will's. She never imagined it would be.]

[She knew there was another man here who went by his name, but he never seemed real. Now - even though this artifact was never his - now it feels like a real, possible future.]

[What she doesn't do is lose time. She walks with even breath and utter confidence, anywhere and everywhere, feeling the simple joy of movement. She is afraid of nothing. She looks people in the eye, even if only for fleeting moments as she passes, and she doesn't even consider pulling a scarf on over the scar on her neck.]

spam } alana

[There's no way Alana doesn't have questions. Abigail doesn't feel obliged to protect many people, but Alana - she's been lied to all this time. Longer than Abigail was lied to. Hannibal was a colleague. And now . . .]

[There are probably worse ways to find out, but Abigail can't think of any. Besides death at his hands, anyway.]

[After a silent struggle with her conscience, she grabs the keys to Alana's room and hurries there, letting herself in before she can change her mind.]

spam } ben

[Eventually, she finds herself in the chapel. She has no question that Ben knows what's happened, or at least that something's happened. There was that brief moment of breathlessness, open for all to see on the network, and he'll have seen that even if he didn't watch her go with Dillon later.]

[She sits cross-legged in the pew and looks clear-eyed at the opposite wall. After quite a while - an hour, she thinks, maybe a little bit more - she sends him a message.]

Need your help with something. Not an emergency. You can walk.

[Then she turns the communicator off, lays it beside her, and waits.]

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[She had thought - maybe a case for it. Something practical like that, something related. But this is his Lady. Nothing to do with time at all.]

[And everything. She was his salvation and his destruction, his loss and his home, his family and his isolation. There was nothing that She couldn't do, except make the world make sense in the end.]

[Ben won't meet her eyes. She wonders fleetingly if she's done something wrong, and reaches out; her fingers tremble and run down the face of the card.]

It's - yours?

[It looks old. Worn. Loved. The Lady is beautiful, she thinks numbly, not realizing the resurgence of her focus, the buzzing calm, the self-awareness. It all feels so natural.]

[She's wrong. It's not anything Abigail's done, but more the knowledge that she's perhaps the only one here that could possibly know what it means. What one little card with one simple likeness on it could do. The kind of focus, of motivation, of inspiration it could bring.

The Blue Lady was his greatest creation and, in many ways, he was Hers. He was also Her most terrible disciple, beloved and adoring, imperfect and desperate. She saved him, and then She destroyed him, and the only way for him to save himself had been to abandon Her which is why he can never quite be saved. He cannot leave Her behind completely.

Abigail, if anyone, will know. The Lady was the first thing Ben gave her of himself, then in words as he had given Her to his unit. But this is where it started. He nods, takes a slow, deep inhale, and looks up at her.]

An employee at Manticore gave it to us. He discovered Jack having a seizure, and there was nothing we could do to prevent him seeing. But he didn't report it. He gave Jack the card instead, and he said "Pray to her. She'll protect you." And he left, and that was all, though we didn't know it at the time.

[Ben's thumbtip behind the trail of Abigail's fingers traces delicately over what they had believed, then, to be Her exposed heart. The most vulnerable part of her, held confidently on display because She was far too strong to fear anything that they feared. Fierce and beautiful, capable of exchanging faith for love, for protection, even against all that faced a handful of young X5s.]

Jack was afraid. We all were. Someone had to say something.

[Abigail isn't someone Iris seeks out. Her brief conversations with the girl have felt like trying to stroke a cat that's scooting backwards under furniture; Iris isn't always the most sensitive person, but she's capable of respecting that.
Nonetheless, the glimpses of the complex intelligent personality have been fascinating, so when she sees Abigail in an apparently nonscooting mood, she catches her eye and grins.

Iris' dogs, more outgoing still, wag their tails and start to move forward; Iris, mindful of skittishness, lays a hand on Elvis' back. The two German Shepherds aren't leashed, but the touch is enough to hold them back, though every line of their bodies speak of friendly eagerness.]

'Ey Abigail. All right if me lads say 'ello?

[Alana drains the whole of the first bottle, setting it on the opposite side of the sink before opening the second bottle with something bordering on mechanical. She lifts it up to start pouring it down the drain after the first, but stops. She sets it back down on the counter with a loud clink, the beer audibly sloshing about inside. She stays there for a few seconds, just holding the neck of the bottle. She tightens and loosens her grip before letting go altogether and turning to look back at Abigail.]

[Winston trots over to Alana, looking up with his sad eyes and Alana's happy for him that he doesn't understand most of what's going on. He just knows that two people in a room are upset and the man who took him in when others abandoned him was gone. She doesn't reach down to pet him, instead leaning back against the counter and folding her arms.]

I'm sorry, Abigail.

[For nothing in particular and for everything specific all at the same time. Alana's sorry for not seeing the truth, for not protecting her better. She's sorry that she has to see Alana like this. She has to decide whether or not she's sorry that Abigail has to be the one to tell her the truth. In the end, she decides she's not. It's better for Abigail that she be allowed to tell her side, to have her voice for a change.]

So you said it.

[He is so strong, Abigail thinks for the thousandth time; so much stronger than he seems, his heart so much bigger than the box they tried to close it in at Manticore. He would give so much - all of himself - for a little sense of safety.]

[So would she.]

[As his thumb follows hers on the card, she circles round and follows his movements exactly, getting a feel for the Lady as he knows her, edging in toward Her heart. It frightens her a little. But it makes her feel strong, too, even against all that faces her. All that she's already faced.]

You told them stories. You made Her real to them.

She almost feels real to me. [This is peaceful, less agitated than before but in no way distanced. She is here. She's just - thinking. Unafraid.]

Don't be.

[Her voice is soft, tentative. She's forgotten a little bit how to be genuinely gentle, which is what she wants to be with Alana now. But she's trying, at least. She doesn't think she's ever really considered Alana's feelings when they've spoken before. It's pretty messed up that this is what makes it feel right.]

I should be sorry. I should have trusted you instead of him. I know that now.

[Not that it makes as much of a difference as it should. SHe's still drawn to Hannibal. She still wants him to be proud of her. But she knwos the smart choice would have been to stick with Alana. She knows.]

[One thing Abigail isn't skittish about: dogs. She has good associations with them now, after Winston and all the dogs on board, Digby especially, so after a moment's hesitation, she crouches down slightly to dog level.]

That's fine. [Which means she really, really wants them to. Puppies!!]

I said it. I named Her and I made Her real.

[He's distracted, mostly, by his own riot of feelings regarding this particular card, this story, this piece of himself; it is the part of himself that will never find peace. The part with security and Manticore and uncertainty and the Lady all woven through it, constantly pulling against one another, at the center of his sense of self. But when he looks up at Abigail he sees her lack of fear.

That is all he ever created Her for. Ben extends his arm just a bit more, shifts the card in his hand in obvious offer without looking.]

She is not real. I have to remember that, or... She is not real. But Her power is real, and sometimes that is enough, which is why I wanted you to have this.

She will never leave you. She will love you. She will give you strength.

[Abigail is tired. She's done and felt and pushed through so many things today - if it were anyone else, she'd hug them without question, bury her face in their shoulder and cry, not from sadness but from sheer exhaustion.]

[She can't do that with Ben. She knows that, and it's not a bad thing. It's just a thing; that's just how it is. She knows what to do when she feels like this, too. He provided her with a solution.]

[Swallowing hard, she takes a moment to commit all of this not just to memory, but to heart. Her father has - fathers have - deserted her, betrayed her. The Blue Lady may only be real in Ben's mind, but that's so much more than enough to her. There are enough other things that aren't real but in the human mind that Abigail could wrap the strength of her belief around like hot iron: the power of words, the necessity of lies, the loss of time. She believes all of those things to be real and true.]

[So the Blue Lady is true. The Blue Lady will never leave her. She will love Abigail, and She will give her strength. She is not real, but She is true.]

[Abigail takes the card and slips it into the cradle of her hands with excruciating care, as if she's handling something small and fragile, a baby bird, the seed of belief.]

I need to go to my room, and I need you to come with me. [She rises.] Please?

[Alana makes a small noise like a laugh that died in her throat. Absolution? Agreement? Bitterness? It's hard to tell even for Alana as she turns back to pouring out the beer.]

It can never be said he isn't persuasive.

[How was Abigail supposed to survive that? Or to see through it? She's young, inexperienced, and vulnerable. Hannibal preyed upon that because he knew Abigail didn't stand a chance. She would be easily manipulated and be whatever he wanted her to be in the exact moment he required her to be just that. Maybe he was creating a protege. Maybe he'd always intended for her to be the death knell in the case against Will. There's no telling.]

[Alana sets the second empty bottle down and looks over her shoulder at Abigail.]

Don't blame yourself, Abigail. He fooled everyone.

[Elvis and Solace, starved of human contact and affection in their younger years and now buttressed by Iris' confidence behind them, surge forward, wriggling and whining with almost uncontainable pleasure in their newest friend. Iris looks on, softly smiling, leaning on the hallway bulkhead.]

They like you.

[There's a now-unhappened timeline where a young girl was butchered like a rabbit and the smiling dogs she loves ate her. Iris wonders if Blaire Roche in her returned future will grow up anything like Abigail; the symmetry of dogs and girls pleases her enormously.]

You seem better. I'm glad.

[Royce, typically, keeps to himself as sort of a dark hooded specter. Albeit, short, dark hooded specter. He's very similar in height to Abigail and really, he's not a big man under his layers of black and greys. He usually doesn't voluntarily start conversations but it's the scar that catches his attention.

As a very, very small courtesy, he approaches her from the front. Where usually he approaches everyone from the rear without a sound.]

They were interrupted, weren't they? The one who tried to kill you. [He uses to two fingers to indicate his neck.] Did you kill them?

[She would have tried to gouge his eye out with her pin, had he approached her from the back, so really - overall, it's a good beginning. As it is, she tilts her head at him curiously.]

I didn't kill him. Someone else got there first. [She wonders something new: if she would have killed her father, if he had gone after her. A curious question. It's never occurred, and she doesn't know.]

How did you know he was interrupted?

Edited (how spell english werdz) 2014-01-07 23:15 (UTC)

It's clean slice but doesn't extend beyond one side. [He mimes the motion on his own neck.] A slice that clean isn't an accident but a professional wouldn't quit half way through. Something happened.

The angle says they where larger, you would have had an advantage.

Edited 2014-01-07 23:35 (UTC)

[She smiles, a secret little smile, her fingers curling at her side to keep them from drifting up instinctively and covering the scar.]

He wasn't that kind of professional. He did mean to kill me, though.

Someone just shot him about ten times before he could do it. [Dismissively, she shrugs.] There was a lot of blood, but I didn't die that time.

You're the first person who's asked me outright, you know. What happened. Why do you care?

[Royce has not been introduced to guns yet but he wouldn't be surprised by them. As it is he assumes a crossbow or fast firing weapon he's unfamiliar with was used.]

There's always a lot of blood.

And I don't care. I was curious. I've seen a lot of cut throats and your scar is peculiar. I can see the intent but it was never finished. There's no mark of hesitation. It's... odd.

[He drifts to the side, turning his head and looking over the scar again.]

I assume someone spared your life but I wonder why. What did they want something from you?

[There's always a lot of blood. She smiles at him at that comment. Yes; she knows. There really always is.]

[It's not surprising that he doesn't care. That statement makes her feel significantly more secure, in fact. He doesn't care and he's not lying about caring, so she doesn't have to waste time and energy wondering whether she should be suspicious. She'll stay stranger-wary.]

They wanted to save me. Then they wanted to know about the man who killed me. He killed a lot of other people; they thought I knew something about that.

[And, of course, she did. A dispassionate shrug.]

He almost killed me. I was in a coma for a while. Then I woke up, and then, later, someone else finished the job. Neither of them hesitated. Just the second one who tried had a lot more practice and no interruption.

[His face shows slight puzzlement.] If they killed him, what would it matter what you knew of him? He's dead.

[Really, he's trying to puzzle this out, give him a second.] Did you stop being useful?

[Once the card leaves his hands, Ben sits still and silent and tense like only he can; he watches Abigail without raising his eyes from the card, reads the exhaustion in her as much as feels it radiating from her. He is proud of her. He loves her. He will do whatever he can - whatever he can to protect her, even if that is to stand by and do nothing while she defines herself as best she can.

If Ben cannot be with her at all times, must not, the Lady will. She is not a kind mistress, she has no use for weak followers, but Ben is confident that Abigail will be safe with her. Abigail who is struggling to become who she is despite everything, Abigail who is fierce and clever and childlike and strong. Who is still defining all of these terms in the context of her self.

She rises and Ben's spine straightens to track the movement, though his eyes don't rise to her face until she is asking him a question. He rises then, too, in itself it's own answer, as though he could give any other.]

Yes. I will go with you. [The chapel is beginning to make his skin and muscles glow. He needs to leave it anyway.]

[Lowering her eyes, she shrugs, not quite able to meet Alana's eyes.]

That's true, I guess. He did fool everyone. But he only ever fooled me halfway. The rest of the way, I fooled myself. At least at first.

I just wanted an ally. I should have picked a better one.

[Now she glances at the empty bottle. Does that make it feel better, she wonders, to have something concrete to get rid of? Some evidence of evil and wrongdoing to destroy?]

. . . Do you need help?

[Alana turns her head back towards the beer as it falls from the bottle and disappearing down the drain.]

[Help? Alana feels like she needs a lifesaver. She needs to scream. She needs someone to tell her this is just a bad joke. She needs to get away from here. But none of that will happen.]

Sure.

[She sets the empty second bottle beside the first.]

[She walks out the door of the chapel as soon as he speaks, knowing, trusting that he will follow her - walks all the way to her room in silence, with the card cradled in her hand. When she gets to her room, she holds the door open for him and then slips inside, stepping to the desk.]

[Over it hangs the mask. She looks at it for a moment, lips parted in an unconscious reverence. It's lost some of its luster in her conversation with Ben, but it's still so vital, so powerful, so frightening and beautiful and deadly.]

[She tears her eyes away and pulls a drawer open, clearing a space inside and placing the card inside with care. Later she'll lacquer it, protect it, so that she might carry it around with her always. It's important to keep it away from Ben, though; she knows that much.]

[Then, taking things in steps, one at a time, she closes the drawer with her hip. She pulls the mask down off the wall. She hands it to Ben, making sure not to let go until his grip is secure, lest it fall. And she crawls onto the bed, pulling the bear he gave her into her hands and hugging it tightly, burying her face in between its ears.]

[She arches a brow.] They wanted to know if I helped him. If I knew where the other bodies were. They wanted to bring justice to all those girls.

[The second question makes her frown sharply. She shrugs again.] Depends who you ask, I guess.

[Her hands run over the dogs' heads, ears, backs lovingly. She didn't realize that she liked animals until she was given a chance to, here. Before, she always connected with them . . . dispassionately. Here, there are so many, and they calm her down.]

[Dog ears are soft, she thinks. Like little velvet triangles designed to make you feel good.]

[She does raise her eyebrows at Iris's comment, though not in a particularly nasty way. Another day, she might be nasty. Today, she's surrounded by dog velvet and there's the taste of violence in her mouth.]

It's a temporary state. [Although each temporary state seems to be lasting longer, greater time passing between crises; she doesn't say this, and her expression doesn't change, but there is hope in there somewhere, buried under her skin.] I didn't realize you were paying attention.

[Suddenly Abigail isn't too sure. Maybe she should leave. Maybe she's done enough.]

[But then again, she's been too cowardly to stand by Alana's side before - to let Alana stand by hers. Squaring her shoulders, she steps up to the counter and grabs the beer bottles, one in each hand. Then she moves around the kitchen, looking for the trash can. When she pulls it out from under the cabinet, she stares at it intently for a second, like if she blinks she loses. And maybe she does.]

[She holds one bottle back over her head. Her voice is quiet, intent.]

Fire in the hole.

[And she throws it into the bottom of the can with all her might. It crashes and cracks, though it doesn't shatter entirely. The noise is enough to make her jump, but she feels satisfied.]

[Even if Alana won't break things, Abigail is more than happy to.]

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eleven ♢ spam, private + open

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latest spam but i don't care

SHRIEK this tag delights me

ROYCE HAS THE BEST REASONING

OF COURSE HE DOES

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spam; wow those sure were some typos up there. heavens.

spam; idk what you are even talking about. /cough

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spam; thank you, benevolent crystal-god, for ignoring my failings