versusnurture | thirteen ♢ spam + voice

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thirteen ♢ spam + voice

[After a violent eviction from the last place she ever truly considered to be home, Abigail doesn't know if she'll ever be anything but transient again. The Barge was a close thing, though. It made her feel safe more than it made her feel vulnerable, and so while she doesn't exactly thrill at the prospect of being yanked back here with no warning, she understands. It's the Barge's way. And it's only temporary.]

[Bittersweet.]

[She is a little different, though not unrecognizable. Her hair is longer, her spine straighter, her expression hovering not between neutrality and a scowl but between inexplicable pleasantry and a not-always-nice smile. When she walks, it's like she's balancing books on her head, an angel and devil on either shoulder, both quiet for most of the time. And she doesn't wear the scarf; her scar stands in stark relief against the paler skin of her neck, as it had in the past few months here.]

[First, she looks for people who were important to her: Ben, Harvey, Arkin, David, Ned. Alana, if she's still here, though a large part of Abigail hopes she isn't. Then she looks for Hannibal, to get it out of the way.]

[Then she situates herself in the library or on the deck, alternating between the two, with a book open in her lap. She is unbothered by events. Anyone else can come to her.]

voice

For anyone who hasn't been here before and doesn't understand what's going on: there isn't anything to panic about, at least not yet. I've been here before, so I might be able to answer some of your questions.

( ooc; abigail is from after her own graduation!! weh. )

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[Chromie giggles.]

That should be fine!

[The idea of David having friends is just. Completely foreign, and more than a little bizarre. It almost distracts her from answering, but the fact that David's apparently talked about her jerks her back into the presence.]

Yes, I am.

[She gives him a crooked smile, wry and old souled. Squeezes his hand and shakes her head.]

I'm going to do that soon. But I'm here because I guess this is where the Admiral wanted to be right now.

I didn't make a deal, if that's what you're wondering. I just sort of showed up. Maybe he wanted me to check on you, you never know.

[Nothing short of exemplary is, of course, not the same as good. She smiles and nods nevertheless. This is the response he knows to give, and she loves him for that just as she loved him once for his impeccable attention to the details of her insanity. Which has not gone away; it's just bled into the background, woven into the tapestry of her life. It is part of everything.]

That makes me very happy, Ben. I - feel as though it's my job to protect you.

I know you . . . don't get protected. But you protected me, once.

Does that make any sense?

[Abigail tilts her head, smiling.]

He spoke highly of you.

Do you hate him?

[She's smiling at him and it doesn't make sense; she's telling him she wants to protect him and that doesn't make sense. She's not an X5. She's not from his unit. She's not...

He tries to think, unmoving, even his breathing shallow and minimal; it's difficult. There are too many unknowns, and if this place is not Manticore then he doesn't know how to make it make sense. He doesn't know how to act towards the people in it.

People who keep using his name.

His voice is flat, blank with terror; it would be unidentifiable to anyone that didn't know him, didn't know that this is how he hides. That he hides for one reason and one reason only.]

I am glad you are happy, but I do not understand. Were we in a field exercise together?

[She goes still and calm, letting silence rest between them as she considers her answer. All things considered, there are worse lies to tell.]

[But it's still a lie. She wonders. Finally, she shakes her head.]

That's close to the truth. But not quite.

You taught me survival skills. You helped me stay alive. Almost everything I know I learned from you, or refined with the help of your knowledge. That's why I know your name.

But I can call you by your designation, if that's easier.

I don't remember. I don't understand.

[And now it is seeping in through the cracks just at the edge of his voice, a brief glimpse before he tries to shove it down again, finds it too powerful. She's talking about things he absolutely cannot have done, or things he has absolutely no memory of doing. Is it a trick? A test?

Why doesn't it feel like a test? Why is he not alarmed by her in and of herself, but only her behavior, her words? Why does he want to believe her?

His throat feels tight and close and at last he breaks attention, fidgeting with a slow shift of his weight, bright brown eyes wide but narrowing on her.

Without a clear course of action, without a certainty in sight, he opens his mouth and tries to convince her of the only thing he knows for certain.]

I do not know how to help anyone stay alive. I know only basic survival skills, and have taught them to no one outside of my unit.

I did not survive. [How can he help anyone else survive when he can't even survive, himself? How can he have knowledge when he knew nothing that could save him?]

[It breaks her heart. She doesn't bother hiding this. She loves him, and she couldn't even attempt to hide that. Instead, she wrings her hands in an effort to keep them to herself.]

You didn't, no. And neither did I. We're both dead. But then you learned how, after you died. And you taught me in turn.

Did you ever learn about time travel? Just the theory. No fiction. But the possibility of it - of displacement in time as an abstract? That's sort of like what's happened.

Or if not that - just look at me. Decide if I'm lying, or if I'm just insane. Either way, we're not as different as you think we are.

[And that's the point where she starts getting her hackles up.]

Why do you want to know?

Because I'd hate for you to hate him. He's my friend.

Well, he certainly isn't mine.

So you do hate him, then.

Has he told you what happened?

He did. But different people react to trauma in different ways. And there's always the possibility that he has skewed perspective.

And while it's been months for you, it's been days since I found out what he's capable of, and what he'd been sent along to do.

[So yep, she hates him a bit. B(]

Which is perfectly understandable, although still regrettable.

He graduated. Did your sources tell you that?

[There is only a year of difference between the Ben she knows and the Ben standing before her, but the difference is pronounced: he is so much younger, now, somehow. He has not yet built the foundation of certainty he will later pull her up onto, he has not located the cornerstones to guide his efforts; he is adrift and alone and utterly, desperately confused.

But she isn't lying, he doesn't think. He isn't very accurate at determining the emotions of others, but she seems earnest to every level he can decipher; even discounting every third word as one he has little or no context for, she seems to believe what she is saying and, somehow, some way, she loves him.

Impossible as it is. He breathes out slowly, a low sound catching in his throat, which fades into her name.]

Abigail.

I do not understand any of this.

[Her shoulders slump. She is disappointed, not in him but in herself, for not being able to explain it right. Maybe there isn't any right way to explain it at all, not the way he is right now, but she feels like she owes him. Understanding some things, even if you can't understand everything, makes survival easier.]

Okay. That's okay.

Do you think you can trust me anyway? If not, I'll - I can go away. I don't want to scare you. That's the last thing I want.

I didn't take you for the type. But it's a flood; you've moved back in time. Maybe your inmate self... moved forward.

[ He gripped her hand for a moment, but then let it ease. ]

I'm glad you're getting out. I hope--you grow old somewhere you're free.

They did. Do you know how?

The same way anyone graduates.

I don't know . . . this doesn't seem like the kind of place to live, you know? There are people here who say they never want to leave. But I couldn't do that. I grew up in open spaces and I want to - just like you say. I want to die there.

[Die free and breathing fresh air and hunting, every step of the way.]

[She squeezes his hand right back.]

I worry about you. All the time, I worry and I miss you. You made every difference to me, you know that, don't you? You made me feel real, valid, no matter what I became.

[ He thinks of Anya, who feels at home here; no, he doesn't understand it. But yet, it happens. ]

[ But it doesn't matter; the barge chose him, not the other way around. He's here until he's not, and that will happen when it happens. No sooner, no later. ]

I'm glad. No matter what you choose to be, we are still honored you let us be a part of your life.

[There is one last, lingering moment in which Ben cowers behind the shield he's built for himself; she asks if he thinks he can trust her and the answer is unequivocally no. He doesn't trust anyone.

But she is confident, and somehow she knows him, she loves him, unless it is some kind of test. His chest tightens at the thought - he can't afford to fail a test, especially not one like this - but his throat closes against the crack that exists directly down the center of everything he is and he knows he's going to give in.

So he does it all at once, like breaking a limb so it can be set to heal straight again. He lets out the breath in his lungs with a quiet, desperate noise, and the bright brown of his eyes becomes somehow heavier with his presence behind them.]

Please don't leave.

I want to understand. I'll do better. I... if you know me, really know me, you know I'm scared all the time. I'll do better. Please don't leave.

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thirteen ♢ spam + voice

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