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twenty-five ♢ spam & voice
Jan. 6th, 2015 06:17 pmHow many people here actually hunt? Or fish? Self-sustaining outdoorsy things.
Next time we come to a port that's not - life or death, people being forced to kill each other, whatever. We should organize a hunting party.
private } mira
[As out of nowhere:]
I would want my new self to have her own becoming. So I would give her a weapon, and no memories at all.
spam } philip
[She isn't stupid. She realizes when she's being ignored, and not only does she dislike it, she finds it childish. If Philip wanted her to leave him alone and had a good reason for it - if he gave her the reason, she might accept it. But this, running away and hiding, it's behavior fit for a little boy, not an adult. It's the kind of thing the kid who threw snowballs at her might do, the kind of thing that the man she met ought to be better than.]
[So she sits down across from him at lunch after her shift is over and fixes him with a Look.]
Stop avoiding me.
spam } scott
[She tiptoes up on him on deck, sneaking up to put her hands over his eyes. She knows he can hear her coming, smell her, too, but they'll both just pretend he can't.]
Guess who?
spam } open
[When she's not tracking down crazy zombie killers, Abigail can be found all over the Barge. Much of her time is spent in the kitchens, where she works on the lunch shift with Ben and occasionally fills in other shifts as necessary. Most of her socializing in the dining hall is spent around the lunch shift, too, when she carefully and methodically checks in with the people she has begun to dub hers.]
[Later, she finds herself drawn inexplicably towards the art room. It's the first time in a while that she's gone near it; she used to be very anti-art therapy, but now . . . she doesn't know. It reminds her of Hannibal, and that calms her and makes her anxious all at once. She hovers outside the door for a while, not sure whether to stay or go.]
[Finally, she can be found in her room. The door is open, and music is playing from the inside. It's a waltz. She isn't dancing; just sitting on her bed, waiting. Nobody seems to be coming.]
Next time we come to a port that's not - life or death, people being forced to kill each other, whatever. We should organize a hunting party.
private } mira
[As out of nowhere:]
I would want my new self to have her own becoming. So I would give her a weapon, and no memories at all.
spam } philip
[She isn't stupid. She realizes when she's being ignored, and not only does she dislike it, she finds it childish. If Philip wanted her to leave him alone and had a good reason for it - if he gave her the reason, she might accept it. But this, running away and hiding, it's behavior fit for a little boy, not an adult. It's the kind of thing the kid who threw snowballs at her might do, the kind of thing that the man she met ought to be better than.]
[So she sits down across from him at lunch after her shift is over and fixes him with a Look.]
Stop avoiding me.
spam } scott
[She tiptoes up on him on deck, sneaking up to put her hands over his eyes. She knows he can hear her coming, smell her, too, but they'll both just pretend he can't.]
Guess who?
spam } open
[When she's not tracking down crazy zombie killers, Abigail can be found all over the Barge. Much of her time is spent in the kitchens, where she works on the lunch shift with Ben and occasionally fills in other shifts as necessary. Most of her socializing in the dining hall is spent around the lunch shift, too, when she carefully and methodically checks in with the people she has begun to dub hers.]
[Later, she finds herself drawn inexplicably towards the art room. It's the first time in a while that she's gone near it; she used to be very anti-art therapy, but now . . . she doesn't know. It reminds her of Hannibal, and that calms her and makes her anxious all at once. She hovers outside the door for a while, not sure whether to stay or go.]
[Finally, she can be found in her room. The door is open, and music is playing from the inside. It's a waltz. She isn't dancing; just sitting on her bed, waiting. Nobody seems to be coming.]