Sweet dreams are made of these...

[thespaceopera]

[ Calibration Rooms ]
( for A-M characters )

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ROOMS BY CHARACTER

A Abigail Hobbs Aiya/Gray Nightingale Adrasteius Anor'thalion Ahsoka Tano Alex Russo Allen Walker Anders Anthony Crowley Asteffiel Axel

B - D Belthazar Spellscry Beverly Crusher Bran Stark Caesar Zeppeli Cayde-6 Cheese Sandwich Clay Terran Coil Cole Davesprite Duke Pantarei

E - I Elecman.exe Elena Gilbert Elize Lutus Felix Harrowgate Fenris Finrod Haruka Tenoh/Sailor Uranus Imperator Furiosa Isabela Issac Lahey

J - M Jade Harley James Barnes/Jim James Barnes/Winter Joseph Joestar Katara Katniss Everdeen/Nova Kirito/Kazuto Kirigaya Kurt Wagner Leanne Loki Maladict(a) Max Caulfield Megaman Mordin Solus

Comments

abigail hobbs ➵ WARNING: gore in toplevel

[versusnurture]

[The room is spacious - clearly a kitchen, but the kitchen of a gourmand, someone with exquisite taste and a good deal of money to throw around; someone, too, who prioritizes a subtle palate above all things. The counters are clear, the refrigerator free of papers or magnets. There are no visible recipe books, but the air smells exquisite, like someone's just finished cooking a five-course meal to Michelin standard - or, indeed, past it.]

[Those who have spoken to Abigail before, even for the briefest moment, will arrive with a scalpel in their left hand; those who haven't will arrive with a fork in their right. There is the distinct impression that you've just walked through a door, but when you turn to see it, it slides out of view along the wall, sliding and sliding past corners and cabinets until it merges with the refrigerator.]

[Once it does, everything changes - or almost everything. The room is still crisp and clean, but the smell in the air has changed; it smells of rot now, of mold and mushrooms, and the counters are cluttered, too. It seems as though every few feet there is a plastic evidence bag; every one contains a test tube labelled VERITASERUM, and every tube is empty.]

[Touching these does nothing. Picking them up, on the other hand . . . who knows. As for the other things in the room: on the suddenly-present scale in the corner, there is a human brain. On the block in the center of the room, there is a teddy bear. Along the back counter, there is a corpse, covered in a sheet. On the floor in the corner, there is a victrola, cued up to play. And finally, on the back wall, there is a ten-point rack of antlers, from which dangles a simple heart-shaped locket.]

[In the center of the room, there is a girl - recognizably Abigail, though with both ears - sitting up on the counter, drinking a cup of tea. She's swaying back and forth just slightly where she sits, and her eyes are unfocused - but she is smiling, and that has to count for something, doesn't it? Behind her stand three figures - a white man with black hair and a sparse beard, a white man with slicked-back sandy hair and a sharp suit, a white man with graying and receding hair - but all three of them look strangely washed-out, as though they aren't entirely there, and if you look away for more than a second, they'll switch places, like it's a cups game. They are tied together with fishing line, the hook attached to which is sunk deep into the first man's palm. There is no blood.]


( ooc ; all of these scenarios have the potential for cannibalism mentions. if you would prefer to opt out of this but still want to play with abigail's calibrations, you can either drop me a line at her permissions post or pursue one of the following scenarios: teddy bear, victrola, man #1. hover over the bolded text to find warnings for each scenario. )

[birdsbirdsbirds]

[Robin, after a long pause, clicks his tongue.

it is somewhat telling that he's not surprised, exactly... this isn't where he's supposed to be, but the door and the smells and the confusing assortment of vaguely horrible things are kind of just par for the course. they even gave him a knife, whoever it is, which is more than he usually gets.

but there is no horrible whispering in his ear about what a wretched, useless person he is, which is actually the first clue that this isn't just all happening in his own head. Abigail is, after a moment of consideration, the second clue.

the evidence, first, whichever is nearest. "veritas" means nothing him, but that won't stop him from picking up a bag with his free hand, just to see if there's anything else about it he's missing.]

[versusnurture]

[In the vial inside the bag, there are a few drops of liquid, nearly clear but with a brownish tint. It had a distinct smell, earthy rather than chemical, not terribly dissimilar from kombucha tea.]

[In a moment of wild coincidence, when he picks up the vial, a few more vials fall from . . . hammerspace, possibly, and bounce off his head, unless he's quick enough to catch them. They all contain the same liquid. In fact, the only difference seems to be that each of these vials is slightly larger, and each has a shrike skull etched onto the front of the glass.]

[birdsbirdsbirds]

[the sullen tone of his investigation is immediately ruined as something bounces off his head--he catches it before it can hit the ground, snatching up the second and third as well. if any calibration manifestation or audience members are actually watching, it's hard to say what's more entertaining--his startling, inhuman display of dexterity, or the scandalized look on his face while he does it.]

Oy! [he is now holding entirely too many things, looking up as if someone could be blamed for sending them directly at his head like that.] What the fuck?

[versusnurture]

[From behind him, there's a giggle. It's very clearly loopy, and also a little malicious, but at the same time it's pretty clear that the giggler is having fun. No points for guessing where it's coming from.]

[In another moment of wild coincidence, a covered crucible drops onto Robin's head as well, something bonking around inside it as it goes.]

[birdsbirdsbirds]

Augfuck-- [a flinch and--wow, he caught it in the crook of his elbow. now he is definitely holding too many things. he turns on his heel, facing the kitchen scene again, complaining towards the Abigail on the counter whether she seems all-there or not.]

I'm sorry, was I taking the nightmare dimension too seriously for you? Should I have led in with a kitchen pun, instead?

[he finally looks down to check out the differences on those vials.]

Or juggling, if this is any clue...

[ah, a little bird skull, etched like the tattoo on the monster-woman's face from "back then". much too round for a crow or a robin. he has a couple of guesses as to which cute, harmless-looking bird this could be.]

[versusnurture]

[Credit where it's due, she does look a little more there than she did a minute ago. Her eyes are a little brighter when she giggles again, kicking her feet against the island like a very small girl perched very high.]

The Romans used to kill flamingos just to eat their tongues. And your tongue is very feisty.

[Birds again. What on earth could that mean. Maybe she sees you.]

[acuition]

[ If somebody expects her to eat, One thinks, upon noticing the fork she's holding, they'll find themselves sorely disappointed. Especially once the room changes, at which point she finds herself wishing she had something different on hand. And that there was an open window in here.

Apparently, two things too many to wish for.

Between all the strange bags (not much to trust there) and the human corpse (she'd seen enough of those in her short years alive), the best thing the room seemed to have to offer was its other living occupant. Even if she seemed a bit strange-- strange, she could deal with. ]

Are you alright?

[ As good a way to start as any. ]

[versusnurture]

Left.

[She sips her tea, and for a little while it seems like that's all she's going to say, left. But then she clicks her tongue against her teeth and shakes her head, sets the teacup beside her on the counter and extends her index fingers and thumbs in L shapes.]

Default, abnormality. Strength, weakness. Assertive, passive. Mercy, justice. Logic, emotion. Et cetera.

[Her right hand falls to grip the counter.]

Abnormal, weak, passive, just, emotional. All left.

[acuition]

[ Her first thought is that it's somewhat like talking to one of her younger sisters-- though not knowing this woman makes figuring out how to approach her more difficult. ]

The others aren't always right.

[versusnurture]

Hmmm.

[She tips her head to one side, then the other, then:]

Nnnnnope. When is weak right? When is abnormal right? I don't believe you.

[acuition]

It isn't wrong to feel emotion. Nor is it wrong to not be normal.

Sometimes, it's a good thing.

[versusnurture]

That's not what they say.

[And you can see in the confusion on her face that she really believes what "they" say. That what "they" think is important to her. Maybe everything to her.]

[truthvalue]

[The kitchen - well, Souji thinks he could almost make himself useful here. Almost. Until he takes a closer look, past the clutter, and recognizes the outline of a body underneath the sheet on the back counter. His stomach turns a quick somersault.

There's danger here; there's no fog, but he can still sense it. He has a passing thought of gratitude for the scalpel in his hand, even though he doesn't remember picking it up, doesn't remember how he came to be holding it, just glad to have something that he can use as a weapon if necessary, even if it's something small.

He steps slowly toward the counter, squinting - yes, that's Abigail sitting there, but she doesn't look well, not at all. Souji takes a deep breath and tries to ignore the shiver at the back of his neck.]

... Abigail?

[versusnurture]

[She takes a sip of tea, making a small, contented noise in her throat. Her eyes are focused on the wall past his shoulder rather than on him, her smile very distant. When she laughs, it's like someone told a joke yesterday and she's just now getting it, a eureka sort of sound.]

That's not my name! That's not my name.

[truthvalue]

[Souji blinks, taken aback by the force of her laughter, the unsettling juxtaposition of the sound against the backdrop of the kitchen.]

What is your name?

[versusnurture]

My name?

[She leans backwards very far, almost far enough that she topples off the island. Stares up at the ceiling. After a moment, she casts her arm sideways and sends a display of empty wineglasses crashing to the floor.]

Mischa. Mischa Lecter.

[truthvalue]

[A frown settles in on his face, and he flinches at the sound of the glass impacting against the floor.]

Then why did you tell me your name was Abigail Hobbs?

[versusnurture]

Becauuuuuse.

I'm everyone. All at once. All the faces and names and personalities. That's me. Until he makes me what he wants me to be.

[mortalcoil]

[Coil has never been much of a food fan. meals are not easy for him. kitchens cause him strife. so, it isn't until the shift in the space that he feels less rooted to the spot.

this room is alarmingly unfamiliar, of course, but all of the new changes are of things that he has personal experience with. he knows how to deal with these things. it's practically a page out of his childhood, really. so, once he's sure that all the moving parts of the room don't actually seem primed and ready to do much moving, he begins a careful, quiet pace across the tile.

he flips the scalpel between his fingers once. when did that get here?

moving toward the shrouded body, he keeps an eye on the girl as he goes. just to see if she stays just as unfocused as she seems.]

[versusnurture]

[She doesn't. Because of course she doesn't - even when drugged, she's always more alert than she acts. Her eyes go sharp as he crosses the room, scalpel-sharp, but she doesn't move towards him or away. Just watches, as still as a painting where only the eyes move.]

[When he gets there, if he chooses to pull back the crisp white sheet, he'll find the body of a girl - Abigail's age, height, weight, shockingly similar in appearance in every way - cleaned of blood but with holes pressed all through her torso, as if she's been mounted on antlers.]

[mortalcoil]

[and he watches her right back--one sharp grey eye against two--all the way up to the body. he waits there for several seconds to judge whether or not she's about to move, before he finally breaks the gaze long enough to look.

of course he pulls back the sheet. you can't tell anything about a body until you get up close.

he keeps an ear and part of his attention in the direction of the living girl, but... the corpse soon takes up the rest of his focus. the wounds are fascinating. he glances over to look for bruising, trying to judge which wounds were made before and after death. he even brings up a hand to press a fingertip at the edge of one injury--not even giving it a thought before he dares to touch a dead body that has nothing to do with him.]

[versusnurture]

[All wounds were postmortem. In fact, it appears very much as if she was thrust onto the rack while still alive: the wounds are jagged-edged, as though the skin and muscle were torn from a struggle. An expert might realize, from the unusual pallor of her skin, that she died of exsanguination.]

[Her skin is still flexible enough, her corpse fresh enough, that when he presses down lightly the flesh gives - doesn't break away, but allows slight entrance into the wound. When his finger brushes the place where skin gives way to muscle, there's a sudden flash of memory.]

[A circle of girls in a dark room, sitting on folding chairs. They all have pale skin, long dark hair, red lips, blue eyes, a circle of midwestern Snow Whites, staring. They are all in their late teens. They stare accusingly, stare stare stare, and they all say the same thing, one after another:]

He should have killed you, so he wouldn't have killed me.

[mortalcoil]

[he curls his fingers into his hand--automatic defensive fists as he quickly steps away.

too familiar. all at once, it's too much.

it's suddenly hard for him not to see a different face there... though, not all that different, really. he'd had so many dreams like this, with her pale eyes staring into him.

she hadn't said those exact words, but they're close enough to count.]

[versusnurture]

[He steps away - but, unfortunately, it's not quickly enough. He's touched the girl - Marissa, the information will drop into his brain like a hot knife through butter - and so the memory continues, shifting from one moment to the next, more a collage than a linear progression.]

[First, a triptych of murders, all set up the same. On the left, a thin balding man with pale eyes and the same exsanguinated lips, his chest riddled with bullet holes and a haunted grin resting on his lips. In the middle, a man with dark hair, tired eyes, and smudged glasses. On the right, a man with light hair slicked back; he wears an expensive suit and excellent shoes, and he looks so content, as though he's never been sad in his life. When you blink, in the moment before you open your eyes, his silhouette is replaced by another.]

[In perfectly synchronized movement, they all slit the throat of the same girl who exists in triplicate. The only difference in her is her expression as she dies: shuddering tears of grief on the left, wide-eyed fear in the middle, and smug satisfaction on the right.]

[A voice whispers in Coil's ear: Which one is real?]

[And then, directly behind him, the sound of a door opening, and abruptly he's in an attic wallpapered in antlers, and the man from the middle of the triptych is grabbing his shoulders and shaking him.]