driftfleet | one ➵ video / spam

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one ➵ video / spam

Who: Abigail Hobbs and u
Broadcast: Fleetwide
Action: Starstruck
When: 9/23, eveningish

[All things considered, this is actually a pretty good witness protection program. How are the police going to find her in space? And she didn't even have to die this time. It's probably the best kidnapping she's ever experienced.]

[Admittedly, she did spend some time wondering if this was the same thing again, if, somehow, doing what needed done had sent her back to the Barge, qualified her as an inmate again. But those were very fleeting concerns - first, because she knows what she did was just, and second, because this is nothing like the Barge, which looks disorganized on the surface but pulls together in crisis. The Fleet looks quite organized, with its shiny ships and perfect synchronization, but she has a suspicion that when shit hits the fan, everything falls apart.]

[That remains to be seen. The point is that she's learned from the last two times; she neither presents a face immediately nor gives herself away immediately, choosing instead to spend her time on the Marsiva and her first few days on the Starstruck settling in, going over the comms, gathering what information can be gathered. Only then does she step out into common spaces.]

[She pays particular attention to the cargo hold, where she deliberately and conspicuously practices some of the flashier moves Harvey taught her - although flash does not preclude precision, because she is very good at what she does. She also spends a lot of time in the kitchen, hanging out but also inspecting; she doesn't like the processed nature of the food provided, and she spends some time looking for an ingredients label before giving up.]

[When she eventually sets up a broadcast, it's in the kitchen, as well, futuristic cabinets lined up behind her head as she seems to focus somewhere slightly off-camera. For the record: the giant scar on her neck is totally visible, as is the fact that she only has one ear.]

It's sort of funny to me that when people come to a place like this, they either introduce themselves with a lot of questions or a lot of yelling. If anybody wants to answer my questions, that would be pretty hospitable of you, but I got tired of answering them after a while, so. It's not compulsory.

If anybody would rather perform an exchange, I can do that, too. Quid pro quo. My name is Abigail Hobbs. I come from Earth - Bloomington, Minnesota, originally, which I bet none of you have ever heard of - and I spent a couple of years in a place sort of like this, only not at all. My hobbies are hunting, fishing, cooking, and reading poetry. Once I wanted to be a psychiatrist.

The rest of it, you have to earn.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

You could.

[And she did. But it wasn't all in Minnesota, of course. A slight tilt of her head and she smiles at him again.]

Do you want to use either of your points?

[His mouth turns up into a muted smile as he reaches a hand to rub against the back of his neck, absently brushing his collar aside, making the scar on the side of his neck visible.]

What would I use my points on?

Answers to questions. Or opt-outs to questions you don't want to answer. Like--

[She gestures, openly, avidly curious.]

What's that?

Hm? Oh.

[Souji forgets the scar is there, most of the time, the more time passes between him and Melasurei and the demon he became there. It's part of him now, an indelible reminder of the atrocities he was capable of committing. His fingers brush over the raised line of the scarred tissue, and there's a flash of memory - a rooftop, lips on his throat, pleasure mingled with pain.]

That's ... kind of a long story. Maybe we should start with something simple, first.

[He drops his hand from his collar and smiles again, polite, a little thinner in the wake of remembering.]

I'm Souji Seta. It's very nice to meet you, Miss Hobbs.

[She was right, then. A bad memory. Scars usually are. There's a fleeting bit of sympathy in her when she sees the distance, the politeness of him, the deliberate space built between him and her because she's asked.]

[She leans forward, deliberate also, and matches him smile for smile (polite, thin), and doesn't ask is it? because she knows he'll just lie.]

Just Abigail, please. I don't go by my last name much.

What other simple things are good to start with?

Abigail. [He repeats, and nods to acknowledge that he understands her preference. He defaults to formality unless instructed otherwise.]

Let's see ... I could tell you that I'm also originally from Earth - but from Japan, not America. The last place I lived was ... [Something dark flashes across his face as he remembers Inaba, and everything that happened there, but it's only there for an instant, then it's gone, replaced by practiced amiability.] Definitely a place no one's ever heard of. I also like fishing and cooking, and I like to read, but not much poetry.

[I used to fight monsters, he thinks, but doesn't say aloud. It got a lot harder to tell who the monsters were, toward the end of last year.]

I build model robots sometimes, too.

You probably know more about America than I do about Japan. The American education system isn't that great.

[Things she says while noting the look on his face, the darkness in him, the way he covers it up almost immediately. A kindred spirit, maybe. She's interested to find out.]

I don't know anything about model robots. We had more . . . practical hobbies in my house, when I was growing up. [Like stuffing pillows with human hair.] But I had a friend - Harvey - who taught me about poetry. Have you ever heard--

There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

Well, America's really big. [He shrugs.] There's a lot to learn.

[Souji goes silent while he listens to her recitation; the repeated use of the word shadow sends a dark chill twisting into his stomach, a feeling he does his best to not let show. The smile's gone from his face by the time she finishes, though.]

No, I haven't heard it before. It's - [disturbing.] Pretty. [And the smile is back - practiced, pleasant, understated.] I don't really understand what it means, though. How do you show someone fear in a handful of dust?

[He's good at this, the fake-smiling, and she gives him a nod of approval (though whether or not he'll know what it's for isn't really her problem). As to the question . . .]

It's open to interpretation, just like all poetry. All literature. But "The Waste Land" is about the end of days. To me, the handful of dust is . . . emblematic of everything that's been lost and destroyed, civilizations burned to the ground, or left behind so long ago there's nothing left to remind us of them. Just dust and open space. And what do people fear more than becoming irrelevant - less than memory?

[Souji listens to her explanation with a quiet attention, nodding by the time she finishes.]

That makes more sense. I guess a lot of people probably feel that way.

[But not everyone. Not him.]

Some people might be more afraid of being remembered, though.

[For terrible things they've done. For example.]

[Ah.]

You mean people who feel guilt? Shame?

[He nods.]

If they've made mistakes.

[Like hurting the people they care about. Causing death through careless action, not being smart enough, quick enough, good enough. The thin smile returns.]

Hypothetically speaking.

Right. Hypothetically speaking.

[She glances away from the camera again, purses her lips. What she's looking at, though he can't see, is the cabinet where the food cubes are stored. She doesn't trust them; but that's more paranoia than guilt or shame.]

I used to feel shame all the time. But I don't so much anymore. I paid for my sins - if you believe in sins, that is.

[He could almost laugh, except it's not really funny - just bizarre, absurd. He's held all seven sins in his hands, sold and traded and tasted them; he remembers shelves crowded with bottles and jars full of sins collected, each one dark and thrumming in its own unique way. He remembers manipulations, the rush of playing for power, exchanges in darkened alleyways. The bitemark scar on his wrist itches at the memory of teeth breaking his flesh, black blood bubbling up; he drops his head to watch his fingers slip into his jacket sleeve and scratch at the phantom sensation on his wrist.]

I'm familiar with the concept.

[Do you think you can atone for your sins? He drops his hands to his sides again, glances back up to her.]

That's usually the goal, right? Paying for sins. Balancing out the debt.

[I don't know.]

That's right. But it works better in theory than in practice.

[And - here she brightens, leans forward a little, actually very interested in his thoughts on the matter. They won't change her opinions, but new input is always valuable.]

For example - if, in order to balance out your debt, you have to hurt someone, is that worth it? Would you do it?

[I would.]

[His lips press together in a thin line as he considers the question.]

I think ... it depends on the circumstances. How great is the debt. Who you'd have to hurt, and how. Why. Is it the only option?

[I have.]

What if the person you'd have to hurt will hurt other people if you don't hurt them? What if nobody else can stop them but you?

I think ...

[It feels like she's suddenly, in the space of just a few words, cracked him open and seen right into the very center of him, into the memories of Inaba and what happened there, what he'd done. It's a ridiculous thought, and Souji tells himself that it's impossible, but it doesn't stop the feeling of his heart beating fast, high up in his throat.

Dojima's words from that last day come rushing back to him, ringing hard in his ears: If there was evil in the world that had to be dealt with, but no one would step up to see justice done ... it might fall to the closest person at hand to bear the burden of punishing them. Don't you think? Souji takes a deep breath and slowly nods.]

I think, sometimes, in a case like that, you'd have to pick the lesser of two evils. If nobody else could stop them but you, it would be your duty to do so.

[Yeah. Maybe so.]

Edited 2015-09-24 20:39 (UTC)

[This is what she's good at: seeing people for what they are, picking them apart to their component pieces. It's easier with some than with others; if Souji were older, more paternalistic, she might struggle. But he is a boy, and boys are vulnerable and often far more transparent than they think they are.]

[Besides, all she was doing was telling the truth. It's just that the truth sometimes hurts - her truth especially - and she has a knack, too, for finding people whose truths hurt in similar ways.]

[This is part of why she doesn't want to be a psychiatrist anymore. Too goddamn dangerous.]

Would it still be right to feel guilt or shame over that? [A brief hesitation; then:] I know you can't always help it. People are people, they do people things. But if it's your duty . . .

[I am not ashamed. It shows in her eyes, the set of her mouth, the prideful line of her neck as she displays her scars. She has left shame behind, at least for the most part, in bloody shacks, mounted on antlers, sacrifices to men who thought they were gods.]

I don't know if it's a question of right or wrong ... I think it probably depends on the person, and the circumstances.

[I am. It shows in all the slight ways he hesitates, his tendency toward downcast gazes, the invisible walls that surround him even while he performs the motions of the expected social interactions. Guilty; guilty; guilty.]

People feel different things for different reasons.

Edited 2015-09-24 21:59 (UTC)

[She sees this, too. And it makes her sad. Fly away, little bird; don't feel guilty over things you had to do.]

There's a power in violence. [This quiet, contemplative - an offering.] You just have to watch yourself to make sure you don't enjoy it too much.

I'd listen to your reasons, if you wanted to tell me. I'm a very good listener.

[There is power in violence, and control, too. The demon Kingpin was well-versed in both, and Souji still remembers what it was like to be him, the consuming emptiness that he sought to fill with power of all flavors. He remembers the first tease of a kiss made to draw out words he wanted to hear from the object of his attention. He remembers grinning viciously as bursts of electricity seared through the body of a frightened girl. It's not the same as what happened with Namatame, but - where does violence stop, once it's engaged?

The mask of practiced amiability slides back into place.]

That's a very kind offer. But I don't have anything like that to talk about, [he lies.]

You're lying.

[This isn't - accusatory, just factual. She tips her head at the camera a little, and what's in her expression isn't revulsion, exactly, more pity. It's sad to her that he hasn't owned his monstrosity, whatever it is.]

The offer stands, anyway. If you decide you want it. But we can talk about something else now.

[It's different than with Adachi, this being called out on the lie; again, Souji can't shake the feeling that maybe she's able to see straight into him, maybe through some magical power. But she isn't hostile about it, and she doesn't push for the truth, and he's grateful for that, being allowed to keep domain over his secrets, so he doesn't pull away like he would otherwise.]

What do you like to cook?

Oh.

[And that's a good memory; it calls a smile to her face, and she remembers lunch shifts in the kitchens with Ben at her shoulder.]

All kinds of things. Where I was before here - that's where I learned to cook. We had people from all over, and I mean all over, but we mostly made Earth food. Lots of French, some Italian, some American standards. Not much Japanese, though.

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