driftfleet | one ➵ video / spam

Entry tags:

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

[The story she tells is shorter than his, and she doesn't pause in telling it to check and make sure he's paying attention; she knows he will be. He is very interested, after all, and it's a good story. All of Ben's stories are good stories.]

[The story doesn't seem like one she's reciting, has memorized, but it is that, too. She committed it to memory the moment she heard it, because the words and cadence are as important as the meaning. It sounds like a folktale - but it isn't.]

There was a girl. Her soul was full of beauty, in the way of all souls where she came from, but hers was exceptional. Others, recognizing this, tried to cover the beauty in her soul over with ugly things - with lies, and secrecy, and blood.

But the beauty could not be smothered.

The beauty in her was a clever beauty, precious and delicate and as precise as a scalpel blade, which is why the others around her sought to possess it. They looked at her soul and recognized in it the shapes of their own, though there was always just a little more extra, a little bit that never quite fit into the molds they tried to force onto it. This bit, this extra, they decided because it was so small, was inconsequential: they tried to cut it out, or neglected it completely. How much could it matter, something that didn't fit the image they sought to make of her?

But they failed, because what they failed to understand was this was the most crucial part of her soul. This was the part that belonged to no one else in the world. This was the part that belonged to the girl, and as long as it exists, she will never be anyone but herself.

And so they colored and concealed and forged her soul into what they thought would be the ultimate masterpiece. But she kept the small piece they cast aside, and their wretched works of art crumbled for lack of it. They failed, because the beauty filling her soul is a clever beauty, and succumbs to no will but her own.

[whether this is about her, or about someone else, or just something spun from the words of local lore... Robin remains attentive and listens very carefully, smiling politely the whole time.

at the end of this story, he keeps quiet just long enough for his delight to fight his way out of him, into another grin and a short laugh--]

What a scary girl!

[he looks thrilled.]

[It is about her. Which is part of why she likes his reaction so much. She likes being scary. Normal is overrated.]

That's a story someone told me to explain how no one would ever have all of me, no matter what they did.

[oh, he'd hoped. he loves survivors, very genuinely. perhaps it's something about his dominion over pain that makes them more his people than leaders, killers, healers, or even those who simply suffer.]

That's wonderful. It really is. I'd planned to be terribly clever and not ask a single question, but--if you don't mind, may I ask if you're human? All metaphors aside.

[She's been a survivor - been a leader, in a very precise way, been a killer, certainly. She has never healed. She has absolutely suffered. But first and foremost, she's a survivor.]

[The question makes her smile wide.]

You've been terribly clever anyway, actually. And yes. I am. Once I knew someone who wanted to make me a monster, and once I wanted to be a monster myself. But I am and have always been completely human.

That's good. I've spent a great deal of time around monsters, but it never seems to work out well for anyone.

[the world splits, the earth dies, or a group of cultists get smart and try to resurrect your evil demigod sibling from the dead. cute girls lose their ears, good-looking boys get shot in the head.

anyway, he likes being called clever, and ends up resting his chin in his hand.] I think that clever shard of beauty comes from being human anyway. That has a name where I'm from--C'perel.

[From being human . . . that's interesting. She cocks her head, birdlike, and considers this, considers all of the humans she's known and the beautiful parts of them. Elena . . . she always had that clever shard of beauty in her, even when her humanity was gone.]

[After a moment, she shakes her head.]

No. I think . . . this thing, c'perel, [pronounced effortlessly on the first try,] I think it's something that humans have, but not just humans. Monsters who seek their humanity have it, too. The boy who told me that story, he wasn't human, but I don't think he could have seen it if he hadn't known it from personal experience.

Hm.

[it's less of a game now, more of an actual conversation... and he really considers what she has to say, just as she considered his response. he presses his lips together, looks just off to the side. there's nothing but humans and monsters and Kings in his world, but he's met a lot of others in places like this...

he thinks about Tek, first. wonders if he's got that beauty in him. he'd really like to believe he does. and then there was Vincent, the brab'ja, who he hasn't thought of in a long time. and then there's himself, which sends a small dull something rattling into an empty spot in his chest he'd maybe forgotten was there.

oops. he's not supposed to be having these conversations anymore. he laughs, but only out of conversational necessity--] If we talk like this for too much longer, Abigail, you're going to make me cry.

[Well. If she wasn't sure he was inhuman before, she's damn sure of it now. The laugh brackets the beginning of what he says, and she brackets the end with her own laugh, a mirror of his, a laugh that is an untruth, but not a vicious or cruel one, just - necessity.]

If I don't ask you why this is making you cry, maybe you'll think I'm uncaring or maybe you'll think I'm tactful. The truth is I'm not either. I just want you to tell me on your own, if you want to, or not; either way's fine.

Crying is such a strange thing. It hurts and it feels like you're suffocating and then you feel better. Would you feel better if we talked like this for much longer and I made you cry?

[he doesn't answer, for a moment. the video is still going, but his smile disappears as his attention turns inward. it's quite the mess he's accidentally uncovered. his instincts say yes, his mind says no, and his heart fears that a certain someone will see this and call him out on falling into his Old Ways.

...eventually, he raises a finger. looks back at her eyes, for what little eye-contact is worth over a screen.]

I don't know. There's a lot to consider. I'd like to think on it for a while.

[he continues to not smile, even as his tone gets a little wry.] Though I can promise you that on my list of concerns, you personally rank somewhere below my getting a blotchy face on supposedly-live television. It's terrible, all the red goes right to my eyes. And my nose.

[He'd like to think on it for a while. And maybe it's some remnant of the esteem she held for Hannibal, that makes her fight her instinct to push further, to wedge a knife in the crack she made and pry it open to see his guts. Oh, she wants to. That's something she's never going to escape, the desire to see what will happen. And she doesn't owe him anything.]

[But he's - interesting, she supposes that must be it. He's interesting, and he holds himself sort of like royalty, and he has a sense of humor dry as dust, and she likes him. So she gives him a break, this time.]

It goes to my cheeks, mostly. I mean, I've never been on television before - actually.

[She laughs, and this one's real, if a little sly.]

I was once. But I was bleeding out, so I didn't really get a chance to enjoy it.

[and he's spilled his guts for less, dozens of times, but she doesn't feel sorry for him like the others did. he can tell. she talks to him just like he talks to other people, and he sure doesn't feel sorry for them. he and she are the same kind of predator. Tekhetsio is a predator too, but he's a natural-born scavenger--he waits for Robin to wear himself out before he starts picking at his wounds. Robin showed this one a bit of blood, and she went right for the wound with truth-teeth. she snapped into a bigger animal, put her jaws around its throat, and told it she'll bite if it really, really wants.

people sometime dig into little wounds because they're stupid or angry. he does it because he is selfish and hollow and very, very hungry. it's how he stays alive. if she's like him, she's a stray dog. she's smart and she's desperate. she bites hard because she she's terrified of starving, that makes her dangerous and unpredictable. they could be pack-mates or they could eat each other alive--and he's promised to act more like a wolf anyway.

he doesn't think Abigail is a bad person. he just needs to make sure he's actually the stronger animal.

but they're moving on. she's giving him pause. it's very polite, shows restraint. and now he owes her one. he tables it to listen again, tilting his head a little as she corrects herself--eyes widening a little as a sudden (and also more genuine) laugh escapes him.]

Oh, no... [as if this was a wacky irony and not her near-to-actual death.] Is that the one on your neck?

[All she wants is information, and here's the thing - she framed it very carefully in her introduction so that it would seem like she wanted information about things, but what she really wants most of all is information about people. What he's giving her now is more valuable than gold, but it's worth it, too, to ease off, so that even if he doesn't trust her, he knows her capable of mercy.]

[She's not a monster, after all. She's a human girl, that's all she is. That's everything she is. And now he owes her one.]

[She grins, anyway, at the tone, because - how else do you talk about your own near-death? You have to make a joke out of it, right? That's the only way to do it.]

That's right. The one on my neck.

[She traces it with one finger, remembering the feeling of it, like nothingness, hearing her skin part, and then searing pain that was more than the word pain could ever express.]

My dad did it. He killed a bunch of people, then my mom, then he tried to kill me. With a knife, in our kitchen, while my mom bled out on the front steps.

[Raised eyebrows, like - crazy, right? - and the faintest hint of a smile.]

[you know the particular kind of laugh that people get when they're blindsided by a dead-baby joke? or a joke about genocide. the laugh of horror that lingers far too long for them to try and claim that they didn't think it was funny.

that's what happens. he giggles and hunches his shoulders and half-covers his mouth with his hand.]

That's terrible. [through his fingers, grinning back.] Did you die?

[If she can't catch someone totally off-guard, this is the second best response. The worst is pity, second worst is revulsion. Really, he's doing very well, all things considers, and her smile spreads into a grin again, approving.]

Not that time. There was a ton of blood loss, obviously, but this guy shot my dad and they got me to the hospital in time - I was just in a coma for a while.

Would you believe it happened again, though? Same thing, same place, different kitchen, same cut. Bleeding out just isn't as much fun the second time around.

[he's been around too long to be surprised or feel much pity. yes, a terrible thing happened--but terrible things have been happening to people longer than he's been alive. besides, this whole thing is too fascinating for him to shy away, and he winds up smirking again.]

Yh tega... And I bet they said you were lucky to be alive.

Of course they did.

[Pity would repulse her. She used to use it as a tool, but now it signifies weakness. Empathy is one thing; pity is the height of ugliness. So she smirks right back at him, cavalier as all hell.]

At least it was a learning experience. I don't let men anywhere near my throat anymore.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

one ➵ video / spam

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject