...And also these.

[thespaceopera]

[ Calibration Rooms ]
( for N-Z characters )

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ROOMS BY CHARACTER

N - Q Nami Natasha Romanoff Nelkeila Tarid Nux Nyssa al Ghul Octavia Blake One Peggy Carter Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève

R - U R. Daneel Olivaw Rapunzel Remy LeBeau Riku Robin Redbreast Rogue Santanico Pandemonium Shawn Hunter Stefan (Alesci) Salvatore Steve "Orion" Rogers Steven Quartz Universe Souji Seta Stiles Stilinski Syeira Tadashi Hamada Tekhetsio

V - Z Vash the Stampede Vima Sunrider Vision (The) Wanda Maximoff Wrath Yamanaka Ino

Comments

[tothefly]

Well. This is much more pleasant than some of the dream-rooms she's wandered through the last few nights. Nice and cozy, good smells, plenty of interesting things to look at...and since it seems to invite looking, settling in, that's what she does. First, to the window, to look outside. She presses one hand against the glass, listening to the wind, feeling the pane tremble...watching the seasons change. It's almost nostalgic. But then, autumn has always made her nostalgic.]

[touchofrogue]

[There is no immediate response to the pressure of Natasha's hand. The window itself is chilled, but no more so than any glass pane would be against the cool weather outside.

The longer she stands by the window, however, the less the wind will sound like wind. It is a whisper, or is that - whispers? It may be hard to tell. Just as it will be impossible to make out, exactly, what they are saying.]

[tothefly]

[Is that whispering? Voices, not the wind? Or maybe it is the wind, carrying the voices of people who are just out of sight, specifics lost to the ether. She strains her ears to hear, to catch just a word or two. A phrase. Anything at all. It seems like it should be important.]

[touchofrogue]

[Strain although she might, the whispers remain unintelligible. They are not as strong as they once were, nor as harsh - they are composed of entirely different voices than they once were. She may, however, pick up a sense of tone: discontent, displacement, displeasure.]

[tothefly]

[She listens a moment longer, catching tone but not content. Frustrating. The voices sound frustrated, too, displeased. She can relate. Pulling away from the window and shaking her head, Natasha continues around the room, stopping again by the stack of novels. Crouching, she examines the titles. Who's reading what, here? Maybe she can figure out whose head she's in this way.]

[touchofrogue]

[The titles of the books are clearly escapist literature, at least at first, and of a very definite kind. Their titles are unabashed romance, things like Dark Passions and Long Arrow's Pride. The rest upon Bram Stoker's Dracula, Mary Shelly's Frankenstein and Gaston Leroux's Phantom of the Opera. There were slim volumes of poetry by Tennyson and Yeats. A copy of Alice and Wonderland. Several pulp horror novels.]

[tothefly]

[Well. Isn't this interesting. The inhabitant of this room definitely has a very distinct taste...at least the romance novel titles are mostly pun-free. And the rest below that? Gothic novels for the most part, she thinks, poetry from the same period. Below that, an assortment of other things. Absently, she sits in the chair, lifting the first chunk of the stack into her lap to sift through the lower layers.]

[touchofrogue]

[From the instant Natasha touches the books, an unpleasant feeling will skate down her spine; cold and crawly.

When she sits with the books on her lap and holds them, however, that is when the fullness of the shift comes. It is a certainty, like gravity, like falling: you are alone. It is not just loneliness that overtakes you, but utter and overwhelming isolation - it is an avalanche. You are blanketed in isolation, you are drenched in its scent. Isolation is a weight, pushing on your shoulders, your legs, coalesing inside your stomach like a fist clenching deep in your gut. It aches.

With that weight is a hint of despair, the knowledge that nothing will ever change the simple fact that no one can touch you, no one. You must allow no one close to you, no one. For their own good. For yours.

It will never, ever change.]

[tothefly]

[The first rush might be mistaken as the general chill in the room, maybe a draft from a chink in the window. She's sitting before she realizes it, and the weight of books in her lap makes the feeling worse. Worse, colder, heavier--but then, it's not entirely unfamiliar, is it? Isolation. Loneliness. She's lived that way for years. Less so, recently, but she's still a solitary creature at her heart.]

[But this is someone else's loneliness, and she can recognize that--it stabs in ways she isn't familiar with, aches in places that have been numb for years. Her breath catches and holds, her shoulders tense--and with the pain and the despair and the sensation of must not touch comes a sort of realization, nearly invisible beneath the weight of this burden.]

But why--

[The question is soft, almost a whisper, and not ever finished. Why can't they touch? Why can't she touch? That, at least, is something she's not used to at all. She keeps her distance, but it's always emotional. Not always physical.]

[touchofrogue]

[The longer Natasha holds onto the books, the more intense the feeling will grow until that hint of despair becomes more than a whisper - until it feels as if there is no air. She can still breathe, of course, but the air will feel thin and there is no satisfaction from it. Untouchable. Monster. Your isolation is what you deserve for what you are. Stay away if you're going to be selfish enough to stay alive.

And never let anyone see what it costs you.

Perhaps, if Natasha continues to hold onto the books through all this, her hands will start to feel that peculiar constraint as if they are gloved, though they will remain exactly as they were.]

[tothefly]

[It's a lot of feeling to process. She's used to keeping her own emotions at a distance, in a box. Irrelevant to most of the process of her life, only brought out to be used, occasionally to inform a decision. She isn't used to this, this weight. But she knows what loneliness is, and in pursuit of an answer, she can bear it. She knows what it means to be a monster, to truly be a monster. To let that word become a wall. It's almost more tolerable, once the weight reaches this point.]

[Her fingers twitch involuntarily on the books in her lap, and she faintly feels them constrict, creak, almost like they're covered. Gloves? She's beginning to have some idea whose mind she's in now, and feels as though she might be interrupting. Invading. Forcing her hands to move, she lifts the books, replacing them on the top of the stack, taking a deep breath in and releasing it slowly, waiting for the feeling to lift.]

[touchofrogue]

[Indeed, as soon as Natasha sets the books down, the feeling lifts. It leaves only an echo, and the echo only lingers for a moment, maybe two, before the oppression is part of Natasha's past.

There is no other change in the room, the fire flickers in the coffee table, the knife stuck into the end table by Natasha casts a long shadow. The wind has never stopped blowing, and still it howls, whispers, and occasionally rattles the window frame.]

[tothefly]

[The next breath is unfettered by weight, and she is acutely aware of the feeling of her lungs expanding, of a lightness in her shoulders, through her limbs. Her fingers close and open on air. No more gloves. No more of that weight. She hopes the woman this room belongs to doesn't feel that all the time. No one should have to, especially when it's undeserved. She's seen little to indicate any amount of deserving that.]

I'm sorry.

[Sorry Rogue's felt that way, or sorry she's intruded? It could be both. Either way, the words are spoken to the room at large, to wherever the manifestation of Rogue is hiding. Leaning in towards the table, she holds her hands out towards the small glow of warmth.]

[touchofrogue]

[The fire stirs a little at Natasha's voice, but when she stretches her hands out to the flame that's enough for the curling fire to... stand? It probably looks a little strange, something so flickering and curling approximating the human motions of leaning on an elbow, tucking feet under, shifting weight and propelling itself upward to form who may very well be the person Natasha expects.]

For?

[The flame!Rogue doesn't seem upset or offended, just perhaps a little surprised, as if Natasha had made a remark out of place remark in the midst of a conversation.]

[tothefly]

Intruding, mostly.

[She hadn't been expecting a reply, and most definitely not from the fire itself. She withdraws her hands, leans in just a little closer, a little surprised but not very.]

I wouldn't want people poking around in my head without asking permission first.

[touchofrogue]

[Oh, that.]

Well, that would be a preference. Or... not pokin' around at all would be nice too. But I ain't in much position ta mind it.

[Her job is to play tour guide right now, after all, to facilitate or guard if necessary, just enough to make sure that nothing would get permanently messed up.]

Though if ya want out there are two ways of goin' 'bout it.

[tothefly]

You wouldn't be, would you? Guess Atroma doesn't mind doing a little tampering to make us draw these things out.

[The comment is almost muttered to herself, followed by a shrug.]

Not that you aren't being perfectly hospitable, but how do I get out?

[touchofrogue]

Touch the mirror or play the game.

[The mirror was shattered, hung in its frame over the mantle. The checkerboard was set to play, already by the window.]

[tothefly]

Guess I've got time for a game or two.

[The mirror is shattered. Reminds her a little too much of parts of her own mind, dusty corners she doesn't explore. But games, on the other hand...she's always been good at games. With a shrug she stands, and heads towards the window, fingers brushing the handle of the knife embedded in the table as she passes it.]

[touchofrogue]

Alright. You can always grab somethin' ta eat on the way, since it'll be a little while.

[The game was the kinder option, really. In her current state, Rogue didn't mind either, but if she remembered she'd be grateful for it later.

As soon as Natasha's hand brushes the handle of the knife, her senses abruptly sharpen, increase to the point where it is immediately noticeable. She's stronger, she sees more sharply, and it's a good thing too. Because the light in the room changes, the colors growing darker. The blankets and other signs of comfort disappear. The guitar beneath the mantle is replaced by a set of katanas, perfectly matched and well-balanced.

A heavy scent of cigar smoke drifts into the room, though there is no cigar present.

And the crackling of the fire may grow louder - or perhaps it is just her enhanced hearing.]

[tothefly]

[Oh. Well, isn't this interesting? It's a rush, to have so much extra sensory information flooding her brain. The feeling of power jumping in her veins. The cigar smoke...even that seems right. Cigars and blades. Masculine things. Just a thought, as the sound of the fire increases, and she turns her head to look that way, seeing what's changed with new eyes.]

[touchofrogue]

[She may be able to see the figure in the flame more clearly now, see Rogue's features more clearly as opposed to just the flickering of the flame.]

Don't hold onto it too long. Once he comes out all the way, he's hard ta put back.

[tothefly]

[Yep, the girl on fire over there is definitely Rogue. And while Natasha can admit to curiosity regarding whoever this mysterious 'he' is, she doesn't need to know badly enough to risk whatever might happen. The stack of books has shown her that experiences in this room are bound to be visceral. So she lets go of the knife handle, and waits for things to return to normal.]

There someone else taking up space in your head?


[Just a question. A valid one, honestly.]

[touchofrogue]

[As Natasha releases the knife, the super senses recede, the katanas fade back into the guitar, her strength becomes her own. The only thing that lingers is the rich scent of cigar smoke.]

Kinda. [She raised one hand and see-sawed it back and forth.] It's complicated.

[And since she's in tour-guide mode, Rogue even continues!] It's a lot better'n it used ta be. Used ta be, that wind didn't stay outside.

[tothefly]

Maybe you'll tell me about it sometime.

[It's not a bad smell. Just...complicated. Like Rogue says. She breathes deeply, noting it; exhales, looking towards the window.]

You learned how to close the window?