...And also these.

[thespaceopera]

[ Calibration Rooms ]
( for N-Z characters )

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1. Check the first letter of your character's name as its written in our tags. A-M names go to the other post, and N-Z names comment here.
2. Make a note in your topcomment if anything especially triggering or graphic might show up in the Calibration. If you're not sure if something's worth noting or not, we suggest listing it anyway, just to err on the side of caution.
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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

[survivalistcookbook]

[The canary is pretty, and something in it tugs at Eugene's heart, the little flag of each note a barb that beds in him and burns. It is important, brightness and music, he knows that in a bone-deep way even if he cannot remember why.

But he also knows that those things leave. That there is no bringing them back, not when he doesn't have wings, doesn't even have

nothing beneath his left hip but weight and the itching scream of old mistakes and no no no no

back up from the stagger that wasn't. Back up onto two feet, because here there are two feet, just like there are fingertips callused from the bow's string, and the weight of these things is more powerful than the memory of fever and blood.

He cannot fly, cannot do more than hope for the return of any songbird. But movement, and focus, and meat - these are things that he can chase.]

[sinuosity]

[ You give chase. Your feet are silent, and sure, through the forest — you belong here, hunting. The leaves rustle as you pass. Maybe you should be chasing the boar — what can a songbird give you? A feather? A flash of yellow? This isn't a tangible thing. ]

[ Yet, you come all the way out to a cabin in the woods, and you see the bird dart through the window. You follow, after listening for anyone inside. It's empty; the bird is up in the rafters. You set your bow on the table, which also has a bolt of dark silk, a brand (now cool to the touch), a black jacket, a chess set midway in a game. Next to the sink, there's an empty plate with some bread, and a milkshake. On the wall are mounted a pair of swords. ]

[survivalistcookbook]

[He should be following the boar, he knows it, and yet- and yet. There he is, in an unfamiliar cabin, the pad of feet on floor and percuss of bow upon table clean-edged sounds in the silence bound between the walls.

Again, the swords are solid-looking, the bread and jacket a temptation, safeguards against cold and hurt and hunger. It's the same way he chased the bird that he turns to the chessboard - perverse, purposeless unless to chase that aching half-remembered familiarity. Pacing around the board, he studies one side's position, then the other, trying to divine who holds the upper hand.]

[sinuosity]

[ Black holds the upper hand — there is no shift in the room as Eugene noticing this, like there was no space between the not-knowing and knowing, nowhere for the world to change. He just knows, like he knows he can only move white. The table is set against the wall. A white knight poised to take a black pawn almost reaching the other end of the board. A bishop ready to move to intercept a rook that's headed for the white queen. A pawn, stepping forward. ]

[survivalistcookbook]

[The knight. A promotion won't help that disadvantage _{(last thing they need is a new queen in black's ranks)} and after giving the board another quick scan, he reaches for the knight, fingers closing around the head of the snorting charger to bat the pawn out of action.]

[sinuosity]

[ The room changes. You are sitting now, your feet swinging above the chair, having moved your knight to take the pawn. A man sits opposite, in dark green clothes and a heavy cloak. There's no white in his hair, but his eyes are old, sharp, and watching you with some amusement. There are guards in the room, all in black, and standing so still they could be statues. The window lets in light to the stone hall — all the candles are unlit. ]

[ Good play, my child, the man says, in Arabic. You're improving. You huff. I don't see the point of this meaningless game. You itch, restless to move. You want to use a sword, and dance, what do these pieces cut that a blade can't? Father's fingers brush over his side of the board as he deliberates. Patience, he says, calmly. Forethought. There are harsher ways to learn both than chess. ]

[ You make a face. I can learn patience with the bow, you reply. And forethought from hunting. Father smiles, crookedly. Neither teaches you what to do when you have no power on the board. If you are to take my place one day, you must show me you are cunning, and wise. ]

[ You are about to retort that you can be these things easily, when the room fades, and Eugene is left holding the knight in his hand, with the bitter taste of a lesson in his mouth. ]