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Entry tags:
- a knife wants to cut,
- actually a toddler,
- fucking trolleyology,
- girl from a lacuna,
- interdimensional discard pile,
- little orphan angry,
- nobody's child,
- nobody's mother,
- poor life choices,
- seriously mira what are you doing,
- temper tantrum,
- they kept her sharp,
- tool of the gods,
- well if he can't even explain,
- what good is the admiral anyway,
- why does she like arthas
6. Open spam + Open video + private to Arthas
[Open Spam - hallways, deck, dining hall]
[Mira has finally read her file. And it's useless. Worse than useless. There's nothing about her past, her family, not even the name of the planet with the kites. The admiral is supposed to be omnisciennt, and she's still no one, from nowhere.
Worse - she's barely even no one coherently, they've broken her down and made her forget again and again. When you sharpen a knife, you have to scour away the layer of oxidation, the nicks and imperfections, all the little cumulative effects of time and life and use. They kept her very sharp.
She hurls her pot of sempervivum against the wall, hears the ceramic shatter brightly, watches the dark soil scatter across the pristine floor, the bulbous clutches of stiff leaves lolling askew in the mess. She throws her chair, and her lamp, and her notescreen, everything she can pick up that isn't extruded from the walls, but most of it isn't as breakable.
She snatches up the file and storms to the deck, cheeks hot and red, eyes wet, half blinded, flings the pages over the deck railing. She imagines jumping after them, but not seriously - she told Harvey the truth, she doesn't want to die. She wants to live, and she feels like she never, ever has. Not even the killing was hers, they didn't even let her keep the one thing that was always bright and real, the one thing they wanted her for. She wants to scream and hurt and break things, and there's nothing to break in the cold inverse-crush of space. She knows this from both of her lives.
She makes a strangled, frustrated animal noise in her throat, whirls, stalks toward the dining hall, which has plates and fruit bowls to smash and tables to flip over. She doesn't have a plan or a goal, just hurt and rage and viciousness.]
[Public, later]
[Her eyes are still a little red; she doesn't look like death warmed over but she doesn't look happy, either. Her tone is terse, not quite defiant. Challenging, maybe.]
If you knew, I mean really knew, that killing someone innocent would save millions of lives, improve more, would you do it?
[Private to Arthas]
What would you do if you couldn't remember who you were before?
[Who would be left?]
[Mira has finally read her file. And it's useless. Worse than useless. There's nothing about her past, her family, not even the name of the planet with the kites. The admiral is supposed to be omnisciennt, and she's still no one, from nowhere.
Worse - she's barely even no one coherently, they've broken her down and made her forget again and again. When you sharpen a knife, you have to scour away the layer of oxidation, the nicks and imperfections, all the little cumulative effects of time and life and use. They kept her very sharp.
She hurls her pot of sempervivum against the wall, hears the ceramic shatter brightly, watches the dark soil scatter across the pristine floor, the bulbous clutches of stiff leaves lolling askew in the mess. She throws her chair, and her lamp, and her notescreen, everything she can pick up that isn't extruded from the walls, but most of it isn't as breakable.
She snatches up the file and storms to the deck, cheeks hot and red, eyes wet, half blinded, flings the pages over the deck railing. She imagines jumping after them, but not seriously - she told Harvey the truth, she doesn't want to die. She wants to live, and she feels like she never, ever has. Not even the killing was hers, they didn't even let her keep the one thing that was always bright and real, the one thing they wanted her for. She wants to scream and hurt and break things, and there's nothing to break in the cold inverse-crush of space. She knows this from both of her lives.
She makes a strangled, frustrated animal noise in her throat, whirls, stalks toward the dining hall, which has plates and fruit bowls to smash and tables to flip over. She doesn't have a plan or a goal, just hurt and rage and viciousness.]
[Public, later]
[Her eyes are still a little red; she doesn't look like death warmed over but she doesn't look happy, either. Her tone is terse, not quite defiant. Challenging, maybe.]
If you knew, I mean really knew, that killing someone innocent would save millions of lives, improve more, would you do it?
[Private to Arthas]
What would you do if you couldn't remember who you were before?
[Who would be left?]
[private]
So there is some personal bias, I'll admit.
You say nothing about the one hundred condemned to die but you make a point of claiming innocence of the lives sacrificed.
[private]
Not that it had to be her. It just had to be someone reckless enough to die that no one would miss. She would have died in that storm whether they chose her or not.]
Older generations usually die to make room for their children. Species are built to deteriorate so that reshuffled genes can spread in more successful combinations. Humanoids just tend to have a larger time discrepancy than, say, Chiat Dai. It makes it look less direct, in the normal course of things.
[She shrugs.]
The people I killed were academics, mostly. Mathematicians and inventors and visionaries. They might have cheated on their husbands or their taxes but they died because they stumbled on, or close to, something dangerous while trying to make the world better.
[private]
[private]
[She isn't sure what she is trying to accomplish, but it isn't that.]
[private]
What answer were you hoping to receive?
[private]
Maybe I'm trying to judge my gods. One way or another. It's hard to concieve of, so other people's thoughts are helpful.
[private]
[private]
But they made me. They matter whether they're here or not.
[private]
[private]
[She takes a slow breath.]
Once upon a time, there was a girl who was stupid and got herself killed. Nobody cared, and nobody claimed her.
They bought her body for the price of a nice meal plus transport expenses and used it to build me. Everything I remember - everything that's me, the person I am now - comes from them.
[private]
[private]
[Apology accepted, she means; it was almost an inevitable understanding.]
But I've always had their hands on me.
[A quick, sharp-bitter smile. She knows this is precisely the sort of thing wishful zealots have said for millennia, and that is why she chose the phrasing. It's why she cast her servitude in religious terms in the first place, because it seemed like such a human aspiration.]
Re: [private]
[private]
I don't know what I want.
[private]
[private]
[private]
[private]
...thank you.
[Private]
[Private]
[She doesn't know if that's help, exactly, but she thinks it's worth some thanks. Or it ought to be.]
[Private]
Yours seems like a fascinating story.
[Private]
[Private]
[Private]
[Flatly, dully. She knew she didn't remember very far back, but she did realize how deliberate, how regular it was. Not until she rad her file.]
[Private]
[Private]
[Private]
[Private]
[Private]
[Private]
[Private]