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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?]
[Spam]
[But he is very good, and he is offering.]
[Spam]
I had dreams, sometimes. Little scraps of the hours before I died.
[Before they bought and remade her.]
[Spam]
Tell me about them.
[He makes it an order, gentle rather than stern, to see her reaction to it.]
[Spam]
I'm young. Fifteen. I'm on a beach, sand and waves and glittering seaside skyscrapers. There are kites in the sky, living ones, gossamer pink aerial-sessile things, farther off. I wade into the water. I love to swim. I'm young and strong. There are some clouds, but I'm not worried, I don't want to go back to shore yet.
The storm comes up so fast. A huge wave crashes over me, and another. I can't get to enough air, I gulp and gasp and choke, tossed and trampled. I flounder and thrash until I drown.
[Spam]
Are you afraid of drowning?
[Spam]
[Yes. Yes she is.]
I don't think about it often. I haven't been to many seaside locations.
[Spam]
[He pauses, considering.]
Come to my cabin this week. We'll see what other memories can be raised.
do you want to switch to timeskip spam or assume they were interrupted and start a new thread later?
[And it's not just acquiescence; she lifts her head a little more, breathes a little easier, smiles very faintly. Nervous, but hopeful.]
I vote timeskip ahead!
Later that week, he goes about his usual routine: walks on the deck, trips to the library, briefly choked down meals. He spends plenty of time in his office, though, and in that time he waits for her, sketching the death of Baldur.]
whee
What's that?
no subject
The incident is filed away in his thoughts, and set aside firmly. When she is close enough to look, he smooths his fingers over the edge of the paper.]
Have you heard the story of Baldur?
no subject
[She perches, waits. Not quite expectant, so much as - hopeful. An honest answer to a simple question. She follows his cues.]
no subject
[He points to a slight figure in the background, finger hovering above the page lest it smudge.]
But Loki, prone to disloyalty, asked Frigga if she had truly obtained oaths from every thing. She made the mistake of telling him the truth: she had made everything swear to her, save mistletoe. It was such a small thing, after all. Why bother?
He went to Hod, the blind god, [His finger moves to a man drawn mid throw,] and made an overture of compassion: you must be feeling left out, he said. Come, I will point your arm in the right direction, and you will throw.
He pressed a shaft of mistletoe into Hod's hand, and when he threw, it pierced Baldur through.
[He finds her eyes again, wondering if she will find her role objectionable. He doesn't think she will.]
no subject
Such a small thing, to kill a god.
[Quiet observation, and below that, awe. Want.]
no subject
[He smiles gently at his new small thing, shifting to press the pencil into her hand.]
Do you draw, Mira?
no subject
[It's not wry so much as factual, mild, the acknowledgement of her amnesia necessary to an accurate answer, as full an accounting as she can give him. Her fingers curl deftly around the wooden instrument.]
Probably not. I'm not sure I'd ever seen actual cellulose-fiber paper before I arrived. But I have a steady hand.
no subject
Then you must take these, and see what you come up with. A steady hand has many uses. You must exercise them all.
[He intends to exercise the other uses.
no subject
Should I - now?
no subject
no subject