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10. reacclimate
[Public video, but filtered away from Harvey, David, and Iris]
[It might not be immediately obvious, between the low light and the strange angle, but Mira is lying on top of the unadorned altar in the nondenominational chapel on deck, some of her hair hanging over the side, comm held above her.]
Do you ever feel like you aren't real?
[Private to David 8]
How long was I asleep?
[Text private to Cassel]
Thank you again for the journal. It helped.
[She doesn't say with what.]
[Private to Harvey]
How was death?
[Private to Helena]
Iris says you watched me.
[Spam for Iris]
[One of so many pieces of paper Iris left in Mira's room, is slipped back under her door. It was disorienting at first, the colors and obtrusive scatter of trinkets, the scalding proof that time lost her for a little while, changed around her. She thought, of course she thought, it was her own memory that had failed, that had lost its mess of contents at least, but the notes, pieced together, gradually righted her assumption, twisting it upside-down like a flipped kayak. The page she returns is a poem, one of many Iris left in between more informative updates and sentimental messages. Beneath the attribution, Mira has scrawled in rough, childlike handwriting - the mark of a post-penmanship age - This one is my favorite.]
[It might not be immediately obvious, between the low light and the strange angle, but Mira is lying on top of the unadorned altar in the nondenominational chapel on deck, some of her hair hanging over the side, comm held above her.]
Do you ever feel like you aren't real?
[Private to David 8]
How long was I asleep?
[Text private to Cassel]
Thank you again for the journal. It helped.
[She doesn't say with what.]
[Private to Harvey]
How was death?
[Private to Helena]
Iris says you watched me.
[Spam for Iris]
[One of so many pieces of paper Iris left in Mira's room, is slipped back under her door. It was disorienting at first, the colors and obtrusive scatter of trinkets, the scalding proof that time lost her for a little while, changed around her. She thought, of course she thought, it was her own memory that had failed, that had lost its mess of contents at least, but the notes, pieced together, gradually righted her assumption, twisting it upside-down like a flipped kayak. The page she returns is a poem, one of many Iris left in between more informative updates and sentimental messages. Beneath the attribution, Mira has scrawled in rough, childlike handwriting - the mark of a post-penmanship age - This one is my favorite.]
[private]
[private]
[private]
Well, if you want-- to talk to anyone who... doesn't quite know who they were, or just-- tell stories, I'm a communicator away.
It was nice to talk to you, Mira.
[private]
[Better than I'll remember it.]
[private]