exnihilo | 14. marmoreal

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14. marmoreal

[Private to Iris and Simon, text]

thank you for trying

[Private to Mal, text]

What happened to you?

[After you saw me.]

[Private to Luna, voice]

Do you like pancakes?

[Spam for Mickey, Helena, Cassel, and Stephen]

[Sometime in the night, she breaks into their cabins, quietly. She just wants to watch for a while. Just wants to see that they're okay. If they wake, they might find her perched nearby, scribbling in a notebook. Or maybe just staring, small and still, chin on her knees.]

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[She radiates confidence, assurance. Yes, they can. Yes, they will. Yes, they must.]

The way I looked at people, I suppose. My perspective. I changed, too. It's different to look at people from the outside versus . . . trying to become part of them.

There are a few people I care about without death.

But it feels more. Tenuous? And - unreliable.

Because the glass is still there.

It isn't, though, you know. You can put your weight on anyone, whether you've killed them or not.

Sometimes it wears thin, or...someone else can crack it like a window. Iris did that. Darling, in his way.

[Just hauled it out of the way like it was nothing, too indescribably present and herself to allow for any barrier.]

But it could always come back down, you know?

[After a beat, reluctantly, uncertainly -]

Luna said something about that. She asked -

[It's still weird. Weird and vast and hard to face. The nature of possibility.]

Edited 2015-04-07 13:57 (UTC)

[A quiet, near-gentle prompt:]

Asked?

If it could be real to - spare someone. Oscar.

If maybe I loved him because I'd had his life in my hands, and not because I'd killed his copy.

[And there's only a little ground between sparing and saving, from a certain point of view.]

What do you think? Is she right? Could you be real for that?

[Because it seems as though Mira knows more about herself than she's saying, and Mal wants that knowledge, for the both of them.]

I didn't want to think about it at all.

[She doesn't know, or doesn't want to admit to herself, what she was afraid of. Is still afraid of, a little.]