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2 - Video, public
[Open, Video]
[She got caught by the women's council, near the end. They dragged her off when she claimed to have no family to be returned to, interred her in a tiny church with other troublesome, unmarried young ladies. Most of them had had a child out of wedlock. They did laundry together, work and penance, the heavy lye soap burning their hands hour by hour. Mira could have swaggered out bloody, but she didn't - something about the mumbled prayers and the delicate stained glass windows and the blunt, human directness of it, the brusque cruelty and judgement appealed to her. Their God was hypocritical and describable; the things he required of her were concrete and impersonal. It didn't matter that she was no one, in the cloister - all of them were no one, were discards, and they showed her how to do the work and took her unhesitatingly in. She enjoyed it, in her way, listened to the other women talk about their children, taught one how to break her boyfriend's wrist the next time he came home drunk. And she stayed until the barge caught her up again.
She's in the chapel now, dull and bare by comparison, not gaudy morbid stories or old ash marks on squat brick. She rolls a candle from one hand to the other. She has kept to herself, so far, has made no announcements or introductions, done nothing to draw undue attention since the nature of this place was explained to her. She was content with that state of affairs. But she is curious, now.]
How many of us are religious?
[Spam, forHarvey Two-Face]
[Several days after the fair, Mira shows up at his door, tense and eager. She's put it off - she's nervous, if she's honest, because she doesn't know how to do this, and she can't trust her own memory. She thinks he was crazy, thinks he responded the same way she did, but what if she's wrong? What if smashing his jaw with a billiard ball was too far?
At least she has an excuse to be here. She has presents.]
[She got caught by the women's council, near the end. They dragged her off when she claimed to have no family to be returned to, interred her in a tiny church with other troublesome, unmarried young ladies. Most of them had had a child out of wedlock. They did laundry together, work and penance, the heavy lye soap burning their hands hour by hour. Mira could have swaggered out bloody, but she didn't - something about the mumbled prayers and the delicate stained glass windows and the blunt, human directness of it, the brusque cruelty and judgement appealed to her. Their God was hypocritical and describable; the things he required of her were concrete and impersonal. It didn't matter that she was no one, in the cloister - all of them were no one, were discards, and they showed her how to do the work and took her unhesitatingly in. She enjoyed it, in her way, listened to the other women talk about their children, taught one how to break her boyfriend's wrist the next time he came home drunk. And she stayed until the barge caught her up again.
She's in the chapel now, dull and bare by comparison, not gaudy morbid stories or old ash marks on squat brick. She rolls a candle from one hand to the other. She has kept to herself, so far, has made no announcements or introductions, done nothing to draw undue attention since the nature of this place was explained to her. She was content with that state of affairs. But she is curious, now.]
How many of us are religious?
[Spam, for
[Several days after the fair, Mira shows up at his door, tense and eager. She's put it off - she's nervous, if she's honest, because she doesn't know how to do this, and she can't trust her own memory. She thinks he was crazy, thinks he responded the same way she did, but what if she's wrong? What if smashing his jaw with a billiard ball was too far?
At least she has an excuse to be here. She has presents.]
no subject
no subject
[They have time for complicated, after all.]
no subject
Same shape as religion, though. Chanting and mysticism and all that.
no subject
no subject
That's what they thought. I 'ad a bunch of different reasons to be there and none of 'em were about propping up a dead old matriarchy or spending the rest of me life eating veggie gruel and sleeping in a cell in exchange for a sense of superiority you could break a brick on.
no subject
Why were you there, then?
[private]
Some of it was about a man. 'E were going to need someone to be in the right place at the right time to make sure 'is adventure didn't go too far tits-up and I elected meself. Not that 'e noticed.
Some of it was about mining their secrets. The Sisterhood always made a big fandango out of mysticism versus technology - but they were cutting edge tech, all the same. And they were willing to take the mystic side serious, too. There wasn't anywhere else in the multiverse you could go to find people doing the kind of genesplicing and regeneration work they were doing, and the meditation and chanting was woven into that from the cells out. At the time I was working on sonic block transfer computation - literally singing stuff into existence - and no bugger would take that serious, either.
I thought for a while I might be able to find me place, there. To be part of something bigger than meself. I was very young, back then.
[private]
Did he need it? Your help, I mean. In the end.
[She doesn't know whether she regrets saving Darling from the corrupted warden or not. She isn't sure if she even wants to know.]
[private]
[But she says it fondly, smiling. That version of the Doctor was always her favourite. One of her favourites. One of the ones that hurt her least.]
[private]
Men.
[More bitter than Iris; less bitter than she would be purely on her own behalf. The fondness is nice to behold, even if she's incapable of it.]
[private]
That about sums 'im up, aye. Oh, 'e did 'ave 'is moments. Most of 'em without me, though.
[private]
And you learned how to do it? All the things they did.
[private]
[Iris lifts her chin. She's underdressed today in a scarlet T-shirt with black-and white stylised eyes on it, python-print leggings and her hair pulled into a messy silver-blonde ponytail. She doesn't even take the cigarette out of her mouth. But all her nine hundred years look out of her eyes, stern, calm, infinitely loving.
Then she grins, and it's gone like a burst soap bubble.]
...I remembered a few good tricks, mind.
[private]
Sounds like it was worth it.
[private]
Learning generally pays for itself at some stage. D'you want to do anything?
[private]
[She's - nearly comfortable, spinning out these conversations. But she's intrigued, too.]
[private]
...Or anything else that sounds like fun. I'm easy, me.
[private]
[Brisk, impulsive, hedonism with the faintest edge of fear, like the chance might slip away. She might have done it before. But she can't remember if she has. Pleasure yachts generally had more elaborate and expensive low-friction sports.]
[private]
Girl after me own 'earts. I can't remember offhand if it were the cute werewolf pup or the stonefaced copper that requested the ice rink, but I'm glad someone thought of it. It's in the teaching annexe, up on deck - wear trousers, unless you're all right with ice burns on your legs.
See you there in five.
[She'll be waiting. With rum-laced hot chocolate for after.]
=> spam
[But she's in synthfiber hazbarrier slacks anyway, the kind of neat clothes she wore as Torvalli's lab assistant. flexible and well-insulated and good for nearly everything. She keeps the labcoat. The unbuttoned flaps of it will trail out behind her, like wings, like ribbons. She wants that, and doesn't dwell on it. She just comes.]
spam ON ICE
Pain's one way to know you're alive. I can probably promise you bruises.
[There are skates provided, and she's currently lacing her own up.]
...Science background? I'm not trying to be nosey. Just it's one of the things I do, 'ere.
spam ON ICE
I was posing as a lab assistant for a job, and the clothes came along with the room. No qualifications, but I've picked up a lot of different things. It was pretty interesting while it lasted.
spam ON ICE
[Skates secured, she stands up and makes her way to the ice. She's good at balancing on the blades, the instinctive positioning of her body.]
I don't want to monopolise you too much, mind. By which I mean I don't think I should.
[Which isn't the same as not wanting to.
Iris isn't as good a skater as Raven, nor is she particularly interested in the delicate precision of icedancing. What Iris likes is to go really, really fast. Sometimes she stops with a rinkgouging change of direction; sometmes she just slams into the barriers.]
...Can't wait till we get icehockey going. Must 'ave a word with Nathan about it.
spam ON ICE
I'll think about it.
[It's not solemn, exactly, but measured. It sounds good, and - it's half dodging, but it feels good, too. Deliberating, keeping the choice to poke at and mull over. Hers.
She sets out on the skates, not as fast as Iris but deliberate. What she lacks in experience she makes up in studied athletic grace, her short frame swiftly learning how to balance, how to use her weight.]