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[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.]
spam
We know that feeling. A day trip with no drugs and no guards. Except they didn't give us daytrips in the first place.
You'll get used to it; the trips off boat are rare-- sometimes dangerous. Not everywhere we go is... intentional, or safe.
[ ...but he gives in now, opening things up and starting to poke around inside. What does a woman give a man on a prison ship, these days? ]
spam
[This is - not quite bravado, but almost entirely theoretical. She has rarely been in actual, physical danger. She plans well, and she has the Gods to shield her. Her targets never see her coming. But she isn't afraid of death or pain or oblivion, so - she imagines she'll handle it well. There are a few items in the bag: a hand-painted cigar tin, with a scene of the fairgrounds, full. A commemorative shot glass and a special edition World's Fair silver half-dollar coin, each wrapped in tissue paper. And there's a fetal hog-nosed bat in a jar of formaldehyde, veins and bones and the dark shapes of organs visible through the thin, unfurred skin.]
spam
[ Each item is taken out; his good side flickers with emotion, still expressive. A little bit wonder and confusion; the glass and cigarbox, those could be general but the coin? ]
Who told you about us?
[ Because there's no way that it could be so-- simple, could it? A guess? He strokes the coin, looking at it's silvery edges. ]
This can't all be... luck?
[ The jar, though. The jar has him transfixed, brows knit and tight. He does not know how to properly express the horror and power and understanding that rises from him, as he looks into that fetal creature, and feels that strange, bone-deep homesickness that comes with memories of the Bat and Gotham. ]
Can it?
seriously the coin was like the second hit for "Columbian Exhibition Souvenirs"
beautiful and perfect.
We've never really kept up.
But that does give us another answer: you checked up on us. Investigated us.
no subject
[She shrugs.]
Of course I did. Research is important. Anyway, I saw it and it seemed to suit.
no subject
[ Because if he read her right, he thought it as less the former and more the latter. But he wants to hear her. ]
I mean, you did break my jaw and stab me. But I think we can call it even, as I did hit back... So, we're even, and... those are a lot nicer than flowers.
no subject
If you want an apology, you're going to be waiting for a long time.
I mean, I could fake it, if that's a deal breaker.
[But she isn't even a little bit sorry. She's pretty sure that's alright. Pretty sure.]
no subject
No, no, not at all. Don't apologize for being-- what is your name anyway? I can't just think of you as gorgeous, even if you are.
no subject
Mira.
Mira Santiarre Hidalgo.
[And smile.]
no subject
[ He is pleased, now that she's given it, takes another step closer, closing in; a hand lifts, reaches as if he might ask for hers, anchor her and the name to a sensation. ]
We are Two-Face; Harvey Dent. [ A politeness, since she's been reading up on him and all. ] Iris calls me Smiley, but we're not very fond of that nickname.
no subject
[It seems rude, really, for all that she tentatively adores Iris already. Not differentiating.]
no subject
[ Two-Face grins; Iris adores Two-Face, Harvey's feelings for Bianca are a briary tangle. It's the perfect set up. ]
She has her preferences, same as we do.
no subject
[Not who, what. Mira is a little overwhelmed by Iris. She doesn't want to back away, but it would be nice to find her footing.]
no subject
But she's basically decent. Trustworthy, to a point. Rides the edge of the line between wardens and inmates more than most.