Lining up for the execution without knowing why
[Backdated to before she met Owen at the bar] Abby is sitting near the front doors of the Kashtta, soaking up a little sun. She's smeared with god-only-knows what, almost from head to foot. She was helping at the zoo.
In a normal zoo in a normal city, one would perhaps not be as filthy as Abby is.
But. Well. It's Chicago.
Ragnar Gustaffson Coeur de Lion is nearing his wit's end. He is currently sneaking around close to the building where he and Sark live, trying to make sure he's properly lost Dylan before (finally) going back up to the flat.
Ruvin is sitting at the water's edge in Northerly Island Park, after hours. There are a few people around, not many, and the traffic on the roads fronting Lake Michigan is intermittent and distant. She's been here since before the park closed, not doing much. Her sketchbook sits next to her, unopened, charcoal in a little packet on top. She left a note at the Conrad, this time. It's not as though no one knows where she is, even if she has been there all day.
Part of her, the part wrapped in the solitude of the empty park, the distance of the city at her back, wonders why she bothered.
No one's come to find her. Maybe that same, whispering part of herself that's so hard to ignore when no one she loves is in sight (No one here but you. No one ever was. No one ever will be. The illusion of companionship is all you have, and even that--) pipes up now in senseless jealousy.
They all had better things to do.
Ruvin curls up and watches the water shuffle back and forth across the rocks, hating herself for even thinking it. And even as the self-hatred hits her, the voice hisses Why?
If she had her abilities back--
"Then what?" Ruvin says, grabbing the sides of her head. "Then what?"
She's beginning to understand it. The Order, the unfairness of its leaders, the deep fear of being rewritten or unwritten she carried for so long. She's beginning to understand why it was there if nothing else. There's so much she could do now, without them watching her. There's so much she wants to try just to see if she could. It's not like it would hurt anyone. It's not like they'd even know.
Except maybe the Vesmier. The Doctor.
But unless she let them in, they couldn't stop her, either. All it would take is one other person's life to reach into both of theirs, and the things she could do with such a lifespan--
Except she can't. She can't. And if the Vesmier knew half of what she was thinking she'd never be able to again. That's something else she's been practicing--the 'doors' the Doctor mentioned, keeping her thoughts quiet and closeted and distant enough that (please please please) the Vesmier won't be able see them. His presence is so subtle in her mind she's not even sure she'd be able to tell if he did see them.
Except for the Vesmier, there's nothing in her way.
Ruvin feels her chest twist a knot of anxiety that just as quickly dissolves, leaving her feeling--
Not feeling.
Not thinking.
Not caring.
Just quietly empty.
It's an echo of the solidity she once knew as resolve, with something poisonous mixed in. There's no use fighting it. She knows there's not. Part of her will always be a monster.
In a normal zoo in a normal city, one would perhaps not be as filthy as Abby is.
But. Well. It's Chicago.
Ragnar Gustaffson Coeur de Lion is nearing his wit's end. He is currently sneaking around close to the building where he and Sark live, trying to make sure he's properly lost Dylan before (finally) going back up to the flat.
Ruvin is sitting at the water's edge in Northerly Island Park, after hours. There are a few people around, not many, and the traffic on the roads fronting Lake Michigan is intermittent and distant. She's been here since before the park closed, not doing much. Her sketchbook sits next to her, unopened, charcoal in a little packet on top. She left a note at the Conrad, this time. It's not as though no one knows where she is, even if she has been there all day.
Part of her, the part wrapped in the solitude of the empty park, the distance of the city at her back, wonders why she bothered.
No one's come to find her. Maybe that same, whispering part of herself that's so hard to ignore when no one she loves is in sight (No one here but you. No one ever was. No one ever will be. The illusion of companionship is all you have, and even that--) pipes up now in senseless jealousy.
They all had better things to do.
Ruvin curls up and watches the water shuffle back and forth across the rocks, hating herself for even thinking it. And even as the self-hatred hits her, the voice hisses Why?
If she had her abilities back--
"Then what?" Ruvin says, grabbing the sides of her head. "Then what?"
She's beginning to understand it. The Order, the unfairness of its leaders, the deep fear of being rewritten or unwritten she carried for so long. She's beginning to understand why it was there if nothing else. There's so much she could do now, without them watching her. There's so much she wants to try just to see if she could. It's not like it would hurt anyone. It's not like they'd even know.
Except maybe the Vesmier. The Doctor.
But unless she let them in, they couldn't stop her, either. All it would take is one other person's life to reach into both of theirs, and the things she could do with such a lifespan--
Except she can't. She can't. And if the Vesmier knew half of what she was thinking she'd never be able to again. That's something else she's been practicing--the 'doors' the Doctor mentioned, keeping her thoughts quiet and closeted and distant enough that (please please please) the Vesmier won't be able see them. His presence is so subtle in her mind she's not even sure she'd be able to tell if he did see them.
Except for the Vesmier, there's nothing in her way.
Ruvin feels her chest twist a knot of anxiety that just as quickly dissolves, leaving her feeling--
Not feeling.
Not thinking.
Not caring.
Just quietly empty.
It's an echo of the solidity she once knew as resolve, with something poisonous mixed in. There's no use fighting it. She knows there's not. Part of her will always be a monster.