I've done the math enough to know the dangers of second-guessing.
At some point Alida became fixated on the idea of monsters. Possibly it was Marc's insistence that she wasn't one. Possibly it was the fact that there were much more monstrous things in the Nexus, asking questions, poking around, than she was. Possibly it was the way the voices changed, here, the blood of Malkav in her ears, in her soul, moving more than it had in Port Obscura.
She'd rarely used it back then. Her emotions had been something like a ferris wheel and there had been no reason to hide what she was or pretend to be human further than eating and the fact that there were children in the clubs she played at that were paler than Alida. The ups stayed up but she could see the bottom. Each peak and valley had it's highlights and pits but she could tell when it was shifting. It measured, somehow, and she could feel the shifts and changes. See when some small slight was enough to send her spiraling, when the tiniest accomplishment could make her smile for nights on end.
Here it was different. The changes were sharper, with less warning. The smallest things were not the ones she needed to worry about. These triggers were more subtle, less tangible, and it made her moodswings all the more exhausting. The ups were different too. Most of them surrounded Marc, his habits, his patterns, the way he smiled in his sleep. The precise way he folded clothes.
She wrote music with no intention of performing it. That was different as well, to create something and horde it in the end. When she went directly to sign in the Nexus, to ask questions or answer them, to watch people or listen, the voices were louder there. Like some quiet whisper of the ocean that became a roar the closer she got. They were all troubled. Disturbed. Interesting. Some of them were outright mad. It was fascinating. She was drawn to it. She wanted to understand.
Getting too close, however, involved breaking them further. Figuring out how it worked meant taking it apart. Taking people's minds apart meant they would hurt. Hurting someone herself, or even simply standing by to watch, meant having their pain blaze in her mind, her chest, every nerve alight and wanting it to stop. Hurting someone to find out how it all fit and how it all falls apart meant taking on their madness and their pain.
So, by this, Alida took it to mean that it was only a weakness that allowed her to not be a monster.
One day she couldn't sleep and the sun had almost risen. With half closed eyes she watched Marc and saw, felt, imagined a rope. His Fate, tied to something that stretched beyond the Nexus. Stretched from his heart outward to Something, to Nothing, to Darkness and Light that both threatened to snatch him away from her.
As if she weren't possessive. As if she weren't determined to undermine things beyond her control. As if she were just going to watch this thing eat at them until there was nothing. Until he was gone from her, and then what was she supposed to do.
In her dream, her vision, she gripped the rope so tightly it burned, until the fibers cut into her hand and caused sluggish blood to cover the threads that bound it together. Until some of those threads snapped and the rope was a bit thinner, a bit lighter.
In her dream Marc didn't stir from his sleep. And the next night when there was a fading bruise on her palm, she told herself she was just imagining it all. The dead can't bruise, you see.
She'd rarely used it back then. Her emotions had been something like a ferris wheel and there had been no reason to hide what she was or pretend to be human further than eating and the fact that there were children in the clubs she played at that were paler than Alida. The ups stayed up but she could see the bottom. Each peak and valley had it's highlights and pits but she could tell when it was shifting. It measured, somehow, and she could feel the shifts and changes. See when some small slight was enough to send her spiraling, when the tiniest accomplishment could make her smile for nights on end.
Here it was different. The changes were sharper, with less warning. The smallest things were not the ones she needed to worry about. These triggers were more subtle, less tangible, and it made her moodswings all the more exhausting. The ups were different too. Most of them surrounded Marc, his habits, his patterns, the way he smiled in his sleep. The precise way he folded clothes.
She wrote music with no intention of performing it. That was different as well, to create something and horde it in the end. When she went directly to sign in the Nexus, to ask questions or answer them, to watch people or listen, the voices were louder there. Like some quiet whisper of the ocean that became a roar the closer she got. They were all troubled. Disturbed. Interesting. Some of them were outright mad. It was fascinating. She was drawn to it. She wanted to understand.
Getting too close, however, involved breaking them further. Figuring out how it worked meant taking it apart. Taking people's minds apart meant they would hurt. Hurting someone herself, or even simply standing by to watch, meant having their pain blaze in her mind, her chest, every nerve alight and wanting it to stop. Hurting someone to find out how it all fit and how it all falls apart meant taking on their madness and their pain.
So, by this, Alida took it to mean that it was only a weakness that allowed her to not be a monster.
One day she couldn't sleep and the sun had almost risen. With half closed eyes she watched Marc and saw, felt, imagined a rope. His Fate, tied to something that stretched beyond the Nexus. Stretched from his heart outward to Something, to Nothing, to Darkness and Light that both threatened to snatch him away from her.
As if she weren't possessive. As if she weren't determined to undermine things beyond her control. As if she were just going to watch this thing eat at them until there was nothing. Until he was gone from her, and then what was she supposed to do.
In her dream, her vision, she gripped the rope so tightly it burned, until the fibers cut into her hand and caused sluggish blood to cover the threads that bound it together. Until some of those threads snapped and the rope was a bit thinner, a bit lighter.
In her dream Marc didn't stir from his sleep. And the next night when there was a fading bruise on her palm, she told herself she was just imagining it all. The dead can't bruise, you see.