"You really think someone like that should be allowed to walk free?"
Who: Manuela Hidalgo, narrative/semi-open
What: Father's Day.
Where: Fibonacci Museum, outside by Manuela's little dead garden.
When: Backdated to June 20
Warnings: None other than EXTREME TL;DR
Notes: It's a narrative, but if your character already knows Manuela and would be hanging around the place, feel free to tag if you want.
She wouldn't have known if it hadn't been for the network. Manuela kept no calendar; time was so fluid and flexible in Nautilus that it was nearly irrelevent. She did keep track of the weeks, seven days at a time - sometimes events came up that people would schedule for. That was all. Months, she would pay attention to on occasion, and had a general idea of what time of year it was - for example, it was hard not to know when it was December, thanks to Christmas. As far as she knew, it was June right now in Nautilus, even though it wouldn't have been June in the timeframe she'd left at home.
And it was Father's Day.
Back in her home, that had been a day to be celebrated two months from now - if it really was June like she thought. But it seemed that, in Nautilus, it was today. There had been more than one person clamoring about it in the city, voices that reached her ears through her communicator. Father's Day. It was time for celebration. And Manuela had begun to tremble, shakily placing the device on the plain sheets of her bed, her mental focus easing apart, as if some block obstructing the rusty cogs of her depression had suddenly been removed and everything began turning and spinning and reeling once again.
She was sixteen this year for Father's Day, and for the first time in her life, she had no father to celebrate. Javier Hidalgo was dead. Her father had lost his mind. Been killed.
All of her tears had drained into the river at Mixcoatl seven months ago. Her face was dry as she rose unsteadily to her feet, leaving her room, closing the darkwood door behind her. Where she was going, she wasn't sure - she was hardly concentrating. She knew she wanted to do something. She had to do something. It was the right thing to do to honor him. After all, he was still her father; the only one she'd ever known.
Leon and Krauser had known one side of her father - the side she did not know as well. Javier, the drug lord, ruling the people of rural Amparo discreetly with an iron fist, clutching wads of bills with one hand and grabbing for more with the other. Javier, the smuggler, dealing darkly with ugly men who'd given up humane morality long ago, swapping one set of expensive and lawless items for another as easily as he would blink. Javier, the bioweapons dealer, penning contracts in the language of the human genome, written with the blood of experimental animals, sold for the idealistic promise of utter protection and unending money. The Javier profiled precisely by the United States government with details written in official papers.
Manuela had known a different man. Javier had been the beloved father, so often away on business trips, who would shower her in affection upon his return home, lavishing her with gifts and stories and with his company whenever he possibly could. Javier was the one who took care of her, his weak, shy, sickly daughter, paying whatever cost he had to in order to keep Manuela alive, to make her comfortable and happy, no matter how exorbitant or how bloody that cost was. Javier had been the loving husband, crying along with the five-year-old daughter who clutched at his legs at the 'death' of his wife.
Manuela had loved him. It was the plain truth, and not one she'd denied. Her bare feet touched the earth of the Eastern District as she began to go around the building she now called home.
That was why it was so hard to accept that she no longer did. To accept all the things she had seen in those few days, what she had learned alongside the two Americans who had come to stop her father. That Javier was a murderer and had been for more than ten years - that he was a kidnapper who'd killed so many in cold blood. That Javier had endangered not only the people of the surrounding villages, but the entire continent. That Javier was a psychopath, driven to infection and mutation of everyone around him and even himself by mad love.
Manuela... All of this, I've done for you.
That she had killed him.
She was standing at the edge of the small garden she'd planted with V, staring down at the patch of dirt that had become a mass grave for flowers. The two bizarre plants that still lived sat near opposite corners loomed over the garden like gargoyles, and her eyes lifted to look at them. She thought she knew them now. Did she understand them like she thought she did? She hoped not.
The dead became feathers, butterfly wings, lizard scales, multicolored and reminiscent of home. Manuela, eyes closed, held her bandaged arm over the brown, rotting petals of the fallen flowers, and they were Bended into new things, detached and still deceased. The garden blossomed into color provided by lost limbs and belongings - she wanted it to have color, and if she could only bring death, then so be it. As the last fallen leaf turned into the long lost feather of a tropical bird, Manuela's eyes opened, her attention turning to the thick and lengthy piece of cloth wrapped around her right arm. And that, too, began to unravel, loosening and sliding up her arm, revealing the monstrous and glistening carapace that her skin had become, the jagged plating and uneven, scabby scars, until the cloth came to rest as a clump in the four-digited, clawlike shell that her hand had become. Manuela moved the ugly talons to grasp the white ribbon of her cast. So his daughter was still alive. This was what he had wanted.
"...Happy father's day."
The clawed hand dropped the balled-up cast into the bed of color she'd created, and then dropped down to hold the ground, propping Manuela up. She didn't want to think anymore. And the song came to her, like it always did. Her mother's lullaby. So she sang. Her small, accented voice was quiet and weak, but it was enough to keep the nightmares at bay, to bring her into the shut-eyed trance that she wanted. Manuela wouldn't feel the sudden vibrations of the earth below her legs and hands, she wouldn't hear the shifting soil and the squelching flesh, and she would not see the long, alien limbs, nearly resembling the stems of a plant, that snaked out of the earth unnaturally, curling and curving to come close to her, touch her face and arms. She didn't feel. She shut herself away, in a world where she was young, her mother was alive, and her father was the man she thought he always would be.
sleep, my love.
What: Father's Day.
Where: Fibonacci Museum, outside by Manuela's little dead garden.
When: Backdated to June 20
Warnings: None other than EXTREME TL;DR
Notes: It's a narrative, but if your character already knows Manuela and would be hanging around the place, feel free to tag if you want.
She wouldn't have known if it hadn't been for the network. Manuela kept no calendar; time was so fluid and flexible in Nautilus that it was nearly irrelevent. She did keep track of the weeks, seven days at a time - sometimes events came up that people would schedule for. That was all. Months, she would pay attention to on occasion, and had a general idea of what time of year it was - for example, it was hard not to know when it was December, thanks to Christmas. As far as she knew, it was June right now in Nautilus, even though it wouldn't have been June in the timeframe she'd left at home.
And it was Father's Day.
Back in her home, that had been a day to be celebrated two months from now - if it really was June like she thought. But it seemed that, in Nautilus, it was today. There had been more than one person clamoring about it in the city, voices that reached her ears through her communicator. Father's Day. It was time for celebration. And Manuela had begun to tremble, shakily placing the device on the plain sheets of her bed, her mental focus easing apart, as if some block obstructing the rusty cogs of her depression had suddenly been removed and everything began turning and spinning and reeling once again.
She was sixteen this year for Father's Day, and for the first time in her life, she had no father to celebrate. Javier Hidalgo was dead. Her father had lost his mind. Been killed.
All of her tears had drained into the river at Mixcoatl seven months ago. Her face was dry as she rose unsteadily to her feet, leaving her room, closing the darkwood door behind her. Where she was going, she wasn't sure - she was hardly concentrating. She knew she wanted to do something. She had to do something. It was the right thing to do to honor him. After all, he was still her father; the only one she'd ever known.
Leon and Krauser had known one side of her father - the side she did not know as well. Javier, the drug lord, ruling the people of rural Amparo discreetly with an iron fist, clutching wads of bills with one hand and grabbing for more with the other. Javier, the smuggler, dealing darkly with ugly men who'd given up humane morality long ago, swapping one set of expensive and lawless items for another as easily as he would blink. Javier, the bioweapons dealer, penning contracts in the language of the human genome, written with the blood of experimental animals, sold for the idealistic promise of utter protection and unending money. The Javier profiled precisely by the United States government with details written in official papers.
Manuela had known a different man. Javier had been the beloved father, so often away on business trips, who would shower her in affection upon his return home, lavishing her with gifts and stories and with his company whenever he possibly could. Javier was the one who took care of her, his weak, shy, sickly daughter, paying whatever cost he had to in order to keep Manuela alive, to make her comfortable and happy, no matter how exorbitant or how bloody that cost was. Javier had been the loving husband, crying along with the five-year-old daughter who clutched at his legs at the 'death' of his wife.
Manuela had loved him. It was the plain truth, and not one she'd denied. Her bare feet touched the earth of the Eastern District as she began to go around the building she now called home.
That was why it was so hard to accept that she no longer did. To accept all the things she had seen in those few days, what she had learned alongside the two Americans who had come to stop her father. That Javier was a murderer and had been for more than ten years - that he was a kidnapper who'd killed so many in cold blood. That Javier had endangered not only the people of the surrounding villages, but the entire continent. That Javier was a psychopath, driven to infection and mutation of everyone around him and even himself by mad love.
Manuela... All of this, I've done for you.
That she had killed him.
She was standing at the edge of the small garden she'd planted with V, staring down at the patch of dirt that had become a mass grave for flowers. The two bizarre plants that still lived sat near opposite corners loomed over the garden like gargoyles, and her eyes lifted to look at them. She thought she knew them now. Did she understand them like she thought she did? She hoped not.
The dead became feathers, butterfly wings, lizard scales, multicolored and reminiscent of home. Manuela, eyes closed, held her bandaged arm over the brown, rotting petals of the fallen flowers, and they were Bended into new things, detached and still deceased. The garden blossomed into color provided by lost limbs and belongings - she wanted it to have color, and if she could only bring death, then so be it. As the last fallen leaf turned into the long lost feather of a tropical bird, Manuela's eyes opened, her attention turning to the thick and lengthy piece of cloth wrapped around her right arm. And that, too, began to unravel, loosening and sliding up her arm, revealing the monstrous and glistening carapace that her skin had become, the jagged plating and uneven, scabby scars, until the cloth came to rest as a clump in the four-digited, clawlike shell that her hand had become. Manuela moved the ugly talons to grasp the white ribbon of her cast. So his daughter was still alive. This was what he had wanted.
"...Happy father's day."
The clawed hand dropped the balled-up cast into the bed of color she'd created, and then dropped down to hold the ground, propping Manuela up. She didn't want to think anymore. And the song came to her, like it always did. Her mother's lullaby. So she sang. Her small, accented voice was quiet and weak, but it was enough to keep the nightmares at bay, to bring her into the shut-eyed trance that she wanted. Manuela wouldn't feel the sudden vibrations of the earth below her legs and hands, she wouldn't hear the shifting soil and the squelching flesh, and she would not see the long, alien limbs, nearly resembling the stems of a plant, that snaked out of the earth unnaturally, curling and curving to come close to her, touch her face and arms. She didn't feel. She shut herself away, in a world where she was young, her mother was alive, and her father was the man she thought he always would be.
sleep, my love.