Maladicta von Borogravia (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
deshabille) wrote2014-11-28 11:09 pm
deshabille) wrote2014-11-28 11:09 pm
twenty-two ☼ spam, BLOO TEAM
[Mal still doesn't understand what Thanksgiving is. She doesn't strictly speaking need to eat, and when she does it, she much prefers rougher fare than what the prizes consist of, such things being what she's used to. And she certainly doesn't know what a laser is.]
[However, she's inexorably drawn to blowing off steam and making a grand fool of herself, so she straps on all the ridiculous trappings of this inexplicable game and sets off into the hallways. She tends to improvise extra armor for herself, made out of scraps of metal, bits of cloth, and such, for maximum visual bafflement but minimal extra protection. By the end of the first day she's died and reset several times and is cheerfully ignoring the fact that she did just recently die not a week ago.]
[Her aim is not as good as one might expect of a soldier, but then, as Bush might scoff, infantry: what's to be done with them. She can be found anywhere, but most particularly holed up by the art room behind an easel, grinning like a loon.]
spam } mira, 11/30
[This is . . . refreshing. Sort of beautiful, actually, in a utilitarian way. The Barge gives her time to grieve, and then it forces her back to her feet. More merciful than a battlefield, more structured than everything that came before. She is pleased. If she were a cat, she'd be purring as she knocks on Mira's door.]
[She has read the file. Of course she has. It fascinates her, the swirling impossibilities twining around her legs, forcing her to believe in them. A world or worlds like these breed different sorts of men and monsters - and then there's Mira, born again. And again. And again.]
[It does not escape Mal's notice that she's approaching a suspect. She's not frightened, though. If anything, it makes the whole prospect more interesting.]
[However, she's inexorably drawn to blowing off steam and making a grand fool of herself, so she straps on all the ridiculous trappings of this inexplicable game and sets off into the hallways. She tends to improvise extra armor for herself, made out of scraps of metal, bits of cloth, and such, for maximum visual bafflement but minimal extra protection. By the end of the first day she's died and reset several times and is cheerfully ignoring the fact that she did just recently die not a week ago.]
[Her aim is not as good as one might expect of a soldier, but then, as Bush might scoff, infantry: what's to be done with them. She can be found anywhere, but most particularly holed up by the art room behind an easel, grinning like a loon.]
spam } mira, 11/30
[This is . . . refreshing. Sort of beautiful, actually, in a utilitarian way. The Barge gives her time to grieve, and then it forces her back to her feet. More merciful than a battlefield, more structured than everything that came before. She is pleased. If she were a cat, she'd be purring as she knocks on Mira's door.]
[She has read the file. Of course she has. It fascinates her, the swirling impossibilities twining around her legs, forcing her to believe in them. A world or worlds like these breed different sorts of men and monsters - and then there's Mira, born again. And again. And again.]
[It does not escape Mal's notice that she's approaching a suspect. She's not frightened, though. If anything, it makes the whole prospect more interesting.]
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[The most demure. u_u But of course Mal will know what all of that means. She puts lemon in her own tea, programs the second cup to Mal's specifications. Memories, after all, are important.]
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[Still. It's odd, to someone like Mal, so invested in people; why avoid them?]
Why?
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I'm supposed to be - charming and impressive but eminently forgettable, delightful enough to get anything and go anywhere I need to but too scintillating to be a real person, just a story about the wonderful sorts of people you meet traveling, an interstellar fairy tale. And I'm very good at that, but I don't like it, and I don't need it, here.
So I don't bother.
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Well, what do you think you're like? If not scintillating and charming. If not a story. Or what do you want to be like, if you'd rather that question, but it seems sort of on the nose, doesn't it? I'm no psychiatrist.
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Professional is the word she thinks first, immediate and unqualified, although she is not entirely sure which of the questions it is the answer to. Professional, she thinks, is the word for a knife that owns itself.
Who is she when she's real, who was she with Darling, who was she with Oscar Vale.]
Reckless. Dangerous. Thorough.
Young.
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[She shifts her weight, a touch uncomfortable at the reminder of her pending immortality.]
Takes a special kind of person to be reckless and thorough all at once. I, for example, am reckless, but very rarely thorough.
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[Does that help? Does that make it more or less odd? She isn't sure. Except that Mal is looking, no matter how roundabout her way of reacting, and Mira wants her to see. Wants to draw herself with clean lines.]
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I see what you mean. It seems very extraordinary, to me.
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I'm not sure those are quite the same thing.
I don't especially want to be unique. I've had enough of that. But I wouldn't like to be ordinary, either.
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[This is actually quite the confession, for Mal.]
You seem remarkably well-disposed to me knowing all of your secrets.
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[People like to share their accomplishments. She is learning to be a person.]
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What's your favorite secret?
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I give good gifts.
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That's a favorite secret that's partially about other people, though. Isn't it?
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...I think that's a secret I will keep.
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Understood. [It sounds like a yes, ma'am, as though she's accepted an order.] You'll have to give me something sometime, to give me a taste of it.
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