miles from shore

dante-carrington​:

[Dante really can’t abide lateness; he just thinks it’s so incredibly rude. It shows a complete disregard for the waiting individual’s time, and in this particular case it shows a complete disregard for everybody; they’ve been forced to take a lot of last minute appointments as people deal with Kaiser’s death, and all the therapists are spread too thin these days. In the time Atlantis spent not being here at her appointment, Dante could have gotten through the better part of an appointment with someone that actually wanted to be here.

Sitting at his desk sending increasingly terse messages to someone so woefully uncommitted to punctuality is not a valuable use of Dante’s time.

And when she eventually turned up, she was obviously disinterested. Dante can tell she’s not listening, to the point that he’s considering interjecting his own words with a rant about how tired he is, just because he knows she won’t notice. But of course, Dante is a professional. He won’t. When he pauses and looks at her expectantly, he’s met with a spiel that might elicit more sympathy if she approached the whole thing with a better attitude. As it is, Dante is beginning to suspect he’ll dread their weekly sessions soon enough.] 

I’m not confident that’s how the law works. If you weren’t here right now, what would you be doing?

[She says she’s jet lagged, but it’s almost lunchtime so he doubts she’d still be sleeping. And beyond that, feeling overwhelmed is the ideal time to be in therapy. He’s not particularly interested in forcing people to be here if they really don’t want to be, but he does expect her to articulate why she’s so keen to get away, beyond the surface level excuses. If she thinks therapy is a scam, or Dante is an uptight asshole, he’d rather hear that than have her just tune out.]

[That’s a solid point. What would she be doing if not here wasting both their time? Taking a nap probably or finding someone to irritate in the halls, all answers she couldn’t disclose to Dante. Not unless she was looking to be reprimanded. She breathes out through her nose before leaning back in her seat. From the look of this man she wasn’t going to get what wanted easily. She might have to play along in order to convince him she wasn’t in dire need of therapy.] It could be, you studied the mind not the law, so I’ll let it slide for now. [When he doesn’t quirk a smile Atlas bites her lower lip.] Right. Sorry. I didn’t mean to be late or anything, this place is just kind of a maze, man.

annie-perrault​:

[Annie isn’t usually one for sneaking out – makes her too anxious, because if she gets caught she’ll get in trouble and Annie hates getting in trouble. But she’d woken up from a nightmare. Not the nightmare, but the loosely strung threads of a different, secondary one that wrapped around her mind like barbed wire.

When she woke it was with a start, bolt upright in bed, and for the thousandth time she experiences the slow realisation that she’s not really awake. It’s so, so tiring. And the fear of that secondary nightmare is still dragging its claws down her back. It makes her feel unsafe, with adrenaline picking at her legs like her body is telling her to run. When Annie is scared she wants to curl up in her bed and hide under the covers. Or she could even get into one of the other girls’ beds and find comfort with them. But Mira looks so still and peaceful; Lissy is curled up on her side with a little frown like her dreams are far too serious to be interrupted; Maisie is sprawled out with a soft, open mouth and she just looks so relaxed.

Annie can’t bother any of them, so she pulls an oversized soft yellow cardigan around her shoulders and tiptoes down the stairs. She doesn’t bother with shoes because they’d only make noise; her socked feet pad silently.

She’s not really going anywhere in particular. There’s just a physical urge in her to move, so she punches out and carefully eases the door open, and immediately comes face to face with someone. Of course.] 

No! [Annie squeaks her response to the question, hot and cold waves of guilt rolling through her belly.] I mean, I’m not, like, here, I’m not… sneaking out or anything.

[It’s a really terrible attempt at a lie, but as Annie’s eyes adjust to the dim light she realises she’s probably not in trouble. She doesn’t know this woman, but she looks to be about Annie’s age, and every bit as uncomfortable too. Probably not a guard come to bust her ass, then.]

[She notices the blonde hair first, so light it’s practically white under the moonlight. The second thing she notices is her aura. Lilac, swathes of purple petals. She’s a burst of pastel color cutting through the black fog. Atlantis is almost certain she heard the darkness hiss as it peeled itself away from the stranger, parting like velvet curtains, before retracting entirely.

Atlantis had always been adaptable, her hallucinations? Not so much. It’s not an entirely pleasant thought to have, considering she thought she had these episodes under control. They weren’t only becoming more frequent since moving here but also evolving with its new environment. The darkness used to only show itself when she was in danger, often close to death but that since has changed. Now it showed if she began to experience fear, sadness, or anger. Not exactly ideal all things considering. She felt like that little girl that would turn into a red panda every time she got overwhelmed. Is that what she was now? A person at the mercy of what she felt?

rosastein​:

tuesday. april 11th,  2163. outside delma house.

[ Rosalind Stein is not unintelligent (no matter what her long-buried chemistry exams might say), though she’s starting to question the legitimacy of such a claim. A woman had directed her up the stairs and to the right, said “that’s where your house is,” and let her loose with her bag and her sketchbook. Still, Rose finds herself sighing in front of the wrong door, with the wrong symbol, in the wrong wing. The logical solution would be to look at the map available to colony members on her PDD. The implementation of this solution is lost somewhere between the fact that semi-regular system updates are keeping the map from loading, and an unhealthy dose of stubbornness that insists she doesn’t need a map anyway.

Rose is so incredibly lucky, she thinks, that she hadn’t been left to her own devices in the wilds of the earth for four and some years. Screw statistics, honestly, but there was at least an 87.69% chance she’d be dead. ]

…It’s a square, Rosalind. You went in a circle, in a square.

[Atlantis, the name of a lost city, suited the willowy girl who stood in the halls squinting at a map—also terribly lost. The difference here was Atlas had functioning legs and a semi-working brain to help her get to where she needed to be but somehow, for whatever reason, she was doomed to a false sense of direction. As a child she would often get lost at grocery stores, parks, beaches, even the farms her grandparents owned. Maybe it was her name that had doomed her to a life of confusion and misdirection. She supposed it didn’t matter much now. She walks up a pair of stairs that don’t look incredibly familiar and comes to a halt near the top of them. DELMA read the sign. She had half a mind to rip the sign off and toss it down the flight of stairs. She even starts walking towards the sign when she hears someone say: ‘It’s a square, Rosalind. You went in a circle in a square.’

To which Atlantis immediately sympathizes with and both recognizes. Rosalind. Wasn’t that the name of—-she catches sight of the small woman around the corner from the stairs, her face pinched in frustration—Ah. That’s definitely the woman that was on the boat with her. They hadn’t spoken during their voyage but Atlantis had noticed Rosalind glancing over at her several times during the trip. It didn’t help put Atlas’s mind at ease at the time but looking at her now, she didn’t seem like the reformist type. She clears her throat so Rosalind sees her coming before stepping into view.]

isha-feinberg​:

[Mind freak? Isha isn’t sure if she likes that at all. Atlas doesn’t look like the usual sort of NWRF person, but ‘mind freak’ is the sort of phraseology they’d use. Her brows twitch downwards, almost imperceptibly – the nice thing about always looking coolly unimpressed is that it’s not generally obvious if something actually annoys Isha.

And it’s only a brief blip in this instance, because when Atlas goes on to explain what a ‘mind freak’ is, she realises it’s a turn of phrase. A brief smile crosses Isha’s face, in a faint, rare act of laughing at herself. She knows she is oversensitive.] 

I see. In England, they had Derren Brown. It sounds like he was perhaps similar. [Isha is a great deal more familiar with English culture than American, due to proximity more than anything else. She was fairly sure it was all fake anyway, with audience plants and so on.

Atlas, the woman says. It is a pretty name. It is also a word the same in English and Danish, and Isha is always fond of those. She’s never been a big laugher, though she does make an exception around Ada, but another fleeting smile picks at the edges of her mouth at the door fighting comment. It’s the same sort of blind obstinacy Isha herself is usually guilty of – she’s been accused of talking like she’s ranting at a brick wall before.] 

I think you were doing admirably against the door, Atlas. I am certain you would have defeated it eventually. [It’s not hugely clear that she’s joking, because Isha rarely jokes so it always sounds a little odd – like familiar lyrics sung to the wrong tune. Nodding at the mineralink on Atlas’ wrist marking her out as a fellow SC3, Isha asks: ] Is that why they put you in the highest security class? You like to fight doors?

Derren Brown. [She repeats the name with some sense of disbelief. American’s and their culture were annoying and 99% overly dramatic but at least they had some flair when choosing stage names.] That’s a bit boring for a magician isn’t it? I mean, not be cruel or anything but Derren sounds a bit like your next door neighbor that waters his lawn wearing nothing but boxers and a tank top. Doesn’t exactly scream magical does it?

[She notices Isha’s smile, as fleeting as it was, and smiles in return. Isha didn’t seem like the type of person that was easily impressed or amused and so causing a positive reaction at all seemed like something of high esteem. Or at least it did before Isha made a comment about her security class. She wanted to go back to talking about her lack of patience with doors or magicians. She reminds herself why she was supposed to keep to herself but sometimes what she wants and what she needs veer in two entirely different directions.]

No, I also have problems with windows and keys. [She wanted it to be light, to roll off her tongue to mimic Isha’s indifference but Atlas has never been the type of person that could easily shield what she thought and felt. She was a bomb, seconds from eruption. She glances at Isha’s wrist, a part of her reassured in doing so since Isha did it first. She wonders for a moment if she should be surprised that she’s also a SC3, she glances at the shards above her head and decides, no, she’s not surprised. She wonders after if she should be worried about being seen fraternizing with someone deemed dangerous and also decides, no, she was not worried. Not yet anyway.]

anayadolmen​:

[Anaya doesn’t think she can ever break out of this habit. She tries her best, she swears, because she doesn’t want to be on the receiving end of all those side-eyes from the Elites in the morning, she can’t keep giving them more reason to believe she’s so mentally unstable, but it’s difficult. When she lays down in her bed, all alone, in a dorm room filled with people she’s still unfamiliar with despite the several weeks she’s spent in the colony… it’s suffocating. She stares at the ceiling, she tosses and turns, she can try anything under the sun and sleep doesn’t come no matter how hard she tries. Her therapist has said codependency isn’t healthy, but isn’t sleep deprivation even worse? At least she can function the next day, when she spends the night with Constantin.

Tonight, she tries her best again, because it is a habit she wants to break. It’s a habit they need to break. Costin is dating other people, was just dating Koda a second ago, it doesn’t look good for him to be constantly sleeping (just sleeping) with his best friend. She doesn’t want to feel like a leech, uninvited and sneaking into someone’s bed only for her own peace of mind without considering other people’s feelings. So she does the same thing as always, she tosses, she turns, she wills sleep into her mind for hours on end until the silence drives her mad enough to sneak out.

It’s not a hard task when the path to Torren’s dorms is familiar by now, and when most guards turn a sympathetic blind eye to the poor codependent astronauts. She can fix this habit another time, she thinks. She tried.

She probably looks like something only half-alive, dragging her tired bone-y structure through the colony, but when a voice catches her, she jumps. Suddenly ten times more awake, her wide eyes find the source of the sound; she’s relieved to see only a girl who looks lost, as opposed to some guard looking for someone to yell at.] Hello. Yes– hi, I’m Anaya, [she speaks past the deafening hammering of her own heart in her ears, and takes a step towards the other so they don’t have to be so loud to hear each other.] Are you alright? [The girl doesn’t look it. Anaya doesn’t suppose she looks much better herself, but still.] I don’t think we’ve met, have we?

.

[She doesn’t recognize the voice that calls out to her and under normal circumstances that could easily be explained by her general status of having just arrived here but these were not normal circumstances. Hearing someone she doesn’t know walk in on her and her hallucinations wasn’t the big relief she thought it would be. There’s just a sinking feeling of unadulterated loneliness as the girl comes into view.

She looks as exhausted as Atlantis feels, a thought she actively keeps to herself. They stand together in the cool London air, moonlight cutting through the fog of black with the ease of an ax chopping butter. Her hands curl in instinctively as Anaya’s face comes into full view. She really did look tired. Even robbed of sleep the girl was beautiful, large hazel eyes peeked out from beneath thick swaths of brown hair, delicate features made all the more delicate by thick prominent brows. All this and none of it stands a chance against the pool of green that floats around her head. It ripples at times, as if someone was dropping things into it, like a stone sinking into a pond.

‘Are you alright?’ She asks, Atlas smiles, a small tattered thing. No, she thinks, I am not. ‘I don’t think we’ve met, have we?’ That seems easier to answer.] No, we haven’t. [She glances towards Torren, the fog receding beneath its metal doors. What made the darkness come this time? Her? The memory of her father? Something to possibly dissect next session with Dante. Okay, so maybe she wasn’t going to mention it to Dante. Maybe just the dream.]

Friday, April 14th, 2163, 11:32 AM

[She’s faintly aware he’s speaking to her, his tone flat and acutely professional as he continues to talk. He’s as gray as the smoke surrounding his head. He doesn’t seem angry, not yet anyways, but there is an air of disappointment hanging over them. Must be a record. She’d come into this office bleary eyed and apparently 30 minutes late. A lot about Atlantis has changed over the years but apparently her sense of direction is as awful as the day she’d been born. Normally, the anxious person she is, she tends to get the lay of the land before appointments so she doesn’t get lost or sidetracked. She can’t stand being late.

Unfortunately for Dante Carrington, these weren’t normal circumstances. Atlantis wasn’t here by choice. She also wasn’t here for the benefit of her mental health or whatever her file is blatantly lying to him about. She’s here because a group of assholes have decided that Atlas’s hallucinations are a harm to herself and those around her. Even if that was true, it seemed more like a her-problem than a them-problem. Sure, she technically killed a man, but that had since been ruled as a case of self-defense. It seemed unfair to hold it against her when she hasn’t had an episode in over a year. The point being, she wasn’t invested in these sessions going well.

She has zero fucking interest in letting this man take apart her trauma and blame it on her daddy issues. She’s aware she’s not the most stable person but she figured as long as she kept to herself things would turn out okay. She’s coming to this conclusion when she notices Dante’s lips have stopped moving. Fuck. What did he say? Did it matter? Probably not. Atlas sits up in her seat before placing her hands on his desk.] Okay, I gotta be honest man, I got none of that. [She barrels through without letting him get a word in.] Before you get mad at me for not paying attention I would like to remind you that tomorrow is my birthday so I think legally you have to be nice to me and secondly—It’s my first week here. I’m not exactly…accustom to London time or whatever.

I’m jet-lagged and generally pretty overwhelmed by all the change I’ve been forced through. Could we maybe do a rain check on this session and start fresh next week? [Or preferably never again?]

bear-little-loss​:

[This is a death he hadn’t predicted. 

And does it feel better? Not having known? Not really. He doesn’t—hadn’t—even known Kaiser—and yet Death finds a way to haunt him like it’s personal, anyway. Whether he knows or doesn’t, whether he’d seen it coming, or not. 

He’s not sure how he feels about the so called mystery behind the Torren’s death. He feels almost as though he’s supposed to feel something—to think something, to have an opinion. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t feel anything because he’s not sure he can compute another conspiracy. 

He’s still not finished computing the that one. Or the one before that. 

Sleep eludes him, which isn’t abnormal. He can basically get up and sign out of his dorm on autopilot by now, and he’s beginning to think maybe the guards don’t question the lies he taps in because they feel sorry for him. They know he’s not going to go anywhere. He’s got nowhere to go. There’s no running from this Infection, and really, it’s the only thing left that scares him.

The courtyard is a nice compromise when it’s not too cold out, because it’s a place to get some fresh air, to look up and see the sky and feel a little less trapped, without his having to go out the front doors. It would raise a lot more questions. Some nights, it’s not even possible. Some nights, they lock them in, even from the grounds. (He hasn’t figured out why that is, why it’s only sometimes, and he hasn’t asked. He also hasn’t told anyone he’s noticed. Figures it’s best not to.)

He doesn’t recognize the voice—and it startles him at first, but only for a second, because he hears her, before he sees her.] 

Yeah, um—[he clears his throat, unnecessarily.]  It’s, um—Orson. [It sounds lame to his ears, because she probably doesn’t know who Orson is. Or maybe she does.] Sorry, hope I didn’t scare you. 

[It’s a bit of trial and error in matching his voice and the direction in which it came from, probably from desperation, but once she sees him there’s only a wave of relief. He’s a beacon in the darkness, a yellow hue of light against the foaming black. The dark recoils around him, receding from the courtyard as if it was tangible enough to be yanked out. She never really knew how to describe what it looked like, what it felt like against her skin, she only ever knew if it wanted to, it would drown her in its darkness. Sometimes she wanted it to, other times, like tonight, she wanted to be saved. ‘I hope I didn’t scare you.’ She would have laughed from the sheer irony of it if she could have trusted the sound wouldn’t come out so strangled.]

I’m the one standing out here in the dark half-asleep. I should be worried if I scared you. [She doesn’t smile, mostly because she feels incapable of it at the moment but she was in fact trying to make light of the situation. Miles would have pointed out she had a dirty habit of using humor to cope with the terror that’s become her life, and as much as she agreed with him, he wasn’t here to correct her for it. She sure as hell wasn’t going to self-correct now.]

Saturday, April 15th, 2163, 3:06AM

[The dream began the way it always does, with Arthur Easte coming home. It begins the way it always does, with Atlantis bounding down the stairs of her childhood home, each step creaking beneath her socked feet. It begins the way it always does, with Arthur Easte standing in a pool of his own blood.

His head is intact, his head is broken into a million pieces on the floor, his head is intact. His arms are outstretched towards Atlantis, his hands are empty, his hands hold her birthday cake—sage green frosting with 15 white candles brightly lit. “Make a wish, Lany.” She stares at the candles, watching the wax melt onto the frosting in thick white drops. Atlantis shakes her head, knowing full well her wishes never come true. “Lany.” She takes a step towards her father, her white socks staining red as she walks into the pool of blood. Arthur smiles as he holds the cake in his left hand, his right hand coming around to rest on her waist. Something ugly like anger twists in her chest. “Make a wish, Lany. It’s almost over, I promise.” She looks up at her father, streaks of blood spill from the top of his head, cracks slowly spread over his face like glass. Grief overcomes her, painting the room blue with her sadness. Atlantis shuts her eyes, leans forward and makes her wish.

Please be alive when I wake up.

She wakes in the middle of the courtyard, or at least she’s pretty sure it’s the courtyard. It’s been awhile since she last sleptwalked, but her birthday had a way of making the habit resurface. Her mind is still foggy from lack of rest, it struggles to take in any information presented to her, much less process what her father told her. She’s lost in her dream, lost in the memory of her father’s arms wrapped tight around her. She feels as if someone has taken an ice cream scoop to her chest and carved out what little was left of her and her soul.

Atlas places a hand over her chest, fingers curling over the soft fabric of her sweater. Her heart hammers beneath her hand, violent and wild as it always has. She lets out a shaky sigh, whether from relief or disappointment remains unclear. She’s standing under the moonlight like a wraith, gently swaying back and forth trying to self-soothe when she notices the courtyard growing darker. Atlas glances towards Torren Tower and frowns as a familiar black fog unfurls from beneath it’s doors. The darkness rolls down the halls before spilling into the courtyard, a flash flood of inky black water and with it the scent of rotting fruit.

If Miles were here, he’d tell her it wasn’t real. But he wasn’t here to reassure her, he was gone, buried six feet under in a country she will never set foot in again. Her vision blurs with fat tears as the black ink inches closer to the toes of her sneakers. Every step back feels like she’s trudging against cement, each step rattles the floor beneath her. It’s too much energy to spend on a life she isn’t certain is worth fighting for. She’s just so fucking tired. She glances up towards the moon, her light casting over Atlas like a desperate saint calling out for one last miracle.

And maybe she gets it. A door creaks open, although from which dormitory is unclear. The black fog consumes sound and light and all sense of reality with it. She shudders as the ink stains her sneakers, like a snake made entirely of liquid.] Hello? Is someone there?

wren--phillips​:

I know the feeling. {Wren smiles after closing the door and crossing the room to the small kettle he keeps in the corner, two mugs with teabags already ready and waiting. He fills only one of them with boiling water, but leaves the second out and visible in case she changes her mind.} I couldn’t imagine my life without coffee when I was in my early twenties. I must’ve gone through at least three cups a day. But I find tea is far less aggressive while more or less doing the same job. It doesn’t pack quite the same kick but it’s more sustainable.

{He takes his time stirring some sugar into the tea before taking a seat behind his desk, smile still present as he listens to her speak. It’s clear she’s a little nervous, and the thought of him potentially shifting her off onto someone else does give him pause, but he doesn’t interrupt until she’s finished. It’s not the first time Wren has had patients come in and treat the session more like a business transaction than an informal chat, so he’s well prepared to nip that in the bud.}

That’s not really how I like to work. As far as I’m concerned, I don’t know anything apart from your name and your age. What’s written on these pages here doesn’t define you, so me reading a list of symptoms and diagnoses isn’t going to help either of us. In fact, I’d like you to pretend that I don’t have these files at all.

{Wrapping his hand around the mug Wren takes a moment to sip at the drink. He’s aware that not everyone enjoys going through the usual lists and facts of their life and has found that, given a little more leeway, most people give up more information if they’re not pressed for it. Therapy isn’t meant to be an hour of the patient answering rigid questions. It’s about giving vulnerable people the time and space to figure out where they need help and support.}

What do you think I need to know about you? It doesn’t have to be family history or information from past doctors or any such stuff. Just tell me what you’d like me to know. Things like… Your favourite colour. Or the nicest place you’ve ever visited. Anything at all. There’s no such thing as irrelevant information.

[This conversation was veering dangerously close to small talk. The exact type of conversation Atlantis tended to avoid on a regular basis much less with her therapist. She’s always been the type of person that jumped in headfirst, no hesitation. She knew enough about psychology to blame it on her father’s insistent desire to keep life interesting but she wasn’t about to just hand that information over to Wren. Cute or not.

Atlas leans back in her chair, loosening her limbs to get comfortable. She was going to be here an hour, she might as well make herself at home.] Fine, if that’s how you want to play it. But I’m only telling you the juicy bits. I don’t want to talk about my favorite color or other mundane information you don’t actually need. We’re not friends.

[It came out harsher than she meant it to but the truth was, Atlantis needed to make this distinction more for herself than for Wren. She had a bad habit of crossing boundaries with people of authority, whether it be violent, sexual or an unhealthy amount of idolization. Wren’s golden light, dusty and full of orange bronze was a clear indication that she’s already headed in that direction. It’s funny really. The way she can so clearly see what she’s doing and still be unable to stop herself from committing the same mistake again and again.]

draco--pavlovic​:

{She doesn’t immediately scamper off at his slightly abrasive tone which he appreciates, even if it’s a little painful having someone laugh into his ear. It’s bad enough that the common room is packed full when all he’d like is peace and fucking quiet.}

You must get used to. I always say what I want, it saves time. You should try. {The girl’s smile is bright and infectious and he can’t help but mirror it, head inclined slightly as he takes in her appearance; she looks thin and tired, despite the cheery demeanour. Must be a newcomer.} And my name is Draco. Is better sounding than stranger.

{When she asks for the sunglasses, Draco’s grin twists into a grimace.} We make deal. You get water and I give sunglasses when sun and light do not feel like they are stabbing me in eyeballs.

Who says I don’t? Some of us just know how to toe the line of decorum better than other’s. [She throws him a pointed look but it’s softened by the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She’s watching him as his name rolls off his tongue, the edges of his aura start to crackle with bits of molten orange. It reminded her a bit of those videos of candy makers dying pools of sugar into striking shades of orange and red. Miles and Atlas used to spend hours on the couch watching video after video of people pulling at strands of drying sugar. The thought of him, his head pressed firmly against her chest, arms wrapped tight around her waist sobered her for a moment.

When was the last time someone held her with such tenderness? Such clear and absolute adoration? She doesn’t need to see her reflection to know the stars around her head have gone out. Burnt out just like the rest of her.

She’s staring at her hands when Draco agrees to her request. His glasses for some water. She’s almost grateful for being given such a mindless task.] I would tell you not to move but something tells me that won’t be an issue for you. [She pats him on the knee before getting up from the couch. If the kitchen wasn’t so close she might have been worried about getting lost, especially after yesterday’s fiasco. Thankfully she’s able to find the small make-shift kitchen without much fuss.

It does however take her a couple of tries to find the cupboard that holds all the cups and mugs. With each wrong door she slams it shut with more force than necessary. She hopes Draco suffers with each slam. When she finds the right cupboard she pulls out a single cup, the words ‘BEST STEP-MOM’ are written across the glass in the gaudiest pink cursive she’s ever seen. It’s perfect. Atlas fills the glass with tap water before making her way back to Draco. She hands him the cup and takes her rightful seat back on the couch. There’s a deliriously satisfied look plastered on her face.]

How long do you think it will take for the sun and light to stop stabbing you in the eyeballs? An hour? Two? [She likes the disgruntled look on his face. She wished cameras were still a thing.] Maybe three?

isha-feinberg​:

[Atlas seems a little perturbed by Isha’s use of her Infection – well, she seems a little perturbed full stop, but there’s a definite shift in her expression as the image blooms in her mind. It bothers Isha when people don’t like her using her Infection, but at the same time she does like to be mindful of people’s boundaries. She’ll just ask what Atlas’ deal is, in a bit.

In moments like these, Isha finds herself wishing she knew better how to offer comfort. She never even knows where to begin; can only continue being cold and blunt. Nobody ever offered her comfort, so she never learned how. The comfort she knows now is Ada ranting about what a cunt she thinks someone is if they’ve wronged Isha – and to be fair, that helps. But right now there’s nobody to insult or be angry at, so she just nods instead.

Atlas gestures to the bags in Isha’s hands, and she considers not giving one over, but that would be insulting. This woman is upset, not useless. She can carry a damn bag. So, Isha hands one over and sets off down the corridor ahead of Atlas.] 

Who is Criss Angel? [Isha was never exposed to a great deal of American media, and consequently she can’t tell if she’s being insulted or not. It’s not the most pressing thing she wants to ask this woman, but it’s the most neutral question that occurs. Isha’s got no idea how to calm her down, but she can at least try not to make things worse.] 

[She’s relieved when Isha hands a bag over to her. It was embarrassing enough to have lost her shit in front of her, the last thing she wanted was for her to think Atlas was more inept than she actually was. Atlantis at one point had been a perfectly capable being, she just sort of lost that capability as her drug of choice began to burn off a large portion of her brain cells. Information takes longer to sink in and her heart takes less time to crack and come apart. Thick as ice and just as easy to break.

Bag in hand she follows after Isha, already struggling to keep up with the girl’s lengthy strides. She doesn’t think she’s purposely walking faster, she’s clearly just taller than her. Still, Atlas has to pick up her pace slightly to remain side-by-side with Isha.] You don’t know who Criss Angel is? He’s ya know…[She motions towards Isha’s head with a claw-like hand, dramatic and much too fast.] Mind Freak? [When Isha meets Atlantis with a blank stare she drops her hand.] Right. European culture is…different. [She clears her throat before tightening her grip on the laundry bag.]

He’s just some magician who was famous for tricking you into thinking what he wanted you to think. I mean, it was a bit more complicated than that I think but—you get my point. [Atlas bites her lower lip to keep herself from rambling on about some dead magician.] Sorry. It’s probably not the best comparison I could have given. [She glances at Isha, her cheeks turning red.]

who-is-jr​:

[[ The map breaks apart. Of course it does. What were they expecting? He has the same integrity as fucking paper in the rain, he thinks. The stranger says he has nothing to apologise for. He won’t argue. Can’t argue, actually. His breath is still catching, his face still wet. First impressions aren’t his forte. Or second impressions for that matter. Or third—]]

Not really. [[ He shakes his head, looking at the stranger. Shit time to arrive, he thinks. He didn’t exactly arrive at a good time, either. ]] He was in my dorm, though. It’s—don’t worry. Don’t worry. [[ It’s almost said more for himself than the stranger: and it works. A little. Maybe if he repeats it enough he’ll believe himself.

JR doesn’t catch her gaze. Not for a few moments where his chest feels tight and his stomach twists. Blood and salt water is a sickly combination. Pushing himself off the wall, looking back with disdain at the wet patch he’s left behind him, on the ground.

There’s another apology on his tongue. He swallows it down like blood in his mouth. ]] You’re new. [[ He doesn’t need to ask, he isn’t talkative, but he’s starting to actually take note of the faces around him. ]] I’m JR. [[ A curt introduction, his hands kept to himself. ]]

[‘Don’t worry.’ Atlas isn’t entirely convinced. There’s a chance he could be panicked about something else entirely, the end of the world had a nasty way of traumatizing people, but he did mention the person lived in his dorm. A man apparently. She wondered if it had been an ugly death. She shouldn’t have, but she was always terribly morbid long before the asteroids fell, this part of her has yet to evolve. She wants to ask about him, the man who died but she finds herself unable to make the proper sounds that make consonants and vowels become nouns and verbs.

Instead she stands still and thinks about the guard without meaning to. A small flash of blood leaking out of a throat, a wash of red paint that comes and goes in an instant. A splatter of human life that will never scrub away. Atlas swallows, saliva thick in her throat. Like she thought earlier, the end of the world had a way of traumatizing people, Atlas included. She presses her back against the wall, let’s the cold seep through her wet clothes and spine. She shivers without meaning to.

When the strange pushes himself off the wall she follows him with her eyes but not in step. He had a scar that swept across his otherwise unblemished face, one that Atlas guessed had been pretty deep at one point. She wondered what it would feel like to run her fingers over the raised skin. She pries her gaze from his face and instead settles them on a dark point down the hall. When he more or less introduces himself, Atlas gives a curt nod in response.] Atlas. 

[She glances back at him, tries to keep her eyes on his and nothing else. It’s a hard thing to do when there’s an ocean roaring around his head. He’s like an astronaut or an early sea-diver.] Does JR stand for Junior or a first and middle name? [She doesn’t know why she even asked that. Atlas hates small talk. Especially when she was going through an episode. It was easier to discuss heavier topics than the weather or how shitty her work week had been. Small talk was a waste of space, a fucking waste of time. She pulls a face without meaning to.]

roy--walters​:

[It’s strange how she looks at him. Almost like she’s looking around him. He knows he makes people uncomfortable, but usually it takes them knowing a little bit more about him for them to be visibly upset by his presence. 

His brow scrunches a bit as he watches her walk past him. She’d rather ask a Reformist? He can’t imagine that that’d be better for her or her pride. Had he done something to upset her? I mean, he upsets a lot of people, and if more people knew what he could do, he imagines almost everyone would hate him.] I think they’re busy, [he says, walking in the same direction as her. Not following her, not on purpose. His only other option is to go back out into the rain, and he doesn’t want to do that.] I think they’re probably preoccupied making sure nobody starts a riot.

[She seems more visibly uncomfortable around him the longer he stays around. He shoves his hands into his pockets, not sure what he could do to fix that. He could leave her alone. That would fix it. He stops walking, standing off to the side of the hall, deciding to let her finish walking through it and get wherever she needed to before he went anywhere. She was already having a shitty day, it seemed, and there was a part of him that felt bad for making it worse.]

There’s an elite office down the hall to the left of here that’s usually pretty empty. [he calls after her, leaning against the wall.] I’m pretty sure they just have maps sitting in one of those, like, brochure holders near the door. So even if there is someone in there, you won’t have to talk to them. [Roy nods toward the hall in the direction of the office. He only knew that because when he was still getting his bearings when he arrived. Well, when he was allowed to walk around by himself and he was no longer in the infirmary.] Good luck getting around. It gets easier. Eventually. 

[They walk in pace together, her steps heavy, his light. The hall seems longer than it had before, the walls closing in. She can almost hear Miles now, humor rounding his syllables. Calm down, he’s just a kid, Lany. What? You think he’s going to eat you in a single bite? She wanted to laugh it off, to pretend her breakdown was the only thing stopping her from being friendly. Atlantis isn’t capable of such rational thought without Miles guiding her to it first. It feels impossible, not for the first time that week, to exist without him.

Her grief swarms her thoughts like hornets, relentless in its pursuit to cause her harm. She feels so heavy, so full of lead and concrete. Atlas so badly wants to lay down on the floor, press her cheek against the cool tile and let the universe crush her body into dust. It would be so easy, so simple, to just quit. She’s fully lost in her train of thought, she barely notices the boy is no longer by her side. He’s an echo in the hall, miles away from being audible until a single word slices through the fog and misery; riot. She misses the rest of what he says, his sentences scrambling around her like white noise on a television. She stops in her tracks, one second passes, two, before she turns back towards the boy.] Why would there be a riot? [The silver shifts around him like crushed metal. He looks visibly uncomfortable by her question. Good.]