and i eat men like air

bodelevy-lindqvist​:

[Isha makes a solid point. As impressive as Kaiser was being made out to be by the crowd around them, the truth was he was never going to be enough to take down the NWRF. If any change was truly to be made it would take a larger undertaking by strong minded individuals. It wasn’t about a single violent strike, as sweet and kindred it seemed to Bode, it would need a delicate hand. Call it arrogance if you want but Bode felt he should be on the frontlines of those plans.

At least between the NWRF and the radicals he had a better grasp of reality.

Bode meets Isha’s curious gaze, her tone remaining as monotone as ever. ‘Have you ever drawn blood?’ A question like that should have held some kind of inflection but this was Isha. A woman made of ice and quiet brutality. This could go one of three ways. Bode could either make a joke and change the conversation, he could outright lie to her or he could choose to be honest. He didn’t know Isha very well nor would he claim to, he’s only met her once before today but he felt a strange kind of kinship with her. There was something about her veracity and open resistance to the space around her that made him willing to trust her.] Not on purpose.

[He didn’t bother trying to make himself out to be the kind of man that could kill without remorse. The truth was, Bode would kill to protect his brother if it came to that, and although he enjoyed the sight of blood on his first four knuckles, he wasn’t particularly inclined towards murder. Peter’s eyes, devoid of life and color, still haunted his dreams.] The goal isn’t eradication. [Bode quirks a brow at Isha, forcing himself to not glance at her wrists and arms.] And you, Miss Feinberg? What have those hands of yours done before they found themselves here?

[Not on purpose. It’s hardly elaborate, but Isha hadn’t really been looking for elaborate. She’s not as bloodthirsty as people might imagine her to be. The sticky slip of blood on her hands isn’t pleasure or enjoyment; just catharsis. It’s no more pleasurable than salt on a wound. Good for you, cleansing, but not fun. Necessary evil.

But Isha never felt guilty, and she thinks Bode must. Even if whatever spot on his palm is an accident, if he were at all proud he’d talk himself up and brag about it. ‘Not on purpose’ is rueful, full of regret. Must be nice, to hurt someone and feel your humanity push back.

Of course he turns the question back to her. His phrasing is distasteful. What have your hands done? Something about his word choice reminds her of the vulgar things men would say, asking what her mouth was good for. She scowls at him, but doesn’t think he’d really meant anything by it. Isha will admit she can be oversensitive to things like that.]

Murder. [She says it simply, with a shrug. While Isha doesn’t think what she did was admirable, she can’t stand the sort of person that behaves so mysteriously and won’t say anything directly. Bode is an Elite: if he wanted to find out, he could, so there’s little point being evasive.] It feels better when you do it deliberately.

[suicide tw]

I am not being dramatic, but if I had to be intimate with any Reformist I would prefer to kill myself.

Artemis. She had a bow and protected innocent young girls. If I could just go and live in the forest with some girls and never bother with men, I would be very happy.

I am cold, untrusting, unforgiving. D-Day didn’t change that.

The most trustworthy, probably Orson. I have not spoken with him properly, but he cannot touch people, and that makes him comfortable to be around. He also seems genuinely gentle. The least trustworthy, probably that little French guard. He is very erratic; that makes him feel dangerous. I dislike unpredictability. @bear-little-loss / @diederick-dmornay

alexander-donovan​:

[It occurs to him, perhaps a little too late, that she’s talking about more than the rehabilitation of the average person; she’s talking about herself. And there’s a certain… reflective humility in it that surprises him, because in truth, though he’d not developed too much of an opinion on her yet, he’d also not necessarily anticipated her capable of this kind of mindfulness. Is it remorse, she’s feeling? Regret? Or is it simply fear? Not knowing the kind of person she wants to be, but not wanting to look down a path that promises no choice. No hope.

He’s quiet a moment. Nods. He wants to choose his words carefully—this is a conversation that affects her much more deeply than it does him. What she thinks on a subject like this, is in fact, much more important.]

Well, you’re right. Hopelessness helps no one and nothing. The absolute only way progress of any kind is made, is because someone believed it possible enough to be worth pursuing. We’d have nothing, if we didn’t have hope. 

[A pause. He sets down his cup with the quiet knock of ceramic on wood.] And for what it’s worth, everybody’s damaged. It’s just… context and condition and circumstance that separates us. But don’t think I look down on the quote, unquote, damaged. [He uses air quotes rarely, but sometimes, like now, they feel necessary, even as he feels silly using them.] Because we’re all broken in one way or another. That’s practically the human condition in a nutshell. Just… figuring out how we want to navigate our shortcomings. 

[She regards him with perhaps a little less hostility than her usual glare. It’s still not a kind or welcoming look, but she’s visibly considering. Mostly the fact that he admits, by implication, to being damaged himself. Isha can’t help it, she’s alert to weakness like a moth to flame. Not because she wants to take advantage or hurt people, but because it fascinates her.

There’s always a necrotic feeling in her, like there’s a rotten, dead part of her body that can’t be cut out. She knows other people, some people, must feel like that too, and she wonders why she can never smell the stench of it. Alex doesn’t seem rotten at all, or damaged; he’s about the most well adjusted person here, on the surface. Isha has never trusted that about him, but he does play the part very well. You’d never know he lived through the trauma of D-Day.

For a brief moment she looks away, when he sketches air quotes. The sight of his hands makes her feel nauseated, still, with their broad palms and easy confidence. She isn’t sure why she keeps responding like that to his hands; they just make her uneasy. But once he puts them down, she returns her gaze and continues studying him. The look in her eyes is somewhere between suspicious and openly curious. She’s been like that for as long as she can remember, equal parts feral and perfectly polished with poise. It’s difficult to say which is the true part of her.] 

charlie-freakin-essex​:

Uh, [[ Charlie begins eloquently, pausing even if he keeps his arms and head under the sink — not hiding from her, not really, but masking his thought process. ]] No offense, but I’m not really trying to impress anyone.

[[ Not entirely true. He always wanted to impress Ricky. Andee and Cambie, at other points. Mira, probably. But beyond that and as far as Isha was concerned, Charlie absolutely didn’t care what most of the NPCs thought of him. He wasn’t sure if he didn’t care because he chose a Reformist position that made him difficult to like, so it was tough to take personally, or if he chose the Reformist position to begin with because he didn’t care. Chicken and the egg kind of situation.

It wasn’t that he enjoyed being disliked, but it presented a challenge, and Charlie does like challenges. Getting Isha to like him is obviously going to be a challenge. ]]

[He says no offence, and she’s not offended, but she is... bothered. She’s confused. Charlie’s behaviour actually makes her more uncomfortable than sleazy flirting. She believes him when he says he’s not trying to impress anyone, but the fact that he is being so unforthcoming about the reason behind his sort-of-lie sets her on edge. It doesn’t help that he is hiding under the sink.] 

atlantis-easte​:

[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.]

I’m Atlas by the way. I would have mentioned that earlier but as you saw, I was busy fighting a door. [And losing.]

[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.] 

@rosastein​​:

isha-feinberg​:

when: wednesday 12th april 2163 where: a corridor, by a supply cupboard who: open!

[So many black clothes. Isha doesn’t like cleaning them as much; white clothes are easy because you can bleach them. Dark clothes show every little hair and bit of fluff, and she’s spent the better part of the last hour with a lint scraper trying to clean up everyone’s funeral clothes. When she gets send off to get some more laundry detergent, she suspects it’s because she keeps sighing so fretfully while everyone else is chatting and trying to establish some sort of normality after Kaiser’s death.

Isha is fine with that, gliding down the corridor and slipping into the nearest supply cupboard. She has to stand on the lowest shelf to reach the detergent, which is far back on the highest shelf, and while she does so the door swings shut behind her.

It’s very dark, all of a sudden. Isha always needs to know where the nearest exit is, and she fares poorly when she’s trapped somewhere like this. Her PDD does nothing to open the door, but it won’t bend to brute force either; why doesn’t she know how the bloody doors work? Is it a mechanical error? A computer thing? Someone in the tech department is playing a joke on her? The light of her PDD is painfully bright as she types out an indignant message to the first IT person she can think of, that Paxton person, to say that she’s stuck.

In the meantime, she’ll try slow deep breaths like they always tout in therapy. It’s only when she hears someone coming along the corridor outside that she slams her palm against the door.]

Excuse me? Hello? [She manages to sound rather annoyed for a woman hoping to get some help. She doesn’t want to admit to the pounding in her chest or the strangling feeling in her throat. She just wants to get out of this stupid damn cupboard.] 

[ The week had gotten off to an unusual start, which isn’t so much a complaint as an observation: she’d moved house, more or less, and a man died. Or was murdered. From what Rose can sus out, there doesn’t seem to be a general consensus among the masses. Just a thick air of mixed sadness and apprehension, with a dash of suspicion to taste. She doesn’t know what to think about it all herself, doesn’t know enough about the place to discern whether murder is something anyone here is capable of. Unfortunately, that doesn’t make it any less terrifying to be shaken from ones thought by a loud noise. Nor does it make it any less likely to scream at the aforementioned loud noise. ]

…What the sh-!  [ She shoots a fist out and raps on the nearest wall, all strength and not even a pretense of technique. Some might call it an offensive reflex. Rose would call it an offended reflex. (The trainers back in Sixteen would call it a stupid reflex.) Regardless, her heart is pounding, and now her hand hurts. ] Fuck! [ Tight-lipped and high pitched. As she clutches throbbing thing to her stomach, Rose looks around belatedly in search of the source of what spooked her. The rattling of a nearby supply closet seems to be the most likely offender. Frowning, she approaches. Slowly presses her ear against the frigid surface of the door. ]

God, what… are you trying to kill someone else? Hello?! [ Only once she’s yelled at what looks like no one does it occur to her how unhinged this must look. The subsequent tapping of her PDD a bid to feel less embarrassed about the whole thing  – she’s certain some security camera caught her physically and verbally assaulting colony infrastructure. Admirable second day behavior. But once the door opens, and whoever is inside can explain themselves, it’ll be fine.

Naturally, nothing happens.

Typical. ]

…Yeah, mkay. Sure. 

[Isha is not easily startled, but the sudden heavy thwack that resonates through the wall makes her jump. Thank goodness nobody can see her. As it is, she startles and takes a step back, hand jumping to her sternum and pressing against it as if to coax her heart into a slower pace. She wouldn’t be so damn jumpy if she wasn’t stuck in this absurd little cupboard.

She knows she’ll get out sooner or later, particularly now somebody knows she’s in here, but she’d just really rather it was sooner and not later. It’s dark and cramped and the smell of cleaning products is pressing against Isha’s head. The person outside seems to be just as upset as Isha, and that makes her feel a little better. It’s probably not precisely what they mean when they say a trouble shared is a trouble halved, but Isha likes not being the only on in distress.

Perhaps, Isha thinks with a private sense of amusement, this person had thought she was a ghost. Isha doesn’t believe in such things, but if she were the sort of person to hold those beliefs then this draughty old school building on this breezy little island would be a likely candidate for a haunting.

It’s difficult to hear through the door but she thinks she can make out the sound of whoever is out there trying to open it, unsuccessfully. Of course. The tip of Isha’s thumb makes its way unconsciously between her lips so that she can chew on the nail, which is a habit she trained herself out of long ago.]

bodelevy-lindqvist​:

[The image of splatter—bright red and heavy unfurls in his mind, they fly through the air before falling into a puddle on the floor. It a was shocking thing to see but Bode was raised by violence and in this case, he didn’t hold much love for either parties.

A thrill ran through him, up his spine and around the nape of his neck.

A telepath. One that used their power freely, without permission or forgiveness. He would have been angry if he wasn’t so throughly charmed by the Danish girl. His eyes shine with something close to kinship as he turned his attention back to Isha.] Miss Feinberg. [He smiles like a snake, not at her or her answer but the way she so easily dismisses Clove and the reformist guard.] I think you’re absolutely correct. Clove seems easy enough to disarm. I heard Cambie beat the shit out of him during one of their training session. Not that I think I would fair any better than he did but I’m also smart enough to not go up against a woman like that. Dancer’s have more stamina than people give them credit for.

[He would know. He’s slept with a large portion of them. He also wanted to be a ballet dancer once upon a time, had even begun taking classes as a child before his father found out and quickly put an end to them. If he thought about it hard enough he could still feel the burning of his father’s hand on his wrist. He’d been so frail once. One twist and his bones would have snapped in half. Bode swallows, drops the memory and swims his way back to Isha and the topic at hand.] As for the reformist? I think he’s more likely to pull a gun than throw a punch.

[He smiles slightly.] The chancellor it is. [Bode conjures the image of Kaiser, then thinks better of it and transforms him into a great big wolf. He let’s the wolf run through Isha’s mind, his feet leaving deep imprints on the ground as it runs through the halls of Colony 22. It rams through the Chancellor’s office and pushes itself over Quinn’s desk. He bares his teeth sinking into Quinn’s throat—the only sound is the chancellor’s wet desperate gasps. Blood floats up his throat and spills down his cheeks. He’s just a stain now, a dead animal in the teeth of its victor. It’s a pleasant image, Bode thinks, to see the man quiet.] Such a shame Kaiser died before he could get his hands on them. Isn’t it?

[Something in the way he says her name -- Miss Feinberg -- and the smile that slithers across his mouth makes Isha shift. It’s not an easily identified feeling. Disgust? Not precisely. There is something predatory about Bode though, and not in the obvious way she had seen in Kaiser. It’s subtler in Bode; like an ambush predator hiding in shadows, only Isha isn’t sure if she’s the prey.

She’s used to feeling like prey, or at the very least like a wolf in sheep’s clothing that knows how to play at being helpless prey. It’s why she’ll always strike first. But she’s not sure if Bode is giving her a reason to. He makes her deeply uncomfortable but she doesn’t necessarily want it to stop.

That in itself makes Isha want it to stop. She likes the little game they are playing, the blood in Bode’s mind, the wolf in her own, and her instinct is to play along a little more, coming up with some other disturbing imagery to show him. But, Isha is prone to resisting many of her instincts, so she doesn’t. Bode would probably like to play that game, too, and her interest in depriving him of that overpowers her own enjoyment.

The smile that crosses her face is fawn-foot fleet, the briefest dance across ice before it freezes over again. Her gaze is fixed coolly on a little cluster of Reformists -- they always stick together like cockroaches, like a rat king -- and she shrugs at the idea of Kaiser getting his hands on any of them.] 

He could have if he wanted to. But what is the point? If you take the life of one of them, another will just slither into their place. And in this matter, the bigger picture is more important than fleeting personal satisfaction. [Her gaze cuts back to Bode, curious:] Have you ever drawn blood?

call-corbin​:

[She looks away and Corbin looks at her. Not that he’d admit it to her, but it’s actually intimidating looking her in the eye. Observing her face when she’s observing you. Whether it’s due to the sharpness in her gaze and that icy veneer that makes her so hard to read, or because looking at her always feels like a risk of getting called out for something, like she’s someone who doesn’t want to be looked at and is scrutinizing you the entire time, waiting for you to do something on which she can castigate you. 

But either way, it feels like looking at her to try to figure her out, is a thing he has to do without her noticing, while she’s otherwise distracted and can’t fix him with a glare that’s somehow bored and threatening at the same time.

Her reassurance that she’d be loyal—even to him, someone she doesn’t particularly like, as far as he’s aware—no, as far as she’s made pretty clear, in fact—is maybe a bit over the top, but it’s also believable. And it’s not just because she says it with conviction, but because of the little he knows about Isha, one thing he can believe is that she would do just about anything to stand for what she believed in. After all, isn’t that the whole reason she’d been in prison before D-Day at all? Because she’d been standing up for what she believed in, no matter the consequences? 

Not that her allegedly being a mass murderer makes her particularly trust worthy, but she’s not really done anything like that since being at Colony 22, and it’s not like it was before, where ‘pillars of the community’ could be fooling everybody and leading doubles lives and secretly taking out people who would go unmissed by morning, because Col 22 is a small place and there are only so many people left. People would notice if even one person went missing. Besides, a part of him doesn’t believe her supposed backstory. It could be a bunch of over exaggerated rumours. And it’s not like he’s ever asked her himself. He’s not convinced she’d tell him the truth, anyway. 

After a moment of considering her words, looking her in the eye this time, he nods.] Right. Well… I gotta talk to a couple people first—just ‘cause I’d be a hypocrite if I brought someone in on this without talkin’ to, er, other founding parties, basically. But… [he glances at her again. He knows he shouldn’t be jumping the gun on this, but he’s also sort of worried about her losing interest, somehow. How ‘hard to get’ can he play, when they’re desperate for a telepath that’d be interested in helping with this anyway, and they sort of slipped back to square one when Koda left? Sure Corbin could try to convince JR… but much as he likes the bloke, he’s not sure JR is the person to get involved in something like this. It seems like a stretch, especially given they don’t know each other too well yet.

So he caves, and decides to reward her straight forward approach by giving her a bit more to chew on before calling it a day. ] But basically some people might be lookin’ to, er, kick the NWRF where it’ll hurt, without ever havin’ to get their boots dirty, know what I mean? [ ‘Some people,’ as in these elusive other somebodies that aren’t him, because even if Isha knows otherwise, he can go down saying he never admitted to anything. At least for now.] Like, we’re talkin’… literally without ever havin’ to kick, ‘cause people like us, we got… somethin’ up our sleeves that lets us… wreak havoc withour ever havin’ to touch nuthin’, if ya see what I’m sayin’. And these people are thinkin’… why not use these skills to their advantage, yeah? So.. that’s part of why a Telepath would come in handy. Excellent communicators those rascals, ain’t they? 

[He smirks.] 

[He can play harder to get than he thinks, when it comes to this particular topic. While Isha would never like to describe herself as desperate, she is certainly... eager to do something. It’s becoming increasingly apparent that she can’t achieve much on her own, not in a community as enclosed as a Colony. And Ada, dear as she is to Isha, is not a master of subtlety. The two of them talk a lot and laugh about the sort of chaos they could instigate, but when it comes to making a difference in a meaningful way, she’s not sure Ada could keep a secret.

Then again, maybe her nature is too distrusting. She wouldn’t think Corbin knew how to keep his mouth shut either, but he explains that he’d need to check with other involved people before clueing Isha in on any real details. Grudgingly, she respects that. Corbin has a loud mouth but he knows when to shut it. Well, sometimes. She also thinks he should shut it when it comes to bragging about what a desirable lothario he is. There’s little more distasteful to Isha than people that feel the need to shoehorn sex into every conversation.

While nobody could accuse the man of subtlety, he does manage to give very few details away as he expands on what he’s planning. Isha isn’t sure what he means by kicking the NWRF where it hurts, because she isn’t sure where in particular might hurt them. Whatever people think of her, she’s not an evil genius or a master manipulator. She got away with so many murders through a combination of luck, and perverts being very simple. That, and being mindful of tide times and currents when she disposed of the bodies.

But when it comes to standing up to a well organised, global group like the NWRF? That’s a little harder, and Isha is slowly accepting that she’ll need help. She does understand a little better what he’s saying about Telepaths. In an uprising, even a lowkey one, being able to communicate privately without risk of being overheard or intercepted is absolutely invaluable.] 

Okay. [She nods. He’s smirking; Isha’s expression remains neutral. She’s fundamentally opposed to smiling at men that smile at her. She works very hard to ensure people don’t accidentally think she likes them, although it occurs to her she shouldn’t try that hard with Corbin. She’s not the only telepath in the Colony by any stretch, so in that way she needs him more than he needs her. That thought makes her feel a little queasy, and she takes a sharp inhale of the fresh, sea salt air.] That was very vague. Thank you.

[The ‘thank you’ isn’t as sarcastic as it might sound. She really is pleased to know that Corbin is capable of being vague if necessary.] If these other parties object to my involvement, will you give me the chance to explain myself to them? I can tell it to you, and you pass on the message, if they will remain anonymous. I know that I am not an easy person to trust so I cannot expect people to be immediately comfortable with my involvement, but I would like to explain why I am so eager, if they are doubtful.

@felix-tee​:

isha-feinberg​:

when: wednesday 12th april 2163 where: a corridor, by a supply cupboard who: isha & felix

[So many black clothes. Isha doesn’t like cleaning them as much; white clothes are easy because you can bleach them. Dark clothes show every little hair and bit of fluff, and she’s spent the better part of the last hour with a lint scraper trying to clean up everyone’s funeral clothes. When she gets sent off to get some more laundry detergent, she suspects it’s because she keeps sighing so fretfully while everyone else is chatting and trying to establish some sort of normality after Kaiser’s death.

Isha is fine with that, gliding down the corridor and slipping into the nearest supply cupboard. She has to stand on the lowest shelf to reach the detergent, which is far back on the highest shelf, and while she does so the door swings shut behind her.

It’s very dark, all of a sudden. Isha always needs to know where the nearest exit is, and she fares poorly when she’s trapped somewhere like this. Her PDD does nothing to open the door, but it won’t bend to brute force either; why doesn’t she know how the bloody doors work? Is it a mechanical error? A computer thing? Someone in the tech department is playing a joke on her? The light of her PDD is painfully bright as she types out an indignant message to the first IT person she can think of, that Paxton person, to say that she’s stuck.

In the meantime, she’ll try slow deep breaths like they always tout in therapy. It’s only when she hears someone coming along the corridor outside that she slams her palm against the door.]

Excuse me? Hello? [She manages to sound rather annoyed for a woman hoping to get some help. She doesn’t want to admit to the pounding in her chest or the strangling feeling in her throat. She just wants to get out of this stupid damn cupboard.] 

[Felix doesn’t especially know he’s a skittish person, but when an indignant, muffled voice and some hard slams project from a closed door beside him, Felix does jump a little. He touches his chest—reflex—and lets out a little, almost silent ‘oh’ and steps back. Also reflex. 

Then two plus two suddenly make… three, and he realizes someone seems to be knocking from inside a room—a closet, by the looks of it. He smartly deduces this because the door is narrow and the stranger’s voice sounds like she’s in a small space. 

Oh, and because there’s a cloudy gold plaque on the door that says ‘Supply Closet’.

He frowns a little, takes an uncertain step forward.] Uh, hello? [He looks around briefly. Is this phantom voice even talking to him?] 

[’Hello?’? Does this person think Isha is his conscience speaking? She can’t place the speaker from a single word, but she can place their critical thinking skills. How many conclusions could possibly be drawn from a voice coming from inside a cupboard?

The nice thing about being behind a door is that this disbelief can register on her face without worrying about causing offence. There’s catharsis in that, and it makes it a little easier to then gather herself and not be rude.]

[The tip of her tongue touches her lower lip and the synthetic, drying taste of lipstick, and she shakes her head.] Hello. The door has become stuck, would you please try to open it from your side?

when: wednesday 12th april 2163 where: a corridor, by a supply cupboard who: open!

[So many black clothes. Isha doesn’t like cleaning them as much; white clothes are easy because you can bleach them. Dark clothes show every little hair and bit of fluff, and she’s spent the better part of the last hour with a lint scraper trying to clean up everyone’s funeral clothes. When she gets send off to get some more laundry detergent, she suspects it’s because she keeps sighing so fretfully while everyone else is chatting and trying to establish some sort of normality after Kaiser’s death.

Isha is fine with that, gliding down the corridor and slipping into the nearest supply cupboard. She has to stand on the lowest shelf to reach the detergent, which is far back on the highest shelf, and while she does so the door swings shut behind her.

It’s very dark, all of a sudden. Isha always needs to know where the nearest exit is, and she fares poorly when she’s trapped somewhere like this. Her PDD does nothing to open the door, but it won’t bend to brute force either; why doesn’t she know how the bloody doors work? Is it a mechanical error? A computer thing? Someone in the tech department is playing a joke on her? The light of her PDD is painfully bright as she types out an indignant message to the first IT person she can think of, that Paxton person, to say that she’s stuck.

In the meantime, she’ll try slow deep breaths like they always tout in therapy. It’s only when she hears someone coming along the corridor outside that she slams her palm against the door.]