#voicestm

Dr. Rowan Mayfair cannot help the cruel laugh that escapes her then. It is not a sneer; Dr. Mayfair is not a talented enough actor for that. Cruel for its cynical realism and lack of naïvety, as it is now, it seems to her an unconscionable amount of knowledge. The doctor sought to prevent harm to others and, in doing so, only brought quite a bit on herself.

No, her mind is too scientific to blame herself for the violence she has seen done to her, or the family history, old southern families... being as they are.

"Is that how you go on?" the blonde, grey-eyed doctor asks. Rowan is certain she will be accused of being overly serious, but how can one not be, knowing what she now knows?

"Without apologies?" she adds, it is a plea, though Rowan is not sure for what or indeed even how. Only that the Doctor never seemed to manage, not for herself.

"Hopefully, I will be pardoned for my lack of tact on this subject, but I do not understand. To fix anything, one must first identify the cause of a problem, name it and if that means apologizing, which it sometimes does, then apologizing most honestly."

"You do not know until you run the experiment," Dr. Mayfair says with a bluntness the other blonde brat never had the wherewithal or individual circumstances to be, and with an at least, in this case, unintentional scientific coldness the other simply lacks.

"Preferably multiple times, with exhaustive, expansive notes and amending your methods in the event they fail the purpose of the experiment," Dr. Rowan Mayfair adds. This time, putting a good deal of concerted effort into sounding far warmer, kinder even, perhaps even more charitable, though she lacks that regarding herself.

"Of course. I understand the human urge to flee; being brave does not mean you lack for such instincts. It simply means that you look them in the eye directly and face them."

I am blaming @voicestm for this one.

Inbox prompts

Dr. Rowan Mayfair is by far the last person to scold anyone for their 'lack of manners' so much so Michael must do it for her, no, not because she lacks such things, her mind is simply too scientific and hyperactive to put sufficient... pardon the turn of phrase, stock in such things. As far as she is concerned, the world has enough problems... both in the big-picture sense and the uncured-ailment sort.

Still, she just balks in something akin to shock; if indeed she could still be shocked anymore, "The criticism is not the issue," Rowan says, sighing, sure she sounds like Michael at this rate.

"The mode of criticism, however," another somewhat exasperated sigh.

Then coldly she says, "Well... mister, I am waiting."

@voicestm || Reese & Sam get meta

"Wait... they can just do that— this?!" Headache threatens to bloom in spite of piqued curiosity, dual natures warring in one poorly equipped brain. Steven is the first to spring to mind. Accountant, he'd said those early days and yet he'd been more than that. The one to offer up legal connections and phone numbers to help with her Gale Weathers woes. The first book had been bad enough, she'd wanted to stop a reboot of Stab or anything else Gale could sell that would keep them both newsworthy and suffering from it.

And the thing is that she's aware comic books exist— that they've become more than just that, turning into tv shows and even movies, but she'd been too busy caught up in her own... everything, to really consider what that meant. How it played with reality. Films about Captain America just felt like... American period pieces. Up there with war movies. Not exactly her thing. Vaguely historical. A lot of license taken, or so she assumes. Assumed. Reese's trailer offering is blowing her mind.

Trevor Slattery's existence is one for the books.

"What did you think Spider-man was about, Sam?"

She didn't. She just... didn't. Heard the name, saw the headlines and just... went to work. Picked up groceries. Saw Jake in the mornings for kisses before hitting the sack. Life as it called for. Bills. Responsibilities. Normal. Heh... she really does need to learn better.

"Wait... so is there... about... you? You all?" Surely that much would have made it past her usual self-centered fog. Midnight Mission comics? Mr. Knight? Movies??? No. No... relief from just Reese's expression. Not them. At least, not yet or something.

"Tell me where to start. Movies first."

MIDNIGHT TEETH & MOONLIT FANGS: ACCEPTING

Such gall from a puppet.

There’s the urge to simply obliterate him, let him look deep into the deadlights then bite off that ridiculous expression. But even IT could occasionally admit to needing… No, wanting outside assistance. The boy could operate under the guise of normality. It was normal for him to torment the children IT had turned IT’s gaze upon. Children that were beginning to spark… Not worry, IT was too strong for worry, IT’s rule was absolute, unquestionable… But they were more of a concern that IT had imagined.. Yes.. A concern that necessitated a different approach. Henry could take the risk and the fall, tucked away for self keeping until IT had a further use for him. If IT had a use. Often the ones IT twisted were simply discarded, left to fend for themselves in the wilderness.

IT doesn’t shift back, the monstrous wolf form IT had woven for Itself would work for now. IT simply rears back and strikes him, sharp claws carving lines into his cheeks. The spray of blood makes IT’s throat rumble with a pleased growl but IT doesn’t move. Not quite yet.

“How about we use our listening ears hmm? Can you understand? Do you comprehend now?” The words are garbled, slick and muffled from a mouth stuffed full of fangs, IT’s jaw twisting to one side to accommodate the stretch of them. IT was difficult to understand but that was Henry’s problem. It was up to him to make sense of IT’s demands, to be IT’s eyes and ears, IT’s reaching hands. If he couldn’t do that, what good was he?

IT leans in and drags IT’s tongue along the wounds, smearing his cheek with spit and burning venom as IT presses into his mind, cutting through to the spark of that pretty shine.

IT STARTER SENTENCES: ACCEPTING

It was not uncommon for IT to be haunted.

Ghosts, impressions, strong feelings, they flocked to the author of their suffering as if doing so would bring them peace. As if confronting a thing after it had hurt you would lessen the pain. Dead after all was dead, and sometimes... Oh sometimes, death was preferable to what IT could do. The boy had died somewhat peacefully, choking on black smoke, his heart full of love and heroic notions. To save his young love and perhaps in doing so finally finally be someone. Did he know the mark he would leave? An impression so strong that not even IT's influence could fully wash away the stain. She would grow, she would marry, she would name her son Richard with only half an inkling as to why. She would cry when the child was placed in her arms and not understand why the moment was sad as well as joyous. She would grow distant in time, as most of the parents in Derry grew eventually. But part of that would be the name she chose, and how saying it made her throat tighten with grief.

All this IT sees, suspended in the epicentre of IT's web, IT's seat of power if IT could claim to have such a place. Here IT weaves the silk through the town, here IT rests and gathers IT's strength. Here IT is haunted, apparently. The whisper of the little thing presses against IT's awareness and IT chuckles softly, reaching out to stroke the strands of webbing through IT's fingers. Rich as he was could not hurt IT, he was dead, lost past the veil. Only stubbornness kept him anchored here. IT could admire that if nothing else. A pity he died the way he had, such courage.. He would have been delicious.

MIDNIGHT TEETH & MOONLIT FANGS: ACCEPTING

Ironic was it not? Had their roles been reversed IT would not have offered such sickening pity. Mercy was reserved for no one. If IT’s whims dictated that IT would spare IT’s prey for a later kill.. IT rarely felt the need to justify Itself to Itself. Who else was there to answer to? Gan? That great pretender had bricked himself up before IT had drawn breath. Maturin? The poor pathetic thing was still sleeping. As if sicking up the universe was so tiring that he needed the rest of time to recover. Even if he had been awake, IT wouldn’t have listened, would have laughed if asked to explain Itself. IT’s actions were IT’s own. Their consequences..

IT had not meant to be caught off guard. There was no discernible reason for it. None at least that IT was willing to admit. Ever since IT had been cornered in Neibolt.. Had there not been a touch of hesitation? IT had rarely felt pain before that encounter and what IT had felt had only been brief. Enough to make IT flinch occasionally but not enough to drive IT back. The bite of the metal stake had been so sharp, so bright and real in a way that very little else had been. IT obeyed the laws of the form IT took and even that useful midpoint could scream.

IT didn't wouldn't remember what happened, but the pain is the same, stinging and sharp. IT's borrowed lungs wheeze, IT's mouth filling with venom and blood. Pain was such a ridiculous sensation, to think it could force a creature such as Itself to IT's knees. But it had, oh it had and she was witnessing it.

IT snarls, uncoiling briefly from IT's hunched position to hiss. Away away stay away. Stupid thing, foolish girl. To offer what? Comfort? It was unthinkable. IT would crush her, yes IT would rip her apart and feast on her inwards. IT just had to--

But movement proved too much, IT curls up tighter, ashamed and sickened by the whine escaping from IT's throat.