Gather ye rosebuds

rev-enoch-lynch​:

[[ Bless her, she’s incredibly sweet. It’s a genuine pleasure to see someone who despite everything remains ever cheerful and polite. Enoch wants to believe optimism and resilience is something younger people generally have in spades, but he knows that’s not the case. Optimism tends be a well-earned attitude, something that the majority of people have to actively work on. Enoch’s never quite felt like he had enough energy for this sort of cheerfulness. ]] I think this may be the first time my arrival anywhere is gossip-worthy. [[ He jokes, voice still ever even and closer to a deadpan. It’s simply the way he’s always been, he seems much more muted in comparison to the young woman. ]] It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Maisie. 

Becoming a doctor took a lot more time. I’m a therapist. [[ He takes her compliment like he does most things, modestly. ]] Therapist and priest seem to me a good combination. 

[[ She continues talking and whilst she doesn’t sound particularly devout, he’d be more than happy to see anyone coming to mass. Even if it were purely for nostalgia’s sake—it’d be a great gift to give someone, some connection to a life before. It is genuinely nice to think he could do that for someone, Enoch actually found church to be his refuge from his home life, so it feels a little disconnected to hear someone link the too in such a positive way. ]] 

Oh, I’m sure I can keep my Sunday’s free to give mass. It’s been a while for me too, I’d appreciate getting back into. [[ A beat passes silently with Enoch in thought. ]] Do you know if there are many others here who’d appreciate a Sunday mass? I’d be happy to start it as a regular thing once I’m settled in more.

[There’s always a small part of her that wonders if she bounces around everywhere because she’s afraid of what might happen if she stops. Still smiling warmly, she takes a moment, and falls silent. Her gaze washes over him. The reverend is tall, perhaps a little rough around the edges, but nevertheless he has a calm energy about him. Like he has everything under control. Or perhaps it’s because he believes in a higher power. Maisie used to believe, too. (She isn’t sure when she stopped.) The church was very much a way of life for the Pace family. Before every meal, on every Sunday, and Easter, and Christmas. Back then, she thought it would be like that forever. That was the life she had known. She knows now how fragile that kind of belief is. It’s admirable to see someone who hasn’t lost their faith. It gives her hope.]

So you listen to people. And you help them. It seems to me a good combination, too. [She smiles.]

[He asks if other would be interested in a Sunday mass, and Maisie nods. Some for the sermon, some for the socializing, perhaps some just looking for something to do. Just like regular church.] I think so. Not that I’d go about proselytizing or anything, but I think I could get the word out. And you’d have at least one person there.

angel-thorne​:

[Maisie seems… put out, by his ability. Is that the right description? Put out? Angel isn’t sure. She stares at one of the pendants around his neck, presumably willing it to move, and nothing happens. Nothing could happen.

He’s glad. Infections give people one more thing to worry about. One more thing to feel needlessly insecure about. Around Angel, that worry is gone because there is no Infection. Maisie doesn’t have to feel bad because of whatever control, or lack thereof, that she experiences. It’s just her and Angel, and she is perfectly human.

She takes a carefully diplomatic approach to his alignment, and Angel looks curiously at her.] 

You’re allowed to have feelings about it, though. [He doesn’t want the diplomatic answer from Maisie, he wants the honest one. Angel has always valued his fan’s input greatly, and he’d hate to feel like he’s let anyone down. He’d not been a good role model before. Isn’t it time that changed? So he looks at Maisie, asking with his eyes what she really thinks about the fact that he’s a Reformist.] 

[When he looks at her like that, it really feels like she knows him. In a way, she does. Hadn’t he been the one to get her through many a sleepless night, filled with worries and self-doubt? But the Angel Thorne that she knows, and idolizes, is the one she made up in her head, not the actual person standing in front of her. She could get to know him, and he could get to know her, starting by her answering his question honestly. Maisie’s conducted countless interviews, and she knows an honest answer just resonates differently. More than just on camera. The truth will inevitably touch something inside of you.

And that’s what she wants, isn’t it? For everyone to see each other, Infected or not, as who they truly are. Not what they are, what their Delusions have caused them to believe, or what their Infections are. That was what she wanted even before D-Day, and it was hard enough even then. The kind of world she wanted to capture on film, the stories she wanted to tell, seemed almost impossible to find. But she held on. To hope. To art.]

who-is-jr​:

[[ JR wasn’t too shocked at hearing her swear suddenly in Spanish, but maybe Lorenzo heard Maisie swear and he thought it sounded worse coming from her. Maisie is incredibly sweet, after all. Maybe he had a crush on her, that’d be pretty funny. Funny in the way he’d have likely ribbed him for it. They weren’t exactly close, but they were getting there he thinks. 

She shows off a little more of her Spanish. It’s the basics and her pronunciation isn’t amazing but he’s happy just to hear some Spanish being spoken to him. There’s a moment where he thinks it’d be fun to reply in Spanish with the same facts. He can’t say either of them. What a fucking buzzkill. His moods sours quickly, but now he tries to sound a little enthused. He doesn’t do a great job of it though, his words are a little delayed and he’s sounding distant. He’s not really into the conversation anymore, suddenly feeling awkward in his own skin once more. ]] That sounds good, Sofia must love it. 

[[ Twenty five? She seemed younger, actually, but she’s apparently closer to his age. That’s the vaguest inkling of his age he’ll ever get, at this rate at least. Although that’s an easy guess to make, his guesstimate of an age range would definitely put him as her age. Actually, he thinks he’s definitely got to be a little older than Maisie. That cuts out like, two possible ages.

Still, it sounds incredibly sweet. Something he’d probably enjoy, actually. He’s sure no-one would look at him and think this is a man who’d enjoy translating and reading children’s stories to an over enthusiastic and potty-mouthed toddler. ]] 

[Maisie usually has a fairly good sense about what does and doesn’t people uncomfortable. She tries to put everyone at ease and show them that she’s here for them. It’s part of the reason she was actually good at her job in television. Everyone was always in a hurry to get some place or get something done, and she tried to make them feel like it was okay to take a second and tell her what she could do for them. (When Infections started popping up after D-Day, she thought, for a moment, if she were to have one, it would probably be Empatheia, as she was already so attuned to people’s emotions. But apparently it doesn’t work like that) With J.R., however, it feels like she’s always saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.] 

[She knows it’s more than likely not really about her. But knowing and feeling are two very different things.]

[He doesn’t actually say anything to that effect. He just looks off into the distance and falls quiet. His smile (or lack of a frown) is gone.] Yeah, we have lots of fun. [She smiles, a little uncertain at first, then brighter as an idea pops into her head.] You should join us sometime!

lissy-mccall​:

[[ Maisie takes the lead, guiding Lissy away from Charlie without question. She ducks her head, looks at the ground in an attempt to make sure they do not make eye contact.

Lissy was… angry more than anything. Maisie, bless her heart, is soothing Lissy whilst Lissy really wants to scream.  She has the same awful problem as her dad: when he got angry, he’d always start to tear up. Lissy’s father said that’s why he was so level-headed. Right now, as she’s wrapped into a warm hug. 

Lissy, much like her dad, is probably just lying to herself. She can’t simply keep going around like this. Falling apart if she comes across Charlie.

It’s worse, now, that Maisie has basically confirmed Charlie is the guy Mira likes. It’s beyond a simple dislike, beyond playground rules of ‘my friend doesn’t like you’ but a very real fear. Lissy was not always one for physical comfort but Maisie’s go to was always physical comfort. Right now, she really appreciates it. Lissy holds her friend closer, turning her head into her shoulder. ]]

I know him. [[ Lissy says into Maisie’s shoulder.  Her voice sounds a little wet, those tears she really does not want to spill threaten to spill over. Maybe this would have been easier if she’d simply told all the girls, not just Annie. It felt impossible, though. Even then, Lissy never told Annie exactly who she was talking about. ]] He knows me fr—from before. Not — not before everything j—just before here. [[ Lissy stumbles over her words, trying her best to get a full sentence out. She cannot live like this, it feels like a strong backslide into that same terrified mindset she had upon her first arrival. When Orla’s grip was still hanging over every single part of her life. ]]

[Maisie has no idea what’s happening, but she just wants to make it stop. She wishes she could just take Lissy away, keep her safe from these nightmares that would never really stop no matter how many hugs she gave, or how many tears they shed. Which makes her feel all the more inadequate, but it isn’t about her or her insecurities right now. She takes a deep breath.] It’s all right. I’m right here. [Another deep breath. She can feel the fear radiate off of Lissy, and Maisie has to wonder what good all her empathy-with-a-lowercase-e is, if she can’t take the fear away.]

[If it were she herself that was suffering, she would bear it. She would smile sadly and give some cliched response, like how great art had to be forged in the crucible of sadness. Sadness that doesn’t freeze, but burns white hot. Lissy, sarcastic, fearless, and full of life, crying in her arms like a child. In a way she still is. Growing up is about finding your place in the world, and the world changed before Lissy ever had a chance to figure out hers.]

You... Know him? Charlie? How? [And then the secret is out.] Oh, god, Lissy... [Maisie doesn’t ask too many questions about Lissy’s past (although the second assistant director of Someone Knows Something in her has some macabre curiosities) but she has to assume their encounter was not friendly. Lissy wasn’t the same person she is now, and she knows this, but she doesn’t know if Charlie does, too. She’s never talked to him, doesn’t know what he’s like. Mira likes him, which is a good sign. But Annie doesn’t. And now Lissy doesn’t either.]

[She sneaks a peek over her shoulder.] I think he’s gone now. [She gives the girl a squeeze before releasing her from her hug.]

rosalind-stein​:

[[Rosalind brightened at the mention of drawing. She’d met one other artist since coming here, and it seemed that they weren’t alone. The similarities between Lissy and Maisie were not lost on her. It made her wonder what style of drawing filled the pages of Maisie’s mind. Her fingers twitched for a pad and pencil to sketch out the vision that had entered her mind. Two does with gentle eyes and faces downcast in bashful smiles, lying comfortably in a watercolor glen. She would focus on making the deer more pronounced, and the glen would only be recognizable as such in the loosest sense. The does were the centerpiece.

It was a flash across the backs of her eyes, and then it was gone. There was no watercolor. There was no pad of paper. There was no pencil. Hells, she hated when her brain teased her in such a way. Then she remembered meeting Lissy. The girl had a notebook. She was sketching. It finally registered with Rosalind that she might actually be able to find a way to draw in this colony. The thought caught her up short, and she almost forgot to respond to the woman before her.]]

I’m glad you’ve found an outlet. I know how important it is to have a means of expressing your artistic nature. I can’t carry a tune, so I envy you there. People used to throw shoes at me as if I were some cat yowling at the moon. [[It was a slight exaggeration, but she felt the need to try and make Maisie more comfortable. The mothering, protective nature of hers was peeking out again.]] What style of art to you draw? Do you have a preference or specialty?

.

[Maisie lets out a small laugh at the woman’s mention of her horrible singing.] Sorry, I’m not laughing at you. I’m sure with a little practice you’ll be great. It’s just something to, uh, put me at ease when I get antsy. [Singing is probably the main reason for her sunny disposition. Sometimes people wonder how she can stay so positive. Sometimes she wonders it herself. But a beautiful song---doesn’t have to be happy, a sad one will work even better at the right moment---will fill the darkest of times with hope.]

As for the drawing, I’m not sure I know enough to have any kind of “style.” I’m still learning. I have no one to teach me, though, so I just kind of... look around the Colony, and draw what I see. Mainly sketches of the school, my friends, or the sea. 

[The woman is kind to take an interest in Maisie’s hobbies. She seems genuinely interested, instead of just making small talk. Maisie is more used to asking questions rather than answering them, but it doesn’t feel forced or uncomfortable.]

I still miss my camera, though. It broke on my way to the island, and honestly I thought I’d get another one after... After everything blew over. I never thought D-Day would just... change everything, you know? 

But everyone’s had to come to terms with the fact that life won’t ever be the way that it was. Most people seem like they’ve got it by now, more or less. Me, on the other hand...  I’m still playing catch up. It’s different for everybody, I guess.

teiloembry​:

[No one could blame her, for a thing like that, in part because her enthusiasm is too real. It also helps her case that she seems so genuinely and innocently thrilled, like a sweet school girl, her imagination and excitement not yet marked by the world’s cynicism, to never have grown into that age where emotions are ‘uncool’. Or, if you come from the kinds of schools Teilo comes from, ‘unsophisticated’. 

But he couldn’t disagree more. Sure, he has a collected and cerebral sort of spirit, but he also embraces the youthful side of himself, one he’d distinctly shared with Brenin most of his life, and one he sometimes likes to think he got from Brenin, despite being several years the youngest Aisling sibling’s sire. But were it not for Brenin, were it not for their relationship, would this be a side of himself Teilo would’ve remained in touch with? Would he have lost sight of it over time, let it drift as the rest of his family matured and chuckled at his ‘endearing’ obsession with Star Wars or Scooby-Doo? Quite possibly. So he’s extraordinarily grateful for Brenin, and for his unapologetically imaginative spirit—a spirit he sees so much of in the beautiful Miss Maisie Pace.

He chuckles, nodding.] That it does, and I wouldn’t dream of faulting you for that, my dear. I’d probably be just as excited if the late George Lucas showed up here. I realize that’s not the same thing, given he’s been dead for over a hundred years, but you know what I mean. [He grins, and as she winces and asks if she’d made a fool of herself, he immediately shakes his head.] Not a chance. You are guilty of nothing more than being happy. So anyone who tries to say otherwise is—well, frankly, an ass. [His smile is casual, light.

And then she turns an imaginary camera on him, and, inexplicably, he blushes a little, turns a courteous smile and gaze to his feet. Narrow shoulders lift up to his ears, hands still deep in his pockets as he casts about for a reply. He doesn’t mind her asking—and it’s not like he’s unaccustomed to talking about himself, but it’s not often that someone contextualizes it like an interview, and he wouldn’t say he gets self-conscious, exactly, but perhaps just a little embarrassed. He isn’t too contrite to admit that he had an interesting life, but he hadn’t been raised to advertise these things as if his were any more important than anyone else’s. Plus, since coming to 22, the privilege he’s come from, not just before D-Day, but also after if, given the relative fortune he had at Colony 2 is, in fact, a bit of an embarrassment. He’s grateful, of course, but he’s also very aware of how many extreme sufferances he’d managed to avoid, and the looks he often gets walking around in his nice jackets and expensive boots.] 

Ah—[he chuckles a little.] Well, I grew up in New Haven, Conneticut. My father was a professor at Yale, so his side of the family had actually been around that area for generations. But before D-Day, I myself was in Massachusetts. I moved to Cambridge when I got into Harvard and disappointed my father. [He smirks.] I’m kidding, obviously. Though he did lob about a hundred Yale facts and statistics at me to try to get me to change my mind. He’s quite fond of tradition, that man. 

[‘An ass,’ he says, referring to the people who would judge her for her excitement. She giggles. Maisie kind of wishes she could be that poised about it. Sure, she doesn’t take herself too seriously, isn’t too afraid to make a fool of herself if it would mean putting a smile---a genuine one---on someone’s face. But a part of her still gets insecure sometimes, a part that tugs at the back of her mind even when she’s so happy.

The part of her that hasn’t fully come to terms with the fact that maybe she isn’t the genius artist that her parents told her she was. It’s okay to be ordinary, she thinks. It’s enough to be a passionate filmmaker. It’s enough. She’s enough. It’s okay that it takes more conscious effort to be as kind to herself as she is to other people.]

[Maisie likes listening to people talk about themselves; where they come from, the places they’ve been, the people who made them who they are today. Possibly for the same reason she loves films and books. It lets her experience a world she would otherwise never see. Connecticut isn’t the most exotic of places, perhaps, but even if Maisie did get to see it for herself it would never be the same place that was home for Teilo. She can almost picture a little boy in dress pants and a smart shirt buttoned all the way up, poring over a map of the world. Yes, Maisie loves listening to people’s stories, but it takes practice and skill to really listen to what they are saying. Not thinking about what to say next, not wondering what they are thinking of you, not worrying about seeming cool or sophisticated. Just taking in their words, each change in inflection and expression.]

I knew you were smart, but Harvard, wow. East coast elite, huh? [She teases, flashing a warm smile.] Your dad must’ve been super proud, even if you broke tradition. It’s a long way from here, though, how’d you end up on the other side of the Atlantic?

angel-thorne​:

[He can see the effect he’s having on her, written plain as day in the wide doe eyes and flushing cheeks. And it occurs to Angel that perhaps he’s being a bit cruel, because he knows the impact that celebrity has on people. It puts him in a position of power, and he shouldn’t take advantage. It’s just… a little intoxicating, sometimes. Touching someone and watching them melt; knowing it’s for you.

She seems less perturbed by his potential alignment with the NWRF than many – it’s generally considered a mark against him. Maisie asks with some trepidation, but apologises as if she’d been prying.]

It’s alright. [Angel smiles, soft and private. He doesn’t mind talking about it.] I am. It felt like it made sense for me. I don’t know if you’ll remember, before D-Day I was insistin’ I had a higher purpose, and everyone thought I’d gone off the deep end? Well, I’ve found out what it is. Infections don’t work near me. I’ve known for years, but when the NWRF rose, it just felt like I was connected. I had to be.

[It’s interesting to talk about this with someone that was such a fan, before. She possibly, probably, had seen interviews and instagram posts made in the months before the end. Angel hadn’t been shy about announcing his purpose. So Maisie will know better than most that he’s not making it up, he’s been like this for a long time.]

I hope you’re not disappointed. [He adds this last, almost as an afterthought but made in earnest. Angel always hated letting his fans down; he knew his struggle with addiction had been upsetting for fans to witness. He hopes, in his newfound sobriety, that he hasn’t just found a new way to disappoint them. The NWRF isn’t popular here.]

[She knew of his struggles, of course. Not that she could do anything except wish him well from afar, and hope that he wasn’t in too much pain. She knew she and a million other fans would be waiting for him when he came out the other side. Before they could prove it, however...]

Oh. I thought that was- [Infections don’t work near him? What does that mean? She assumed before that her telekinesis was on the fritz again, which isn’t anything unusual. Maisie looks at one of the necklaces he’s wearing, and concentrates. The charm is pretty, she thinks, before asking it politely but firmly if it would please move just a little bit. 

She can usually feel... a kind of reply, a pull of energy, from the other side. The sensation isn’t exactly magnetic, as some people have described. It’s different for everyone. To her it feels like when someone is watching you from the other side of the room, and you know they’re looking at you before actually make eye contact. But right now, nothing.] I thought it was me. 

[What does this mean? Is it another kind of Infection? The longer she talks to him the more questions she has, and she still feels like she doesn’t know him at all. Which isn’t that surprising, since they’ve only met for the first time. Still, as someone who traveled all over the country for work before D-Day, and as someone who’d welcomed so many new arrivals after D-Day, Maisie can’t remember meeting anyone half as charismatic and mysterious at the same time.]

[She looks up at him, and shakes her head.] It isn’t my place to tell you what to believe.

who-is-jr​:

[[ This slowly forming friendship is definitely, 100% Maisie’s doing. Of course, if JR were as good as remaining tight-lipped as he liked to believe, it would be impossible. He’d rather put the blame on her. As though friendship is a thing that carries any sort of blame with it. 

JR’s laugh is short and sudden because she asks it so innocently. JR looks over, Lorenzo was a funny one. His sister took a liking to JR. The smile from the laughter lingers because of it. It’s a shame they left, hearing them bickering in Spanish brought on some nostalgia for a man who’d never experienced it before. ]] Fuck. It means fuck. And yep — his sister used it a lot too.

 She’s a real sailor-mouthed toddler. [[ It’s said fondly. He’d not actually spoken to Ricky — who he’s assuming now is that French security guard with a Napoleon complex — so he can’t make any comment on that. ]] Is he only teaching you swear words?

Oh! [She assumed as much, and she isn’t surprised by the curse word, per se. Maisie isn’t so pure as the driven snow as some might believe. Her work had her researching murders and haunted places all throughout the UK, sometimes even in other parts of Europe. After years of working on a television show filled with grisly murders and ghost stories, the f-word isn’t going to phase her. What does phase her, however, is that Lorenzo felt the need to hide it from her? Did he think she would judge him? Because she would never do that. She makes a mental note to ask him about it later.]

[The brunette laughs when J.R. asks if that’s all she’s learned.] No. I know how to say, "Me llamo Maisie. Tengo veinticinco años." And... We read children’s books in the library, or tell fairy tales. I tell them in English and Sofia has to guess what it is. Or Lorenzo tells them in Spanish and I have to guess. It’s really fun. [She’s an acquired taste, she’ll admit to that. But Lorenzo doesn’t seem to mind her so much anymore. Neither does J.R., which is great. It kind of reminds her what it was like to have a brother. Growing up in a house with two older brothers, she always felt like there was someone looking out for her. Not that she would ask that of J.R. of course, just that it’s a nice feeling. Being around someone like him.]

rev-enoch-lynch​:

[[ People seem to be extremely formal with Enoch. Not that he minds it, exactly. Although she seems to fluctuate from unbridled enthusiasm to a very proper introduction. Maybe Maisie Juliet Pace simple really enjoys her own full name. It is a pretty name, he will give her that.

She smiles and is incredibly sweet. Undoubtedly, he will grow tired of her boundless energy. She may be able to carry the conversation herself, though. Maisie explains why he cannot find the Distribution Centre — and of course there are multiple buildings.  ]] Ah. That would explain it. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d appreciate it.

Does word spread that fast here? [[ He answers her question with one of his own. A genuine answer would be appreciated, he thinks idly. Although Maisie Juliet Pace being aware of who he is is probably answer enough. He’s even wearing civvies, no clerical collar. Maybe he holds himself like a man of the cloth. Or there are merely not many new arrivals nowadays. ]] 

I am Reverend Enoch Lynch. [[ He omits his own middle name. Even if it’s momentarily amusing they both start with ‘J’. ]] Occasionally Doctor Lynch. But Enoch works, too.

@therealmaisiepace​

[Maisie smiles at his question. Yes, news travels fast in the Colony, but it travels particularly fast to her. She doesn’t like to think of herself as a gossip or a busybody---although maybe she is just a tiny bit, even with the best of intentions---but she does have lots of friends. Her eyes light up whenever they have a story to tell, no matter if it’s new or if she’s heard it many times before.] 

There’s... Well, there’s not a lot to do here, except read, and train, and do chores, we sometimes watch movies, which I love, but it’s turned into a bit of a routine, especially with, well, the NWRF, and anything new is real exciting.

It’s nice to meet you, reverend. What kind of doctor are you, if you don’t mind me asking? It must’ve taken a lot of hard work, being a reverend and a doctor. The Colony always needs more doctors; so many people get into all kinds of scrapes. Dr. Carrington and Dr. Fitrei would appreciate the extra help. [She smiles.] So would the rest of us, obviously. 

rosalind-stein​:

[Rosalind’s eyebrows raised at the girl’s babbling, and she did her best not to laugh out loud. The girl, no, woman, was obviously uncomfortable, and she didn’t want to do anything to make that worse. It was amusing to watch the words tumble to the ground, but there was no reason to be cruel about it.]

Thank you. I can appreciate the vision of an artist, even if I’m not geared towards film. I’ve caught myself getting stuck in the details and not realizing I’m staring, too. [She gave a smile, hoping to put the woman more at ease.] It’s nice to meet you Maisie. I’m Rosalind. I take it it’s hard to find a camera these days, h’uh?

[More than once, she had been grateful that her passion was fairly simple to continue after D-Day. She’d seen performers and collectors wither over time, realizing that their life’s goals were disappearing before their eyes. She had pitied the lights behind their eyes dimming, knowing that it was far easier to find pencils and paper than an audience or a reason to collect things that were now worthless. Some of them moved forward, while others were trapped in time. She could even draw in the dirt, if it came down to it.

Luckily for Rosalind, the exercise had begun to clear her head some. She still wasn’t functioning at full capacity, but at least she was able to *hopefully* hold a conversation. She just needed to keep it to familiar subjects. Introductions were easy. Art was easy. Small talk….well, she’d have to see about that one.]

.

[Maisie wants desperately to believe that she isn’t bitter about the state of things. How everything she’d planned for her life, her goals and dreams, had vanished in a single day. She wanted to be a documentarian, travel the world, meet people she’d never run into in Cedar Lake, Wisconsin and tell their stories. 

Their stories.

Back in film school a teacher had asked her what her story was. The brunette had started with her usual, her small town life, the house with the white picket fence, how she’d come to London to study filmmaking, when he cut her off. “How are you going to tell other people’s stories, if you can’t tell your own? How are you going to ask them to trust you with the deepest, most vulnerable parts about their life?” She had nothing to say to that, and she had to wonder if she wanted to tell other people’s stories because she didn’t have one herself.

Well, now she can’t even tell other people’s stories, and she still wonders.

She smiles, perhaps a little sadly, at Rosalind.] Unfortunately. I still like being creative, though. I like singing, and um, drawing. The drawing, I picked up after D-Day because I needed an outlet.

lissy-mccall​:

[[ Lissy never took advantage of lie-ins. Okay. Not never but she tried not too because she’d sleep too much if she did and in the early days that was a problem. With little else to do, she would stay in bed, hiding from the world and her roommates who were still complete strangers. She wanted to be the early riser like Maisie, who always seemed to up bright and early and chipper to top it off. 

Today she was simply up early; just one of those days. The faint lingering of a bad dream that if she doesn’t press at, will disappear without being remembered, so she sat up and focused on the thick knit of the slanket she kept atop of her duvet for cold nights. Each knot in it made with love and good intentions. As soon as Maisie’s up, true to form, she’s ready to get out and about.

It’s nice. Lissy’s always struck in these quiet, simple moments how nice it is to simply be. To talk about inane things and the sort of thrilling tidbits of gossip that could be seen as boring if the wrong person heard it. 

Then there’s Charlie. Unfortunately he is not a bad dream she can simply ignore till he passes, slips away forgotten. Lissy’s eyes widen momentarily, looking adamantly at the ground to try and hide her face. Just as she does her best to look away, Maisie’s telling her to do the exact opposite. Lissy looks. Hoping Maisie’s looking at someone else.

No. Nope. She’s looking at… that Charlie. Lissy’s Charlie.  No. That’s not right. Not her Charlie but… it makes sense in her head. The guy she helped fuck up a bit more. The only person here who truly knew how awful Lissy was before.

It’d be funny from the right perspective: the way she tries to hide behind Maisie like they’re in some dumb little rom-com. Only Lissy’s unfortunately a part of this awful scene and being spotted has less-than-fun potential consequences.

Mira likes him. He hates Lissy. Weren’t they just talking about the complicated nature of friends who don’t like each other? What the actual fuck, universe?!

Lissy quickly stops and tries to fall back into step with Maisie, as though she could hide behind her friend. Lissy grabs onto Maisie’s sleeve. Pulls herself closer. ]]

That’s Mira’s Charlie? [[ Lissy hisses to Maisie. ]] Are you sure?

Uh, pretty sure, why? [Maisie turns to her friend, and she can see that something is clearly wrong; all the color drains from Lissy’s face, and she hides behind Maisie’s small frame. It would be easier if Annie were here. For all their jokes about her height, Annie provides damn good cover. (Which had come in handy when she was trying to hide from a certain Canadian boy, but that’s neither here nor there.) The young blonde looks uncharacteristically afraid. Well, “young” with an asterisk because while Lissy is the youngest out of the Cal Gals, she is at the same time incredibly strong and wise beyond her years. Which is why it’s all the more surprising to see her so scared. Maisie doesn’t want to jump to any conclusions; she just wants to make Lissy feel better.]

Lissy, what’s wrong? [Maisie puts her arms around Lissy, guiding her in the opposite direction from Charlie. It doesn’t seem like he’s seen the two of them yet.]

[This is… not ideal. The Cal Gals are already torn regarding their opinion of Charlie. Mira likes him, Annie, and now Lissy apparently, don’t. Maisie just wants Mira to be happy, although she does have some concerns about whether Mira, given her condition, is ready for something like this. Right now, however, that has to take a back seat because Lissy looks like she’s about ready to cry.]

[They retreat to the edge of the woods, where they can be alone.] Everything’s going to be okay, Lissy. [Maisie murmurs, all while knowing that no one can say that for certain. It’s a thing that everyone used to say. She used to say it too. Against everything, Maisie still believes it. But she is among the very few that do, and the phrase has lost so much of its meaning. Because everything else had not turned out okay, for so many people. She wraps Lissy in a warm hug, trying to block out the rest of the world. It’s all she can do.] Shh. Don’t worry. I’m here.

angel-thorne​:

[Every selfless deed, they say, can be boiled down to selfish motivations. That’s never truer than in the case of Angel Thorne, who ostensibly just wanted to make Maisie smile – but really, it just made him feel good to see how happy she is. Utterly giddy, throwing her arms around him with the sweetest smile; Maisie is a wonderfully tangible person, with a warmth that radiates off her. She’s like a beacon, even in a room so crackling with energy.

He returns the embrace heartily, his own crooked grin a bright reflection of Maisie’s. God, but he loves this. Performing, and the crowds, and the life of it all. He’s not felt so much like himself in years. Maisie, on the other hand, seems to be having an out of body experience. His arm goes comfortably about her shoulder as she leans on him for support, totally overwhelmed by the turn of this evening’s events. When he’s sure she’s not going to keel over, he begins navigating them through the crowd and towards the bar – you always need a drink of water after a performance, and that’s something Angel maintained even in the depth of addiction.] 

The nicest? [He echoes with a chuckle. He doubts that pulling her on stage is actually the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for her, because it wasn’t really an altruistic thing whichever way you turned it. He could, however, fully believe that this was the most adrenaline inducing and memorable thing.] Maybe the most excitin’. But you’d have to get used to crowds much bigger than that for your Oscar acceptance speech, eh? You doin’ alright? I ambushed you a bit there. Don’t forget to breathe, now.

[As ever, Angel had just gone with the flow without pausing to consider whether his flow was the same speed as anyone else’s. Plenty of people would have been mortified to get dragged on stage without warning, and although he could be pretty certain Maisie had loved it, it had likely still been a hell of a shock.]

Ha ha, very funny. [She rolls her eyes at his teasing quip about the Oscars. Maisie is usually honest about what she wants, it hadn’t been embarrassing at all to admit one of her fantasies to Angel, who, granted, had been in a fair number of her fantasies himself. In fact, this is a surprisingly accurate realization. Angel Thorne pulls her up on stage and they perform together in front of an adoring crowd.

It’s different from just singing, which the brunette has always enjoyed. She hums to herself while she chops carrots for meal preparation, or makes up funny songs to make people laugh. (“Where are my socks,” which had been a big hit back in Wisconsin on her babysitting jobs, has been equally well received in Calyset.) Obviously Wing’ed Things had been a big part of her musical experience.

But what just happened isn’t just music. She never thought music could be “just” anything, but this is more.]

[It’s breathtaking in an entirely different way, and she literally has to be reminded to breathe. She inhales, her head still spinning with…] What do you call this feeling? I’ve never felt like this before. I- You should‘ve told me you were going to do that! [She laughs with a light tap at his arm.] But it was a wonderful surprise. [Honestly, even if it wasn’t there isn’t a lot he couldn’t get away with.] Thank you. I mean, I never thought-

holding back || arvo & maisie

[The first few sessions in a new place are the most important, at least in Arvo’s mind. They set the tone, get people interested, hooked. She knows that the group training sessions are assigned, people put into them, so it’s not as if she has to worry about her class being empty due to lack of people signing up. But she wants them to like her, like her style from the start. She wants to succeed.

Arvo is not a muscle monkey. Bulk is fine, but speed, agility, those are just as important. Strength is about more than just how much a person can bench press. It’s why she likes to mix up her sessions. Pay attention to her students. Find out what they need. How she can help.

It’s hard to be training in a group session. Arvo wants to pay attention to everyone, and pinpoint their strengths and weaknesses. She’s good at that. It’s almost automatic now. She can look at a person and see that they favour one side, or their gait is off, or that they’re probably fast, or strong, focused or easily distracted.

There’s no malicious intent behind her categorizing. She stores away the information, but doesn’t use it against anyone. She wants to use her skills to help. Why else would she have survived the end of the world?

She finishes a conversation with a smiling man, leaves him shaking his head in her wake. A towel around her neck, Arvo’s heartbeat is already returning to normal. It doesn’t take her long to recover from a workout.

She approaches a young woman who had been further back in the class.] You did well today. [The smile she gives the other girl is warm, encouraging.] I felt…as if you were holding back though? [She tilts her head to the side, and then shrugs. Her hands pull at either end of the towel and it tightens around the back of her neck.]

Obviously that might just be me, though. I am new after all. What did you think of today?

@therealmaisiepace​

[The training session was… fine, as it always is. Maisie doesn’t recognize the trainer, which suggests that she’s new to the Colony. (Or had she already said so at the beginning?) There’s been a rather large influx of newcomers lately. Maisie is usually super welcoming, as she’d been with each of her friends in Calyset upon their arrival, and more recently, Reverend Lynch. She’d heard he was planning on a Sunday mass, and she was thinking about going. Even though she never got her confirmation, the thought of going to church on Sunday like she used to when she was a kid makes her feel-]

[The trainer interrupts her thoughts.]

I’m sorry? [Maisie turns her full attention to Arvo, her large brown eyes locking onto the trainer at last.] Oh, right. Um, I thought the session was great. You’re a good trainer. [She’s taking the time to talk to her after, even she doesn’t have to. The other trainers seldom did. Lucky if she doesn’t hurt anyone during training, Maisie is far from a star student.] I don’t know about holding back, though, I thought I was trying my best... [Maisie trails off. Mr. Douglas had promised that she would get better with practice, and she trusts him completely. She has been practicing harder than she used to, at least. Right now she just has to suck for a while before she gets better.]

rev-enoch-lynch·:

[[  The moment a person finds comfort, they often break down. It is something he knows as a clinical fact but hasn’t had the misfortune to experience it himself. Until today apparently. He’s grateful he could have his moment — first of many, most likely — in the shower. He cried like a baby in there. Not for any particular reason he could name beyond having forgotten about such a small, simple pleasure of washing the months of grime off his skin. Years, really. Plumbing didn’t survive D-Day. He saw his bed and was already feeling his lids grow heavy. Unfortunately, he has only the one set of clean clothes and had been told he could collect more from the Distribution Centre. Sleep would have to wait.

He’d been given a tour of Torren, a brief overview of the building, and a run down of their entire system here. That does not mean he retained any of it after a moment to himself in his new room.

Remembering where in the hell the Distribution Centre is has now become Enoch’s biggest problem. He’s wearing an old flannel shirt, his clerical shirt currently hung to dry in his room. Enoch was not going to figure out the laundry system today. He doesn’t know the place well enough to know if he’d just walked through this part of the corridor already. He supposes he’ll have to ask for help. Marvellous. ]]

Excuse me. [[ Enoch gives the stranger a terse smile in greeting, in apology. He’s certain he’s called out from too far away because they instinctively step closer. He does not resist the impulse to step back; he’s long past suffering only for the sake of being polite. Everyone feels impossibly close thanks to his infection; under a microscope no matter what. He’d clearly gone too long without others, he has to get used to them all over again.

He finds eyes easier to focus on: making out the intricacies of a person’s iris was far more pleasant than looking at pores or ingrown hairs up close. Enoch’s seriously weighing the pros and cons of wearing sunglasses indoors. Perhaps he should’ve kept his old reading glasses, purposefully blur his vision. ]]

Could you point me towards the distribution center? I have done the impossible and gotten lost in a rectangular building. [[ Enoch asks politely. His gaze alternates from intense eye contact to staring at a scratch on the wall behind their head. ]]

[Maisie runs her fingers along the whitewashed wall as she walks the corridor, humming softly to herself. She’s forgotten the exact words (and she can’t really Google song lyrics anymore) but it’s a song about two lovers who only have this one night together before being separated forever. They say to each other, that they’ll spend eternity in each other’s arms, that morning will never come---even as the eastern sky turns pink---certain of all these things, that aren’t true. Which makes their harsh reality even sadder yet somehow less unbearable at the same time.

Faith is kind of like that. In the face of insurmountable evidence, you just know in your heart that something is true. Maisie has faith in herself, in her friends. That they are happy enough for now, and that they will be happier in the future.

Perhaps it’s because the Paces had been a Catholic bunch, and even though (a) she never got her confirmation (which had been a rare source of contention in the house) and (b) there aren’t any other Paces left, Maisie still feels a connection to a greater power, someone or something that will make sure everything will turn out okay.

A voice calls to her.

She stops mid-note, and turns around.]

Oh, I did that so many times! [She smiles.] In the end I just gave up and kind of trusted I would get to where I was going if I kept on walking around. But you won’t find the distribution center here, it’s in another building. I’ll take you there if you want. I’m Maisie, by the way. Maisie Juliet Pace.

angel-thorne​:

[She sounds like she really means it when she says everyone is super nice, as if it is simply her instinct to see beauty and goodness in the world, but she also pauses as if there’s more to say: a nonverbal ‘but’, and Angel tilts his head as he waits for it.

And, yes, there it is. It so often seems to come back to the NWRF. When Angel signed up with them he hadn’t realised just controversial they would prove to be. He had really thought that people would be excited to have a group so devotedly searching for a cure. But they’ve been met with such resistance. Sometimes he thinks it’s partially a PR problem, because most of the Infected he’s spoken to seem to believe the NWRF are ‘out to get them’ – and he sees why. Of all the colleagues Angel has met, many of them have quite cool personalities, many of them are reserved and even standoffish.

Even so, he knows it isn’t the campaign of hate everyone seems to see it as. It’s a campaign of mercy, really. That’s all Angel wants: grace, for those who have been hurt.

He’s sorry to hear that Maisie is Infected. She doesn’t deserve it; she’s very sweet, and very kind, and shouldn’t have to deal with the burden of an Infection on top of how difficult life is after D-Day.] 

Nobody’s sayin’ you’re dangerous, or evil. [His voice is gentle, as is his hand as he touches her rosy cheek.] Is it so bad, livin’ under the Reforms? They’re there to help, to keep you safe.

[It’s the rhetoric they all parrot, and for Angel it isn’t just memorised lines. He believes it, because it’s what he wants. He wants to help the Infected, to guide them towards a happier and safer life.]

[Angel touches her cheek, and she’s a goner. Maisie can barely keep her legs from shaking. It’s one thing to idolize someone from afar, to be comforted by their music on sleepless nights when she was so uncertain that she was one the right path, and a whole entire other thing to actually meet them in real life. And then, it is on a different dimension altogether when their touch literally sets your skin on fire. She touches her ears, certain by their heat that they’ve grown bright red.] No, that... [-her voice shakes a little, and she clears her throat-] that’s not exactly what I meant.

Um, are you...? [She trails off. Maisie wouldn’t mind if he were a Reformist. She certainly has friends who are. But how wonderful it would be if he weren’t, if he would tell her that she’s fine with or without her Infection. Okay, maybe it isn’t true that she wouldn’t mind if he were a Reformist. It is true for a lot of people she meets, she just wants this one person, to see her as more than a Telekinetic.

It’s strange; if they’d’ve never met, and she heard from the merchants, or a newly arrived citizen at 22, that Angel Thorne was alive, and in the NWRF, she wouldn’t have minded so much. She would treat it as any other kind of celebrity tidbit, like Tom Cruise being a Scientologist. She might have even enjoyed the juicy gossip. Now that she has met him, though, it feels different.]

I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be nosy. You don’t have to answer that, of course.