Sinking, Feeling

we're all in the same boat, staying afloat for the moment Lissy McCall | 19

[london-bauer]

[She’s not petulant enough to reject the compliment, but if she’s being honest London would disagree. Her hair is a synthesised aria to her own narcissistic nature, the woman that spends so much time and money maintaining black hair just to spite its natural blonde hue.

That doesn’t mean it doesn’t make her happy to hear nice things. Compliments have a way of developing, like newborn planets, under her ribs. Every nice thing that has been said about her dances in a spiralling swathe of lilac light. It does something to brush the pain away, something to warm her nights with sunshine dreams.

It makes her terribly easily bought; it makes the smile on her face as Lissy sits down that little bit more genuine. Lissy’s eyes are lucent as glass, round and sweet. They make one think of Christmas ornaments somehow, with their glittering delicacy. Not, of course, that London would ever voice that thought. One quick compliment is good. Anything more excessive and people grow uncomfortable with the gushing.] The colour is actually misleadingly gross. Tastes fine to me, but then I used to make smoothies with kale ‘cause I thought it’d make my skin look glowier. Which, by the way, is a total con. Did sweet fuck all and tasted like Satan’s arse. 

[l-mccall]

[Lissy laughs, and it’s maybe too airy. Too much a sign of how relieved she is that it’s becoming easier to speak. A small part of her is thankful to the woman for that, but those are words to keep locked behind her teeth still. For now she can focus on the food, or at least, selectively. She can focus on rememering what kale tastes like and nothing else at all.]

I never tried to make a smoothie with it, but my mum used to buy this cheese and kale chips? They were pretty alright. But that might be the only way it’s really easy to stomach? I’ve never had it any other way. Maybe thankfully?

[And the longer she rambles, the more loose each word feels. It’s a relief. It feels like breathing out toxins. Which, okay, maybe she should have a kale smoothie. Hadn’t she heard that they were good for cleaning your system somewhere too? Maybe if she believed it hard enough, they’d take all the bad stuff from her. Even the stuff in her head.

Well, a girl can dream.]

As long as the soup doesn’t taste like satan’s bum, I’ll go for it. Might beat what I’ve been trying to call a salad. There’s not enough in it, but I’m quite sure if I tell myself it tastes good long enough, I’ll start to enjoy it. Power of suggestion, or something. 

[rebecca-richman]

[Toby is off doing Important Doctor Things, which means Rebecca is on her own for lunch following a morning of classes. She could sit with one of the other kids she recognizes. It would be easy, really. Just walk up to that girl she’d been sitting behind only thirty minutes before and ask to join her. But she can’t find it within herself to do it, because it would require talking. Or explaining why she didn’t talk, more likely, and that isn’t something Becca wants to deal with right now.

So she doesn’t, opting instead to sit down by herself and keep her mind busy by watching the people around her, imagining what sorts of things they’re saying to each other. The sandwich she nibbles at is bland, dry, but after years of wondering when her next meal would be Rebecca will never complain about how her food tastes. She’s just glad to have it, and all she has to do to get it is participate in things like classes and chores and Games. As much as the Games and training make her uncomfortable, the security the Colony provides is well worth it.

She looks up, surprised, at the sound of a voice, and she can’t help glancing over her shoulder as if she’ll find someone else seated right behind her. Someone much cooler, someone pretty and chatty and confident. But there’s no one, and when Becca looks back at the person who’d spoken she recognizes her roommate. 

A smile spreads across her lips and she shakes her head, nodding toward the seat across from her. Becca hasn’t spoken to Lissy much, but the older girl seems nice. Shy, maybe, the same way Becca is, but never an intimidating or imposing presence. Many times Becca had thought the other blonde would be the perfect person to try and make friends with, but she hadn’t quite managed to find the courage to take that first step. Lissy was older, and she probably had lots of friends who were much cooler than Becca. 

Except here she was, nervously asking for Becca’s company, and it gives her the boost she needs to speak up (figuratively, as she does so by way of her telepathy).] Sorry if I woke you up this morning. I accidentally knocked a book off my nightstand.

[l-mccall]

[Lissy hadn’t really known what to expect of herself if she found someone dangerous. She had thought, maybe, that she would just run. Lock herself away in her room until nothing and no one could touch her; reach her the way that Orla had. And yet, she can’t. Because the danger itself has already revealed that her room is not a safe space. The danger itself is young, and polite, and probably not a bad person.

And Lissy thinks that in another universe, this conversation could have gone a lot better. It could have had potential.

Instead, terror is an orchestra, waiting for just the right moments to swell and subside. Lissy’s thoughts feel like plucked strings, and notes entirely too high. The way that fingers play when the result is meant to convey suspense. But there’s no suspense in this. Not really. It will end badly, and that is very simplistic and predictable of it, isn’t it?

She is vulnerable; a dear in the headlights, with no way to gauge just how open she is here. And it gives her time to taste her blood on the back of her tongue, in what she hopes is a purely figurative sense. She has time to taste the blood of others back again, and that is a much more frightening ghost of a thing. It makes her skin crawl and her gut shift. She wants to hurl, and run, and scream, and maybe just all of it simultaneously somehow.

But her feet cannot move. Her deer eyes are stuck wide, frozen. There’s no leaving yet. Not until the beat rises, turns, and falls. Which is more of a then than a now, so Lissy tries her hardest to run with it. To not let herself be caught unarmed entirely.

The words she manages are croaked and stumbled upon. More squeaky than anything, and undoubtedly scared. All she can think is that her breathing is coming in far too short, and there’s no real time to assess how this too makes her vulnerable. She’s failing at this, really.]

It’s okay. I think I slept through it? I don’t really remember it happening at least.

[In the clearest part of her mind rises a low chant. Get out, get out, get out. Instead she gives for the sake of getting; shakes, and passes the time until fleeing becomes easier.]

I’m Lissy.

[london-bauer]

[Scott has just left (chores), and London is alone at the table that they had been secreted in. Without him, the gold around her is artificial, enhanced atmospheric bliss. She is used to Jason avoiding mealtimes wherever possible, and for obvious reasons she won’t sit with Damien– - when Scott leaves too, she is peculiarly alone.

A swift glance reveals few of her close friends in the vicinity, and while she could get up and sit with someone else, she won’t. Mostly, because she can’t be bothered. The stigma of eating alone matters less, these days. It’s just soup today; or rather, just soup for London. There was some sort of sandwich type thing, either grilled or unreasonably stale, and both for the sake of her waistline and her bodily health, she sticks to soup. It’s green, and she cannot describe it’s flavour any further than that.

Tapping the spoon (warped, at the end), against her chipped soup bowl, London stares absently around with her feet resting on the chair opposite, hidden beneath the table. And probably this absent person-gazing could have gone on for quite some time, but a soft and girlish voice ebbs through. London glances up, is confronted by a soft spun gold cloud of hair. From within peep two eyes, round and blue and shining like deer fawn. The epitome of innocent grace, she looks the antithesis of London, with hair brushed crackling and dark as the night. And though their eyes are both blue, Lissy’s seem to hold a depth of warmth that her own never will– - like hidden seas warmed by a kind Mediterranean sun. Naturally, London cannot refuse such sweetness any request.] Yeah, dude, do it. Love your hair– - I’m London.

[l-mccall]

Ah, thanks. It’s not as lovely as yours is, though. [It’s easy to imagine the woman in front of her being safe by her tone. It’s the sort of sound that radiates invitation. A grin, a compliment, it’s all very settling. And Lissy is both thankful and suspicious of that, in the way that she is most things. She is a mouse and the other is not. Most people, it seems, are not.

But she tries not to dwell on that for now. The goal is to have a pleasant lunch. To maybe make a friend, or whatever tentative form of that she could offer if the other were willing to take it. And it’s maybe rude to project inherent badness onto people, even if it is instinctive? But that particular query is neither new to her mind or relevant in the moment if she doesn’t say anything to reflect it.

Lissy bites the inside of her lip, shifts her fingers, and takes a seat. By the time she’s done, her feelings have swollen deep in her gut. It’s better still then where they usually sit, perched at the base of her throat, or straining behind her teeth. Like the moment she opens her mouth, she is opening the cage too. This just feels like a hurricane beginning to churn in her stomach. And that’s... fine.

It just means she won’t eat what’s in front of her, and she probably wouldn’t have done that anyways. She won’t have to explain it if her hands shake if they’re not on the table anyways.] I’m Lissy. It’s nice to meet you. Is your soup any good? The, um, color persuaded me against trying it myself.

[l-mccall]

[Lissy doesn’t really think she can be blamed for living like a ghost. The things that made her whole are only slowly being put back in the right order. Her bad days are worrisome and terrifying, but present all the same. And it’s on weeks likes these, where getting out of bed alone is a prospect that screams DANGER in capitals and neon lettering, that she can’t find it in her to blame herself for the tendency to simply shake beneath the sheets until exhaustion takes her.

Bad days, she tells herself, will fade. Someday. Someday she’ll have more good ones than bad ones. And it won’t be scary or hard to talk to strangers, or even the people she might be able to then consider friends.

And maybe it’s because she’s got such clear images of these future good days -- images that, granted, are based in easier times, and not imagination -- that forcing herself to take a leap on the first day all week she can manage to get herself to the dining hall sounds like a good idea.

Deep in her bones, she knows that is isn’t. But she approaches the nearest person she sees; tray full of food she probably won’t stomach in hand and a small grin dancing on her lips.]

Mind if I eat with you? [She asks, and is satisfied when her voice doesn’t shake in doing so.]

[trigbalker]

[It was weird how life at the Colony was similar to life before. At the home he’d lived in a room with a bunch of boys he barely talked to, though admittedly he talked to them more than he did his current room-mates. They were told when to get up and when to go to bed. All the boys had daily chores to do. If you squinted hard enough life at the Colony was almost normal, at least normal for a boy who grew up in a children’s home.

They even had classes to attend and course work to do. Just as it had been before the sky had rained death and destruction down on them classes were his favourite time of day. Even if they sometimes felt disjointed thanks to such a wide age range and an even greater lack of materials than his old school. It wasn’t just the fact that doing homework gave him a perfect excuse for avoiding his new room-mates or any social situation for that matter. There was something reassuring that even with all the changes he’d been through in the last few years some things hadn’t change. All the things he’d always held as a constant were still a constant. And now thanks to the asteroids there were even more things to learn and discover.

Sadly as familiar as classes were so was training. At least the applied part of it, it was like gym class on steroids. Only now instead of being the nerdy kid with the inhaler he didn’t even have that, there were no inhalers any more. Not having that familiar lump in his pocket as he ran, or did anything physical, made the dread of going to training even stronger. Trig couldn’t help worrying that he was going to push too much and end up in the infirmary or worse. Adding to the dread of training was the guilt that he felt for not pushing himself enough and possibly holding back his team. It all made training the absolute worst part of his day.

The training rink was where he was leaving from now. If he could just manage to make it back to his room without having to speak to anyone it would be great. He could spend some time doing his homework while the tight feeling in his chest went away and then maybe he’d hang out with the blokes some. It was a good plan. He just had to keep his head down and get there. Or at least he thought it was a good plan till he ran into someone. Bugger.] Sorry. I…sorry.  

[Trig quickly apologised as he looked up nervously to see who it was he’d ran into. Maybe keeping his head down hadn’t been the best decision.]

[l-mccall]

[Her first instinct is to apologize; to channel all of her nervous energy into the small, mousy, and often somewhat shaky body she carries herself in, and look as sorry as possible. It’s somehow both offense and defense in her head, and the feeling of it completely overshadows the fact that he’d been the one with his head down.

Survival instinct, or something? Right? But she was supposed to be working on that. Working on trusting people a little more openly, and not flinching every time someone was rough with her. Was this a step back in that progress, or just an understandable slip? The blonde has to shake the thought from her head, or she’ll chase it six feet under.

But her ‘sorry’s flee her lips at the same time his do. And the entire feeling slips. The words mingle and almost drown each other out, and Lissy’s heart clenches tight in her chest. Not out of a fear, just the knowing that it is her mistake.

The only recovery she has to it is to laugh softly, and rock back on her heels. Like it’s not unusual. Like the way she then brushes the strands of hair that the brush knocked loose behind her ears is a comfortable gesture. Like she isn’t nervous, or jumpy by nature. Or over-thinking the entirety of the interaction.

What a top liar she is. The 7% chance that it’s a convincing act is the best she can manage startled. Then again, the only thing she’s ever needed to look is small an unassuming. Her learned habits lead her in as false prey before they ever tell her to act big.

And she is huffing an uneven breath when she speaks again -- this time, alone -- with clearer words, and a muddled mind.]

Crap, sorry. No problem. You in a rush?

[It’s terrible small talk, and she knows it. But there’s not much about herself that is comfortable to give, and so she’s come to resign herself to the mundane parts of conversations.]

[lake-valentine]

So like, it would be really, really great..

[lake-valentine]

[He scoffs] Nope, I’ve already tried that one. And when they asked me by what, since I couldn’t say dog, I freaked out and ended up blurting out alligators. I mean, ALLIGATORS? Really?? Are there even alligators here? Well, probably not anymore, if there were, but I don’t think they were here to begin with. 

[He kind of looks over properly for the first time, and realizes how delayed it was.

Oh. Pretty girl he’s never talked to before.] Oh, uhm, sorry. Heh, anyway. Hi.

[l-mccall]

[Alligators? Lissy feels like it would probably be rude to laugh, so she bites down on her lip to keep the giggle that threatens to pour out contained. She probably doesn’t manage it well. At least, not in a way that doesn’t look blatant. There’s hope he’ll forgive her for that, though, mixed in amongst the spikes of fear, paranoia, and amusement she carries with her always. It’s just a spot of worry, and one she decides not to dwell on atop --

‘Yes, Lissy, he’ll understand. No, Lissy, he can’t hear you thinking about it. Yes, Lissy, it’s okay. No, he won’t force you to feel okay.’]

Hi. [The word doesn’t feel like simple repetition on her tongue, and that’s usually a good sign for the day.] I’m Lissy. Sorry I can’t help further. I’m, um, kind of in the same boat with math.

[mouse-quinley]

Wait - really? [Mouse lets out a surprised laugh when she shares her real name. Lissy. Off by two letters, though arguably he still hadn’t been close at all; his next guess probably would have taken him miles away from her real name. But Lissy suits her better, he decides, even if it’s only a slight difference. A lily is flower. A Lissy is the girl standing before him. Simple.] 

Naw, Lissy’s a good name. But hey, just say the word and I’ve got no problem callin’ ya Lily. You can call me Carter and we’ll confuse everyone who doesn’t know our names yet. 

[He’s kidding, mostly, an unmistakable glint of amusement sparkling in his eyes with the offer, but he’d also do it without a second thought if she wanted to. Sometimes the silliest things were the most fun, he’d found. Like giving names to pool balls, though he still wasn’t entirely certain if that had been serious or not.

Despite the fact that they were sharing their names, it was odd to realize the whole thing hadn’t felt like an introduction until Lissy reminded him of the fact. No stock questions. What’s your name? What house are you in? How long have you been here? Not that Mouse was knocking those questions, not really. There was a reason they were the go-to. But this is a nice change of pace, and he nods his agreement.]

Yeah, you too. So you gonna name all of ‘em, then, or is Sylvester just the lucky winner? [He tips his head toward the rest of the balls scattered across the table,  a brow quirked playfully to accompany the grin that’s settled comfortably on his lips.]

[l-mccall]

[Lissy takes a moment to seriously consider the joke before shaking her head, not unkindly.

It seems to her like the kind of thing that would be cathartic, but in the same sense dishonest. Like she could pour every ounce of her desire for a new beginning into the smallest of moments, and a habit of responding to ‘Lily.’ Like maybe then she wouldn’t feel so sick all the time, or disgusted by her memories. A Lily wouldn’t have had to have been a bad person. A Lily could still make something of herself.

And that’s why she can’t do it, She can’t knowingly put that weight on him, though she can tell his words come with intended humor attached. He’s not really suggesting it. He’s playing, and she’s over-thinking. Such is not an unusual pattern.

The normality won’t keep her from doing it, though. Over-thinking is her specialty. Her safety.

Lissy chases the thought away with what she hopes come to be kind, if stumbling words.]

Mas- Mouse suits you better. If you don’t mind me saying so.

[Her mind feels something short of absent-- stirring aimlessly, but present enough. The feeling will drift away in moments, she knows. For now, she grips the ball in her hand subtly tighter.]

I could. Would you help me?

[Because it’s good to keep conversation going. Good to try to make friends, good to socialize and hope improvement comes from it. The smile that’s been playing at her lips has yet to fade entirely, and Lissy takes a sort of confidence from that. She thinks it could be easy to keep it that way, if she were able to let herself try.

Nodding her head towards a purple ball, she speaks. And the gesture is as much an invitation as her words have been.] I personally think that one looks like a Persephone.

[lake-valentine]

So like, it would be really, really great..

if someone did my math homework for me. Like, super, awesome spectacular because like, I’m cute, so someone? Yes?

And like, the thing is, I was supposed to be graduated at like, seventeen. So why am I nineteen and like, STILL DOING MATH HOMEWORK? Just because the world ended, why do we gotta do all this extra work? LIke MAYBE I would have gone to university but I’d have had a SAY in it, and also I wouldn’t have gone to university for MATH. Okay? Okay. thanks.

[l-mccall]

[Lissy’s never been all that good at maths herself. She’d nearly failed all of the classes she’d taken before D-Day. She’s not doing so well in her current ones either. There’s an urge in her nature to be helpful, but all she can really do here is smile sympathetically.]

Do you think they’d believe it if you said it got eaten?

[She leaves out the ‘by my dog’ part, because really, where is he going to get a dog? He’ll get the gist. He’ll know she’s kidding. At least half of the joke can be realistic amongst the unbelievable nature of the words.]

[mouse-quinley]

[Mouse does his best not to fidget under her gaze, but it’s odd being studied like this - even if it’s on his own suggestion. There’s a small part of him that’s vaguely worried she’ll choose something awful - something pretentious or dull - but the name she finally settles on is neither of those things.]

My cheekbones say ‘Carter?’ [An eyebrow quirks upward in question, his eyes flashing with curiosity. He can’t say it entirely makes sense to him, but it’s interesting, certainly, and he’s grinning when he shakes his head.] It’s Mouse. Well - [He pauses. Mouse doesn’t make a habit of giving out his real name lest people decide they like it better than the nickname, but given the nature of the conversation it feels only right to add on,] Mason, actually, but everyone calls me Mouse. 

[And then it’s his turn, and he tilts his head, tapping a playful finger to his chin though he’s serious as he thinks it over. The first think he takes in is that pretty, bouncy, blonde hair of hers that he still very much wants to touch. ‘Sunshine’ comes to mind, but that doesn’t seem quite right. There’s something a bit more…delicate, to her. A kind of classic beauty, and a grin tugs at his lips when something finally comes to mind.]

Rose. Wait, no - [He frowns suddenly, scrutinizing her a moment longer before the smile returns, this time with even more confidence. The odds that it’s her real name are virtually zero, but still he’s pleased with his alternate choice.] Lily. ‘Cause you’re….

[Because you’re pretty, but he can’t very well say that. He quickly shrugs. All casual.] Just suits you, is all.

[l-mccall]

[Mouse. Lissy turns the name over in her head, and quickly it comes to suit him far better than Carter did. As does Mason, but she thinks that given the information, she’s got permission to go the more familiar route. It’s a cute name, though she doesn’t say that out loud. The last thing she wants to do is to accidentally insult the guy.

She’d known a few before the end who had hated having anything about them called ‘cute’ in any sense. Lissy had never quite understood that hatred, but she hadn’t really needed to.]

Lily? [It’s a sharp name. It doesn’t drag out the way that hers does, though it fits close enough that she can’t help but grin wider. She would have loved to have been a Lily.]

You’re close, actually. My name is Lissy. 

[Her fingers trace absently over another ball; this time yellow. She was told once that between her hair, her personality, and her clothing, if people radiated colors, hers would be yellow. Too warm to be mean, to bright to be sad.

Lissy had laughed then, and thinking of it still makes the corners of her lips tug slightly. She doubts she’d still be yellow, though she isn’t sure what color it would be replaced with. It doesn’t quite matter, of course, because people don’t work that way.]

Though I’ll admit I think I like Lily better.

[There’s a moment’s pause, where Lissy remembers her manners and the fact that this is technically an introduction.]

It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mouse. [And thankfully, she’s able to mean it without her nerves swallowing her whole.]

[dulciius]

[It’s a strange game, naming the balls as intently as perhaps this stranger is, but Natalie’s never been one to turn down a game. And perhaps it’s all for the greater benefit, maybe the game is far more fun when you’ve got a name and a certain personality attached to every ball. 

Or perhaps it’s a lazy day at it’s finest, and Nat’s just about content with that too.]

[Natalie leans forward, resting her chin on her palm as she spots the said ball, lips tucking away to a corner of her mouth as she considers.] Jessica has a nice ring to it. Though we could swing it all the way and dub that one a Jacob too. Both seem pretty fitting to me, it’s got a dynamic look to it. [She reasons, nodding to sell her point and she’ll be happy with both.]

So, is there a greater motive to naming these balls or is it just a task for a wandering mind? [Natalie queries, quirking a brow in question with a lopsided grin in place.] Because either way, I’d love to title an open one Moxy—’cause there’s gotta be a diva in the group, huh. Unless, of course, another bold ‘un has already claimed that label. 

[It’s a friendly pitter patter, nothing Natalie isn’t used to, and it feels good to chatter about nothing substantial. A nice change, she concludes.]

[l-mccall]

Jay? [Lissy suggests absently, trying to find a midground between Jessica and Jacob. She lets it drop, though, gently pushing the ball back in amongst the others.

There was no diva so to speak. At least, not that she could recognize. Half of the balls still sat in a quiet space, yet unnamed, with no features gaining fondness in her mind. One of them could be a Moxy. They could be whatever they liked, she supposed, if they were capable of liking things such as names.

The blonde grins softly.]

Just passing the time. [Despite the words, her tone is not dismissive.] I don’t think I entirely remember how to actually play, so. [So this works.]

But things tend to be more fun when you give life to them, you know? Or maybe I just have a bad habit of naming things? I used to name my favorite pens and pencils too.

[What she named them however is long gone. Vaguely, there’s a feeling in the back of her thoughts that one of them might have been a Melody. But the feeling turns cold just as soon as it’s born there, and Lissy leaves it to be.]

[lex-laz-blog]

[They’re not talking about beets. Horrors, maybe, but not beets. She’s goes taut and stark-white, even smaller then before. And they’re not even talking, really, because Lex is left standing on the outside as she watches her lock down, wonders exactly what it is she said wrong and what she’s brought back. 

— Lex had talked people down. There were plenty of people out there with their sanity worn razor thing, too prone to panic after seeing too much. And, when they inevitably snapped, it was at the worst possible time. It put many more lives in danger than just their own.

And she’d talk. Her hands spread wide in the air, innocent, she’d speak low and steady. “I need you to calm down.”

If they didn’t, she or Christof would cold-cock them, butt of a gun across the face or to the back of the head, and someone else would have to carry them. 

It’d be a last resort, but a comforting kind of knowledge to know that it was a thing she could do. Nothing would ever spiral too far out of her control. She didn’t even think of it as violent. It was just — necessary. A reset button. They could all thank her later for it, when they weren’t dead. 

Well, it’s not an option anymore. And it’s more difficult to use her words when she knows she doesn’t have a failsafe, doesn’t have anything else she can fall back on when words fail. 

But it’s not like upsetting someone is so dire, here. Someone’s screams or cries won’t draw looters or Deluded to their location. It’s just — Lex doens’t like it, Lex hadn’t meant to. Lex wants to fix it. (With her words, not with pistol-whipping.) 

It’s not her fault that she sucks at words.

But before she had startled her and she’d just ignored it, because comforting her hadn’t seemed like a thing she could do. And now she’s somehow disturbed her, and comforting her still isn’t a thing she can do, which leaves ignoring it. Distracting her. Doing her the favor of acting like she hadn’t noticed it.]

My new mission in life. [She intones. And she smiles, because one of them has to, just a brief upturn at one corner of her mouth, because she’d rather her face show that than concern.] 

So, Lissy — tell me about the Colony. [A safe topic, it has to be, safer than what’s out there. Distracting.] I only just got here and I want to know everything. What’s your favorite place?

[l-mccall]

[Lissy wills the tension to drain from her body, taking slow, deep breaths as quietly as she can manage. Somehow, she’s sure she falls short of making the movement inconspicuous. But it’s an old practice these days, and she’s certain with a few more minutes of it, she’ll have herself together again. Or maybe a few more hours.

It’s not like she’s shaking off nerves before her 6th year spelling bee this time.]

Um. [The syllable drops quiet from her lips and though it buys her time -- a clear indication that at least she’s thinking about an answer -- Lissy wishes her mouth had stayed shut. Her voice is not strong yet; soft like a breeze in the otherwise still air.] The halls, probably?

[It’s not a very good answer. ‘The halls’ won’t tell Lex where to find entertainment, or share any real sense of closeness. But it’s not a false answer either. Lissy’s affinity for the halls is born out of the fact that she doesn’t have to stay in the same place while there, and that’s perhaps what makes the question hard to answer correctly.]

I got lost in them a few times when I first got here. [She stumbles to explain, carefully leaving out the details of what she really did when she’d arrived.] But the good kind of lost, if that makes sense. They give you time to think and I like not necessarily having a destination.

But the music room is fun too. [It’s maybe a better thing to say. She doesn’t have to clarify that she herself can’t play anything unless she’s asked. Well, she can play Hot Cross Buns on the piano, but that’s less than impressive.

Still, occasionally she found someone in there comfortable simply letting her listen to them play. She’d sit on the floor in the far corner and though neither of them would speak to each other, Lissy made a point of smiling, and trying to be generally warm to keep the mood light. Often she’d bring books from the library with her, to look a little less like she’d simply been wanting company she didn’t have to speak to.]

[lex-laz-blog]

[Lex had grown up comfortably uncomfortably. Or uncomfortably comfortable. They had enough money, every month, to pay the rent, to keep the water on and the gas on, to keep food in the refrigerator. But if the car broke down, or the sink broke, or if one of them got sick — that was a different story. Then they might not have been able to.

Always on some kind of precipice between having enough and not. They knew that every month the check would come in. And though there was no regular price on silence, nothing that Lex could measure it against, she’d always thought it was unfairly low. Surely he could have afforded more. Surely there had to be a higher price put on it, on all the things that he wasn’t, to her and to them, and on all the awful things that he was. (A watcher, ever-present behind subordinates in cars with block-tinted windows, the imagined sound a camera shutter that followed her wherever she went.) 

But it had been enough, they’d had enough, for Lex to be able to be picky about some things. I don’t want to eat peas, I don’t want to wear that.

She can’t help showing her surprise. She’d always thought of vegetarianism as — a rich person thing. Something like it, lumped in with all the other fad diets: eating this, but not eating that. It seems like it doesn’t fit, especially now, like it’s not something that belongs here. 

They’d lived months off of cured meat, smoked meat, preserving everything any way they could when game was so scarce. It had felt essential, to her survival, and she’s torn between wanting to ask questions and not wanting to harp on starvation.] We smoked everything. [She offers, instead of a question.] I think I forgot that food could have a taste other than vaguely like an ashtray.

I don’t think I’ve ever had a beet. They always kind of freaked me out, to be honest. [There’s a grin tugging at her lips. Freaked out by a vegetable, absurd.] Nice to meet you, Lissy. 

[And she was polite, and it didn’t feel like pulling teeth, didn’t feel like she needed ten mental reminders before she remembered to say something socially expected. It’s maybe a baby step, but she mentally pats herself on the back nonetheless. Welcome back to civilization, maybe you’ll do just fine.] 

[l-mccall]

Nice to meet you too. [Lissy says, and presses her lips together; a small seam running taut against the otherwise smooth features of her face -- a noticeable interruption. She tries to curl the corners up in a grin, to make her expression look like literally anything other than the distress signal that it is. Or at least, is to her. Maybe if she’s lucky, the other woman will overlook it. Play it off as a terrible form of grin, and let her leave quietly when the conversation dies.

Lissy doesn’t even want it to, but her gut is churning -- threatening to upend buried memories as her mind plays forward forgotten tastes and scents with all too much clarity.

They smoked everything.

It shouldn’t shake her so much just to hear, but there she is, fingers as tight clasped as her lips. Already pale, her knuckles are stark white against the table as her fingers clench, and there’s really no way to brush it all off. She’s screwed herself over. The only course of action left is to run. Only she can’t, she can’t, she can’t.

And her tongue tastes like ash too, when she focuses on it. The things they’d made had never been quite so burnt. On the days when she can admit it to herself without retching violently, it had tasted almost -- 

Lissy knows that people do not live in purely black and white. The world is full of shades of gray, that cling to every corner, and every person, until nothing is quite clear anymore unless it is too good, or too bad to be ignored. The people she’d sat with, watching the meat cook over a small fire, had found ways to justify to themselves what she hadn’t been able to.

Or they’d pushed it so far under the category of ‘necessary for survival’ that it didn’t bother them anymore. That it didn’t urge them to tell the ones -- Lissy is sure she was not alone in her unknowing -- left clueless to the nature of their meals.

And the memories are so very, very clear. Until something clatters from the ar end of the dinning hall, and her instincts drag her back to the present for caution’s sake.]

You’re lucky. [After a second, she manages, voice too light. Lissy tries not to let it mean more than one thing.] Just avoid beets for the rest of forever and you’ll never have to endure the horror.

[mouse-quinley]

[If he weren’t still looking back at her Mouse would think that perhaps she hadn’t heard him. But she has, or at least he thinks she has with the way she examines the ball in her hands. Eyeing it closely, as if his had been a serious suggestion, and suddenly a small part of him almost feels guilty for taking what was apparently a very crucial matter so lightly. She seems unperturbed, though, as she turns away from him, and Mouse wonders if the conversation has ended before it could even begin.

But then she’s turning back to face him, extending another ball toward him as if it holds the answer to his question. Mouse quirks an eyebrow, and when she finally speaks her words bring a curious smirk to his lips. He pauses at her question, glancing between the girl and the object in her hands before he rolls to the side and lets his feet land on the floor. Then he straightens up and pulls himself to his feet, his interest outweighing his fatigue for the moment. 

After he closes the distance between them he stops and examines the ball for a few moments, appraising her choice before he nods.] I like it. Sylvester it is.

[And then he grins wider, because while there’s something a bit odd about how much thought she’s putting into the whole thing, there’s something innocent about it as well - the kind of imagination and wonder most adults seem to lack. It makes him trust her automatically, or at least more so than most others he’s met.

He quirks an eyebrow again, his question sparked entirely by curiosity, because he wants to know her answer.] What about me? What do I look like?

[l-mccall]

[She lets out a small hum to let him know that she’s heard him, but it’s going to take a minute.

Truth be told, Lissy is horrible with real names. Inanimate objects are easy, because the name only has to seem fitting to her. But she’d -- rather embarrassingly -- spent an entire year in school calling Louise Lila because she’d missed hearing the girl’s name the first time around, and then never found the courage to ask for a correction.

This isn’t really like that. There’s little chance that whatever she says will be right, considering this time she doesn’t even have half-heard garbled syllables to go by. But she could make herself good at this, if she tried hard enough. And Lissy narrows her eyes in playful thought.

He reminds her of a neighbour’s son. The last time she’d seen the kid, he’d been too young for his features to really be defined. When Lissy tilts her head though, the mousey hair and thin features of the stranger before her are almost similar. Older, sharper, more fitting on him.]

Carter. [She says, before she can catch herself. It’s probably rude to name him after a remnant of the past. What if he doesn’t like that name at all? What if he’s always hated it?

The thoughts have to be shaken away before they eat too far into her. Lissy only grins.] Is that terribly off? It’s because of your cheekbones, if that makes any sense at all.

What do I look like?

[lex-laz-blog]

[Somewhere underneath her steel-encased skeleton is heart that beats, dense muscle that propels red blood. It’s useless in there, echoing in a tin can. What use does she have for a beating, bleeding heart?

She’d wrangled it into submission. She’d had years to learn that those that looked innocent could still be desperate, and desperation made everyone selfish, made them cruel. And so all the things that she might have been, had the universe let her — generous, caring, kind — she isn’t any of them, now. Or at least she hasn’t been.

And what was left behind wasn’t malice. Nor was it exactly cruel, even though it was ruthless. Ruthless practicality. 

But the girl in front of her seems so guileless, haloed curls and wide eyes in a round face still clinging to childhood. Speaking of hunger, obliquely enough to be offhand. Too casual, too familiar, and a dilapidated muscle twitches in her chest.

She’d always held disdain for the Colonies, in an abstract sort of way. The way they built themselves behind walls, fortified themselves with guns, but did nothing against the wilds outside. They hid from them. Defensive and cowardice posture that did nothing to cull the savagery that went on outside of the enclaves they built and secured. 

And now she’s in one, and her hypocrisy is much harder to swallow than the contents of the bowl in front of her. She just doesn’t know if she’s brave anymore. Doesn’t know if she can carry on without someone to be at her back, watching her six. They saved each others lives like it was nothing, just something they passed back and forth. But her turn came and she stumbled and —

Now she’s here. Sitting in a cafeteria and spooning oatmeal into her mouth, trying to avoid eating it like she’s afraid someone will take it from her, if she isn’t fast enough. Leisure is her watchword. Gratitude, maybe. Trust, if she can manage it.]

I don’t think that I am, I certainly don’t feel like it now. [She looks down at her rapidly depleting bowl with a slight grimace. It certainly doesn’t look that appetizing, but it’s hardly stopping her.] Although I’ve never liked peas much, I think that still stands.

Lex, by the way, if we’re going to bond over least favorite vegetables. [She gestures with her spoon in a sort of salute (she’d never really had table manners to begin with, but even if she had, she’s sure they’d be long gone by now) and only belatedly realizes how it makes the two damning bands on her wrist catch the light. Oh well, could be worse. Could be three.]

[l-mccall]

[The comment about peas makes her head go all fuzzy in some warm, familiar way. And if she thinks back on it enough, Lissy knows it's because it's a common trait. Several of her friends had hate peas, and it shouldn't be something endearing or familiar to hear from the mouth of a strange, but it is. Is now, when her friends are dead, and her world has changed to entirely. It's a sentiment that sounds quite normal, clear in the wake of a world turned on its head.

Not even that warmth can chase away the tension that comes with the full recognition of what is said, though. Again, Lissy is too scared to tell the truth, and too worried to want to lie.]

I'm a vegetarian. [Is what she settles for. Not a lie, but not the whole story. It's a path she's gotten almost too good at walking, and yet one that shakes her every time she steps foot on it anyhow.] I didn't used to be, but I guess I got fond of peas when my options became limited.

They're easier to keep than meat, at least. [Like she would really know. Lissy supposes they are, given that some are canned. But they'd been living almost solely off of meat they were trying to keep when she'd been out in the wilds. And whether she wants to know how to keep it fresh or not, she does.

Violently, her stomach turns, and Lissy chases off the thought as effectively as she can. She thinks of water, lettuce, corn, paint, anything that doesn't tie into --]

But I've always hated beets. You couldn't even get my corpse to eat a beet. [And she ruins her own progress.]

Oh, and, Lissy. My name is Lissy.

[dulciius]

[There are plenty a things to do here at the Colony. Many lounges, a bar, a garden, a music room, stables, game grounds, training rinks—even a church. Nat is sure she’s missing some pointers, but the point is that she’s got a whole repretoire of places to hit before she can declare herself truly bored.]

[Now Natalie is very much more of a physical person, prefers a stint in the rink than inside playing board games, but as the days passed and the turmoil within her grew more and more tangled, she was finding it harder for her to get herself up and out onto the track again.]

[And that’s not a bother, she tells herself—no, not a bother after all. It’s just a strange phase, a passing denial of her body to want to fall out of routine—to rebel against order. You know, as one does.

And there is a part of her that knows it’s much more than that, but nobody needs to know that.]

[So to cure the never-ending bouts of boredom that were most certainly side effects of a mind and body used to far more energetic schedules, Natalie had taken more enthusiastically to the lounges and what they had to offer.]

[Like this one here, with it’s pool table. The table’s occupied for now though, a blonde with positively beautiful curly hair who has taken to holding a ball, examining it carefully. Natalie is resting her chin atop a stick, watching from the sidelines, if you will.]

Do you think anyone of ‘em looks like a Bill? I think that would be pretty…punny. [Oh she dared go there. Natalie had outdone herself, her grin splitting her expression for a few moments before she’s shaking her head.] Sorry, it was so easy I couldn’t help myself.

[l-mccall]

[Her own laughter startles her; springing from high in her throat out of nowhere at what is honestly a poor joke in the best way possible. Lissy nearly drops the ball, and only squeezes her fingers tighter around it's shell to steady herself.]

I can't even blame you. But, I'll let you make that call. [She hums agreeably, smile hung small on her lips to stay. For now.] I think the blue one looks a bit like a Jessica. How about you?

[Said ball lays still behind her; only visible when caught out of the corner of her eye. But Lissy had almost picked that one up instead, and so it's easy for her to place a name to it now. Though, it perhaps looks just as equally like a Timothy, and so she jumps back and forth between the two -- waiting for the other's word to settle at least half of the internal debate.

Lissy maybe shouldn't base her choices on other people's unknowing answers. A pool ball's name doesn't exactly seem like risky stakes, though. She'll draw the line when the chances are rough, and knowing herself, likely much sooner. Maybe before she even asks herself whatever the question is; too afraid that it will speak more for her than she means.

Alfred is a steadying presence in her palm, though. It keeps her grounded now as her thoughts and fears start to mingle. Though, all things considered, today is a good day. Lissy wouldn't have come to such a public area if she hadn't felt capable of handling it well. 

After all, she spent her first two weeks at colony stuffed up in her dorm. She knows her limitations well, at this point..]

[mouse-quinley]

[Mouse is sprawled across a couch in the lounge, resting his sore muscles after a particularly tough day of training while he waits for his little ‘brothers’ to get out of their own classes. Boredom isn’t something he’s ever been accustomed to, and even lying as he is now with his eyes shut he’s exploring the small tendrils of emotion that come from the people around him. Tracing them back to their sources and trying to put names to them, though most are faint and difficult to get a read on. 

It’s oddly relaxing, the respite from any strong feelings that can’t be ignored, and it’s something he attributes to the calmness of the afternoon and the near-emptiness of the room. 

Not entirely empty, though, and the sound of an unfamiliar voice has him opening one eye and tilting his head back over the arm of the couch.

His gaze lands on a young girl, maybe close to his own age, with curly blonde hair he’s strangely tempted to yank. Not hard, mind - just a gentle tug, so he can watch it spring back into place. It’s a temptation he ignores, of course, not only because it would require his getting up. 

There’s a brief moment where he thinks her comment was directed toward him, but then he spots the pool ball in her hands and he can’t decide if it’s better or worse that that’s what she was talking to. 

But he’s always been one to give people the benefit of the doubt, and he can’t count the number of times the boys he’d grown up with had given names to inanimate objects. The thought makes him smile, makes him decide to speak up because her actions are something familiar, something close to home, and his voice is gently teasing when he does so.] I dunno, I think it looks more like a Wilfred. Or maybe Sylvester. But then, I don’t know him as well as you do, so maybe you’re right. 

[l-mccall]

[Lissy eyes the little ball carefully -- as if assessing it from another angle might lend its look to a different name. In her mind, Alfred still hugs the dull sheen of it to perfection, but there are plenty of other pool balls on the table. Turning to glance at them with the same care, she picks up a deep green one. There's a moment where she isn't sure how to continue speaking, before she simply holds it out to the other. A gesture of approval, though he's far too distant to take it from her. Maybe to even see it clearly.

Like Sylvester is his name to give it, not hers, if he agrees.]

Sylvester just sounds green to me. [The words are a weak justification dripping light off her tongue. But they are words all the same, and they do not quake with hesitation. Lissy will take the sureness of being able to speak over sounding big doing it any day.

Months ago, she would have tripped over sharing even such a small thing about herself. One thought would have leaped to the next until she could reason circles into the thinking that knowing Sylvester meant green to her was as good as knowing everything there was to know.

Rationality comes like a breath of fresh air, easy now.]

What do you think?

[Though not so freely Lissy wouldn't rather listen than speak.]

[annaphia-deactivated20150713]

I try to avoid make-up when I’m not working.