circumitus: you started throwing frozen shot glasses at people and you kept saying "it's fine, they melt." (wave goodbye to your troubles)
Reybama ([personal profile] circumitus) wrote in [community profile] ataraxionlogs2012-05-17 04:27 am
Entry tags:

woe to those who love me well [narrative/open]

LOCATION: The Hallways.
WARNINGS: Word vomit.
SUMMARY: Rey procured a little something special quite recently. She wisely makes use of it.
(For anyone who might want to bump into her: She'll be moderately more coherent than most of how this narrative turned out.)

The routine went as follows:

Wake up. Be as presentable as possible before stepping out the doors.

Wash up. Appearances didn't mean much, but no one should be barbarous enough to neglect their personal hygiene.

Locker check. Most of the time, it remained the same, which was never any big surprise. But talks of random incidents led her into the habit of making sure.

What she was expecting was something else. Weapons. A change of clothes. People talked about it; she sometimes listened. But only on those very rare occasions that she ever checks her communicator. (The space dramas and inane antics never did interest her.) In any case, it might've been nice to wear something that isn't this fucking jumpsuit...

None of the above.

Instead: Some kind of device presented itself inside the locker. Wires. Headphones. An oddly familiar contraption.

Something in the mud of memories rises up with reminder -- it's a tape player, with an unlabeled cassette inside.

Brows knit together, she extracts the random object from the interior. In spite of this messed up haze she fell into ever since she woke up at the morgue, since before she woke up here, she isn't entirely without direction. She knows well enough to place the damn headphones over her ears. She even knows how to work the player, though somehow feeling as though this were also an antique well beyond her years.

It was just a feeling, as if someone had shown her before, once upon a long time.

Flicking the PLAY button, an odd but memorable melody began to fill her head. It was strange, but nice. Calm. She almost even smiled a little, before attaching the device at her hip so she could resume her morning routine in song.

Next on the agenda: Normally, it would have been food. Food was necessary. People like food, it seems. That's what her body keeps telling her. But the taste is putrid and foul; she gets no satisfaction out of it. She eats in moderation.

She decides to skip breakfast.

The morning is spent wandering -- an addendum to her schedule. She has to have one, even if it's a backup plan. Somehow, the existence of a habitual cycle is comforting one. It's something that she craves and needs. Like programming.

Long after she had inhaled the smoke that sent steam and vibrations up from the floor, twisted the walls, her warped sense of perception remained the same. It's a very quiet and lonely place now, occupied by phantom mirages that passed by the corridors. Had someone ever addressed her, and rarely they ever did, she regarded them in mute passing.

E l'angelo si accosta, bacia, e vi bacia la morte!

The music takes an oddly unexpected turn to her ears.

Not just her ears -- her mind.

Like something reaching inside of her skull, tearing into her body.

She stops, and stands there, frozen. The wall that she has built around her surroundings breaks with the despaired aria that cries from the wires.

Prendilo dunque... Io son giĆ  morta cosa!

Melted in the memory of a city that fell into ash, the song is there. Present, lingering in the corner of her mind; a monster underneath her bed; a skeleton in her closet.

This dying body is her body.

You are a vessel. You are born to die.

Finally, she rips out the headphones from her ears, shaking her head. But the song continues inside her skull, a scream in the void.

Remember, goddammit!

The back of her hand smacked over her forehead, her shoulder leaning against the wall for support.

Rey's silence, up until then, had been a vow. She clung to it. Words were hollow, full of empty meaning and dirty promises. She had nothing to offer, and she could take nothing in return from the people of this ship. These were her faults.

The truth is this: Rey is a murderer. A soldier following orders. A small and incredibly insignificant digit in the system. This much she knew now for certain. Her comfort was the gun and her friends were the flames.

Another version of this truth: Rey has no friends.

Aware of this, it seemed to be a certainty that she had nothing more to say. Her words were like poison on her own cotton tongue.

Where everything had spun, the headphones had fallen, and with a snap--

Time moved on again.

As it did, an echo of something she'd known before, or perhaps she had always known; she finally extracts an uttered sentence: "Tu non sei sola..."

You are not alone.