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Jun. 3rd, 2025 03:10 pmNAME. Clementine Chasseur
CANON. Hemlock Grove
OOC PREFERENCES.
IC CHARACTERISTICS.
IC PERMISSIONS.
CANON. Hemlock Grove
OOC PREFERENCES.
→ CONTACT: My plurk (porphyrogene) is always open for friendage, or PMs work too!
→ FOURTH WALLING / CANON PUNCTURE: No fourth walling, canon's not popular enough.
→ BACKTAGGING: Hell yes!
→ THREADJACKING: Fuck yeah!
→ OFFENSIVE SUBJECTS: Sexual assault/abuse and rape are difficult subjects for me OOCly. Please PM me if you think they are going to come up.
→ PREFERRED GENDER PRONOUN: She/her/hers are fine!
IC CHARACTERISTICS.
→ CANON POINT: Post-1x12, Children of the Night.
→ PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION: Clementine is short, just over five feet tall, and slim, but muscular and athletic for her size. She has hazel eyes and a direct gaze. She most often dresses in clothing that's comfortable, that she can move around in, grays and greens and browns, backwoods-stylish; canonically at least one character has remarked upon her "sensible shoes". She will most often smell strongly of alcohol, and occasionally of blood or common chemical agents.
→ DEMEANOR: Direct while being indirect. Clementine seems like a straight-shooter until the moment she doesn't. She walks and talks like someone who has nothing to hide, until abruptly she says something weird and has everything to hide. If you look hard enough, there's a military bearing under her straight-talking, sarcastic facade, or at least one that's used to following orders as well as giving them when necessary. Above all, Clementine has a tendency to seem sterile, disattached from situations and people - at least most of the time.
→ ABILITIES: The Science™, especially biology, especially what Clementine refers to as "predatorothology". Amateur forensics. Beheading werewolves. (Wait, what was that last one?)
→ MEDICAL INFORMATION: Nothing in particular.
→ CABIN INFORMATION: 5-14. A motel room, run-down and beat-up but otherwise nondescript.
→ OFFENSIVE SUBJECTS: God, identity, morality. You know, the little things.
IC PERMISSIONS.
→ PHYSICAL AFFECTION: Ho ho ho you can try.
→ MENTAL: PM me first, but broadly yes!
→ MIMICRY: Go for it! But PM me.
→ PHYSICAL VIOLENCE: Absolutely.
→ PSYCHOLOGICAL VIOLENCE: Do it. PM me about the triggers I mentioned above or if it will have long-term effects, but otherwise let's go nuts.
→ MAGIC: PM me!
→ DEBATE: Go for it!
→ CHARACTER DEATH: PM me, but probably!
ten † where help is almost despaired of
Jun. 26th, 2015 02:16 pmPeople have been talking a lot about what inmates are allowed to do - what power inmates should have and how those should be distributed. And maybe that's a conversation that needs to happen. I don't want to be a part of it, because I am and have always been human.
What bothers me is that the wardens, who have the most power over us by sheer virtue of being wardens in this place, also have full access to powers that could crush every single human in here. I'm not going to reference particular times and places when that's happened, because we all remember them. For those of you who are too new to know what I'm talking about, imagine going up against a dragon with a toothpick.
This isn't necessary. It isn't necessary for anyone on this boat to be stronger than anyone else in order to achieve the alleged goal of rehabilition.
And I'll tell you one other thing: all my adult life, I've been fighting outnumbered against creatures ten times stronger and more dangerous than I could ever be. As far as I'm concerned, the way things stand around here now, this is just a continuation of that fight.
[A beat. A breath.]
. . . And Scott, get over here, please. There's something I have to show you.
What bothers me is that the wardens, who have the most power over us by sheer virtue of being wardens in this place, also have full access to powers that could crush every single human in here. I'm not going to reference particular times and places when that's happened, because we all remember them. For those of you who are too new to know what I'm talking about, imagine going up against a dragon with a toothpick.
This isn't necessary. It isn't necessary for anyone on this boat to be stronger than anyone else in order to achieve the alleged goal of rehabilition.
And I'll tell you one other thing: all my adult life, I've been fighting outnumbered against creatures ten times stronger and more dangerous than I could ever be. As far as I'm concerned, the way things stand around here now, this is just a continuation of that fight.
[A beat. A breath.]
. . . And Scott, get over here, please. There's something I have to show you.
Tags:
nine † that He bring visible & speedy help
Jun. 7th, 2015 03:34 pmspam } kitchens & greenhouse
[For one day - one day only - Clementine skips her dinner shift. It's not out of any sense of laziness; she simply loses track of time after Dean says what he says, and so by the time she realizes she's supposed to be there, the shift's already over.]
[The next day, she makes up for it by arriving early and staying until she's kicked out. There is very little else she wants to do, she realizes. Sitting still in her cabin and getting drunk is not going to cut it, not today. Not now.]
[She is listless, purposeless, and wanders more or less by accident into the greenhouse. Sitting under a small tree (whose species she could determine if she gave two shits), she considers a prayer, tries it out, her hands clenched in small fists on her knees. It doesn't feel as though anyone's listening, though.]
voice } open minus dean
I'm at loose ends.
[This is not what she'd meant to say; her voice is thin, croaky, as though she hasn't spoken in years.]
If anyone needs an extra pair of hands. I have one.
[That's more or less it.]
private } scott
[Now she sounds desperate, hungry for purpose, lost and alone. He is her last hope - and what fucking irony is that?]
Tell me what to do.
private } iris
Are you okay?
[For one day - one day only - Clementine skips her dinner shift. It's not out of any sense of laziness; she simply loses track of time after Dean says what he says, and so by the time she realizes she's supposed to be there, the shift's already over.]
[The next day, she makes up for it by arriving early and staying until she's kicked out. There is very little else she wants to do, she realizes. Sitting still in her cabin and getting drunk is not going to cut it, not today. Not now.]
[She is listless, purposeless, and wanders more or less by accident into the greenhouse. Sitting under a small tree (whose species she could determine if she gave two shits), she considers a prayer, tries it out, her hands clenched in small fists on her knees. It doesn't feel as though anyone's listening, though.]
voice } open minus dean
I'm at loose ends.
[This is not what she'd meant to say; her voice is thin, croaky, as though she hasn't spoken in years.]
If anyone needs an extra pair of hands. I have one.
[That's more or less it.]
private } scott
[Now she sounds desperate, hungry for purpose, lost and alone. He is her last hope - and what fucking irony is that?]
Tell me what to do.
private } iris
Are you okay?
spam } zero
[There isn't a single part of her that's not black and blue. The first day goes badly, her bruised and broken bones aching, the sense that pain is swallowing her. She makes a few noises that she wouldn't admit to later, a mewling, echoing sound, like a child who has long given up hope that someone will come for her.]
[She knows she is alone.]
[She doesn't expect anyone to come visit her. From a practical perspective, it wouldn't make sense. The beast is too well liked for anyone to sympathize with her. This will be her seven-day trial, or longer; who knows? Maybe they break the rules when you kill the wrong wolf.]
[From an emotional perspective, she has no hope that anyone in the world exists but her. Her actions have wiped everyone else off the map. People are impossible, and faith more so. Not that she feels guilty: far from it. It's simply that she's done her job, and it hasn't worked.]
[The beast is alive.]
spam } scott
[When her seven days are up, she waits in the corner of her cell. Not expecting much, really. Either she'll go or she won't. She could continue to stay in here forever if it were up to her, and she wouldn't be too bothered. It's not as though outside of these bars she has a purpose anymore. It's not as though there's a goddamn reward or even a point to doing what she was taught to do.]
[She wonders whether the Order even exists anymore. Somehow, working solo, she always thought the organization revolved around her. With her death, have they dissolved? Or do they continue on despite her absence, as though she doesn't matter?]
[Because she doesn't matter.]
[Her arm is in a sling. She hums Hey, Jude under her breath, because she remembers it, and it was a bright moment, or at least a moment she remembers as separable from all the other moments in the past hundred and sixty-eight hours.]
spam } later
[Just past midnight, she wanders the hall. There's nothing sharp in her room - which is not new - and nothing to drink - which is. She feels utterly bereft and ridiculously emotional for someone who hasn't felt a thing in the entire past week.]
[Her path takes her past most common rooms, zig-zagging, up to the deck, where she looks out over the rail for a moment until she realizes what she's doing. Then she draws her lips together in a tight line and turns away, off to sit quietly in the rigging until what is nominally dawn. Just before breakfast, she disappears into her room again.]
[This pattern continues for several days, as sleep persists in not coming. On the fourth day, she falls asleep on the deck and sleeps through ten o'clock, when she awakes with a start and a scream, clawing at her neck.]
[There isn't a single part of her that's not black and blue. The first day goes badly, her bruised and broken bones aching, the sense that pain is swallowing her. She makes a few noises that she wouldn't admit to later, a mewling, echoing sound, like a child who has long given up hope that someone will come for her.]
[She knows she is alone.]
[She doesn't expect anyone to come visit her. From a practical perspective, it wouldn't make sense. The beast is too well liked for anyone to sympathize with her. This will be her seven-day trial, or longer; who knows? Maybe they break the rules when you kill the wrong wolf.]
[From an emotional perspective, she has no hope that anyone in the world exists but her. Her actions have wiped everyone else off the map. People are impossible, and faith more so. Not that she feels guilty: far from it. It's simply that she's done her job, and it hasn't worked.]
[The beast is alive.]
spam } scott
[When her seven days are up, she waits in the corner of her cell. Not expecting much, really. Either she'll go or she won't. She could continue to stay in here forever if it were up to her, and she wouldn't be too bothered. It's not as though outside of these bars she has a purpose anymore. It's not as though there's a goddamn reward or even a point to doing what she was taught to do.]
[She wonders whether the Order even exists anymore. Somehow, working solo, she always thought the organization revolved around her. With her death, have they dissolved? Or do they continue on despite her absence, as though she doesn't matter?]
[Because she doesn't matter.]
[Her arm is in a sling. She hums Hey, Jude under her breath, because she remembers it, and it was a bright moment, or at least a moment she remembers as separable from all the other moments in the past hundred and sixty-eight hours.]
spam } later
[Just past midnight, she wanders the hall. There's nothing sharp in her room - which is not new - and nothing to drink - which is. She feels utterly bereft and ridiculously emotional for someone who hasn't felt a thing in the entire past week.]
[Her path takes her past most common rooms, zig-zagging, up to the deck, where she looks out over the rail for a moment until she realizes what she's doing. Then she draws her lips together in a tight line and turns away, off to sit quietly in the rigging until what is nominally dawn. Just before breakfast, she disappears into her room again.]
[This pattern continues for several days, as sleep persists in not coming. On the fourth day, she falls asleep on the deck and sleeps through ten o'clock, when she awakes with a start and a scream, clawing at her neck.]
video } backdated to LESS IS MORE FLOOD
[Witness Clementine bobbing around on the kitchen ceiling, legs crossed, arms folded across her chest, eyes rolled back in her head. Everything about her posture says she thinks this shit is bananas.]
You can't just not have gravity. It's a law.
[This is against science.]
[She's not having fun, she swears to God.]
spam } scott
[She wakes in a haze of pain; the space just over her heart aches and feels as though it's still bleeding. If she touches it, it might still be tacky, so she doesn't touch it, just lets herself breathe in, out, eyes still closed, telling herself no, she isn't dead, she's only dying, very, very slowly.]
[She knows he's there before she opens her eyes, of course. No way he wouldn't be there. He's one of those loyal motherfuckers, even though she's shown him nothing worth being loyal to, even though she doesn't want him here. Would rather be alone with her pain.]
[Anyway. Not going to happen.]
[She opens her eyes in the face of Scott McCall and whatever the world is doing to him at the moment, besides hurting her, hurting him through her. Her face is locked in a tight frown, the pinch of pain between her eyes, her fingers twisted almost desperately in the cot's sheet.]
spam } infirmary
[She consents to stay in the infirmary for a few days, if only because she can't conceptualize walking yet. They don't know how many times she was stabbed, but it was a lot. More than necessary, which irritates her. It's flashy and stupid to make that much of a mess. Or overconfident. She couldn't actually say which.]
[After those first few days, she slips off to her room. If anyone cares to visit her there, she is gaunt, hollow-eyed; not full of the madness she's so often known for, but of hesitation, a darkness rather than a light behind the eyes, of dullness and disconcerting fear.]
[She is drinking, of course. The minute she gets back behind her own door, she opens a bottle of whiskey. So she wavers, and she narrows her eyes at anyone who passes on the other side of her door, waiting for someone to slow, stop, come hurt her again. This time, she'll be ready.]
[No, she won't.]
[Witness Clementine bobbing around on the kitchen ceiling, legs crossed, arms folded across her chest, eyes rolled back in her head. Everything about her posture says she thinks this shit is bananas.]
You can't just not have gravity. It's a law.
[This is against science.]
[She's not having fun, she swears to God.]
spam } scott
[She wakes in a haze of pain; the space just over her heart aches and feels as though it's still bleeding. If she touches it, it might still be tacky, so she doesn't touch it, just lets herself breathe in, out, eyes still closed, telling herself no, she isn't dead, she's only dying, very, very slowly.]
[She knows he's there before she opens her eyes, of course. No way he wouldn't be there. He's one of those loyal motherfuckers, even though she's shown him nothing worth being loyal to, even though she doesn't want him here. Would rather be alone with her pain.]
[Anyway. Not going to happen.]
[She opens her eyes in the face of Scott McCall and whatever the world is doing to him at the moment, besides hurting her, hurting him through her. Her face is locked in a tight frown, the pinch of pain between her eyes, her fingers twisted almost desperately in the cot's sheet.]
spam } infirmary
[She consents to stay in the infirmary for a few days, if only because she can't conceptualize walking yet. They don't know how many times she was stabbed, but it was a lot. More than necessary, which irritates her. It's flashy and stupid to make that much of a mess. Or overconfident. She couldn't actually say which.]
[After those first few days, she slips off to her room. If anyone cares to visit her there, she is gaunt, hollow-eyed; not full of the madness she's so often known for, but of hesitation, a darkness rather than a light behind the eyes, of dullness and disconcerting fear.]
[She is drinking, of course. The minute she gets back behind her own door, she opens a bottle of whiskey. So she wavers, and she narrows her eyes at anyone who passes on the other side of her door, waiting for someone to slow, stop, come hurt her again. This time, she'll be ready.]
[No, she won't.]
Do you people always get this fucking philosophical when it gets cold? What is it about the drop in temperature and the birth of Jesus that makes people feel the need to tie up all their mental loose ends? Shit.
Someone let me into the pub.
spam } chapel & enclosure
[She prays. Fervently, her hands clasped so tightly that the dry skin of her knuckles breaks. Her prays are whispered, muttered against the clammy silence of this place, so free of significance, of the marks of the God she knows. If she's being honest, she feels closest to God in other places - in the Enclosure. Near Stephen, who has the quiet of God if not the quiet fury. When she is alone. In the bottom of a bottle. In some woman's mouth.]
[But it's here that she wants to find it. Here below the white walls, before the hard pews, she wants the severity of her God, His desire for her strength, His unrelenting expectation of her duty. She is failing. She whispers please and please and please.]
[When she gets up to leave, she's clearly been crying. Or maybe she's just red-eyed because she's drunk. Maybe it's both. Either way she runs, through the halls and to the Enclosure, slams on the door with a tight-closed fist, as tight as the vice around her heart.]
( cut for gift list! )
Someone let me into the pub.
spam } chapel & enclosure
[She prays. Fervently, her hands clasped so tightly that the dry skin of her knuckles breaks. Her prays are whispered, muttered against the clammy silence of this place, so free of significance, of the marks of the God she knows. If she's being honest, she feels closest to God in other places - in the Enclosure. Near Stephen, who has the quiet of God if not the quiet fury. When she is alone. In the bottom of a bottle. In some woman's mouth.]
[But it's here that she wants to find it. Here below the white walls, before the hard pews, she wants the severity of her God, His desire for her strength, His unrelenting expectation of her duty. She is failing. She whispers please and please and please.]
[When she gets up to leave, she's clearly been crying. Or maybe she's just red-eyed because she's drunk. Maybe it's both. Either way she runs, through the halls and to the Enclosure, slams on the door with a tight-closed fist, as tight as the vice around her heart.]
( cut for gift list! )
spam } open
[The feeling of safety lasts approximately three hours after the fire's put out. Clementine is alone, which is not so unusual, and sober, which is, when she realizes that a clock is ticking. There's a clock on her wall. Honestly she never noticed it before, but now it seems obscenely loud.]
[She pulls it off the wall and takes the batteries out, then hangs it up again, its hands frozen. Stares at it for a few moments. Pulls out a piece of paper and makes a list of what they've learned.]
[It's not enough.]
[This is not a fact that she can accept, not like this, so alone and so sober. So instead of sleeping, she sets about to fixing one of these problems at a time. The second one's easy. Once she's tackled it and kicked the bottle under the bed, she makes her way out to the deck. It's not as late as she thought it was, nine or ten, and there are still plenty of people around. One thing she's got in her favor is she doesn't seem as drunk as she is. She can walk around, look at things, hands clasped behind her back like any other functioning person. People-watch.]
[Only, if anyone notices, this is anathema to her habit. She isn't normally out this late unless she's doing something specific, she doesn't mingle, and ordinarily her gaze is sharp - too sharp. Now she watches everyone as though viewing them through fogged glass, like she can see vague outlines but nothing else.]
( private message & spam )
[The feeling of safety lasts approximately three hours after the fire's put out. Clementine is alone, which is not so unusual, and sober, which is, when she realizes that a clock is ticking. There's a clock on her wall. Honestly she never noticed it before, but now it seems obscenely loud.]
[She pulls it off the wall and takes the batteries out, then hangs it up again, its hands frozen. Stares at it for a few moments. Pulls out a piece of paper and makes a list of what they've learned.]
[It's not enough.]
[This is not a fact that she can accept, not like this, so alone and so sober. So instead of sleeping, she sets about to fixing one of these problems at a time. The second one's easy. Once she's tackled it and kicked the bottle under the bed, she makes her way out to the deck. It's not as late as she thought it was, nine or ten, and there are still plenty of people around. One thing she's got in her favor is she doesn't seem as drunk as she is. She can walk around, look at things, hands clasped behind her back like any other functioning person. People-watch.]
[Only, if anyone notices, this is anathema to her habit. She isn't normally out this late unless she's doing something specific, she doesn't mingle, and ordinarily her gaze is sharp - too sharp. Now she watches everyone as though viewing them through fogged glass, like she can see vague outlines but nothing else.]
( private message & spam )
quatre † as the patron of difficult cases
Aug. 21st, 2014 08:14 pmfourth wall day, backdated } video
[This is probably a bad idea. She doesn't have the wherewithal to face Olivia right now, in all likelihood. But if Peter's out there, it might be good to see - just to see - how things went, after she was disposed of.]
[Her irritation at her own decision's apparent, though, the second she starts speaking.]
I'm looking for word of the Rumanceks.
spam } pub
[The next day she loiters outside the pub until someone lets her in. Frankly she doesn't give a shit who it is; she'll follow anyone in. If she knows them, so much the better.]
( spam } dean )
[This is probably a bad idea. She doesn't have the wherewithal to face Olivia right now, in all likelihood. But if Peter's out there, it might be good to see - just to see - how things went, after she was disposed of.]
[Her irritation at her own decision's apparent, though, the second she starts speaking.]
I'm looking for word of the Rumanceks.
spam } pub
[The next day she loiters outside the pub until someone lets her in. Frankly she doesn't give a shit who it is; she'll follow anyone in. If she knows them, so much the better.]
( spam } dean )
deux † faithful servant & friend of jesus
Jun. 27th, 2014 02:57 pm( spam for arya )
spam } infirmary
[When she wakes up the second time, she stares at the ceiling through half-parted lids. Don't let them know you're awake. Don't let them see. Take these few precious seconds for yourself, for planning, and then . . . ]
[Roll over and grab something sharp. In this case, this does not work. Her hands come upon nothing. A slow blink; then she rips the IV spike out of her arm and holds it out ahead of her like a light in the dark 'til her knuckles go white, leaning against the side table.]
[Any minute now she'll take off running. Any minute now. Probably. Certainly anyone who comes towards her gets a dark, if woozy, look and a warning jab at the air. She's not interested in sticking around.]
voice } 6/28
[She's crawled back to her room by now - her room-that's-not-a-room. It's every hotel she's ever stayed in, and she's unimpressed by it. If this is meant to be some kind of jab at her psyche, she's seen better attempts.]
[She understands what the communicator is for now, anyway. When it's not for screaming in the dark, it's just a phone, for communicating with people you don't like and would rather avoid.]
[She sounds drugged, or dying, or both, but also like there's a little laughter caught in her throat despite it all.]
So when does it start for real? That, that was. Bullshit.
spam } infirmary
[When she wakes up the second time, she stares at the ceiling through half-parted lids. Don't let them know you're awake. Don't let them see. Take these few precious seconds for yourself, for planning, and then . . . ]
[Roll over and grab something sharp. In this case, this does not work. Her hands come upon nothing. A slow blink; then she rips the IV spike out of her arm and holds it out ahead of her like a light in the dark 'til her knuckles go white, leaning against the side table.]
[Any minute now she'll take off running. Any minute now. Probably. Certainly anyone who comes towards her gets a dark, if woozy, look and a warning jab at the air. She's not interested in sticking around.]
voice } 6/28
[She's crawled back to her room by now - her room-that's-not-a-room. It's every hotel she's ever stayed in, and she's unimpressed by it. If this is meant to be some kind of jab at her psyche, she's seen better attempts.]
[She understands what the communicator is for now, anyway. When it's not for screaming in the dark, it's just a phone, for communicating with people you don't like and would rather avoid.]
[She sounds drugged, or dying, or both, but also like there's a little laughter caught in her throat despite it all.]
So when does it start for real? That, that was. Bullshit.
une † oh glorious apostle st jude
Jun. 25th, 2014 02:10 pmday 3 } spam & voice
[She wakes in darkness. This does not, in itself, surprise her, because she is dead. She imagines that Dr. Pryce never saw a thing quite as dead as her, once all was said and done, but then - maybe her imagination just doesn't stretch far enough.]
[Against the darkness, she blinks. It has no effect. Stands, hitting her head on the ceiling. With nothing better to do and cramping calves - a strange side effect of dying, or totally unrelated - she walks in a half-crouch with her hands running along the wall, fingers occasionally brushing something smooth, cool, dry. With sockets.]
[She tries not to think about it, but after failing to find anything with which to make a fire, ends up thinking about it anyway in the unending dark.]
[The communicator in her pocket is a puzzle, but eventually she figures out which button turns it on by trial and error. Then she uses the static to her advantage, flicks it on and off three times quick, three slow, three quick: dit dit dit; dah, dah, dah; dit dit dit.]
[Then, quietly:] Won't [bzzt] beat me th--[bzzt]--sy.
day 4 } spam
[The pads of her fingers feel impossibly rough against the mushroom caps. She imagines spores crawling under her skin, although she knows that spores move on wind that doesn't exist down here, and are not sentient or independent enough to crawl anywhere. She is hungry, and licks her fingers despite her best judgment. Her tongue tingles.]
[She moves away. In the depths of the caves now, and beginning to hear things she had not heard before. Movements of people or things in groups. Friend or foe, she has no idea, but frankly, the latter's more likely. She doesn't think she has many friends left anywhere, and statistically, most of them are probably not underground.]
[She finds two femurs - identifying them by shape - lying together in the configuration of a cross. She considers this a sign, and is also appalled that she hasn't made herself a weapon yet. Sharpening them against each other is slow going and makes a sharp, dusty sound, but it's something to do. That's right. Something to do.]
day 5 } spam & voice
[This was not the right choice of cave to sleep in. She knows this somehow instinctively, but can't say what exactly about it was wrong. Only that she wakes with whispers ringing in her ears and is too afraid, too swallowed by darkness to hold her weapons right. Her fingers shake unnaturally for someone as fearless as her.]
[Is this what it's like to walk in darkness forever? How long has it been? She's hungry again, but there is nothing to eat, not even wrong mushrooms. Her stomach will claw its way out of her mouth. She thinks she sees the light of God, only maybe it's the reflection of her own eye in the eye of some predator, jaws held frozen in faux-rictus just above and below her head, waiting to clamp down. Maybe she is looking down its throat. Maybe walking in darkness forever is the same thing as being swallowed alive.]
[The light is gone. She is not screaming yet, but she can feel the scream bubbling up in her throat. Clawing the walls before she realizes it, noticing only when she feels blood, her own blood, welling from broken fingernails. Stop, in Michael's voice, but she isn't afraid of him and doesn't trust him anymore. He isn't here to help anyway.]
[The screaming comes later, and by accident or on purpose (even she doesn't know; is this a distress call or a violent dirge?), it goes out.]
This your motherfuc--[bzzt]--help? Is this w--[bzzt]n answer? [bzzt] dark like a wor--[bzzt]--a beast? Fuck you! I never want--[bzzt]--ou anyway!
[She wakes in darkness. This does not, in itself, surprise her, because she is dead. She imagines that Dr. Pryce never saw a thing quite as dead as her, once all was said and done, but then - maybe her imagination just doesn't stretch far enough.]
[Against the darkness, she blinks. It has no effect. Stands, hitting her head on the ceiling. With nothing better to do and cramping calves - a strange side effect of dying, or totally unrelated - she walks in a half-crouch with her hands running along the wall, fingers occasionally brushing something smooth, cool, dry. With sockets.]
[She tries not to think about it, but after failing to find anything with which to make a fire, ends up thinking about it anyway in the unending dark.]
[The communicator in her pocket is a puzzle, but eventually she figures out which button turns it on by trial and error. Then she uses the static to her advantage, flicks it on and off three times quick, three slow, three quick: dit dit dit; dah, dah, dah; dit dit dit.]
[Then, quietly:] Won't [bzzt] beat me th--[bzzt]--sy.
day 4 } spam
[The pads of her fingers feel impossibly rough against the mushroom caps. She imagines spores crawling under her skin, although she knows that spores move on wind that doesn't exist down here, and are not sentient or independent enough to crawl anywhere. She is hungry, and licks her fingers despite her best judgment. Her tongue tingles.]
[She moves away. In the depths of the caves now, and beginning to hear things she had not heard before. Movements of people or things in groups. Friend or foe, she has no idea, but frankly, the latter's more likely. She doesn't think she has many friends left anywhere, and statistically, most of them are probably not underground.]
[She finds two femurs - identifying them by shape - lying together in the configuration of a cross. She considers this a sign, and is also appalled that she hasn't made herself a weapon yet. Sharpening them against each other is slow going and makes a sharp, dusty sound, but it's something to do. That's right. Something to do.]
day 5 } spam & voice
[This was not the right choice of cave to sleep in. She knows this somehow instinctively, but can't say what exactly about it was wrong. Only that she wakes with whispers ringing in her ears and is too afraid, too swallowed by darkness to hold her weapons right. Her fingers shake unnaturally for someone as fearless as her.]
[Is this what it's like to walk in darkness forever? How long has it been? She's hungry again, but there is nothing to eat, not even wrong mushrooms. Her stomach will claw its way out of her mouth. She thinks she sees the light of God, only maybe it's the reflection of her own eye in the eye of some predator, jaws held frozen in faux-rictus just above and below her head, waiting to clamp down. Maybe she is looking down its throat. Maybe walking in darkness forever is the same thing as being swallowed alive.]
[The light is gone. She is not screaming yet, but she can feel the scream bubbling up in her throat. Clawing the walls before she realizes it, noticing only when she feels blood, her own blood, welling from broken fingernails. Stop, in Michael's voice, but she isn't afraid of him and doesn't trust him anymore. He isn't here to help anyway.]
[The screaming comes later, and by accident or on purpose (even she doesn't know; is this a distress call or a violent dirge?), it goes out.]
This your motherfuc--[bzzt]--help? Is this w--[bzzt]n answer? [bzzt] dark like a wor--[bzzt]--a beast? Fuck you! I never want--[bzzt]--ou anyway!
