who: helena and others! what: variety catchall for the month. when: end of july/ all of august. where: across the boat. warnings: likely discussions of death.
"...I can't give you a lot. Not yet. Not when I don't know you."
This is fair, she thinks, in terms of a boundary. Contact she can handle, but a lot from someone she doesn't know startles her and sets her on edge, and this being doesn't need that to begin with.
There's an ache of sympathy in her, and the longer they are connected, the more her guard lowers to it, offering things in return.
"I know what that feels like."
The images offer no reaction - she lacks any memory to understand them, and they pass by as unseen as they would be if she was there herself. But what she offers back are other pieces of what she knows, subconsciously falling through. The speeding of her heart, being hunted. The sounds of weapons being swung, a friend calling out in agony, the scent of blood fresh on the earth. The ghost pressure of injuries long healed.
"...I don't want to fight. Not if I can help it. Not that I doubt you could make me strong - you can probably already tell how not strong I am, but..."
Under her words, that memory of shattering tubes in the crew cabins, the relief that came to feel them fall apart, be broken, the desire to keep going. Listening for someone's footsteps, and finding it too simple.
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She feels sorry for it, really, if it wants to be less startling. It's only because she couldn't hear it coming - that was all.
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It slinks an inch closer, cautiously.
"Would she... allow it...?"
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This is fair, she thinks, in terms of a boundary. Contact she can handle, but a lot from someone she doesn't know startles her and sets her on edge, and this being doesn't need that to begin with.
"But you can hold my hand."
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That response feels faintly scripted. Not untrue, but unaccustomed.
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"And I'm glad to meet you too, Symbiote. Welcome to the ship, if no one's already said it to you."
Even with this little of contact, the faint traces of sincerity, of curiosity, drift over like scents from a bakery in the morning.
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This talk is small? It is small talking? Eddie did small talk but it only paid attention as far as it needed to to know if it was needed.
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Yet, she sees an opportunity in those words.
"The ship is small, to you?"
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It bristles with a quiet unease thinking about these things, felt on the peripheries of her mind.
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It's not a matter of if, though, it's a matter of when.
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Images of masked heroes, of lab equipment, of another of its kind.
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"I know what that feels like."
The images offer no reaction - she lacks any memory to understand them, and they pass by as unseen as they would be if she was there herself. But what she offers back are other pieces of what she knows, subconsciously falling through. The speeding of her heart, being hunted. The sounds of weapons being swung, a friend calling out in agony, the scent of blood fresh on the earth. The ghost pressure of injuries long healed.
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Under her words, that memory of shattering tubes in the crew cabins, the relief that came to feel them fall apart, be broken, the desire to keep going. Listening for someone's footsteps, and finding it too simple.
Where does it stop? Where do you pull a blow?