South. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
whosthemonsternow) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
riverviewlogs2017-10-15 02:39 pm
whosthemonsternow) wrote in riverviewlogs2017-10-15 02:39 pm
(no subject)
who:South & you??
what: Memory sharing
when: During the memory event
where: Dream land?
warnings: Violence, death, gun use, salty language (I'll add more as needed)
1. The Piano
She's home. It's a "classic" house she was told as a child. American Bungalow or whatever. It was just a building. Maybe a home once, a house, but today? It's just some walls and a roof.
And a piano.
There's people around, bumbling through the house, all dressed in bleak black clothing and clearly mourning. South is in normal clothes. Just a tank top and jeans, nothing to fit the setting. Scars are evident on her shoulders and back, battle wounds from the UNSC and ODST, she's only 20 but she's seen her time on a battle field.
She's not entirely sober, either, if she's honest. But she's sitting at the piano and running her fingertips gently over the keys, not enough to draw out sounds.
When she does press to the keys, it's light, low, a soft melody from her childhood. Her mother always said it was a Russian lullaby, she doesn't know the name, just the tune. Her fingers play across the keys with ease, second nature knowledge.
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2. Karaoke Dreams
Sober, South is somewhat alright at singing. Specific songs, softer ones, lower ones, she sounds alright. Decent. Tipsy though, and with a loud, fast song? She's terrible, mumbling over words and squinting at the screen now and then before simply letting out a loud wail of the next line. It's. Not pretty. But she's grinning, happy, singing with her teammates, her friends- family. Shore leave and no cares in the world.
She's at the bar sitting after the song ends, shots and drinks passing through her and her friends. Eventually, she wanders away a bit, not quite drunk, but enough so that a wayward look from a stranger and a sneer sends her into a fight. It's not the worst she's gotten into, black eye, bloodied lip, banned from another bar and wondering down the street instead.
But she's in another bar soon enough, a few of her team likewise kicked out from the last and in the new bar, too. She's going to sing again, she decides, and fights the urge to start shit as she waits in line for her turn. And she does good, does great even! Until the asshole behind her bumps into her for easily the sixth time, and she just loses it. It's not her fault when she elbows the guy in the gut, or when he takes a swing in retaliation and she lands him on his back. And it's certainly not her fault when his buddies decide to jump in and get their asses kicked. She'll accept it's her fault she's kicked out of another bar- but only because that's bragging rights, okay. Fuck you.
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3. Mistakes Made
It's a split second decision, but that's all it takes to change things forever, isn't it? Honestly, she figured the Meta would rough her brother up, take the AI, but leave. She thought they'd make it out, and without Theta, without that thing, they could just leave. Run away from the Project. go without having any strings holding them back. Without giving the Director reason to keep following them, without the Meta having reason to want and get them.
He calls to her, tells her to spring into action. She's supposed to be in a specific place, in position, ready to strike on his mark. But she waits. She lingers, silent, crouching away from her assigned spot and holding her helmeted head in her hands. She can hear him scream, assumes it's just...painful to have an AI ripped out. He's just desperate to keep the thing, making a fit. It's gotta end soon and they can just. Fucking leave.
But once it's quiet and she goes to him, he's not just roughed up. He's bleeding. A lot. Mortal wounds from the bladed gun are too much. They're more than she thought they would be, more than he can survive. Her helmet is thrown off and she sits, pulls him into her lap, holding him to her chest, his back armor scraping against her chest plate. He bleeds all over her, more than she could imagine possible. He's gasping, whispering about Theta with his last breaths, she hates him for it. But she still holds him, still presses her forehead to his, stains her hair red with his spilled blood. She still breathes apologizes against his forehead, between broken hums and muffled sobs.
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4. Real Nightmares
She wakes up screaming, pain throbbing through her skull, through her eye, hot white pain ripping her head in two. Hands are holding her down, straps keeping her in place, she screams and snarls and threatens as best she can with the way her skull is exploding.
The last she remembers, she's on the ground in front of Wash, leg shot and staring down the barrel of his pistol. She was almost away, just had to dump off Delta and she could've left the Project, the Meta, and the last tattered bits of the entire mess behind. The next, she's taunting Wash about if he'd shoot her or not. She's not sure if she doesn't believe he will, or if she hopes he will and it's the last push he needs to do it. She's tired. Of running, of fucking up, of existing. She's just so. fucking. tired.
She fights,even when they reassure her they're helping her. She doesn't want help. Let her die, let her stay dead. She just keeps fighting them off until they knock her ass back out. They must be with the Project, it's gotta be the Director's people. They must be hoping to get something from her, punish her for her fuck ups. She doesn't want to deal with it anymore. She just wants to rest.
When she wakes up again, it's much more calm. She's drugged, no doubt, something to keep her from going ape-shit again. And her wrists are bound, keeping her in place stopping her from escape or pulling out the IVs. She wants to get up, get out, either go on the run again or let her wounds kill her.
Belatedly, she realizes she's only seeing out of her left eye. Her right eye is numb, a dull ache digging through her skull, hand desperately trying to pull free so she can touch her face, inspect her eye.
what: Memory sharing
when: During the memory event
where: Dream land?
warnings: Violence, death, gun use, salty language (I'll add more as needed)
1. The Piano
She's home. It's a "classic" house she was told as a child. American Bungalow or whatever. It was just a building. Maybe a home once, a house, but today? It's just some walls and a roof.
And a piano.
There's people around, bumbling through the house, all dressed in bleak black clothing and clearly mourning. South is in normal clothes. Just a tank top and jeans, nothing to fit the setting. Scars are evident on her shoulders and back, battle wounds from the UNSC and ODST, she's only 20 but she's seen her time on a battle field.
She's not entirely sober, either, if she's honest. But she's sitting at the piano and running her fingertips gently over the keys, not enough to draw out sounds.
When she does press to the keys, it's light, low, a soft melody from her childhood. Her mother always said it was a Russian lullaby, she doesn't know the name, just the tune. Her fingers play across the keys with ease, second nature knowledge.
2. Karaoke Dreams
Sober, South is somewhat alright at singing. Specific songs, softer ones, lower ones, she sounds alright. Decent. Tipsy though, and with a loud, fast song? She's terrible, mumbling over words and squinting at the screen now and then before simply letting out a loud wail of the next line. It's. Not pretty. But she's grinning, happy, singing with her teammates, her friends- family. Shore leave and no cares in the world.
She's at the bar sitting after the song ends, shots and drinks passing through her and her friends. Eventually, she wanders away a bit, not quite drunk, but enough so that a wayward look from a stranger and a sneer sends her into a fight. It's not the worst she's gotten into, black eye, bloodied lip, banned from another bar and wondering down the street instead.
But she's in another bar soon enough, a few of her team likewise kicked out from the last and in the new bar, too. She's going to sing again, she decides, and fights the urge to start shit as she waits in line for her turn. And she does good, does great even! Until the asshole behind her bumps into her for easily the sixth time, and she just loses it. It's not her fault when she elbows the guy in the gut, or when he takes a swing in retaliation and she lands him on his back. And it's certainly not her fault when his buddies decide to jump in and get their asses kicked. She'll accept it's her fault she's kicked out of another bar- but only because that's bragging rights, okay. Fuck you.
3. Mistakes Made
It's a split second decision, but that's all it takes to change things forever, isn't it? Honestly, she figured the Meta would rough her brother up, take the AI, but leave. She thought they'd make it out, and without Theta, without that thing, they could just leave. Run away from the Project. go without having any strings holding them back. Without giving the Director reason to keep following them, without the Meta having reason to want and get them.
He calls to her, tells her to spring into action. She's supposed to be in a specific place, in position, ready to strike on his mark. But she waits. She lingers, silent, crouching away from her assigned spot and holding her helmeted head in her hands. She can hear him scream, assumes it's just...painful to have an AI ripped out. He's just desperate to keep the thing, making a fit. It's gotta end soon and they can just. Fucking leave.
But once it's quiet and she goes to him, he's not just roughed up. He's bleeding. A lot. Mortal wounds from the bladed gun are too much. They're more than she thought they would be, more than he can survive. Her helmet is thrown off and she sits, pulls him into her lap, holding him to her chest, his back armor scraping against her chest plate. He bleeds all over her, more than she could imagine possible. He's gasping, whispering about Theta with his last breaths, she hates him for it. But she still holds him, still presses her forehead to his, stains her hair red with his spilled blood. She still breathes apologizes against his forehead, between broken hums and muffled sobs.
4. Real Nightmares
She wakes up screaming, pain throbbing through her skull, through her eye, hot white pain ripping her head in two. Hands are holding her down, straps keeping her in place, she screams and snarls and threatens as best she can with the way her skull is exploding.
The last she remembers, she's on the ground in front of Wash, leg shot and staring down the barrel of his pistol. She was almost away, just had to dump off Delta and she could've left the Project, the Meta, and the last tattered bits of the entire mess behind. The next, she's taunting Wash about if he'd shoot her or not. She's not sure if she doesn't believe he will, or if she hopes he will and it's the last push he needs to do it. She's tired. Of running, of fucking up, of existing. She's just so. fucking. tired.
She fights,even when they reassure her they're helping her. She doesn't want help. Let her die, let her stay dead. She just keeps fighting them off until they knock her ass back out. They must be with the Project, it's gotta be the Director's people. They must be hoping to get something from her, punish her for her fuck ups. She doesn't want to deal with it anymore. She just wants to rest.
When she wakes up again, it's much more calm. She's drugged, no doubt, something to keep her from going ape-shit again. And her wrists are bound, keeping her in place stopping her from escape or pulling out the IVs. She wants to get up, get out, either go on the run again or let her wounds kill her.
Belatedly, she realizes she's only seeing out of her left eye. Her right eye is numb, a dull ache digging through her skull, hand desperately trying to pull free so she can touch her face, inspect her eye.
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He raises his eyebrows at South, wondering exactly how she's going to fulfill that threat. "And here I was thinking this place didn't have shieldmaidens." But he's not in the mood to test too many boundaries today, so he ends up hopping off the piano. Really, it's a compliment to be compared to the shieldmaidens of his home. They're some of the fiercest Viking warriors around, for Vikings don't care about gender on the battlefield. It just matters how well you can kill an opponent.
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South blinks at the shieldmaidens comment, she doesn't know what that is. But she does scoot a bit on the piano's bench, nodding for him to sit at the empty spot. "I'm assuming that's a good thing."
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He sits down on the bench beside her. At least she isn't kicking him out of the room. "It is. Shieldmaidens are female Viking warriors. They're very tough, hard to kill, and don't take shit from anyone."
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"Well fuck, guess that does fit." She gives him a smile now, at least, liking the idea of these Shieldmaidens.
"You know how to play a piano?"
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Ivar shakes his head. "No. They don't have them where I'm from." He taps a key, face looking oddly innocent at the sound it produces.
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She watches quietly as he taps the key, giving a soft grin finally and lifting her hands back up to play a little tune across them. This is much easier to deal with than the actual memory, which continues around them with hushed voices and shuffling feet. Nothing but depressing shit that she's more than okay with forgetting for a moment or two.
"What'd you guys have for music back home, then?"
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Though here, there's more time for him to have developed an appreciation for music. While he's partial to heavy metal, he knows skill when he sees it, and looks rather delighted at the simple tune that South plays. "Flutes, lyres, and drums, mostly." The instruments that could be easily made from whatever could be scavenged from animal parts and wood.
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"I knew a guy who played the clarinet, it's kinda like a flute. I mean, I broke it over his face and got kicked out of school for a week cause of it- but still. Flute-ish." Not her fault, he started it, but the point is. Flutes.
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"Hah!" He chuckles. She reminds him of himself. "I think you and I might just get along." Provided that Ivar can stop acting like a little pain in the ass a majority of the time.
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She does let her fingers keep playing the keys, eyes him. "You wanna try any of this? It's not difficult." But she's been taking lessons since before she could spell her full name, so, it's pretty easy to her.
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"Let's see what happens." Ivar hesitantly taps a few keys himself. He doesn't really have an ear for music, but he goes up, playing the scales, and back down again.
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"Not bad." She shrugs a bit, reaching out to move his hands to specific keys, nudging them down to make a little tune. "There, start of a kind of song."
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Ivar seems a bit fascinated at how the keys can produce the notes. He's fairly itching to take the piano apart to see how it works. "Do they have these in the city?"
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"Yeah, they do." She'd asked about it recently on the network and got pointed to a few places with pianos you could play, it's really been one of the highlights of her month.
She pauses to fish a book out of a little cubby next to the piano, opening it up and gesturing to it. The pages have diagrams of hand positions, it's a learners book from when she was a kid.
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Ivar follows the first diagram, getting his hands into the usual positions. Then he switches to the second and presses down on the keys. Most people usually never see the Viking like this, happy and interested in learning something new. Then again, it's a lot easier in the dream world, instead of being in the waking one where he's in a constant state of pain.
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She watches him closely, reminds herself of her mother and that does hurt a little, since this is their wake and all. But it's still a nice distraction, still makes her happy to watch him doing it. "You're a natural, kid." Yep. Still kid. Gonna be stuck with him as a nickname until she finds a better one.
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"Not a kid," he replies again automatically. "This is a lot easier than learning how to shoot a bow." Definitely the hardest weapon Ivar had learned during his childhood.
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"Now, I don't know about that. I did archery, was pretty easy." Sure, a lot of the bows she used were future-ish bows, easier than a classic bow. But she used those too. Even had to learn to make her own from materials she found in the woods- it was easy as pie and fun. At least, she remembers it that way.
Gonna start wrapping this up...
The memory seems to be fading out now, becoming a little muzzy around the edges. "Shall I see you again in the real world?"
sounds good to me
"If you wanna, kid." Yep, kid. Kiddo. Sorry bud, it's gonna your nickname for a while.
no subject