RUE OSLO (legretta the quick) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
withregret) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
savetheearth2013-05-05 10:47 pm
withregret) wrote in savetheearth2013-05-05 10:47 pm
xx2 ａｃｔｉｏｎ (backdated to yesterday [saturday] )
[ ( let's go with the pick your path route! pick ① or ② and let's do this :3c ) ]
① Saturday afternoon; the library
[ There has to be something.
That's what she keeps telling herself as she searches through each book, taking notes, trying to find some sort of instance of whatever was happening to her (to them) being mentioned somewhere. She would even take the ramblings of a madman at this point. A fiction story. Anything.
Look to history to understand the future.
Those words fall across her mind as she spreads out several books. Everything that was happening - the memories, the new skills, the strange network... why? How could she look to history to understand when she barely knew what was going on in the present? Her entire life had been turned upside down so suddenly, so terribly, and these days she no longer even felt like herself. The last time she had felt this way had been after the death of her father - a dark time, a time when she was forced to manage things a sixteen year old girl should never have to. Anger, depression, and the responsibility of caring for both herself and her mother. But even that was grounded, realistic. She had ran with it. She had overcome it. Being strong was something Rue was good at - and it was getting harder now, so much harder, that she was becoming desperate for some sort of grasp to reality.
Her hands are stained with black ink as she copies down anything that might be relevant. She searches the network, discreetly, looking back at old "posts". Some people were very forthcoming about what was happening to them. She wrote that down, too. Some were not.
She noted those who weren't.
The books pile up to an alarming amount. Taking a moment, she sits back, staring at the piles before her. What should she do next? She couldn't continue this way. After a few seconds she stands and begins to return the books to their proper places, balancing a stack in her hand as she returns to the shelves. Now, where do these go... ]
② Saturday night; local bar
[ She could go home to go over her findings but the emptiness and silence of the apartment was maddening. When she was left alone with her hatred, her anger, her bitterness, it began to creep up her spine and twist around her throat. The dull noises of the bar were enough to contain it for the moment. Laughter of people. The chime of a glass that wasn't her. It helped her feel human.
She sits at the bar, legs crossed, papers delicately placed before her. Her long blonde hair falls over her shoulders as she flexes her hands and looks at the black stains from earlier that day. Black smudges - almost like the smudges on her soul. How fitting.
She smiles a little ironically and leans forward, taking her drink in hand and sipping while looking at nothing in particular. Just lines of bottles against the wall, greens and browns. Once, she had turned toward violence to get out her anger. Violence that had been structured, but violence nonetheless. Would she have to return to that? She places the drink down once more to check out her hands again, but this time she curls her fingers until it feels like she's holding guns. There had been something so... natural, about the way the guns had fit into her palms. So right. And while she had a hobby of it before -- now it felt... different.
It unsettled her. ]
① Saturday afternoon; the library
[ There has to be something.
That's what she keeps telling herself as she searches through each book, taking notes, trying to find some sort of instance of whatever was happening to her (to them) being mentioned somewhere. She would even take the ramblings of a madman at this point. A fiction story. Anything.
Look to history to understand the future.
Those words fall across her mind as she spreads out several books. Everything that was happening - the memories, the new skills, the strange network... why? How could she look to history to understand when she barely knew what was going on in the present? Her entire life had been turned upside down so suddenly, so terribly, and these days she no longer even felt like herself. The last time she had felt this way had been after the death of her father - a dark time, a time when she was forced to manage things a sixteen year old girl should never have to. Anger, depression, and the responsibility of caring for both herself and her mother. But even that was grounded, realistic. She had ran with it. She had overcome it. Being strong was something Rue was good at - and it was getting harder now, so much harder, that she was becoming desperate for some sort of grasp to reality.
Her hands are stained with black ink as she copies down anything that might be relevant. She searches the network, discreetly, looking back at old "posts". Some people were very forthcoming about what was happening to them. She wrote that down, too. Some were not.
She noted those who weren't.
The books pile up to an alarming amount. Taking a moment, she sits back, staring at the piles before her. What should she do next? She couldn't continue this way. After a few seconds she stands and begins to return the books to their proper places, balancing a stack in her hand as she returns to the shelves. Now, where do these go... ]
② Saturday night; local bar
[ She could go home to go over her findings but the emptiness and silence of the apartment was maddening. When she was left alone with her hatred, her anger, her bitterness, it began to creep up her spine and twist around her throat. The dull noises of the bar were enough to contain it for the moment. Laughter of people. The chime of a glass that wasn't her. It helped her feel human.
She sits at the bar, legs crossed, papers delicately placed before her. Her long blonde hair falls over her shoulders as she flexes her hands and looks at the black stains from earlier that day. Black smudges - almost like the smudges on her soul. How fitting.
She smiles a little ironically and leans forward, taking her drink in hand and sipping while looking at nothing in particular. Just lines of bottles against the wall, greens and browns. Once, she had turned toward violence to get out her anger. Violence that had been structured, but violence nonetheless. Would she have to return to that? She places the drink down once more to check out her hands again, but this time she curls her fingers until it feels like she's holding guns. There had been something so... natural, about the way the guns had fit into her palms. So right. And while she had a hobby of it before -- now it felt... different.
It unsettled her. ]
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