Moving in
Posted: Sun Dec 17, 2006 4:02 pm
OOC: This is more of a vignette, so as not to drag people in if they're not interested, but anyone with two cents is welcome give it.
Aeon lets herself into Quad 5 with her new key. She's nervous, but annoyed that her veins feel empty of adrenaline; she missed the impulsive, heart-pumping physiological responses that once gave her the courage to go thorugh with these sorts of things. But cyborg organs don't care about high school.
The room is currently empty, relieving her from having to make some sort of enterance. She looks around, taking stock, and dumps her armload of personal belongings near the unclaimed bed. It isn't much: a battery charger adapter, the reticle for her right eye, her monitoring suit's self-cleaning and storage case, another change of clothes and an extra, newly-tailored uniform, and a folder of Saint Joseph School paperwork.
She eases herself onto the bed, the mattress sagging sadly, and runs a pre-shutdown diagnostic. Low on potassium again? She hates bananas. It's the texture that does it, really. Instead, she pulls an apple cinnamon Powerbar from a pocket on the front of the case and munches on it contemplatively. Stupid body. On top of it all, everybody assumes she's so much older than just 15. Even the Outcasts and the Hellions whistle at her, but usually she just beats them up.
Why is violence always the answer around here? See someone breaking the law? Beat them up. Bad day at school? Go beat up some thugs. Fight with your friend? Practice beating each other up. It seems that everyone is trying to avoid the normal solutions to normal problems. Sure, superpowered problems often have higher stakes than normal ones, but that's no excuse to ignore the regular hardships of growing up.
But she can see why it happens. There's no quick fix for growing pains, and beating stuff up is so easy when you're a mutant or whatever. Even she feels it sometimes--like everything would be better if some people just went away.
Out in the field, something clicks. Her thoughts drift away and it's just her and them and vital points and Newtonian physics. Self-preservation is the only drive, efficiency is the means, and to fight efficiently is to fight to kill.
Shouldn't she feel bad about this? Well, she never saw anyone die--they were teleported to the Zig before that. And if doctors could put her back together, she is certain all the people she had fought are just fine. No worries.
After all the missions today, mucking about in warehouses and alleys, she could use a shower. She takes a towel from the folded linens on the foot of the bed.
Upon her return, synthetic skin and wet hair gleaming in the afternoon sunlight, her new roommates are still not to be found. She catches her reflection in the full-length wall mirror half-obscured by the microwave, and marvels at technology. She thinks she's rather pretty, actually, all things considered. Prettier at least than the plain, flat-as-a-pancake, stick body she used to have. Strange, though, how the face is so similar--just...better.
She isn't sure why she's worrying about this at all. She never used to. People liked her even though she wasn't super pretty--or super anything for that matter. Before the fading thing, everyone liked her, invited her to parties, listened to her opinions, and came to her for advice.
But here... While hardly anyone ever seemes to say, "No," she knows they want to. Instead, they joke and prank to hide it all. They want to tell her she has no business in Quad 5. No business associating with the popular girls. Instead, they made excuses and tried to scare her off. Or was she just being paranoid? This was the first time she didn't enjoy a place of priviledge where she was assumed to have worth without having to mark her territory.
She puts her clean uniform on. It fits perfectly for her weird shape, at least; it doesn't ride up or anything. She can't wear much in the way of normal clothes anymore. No more cute skirts and sweaters and cowboy boots without looking like some evil robot doppleganger of Dolly Parton.
She sits on her bed and pages through the orientation packet for the tenth time, but bores of it and looks around the room. These girls don't seem so different from her old friends--from how she used to be. But she would have to prove herself to these kids and to herself again and fight all the misconceptions anyway. It's really scary. It feels like fading all over again.
Aeon lets herself into Quad 5 with her new key. She's nervous, but annoyed that her veins feel empty of adrenaline; she missed the impulsive, heart-pumping physiological responses that once gave her the courage to go thorugh with these sorts of things. But cyborg organs don't care about high school.
The room is currently empty, relieving her from having to make some sort of enterance. She looks around, taking stock, and dumps her armload of personal belongings near the unclaimed bed. It isn't much: a battery charger adapter, the reticle for her right eye, her monitoring suit's self-cleaning and storage case, another change of clothes and an extra, newly-tailored uniform, and a folder of Saint Joseph School paperwork.
She eases herself onto the bed, the mattress sagging sadly, and runs a pre-shutdown diagnostic. Low on potassium again? She hates bananas. It's the texture that does it, really. Instead, she pulls an apple cinnamon Powerbar from a pocket on the front of the case and munches on it contemplatively. Stupid body. On top of it all, everybody assumes she's so much older than just 15. Even the Outcasts and the Hellions whistle at her, but usually she just beats them up.
Why is violence always the answer around here? See someone breaking the law? Beat them up. Bad day at school? Go beat up some thugs. Fight with your friend? Practice beating each other up. It seems that everyone is trying to avoid the normal solutions to normal problems. Sure, superpowered problems often have higher stakes than normal ones, but that's no excuse to ignore the regular hardships of growing up.
But she can see why it happens. There's no quick fix for growing pains, and beating stuff up is so easy when you're a mutant or whatever. Even she feels it sometimes--like everything would be better if some people just went away.
Out in the field, something clicks. Her thoughts drift away and it's just her and them and vital points and Newtonian physics. Self-preservation is the only drive, efficiency is the means, and to fight efficiently is to fight to kill.
Shouldn't she feel bad about this? Well, she never saw anyone die--they were teleported to the Zig before that. And if doctors could put her back together, she is certain all the people she had fought are just fine. No worries.
After all the missions today, mucking about in warehouses and alleys, she could use a shower. She takes a towel from the folded linens on the foot of the bed.
Upon her return, synthetic skin and wet hair gleaming in the afternoon sunlight, her new roommates are still not to be found. She catches her reflection in the full-length wall mirror half-obscured by the microwave, and marvels at technology. She thinks she's rather pretty, actually, all things considered. Prettier at least than the plain, flat-as-a-pancake, stick body she used to have. Strange, though, how the face is so similar--just...better.
She isn't sure why she's worrying about this at all. She never used to. People liked her even though she wasn't super pretty--or super anything for that matter. Before the fading thing, everyone liked her, invited her to parties, listened to her opinions, and came to her for advice.
But here... While hardly anyone ever seemes to say, "No," she knows they want to. Instead, they joke and prank to hide it all. They want to tell her she has no business in Quad 5. No business associating with the popular girls. Instead, they made excuses and tried to scare her off. Or was she just being paranoid? This was the first time she didn't enjoy a place of priviledge where she was assumed to have worth without having to mark her territory.
She puts her clean uniform on. It fits perfectly for her weird shape, at least; it doesn't ride up or anything. She can't wear much in the way of normal clothes anymore. No more cute skirts and sweaters and cowboy boots without looking like some evil robot doppleganger of Dolly Parton.
She sits on her bed and pages through the orientation packet for the tenth time, but bores of it and looks around the room. These girls don't seem so different from her old friends--from how she used to be. But she would have to prove herself to these kids and to herself again and fight all the misconceptions anyway. It's really scary. It feels like fading all over again.