Gaia, Marius: Have we met
Sep. 25th, 2024 10:40 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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xp_logsAfter Namor’s questionably productive conversation with the newcomer, a different interrogator arrives. Only moderate scarring occurs.
The girl sat in the chair in what looked to be the most uncomfortable position possible. Back completely straight, arms at her side, staring at the wall in front of her as if she were staring through it, or at something not there.
There was a hiss of static, and then a small box beside the door said: "Morning in there. Fancy a bite to eat?"
No verbal acknowledgment came, but her head did turn in the direction of the door. The look on her face didn’t betray whether this prospect was welcome or not.
Nothing for a few heartbeats, and then:
"I shall take your stony silence as consent."
The door opened. Marius entered, a fully laden breakfast tray in his hands and the curiously rapid approval of Namor ensuring access. What was it the man had said? "How wonderful. Today marks the very moment you can be of use to me."
The Australian responded to the blank expression on the girl's face in much the same way he responded to all silence: by filling the negative space with cheer. He smiled brightly.
"Glad to see you up and about and unlikely to carry any interdimensional plagues," the X-Man said. "You remember me? My name is Marius Laverne. Our first encounter was brief yet memorable; you sank me up to my neck in linoleum. No worries there; I myself attacked a staff member upon first arriving. Accidents do happen."
Her brow furrowed slightly when he said his name, as if expecting another. Or perhaps it was at the accusation that her offensive had been accidental.
“I remember.” The two words rolled off her tongue strangely. Known in theory but not practiced.
Marius covered his chest with a free hand and inclined his head to her. "Brilliant, then I can dispense with the burden of reintroducing myself. I'm afraid you have the advantage of us, however. May I ask what name you go by?"
This earned him another blank look, what could’ve been an expression quickly wiped from her face.
"At your leisure, then," Marius continued, unperturbed. The man instead proffered the tray. It was laden with a variety of offerings ranging the relative safety of oatmeal to the decadence of french toast. Fruit salad was doing its best to counterbalance a selection of pork-based proteins and scrambled eggs. There was even a salad, possibly included out of desperation.
"No idea what your tastes may be," he explained, "so we've played it safe and catered to every possibility."
She had yet to eat much while conscious, and one couldn’t live off an IV forever. Her mouth pressed into a thin line whilst staring at the tray.
“What do you like?” A concession.
"Myself?" Marius glanced at the tray. Its offerings were not indicative of his usual dietary preferences. "I do up an omelet with a bit of fruit, typically. Something robust enough to see me through should I forget lunch, which is a not infrequent occurrence."
Another glance at the food. “What is an.. omelet?” She tested the word out slowly, carefully.
"Ah," said Marius, warming at signs of engagement, "it is a dish made with eggs, often filled with vegetables and mainly served for breakfast. I myself tend towards the addition of onions, tomatoes, and bell peppers, but I have a certain affection for the flavours of shakshuka. If you'd like to sample one, doing one up would be the work of a moment."
She shook her head and moved imperceptibly closer to where the tray sat on the little table, waiting a moment before picking up a fork. Apparently this was not foreign to her, or at least had been introduced previously, as she used it to poke at the various items. The oatmeal was deemed acceptable, and a small bite taken.
A flicker of discomfort made its way across her features as she swallowed. “This is truly done multiple times a rotation?”
"Rotation?" Marius repeated, mildly distracted by the girl's table manners. She was using the utensils, yes, but he had never seen anyone eat oatmeal by stabbing it with a fork and consuming the few oats that clung to the tines. "Ah -- you mean day? Yes, that is often the fashion, although personal preferences vary." His brain processed slightly more, and he blinked. "Er, do you. . . not eat?"
“Not for a time.” Her stomach growled to punctuate this point. “I had forgotten.” The state in which she first appeared did not make this unbelievable. The act of eating was met with an air that suggested it was beneath her.
"You'd forgotten how to eat," the older man said, as if tasting the plausibility of the statement. She was certainly thin, although he couldn't remember noting any signs of starvation during her arrival. Then again, he had been rather distracted by the distinct possibility he would become one with the chapel floor.
It did not occur to him to ask if she was joking. She was still eating breakfast oat-by-oat. If a sense of humour existed within her, it was walled off behind the most impenetrable poker face of all time.
"Well," he said, powering through, "this place will see you right soon enough. It'll take time for your stomach to come back to size -- you've been on IV nutrition for some time, and no doubt they have a complex refeeding plan in store. Bit tedious, that, but allegedly the balance can be quite delicate."
None of those words meant anything to her, if the look on her face was betraying her true thoughts on the matter. She continued to poke at her oatmeal diligently.
“There was no need for this. It is different here.” It was said simply, as if that explained everything perfectly.
It did not, but Marius was accustomed to occupying a space of happy ignorance. It was easier to just roll with it. He rubbed his gloved hands together. "Right, right. Well, if you've any questions I shall be happy to assist. Does anything in particular come to mind?"
“How often must you feed?” Another blank look accompanied the question. The memo had not been received that they were supposed to be general.
What . . . interesting terminology. Marius smothered it with a grin. "You mean meals per day? Typically I do breakfast and dinner. Lunch is optional."
“No.” The girl set her fork down without a sound and pointed to the palm of her hand. “With these.”
The grin froze.
"P . . . pardon?"
The finger traveled to press against the place on her neck where the large bruise had been upon her entry. “This.”
Marius' face went hot. Abruptly lightheaded, the X-Man took a single, stumbling step back.
"I didn't lay a hand on you. I didn't. I know I didn't. The gloves never came off." It was the truth, but the phone in his pocket was suddenly heavy with Clarice’s photographic evidence to the contrary. Only a review of the security tapes had assured him he wasn’t simply in denial, and yet . . .
The girl made a pleased sound, not at his distress, but at the existence of his mutation being confirmed. Picking up her fork again, she stabbed at the oatmeal. “Not you, no.” Steely eyes cataloged his features for a moment. “And not very similar. You are just you, yes?”
"Am I? That is -- yes. Yes, of course I am." "Not you"? Marius tried to concentrate past the sensation of his heartbeat throbbing in his skull and focus. The Wormhole, she'd come through the Wormhole. The Wormhole, which sporadically connected to other dimensions.
"The place you came from," he said slowly, "you knew someone like me?"
“Yes. Always hungry for something.” The mask cracked slightly, but her tone remained neutral. “Answers. Power. But most are.”
Marius stared at the girl. When he'd been told she'd apparently been held prisoner he had assumed it was some sort of human trafficking situation. What sort of answers could a teenage girl have?
Power, on the other hand . . .
Her power signature was unlike any he'd seen before, but seeing what she'd done to the chapel had allowed him to narrow it down. It had shades of telekinesis, but other things as well -- a sort of energy he associated with manipulative abilities. Matter, energy. Other less tangible qualities as well.
Yes, he could put a name to that. If her power was indeed what it appeared to be, Marius could well imagine why someone might want her.
After all, hadn't he used another girl for far less?
"Well." The word came out hoarse; his mouth had suddenly run dry. Marius cleared his throat and tried again. "That's over now. No one here will take anything you're not prepared to give. All right?"
Her grey eyes flashed silver for a moment. “Hm. We shall see.” It was not a statement that held any notion of belief in Marius’ promise.
It wasn't her doubt that gave Marius pause, for that, he assumed, was typical of one who had been through the traumas it appeared she had been. Rather, it was the look in her oddly metallic eyes. It was . . . old. So much older than the girl she appeared to be. He felt as if they stripped him to his soul.
"That you will," he managed. He busied himself by running a hand down his already immaculately fitted shirt, coincidentally breaking eye contact. "Well then, I shall leave you to it. Someone will be by later to check in with you again, and of course the intercom is available for more urgent needs." Could he have potentially gotten more from her in this mood? Perhaps. Did he want to? Not particularly.
She watched him try and leave contemplatively, and came to a decision.
“Gaia.”
Marius, who had made it halfway to the door with a speed which he was not particularly proud of, stopped and turned back to her. "I beg your pardon?"
The corner of her mouth twitched up. “You asked for my name. You may call me Gaia.”
Marius blinked. Then, despite the experience of the last few minutes, he smiled.
"Gaia, then. The pleasure is mine."
“Maybe.”
It carried a weight to it. One that assured knowing her would be no pleasure at all. Those metallic eyes watched him all the way out the door, and as it closed, Gaia shared a small smile with herself.
Maybe.
Maybe it would not be so bad in this place.
The girl sat in the chair in what looked to be the most uncomfortable position possible. Back completely straight, arms at her side, staring at the wall in front of her as if she were staring through it, or at something not there.
There was a hiss of static, and then a small box beside the door said: "Morning in there. Fancy a bite to eat?"
No verbal acknowledgment came, but her head did turn in the direction of the door. The look on her face didn’t betray whether this prospect was welcome or not.
Nothing for a few heartbeats, and then:
"I shall take your stony silence as consent."
The door opened. Marius entered, a fully laden breakfast tray in his hands and the curiously rapid approval of Namor ensuring access. What was it the man had said? "How wonderful. Today marks the very moment you can be of use to me."
The Australian responded to the blank expression on the girl's face in much the same way he responded to all silence: by filling the negative space with cheer. He smiled brightly.
"Glad to see you up and about and unlikely to carry any interdimensional plagues," the X-Man said. "You remember me? My name is Marius Laverne. Our first encounter was brief yet memorable; you sank me up to my neck in linoleum. No worries there; I myself attacked a staff member upon first arriving. Accidents do happen."
Her brow furrowed slightly when he said his name, as if expecting another. Or perhaps it was at the accusation that her offensive had been accidental.
“I remember.” The two words rolled off her tongue strangely. Known in theory but not practiced.
Marius covered his chest with a free hand and inclined his head to her. "Brilliant, then I can dispense with the burden of reintroducing myself. I'm afraid you have the advantage of us, however. May I ask what name you go by?"
This earned him another blank look, what could’ve been an expression quickly wiped from her face.
"At your leisure, then," Marius continued, unperturbed. The man instead proffered the tray. It was laden with a variety of offerings ranging the relative safety of oatmeal to the decadence of french toast. Fruit salad was doing its best to counterbalance a selection of pork-based proteins and scrambled eggs. There was even a salad, possibly included out of desperation.
"No idea what your tastes may be," he explained, "so we've played it safe and catered to every possibility."
She had yet to eat much while conscious, and one couldn’t live off an IV forever. Her mouth pressed into a thin line whilst staring at the tray.
“What do you like?” A concession.
"Myself?" Marius glanced at the tray. Its offerings were not indicative of his usual dietary preferences. "I do up an omelet with a bit of fruit, typically. Something robust enough to see me through should I forget lunch, which is a not infrequent occurrence."
Another glance at the food. “What is an.. omelet?” She tested the word out slowly, carefully.
"Ah," said Marius, warming at signs of engagement, "it is a dish made with eggs, often filled with vegetables and mainly served for breakfast. I myself tend towards the addition of onions, tomatoes, and bell peppers, but I have a certain affection for the flavours of shakshuka. If you'd like to sample one, doing one up would be the work of a moment."
She shook her head and moved imperceptibly closer to where the tray sat on the little table, waiting a moment before picking up a fork. Apparently this was not foreign to her, or at least had been introduced previously, as she used it to poke at the various items. The oatmeal was deemed acceptable, and a small bite taken.
A flicker of discomfort made its way across her features as she swallowed. “This is truly done multiple times a rotation?”
"Rotation?" Marius repeated, mildly distracted by the girl's table manners. She was using the utensils, yes, but he had never seen anyone eat oatmeal by stabbing it with a fork and consuming the few oats that clung to the tines. "Ah -- you mean day? Yes, that is often the fashion, although personal preferences vary." His brain processed slightly more, and he blinked. "Er, do you. . . not eat?"
“Not for a time.” Her stomach growled to punctuate this point. “I had forgotten.” The state in which she first appeared did not make this unbelievable. The act of eating was met with an air that suggested it was beneath her.
"You'd forgotten how to eat," the older man said, as if tasting the plausibility of the statement. She was certainly thin, although he couldn't remember noting any signs of starvation during her arrival. Then again, he had been rather distracted by the distinct possibility he would become one with the chapel floor.
It did not occur to him to ask if she was joking. She was still eating breakfast oat-by-oat. If a sense of humour existed within her, it was walled off behind the most impenetrable poker face of all time.
"Well," he said, powering through, "this place will see you right soon enough. It'll take time for your stomach to come back to size -- you've been on IV nutrition for some time, and no doubt they have a complex refeeding plan in store. Bit tedious, that, but allegedly the balance can be quite delicate."
None of those words meant anything to her, if the look on her face was betraying her true thoughts on the matter. She continued to poke at her oatmeal diligently.
“There was no need for this. It is different here.” It was said simply, as if that explained everything perfectly.
It did not, but Marius was accustomed to occupying a space of happy ignorance. It was easier to just roll with it. He rubbed his gloved hands together. "Right, right. Well, if you've any questions I shall be happy to assist. Does anything in particular come to mind?"
“How often must you feed?” Another blank look accompanied the question. The memo had not been received that they were supposed to be general.
What . . . interesting terminology. Marius smothered it with a grin. "You mean meals per day? Typically I do breakfast and dinner. Lunch is optional."
“No.” The girl set her fork down without a sound and pointed to the palm of her hand. “With these.”
The grin froze.
"P . . . pardon?"
The finger traveled to press against the place on her neck where the large bruise had been upon her entry. “This.”
Marius' face went hot. Abruptly lightheaded, the X-Man took a single, stumbling step back.
"I didn't lay a hand on you. I didn't. I know I didn't. The gloves never came off." It was the truth, but the phone in his pocket was suddenly heavy with Clarice’s photographic evidence to the contrary. Only a review of the security tapes had assured him he wasn’t simply in denial, and yet . . .
The girl made a pleased sound, not at his distress, but at the existence of his mutation being confirmed. Picking up her fork again, she stabbed at the oatmeal. “Not you, no.” Steely eyes cataloged his features for a moment. “And not very similar. You are just you, yes?”
"Am I? That is -- yes. Yes, of course I am." "Not you"? Marius tried to concentrate past the sensation of his heartbeat throbbing in his skull and focus. The Wormhole, she'd come through the Wormhole. The Wormhole, which sporadically connected to other dimensions.
"The place you came from," he said slowly, "you knew someone like me?"
“Yes. Always hungry for something.” The mask cracked slightly, but her tone remained neutral. “Answers. Power. But most are.”
Marius stared at the girl. When he'd been told she'd apparently been held prisoner he had assumed it was some sort of human trafficking situation. What sort of answers could a teenage girl have?
Power, on the other hand . . .
Her power signature was unlike any he'd seen before, but seeing what she'd done to the chapel had allowed him to narrow it down. It had shades of telekinesis, but other things as well -- a sort of energy he associated with manipulative abilities. Matter, energy. Other less tangible qualities as well.
Yes, he could put a name to that. If her power was indeed what it appeared to be, Marius could well imagine why someone might want her.
After all, hadn't he used another girl for far less?
"Well." The word came out hoarse; his mouth had suddenly run dry. Marius cleared his throat and tried again. "That's over now. No one here will take anything you're not prepared to give. All right?"
Her grey eyes flashed silver for a moment. “Hm. We shall see.” It was not a statement that held any notion of belief in Marius’ promise.
It wasn't her doubt that gave Marius pause, for that, he assumed, was typical of one who had been through the traumas it appeared she had been. Rather, it was the look in her oddly metallic eyes. It was . . . old. So much older than the girl she appeared to be. He felt as if they stripped him to his soul.
"That you will," he managed. He busied himself by running a hand down his already immaculately fitted shirt, coincidentally breaking eye contact. "Well then, I shall leave you to it. Someone will be by later to check in with you again, and of course the intercom is available for more urgent needs." Could he have potentially gotten more from her in this mood? Perhaps. Did he want to? Not particularly.
She watched him try and leave contemplatively, and came to a decision.
“Gaia.”
Marius, who had made it halfway to the door with a speed which he was not particularly proud of, stopped and turned back to her. "I beg your pardon?"
The corner of her mouth twitched up. “You asked for my name. You may call me Gaia.”
Marius blinked. Then, despite the experience of the last few minutes, he smiled.
"Gaia, then. The pleasure is mine."
“Maybe.”
It carried a weight to it. One that assured knowing her would be no pleasure at all. Those metallic eyes watched him all the way out the door, and as it closed, Gaia shared a small smile with herself.
Maybe.
Maybe it would not be so bad in this place.
