sixthiterationlogs | I'm waving through a window, oh, can anybody see, is anybody waving back at me? [OPEN]

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I'm waving through a window, oh, can anybody see, is anybody waving back at me? [OPEN]

WHO: Samantha Moon
WHERE: Various Locations (see below and put one in your subject!)
WHEN: First week of October
OPEN TO: OTA
WARNINGS: Will update as needed, but just assume Sam's potty mouth

Kitchen at the Inn
It scared Sam a little bit that she was starting to develop a routine. But she was. And whether that meant she was settling down or giving in, she couldn't really say. And she wasn't sure she wanted to analyze it too much. At any rate, for the time being, she was just sort of going with it. Which meant that the first thing she did in the morning was swing by the kitchen. She always waited until after people had done their breakfast thing, so she wouldn't be in the way. Or, more accurately, so her Rube Goldberg-esque distillery wouldn't be in the way.

She usually made about three batches of potato vodka every day, at this point. As long as there were potatoes. She was always careful to cut out the eyes and save them for the botany freaks. Sometimes, she would experiment, trying to mix in different flavorings.

They usually all tasted vile.

But that was fine, since the vodka was strong enough to burn off a normal person's taste buds, anyway.

There was something calming about sitting on the counter, watching the way the diamond-like bubbles traveled through the tubes. Like one of those glittery stress-relievers on the corner of a professor's desk. Sam played little mind games, counting and following and observing. Anything she could do to avoid thinking.

Didn't help much. She still saw Avery's name, like a fucking neon sign on the inside of her eyelids, every time she blinked.

Spear Fishing
Sam decided it was pretty safe to assume that she'd never go down in history as a singularly spectacular fisher. But there was a gross, morbid satisfaction to spearing fish. Likely, it was a combination of factors, the most obvious being that what she really wanted to spear was the faces of their generous Overlords. At least fishing was more productive than hitting a tree with a lead pipe. Her hands still stung from all of the cuts and bruises she'd inflicted on herself. Not to mention the ones Danny had given her.

She wadded up to her calves in the water. The Overlords had given her a pair of black, short pants with laces up either side that, unfortunately, delighted her little Goth-loving heart. And they were perfect for getting wet. Sometimes she wore them with her scrub tops or some of the shirts she'd collected over the past year and a half, but today, she was just in a sports bra.

One thing she would absolutely never take for granted again was the way the sunlight felt on her skin.

Schoolhouse Library
Of the many gifts she'd received from the Overlords, the one Sam trusted the least was the large set of colored pencils. She'd watched one-too-many horror movies growing up. She kept expecting some bizarre plot twist. Every time she'd draw with red, someone would lose blood. If she drew monsters, they'd come to life. Somehow, drawing a picture of something might whoosh it into the circus. The usual tropes from her life before she was, in fact, the monster at the end of the horror movie.

But there was nothing.

Which wasn't to say she started to trust or anything like that. But she did start to draw.

And out of a desperate need to be useful to someone, she'd taken it upon herself to start decorating the library with headers for each category of books. Science. Sports. Mathematics. All of it. With perfect, neat handwriting, she labeled the sections, then drew little pictures around and through the letters. Spinning planets with rings of fire. The pennant over Wrigley Field (if only...). An elegant Pi, like a rusty shed with a roof curved by the rain.

The project was good for long nights, when Sam couldn't sleep. But sometimes, she'd be in the middle of drawing something that would remind her of...

She blinked and saw it again. Avery's name.

And somehow, on stolen bits of paper and old napkins, his face started to appear, thin and bony and redheaded. Just like she remembered him. Just like he'd been when he...

...no. There was no point in thinking about what he'd done to her any more.

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Steph snickered, accepting that statement for the lovable truth that it was. Then she shifted into a cross-legged position and leaned forward, excited about the story she was about to tell. She adored Superman.

"Okay, so, alien planet, light-years away, blows up. Like, the whole thing. But before it blows one baby gets sent away to the nearest safe planet- Earth. Only on our planet he can fly, punch through tanks, see through walls, move way faster than a bullet, and, naturally, shoot lasers out of his eyes. And one day in Metropolis this random dude in a blue suit and red cape starts saving people from car wrecks, putting out fires by blowing on them, stopping bank robberies, you name it.

"Of course, this was like 30 years ago or something. By the time I'm old enough to understand a few words from the news broadcasts he's giving speeches, talking about how much people owe each other, and we all need to take care of each other, and keeping the peace is a universal responsibility, stuff like that."

She sat back, satisfied thinking back to happier days. Or... less awful days, at least.

"He is the hero of our time. When I grew up, I wanted to be him."

Sam drummed her fingers against her knee, listening to Steph with a curious cant to her head. She'd more or less come to terms with the notion that some universes in the multiverse had made first contact with alien life. And really, her perception of chaos theory alone was enough to convince her that alien life had to exist. But the notion of an alien being so much stronger than human beings was a little unnerving. It put her in the mind of the Predators.

Conquerors.

But his dude sounded like he had some of Grace's ideas about, you know, not being a dick. So that was nice. Fascinating and kind of anti-Darwinian. But nice.

"I'm impressed by this guy," she said. "If I were in his place, I'd be too afraid of being dissected to just...come out like that."

"Right?" Steph put her hands on her ankles and rocked forward a little.

"People were totally freaked about that too, like he was gonna go nuts and kill us all. Some people are still freaked. And it's not like it's never happened, but either he's always been able to stop himself or there's always been somebody around to stop him. As far as I know he's never killed anybody, ever." She shrugged, still grinning like an idiot.

"I think the whole 'invulnerable to damage' thing helps with the whole dissection thing."

"It's not like it's never happened?" Now that was an interesting little bit of trivia. What? Did the guy go into frenzy, just like a Kindred?

It felt like there was a wonderful lesson in parallels.

Or maybe Sam was just feeling sentimental for the time when dropping the Masquerade was the biggest concern she was facing.

“Sure,” she confirms carelessly. “There’s all sorts of bad guys with mind-control powers and whatever else. We don’t get a lot of that type in Gotham but the Big Bads just love Metropolis.”

Mind control. Sam felt embarrassed on behalf of her entire clan. And she hadn't even gotten to the level of manipulating memories.

She refused.

And anyway, it was moot here. The only power she had was the power to be a thoroughly disgusting cannibal. More or less.

"Wow," she said. "That is...shit, that's like something out of a comic book."

“That’s like, daily life for me.” She shrugged again. It was a reality she had grown up with, a reality she was used to.

“Gotham’s got a bioterrorist who controls plants, a weirdo with a freeze ray, a sadist who invented Fear Gas, a giant, mean crocodile man, a shapeshifting pile of clay... I’m probably forgetting some. But the worst doesn’t even have powers, he’s just a psychotic mass-murdering terrorist who dresses like a clown.”

"And I thought the Predators were bad," Sam muttered. At least they had the decency not to go around dressed up like clowns.

She wasn't sure about the mean crocodile man, though. That just felt a little too Florida tourist, somehow.

"So...this is normal for your hometown?" Sam shook her head. "Why does anyone live there?"

“Mostly because they can’t afford to leave. Some people because they think the suburbs are safe, and some because they’re stupid rich and think they’re untouchable.” Guess what category Steph’s family fell under.

“But you can see why I’m not interested in getting back.”

"Uh, yeah," Sam said. "I think I can understand it." And it certainly seemed that Steph's world had Sam's beat, at least in terms of quantity. And maybe creativity, too. She decided not to play that game. No one needed to know that the world had been fucking ended by her own biological parents.

It was bad enough she'd confessed it to Fucky Darns, in a drunken rampage.

"But what about this Justice League thingy?" she asked, forcing herself from going down the darker path in her mind. "Sounds like it's a nice...counter balance. Or is that just your alien Boy Scout in the red cape?"

She smiled again, though it was wry. Her hometown sucked hardcore, but the rest of the world wasn’t so bad.

“Superman keeps Metropolis safe. Batman and his crew take care of Gotham.” It took effort, but she was able to keep the grief she felt talking about the Bats out of her voice as she went on. “The Justice League has Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman, Green Lantern, the Flash... It’s kind of all the big names, really. And they could all stay in Gotham for two weeks stopping every crime they came across and I bet you the moment they left we’d be right back where we started. Gotham’s a special kind of messed up.”

"Evil clowns? Yeah, I kinda got the impression." Although she had to admit, it bothered her a little that someone as powerful as this Superman had...limits. She couldn't quite put her finger on what...

Wait, no. No, she knew exactly why it was bothering her.

Star Wars: Episode Three. Revenge of the Sith. The all-powerful Jedi really should have been a lot more on top of their shit.

"But please tell me 'Batman' isn't exactly what he sounds like. Because if there's a grown-ass man running around, fighting crime while dressed as a bat, I think someone may need to intervene."

This was when Steph had to snort a laugh. Yes, it hurt knowing how bad she'd screwed up and that most of her friends would probably never forgive her for it, but Batman really did have an absurd look.

"It's exactly what it sounds like. Little ears and everything." She used her fingers to demonstrate.

Sam let out a sound that was a strange cross between a snort and a giggle. A snortle or something like that. If life were a movie, it would have been the perfect moment for a spit-take, but the fact of the matter is that life wasn't a movie. And anyway, anything Sam might be drinking would make for a highly triggery spit-take. For serious.

"That is wrong on so, so many levels," she said.

Funny. But wrong.

"What's the guy's deal? Bram Stoker fan? Bela Lugosi wannabe?" Naturally, her mind went to vampires first. "I mean, for the record, some Kindred can turn into bats. But it's pretty fucking rare."

"Hell if I know," she answered with a shrug and a roll of the eyes.

"I mean, the black is pretty good for camouflage, since he only comes out at night. I read somewhere that he was an urban legend for a few years when he first came on the scene."

The 'coming out at night' thing did little to dissuade Sam that the guy was a vampire. "Well," she drawled, "speaking as an urban legend myself...ouch."

Then again, she was occasionally given to cliche herself. But the whole 'tortured soul' thing was one hundred fucking percent real. Self-loathing was an art form that Sam had mastered. And in an impressively short span of time.

She smiled, nevertheless. "Well, your world certainly doesn't lack of excitement."

"That's one word for it," Steph agreed with a laugh. It was probably time to change subjects though, before Sam started to wonder why Steph knew so much about Batman.

"So, why do you hate it here so much if your home's a wreck?"

Sam was a little surprised by the question. But only a little. What surprised her more was the alacrity with which she had an answer. "It may be a wreck, but it's mine," she said. It was hers. Her mess. Her friends. Her family. Her responsibility. And for the first time, she realized that she loved it.

As much as Sam supposed she was capable of love, after everything...

She shrugged, trying to force herself past the seriousness. "Anyway, I don't exactly like being held prisoner, you know?"

Steph raised an eyebrow at this assertion, but shrugged. Sam was like Batman, maybe: the sort of person who could find for decades to defend a place that tried to kill him on a daily basis. Steph didn't think she had that sort of dedication in her.

"That's fair, I guess." She couldn't share the sentiment, though. There were much worse places to be held prisoner.

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I'm waving through a window, oh, can anybody see, is anybody waving back at me? [OPEN]

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