Samantha "Sam" Moon (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thegreatexperiment) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sixthiterationlogs2018-10-01 12:20 pm
thegreatexperiment) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2018-10-01 12:20 pm
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
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.
no subject
"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."
no subject
"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."
no subject
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."
no subject
"So, why do you hate it here so much if your home's a wreck?"
no subject
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?"
no subject
"That's fair, I guess." She couldn't share the sentiment, though. There were much worse places to be held prisoner.