[Memory Corrupt] Upon the swings of indecision [closed]

Who:

Ilsa Higa
What: Somebody’s getting grounded
Where: The basement of 1490 Kramden Road.
When: (backdated) Evening, Monday 4 June.
Warnings: Possible violence, language and adult references?

[ Ilsa has been marginally more circumspect since Friday morning, but she hasn’t really been hiding that she’s been hunting.

However, the tussle in the office with Obi-Wan caused too much notice to be taken. She’s been aware that there has been someone riding shotgun along with her in spirit all weekend, and he made his displeasure known. Until she can figure out how to get around that bond, she was going to have to avoid him, so she has gone to ground.

She found the basement apartment on Saturday, and has been lairing up here since then, avoiding contact with the drones in the house. She has no memory of building his herself, with Tarvek’s help, nor does she know about the secret tunnel from his basement to hers. ]

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[He's been sensing her predation throughout the weekend, and he's had plenty of time to plan, prepare--and get a rare, deep fury going. Some Ilsa--perhaps his Ilsa--is going to have to live with the aftermath of Evil!Ilsa's hunting. He's fairly sure most of her victims will recover. In time. Mayfield is that way. But the core Ilsa will be wounded, and may not heal so quickly. He's... No. Angry is too small a word. So is rage or fury. He's in a volcanic frenzy. Being Tarvek, though, he makes choices. Careful choices. This Tarvek, this old, scarred Tarvek, has more control than the "real" Tarvek, too. This will go as he chooses.]

[He has prepared the drugs. He's built the bonds to hold her. He's remembered every game an alpha can play with the bond. He's now hiding in the tunnel from his home to hers, and spreading the aura of their bond wide-wide-widest. If she does know about the tunnel, he'll feel her coming. But if she doesn't know, she's about to go mad looking for the little man who wasn't there.]

[ He's close. Very close-by. She hasn't spotted him as she makes sure the windows are closed and locked, but if feels like he's on the property.

She's already locked the door at the top of the stairs down to the basement with the deadbolt and the two slide bolt locks. Whoever set this up was serious about security, because the door at the bottom of the stairs also had a deadbolt.

Still there's that damned presence hovering on the edge of her awareness, everywhere. She fights to control her anger at the feeling of being scolded through the link. Again, she wonders frantically how this had happened, and more importantly, why?

She makes another circuit of the rooms, double-checking the locks on the windows and the only door to the outside that she knows about, searching for some pointer to where he was lurking, and frantically stomping on her paranoia. ]

Edited 2012-06-10 03:30 (UTC)

[He can feel her, hear her--he can even see her through the spy-eyes he's rigged up. He pushes on the bond, to set her hair rising and bring up the goose-flesh. Let her know about fear, this time. Then, slowly, he starts to feed in the stupid-powder. It will slow her down and erode her control over the bond, while weakening her ability to suck down energy.]

[ He's here.

He's close by and she can't feel where.

Unfamiliar with the chemical compounds in the humansphhere, she doesn't recognize the drug-laden dust filtering through the vents.

All she knows is there is a man hiding in the room with her, who somehow is able to make her feel his rage, and she couldn't control him.

She barely was able to keep herself from climbing the walls with her fear. ]

[The only thing that spares her from worse is that he's a gentle man, as well as being a gentleman. Her fear begins to sicken him. He adjusts the mix of his chemicals, easing the blend toward sedation. He waits.]

[ Wearing herself out with worry, this is no good. She is probably just imagining that he's that close. Ilsa attempts to calm herself, and finding fatigue can be stronger that fear.

She can't pinpoint him, but after searching the bedroom and the en suite again, she opts for locking the door and settling down to keep watch from her bed. ]

[He's gauging her by their bond. He can feel her slowing, slooooowwwing, her reflexes down. He's pulled his own anger back from the bond almost entirely. He fakes "fading" of the bond, pulling it in and in. He can't do much with it, but this much he can accomplish.]

[As he waits he checks the various bonds. Checks his outfit, carefully designed to avoid direct physical contact. He's going to be hard to suck from...and he's ready to act. Everything's designed to be easily managed with gloved hands...]

Edited 2012-06-10 04:35 (UTC)

[ He's... leaving? Or was he there at all? She reaches out, checking to see, but it's a slippery thing, nothing but drones upstairs, and it's getting hard to think.

She begins to sing, softly. The lovely lilting tune is accompanied by lyrics in a language not spoken here - which is probably a good thing, because all thirty verses of the song tell the story, in lurid detail, the sordid and randy adventures of one of the old princes of her clan. ]

[He's amused. He can't follow all the song, but he's learned just enough Cubi from "his" Ilsa to catch a number of the dirty words, and the dynastic elements. After all, dynastic matters to him. Part of him makes snarky comments inside about cubi aesthetic tropes.]

[He thinks, however, it's time to act. He's already oiled the door and set it on a hair-trigger latch. Now he moves, and it's like one satin, smooth streak of action. He's out, he's got her, he's settled and buckled the primary bond--a large, padded leather strap that pins her arms painlessly to her chest. There's no part of him but a streak of his face she could ever have touched. Once he's sure she's pinned, he begins applying the other bonds.]

All are remarkably gentle, and outrageously effective. Once he's done, he eases her to the most comfortable position he can manage for her...and sits at the foot of the bed.]

I think you've had enough to eat for now, Higatchen. I don't know how long Mayfield is going to keep us here. But while it does, I'm going to make sure no more prey fall to your hunting skills.

[ She's halfway through the verse about the prince and daughters of Sardinia before she is aware that her arms are bound. In the low light, in her drugged state, it is as if a shadow is preparing her for its pleasure, when proximity allows her to identify him. ]

You! You wait until now to get into bondage?

[ She attempts to draw from him, but besides being unable to gain physical contact with him, and the confusion from the drugs, there's something else blocking her. Something that is alien to her knowledge of casting. She covers her frustration with bravado. ]

Who are you to say I'm not to hunt?

[She looks so much like "his" Ilsa...and feels like a seasoned killer. It grieves him.]

I told you. I'm your alpha...and sometimes I set the limits.

[He rises and examines the room. It's not the room he himself remembers. Among other things it's less stamped with his own personality. Whoever the "real" Ilsa is here, she either has no Tarvek, or one less sure of himself and his place in her life. But, then, this body is younger, stronger, less damaged than his own. He looks in the dresser mirror, and tries to remember who he was when he looked like this. The memory brings back grief for lost friends, lost loves, and a lost world, and reminds him too much of a shy and gawky young man too afraid of rejection to move with confidence or open himself easily to trust. It makes him wonder about that boy...and, in turn, to wonder about "this" Ilsa.]

So...my Ilsa would never hunt the innocent. My Ilsa would have died before draining her Mayfield spouse. Who are you that you would even think of it?

Definitely not your pet!

[ The snarling reply is accompanied by an attempt to influence his mood. The attempt is deflected again. ]

The Children of Bakhtak are not prey!

Oh, definitely not a pet, Higatchen. Your manners are much too poor to qualify you as a pet.

[He's baiting her, mildly. He could do far worse. Mainly he's searching his memory, trying to recall if he's heard the Children of Bakhtak before. He's looking for the link that ties this Ilsa to "his" Ilsa.]

(Appearing bored.) Oh, another insular little cubi clan, hopped up on pretensions of greatness. (Stifles a yawn) How very human. Much like back home, in fact.

[ She spends several minutes swearing and thrashing in her bonds, radiating rage and fury. When she is done with her tantrum, she stares at the ceiling, fuming. ]

(smirk) Having a bad day, are we?

[He putters, rummaging for food and drink. This Ilsa is well-stocked: better than his own Ilsa. He finds crackers and peanut butter, both things he's become accustomed to in Mayfield, and some soda. He begins to assemble a lunch, humming the tune to her little song...rather badly. On purpose. Attempting snatches of the lyrics--also badly, on purpose. He's wondering if she'll be forced to correct him.]

[ Her only reaction is to keep radiating her fury.

Even after her stomach growls. ]

[He can detect her hunger even through her anger. He blithely passes on the yummy-yummy of peanut butter and crackers, and the sweet fizz of the soda. In between he keeps mangling her song and her language.]

Something about a mess of human princesses ravishing a cubi prince, yes? Tsk. No staying power. I always told my Ilsa she stayed with me because her own people couldn't match me.

[He lets his complete certainty that *his* Ilsa was more than happy with him seep into the aura of the bond. Unlike younger Tarvek, Older Tarvek grew in confidence fairly quickly--though it helped that he also grew into the bond quite quickly, and could feel his own Ilsa's commitment. Forty years of solitude and despair can provide enormous inducement to grab onto connection with both fists.]

Edited 2012-06-10 19:03 (UTC)

She was a fool.

[ The growling response is accompanied with a buzz of annoyance on the carrier wave of her anger. ]

You are prey, nothing more.

No, dear. I'm a human spark. That means I'm a predator who *domesticates* other predators.

[Munch-munch-munch. Very good food. Munch-munch. Forage.]

Now, my Ilsa would have chocolate somewhere. I wonder where?

[ While he rummages around in the drawers (and incidentally finding quite a bit of wardrobe suited to him), she is calming her projections... or are they simply getting weaker? ]

She protected you.

[Considers a shirt. Quite clearly his younger self was as fashion-mad as he remembers...and with louder taste than he now has. Still...He measures it against himself. Yes...he'd look quite spiffy in this! Very nice!]

Yes. Or at least, mine did, and judging by the charm the other Ilsa protected her young man, too. Mine taught me quite a lot, as well. Even without the charm I'd be less easily preyed on than you might think.

But, of course, there's the inverse. I protected her. Just as I am now. She...or her sister-self...will hurt just that little bit less because of me.

(Ponders) I wonder if they will remember us? Or if we will remember them?

Or if we even exist at all?

Ah! A chocolate bar! Want a bite, liebe?

Edited 2012-06-10 21:28 (UTC)

[ Staring angrily at the ceiling, she mutters, ] What in the seven hells happened to her to make her so weak?

Oooooh. Says the woman too weak to have protected herself even if I hadn't had the charm!

Believe me, love, all it takes to overcome one like you is a little bit of knowledge. You have no allies, no friends, and you invite attack. The real wonder is how you survive at all.

Edited 2012-06-10 21:50 (UTC)

I am off the map, it seems - an unknown hell.

[ Murmuring, mostly talking to herself, possibly unaware that she has begun to monologue. ]

What transgression did I commit, that was enough to put me in this place? I have followed the precepts and made the appropriate sacrifices as dictated by the First. I have not put any of the prey before the needs of the clan.

It is said that the First was the one who found the doorways to our plenty, for when we were lost, the new hunting grounds were our salvation. There are other clans who have lost their way, and cleave unto those who are not the Children.

Now I am most truly lost.

[ She has lost her anger, seeming to be sinking into a pit of depression. ]

[He can feel it all through the bond. His compassion is real--though there's no waaaay he's going to give her a chance to escape.]

[He glances at a clock ticking on the wall. Time for a little talk before midnight--and midnight's when it will end, assuming it does end today. If not--day by day he'll find a way to cope. For now, though, he's just waiting for midnight. And if he's waiting...]

[She may not be his Ilsa, but she's still an Ilsa. He's willing to fight to redeem her, if he can.]

So, liebe. Some of this I follow. Some? Not so much. But I can tell you that right now you're in Mayfield, which for many is hell enough and then some. And that once another woman lived in your place who didn't see other people as prey, or think the only people were members of her own little speck of a clan.

Where are you from and why do you believe otherwise?

[And, very carefully, he slips a piece of chocolate toward her mouth.]

Chocolate helps almost anything. Have a bite.

[ Glares at him a moment, then her stomach growls again.

Carefully, knowing that lunging to bite the hand feeding her would be counter-productive (if very satisfying), she gently takes the bite of chocolate offered.

The delicate gloves he still wore blocked her well, and she realized they were silk. Damn her counterpart for telling him so much!

Throttling down her annoyance, she ate the chocolate slowly. Apparently the one who she wasn't had fine taste - it was the better brand, as close to proper dark chocolate as one could get, here. She took her time with it, watching him. ]

[The young man whose body he wears would rush at this point. This Older Tarvek, though, isn't going to. He can wait. Or not. But, again, for the memory of his own Ilsa, he'll see if he can reach this wild, predatory Ilsa. Maybe he'll leave her with things to think about, anyway.]

Would you like a cracker and peanut butter? Some water? I could even give you peanut butter and chocolate. Your other self taught me about that. It's...an interesting combination. But not bad.

[If this were his Ilsa, he'd stroke her arm, soothe her. This Ilsa would not accept that, yet, and it would just set them back. He waits, and as he waits he prepares crackers.]

You have told me nothing of yourself, only of your Ilsa.

[ Her voice only has an edge when she says the possessive pronoun. ]

The body you wear is young, but your signature is much older.

[Once, long ago, when he wore a body much like this one, he was able to suppress his emotions so entirely he barely even felt them. He hasn't been that entirely contained for a long time. She may feels a complex mix of surprise, pleasure, regret...]

[He wasn't expecting her to even consider him, yet.]

Whoever the me is who normally wears this body, yes--he's almost certainly younger than me. Or at least, when I wore a body like this I was much younger.

Now, in my Mayfield, I'm still not as old as I was before they brought me here.

I'm old enough between my own time-line and Mayfield time to be your father. Maybe even your grandfather.

Cracker? It's Ritz. Or...after the chocolate you may want a drink of water, first.

My clan elders are centuries old, but if you are counting on human biology, I suppose you may be right.

[ That little bit of emotion causes her to shift, pleasure and regret do not belong together. ]

I will need water.

[He rises and gets a glass, filling it in the bathroom attached to this little, private sanctuary. It's much like the rooms he and his own Ilsa shared...]

[He sits near her, and offers the glass, as carefully as ever. If she moves too suddenly he'll retreat so quickly that any contact will break before she can put it to use.]

Here.

Take your time drinking. I'll wait.

[He's like a deep granite outcrop, going down hundreds of feet, rising up as high or higher. Words like "rooted" are not enough to describe what he became thanks to his timeline, and his Mayfield.]

[ After a few sips, she leans back from the cup. If he chooses to drown her at this point, she would not be surprised. It has been the standard operating procedure for humans to torture her clan when threatened, but she will not give him further satisfaction. He has already seen her defeated and bound.

She also has regrets, those she will not voice to him, involving her parentage, but these issues were not to be spoken, only endured. ]

[He simply sets the glass aside. He waits, listening, gauging her responses i the bond. He can feel the sting of old regrets and resentments. It will have to be seen if she will speak.]

Cracker?

There may be cheese upstairs, too, if you're willing to risk my going to get some. Fruit, too.

Nothing else.

[ She leans back and closes her eyes, squelching the fear of unlocking the door and having the hollow ones come near her, again. ]

I am not in need.

[ Her treacherous mind will not let go of the memories. Damn the man for digging up things properly buried and gone. ]

[He feels the spike of fear, even as she suppresses it. He's not sure of the cause, but he does know she doesn't want him to leave.]

[It's progress of a sort.]

There's no version of me in your world? Or...if there is, you drained him without ever noticing him. Or he was smart enough to avoid you. You never got to learn what brought my Ilsa and I together. Or brought another Ilsa and this boy together.

You never got to know why people are a thousand times better as friends and lovers than as prey.

[Deep pity--not the sticky, humiliating kind, but the respectful kind that can reduce angels to tears.]

You've gotten one hell of a bad deal, Higatchen. Blue fire, you must be lonely.

They are weaknesses, leaving behind only pain when they leave....

[ She knows this path, but will not give her emotions to him. Everything is pulled back and wrapped in cold fury, insulating her from her past, his pity, and the entire wrongness of the situation.

Withdrawing back into herself, she closes her eyes again. ]

[He lets her, returning to his quiet rummage through Other!Ilsa's cupboards and drawers. He's trained: she will find no traces if and when she returns. But he misses his Ilsa, and sees echoes of her and his life with her in Ilsa's live with the Young Tarvek.]

[But he cheats. There's an old, tender cubi song His Ilsa knows as a lullaby. He hums it, softly, as he patters around.]

[ Not listening, not listening, not listening... it is something another girl's father sang to her in her crib, a joyful time that was cut short by fire and blood...

She's able to control her breathing, and cycle her mind down to sleep, but her lashes are damp. ]

[He sees the tears, and feels the deep ache she tries not to acknowledge. He risks a soft, gentle stroke across her shoulders.]

(Very soft) Ah, poor one. Whatever happened to you to cut you off from the woman you should have been, sweetheart?

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[Memory Corrupt] Upon the swings of indecision [closed]

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I need to go to bed soon. Can I continue tomorrow?

Sleep now.

Re: Sleep now.

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Do we want to end this more or less here, and find a meme for these two elsewhere? Or continue?