I didn't care much how long I lived

[magnitudes]

WHO: Sarissa & various.
WHERE: all over.
WHEN: second week of December and onwards.
WHAT: a lazy December catch-all.
WARNINGS: Depression, potential reference to past abuse, likely reference to recent murder, if anything else comes up I'll try to add it in subject lines and add it in here, too.
NOTES: I've been hideously disorganised the past couple months, so if we've discussed a thing and I've failed to follow up on it feel free to throw a pm at me or dive in with a starter of your own :]b

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SARAH. sometime?¿?¿

[magnitudes]

( Behold, Sarissa.

Behold her at Sarah's place, because that's where she spends the vast majority of her time now, and behold her carrying a sack of flour. Behold her drifting off, focus fading out for a sec, because that seems to happen all the time now, and the flour dropping awkwardly onto the counter with with a flump so a cloud of flour billows into the air and makes her start coughing, face and hair pale from it. )

Jesus!

[coppelganger]

[ Sarah just so happens to be heading into the kitchen for a drink, and she leans in the doorway, watching Sarissa for a bit. Partly it's because she wants to know what she's doing, and partly it's because she wants to convince herself that Sarissa is okay. Functioning, at least. She's still not sure, but when the flour billows out, she snorts an involuntary laugh. ]

Nice one.

[magnitudes]

( Sarissa coughs, and then it becomes an indignant splutter as she looks across at Sarah. She spends a moment stuck in between trying to muster up a sarcastic reply and just staring at Sarah blankly, from the ever-present fog that she's always at risk of disappearing into for a while, emerging only to make occasional jokes or reach out to people, even if she does both badly.

Her hand drops into the bag of flour, and a tiny smile twitches at the corner of her mouth as she grabs a handful of flour and throws it at Sarah in retaliation, with a snap of her wrist. Not all the worst of it makes it to Sarah, of course, but that doesn't mean she doesn't get heavily dusted. )

Oops.

[coppelganger]

[ It's one thing to get flour in Sarah's hair, and quite another to get it all over her leather jacket. Sarah's mouth drops open in shock, and for several seconds she can only stare at Sarissa. You did this to me, her eyes seem to say, though no sound escapes her mouth. And then, very calmly, she steps the rest of the way into the kitchen, reaches into a half-empty bag of chocolate chips, and throws a handful right back at Sarissa. ]

[magnitudes]

( arghlfh.

Sarissa makes a sound similar to that because chocolate chips, inside her shirt, what the fuck, and its a sheer disaster of reflex that has her grab a glass of water and just fling the contents at Sarah.

And then she opens her mouth, in the hopes of defending herself. Or apologising. Or something.

But she has exactly nothing. )

[coppelganger]

[ Unfortunately for Sarissa, Sarah grew up with a little brother, and she and Felix are used to being utter shits to each other. She reacts immediately. There's no chance for Sarissa to apologize, no mercy. Sarah darts over, grabs the bag of flour before Sarissa can, and dumps the rest of it over Sarissa's head. In the giant cloud of white that follows, she starts laughing and coughing at the same time. ]

Shit.

[magnitudes]

( Oh my God.

Sarissa doesn't really have a moment to react, she's just suddenly coughing on flour, and after a startled moment she bursts out laughing. Laughing, mind you, as she fumbles for something to retaliate with. It ends with her hand dipping into a bowl of golden syrup. Her other hand wraps around Sarah's waist to trap her, and then there is just golden syrup being smeared across her face and down her face, and she just keeps laughing because this is fucking ridiculous. )

Ah hah.

SYLAR.

[magnitudes]

( She and Sarah haven't found their own place, yet. They're working on it, because she can't live on her sisters' couches forever, and while Sarissa had some bravado about not being scared out of her home, the more she thinks about going back to the place she was renting the more her heart sinks. She shouldn't be scared of it, but she is. It feels like a victim mentality, and it winds up being a loop of her berating herself for being wrecked and trying to negotiate the fear away and trying to remind herself that she's stronger than it, like she should be able to get back on the horse.

Except the horse is on fire, and less a horse and more like a mechanical bull.

So she's in a park not too far from Sarah's place, and there's a parrot sitting on her shoulder, with a long safety leash and harness, so he can fly around outside and enjoy the day. It's nerdy, probably, but Sarissa has never had much problem being nerdy when it comes to animals. Or, at least, she did but Cosima's been thoroughly working on her. And now people know she was getting him a Christmas suit anyway, so what even is the point?

She's looking up Mendel, feeding him some pieces of apple, when she just... looks over her shoulder. Feels that feeling of dread crawling in her gut and after telling herself it was stupid, just gives in an looks. )

Gabriel. ( It's better than just about everything else that comes to mind, really. )

[bosewicht]

[ He's hard to miss, even if their encounter hadn't been one of horrendous violence and a rude ending, pyrotechnics and wild lightning. Big and dark and ready with intent eye contact by the time she thinks to chase that feeling of the hairs on the back of her neck raising up. He is seated, a little slouched, his hands shoved into jacket pockets.

Light wool. Black. No glasses, this time. Somehow, she recognises him without his cunning disguise. ]

The winters in these Porter cities are pathetic, [ he says, voice only just loud enough to lift and carry the distance that stretches longer than conversational.

She could run, but she has a parrot, and also, he isn't moving. ]

We won't get snow for Christmas. Maybe a hurricane. Maybe a sunny day.

[magnitudes]

( Handling this situation as amazingly as possible: )

What are you doing here?

( It comes out in a rush - a tripping over her words, a stumble, as her fingers curl forwards her palms. Her right hand crosses to the left shoulder, idly brushing a finger down Mendel's belly, and the left hand is balled tight into a fist that she is making an effort to keep loose. Keep breathing. Stay calm. Keep breathing.

Just keep breathing. Just remember what it is to breathe. Just—

Quietly, dizzily and not really able to focus all that well, she somehow manages another response. )

Christmas is in summer, back home.

[bosewicht]

That's true. In some ways, this must all feel like a perpetual vacation for you.

[ The nearly smile is this shade of self-aware, and Gabriel's attention drifts only briefly to the bird. Or maybe just to her hand, the way she seeks to soothe the feathered creature, the way her other hand makes a fist.

He gets up, doesn't yet approach, the next exhale easing out of him like a sigh. ]

I could say I was just in the neighbourhood, but I think we've finished playing coy, right? Obviously, I'm here to see you.

[magnitudes]

( Perpetual vacation.

He probably thought he was being very funny.

For a searing moment she wants nothing more than to grasp the back of his head and slam his face into the ground, pavement nearby, and tension coils and bunches in her shoulders. The violent, sudden urge to hurt, to make him stop and to keep him away and make him realise what he's done to her. She could just drive his face into the cement over and over—

Sarissa swallows, throat dry. ) You got what you wanted. And I'm not—

( She doesn't dare look away, but she can't stand to look at him, either. Drawing closer would make sense, but the thought makes her feel ill, and she's caught in place. Her voice becomes quietly gravelly, a rough kind of urgency in it even as she makes sure he is the only one able to hear it. )

I haven't told anyone. I keep my mouth shut and my sisters are safe, I remember. You don't need to monitor me.

[bosewicht]

[ Maybe he senses it, the threat of violence, but it doesn't show in his posture, which remains comfortably relaxed, cloaked in self-assuredness -- but it does in his eyes, bright and dark. When it doesn't come, his focus shifts from her own eyes to her mouth, to the bird, to her feet, always at a restless wander before his focus snaps right back up again, raising an eyebrow. ]

Oh, your little display on the network demonstrated that much. I'm not worried you're gonna do anything stupid, Sarissa, not where they're concerned.

[ Somehow, that doesn't come out super flattering. ]

Cute, though, to put it on me. Do you think that's where we were headed, if I hadn't, you know--

[ The finger across the throat 'death' gesture is casually executed. Chrrk. ]

--abbreviated things.

[ For all his casual affect, the off-colour humour, something beneath it all simmers. ]

EMMA. third week of December, ish?

[magnitudes]

( Probably if she didn't want to worry her sisters, Sarissa shouldn't get into fights. That's the logical thing that she should be telling herself. In fact, just generally, one could contend that she shouldn't be getting into fights. Sarissa has realised that herself, but she needs something to help her, and she doesn't know how to get through day to say, most times. Sometimes just being there is all she can do, and sometimes it feels like her body is thrumming with all the energy and frustration and hurt wound up into it.

She's gotten cleaned up, some. Jessica did the best should could, which all things considered, might not have been that great a job. Sarissa's stumbling out of a bottle shop with a cold sixpack of beer, condensation running down a bottle as she pulls it out of the cardboard packaging and presses it against her face in lieu of an icepack, and then keeps walking. Blood is on her tank top (light grey, with a Spice Girls logo, yes) which definitely isn't warm enough for this weather, and there's an impressive black eye forming even now.

So she's got a beer bottle smooshed to her face in unpleasantly cold weather, and a lip that's just split, and she almost walked into someone. ) Shit, sorry.

[dreamcatcher]

( believe it or not, Emma can understand needing an outlet. so far she hasn't been picking any fights, but she's found plenty of other things to fill her time. endless crafting, for starters, cooking and baking and horrible attempts at knitting, oh my. none of them have actually gotten her to sleep, so she's to an old favorite, running, and while that doesn't tire her either, at least at some point her head checks out and there's a bit of peace.

it's uncanny, though, to run so long and barely feel bothered by the exertion. it's probably only the fact she's here that eventually she gets winded at all. the savior is paused on the sidewalk, vaguely aware she should start running in the direction of her apartment by now and at the same time, not wanting to, when someone nearly collides with her. she stiffens and straightens before impact, one that doesn't happen, and her shoulders slant back downwards in the realization it isn't coming. )

It's fine, ( and that could nearly be the end of it, until she takes in the picture of broken and bruised and careless, in so many more ways than one, and a six pack to match it. she's seen pictures like this before, it doesn't make it any easier. ) I don't think a beer is going to fix that. ( her tone is wry but not exactly accusing. she wants to know what happened, all her savior tendencies are screaming, but a random woman on the street isn't her problem to solve, is it?

no, not really, but she wouldn't be Emma Swan if she didn't try anyway. )

[magnitudes]

Really? No shit.

( That's a huge fucking surprise, her tone says, in a way that's somehow wry and not entirely dickish. Helpfully - "helpfully" - she extends her hand holding out the remaining beers in the pack, in offering. ) I hear sharing is caring.

( On the plus side, getting Sarissa to be social and chatty isn't hard. On the negative side, keeping Sarissa from being social chatty is rather more hard. She's alone and cold and she wants to keep fighting and she wants to be aggravating and she also just wants someone to tell her she's all right. She wants to tear Gabriel Gray apart and she wants to make sure he's fine so he has no reason to go after her family. She wants to keep running and keep fighting but she can't fight the one person she needs to fight, because he's too strong.

She's been here before. ) Sarissa.

[dreamcatcher]

( Emma accepts the offering with a bemused look on her face. granted, she doesn't exactly wander around with a shiny sheriff badge on her hip anymore, though the idea of offering a possible open container violation to a former member of law enforcement is not exactly lost on her. it is lost on her company, though, since Emma doesn't see any reason to mention it.

she takes the can and presses it to her neck. the air has gotten sharper but running for a few hours straight gets a girl warm, and the cold is a bit of a relief. ) Emma. ( Sarissa sounds vaguely familiar, but not enough to ring any warning bells, so Emma pushes on. )

I meant you'd be better finding an emergency room than a liquor store, but I see it's a little late for that. ( if Sarissa was hoping for someone that would not be quietly judgmental about her life choices, she nearly collided with the wrong person... but at least Emma isn't only judgmental. ) How bad is it? I can help. If you want me to.

[magnitudes]

( It's okay, Emma. Sarissa used to be a cop, too. Guess how great she was at it.

(Pretty great, actually, but that's a trainwreck for another day.)

She snorts quietly, holding up the valiant attempt at bandaging her hand. Artwork by Jessica Jones, an original entitled The Mummy, budget cut edition. The other hand has some help, too, and it looks ridiculous. She is going to pretend that Emma is commenting on the less than professional assistance she's gotten on her hands, and not the beer that said hands contain. )

Are you kiddin' me? You'd be breakin' a friend's heart, going about shredding her work like that.

( A quiet tutting sound follows, though there is exactly zero effort or energy behind it. ) Are you going to be more helpful than the artist?

( There's a slight tug at the corner of her mouth, a smile that gives way to a very quiet hiss as it pulls on her split lip. Karma, maybe, for making fun of the work that she just half-arsedly defended. )

[dreamcatcher]

If she cared enough to wrap you up in the first place, I suspect she's more interested in seeing you better than preserving her work.

( though, Emma has to note that the bandaging was not the most impressively done. technically, it's there... that's about all she can say about it. at least it's more or less doing its job, but she's not intending to offer bandages. something a little stronger, actually.

she glances over Sarissa's shoulder and then over her own — using her magic where someone can see it is still difficult for her, even in a world where powers were commonplace and every iMport had some. )

I should be able to fix you up. With magic. If you buy that. ( somehow, even in this world, Emma has to throw in that preface, like she can't blame people for not buying it. frankly, she wouldn't. )

CHILTON.

[magnitudes]

( Doesn't feel right, inviting people over to Sarah's. That's probably something that would have been true even before she died: personal space was personal, and Sarah might have a mi casa, su casa attitude when it comes to Sarissa and her home (possibly in an overly Pulp Fiction way, depending on the day), Sarissa never wanted to overstep. Sarah should be protected, and her space should be protected, and she wasn't going to let just anyone traipse through there. Not even the estimable Good Sir Doctor.

So, instead she sent him a message to meet, and made the effort to find a place in Mauritia, and she even got there early. She's not quite the image of vibrancy that she was at her party, or even over the network, if ever her absurdities projected an image of what she might be like.

She's sitting in an overstuffed red leather armchair in a place that seems part gentleman's club, part old English establishment, and the buttondown she's wearing is rolled to her elbows and unbuttoned, revealing a scrappy looking tank top underneath. Like she tried to make herself presentable and was too tired to at the same time, and she's honestly just... drained. So much energy goes into pretending she's fine at different points in time, and sometimes she just loses steam completely. Apparently she got here very, very early. )

Good Sir Doctor. You look well.

( Does he? Maybe he just doesn't look like he was recently murdered. )

[slightlyoffchilt]

As do you, Sarissa.

[Something of a lie. Her exhaustion was evident, but Chilton made a point not to pick at the evidence, not just yet.

He never took chagrin to her nickname for him -- it was perhaps a little telling that Chilton enjoyed "Sir Doctor" as his friendly title. He assumed the compliment, regardless of any evidence that could possibly suggest otherwise. Her sarcasm and penchant for irony, he decided, was isolated from this instance.

Needless to say, with a pressed dress shirt and a pristine charcoal gray suit, Chilton does not appear to have been recently murdered. The opportunity remained ripe.]

I can't tell if you suit this establishment, or if the establishment suits you.

[Quite the compliment, if one really liked that red leather armchair. Chilton took a seat across from her, squirming in his own leather chair.]

Already order the drinks, or do I get the pleasure?

[magnitudes]

Pretty sure I should be making a comment about taking down the establishment, ( she replies, a little too flatly to pass for her usual wit, even if the intent is still there, ) but this chair is so comfy.

( Seriously, though. These chairs are amazing. Probably it's the lining of inherent misogyny that makes them so comfortable. )

Um. I had one, before, but I didn't order for us yet. Figured you might have better taste than me.

( I mean he IS dating a babe and as far as Sarissa knows she hasn't murdered him, but hey. She could be wrong. )

[slightlyoffchilt]

The revolutionary with an artist's touch -- oh, I imagine the locals have quite a fandom for you.

[Chilton knew what the kids liked nowadays. With a self-satisfied smirk, he slouched deeper into that misogyny-lined chair, and tilted his head at Sarissa. A look of the curious, a fleshy twitch he had adopted from the types of academics he wanted to emulate.]

You are too kind. I wouldn't mind a double shot of a Lagavulin scotch.

[And swiftly enough, he ordered that up. For the both of them. The attending waiters knew the silent cues.]

So! Sarissa. Let's talk about what happened.

[magnitudes]

I don't have a fandom, they probably think I'm Sarah. Wait until they find out I was a cop. Bloody devastating.

( Shooting off sarcastic comments is easier than thinking about the second part, and she rolls her shoulders in a gesture that's meant to be casual and fails horribly. )

What do you want to know?

[slightlyoffchilt]

How you are doing. Sincerely. [He leveled a look at her, already anticipating a bout of deflection. Chilton's lips never strayed far from his glass.] What has happened to you recently... What you are thinking about. Even now, in this moment.

Be brutally honest.