2023-02-04: You're Not There Anymore
- Cast: Anser Vulpecula, Shelby Korts
- Where: One of Many Commercial Districts, Orbital Ring
- Date: U.C. 0097 02 04
- Summary: On a run to the Orbital Ring for discreet shipping and delivery of goods for Sweetwater, Anser finds Shelby dealing with old wounds torn open by the Institute raid. Talking helps, but...
<Pose Tracker> Shelby Korts has posed.
The holding is little more than a warehouse in a district where things change hands fairly regularly; businesses renting spaces under a litany of shell corporations and wiggling through the rules as much as possible to pay as little money as they can to move things like cargo and supplies -- and, as much as possible, past the attention of the Federation and their watchdogs.
The main bay of the warehouse is large enough to house at least one mobile suit and supplies and materiel rather comfortably; an area of the floor is taped off for deliveries -- the other, for pickups, where a few crates and supplies are left sitting.
The upper level has a loft and recreational area-- little more than a lounge with an old pool table and a coffee machine-- attached to an office and bathroom space.
Shelby Korts should be there, on the floor, waiting for a courier. She should be there ready to sign off on parcel transfer and supplies to be loaded onto a ship -- a very specific, particular ship, in fact -- but she isn't. Instead, the trail runs toward the bathroom space: Her pilot suit strewn across a sofa, her helmet on the floor next to the door. The clipboard for signing off on the transfer is on the arm of the sofa.
Shelby is seated in the corner next to the toilet, clutching a bottle of water almost empty and slumped against the wall. Her glasses on the sink, eyes a mix of red and sleep deprived.
<Pose Tracker> Anser Vulpecula has posed.
There are rules, and rules exist for a reason. Always operating within the framework for the familiar confines of red tape is Anser Vulpecula, the diminutive engineer who is /routinely/ asked for her identification at every possible checkpoint of every possible station and in every bar she sets foot in. It's /fine/.
On this particular day, she has a delivery run to make, a manifest that requires a signature, and the closest thing to a sour expression on her face that she seems capable of making except for moments when she's dissecting the latest briefings on the illogical and the impossible, her brow furrowed.
She spots the familiar suit, the familiar helmet. Not quite standard issue, and sticking it like a sore thumb. There's a terse knock on the closed backroom door before she places her hand on the actuator that slides the door open. The time between the knock and the door sliding open is all of a second. Perfunctory.
She turns to regard Shelby, sets the manifest down, and slides it along the bathroom floor with her foot. It slides against the crouched pilot's foot. "...I don't care for being ghosted in unfamiliar territory, Korts. Even if you've got a migraine, or a hangover." One is more likely than the other, but who's she to judge? She reaches into her pocket and draws a pack of cigarettes, tapping it softly with her now manifestless hand and sliding one out. Pack goes in one of her pilot suit breast pockets, and the lighter comes out and is flicked open. A guttering flame. Butane. Not pressurized and steady. Old school, unlike most of her tech fascinations. She tucks the cigarette between her lips and leans against the wall, impassively regarding the other pilot before she takes a long drag and puffs it out.
"...But it's not either of those, is it?" It's not quite empathy, but it's not quite frosty.
<Pose Tracker> Shelby Korts has posed.
It's one of her bad days: Buzzing, thrumming, warbling noise. Voices blurring together, like a cacophany of whispers and voices speaking directly into her ear at full volume. She's had bad days before, but never *this* bad, not for a long, long time.
Each breath fills her chest and sounds just as dull and muted in her ears, like a bubble against everything she's hearing. The things she's feeling, too. Eyes unfocused, seeing-- things.
And then a knock before the door slides open. Shelby jerks upright where she sits, the manifest hitting her foot before all the pieces start to slide and fit together: She had a job to do. Damn it-- she should've--
"A-Anser, I'm sorry-- the ground op-- it was--" she says, scrambling to drop the bottle of water and pick up the clipboard and get herself up to her feet. Not that the mechanic would know, but she hasn't changed her clothes yet; the shirt and leggings combination one of at least a dozen of each from the pilot's closet. Scrambling from her position to stand, seemingly terrified the shorter mechanic is about to let the pink-haired pilot have it, the words actually sink in.
"It was..."
She stays standing, but she leans again against the wall behind her, fingers clutching the edge of the flipboard tightly. Her shoulders hitch, breath catching as she starts to cry.
"I-It was like I was still there. Everything, it just-- was-- hhh-- goddamn it--"
<Pose Tracker> Anser Vulpecula has posed.
The presence of a crying Shelby Anser pausing. She looks quietly away, giving the woman a modicum of privacy. She's never really been the touchy-feely type, so this isn't a reaction that should be taken as beyond the pale. It's not personal, at least.
She looks contemplatively up at the ceiling as she draws in a nicotine-laced breath and lets it out, murmuring, "...Not the stellar success you were all hoping for? I won't pretend to know the details, and I won't insult you by trying to say I know what you're going through, or that I've been where you're standing. I can imagine, but your experiences are unique to you."
Why is she spinning her wheels so much? An agitated little tap of her foot, involuntary, "The past has its claws on you, and that's understandable. But it can only have power over you if you let it." She intones, rather more sternly than she doubtless intends.
Silence for a moment. A space to breathe, or a space to interject.
<Pose Tracker> Shelby Korts has posed.
The black fabric of her compression sleeves helps wipe her eyes, using the back of her hand. A sniffle, and she takes a bit of time to catch her breath. "We saved everyone we could. Getting out was a blur. I don't--" 'I don't remember.' 'It felt like escaping the last time.'
Maybe it's just because someone else is there, she tries to get herself together again. She's fighting to find some grounding, even as the yelling in her head keeps going and going and won't SHUT UP--
"It's ... just hard to think of it like the past when it's ... just ... looking you in the face. R-Real, a-and-- alive. Wh-When you think it's done and gone." Another sniff, and wipe at her eyes.
"There was a kid that ... I think she was my age when I was in. I was just a kid, Anser. I-- she-- didn't deserve it." She looks up to her, finally, blue eyes desperate and scared and angry. "Any of it!!"
"They drugged me. Did things to my head. They stole my only friend. They made me forget everything!! My name? It isn't even *my name*. I can't even remember it. And I thought it was over. I thought everyone could do better, but it just-- it keeps going!"
The pink-haired young woman's fingers clutch the clipboard tighter, head hanging again. "It's just so hard-- it's not fair!!" The yell is punctuated by the thump of a fist slamming against the wall.
<Pose Tracker> Anser Vulpecula has posed.
Her eyes turn back toward Shelby when the young woman's tears become a bit less obvious. Almost like the outpouring of emotion makes her uncomfortable. Well, no. Exactly like that. It does. What good has ever come in her life of overly-emotional pilots and their big damn feelings?
There's a palpable tension in Anser, a wire slowly straining despite her relatively placid expression. Her grip on her cigarette tightens, and she takes a step forward, snuffing it sharply into the sink, hand automatically moving to a little container she keeps her stubs in and depositing it.
She walks sharply across the bathroom and rather than hugging Shelby or offering words of consolation, the young engineer draws her hand back and sharply slaps her.
Her hands then lift sharply, both of them, to take the girl's cheeks in either hand. Her expression is torn between some sort of cold fury and genuine empathy, now. It's rare.
"Shelby Korts. Get a /fucking/ handle on yourself. Stop looking backward for two seconds, and look at /me/."
She glares directly into her eyes, "...You're. Not. There. You won't /ever/ be there again. It was wrong, and it was cruel, and it was /everything/ I /loathe/ about science. But you won't *ever* be there again. You're right. You were a child, and things happen to children that they don't have a say in. That they don't understand. That they don't deserve. That poison everything that comes after, that..."
Her hands lower and she takes a few steps back, her composure beginning to return, "...that aren't as important as where they are now."
She turns, looking askance to Shelby, "...A woman who always does her best, even when she's scared. You did everything you could. I didn't review the debrief, but I don't have to. Because you always do. So stop beating yourself up, or I'll happily do it for you."
I mean... no, she won't. That slap hardly even hurt.
<Pose Tracker> Shelby Korts has posed.
The cacophany pounding in her skull, the waves of emotion, the memories and the pain and the aches and--
SLAP
-- and then Anser holds her face, and gives her an earful. The look on Shelby's face is shocked; the Noise no longer even a factor for her to consider right now. No more tears rolling down her cheek, no more sniffles, just catching her breath and looking the smaller mechanic in the eyes as she speaks, and...
... and then she closes her mouth as Anser releases, lips pressing together firmly as she listens to the mechanic. The pilot's head head nods numbly, after a moment, whether or not she processes the compliments left unspoken. "... sorry," she says, after a long moment. Her hand moves to her forearm, thumb rubbing against the inside, sliding up and down the fabric. Her other hand shifts on the edge of the clipboard, fingers tightening up.
"...thanks, Anser."
<Pose Tracker> Anser Vulpecula has posed.
Her hands are subtly shaking. She's not *used* to having flares of temper herself, and it's clear she's not thrilled with it. She flinches at the apology, and shakes her head at the words of gratitude. She slumps /hard/ against the bathroom wall, fingers twitching as she seeks out another cigarette. Tap. Pull. Light. Press. Drag. Breathe.
The smell of smoke permeated the bathroom, and Anser takes a cursory look upward for any fire detection or suppression symptoms, just to be on the safe side. Monitoring, of course, but nothing that looks like it's going to sound any alarms. Some engineer will notice high particulates in the bathroom and dismiss it as normal.
She would.
"...You don't have to lock it all away, Korts." Anser murmurs. Apparently that usage of her full name was something of an angry one-off. Still, to Shelby's memory, it's the first time she's actually used it at all, at least when speaking to her directly. For the first few months, it was 'Ensign.' Then it was 'Ensign Korts'. Then it was just 'Korts'.
"...You don't have to lock it all up, but you have to be willing to look at it, or it won't ever go away. Even if it hurts, you have to face it until it can't hurt you, anymore. Or you won't ever be able to move on."
Her lips purse slightly around her cigarette, and she looks to the side again, away from Shelby.
Silence. Oppressive. Very Anser, now.
<Pose Tracker> Shelby Korts has posed.
The advice is allowed to sink in-- enough so that there's a long stretch of silence from the young woman. It's not 'ride the wave,' but -- "I just ... I had reminders. And my powers, together, are... I-It's not just the lab. But ... my friend. She's back." A beat, then her head tilts. "Sort of."
She draws in a deep breath. Bathroom air, recycled colony air, the lingering smoke from the cigarettes, all of it -- and then she rubs her eyes. Bracing the clipboard against her stomach, she squints at it and lifts it closer before scribbling her sign-off on the bottom.
She looks utterly, completely exhausted as her arm extends to offer the clipboard back to Anser, still leaning against the wall. "You called me 'Shelby,'" she notes aloud, corner of her mouth pulling up into a lofty smirk.
<Pose Tracker> Anser Vulpecula has posed.
Speaking of powers - It's not overwhelming, like the first few times, but there's a small fox kit on the sink, pawing at Anser. It's not doused in that awful tar-like substance. It's... actually just kind of nice.
Anser, of course, doesn't notice it a whit, nor acknowledge it.
"...Yeah. Reminders, I understand. And it can make it feel like it's happening again. But you just need to logic your way through it. Center yourself. Ground yourself."
She looks over at the talk of a 'Sort-of' friend, her brow arching in that not-so-subtle way that tends to signify that Anser either doesn't understand, or is actively skeptical about what's about to be said next.
When Shelby instead makes note of the use of her name, there's an almost sullen puff of smoke from the corner of Anser's mouth, "...I also slapped you, though." She notes.
<Pose Tracker> Shelby Korts has posed.
'I also slapped you.'
"You can pay for the batting cages next time," she replies.
Of course, Shelby's eyes are drawn to the sink. The fox, next to her folded glasses, drawing her attention. It's strange to see it just Existing, compared to the last time she had seen something like this in Anser's presence. She's smart enough to understand it for what it is:
Nice.
"'Ride the wave,' is what the Director told me. Always took it to mean... 'Don't fight it but don't be overtaken by it.'" Taking a breath, getting one more wipe of her eyes in, Shelby looks back at the sink.
Of course she catches the eyebrow arch. The Newtype knows enough of Anser-speak and her mannerisms to follow along with what that means, and the pilot adds, "It has to do with that 'Phenex' psychoframe Gundam, but ... you wouldn't believe me if I told you."
<Pose Tracker> Anser Vulpecula has posed.
She slides her cigarette to the other side of her lips and offers a soft snort, accompanied with the slightest upturn of her lips. Seems that after the outburst, the walls are all up again, even if they're just the tiniest bit lower than usual.
"The X-- The Director's a smart woman." Anser corrects, nearly falling back on old habits from when she only knew Nanai Miguel as the Chief Operations Officer. Back when they were more military and less... militia? Whatever this has become. Anser hasn't been particularly vocal about her thoughts on the Shuffle Alliance.
"...We don't always agree, though. If you ride the wave, you're a prisoner to where it takes you. I don't know. Think up some metaphor about dropping anchor on a boat, or something." She seems disinclined to do the heavy lifting on that one herself.
The statement about her beliefs gets her free hand lifting, pinching the bridge of her nose, "...Why do people think that? Observable data is tangible data. I simply arrive at different conclusions because I don't engage in flights of fancy. People," She plucks her cigarette from her lips and wags it in Shelby's direction, "Are just too quick to latch on to phenomena they don't understand or yet comprehend and ascribe meaning too swiftly, or errantly. So, try me."
<Pose Tracker> Shelby Korts has posed.
An anchor. A way to control it more. "That's I never thought of it. ... like that. I guess."
'Try me.'
"Okay. Well... you know my powers are different." Shelby sucks in a breath. "and ... that I don't remember everything about Augusta."
She gestures nebulously. "I had a hard time speaking for awhile. There was another girl there, I met. She was a few years older than me, named Rita. We realized that we could communicate telepathically. She helped keep me from losing it in there a few times. Like if the testing got... bad."
"She did what she could to take care of me."
Shelby's thumb rubs against her forearm again. "So, ... one day Rita's just ... gone. They didn't tell me anything. But I found out she was sent to another lab. And then ... elsewhere," she says, frowning.
"I'm not sure how, but that other psychoframe unit -- that Phenex Gundam. Rita's inside it. She's ... alive, *in* the Phenex. And it's been running way past it's operational limit, because of *her*. She's controlling it, like ..."
The newtype frowns a little, like she's struggling to use the words. Not because Anser wouldn't understand, but because... it hurts. "... it's just her ... mind in there. Not her body. ... like a ... like a ..."
"... like a ghost. But she's here."
<Pose Tracker> Anser Vulpecula has posed.
She holds the cigarette at arm's length for a bit longer before tucking it back where it's most comfortable, but doesn't make much of a concerted effort to actually smoke it. Seems she's content at the moment to simply let it smolder. She listens. She doesn't roll her eyes or offer any sort of input throughout save for the occasional nod when something comes up that she recognizes, or to acknowledge that she understand and is listening.
At least until Shelby refers to to the entity as a ghost.
A ghost.
That gets an immediate twitch of her lips, "...It's difficult for me to rule out Newtype abilities at this point. It would fly in the face of established science, even if we don't understand the complexities, and even if I dislike the idea. There's simply been too many instances of it in recent years for me to discount."
However.
"However," Anser continues, "...that's a far cry from acknowledging the supernatural. Life after death. There's no evidence by design, and if there were, we'd all be breathing easier, wouldn't we? Death wouldn't be something to fight against, or even concern ourselves with. A change in matter, and nothing more."
She looks to Shelby, and murmurs carefully, "...I'm not saying I don't believe you. I've seen some technology I can't even begin to fathom. Reports of even more outlandish things than that. All from people and sources I trust. There's simply no way to begin to analyze it all. But... ghosts? No, I think it's entirely more likely that..." She taps her forehead, "...A copy, maybe. An advanced AI, made to sound like her. Decide things like her. I don't think those monsters dressed as scientists who had you would be above such things. As for the operational parameters, I think there's an inclination to think of specifications as absolute. The factors that can alter performance aren't even well-known or well-documented when you stop to consider--"
She talks. A lot. Like, it's minutes. Painful, agonizing minutes. And it's easy to zone out on.
"Make sense?"
<Pose Tracker> Shelby Korts has posed.
She was worried about Anser making faces or grinding her teeth or somehow snapping the cigarette in half while Shelby tells her side of the story. And it's nice that the smaller mechanic was willing to hear her out on her entire side of things.
So, of course the pilot is going to listen when Anser gives her side of things. It does start out easy enough to follow -- philosophical questions of life and death and even the technological options that chase after it. And then she lets Anser speak about the science. There's so much science.
When she finishes, her hand lifts a little, blinking. "I... I have to admit, I understood about half of that. ... but I think I understand what you're trying to say. It's not that I... I'm not trying to say you're wrong, but it... nnh... it's so tough to explain."
"The Phenex doesn't use comms. It's ... telepathic. It's the way we used to talk. In our minds, and in our ... dreams, sometimes, I know what you're gonna say, but we did--"
Shelby glances down briefly. "-- I just. I feel it, in here," she says, a hand at her chest. "It's her in there, somehow. It's how we talked. How we ... still talk." There's a particular emphasis on 'still.' As in current, as in--
How long has she been...?
"Rita came to me. She knows I live in Sweetwater. She... also brought me to the Institute for the op. And... if I call to her in my mind, she knows."
<Pose Tracker> Anser Vulpecula has posed.
The conflict is clear enough on Anser's face and in her mannerisms. She's not quick to warm to people, but she's also not difficult to read, even without the ability to see whatever the hell is going on with her and that spectral fox, who's simply peering up at Shelby now, quizzically tilting its head.
It's little surprise that when she speaks, it's in a measured tone, her words chosen carefully. "I believe that you experience what you say you're experiencing. What you're proposing is... one of the explanations, certainly." She looks up at the ceiling and audibly groans, "...I'm not *denying* what I've seen with our tests. Between you and the Director. Your creepy silences and then complete understanding. It's an ability, and one with a scientific explanation. We just don't /know/ the explanation yet. There's a correlation to it. A cause. Exposure to space is a flimsy, magical-thinking bit of nonsense that just..."
She's gripping tightly to her cigarette, and the fox kit starts to look agitated. It falls into the sink. Kicking. Thrashing. Gagging.
Her eyes snap upward, and she takes a too-hard breath. The fox sits up, in the sink. It, too, breathes. "...That gives people the wrong idea, and when people elevate such nonsense, it empowers fanatics. Like Char Aznable."
She looks to Shelby, and nods her head, "...So when you tell me these things I can't perceive, or understand, of course I'm frustrated. It's something I can't quantify or measure, can't gather data on. Yet. But I want you to know that it doesn't mean I don't believe you. If you weren't reliable, I wouldn't keep fixing your Frame, simple as that."
She folds her arms, tilting her chin up and looking away, "...Does she say anything, then? This Rita? Or do you just catch up on gossip?"
<Pose Tracker> Shelby Korts has posed.
The fox kit sprawling into the sink on cue with Anser draws her eyes away from the mechanic and to the spectral image. She blinks, looking between the two before trying to focus on the former -- even as she admits with her groan-- and ... makes a good, salient point.
"I... I understand. I wish I could make it easy for you to understand, too. I mean. ... past the mind reading stuff. I don't ... I don't want to fall for the kind of things I did then, again."
Shelby draws in a deep breath. The pink-haired young woman looks ... better, if a bit drawn out. Definitely needs some sleep, soon. Moving to the sink, picking up her glasses and sliding them on, there's an odd moment where her hand unconsciously extends to pet the kit before heading toward Anser. "Something like that. Mostly reconnecting and filling in the gaps."
"It's ... a long story."
<Pose Tracker> Anser Vulpecula has posed.
It shouldn't be there, of course, but the fur feels real enough. Downy and soft to the touch. It leans into the pets. Because pets are nice.
Anser simply bobs her head when Shelby acknowledges her point. As a woman of science and technology she does, of course, prefer to be perceived as correct, even if she's willing to accept critique. Being correct is preferable.
She tilts her head towards the door. "...If it's long, tell it in the break room, or your bunk. We could choose far better locations that are... better-maintained." Oh, the bathroom isn't all /that/ bad. It's just a bathroom. A public bathroom.
Look, it still need to be cleaned regularly.
She snuffs out her cigarette, adding it to the glorified ash graveyard she has in that small container. "I'll hear you out, Korts. Not like I've got much else to do for the next few hours." She slaps the manifest with the back of her hand. "0300. What a shit departure time."
Anser Vulpecula follows after Shelby, to whatever destination.