View source for 2022-10-20: She gives me nothing, and I have so much nothing to give

*'''Log: She gives me nothing, and I have so much nothing to give'''
*'''Cast:''' [[Character :: Yuliana Dispersal]], [[Character :: Shelby Korts]]
*'''Where: Sweetwater Colony Restaurant''' 
*'''Date: 2022-10-20''' 
*'''Summary''': ''Shelby doesn't answer Yuliana's questions, and her mask comes off.''
----

[[Category:Logs]]
[[Category:Phase 1, Turn 2]]


 <Pose Tracker> Yuliana Dispersal has posed.
<poem>

        All the paranoia over being sighted by someone who realises her game can't keep Yuliana from her primary goal -- the same thing which delivers her from a little lab in Sweetwater, having questioned one of the older researchers in residence. It was a very pleasant interview.

        Well, he's still alive.

        Being set for Zeonic space is certainly Yuliana's least-favourite thing -- mind you, ''every day in space'' she's accruing a new least-favourite thing, but this is another step entirely on the least-favourite ladder. She actively resents suddenly wishing her goal were in this miserable backwater of Federation space. Somehow, it's Sweetwater's fault.

        She kicks a can. It goes rattling down the street, and gets lodged by the tyre of an abandoned car. There are makeshift curtains in the windows. Through a bizarre series of logic leaps, their poverty is their fault, too.

        Yuliana keeps walking onwards, past the car, through to what ''passes'' for a populated district. The cafe she chooses to turn into is entirely coincidental; just the closest thing which looked like it might serve ''something'' edible. She goes to order, and sits herself down at a booth. In her dark suit and cheerful purple scarf, she's... more put-together, than a lot of people who come through here, though unfortunately, her bangs have been clipped away to reveal the left side of her face and the long scar down that eye. Quietly, she slips a bottle of pills from her pocket, shaking some into her hand and slamming them into her mouth. Gulp. (No need to bother waiting for water.) She closes her eyes, and sighs, returning the medicine out of sight. It's fine, she thinks, deep in the cloister of herself. She'll feel much, much better after she's ''destroyed her.''

        And as ever, the emptiness surrounds her. To psychic senses, her mind cannot be seen, and within her grasp lies blindness. As ever this is so -- and she does nothing to consciously will it. Her existence is a wound in the world, and she bleeds silence, constant, deafening.

        It doesn't make sense, to be mad at Sweetwater. Frankly, her gold engagement ring, all set with diamonds and a shining green emerald, might well be worth more than this entire ''building.''

        But Yuliana's anger can't make sense, as a rule.


</poem>
 <Pose Tracker> Shelby Korts has posed.
<poem>

        Life in the closed section of Sweetwater Colony is not as bad as it sounds, once you get used to the noise, construction, barely-controlled chaos, and the atmosphere-- it has it's charms and subtleties, and a definite sense of community lingering in the air... even if the lights go out or a blackout kills the power in a few blocks for an hour or two.  It ain't perfect, but people do work together to uplift each other in this place.

        And some of them have a vested interest in making it better.

        The restaurant is not too large, but it definitely has a steady influx of customers hurrying in and out, some carrying take-out containers or the occasional big bag getting loaded into the basket on the front of a bicycle.  At least the lunch rush is starting to die down, right?

        Burgers are the main serve here:  The classics, but also some specialties.  Real meat is available, but it costs a little extra around here; the vegetables and fixins are a bit easier to wrangle and sourced from one of the agricultural zones in the open section of the colony.

        The kitchen is a bit half-and-half in the limited space of the building; there is no wall that separates the dining room from the kitchen aside from a couple of support posts and the main counter.  Someone on staff is heading out the back door with a zip-up bag tucked under his arm, calling to the cook on staff that he'll be back later, and the voice -- well, to Yuliana it might be familiar, especially when her head seems to cant, like a shiver running down her spine.  She's dressed for a hot kitchen; clad in an old tanktop, dark leggings, and comfortable old running sneakers.  Her hair is both tied back in a short nub of a ponytail and also worn with a faded red bandana over it, with a pen tucked into the side, and a wristband to occasionally wipe her brow while she works.

        "Two's up!" she calls to the waitress, bringing a small circular tray to the counter, moments later spiking the ticket on a thin stainless steel shaft adjacent to the register.

        And then the Newtype just *stands* there, staring across the restaurant, clutching a large flat spatula in one hand and *looking* at Yuliana.


</poem>
 <Pose Tracker> Yuliana Dispersal has posed.
<poem>

        Yuliana has the money to pay for real meat and vegetables. She even throws some extra gilla in there to make sure it's ''actually'' real meat. Bribes make the world go 'round, in the REA, so it's really just second nature.

        She hears a familiar voice, though, and looks up -- through the restaurant bustle -- straight at Shelby. Ah, ''that's'' where the dropped connections were coming from. Well, she wasn't going to look too hard before she had something to eat, but...

        ... if she's going to just walk out and ''offer'' herself up...

        Yuliana smiles, and lifts a hand, gesturing with fingers curling inwards to the cook. Her hand is more decorated than it was, last time. The motion is no less dangerous.


</poem>
 <Pose Tracker> Shelby Korts has posed.
<poem>

        Shelby looks a little different than when they met on the beach:  She's in her home, in her element.  More composed, even -- some would see it as something of a home field advantage, but it may just be that she is in a space where she has copious access to cutlery ... that, and she's a friend to many of the locals.  Her jaw sets in consideration, and she is doing her absolute damndest to shut out the noise twisting her abilities in here.

        This is her space, damn it.  By what right...

        Taking the ticket from the waitress-- Yuliana's table-- she stares at her more than reads it before treading back into the small kitchen.  Here, farther from the pilot, she sucks in a breath and gets back to work.  Her wrist twists and finger flicks out, the large flat spatula spinning out before catching it by the grip and flipping food to the other side of the grill, clipping the new order up on the board.  The waitress returns with the REA agent's drink, a little nervous given the looks shared between cook and customer, but she's polite and punctual.

        Watching her work is a little bit of a show, one that is built on rote discipline and comfort with what she does.  Though a couple more orders are up before Yuliana's, it's fairly prompt -- and things have slowed down enough that there are, for the moment, no more tickets hanging from the rack.

        She plates and trays the food, but rather than calling for the waitress, she arrives herself, standing at the edge of that twisting noise and staring at Yuliana as though she were looking into the infinite abyss.

        And then, she unloads the tray herself, setting down the meal and tucking the tray under her arm.  It's obvious that being a little more than arm's length from Yuliana is causing her discomfort.  This is her place, her zone, and yet it's still getting to her -- that nothingness.

        "Please enjoy," Shelby says, through a clenched jaw.


</poem>
 <Pose Tracker> Yuliana Dispersal has posed.
<poem>

        "Thank you very much," Yuliana smiles, perfectly pleasant, to he waitress coming out. There's nothing to be nervous about.

        No -- there's nothing.

        She doesn't have eyes for the waitress's work, though; she's focused on Shelby, who cannot hide behind walls which don't exist. She sips at her drink, and waits. She is patient.

        And Shelby gets the message.

        "Ah, thank you," she responds, again, and to all assessments she is perfectly pleasant, warm smile, open body language. She reaches over to slide her burger over to herself. If it upsets Shelby -- well, that's hardly ''her'' fault. She's clearly trying to ''respect'' her space, finishing her own job for her. Clearly.

        "I wasn't aware you worked in the area," she smiles, foiling any hopes of leaving quickly. "I do hope you're not working too hard... could I impress upon you to take a break with me, I wonder? Things do seem... quiet, at the moment." Is that an assessment of how busy the restaurant is, or is it something else? Her amicable tone hasn't shifted; she ''sounds'' entirely friendly.

        On the outside.


</poem>
 <Pose Tracker> Shelby Korts has posed.
<poem>

        She hesitates a long moment, then turns to walk back to the counter, reaching over the top to grab a bottle of water before returning to the booth.  She stays standing, leaning herself on the back of the seat across from Yuliana; Shelby's eyes twitch and narrow and the longer she stays in the presence -- at least this close -- to the woman, the more it seems to put some strain on her.

        At this range, with no voluminous hoodie for her to hide in, Shelby looks a little different:  Her arms are a little more built than it would have seemed, including her shoulders and back.  Twisting the cap of the bottle, the young Newtype seems to have her own visible scars:  Not just calloused hands from hard work, either-- but marks on the inside of her forearms, things like injection scars too evenly positioned, little nicks and marks on her upper arms and neck.

        "This is my home," she says, her odd cadence a little more terse.  She can hear the waitress' worry, but it's like the words are stretched and distorted and ... worse, she can't hear this woman.  She can't hear Yuliana's thoughts.

        It's so ... goddamn unnerving.  What ''is'' she?

        "I hope you're enjoying your time.  ... On the colony.  We're a little out of the way for a vacation, though."


</poem>
 <Pose Tracker> Yuliana Dispersal has posed.
<poem>

        Ah! An experiment. For totally unrelated reasons, Yuliana tends to wear long sleeves. She wasn't, when she was in a swimsuit, last Shelby saw her -- but ''now'' she's in her usual element, showing much less skin.

        "It's very... quaint," Yuliana settles on, smiling, on the matter of the colony which is Shelby's home. "In some ways, I am reminded of India. And it ''is'' rather far out, isn't it? I suppose it would make a marvellous hiding place."

        She takes the burger to her lips, and bites. She might be more opposed to it if she wasn't a lover of food from all corners of the Earth, but Yuliana is already entirely used to things outside her usual palate. "Really, it's quite good," she assures Shelby, as if she had to worry about it. "Yes, you're rather good..."

        And here Yuliana pauses, head canting, with a shade of embarrassment. "Ah, I'm sorry. I've forgotten your name!" She never gave it, and Yuliana knows that. "Who ''is'' the most marvellous cook of this establishment?" It sounds like a compliment, except for how Yuliana points out all the identifying markers she has for Shelby, and how much easier it will be for her to ''get'' that information now.


</poem>
 <Pose Tracker> Shelby Korts has posed.
<poem>

        Totally unrelated.  Likewise, Shelby kept her distance far better the first time the two women had met-- here, it's a little harder.

        Drawing in a breath, she's working hard to keep herself composed; the waitress is keeping an eye on things from a distance, the manager is still gone, and the customers still in the restaurant... a few are throwing side-eyes, but nobody is actually saying anything to the situation -- instead, keeping their attention focused on their food and their own conversations.

        'A marvellous hiding place.' "I guess," the young woman says, throwing a shrug.  As to the point of her name...?

        "I never gave it."  The tired-looking young lady throws a small grin at that, feeling herself far too clever in the moment.  It's a small defiance in the face of this odd stranger; the woman that throws Shelby's senses into wild disarray.

        She takes a drink of water, using it to give herself a few seconds to think.  Focus on the current of the thoughts and how they bend and flow.  Don't.  ... get drawn in...

        Shelby's face twitches visibly as she keeps trying to take her own advice, but it doesn't stick like she would like it to. "B-Besides," she says, her neck twisting slightly with that creepy feeling like fingers going up her spine.  "I-Isn't it Earthnoid custom to introduce yourself first?"


</poem>
 <Pose Tracker> Yuliana Dispersal has posed.
<poem>

        Shelby says she never gave her name, and Yuliana laughs, light, musical, a little self-effaced. "Oh, that's right! Silly me." As if it were just a slip of her memory.

        "Hmm?" Yuliana goes on to press, entirely innocently. "But I'm quite sure ''I'' did. If you like, though -- I'm Yuliana. Yuliana Dispersal." She dispenses with the 'Captain', again, but it's hardly a secret.

        She lifts her burger again. "... though if I recall," her smile grows a hair more sly, "you weren't so occupied with ''who'' I was, back then..." And rather than explain herself, rather than recall Shelby's intuition over asking ''what'' Yuliana was, she takes another bite.

        Chomp. Chomp.


</poem>
 <Pose Tracker> Shelby Korts has posed.
<poem>

        Yuliana Dispersal.  A little bit of a weird name, now that she's getting some time to think about it.  The longer she's here, the more it's starting to get under her skin.  It's insidious.  Strange.  It's hard to listen, or filter thoughts, or even just let things by as the noise becomes increasingly garbled.

        "So," Shelby starts, as Yuliana resumes eating.

        Despite her bravado, the shift in her attitude is a little more pronounced.  Her weight shifts, a subtle rock that eases her back from Yuliana a little more than toward.  "Look.  I'm not good at.  ... the games.  I don't know what you are, or why you're here, but if you want something from me."

        Her hand turns forward, rolling in a circle.  "You should just say it."


</poem>
 <Pose Tracker> Yuliana Dispersal has posed.
<poem>

        Chomp, chomp, and then Yuliana lowers her food, and swallows. She smiles, to Shelby. She looks warm; looks inviting.

        "Your name, dear," she asks -- commands, perhaps, speaking clearly, and without any chance for misinterpretation. It doesn't even matter, to Yuliana, terribly much -- except for how dogged Shelby seems to be at ''hiding'' it. The very fact that she ''cares'' means Yuliana suddenly cares.

        The very fact it will hurt her means she wants to have it.

        Still smiling, she invites: "Give it to me, and I'll answer your own burning question..." A beat of lingering silence, as her eyelids veil, across her gaze, green as jealousy. "... regarding what I am."


</poem>
 <Pose Tracker> Shelby Korts has posed.
<poem>

        The woman acknowledges that she's different -- not normal.  It confirms what she thought, and leaves her a little bit on edge, but ... at least now she can confirm it, in part.  Shelby steps away from the booth at that moment, stopping only when the cold sting of Yuliana's voice runs up her spine.  Where warmth is offered, the pink-haired young woman feels ... something different.

        She glances back over her shoulder, frowning.  "Telling me that much tells me a lot.  So.  ... I don't really need to know.  ... other than you're ..."

        Shelby's hand wheels around a little.  "Different.  Like me."

        She's trying really hard to keep the brave face up.


</poem>
 <Pose Tracker> Yuliana Dispersal has posed.
<poem>

        'Different. Like me.'

        It happens in a flash, the way Yuliana's smile pulls out to a snarl, all the warmth and the remnants of her burger dropping from her. One lands on the table, leaving a saucy smear; the other leaves no impact, because it was never real to begin with.

        It's really unfair -- the way she can unfold from that booth so quickly. She's a soldier of many years, and she ''began'' from a position of strength, a position honed and crafted and perfected through the medium of her flesh. All a sudden she is in Shelby's space, grabbing for that wheeling hand with fingers like a bear trap.

        "Insolent girl," Yuliana hisses, through a throat which clearly wants to scream much louder. "You forget yourself. You think yourself a player? You are ''prey!''"

        What, then, does that make Yuliana, bearing down on her so ferociously?


</poem>
 <Pose Tracker> Shelby Korts has posed.
<poem>

        Fingers spool tightly around her hand and wrist, the pressure like a vice.  What happens beyond that is the far more interesting thing:  Her eyes go wide, pupils unfocused.  It's like a hiss of something, be it her breath or her presence or her mind, as she's brought across the event horizon and stands -- forcibly -- within the black hole.

        Her body wracks with tension:  Everything is quiet.  Everything is gone.  The silence is more oppressive than the noise.

        It's like Tsutsujidai, but worse.

        Shelby is shaking, somewhere between a hiss of fear and a worry -- she's never felt like this.  Not like ''this''.  Not this much of ''nothing''.  The voices, her awareness, her understanding of everything around her, this is just ... it's like having hands over her eyes and ears, almost.

        Her head turns slowly to look at Yuliana, like someone truly put in the corner with no way out.  Her eyes are uncharacteristically wide, like she can and cannot simultaneously see through the REA Captain, powers or not.  A few of the patrons are on their feet, and the waitress is coming around from the counter, clutching a serving tray.

        Shelby's voice is barely a whispered hiss, because she is scared and angry and a thousand other things at once.  "Let.  Go.  Of.  Me."


</poem>
 <Pose Tracker> Yuliana Dispersal has posed.
<poem>

        Yuliana has no eyes for the patrons; all her attention and her hate has found a house in Shelby's eyes, no matter how many deadlocks were on the door.

        "''You'' are not privileged to make demands of ''me,'' girl," she hisses, leaning in. It would almost be intimate, if it were any other situation, any other tone, any other gaze. Their eyes are close enough to level; it's her presence which is looming, not her height.

        "I have been ''very patient'' with you," she issues, and with each lance of her words her fingers tighten, tighten, tighten. "But you begin to ''anger'' me. I am nothing ''like'' you and your wretched ilk! No,"

        Her lips curl, and her teeth part, in something too gaping to be called a grin.

        "I am the monster who ''eats'' insolent little girls like you."

        Could she? Right here, right now?


</poem>
 <Pose Tracker> Shelby Korts has posed.
<poem>

        The strength of the grip hurts.  Shelby winces, looking down at the hand clutching her own.  It's a strange look on her face, as though she's experiencing this for the first time:  Is this what it's like to be different?  That you can't see or hear or feel anything without powers, and someone is just holding onto you, and -- pain?

        The pain.

        Those wide, unblinking eyes shift back up to Yuliana, her right hand dropping the bottle and balling into a tight fist.  Something ... like this... is this when she should swing?  Should she punch?

        How do people make decisions like this?  Why is the silence so loud--

        "Excuse me!!" the waitress suddenly yells, approaching Yuliana and Shelby.  "Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to leave!"


</poem>
 <Pose Tracker> Yuliana Dispersal has posed.
<poem>

        Yuliana sees her fist tightening -- and laughs, in her face. "Go on," she goads her, and her grin now is all knives, another sudden emotional lurch to the side. "Don't you hate me, darling? Don't you think it ''right'' for you to hate me just as much? Or will you waver -- like the coward you are!"

        Somehow, in the midst of this, she's simply ''forgotten'' there were so many people, here. It is so easy, for her to forget. She is an island unto herself, and she hears nothing, nothing, nothing --

        Nothing but the words from their mouths. "What?!" Yuliana demands, turning, sharply, to the waitress. "You impudent wench! I am SPEAKING, and you will--!!"

        But they can't hear her, of course. All a sudden, Yuliana's grasp on Shelby's wrist loosens, as her lips curl up. She releases her -- sharply -- and turns, pulling her wallet from her pocket and tossing a good handful of hundred-gilla bills vaguely in their direction.

        "For the food, and the trouble," she remarks -- to the waitress, not to Shelby -- and all the heat in the furnace of her lungs cools, suddenly, sharply, to something cold and closed-off. "Please excuse me."

        She stalks from the restaurant, without another word.


</poem>
 <Pose Tracker> Shelby Korts has posed.
<poem>

        What is even going on?  Is this like -- is this what they mean by fight or flight?  Why is this so foreign of a feeling to her?  What the hell is going on?  How is she even supposed to react if she can't even feel--

        Her shoulder pulls back a little.  Shelby opens her mouth to say something--

        -- and then the waitress yells at Yuliana to leave.

        The hand around her wrist goes loose before the money is gathered up and thrown at the waitress.  All of them, from the patrons to the waitress to the short order cook, all watch Yuliana stalk out the door.

        It's after Yuliana leaves that Shelby suddenly staggers, falling back against a booth and grabbing her head while gasping in pain with the sudden return of her sixth, intrinsic sense, breathing hard while the waitress insists that she sit down and catch her breath.

        She's not going to be working the dinner rush tonight.
</poem>