View source for 2024-04-03: .and when at last you looked down into oblivion, all eloquence left yoU

*'''Log:''' .and when at last you looked down into oblivion, all eloquence left yoU
*'''Cast:''' [[Character :: Yuliana Kafim]], [[Character :: Shelby Korts]]
*'''Where:''' The Photon Power Labs
*'''Date:''' 2024-04-03 (Feb 0099)
*'''Summary''': ''Shelby finds Yuliana working out to loud punk music, and they find, to their mutual horror, that they have more in common than either of them are comfortable with. Yuliana shares something of her own horrors with Shelby, but sometimes, two people with port scars don't have the words to set it right.''
----

[[Category:Logs]]
[[Category:Phase 1 Special Disc]]

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

        Yuliana's back at the Photon Power Labs, in February, after some more time back home. She does need to split her time, between one and the other... she grows unstable, without the steadying influence of her wife.

        Even so, she's made remarkable progress, considering her condition. The Photonic Neuromodulation Therapy has gone great lengths towards calming her around Newtypes. It's not that the empty spaces around them (or around HER, the root of the matter) have gone away, but she's better able to focus her attention elsewhere, now. In small ways, her brain is being encouraged to be a little more human, and a little less... something else. And with the support of ''regular'' therapy, they're even helping her to be less of a ''traumatised'' human!

        She hit the gym after a particularly gruelling session, as she tends to do. She's ''trying'' to redirect her aggression into exercise... at least when she's prompted to notice her agitation. And a solid hour of weights later -- she might have even worked it off.

        She's working up a sweat, anyway. She ''may'' have bent the rules and gone up to a 240kg barbell. She's still being ''safe,'' in her mind; it's still not her max lift capacity. And she needed to push herself harder! Did you know that awful Dr. Kimura asked Yuliana if there was something ''bothering'' her that she ''wasn't bringing up?!'' He even asked if things were all right at home! As if Elisa had done something ''wrong!''

        ... at least he apologised for making such a flagrant accusation, but...

        (But she's still ashamed that she wondered, even if she told him off right away. ... she's the one who assumed he was blaming Elisa...)

        Of course the first thing she did was ring her wife and tell her why she felt so awful -- but when her wife reassured her and supported Dr. Kimura's suggestion to vent her frustrations, she came right here.

        And she's been in here for, like, an hour.

        SNAFU ZAKU is blasting over the speakers, other people's experiences be damned; no earbuds for Yuliana, today. The whole world can just cope with the punk rock. She's in a black tanktop and shorts, drenched in sweat, though of course a scarf is still tied about her neck. She is ''entirely'' absorbed in what she's doing, and what she's doing is lying prone, pumping enough weight over her head to kill a normal man. Her ear frills are courteously folded behind her ears, keeping her psychic imprint small, but her tentacles are on full display as they clutch and lift the barbell alongside her hands.

        At least she doesn't look quite as ready to snap the metal bar in half, now.

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

        While she wishes it was entirely a social visit.  The trip to Japan has some more important things for Shelby to handle -- especially as the world goes a little more mad at break-neck pace, leaving her and her friends back home to tighten up their guard and keep an eye out for more attack and dangers in the Sides.

        Shelby's been here enough to know her way around, to reach where she stayed the last time she was here with Anser, and where to root around for some possessions and belongings that were seemingly forgotten -- fortunately it wasn't anything time-sensitive or too classified, or else the young woman would've had to make her way here a lot earlier and faster!

        It's on her way out that her ear perks, catching familiar voices and sounds:  The cacophany of rock and the rough screech of speakers struggling to not blow out against the scratches and pops that do nothing but lend a more authentic, whole, raw and *real* sound.  She's halfway down the hall by the time she stops, twists, and looks back.  She squints.  So, so hard.

        "... Is that SNAFU ZAKU?"

        When she emerges through the door into the gym to the blaring sound with the door tugged open, the young woman strides in to see Yuliana -- who else could it possibly be?  And tentacles??  Carrying little barbells??!

        Shelby looks like she finally got herself a new jacket; possibly the influence or result of her older sister, a dark and pale green closed with a double-breasted snap on one side of her chest.  The collar is wide and flops on one side, the sleeves baggy and rolled up to her elbows, forearms sheathed inside skin-tight black fabric.  The patterned high-waist leggings are varying shades of black and gray, and by god she even has a new(ish) pair of running sneakers.  The strap of a satchel bag crosses her chest for the bag to hang at her hip, though she clutches the support a little tighter.

        Much longer red hair than before -- Castellan red-- gives way to her classic bright pink in an ombre fade, blue eyes narrowing like this were less reality, more spaghetti western.

        "What.  Are you.  Doing.  Here."

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

        Strangely enough, there's a stealth shuttle in the hangar, if Shelby happened to poke around in there. The 'Ghost', apparently. That, in itself, might not have been too suspicious. But --

        That's SNAFU ZAKU, and that's Yuliana, pumping iron to it.

        Flat on her back, her gaze snaps to the flagrant Shelby, all carved out in space. A moment's wandering -- it's a little hard to tell, now she doesn't have pupils -- and she focuses on ''Shelby,'' through all the empty spaces where something ought to be.

        Her sweating brow creases, and she takes a deep, huffing breath, warhorse to the bit, as she lifts the barbell and secures it above her head. (Her tentacles help. ''Her tentacles help.'')

        "''Obviously,''" Yuliana says, a little out of breath, "I'm, ''exercising.'' What does it ''look'' like."

        She just kind of flops down on the mat, under that weight. (It would be way too easy to kick it off of its stand and crush her with it, right...? ... except, that's still 240kg.) "Oughta ask why -- ''you're'' here," she says, with another huff. "Didn't know you came around."

        And then, for a moment, it's just heavy breathing.

        "... ugh," Yuliana groans, head tilting back against the mat. (Her tentacles are ''also'' sprawled out to either side of her.) "I'm in, ''treatment,'' all right? It's -- a secret, so don't -- go running off to tell your sister too quick. You'd make things inconvenient for ''Sayaka,'' you know." And Yuliana, but Yuliana is pretty sure that Shelby would consider inconveniencing her a ''plus.''

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

        Only after Yuliana actually racks the barbell does the young mind-reader actually parse the sheer volume of weight on the equipment without seeing the numbers; the tic of her brow is subtle but it's not hard to read the worry in the back of her mind and consider how strong this woman is -- or even could be past this.

        "You're--"  A pause.  It's flipped on her.  "That is ..."

        It's not like it's entirely classified business.  And she's here, more importantly, in a place that is supposed to be safe.  Given, there are worries that even etch themselves into the Castellan's face, eyes ducking down behind her glasses before searching the blank space somewhere above the floor for any kind of confirmation or information.

        None comes to mind.  Shelby does however, cross her arms and frown.  Her speech has that strange cadence as ever, but being in the same room as the singularity of screaming silence gives her a bit more focus.  "I forgot.  ... Something.  The last time I was here.  Was in the area, so.  Picked it up."

        The red-pink-haired girl shifts her weight, settling her hip to her left.  Not entirely flat-footed, but definitely choosing to relax a little and engage rather than enter a fight-or-flight mode-- and perhaps a shade of her sister is hidden away in the stance.

        She's here for ... treatment?

        Shelby's expression softens, head slanting to the side and glancing off toward the wall while absently scratching at the side of her neck.  "That's not. ... Listen.  Sophie and I are. ... If.  ... If she knew half the stuff I did.  I'd be locked in a room.  Like.  Forever.  Okay?  I--"

        The newtype's face scrunches a little, brushing back long strands of hair over her shoulder.  It's less of an annoyance, more buying a moment to organize her thoughts.  "What kind of treatment?  For the, uh... you know."

        Her hand lifts, fingers wiggling next to one of her ears.

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

        They did an awful lot of experimenting, back in the day; apparently, it left Yuliana ''quite'' strong. Since they couldn't experiment with her the way they could with most psychics, well...

        ... at least Yuliana has never had to worry about a funnel in her life.

        Apparently her strength ''does'' has limits, though, because after an hour of doggedly working the weights she's tired enough to just kind of lie flat on her back even around ''Shelby.'' Shelby! She might decide to kick her right in the face! Yuliana is pretty sure she might just kick her right in the face. (Yuliana might just think that because she'd at least entertain the thought if it was the othe way around.)

        She's not so tuckered out that she misses Shelby's evasiveness over her question, though. She scowls, and... lets it go, deliberately, with a deep intake of breath and sigh. "Sure, sure."

        Maybe Dr. Kimura was onto something. She's too tired to start a fight after all that exercise!

        But -- Shelby's keeping things from Sophia herself, apparently, and Yuliana frowns again, before she nods. "Mm," she hums, and at least looks a ''little'' reassured at that. (It's not ''just'' reassuring, but the implications are something she'll sort through later.) Her hand comes up to her ear, clasping it, and strangely enough she looks ''self-conscious.'' Who knew that Yuliana could do that!

        "No, that's -- uh -- well, I guess? Not the... they haven't chopped anything off. Not that they could," she adds, and says more than she means to in the process. "But it's, they... they call it Photonic Neuromodulation Therapy. Kinda -- put these sensors on my head and throw Photon Power at my brain and I guess it, like, turns bits of it on or off or whatever... since it's not entirely human. So they were trying to... work on that. So I'm less -- vulnerable to it. The Void, I mean."

        It hasn't made her any less silent.

        She's nice enough to warn Shelby, at least: "I'm getting up," before she slides herself out from under those weights and pushes herself standing, slowly and with a hint of trembling. She goes over to the bench, where there's a towel and a bottle of water -- one scrubs her face before it goes around her shoulders, and the other she chugs in a long gulp-gulp-gulp.

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

        The lost Castellan moves a couple steps back as Yuliana announces her rise, keeping some odd piece of exercise equipment between herself and the voidtouched woman; a physical barrier that keeps her crushing non-aura at bay... also something that might give her a little more distance should she need to escape quickly.  It isn't that she doesn't *trust* Yuliana, it...  Is just difficult.  But like she did for the sake of someone else before, she can try.

        This doesn't stop Shelby from, however, scrunching her brow and frowning.  "Messing with weird power.  Who would have thought, there would be, um.  ... Consequences."

        The thought of someone messing with her head, even for theraputic reasons, leaves Shelby looking a little more haunted than normal.  No-- don't think about it.  Don't let it in.  With a sigh, the mixed-colored head slants forward with thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge of her nose.  "Look.  I am not gonna pick on you.  For ... getting help, with, um, stuff.  But you shouldn't be messing with it.  That... that Void stuff.  Being in that place felt like my head was being torn in half.  On fire.

        "Can't imagine how bad it is for you." she says, adjusting her glasses... and is that, even, perchance, a hint of worry in the mind-reader's voice?

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

        Yuliana scowls, deeply, but at least now she's sitting on a bench Shelby can be ''pretty'' sure she won't lunge up and grab her. (Or at least, it should be more ''obvious'' if she would.) There are probably other places to sit, as well -- if not other benches scattered around, then certainly on some of the ''equipment.''

        "What do ''you'' know, asshole!?" She snaps, putting her empty bottle aside and folding her arms. "I never ''asked'' for this. I mean -- they asked if I'd consent to experimental treatment to make me a more effective soldier -- I signed that -- sure. Sure, I signed that. But it wasn't... they never told me I'd be like this," she says, glaring at the edge of the bench rather than at Shelby directly. "I thought... I don't know what I thought, okay? I was eighteen. I was stupid. Everyone's stupid when they're a teenager and you tell them they're an adult and they can do what they want now. You know, if I was a good candidate, maybe I could help people more if I took some drugs, I could go further for my country... I don't know, whatever." And she's quite bitter about it, about this idea that she was the one who was ''messing with it.''

        "It happened to me -- and now I'm connected to that place -- and She saw me -- and you know, I'm lucky," she insists, sullenly, "She saved me. She carved a piece of Herself away to send to this existence to save me. If it wasn't for my Elisa, I'd be dead. Or raw material. They were going to -- you know -- when the Institute fell. Dr. Devi had another lab prepped, they -- I had to go there -- she told me to lie down and let them put tubes down my throat and in my veins and I did. I just let her do it... they were going to cook my brain and keep my body alive to harvest the cells. The cells that made me like this. They couldn't do it because they weren't fully developed... they couldn't mature in a human brain. They'd keep replicating until there wasn't anything left of me. But Elisa stopped the runaway replication process... she killed them all. But that's what they were going to do. It wasn't ''me'' messing with it, wretched girl... I was just the route available."

        Her fingers tighten, around her arms.

        "The screwdriver."

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

        Shelby shifts half a step, frowning.  "Sorry."

        But, what does she know about it?

        "But I understand being different having consequences."  Shelby's arms uncross, tugging at one of the black fabric sleeves, exposing her skin to the fabric bunched up at the wrist.  Presenting her forearm, there are signs of equally-spaced injection scars, lingering damage under the skin-- the aftereffects of a terrified child ripping her own IVs out.  "I know you know some of it 'cause we had to save Jona... but, ..."  A finger taps against her temple, "I can't do what I do, um.  B-Be... because of the lab.  Sophie told me, um.  That I was like this.  Since birth.  Always."

        "Though I don't remember anything," she says, tugging the sleeve back up her arm and checking the tension.

        But to Yuliana's explanation, Shelby listens carefully -- this is at least thankfully way easier to follow than one of Anser running through one of her latest experiments or tests with the psycommu interfaces and tune-ups done to operating systems.  If she has a reaction to the statement 'Elisa killed them all,' it is one of the few times that Ms. Korts's expression is nigh unreadable.

        "So this fototron.  Noramodd.. thing is gonna make your brain tougher?"

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

        "Well -- they ''made'' me like this," Yuliana scowls, as she clutches at her arms. (Subtly, she turns her wrist upwards, to look down at her own scars there.) "I guess they could do that because of stuff that happened to my ancestors... but my father never dealt with this. My grandfather never dealt with this... if they hadn't pulled it out, I would have just been human."

        Newtypes are born; Cyber-Newtypes are created.

        Maybe that's why Rita and Yuliana could never get along.

        "Your body remembers," she says, to a point left of Shelby.

        Her tentacles coil around herself, too. "Yeah," she says, at length. "I guess parts of my brain are too activated, and some aren't activated enough... it's something like that. Not that I'm brain damaged or anything like that," she adds, with a sharp scowl, "my brain works ''fine,'' it's just -- it's different. It's different to yours now." She's lying, of course, but it would be ''embarrassing'' to admit to the extent of the damage.

        "And I'm getting, um..." Her fingers drum on her arm, before she finally spits out, "... therapy. It's not like I need it, my Elisa's already treating me, but... they say that it's, the, uh, the neuro-plasticness? I don't remember the white-coat nonsense... I guess it's just making new connections or whatever."

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

        'Your body remembers.'  Shelby stares at her hand for a moment, frowning a little bit.

        It does, doesn't it?  Smells, and feelings, and... things that should belong to 'her,' and not her.

        Shelby's weight leans forward to come to rest against equipment, settling against it more comfortably.  "I'm different too.  I don't get how, like, all the ways it happens.  Or the science.  It doesn't stop me from being 'me.'  More important.  ... I think, anyway," she says.  "We're in the same boat.  ... or ... not quite."  An absolutely hilarious joke about calamari lurks in her mouth, but the cook-pilot thinks better of it.

        "I have a therapist.  Also did ... a lot.  ... A LOT.  A lot of exercise to work off anger."  Her head slants again, "Hope you aren't playing SNAFU ZAKU in a session, though.  Quiet is usually better for that.  You get all the ... I dunno.  Brain, worms, out of there."

        Wait.  She knows-- she knows?  She KNOWS.

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

        Are they in the same boat? Are they even on the same ''ocean?!''

        ... well, it's not like Shelby didn't spend time in a lab, too. That's where she met Rita, didn't she? That's where she got those scars.

        "I don't need your advice," she grumbles. "I can play whatever I want. They'd be fine with it if it made me more comfortable... but for your information, no, I don't tend to play music around them." She crosses her legs, alongside her arms and her tentacles. "It's... disrespectful. I don't want to piss them off."

        Or, in other words, she's still kind of terrified of medical care, even leaving aside how she wasn't ''supposed'' to let outside doctors examine her.

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

        Shelby's eyes roll, fingers spreading to adjust her glasses.  "I'm not even.  I am trying to be-- not."

        She hesitates-- struggles.  Words aren't coming to her, as her hand lifts a bit to try to jog her thoughts ahead; she diverts it a bit, quickly stating, "I'm trying to not fight you.  With.  With you.  Okay?"  A sigh follows up, body a little tense.

        She doesn't want to piss them off.  That's good.  Rather than add more, say something else that might add to the voidtouched's irritation, she opts to just go silent.  And she just lets that silence hang for a minute before she steps away from the machine, like she's going to walk away from this whole thing, and just leave-- leave, irritated, again, with this attempt to reach Yuliana with some kind of understanding slamming into a wall, but then she stops.

        It's bugging her.  She has to know.

        Shelby squints, then starts digging through her bag, then looks up at Yuliana, expression somewhat leery.  "So.  Wait.  I still have my player.  How do you even know what SNAFU ZAKU is anyway?  Shouldn't you be listening to like. ... old stuff?  Or something?"

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

        Yuliana scowls, her own fingers loosening against her arms. "... okay," she says, more quietly. A light pause, and she ''explains:'' "You'll have to excuse me. I... it was a difficult session. Dr. Kimura asked if I was hiding something, you know, if something was bothering me, and... and he asked if everything was all right at home, and you know, I thought, I thought he was accusing my ''wife'' of, of doing something. I got quite upset... but then I realised he might not have been talking about her at all, and, and it was ''me'' who'd implied it might have been her fault, and... I don't mean to be so awful."

        Which is a weird place to put that desire, when she actually ''is'' awful in a lot of places which ''aren't'' the place she's citing.

        She shrugs, still not quite ''looking'' at Shelby. "Anyway, SNAFU ZAKU is ''my'' era, you know. They were active in the 80s -- Britannia Strikes First was pretty pivotal to me realising the Gundam Fight wasn't as great as I thought it was. But they went to ground for a while... it's only recently they got back together and putting out more albums."

        Finally, she looks to Shelby. "Besides," she adds, "I'm not ''that'' old. I'm only thirty-one, you know." She'll be thirty-two soon, according to the files they pulled from the Institute, but for ''now...''

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

        She isn't old enough to have all of the world experience someone in their thirties does -- even if she's lived a lot of life in the years she can actually remember.  There's nothing too pointed or poignant coming from the redhead, instead letting her eyes stare out into the distance for a time.  She's listening, even if the rumbles of voices continue to circle her mind at the edge of the silent singularity that is Yuliana Kafim.  Finally, she simply says, "... That's rough."

        Yuliana not only replies correctly, she replies correctly ... with context.  Examples-- deep lore, known by people who understand this music far better than others.  Looking vaguely horrified at the thought of this being where the voidtouched woman and her truly intersect, Shelby reaches up to her jacket and clicks loose the snap-button with a tug, unzipping the thin and lightweight jacket to open it up.

        The t-shirt is old-- it isn't just one of those 'fake vintage' things stressed by a store, but a loose few threads in the collar and the hem cropped a little high by a previous owner.  It's boxy in the way it hangs on her torso, but light enough and the fabric broken in.  Across the chest, a skeletal hand that seems to have cut it's own skeleton arm off with a hacksaw blade facing the wrong way up:  Defunkt Anarchy Bonesaw.

        She does not meet eyes with Yuliana.  "My entire perception of the world.  Just...shifted, an inch to the left."

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

        "It is," Yuliana agrees, when Shelby realises it's rough.

        But she focuses on the music, instead -- which is more visual, for a moment, when Shelby unveils her shirt. It actually gets a grin out of Yuliana, and not, for once, one which looks like it belongs on a hungry shark. "Heh... nice. Yeah, it's... music can be like that. It's one of the things which made it across the borders into the Republic, even as insular as things tend to be over there... ''stilyagi'' still persists to this day." A light pause, and she lifts a finger. "'Stylish'," she translates. "People who bring in Captialist culture. It's more adopted now than it was in ancient times, but there's always been... you know, most of the Republic prefers to be comfortable inside itself. But when you take the ''magnitizdat'' -- the tapes -- of an Australian concert and copy it amongst the youth... well, it's not like I was able to do much in the way of gamelan when I moved to Chukotka, so I suppose I got more into outside culture."

        She laughs. "Actually, when my mother realised, she arranged for me to get Western dance instruction from the ''babushka'' on the farmstead near us... funny, isn't it?" She's always had an interest in dancing. It's a shame she dances to end the world, now.

        "I realised the world was more complicated, and... well, I don't know if it was because of all the bitterness in that music, but it's not as if it didn't help." Yuliana shrugs, palms facing upwards. "Besides, after Second Impact, I had a lot of complicated feelings myself... I tried not to let my mother's jadedness get to me, but it was hard to be a patriot when I was a teenager. Haa, I should have listened to her... she was right about our country."

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

        "I didn't start listening to a lot of music until a few years ago.  Like, when I got a stable place to live.  Spent a lot of time travelling when I was little.  Didn't really ...eh ...  I had a lot," she says, tapping on the side of her head, "on my mind.  Started listening to punk when I couldn't sleep.  Helped block out the Noise.  Let me sleep.  Or focus, when I started at my job."

        There is indeed an irony to it:  The void sings, and Yuliana dances.  Shelby does not say anything about it, however.  It would be a lie to say that she's not on the fence about the cyber-newtype, even now, knowing what she knows.

        After all... Shelby is still human.  "As long as the world keeps going, you can.  ... Er.  Um.  You can, you know.  Do better.  Understand people.  Where they're coming from."  Her finger lifts, eyebrows raised.  "I'm still mad about the miners and that dragon."

        The gesture is somewhat extra-dramatic, as she points at her bespectacled blue eyes and then at Yuliana again.  Zipping her jacket back up, clicking the snap-fasteners closed, Shelby shifts her bag.  "... ... I hope you get the help you need."

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

        "I could bring you Silence," Yuliana says, softly, "but I suppose you don't want it, do you?"

        Beat.

        "Where I go, you need not follow."

        It's... shaped like a reassurance, anyway.

        She scowls, though, when Shelby brings up 2100 Ra-Shalom. "I didn't intend for them to get involved," she says, a touch sullenly. "It's not like I enjoy hitting civilians. Believe that or don't." If she pretends it doesn't matter, she won't feel so badly feeling like she's being ''judged.''

        "..."

        Yuliana looks away, fingers playing at the edge of that towel.

        "... yeah. You too."

        She won't stop her from leaving.
</poem>