wrongkindofsith | Cara's Apartment, Saturday Morning

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Cara's Apartment, Saturday Morning

Cara was not having a good day. Yesterday had been...unpleasant, the incident at the Onsen being followed by fleeting, yet vivid apparitions of things she'd done, things done to her, and more appearances of that other version of herself, ready with a cutting comment, a quick fist, or a quicker agiel, the embodiment of an ideal Mord'Sith. Of course, that wasn't the worst of it, it wasn't like she hadn't learnt to endure either physical or verbal blows long before. The other other her, the nine year old who who didn't say a word but just stood there looking at her, that she'd had little defence against.

Then she'd woken up, and, well, given she'd spent years beating down and repressing every single scrap of her natural inclinations towards empathy and compassion as a survival tactic, it wasn't entirely a surprise that she'd ended up pressed defensively in a corner, back to the wall, hands against her temples in a futile attempt to keep some, any of it out.

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The entire island felt wrong. Surreal had thrown-up almost immediately after exiting her portal, from the shock of so many psychic scents being so wrong. It had taken her longer than usual to make it to Cara's because of how disorienting the entire experience was.

It didn't help that she kept seeing glimpses of Blood males that she knew she'd killed out of the corner of her eye.

"Cara?" she called softly, before actually using her key and coming in through the door like a normal person instead of the window. "I know you're here, sugar, I can sense you."

Cara let out a bitter, shaky, laugh. There was a lot of that going around today. Though having one specific set of emotions to try and latch onto out of the cacophony helped her to focus. If not much else.

"In here," she called out and lowered her hands from her head, wrapping them around her knees, drawn up protectively against her chest, instead.

Surreal padded in, knives drawn, checking the room first before vanishing her weapons and sitting down next to Cara.

Not touching. Yet. Just right beside her.

"What in Hell is going on around here?"

Cara didn't relax, not really, but she let her head drop against Surreal's shoulder. Enjoy that mix of drawing comfort from the contact and guilt for inconveniencing her by needing it.

"I don't know, the island probably. It started yesterday," she said. "The feelings are new."

Surreal sighed and booped her girlfriend on the nose. "No guilt," she chided. "Focus on me. Do I feel inconvenienced? I'm not."

Surreal was an angry bundle of rage, yes, because that's what kept her going most days. But Cara would get no guilt or sense of resentment from her today. Survivor's guilt, maybe, if the island decided to start picking at the scab over her mother's death, but for once Surreal's utter lack of remorse over who she was was going to be useful instead of being a handicap in dealing with other people.

"What started yesterday?"

Trusting Surreal when she said that was infinitely harder than leaping out of a space ship, despite with the island's latest twist of the knife providing proof she meant it, but the guilt diminished, even if it didn't disappear completely.

"Seeing things that've happened. Bad things." Not that that really needed to be specified.

As if on cue, the other her appeared on her opposite side. "You're actually letting her see you like this? Pathetic."

"...and that."

Surreal looked at the other-Cara, then at her-Cara, and back at the other-Cara.

"Fuck off," she said lazily, giving the newcomer the finger. "I came to spend a nice early-Winsol weekend with a girl I fancy. If I'd wanted a threesome or an orgy, I'd have stayed at work."

See Surreal, see Surreal give ABSOLUTELY NO FUCKS TODAY.

Cara snorted, despite the thrill fear that ran down her spine of when the other her turned her glare on Surreal.

But it was her own ribcage the drawn back boot collided with. She didn't flinch or react, more than enough of yesterday's visions had been reminders of what happened when you did. "You know you don't deserve that", she spat, almost petulantly, before vanishing.

"She's not actually as bad as the other one," Cara said dryly, waiting a few moments to make sure she was really gone before rubbing her ribs. No point in pretending when the island would make it clear she was lying. (Not that that usually stopped her.)

"I am going to wrap the handles of your agiels in cloth so that I can hold them for a whole minute, and hit her with them repeatedly," Surreal decided. "It'll still hurt me like hell, but it'll be worth it."

She gave Cara a sidelong glance. "Dare I ask what 'the other one' is?"

Cara shook her head. "Don't hurt yourself on my account. Not when it wouldn't do any good." She could settle for the warm rush of gratitude for the offer instead.

She picked at the lacing running up her legs. "The other one's still me like that one was, just...worse."

"Worse," Surreal repeated, dryly. "So she kicks you in the face instead of the ribs?"

"If only." Cara, this was where actually using your words to clarify things might help immensely.

Though it turned out she didn't have to, as the 'other one' dutifully put in an appearance. Grubby, small and tear-stained, blonde hair tangled, bitemarks on her bare feet, the girl watched them with wide, sad eyes.

"Oh sugar." It was addressed to both of them, really, and Surreal moved to a kneeling position.

"You talk?" she asked the tinier-Cara, offering her (it?) a hand. "Or you just sad?"

The girl flinched as Surreal extended the hand, and this time, so did Cara, involuntarily mimicking the movement as her gut roiled with a twisted mass of emotions she wasn't even going to try to examine.

The girl looked from Surreal to Cara then back again before replying. "She doesn't like remembering being me."

"None of us like remembering being you," Surreal admitted, even as a hungry-looking, feral Surreal of about the same age started forming behind the tiny-Cara. "No one wants to remember being hungry, or cold, or scared. Doesn't mean it's your -- our -- fault."

Don't forget powerless and week, those two were prominent in the mix of feelings Cara was spectactuarly failing to repress.

And because her subconcious was just that fucked up, tiny-her looked over her shoulder at tiny-Surreal and turned to offer her a hug even as she argued "It is my fault. If she hadn't been me, they never would have chosen us."

Traumatised and brainwashed nine-year-old logic, everyone!

[Guess who lost power for EIGHT HOURS midway though typing this.]

Tiny-Surreal stiffened slightly and regarded tiny-Cara warily, but let the hug proceed.

"People who like hurting children don't have good reasons for doing anything," both Surreals said in stereo. "It's their fault. Stab them, not yourself."

...Surreal, violence is not the solution to everything. We promise.

"But I didn't want to hurt anything." Which was possibly a more surprising statement than the actively seeking and initiating hugs as opposed to awkwardly clinging. "It's why she had to kill me."

"You were a sensible child," was Cara's first contribution to the conversation, since her younger self appeared. "If I was more like you, I'd still be her."

Cara, no. Were you even listening to your own argument?

"You are her. Otherwise she wouldn't upset you," Surreal pointed out, more gently than most people would have thought possible for her. "--And that one's me, even though I haven't been that hungry for years."

Cara almost would have preferred Surreal stabbing her again to all this kindness and understanding. Almost. It was simpler and easier to deal with.

"She...I was gentle, and kind, and soft-hearted, and...loved. Happy," she said, not meeting Surreal's eyes. "But I look at her and I don't remember being those things, how they felt, just how it felt to lose them bit by bit as the Mord'Sith took my weakness and made me strong." There was far less conviction in her voice than the time she'd said that last part to Richard.

"They taught me to be hard, and angry, and cruel, and told me they loved me, and sometimes I was happy." She shrugged. "So if I'm her, I'm also the ribkicker. That's who I was for longer."

"You were already strong; they wouldn't have taken you if you weren't," Surreal pointed out bluntly. "Mord'Sith don't like their toys to break easily, from what I've gathered."

"She's hard and angry and cruel too," Tiny-Surreal pointed out helpfully. "It's what I made her. We're the knife-edge, and she's really only happy when she's killing."

"I'm happiest when killing," Surreal corrected her younger-self absently. "--because it's what they've earned."

"I don't feel strong," Cara admitted. "Unless I'm fighting."

"You deserve to be happy at other times too." Because it wasn't like Surreal was trying to make a remotely similar point about her or anything.

"That's the pot calling the kettle black! I'm happy other times too!" Surreal objected, and Tiny-Surreal folded her arms.

"People think there's something wrong with us, that we like knives and murder so much," the small version said with a frown.

"Good," Cara said, not address the whole pot-kettle part. There was a reason why Kahlan had decided it'd be more effective to talk to Surreal about her concerns than Cara.

"There's nothing wrong with you." It was debatable whether it was the presence of their tiny selves or just her general down-ness that kept her from mentioning that the knives and violence were actually highly attractive. "It's not like you've hurt anyone who didn't deserve it."

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Cara's Apartment, Saturday Morning

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