applesaucedream | Never Lie, Never Sin, Tell Us What A Mess We're In [Open to Multiple]

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Never Lie, Never Sin, Tell Us What A Mess We're In [Open to Multiple]

Melanie stares at the door to her cell. There is something different about it today. She's having a little trouble placing it, but she knows there's something off. It's concerning. She has been so clear about what ROMAC needs to do to keep everyone else safe from her, and the suspicion that they're messing up somehow makes her very, very nervous.

It's the locks, she realizes after a few moments of intense scrutiny. That is what's wrong. There are supposed to be five, but she only counts four. That can't be right. Melanie approaches the door with a little frown on her face, her fingertips hovering a few inches from the metal, wary of the shock she'll get if she actually touches it. Her hand flits from lock to lock like a hummingbird. Now there are six. How are there six? She counts again, baffled to find that the number has halved itself to three.

She tries to count again, but this time, there are none.

Now she does reach out to touch the door, she can't help it - she can't believe it. They can't have taken the locks away. They're important. Hasn't she made it clear how incredibly important it is that they keep her in here?

The door does not shock her. Instead, it swings open beneath her hand, smooth and silent.

Melanie presses her lips together, her mouth a thin, disapproving line. She doesn't like the thought of leaving her room, but someone has to be told about this so they can get it fixed. Keeping her movements slow and even, as if she's trying to sneak past a group of hungries, Melanie carefully steps out into the hall to look for help.

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That's the wrong question. The right question is something more like, 'what should she do to him?' If they're testing her self-control, if that is the experiment, then what is the hypothesis? Either they think she'll march right back to her room like a good girl, or they think she'll attack him. She doesn't want to attack him, but she can't just think about what she wants - or what he wants. She has to think about what's best for everyone.

It might be best for everyone if she could prove to her observers that the threat is very real, and very serious.

Melanie shifts up onto the balls of her feet and fists her hands, tense and unhappy. Why can't they just believe her without testing her against this nice man who sounds like home? It's not fair. It's wrong. her little face screws up into a tormented expression, and she cries, "I'll fucking dismantle you! You have to go!"

Oh dear. Oh no. The child is crying. The child used a very bad word indeed, and is crying. Aziraphale has no idea what has happened, but he straightens up, startled, mildly scandalized, and hugely uncomfortable.

"What?" he blurts unhelpfully. "Wh - no, no, you won't... dismantle me, how silly." Poor thing, what an odd and unfortunate nightmare. He takes a step closer, not knowing what to do, if he should try to make contact, or what - he raises his hands slightly, a bit like he's approaching a strange dog. "There, there. You mustn't worry. This is just a dream, you see."

That'll make everything better, right?

Melanie shakes her head, primed for action but rooted to the spot. The only thing that stops her from bolting back the way she came is the belated realization that she can't smell him. Even as he steps forward, there's no enticing waft of humanity. She drops onto her heels, literally floored, and glances between his hand and his face. E-blocker? But he doesn't smell like chemicals, either. She doesn't smell anything.

Before she can really process the sensory loss, he tells her they're dreaming, and Melanie puts a hand to the wall. It feels solid, steadying. But how else could she explain the scent loss, unless he's got a very strange rift power and is using it on her...

Melanie worries her lip between her teeth for a moment. "I don't normally dream," she says, sounding faintly accusatory. "And you don't understand. I'm dangerous." She gives his outstretched hand an uneasy look. "I could hurt you."

He frowns, perplexed by her insistence that she's dangerous, even in spite of the dream explanation. She does not seem confused or irrational, rather she sounds like she knows exactly what she's talking about. But she's so small, and clearly good-hearted, what is it about her that makes her dangerous?

"Nor do I," he says, "dream, that is. Not normally. It's something the rift does, pulls us into dreams together. This is your first time, I take it?" He offers her a faint smile, trying to appear calm and composed for the both of them.

"I promise you won't hurt me," he adds, a little more properly soothing this time. "For one thing, I'm quite a bit stronger than I look. But more importantly, nothing that happens in dreams will affect us when we wake up. We may remember each other, but that's all." He strengthens the smile a bit, encouraging.

"My name's Aziraphale," he says. "What's yours?"

Melanie's stronger than she looks, too, so that isn't much of a reassurance. She drops her hand from the wall and links her fingers together behind her back, as if in weak imitation of being handcuffed.

She's still not sure about this dream stuff, but regardless of what's really going on, all that's happening so far is this man talking to her. If things continue in this vein, that wouldn't be so bad. She doesn't want to hurt him, and it seems she doesn't have to.

"Melanie," she answers. "My name is Melanie." Her eyebrows quirk as she looks up at him and repeats, "Aziraphale?" That's like nothing she's ever heard before. She silently mouths the name to herself, committing it to memory. Then, with careful good manners, "It's nice to meet you." She hesitates for a few long seconds, then takes a few steps forward, halts, and gingerly extends a hand, like she's seen adults do when they meet one another.

Oh - that's - surprisingly charming. His smile broadens for a moment of unfiltered pleasure at Melanie's delightfully courteous manner. He bends down a little to take her hand and gives it a shake.

"It's nice to meet you as well," he says. And it really is nice! He never knew children could be so pleasant, and so easy to talk to. Perhaps he's getting better at it¹. Straightening back up, he puts his hands behind his back in an unconscious imitation of her posture. He takes a moment to consider her, her unusual claims about herself, the vaguely unsettling sense he gets about her consciousness, and the curiously precise nature of her dream's location. His next question is clear, though he's very much hoping he can ask it without making her burst into tears again.

"Melanie," he says, as gingerly as he knows how, "is this... where you are when you're awake?"

¹ He's not. It's all her.

Edited 2014-10-16 20:03 (UTC)

His hand is so much warmer than hers. She'd almost forgotten how warm people are. The guards are careful not to touch her (and vice versa), just as she's recommended. She's good at keeping her hunger in a box, and warmth doesn't rattle it as much as smell does, but there's still an uncomfortable stirring from that part of her. When he releases her hand, she links her fingers behind her back tightly, like knots.

Fortunately for Aziraphale (what a name! It makes her think of fast-flying things, like hummingbirds), his question isn't the least bit upsetting. "Of course." She needs to stay here so everyone else can be safe. Perking visibly, she asks, "Would you like to see my room?"

His smile freezes, grimacelike, at her cheery reply. There's something chilling about this place - these aren't at all like the suites in the Rebel Base. Oh, of course everything's nicer here, for a certain value of nice (pristine, painstakingly designed), but it all feels rather unfriendly. This isn't a place for anyone to live. Certainly not a little girl.

"Yes, please," he says softly, distracted. "Do you... have anyone looking after you?"

Melanie leads the way back down the hall, keeping her pace nice and slow so she doesn't leave Aziraphale behind. His question gives her a bit of a pang - she suspects that he's thinking of something like what she had with Miss Justineau, and she doesn't have that here. But she can't have that here, so there's no use moping about it.

Still, her cheeriness has taken on a dogged edge as she explains, "I have a lot of people to look after me. They keep me locked up safe, and there are a few who teach me things - though they're not as good as Miss Justineau, my teacher from home. They let me have books, too - lots of books - and they feed me once a week and everything." So really, things are about as good as can be expected.

The door to her room is still standing ajar, and she nudges it open with one hand and beckons to Aziraphale with the other. "This is it," she says with a pleased smile.

By her standards, it really is a nice room. No windows, but she hardly needs one - the same goes for a bathroom, of which there is no sign. The floor is bare cement that subtly slopes toward a drain in one corner. The furnishings consist of a little cot, a bookshelf, and a small table with two chairs, all securely bolted down. There's no television, but the walls boast a few colorful posters. "They let me pick these out myself," Melanie says, pointing to one of the London skyline and another of a rainforest.

Aziraphale does his level best to maintain a neutral stare, reining in the slow creep of horror that keeps trying to show itself. Good lord, this is abominable. Barbaric! Windowless, cement, bolted furniture, no amenities - and yet she seems perfectly content with it all. What sort of life did she have before, if this is all right with her?

"Very nice," he comments weakly on the posters. "Sorry, did you say they feed you once a week?"

Savages, the lot of them. Does Crowley know this kind of thing is going on? Surely he'd have mentioned it. Aziraphale has more than half a mind to find Melanie and break her out the moment he wakes up.

In fairness to her keepers, most of the troubling aspects of the room are things that Melanie either recommended or insisted upon. That includes her feeding schedule, and she responds to Aziraphale's incredulous query with a little shrug. "I only need to eat once a week. My body's very good at synthesizing proteins. I don't even need to drink."

See? Everything's fine.

"Wait, wait, wait." Aziraphale places his hands on his hips without an ounce of self-consciousness. "Synthesizing proteins? You make yourself sound like - like a medical experiment, or something. Melanie..." Finally, he crouches down to get on eye level with her. "This is no way for a young girl to live. You're a prisoner here. Do you understand?"

When Aziraphale crouches down to her level, Melanie meets his gaze squarely. He's the one who doesn't understand, but how can she blame him? No one else here understands, either. Even after she's explained it so many times, she often gets the feeling that they don't completely believe her. Maybe they don't want to. She couldn't really blame them for that, either.

She shakes her head at Aziraphale, but it's a gentle, sympathetic gesture, not like the fervent denial of before. "I'm not a prisoner. I asked them to keep me here, because I'm not really a little girl." Since he seemed to have an easy grasp of what 'synthesizing proteins' meant, Melanie decides to just be up front and hope that he can follow her. "I'm a symbiote. My universe has a mutated strain of cordyceps - that's a kind of fungus - that learned how to infect people. My parents were infected before they had me, so now I'm… both. Human and Ophiocordyceps."

She studies him a moment, making sure he's keeping up. Then, her voice grave, she adds, "If it gets out into the world, it will wipe out everyone. That's why I have to stay in." A beat. "Do you understand?"

"I - oh." Aziraphale blinks for several moments, trying to wrap his head around this sudden wealth of information. He can't quite comprehend the particulars, but the general thread is easy enough to follow, and it does explain rather a lot. The odd extra levels of consciousness he's sensing must be this fungal entity. She believes she is a monster - and she is, where she comes from. She sees this living situation as thoroughly justified. Necessary.

"I see." He looks at the floor and runs a hand over his hair, trying to think of something else to say. "I, er. I'm sorry."

He lifts his chin again, meeting her eyes. "So this is how you lived in your world, as well?"

"It's okay," she says, because that is the polite thing to say. It's not actually okay at all, because she had stopped being a monster back home. It's only here that she's back to being humanity's greatest threat instead of its future.

She doesn't want to tell Aziraphale about that. "A little," she hedges. "It's nicer here. Back home, there were chemical showers, and they strapped us into wheelchairs whenever they wanted to move us around." It feels like ancient history, even though it was only a couple of months ago.

Well that sounds perfectly awful. He tries not to look too stunned or horrified; he suspects that would not be particularly helpful.

"I see," he says again. It's odd to him, and strangely frustrating, to find someone so clearly in need of help, proper help, angelic help, who seems nonetheless not to want it. And someone so very young. It would break his heart, he suspects, if that were a thing that could happen to him.

"And there's... definitely no hope of a cure?" he asks softly. He just doesn't want to accept that this charming little girl must be locked away out of sight for the duration of her life here. It isn't - well, it doesn't seem fair.

It's a common question, but it isn't often asked with such genuine concern for her. He reminds her, a little, of Miss Justineau in that way. Melanie feels a sudden impulse to hug him, but she tamps it down. Kind as he's been, she's not so sure he'd appreciate such a gesture coming from her. Not now that he knows what she is.

Instead, she reaches out and lays a hand on his shoulder. "Not for me," she says, giving him a bracing little pat before pulling her hand away. An odd gesture, maybe, but better than nothing. "It's what I am."

He can't help a wince at that, and at the uncomfortably adult gesture. He reaches out and catches her hand, clasping it gently. It's all very well if she's resigned to her fate, but something doesn't sit right with him, leaving her here. By all accounts ROMAC is not a safe place for people, especially people like her. He suspects he's not going to get much further here, though. It will bear some investigating when he's awake.

"How long have you been here, Melanie?" he asks.

Melanie blinks. He's holding her hand. On purpose. After a moment of stunned hesitation, she gives his hand a gentle squeeze in return. He's so nice! He must be the nicest person she's met here - though, she realizes with a little pang of disappointment, if this is just a dream, it's not a proper meeting.

She has to think about his question for a few moments, because it takes her that long to remember what the date was before she fell asleep. "Seventy-two days," she says. "It was May 13th when I first arrived, and ROMAC found me right away. I was lucky."

She studies his face for a moment, then tightens her grip on his hand a little. "Please don't be sad," she pleads, her expression earnest. "I promise I'm okay."

"Oh." He stammers a little at the entreatment not to be sad, what a strange thing to be told. "All right. If you say so."

He pats her hand and lets it go, offering her an encouraging smile. See? he's fine.

"You are a remarkable little girl," he comments. "Even if you are only part little girl."

"Thank you," Melanie says, shyly returning his smile. Feeling the need to return the compliment as well, she adds, "And you are a very kind man, even if this is only a dream."

"Oh, I'm glad you think so," he says, a bit giddy at having it pointed it out. He is doing such a great job right now. Sunshine would be so proud, he bets.

He's starting to feel the tug of consciousness, however, pulling at the back of his mind. "I think I'm starting to wake up now," he says. "But I'll see you again soon. All right?"

He manages one last smile before he wakes up, rather startled about it, in his flat.

Melanie furrows her brow, not sure that visiting in person is a good idea - and that's all assuming the guards even let him in, which she's certain they wouldn't. But before she can object, Aziraphale announces that he's waking up - and then vanishes right before her eyes.

"… Aziraphale?" she tries. There's no response. Frowning, she gazes around her room. It suddenly feels much emptier than it ever has before. Melanie lets out a sigh, then ventures back out into the hall. Maybe he's out there. Or maybe she'll find someone else.

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Never Lie, Never Sin, Tell Us What A Mess We're In [Open to Multiple]

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