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Laura Moon ([info]spitandviolets) wrote in [info]mirage_rpg,
@ 2009-02-05 16:23:00

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Entry tags:andy gallagher, complete, day 31, laura moon

Who: Laura Moon and Andy Gallagher
What: Insomnia!
When: Day 31, very late night
Where: Laura's room, C112.
Rating: PG-13 for language and gory details
Status: Complete


If there was one thing that Mirage already knew about Laura, it was that she no longer had any concept of or any care for the concept of time. It had not supplied the undead woman with a clock. It didn't matter. When the sun was down, Laura was active and the rest of the world was not. When the sun was up, well, sometimes she didn't have a choice, and others she debated with herself as to whether or not she should be doing something. Thus, it was very dark, and possibly late or early.

Laura did not remember her own wake and funeral very well. She was not there, exactly. It was a distant memory, like watching herself from across the room. She remembered when her best friend spat on her face, and she remembered the violets. She also remembered the pose in which she'd been put to rest. At the moment, she was practicing it on her bed, bored, as usual, and cold, as usual. Her body was rigid, laying on her back on the plush, black coverlet, arms crossed over her chest, hands folded. Since she did not need to breathe, she was not breathing. Her eyes were closed but she did not sleep. Her hair was fanned out around her. Only the outfit, a pair of jeans and a black tanktop, which made her look even paler than usual, was out of place for a wake.

Having just retired from her computer, she was expecting Andy. When he would arrive, however, was uncertain. Drunk people ran on their own schedule. When she got drunk, when she was alive, she drank a lot. That, in fact, had been the death of her. Literally. Maybe she'd try to brighten Andy's mood with that story. The likelihood that he wanted to hear about her death, however, was probably not high. L was unique in that respect. Still, maybe she'd have another friend, someone else who wouldn't mind that she was dead and cold.

Focusing on the movements of the lights of humans, she managed to zero in on Andy's with only minor difficulty. Rising from the bed as a zombie from the grave, Laura sauntered to the door, opening it just as her guest arrived. She said nothing, holding the door open for him, dark eyes studying his face.



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[info]brain_ninja
2009-02-05 09:12 pm UTC (link)
Andy let out another hum of appreciation as she moved her hands down to rub his jaw. He noticed that her voice had changed. Not necessarily the dull tone, so much as the way that she sounded...distracted? Distant? One of those, although Andy couldn't quite put his finger on it. It felt a little like she was exploring his face the way he'd heard blind people did to see how someone looked. She wasn't blind, though, so he wasn't sure he understood really what she was doing. Was she, like, getting off on it...?

She agreed, even, that it felt awesome and he couldn't quite wrap his head around that, either...all she was doing was cooling off his skin.

...actually, come to think of it, shouldn't her hands be getting a little warmer? He knew that his skin was hot because hers felt like ice by contrast, but it wasn't affecting her at all.

So was her death, she said and Andy opened his mouth to interrupt with a question, but she went on to tell a long story, only some of which his brain was able to fully process. He opened his eyes again and turned a little in the chair to look back at her.

The cold. The smell. Andy blinked as his intoxicated brain tried to put the pieces together.

"Sorry..." he said, sounding as confused and taken aback as he felt, "you're...dead? Like, actually dead?" he asked.

Well, that was one way to put his piddly fucking problems into perspective, he supposed. Somehow, between knowing Sam and being in this place, Andy wasn't as phased as he thought he probably should be. "Shit..." he said softly. "Wow, my problems sound like nothing compared to that. I didn't actually die, but only because Mirage sucked me up before I could."

He paused. Should he tell her his story to make her feel better? Or would the fact that he'd narrowly escaped only make her feel worse? Did she even care? It wasn't like he could tell, given her monotoned voice.

Curiosity struck him in the midst of his drunken blur of thought. "Do you feel as cold to you as you do to me...?" he wondered aloud.

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[info]spitandviolets
2009-02-05 09:37 pm UTC (link)
"Undead," she corrected as blandly as she'd told him the story of her entire death. Laura had now told the story of her death twice. Apparently there was some merit in telling it. Maybe it would encourage people to do more with their life. Maybe she could convince him to stop drinking. Or not, as the case might be.

"I'm undead. I was alive, I was dead, and now I'm something that's past both of those. Does that make sense?" She paused, then quickly added on to her statement. "I'm not a zombie. I do not like to be called a zombie. Yes, I am dead. Yes, I am cold. Yes, I no longer have many bodily needs in order to keep functioning. Yes, I clawed my way out of a coffin and a grave. No, I do not have a taste for brains." There was a touch of a smirk at her lips. Leaning over him, she looked down into his face. "Got it?" she added, her eyes looking into his. "Boo," she added, apparently amused with herself. Laura had a warped sense of humor. She liked things twisted.

Laura would not have cared had he decided to share his story. Indeed, his few comments shed some light on the situation. "Mirage saved you from death?" she said, mostly talking to herself. "That's interesting. I'm glad you didn't actually die. Not many people are like me. I am, in fact, the only one I know. I'm alone in that I died but am still around. I think it's a one in a very, very high chance."

Stroking her hands along his face, surprised that he hadn't jerked away from her touch, Laura bit at her lower lip. "No, your problems are definitely worse than mine. The thing about being dead, Andy, is that there really isn't a whole lot that you can consider a problem. I mean, I don't eat. I don't sleep. I don't feel pain or heat. There are no limitations on my body. My muscles never want to stop, and my bones only stop when they're crushed. You're not so prejudiced about dying and killing once you're dead. It puts everything into perspective. Yes, I need water to keep my cells hydrated. And, yes, decomposing is a bit of an inconvenience. But you? You still feel pain, both emotional and physical. You still worry about your future. You still ache. You have hunger, and thirst. You age. Humans are fragile. I never realized how breakable a human being is until I gained superhuman speed and strength. Your bodies are so utterly limiting...yet they're somehow overwhelmingly wonderful at the same time. It's very odd, and very complex. I miss being alive. I don't want to be dead. I don't want to be undead. Because my existence is so empty, I envy all of your problems. Not having any, after being human, feels very boring.

"What I fear most is the cold. I do feel as cold to me as I do to you, probably worse. I'm always cold, Andy. Except I don't feel it as cold. To me, the cold is a deep, bottomless nothingness. I'm afraid of that nothingness. Even though I know that there is a higher purpose, that humans exist for a reason, I can't remember what it is. I'm scared of the emptiness. The only thing that makes me feel, the only form of warmth I can feel, is the warmth from another human being. It's incredible. I killed a man with my bare hands, and the blood spatter made me feel almost human again. I hate that, and I fear it. Humans are so fragile. I just want to be warm. I only want to kill those who deserve it. I don't want to hurt anyone."

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