eight ❅ spam

[bothfoulandfair]

[May 9th, Spam for Dillon and Morgana]

[The Barge shakes and trembles, and when she opens her eyes, tries to pick herself off the floor, she's still the same.

Well. Almost, because the one important difference makes itself painfully obvious as soon as she reaches out to grip her bookcase, planning on lifting herself up, only to feel the familiar tug of magic and stare, wide eyed and terrified as the entire thing ices over.

Her powers are back. Her powers are back, and they're strong, and the terror that grips her has nothing to do with being on another Barge, with finding out what exactly that's going to mean, or anything else.

Her powers are back, and she still has no idea how to control them.]

Dillon! [She shrieks before remembering what everyone had said, what Morgana had warned her about. There's a very good chance her warden won't be the man she knows at all, and she clamps her hands over her mouth, as if that's going to take back what she'd said.

It takes several minutes, but somehow, she manages to get her gloves on and creep into the hallway. Ice fans out under her feet, but it's subtle, almost unnoticeable, and she doesn't know what she's doing or where she thinks she's going, but she needs help, needs someone who's going to be able to fix this, and she thinks of Morgana, how the other inmate is more likely to be a kinder version of herself or the same woman she's gotten to know on the real ship.

Maybe she can help now.]

[May 10th, Spam for Scorpius]

[Choking back panic is not an uncommon state for her to be in, but in the past, the fear has been fleeting, swept aside by guilt and desperation and depression and loneliness and in one glorious instant by complete and utter joy, because she's been able to retreat and regroup and figure out how to move forward.

This is different. This is a constant, strangling terror that threatens to burst out at any moment, and if she lets it, she has no idea what's going to happen. None.

But she thinks maybe, maybe she can do this.

And then the ship crashes.

So she's already fraying at the edges, walking one of the hallways and trying to find someone, anyone, any familiar face or reassuring presence that can help anchor her here, keep her control from splintering further.

Or maybe she just needs to get back to her room.]

[May 10th through Event End, Open Spam]

[She's out of control.

It's all happening again, and she can't do anything to stop it. It's like trying to hold back a tidal wave with your bare hands, and it's so much easier - so much easier - to just give in, to just feel it rip out and spill over everything

The worst part is? It feels good.

But she's icing over the remains of the ship, and she knows people will hate her for it. Will be frightened and angry and murderous, and she can't be here when they come for her. She's afraid, she doesn't want to die again.

So she does the one thing she can: she runs.

Ice and snow follows her like a virus, spreading out over the terrain, blasting it bare and leaving a trail for anyone who wants to to follow.

They'll need to hurry, though. The radius is expanding rapidly, eating up the clear path and creating a wide expanse of quasi eternal winter.]

Comments

[orderfromchaos]

[Her door isn't hard to get through - the lock is just regular metal tumblrs, and one good jolt with the heel of his palm sends them clicking into place. He lets the door swing open and leans in the threshold without entering. The Snow Queen reminds him of Michael, of Lourdes. He respects her domain.]

You called, your majesty?

[There's something sleeker about him now, playful and mean. All his awkward, tender compassion is gone, but at least he likes her - or he did. One good look at her and his eyebrows rise. So, the rumors of infiltrators were true.]

[bothfoulandfair]

[She realizes immediately what a huge mistake she's made. She can't hurt Dillon - he's told her that a million times - and there's nothing stopping him from hurting her, if he decides to.

And he knows. He knows she's not the same.]

I-

I'm sorry, [She says, trying to school her voice, her expression, the hurricane she feels fluttering in her chest.] I was just. Startled. I'm sorry.

[orderfromchaos]

[He laughs - not free but easy, a little sharp and askew, but at least it reaches his eyes.]

Are you a queen or a mouse? Stop apologizing.

[bothfoulandfair]

Right. [Elsa takes a breath, tightening her grip. She can do this. She can do this. Conceal it, don't feel it. Don't let it show.]

Thank you for coming.

[orderfromchaos]

Oh, sure. It's neighborly.

[The twist of his smile is still a little off, a little cold. But the meanness in it isn't for her, really - more for the concept of neighborliness in general.]

Listen, you can blast the place if you want, she would. No one will catch you out on that account.

[bothfoulandfair]

[It's still strange, and she's suddenly not sure if she's more angry or scared.

This isn't fair. Why is this happening to them?]

Is there anything else I should know?

[orderfromchaos]

[He tilts his head. He could tell her that her dress is wrong, her hair is wrong, that her contained demeanor is wrong, she won't fool anyone - but she won't be able to pull if off if she tries to fake it. And she can dress however the hell she wants. She's the Snow Queen.]

You're one of the most powerful people here. And I don't say that lightly.

If anyone tries to give you trouble, just - wreck them. Chances are they'll deserve it.

[Chances, in Dillon's world, means a particular pre-calculated thoroughly understood probability. A high one.]

[bothfoulandfair]

[Part of her wants to say that she doesn't think she can do that - don't be the monster they fear you are Prince Hans had said, moments before she'd been brought to the Barge.

She'd hesitated then, but only because of his interference. Could she do the same thing now?

She finds herself nodding, biting her lip. Chances are, they will deserve it.]

Alright.

[orderfromchaos]

Attagirl.

[He might punch her arm lightly, if they weren't both still wary of touch, if it didn't strike him as disrespectful. It's not that he cares about royalty, particularly, so much as that he cares about her royalty, the constitutive way formality has shaped both versions of his maybe-friend. He winks instead, mischevous and encouraging.]

[bothfoulandfair]

[This has gone... much, much better than she thought it was going to, and while there's a part of her that wonders how much of this might be a ruse, if it might be a bad thing for her to put any amount of trust in him, she's really not sure if she has much of a choice in feeling relieved.

Which she does.]

Thank you.