Laura | X-23-23 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
shoplifter) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
riverview2017-10-09 05:01 am
shoplifter) wrote in riverview2017-10-09 05:01 am
MEMORY VIDEO / ACTION / VOICE.
(Warning for torture and abuse of a child, pretty much, as well as self-harm and vague mentions of violent footage. If you'd rather just visit Laura without viewing it, feel free to! Open action and voice options are under the memory option. Also, feel free to see the footage any time throughout the event, if you prefer to have your character see it later. It'll play at random, probs.)
[VIDEO MEMORY | optional]
[What plays is particularly grainy at first -- some kind of movie file that is comprised almost entirely of short, sporatic scenes -- bloody bedding in a surgery room, a number of vials and medical machinery, and Laura, laying unconscious as scientists -- doctors -- cut her open and forcefully extract the sharp bones in her arms. It's fuzzy, as is the next clip of her sitting up in her surgery bed, screaming at her bandaged hands and legs, carted back toward her room as the drugs slowly wear down. Clips of daily life for her and the children, of them walking in carefully maintained single file lines. And then -- Laura, sitting huddled and passive. The camera holder walks in, voice soft and miserable. "Oh, niña--" Laura slices her wrists, watching the blood dribble before the wound closes. She looks up with clear emotion now: misery.
The camera steadies. An older man stands beside the table where Laura has been carefully cuffed -- hands and feet, because without those fasteners, she would be able to kill them all in a fit. She is just rousing from the strong sedation they found effective, and looks at Dr. Rice with a sharp, dark stare. One of the men in lab coats continue:
"Log #306, Subject X-23-23, current age nine. Increased levels of radiation was a success -- all of Weapon X's documented abilities have been developing at a much more excellerated rate, though there appear to be some distinctive differences." Dr. Rice steps around to the side of the table, akin to an operating slab, and Laura watches like a hawk. She doesn't try to fight it; she doesn't know any better yet. "Patient is reacting well to serum injections -- no signs of illness or allergies."
He gives the nod to the other doctors in the room, reaching for -- something, on the operating table.
"We will now proceed to improve the subject's pain tolerance."
The screen muddies with pixels and static, just before Laura begins screaming.
A woman's voice drifts between the cries of pain --
"There, there -- if you want it to end, you must adapt to it... 'Laura'."
Static. Sound plays, the doctor's voice drifting through the feed. "We do not dress them up for Halloween. We do not call them baby, or kiss boo-boos. Do not think them as children. Think them as things, with patents and copyrights. Comprende?"
As the audio plays out, the final clip in the muddled feed is someone filming a gaggle of children, all sitting in front of a screen. Empathy erasure, they call it. Desensitizing. It makes them more willing to hurt things, if that's all they know, isn't it? Follow orders and hurt people. They're watching footage of wartime, of death, compilations of combat and all manner of operation. Some of it is old black and white footage, perhaps of World War II. One of the children covers his face with his hands, rocking in his discontent, but Laura sits with intense focus as the light from the screen plays over her face. As if aware of being watched -- filmed -- she turns a dark-eyed, focused stare toward the camera before the feed ends.]
[Action.]
[Laura is of course unaware of this footage -- no, she doesn't watch or know about it, but instead of being on the network, she follows through with her usual day to day life. She packs some comic books she found in the school library along with her slightly rumpled homework. Linda helps brush her hair and hands off a pastry before she starts off with her tattered green backpack, a little horse key-chain hanging off it, the horse plush gifted to her recently poking out of an unzipped section like it's hiding out and catching a ride with her. She has her favorite galaxy-themed cap on, too, and smiley-face pancakes on her mind from a local diner. Smiley-face pancakes and a milkshake, of course. Maybe she'll go there again, now that Peter Quill the Star Lord has properly introduced her. She does actually go to school today, and can be found milling about there, finishing the day properly.
Then she walks the town, mainly to visit the toy store -- Ciel's toystore. She has money from her caseworker today.
Near the end of the day, Laura can also be found near the shops wandering (not stealing! aren't you proud?), or at the community housing, on the rooftop, her legs crossed as she lays on her belly and reads the daring comic adventures of THE FLICK AND WILD RANGER, two very generic but no less enthusiastic heroes. The Flick flicks things with his mind. And the ranger is wild and has a lasso. You understand. If there are wrappers all over the roof, well. Whatever. It's a fun hang-out spot for asocial children. Her eyes pour over every panel with eagerness, brightened in privacy by the victories on the paper.]
[Voice.]
What is your favorite hero?
... Someone said that Halloween is for 'costumes'. Do they mean hero costumes? Like a... hero costume day.
[She's a little inspired today. She just doesn't know how to go about what she considers "dress like a superhero day". Clearly that's what Halloween is, right?]
[VIDEO MEMORY | optional]
[What plays is particularly grainy at first -- some kind of movie file that is comprised almost entirely of short, sporatic scenes -- bloody bedding in a surgery room, a number of vials and medical machinery, and Laura, laying unconscious as scientists -- doctors -- cut her open and forcefully extract the sharp bones in her arms. It's fuzzy, as is the next clip of her sitting up in her surgery bed, screaming at her bandaged hands and legs, carted back toward her room as the drugs slowly wear down. Clips of daily life for her and the children, of them walking in carefully maintained single file lines. And then -- Laura, sitting huddled and passive. The camera holder walks in, voice soft and miserable. "Oh, niña--" Laura slices her wrists, watching the blood dribble before the wound closes. She looks up with clear emotion now: misery.
The camera steadies. An older man stands beside the table where Laura has been carefully cuffed -- hands and feet, because without those fasteners, she would be able to kill them all in a fit. She is just rousing from the strong sedation they found effective, and looks at Dr. Rice with a sharp, dark stare. One of the men in lab coats continue:
"Log #306, Subject X-23-23, current age nine. Increased levels of radiation was a success -- all of Weapon X's documented abilities have been developing at a much more excellerated rate, though there appear to be some distinctive differences." Dr. Rice steps around to the side of the table, akin to an operating slab, and Laura watches like a hawk. She doesn't try to fight it; she doesn't know any better yet. "Patient is reacting well to serum injections -- no signs of illness or allergies."
He gives the nod to the other doctors in the room, reaching for -- something, on the operating table.
"We will now proceed to improve the subject's pain tolerance."
The screen muddies with pixels and static, just before Laura begins screaming.
A woman's voice drifts between the cries of pain --
"There, there -- if you want it to end, you must adapt to it... 'Laura'."
Static. Sound plays, the doctor's voice drifting through the feed. "We do not dress them up for Halloween. We do not call them baby, or kiss boo-boos. Do not think them as children. Think them as things, with patents and copyrights. Comprende?"
As the audio plays out, the final clip in the muddled feed is someone filming a gaggle of children, all sitting in front of a screen. Empathy erasure, they call it. Desensitizing. It makes them more willing to hurt things, if that's all they know, isn't it? Follow orders and hurt people. They're watching footage of wartime, of death, compilations of combat and all manner of operation. Some of it is old black and white footage, perhaps of World War II. One of the children covers his face with his hands, rocking in his discontent, but Laura sits with intense focus as the light from the screen plays over her face. As if aware of being watched -- filmed -- she turns a dark-eyed, focused stare toward the camera before the feed ends.]
[Action.]
[Laura is of course unaware of this footage -- no, she doesn't watch or know about it, but instead of being on the network, she follows through with her usual day to day life. She packs some comic books she found in the school library along with her slightly rumpled homework. Linda helps brush her hair and hands off a pastry before she starts off with her tattered green backpack, a little horse key-chain hanging off it, the horse plush gifted to her recently poking out of an unzipped section like it's hiding out and catching a ride with her. She has her favorite galaxy-themed cap on, too, and smiley-face pancakes on her mind from a local diner. Smiley-face pancakes and a milkshake, of course. Maybe she'll go there again, now that Peter Quill the Star Lord has properly introduced her. She does actually go to school today, and can be found milling about there, finishing the day properly.
Then she walks the town, mainly to visit the toy store -- Ciel's toystore. She has money from her caseworker today.
Near the end of the day, Laura can also be found near the shops wandering (not stealing! aren't you proud?), or at the community housing, on the rooftop, her legs crossed as she lays on her belly and reads the daring comic adventures of THE FLICK AND WILD RANGER, two very generic but no less enthusiastic heroes. The Flick flicks things with his mind. And the ranger is wild and has a lasso. You understand. If there are wrappers all over the roof, well. Whatever. It's a fun hang-out spot for asocial children. Her eyes pour over every panel with eagerness, brightened in privacy by the victories on the paper.]
[Voice.]
What is your favorite hero?
... Someone said that Halloween is for 'costumes'. Do they mean hero costumes? Like a... hero costume day.
[She's a little inspired today. She just doesn't know how to go about what she considers "dress like a superhero day". Clearly that's what Halloween is, right?]
no subject
Was he glad to know of you?
[He'd been so young when Ragnar had left that it had practically been starting from square one when he came back. But they'd made it work. Ivar held anger towards his father, but his love for him had been great enough forgive him a lot of his faults.]
no subject
... Not at first. He did not want to be a father, or know what happened to us.
no subject
My father didn't want me either. He thought I would be too weak to survive.
[The he brightens up a little bit more. Ragnar had admitted he was wrong to his son, all the way to the point of saying that Ivar had a strength in him because of his legs, not in spite of them. It had meant more to Ivar than he could ever put into mere words.]
But he changed his mind. Did yours?
no subject
I'm not sure if it... made it better or worse.
no subject
[That was what Ivar had learned from having his father back for such a short period of time before losing him again.]
no subject
[She's not trying to be a smart ass - it's a genuine question from a lost kid...A kid who had been desensitized and taught not to love anything. But here's the thing: if you have a beating heart that feels, such a goal is lofty and destined to fail.]
no subject
[He says this firmly.]
I don't love easily. But I know now that having my father in my life and loving him, even if it wasn't for a long time, was better than never having him at all. Then I just would have been empty inside.
1/2
It would have been... worse to never know.
[She could agree to that. But...]
I feel... like it's my fault. That he is gone.
no subject
What do you do, if they -- if they are gone because of you?
no subject
I thought for a long time that my father would still be here, if I had made different choices. But the thing about parents is that they must make their own choices too. Whatever led to his death wasn't your fault, because part of that was his decision. You can't say what might have been different. Thinking about that will only drive you crazy.
no subject
It wasn't just my father.
It -- Everyone who helped me, they're gone.
... I do not want it to happen here, too.
no subject
I can't promise about everyone, but I can tell you this. I'm not going anywhere.
[He had too much of a life here now to abandon it and go anywhere else. His daughter, his friends, his family, they were all roots tying him down. Though he still would go back eventually to continue the war, it wasn't going to be a permanent thing. He'd come back here after he was done.]
no subject
And trying to play off that sort of terrible ache in her chest.]
... You better not. I'll be mad at you.
no subject
I can't have that now, can I?