(open)

[devilsun]

WHO: Hama Sun
WHERE: Safehouse
WHEN: Mid-March
WHAT: Catchall
NOTES OR WARNINGS: Potentially discussions of cult stuff, including loss of autonomy and brainwashing.

Safehouse

[ The safehouse isn't that bad, Hama's decided. It's crowded, sure, and there isn't a whole lot of privacy, but she's got a whole bed to herself and plenty of hot water to wash her hair. And there's food, lots of food, all the food she could ever want in the world. It's pretty good in the safehouse, on balance, and it's totally cool she hasn't left in two weeks. For sure.

It's just. New Amsterdam is so loud and sometimes Hama feels like the sidewalk is going to start cracking around her and really, the whole kidnapping thing wasn't so good. So she'd rather just. Avoid that part. So far as she can tell, nobody's gotten kidnapped straight out of the safehouse.

So really, that's just common sense.

She can be found wandering around at all hours writing digital notes, trying to bother anyone and everyone when they come for breakfast - first by offering them tea and then, when they're distracted, pouncing with the questions - and in the wee hours of the morning, practicing with a switchblade.

She's definitely not going stir crazy. Why would you ever think that? ]

Dream

[ There is a cave carved into a mountain, a fire burning at the entrance, and a much younger Hama crouched down and staring out at the rain. In this place, and this time, she's around ten years old. The rain is coming down so hard it's impossible to see more than ten feet beyond the cave. Thunder booms in the distance and Hama flinches.

She's holding a knife, but she doesn't know how to do anything else except hold it and wait, turning it over and over again in her hands. All nervous energy. ]

They're going to come back.

[ She glances up, still clutching the knife. She's dressed in ratty clothes, a too-big coat secured to her with a length of rope for a belt, and her hair is wild, curls flying in every direction. She's alone. There are three packs by her side and a careful observer might notice a dark pattern splattered across the wall behind her, the distinctive pattern of arterial blood, but there are no adults to be found. Not for miles. ]

Mama promised.

Comments

safehouse;

[bloodbathing]

[ It's easy to find Hama, and not just because she matches her selfie. Maine first spots her in the morning as she questions someone trying to eat breakfast. He doesn't approach. Doesn't want to interrupt. Just makes a mental note of it and resolves to swing by later.

And he does, although it takes a few days. Maine's schedule is a bit odd: he doesn't eat at ordinary times, and he dislikes being in the safehouse for any reason other than sleep. But eventually, their schedules align, and he finds himself being offered tea by Hama. ]

Sure. [ Grunted out in a voice so deep it sounds more like a growl. He tips his head slightly to one side. ] You're Hama?

[ It's a question to verify what name she'd like him to use rather than one to verify her identity. ]

[devilsun]

[ Wow, he's tall. Towers right over her. Towers over everyone she's ever met. Hama blinks at the question, then immediately brightens and holds the tea up. She's put plenty of honey in it. ]

Yes! Yes, I'm Hama.

[ She bounces a little on her heels. ]

I'm afraid I don't know your name, sir.

[bloodbathing]

[ Right, he hadn't given his name. Hadn't sent a picture of himself or provided a description, either. Another person might realize that was likely rather rude, but it doesn't occur to Maine.

He takes the offered cup with gloved hands and steps back slightly. An instinctive desire for personal space rather than a polite attempt to stop looming so much, but the end result is the same. ]

Thanks. Name's Jónsson.

[ He's better at giving that name. No longer says it stiffly. Still getting used to responding to it, though. ]

We spoke. Different universes. Surgeries.

[devilsun]

[ Jónsson. Not a name she recognizes. Hama takes a moment to run it through the neural network, looking up the origin.

Icelandic. Son of Jón. Cool.

She grins at him. ]

Is that your surname or your given name?

[ Some people prefer going by their surnames, she's found. A symbol of allegiance, or sometimes a military habit. ]

I remember you. Hi. I wasn't sure you'd come find me after all, but I'm glad you did.

[bloodbathing]

[ That's a question he's not been asked before. Not just with this name, but with any other. Maine blinks, a bit surprised, then answers: ]

Surname.

[ He doesn't provide "August," his chosen first name. It doesn't cross his mind. He hasn't gone by a given name since he was a child. ]

Been busy. [ Not a lie. ] You?

[devilsun]

I see. Thank you for telling me. Names are important.

[ He reminds her a bit of Kol, which bodes well. She misses Kol. He rarely spoke at all, even when she pestered him, but he was always there, solid and strong; a steadying presence in her life.

She shrugs at the question, bouncing on her heels. She's been trying to stay busy, but it's hard without a job or a lot of friends. But that's okay. She'll make it work. ]

Ah....I guess. It's. It's an adjustment, I think?

[ She nods, more to herself than Jónsson. An adjustment. That's all. ]

Have you found a place to stay? I've heard the apartments are nice, though they're expensive.

[bloodbathing]

[ Names are indeed important. Important enough that Maine is keeping his to himself. "Jónsson" was carefully chosen as well: it's a thinly veiled insult to this universe, and that makes him feel better about using it.

As for finding a place to stay? He's interested in moving out of the safehouse, sure, but he doesn't have that kind of money yet. (And that's been an adjustment in its own right.) ]

Looking around. Saving up.

[ Hama seems to have plenty of energy. How well did she handle being stuck in the safehouse for days? ]

This city much like your home?

[devilsun]

Not at all.

[ She bounces on her heels again, clasping her hands in front of her as a reminder to keep still and not get into Jónsson's personal space. She has trouble with that sometimes, forgetting that other people have preferences about distances when she just wants to get in close and clock their micro expressions. ]

It wasn't safe to go outside back home. We had Turtles—moving compounds. They're, ah...like tanks? No one went outside unless they had no choice. So this is different!

[ Very different. She liked it at first, but now it makes her anxious. There's no control. Anything could happen out in the open air. ]

[bloodbathing]

[ Maine raises his eyebrows, immediately curious about the Turtles. Were they only for defense? Or were they weapons in their own right? Why wasn't it safe for Hama to go outside?

It's too much for him to ask at once, of course. He takes a moment to sip his tea, letting the questions swirl and settle in his mind. Choosing how he wants to phrase what he finally picks.

Over a year away from Project Freelancer, and Maine still finds the freedom to ask questions a bit of a novelty. ]

Why wasn't it safe?

[devilsun]

The storms.

[ Hama shifts a little, suddenly uneasy even though there's no reason to be. There were storms in New Rio and there have been storms here, in New Amsterdam, and not a single person died. So there's really no reason to be irrational about the whole thing.

She clears her throat. Right! Share information, be logical. Otherwise he might think she's twitchy and scared of her shadow and really, what would be the point of that? ]

I did the research. On this planet, in this atmosphere, lightning strikes carry an average force of 30,000 amperes. Easily dealt with. But on the Char, ah...it's probably six times that. And there are a lot of storms.

[ It helps to think of it in terms of science. The cold facts. ]

It was designed that way. Or at least it was taken advantage of. The atmosphere isn't conducive for interplanetary travel. Ships can drop in, but they can't take off again. Perfect for a prison, see?

[bloodbathing]

[ That sounds like a hell of a planet. Maine is about to ask why anyone would settle there, momentarily forgetting that not every universe has the luxury of space travel. But then she says "prison," and something from their previous conversation clicks into place.

"We were all descendants of men and women who were called evil…"

Right. Prison. Exile. ]

Shit. [ A comment on the storms more than anything. ] Exiled there, right?

[devilsun]

My grandparents were.

[ Or so she's been told. Hama never met them and her mother doesn't like to talk about what came before. Hama used to wonder about what her grandparents did that was so bad, so evil, that they got tossed all the way down to the Char to die. Did they murder someone? Did they stage a coup? Or were they just the wrong type of people? There's no way of knowing, not without asking her mother, and Shayla is the Dread Mother, and she above all others is allowed her secrets.

Hama shrugs. It's in the past. The future is brighter. ]

It's not like here at all. But I've done all sorts of research. I know the history of lots of planets. But...

[ Well. She shifts from foot to foot. ]

It's a little weird. Being outside. The sky is so...big.

[bloodbathing]

[ Maine hums a little, acknowledging her words as he takes another sip of his tea. (It's good tea. The honey's a nice touch.) He's used to skies both big and small. Used to seeing nothing but black and stars out of portholes, too. Maybe what Hama's dealing with is a little like feeling sunlight on bare skin after months spent in armor.

Or maybe he's totally off track. Empathy's never been his strong suit. ]

Nice at night. Can see stars. Better outside cities.

[ The last words are said with a slight downward twist of his lip; he doesn't like the interference caused by city lights. ]