Hama Sun (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
devilsun) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
meadowlarklogs2020-03-30 09:35 pm
devilsun) wrote in meadowlarklogs2020-03-30 09:35 pm
(open)
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.
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.
no subject
[ 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. ]
no subject
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?
no subject
[ 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?
no subject
Shit. [ A comment on the storms more than anything. ] Exiled there, right?
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
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. ]