![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
[open] I need to learn to let go of the past
Who: Cammie & you!
What: Cammie dealing with some grief whilst trying to pretend she isn't and going about her routine
Where: Sleigh Room, communal relaxation area, training room, kitchen
When: December
Warnings/Notes: Inevitable discussion of child soldier stuff, mentions of climate disaster, discussion of child death, definite discussion of family death, other warnings in subject lines. (Obligatory note that Cammie's HoH/Deaf, her rabbit ears are her hearing aids.)
Sleigh Room
To most people, the way Cammie continues to throw herself into working on her Holon will probably seem like nothing but than a teenager with a good work ethic. Whenever she's out of basic maintenance tasks—and she is constantly finding more of those to add to the weekly routine—she's working on the jerry-rigged computers so she can better access her systems without being uploaded. Hardware, software, all of it.
But to people who know her better, or perhaps to people who do the same thing, Cammie is clearly distracting herself.
This isn't her favourite time of year. Not anymore.
Alright, it was never actually her favourite. Winters in Scotland were harsh things, all the years she lived there—deadly things, sometimes, with the way the polar vortex was breaking down—not the kind of snow you could play in. But there was joy in the holidays, anyway. The five years where all six members of her family were at home were good years. And then the twins died. And then her Mam. And then her dad. And then it was just her and her Gran until she got herself arrested and ended up in America.
They don't know exactly when her Gran went, too, but it was around this time of year and that hardly improved things.
So, Cammie does what Cammie does best: she buries herself deep in her work so that she doesn't start thinking about all the bad stuff. Never a foolproof plan, but good enough.
Visitors may or may not be noticed, depending on how deep in her hyperfocus on work she is at the time, but those who do get noticed without extra effort might be asked:
"Y'mind handing me that socket wrench?" or "Be a pal and toss me up those crisps?" or the like.
Training Room
There is a giant, mechanical rabbit in the training room. It's not an uncommon sight, actually; anyone who frequents the training room will have seen it in action at least once by now. Cammie's up here whilst uploaded just as frequently as she is in her human body, if not more.
She's yet to take the mech out on a mission. She feels... rusty. And so, she practices.
Leaps and flips and boosting herself so she can skate along the walls. Practising her aim, since her drones aren't functioning quite right just yet. Seeing how much of an advantage the mech gives her when handling the fearling swarms and getting covered in the red paint for her troubles.
If you look past the mech, you might spot the young Scot's flesh body tucked safely in a corner. For all intents and purposes she appears to be asleep; like she sat down against the wall and dosed off. Were it not for the mech, the only giveaway of anything unusual going on would be the small node attached to her temple: a white circle with tiny bunny ears protruding from the edge, and green blinking lights within it.
Communal Relaxation Area
Sat in front of a fire in a nest of pillows and her back against a couch, Cammie is fiddling with what appears to be a small robotic toy. Something a little more simplistic than the kind of thing she'd make back home, but not entirely dissimilar in its design principals to Nugget, who is paying very close attention to what his human is doing.
Every time she sets it down to pick something else up, the little guy keeps 'sniffing' it, or tapping it with one of his tiny feet. Cammie shakes her head at him. "Buddy. C'mon. You've got bloody nothin' to be gettin' all jealous about, I'm not replacin' you. Just pitchin' in with some toy ideas for the wee kiddies. I'd've loved gettin' somethin' even a little like you as a kid."
So would Maisie and Fergie, she's sure, but they hadn't got the money for all the best gadgets back then. Nugget was a personal project, and so were her ears. It was only after Mam and Dad were both gone and she dropped out of school to hack full time that she got all her best equipment.
Pulling a face, she visibly shakes the thoughts off and gets back to fiddling.
Kitchen
It's late. It's really late. Cammie's sleep schedule hasn't improved at all on this third leg of her multiversal journey, because why would it? The disruption of her routine is more than enough to set her back again each time and frankly, she's rarely made much progress in shaking the habit in the first place. Nightmares, workaholic tendencies, and good old fashioned poor choices have always been her frenemies.
It's more than that right now, though.
Cammie is attempting to make hot chocolate the old fashioned way, on a stove in the kitchens. She has all the ingredients and tools she needs, and she's already got a batch on the heat. She's never done it before, not properly. But this was how her Gran always used to make it, ever since she was just a wee babe. Cammie watched her do it so many times it's burned into her memory, and thanks to gen:LOCK she can go back and view those memories with unnatural clarity. She knows how to do it. In theory.
It still doesn't feel like it'll taste the same.
God, she misses her. She misses all of them. Mam, Dad, Gran, Maisie and Fergie—why is it just her still alive? Why did her Gran have to go and be so stubborn and get herself—
One rabbit ear twitches towards the sound of someone else in the room. Cammie scrubs at her eyes with the heel of her hand and swallows, so she can sound like she has her shit together. "Makin' more than enough for two, if y'fancy a mug."
Wildcard!
Totally down for other things. I can be found at![[plurk.com profile]](https://plurk.com/favicon.ico)
bluecitrine.
What: Cammie dealing with some grief whilst trying to pretend she isn't and going about her routine
Where: Sleigh Room, communal relaxation area, training room, kitchen
When: December
Warnings/Notes: Inevitable discussion of child soldier stuff, mentions of climate disaster, discussion of child death, definite discussion of family death, other warnings in subject lines. (Obligatory note that Cammie's HoH/Deaf, her rabbit ears are her hearing aids.)
Sleigh Room
To most people, the way Cammie continues to throw herself into working on her Holon will probably seem like nothing but than a teenager with a good work ethic. Whenever she's out of basic maintenance tasks—and she is constantly finding more of those to add to the weekly routine—she's working on the jerry-rigged computers so she can better access her systems without being uploaded. Hardware, software, all of it.
But to people who know her better, or perhaps to people who do the same thing, Cammie is clearly distracting herself.
This isn't her favourite time of year. Not anymore.
Alright, it was never actually her favourite. Winters in Scotland were harsh things, all the years she lived there—deadly things, sometimes, with the way the polar vortex was breaking down—not the kind of snow you could play in. But there was joy in the holidays, anyway. The five years where all six members of her family were at home were good years. And then the twins died. And then her Mam. And then her dad. And then it was just her and her Gran until she got herself arrested and ended up in America.
They don't know exactly when her Gran went, too, but it was around this time of year and that hardly improved things.
So, Cammie does what Cammie does best: she buries herself deep in her work so that she doesn't start thinking about all the bad stuff. Never a foolproof plan, but good enough.
Visitors may or may not be noticed, depending on how deep in her hyperfocus on work she is at the time, but those who do get noticed without extra effort might be asked:
"Y'mind handing me that socket wrench?" or "Be a pal and toss me up those crisps?" or the like.
Training Room
There is a giant, mechanical rabbit in the training room. It's not an uncommon sight, actually; anyone who frequents the training room will have seen it in action at least once by now. Cammie's up here whilst uploaded just as frequently as she is in her human body, if not more.
She's yet to take the mech out on a mission. She feels... rusty. And so, she practices.
Leaps and flips and boosting herself so she can skate along the walls. Practising her aim, since her drones aren't functioning quite right just yet. Seeing how much of an advantage the mech gives her when handling the fearling swarms and getting covered in the red paint for her troubles.
If you look past the mech, you might spot the young Scot's flesh body tucked safely in a corner. For all intents and purposes she appears to be asleep; like she sat down against the wall and dosed off. Were it not for the mech, the only giveaway of anything unusual going on would be the small node attached to her temple: a white circle with tiny bunny ears protruding from the edge, and green blinking lights within it.
Communal Relaxation Area
Sat in front of a fire in a nest of pillows and her back against a couch, Cammie is fiddling with what appears to be a small robotic toy. Something a little more simplistic than the kind of thing she'd make back home, but not entirely dissimilar in its design principals to Nugget, who is paying very close attention to what his human is doing.
Every time she sets it down to pick something else up, the little guy keeps 'sniffing' it, or tapping it with one of his tiny feet. Cammie shakes her head at him. "Buddy. C'mon. You've got bloody nothin' to be gettin' all jealous about, I'm not replacin' you. Just pitchin' in with some toy ideas for the wee kiddies. I'd've loved gettin' somethin' even a little like you as a kid."
So would Maisie and Fergie, she's sure, but they hadn't got the money for all the best gadgets back then. Nugget was a personal project, and so were her ears. It was only after Mam and Dad were both gone and she dropped out of school to hack full time that she got all her best equipment.
Pulling a face, she visibly shakes the thoughts off and gets back to fiddling.
Kitchen
It's late. It's really late. Cammie's sleep schedule hasn't improved at all on this third leg of her multiversal journey, because why would it? The disruption of her routine is more than enough to set her back again each time and frankly, she's rarely made much progress in shaking the habit in the first place. Nightmares, workaholic tendencies, and good old fashioned poor choices have always been her frenemies.
It's more than that right now, though.
Cammie is attempting to make hot chocolate the old fashioned way, on a stove in the kitchens. She has all the ingredients and tools she needs, and she's already got a batch on the heat. She's never done it before, not properly. But this was how her Gran always used to make it, ever since she was just a wee babe. Cammie watched her do it so many times it's burned into her memory, and thanks to gen:LOCK she can go back and view those memories with unnatural clarity. She knows how to do it. In theory.
It still doesn't feel like it'll taste the same.
God, she misses her. She misses all of them. Mam, Dad, Gran, Maisie and Fergie—why is it just her still alive? Why did her Gran have to go and be so stubborn and get herself—
One rabbit ear twitches towards the sound of someone else in the room. Cammie scrubs at her eyes with the heel of her hand and swallows, so she can sound like she has her shit together. "Makin' more than enough for two, if y'fancy a mug."
Wildcard!
Totally down for other things. I can be found at
no subject
Cammie lands with digitigrade legs spread to stabilise her for the second before the wheels in the bottoms of her feet retract, then straightens up; only the malleable size of the room saves her from bonking her ears on the ceiling.
"I could play all humble and shite but I'm not even gonna, I am fuckin' awesome like this. Feels so good to be fuck-off tall and metal again."
The thing about being twice as tall as everyone else is that you're working with a very different visual perspective than you usually are. It's not quite as pronounced as it was when she was four-storeys instead of one, but it's still a thing.
Which is why it's only as she crouches down so she's not looming quite so much that her visual sensors actually catch up.
"Still gettin' used to the way the magic's changed it, mind, but—" processing, processing, "—are you missin' your bloody arm?"
no subject
"You look badass as hell."
She's admiring the mech when the question comes. She had-- forgotten. For a moment. She glances down at it, and back up to Cammie's "eyes".
"Yeah, but it's gonna grow back. Not as fast as I'd like but..." she shrugs. She's acting pretty nonchalant about the whole thing.
no subject
"Fuckin' hell. Was that from the mess on Halloween?" It didn't completely pass her by that Elle was absent for a while following everything with the witches, but the deeper into November they got, the deeper into her work Cammie threw herself, until the critical mass of grief hit in December.
So she wasn't exactly the most sociable herself.
"'Least it's gonnae come back, but— shit. That had to hurt." She's know, in her own roundabout way—she's had limbs ripped off in the Holon more times than she can count, though that's also why... "S'pose I'm the last person around here who can say shite about how chill you're actin' about it right now, mind you."
But it is being noted.
cw: mentioned self-injury
"Didn't hurt too bad. Managed to make a clean cut at a good angle, had a tourniquet, and it wasn't left unattended for long." If you can call an old, suspicious-looking cleaver "clean", or a belt wrapped tightly around her arm a "tourniquet".
Elle can, so she does.
"Would you believe me if I said this isn't the most fucked up thing I've put myself through on a mission?" Cammie probably would, they've bonded over the fucked up things they've gone through.
What Elle doesn't realize is that she's very much implying she did this to herself. Which she did, but other people may find that part pretty upsetting.
cw continues
"Think I'd be pretty surprised if it was the most fucked up thing you've put yourself through, if I'm honest." Given their little talk about the things they've been through, fucked up seems to be the baseline from which things can only escalate. "What the fuck did you walk into that you had to— I'm not playin' a hyped up game 'a leap frog if I say you cut your own bloody arm off, am I?"
It is upsetting, and yet also not entirely unfamiliar—a Holon limb can be trapped, have to be torn free and left behind, but there's no blood or viscera or anything of the sort when that happens. And they always try to avoid it, even if the limb will have to be replaced after anyway.
cw: cannibalism, amputation
"You ever heard of Baba Yaga? She's an old Russian folk tale-- an old crone who does magic, plays tricks, and eats children. Jack went other to try and make a deal but failed her test, so Loki and I went to get him back. We didn't really have time for one of her games, and she is not an enemy any of us want, so-" she gestures to her stump "-we made a deal.
"Off comes the arm and into the pot, Loki gave up something personal, and we walked away with Jack, the thing he came to her for in the first place, and no more enemies than when we started."
It was a pretty elegant resolution, if she may say so herself. Other than the arm thing.