apocalypsehowcomm | (Log) This may be the worst month she's ever had

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(Log) This may be the worst month she's ever had

Who: Cortana and ...you?
When: First prompt is on the eighth, other two are on and after the eleventh.
Where: Various
Summary: Cortana has some lighthearted fun while shopping for clothes. Then several days later, everything goes to hell.
Warnings: First prompt is unlikely to have anything, second and third involve loss of bodily autonomy, extremely traumatic memories, dissociation, general distress, with potential for considerably worse to come up in threads.

A) (March 8th)

Cortana needs more clothes. She already has some simple white blouses and a few bottoms, as well as several gifted items and an assortment of socks and underwear, but it's a very basic, plain selection -- if she's going to keep going to hangouts and parties, she wants more color.

...Also, one of the graphic tees caught her eye. It was funny.

So that's what she's doing right now, looking through the graphic tee selection at the department store nearest ADI headquarters, picking through and occasionally holding one up that says something silly or interesting, like 'home is where the Wi-Fi always connects' or 'It's okay if you don't like me. Not everyone has good taste.' or has some stupid joke on it. She seems genuinely amused by the dumb puns and overused sarcastic quips: every so often, she'll even fold one and put it in her cart.

She might have a few sets of ridiculous colorful leggings in her cart too.

B) (March 11th)

Gus the bus is something that Cortana is at best only vaguely aware of. That said, when the bus that's supposed to take her home comes scuttling instead of rolling toward her she's immediately on guard.

Not that that will do anything to help her, as she doesn't realize that what she actually needs to do is run...

B1:

She wishes she could say that this is her first experience with a loss of autonomy, the betrayal of moving without choosing to, of not being able to stop no matter how much she wants to.

But as Cortana finds herself boarding the bus and taking a seat, as she sits frozen in place while the bugs crawl over her body, as she is trussed up in gossamer silk, all she can think of is High Charity and her inability to even speak her mind as the Gravemind did as he pleased.

She doesn't scream -- at least she still has that much control of herself -- but it's a struggle not to sob as she tries to will herself to do something, anything, to break free before she is cocooned in white.

B2:

She 'wakes' at the same bus stop where she started, but makes no effort to move, even as relief washes over her. It's-it's too much, and all she can do as she lays there in the soft morning light is curl up and cry.

C) (March 12-15th)

In the days after her encounter with Gus, Cortana really isn't doing well. When she isn't working or trying to put on a brave face while interacting with others it's all too easy for her to slip into an almost fugue like state, the barrier between reality and her thoughts eroding like iron tossed in the sea. She doesn't even fully notice the pull that brings her to the library: she finds herself at the door and the only reason she can drum up for wanting to go in is a yearning for something to serve as a distraction.

At the sound of his voice, she audibly gasps.

"...Chief?" The question trembles in the air.

Her pace picks up for the first time since her experience as she searches for him, unable to bring herself to accept that it's likely just a trick or turn away. She's missed him, she's sorry, she wants to see him again, even if he's not here just the sound of his voice... she doesn't want it to stop.

When she reaches the back of the library she manages not to cry, though that's likely numbness as much as it is anything else. Instead she finds a little corner to tuck herself into, sits down on the floor, closes her eyes and just ...listens.

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Not long after she wakes up, Cortana will hear footsteps approach. Boots in morning air still crisp from the fading winter. The familiar figure of a visually young man with silvery hair that clever one with the difficult passwords which bordered on pedantic at a recent cybersecurity class.

Has he been waiting? Did he just arrive? Elidibus will not say. But how many people from the ADI would be coincidentally at Dory Road at this time of day and with nary a spider web tattoo in sight?

The footsteps stop. The Ancient crouches but he's still some distance. If he were to reach out then sure, he could touch the AI's physical form. But he does not yet. Instead his quiet baritone gently intrudes on her sobbing.

"It has gone." He appears to speak with certainty. "Can you stand?" Elidibus seeks to give her something to focus on that is not her terror and not the ordeal she just underwent.

He does not ask something as foolish as 'are you okay'.

She doesn't ask how he knows what happened -- she should have checked the network, she should have paid more attention to news of possible threats -- but she does make an effort to pull herself together as she gets up. The latter takes a bit more effort than usual, but that's mostly because she's failing utterly at the former.

She avoids looking at Elidibus as she has to pause, body shaking and heaving with sobs. The tears are fake, of course, just another part of the illusion, but the way she struggles to hold herself together is entirely real.

"I-I'll be fine." She says, voice trembling as she manages to get to her feet. She's still not looking at him, instead staring at the ground.

Winter has been called to the library once or twice, but considering the voices that try to do so are people here, in Gloucester, and he verified on his phone that their trackers were not actually in the library, he at least knew for certain what was going on. There are no voices from home that he would recognize, anymore, that aren't either here with him or who he would want to listen to.

But when he sees Cortana's tracker in the library, motionless for almost an hour now, he can guess what's going on. He navigates the shelves and comes to settle down next to her, quiet for now.

Cortana is not the only one to find the comfort (if it can be called that) of a voice one misses. To feel the desire to keep listening even knowing that it's no more than a voice, and likely no more than something meant to keep all those who might be passing by trapped in the library for however long the voices remain, miring all so ensnared in memories and grief. And yet... his life has been all too full of grief as it is. Old griefs and newer, piled on top of each other until they might well have become crushing in their weight, had it not been for the ceaseless and unrelenting drive of duty.

Still... he does not regret the chance to live, if but for a moment, in memory and remembrance and so he lets himself be drawn in, following the sound of voices that none but he might yet remember.

(They are not all comforting voices, nor ones he had wished to hear. But they are ones he yet recognizes, and that is enough.)

It is however, something of a surprise to find someone else at the eventual end of the path, and he blinks, for a moment, before pulling himself away from his own whispers long enough to speak.

"My apologies. I hadn't meant to interrupt."

She's quiet.

If he's seen her in the past few days, he might have noticed how subdued she is, how listless, how ...small. After a moment, an eye flicks open and glances at him, before she relaxes with a sigh.

"Hey, Winter."

The whisper speaking to her is deep, gravelly, distinctly male. It has very little -- and yet very much -- to say.

I'm sorry I failed you.

I didn't want you to die.

I still miss you.

Edited 2023-03-21 17:06 (UTC)

He watches her, still and quiet himself, until she acknowledges him. Then he answers, "Hi, Cortana."

Then, a moment later, somewhat tentative but not without some actual sympathy in his voice, he says, "Whoever it is. They're not really here."

Cortana blinks, look up at him. Then she sighs.

"It's fine. Not like the entities won't expose worse than this anyway."

She has a friend who (allegedly) loves her and misses her. She clearly feels similar, if not the same. Does she really need to hide this?

"Let me guess: you're also missing someone?"

"I know, Winter." She's too tired to be annoyed. "I just ... miss him."

It's comforting, after everything, to hear his voice again. To feel safe again.

It's pathetic, isn't it? That after everything she's done to the Chief, that she wants his comfort and protection?

Winter's quiet a moment. It's not something he can really empathize with, because he's never had to miss anyone; he never remembered anyone to miss. (Meredith. He misses Meredith sometimes. And Strange, weirdly. But it's not the same as someone from home, he knows.)

Then he shifts a little closer and lifts his arm on that side. "Come here?" he offers. It's not her Chief, but he thinks he can offer her a hug for a little while. Maybe that will help some.

Cortana just ...stares at him. It's not - she's not - in her fragile state, having someone care this much and this openly is a shock.

No one has ever actually held her when she was distressed except as a way to hurt her further.

Still Cortana obliges, shuffling closer and curling into Winter's side. He can probably feel her trembling.

He can and he hates it, but he understands a little, at least. Hell, he cried more than once at his own birthday party. He wraps that arm around her, tucking her close, and it's not actually hard at all. Like Yelena when they talked about her past. Like Steve at his birthday. It's not bad. He's maybe getting better at this.

"I got you," he says quietly. "It's okay."

She lets out a little sobbing noise and a part of her hates herself for her weakness in this moment.

"Sorry..." She's shaking and miserable and terrified and it's probably obvious that this goes way beyond just missing her best friend. "I..."

The apology doesn't make sense. There's nothing to apologize for. Sometimes you just have to cry, or huddle in a corner, or freak out. It happens. "I don't mind," he says, and tentatively rubs her shoulder with the hand around it. "Cry if you need to. It's okay."

Unfortunately for Cortana, a lot of her self-worth is attached to not being totally incapacitated by crying.

Not that she can really stop herself at this point. She lets out an awful, keening wail and collapses completely into Winter's side, which while she's not impossible to support levels of heavy she is heavier than anyone her size should be, so that's probably uncomfortable. She has enough presence of mind not to latch onto Winter himself, but one of her hands grips a fistful of the extra clothing he likes to wear like a vise. Her entire body shakes like leaves in the wind as she starts to sob and doesn't stop.

Again -- this goes way beyond just missing her best friend.

Forgive his suspicions that Cortana is not fine now nor will be for some time in the near future.

It has been a most curious phenomenon to observe, inasmuch as he's been able to observe it; the coincidence of looking away just as someone is dropped off has happened too often to be one at all. At least being here gives some advantage in speaking with those who have fallen victim to the 'bus'.

Elidibus is not one to engage in tactile attempts at comfort. Had Cortana needed a hand in getting to her feet, he would have offered one. But she manages on her own and he is content to be patient while she gathers herself.

"There is a small breakfast cafe nearby." The offer is not about whether the AI needs to sustain herself on food or beverage. It is about a place to sit that is not anywhere close to the bus stop or its benches.

"Pray join me. I would like to hear firsthand what occurred." It is true Elidibus may be more interested in the details than in consoling her. Yet in making his request, his voice and manner suggest a kindness. Rather than pity, he offers purpose. One which Elidibus then suggests a reward for over any benefit he might gain.

"Perhaps if nothing more, it would ease your burden to speak of it."

He's right: Cortana hasn't been fine in years. Not that she wants to let people onto this fact. Look at her, she's the very picture of toughness and resilience! Not broken and hurting and certainly never helpless and terrified!

It's not convincing, and she probably knows it's not convincing, but can you really blame a girl for trying?

"Alright." She's grateful, at least. For the offer, the lack of pity, the implication that he wants the information as much as she wants to be rid of it. It's ...easier that way.

Yeah, it kind of does. But Winter cried because he had a birthday. He spent an entire train ride curled in a ball hyperventilating. He still regularly hides in closets. He's really, really not going to judge, here, he's just going to wrap her up a little more securely, adding the metal arm too, and let her cry. He does run out of things to say pretty quickly, though, and eventually settles for just rubbing her back with one hand.

Maybe when she's done with the sobbing, he'll ask. But sobbing and talking just don't seem like they'll work together.

He does kind of glare away a couple people who poke their head into that aisle to see what's going on. They flee very quickly at the sight of a glowering ex-assassin and sobbing woman when it's clear he's not hurting her, and she's not alone.

It's going to be a long, long time before she stops. In fact, it's not even that she stops so much as she slows down, shaking subsiding to trembling as her sobs quiet down to something more manageable.

"Winter." She says. And then, "Thanks." She's having a bit of trouble managing much else.

By that point, Winter has reached the point of it being too much, but he's stoically enduring anyway, because she needs it. Still, he's quietly relieved when she manages words again. "You're my team. If you need anything. I'm gonna try and give it to you."

He leans back a little, trying to look at her face, rather than the top of her head. "Want to talk about it," he offers. "Maybe somewhere not the library." In part because he doesn't want to keep chasing people off with glares, in part to get her away from the fake voice in her head.

She looks back at him, big blue eyes full of pain and vulnerability but also trust.

"Okay." After a moment, she pulls away and tries to get to her feet. She doesn't -- she's missed hearing the Chief's voice for so long, but he's not there and she's got a real friend to pay attention to. "It's - it's a lot, Winter." Her voice is shaking. "I - it's bad." So much of what happened, so much of the context of why she's so effected by what happened, it's just, he shouldn't have to hear it.

"They have the potential to, yes. Though who among would not wish for privacy, in our remembrances?"

There is, admittedly, not a whole lot he can do about have wandered in now. Not short of turning back around and pretending he hadn't seen anything in the first place, and given that she's already implied a willingness to continue a conversation beside do so would be at least a little rude.

(Not that he has much of a problem with being so, but still. They have both known some measure of loss, and in that, at least, they are alike.)

Thus, there's simply a nod, as he takes his own seat.

"Yes. The curse of immortality."

He does not, entirely, regret being able to avoid death as long as he had managed. But neither had it been an easy thing to know that he would outlive even those few he had come to enjoy the company of.

"I figured it was," he agrees solemnly, and climbs back to his feet, too, pausing to rub at the back of his neck and stretch out his shoulders. Apparently sitting on the floor for half an hour leaves one a little stiff. But it's a relief to not be pressed up against someone, robot or not. "Let's go outside. Then you can tell me," he says, and motions towards the door, letting her precede him.

She pauses, mouth opening as if to say something, but stops. He doesn't understand how bad this is because he can't unless she tells him, so she's not going to be able to easily dissuade him.

"Okay." She's dazed, shaking, as she makes her way to the door and steps out into the light. She stands there, just outside the entrance, blinking hard.

If she really doesn't want to talk about it, he's not going to make her. But unless she says she doesn't want to talk about it, he'll assume she does. He lets her keep his arm as they walk outside, and pauses when she does. "Cortana," he says after a moment, voice soft, though he's not good at gentle yet. "We're blocking the door."

It's hard for her to talk about, but right now it's less about not wanting to and more worry about possibly burdening him with the horrors she's been reliving inside her head.

She starts a little, looking back at him. "Alright." She says after a moment, moving away from the door.

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(Log) This may be the worst month she's ever had

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