Log:I Don't Think We're in College Any More

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I Don't Think We're in College Any More
Characters  •   The Visionary  •
Location  •  The Visionary's Room
Date  •  2019-07-24
Summary  •  The Visionary wakes for the sixth time in the Facility, with a new face. Again.

This is just like college.

Always.

"No, it fucking isn't," she mumbled to herself as a hand came up to rub over her face. She expected it to be raw, as though she'd been in the sun too long, but it was just the same as ever. That difference, and the reason for it, drew out a shudder.

Almost.

One eye opened, and she looked up at the hand. New hand. New for here, anyway.

Again.

"Even pastier white girl, check." Her eyes closed, and she dropped her hand to rest across her chest, breathing into the dark of the room. The tears came entirely on their own, rolling silently across her face to darken the pillow beneath her.

She didn't have the energy to move yet, beyond a slow turn of her head toward the curio 1200shelves. Each small cubby held something vital, with many an empty space waiting yet to be filled. She knew already. She knew what would be there, and still she scanned the shelves, one step at a time, one life at a time, in sequence to arrive there.

A swing of her feet around to the side of the bed landed hard, but she heaved herself up, and stared into the mirror.

Nyka.

She looked like Nyka, though somewhat younger than she'd just been.

Nyka, who looked more or less like a rumpled Miss Kate, who was the very proper antithesis of Nyka.

The smirk this conjured somehow fit just fine. She eyed the closet, and shook her head.

Drawn back toward the curio shelf, she regarded the new addition. She knew. She knew before she even looked.

She picked up the lab coat, counted the pins. Twenty-six. Two years in twenty-six days. The smiley face patch. The duct tape, in various places. A ring made of it, pinned to the coat. Another ring, fashioned of pieces of history both long and short, pinned beside it. Holding the coat to her face, she breathed in the scent of it; it wasn't sterile, it wasn't clean. There were smudges on one sleeve, a splotch of glue on another. It smelled like space, not that she ever recalled space having a smell of its own before just now, and she ached from the bones out at the sensation of real gravity.

It wasn't the only thing that lingered, and the tears came again, silent. "I guess we'll see," she whispered into the fabric before folding it again to set back on the shelf, in its small curio space, with particular reverence.

Stalking back toward the closet, she tried to swallow her nerves to make her way out into the world as they knew it in the Facility. It might be a while.