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100apologiesMiranda's more-or-less reflections on her first two weeks(ish) in camp, in drabble form because I said so.
Two days, twenty-three hours, forty-seven minutes. Not a record by a long shot, never mind that her area of invocation was incredibly small- just a tree in one of the many cornfields, rewinding its time to before it was struck by lightning. Keeping it alive for a short while longer, delaying the inevitable, assuming it was still inevitable here. Would the tree come back to life, like the people here supposedly did?
She isn't sure she wants to know.
Ten minutes left now, exactly. The clock on her wall is small and impersonal, stark black hands on a white face and all made of plastic. She's rather fond of it anyways. The colors are an inversion of her first uniform, a reminder of her usefulness.
And she wants so badly to be useful again.
Here, she has no purpose. There's no war and she's selfish for wishing for it but without it, she's realizing she has nothing. She has her friends- Rabi and Allen and even Link and Timothy and Kanda- but they've been here so long they have other friends, are surely sick of her tagging after them like a lost puppy. Surely they're sick of having to constantly calm her down, of having to constantly explain everything to her because she's too stupid and naïve and clumsy to know anything here.
She almost wants to scream, but she hates her voice by now. The only words she speaks nowadays- "I'm sorry!" have worn such a path on her vocal cords that they almost hurt to say. She wants to say more. She wants to- to enjoy this break from the war like she knows she should, to enjoy this break from constantly fighting to stave off the inevitable which isn't inevitable here.
But what is she, if she cannot be an Exorcist? Exorcists are strong. Miranda is not. Exorcists are brave and resourceful. Miranda is not. Exorcists are clever and good and loved and she is none of these things and she wants to scream again but it's late, so late and she's tired.
Two days, twenty-three hours and fifty-eight minutes. She's gone much longer. She could easily continue for at least another seven, maybe eight days, before just the beginnings of hallucinations would set in. But she is tired in a heartsick way, and all she wants now is to sleep and forget. Forget she ever came here, forget that even the job she was promised at this place doesn't exist- who needs a trail guide when there are no trails?
Six seconds left. Miranda inhales, holding the air in her lungs before exhaling and releasing the breath alongside her invocation. She watches the little orbs of light and time escape from the record on her arm before carefully, reverently placing it on her bedside table.
"Tomorrow."
She speaks aloud and doesn't wince, because for once her voice is soft and almost pleasant to her ears. She pushes the covers aside and slips beneath them, closing her eyes and willing her breathing to slow. Tomorrow is a new day. It won't be a repeat of the day before, won't be a reminder of her past mistakes. It will be a chance for her to make new ones, of course. But it will also be a chance for her to try again, and in the end that's what truly matters. The unexpected and the new, the chances to try and prove herself despite her inherent worthlessness.
Miranda will take those chances, tomorrow and for as long as they're available. Because that's all she needs, really. Just the chance to try again.
tl;dr - Miranda is freaked out by camp and feels useless but won't give up :x NOT MUCH DIFFERENT FROM EXPECTED but I felt like writing so there ♥
Two days, twenty-three hours, forty-seven minutes. Not a record by a long shot, never mind that her area of invocation was incredibly small- just a tree in one of the many cornfields, rewinding its time to before it was struck by lightning. Keeping it alive for a short while longer, delaying the inevitable, assuming it was still inevitable here. Would the tree come back to life, like the people here supposedly did?
She isn't sure she wants to know.
Ten minutes left now, exactly. The clock on her wall is small and impersonal, stark black hands on a white face and all made of plastic. She's rather fond of it anyways. The colors are an inversion of her first uniform, a reminder of her usefulness.
And she wants so badly to be useful again.
Here, she has no purpose. There's no war and she's selfish for wishing for it but without it, she's realizing she has nothing. She has her friends- Rabi and Allen and even Link and Timothy and Kanda- but they've been here so long they have other friends, are surely sick of her tagging after them like a lost puppy. Surely they're sick of having to constantly calm her down, of having to constantly explain everything to her because she's too stupid and naïve and clumsy to know anything here.
She almost wants to scream, but she hates her voice by now. The only words she speaks nowadays- "I'm sorry!" have worn such a path on her vocal cords that they almost hurt to say. She wants to say more. She wants to- to enjoy this break from the war like she knows she should, to enjoy this break from constantly fighting to stave off the inevitable which isn't inevitable here.
But what is she, if she cannot be an Exorcist? Exorcists are strong. Miranda is not. Exorcists are brave and resourceful. Miranda is not. Exorcists are clever and good and loved and she is none of these things and she wants to scream again but it's late, so late and she's tired.
Two days, twenty-three hours and fifty-eight minutes. She's gone much longer. She could easily continue for at least another seven, maybe eight days, before just the beginnings of hallucinations would set in. But she is tired in a heartsick way, and all she wants now is to sleep and forget. Forget she ever came here, forget that even the job she was promised at this place doesn't exist- who needs a trail guide when there are no trails?
Six seconds left. Miranda inhales, holding the air in her lungs before exhaling and releasing the breath alongside her invocation. She watches the little orbs of light and time escape from the record on her arm before carefully, reverently placing it on her bedside table.
"Tomorrow."
She speaks aloud and doesn't wince, because for once her voice is soft and almost pleasant to her ears. She pushes the covers aside and slips beneath them, closing her eyes and willing her breathing to slow. Tomorrow is a new day. It won't be a repeat of the day before, won't be a reminder of her past mistakes. It will be a chance for her to make new ones, of course. But it will also be a chance for her to try again, and in the end that's what truly matters. The unexpected and the new, the chances to try and prove herself despite her inherent worthlessness.
Miranda will take those chances, tomorrow and for as long as they're available. Because that's all she needs, really. Just the chance to try again.
tl;dr - Miranda is freaked out by camp and feels useless but won't give up :x NOT MUCH DIFFERENT FROM EXPECTED but I felt like writing so there ♥
