(open rp post)

[battleshipping]

ｇｅｔ ｉｎ， ｌｏｓｅｒ， ｗｅ＇ｒｅ ｇｏｉｎｇ ｒｐｉｎｇ

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the (7th) atlas six (for multiverse)

[battleshipping]

[ varona and rhodes are doing their usual varona and rhodes spiel (in front of everyone's salad) and daisy has a headache. last night qualifies as A Lot - jumping awake in the middle of the night to outside contractors trying to break into the alexandrian society was one thing, but the gruesome fight that followed - well.

she's trying to power through here, stiff upper lip that would have made mother superior proud, but she is coming to terms with the fact that she's underqualified for this...call it internship. whatever the fuck atlas was thinking, recruiting her into the society on promises of all the knowledge she's ever dreamed of, she'll never know. it's not like she went to nyuma with the Terrible Two over there (jesus christ, are they debating disarming techniques?), and up until last night she didn't feel as powerful as some of the others here.

but that was before she wrecked guns with the flick of her fingers and nearly vibrated one intruder into exploding. (for a couple of terrifying seconds, drunk on her own power, she'd felt the man's very atoms, squashable.) she'd settled for sending them flying out via the window, and had taken a few decorative elm trees along the way.

but, you know, excuse her for not being as callous or used to destruction, or enamoured with her own disdain of human life (looking at you, reina), not not be shaken (not quaked) by the events last night even a little bit. she possibly killed some people. she didn't sign up for atlas' stupid secret gang to kill people! she signed up because the library might have answers about who she is, who her parents are. it's selfish and childish, she knows - tristan and callum and possibly parisa would probably have a chortle at the fact that daisy's motivation to join up wasn't more knowledge, more power, more money - but there you have it. she signed up because she needs to know if she was ever loved.

in the most blasé way possibly, tristan begins to explain where in the arm are the bones vulnerable to truly disarm someone, and that's her tipping point. ]

Well, I'm out.

[ she's not a monster, she'll finish her glass of wine first (down the hatch, quickly), and stand up from the dining table, taking an expeditious retreat right the fuck out of there before she ends up upchucking over parisa's pretty dress. ]

[multiverse]

( parisa isn't passive, so much as she is selectively silent in the midst of her apparent co-students. it's not difficult — most people fear the looming presence of an awkward silence in conversation, but it's a rare, precious thing when sandwiched between nico and libby, something to be admired for its scarcity. it's few and far away now, she sees. it seems the next year of her life will be anything but silent, which is neither good nor bad. her eyes ping-pong back and forth between them, bored and amused and annoyed, but mostly, blissfully, distracted. if she thinks about it too long, she sees callum in her mind's eye, cool and calculated and detached, sweet talking a man into killing himself. his look back at parisa, expectant on her approval — her unabashed horror instead, quickly masked into a bland bit of nothingness.

there is, by natural law, a divide between us and them. the physical medians and the mental ones — an easy enough line to draw in the sand, featuring parisa on the losing side, simply by the rules of odd numbers. four physicists, three psychics. one, callum nova, the empath, the murderer, the person who was so sure of parisa's own lacking morality he hadn't bothered to hide his rancid nature. two, tristan caine, a walking ball of self-doubt and self-loathing, whose strongest asset is looking morosely handsome and deadly at the same time. three, parisa kamali, the telepath with an pesky conscious that always rears its ugly head at the worst times.

she does not like her odds.

after daisy excuses herself, she waits, fingertips sliding around the rim of her glass, eyeing callum from the corner of her eye, waiting for the paint to peel yet again on his playboy facade. it doesn't come. she stands after waiting an appropriate amount of time, fingering a fresh bottle of wine, hair tossed over her shoulder as she says, ) Tomorrow. ( which is only a promise that it will come, and not that she'll be there.

it's obvious daisy doesn't like her fellow physicists at all. parisa doesn't like the mentalists on her side either, except for looking at them, but what are looks, really? power is more important. power is something daisy has enough of that it pours out of her, infecting a space, feral dogs rising on their hackles when some unseen unease enters into a room — the presumption of violence, the king at her throne. she makes her way. probably, callum knows where she's going, but he knew he lost her the second he saw her face. he'll cling to tristan for want of an ally he wouldn't find in parisa — she'll throw in her bet to the dissenter, daisy johnson, physicist, moralist, outcast, for similar if not entirely exact reasons.

she knocks before letting herself into daisy's room, the bottle of wine dangling precariously between languid, unbothered fingers. )

Not your choice of company, I suppose.

( what's more important: daisy was the only one affected by the deaths. it doesn't make her the best choice of ally, but it does make her relatable. parisa slinks into the room like a jungle cat, taking a perched seat on a cushiony chair, fingers plucking out the cork in the bottle. ) I should say thank you, by the way. For not getting sick on me. I appreciate it more than you know. ( she takes a swig from the bottle, before offering it to daisy. )

take my whole life

[battleshipping]

[ she is missing the tools of her trade in here. with or without all the books that she can request from the library in her future, daisy misses the feeling of sweating bullets while trying to crack a tricky bit of code. it leaves her with nothing that she can fiddle with, and restlessness is not a good companion in this bloody place.

but the woman who makes herself comfortable in daisy's room might just be, electric as her presence feels. ]

I think they train their sense of humanity out in the second year at NYUMA.

[ she refers here, specifically, to the unfathomable arrogance of her fellow american physicists, down there debating what the best way to rip a person apart could be without their stomachs turning even for a second. ]

It's a pretty dress. [ with a crack of a smile, she takes the bottle and takes a long swing from it, trying to not focus on the fact that parisa's lips were on the bottle before her. a. she's not fifteen, and b. parisa can absolutely read her mind if she gets all dumb and fluttery. so she won't. ]

This is it, isn't it? The way our year here is going to be. Varona and Rhodes trying to outfuck each other in some vague, horny, academic rivalry. Tristan being one creepy fucker, and Nova - [ she shudders there, holding the bottle back out for parisa to take. ]

Why deign to visit me in the slums?