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[ It was a bit hard to miss the effects of this flood; as soon as she'd awoken, well. Drenched in sweat and a t-shirt that didn't fit quite right anymore, she'd showered and perhaps taken a bit longer than usual to find some sort of way to adjust to this newfound - body. Afterwards, she'd thrown on a flannel that was too large for her, rolled at the sleeves, tucked into a pair of slacks that are belted firmly about her hips.

It wouldn't do to make a fuss over the network about it like everyone else was. She steals her way into the kitchen, glasses pressed firmly up her nose as she gets a banana, some coffee, and she tries to slip out relatively unnoticed.

But it's mostly the library she flocks to today, large and open and easily avoidable for the likes of most of anyone she could end up coming across. It's not that she's embarrassed. It's just that - Well, yes, she's got some degree of embarrassment. Being a female is a strange new world with which he obviously has no experience, and so Wilona does what Will does - she finds somewhere secluded, and she escapes.

Specifically, she sits cross-legged in one of the aisles with a textbook in her lap, sipping irritably at a coffee, because fuck you and your rules about food and drink in the library. ]

( feel free to come across wil in the kitchen, the library, her ~~cell~~room, or anywhere in between where she might be wandering throughout the day! replies will be coming from

mirrortouched. )

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[ Harvey is in the library, well aware of the weirdness and happy that he has not been changed. He is a man, his dogs are his dogs, everything is right with his personal world for a change. This is rare, for the barge. Rare for Harvey. ]

[ The dogs-- two huge Rottweilers, male and female, paired and perfect-- flank him at any given moment. They lounge near by, ever content and settled. Harvey is not unhappy, so they are not unhappy. ]

[ They are, however, alert. Ears prick, and one lets a warning bark out when Will gets too close. Harvey glances over from where he's shelving books. Ah; they're not alone. ]

You need help finding something?

[ Her fingers keep trailing across the spines of the books as she goes, as if she has no idea what it is she wants to settle on for the day. Something - Oh, she doesn't know. Something engaging. Something distracting.

Harvey Dent. Ah, a face (or two) that she's seen before, and their time in the caverns were certainly... colorful. She hasn't seen him since. It's not out of avoidance, it's merely not bumping into one another, and Wil's particular avoidance of the network except for necessities, except for keeping track of who's doing what in some vague sense of it.

She holds up a hand of placation at the dog bark, nearly startled by it. It's then that she pulls a book from the shelf as if it's the one she's wanted this entire time. Her glasses keep slipping down her nose and she presses them up again with a shake of her head. ]

No, ah - I think I've found what I wanted. [ A book about rattlesnakes is very ironically between her fingers right now and she turns it over to look at the back. ] I'm merely finding myself at a certain crossroad between apathy and discombobulation today.

So what you're saying is standard barge bullshit, different day?

[ Since most of them experience both apathy and discombobulation on the barge at any given moment, especially the inmates. They know they're on the hook for something, but never know how to get off it. Then there's the whole mess of barge drama, with floods and breaches... ]

[ Same shit, different day. ]

[ Remus inches forward on her belly, whuffing again, ears flat. Harvey extends a hand, speaks a word; calm. She creeps closer to him, defensive, and gets her ears scratched. Good girl. ]

More or less.

[ Only it's the first time she's - he's - she's gotten breasts out of the situation here. ] I suppose I haven't been here too long to begin with. There's plenty of, ah, bullshit to get myself used to, as you've so eloquently stated.

[ Wil glances towards Remus, book curling under her arm as she observes and tilts her head curiously. ] The dog's name?

You'll get used to it. As much as this fuckery can be adjusted to, anyway.

[ Harvey is not fond of the barge's tendency to play with one's mind... but neither is he all that surprised by it and what it does anymore. He's had his life spill out of him in waves -- seeing someone get tits out of the barge is hardly all that shocking. ]

She's Remus. [ He tilted his head to indicate the other dog. ] He's Romulus.

I'm adjusting.

[ She says honestly, though she doesn't say how easily or how much. ]

Remus. Romulus. [ She bends to hold out a hand, let them sniff if they'd like to. It's easier to ask his question when her line of sight isn't directly matching his. ]

You don't recognize me, do you?

You like dogs. It narrows things down a bit.

[ Abigail told him, once. ]

It's safe. They wont bite without a command.

[ His commands words are in German; he speaks it with growls, but it all works. They know she is safe for now, and Romulus sniffs and relaxes. Remus remains ever wary; she is a one man bitch, so to speak, and you are not her man. ]

Liking dogs? Oh, so that's becoming an identifying feature again.

[ She's that guy. Gal.

She can't help herself anyway. She sets down her book, skritches behind Romulus' ears, and even strokes a tentative hand at Remus' head. ]

And how have you been, Mr. Dent?

The dog people on the barge tend to know each other, yes.

[ How else to explain it, other than that? Romulus gratefully takes the attention, but Remus remains aloof. She does not warn Will away, but simply leans against Harvey's leg, a block of solid muscle. ]

I'm fine. The same old same old, as none of my body parts have shifted. Can't imagine what a fucking life I'd have had as a woman, anyway.

Can't imagine what life I'd have as a woman.

[ She remarks lightly, but there's a confused sort of undertone under there, not necessarily derisive of the idea, just - thoughtful.

Female serial killers are at least a one in six chance. What a rarity she would have been, back on the stand.

What a rarity she is even now. ]

My body parts have inexplicably shifted. [ And she straightens now, brushing at her pants legs and frowning minutely. ] Though the male memory still remains intact. What a - predicament they have shuttled me into.

The barge does that sometimes. Gives you memories to match -- it's like the difference between a flood and a breach, only in people. Some folks hit whatever the barge did hard enough they believe that's how they've always been.

[ At least, that's how Harvey understands it. After a year on the barge, he's got most of it down. ]

I - I know.

[ She holds up a hand to indicate for him to stop, even if he has already. ]

After you spend three days assured you're a werewolf down to your last bone, you know.

[ Harvey gave a rough chuckle. ]

Werewolf's new. Killed one with a silver dollar, years ago.

I don't-- often get deeply changed, by floods. Breaches pass me over, sometimes. But that happens to everyone, in some measure. Some worlds grab you, have a piece of you in them.

Most exciting change was being able to shoot lasers from my fists.

[ He didn't do much with that, though. ]

They take the bits of you left. And they fiddle.

[ The floods, she seems to mean, sounding vaguely appalled by the idea. But it's not the first time it's happened to her. ]

Lasers, now. There's a talent born right out of Star Wars. I suppose that's one of the happier gifts you could be bestowed, here.

[ And since she has to ask anyway: ]

Try anything - interesting?

I mostly left scorch marks on my wall. Very little productive could be done with the things. That's the thing about inmates-- if you have powers beyond the norm, they cap them. So even if I got powers from a warden, it'd be... well, mostly useless.

[ Like they were. ]

Did some target practice, got bored fast.

Luckily I don't imagine myself coming across any new particular powers any time soon. Lest I bore myself with them.

[ Dryly. Seriously, Harvey, you had laser hands, embrace them. She thinks. ]

[ They were inmate capped and being able to throw a light punch from across the room got boring fast. ]

Was being werewolf interesting, at least?

[He sees her first in the mess hall, a new - ? - face in familiar decor. It gives him pause, and he doesn't follow her in any conventional sense of the act. He follows her eventuality, follows her pattern. Follows so long as she is who he believes she is.

Hannibal doesn't carry in his own cup of coffee - he happens to like that particular set of rules. He comes empty handed, wandering with purpose until he finds the occupied aisle.

At first, he doesn't intrude, watching only froom the corner of his eye. But there is honesty and openness to consider, so he steps away from the books he wasn't really examining, out into the center between the bookends. His hands are clasped in front of him, fingers laced, and he cocks his head as he studies her, curiosity lanced in every inch of his gaze.]

Good morning.

[ She doesn't know for sure, but she does kind of know already.

The presence is what she realizes before she actually hears the greeting, but she doesn't look up from her book straight away, glasses sliding down the end of her nose. With a finger tapped against the page of her book, she shuts it with the digit as a makeshift bookmark - 'Reasoning About Uncertainty', apparently. Carefully, she removes the glasses, folds them up and tucks them into the pocket of her over-sized shirt.

There's not much point in trying to hide it. If he doesn't know already, he's going to find out anyway. There's too many similarities, too much of herself - himself - herself that she can't hide, and so she looks up to him with a bland (maybe self-deprecating) smile. ]

Doctor Lecter.

[He could ask a hundred questions. The majority of them are very rude, though, so he opts not to. Instead, Hannibal smiles faintly: he can see Will in the way she slides the glasses from her nose, the way she tucks them away. And she recognizes, which more than anything tells him that she is less appropriate.

He walks forward, catches sight of the book's title. He's careful not to let his smile widen.]

Dare I ask, what uncertainty are you concerned with today?

[ Other than his brand new vagina?

Wil's fingers tick in debate against her book, studying the title for a few long seconds before she speaks again. Uncertainty's always clung to her like a foul stench, like a skunk smell doesn't leave a dog's fur until you scrub it down to nothing. ]

It's estimated that one out of six of serial killers - active serial killers, in the States - are female.

[ She words carefully, lifting her mug up and sipping as she moves to stand. She doesn't like being so far downward from him, without her usual edge on the situation. The height difference even when she's standing is significant; Hannibal is at least a head taller.

He feels smaller, though no less important. He feels well appreciated, if a tinge underestimated. ]

Of all the questions you dare ask, Doctor Lecter, I shouldn't be surprised it's the coy one. [ She eyes him flatly, book tucked under one arm, mug safely clutched in the other. ] You shouldn't play coy.

[Becky and Will haven't actually met face to face yet, technically speaking. They've probably seen each other around, but with Will's enthusiasm for voice posts over video, and Becky's less than voracious sense of sociability (she's friendly, but not a busy body who has to know everyone super well), this would be one of the first times they're really crossing paths, in that Becky actually stops to talk to her.

She's in the library to return a couple of the books she'd been flipping through - one about the space program, one about the Cold War, and another about Pearl Harbor - and to pick up a couple new ones, so when she spots the unfamiliar face who definitely looks a little uncomfortable, she's assuming the other woman's either new, or affected by the flood.

Maybe she's lucky that she's pretty sure she's always been this way, comparitively.]

You alright?

[ Wil, on the other hand, has certainly not always been this way, nor is she particularly prepared for what comes with it, from the mussed hair down to the baggy wardrobe. She's wearing boxers, for goodness' sake. Which really aren't as comfortable on a woman as one might think they might be. Too loose. Too many parts that don't need to - hang as -

She's not going to think too much on it.

With an adjustment of her glasses, she glances upward at Becky. They haven't met before, Bucky and Becky both, and it's not as if the name can strike her with a certain kind of familiarity. Really what she wants is to be left alone, but it seems impossible on the Barge, no matter what size it is. Wil raises her coffee mug towards Becky in a sort of toast. ]

After a fashion.

[ Fashion, hah, yeah. This clothing option becomes much more of a sad schlub when it's on her, but she's not particularly picky. ]

I have one of those faces.

Kinda surprised we don't all have those kinda faces, being stuck here and all. [She's a little surprised she's not more visibly dragged down by all the shit she's been through, sometimes. Sometimes, the face in the mirror looks like a ghost, and sometimes, she looks like the person she remembers being before everything had been blown to hell.

She's dressed in clothes that look a little old fashioned, but she's much less obviously military than Bucky is - not having a uniform to wear kind of helps cover that fact up - and while she doesn't move over to intrude on Wil's space or anything, she doesn't leave, either.]

Becky Barnes. This your first flood?

[ Barnes. She knows that name. Sergeant James Barnes. He'd said to call him Bucky.

Becky?

There's a brief moment where Wil doesn't answer, jaw mildly ajar as she assesses the situation. It's hard to hide the unabashed once-over she gives, almost appraising. Must be a new look for him. It's not a bad look. ]

Second. [ She frowns and shuts her book, some number about uncertainty and reasoning that she's really not paying much attention to. Conversationally, almost jocular, she remarks: ] Last time I was just a werewolf.

[ The caverns certainly left a much harsher impression than the first flood, and she recalls them with gritted teeth and a swipe of her hands over too-large slacks. ]

It's Bucky, right?

According to Steve and about half the Barge, yeah. [And there's a barely suppressed eye roll here, because she's a little tired of this particular song and dance routine.]

As far as I'm concerned, I've always been like this. Your pal Bucky'll be back here in a couple days, and I'll go back to whatever Barge I got dragged here from.

[Which is always kind of the disturbing part of these floods. She knows who she is and why she's here. Is she totally deluded, or is she just a hostage from some parallel ship?

Becky's honestly not sure she wants to know. It's weird enough that there's some world out there where she'd been a sixteen year old kid when she'd died.]

So, who're you supposed to be?

[ Interesting. She really doesn't know? ]

I suppose that would be the nature of the flood. Different effects depending on who it is it's affecting.

[ She probably doesn't think of it that way. Becky. Bucky. Becky, now. If she feels as though she's always been like that, likely it's more confusing that nobody else seems to know it. It could lead to plenty of conclusions and even more conjecture. If Wil feels off-kilter, she wonders how Becky feels.

Wil pauses a moment at the question, swallowing coffee in lieu of an answer at first. ]

That would be, ah - Will Graham. [ Or she's meant to be. ] We spoke on the network. [ A beat. ] I didn't sound like this.

[It's definitely a little strange - less so with people who are more or less strangers, but the morning had been awkward, with Steve acting all weird and like she was some stranger instead of the big sister who'd always tried to have his back, no matter how shitty things got.

But she's good at putting on a brave face, so for the time being, basically none of that shows.]

No, I guess you didn't. [Because she remembers Will, and even if she didn't? Of course he'd (she'd?) sound different now.]

So what's worse: being a woman, or being a werewolf?

[ That's an excellent question. She actually considers it a moment. ]

Well, there wasn't a moon to be full.

[ So there's that. ]

I'm going to go ahead and skip the tacky "time of the month" joke that would be stuck in here, obligatorily. I'd take either over our - most recent of ports.

[ With this, she just musses at her hair as a bit of a nervous tic, fingers skritching into her scalp. ] I don't know what I'm doing in this body.

[Byron loves the library every bit as much as Barbara, so of course he ends up there sooner or later. He wonders, as he roams through the shelves, if her tastes run any different than his.

Eventually, with a stack of books on his lap, he turns into an occupied corridor. The scan is swift and automatic - not someone he knows personally, but there's some familiarity. He'll need to pin it down.

For now, he smiles.]

If you spill that, Chromie will eat you.

If I spilled this, it would certainly make reading it all the more difficult.

[ Sarcasm, almost immediately, and she turns her mug in her hands, book set open on her lap as she sips casually at her coffee. Almost smugly. ]

I'd miss the coffee too.

[ She glances over to Byron, feet first but eyes slowly sketching upward, her own scan jut as deliberate. Just because he looks like this now doesn't necessarily mean he looks like this always. ]

Who's Chromie?

Our librarian. Usually tiny, sometimes a dragon. [There's a touch of wryness to his voice, but he's very matter of fact about it.]

Sometimes a dragon. [ There's dryness slinking its way into her voice. ] Because there are dragons now.

[ Everyone said you'll adjust, you'll adjust, you'll adjust. He's not sure he ever will, not to this place. ]

I didn't even know there was a librarian. I haven't seen Chromie.

[ In and out like a ghost, usually, generally without his books. ]

She's not one of the louder ones.

[He smiles, a little, wryly sympathetic.]

I'd say you'll get used to it, but I don't know you. Maybe you won't. [He doesn't lie, not for that.]

Hopefully not for long. [ She pauses a beat. ] The, uh -

[ She can't bring herself to say it so she just gestures vaguely to herself. The boobs thing, basically. ]

The rest, I expect, I'll have a very long and intimate time to become adjusted to. In bits in pieces, though never quite as a whole.

[He manages not to smirk too hard.]

Sounds about right.

[He gestures at his own flat chest.] As far as I remember, I've always been like this, but apparently I'm wrong. [He doesn't sound particularly upset about it, though.]

Wouldn't be the first time anyone expected something different than what they got out of this place. One might even begin to lower ones expectations entirely, to a far bleaker place where they entertain a world of pessimism rather than grasping actuality.

[ Sometimes she finds herself sinking there, or she did. Other times, she's more assured here than she was back home. ]

The nature of the floods seem to be to get inside one's head, to - twist the facts and pieces, if only minutely. Just enough to make you think you're crazy.

[The smile fades, as he nods.] You need to be careful. Examine your mind, make sure all the pieces fit like they should.

As for the Barge in general...I won't lie, it can get pretty horrible. But personally, I'd say it does more good than bad for people, overall.

[ Wil smiles, a crooked and categorically careful kind of thing. ] The pieces very rarely fit where they should. There's only so many puzzles I can be good at.

[ But the Barge, oh, the Barge, and not for the first time she finds herself swiping a hand or two at her pants, methodically, as if she can wipe blood away from her fingers that isn't even actually there anymore. ]

If the 'good' is meant to be in merely the camaraderie here, [ she pauses a tick, making a bit of a face, 'yeesh', ] nnnnot sure how well it's going to work out for me.

Not good at making friends? [His smile is wry.] I wasn't, either. Too focused on work, or so I told myself. Fighting crime is a lot simpler than navigating relationships.

Edited 2014-07-19 20:05 (UTC)

[ Wil's eyes flicker towards Byron's own for a moment, a half a smirk on her face, as if to ask, "You too?" ]

You could say that the majority find my particular breed of personality - [ She pauses, glancing away again and parsing over her words before she decides on: ] Weird.

[The slightest nod as his smile deepens.]

In case you haven't noticed - we're all weird, here.

Some ... much weirder than others.

[ She's fairly certain she includes herself in that category. Although there are certainly all sorts of types around here, aren't there? ]

When I wake with [ she grasps at her shirt and tugs as if to vaguely demonstrate ] parts that aren't my own, I start to buy into the whole thing a - whole lot more.

[A low, soft chuckle.] Seeing is believing, huh?

[ If the caves hadn't given her everything she needed to know. ]

Or thereabouts.

They like to play, don't they?

The Admiral? Yes, I think so. [His tone is odd; it's a blend of bitterness and affection, exasperation and admiration.] It's difficult to discern his motives, and methods, when we have no idea what kind of being he is.

Yeah? No kidding.

[ Maybe this is all Captain Obvious talk, which is why Wil's voice is descending into the sarcastic, but she's bitter about this flood for skewed reasons. If not bitter, than just... uncomfortable. ]

'Discernible' isn't a word I'd use in description of the Barge at all, from my experience. 'Go with the flow' seems to be more the mantra.

Pretty much. [There's a wry sort of edge to his voice, a hint of the frustration he tries to ignore. No use dwelling on what you can't fix. Focus on what you can.]

It can difficult to adjust, if that's not your standard mode of operation.

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02 | 🕑 | spam

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PRONOUNS ARE SO HARD

THEY ARE I NEED TO KEEP DELETING

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ZAT WAS ZEE WRONG JOURNAL

I SAW NOTHING

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