Welcome to Gaia! ::

Around two in the afternoon, Stormy prepped to actually and physically leave the dorm building. She remembered to shower (ran her fingers over her scalp like they were a fine tooth comb, checking the lengths, snipping what was uneven, rubbing it carefully for invisible, tiny intruders, scrubbed her body down until everything had an angry tinge), she was dressed nicely (not in layers and layers that hid her but in something actually befitting the weather, though even her tank top was still mostly covered by a thin coat she couldn't let go of), and she had even stuck on perfume for good measure (from the puddle the broken cases had left in her drawer, just a little dab here and there before she actually cleaned it up; it was perhaps too strong now thanks to the mix--sweet and flowery with vanilla thanks to Gale--but she wasn't picky). She was still underweight and chronically needing better sleep, but it would do.

There was nothing that had prompted her that day to go find Lance. She'd woken up from another dreamless sleep and simply decided that it needed to be added to the itinerary now that other things had been cleared up.

In one hand she carried a bag of gumballs, one of many little things she had decided to grab on her last trip out. Tucked under her other arm was a letter. Stormy didn't know if it was a good time to bother Lance, or if he'd be ready to see her--God knew this was still hard for her to be doing in spite of her relatively calm exterior, like each step was tugging at her skin just a little harder. But if she didn't try now, maybe she wouldn't try again for another two months. Maybe she'd never try at all.

She reached his office door and knocked, the bag softly thunking against it. "Mr. Lance? Are you in?"

She froze at the sound of Lance's voice; a little part of her had hoped he wasn't in, despite her resolution to seek him out. Maybe it wasn't too late. Maybe she could pretend someone texted an emergency and needed her, maybe she could sneak off and see if Lance would believe he had hallucinated, maybe--

The door opened and she was still standing there. Unconsciously Stormy stepped aside to let the other hunters through, her eyes fixed on the area just in front of her leader as though it was the only place that mattered right now. Her feet moved of their own volition, and before she knew it she was by the recently vacated chairs.

Nervousness engulfed her. She sat the bag of gumballs on one seat as carefully as if it were made of glass, trying not to make a sound. And then she sat herself down in the other, her arms tight, the letter with Lance's name now in her lap.

The comment about her hair had her shifting self-consciously. "You look good," Stormy said with obvious hesitation, glancing at the leather chair. "So you, um...You're settling in as a leader okay?"

Rough spot couldn't quite encompass it. Stormy wanted to shrink into the chair the longer she soaked in the fact that she was actually there, physically present with the letter and with weeks of delays. She still remembered how she had lost Aria's trust here, how Lance had given her an almost predatory look upon explaining what had happened underground. It was supposed to be a place she felt safe, but now all she felt like doing was crawling out of her skin and crying because being there made her remember everything she had tried to forget.

Her lips parted and closed several times, struggling to find the words to even begin this conversation. "I figured the candy jar needed a resupply," Stormy mumbled with a glance at her bag. Gum was always a good peace offering, wasn't it? "I, um . . . So you've been okay since . . . ?"

Months later, and she still couldn't properly say it.

Somehow it was worse that Lance was being gentle. Like the support pillar was more rough clay than concrete. Her fingers rubbed against the envelope idly, her jaw clenching and unclenching at irregular intervals.

Close, but not close enough, she thought bitterly. Not enough to be told Nevada was leaving for the Haunted House. Not enough to accompany her "soulmate".

Breathe, you've been over this. Just breathe.

(But how could she when Nevada's hands were still at her throat in her nightmares?)

"I never came by either," Stormy dully said to the bag of gumballs, her shoulders tensed. I was afraid of you. "And I've . . . taken enough time with this." Stilling the tremble in her hand, she gently set the letter on his desk and then, as if afraid of being struck, her hand retreated back to her lap. Stormy's gaze had moved to watching the spot the letter occupied rather than the bag, her hands clasped tight.

Feeling like she was intruding, Stormy's immediate response was to get up and bow out--but her legs didn't work. Her whole body was stiff and contained and still, and it was almost uncanny how much the physical cage was working against her need to run.

"Do you need anything else, Mr. Lance?" she asked in a small voice, her eyes still fixed on the spot where the letter had been.

She was freed--and yet she continued to sit there. Swallowing back emotion. Breathing. Daring to lift her eyes, to watch Lance rise (rise?) from his seat, almost a pure silhouette (black?) against the window. If it was possible to grow lightheaded from nerves alone, then that was what she was experiencing: potential energy just sitting under the surface, building and building.

It felt too easy to leave then. It felt wrong to just drop the letter in Lance's lap and then go; Stormy owed him more than that.

"You can walk, sir?" she ventured hesitantly. It wasn't the first time she had seen him stand, but now that her narrow focus was gone, Stormy noticed the wheelchair was missing.

She made a few sputtering noises, face coloring briefly at the show. What had happened between then and now? She had a hunch trying to ask about it directly would just get her a non-answer, but the questions still burned.

"N-No I don't, sir," Stormy stammered, finding herself capable of getting to her feet thanks to his example. "I've bugged the Mist trainees enough, so . . . so it's your turn." She was finding her impetus again the further they got away from that topic, making it easier for her to fall back to her old self--albeit one that had a little more nerve.

(Lance had been the one to tell her to stand up for herself, after all.)

"I need to talk to you about getting a promotion." A real one.

She grasped the edge of his desk, half for support and half just to keep them busy. Look professional. Act professional. Be professional. She stood up straighter and delegated her still stiff shoulders to at least look squared.

"Something that'd prove I can handle being your division assistant. Sir."

Stormy banished her emotional turbulence to the back of her mind, because more than proving herself a capable hunter period, she needed to prove she wasn't Nevada. She was strong enough. (She just had to keep telling herself that.) It was a bold claim, but being timid got her nothing--and she was tired of being stuck.

"I've done all the training courses and led groups a few times, and I've picked up a bit where Miss Candace was working with the trainees." Orienting them, testing them, trying to learn more about them. "I've also successfully gotten my own artifact before," Stormy went on to say, trying to mask the desperate need to prove herself despite listing everything she could think of, wondering just how much Gale had rubbed off on her. "I feel I'm ready, sir. Put me on a solo mission to prove it."