[She became a doctor, or so she keeps hearing in this odd recurring dream. Dance may or may not be a part of her future and she honestly doesn't know how to take it- habit, however, is far easier and far more comforting no matter the frustration it might cause. Adele, now seventeen to her memory, a little more lean, a little less rounded of face and eye drills the same fifteen motions in the dance sim she'd learned from Loki. Plane hardwood floor, mirrors and waist high barre on one side, a recording she'd worked out earlier this morning going in the corner.
The motions are clean. Crisp. The lines and gestures straight and sure end every step made with calculated grace. And yet when she's finished she sags back on her heels, swears under her breath and stalks back over to the record player to lift the needle and replay that segment of song. Back to the center of the room, the music picks up and once more through the motions. Again she sinks back on her heels when she's finished, frustrated. Again she stalks for the record player to go through it when she realizes she's not alone in the room and looks up.
[action]
The motions are clean. Crisp. The lines and gestures straight and sure end every step made with calculated grace. And yet when she's finished she sags back on her heels, swears under her breath and stalks back over to the record player to lift the needle and replay that segment of song. Back to the center of the room, the music picks up and once more through the motions. Again she sinks back on her heels when she's finished, frustrated. Again she stalks for the record player to go through it when she realizes she's not alone in the room and looks up.
At.
Luke Skywalker.]