Voices from Heaven (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thespaceopera) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
driftfleet2015-10-20 11:18 am
thespaceopera) wrote in driftfleet2015-10-20 11:18 am
Entry tags:
- !event,
- ahsoka tano,
- coil lenn,
- margaret "peggy" carter,
- nami,
- natasha romanoff,
- nelkeila tarid,
- nyssa al ghul,
- octavia blake,
- one,
- phèdre nó delaunay de montrève,
- r. daneel olivaw,
- rapunzel,
- remy lebeau,
- riku,
- robin redbreast,
- rogue,
- santanico pandemonium,
- shawn hunter,
- sokka,
- stefan salvatore,
- steve rogers (ou),
- steven quartz universe,
- stiles stilinski,
- syeira,
- tadashi hamada,
- tekhetsio,
- the vision,
- vash the stampede,
- vima sunrider,
- wanda maximoff,
- wrath,
- yamanaka ino
...And also these.
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no subject
It feels like his home. Doesn't look like it, not at all, except for the overall color scheme; it's larger and grander and better-furnished, indicative of someone who's middle class, who can afford things for the people who live with them or for themselves, in the event that they live alone. The furniture is too modern, the technology is wrong.
But he smells bread baking like his sister used to make, and he feels the warmth of the room weighing down on him, and he's overwhelmed, suddenly, with memories that have nothing to do with the mind he's intruding on and everything to do with the life he left behind. It's all he can do to sink into the armchair and wrap a blanket around his shoulders and just be, for a little while, just exist in this space until it stops buzzing at his nerves and settles in him, a reminder of good things instead of guilt.
He has no idea how much time passes between settling and standing again, but eventually he does stand. There isn't any real choice about where to go; he's been staring blankly at the mirror over the mantle for what seems like a very long while, and while he's not quite stupid enough to touch the jagged edges of it, he does run his finger across the flat surface of a broken piece with curious trepidation.
\o/!!!
The part he touches is linked to her fears. The room around them fades, becomes translucent, lit by horrible, institutional fluorescent lights.
[You are in a containment cell. Next to you are two of the people closest to you in the world, and the person closest is strapped to a metal table in your full view. You can not get to him. There are men with guns watching you, scientists waiting in the wings. You wonder if you will be forced to watch them cut him open. You wonder when they will come for you.
You are terrified, and you are ashamed that you are so afraid. You always knew that it could end like this. You should be able to face it. But you heard what your captors said, how they speculated… and you are terrified. You tell yourself that maybe they will make a fatal mistake -- that they don’t know your powers, and maybe they will get close enough to you with bare skin and then, then you’ll have your moment. You'll do whatever you have to in order to get free, get everyone out.
You tell yourself that the others will come to get you, that they'll find - not just you, but all of you - and everyone will get out in time. You tell yourself that Logan will be able to overwhelm those guards, get to the lock and let you out, and that you’ll all escape together. You lie and you lie and you lie to yourself in hopes that you will be able to make it true.]
Unbeknownst to Caesar, when the memory ends, a missing piece to the jigsaw puzzle will appear on the table.
tiny clip of Area 51
c:!!!!
But her fear is his fear, and so it digs into him and he can't escape it. In some ways that's good, because instead of fighting it he's forced to just experience it, let it wash over and over him. While the memory lasts, it feels like he's drowning in it, and once it ends he has to take a long few shuddering breaths until he's steady again.
He doesn't notice the puzzle piece. Doesn't even turn to look elsewhere. He just goes for the next shard of mirror, as though he's hypnotized.
no subject
You've made your choice. You've been killing and hiding and guarding the wounded in the one place that is sort of 'safe' for hours and hours after days upon days of this bloody, ruthless work. But things are not getting better, in fact, things are getting worse. No matter how many Cultists you kill, there are always more of them, and their rage and hatred is untiring. It's hard to see; the foliage is thick, the humidity makes movement even more difficult, and you have to move. It doesn't matter how dehydrated or exhausted or in pain you are. You have to move.
There comes a time when everything is stripped away and who you are shines through.
Out of ammo, drenched, bleeding from somewhere and facedown in the mud, now is that time for you. You don't know where your brother is, if he is dead or alive. You're not sure how long you've been defending the camp, or when - if - this will ever stop. The Third Party continues to rain down terror from above - and all you know is that if you're going out, you're not going to do so quietly. It's time to use what God, the devil, or evolution gave you, and you don't give a damn who sees.
Moving slowly so as not to attract attention, you slip off both your gloves. There's a Third Party member dying not five feet away. You crawl over, place her hand on his forehead, and help him on his way. Instinctively, you brace for a hostile pysche - but there's nothing. Only emptiness and strength. Power. The ability to fly. And this one controlled wind.
You hold on until the enemy stops breathing and then you grabs his abandoned battle axe, sight your next target in the sky, and begin to ascend. All you need to do is get close enough to touch one. See how they like fighting ten or twenty of themselves packed into one person.
You are not going out quietly.
You fight. You don't know for how long, but you're bursting with stolen strength and power but despite all that, there are too many of them and they are all strong and at some point you are driven out of the sky -- and this time, something snaps. You feel pain like you have never known before, and oh, you have known pain. Your wing. The fall broke your wing. You feel a moment's empathy for all the enemy you have killed by breaking off both of theirs, but only for a moment. The Cultist who did this to you is still in the sky, and you have to move, you have to take cover, but the seething and unnatural pain temporarily pins you to the ground. You hear the sound of running feet -- a friend? An enemy?
You lever yourself onto your elbows and look around, pull together enough concentration to command the mud around you to move and form a better cover with stolen power -- but the running feet do not belong to an enemy. They belong to a comrade, a fellow Lucetian, someone you even know -- Mia.
She barely knows you, and still she saves you -- does something to make the both of you invisible.
With her help, you manage to stand, despite the pain. She helps you to walk back to the camp you've been protecting, and later (when the pain is less), you'll be so glad that she came. If that Cultist hadn't finished you off, you aren't sure you'd have been able to stand up on your own, and you'd have drowned in the mud.
That would have just been embarrassing.]
reference thread, if helpful