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)
driftfleet2017-06-09 10:20 am
thespaceopera) wrote in driftfleet2017-06-09 10:20 am
Entry tags:
- !atroma,
- !mingle,
- anthony j. crowley,
- aurae "tempest" le paulmier,
- chuuya nakahara,
- daryl dixon,
- edna,
- fenris,
- ginko,
- ignis scientia,
- jack sparrow,
- katherine "kitty" pryde,
- keith,
- lance,
- lumiére,
- max rockatansky,
- mikleo,
- mon-el,
- nami,
- noctis lucis caelum,
- nono,
- okita souji,
- otono-tachibana makie,
- pavel chekov,
- prompto argentum,
- riona cousland theirin,
- sam winchester,
- sayid jarrah,
- shinji ikari,
- signy mallory,
- sokka,
- steve rogers (ou),
- takashi shirogane,
- takeshi,
- uraraka ochako,
- vash the stampede,
- velvet crowe,
- yuan ka-fai,
- yuri katsuki,
- zelda
i know you, that look in your eyes is so familiar a gleam
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no subject
[Although the memory might have another voice chiming in to say it's his.
Regardless, the tooth is put away. Instead Peggy looks over the walls of the parlor. There are screens displaying random figures that seem more suited to the bridge, but everything else would appear to belong in this room with it's eclectic collection. There's a wanted poster nearby, or a telescope set-up just beside. On display are also a set of guns, each from a different time: a musket, a modern pistol, two revolvers (though one again seems to glow blue), and a laser not unlike those found on the Starstruck.
Of course, if what's on the walls doesn't interest her, she's free to keep looking. It's not as if Rip's really there to stop her, is he?]
{{content warnings: all of them involve potential murder}}
no subject
peggy passes a few steps further down the wall. her fingers (wiggling a moment above the modern pistol) pause before she trips something further. ]
I don't suppose you're capable of being helpful enough to tell me what, exactly, will get me out of here?
[ it's worth a shot. ]
no subject
[There's a flicker nearby, seemingly without cause, the light taking solid shape. Or, well--somewhat solid. The image of Rip is little more than a hologram, possessing no substance of his own even though the likeness is perfect--right down to the unhappy expression.]
Although if this is some brand of cognitive intrusion, I expect a good shock to your system might do the trick.
no subject
she can practically see through the man. and so, letting her nature get the better of her, she passes a flat hand through his image. chest-height, or thereabouts. ]
Well. [ a beat. ] If you're looking to shock me...
[ consider herself shocked. ]
no subject
Rip is far from impressed.]
Not quite what I meant, I'm afraid.
[And she's still standing there, hand jutted through his chest (as it were).]
--I seem to be filling in for my ship's AI in...whatever this is.
no subject
[ peggy answers as she (oh-so-kindly) withdraws her hand from his intangible body. curious, she gives her fingers a shake. if she bothers to answer with any sort of intel, then it's because rip's little ai system is proving to be the nearest thing to lucid that she's seen so far in this round of calibrations. it makes it easier to think of him as the real thing.
steeling herself, she heads back to the brace of weapons. this time, there's no hesitation before she picks up the modern pistol. ]
the pistol; cw: violence
It's cold out tonight; cold enough to see your breath, but what else should you expect on Christmas Eve? You can hear the screams in the distance. Where once came the sounds of music and cheer, now there is panic, and you know it won't be long now.
The anticipation builds within you, sharp and electric. You can barely contain a grin as you hear familiar voices coming down the path. A few short steps plants you squarely in their way, and the woman calls out. She's hopeful.
Ah, but Mick knows better. He's always had a talent for picking up on such intentions.
Hello, Sara you say, as soldiers dressed in bright red surround the trio. She understands now too that something is quite wrong, but it's far too late. Not when you have your pistol ready, a weapon that doesn't belong at all in this time, but that simply makes this moment all the sweeter.
Goodbye, Sara you say, as you fire a bullet into her gut.
You half-expect Mick to lunge at you regardless of the automatic weapons now pointed at him, but he doesn't. Perhaps he's just as surprised as you are at the satisfaction you feel, the utter joy at watching a former comrade fall and knowing in your heart, you hold absolutely no attachment for her, or for him, or for the ridiculous duty they seek to uphold.
You've never known such freedom before. And nothing has ever been more right.
You order your men to take away the survivors--though that's a temporary thing to be sure. Mick and George Washington will be delivered into the hands of the British, while Sara falls in the snow.
Presumably. You aren't watching to see it; you've still got a great deal more to accomplish this night, and you turn your back on the woman in order to stalk away into the darkness.]
no subject
right?
peggy's rubs her fingertips against each other -- as though she could scrub the gun's touch off her skin. her stomach churns over the lingering sensation of satisfaction. worse yet? the cold, startled clench when she's forced to ask herself who the devil have i invited onto my ship?
she'd proceeded with a measure of decorum and kindness. but now, desperate to get the hell out of dodge, peggy proves herself more interested in escaping the waverider (and rip's mind) in order to return to the marsiva and wake up like she did the morning before and the morning before that.
peggy strides straight through the hologram on her way to the waverider's bridge. ]
no subject
She cannot walk away from a scene such as the one she's just witnessed--just lived--without concerns. Indeed, Peggy doesn't so much as look at him as she stalks ahead, through his form and onto the bridge of the Waverider.]
Miss Carter-- [He sighs quietly. He could follow after, but instead he waits, lingering in the doorway of the parlor instead. If she turns to face him, she'll notice two doors on either side of the glass that separates his office from the bridge. Each is shut, however, and won't open on approach.
Or she can try the consoles, for what they're worth. They seem to show images of the Waverider's various compartments: an empty set of quarters, a glass cell with no one inside. Even the very bridge she stands in now though with a far different design; no central panel for controls, but rather a single chair, meant for one person to operate alone.]
no subject
nevertheless, she tries. peggy does what she can to toggle something. anything. although her attentions stray first to the screen showing some other bridge. it's the differences between this one and that one which intrigue her. she sees it, perhaps, as progress to be made. ]
the old bridge; cw: severe depression/grief, talk of family death
So be it.
The room shifts as it must, and yet it doesn't, for you've always known the bridge to look this way. Chairs are there only because they might be needed, but aren't expected to regularly be. The one that matters, central to everything, is the one you walk towards, but out of habit rather than purpose. Because it's all utterly pointless, isn't it? The footfalls you only hear as echos, that feel far too distant to belong to you, carrying you to the chair that would allow you to jump back one more time, just once more, an hour or a day or however long it takes--
But you've done that already, over and over. You've spent days doing nothing but, and it's chipped away at your resolve until there's nothing but the heaviness of your bones, and the numb certainty that it isn't merely one madman who wants to take everything you love most in this world from you.
It's time itself.
Gideon. Your voice sounds rough; hollow in your ears. You run your tongue over dry lips, but really, what else can you say? Savage hadn't been there this time. Yet he hadn't needed to be, for you to remember the sound of his mocking laughter as you watched your wife, your son cut down before you.
Again.
And again.
And again. Each time you've tried to save them. Each time, you have failed.
You drop to the floor beside the captain's chair; practically collapse there, staring out and seeing nothing at all. The act of breathing hurts more than you ever thought it could, cruel and heartless and continuing ever on, because somehow you get to live while Miranda doesn't.
While Jonas doesn't.
Someone's screaming. A moment later, you realize it's you.
It can't be anyone else, after all. Everyone else is dead.]
no subject
there is no balm to be found. no freedom of choice or service to one's country threaded through the sorrow. it moves her near to tears; when the memory passes, she's left with her knuckles whitening where she still grips the console.
a better person might have managed to view those feelings as mitigating circumstances -- or as a trail of breadcrumbs deserving to be followed. maybe a better person could feel that much disaster in another someone's heart and they might stop to consider whether all the evidence that came before might be unreliable.
but peggy can't afford to be better. even now, even after the puzzling introductions of the names miranda and jonas, her focus remains on her crew. not only her crew; the rest of the marsiva, now. perhaps she's once-burned with the revelation that her neighbour, dottie underwood, had been a soviet assassin all along; peggy's not about to let that particular wool be pulled over her eyes once more.
shaken, but no less resolute, she turns back to the bridge with its full complement of chairs. only now does she notice the doors -- were they there before? peggy eyes one -- the one nearer to her. ]
When I get out of here, [ she announces in a voice that's belyingly calm, ] you and I are going to have a chat.
no subject
[Certainly not as he is: a hollow illusion of the man he should be. Yet even outside of this mindscape, Rip has every confidence Peggy would keep her word. Perhaps the best he can hope for now is that she might opt to ask her questions first, before potentially punching him after.
She seems to be in something of a mood, to say the least.
Her eyes fall to the doors, and Rip follows her gaze. He mulls it over a moment--checking, perhaps, some brand of system.]
They should open for you now. [Though he himself is unsure of how he knows as much; just that it seems to be the state of things, in the manner he knows the temperature of the room or the speed the ship travels.] Although you should be aware, I'll likely not be very forthcoming if you try and ask about what you've seen.
[The last memory in particular, though the others are likely of equal concern.]
no subject
Oh -- I trust I'll be able to get a few words out of you.
[ the threat is thinly veiled. not of violence, perhaps, but of exposure. her shoes strike hard on the ship's floor as she strides toward the doors. whatever temptation she might have had to stay and learn more about who rip truly is has all but shriveled up with the lingering grief over his own family.
and similar to the whirlwind of her arrival, peggy leaves by those doors -- tamping down on any gratitude that that the hologram might have told the truth.
once free -- and once awake -- this happens. and that should have been it. book shut; alliance ended. peggy might hope to go the rest of her merry time in the fleet never willfully interacting with rip hunter ever again. lord knows, she's stonewalled others for less.
but it's not long later that another night sees her returning to scene of the previous crime(s). she 'wakes up' aboard the waverider once more and -- turning on a heel -- mutters: ]
Aw, hell.
[ of all the minds she might be tossed into tonight, it's his. again. as if in some vain attempt to rouse the hologram from last time, she flips a two-fingered salute toward the parlor, crooking her elbow in derision. ]
no subject
You know, it's hardly my choice that you've ended up here twice now. [He leans against the console, just as transparent as before--ironically so, given what's transpired.
He knows of it. It hadn't happened on this ship, but it's a memory all the same. Maybe someone else would stumble upon a representation of it in their wanderings.]
Miss Carter.
no subject
certainly, there's that investigative tilt which urges her to learn more; see more; remember more. but even peggy understands that there are lines that one shouldn't cross for fear that crossing them will somehow cheapen one's convictions. to that end, she waves dismissively at the hologram before heading immediately into the parlor. ]
Save your breath to cool your porridge. [ she counters -- happy (at least) with the irony of telling a hologram to do anything with his bloody breath. ] I don't intend to be here long.
[ which is precisely when she grabs for the same item she'd first grabbed before: the tooth. she curls it under her fingers and holds it hard against her palm, indifferent to the body-horror implicit in its existence. and when she does, she steels herself for the torture scene that's likely to unfurl.
only it never does. peggy tilts her head and holds the tooth up to the light.
bugger. ]
no subject
[Is it how Gideon feels, he wonders? When some member of the team makes a smart remark about her. Perhaps he might never know.
Nor is it truly what's important at the moment. Peggy stalks into the parlor and goes straight for the tooth--again--but isn't taken anywhere this time. No memory sparks, no scene changes; it's as if the thing has lost it's spark.
So to speak.]
Funny how you think your intentions seem to matter. Shouldn't this whole endeavor be considered an exercise in things running contrary to one's will?
[Hers and his alike. Though part of him can appreciate the thought, at least, to limit what's replayed--even if Rip suspects Peggy does it more for her own sake than his.
There are other things nearby that might work better, however. Fragmented pieces of wood, an odd bit of tech made of joined cylindrical compartments or a decanter of well-aged alcohol are all easily within her reach, if she's in that much of a hurry.]
no subject
except, perhaps, to escape. and to that end she endeavors to ignore the hologram. it hadn't been much help, last time; why should now be any different?
but there is nevertheless a kind of reverence at play when she sets the tooth back in its place. as though maybe she's not prepared to be entirely flip about the process of being embedded in someone else's mind. and if the old options won't work, she'll have to choose something else. it doesn't matter how carefully she chooses; she knows she'll see more than she wants to, in the end.
peggy snags at the tech and its cylinders with the edge of a nail before taking it properly in hand. ]
no subject
The man ahead, however, you know quite well. Time Master Druce, of the Time Council. A teacher, a friend--
A traitor. There is nothing in you that doesn't simmer in quiet anger, fueled by the sting of newly learned betrayals. And he admits it again, casually confirms that yes, they have been helping Vandal Savage rise to the power he now holds, to afford him strength to rule the world--
But so have you, he claims. Of course you scoff, but Druce is quick to continue on. It's not by your will, but rather, through their manipulation, by means of this thing called the Oculus. The Holy of holy of the Time Masters.
You resist acceptance, even as Druce lists out how your actions have indeed played so nicely into their plans. Every move and every choice made out, and yes, it all fits so neatly together in one grand picture of history.
Yet it still cannot be. You refuse to accept it still, so he invites you to test the device.
You do so. Not without hesitation, but--you can't go on without confirming this truth.
(Even as you hope it's a lie.)
Countless images stream into your mind. The past as described, memories plucked not from your mind but out of time itself, exactly as stated, as designed. Yet there's more: the future as well, culminating up to one terrible moment when you see a familiar face surrounded by fire, killed, the death of a friend as it must be.
For as Druce says, there is neither free will nor choice beyond this very place at the edge of time.
Yet you still wish to resist. You try, desperately to summon up the strength to do so, even as the facts snap into place within your mind. You don't want to believe all that he's said, that you are nothing more than a puppet. You find that fire in anger, shout at the top of your lungs.
NO ONE CONTROLS ME!
But they do. Oh, they do, and they know you so well. Anger may fuel a man, but grief can break him--and Druce so calmly lays down that final piece that you cannot fight against.
The Time Masters. The people who have raised you, taught you, gave you a purpose and a dream--
They are ones who pointed Savage in the direction of your family first. They set this course along with every other. They are the ones who ensured your wife and son would die, so you in turn would act as they pleased.
So you would fulfill the destiny they laid out for you.]
no subject
and yes, she knows the feeling. and yes she can feel the call to arms in her blood when rip spits and screams his defiance. but nor can she forget that opposite feeling of glee and relief upon shooting the blonde during her last sojourn here. perhaps she remembers it all the better for being once again reacquainted with the architecture of his psyche.
afterward, she toys her finger along the artifact. peggy has long since decided to ignore the hologram; just as well that she doesn't prompt it to say anything.
(it, it, it. she refuses to acknowledge what personality and heart it might have, beating beneath the dream -- sleeping and fending off intruders like her.)
peggy leaves the shelf be. last time, she'd walked by a wanted poster; that's where she returns, now, under the possibility that it might vindicate her anger toward him. three things, last time. she'd endured three things and then the ship had let her free; perhaps that's all that's needed. ]
no subject
[Does she pause or hesitate, or go so far as to look away? It doesn't matter. The poster she'd caught a glimpse of during her earlier trip, that might have even been there when she arrived anew, is no longer on the wall where it once hung. Perhaps he's found a better way to protect himself this time, after her first encounter with her, with who knows how many others.
Or perhaps there is a duty he has to fulfill, that this image of Rip Hunter only now begins to understand. His role in this vision is of the AI; the purpose of the AI is to protect the captain.
To always be there.]
Not to the questions you really need to answer.
no subject
peggy turns. will she be made to work in tandem with the hologram, then? her face betrays contempt -- once, she'd been beseeching. ]
There's an old interrogation trick. Leave a pen on the table -- and see what the culprit will do with it.
[ every single item in the waverider (including the literal pen) is a tell. not only for rip hunter's memories, but for peggy's priorities in sorting through them. ]
I pick something and that reveals something else. And not only about him. [ she doesn't acknowledge the hologram as any proper part of rip hunter -- not because she believes he isn't, but because she refuses to grant the ai that consideration. ]
I want to know more about why he shot that woman.
[ forthright, then. prim. perfunctory. ]
no subject
Either way.]
More than what I might have learned in your mind? [He knows this too, that in another spaced shaped in a completely different way, Rip Hunter interacted not with a hologram but some other form. Of course there's another detail that he could point out: that upon waking, Rip hasn't remembered much of anything about his visitors, save for the fact that they were there--
But that's too much, he thinks, for this situation.
Besides, she's made her point known in the end. He pushes himself up off the console, then motions towards the platform. There are too many objects in the room, too many things she might grab and possibly trigger. The technology allows him to be a touch more specific, although the reason she's after remains complicated.
Thus, three rooms: an empty set of crew quarters, an empty glass cell, and the very parlor she'll leave to come make her choice.]
no subject
dare she make the same mistake now? heaven help her; it's no wonder she's scowling.
peggy lingers on the step between the parlor and the platform. then, shoring up her resolve, she walks towards the console as though it's her choice and not (as it's beginning to feel) a hoop that needs jumping. she could wait this one out as she did in steve's mind, but the company is far less pleasant.
(and maybe, just maybe, she's a little bit curious.)
leaning forward with her hand perched against the array of screens, peggy plays her selection off as arbitrary. in the end, it's anything but. she drags a finger across the image of the empty glass cell. ]
the empty cell
And not only for her.
The touch is all it takes for the room to darken; the cell once seen from the outside is where you now reside, fearful and alone with little more than eerie green lighting to let you see anything. Yet you hardly need that much to know you've got reason to be afraid; they've thrown her in here with you, for some reason you cannot know, that you need not know to expect the worst.
After all, as you tell her--she is responsible for throwing you in there. For making you a prisoner of this place, where you've known nothing but anguish and fear.
Yet she tries to weave a different story, to claim she won't hurt you. You try to get away, pressing your back harder into the corner, scrambling to make some greater space when there is none. But she says it's a lie--that it's in your mind--
(flashes before your eyes: images you've never seen, yet somehow know.)
I don't understand you say, no longer looking at her. It's a mistake; she stands, steps closer and that fear spikes within you. She's gotten you to look away, to drop your guard, and this, this is her opening.
You lash out. Not knowing why you shove with all your might, and something forces her back as you scream. Her body flies across the cell, striking the far wall, and it's all impossible but it's happened, just like that, somehow.
She groans when she gets up, spells out what's just been done, what you can't believe. Yet for her it's a foothold, the first stone set in a foundation as she claims once more that this prison is your mind, that you control everything.
You don't believe her, and yet you aren't as afraid. You ask why she cares so much, when everything you know says she shouldn't.
She weaves a fine story indeed for you, and along the way, there are more
(memories)
flashes, images of people, events playing before your eyes, so much brighter than the prison where you're housed. The JSA, Commander Steel. Captain Rip Hunter.
Not a prisoner, but the Master of this realm.
Perhaps it can't quite be called faith, but when she puts her hand forth again, you take it. You let her strength pull you to your feet, and answer her call.
I'm Rip Hunter.
Captain of the Waverider.
Captain of the Waverider--and I'm going to open a door with my mind.
You try to believe, but the doubt threads its way into your voice--and that's enough, perhaps, to blunt the effort. Though you push against the glass it doesn't give, doesn't break or even bend. Instead you recoil, the pain ripping through your head from the failed effort.
But she is not alone, it would seem, and neither are you. A young man, another would-be captor, but alongside her--
A face you know. One you trust without reservation. Gideon.
The introductions are necessary and brief. The man opens the door, and you, without hesitation, move to embrace the one person who has offered you safety and comfort throughout all of this. But escaping the cell doesn't mean escaping the ship, and in short order your little group heads through the halls to try and find a way out.
And equally, the answers they need. You want to help them now--they allowed you to escape, after all. But you cannot give them the information about the Spear, or where Commander Heywood is hidden in time. Gideon is the one to point out that your mind remains captive; this ship still exists. But perhaps the memories of your old life can be triggered still, if only you can make it to the parlor.
A task not so easily accomplished; just as you all begin to run, you're forced to stop when confronted by mirror images of the woman and the man--of Sara and Jax.
Rip knows who he is. He's our prisoner. Isn't that right, Rip?
You look down; you don't want it to be true, and yet so much within you thinks that it is.
Jax tells Gideon to take you ahead, but you don't go yet. You want to know what they're planning, what they mean to do if left on their own--and for Sara the answer comes so easily, somehow. The determination to fight, the confidence to believe they'll win.
You can't think the same. Not as you watch them both struggle, before Gideon pulls you away.]
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