snowblindrpg | [log] Imaginary Time [open]

[log] Imaginary Time [open]

Characters: anyone
Location: in dreams
Date: nighttime during the event
Summary: A place to post your character's dreams.
Warnings: general horror warnings; please include more specific warnings in subject lines as necessary!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"John, you need to let go of these delusions. How many years has it been?" Ella sits on the other side of the bars of a cell, her small metal chair looking uncomfortable. John's on his feet staring back.

"It's not a delusion. I swear to god, Ella, he murdered Sherlock. He murdered him."

The woman before him sighs. "That's not what the jury found, John."

"The jury was wrong. You weren't there. No one was there. You didn't-- I saw him running off after he did it."

"The same way you saw an unarmed man on the ground as enough of a threat to beat him into a coma?" The question is pointed, and John grips the bars more tightly.

"I lost my temper, but that's not what happened here. It's--"

"You lost your temper with Jeffrey Hope, too?" she asks.

"He was gonna kill Sherlock."

There's another sigh. "John... I know it's hard for you to accept that he's gone. That you... killed your best friend. But Culverton Smith didn't do that. Do you remember anything about the night at the hospital?"

Mrs. Hudson's car burns up the roadway from Baker Street. He has his gun. He's getting out and... nothing. Nothing until he breaks down the door to Sherlock's room and there's only a corpse, the body covered up and all of the equipment unhooked. Guards try to stop him as he looks around.

Then nothing again. There's an empty space, stolen by medications he doesn't need and therapy that doesn't help.

He's in Culverton's office next. John screams at the man, puts three bullets in his chest before the lying snake has a chance to speak.

"Everything," he says.

Ella's expression turns to one of disapproval. She rises. "John, I told you. I'm going to leave when you lie to me."

"Wait! Ella, please! Wait." He reaches a hand through the bars to make a 'stop' gesture. "Please, you need to get them to take me off the medication. I can't think. I feel sick and slow."

Her cold look turns to something more sympathetic. "You need it, John. You are sick. And the guards told me you tried to break out again."

John bites his lip. "Greg came by. He told me about a case. Eight dead girls. Little girls... Rosie's age... Ella, I'm not Sherlock, but there has to be something I can do. There has to be."

"What you can do is get better, John. Then you'll be safe. I'll see you next week."

Anger begins to creep in, displacing the despair. John's voice becomes sharper. "And how many more little girls will there be by then? How many people after that? The unsolved cases are stacking up, Ella. I can hear the orderlies and the nurses talking. Crime wave of the century, they're calling it. Who do they have?"

Ella's lips draw to a thin line. "You shouldn't be eavesdropping, and I don't know, John, but who I think they really need is dead. And he's not coming back this time. Not from the grave, and not from... 'Norfinbury,' either." She turns to walk away and something feral inside of John snaps. Everything easily thrown has long-since been removed from his cell and his chair, desk, and bed are bolted to the floor. That doesn't stop John attacking the nearby wall viciously. Slamming his fists against it until there's blood and broken bones and guards are calling for him to get down so the orderlies can come and take a look at him.

This place is driving him mad. He screams about anomalies and nanomachines and timelines and how this shouldn't be happening. He was in Norfinbury. John was there, and Mary was there, and Sherlock was there, and he was supposed to live. Mary wasn't but he was going to fix it when he came back. He'd been so certain of that reality. And now this place. This place, not outside is driving him mad. He needs to be outside. Sherlock's not there and someone needs to help.

Sherlock's still in Norfinbury. He's not dead. He's not!

And no one will believe him.

The gift of immortality had always been agelessness. It had never meant indestructibility. But angels could prevent a man from dying if he had any will to live, given the right to.

Lucifel had abandoned him, been called back when the mission had been declared a failure and the world had flooded. His friend's palpable disappointment had been like a mace to the gut. Had the situation been different, this would be a dream about dying, of letting himself drown. But Enoch's will to live was firmly anchored elsewhere, impossibly far in the future, in a snowy wasteland that had somehow not killed them centuries ago. He had found someone else worth fighting forever for.

He would not die. There was nothing to breathe but water.

Each desperate gulp and writhing choke and surge of raw primal panic bled into the next. Had it been truly real, it all would have drowned out the reason that battered the rest of his mind with guilt. But dreams are capable of impossible things. He'd been complacent. He'd forgotten the one that got away. Everyone was dead, because he hadn't been there to help capture that one last Fallen Angel.

"This is not your appointed time to die," Michael's voice intoned in his head as he thrashed helplessly in the endless ocean, the light above dimming and fading away as he sank deeper, teetering mercilessly on the edge of consciousness.

What did they still need him for? Why couldn't he escape? He had failed Earth, but people in Norfinbury still needed him. And he needed them. Him.

His eyes burned with tears lost instantly to the abyss, and he screamed soundlessly into the smothering depths.

There's nothing.

Missouri is a wasteland, ashes blow by on a warm summer's breeze, carrying with it only the memory of flowers and trees.

Things earth would never see again.

And he was there, a purple glow in his eyes and hands, from the stone that he held.

"You see, Peter, this is what happens when you care about mortals." Ego shrugged, as if the blasted wasteland around them was of no consequence. As if it was Peter's fault.

There's a crumpled ship in the distance. His ship. Nose smashed, wings snapped off, a smouldering wreck. Bodies scattered around. What was left of Rocket, Drax, Groot, Mantis--their bones gleamed in the sunlight, flesh half-melted off.

And Gamora?

She lay at Peter's feet. Perfectly intact, as if she was sleeping.

Blood trickled out of her nose and mouth.

Ego had killed her over the course of a longer period of time--Peter knew what it had been when she ran to him, and passed out at his feet.

A brain tumor.

Maybe he'd put it in her head when they were on his planet last. Something to kill her silently, to sever Peter's connection to love itself.

"You should have listened, Peter. It didn't have to be like this." The creature that dared call himself his father holds out a hand. "Now there's nothing left for you. Let's go home."

"Why...?" A sob. Cold tears trickled down Peter's face. "Why couldn't you just stay dead?! I killed you. We killed you!"

"A part of me survived, after all, I planted extensions of myself. A few sparks, a few tiny pieces, and I found my way back together again. Funny thing was, you were probably the only one who could stop me, if you'd been here. You would have probably sensed my return."

The sorrow, the rage, the numbness, it was shattering his heart. He...if he'd been here, but he wasn't. He was in Norfinbury, and then...and not here.

He could have saved everyone, he could have saved the galaxy...

And now Ego was back with an Infinity Stone ripped from the wreckage that was once Xandar.

He was going to wipe out everything and every one.

It was his fault.

"I'll never, ever join your side," Peter snarled, holding out his blasters. "You need me, and I'm not going to let you get anywhere near me, man. You're right. Maybe I'm the only one who can stop you, but I can stop you--"

"Why? What is the point!? You have nothing and no one left to tie you down. You realize that we will outlive these worlds, these civilizations? That no matter if you save a billion lives now? They're all going to die anyway."

The cold, icy numbness gripped Peter's heart, and wouldn't let go.

"I don't care--there'll be people left to go on, to keep living in their world--"

"All worlds die eventually! You've seen them--one cataclysm and bam! Goodbye, 3 million years of hard work. And for what? We are forever, Peter. I know you're grieving now, and that's okay. But what are you gonna feel 10,000 years from now? Will you even remember what earth was even like? Your friends would only live for a fraction in your memory. And hey, maybe you could make new ones. But they'll die. They'll all die, over and over and over again. You can't keep them, no matter how much you want to. No matter how much you loved them."

No, he just did not--Peter fired his blasters, but Ego simply waved his hand, using the power of the Infinity Stone to shield himself from the blasts. They bounced harmlessly away from the surge of purple energy, which disappeared altogether when he waved his hand back.

"You're not human, Peter, you never were. You're not even mortal. You're so far above everyone else. You remember Eternity, don't you? The beauty of it all?"

The blasters drop to the ground, and Peter's sobbing openly now.

Ego's close enough, and he puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Come home with me, Peter. And we'll make it better. No more mortals to worry about, to lose. Just us and Eternity. We'll be everything. We'll be Eternity. And we won't be alone."

Edited 2017-10-24 02:26 (UTC)

Castiel finds himself in the ruins of a house he recognizes as having once belonged to the prophet Chuck Shurley. Or it might be more accurate to call it the crater where the house once stood than the ruins. It's been razed to its very foundation, and so have a number of the houses that once surrounded it. Even now he can feel lingering traces of Raphael's holy wrath, remnants of the force that struck him down crackling off his feathers.

He's confused. Waking up in Norfinbury - another plane, perhaps another universe - had made sense, to an extent. Waking up here? It shouldn't be possible. Execution by an Archangel is by definition one of the most permanent things there is. And yet, when he looks down he sees a body he knows was reduced to its component particles here, standing in this very spot.

Birdsong distracts him from his contemplation, and he considers his surroundings. They're green, lush and verdant. Wildflowers grow all around him, having taken root in the blessed ashes of the prophet's home and grown strong and vibrant because of it. Vines creep up the collapsing ruins of the surrounding homes, and tall grasses spring up through cracks in the pavement. A family of deer graze nearby, paying him no mind. They have nothing to fear from an angel.

For the first time in months (feels like years), he opens his mind to the voices of his brothers and sisters and hears... nothing. He's not cut off from them entirely like he was in Norfinbury - it's more that no one is answering, even when he calls out to them, over and over and over again. For the first time in months (feels like decades), he opens his wings and takes to the sky, searching for anyone, anything.

The world is... beautiful. Roads and parking lots have turned into shallow rivers and wetlands. Skyscrapers have become massive trellises for plants to spiral up, up, up, seeking sunlight while the city streets are canyons filled with animals, herds of cattle and antelopes and buffalo weaving between long-abandoned and broken-down cars, bears and mountain lions sleeping peacefully in empty subway cars and stores. Humanity is absent in all but what they've left behind, and all manner of life has rushed in to fill the void.

It reminds him of something. It reminds him of Eden, before Adam and Eve.

He realizes just how intentional that was as he comes upon a towering, resplendent figure, kneeling in the center of one of these cities as if in a deep state of meditation. He bears the faces of four beasts - a goat, a viper, a wolf, and a chough - and the pillar of divine fire that fills his form burns brighter than the sun, and three pairs of wings fold neatly over his back. An Archangel. One he hasn't seen in thousands upon thousands of years. Some of Lucifer's many eyes turn to look at him as he lands on the grass of what was once a carefully manicured city park.

There you are, Castiel, he says, and his true voice shakes the earth, causing Castiel to stumble and very nearly fall to his knees. I thought it might have been you. You've always had a knack for popping up when you're least expected. Lucifer settles into a more comfortable position, nearly casual, and makes a beckoning gesture. There's no reason to wear that monkey suit anymore. Show me your face, little brother.

Castiel just glares up at him defiantly. "What have you done, Lucifer?"

The Archangel laughs, and it's a haunting and magnificent noise, like bells, like music, like the sound of the cosmos. Exactly what I always intended. I restored our Father's last masterpiece. The Earth is as it should be. Whole again, and free from any pests that would carve away chunks of it for themselves. It takes some time for the words to sink in, even though he's been seeing the evidence for it the whole time. The abandoned cities. The silence from Heaven. The sheer amount of time that must have passed between now and when he was last on Earth.

"No," he says. "No, this isn't - this wasn't our Father's plan. You can't have done this."

Lucifer's expressions change, to angry, mournful, triumphant, and distant, respectively, and when he speaks his voices are equally discordant. His plans don't matter, Castiel. He's not here to force them on the world anymore.

"What do you mean?"

I mean He's dead. I killed Him. Lucifer straightens up again, solemn in posture and tone. It was that or let Him ruin everything He'd worked for since the beginning of time. I couldn't allow that. He sighs, a great gust of ice-cold wind emanating from his form. I'm not proud, but I did what I had to in order to save all of this.

This time Castiel does fall to his knees. His mind is a blank, unable to process what he's just been told. It's a lie. It must be. "The Winchesters. Heaven. One of them - they had to have done something."

Oh, they tried, little brother. I promise you they did. With a surprisingly gentle touch, the Archangel reaches down and plucks him from the ground, setting him down in the palm of one massive hand in order to bring him up to be level with his primary eyes. But you didn't think two little apes could stop me alone? Or that Michael could fight me without his Sword? I have you to thank for that, Castiel. Without you turning Dean away from Heaven's service, I don't know if I could have done all of this. He makes a sweeping gesture with one of his other hands, grandiose, indicating the overgrown city around them. Pristine. Lush. Empty.

You helped me save the world, Castiel, whether you meant to or not. I owe you.

Edited (spelling) 2017-10-24 02:46 (UTC)

"I don't understand."

Judson looked at him with his familiar, perpetually mild-mannered expression, just like he always did, fatherly, soft-spoken, apologetic. He cleared his throat. "You see, Flynn, when a Librarian dies, the next one will be appointed and—"

"Yes, yes, I know all that?" Flynn held up his hand. "I know that. We've been over this, three times now. But I'm back now. I'm not dead."

Judson blinked. "Well, we can't just... reverse the process. I'm sorry, but it's really, it's not possible, Flynn. The Library needs a Librarian. We didn't reverse the process for Wilde?“

"Yeah, but he was evil." Flynn spread his arms, pointing back to himself. "I'm not evil? Very different situation! I told you, I was just stuck in another dimension!"

"Flynn, I'm sorry to tell you this, but if you were in another dimension, we should have been able to pinpoint you."

"It was also in the future."

"Ah."

Judson just looked at him blankly and Flynn turned away, throwing his hands in the air. "Okay. You know what? No. I've given my life for this place. Like, seriously, I've given everything! I think that warrants some leeway in the rules!?" When Judson didn't answer but just kept watching his outburst quietly, Flynn pushed past him, trying to get deeper into the building.

"This is ridiculous. Excalibur!" His voice resounded in the big hall, but nothing came of it. "Cal, come! Where is he?" When he found the sword resting, unmoving in his stone, he huffed in annoyance – what kind of greeting was that after having been gone for so long? But when he placed his hand on the hilt he found himself unable to pull Cal out, no matter how hard he tried. "What is this?" He stared over at Judson. "What's going on, what's wrong with him?"

"It's not him, Flynn, it's, uh, it's you."

"What do you mean, it's me? What does that even mean? Cal, come, you stubborn, little-" Placing his heels against the stone Flynn pulled again but he lost his grip, falling back and rolling over the floor.

"Flynn, I... I really think you should leave. You can't be here anymore, in fact, I have to say, this is... this is all rather disappointing." Judson looked at him with this look, like this was painful for him, too. Like it was really unfair that Flynn was putting him through this. Like Flynn was the unreasonable one here.

It's too much. Flynn just laughed in disbelief. "What, so I'm just gonna go... back and live with my mother? Forget all about this place?"

"Actually..."

Something in Judson's soft voice turned his blood cold. "Actually what?"

"Well, she, uh, she's dead, Flynn."

"Wh-." There was too much coming out of his mouth, sputtered laughter and syllables and the air that got knocked out of him. "Wh-what?"

"Do you remember that organization, that time you went after the Sword of Damocles, well, they, they came looking for you and—"

"My mother is dead?" He could feel his voice rising, uncontrollably, shrill. "You're standing there, telling me my mother is dead!? Why didn't you protect her?"

"Flynn, I'm... I'm sorry, I really am, but we can't be everywhere. It's a risk that every Librarian has to take, it comes with the job. And, and to be fair, you are the one who refused to take a Guardian."

"What, no..."

"I'm sorry. But you have to go, Flynn. We really don't need you anymore."

The wind blows icy and cold through his hair, ripples the ragged edge of his cloak sharply - the sound is what gets him to start moving. He couldn't, for a good while. He just stood still, staring at the wreckage around him. This used to be New Percepliquis. Used to be.

Now it's rubble, ashes - half-rotting corpses and collapsed buildings. The middle of town, where the fountain once stood, the center point between the schools of magic and combat - it's shattered, devoid of water and barely recognizable, just like the buildings it had been surrounded by. There's nothing. There's nothing left but a flag stabbed into the stone, the emblem of Ferrol, god of elves, stamped proudly on the fabric.

Modina, Arista, Myron, Mauvin, Allie. Hadrian. Hadrian. They're dead. All dead.

At first he thinks maybe Norfinbury's effect is still on him. He's numbed out, icy, unable to comprehend. But he knows what happened, it just takes a while for his emotion to catch up. And when he just slowly sinks down to the ground, in the middle of the ash and cracked cobblestone of the destroyed courtyard of the palace, it really hits him. Suddenly, Royce can't breathe. He wheezes, curled up, letting it kick the wind out of him - the elves took over. They did what they came to do, and they didn't have Royce to stop them.

His mind blanks out when he pictures Mercy. He can't. The image nearly kills him right where he sits. Royce can't think about his daughter, with her long curls and almond-shaped eyes (like Gwen, just like her mother) can't think about Mercy in her bed in the palace in Estramnadon, with a sword through her chest. There was too much blood for him to remember. All of this is too much.

The elves chased him out of Erivan. He does remember that. They chased him all the way here and then - he thinks... he thinks he lost them. Not for long. They'll come look for him again. They can't have the king be alive. They'll chase him.

Royce has nothing left. The world has nothing left. And honestly? Royce doesn't see the point in trying to fight for a world that doesn't want him. A world that has nothing left for him to protect.

He sits. He sits in the remains of the fountain, and waits. No food, no water, nothing, not until the elves find him, on their brilliant white steeds, spears at the ready.

"It's good to see you again, your majesty," one of the elves says, a sneer in his voice. The other elf laughs. Royce just looks up at them.

He doesn't have anything to say, he thinks as the spear in the elf's hand rises; he doesn't want to speak his last words to them anyway.

Quark had learned to tune out the quarantine sirens, the smell of sick and decay in the air. He unwraps the scarf from around his neck so he can raise the unlabeled can to his teeth and gnaw at the tough metal. There's no other choice; his fingernails are too worn and bloody, and his hands shake too badly to hold a knife. The can cuts at his gums, but at least the taste of blood soothes the hunger for a few precious seconds. It could be vegetables or even dog food, but he'll take it.

The rumble of the wheels of a makeshift cart and Quark growls instinctively, a deep guttural sound in the back of his throat, ducking back into an alley. He doesn't need to see to know that the bodies are being moved. Clear the sick from the street and maybe things will get back to normal.

They won't. It took so much more to fix this sixty years ago. But there's no cure-all now. There's not enough people left to sacrifice for the sake of eradicating this damned disease. But Quark won't let it get him. No, no, he won't be next. He won't be the next person to grab the nearest piece of glass and ram it into his jugular.

Grandpa's long gone and he never prepared him for something like this but at least there was Norfinbury. He can do this. He's a survivor. And they can't put him on that cart and bury him in a ditch with all the others if he's too small to find. So as his chipped teeth find purchase in the metal, he scrambles on all fours to a safe, dark shadow, and feasts. Pears. The can is sliced pear. It might almost be delicious if it didn't have to mix with blood and grime against his tongue.

Someday soon, he'd be the only one left. But what difference would that make? Maybe someday the red-tinged, dusty sky would drive him mad enough that he'd pick up that glass after all, virus be damned.

For now, all that mattered was finding a box to sleep in.

It wasn't this way when Rhys left. He'd meant to come home one day, but never to this. He'd always been a little bit broken, but holding on. For all his sins, he'd always meant to make it right. One day.

"I'm not going to stop you from leaving, Jared, but I do think you should ask yourself what you're running from."

This. This was what he was running from. His losses. His disappointments. His failures.

Once, it had been a note on the table, an empty car at the beach with pill bottles. Death and a beautiful sunset and no trace ever found.

Once, it had been blood on the floor and police tape on the door, and a promise made and delivered with scissors and black candles.

And now it was a charred ruin, the outlines of the last place he'd called home, the last of his three loves.

Everyone leaves. At the end of the world, you will stand alone, praying to the ashes for forgiveness.

And I will be there.

He never planned to come home to tumbled-down ruin, to the chemical stink of burnt insulation and staring, broken black windows. He'd left thinking somehow he would fix things, that he would come out clean and life would go on. Blue deserved better. He would be better. No more lies. No more drugs. No more of the seething, unsettled anger that left him struggling to figure out who he was anymore. He'd be her Jared, the one she had faith in. The one that he could believe would be okay.

But the sidewalk memorials are rain-stained and scattered, long past the blaze, and everything he might have said is lost in that moment, the moment when something breaks that will never come back.

This was all you pretended for, and it is gone.

He hears the rattling of bird skulls, smells snow on the wind. His bones ache from too long in the cold and from kneeling on frozen stone. There are new tattoos on his hands, done in the old way- bone needles and soot, as though he could pay the Crow-queen's price a drop of blood at a time, month after month, year after year, leaving his hands gloved in symbols of prayer and penance.

There's gray in his hair, and it's gotten long again, long enough to cover the scars. The beard is still sad and scruffy- life isn't kind enough to make him look wise with age, more like a street-corner junkie preaching the apocalypse. He's got a few more scars, and one eye is white with blindness. Odin's price.

"Are you coming, Kendra?"
"Yeah. Sorry. My mom again. She always gets a little weird this time of year."
"Mom stuff?"
"No, it's...I had an older brother who died. She always talks about it this time of year, like, anniversary? I don't really remember him, though. I was just a kid when he left, and he was really into drugs."
"Oh. That sucks." ... "So, you want coffee?"

After the fire, they boarded everything up. It was a beautiful service, so many brightly colored flowers, like Blue would have wanted, but he wasn't there.

He wasn't there. Numb and powerless, even her spirit wouldn't talk to him, and the City of Roses became a graveyard. Marigolds for Sunny, carnations for Blue. The City could break off into the sea and drown and it wouldn't matter to him.

This is what he has. This is what he is.

Now do you understand?

Their place was in the garden. And his place was in the frozen City, waiting for his queen of thorns and crows to collect.

Ginger needed a bouquet of roses. It was the singular most important thing on her mind. It should have been easy to get them, because her hometown had always been so lovely and full of flowers, and then her sister, the florist, always had greenery of all kinds bursting through from the windows. But as Ginger looked up at the shop, the paint was faded and peeling, and the windows boarded. She didn't even have a key.

She goes back home, another boarded up shop. She's been trying to clean it, but the whole area has become an ill-colored wasteland. It seems everyone has left or is too busy to help. She tried to pry a piece of wood off of one of the windows and ended up with a and full of splinters. The walk used to be fun. She'd see rabbits scurry out of the cobblestone pathways at the approach of the townsfolk. Now, weeds overgrow the pavement, and the gentle atmosphere is replaced by the solitary sound of her footsteps.

Her older brother is asleep inside. He lost his house, so he'd been squatting. He'd never been a drinker before, but now empty bottles litter the floor. How he piled them up again so fast, she couldn't say, but after sliding a pillow under his head she decides not to bother him. Most of the fabrics have become water-damaged or moth-eaten, but she finds a drawer full of tissue paper and a half-dried gluestick. It'll have to do.

It's a clumsy job, but she has her bouquet before the sun starts to set. If she can still hurry, she can make it.

Emma's gravestone is the newest one in the cemetery. Knowing nobody will bother her, she begins to decorate it with the paper roses.

"I miss you," she says to the marker, touching her sister's name where it's etched into the marble. Her vision blurs, a knot forming in her throat. "Oh, Emma, why'd you have to go and do it?"

She'd thought that the medication had been helping. But when she came back, Halim had shaken his head. She's gone, he told her. We all thought you were dead...and Em couldn't take it, she just broke down.

He'd broken down, too. Nothing here felt clean anymore.

This wasn't home anymore.

He did it for his daughter, you know.

It's the only thing Angel ever hears on the camera feeds, the only response she ever gets to the messages she sends begging to be let out of the bunker. It's safe outside now, you see, at least for someone like Angel - someone who isn't a bandit, or a traitor, or a filthy child-murdering vault hunter. Pandora has been cleansed; scorched clean by the flames of the Warrior.

No flora. No fauna. No Pandorans. Anything and anyone native to the planet has been eradicated so effectively that even the sky itself seems bruised - darkened and mottled by red-purple clouds cradling a fractured moon.

Handsome Jack's dream has become reality. The world is quiet, calm, clean, empty - everything that Pandora never was. The blackened planet is studded with pristine cities of metal and glass, and at the centre of each city is a pair of statues expertly crafted from shining golden metal.

A man in a mask and a woman with wings. A tyrant and a siren. A father and his daughter, smiling, holding hands. The subjugation of Pandora, the genocide of its inhabitants, all of it, everything - Jack did it all for his poor murdered little girl, and everyone knows it. This is Angel's legacy.

He did it for his daughter, you know.

Without her siren powers, she's stuck. The bunker will once again be where she dies, but this time she'll be alone. Abandoned. Hopeless. The monitors provide the only light in her tomb-twice-over, and she can't take her eyes off them.

The world has gone to hell, and -- just like before -- all Angel can do is watch.

He's been walking in this desert for who knows how long, days and nights blurring together as he shifts the occasional rock out of the way just for something to do. There's no end to it, it's just bare, and he can hardly believe that this was supposed to be his home world. He hadn't even wanted to come back here.

Eventually, though, something breaks the monotony. It's a figure on the horizon, and he runs towards it. It's only when they're a hundred yards apart that he realizes its running towards him, too. And eventually he can see the sheer rage on her perfect, teenaged face.

Her tattered clothes flutter in the air as she runs straight at him and manages a leap and a surprisingly powerful punch to his face. "You asshole! You fucking monster! Where were you?!" She breaks down crying, falling into a crouch as she hugs herself, leaving Sylar to fix his jaw with a pop.

He doesn't have a satisfying answer for Claire, so he just lets her cry. In between sobs, she occasionally spits out more venom, but the force of it is dying down. "Angela said we needed you. And of course, you weren't here. You weren't anywhere. The one time you could've saved us instead of killing all of us and you decide to take a fucking vacation!"

He stays quiet, but as her tears began to dry, he tries asking her a gentle question. "What--"

She cuts him off, the anger roaring to life again. "Don't. You don't get to ask when you are the whole reason for this. I don't want to talk to you, don't want to look at you. I'd rather see nothing for the rest of my life."

She turns away from him and starts walking, still hugging herself tightly. "Don't even think about following me," is her parting murmur. For once, Sylar listens.

“I don't intend Hannibal to be caught a second time.” – Hannibal script S3x13

It had never been his intention for Hannibal to be caught a second time. Whether alive or dead, it had been Will’s design that Hannibal be free.

But somehow it had gone wrong. Horrifically wrong while Will was taken, against his will, and held in that damn, frozen town (Norfinbury) for how long, the days all seemed to blur together, and Will could no longer tell if it had been weeks, months or years.

But one thing he could see, on that first night at least, he had been gone long enough for Jack Crawford to re-capture Hannibal.

Dreams were funny things, often hard to distinguish from hallucinations, though Will had become something of an expert at sorting out the difference. Feet. In his dreams, he never felt his feet on the ground, hallucinations -that often came with sleep walking- he always felt cold hard, unforgiving earth beneath his feet.

This is a dream, his mind supplied. A snapshot in time, of Hannibal once again in the white jump suit of the Baltimore Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Spine ramrod straight, he stood before the glass, eyes closed. Will recognized the posture for how Hannibal would disappear into his mind palace, escaping the grey rock walls and bare concrete floor that caged him in.

Only there was something wrong this time.

The barest hint of a furrow between Hannibal’s brows, imperceptible to anyone who wasn’t intimate with him.

He can’t do it. Will remembered thinking to himself. He can’t escape this time, he’s … caged.

“Not in a cage. Some beasts shouldn't be caged.” – Hannibal S3x07

It was wrong, it was all wrong and Will moved forward intending to make it right.

Time in dreams was a funny thing. Blurring together, jumping ahead, plucking at the open wounds of the subconscious and finding the weak points to shred and leave bleeding when the light of day cast aside the shadows.

He still didn’t feel his feet on the ground.

He was kneeling, supplication before a dying god, the body he held in his arms and across his lap. Hannibal, bleeding out, victim of JackMatthewBrownMasonVergerDolarhydeWillhimself any one of his many enemies. Enemies the older man laughed at, but enemies all the same and without Will there to cut the straps, to distract, to give Hannibal agency in the world, those enemies had succeeded.

His friend lay broken in his arms, blood there was so much of it. Will was no stranger to blood, or even blood spilled through violent means, but this was Hannibal’s blood. It stuck to him with a vicious tenacity, leaving Will to wonder if the blood of Christ may have clung to Judas in such a fashion.

Hannibal’s lips parted, words -the damn man would forever want to speak- but they were cruelly stolen from him as instead he choked and coughed, blood spraying a pink foam from his mouth to splatter across Will’s face. So much spoken in that moment, without the need of paltry language. The love, the disappointment; the betrayal.

Not a direct betrayal, not this time at least, but rather the disappointment that his death had come about in such a mundane fashion. That it hadn’t been Will’s hands to break, rend and tear him apart and Hannibal’s fading eyes condemned him for his failure. Will hadn’t been there, to do his duty; through either survival or the execution of a righteous death. The proper death, for either of them.

He felt the failure wash through his body like a fire that burned from within. The weight of it, a crushing force trapped around his rapidly beating heart. Will wanted to beg forgiveness, plead with Hannibal not to leave him, even as he watched the last bubbles of blood inflate and then shatter on the older man’s lips. But every time his mouth opened -like the lack of feet on the ground- Will heard only his labored, panicked breathing, and then it was too late.

Hannibal was gone.

Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital was in ruins. No, it was more like the once vibrant hospital was dead. The windows that were left intact were blown out, looking like empty sockets staring out at a ruined landscape. The walls that remained standing were damaged and resembled something out of a war movie. Devastation was everywhere, and as Wilson wandered in and around parts of what was once a thriving hospital, his expression grew darker by every minute that passed. He was older now, and it showed in the gray hairs at his temples, and the slower, shuffling movement that had become his walk. This was never supposed to be how things ended; he and his colleagues and friends (or friend) were supposed to grow old and go into retirement together. Now that was never going to happen.

He'd heard the grim details numbering the injured and the dead. No one he spoke to wanted to admit the truth, but when he finally learned it, it galled him. The person responsible for planting the bombs that destroyed the hospital and took so many lives was a relative of one of his patients who hadn't made it despite his best efforts. It was his fault the hospital was gone, taking with it colleagues and friends alike. At first, Wilson thought that maybe if he'd just been there, he could have defused the situation by reaching out to the killer before he became a killer, and no amount of talking with professionals and law enforcement officers could change his mind.

This was his fault; he destroyed the hospital and killed and injured those people as surely as he would have if it had been him behind the plot. Those were the thoughts that followed him as he made his way slowly through the ruin of the hospital.

As he traveled through the rooms he once knew, rooms that used to be full of life and laughter and yes, yelling and arguing, he caught snippets of the people who worked on those rooms. Everything was singed and burned by the resulting fires, but he could still recognize bits and pieces of things: a melted, twisted necklace that belonged to Lisa Cuddy (what was she doing there after she resigned?); a halfway melted ID badge belonging to Eric Foreman; a twisted up pen that Robert Chase used to write with; and a pair of shoes that somehow escaped unscathed that looked vaguely like something Chris Taub would wear. And finally, in the last room that Wilson visited, he saw things that gave a finality to the terrible event: what remained of a melted Rubik's cube and a badly burned cane. That meant his friend was gone, and for real this time. There was no coming back from this.

He'd been keeping it together up till then, and the sight of the cube and the cane was enough to cause a shift. The increasingly dark expression that had been on his face broke into one of outright rage and grief brought on by the hellhole he was now witnessing.

What was the point now? The hospital was gone; the only friend he had was dead. There was nothing left, no reason to keep going. The unfairness of it all ate at him like- well, like a cancer. He'd survived his own cancer, but it seemed like the universe was still giving him the big middle finger, taking everything and everyone he cared about in some kind of sick exchange for his health.

Oh, there were other hospitals, other oncology departments desperate for skilled, experienced doctors, but he wanted none of that anymore. The world as he knew it was over, and there was no place for him in it anymore. He could take the easy escape, and for a moment, he thought about it and wished he could join those who'd died, but that was the problem: it was too easy.

Someone had to pay for the carnage, the devastation, and the ruin. Someone had to offer penance. Someone had to go on living although the entire world as he knew it had gone to hell. And since everyone else was gone, that someone was him.

Edited 2017-10-24 20:51 (UTC)

He was too late.

The alley seemed to darken as he dashed through the puddles, the air-raid sirens going off overhead.

A crumpled form, a few needles rolling away. A coat and scarf stretch on the ground, as if the cloth was the blood spilled this night.

Despite everything telling him otherwise, he took Sherlock in his arms anyway, crashing to the ground to scoop him up like he did when they were children, hoping that somehow, he was not too late.

Familiar eyes stared into the distance, but they were without a spark. Without the clever intelligence that spoke of a quick wit and inevitable jab about his appearance. No. He'd never insult him again. He'd never hear that familiar laugh again, the same laugh he'd heard as a child yet overlaid with the baritone of his adult voice.

Overdose.

He'd only just gotten back from that blasted place, Norfinbury, and for one small moment he'd hoped to leave all its horrors behind. And yet what he'd come back to was worse.

The sounds of explosions far away. It wouldn't be long now.

He'd meant to find Sherlock and John (and his daughter) himself to take them to the government shelter. They'd be able to survive there, a whole underground complex. No one knew that Eurus was behind this all--that in Mycroft's absence she started World War III for fun, as an exercise of her considerable talents. She didn't even bother leaving Sherrinford, she'd been able to do it from the comfort of the island's computers.

Sherlock didn't know about the war, no one did, till minutes ago. Mycroft had discovered that Sherlock had somehow arrived earlier than he had--how long? What if he'd never actually left? He couldn't say, but it was ong enough to drive him back to drugs. Mycroft didn't know what set him off. Was it another fight with John? Boredom? No cases? It was one of his biggest fears--being unable to find what set Sherlock off and prevent him from...from doing this. Without Mycroft to send people to look after him, to use surveillance to monitor him, to give him cases when things were slow...was it not inevitable?

With shaking hands, he reached in his pockets to find the list.

There was a piece of paper, but no list.

No, not a paper at all.

It was a picture, crumpled and worn, of them. Mycroft in his early teens, grinning at the camera, and Sherlock as a child, with a pirate hat askew on his head.

What was left of Mycroft's self control drained away, his shoulders shaking as he clutched Sherlock's cold form, rocking back and forth.

"Forgive me, brother mine."

He failed him.

He failed everyone.

The explosions grew louder and nearer, and the sky lit up with an eerie light.

Edited 2017-10-24 23:56 (UTC)

(Linked for length and because of bright Homestuck colors! No obnoxious quirks, though, promise.)

Edited 2017-10-25 00:01 (UTC)

Time heals all wounds.

Magenta isn't a doctor, but it's a common enough aphorism that he's familiar with the concept, medical expertise or no. Time has certainly healed at least some of his wounds--the scar over his eye isn't going away even with a fair amount of time, but it doesn't ache as much as it used to, and his foot is good as new with the assistance of a cane on occasion. Even the smaller injuries--accumulated over a career of dangerous escapes and high-risk scenarios--have either faded or lessened over the years. He will be made a new creature.

Of course, time heals all wounds, but the second edge of the temporal sword contains all the ills of life: time creates all wounds as well. Maybe if time had stopped moving, he had stopped aging, the world had slowed to a halt...well, maybe he wouldn't have lost his eye, or his job, or his love, and then maybe things would've been better. He wouldn't have had wounds to heal in the first place, maybe. Time has always been on his side, though, and he usually contents himself with the idea that things could be worse.

Diego dying is a wound that has yet to heal, though, no matter how much time persists. He's not even sure how long it's been since it happened--it could be days, or perhaps months or even years. He doesn't feel much older. It doesn't even feel like Diego is gone--it seems like he's gone out for a minute, leaving Magenta to himself for just a second or two, maybe out to buy some dinner for the both of them, or to finish his race.

The race is especially unfortunate--cut short by too many tragic incidents involving top racers. The prize money went to...oh, whoever it went to, Magenta wasn't paying attention, wasn't there, lost in thought or memory or another location entirely, too lost to find Diego when Diego needed him. He was buried on a Sunday, which is easy enough to remember, because Dio is God in Italian, or so that two-timing coward of a partner told him all those weeks (months? years?) ago.

That'll resolve itself soon enough, he's decided. The race, and Wekapipo, and all of it. Even that bastard Stephen Steel, who survived his assassination attempt and returned to good health with the power of familial love and...well, something far more insidious that Magenta only has a sneaking suspicion about. Stephen is living a quietly successful life out in Philadelphia, as Magenta has recently figured out through some of his old talents. It's easy enough to track public figures, even when they think they're being discreet. Stephen Steel lays lilies at his wife's grave every Sunday, the same day Magenta lays roses on Diego's. It only took a small amount of reconnaissance from there to figure out where he lives.

Valentine is easier to keep track of: he's had a very successful presidency, all things considered. Magenta knows--probably better than anyone still alive, which is a paltry few--this is at least partially due to the Holy Corpse, wherever it's being kept. It's not like he's kept an eye on it. The Corpse can't grant him anything, because he doesn't want anything. It can't revive the dead; it can't bring back his eye. He's really not sure what it does, but since Valentine is so popular even after the disaster that was the Steel Ball Run, he reckons it must be doing something.

The past, the past--that's all in the past, and time heals all wounds.

He hasn't has to load his gun in awhile--hasn't wanted to, rather, because he hasn't wanted to do much of anything--but the gesture is so ingrained into his bones, the very shape of his body, that he doubts he could ever forget, even with his dubiously accurate memory. The gun is little more than an extension of himself, and having it on his person again makes him feel power for the first time in a long time. The dynamite is just a bonus, a cheap trick he's used before but won't use again.

The weight he lost on the frozen strait (and somewhere else, too, Magenta, aren't you forgetting something?) is an easy cover for the bulk of the explosives on his torso, and he admires his form in the mirror the same way he did the day Diego and Johnny and the rest of them died. It suits him, as far as he's concerned. With his coat, there's barely any difference to his appearance, and his hat makes him feel better, as it usually does. Time heals all wounds, but sometimes you have to take matters into your own hands. Most things work that way. It's all so simple.

He has his two guns at his hip with no extra ammunition, convinced fully of his abilities, a master of his art with his tools secondary to the result, the masterpiece, the imagined painting of his President's viscera staining every inch of that cursed office, of his ex-partner's blood spilling onto that stupid yellow suit, of Stephen Steel's body finally succumbing to the death that somehow eluded him a first time but never again. Magenta, even with his eye, never misses a shot twice.

Carefully, eyes still trained on himself in the mirror, he touches the poorly-cut newspaper photo of Diego (tucked into the mirror's frame, from an article long forgotten in favor of immortalizing its subject) with two fingers, before plucking it from its position and tucking it neatly into his coat, against his breast. He won't be coming here again. He can't come here again, after doing what he's going to do, and the thought makes him somewhat wistful. He liked this house.

Magenta Magenta shakes his head as if to physically clear it of something--not hard enough, it seems, because he still lingers in the doorway, casting a slight glance back into the dim room. His hand wanders to his chest, feeling the very real outline of the dynamite strapped to his shoulders and the imagined outline of the thin paper picture of Diego, and he smiles, crooked and alone.

"Well, Diego, you better wait up for me. I'll see you someday."

He is going to heal his wounds.

Edited 2017-10-25 01:27 (UTC)

Ah, Vanitas. I was wondering when you would ever show up.

There were three new keyblades added to the graveyard. His heart went cold as he realized Ventus’ was there amongst them. He could only feel all the main, heartache, and misery from before. He could only feel the negative emotions. That one link he shared with his other half was gone.

He’s completely alone.

His Master had already completed his tasks. Had laid out different paths and no longer needed him. The world was devoid of light and he could feel the darkness stifling everything. All worlds have returned to darkness. And his Master, now in Terra’s body, had front row seats to see what would happen next.

To see if they were all worthy.

Begone you worthless apprentice of an old man.

He didn’t see the flash of the keyblade before it made contact on him. He has grown weak. He didn’t keep up with his training and all of those connections he made weighed down on him like chains.

The keyblade struck again and again, until Vanitas was down on the ground. Spitting out blood and struggling to get up.

Ventus is dead. There were no other keyblade users. There was no more light. There was no more chances for him to be whole again. He could no longer achieve his objective.

He felt a sharp kick in his side, and then felt him being pushed over onto his back. He looked up at his Master, seeing only Terra with the same piercing gold eyes of darkness. They weren’t Xehanort’s eyes, but his own looking down at him. The keyblade his Master was using changed into the X-blade as he raises it. Then he plunges it down into Vanitas’ chest.

Vanitas recalls the moment years ago when the Master did the same to Ventus with a different keyblade. That was how Vanitas was made originally, and looks like that is how he will end as well.

There was blood all over his hand, it stained the shining metal into dullness, and he had looked at it now for hours. Blood was nothing new. He was the Soldier, he was HYDRA's greatest Asset and he had come to the forefront in the past few years. Since they had risen from the ashes of SHIELD and formed the new world order, taking over governments and royal families alike in a single bloody coup, they had not kept him on ice often. He was their symbol.

Like the man with the shield was the symbol for the resistance.

Not much of a resistance. Most people didn't want to be made an example of, most people feared a visit from the Soldier, or to return home and find that HYDRA agents had taken their children while they worked. Most people knuckled under the new regime, kept their heads down, and tried to block out the cries of their neighbours when they were targeted.

But there had been a resistance. No longer. The last member, the only one left alive for months now, was finally dead at his feet. Once blond hair matted with brain matter and blood from where the final blow had caved in his skull, shield discarded a few feet away. The Soldier knew that he was supposed to return to base once the mission was complete, but he couldn't seem to move. He was transfixed by the sight of the blood on his hand, malfunctioning down to his core.

He sat like that for hours, perhaps days, until they came for him.

He knew his role, he did not resist when they pulled him bodily from the scene and into the back of the waiting van, he did not fight when they strapped him back into the machine, he welcomed the pain and the blankness that would follow. He could be a good weapon now, there was nothing else stood in his way.

Hail HYDRA.

The reverse transmutation circle had failed.

Father had been one step ahead of them the whole time, he had seen what petty little resistances Hohenheim had been putting in place for centuries in his country, and he hadn't cared. He knew that his alchemy was much superior to that of any other, especially a weakened former slave who had given away much of his power into the earth, power that would be his when the Promised Day arrived.

And oh what a Promised Day it had been. His sacrifices had performed admirably, and the power from using the countrywide transmutation circle was boundless. He was finally God, finally. Finally.

Al crawled out of the crater where the Fuhrer's palace used to be and simply stood, horrified, at the scene before them. So many people slaughtered in the minutes it had taken them to get out, only three or four minutes and yet hundreds dead. Everything was silent, until Ed cried out wordlessly, far too loud in the oppressive stillness of death.

They ran together through the city, but all they found were bodies. People who had fallen in the middle of their lives, the entire country left in a macabre tableaux, a mockery of what they had been in life. And it was all their fault. They promised that they would stop this, that they would... that they would... But they hadn't. They had been as ineffectual as flies, and Father was gone.

"Morning, Sherlock, I've brought you some tea."

Sherlock opens his eyes and sits up, his back aches slightly which is his only indication that he must have been thinking in this position for at least a few hours, and picks up the mug to sip at the welcome taste. John is smiling at him; he looks tired, lines around his eyes and mouth suggesting that he's stressed at the moment, and yet his eyes are hopeful like a dog that's brought a gift to his master and hopes to be praised for it. Good old John, always the same.

"Thank you, John." For some reason, the words of gratitude make John's face light up like Christmas lights. Strange, it's not that uncommon for him to offer thanks for mundane tasks like this, is it? Perhaps he's just had a very trying morning and any friendly gesture is appreciated. "Have you already taken Rosie to school? Lestrade came by earlier and I need to talk to you about what he said."

John's expression lights up further, until he's beaming so hard that his cheek muscles must hurt from it. He looks proud, for some reason, and Sherlock can't figure out why. That's annoying, he doesn't like to look at someone and not know what's happening, especially when it's John.

"Yeah," says John, and for some reason his voice is slightly husky. "I dropped her off earlier, she said to say she misses you. What did-- what did Greg come to talk to you about?"

That's nice, that Rosie would think of him, but really overly sentimental. If she's going to miss them just for the few hours that she's at school, she might be getting too attached and won't develop her independence. He'll need to discuss that with John later, but there's more important things to talk about now. The game is afoot, and it's as deadly as it's ever been.

"Moriarty."

He says the name and he pauses for effect, only to see John's face crumple as if the strings holding his smile up have been cut all at once. "Oh, Sherlock." Suddenly John is all gentleness and caution, it's confusing and oddly aggravating, like it's happened before. "Listen to me, Moriarty is dead, remember? Years ago now."

Dead? That's absurd. He would remember if Moriarty had died, the two of them had been locked in a battle of wits for years now. He's always there, pulling the strings from just out of sight. That John would try and convince him otherwise sends a flare of sudden white hot anger flashing through his chest, and he reaches out to try and grab hold of his friend's arm to make him listen, to make him understand.

"No, John. You mustn't let him play your mind this way, I need you to think clearly in order to help me stop him. He's out there." It's frightening, because he's not just out there, he's inside as well. Always. "I can hear him laughing at me."

John is crying. When did that start? He looks old and tired and grief-stricken as he tries to gently prise Sherlock's fingers from his arm. "Alright-- it's alright, Sherlock, you don't need to cry. He's not going to hurt you, he's-- it's okay. Just settle down."

Cry? He's crying? No. It's John that's crying. Sherlock watches in confusion as John gets his hand free and backs towards the door, mumbling some nonsense about getting someone to help. The door opens and it's not a staircase like it should be, his front room at Baker Street opens out to a clinical corridor with Mycroft stood outside.

"It's not bloody fair," that's John, snarling as he punches the wall for some reason, while Mycroft just watches him with an expression oddly like compassion. "He's forty, for God's sake, he shouldn't have Alzheimer's already. He shouldn't-- not-- not him."

He listens for Mycroft's reply, but his voice is drowned out by the one always in his head. Moriarty, loose in his mind palace, the virus in the database. He sinks his head into his hands as all he's left with is the sound of laughter ringing in his ears.

The crypt is quiet.

Squalo wonders just how deep under the Iron Fort he must be right now. They're not following him, even though he knows he'd left a bloody trail all over the dungeons. Maybe they thought to let him have this moment despite his betrayal; maybe they just know he will cut down anyone who dares step a foot into this chamber. Down here, he can't hear anything. No footsteps, no voices, no birds, just the occasional crackle of flame in the torch he'd brought along, his own heartbeat becoming thunder, louder with each step as the ground slowly dyes red.

It was here, Xanxus' final resting place. Not a betrayal, not a battle. Something much worse; something about catastrophic liver failure which meant there were no culprits to kill and no revenge to be had, the most insignificant, insulting, stupid death completely unbefitting a man that was rage and fire made flesh. At least the new Decimo, may he die young and suffering, had the goddamn decency to allow him buried next to Ricardo rather than the man who had masqueraded as his father and then betrayed him. Maybe it was less decency and more fear, even now wanting to keep Xanxus as far away as possible. It didn't matter.

He stops by the plate with the all too familiar Xs, and stares at it until he can't see it anymore. Not a gravestone and not an urn; the sight before his eyes is much more familiar and much more painful. He reaches toward it, and he can feel the cold of ice under his fingertips, he can make out the sharp features behind the frozen Flames, relieved that he seems to remember it perfectly.

"You fucking moron," he breathes, his voice the usual coarse drawl but lacking the forcefulness. "You've got to be kidding me. This can't be happening, not again."

This was his fault.

"I've already waited, Xanxus. Eight fucking years! Every day was a torture, but I kept going, because I knew. You would come back, and we would wait, as long as it takes, and we'd erase everyone who got in our way."

If he'd been there, when the Varia was disbanded because under new management they did not need an assassination squad anymore, when they were walking their separate ways, when there was nobody watching Xanxus manage his pain or his habits, this wouldn't have happened.

"As long as it takes. And now -- now he's dead and I didn't kill him for what he did to you. But I'll get you out. We've done it before, and I'll do it again. I promise."

He rests a hand against the cold surface, then kicks it in a sudden fit of rage.

"You lied, though! You were going to be our God. You were going to be the one who kills me! Who the fuck gave you the right to bite it?!"

He shouts and he punches, until his throat feels sore and his hand bleeds, but of course, nothing changes. You'd think this would have made him wake up from this nightmare by now. He sinks to the floor, his legs no longer holding him up, shaking. Just a dream. It has to be a dream.

"It's so tempting, you know. Another round of whiskey and that double barrel. But I can't. Only you can. I won't miss your return for the world. Not again."

The sword's getting too heavy and he lets it rest against the dusty stones, leaning on it a little. His back against the feet of Xanxus' grave, he watches the torch slowly die out. A dog at his master's feet.

"I'll be waiting. This time, I'll be here. I won't fail you again."

His voice grows quieter, and he closes his eyes, as if soaking up the fiery presence he remembers so well, as if hoping it could give him strength, but it's cold and empty.

It wasn't here anymore.

"I'll... wait."

"What's wrong?"

chaos opened his eyes and looked up into the worried face of his partner who was cradling his head in her lap.

"Wrong?"

"You drifted away from me for a moment there."

He sat up and looked worriedly at her.

"Things are just happening so fast. If they keep going at this rate, then..."

She wrapped her arms around him and let him rest his head against her shoulder. He embraced her in return then memories came flooding back to him... Thousands of years of memories.

"Wait, Mary, why am I here?"

Mary gently rose and took his hand, guiding him into the next room before pointing at the window that hung near their bed. It was hard to look directly at. Sometimes it stretched into bizarre shapes; oval, circle, square, rectangle, octagon, sometimes glassed, sometimes not, sometimes structured like the window on the side of a spaceship. chaos winced and realized this place was not real.

The window was not fluctuating, but his perception of it was.

He blew out a breath and focused, then approached the window which finally settled on being circular with no glass. Outside there were only stars pivoting around a massive compass-like machine.

"Zarathustra..."

"Yes," his partner responded mournfully from the corner. His gaze drifted to the twelve stars circling the device and he knew immediately what they actually were. They were Anima relics, vessels of power...parts of him that had been lost in ancient times. He could remember clearly how they had been pulled from their tombs at Rennes-le-Château and how he'd let them be taken away. It was not until the body of the woman behind him was threatened that he moved.

"If it has been activated, then..."

She walked up and again put her arms around him, this time from behind, saying nothing.

"...I should have been there."

chaos clutched his hands into fists and sneered but her embrace made him immediately relax again. While he had more power she was Animus and by far the stronger of the two of them. She'd always been able to handle more and her power bound his. Her embrace felt natural to him, chaos bound by order.

"Maybe we will figure it out, next time around," she said.

She was right, she always was.

Another turn in the cycle meant another chance for freedom. His failsafe igniting meant the end of everything that ever was or would be, no more chances at getting things right.

Soon he would disappear and so would Mary. So would the demiurge who had taken Zarathustra.

They would all vanish, then, in a sudden explosion of light, be reborn with no memories of the cycles that had happened before. No memories, but the same spiritual scars and general weariness. He knew he'd feel the existential exhaustion of the Recurrence hanging over him.

"We could have stopped him."

She stepped away from him.

"Mary....where will you go?"

chaos looked back at her but she was gone, having already vanished into nothingness or simply shifted herself into a place he could not see.

Another voice answered in her place, the demiurge's voice.

""What we can do is limited. For precisely that reason, we need a world that is fitting for us. And we are the only ones who can accomplish that. Dreams, future, possibilities. Everything follows the destined flow, Yeshua..."

Edited 2017-10-26 06:41 (UTC)

Skyhold was burning. Dorian watched the flicker of red and gold flames as smoke billowed into the cold, overcast sky. The ominous swirl of the Breach showed green above the ruin. From where he watched, Dorian could just make out the tangle of charred skeletons where the Inquisition had made its last stand.

For a moment, the wind stirred the smoke into a shape like a large, many-eyed wolf.

Then Dorian was walking down a road in Minrathous. Like Skyhold, the buildings were gutted by fire. Here though, they crawled with the living. Ducking into a doorway, Dorian hid in the flickering shadows as a group trudged down the main thoroughfare. He sprang forward with a cry as he recognized the gait and height of Vivienne, following in the wake of a handful of Qunari warriors.

She stopped and pulled back her hood, eyes boring into him with hate and blame above where her mouth was sewn shut. Your fault, she seemed to say without being able to speak.

Dorian fled into a city made strange. Buildings had collapsed blocking roads he knew well. New gaps had opened. Road crews, their eyes dulled by the drugs Qunari used to keep their worker class docile, merely watched his flight and made no effort to stop him. That was not their role. He thought he saw Varric hauling a stone taller than himself but couldn't be sure in his rush.

The library, he hadn't even fully realized he'd been headed that way, loomed ahead. Heads on pikes decorated the entrance. One of them was Dorian's mother. Others were from the Lucerni he'd promised to train and assist. Dashing inside, he headed for the stacks.

Before he reached the rooms he knew best, he saw Mae. A mark of Tranquility rested above her eyebrows and her expression was accordingly blank. "Dorian. We thought you were dead," she said in a monotone.

"What happened?" he asked, panting desperately.

"You did not come back. Our faction only gained enough traction to keep the Magisterium divided when the Qunari fell on us. I had been sentenced and punished for treason so they allowed me to live. You they will make saarebas." Mae spoke without any emotion at all. "They waste nothing. Not even enemies."

Behind him, Dorian heard a noise. Turning, there was Solas, the stitches on his mouth freshly torn. "You. Could have. Stopped this?"

Horror, pity, sorrow, and rage washed through Dorian as he resumed fleeing even though he knew that now there was nowhere to run.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[log] Imaginary Time [open]

cw: mental illness, memory loss, blood/broken bones

cw: drowning/asphyxiation, suicidal ideation

CW: Gore, blood, cancer/tumors, gruesome character deaths, earth/universe destruction

cw: mass extinction, theological problems

no subject

cw: death, blood, child death

cw: disease, suicidal ideation, tooth/mouth trauma

Cw: suicide, murder, fire, self-mutilation, drug use, mental illness

cw: suicide, alcoholism

cw genocide, allusions to abuse

no subject

cw: gore, blasphemy, Hannibal typical mind ef-ery

cw: suicidal ideation

CW: Drug overdose resulting in death, nuclear war, suicidal ideation

cw: planetary/existential level destruction, death, brief emetophobia warning

cws for murder, brief gore maybe

warning: abuse, blood, death

cw: mind control, death, blood

cw: genocide

cw: mental illness/memory loss

cw: death and suicide, the usual

cw: religious imagery, Xenosaga narm

CW: body horror, chemical brainwashing, lobotomy