Realistic or Modern A WORLD ON FIRE, pt. 1 | heartstringss & starboob.

[heartstringss]

𝐴 𝑊𝑂𝑅𝐿𝐷 𝑂𝑁 𝐹𝐼𝑅𝐸
(part 1 of 2: the break-out)


an original story
by
heartstringss & starboob

 

[heartstringss]

𝑇𝐻𝐼𝑆 𝐼𝑆 𝐴 𝑊𝐼𝐿𝐷 𝐺𝐴𝑀𝐸 𝑂𝐹 𝑆𝑈𝑅𝑉𝐼𝑉𝐴𝐿​

game of survival . ruelle

.

PLOT SUMMARY

the government has been kidnapping mutants off the streets for research purposes for years: conducting experiments, studying them, even sometimes cutting them open and picking them apart if that's what the case requires. it’s awful, terrible work, but all this research serves a purpose. the hard truth of the matter is, the world is on the brink of war and america needs an edge if they hope to come out the other side on top. that edge, they’ve decided, is genetic engineering.

in this society, it's undeniable people despise mutants; of course, if not only because their government has convinced them that they must. there are separate police forces to deal with them, and if they are known and documented in society, separate housing for them to live in, separate schools for their children, and, in some places, even whole separate communities. they live in fear for their lives, fear for their children’s lives, fear for their futures, their freedom… the ones born into families without any previous genetic anomalies are often the ones the most at risk, but even those born into established mutant families and colonies still have to keep their abilities a secret or risk exposure and face persecution.

five years ago is when the experiments first started. the mutants they’ve captured, they treat like lab rats, but instead go around calling 'government research subjects', with obviously lighter connotations.

our story begins in the U.S. state of nevada, where one such facility exists.

one day, a freak storm rolls in from out of nowhere and knocks the power out at one of the research facilities, both the regular generator and the backup generator go down, and while the military is scrambling to get the system back up, the power dynamic shifts and an escape happens. it starts small and then turns into something huge—a revolt becomes total anarchy which becomes absolute mayhem. chaos erupts throughout the facility, all while it rages on outside, too.

for the mutants who’ve managed to break free of their restraints and figured out how to escape their rooms—some more heavily guarded or reinforced than others, depending on the strength of each mutant’s abilities—it's a race against the clock to get out of the building on time, preferably alive. even once they’re outside, that doesn’t mean they’re necessarily safe. first, they must get off the facility grounds before they’re managed to be captured a second time, and then as far away from the government’s reach as they possibly can. will life ever be the same again? no, probably not, but at least now they've got a chance.

x x x

Rated M for Mature Content

TRIGGER & CONTENT WARNINGS

THIS STORY WILL INCLUDE:
(a lot of) graphic descriptive violence, foul language, substance use & abuse, implications of death & murder, implied sexual assault & torture, some suggestive sexual content.

Readers must please keep in mind that there will be a lot of triggering content.
Please continue at your own discretion. ​

​

 

[heartstringss]

tw/cw: substance abuse, transphobia, body dysmorphia, self-injurious behaviors​

SEAN NEILSEN

A SNAPSHOT OF THE LIFE BEFORE
​

TWO YEARS AGO

LOCATION: SEATTLE, WA.
AGE: NINETEEN​

It’s 8 o’clock on a Saturday night, and where’s Sean? Why, he's the same place he always is, of course! At a club downtown, pressed in close amongst so many other hot, sweaty bodies he can barely tell where he ends and the crowd begins. He’s exactly how he likes to be — high as shit off some pill he scored from a stranger whose face he can no longer remember, now wonderfully tripping balls and... maybe even a little tipsy on top of that? Honestly, he's not too sure himself. Whatever he was, he certainly wasn’t sober, but of course, that's no surprise — he hasn’t been sober in years.

"You should slow down," his friend Catie says beside him. She touches his shoulder when she speaks to make sure that she has his attention, then continues, "I'm gonna go outside for some fresh air and a smoke. You coming with?"

Sean turns in the direction of the hand on his shoulder, his eyes wide and vacant when they look to Catie. He hears her words, but judging by the blankness of his stare and the long delay of his reaction, one can assume they likely don't process right away. The words bang around his noggin a few times leaving dents everywhere they hit, and when they finally stick to something solid — certainly not the pale grey mush that is that sad, sorry excuse for a brain inside his head — he breaks into a smile. His reaction speeds up then, the smile turned a million-watts as a joyous laugh barks out of him. It was natural, effortless... Nothing at all like the scared little boy he'd felt himself to be this morning.

"Don't tell me to slow down," Sean says, rolling his eyes with the words, though there's no malice behind his actions. "I'll slow down when I'm dead, and not a moment sooner."

He reaches up to rake a bony hand through the shaggy mop of dark brown curls that sit atop his head. After hours of dancing, his hair is drenched in sweat and when he pulls his hand away, his fingers are coated. He grimaces in disgust as he flicks his fingers off to the side, then looking back to Catie, says, "You know what? Yeah, I'll go with you. T-B-H, I'm kinda dying for a cigarette anyway."

Catie laughs at his words. Having observed how sweaty his hair was already, she keeps her distance so as not to get any on her when he goes to flick his wrist, flinging droplets through the air. She shakes her head amusedly as she echoes his earlier comment, "Not a moment sooner, huh?"

Sean tilts his head to the side at her words, no longer recognizing his own joke. So he asks, "What?" hoping she'll clarify — but she doesn't. She's already turned around and starting to walk away.

"Nevermind. Forget it..."

He already has.

​

As soon as they're outside, Sean peels off his t-shirt and slings it across his shoulders, revealing a chest bare as a newborn and much more skin-and-bones than it is muscle. Though it's unimpressive, it's a chest he's proud of, that much is clear — and of course, why shouldn't he be? After all, hasn't he kept it hidden long enough? He's waited years to be able to take his shirt off in public and not have to feel embarrassed when he does. Hell, he's waited years just to feel comfortable in his own skin. But as he's scratching an itch just above his right hip, a shock of worry occurs to him out of nowhere. Lost in thought, he frowns with the realization:

— Is it his own skin?

He's reminded multiple times every day that it's not, so the reminder again now is painful, even if it remains only internal rather than physical (as it usually is). In a way, it is still his. After all, it's not like he's taking someone else's skin — he's just rearranging his own, masculinizing his features, changing his body around to better suit his own self-image.

Needless to say, things can get a little confusing with the ability to shapeshift. Being able to re-arrange your entire face within minutes — yeah, certainly not the worst of powers, especially for someone who's already felt to be born in the wrong body their entire life beforehand. He still doesn't really understand it, how it works, what all he can do with it, what all he can't. (But perhaps if he spent a little more time sober every now and then... Yeah, no, fuck that.)

When he takes off his shirt, someone standing nearby lets out a low wolf-whistle. The sound whips through the clear night air and stings his ears. Sean freezes, looks over, and finds the person easily by the fact they're staring right at him. A second later, the voice hollers out, "Jeez, boy, you try'na blind us all?"

There was no hostility in the male's voice. As soon as Sean realizes that, he grins wide and his goofy side takes precedence. He reaches up to his nipples, tweaks them between his fingertips, and does a funny little jig. It gets the whole bar porch cracking up laughing, and just the same as always, Sean takes on the role of 'class clown' happily. He dips his torso into a low dramatic bow, scrawny arms extended wide on either sides of his body. Just when he seems about to give a monologue, Catie grabs him by the elbow and tugs him off the porch. He stumbles away laughing, not at all the slightest bit mad.

​

Down the alleyway, Catie pulls a pack of cigarettes from her purse and pinches out two sticks, one for herself and one for Sean. She offers the second one to Sean, but rather than take it, he turns it down with a wave of his hand. "I'll just steal a puff of yours," he says, to which she rolls her eyes but slips the second cigarette back into the pack without complaint. She sticks the first one between her lips and lights the end, takes a long drag, the cherry burning bright red as she does. She holds the smoke in her lungs long enough it starts to sting, and when she finally releases, she does so in a huge puff of smoke that tapers off into a tiny burst of smoke rings. When she's finished showing off, she passes the cigarette off to Sean.

He pinches the cigarette between his fingers like a joint, nodding appreciatively to his friend's display as he takes his first puff. It's clear he doesn't smoke cigarettes nearly as often as he does marijuana, but he still does it with practiced ease — he can hold the smoke just as long, if not longer by the fact he can extend his lung capacity anytime he wants. Catie's glaring at him when he takes such a long drag off the cigarette he burns it down a good few centimeters. Just one puff, he'd said.

"Dude, you've got no self-control," Catie says, reaching out to snatch the cigarette from his lips. He grins wide as he releases tendrils of smoke from his nostrils and either sides of his mouth, looking more a dragon than a boy, especially by the bright red of his eyes, the slowly-changing irises as he shifts to match that image in his exterior.

"You shouldn't do that shit out here," she says warningly, glancing around to make sure they're alone. It's a cool trick, but she worries far too much about getting caught.

"People don't pay attention nearly as much as you think they do," Sean shrugs, letting his eyes return to their regular blue — well, not his regular blue, but it's what he's wearing today, at least. "Trust me, people'll pretend we don't exist in seconds if we make ourselves invisible enough."

"Yeah, well, you're far from invisible, showing off like that all the time. You're going to get caught." She takes on a lecturing tone, which Sean tunes out just as easily as he always did his own mother.

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it," he says, far too casual on the subject. Maybe she's right, maybe he is being a bit too risky — but to be honest, he doesn't care. It's hard to care when you've lived in a heightened state of fear almost your entire goddamn life, then finally find something that makes you happy and all you want to do is live.

Maybe it wasn't the best parallel to draw. Sean's life begs the question: if you're funneling drugs and alcohol into your body 24/7, eating a diet of nothing more than Taco Bell, take-out Chinese, and stale cereal day in and day out, and sleeping on whatever random couch you can find at the end of each night — are you really living, or are you just surviving day-to-day?

Sean hasn't known any other type of life for... a couple of years now. He hasn't had a family to fall back on for support even longer; all he's got is himself and his friends. And the friends he does have barely seem to tolerate him — oh yes, he can tell. (Or maybe it's suspicion fueled by his own self-doubt? Either way, he feels a nuisance and that, too, makes his life feel pretty lonely.)

He's drawn out of his thoughts by Catie's hand landing on his arm. She trails a finger up his bicep; the touch is hypnotizing, but it's hard not to flinch away from the contact. Hard not to feel alien inside his own skin, even altered to better suit his self-image. He thinks she's hitting on him and wants to stop her, when suddenly she speaks up and he realizes that she's not. "Why are you wearing a scar?"

He looks down to the arm in question, taking in the deep red gash carved into his skin. It looks real, as they always do; fully healed and faded with age, even though just this morning it wasn't there. He shrugs a little at the question. "Why not?" And yet, he fades the scar away without hesitation, thinking — it is a bit unnecessary, isn't it? Only when he does, something in his image falters. His features slip a second and his eyes shock brown. The dark freckles clustered around his face begin to fade away, become a little softer. It's not intentional.

He squeezes his eyes tight with the sensation of water pooling over him. Air gasps out of his lungs, panic swelling in his chest. He focuses hard — hard enough that bright red spots of color burst onto his cheeks — and after an incredibly long, tense moment where it seems the veil might slip entirely, the freckles begin to darken. He opens up his eyes and they're back to blue, though his gaze has now become quite a bit more frenzied. He sobers up fast when his powers falter like that. His confidence dissolves and his posture sinks.

"Uh--" Catie starts, but he cuts her off with a sharp wave of his hand. He's heard the lecture a million times. He doesn't want to hear it again.

She gives it anyway. "Jesus Christ, you need to slow the fuck down, Sean. You're burning the wick at both ends. You need to let your body rest."

Yes, he really does.

But he's stubborn as a bull. He really, really doesn't want to.

THE CAPTURE

A BEGINNING TO THE END

​

It's that exact stubbornness that gets him caught, just as Catie warned it would.

Fast-forward six months, it should come as no surprise that he's only gotten worse. He's not paying attention to anyone around him when he wanders into the bar one night looking half a boy and half a girl. He doesn't notice the crowd's reaction; he doesn't realize that he's gone too far. He's completely unaware that his power's reserves have reached their limits, that all at once he's slipping — so fast, so hard that he's not even receiving any warning signs in the process. Of course, he vaguely notices when his perspective shifts, when all of a sudden he's shrunk six inches and now finds himself looking up rather than down at Catie. Only her expression of alarm makes him question the circumstances of that perspective change.

He lifts his arms and finds the tattoos are gone. Looks at his hands and finds they're smaller, more delicate than they'd been when he first left the house. The freckles faded back to a gentle dusting. His eyes, one brown and one blue. Most of his face remains masculine, but his body is entirely back to feminine. He can feel weight hanging off his chest, and it makes his breath stutter in his lungs. He can feel pressure collect atop his shoulders, the weight of what feels like an entire room's gaze turning on him at once. The music doesn't stop. Everyone's not really looking at him, but it sure feels like they are.

Catie grabs him by the arm and drags him out of the bar. She's not being discreet, not quite being careful enough — people notice as they go, and when they do, the reaction is... disgust. The bartenders stare. The bouncers stop them in their tracks. The music shuts off. A voice rings out. A fight starts.

It's quickly ranks among one of the worst days of his life.

​

He thought it couldn't get any worse, but it does.

A few weeks later, he's holed up in the house. He hasn't left for days, hasn't eaten hardly a single thing all morning or most of the days beforehand. He can feel his body begin to weigh him down, his muscles growing weaker as his stomach grows even emptier.

Catie tears into the room in a fury, creating a whirlwind of motion as she rips the blanket off the couch, exposing his entire body. He shrinks under the weight of her gaze. He wants to disappear.

"You need to get up. You need to eat, you need to shower. You fucking reek."

She's right, he does. His hair is starting to mat, his skin becoming greasy with a mix of his own sweat and grime. The bags underneath his eyes are so dark they look like bruises. His hair falls in front of his face, so much longer than he likes, and he's a bag of bones. Wrapped inside an ill-fitting sweatsuit, cloaked in skin that's his, but not his own. It's not even a shifted body, but it feels like one, this one so much more alien than the last.

He's tried to use his power, but it hasn't been working right. It's been glitchy, almost entirely shut off since the last incident at the bar. He can't get it to work. What if it never works again?

"Don't wanna," he mumbles, flinching at the sound of his own voice. There's distinct femininity in its tone. He curls tighter into his ball, digs his hands into his stomach. It aches with hunger, but even more than that it aches with pain. He's experiencing cramps. He hasn't experienced cramps in... god, it's been months.

"I don't give a shit what you want. You're getting up—" she grabs his wrist, starts to pull him off the couch. He stumbles, his feet becoming tangled, his legs weak from disuse. He falls to the floor but Catie catches him before he goes down entirely. She slips an arm around his waist and drags him to the bathroom. Shoves him into the bathtub. Turns the water on while he's still fully clothed.

He screams in anger with the sudden spray of cold and thrashes out of the tub, accidentally whacks her in the face on the way out. Both teenagers grind to a halt — he's hit her once or twice before, but it's been years since the last. They've always had an unspoken agreement it would never happen again. Accident or no accident, he just broke that unspoken agreement.

Though she understands his frustration, Catie doesn't hesitate. She slaps him clean across the face, leaving a bright red handprint on his cheek. Her eyes burn like embers, her muscles swell with depth. She's puffing up. She grows a few inches. She snarls out like an animal.

"I told you, you need to slow down, and what do you do? Nooo, you speed up instead, and now look where you are!"

"It's not my fucking fault!" His voice rips out of him at a volume so high it cracks the mirror over the sink. It's an instability of his power, his vocal cords stinging with the incorrect use.

Catie's left staring at the cracked mirror in shock, as Sean breaks into a run. He darts out of the bathroom, turns a corner down the hall, and tears out of the house within seconds. Though he's never felt more vulnerable, more seen in his entire life, he doesn't want to be around Catie anymore. His hair drips wet onto his shoulders, water droplets raining all around his face. His teeth grind and his body screams with the exertion. He's running on bare feet down a road littered with trash. Shards of broken glass and jagged pebbles dig into his skin, cutting away at the soles of his feet. He leaves bloody prints everywhere he steps. He's crying and he doesn't even realize it.

He wanders into a McDonald's a few days later, so hungry he's start to become delirious.

The employees call the cops on him as soon as he enters the building — he doesn't even blame them because of course he knows what he looks like. He feels like literal human waste, his body a piece of trash he only wishes he could throw away.

He hasn't talked to Catie in a week. He hasn't been back to the house, hasn't been back to the club. He quit his day-job, but that's not as huge a deal considering he only worked it to fund his drug habit. Since the drugs aren't working right now, he figures he doesn't need them anymore. Of course, that doesn't necessarily stop his body from still wanting them anyway.

He works his way out of one city and into another. He gets lost, attracts too much attention to himself while trying to get found again. He's not at all invisible.

He's asleep when it happens. Curled up in an alleyway amongst a pile of blankets and old discarded clothing that reeks just as much as he does, he's exhausted but snaps awake just as soon as the flashlight beams into his eyes. Like a deer in headlights, he panics. He wants to run away, but finds his body unable to move, completely frozen in place. There's voices yelling, feet clamoring heavy steps over the pavement. The officers are too close to his face, their feet too close for comfort. He flinches with every movement, afraid of being kicked.

There are more officers on the scene than seems necessary for a simple situation dealing with a homeless person sleeping someplace that they shouldn't. If they had asked him to leave, he would have done so willingly and without a single complaint. He would have just gathered up his stuff and walked away — there's no need for all this violence, all this hostility. No need for the gun pointed in his face, the tazer shoved into his ribcage.

He hits the ground like a ton of bricks, knocked unconscious within seconds. The officers haul him up by the collar of his shirt, not even wanting to touch his skin. Their faces pinch in disgust as they look him over. They're built like tanks, larger than a regular officer of the law. The badges pinned to their chests mark them as special police, the ones trained to deal with cases such as his — the ones trained to handle mutants.

Even with the electric shock having knocked him out, the officers don't take any risks. They jab a needle into the side of his neck, pump his veins full of horse tranquilizer, and haul him off down the alley to an armored vehicle parked alongside the road in front of it. He's tossed into a cage clearly built for humans rather than animals, the door locked behind him. The tailgate slams shut a second later, casting him into total darkness.

​

When he wakes up, he's unsurprisingly covered in bruises. His whole body aches, but he can't move a single inch. He's laid out on an examination table, strapped down at both his ankles and his wrists. A belt stretches across his forehead, so all he can see is the ceiling and what little bit of motion flickers in and out of his peripherals. Bright white light glares overhead, blinding him to his surroundings. He closes his eyes, tries to perceive the room with his ears instead. The entire space is full of sounds of shuffling feet and bleeping computer monitors. There's an IV attached to his arm on both sides of his body, one dripping saline and the other something he doesn't recognize the name of.

When he opens his eyes and lifts his head just enough to be able to look down at himself, he sees he's been stripped of his t-shirt and now lies in some sort of hospital gown, but it's not a hospital that he's in. There's militarized police, and the doctors-- the doctors look more like scientists. He thrashes against his bindings, but it doesn't make much difference — he's too weak to put up a fight. He falls back against the table within seconds, his vision blurred with stars.

"She's awake," A voice says. She. They're talking about him.

One of the scientists shuffles close. They grab his face, peel back one of his eyelids, and shine a flashlight pen into his pupil. He grumbles weakly with the strain. They're checking his vitals. Next, gloved fingers peel back the top of his gown, press the cold metal drum of a stethoscope to his bare chest.

"Identify yourself, mutant," one of the militarized police officers says on the other side of him. Sean swings his head around as best as he can, only bares his teeth in response. He's not usually this hostile, but adrenaline is pumping through his veins. His heart rate climbs into the triple digits, reflected on the monitor hooked to the wall above his bed. His pupils widen so much you can barely see the brown edges of his irises through the black.

He doesn't get a chance to identify himself. He's tranq'd again before he can even open up his mouth to speak. A voice echoes through the haze of drugs.

"Stronger than I thought she'd be. She doesn't seem to have much control, does she?"

"No. Her power is severely underdeveloped. We'll try again later, let's just run some labs for now. Someone pass me her chart."

​

When they finally learn his name, it's not because he gave it to them, and it's certainly not the one he wishes that they had.

Actually, he doesn't want them to have either one, but in the end, the one they do find out is the worst possible one because it's also the one that tells his story. It's the one that points back to his family, to his childhood, to the life he's left behind. How they got it, he has absolutely no idea. All he knows is that one day they were calling him by a string of numbers (because he's refusing to speak and they can't get a single word out of him) and the next day they're calling him... that.

He'd been resistant to their treatments up till then, but as soon as they start calling him his birth name, he stops acting out. He deflates like a balloon drained of all its air. He dies a little inside.

He hasn't heard that name in years. Everyone who knows it has stopped using it when he asks. Somehow, he doesn't think these scientists will comply as easily.

"That's a good girl," one of the guards leers at him from a few feet away. It's a male, one he's recognized hanging around the room a lot the past several days. He has a smile and glare so wicked it makes Sean's skin feel like it's crawling with bugs. He hates him and he doesn't even know his name.

"Officer Dumont," one of the scientists whips around. She points a finger at the officer and then swings it over to the door, ordering him outside. "Do not tease the subjects. These are still people; please remember to be respectful." It's one of the few times someone has stood up for him. Sean's alarmed, but far too bitter to feel grateful. If only she hadn't called him a 'subject' in the same breath that she'd called him human.

When the officer leaves the room, the scientist nearest his bed steps closer. She looms over him, an elderly woman with frail skin, dark spots of age scattered all across her face. She's not smiling. "You're going to be starting training tomorrow," she says. Gazing over his chart, she barely looks him in the eye. "Your abilities are weakened by your recklessness. You've sobered up enough by now; you will begin testing soon. Get some rest."

It's not a suggestion — the option is not presented to him as a choice because he has no choice. The woman scientist presses a button on a controller attached to wires hooked around the metal frame of his bed. The IV drip slides opens and chemicals pump into his veins. He loses consciousness within seconds.

​

Sean isn't sure what he should've expected of the facility he's been brought into, finally being released from the bed he'd been strapped down to most of that entire first week. He's received liquid meals every day to sustain his body, but they haven't gone so far as to let him stand up and walk around. Therefore, he has no strength. His legs are weak, mere pencils beneath the flap of his gown. As soon as he's up, they lead him into a separate room with a showerhead and a drain carved into the floor.

They strip him naked, shove him under the sprayer head, and begin to hose him down. He shivers, not from the temperature of the water but from the fear that fills him immediately. Mostly fear of exposure, as he crosses one arm over the midsection of his body and the other over his chest. He doesn't even care about the lack of respect for boundaries, or the fact he's being treated more an animal than he is a human being; it's the eyes trained upon his body that make him sick to his stomach. The feel of his own skin. The shape of his chest, no longer flat but rather... he can't even conjure up the words to describe his own body.

Once they've cleaned him up, they toss a change of underwear and a pair of coveralls at him and tell him to get dressed. On the back of the outfit, it reads: "MUTANT", and on the front, sewn into the right breast-pocket, the same string of numbers they were calling him that entire first few days before they learned his "real" name.

"SUBJECT NO. 0051222", it reads, and in smaller letters just below that, "NEILSEN, O."

He's wary to put on the outfit — the bra and panties especially — but with the cold nipping at his skin and the officers peeking glances out of the corners of their eyes, he finally decides it's better to walk around with this sort of identification forced upon him than it is to stand around naked. So he scrambles to get dressed, does up the buttons of the shirt all the way to his chin, leaving not a single inch of skin exposed save for his hands and feet and everything above the neck. If he had his way, he wouldn't even leave that.

Whatever drug they're pumping him full of, it's woken him up inside. His emotions are duller, but his perception of the world around him has become a million times sharper. He feels he could shift easily if he tried, but he doesn't want to share that part of himself with these scientists just yet. He knows they're going to force it out of him soon enough, but as long as he can, he intends to keep it hidden.

Until he realizes what the old woman scientist meant by saying he would 'begin training soon', that is. As soon as they take him into the room of mirrors and tell him to shift, he's more than eager to experiment with his power, because they don't hold him back like he thought they would. They aren't there to tell him what to do, they're there to witness what he can.

He hadn't had a chance to think about it much before, when the scientist had mentioned training and testing. Now, he wonders: Training for what? What kind of testing?

He finds out soon enough, but compared to what the other mutants in the facility might've been going through — it's remarkably less severe at first, because he has so much catching up to do.

When he starts shifting into a boy, he does it slowly, gradually at first. He doesn't use the same appearance he liked to keep beforehand. He keeps it simple, only masculinizing his features enough to pass without going so far as to spring up the curls or darken his freckles. He doesn't add any tattoos. He doesn't make himself any taller. He looks like a fucking child, but at least he's him.

"Why did you choose a male form?" the old lady scientist asks him. He can tell she's not asking out of any sort of genuine curiosity by the fact she's still holding the clipboard in her hands, pen poised over the paper ready to write down whatever he has to say.

"Because I wanted to." He answers simply, providing no other explanation.

The scientist purses her lips, taps the pen against the clipboard. She shakes her head, connecting the dots within seconds and... to his surprise, seeming to understand just fine. "A damn shame," she says, no longer sympathetic. "Such a waste of potential."

It doesn't make any sense to him. He still doesn't know what they intend on doing with him here, or how much worse it's going to get. He doesn't understand the point of all the tests, the trainings they've enrolled him in for the next couple weeks. He doesn't understand... What potential?

TEMPLATE © BOKEH​

 

[starboob]

MARS BATISTA

She's many places,
but she's homeward bound

18 FEBRUARY, 4 YEARS AGO | LOCATION: BANGKOK, THAILAND

“What?” She sounded incredulous.

“I’m only saying, Starboy, I think you should be careful. I don’t think things are changing the way you think they are,” she warned, arms casually stretching up and over her head with a wide yawn as she slipped out from under the protection of duvet covers. What a sweet sight for such an sour topic. Mars frowned.

“What makes you so sure?” She asked, propping herself up onto an elbow as she admired her friend, and occasional lover’s backside. Why did they have to be talking about this on such a perfectly good morning? They could have been entertaining each other! They could have been feeding each other chilled, vodka soaked watermelon while drinking champagne for breakfast, but of course Mercy wanted to talk about her visions—none of which had ever made any sense to Mars. But, apparently, when one was as connected to the Earth as Mercy... sometimes Ms. Mother Nature whispered and revealed her secrets to her chosen. Rarely had Mercy ever been wrong, too, so Mars knew that perhaps she should have at least considered the warning. Outwardly, though, she shook her head, “If you’re always right—why not live, then, more fully for as long as we may be given? Why take this freedom for granted knowing it will expire? Such a waste to worry over things we can’t change––pah!" she waved her hand at the thought of wasting, withering away to mere worries. "Why do you even bother concerning me with these things?”

Mercy smiled and an airy laugh escaped her as she half turned to look back at the other. “This is why you’re my favorite, Marzipan; you never let anything get in your way.” She walked towards Mars, towards the bed and sat at the edge nearest to the other. Her fingers tangled into Mars' winter dark curls, pushing back her bangs, pushing her onto her back. She leaned down to kiss the wild woman, briefly; her free hand settled on her exposed ribs as she pulled away and took her lip from Mars’ teeth.

As she looked down at her friend, Mercy was sad; she was worried. There were too many timelines where she saw Mars in trouble––often due to her own recklessness; but there was no point in trying to contain a free spirit. In all her years of knowing the nomad, she had learned that Mars was the wind they created. She was someone who was felt fiercely, and briefly. (Like a shark, she seemed to have to always be on the move / chasing excitement and its twin, danger; there were a litany of metaphors to describe Marz.) "I tell you these things so you at least have a chance to be careful––you could thank me." It was all Mercy could do––give warnings; at the end of the day, she was only a vessel for messages. To some degree, Mars was right––why occupy her thoughts over things that were likely already set in motion? That was the fickle thing about the future and clairvoyant gifts––it was ever changing and more of an equation of probability and statistics than anything else; there was still a chance something else would happen; another outcome; another possibility; another chance. She owed Mars that much hopefulness––after all, the woman had enough for the rest of the world. Someone should have some for her.

Meanwhile, where Mercy wrestled with her ghosts, Mars was on a completely different planet (her own). She was admiring the way Mercy's brow furrowed together when she was thinking; how her tongue stuck out when she was thinking of silly things; how philosophical thoughts prompted her to bring her fist up to her chin; whereas serious thoughts caused her to chew at the corner of her lip. This was a serious thought and Mars wouldn't let her spoil the morning by picking at the rotten fruit in her head!

Her grin lazily drooped across her features, as if it might slip right off her face, and her eyes spoke mischief when they narrowed. She sprung up (Mercy squealed––and not in that high-pitched-fake-annoying way––in genuine surprise) and, in an instant, she had her long arms snaked around the woman's slender figure; she twisted, turned and soon had Mercy pinned beneath her. "I would love to thank you..." She whispered, parting her thighs with one leg (and then the other, settling between them). "How may I be of service, Mercy?" Her tongue grazed the shell of Mercy's ear, then moved lower, and she nibbled on her earlobe (her legs wrapped around her)––they dragged under her jaw, grazed down her neck, found her pulse point... her fingers slid... Lower, lower, lower...

▸▸
16 OCTOBER, 3 YEARS AGO | LOCATION: MADRID, SPAIN

"Are you staying safe?"

"You know me," she returned, not saying the truth outright because she knew the truth had too much power once it was spoken. She did not need her mother worrying about her wellbeing. Mars was no more reckless than she had been a few months ago and no more in trouble than she had been last week; she was alive, breathing, and taking care. There was little more one could ask of her––especially a loved one (loving Mars meant loving worry). She refused to compromise that wild woman of her heart. "I was thinking of coming back soon, maybe for your birthday?"

"Are you changing the subject?" She could hear her mother's bemusement, exhaustion, the way she arched a single knowing eyebrow all through the phone. It all made Mars smiled. (She missed home.) Her mother continued, her smile showing through her words, "You should come home... Camila is having a baby––it would mean the world to her if you could stay for the birth... It's supposed to be a few weeks after my birthday, even. Do you think you could make that work?"

"Oh... Well, you know me," she returned, sheepishly. Mars had never been one to plan out her future in advance and resisted making any form of longterm plans. Even the short-term plans that she held were subject to change if something more interesting came her way. Her mom knew this of her child; still, she never wanted Mars to feel excluded from the life she had left behind––maybe because she was hopeful her little bird would return to the nest. "I hadn't planned that far ahead."

"Okay, okay," her mother sighed, disappointed and Marz felt the guilt even with the thousands of miles of distance between their two hearts. (At this point in Mars' life, she knew that living “authentically” meant inviting disappointment. She couldn't cater her life to everyone else's desires––she would not be happy if she did that. Where she tried to be thoughtful, where she avoided causing any undo pain, she knew it was impossible to never hurt another person. If it could be avoided, she did her best to never do so on purpose.) "Just be careful. Your father has heard some disturbing rumors about our-kind being disappeared."

▸▸31 DECEMBER, 3 YEARS AGO | LOCATION: TORONTO, CANADA

There were few things more oppressive than being forced to choose a brand for the same exact product––it was a tyrannical burden to place on a customer. Why could people just not agree on one brand and sell that? How were there so many different brands for noodles? And now she couldn't even remember the type that Kafele had asked for––rice or glass? How thick should they be? How flat? She scratched the top of her head, as if that could help her finger through the files of miscellaneous memories she had, searching for the one that contained the reel of tape from the morning when he had asked her to pick-up g̶̭̻̈͠l̴̠̭͗̚å̶̧͓s̶̢̻͊s̸̗͘ noodles for tonight's dinner. Ultimately, she did not have the time to spend on figuring out which noodles were supposed to go with the dish––something she hadn't heard of and thus could not place an image to––and swept a few different varieties into her cart. 'That should cover all of the bases.'

Next, she grabbed a bottle of wine, a red she had fond memories of and hoped it would act like a magic potion; creating more fond memories if she drank it again with a dear one. The thought, however, was interrupted as a man pushed past her in the aisle and said, “Get out of the way, freak.” (Except that he didn't say freak and he didn't just push past her; Mars remembered all of this later when she caught up to him in the parking lot––she was civil enough to not start something in the grocery store with so many families that could potentially see.)

.............​

"Okay, yes, maybe I have a temper––but to be fair, you also would have used the asphalt as a face-grater if you had heard what he said," she said, pouting on the couch with her long legs crossed over one another as she iced her bruised hand. The incident in the parking lot may have been hours behind her, but for Kafele it was still new information and he was concerned. Everyone was always concerned. Mars, a master of her mind, would never understand that. "Like, geeze..." She muttered, leaning back in her chair so that she could see Kafele in the kitchen, cooking whatever it was that he was cooking. "Sorry about the noodles, by the way. I couldn't remember which kind you wanted and then, well, a lot of them got crushed when..." When she tossed the grocery bag onto the ground and then slammed the fellow grocery store patron into the discarded groceries. The wine bottle miraculously survived. ''God is good,' as grandma would have said.'

He sighed. "Well, I mean, it's fine. But for someone as cool and unbothered as you, I'm just surprised it only takes a slight to get you riled up." His voice was rich and deep. Actually, everything about him seemed rich and deep––from his voice to this appearance to the words he said (sometimes––sometimes Mars felt he was just saying pretty nonsense like most philosophers). He reached for the pepper, chiles, basil. "I do get it. Sure, I've wanted to punch people who harass me––but I never act on it." Not now anyway––his scrappiness had left him long ago while Mars' seemed to only ripen (or rotten, depending on whether or not one is an optimist or pessimist).

"Actions speak louder than words. If you want someone to listen, you don't use words." If the pen was actually sharper than the sword, then why didn't colonization happen through soliloquies, poems, and love letters? It was historically more violent than that––Mars assumed everyone knew this fact by now. The pen, as she understood it, had only ever been used to spin powerful lies to inform subordinates how they should and ought to act when the sword strikes. She honestly didn't think violence should have had as poor a reputation as it did; she thought it was propaganda to pacify people. If people knew they could resort to violence, that it was within their power to use it? That wouldn't end well for all the monarchs. "You never finished your story about Luca."

"Oh, yeah," He smiled, beaming at her in such a boyish way that she was smiling too (he really did light up the room––and that wasn't even a pun about his literal control over light; he truly just was a brilliant person). He collected the rest of the ingredients and brought them out into the dining room where she had been sitting. He pushed a cutting board loaded with vegetables over to Mars. "You can help me with these, yeah?" She nodded, placed the bag of ice aside, and took the chore from his plate. Despite the smile he wore just moments earlier, his tone darkened and seemed to dim the lights with it (the definition of mood lightning). "Thanks, anyway––yeah, she came over the other night, super shaken up and I asked what was wrong––I thought something had happened with mom again––but, apparently, she almost got arrested for taking care of her greenhouse! As if that is such a damn crime. Who cares? It's not like she was doing anything nefarious. I mean sure, the city council thinks its a nuisance because it provides free food for the homeless––but it's not illegal! (And it shouldn't be...)" He could go on about this for hours (and he often did), because once Kafele was started on a subject, especially one that involved the law, you were in it for the long haul. (He wanted to become a lawyer, but law schools weren't ready for mutants and Kafele, like Mars, did not live in secret.) Mars was thankful for the wine.

"Luca's completely harmless..." She muttered while he continued on and on––now tying it all back to some podcast he had been listening to (boring). Mars wasn't listening, though (and not just because it was boring). She was thinking about what he initially said––about his sister almost getting arrested. The news shocked her, even if she didn't want it to; she couldn't stop thinking about it and it stuck to her, making a warm bed for itself in her brain.

'Hmm...'

▸▸22 SEPTEMBER, 2 YEARS AGO | LOCATION: JOSHUA TREE, U.S.A.

In the desert, the heat had its own smell. It was more than just a feeling. When the oppressive heat of the sun soaked into the sand of the Earth it created a dry, dusty smell––made sweet only with the sweat of one's upper lip. It was a smell that left an impression in the nose and stuck, easily, to slicked, sweaty skin. The desert had a feeling beyond just hot. The sun did not just shine down on the sands, she beat down on the Earth as if the desert had personally offended her. And for EquiFest, all the symptoms of the desert were exacerbated with the added bodies crowding around the various stages. If Mars was not Mars, they may have been sardined with the other fans in the audience but they had the special privilege of knowing and being personally intimate with the singer who was headlining the little mutant music festival.

They snuck through the backstage (though they could have easily been let in; their name was on the guest list, but where was the fun in that?) and searched for their friend. When they found her, sitting in front of a vanity in the green room, they covered her eyes with one large hand and kissed her cheek, "Guess who!"

Immediately, Mercy's lips erupted into a brilliant smile and she turned around, embracing them in a fierce hug. It had been a while since they had last been in the same room together. A couple of years, if she was not mistaken (she wasn't). "Marz! You came!" She was shocked, and pleasantly surprised by their appearance. While she had asked them to come a few months back, she had not know whether or not the wild woman would actually show-up. Not that she doubted Mars' support or loyalty––it was just that Mars did not a make a habit of keeping dates and they were quite transparent about that. Even when she had asked initially, they had plainly told her they wouldn't make a promise but they would make an attempt.

"Of course! MercixMercy is my favorite band and I have heard the singer is a total babe! A complete dreamboat, even! The hex girl who has this heart," they said as they crossed a finger over their chest, punctuating the flirty action with a wink. They squeezed her a little tighter and kissed the top of her head; she buried her face into the crook of their neck and took the moment to wrap herself in their sweet cinnamon fragrance.

"Oh, puh-lease... I am really glad you came." She pulled back to look up at them and she had that concerned look in her eye that seemed to be a signature part of her uniform. Mars supposed if they had the ability to see possible futures that maybe they would worry more too. But since that was hardly their concern, given that there abilities kept them in the present, they did not spend much time on the thought or imagining that kind of life. "I keep hearing about you in the news," she continued, her tone was just shy of outright scolding them––clearly upset with them; they only offered a sheepish grin in response. "I told you to be careful." They really didn't like how she put so much stress on careful––they were plenty careful! (When it suited them––which averaged around 13 percent of the time.)

The taller of the two sighed and nodded; it was better to go along with whatever Mercy wanted when she was anxious; at least to pay some lip service to her to bundle of nerves. It wasn't lying in their eyes––it would have been much worse if they actually spun a half-hearted promise to her. Nodding along was completely different––if you did the mental gymnastics to figure it out as Mars had. BUT, if she were so worried about them, they would try to keep a low profile. (Though if someone bet them that they couldn't outrun a speeding bullet, when they very well could (not), well they might not have much a choice but to RISE to the occasion. They would have to keep that thought to themselves, though. For Mercy's sake––it was being a good friend.)

There was a knock on the makeshift door and Mercy's manager called out through it, "Five minutes!" The multi-talented woman sighed and then turned so that she could step onto the chair that she had previously been sitting on; this added enough inches to her height that she could look at Mars without straining her neck (if they stuck around she would request a neck massage to put those lengthy fingers to use). She kissed their cheek and then on their forehead. "If you're planning on staying after the show... there's going to be a party at The Gatsby." Immediately after saying that, though, she turned to head onstage. It was, admittedly, abrupt but she didn't want to wait to hear their answer; she didn't want to be disappointed if the woman said she were going to leave. One could never be too sure how long Mars would stick around. It could be hours, days, or a month and there was no way of knowing until they were gone––sometimes without a goodbye. They forced you to enjoy each moment with them, in that way.

As they stood alone in the green room (which was not green, it was red), they leaned back against the vanity where Mercy had previously been. They could hear the audience screaming for her. It filled the room and a little smile danced across their lips; they popped up from the vanity and walked out to the backstage area. At the side of the stage, they peaked at the performance and were fully mesmerized by her natural dominance over the stage and crowd.

"Alright, freakies––are you all ready to get WEIRD tonight?!"

Okay, maybe they would stick around, at least for one night.

.............​

A few hours, dozens of drinks later, the pair were lazily cozied in booth at the back of a desert dive bar––full of other mutants from the festival and hipster locals. "I keep saying it, I know, but I've never heard a more compelling cover of Nothing Compares 2 U––I really, really think I am going to think about it for the rest of my life," Mars said, breaking a long and comfortable lull in their conversation. They had an arm around the smaller woman and she was curled into their side, tracing circles on their chest while they stroked her short, bleach blonde waves.

She grinned back and leaned up, pressing her hand firmly against their chest for support, partly, because she was coming down from being drunk, "Let's go back to my place—I can give you a private show; I’ve been practicing my Whitney." (Houston, of course)

"Okay," they whispered, sliding out of the booth and offering a hand to help the other woman out, which she gladly took. As they made for the exit, waving goodbye to the friends they'd made over the course of the evening, someone from outside burst through the entrance—Mars was naturally put at alert, ready for whatever was about to happen and Mercy, just as naturally, grabbed their arm and pulled them back—but before the person could even shout their warning, a swarm of militarized forces poured into the bar.

There was no warning. No call to get on the ground. No announcement of arrest or what was happening. There were only tranquilizer darts flying into the air and people screaming, making for blocked exits––the armored rats didn't seem to care to distinguish between who was human and who was mutant. The fallen, sedated bodies, were all gathered, retrained, and dragged outside just the same. Through the window, Mars saw three transport vehicles and two tanks––all with the emblem for the specialized domestic unit dedicated to dealing with problematic mutants (Mars was familiar with them, but had never technically been in such close quarters with them).

The patrons, of course, fought back as best they could. Mercy, a renowned pacifist, even lifted a wall of Earth and used it to push back against the aggressors; Mars, meanwhile, sped through the room and plucked as many darts from the air as they could and stuck them into the necks of their assailants.

When they move, when they accelerate, it was the world around them that slowed down––warping their own perception of space and time. In their fastest moments they actually felt slowed down. Now was no different; in this slowed pace they were able to observe and assess. They could see others were also fighting back and taking out the soldiers where they could, but the ratio of special forces to patrons was grossly disproportionate; coupled with the fact that most were so intoxicated that even if they had stood chance sober, their form was too sloppy to be of any use. Mars had done this calculation in a minute; the odds were stacked. Easily, they could have left––they probably could have carried Mercy out too––and they considered that for only a minute. But Mars wouldn't and didn't turn their back on people.

They grabbed Mercy and pulled her behind the bar. Her expression screamed terror. They tried to calm her by cupping her face in their hands and forcing her attention on them. "Hey, hey, look at me," they said, hooking their eyes into her own so that she could not look away from them. "You need to get out of here. You need to take as many people as you can and get out of here." She had made the connection even before Mars had spoke and she looked at them in complete disbelief––almost offended (no, she was offended). "We don't have time to get into it––look, more people get out if you take them; I'll be fine."

That was a blatant lie. Premonition or not, Mars was predictable to a fault. She clung to them, her hands balled into tight fists around their shirt. She knew what would happen if she let go. "Don't. You don't have to be a hero," she muttered, tears started to stream down her face—soon like a rushing river; like she was going to make an ocean of the desert.

They closed their eyes, jaw clenched tight as they pulled and pried her off of their clothes. Their hands wrapped firmly around her wrists; as much as she tried to struggle, break free, and hold them (hold them back), Mars pushed her away and held her at arms length instead. The wild woman took one last look at their friend and, for her benefit, offered a lopsided grin with their head tilted to the side, "Why are you so surprised that I am, Ms. Know-It-All?"

Before she could laugh, cry, or protest any further, before she could blink or even breathe, they were gone and she was alone behind the bar. Mars had made up their mind already; now she had to make up hers––and hers was set on making sure Mars had a chance.

.............​

Mars was not a one-man army––even if they pretended to be. While their speed gave them an extraordinary advantage in being able to take out multiple opponents at once, in a seeming single sweep, they were still outnumbered (it didn't even seem to matter how many soldiers they knocked out). They were still incredibly human, with a limited fuel tank and they were quickly losing momentum (there was only so much time they could spend at the upper-end of their speed limit). Yet they could not bring themselves to leave while they still enough in them to keep going. It was not their intention to save anything for the journey home.

They were able to draw a majority of the forces outside of the bar––which easy enough after they created a sonic boom with the force of their sprinter's start launch; it was even easier to bring more out once they had sent a Mars-made tornado to knock over the tanks and two of the vans. (They hoped that was enough to distract the soldiers; they hoped that gave Mercy time to get out with the remaining patrons.) With most of the forces drawn outside, Mars was able to pick off a handful more, but running in circles to create that tornado had taken up most of their remaining energy.

It was getting easier to take aim as their body slowed down.

A dart landed in the back of their neck, another stuck into their chest, and a third hit their arm. The effects of the drug made short work of the runner and soon they had tripped, crashed, and tumbled into the sand. Most of their body was slipping away from them or maybe it was their conscious; they tried to get up, but a club struck their back between their shoulder blades and kept them down.

"I hear these monsters can take quite the beating."

There was another strike against their back.

elsewhere

vibing

70s glam rock vibes

mercy & kafele

coded by natasha.

 

[starboob]

tw: death, substance use​

REGGIE NORTH

MY HEART AND SOUL WERE NEVER MINE TO OWN

20 MAY, 4 YEARS AGO | LOCATION: DUBLIN, IRELAND

The streets never felt the same in different cities, with different bodies and souls. It wasn't that Regina expected each city, each place they visited to feel the same but they were used to a certain kind of stasis that made new environments, new places more jarring. But, maybe, it was their own fault for drinking to the point of disorientation. The kind where the streets never made any sense and it was difficult to even remember the city that they were in––tour life on its own would have made that difficult, and they certainly were not making this any easier on themselves.

Their feet shuffled and they stumbled through the entrance of the hotel lobby––finally having located the right one after bumbling through several wrong ones. They only had a few hours before they were supposed to be ready for an interview and, of course, disastrous as ever, they were still covered in last night's sweat, vomit, sex, etc. Whatever they had done to their body the night before is hidden from their mind's eye, but it was begging to escape. It pounded against their skull and banged against their eyes. 'Christ.' The lights in the lobby were too bright and the colors were just a little too much. At some point they ended up losing their feet and ran––or rather, crashed into a bell boy and pushed over his cart. They didn't even stop to apologize or help clean up the mess. 'Fuck, fuck, shit...'

When they finally made it up to their room, it took multiple attempts before they managed to get the keycard into the slot. 'Yikes, Reg.' For a minute, or maybe fifteen, they forgot about their agenda for the day and instead preoccupied themselves with finding a cure for the increasing, imminent hangover from Hell. (This “cure” was also known as raiding the hotel mini-fridge––which was empty. Already. They groaned.)

They stood, frustrated, and when they turned around to find that their tour manager had sent a breakfast cart up to their room, it set something off within them––probably, because it felt like an insult to their ability to be a regular human (it was beyond them to assume that Soren cared). Naturally, they took their irritation out on the cart and shoved it into the corner of the bed––it bumped and shook in a predictable way; a couple of utensils fell to the floor. That wasn't enough. They pushed it again, this time into the open space of the room where it turned over and spread what would have been their breakfast across the hotel floor. 'Heh.'

Their diet was a mixture of pure liquid, powder, and direct drips of pure bliss into their veins and they didn't need anyone to tell them how they should or should not take care of their body! They sure as hell didn't need a fucking virgin telling them what to do. It was that exact sort of defiant, non sequitur logic that inspired them to––

“––ahh, hey!”

Before they could even grab hold of the television and rip it off the wall, they were yanked by the collar and dragged backwards into the bathroom. Reggie had nearly lost their balance with Soren's ambush, but when she more or less flung them with ease towards the tub they fell over completely and crashed against it, crumpled on their side.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing, you little punk? Do you think you’re in Mötley fucking Crüe?? Are you stupid?" The alleged virgin scolded them, then smacked the backside of their head with her ringed fingers ("Ow!"). "Clean yourself up, little bitch." (She actually was a pleasant person to be around––a real peach––but she was also a serious tour manager and gave her clients exactly the kind of treatment they not only deserved, but often needed.) Reggie glared as she left them alone in the bathroom, gathering themselves from the floor and already thinking of ways to get even.

.............​

"So tell us, Reggie, what was the inspiration for SYRIN's debut album 'High Mom' following the success of your EP, 'Young God'?"

"Sure, sure... I'll tell you about that..." They looked away from the interviewer and made direct eye contact with Soren, a coy smirk threatening to tug at their lips. She seemed to know exactly what Reggie was thinking and mouthed the word 'No!' but they'd already made up their mind. Their gaze shifted back to the interviewer and they continued, "But, first, I think we should ALL have a drink." (Soren just about lost her temper––steam practically flared out from her nostrils and ears and she almost destroyed Reggie on the spot.)

"Oh?" The interviewer blinked; there was some shuffling amongst the crew––confused looks between them all before they ultimately shrugged and agreed. "Okay, sure..." And soon enough there were drinks in hand and Reggie decided, then, that they were ready to continue with the interview––which was fairly standard and something unremarkable. What Reggie was unaware of, however, was that while the interview aired on live radio, 10 percent of listeners went to join them for a drink as well.

▸▸14 JUNE, 3 YEARS AGO | LOCATION: TORONTO, CANADA.

The club was the same as any other in essence––expensive booze, dizzying lights, music that could break bones if it were any louder (all of it remixes of songs that didn't need to be made into dance/club remixes––honestly, it was offensive what they did to the Lorde). In some ways, the club was a second home to the rockstar who spent more time out than in; who hated to be alone; who preferred facile relationships to ones that could be felt with depth. Here, there, anywhere people danced carelessly, pumped with loveless potions, was their oasis. It took them away from the onerous burden of being alone lonely.

(Sex, money, drugs hugged them all just the same. Sure, the warmth that each provided was temporary but it was better than staring in the mirror.)

With whatever their heart was pumping, it was no surprise that their humming body didn't register that the girl they had come with had been replaced with a new body, a new face (a prettier face). They didn't notice that she felt different, but they noticed her hands on their hips, the tips of her fingers dancing up their shirt and dragging down their abdomen, clawing at their hips. Whoever the woman was, she had them too hooked to care about the forgotten girl.

When she noticed that she had their attention, she shot them a grin and looped her arms around their neck. She slowed their rhythm despite the fast song. Stepping up to her tiptoes, she shouted (but even then they could barely hear her), "Hey, singer––cool trick you did out there.” The way she said it and the knowing eye that followed all said, 'I know what you are.' "I was at your show tonight––you are the lead singer of SYRIN, right? I'm not mistaking you for a different blondie?"

They only shrugged in response. It was indifferent enough; it was aloof enough, but honestly they just couldn't hear her. Besides, they were more than happy to ignore whatever conversation that she was trying to have with them so long as she wanted to hold them.

"You're kinda quiet."

.............​

Eventually, Reggie had invited the woman to join them for a few bumps in the bathroom; that of course led to their bodies pressed together in the cramped stall; which of course had the bouncer crashing the party after several agitated and piss-full dancers had heard the careless passion. The night, however, had been young and both Reggie and the woman (who had at some point introduced herself, but they would never be able to recall it) had made a silent agreement to continue. Somehow, they ended up across the city on the rooftop of some warehouse full of starving artists. Apparently, she was living there or knew someone there? They hadn't paid much attention when she spoke––they mostly just undressed her with their gaze and nodded along when it seemed appropriate.

A fine line disappeared beneath their nose and when their head came up and tilted back, their eyes opened to sight of stars (all twenty that they could see under the harsh city lights). Even if a bit lackluster, the view made them feel small and insignificant so they turned around and leaned against the barrier, propping their elbows on the ledge to hold them up as they slouched. “I’ve never done this before.”

“Had fun?” She teased.

“Fuck you—no, looked at the fuckin’ stars. They’re so... fuckin' boring...”

For some reason that made the woman frown. How could you go so long without noticing what was right above? And how could you not appreciate the beauty? Sure, Toronto was not the best place in the world to be stargazing, but it still could inspire wonder (she thought so, at least). She searched for something else to say, a new topic to keep them both entertained, because clearly this one was not interested in the stars. And soon, she remembered, finally, after spending hours distracted by Reggie’s mouth, the entire reason she had approached the singer in the first place. It came to her out of the blue too. “Oh, hey––I've been meaning to tell you: please spare yourself and don't hurt or upset my friend okay? It's really not worth it."

"What?" They asked, confused as they searched their pockets for their Lucky Strikes. "Who are you talking about?" They stuck a cigarette between their lips and flicked their thumb against the lighter several times, but it only created sparks. Thankfully, the woman came in for the save and touched the end of the stick with a fiery index.

"Oh––wait, my bad!" She laughed, flicking her wrist to put out the flame. Then she slapped her knee, continuing to laugh at a joke they apparently were not privy to. "You don't know them yet. But I am 70 percent shur that you will. The outcome is highly likely."

She kept her smile. Reggie stayed quiet. ‘She’s fuckin’ weird.’

▸▸17 JUNE, 3 YEARS AGO | LOCATION: PHILADELPHIA, U.S.A.

"Yeah, whatever," they mumbled, bringing a scoop of powder to their nose and taking a deep inhale. "I just don't fuckin' believe that––" they paused, sniffled again and rubbed the side of their nose, making sure to get every dose properly integrated into their system. The drip in the back of their throat was bitter, worse than a bitter melon, pomelo, or grapefruit all combined. It nearly made them gag and cough, but they suffered through the discomfort because the high was always worth it. "––that it really counts as third fuckin' base if it was over the fuckin' underwear," they teased as they tossed the bag over to the anonymous brunette. She was sitting on the bed with her legs crossed; they were on the floor, stretched out on their side, looking up her fishnet stockings and paying careful attention whenever she shifted. It really was quite the view. ('––Who could've known it'd be this good?'' played softly in the background.) They smiled and watched as she took another bump. How many was that, now? Reggie had lost count a while ago, but they also had a higher tolerance and a faster metabolism. The singer couldn't speak for the brunette, however (though she seemed to be keeping up).

"So what are you saying about earlier?" She asked, setting the bag down on the nightstand. She fell backwards onto the bed.

Reggie took this as their chance to make a move. Slowly, they leaned up from their position on the floor and crawled over to her dangling legs. When they touched her ankle and smoothed their hand up her calf, she uncrossed her legs. (The textured groove of the fishnets felt even more electrifying when paired with a blossoming high.) Carefully, they placed their hands on her knees and pushed her legs apart; their pierced lips pressed against her the inner part of her knee and their tongue flitted out, dragging a couple inches up. "Well, shit... I just think we could make up for getting fuckin' interrupted..."

Wordlessly, she smoothed her fingers over their buzzed-soft blonde locks and pulled them forward. She lifted her head just a bit to look down at the singer, as a smile smoothed over her lips.

.............​

They fell backwards onto the bed, with a lit cigarette between their lips and the dime bag fisted in their hand, resting on the stomach. Next to them, the brunette reached for their hand and evidently she wasn't reaching to hold it; she wanted the only other thing Reggie had to give and they obliged. Through their peripheries, they watched as she took yet another bump. After a long drag––that they blew it her face––they said, "Shit, are you good?"

The woman raised her hand and made a weak attempt to wave the smoke out of her way. When she looked at them, her eyes were half-lidded, but she offered a (pale) smile and a nod. Her hand was on their arm. (Why did her hand feel so cold?) She leaned over and kissed their cheek, then stole the next drag of their cigarette just as they were bringing it to their lips. Maybe it was inexperience, but she coughed on the smoke and took that as a chance to excuse herself to the bathroom.

A couple of minutes passed without note and when the sound of a dull thud broke through the soft background music, they called out to her, “Yo, you good?” After a few minutes and no response, they got up (though it took them an added five minutes to pull themselves away from their Instagram feed before they actually headed to the bathroom). When they pushed the door open, they found the brunette collapsed on the floor––she must have hit her head on her way down because blood was spilling out of her and spreading across the linoleum. Her body was slack. Drool hung out the corner of her colorless lips and immediately Reggie rushed over to her. "Shit, shit––" a hurricane of curses flew out of the mouth as they grabbed hold of her shoulders and began to shake her. "Dude, wake up!" They tried and called out to her (and at some point realize they don't even know her name). "Fuck!" Carelessly, they let go of the brunette’s limp figure and tear back into the bedroom.

In haste, they swept through the room and grabbed their belongings––pulled their clothes on without making sure they were forwards or right-side out, too rushed and too focused on clearing out before... before they could be sure of what was happening. They flew down the stairs of the apartment and, just their luck, caught the roommate on the way out; he said something, they couldn't be sure, about their show last night and that he was a big fan or something. All Reggie could think was, 'Fuck.' Their eyes reached into the fan, their stare fierce as they grabbed his shirt and told him, "You didn't see me. No one else was with her," before they shoved him backwards and bolted out of the studio, hood pulled over their face.

'Shit. Shit! Fuckfuckfuck––'

▸▸18 SEPTEMBER, 2 YEARS AGO | LOCATION: SAN FRANCISCO, U.S.A.

Their fingers hit the piano and for a minute it sounded as if they were going to cover Tiny Dancer; the crowd started to cheer. But the rockstar stopped, suddenly, and their hands fell into their lap. It was a moment of pensive thought as they chewed on the corner of their lip and one hand dragged through their boyish blonde locks, sweeping it from their face. They reached for the mic and pressed their thin, pierced lips a little too close, "Fuck it––you know what, San Francisco, since you all have been so fuckin' good to us, maybe I'll treat you to a new fuckin' song," The crowd's enthusiasm was clear and Reggie beamed at the audience (there was something almost shy about it), as they found their new start.

It was a soft song––

In the summer sheets, the only place she still exists,
There are dreams and reimagined memories
In all sacrilege, we exist, we still exist (delightful memory)
Side by side, elbow to elbow, this moment is a dream
And in this quiet I tell her that I'm afraid

Only in the memory of these dreams does the ghost
Ever whisper. And I repeat the words that only
I could have conjured to absolve my hellish soul
When fear breaks into the seams of my bones
I tell myself, as she told me that night,
"It's gonna be okay, darling"

There's a soul out there praying just for me.
She told me I was gonna be alright.

▸▸19 SEPTEMBER, 2 YEARS AGO | LOCATION: LOS ANGELES, U.S.A.

"Reg, are you okay?"

The rockstar was bent over with one hand grasping the brick wall, and the other clutching their stomach. They were staring at the last meal they had eaten and their noise wrinkled from the smell. Wiping their mouth with the back of their hand, they placed the cigarette back between their lips; their hand waved away at the concern as they straightened up and propped themselves against the wall, mumbling a response, "I'm fuckin' f––ine." Though nothing about their gait, posturing, general make-up indicated that they were, in fact, fine. Whatever was coursing through their veins was raging against their bones and rejecting its host––begging to get out. It felt like there was a tight rubber band around their head and heart (in a way, it was kind of pleasant). "Wh-where the fuck are my fuckin' keys?" Again, the words are mumbled and they leave their lips in a shakey rhythm, while their hands pat down their pockets.

"Dude, is that a good idea? You're fucking drunk, dude?"

"Is that a good idea? You're fucking drunk," they repeated back, with all the petulance of a child as they glared at their bandmate. "Don't fuckin' worry 'bout me, 'kay?" their voice latched into his mind and relieved him of his (rightful) concern. For a moment his face went black, but then he put his hands up in surrender, backed away and mumbled something about coming to get him if the singer needed anything. (They didn't plan on taking him up on that offer.)

Once they located their keys, they made for their car. They only tripped over themselves a few times before they ran directly into their vehicle, barely bracing the impact with their hands. "Fuckin' miscalculated that..." It took them a second to gather themselves before they jerked the car door open (accidentally) and slid into the driver's seat. On some level, they knew this was a terrible idea, but they had been behind the wheel under worse conditions and survived. (They flirted with everything, why not Death?)

The engine started and they put their hands on the wheel. 'Ten and two.' It took a second for their vision to focus, and once it did they felt coherent enough to operate the vehicle. Though that steady feeling did not last long once the car was set into motion. It took more effort than they had to concentrate on the road in front of them; yet they figure that since their place was only a 20 minute drive away, it would be alright.

Though, they didn't notice how fast they were going; they were having trouble distinguishing street lights, signs, and sped through several stops. The lanes blurred together along with the other cars on the road. The distractions were overwhelming and soon their mind wandered, without any thought of the road in front of them. The only thing that called them back to reality was the sound of a car honking, desperately, as their awareness (too slowly) snapped back to attention. ‘Fuck––!’

The cars crumpled on impact.

.............​

When they came to, or started to come to, they only felt like a pair of eyes. Reggie couldn't feel their body, only the incoherent thoughts that swam through their head. Were they dead? Were they an angel? The lights around them seemed too bright to be natural, and their vision was still too hazed to make much sense of their stark setting. ‘Huh—‘ Slowly, a dull ache started to hug them though they weren't sure from what or why. The confusion, grogginess, drugs all left a heavy fog around their brain that only seemed to register the faint echoing two men talking, filling the inordinate ether.

"Well, look at that. This might be easier than we thought."

"Yeah... What time is it?"

"6:09 AM."

They heard shuffling around the ether. "Make sure the nurse records the time of death as 6:09 AM, then. We still have some work to do to spin this story. Do you have her family's contact... Hey, hand me that. I think she's starting to wake up." There was a small prick of pain in their arm; it was a familiar kind of kiss though this one was not pumping ice; it seemed to be something heavier. Their conscious, which had only barely been keeping them present in the hospital room, rapidly began to fade away. There was no energy in their body to fight the sedative or cling to this world.

Their body sunk deeper into the hospital bed.
Their awareness slipped back into the abyss.

somewhere

???

skater/grunge

randos, soren, ??? (mercy lol)

coded by natasha.

 

[heartstringss]

OLIVIA WRAY

A SNAPSHOT OF THE LIFE BEFORE




WINTER OF ‘07, TWELVE YEARS AGO.

LOCATION: RURAL KENTUCKY
AGE: SEVENTEEN​

”They can’t touch you till you’re 18,” Bryson says; not that Wray’s even really listening in the first place. She zones out staring off across the playground, settled on top of a picnic table with her elbows on her knees, her chin resting in the palms of her hands. She hears the conversation like a sound traveling underwater; it resonates but doesn’t really leave that much of an impression.

“Are you sure? How do you know?” Denny asks from the other side of her.

“How do you think I know? ...Lived experiences, man. Doesn’t mean they won’t still try to make your life as miserable as possible though. As soon as you can, you gotta disappear — just get out and get gone, you know? Don’t ever fuckin’ look back.”

“How are we supposed to do that? I ain’t got no fuckin’ money for a road trip, Bry. Fuck.”

“Don’t worry so much, man. I know a guy; I’ll hook you up.”

“... You always know a guy. But hey — thanks, man. I really owe you one.”

There’s silence for a beat when the two boys trail off in conversation; meanwhile, Bryson lights another cigarette. He passes it off to Denny, who takes a few puffs and then passes it off to Wray. She’s not paying much attention, so doesn’t notice Denny's hand a few inches away from her until the smoke wafting in her face begins to make her eyes sting with tears, though she ignores them. When one of the boys reaches out to wave a hand in front of her face, she doesn't startle, simply blinks and looks over with narrowed eyes full of annoyance. Bryson laughs, but Denny seems genuinely concerned when he asks, “You good, Wray?”

Wray gives a half-shrug as she takes the cigarette and puts it in-between her lips. She takes a few long drags, draining the tobacco nearly all the way down to the filter. When she goes to release the smoke, she can already feel her nerves begin to unwind, her muscles relaxing as the tension slowly drifts away. Laying back, she crosses her arms behind her head and closes her eyes. She focuses on the sounds of the world coming to life all around her, the feel of her blood pumping away inside her veins. She lets the world consume her. The shadows creep ever closer as day turns into night.

The boys’ earlier words drift back to her in slow motion, more like an echo than a memory. When she finally decides to throw in her own two cents, the conversation is no longer relevant, but her words hit home just the same.

“I want to disappear.”

FALL OF ‘08, ELEVEN YEARS AGO.

LOCATION: RURAL KENTUCKY
AGE: EIGHTEEN IN TWO WEEKS​

It’s not exactly difficult for a kid with no bank account, no family, no friends, and no future to disappear without a trace. If you know all the right steps to take, some might even say it’s as easy as planning a vacation.

According to Bryson's friend 'Gigs' (which is apparently short for 'Gigabyte' and, Wray thinks, is surely not his real name), Wray was the perfect candidate — then again, according to Gigs, Wray was pretty much the perfect... well, everything. It was undeniable that he had a sweet spot for the blonde. Anyone could see it, and though Wray knew that should’ve creeped her out a little more, (what with her still being 17 and him probably nearing 24), she figured it worked in her favor here. For instance, he was willing to loan her 3 grand for the low, low price of just one roll in the hay, if she was interested. (And yeah, she definitely should’ve been disgusted, but at least he wasn't bad looking... for a guy. He was sweet, even, though maybe a little socially inept... but he could help her disappear. With circumstances being what they were, she felt she simply couldn’t afford to be picky, you know?)

“If you don’t want them to find you, you can’t take anything stupid with you. No pictures, no memorabilia, no fuckin’ boyfriends, you got it?” They’d finished up just a few minutes earlier, and already Wray found herself desperately wishing for a shower. She could smell his B.O. clinging to her skin, the scent of Axe Body Spray barely masking the fact he likely hadn’t showered this morning before getting up and going about his day. In the aftermath of the act, she honestly did regret it... but it was too late to take it back now. Not like it was her first time using her body as leverage to get what she wanted (needed), anyway.

“I’m gonna make you a list of the kind of stuff you should take with you. I’ll get you some new ID, get you a passport so you can travel, but you gotta be careful, you hear?" Like he genuinely cared what happened to her. Okay, yeah, right. "Anyway, I should be able to get your name and face all scrubbed away today — medical, BMV, government records; whatever I can find. Even if they still remember you here,” he points to his temple as he talks, indicating his brain, “They won’t have any record of you here,” he gestured vaguely to the computer across the room, “'cause I’m gonna wipe your slate all clean, fake a death certificate, and have you ‘cremated.’ Even if they suspect it’s all BS, as I'm sure they will, they won’t have any way to get you back. It’ll be like you never existed in the first place.”

She doesn’t really understand how it works, but he says that’s fine because she doesn’t necessarily have to understand. She just has to make sure she doesn’t screw up any of his hard work. (And never existing in the first place? God, doesn't that sound wonderful.)

While Wray works on getting dressed, Gigs simply grabs a pair of basketball shorts off the floor and slips into them, leaving the rest of his torso bare. He doesn’t say much else as he expertly picks his way through the mess of his bedroom floor, working over to the computer set-up on the wall opposite from the bed. When he sits down at the desk and plugs in (not with any wires or hard drives, but rather literally, with his brain, his entire consciousness swept away in an instant), Wray shivers, watching the computer’s reflection change as his eyes turn glassy and blank as the monitor. His mouth hangs slightly agape as he works his way into the computer’s mainframe and begins to surf the web. The screen reflects codes of data in a string of bright green numbers, which then also reflect across his eyes. No longer is he in the same room as her; he is actually in the Internet now.

SPRING OF ‘11, EIGHT YEARS AGO.

LOCATION: SAN FRANCISCO, CA.
AGE: TWENTY​

When Gigs told her that she should take the opportunity to travel as much as she can while she can, Wray decided she was going to take his advice... and certainly didn't take it lightly. As soon as he finished compiling all of her data and wiping it clean from any and all records connected to the Internet (even those on secure systems, he said), she cut out of her group home and began working up a travel plan. There were three other teens in her home about to age out of the system with her; though she didn't know any of the others beyond a first-name basis at the time, she was sure they must've all seen the news. They had likely all heard Bryson's warning that they needed to 'get gone' as soon as possible too, and undoubtedly all shared the same dream. Whether they found themselves on the road or became somebody new somewhere along the way, the goal for most mutants — especially mutants with shitty childhoods, as there sure were a lot of those — was just to start over.

For a bunch of teenagers (and maybe especially mutant teenagers) growing up in rural-ass Kentucky, it was easy enough to mistake California as a land of possibility. Hollywood alone gave off the perfect first impression: come here and you can follow out every single one of your dreams; here, you can truly make something of yourself. 'Live larger than life!', they say. It was supposed to be a fresh start, and they all intended on chasing it.

Except, when they hop off the train, breathless and whole bodies sore, Wray notices nearly right away she seems the only one who doesn't care about chasing fame, or money, or any sort of recognition — she just wants to disappear, blend in, start over... and the fact that she could do that fairly easily on a train, hopping railroads like some kind of bandit from the wild, wild west? Hell, why wouldn't she have taken the opportunity when it presented itself? It was perfect!

The only problem: life in California — and especially life in San Francisco, where most of the trio settles first — is expensive as fuck.

When she starts running low on cash (which really doesn't even take that long), she begins looking into her options for work and ultimately decides her best option would be to throw a little caution to the wind and start to worm her way back out into society. It's not something she wanted to have to do anytime soon, but it's necessary. She can't just not work — she needs food, she needs money, she needs someplace to live, and she does not, under any circumstances, plan on going back to the streets.

Over the course of the next three years that she's in California, she sustains herself mostly off of odd jobs. Dog-walking, house-sitting, babysitting (she regrets that last one immediately); she takes pretty much anything that lets her work without having to provide too much of a personal profile, leaving too much of a footprint, or risk totally give up her anonymity.

But she doesn't want to disappear and only be trying to survive while she's doing it. That's the biggest problem... She needs hobbies, too, or she'll go insane.

A couple of years after she first moves to California, Wray realizes she's lucky to be generic enough in her appearance that she can blend in fairly easily if she just covers up her heterochromia. Walking around the city with blonde hair, blue eyes, tan skin, she looks just the same as almost any other bombshell beach babe in California, really... except for the fact she's not just like everybody else. Shadow clings to her every footstep; entire rooms grow just a touch darker at her entrance. She brings an energy with her everywhere she goes, one that does the exact opposite of lighting up a room with her smile, and it makes people... afraid, because they don't understand.

But it's easy enough for most to simply ignore her presence if she keeps quiet and doesn't make a scene, and that's exactly how she goes about keeping her anonymity and the peace. That is, until she decides to move onto the Internet to explore developing more of her personal interests.

When she first picks up a guitar and starts filming videos and soundbites of her own singing, it blows up on the Internet a lot more than she'd ever expected, but it's probably one of the best decisions she thinks she's ever made because, in the end, it makes her feel so, so alive. Maybe a little recognition isn't so bad after all...? And so she delves a bit further.

When she starts getting into Instagram, it doesn't take long before someone reaches out and presents her with the option of becoming a social media influencer, and though she's reasonably wary at first, she inevitably agrees (because why not? Hey, easy money!). It presents a lot of its own unique adventure, but quite a few unique obstacles as well — and it certainly doesn't hurt her income, of course.

By this point, her face is splattered all over the internet and keeps popping up everywhere she turns; her visage clear on display for anyone to see. People start recognizing her on the streets, they begin connecting her Instagram back to her music. It means her anonymity is squashed, but being that it's the Internet, well... she can still be whoever she wants; it's just that she's no longer a nobody. (Honestly, she'd rather be a nobody.)

Before it can get totally out of hand, she reaches out to Gigs and asks him to make sure her IP address is scrambled on everything she posts so that no one can link her online content back to her real-life location or identity. He freaks out on her, asking why her face is all over the Internet, how she could be stupid enough to use any part of her real name in her online identity. She shuts the connection with him off right then and there, the moment he calls her stupid, but fortunately, he still does what she asks. (Otherwise, he runs the risk of her "inevitable downfall," as he calls it, leading back to him, and obviously he can't have that.)

She gains quite a bit of online fame taking on this new persona of 'wray.of.sunshine', and it's not terrible, of course, it's just a little... dull. Too many people trying to force friendships on her, too many people wanting to get inside her pants. She ignores most of her followers, barely replies to any of her messages — doesn't even read most of them, actually.

Once she's achieved enough financial stability from that odd little adventure, she packs up her entire life, leaves California, and moves to Alaska instead. (It's the second-best decision she's ever made in her life; much more beneficial for her health, as the cold and dark help her stay in touch with her powers and the quiet, serene solitude helps her stay in touch with her sanity. Outside of the city, she no longer has to keep her abilities hidden. It's dark enough up north she can be herself without any need to worry, and for that fact, she can't help feeling grateful... and spiteful of the normalcy she'd lost somewhere along the way.)

From there, life begins to calm down and she finally settles into a rhythm. It's even peaceful... for a while.

FALL OF ‘15, FOUR YEARS AGO.

LOCATION: ANCHORAGE, ALASKA
AGE: TWENTY-FIVE​

Every year on her mother's birthday, Wray has a tradition that she keeps.

Driving to the store, she buys herself a single chocolate cupcake, a small box of birthday candles, a pack of American Spirits, and a bottle or two of cheap whiskey.

She tears into the cigarettes as soon as she gets out of the store, but leaves all the rest in the grocery bag until she gets home. Once she is home, she heads straight out to her balcony with the bag and dumps the entire contents out onto the patio table. Shoving a single candle into the cupcake, she lights a match and touches it to the wick, then sits down to smoke a cigarette and watch it burn.

While the candle works its way through its wick, Wray simply stares, hardly moving a single inch. She lets it burn until the candle has become nothing more than a mere stub of wax buried deep within the cupcake's top; until the confection is so heavily covered in wax it's not only no longer edible, but also hardly even recognizable as food anymore. Once the flame has snuffed itself out, she snatches up the cupcake, crumbles it up in the palm of her hand, and tosses it straight into the trash.

She says the same words in parting, year after year:

"Hope you got your wish, momma."

And then?

Well... And then she starts drinking.

​

When she stumbles out of the cab, it's late at night, damn near early morning, and there's a girl hanging off her arm, but Wray is pretty sure she never actually got her name. She doesn't get another chance to ask though, because almost as soon as they’d gotten into the car, the redhead passed out and hasn't woken up since. Slipping further down her seat until she's all but sprawled across Wray's lap, she nuzzles her face into her shoulder, humming sleepy thoughts against her skin. The more the blonde keeps trying to inch away, the closer she works her way right back.

Even though she had been perfectly fine having her personal space invaded just 15 minutes ago when this girl had been all over her with her hands and mouth in places she could only dream of being touched now, she feels a bit more uncomfortable with... this. This intimacy is of a different breed, now — something more akin to light-hearted affection than it was raw passion, she thinks — and it feels like she’s suffocating with its effects. Her skin tingles with nerves at the softness of sensation, far from soothing for someone who needs personal space more than simply craves it. A deep sense of panic swells inside her chest; she wants to claw out of her own skin.

She could have dumped the girl out onto the sidewalk and continued home on her own, but the thought to do so honestly never even crossed her mind. Eventually giving in to her fate, Wray sighs as she turns her head to direct her stare out the window of the cab. Brooding over the loss of what should have been a fun night, she trails multicolored eyes down to take in the other's frame and can’t help but think the woman’s beauty has only increased tenfold now that she’s quiet. Too bad she's asleep, or else Wray probably would've just kissed her right then and there.

Even though it's a bit of an inconvenience, she still takes the girl home with her anyway. When they get to the address of her building, she helps the redhead out of the car, carries her all the way up three flights of stairs to her apartment, and dumps her out onto her sofa. She's tempted to take her to the bedroom and tuck her into bed with her instead, but considering how clingy she's become... yeah, better not.

Just when she's decided she's about to turn away to go take a shower before going to bed, the female finally, finally wakes up. She grabs Wray's hand, stopping her in her tracks before she has the chance to leave the room. The blonde tenses her jaw, looking down to the slender fingers looped around her wrist like they're more an invasion of privacy than anything else; the feel of the other girl’s skin is so much warmer than her own, it nearly burns.

With moonlight streaming through the skylight, half the girl's face is washed in white. Big doe eyes look up at her through the dark, her expression confused but not necessarily afraid. ”Where am I?” she asks, her voice thick, husky with the remnants of sleep still clinging to her throat.

”My apartment,” Wray answers simply. She reaches down, begins to gently pry the woman’s fingers from her wrist. It doesn't work — instead of letting go, the redhead clings a little tighter. She slides her hand up her wrist and knots their fingers together instead.

For the redhead, it seems the memories are starting to drift back. She pieces the night together slowly. ”We were supposed to have sex,” she says bluntly, to which Wray only smirks in response. She nods, shrugging her shoulders as she clarifies, ”Supposed to. You passed out.”

It wasn't a comment meant to guilt her, and that's obvious enough by Wray's indifference, so it seems the redhead doesn’t even flinch. In a single fluid motion, she tightens her grasp on Wray's hand and gives a sharp tug to her arm. The blonde stumbles forward on long legs ending in boot-clad feet, but before she can fall, she catches herself on the arm of the couch. She's not an easy person to catch off-guard, or so Wray thinks until the girl tugs her wrist a second time and she goes tumbling onto the sofa, falling heavily down on top of her.

She feels heat begin to flood her veins when the redhead’s hands loop around her waist, palms spreading flat across her back as she helps her re-adjust. Her mouth attaches itself to Wray's neck within seconds, and the blonde sighs with the pleasure that races over her skin with the sensation — ah yes, this is much more up her alley. When teeth begin to nip and suckle at her skin, she leans her head back to give the girl a little better access, no longer resistant of her touch.

”You're gorgeous,” the redhead says against her skin, as soon as she pulls away. It’s a compliment she's given Wray what seems like a million times over the course of the past couple hours, and it certainly hasn’t grown old yet. ”How'd I ever get so lucky, hmm?”

Wray rolls her eyes. The feel of the other woman’s breath, warm against her neck, tickles her skin. She'd already given up hope for the night to turn out lucky, and yet...

‘Seems the situation's not so hopeless after all,’ she thinks.

”Luck of the draw, I suppose,” Wray says eventually, letting her full body relax as long legs tangle into a knot around the other woman’s skirt. She props her torso up by planting her elbow near the side of the redhead’s face. When the redhead turns her face to press a kiss to her bicep, Wray feels a catch in her chest, lips turning up into a rare (small) smile. She has to resist the urge to melt just as seriously as she does the urge to freeze, and yet somehow ends up doing both at once.

They’re both cast into moonlight now, one on top of the other. Even without the advantage of being on top, Wray can read the other woman easily through the low lighting, darkness never being an issue for her as she can see clearly regardless. She notices herself being checking out, the other woman's eyes flitting over her face, taking in her features with the light a little brighter than it had been back at the bar. When she startles looking a little closer at her eyes, it's easy enough for Wray to guess why. She's not wearing her contacts. (She doesn't anymore; she stopped almost as soon as she moved to Anchorage.)

Here we go. Wray thinks, sighing. The conversation starts just as predictably as it always does.

”Your eyes—“

People are always surprised. The same thing happens nearly every single time she brings someone home with her, as well as anytime she's out in public. It’s not like she doesn’t understand the shock — one eye dark as night, the other bright as a clear blue sky, it is startling, yes... but after 20-some odd years of explaining time and time again what the condition was, it’s starting to get a little old.

Fortunately, she’s spared the usual gushing by the fact the girl seems to recognize her annoyance, and instead drags her down for another kiss instead of pushing on. When she pulls away for breath, she does so grinning, her gaze already wandering somewhere else as she begins to look a little further around her apartment. Just as quick as before, she gets distracted. "Jesus... Why is your apartment so fucking dark?”

Wray chuckles. Glancing around the room to measure the darkness, she quickly notices that with the lights off and it being nighttime, the shadows of the room have drawn closer with each new passing second. Likely attracted by the heaviness (or lightness — honestly, it barely even matters one way or another anymore) of her mood, she briefly shuts her eyes and wills them away. With heavy curtains drawn over every single window, the only light that remains is what little creeps through the skylight from the moon hanging over her apartment. But the room still teems with shadows more alive than not, even pushed away. The dark blankets across every surface, spills into every nook and cranny like sand filling in the gaps in a bucket of stones. She often forgets that other people can’t see as well as she can in the pitch black of any room. She often forgets how weird it really is.

As charming as the girl's curiosity is, Wray really doesn't feel like explaining her entire life story right now. With the heat of the other girl’s skin pressing firm to places of her body that have been neglected far too long, Wray can barely string together a coherent thought of her own, let alone strangle up the energy to entertain anyone else's.

Just when she seems about ready to spit another one of her random curiosities out into the open, Wray leans forward on her elbows and swoops down to steal the woman’s lips in a kiss so rough it could bruise. ”If you’re going to be awake now,” she says when she pulls back for air a minute or two later, newly breathless and thoroughly invigorated, ”maybe we could continue what we’d started earlier.”

While she speaks the words, Wray comes up on her knees to straddle the other woman's thighs. She drags her up by the collar of her blouse and begins unbuttoning her top, sliding her hands into her shirt to reach around her back and unhook her bra. The bulk of her attention remains on her mouth, teeth nipping at the redhead’s bottom lip with a sharpness that makes her jump and could've easily drawn blood if she weren't being more careful.

When she feels the other's breath tremble past her lips and begin to dance across her own skin, Wray smirks, her pulse already beginning to race. With the redhead’s eyes turned wild and hungry, she's sure she can guess her desires pretty easily, but it goes entirely against her nature to simply guess, so instead of letting up, Wray presses in a little closer. Helping the redhead out of her bra, she tosses the article to the floor and then slips her hands back into her shirt. When she scratches her nails up her back, she's treated to the sweetest reaction in the world: a low moan of breath, a slow arching of the spine, a brief fluttering of long, dark eyelashes. She's putty in her hands within seconds.

"...So. Is that a yes?" Wray asks slowly, wanting to hear her say it. When she receives an eager nod and a few incoherently mumbled words in response, she decides that’s good enough and swoops down to crush their mouths together once again. Deepening the kiss, Wray is already multitasking as she draws her arms out of the redhead's shirt and moves to unbutton her jeans. Without a second’s hesitation, she takes the other woman's hand and slides it down the front of her pants, directing her fingers exactly where she wants them.

When the redhead doesn’t hesitate nearly as much as she thought she would, she feels her heart race faster, her breath hitching in her lungs with every stroke. The darkness creeps ever closer as the night falls away to nothing, and for just as long as that lasts, Wray is able to forget all the other stresses of her life.

THE CAPTURE

A BEGINNING TO THE END





LATE WINTER, THREE-ISH YEARS AGO.

LOCATION: SAN FRANCISCO, CA.
AGE: TWENTY-SIX.​

“It’s good of you to finally come and visit. I was starting to think you might’ve died or something, Wray…”

The blonde in question merely hums in response, hardly even paying attention. She keeps her eyes trained on her phone, unable to look away. Her mouth is drawn into a thin, angry line as she flicks through various different underground news apps all reporting the same exact thing.

Tensions increase as another mutant is reported missing, the third one this week. Local law enforcement refuses to investigate and there is still no response from the governor. What is going on?!​

She’s boiling inside, this entire trip already feeling like a goddamn mistake. She’s not sure why she even agreed to come in the first place; none of these people ever really cared about her, and even when she did live in the area, they hardly talked. (Maybe it was just boredom? Hell, that made the most sense out of any reason. She’d certainly been bored a lot the past few months — barely going out in public, most days not even talking... but then, that was kind of the point of isolation, wasn’t it?)

Here lately, it’s felt a little bit too much like the whole world is constantly closing in on her. Getting up in the morning has become difficult, eating has become difficult, hell, even finding joy in the things that used to make her happy has become difficult. It’s been almost two years since “the downfall of man” began. For a mutant, that’s nothing unusual because life itself has always been different — rather, life itself has always been difficult — but it seems like it’s only getting worse, now. Hostility increased to frequent, near-commonplace threats of violence; there was something in the news every single day about people turning up missing, or dead.

No one that could do something about it was even making an effort to try; there weren’t near enough human-mutant relations representatives to tackle all of the issues. Her own community, often placid and peaceful because they just wanted to live their lives, had now become nearly just as violent and unruly as the humans. They were tired of being stuck inside cages like animals for people to point their fingers at and laugh.

Bucking the system, fighting back — it’s something she herself has even begun to consider. But then she’d for sure end up inside a cage, and that cage might not even be theoretical. It’s not always limited to a loss of freedom, after all; there were also just as many cases where it resulted in a loss of life. Even as tempting as it was (and as cowardly as it felt not to), she held back; she just couldn’t weigh those risks. It could very well end up permanent, after all, and despite everything that might’ve implied otherwise where Wray’s behavior was concerned, she very much did not, in fact, have a death wish.

She thinks she should stop looking at the news, but she can’t seem to tear her eyes away. Only Einar’s voice rising to the level of near-eardrum piercing sharpness pulls her out of her trance.

“...Are you even listening to me, Wray?”

She looks up with wide eyes, honestly surprised he’s even raised his voice at her in the first place. A new kind of rage bubbles in her chest, one that makes her want to reach across the table, grab him by the collar and ask him who he thinks he is. The only reason she doesn’t do it is because they’re at a public restaurant, and even though they’re outside, she still doesn’t feel like dealing with the amount of attention it would garner. Even still, her rage is perfectly palpable as she simply turns her phone off and sets it down. Her fingers steeple on the table in front of her as she looks to Einar and purses her lips, unamused.

“No, I was not,” she speaks honestly, her voice a controlled volume that echoes pure contempt while still barely managing above a whisper. “There’re a little more important things going on in the world these days, Einar.”

She doesn’t bother to apologize because she doesn’t feel guilty in the first place; yet even if she had felt guilty, an apology would have been highly unlikely. “What is it you want from me?”

“I just want a chance to talk…” He seems sheepish, his movements beyond tense and jittery creeping right on into full-on panic. “I just want a chance to explain, a chance to apologize…”

“You can’t explain. Your apology is just words. It means nothing, Einar.”

“You can’t say that, Wray… you don’t know what I’ve been dealing with ever since-- since--”

“You don’t get to tell me what I can and can’t say,” Wray cuts in, unironically doing the exact same thing to him that he kept doing to her. Cutting her off, pretending like what he had to say was at least ten times more important than what she had to say. Then again, for her, it was. “You don’t get to tell me what I can and can’t do. It doesn’t even matter what you’ve been dealing with, Einar. It matters how you act, and how you act is like a piece of shit.”

“Do you really feel like that?”

She really did. “Yes.”

Einar looks down at his lap, his brow pinched tight as he grappled with the weight of her words, the implication that it’s far too late. “I’m sorry if I failed you, Wray.”

It feels like a scream is building in her chest. Her mouth is dry as cotton, her head aching to the point it feels about ready to burst. She reaches for her water glass and takes a sip even though she’s not exactly thirsty — she’s just doing it for something to keep her hands busy before she really does reach across the table and grab Einar by the collar of his shirt and slam his head into something hard.

“You did fail me,” she says evenly, her gaze unflinching as she stares him down, waiting for him to look back up. When he finally does, she holds eye contact like the point she’s trying to make is extremely important and she needs his full, undivided attention so that he completely understands. “You let me down when I told you it was the last chance you were ever going to get. You have to live with that now.” She’s already started getting up from the table before she’s even finished talking, collecting her purse from the ground where it’d been tucked underneath her chair, wrapped around her ankle so that nobody could steal it. She pulls a five-dollar bill from her pocket and slaps it down on the table for the tip, because she knows he probably won’t. “Don’t contact me again. We’re done here.”

She leaves with the last word, a fact she knows he’ll hate but she doesn’t care how he feels anymore. She stopped caring years ago, around the same time he made it obvious that he stopped caring, too. Whatever has changed in recent years to make him care again, she neither knows nor cares for that, either. She’s done letting people tell her what she can and can’t do, done letting people into her life who only want to walk all over her and then leave her hurt and bleeding in the dirt.

The only way she could get Einar to leave her alone is if she agreed to come out and talk to him. Now that that issue’s been dealt with, she decides to head downtown and peruse the shops till nightfall. She has until 6 a.m. before she’s due to return to the airport for her flight back to Anchorage.

​

Walking downtown, it’s all too tempting for Wray to want to go into a bar and get herself a drink to calm her nerves. She can feel her phone buzzing in her pocket, though she refuses to pull it out and look. She knows it has to be either Einar wanting her to come back to the restaurant so that they could talk some more, or the news reporting more strange disappearances. Both make her angry, and neither one is something she particularly wants to think about right now. Since she’s back in San Francisco for the first time in years, she knows a lot must have changed, so she wants to make sure she makes the most of this trip.

Trying to keep her attention focused on the world around her (rather than the one still buzzing in her pocket), she pushes past the worry, grits her teeth around the annoyance surging in her veins, and keeps walking.

Somehow, she ends up at a bar anyway, and just like that, she loses track of time.

There’s an alarm set on her phone for 10 o’clock at night, just in case she needed a reminder to get back to her hotel before it got too late. She’s not thinking about the alarm, though, as she pushes past a string of young women celebrating what looks to be some kind of 21st birthday party; past an entire frat of college-age males chugging beer and throwing darts like they think they’re set to win the lottery; past an older guy who leers at her when she walks past his table with all the subtlety of… well, all the subtlety of a grown-ass man, really.

She’s especially bitter as she chews on that last one. The temptation to turn back and shove her knee into the guy’s crotch overwhelms nearly every single one of her senses, to the point she even has to clench her fists. Her nails dig into her skin as she does, unable to resist the urge to turn her anger into pain every time it’s just a little bit too much. (It’s why she has so many scars on her palms, one might notice if they paid close enough attention. Her nails are weapons just the same as her powers are a weapon, just the same as the butterfly knife tucked into her boot is a weapon.)

Continuing past the male with a glare and a sneer, Wray walks up to the bar ready to order what might be her third drink, except she’s not really keeping track of how many she’s had. She shouldn’t even be drinking in the first place, but the situation with Einar’s got her pissed, and now there’s this guy who she’s pretty sure is following her… How she keeps her head in situations like this has always surprised her. The fact she hasn’t ended up in jail for stabbing someone in the eye already? Honestly, that in itself was probably a miracle (if only she believed miracles existed, that is).

She doesn’t say anything when she gets to the bar, just raises her empty glass as if to incline for another drink. The bartender reaches for the whiskey, without any issue or complaint. She’s been sitting at a back table staring at her phone for the last couple hours, but now slides the device into her pocket and pulls out a chair to sit down at the bar instead. When the bartender slides her glass across the table, she trades her the drink for her card, something she’s perhaps a little too proud of because she figures at least she can recognize her own fucking limits, right?

‘Unlike some people,’ she thinks, staring around the room at all the college kids so drunk off their asses they can hardly stand up straight. While she’s looking around the room, she catches sight of the guy from before staring at her from the other end of the bar, too. He quickly ducks his head when she makes eye contact, apparently brave enough to stalk but not brave enough to talk.

She scoffs, writing the guy off just as soon as she takes her first drink of the new whiskey and then promptly turns her attention right back to the bartender. Her eyes keep getting drawn here, and it’s no surprise as to why-- the girl is pretty, probably at least a few years younger than herself with short black hair and some of the palest eyes Wray thinks she’s ever seen in her life.

When the bartender looks over her shoulder and catches her staring, Wray smiles to try and prove she’s harmless (well, mostly harmless), then tips her head in appreciation for the drink as she takes back her card and begins to fill out the receipt for the girl’s tip. On the second copy of the receipt, she scrawls her number and a short message onto the back of the paper (“at this hotel the rest of tonight - room 221 if you’re interested”), then slides the two right back across the bartop. The waitress has her back turned to her, but Wray doesn’t plan on waiting around to see her reaction. She downs the rest of her drink and heads out the door, wondering if the girl will call or if she’ll bother to show up at the end of her shift tonight.

She doesn’t get the chance to find out the answer.

​

It’s like they must’ve been tracking her, how fast the black vans show up and a crowd of four officers step out and surround her. She immediately recognizes the badges, the uniforms, the armored vehicles meant to mark them as special police (as if regular police weren’t bad enough already). When they surround her she panics immediately. Some are holding batons, others are holding tasers, but all stand before her with protective plastic-encased guns and rifles clipped to their hips and strapped to their backs. She raises her hands, not to sacrifice, but to pull in the shadows collected down the alley. She immediately begins to form some kind of attack strategy, but no matter how quick she acts (even slightly drunk, she’s got a sharp mind and even sharper sense of coordination), they seem beyond prepared, like they already know exactly what to expect from her, exactly how to take her down.

An unseen officer rises up from around the bonnet of one of the armored vehicles, shoots six tranquilizer darts into her chest and arms, and doesn’t even bother to duck for cover afterward. They’re cocky, over-confident. She doesn’t get a chance to defend herself, doesn’t even get a chance to attack right back. The drugs sink into her system and she quickly crumbles to the ground, paralyzed but not yet unconscious.

“Been looking for you for ages, honey,” comes a voice from right behind her. Wray can’t move her head to track it, but she doesn't have to. A few seconds later, the guy from the bar ambles right into her field of vision, leering just the same as he was earlier. The widening of her pupils is the only reaction that he gets; she can't talk, but just underneath the surface, she echoes out a scream. Anger floods her system. She wants to scream aloud, wants to reach into her boot and draw out her knife, jam it into his throat like she should have done earlier, twist and let his blood spill all over the concrete--

But she can’t.

She can’t move. She can barely even keep her eyes open.

“What’re you waiting for? Get her into the fucking van before somebody sees. Let’s go!”

Two of the officers step forward, one grabbing her underneath her arms, the other behind her knees. They lift her up as easily as if she weighed nothing at all, then carry her to the vehicle parked closest to the curb. The officer with the tranquilizer gun steps around the side to open up the big bay doors carved into the vehicle's tail end. Just as soon as the doors are open, the space inside erupts with pure white light. It blinds her to her surroundings, immediately burns her skin. Even sedated, her face contorts with agony as her mouth rips open and she emits an anguished scream into the cool night air.

"How do you like that?" The man asks, laughing slightly with her reaction. "Guess it works. Good, not a total waste of money, then. We did have it special made for you, after all..."

They toss her into the back of the vehicle before anyone else can intervene.

TEMPLATE © BOKEH​

 

[starboob]

tw: violence​

REGGIE NORTH

MY HEART AND SOUL WERE NEVER MINE TO OWN

“Ah, shit. You better hurry up, I think it’s waking up––Evers will be here any minute.”

“Yeah, yeah––fuck, hang on I just have to…” as more important things come into focus, the voice is lost in a swirl of stimulus.

(The armored bodies scurry out of the room, returning to their position at the entrance of the infirmary wing.)

The first thing that Reggie registers is a white light beaming down at them. It claws deep into their skull and pulls out a headache that forces their eyes shut and their features to screw. Not shortly after, the rest of their body explodes into a garden of pain as they are entirely pulled out from the depths of the ether. They tense against the agony, their breath catching in their throat before they are able to slowly relax and settle into stillness. For a second time, they attempt to identify their surroundings and open their eyes with more caution this time, their head turned away from the light. When their vision comes to focus, it is apparent that they are in a hospital.

This is not their first time waking up in this situation so their concern is relatively low. However, while it is also not their first time waking up bound to a hospital bed, that happens less often. They struggle, jerking their entire body against the bonds, though there is little slack on the restraints and they only rattle the bed. The aching that follows reminds them why they had been still in the first place and they inhale sharply, wishing they could curl onto their side and nurse these pangs on their own.

While the pain recedes, questions start to rattle through their head and they attempt to piece together where they are, what has happened to them, and just how much trouble they are in. But their memory barely goes far back enough to remember that their tour had just ended.

“Ah, I see you are finally about your wits again.” Thankfully, they suppose, they don’t have to wrestle with their imagination for long as a (familiar?) voice interrupts their process. A man appears out of their periphery and they aren’t sure whether he’s just entering the room or if he has been there the whole time. His appearance is unassuming and generic as far as white men go so Reggie can’t say that they have ever seen him before––though the memory of his voice is stored in their head for some reason that they cannot place. Just as they are about to open their mouth to speak, ask questions, he cuts them off.

“That was quite a nasty car accident you had––the doctors said it was actually easier to make a list of substances you weren’t on at the time.” He smiles down at them, his eyes piercing through them as if he knew everything about them––all of their secrets and this sends thunder through their chest. His chuckle is shy of being outright villainous; he places his hands on the rail of the bed and looms over them like Death. “You made my job much easier, so I suppose I have to thank you. It looks like I will be home for my anniversary; my husband will be very happy about that.”

As his dark eyes meet their pale ones, he delivers this next strike, “Your accident was the perfect cover to transfer you to our facilities." Glee and excitement coat his words despite their nauseating flavor. “Now, instead of terrorizing the public and forcing them to adore you, your talents will actually be used to their fullest and most absolute potential––and for a good cause too: for the freedom and expansion of this nation.” This next part is where his disdain really shines through, even if he is still wearing that happy mask. “The best part? No one is going to come for you. No one will ever find you. Your friends, your family all think you’re dead. The American public, or at least angsty teenagers, are mourning your death... Do you understand that, Regina?”

Disbelief settles on their chest like a cartoon anvil coming down from a skyscraper. This blow severs their connection to reality almost immediately. Their brows knit together. Their mouth opens, their lips move, and while they can think all the words they want to say: nothing comes out. The man standing over them snickers, “Don’t bother. You won’t be able to talk unless Drs. Pratchett and Collins permit it; they spent months configuring this device just for you. Consider it a gift.” He reaches towards them and while struggle to move away, to no avail, he presses into something (a collar) secured to their neck. And it isn't just strapped around their neck, small cactus-like needles keep it embedded into their skin; while the device looks functionally like a reflective-yellow collar, unlike aesthetic collars, this one paralyzes their vocal cords whenever they attempt any form of speech or sound––unless the good doctors allowed it.

That smile now seems like an omen and it becomes cruel as he watches them try to say something else. Reggie twists in sudden panic against their bonds, which only irritates their injuries further and not even a groan or a whimper escapes. ‘What the Hell is going on?! What the fuck!'

This is a dream or an alternate reality––it has to be. While all of the pieces are floating around their head, they are too scared to solve this four piece puzzle. Yet it’s hard to ignore their pounding heart or the way sweat beads along their brow or how a cold heat slowly creeps down from the top of their head and nests in their stomach––all things that remind them that this is their stark reality.

"Drs. Pratchett and Collins will be working with you as soon as your injuries are healed enough and your medical detox finishes... I do hope you don’t disappoint as we went through quite a bit of trouble to acquire a mutant of your talents; the last few we’ve had…” He trails off and then decides to pick up on an entirely new thought. “I am told you mutants have quite a rough life––statistically speaking at least one in two will end up on the streets. I understand it's quite a painful existence, but at least you can have peace in helping others now." His features begins to strain as if he has never held such pleasantness for this long in his entire life; he strokes their cheek, pushing a stray strand of hair from their face, and they don't even bother making a pathetic attempt to pull away, but they are imagining all of the places they’d like to tell where he can stick his hand.

As he leaves, he parts with the last they’ll ever hear about the outside world, “Oh, and if it’s any consolation to you… Your estate and assets were all liquidated and the money donated to charities; most towards funding the arts in schools––one is towards the research of a cure for mutations, as you would have wanted.”

………….​

The first few weeks––hell, the first few months for all they know completely blur together. The rest they get is minimal and disturbed; either because they wake up in a pool of their own cold sweat or because the doctor-scientists are checking on their vitals, their blood work, measuring their brain waves, and generally running random labs on their newest subject (their newest toy, it feels like).

For most of it, they are barely allowed to sit up on their own––and for most of it, they don’t care to; though the pain from their bruises and fractures subsides, and eventually they don’t feel as if they are on the brink of death, they are barely nourished enough to put up a decent fight. The frequent interruptions become routine; they no longer expect privacy and frequently catch the guards leering at them, or feel not-so-clever hands swiping at the side of their tits as they are manhandled.

When they are finally able to sleep in their own room, without the constant physical presence of nurses, doctors, and officers they do try to tamper with the collar. They learn, and continue to learn, that while there is nothing to prevent them from trying to pull it off––no shocks at least––it does trigger a signal to the nurses to come in with guards. The sadism is archaic and they’re never able to rip the device off fast enough before they’re beaten down and forced into a straitjacket.

If they could have protested more, they would have. But they have no voice. There is no strength in their body and it feels pretty damn helpless when they’re already dead.

▸▸
Their body is heavy. It sinks like a cannonball on its way down to the bottom of the ocean; at least, that is the impression they leave slumped over in the metal chair. It takes energy that they don't have to keep their head up and eyes open; if it had been up to them––they would have been passed out in their room but part of the cruelty of this facility is never getting a restful night’s sleep (at least that has been their experience). They barely register or recognize themselves in the two-way mirror that separates them from Drs. Pratchett and Collins.

The reflection starts to melt until they blink hard and re-focus. The hollow of their eyes conceals the pale blue that used to liven their sullen features. Their bones have never looked so sharp. It is almost as if a movement too sudden might cause them to collapse in on themselves like the last breath of a dying star.

Mentally, Reggie is barely present in the room––caught somewhere between delirium and defiance. The rise and fall of their shoulders as they breathe keeps them vaguely present, and still reality feels like it only exists just a little to the left of them––just out of their reach though tauntingly close. This is the most weathered that they have ever looked.

"Regina. We don't have all day. If you do not cooperate we will not hesitate to change experiments. There are a plethora of other ways we can make you useful."

The words crackle over the intercom and fly past their ears, dispersing somewhere against the wall behind them. Even with the muzzle around their throat the scientists and officers are too scared to be in the room with Reggie. (From the safety of the room next door anything Reggie said, when it is allowed, has a three second delay that renders their abilities completely null to the onlookers.) If they had realized the fear maybe they could have felt empowered, but their spirit is crushed and it hadn’t even taken that much to turn them into a shell.

Their thumb clips into their index finger, rhythmic and sharp. Their knees bounce.

At some point Reggie had put together what these experiments were really about. Beyond "helping" the American public; beyond discovering the strengths and limitations of their abilities; beyond even becoming an unwilling weapon; they had figured out these "test" commands are being used against real people. Innocent people. (People the government sees as disposable; just as disposable as a mutant). At first, the commands had been simple enough. Stand up. Sit down. There hadn’t been anything to make them think twice.

(At times, the experiments were recorded. At times Reggie was hooked to monitors and machines. Sometimes they were under an MRI. Other times in a recording studio.)

Then the limits of what they can do, how far can they really push another person, is there even such a limit––questions that can be answered, but who’s right is it to discover the answers? There is no argument that Reggie is no saint, and when it came to their powers the abuse of it is obvious in their history. However, the spells these scientists came up with? It sours their stomach and turns everything in their body to poison.

(In the bucket next to you there is a chemical known for burning and melting off human flesh. Grab the bucket. Lift it above your head. Pour it over yourself. Do not scream. Do not make a sound. // How far does this person go; do they have to be told to stop; will they stop on their own; can automatic responses be repressed.)

Is their own survival worth this? Resisting, or rather giving up seems to be the noblest thing they can do––if they even had the luxury of that choice. There is particular torture in being a prisoner to their own body, as if being a captive in the facility is not enough. Ultimately, Reggie has given up on freedom. They aren't even quite sure who they are anymore as if it matters––like that's a question they even have to answer anymore. As far as they are concerned, they are a labrat.

It’s hellish how eternal being at the facility feels.

After many moments of silence, their cold, ice eyes lift to pierce through the two-way mirror like they really know where the scientists are; they raise a single finger up to their reflection. The collar around their throat is already loose and the needles pulled in, allowing them to also say, “Go fuck yourselves.”

"Suit yourself. Let us know when you're ready to cooperate again."

.............​

Their body is dragged like a mere sack of potatoes to another region of the facility. It's a place they send mutants with less useful abilities or for stubborn ones they cannot get to cooperate. This wing, as they have come to understand it, is dedicated to the research of neutralizing mutants. That translates to sanctioned torture. (At least the scientists on the upper levels are not outright sadists. These ones seemed to take active pleasure in the devices that they could come up with.)

As with any medical horror, when they are brought into the new lab, they are strapped by the wrists and ankles to a metal examination table. When they are fastened to it, they are neither standing or flat on their back; they are leaning, at an incline, and facing yet another two-way mirror. Labcoats come in, wearing noise-cancelling headphones, and even then they keep as much distance as they can as they connect Reggie to machines and monitors meant to show their vitals and whatever else these ‘scientists’ are trying to measure.

A device, they aren't sure what it is, but it looks like a satellite dish of sorts is then wheeled into the room and stationed in front of them. The labcoats exit and a few minutes later the device trills to life. When it is fully charged, beams of red neon light shoot into their chest. At first, they don’t feel anything; just a tickle and maybe some anxiety. The device stops humming, the neon beams fizzle out. However, a quiet confused minute later, it immediately becomes clear what this device is supposed to be––or at least what it is supposed to do.

Their entire body seizes as each nerve ignites into flames and blue heat rushes through them; their mouth opens to scream and nothing comes out (nothing ever does); their vocals are still and this keeps all of the stress contained inwards. Their body pulls against their restraints as best they can, but there is no escape or reprieve. Tears drag down their face as their forehead erupts into sweat and they simply endure. Their head slams back against the metal table and their eyes try to focus on the lights above them, their breathing––anything to escape from the burning sensation.

Behind the glass, the scientists take notebookfuls of excitement as the monitors beep wildly, reflecting the elevated blood pressure and increased heart rate of the subject. (Since Reggie is technically a borrowed subject, they are not supposed to do anything permanent––though what counts as permanent damage is debatable.) After several excruciating minutes, when it seems as if the show is over and the effects are wearing off, the scientists debate amongst themselves if they should give another dose; sure, they have confirmed the weapon’s functionality but now they are curious: how much can a single mutant take? And is it true their bodies are more resilient? One labcoat reaches for the dial and cranks the settings before firing the machine again. This causes Reggie’s body to respond by bucking violently against the restraints and table; their blood feels like fire and somehow, despite being soundless, they can feel the vibrations of their empty screams.

A crack begins to split the two-way mirror before it shatters; the lights flicker on and off and then burst as the muzzle around Reggie's neck short circuits. Everything in the lab––the wing––goes quiet. While the sound they make cannot be heard, it is accompanied by powerful, shattering vibrations that can be felt. They demolish the machine––to the ire of the scientists; it is reduced to a smoking, sparking mess, ruined by the end of Reggie's cry.

Meanwhile, the mutant in question almost immediately passes out after their wail has stopped; though they make automatic moans, sputtering and coughing every few minutes. Blood coats their chin now and bright splatters litter the front of their jumpsuit. Their throat is shredded from the unknown strength and overexertion of this new muscle.

………….​

When they wake again they are in the hospital wing and, as per usual, they are restrained. They haven’t been back here since their first days at the facility. Their eyes feel puffy and sting, dry and irritated though they have no memory of crying. Their throat feels raw and each swallow, each breath feels like a cat running her claws down their vocals. (Though they hardly have a memory of why it feels so patchy.) To match, a dull throb beats all over their body and the memory of the torture device surfaces; they close their eyes as a flight of fear washes over them.

Dr. Pratchett enters the room shortly after and his footsteps pull them out of the living memory. Though startled, they’re almost thankful. He stops at the foot of their bed and pulls up their chart on his tablet. "Are you ready to come back and do real work, Regina? Or are you not done with this temper tantrum?”

They don’t need to think about this decision and they mouth, 'Fuck you.'

He rolls his eyes at their pitiful defiance. "Rot down here if that’s what you like then, but I’m sure you’ll come to regret this error and come crawling back to our laboratory soon enough. Sera is not pleased that you destroyed her latest toy so I’m sure she’ll have a field day once you’re recovered enough,” his features are impassive as he speaks. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a new muzzle (they hadn’t even noticed theirs is gone and now they’re angry they hadn’t fired off when they had the chance). He reaches and lifts their head to snap the collar around their neck; it shrinks and the spikes shoot into their skin, the yelp only comes out halfway before they are silenced. “Do try and get over this little rebellion before the holidays. We have a pool going on how long you’ll last; if you come back before Thanksgiving, then I win.”

………….​

It takes 3 months, though Reggie never confirms how long they spent at the opposite end of the facility, but after 3 months they return to Drs. Pratchett and Collins.

▸▸
Thunder sounds like a distant drum in their room. Reggie isn’t sure what time it is or when they ended up back in their bed, but the resonance causes them to stir––this elicits a silent groan because they had just felt a dreamscape taking over and it promised sweet slumber.

They don’t even bother to try to settle in again––the rain is pelting against the wall so hard it almost sounds like rocks; the intermittent thunder cracks are just enough that they can’t relax. Their fingers tap against their ribs and their knees curl into their chest; they shiver under the thin sheet. Most nights are miserable now anyway. This is just another typical Tuesday night.

They stare at the small rectangular window of their cell door; it leads into the hallway and it’s the only thing that pours light into their room at this hour. It flickers and a few seconds later they hear another clap. The storm seems to have an endless amount of rage and they cannot recall the last time they even heard the rain (usually, the facility seemed impenetrable to the outside world). They roll onto their back and then sit up, with their knees pulled into their chest and back against the wall. Sometimes changing positions helps them relax a little more, even if upright.

Another BOOM and this time the facility itself seems to respond in this awkward jerking way––the light from the hallway flickers off and shortly after the green-blue back-up generator lights kick in. It’s uncommon, but the power’s gone out a handful of times before and each time the plain fluorescents are back within the hour. This won’t be any different.

Though as static fills the air (it crackles in their lungs), they tense and the hairs on their arms begin to rise. The green-blue lights shut off and this is followed by a cacophony of thunder that must be from Zeus, because it shakes their cell while leaving them in silent darkness; the facility even loses its general quiet buzz. The strangeness causes their heart to jumpstart in an uncomfortable way and it’s enough to pull them from their pitiful bed to peer out the window.

As soon as they get up to the door and lean against it, it makes a ‘shhhh’ noise, clanks, and the distinct sound of the metallic latch disconnecting from its socket echoes like a hopeful orchestra through the entire cell block (throughout the entire facility). This sound means one thing to them and it usually is equated with dread; now, it feels like an opportunity.

Time seems slower, almost frozen and a chill spills down their spine. They brace against the heavy door, testing the truth behind the noises as they push, and, to their surprise, it budges and slides into the wall, open. ‘No fucking way.’ Now, their heart is racing and it almost feels like it could explode with how overwhelming this revelation is––especially after so long of feeling like a ghost haunting their own body. However, the time for celebration is not just yet.

The sound of boots and officers shouting begins to fill the cell blocks and buries the raging storm. They know something is about to happen, because as more mutants rise out of their cells they can feel the collective surge towards escape. Immediately, as the guards stomp closer, they itch at the collar around their neck, then tug at it until it snaps. It peels away from their skin, leaving a raw outline of the device––but it’s more relief and power than it is pain. They clear their throat and the hum of their vocals sends relief washing over them.

With the bastards now rushing into the block, disarray tears through the jailbreakers as they are immediately shot with stun-shocks and sedatives. Mutants fall as they are struck, but the forced subjects only allow for a few seconds of cowardice before unleashing their bottled fury. Chaos and panic follow suit. While Reggie has no sense of how many officers there are, they are clearly disorganized and unprepared for a black-out or for the untempered rage of their subjugates.

As they peer out of the cell looking for an opening, they spot a girl, maybe sixteen, standing tall as she faces the guards. She puts her hands up, but she is not surrendering––it is the warning before her body turns into flames and her dragon’s breath roast the first wave of pigs. Watching the tyrants agonize trying to escape from their own burning flesh sends a rush of vengeance through Reggie and other former subjects; more begin to remember that their lives have been stolen and there is nothing to lose if they fight.

While the first wave takes the heat, reinforcements come through to replace them and the fugitives who choose to fight do not hold back their ferocity––Reggie being among them. In an instant, they are out of the cell and on top of an officer, smashing their fists into his face until it is beyond the point of recognition. It awakens a sick beast inside of them––one they are not ashamed to share. It’s overwhelming in its suddenness but Reggie does not fight it; they breathe it in and let it pump into their veins. Everything feels alive.

An idea comes to them and they reach for the dead officer’s radio; they know the success of this won’t be much but they also know 10 percent is better than nothing. They clear their throat, smoothing out the rasp caused by ill-use. Their mouth practically waters thinking of all the things they have wanted to force these officers to do––they almost have trouble remembering them at all but with a combination of glee and malice they command, “If you’re a bitchass officer, stop what you’re doing and scoop your fucking eyes out.” That should help everyone, they figure; even nearby some officers around them stop assaulting the captives and Reggie watches as one presses his thumbs into his sockets with a loud shriek as he falls to his knees, confused. There’s an electric thrill in watching him anguish and if they could have had more time to relish in it, they would have––but more are filling the block and they know they need to press on.

As they continue to fend off guards, with the help of others, they are distracted by a shade of black that somehow stands out against the dark. Vantablack vapors are pooling into one of the cells and before that can even register as strange the dark cloud shoots outward. In a blink, the harmless smoke transforms into knives and impales a series of guards, temporarily pinning them up against the opposite wall before their bodies drop to the floor.

(At this moment, the facility starts to buzz again. The lights start flickering on but each time the power seems steady, a minute later the lights shut off again accompanied by a roar of thunder and harder rainfall that breaks through the chaos inside. It’s like there is a fight between the generators and nature.)

Before they can see the emerging mutant that had released the shadow onslaught, a couple of guards tackle Reggie and slam their back into a wall––they can already feel the bruise blooming across their shoulders. The officers pin them by their wrists and one reaches for the sedative. Reggie bucks and jerks against the guards before finally yelling, “Gut each other!” It’s said loud enough that even over all the fighting and screaming, the guards respond and give up on trying to sedate Reggie. They shove the squabbling couple aside and continue forward, diving into open cells for cover as needed.

Just at the end of the block, soldiers begin to form a tight line and seal off the exit. They seem more organized than before––perhaps now actually desperate as they lose more and more of their own. Still, each time one falls, another takes their place and the line pushes the mutants further back into the block.

As Reggie nearly accepts defeat, an arm (a tendril?) of pitch black smoke (?) shoots past them and rips through the line of guards with surprising brutality. Reggie has little doubt that this isn’t something done for their specific benefit or anyone’s really, because the goal of all the captives remains the same: escape. In that, they are united. And that is also to say, they don’t bother to figure out who they owe thanks to. The display is enough to fill the officers with panic and they scatter once more, haphazardly taking down fugitives as they break from their lines.

In all the refreshed disorder, Reggie is able to slip past the fighting and makes with a small group of others out of the block––which seems to have the thickest concentration of mercenaries as far as they can tell. As they make their way past the other blocks, they see that there is no shortage of violence coming from either side––though the cruelty from the officers is different from the rage of the mutants and there is vindication in this distinction. The casualties on both sides are rising and their nose fills with the smell of iron––it’s almost summery in its pleasantness.

When they make it down two levels, a trooper bounds towards them and Reggie is able to beat him with a lucky strike and a knee into his chest; when he is doubled over, in a fluid motion, they reach for his knife and make a clean cut through her jugular. They wish there had been time to draw out the execution, but unfortunately these officers get undeservedly easy deaths. Too caught up in the moment, another officer comes up behind them and strikes their shoulder. When their mouth opens to yelp, instead of coming out as such, it booms across the level and shakes the building (though they are not the only one causing the building to tremble). The guard that had attacked them is doubled over behind them, covering her ears and Reggie wastes little time kicking her face in.

‘What the hell was that?’ There isn’t time for investigation beyond that and as more officers come to rush them, they test the power of their voice once more with a banshee cry. This pushes the gang of guards off their feet and sends them all flying backwards. “Sick.”

Though this ability feels new to them and they have no idea what it can do, they do not shy away from experimenting with different pitches. When they find another cluster to attack, they straighten, brace a hand against their diaphragm and hit the sharpest note that they can manage––this attack, instead of sending a shockwave through the pack, travels as a scythe that slashes through the guards, leaving them with wide gashes wherever the sonic-cut had made contact.

While they continue mowing down guards, Reggie soon learns that, however convenient this new power is, it is destroying their throat the longer and louder they extend the new muscle. Though it’s not like they have much choice––their other ability, they assume, is pretty much useless with the noise clattering and echoing about. (It also doesn’t occur to them to combine their abilities; in all the chaos their brain is working on impulse and fumes.) They can feel their vocals getting weaker with each pitch-attack, but no part of them is going to give up until their body is on the ground. Giving up is not an option (for once).

At some point, while they are flying down stairs, brutalizing officers, and making their way to the first floor of the facility, they end up next to another mutant. It’s not on purpose, but they do find a rhythm with her attacks. (They don’t quite get what she can do, but it’s not hard to gather that she knows how to use it and use it well.) Fighting near her is just perfect happenstance; after all, everyone in neon jumpsuits are headed more or less in the same direction. They don’t really think anything of it and the convenience of her strength alone is enough to stick close––especially as they continue to push their own physical limits and grow more exhausted. Eventually they even start covering and actively watching for the gaps in her vision.

In this way, the two fall into sync. Reggie is able to keep the guards at bay, pushing them back with sonic waves and slashing into them as needed. She manages to send torrents of violence that dare anyone to come close. For the most part, they don’t need to worry about her. Though as the minutes pass without a break in fighting, they notice that whatever darkness shrouds around her is starting to falter; a couple guards they know she would have taken out with ease earlier get a bit too close. They aren’t sure if she notices or not, but since she isn’t picking them off they pivot and suck in a breath. However, at the same time, they realize if they send an attack her way it could damage her and where they don’t really care about what happens to anyone other than themselves, they are not exactly interested in harming someone who is at least a temporary ally. Their brain works fast and they test another application of their sound attacks; their mouth forms a tight ‘O’ and a whistle note whips through the air and strikes one officer square in the face, sending him backwards. The sound is precise enough that they assume she isn’t harmed, but there isn’t much time to check.

Instead, they turn towards the other officer, make an L-shape with their index and thumb to aim, and send a whip through the thin armor covering his neck. Any sense of accomplishment they might have felt is short lived, because when they turn, three more officers are coming towards them. Even if the whistle whips do less damage to themselves than their prior attacks, they have already exhausted their vocals enough that they begin to notice a sliding feeling in the back of their throat. When they make to clear it away with a cough, blood splatters across the back of their hand. “Fuck,” they mumble, wiping the mess across their chest and trying to swallow through the pain that is becoming more difficult to ignore.

The stream of guards seems endless even if they are mere feet away from the exit; all of this feels futile to a certain degree but adrenaline tramples despair and if this is their only shot at seeing daylight again, then they won’t stop fighting––not when they are so damn close. Reggie figures, too, that if they ruin their throat enough it would render them useless for these experiments––so maybe going down with the fight is noble?

In any case, it inspires a second wind of sorts and they position themselves so that they are standing back to back with the other. They motion for her to duck and cover her ears as they take a breath. When they open their mouth, the agonized wail that comes out unleashes a wave forceful enough to fracture the cement columns, shatter the windows, and obliterate the first entrance into the facility.

somewhere, NV

rage

jumpsuit

wray

coded by natasha.

 

[heartstringss]

OLIVIA WRAY

CAPTIVITY

WRAY, O.




LOCATION:
U.S. GOVERNMENT RESEARCH FACILITY
(NEVADA OUTPOST)

SETTING:
MALE GUARD LOCKER ROOM

TIME:
START OF SECOND SHIFT, ~01600 HOUR



​

(A small cluster of guards are getting dressed near a far-back line of lockers. It is clear they are all familiar with each other, likely becoming friends over the course of working together day in and day out. The most fresh-faced of the group is as new as 6 months, whereas the highest-ranked has been there as long as the facility's entire 5-year run. For the group, a conversation starts casually enough with typical pre-shift talk, and then turns hushed as the subject moves to gossip instead.)​

​

▸ Guard A:
"Whoa, hey. Has anyone seen the new one they brought in last night yet?"

▸ Guard B:
"Which new one? I heard they had like 15 intakes last night..."

▸ Guard C:
"Jesus, really? God, these things are like fuckin' cockroaches-- just when you think you've finally got 'em all, it's like a whole new nest crops up outta nowhere."

▸ Guard D:
"Yeah, exactly. Anyway, are you talking about the one they put in the fishbowl?"

▸ Guard B:
"--Huh? What's the fishbowl?"

▸ Guard C:
"Dude, really? The room with all the fuckin' glass and lights, man."

▸ Guard A:
"--Yeah! Yeah, that's the one I'm talking about! The girl."

▸ Guard D:
"Oh, man, I saw her! My brother said he worked part of the group that brought her in... they had to use like half a clip of darts to take that bitch down and she was STILL awake the entire time."

▸ Guard B:
"Jesus."

▸ Guard C:
"That's fucked up. Hey, I heard someone say her eyes don't match-- is that true?"

▸ Guard D:
"Yeah, they're different colors or some shit... But I've seen weirder shit than that. We got a fish-boy down on C-Ward last week. You seen him yet?"

▸ Guard A:
"Fuck, who even cares about goddamn fish-boy. This girl, man. God, the things I'd like to do to that mouth..."

▸ Guard B:
"Gross, you'd still fuck her even though she's not human?"

▸ Guard A:
"I mean... she's still got the same thing between her legs, right? Hey, you haven't seen her, man. If you had, maybe then you'd understand."

▸ Guard D:
"Eh, I'd probably still fuck one of them things, s'long as they looked normal and were at least hot. But just once -- you know, for the experience."

▸ Guard B:
"Yeah, you'd probably fuck anything as long as it walked on two legs."

▸ Guard D:
"Hey, nobody asked you, so shove it, dickweed. Besides, sometimes desperate times call for desperate measures... I bet plenty of guys have still fucked her."

▸ Guard C:
"If she's as good as y'all say she is, bet she's probably ruined a whole buncha marriages. Ha!"

▸ Guard B:
"I wouldn't touch a bitch if she ain't fuckin' human, man. That's like fuckin' a dog or a horse. Honestly, might as well take fish-boy too, while you're at it."

▸ Guard C:
"Yeah, I'll pass, man. Anyway, of course I gotta at least see 'er. So, which ward is she down again?"

▸ Guard A:
"She's down A-Ward. That one room with all the glass and lightbulbs--? It's top-tier; honestly, you'd have to be stupid to miss it."

▸ Guard B:
"Wait, I know that room! Scarborough told me about that room, said they've had it on standby 'cause they been looking for that girl for years. So they finally got 'er then... wow."

▸ Guard C:
"Yeah, guess so."

▸ Guard B:
"Well fuck... she'll probably be in solitary for a while then, 'specially if she really went nuts in containment. Anyway, guess that means shit's about to get interesting 'round here, boys. Better buckle up, sounds like we're in for a bumpy ride."

​

(Conversation fizzles out as the men go to leave the locker room; the shift is about to start, and some -- the four among this group included -- are already running late.)​

CAPTIVITY

DAY 1 - ONWARD​

Before she opened up her eyes, before she knew where she was or what had happened — before she was even fully conscious of the world around her — Wray could already feel the presence of light within the room. It pushed down on her eyelids like a heavy, relentless weight; it crawled across her skin; it infiltrated her mind, burrowing deep into her brain like a parasite. Her entire body was buzzing with the energy, but it wasn't the good kind of buzzing that she felt, not the kind that came with alcohol and certainly not the tempered calm that she was used to with the dark. Rather, this buzzing was more like tension, a pressure so thick it made her hands tingle and go numb. It was uncomfortable, to say the least, and she hated every bit of it.

Most of light's energy, save for some visible wavelengths and a general glow of warmth, is purely invisible to the human eye — we know what we think it looks like, but of course we've never truly seen. But for someone like Wray, the light and dark had other unique physical manifestations, too. Beyond that warm glow, there was something else that only she and other people (and animals) like her could sense. It was an odd sense of familiarity; if she had to explain it, she would say that it felt the most like how static sounds, and that even the smallest charges of light giving off the lowest frequencies of sound were still deafeningly loud in contrast to the soft, gentle hum of the dark's own otherworldly whisper. Close your eyes and imagine.

Shadow was just there—present within every room, constantly drawing ever-nearer, constantly drawing her in ever-nearer. Though it might've seemed rightfully dark and foreboding on the surface, Wray had never once felt she had anything to fear from it. (Of course, this might've only been because it had always been on her side; if it hadn't... Well, who's to say how she would have felt then?) Over the years, it had shielded and protected her from a great many dangers; it had given her strength that she had never known possible for herself, even taking it away from others when she needed it more. She could rely on the dark, because although it could be snuffed out, it was, in fact, incredibly difficult to entirely erase its presence. Only light could do that.

However, no matter how hard she tried, Wray could never seem to fully block the light herself. Even in the here-and-now, it dug at her as brutal as a serrated blade carves into flesh when the knife slips on accident, ripping her to shreds so completely that she had no other choice but to simply relent and grant its purchase; she was unable to fight back. Then, twice as easy as it had won its dominance, it took her over. That's how light vs. dark worked, right? The natural order of things: One could not exist without the other, but the two could also rarely coexist in their entirety.

But in a way, perhaps that served as a blessing, for her to be so keenly aware of the light's presence at all times — after all, forgetting would only be extremely dangerous for a person like her, would it not? Some might even reason that she needed to stay aware of the light and its effects, otherwise how would she be able to determine whether or not its energy was strong enough to weaken her? How would she defend herself without the dark to draw from — would she only exist as a mere mortal, without her powers? Or would she persevere and find some way to adapt? How would she fight back?

If asked that question herself, to those people, Wray would've likely said nothing at all; in moments of extreme duress, she didn't entertain hypotheticals, she only entertained action. She would've simply defended herself the same as she always did: like a woman with just as much skill using a knife as a weapon as she did the shadow. Or perhaps more like a woman with a thirst for vengeance who was not afraid to stand up for herself, even if it meant having to spill a little blood. She'd only had her entire life to learn you didn't make it in this world by being weak, after all. (She was far from the 'sit there and take it' type — much more the 'fight to the death' type, really. It had always worked for her in the past, so why stop now?)

It was horribly inelegant, the pained groan that slipped past her lips the very first time she tried to open up her eyes, but Wray had little chance to care for appearances. Her head was throbbing; however, when she made to lift her hand to shield her face from the strength of the light (what she initially thought was just the sun—oh, how very wrong she was), she quickly found herself unable to do so. Trying to move her hand, she found her wrists were bound, and when she strained to sit up, she found so too were her ankles. She didn't think, she only immediately fell into panic.

Thrashing atop the surface of the sturdy medical table she was strapped to, Wray's shoulder blades banged against the cold metal, but for the most part, her efforts were only met with a deep, cutting pain at both her wrists and ankles when she pulled too hard. The restraints were too tight; they dug into her skin, purposely made to cut off the blood circulation if she didn't lay still enough. She continued thrashing anyway, until her skin was bruised and her wrists were bloody; until she could hardly breathe, her heart pounding out of her chest. Eventually, she fell back with a heavy thump, barely having made any slack to the restraints. Her hands were numb, pain tingling throughout her body.

The world was ridiculously bright, almost garishly white. There were bulbs built into every surface of the room around her — into every wall panel, every floor tile, every single piece of furniture. There wasn't a single shred of shadow, because, alongside the vast amount of bulbs casting light all over the room, there were also mirrors reflecting that light into every crevice, every nook and cranny, so that there was no way darkness could even exist within the room. (Of course, they were completely fucking overdoing it... but it was working, so was that even unintentional? 'Better safe than sorry', right?)

Her pupils dilated to sharp pinpoints of black with the intensity of the light flooding (and overwhelming) every single one of her senses; she squinted to see, but even that was difficult. Searing pain burst across her skin, though at least it didn't burn enough to blister — yet. At the same time, her hearing sharpened as the raw static noise of the light's energy screeched out like an alarm, making her ears ring with its shrillness piercing and reverberating against her eardrums. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, attempting to ignore the feel of what could only be blood dribbling from her nose, slowly working its way past her mouth, all the way to her chin.

It took a long few minutes (what instead felt like hours—miserably long hours—to Wray) before she was eventually able to filter out the noise and begin to move past the moment of intense, searing pain and deeply uncomfortable overwhelm; before she was able to reset her senses, more or less. As the world swayed and then slowly began to settle all around her, she tried to focus her attention on perceiving the room beyond the light reflected off its mirrors, so that she might be able to figure out where the hell she was and what the hell was going on.

The first thing that came back to her normal, not so sharp and buzzy, was her hearing. Wherein she could hear a steady beeping coming from what sounded like a heart monitor attached to the wall somewhere over and behind her "bed", she could hear practically nothing else beyond her own restless heart and her own erratic breathing. The table they had her laid out on was situated exactly square in the middle of the room, and when she looked up, she was shocked to find she could see both herself and the entire room around her. Even though she hadn't been able to focus on much else in the beginning, now she noticed the mirrors in full.

It reminded her of a hospital, the general antiseptic feel of the entire room — the pure, blinding white light; the sharp scent of cleaner and chemical mixed together; the near-complete lack of personal touches or any furniture and general pleasantries. There were cameras fixed to the glass of the ceiling in each corner of the room, most pointed straight at her bed, and one at the doorway. There was a line of cabinets spread along one wall, a steel countertop with various medical supplies and tools, all sorts of new-age gadgets laid out on top of it. Test-tubes and beakers, syringes, vials already filled with blood — her blood? (Maybe.)

And yet, of course, she knew it wasn't just a hospital. No hospital she had even been in had this much mirror or glass inside a patient's room — or, in general, treated its patients quite like this. Of course, the restraints might've been understandable, had they not been so tight — or even had a guard or nurse come to attend to her, when the heart monitor started going crazy with her numbers climbing into triple-digits. But no one had.

And then there was another realization: Whoever was keeping her here, they clearly knew about her powers — after all, how else would they have known to use the light and mirrors like this? They were purposefully draining her, no doubt.

Her mind was fuzzy, thoughts scattered, but she could still remember the ambush that had happened outside of the bar the night before (was it the night before? Time seemed fickle; nonexistent, somehow, in this bright white room with little outside stimuli). She could remember the painful sting of multiple tranquilizer darts hitting her chest at once, the unholy white glow of that van. She most remembered how as soon as she had been hit with the drugs, the officers had picked her up and carried her away, as easily as if she weighed nothing at all. How incredibly useless she had felt being unable to control her own limbs in that moment... like some kind of fucking rag doll. She'd never felt more useless her entire life.

She struggled to recall much of the rest of the night; for instance, she couldn't remember what had happened after she'd been tossed into the van (the pain blocked everything out, and reasonably so). But there was one other memory that resurfaced later: the dark, beady eyes of the guy who had later approached her, who had been tailing her around all over the place most of the time she'd spent inside the bar. He had laughed in her face when she had screamed out in pain; he had mocked her, demeaning her pain as if it mattered none. She felt nothing but boiling rage when that memory resurfaced. He'd been in on the ambush, of course, but that's all Wray could guess as to his involvement. Beyond that, she had no idea who he was. She had never seen him before last night, and yet, somehow he had known her, or at least he had acted like he did...

She didn't want to admit it, but of course, she knew exactly where she was. All the cases of odd disappearances happening in the news... the increased police presence, the rumors, the government secrecy. It wasn't hard to piece it all together; it was just hard to come to terms with the fact that she herself had wound up here. Though where or what here even was, she had no idea. Not just a hospital, surely. It gave off more 'lab' vibes, which was just... oh, joy.

It was undeniable how conveniently the odds had been stacked against her, how easily they had found her, out wandering the streets after only a couple hours spent at the bar... but she had patterns, didn't she? Even that didn't make complete sense of all of it, though. They had known exactly how to take her down, exactly how to contain her, exactly what her weaknesses and vulnerabilities were... They'd known her every move, her every thought, like it'd been predetermined since the very dawn of time that she would only ever end up here before the end of her life. (Of course, it hadn't really been predetermined, but good luck telling that to someone who believed fate was always acting against them, you know?)

With that thought, anger flooded her system — although, without the dark to fuel her energy reserves, letting any strong emotion overwhelm her only seemed to weaken her body more. Regardless, she couldn't resist the pull of temptation, not when she felt so strongly like a wild animal who had been backed into a corner (or perhaps more accurately, backed into a cage). Therefore, it was only inevitable she lost control, raging once again against her restraints. Tugging and pulling and thrashing and screaming with all her might, she was using up every bit of strength she could possibly muster, and she didn't even care that it hurt. That was her first mistake.

Her wrists cut deeper, the blood dripping from her nose beginning to flow a bit heavier, staining what had once been a perfectly good, clean white blouse. When she inevitably ran out of energy (already running low as is), she fell back against the table—thoroughly exhausted, practically heaving for breath, her chest so tight it felt like her ribs were crushed with each impact. Through it all, the restraints still didn't budge a single inch. Within minutes, she faded out of consciousness.

When the doctors came to check on her later, they might've assumed she'd never woken up in the first place if not for the gore of her newly mangled wrists and the blood running all down the front of her face and chest. They issued a sedative, cleaned her up, re-dressed her in the standard jumpsuit complete with name and ID number, and made a note of the incident in her chart. Only the footage from the cameras could reveal what exactly might've happened, for Wray herself didn't wake up again another two whole days, her body needing to recover from the strain of both the overdose of UV radiation and the overexertion from her struggle.

Regardless, it was beyond convenient for the doctors that she was too weakened by the high concentration of UV light to be able to stay awake, as it meant an easy patient while they took the opportunity to run their tests. By the time she recovered enough to regain consciousness, Wray had lost 3 pounds in the first 78 hours, her elbows were covered in needle tracks, and her skin was mottled with bruises. Even with the intense full-body ache, the continued prickliness of her skin's reaction to the light, and the uncomfortable lightheadedness of extreme hunger setting in, she was still none the wiser to what exactly she had been through.

She wouldn't understand until hours later, when the doctors came in the first time while she was awake to talk through with her "the plan."

She's awake, staring up at the glass-mirror ceiling, at herself: at the bruises on her arms; at the medical tubing and tape holding in needles strapped to her inner elbows; at the hollows of her cheeks, the pale shadows collecting underneath her eyes. Her jaw is clenched, teeth grinding, as she observes her new outfit. She tenses at the patch on her chest reducing her to a mere string of numbers and a shortened version of her full name. Her blood is boiling at the fact that all of her piercings have been taken out, her face wiped clean of any makeup, jewelry removed, nail polish scrubbed away. She's not naked but she feels naked, and the fact that there are cameras in the room to catch it only makes it worse.

At some point when they had come into her room to change the dressing around her bandaged wrists and ankles, they had also brought in a real bed and moved her over to that instead. ('Real' was a loose modifier, though -- in truth, it was more a thin mattress, extremely shitty in quality and ridiculously rickety on its frame. Not to mention, it still had the restraints, which... okay, maybe her own bed had some version of those too, but not like this.)

She had been sleeping more than ever, weak and lightheaded to the point of feeling nauseous. The thin sheet they had given her by way of covering herself was kicked straight to the floor, smelling too much of chemical bleach for her to want it anywhere near her. She wanted to stand up and stretch, walk around the room, (walk right out of this place, honestly), but she couldn't. She was still tied down, 'unable to be trusted', though at least cotton padding had been placed underneath the straps of the belts looped around her wrists to make them softer. As if that made it any better.

She hears the latch in the door click before it even opens. Multicolored eyes flit across the glass ceiling to observe a small team of doctors walking into the room, flanked by no guards, but hauling a wheelchair along with them. Without even greeting her, one walks over and begins to undo her restraints. Adrenaline surges through her veins as she watches the straps come undone, and the very instant one of her arms is free, she rips it up and clocks the doctor right underneath the chin. She hears their teeth clack sharply, a pained hiss and heavy groan echoing throughout the room. Blood spurts from his mouth as he bites the tip of his tongue. His hand flies to his face, eyes glaring in shock as they look down to Wray, who doesn't say anything, doesn't even smile, doesn't even bother to sit up. She looks back at him with a gaze sharp enough it could cut through wire, her jaw clenched, her face scrunched in anger.

The door is still hanging partly open, but Wray is so locked onto the doctor in front of her, she doesn't notice the energy flowing into the room. She doesn't get a chance to absorb it before someone walks over and snaps the door shut, the suddenness of that movement making her jump and look over. She immediately recognizes her missed opportunity, her vision turning red in fury aimed more inward than it is outward. She's about to clock the doctor a second time for distracting her when another one of the group paces over and shoves a needle into the side of her neck. They pump her with a sedative so strong her head lolls back and bangs against the side of the metal frame.

Her eyelids slide partly shut, but she's still conscious, still able to watch as the doctor reaches to undo her other bindings, then unhooks the tubing from the port connected to her elbow. Someone lowers the bed and one of the larger male doctors comes forward to lift her up, hauling her into the wheelchair. They slap new bindings around her wrists and pump her with another drug, something that does knock her out this time, but not because it's a sedative... more because it injects her veins with something that feels like actual fire, the pain so intense she seizes up, her pupils blown so big the color within them nearly disappears completely in the black, before her eyelids slide fully shut.

"Give it a few minutes, then we should be able to move her out. We need to be fast; we're only going to get one chance to do this right."

They take her upstairs to the lab with the initial intention to only run scans, then decide to take a few extra DNA samples while they're there. Pulling bone marrow from her hip, scraping tissue from the inside of her cheek, plucking multiple strands of hair with follicle attached... Anything and everything they can get, they take, because who knows what her results could provide. It's a curiosity that they're squirming to itch: how does this power work? How is one able to control an element? Is there a limit to a manipulator's capabilities-- such as, can it work long-distance or remotely? How far can its reach extend? Can it be transferred or copied in another subject, if able to find the source DNA that makes the ability possible in the first place?

They have so many questions, though they almost never bother to ask any of them to Wray, even with some of them being things she could easily answer herself if they did. In fact, she rarely gets to talk at all. No one wants to hear her opinion, and even more than that, she doesn't want to give it. They aren't deserving of her energy, what little that she has needing to be channeled into fueling her anger instead. It's the only thing that gets her through the day-to-day, planning what she's going to do if she ever gets out, if they ever make the mistake of leaving that goddamn door open again.

Time wears her down, but it can never entirely crush her spirit. See, she's lived most of her life in some sort of forced captivity already; her childhood, a nightmare of its very own breed; her experiences living on the street, and then in 'government care' ... Everything's a disaster when you're different, and boy, Wray sure was different, wasn't she? After all, there's only so much you can hide about a power that reveals itself so physically; when it's just as much that the darkness controls you as it is that you control it. There were only a few times she had ever been in such terrible pain she had wished for death to combat it; even circumstances being what they were, now was not one of those times.

"We're going to push the envelope, see what all you're capable of-- if there's a maximum potential to your abilities, if there's more you're capable of that you might be holding back without even realizing it. Imagine the terror you could inflict on unsuspecting enemies if you can work your abilities through a camera-- like a real Bringer of the Night; you'd be the ultimate war machine! Well, not necessarily you, but if we can clone your abilities, find the gene that's most mutated to accommodate this-- are you even listening to me, Olivia?"

She wasn't, but as soon as the doctor said her name, Wray looks up and considers telling them to go fuck themselves. Instead, they take the moment of brief eye contact before she skirts her vision away as a sign that they do indeed have her attention, and thus they carry on without a further hitch. She tunes their voice out again, picking at the new type of bindings around her wrists, trying to find some way to undo the clasp that keeps her from being able to free herself. At least they've let her sit up now; she's still chained at her ankles, but she can readjust atop the bed, even move to the floor if she'd like. It's a limited range of motion, but it's better than nothing. (Unfortunately, she still has to push a button if she needs to go to the bathroom. How fucking humiliating is that?)

"Your lab results have been highly irregular-- your numbers are off the charts, even with the light treatment dulling everything. It's truly astronomical, I've never seen anything quite like it-- hey, leave your restraints alone, I won't tell you again--"

When the doctor reaches to push her hand away, Wray doesn't hesitate, lifting her chin up and spitting straight into his face.

"Don't fucking touch me," she hisses, her words coming out almost more a raspy, low murmur, as she hasn't used her voice in days. Her throat feels raw, scratchy, like it's coated with barb, clearly still healing from all the screaming of her first few days in solitary. She expects the doctor to recoil in shock, as most do when spat on, but instead, they do the opposite. Their hand swipes up and slaps her hard across the face, the class ring on their middle finger cutting a sharp line into her cheek. A bruise begins to form almost right away. Wray gnashes her teeth together, her eyes watering but still practically shooting sparks as she looks to the doctor and considers wrapping her hands around his throat, or grabbing the pen in his left-side breast pocket and jabbing it into his eye.

"That wasn't very nice of you," he says, as if he thinks he still has the upper hand here, likely just because she was in restraints and he wasn't. As if to prove this, he reaches to push her hair back from her face for her. (She had barely noticed, but it seemed her bangs had fallen halfway across her eyes from the slap; too stunned from the pain and shock of being hit, she hadn't yet reached to move them back herself.) When he reaches towards her, she makes a split-second decision and tilts her chin up to meet the gesture eye-to-eye. He lingers his hand a second too long, by which she jumps at the opportunity to strike him back, turning her face sharply and clamping her teeth down onto his fingers, biting hard.

He starts screaming when she locks her jaw and refuses to let go, bone sinking straight to bone. She can taste blood in her mouth, not her own, and feel skin tearing, but she doesn't care. She reaches with her hands and grabs the doctor's wrist, pulling on the fingers still locked between her own teeth. He screams harder as she pulls, and within seconds, the door bursts open. Before she can react to the sweep of energy come into the room, a tranquilizer dart shoots into her neck with all the precision of a sniper taking out a target. She lets go of the doctor's hand to reach for her neck, to pull the dart out. Before she falls under the spell of the sedative, she jabs the needle into the doctor's thigh.

The doctor growls with the sting of the dart sinking into his skin, but it's nothing on top of the pain in his hand. "Get her the fuck off of me," he orders to the guard still standing in the doorway, gun lifted to his eye in case he needs to shoot another dart. "And close that fucking door! What are you, a moron? Jesus fucking Christ!"

The last thing she perceives is her hair being grabbed, the guard pulling her head back as the doctor screams, "Let go of her, she still has my fucking finger! Just get her goddamn mouth open!"

Her jaw is pried open so that the doctor's hand can be pulled free, and just as soon as it is, he whacks her over the top of the head with his fist. "Fucking cxnt, I swear." he spits, flinging droplets of blood all over the room. "You ever doubt these things aren't human, you remember this fucking moment," he says to the guard, pointing a shaky finger between them and the mutant laid out across the bed, now unconscious with someone else's blood staining across her mouth. Even still, it seems a satisfied smirk lingers on her lips -- or maybe that's just a trick of the light.

When Wray thought she'd never wish herself dead over dealing with more trauma, apparently she'd been wrong.

Normally, she can go days without eating if she kept a low enough activity, most of her core strength fueled by the energy she acquired from the dark. But she liked the taste of food, which was one of the main reasons that she ate, and then on top of that, she still needed it to nourish and sustain her body, and to provide extra strength as well. Through all the tests they've been conducting, the doctors pick up on this irregularity pretty fast -- that she doesn't technically need food like a regular person -- and anytime she acts out of favor, they exploit it, using it as a means by which to punish her when she disobeys.

The incident with biting Dr. Colbeck's finger earns her one such starvation period. She's locked inside her room for 6 days with no outside stimuli and no visitation, only the occasional delivery of water, a clean bucket, and nothing else. It's Humiliation 101, subjecting her to the necessary use of a bucket for facilities, all while knowing she was still being recorded, too. She damn-near refuses to buckle, curling up in a ball atop her bed, barely moving an inch the first couple days. The bleach-fumes of the sheet wrapped tight around her cold, thinning torso make her lightheaded, almost high, and she relishes in that feeling, even if she knows it might only be due to hysteria.

By the fourth day, she's practically clawing her eyes out with boredom, and really, really needs a shower. She squeezes the trigger on the call-remote for 20 minutes straight, wearing down the battery, but still, nobody comes.

Over the course of the next three years, she endures multiple other similar treatments, too.

She thought they'd never kill her fight, but they do. They wear her down to bones, cover her in scars, crush her self-esteem, and take everything she has to offer and more.

She doesn't even pay attention to the experiments anymore, after the first six months. Unconscious, conscious, whatever. They haul different machines into her room, always keeping a close eye on the door, but never take her back out again. Eventually, they just start leaving the machines in there with her, for regular use, and even though she could get up to quite a bit of chaos tearing them apart if she wanted, she doesn't. She's too weak to formulate a plan; she's too beaten down to care.

The room is cramped, but she mostly sticks to her bed, getting used to the tightness of the restraints, the smell of bleach on her sheets, the feel of needles prodding her all over. The only time she keeps an active mind is when the guards come in to clean her room, knowing most of them seem to think they can get away with doing whatever they want to her, either too stupid to notice the cameras or simply not caring in the first place. Even what is caught on camera doesn't get reported, because without a complaining victim, who cared about following up on an incident? They'd tried to make her a rag-doll once, and now she really was one. (If she'd had more freedom, she would've hated that, but now her mind spirals into thoughts of: So what. Whatever. It doesn't really matter anyway. )

She can't do much without getting hurt again, so she just commits their faces to memory every time someone touches her without her permission, and spends most of her days plotting her revenge down to the finest, minute detail. The things she had planned, she would make them wish she'd only bitten their fingers and not straight-up torn them limb-from-limb.

Someday, somehow, they would slip up, and when they did, she would be ready.

She thinks it's either late at night or very early in the morning when the storm first starts. Wray can hear the crashes echo throughout the facility, wide awake as she listens in (wide awake most days, really). Lying on her bed bundled into her sheets, she feels an odd sense of comfort in the sound of the thunder and the rain beating on the rooftop and the walls somewhere far, far away. She's never been afraid of storms -- actually, she's never been afraid of most things that normal people felt afraid of; the most stereotypical of her fears (before captivity) being death, and even that was more rooted in a wariness for the concept of not existing than it was any sort of fear for the actual unknown.

Storms make her feel things that remind her of the days when she still had the dark to rely on as a friend. If she closes her eyes, she can almost imagine shadow pooling around her as the rain beats against her windows; sitting on the floor inside her living room, legs crossed beneath her, meditating to the sound of the rain atop her roof. When she calms her breathing and stills her ever-racing heart, she feels she can almost nearly (but not quite) even return to that deep sense of peace; how she'd felt first moving to Alaska, where the night was more dominant than morning, and society so much more spread out. She'd felt so much freer then, even though she also knew she couldn't simply deny the truth now as she had before. In reality, she'd never once spent a single moment of her life not on the run from... something. (Herself, her family, her abilities, love, her own fear.)

She's not running now, but she wishes that she could. How freeing it would feel to be out in this storm, to have the rain drench her to skin and bone; to have it consume her, drown her, pull her underneath its surface. It's not even that she necessarily wants to die, it's just that, for the first time in nearly a decade, she's returned once again to wanting to disappear.

She releases a shudder of breath, involuntary, when the first flicker happens.

Her eyes snap open with the sensation. For the briefest second, she can feel power racing through her veins. She flexes her fingers and they don't hurt the same as they would before, but when she goes to sit up, she finds she's used up all her energy in a single instant. She deflates back against the thin mattress, resting her head atop the crumpled pillow, and stares up at the ceiling. Had it just been a trick of the light? She'd experienced those before: delusions so strong she'd struggled with reality; times she'd imagined herself doing something out in the real world, or using her powers, and almost managed to forget where she truly was; to the point remembering she'd been held in captivity the same place for the past-- god only knows how long-- hit her like a punch to the gut every single time.

She stares up at the mirrored ceiling, at herself reflected in the glass, illuminated by the ever-present light, and wonders if she'll die here. Or will they simply keep her around forever, just to drain her of everything she's got to offer?

It happens again. The light flickers around her room, glass shuddering with the force of the BOOM of thunder that reverberates throughout the facility. There's no window in her cell door, no cracks by which the outside light or dark can seep through, but when the power first goes out, shutting down to the backup generators with blue-green light kicking on likely everywhere but her room, she can feel it. (Her own lights are backup battery-powered, so that even if the regular power kicks off, they always stay on. Preventative measures, see? These are scientists, after all-- they were cruel, but not stupid. As long as they have the backup generators, there was nothing to fear, right? Ha. Haha. Or so they think.)

Even with her own lights staying on, Wray can sense the shadow pooling around outside her door, wanting to creep inside, calling out to her like a whisper in the night. The hairs stand up on the back of her neck and goosebumps prickle across her skin. She feels more energized than she has in years, but it's all in her head. She's still just as tired as she was yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that...

She can practically feel the storm, the impending outage clear on its horizon. In her mind, the rain beats down on her own skin, the thunder crashes atop her corpse. She sits up in bed, her restraints jostling at her wrists and ankles. She looks to the cameras. The red lights aren't blinking, which means their own power had been cut with the first outage. A small grin begins to creep across her features. And then it happens.

The crash is so loud, Wray is surprised it doesn't bring the whole facility down with it. It shakes the building mean as if Godzilla himself is stomping across the earth, which sends hairline cracks throughout her mirrors, from wall-to-wall they stretch. It short-circuits the power, static electricity filling the air mere seconds before every single bulb in her room explodes in a flash of bright white light and then goes out in a hiss and single puff of smoke. She's cast into absolute darkness in the aftermath, and a single second is all it takes.

It's like she'd been asleep the entire past three years -- or longer -- and now, after all that time, finally, she was waking up.

Adrenaline floods her veins... and something else too. It feels like cool water rushing over her limbs, like a sweet, gentle embrace, and also like the most powerful climax she'd ever experienced. She breathes in the cold comfort of the night and exhales pure tension; every doubt, every worry, every bad feeling sweeps out of her and she's rejuvenated in an instant. Even though she's still exhausted, even though she's still malnourished, even though she's still restrained, she feels the most alive she's ever felt. She feels hope... and then she remembers anger.

She lifts her hands, and with the motion, she conjures up every hint of shadow in the room. When the crackle of energy invites her to use it, for once, she doesn't resist. She sweeps her fingers slowly downward in a thin, straight line, drawing up a blade, and within seconds, a teeming mass of pure black emerges in the air before her, glinting faintly in the dark. Wray grips the hilt of the blade and presses the tip into the clasp of the restraints around her wrists. A faint pressure and they click free, falling to the ground in a clang of heavy metal. She does the same to her ankles, and when she moves to stand, unlike every time before, she doesn't struggle with her own weight buckling at the knees. She's at full strength, if not over it, for the first time in three years.

She doesn't hesitate.

With a sudden outward push, she blows the door to her cell open, and more energy creeps in as the lights flicker out into the hallway, the storm too strong for the power to fully stabilize. The dark still mostly outweighs the light, and now it overflows the room, overwhelming her senses like a shot of straight menthol. She breathes it in, but before she can get too caught up in the moment, a single guard wanders past the entrance to her room. He has his gun pulled up to his shoulder firing off rounds at a crowd Wray can only hear, but not see. When he registers the teeming mass of shadow collected in one cell from his peripheral vision, he looks over and freezes in place. His expression registers pure terror; he immediately recognizes the danger of who this cell belongs to, and that its inhabitant is clearly still inside.

Though he can't see in, Wray can see out just fine. He's too worried about not knowing where to aim to fire off right away, practically pissing down his leg as he stands shell-shocked in the doorway. In a single sweep, she makes another blade and then shoots forward, light enough on her feet to not be heard even as she clambers over shards of broken glass. Snatching the officer by his shirt collar, she pulls him into the room and right up against her chest. He drops the gun in surprise, but before he can react any other way, she jams the makeshift blade straight into his stomach. Blood pools around the hilt as she twists the knife sharply. Something like steam evaporates off the entrance to the wound, the coolness of shadow mixing with the warmth of his blood (and not mixing well).

He's dead before he even hits the ground -- especially because, even though the first one was more than enough to kill him, Wray doesn't stop stabbing. She jams the blade in over and over, making gashes in his chest, his face, his groin; until his blood is a straight puddle on the ground that she's not only standing in but also covered from head to toe. It coats the front of her jumpsuit, creating streaks all across her face and arms. The scent of iron is so strong it lines her nostrils and she almost throws up.

She only stops assaulting the guard when she hears the sound of boots echoing down the hall outside her room. As soon as she drops the current shadow blade, it evaporates and melts away, its energy pooling back with all the rest. Wray stands slowly, listening to the sound of footsteps growing closer, waiting for the first signs she might need to make another attack. When the first guard from the new wave begins to cross her doorway, she lifts her arms and a second later sends all the shadow in the room out into the hall in a flurry of daggers, pinning the bodies of near a half-dozen guards against the opposite wall.

She holds them there just long enough to make them really suffer, then drops them. She waits a moment to see if more will emerge, and when they don't, she walks out into the open.

And it's pure chaos.

(Over the sounds of fighting and screaming, she hears someone shout an odd command and nearly has to cover her ears with the volume they emit. She sweeps her eyes across the scene just in time to see a scrawny blonde stand up, pushing aside a pair of guards who are now... oddly fighting each other?)

There are bodies everywhere, most so heavily mutilated they're unrecognizable as guard or mutant, though the vast majority seem to be guards, judging by the stockier appearance of their (non-malnourished) frames and the uniforms that they wear. The entire hall is in ruins, walls cracked and glass shattered, some doors hanging off their hinges, most open with the rooms inside empty. The entire scene is cast into complete disarray. Wray breathes in a sharp breath as she registers the fighting, all the different powers being used at once. She inhales the still-lingering scent of charred skin from the girl who had set the entire first wave of guards on fire with her breath. She's behind in her body-count taking so long with her first victim, but not by much. (Of course, she fully intends on catching up, and within minutes of joining the fight, she does.)

​

Everyone's heading in mostly the same direction. Though likely none of them know the exact layout of the facility, it isn't hard to figure out by the fact the guards are assembling from all one direction. Not only that, but they're clearly trying to block the exits. Wray sticks to the back of the group as she wanders down the hall behind everyone else, keeping a close eye on the others, taking out guards when someone seemed nearly overpowered, fighting off her own as easily as if she hadn't even had to break a sweat.

When they get to the next closest exit and find a line of soldiers stand there blocking it, Wray feels pure rage at the seemingly endless supply of military and the sheer stupidity of humans. Enraged by the fact they won't simply back down and admit defeat, she steps forward just as the fighting reaches its worst point yet and... yeah, okay, maybe she went a little overboard in her brutality ripping apart the entire line of guards in a matter of mere seconds, but so what if they might have had children and families and lives outside of their jobs that maybe could've proved them half-way decent human beings? Considering what they were doing to her own people, Wray highly doubted any single one of them was innocent; by way of association, they deserved exactly what they got. (Besides, if it saved a few of her own people, she figured any means necessary was entirely worth the stain such violence might've left upon her soul. She'd worry about PTSD and trauma later, alright?)

She branches off with the rest of the group, leading attacks as necessary, other times holding back when she knows she needs to save her strength. Even with the body count rising as it is, it's clear the death toll is climbing on both sides. She's starting to grow worried they might not get out of here alive, and that strikes her with a new fear, as she no longer finds herself wishing for death.

​

When she winds up fighting alongside another blonde, Wray barely even notices their presence at first, not until the first time they use their vocal powers and she recognizes the voice from the incident with the guards who'd begun fighting each other earlier. She sweeps her eyes over their frame, making a quick assessment of their injuries the same as she has everyone else she's taken to fighting alongside in the group over the course of the last several minutes. (That's about all the attention the blonde gets from her, really; not because she doesn't care, but because she doesn't have time to get distracted.)

There's one little problem with fighting in a group, the main reason Wray tends to avoid getting involved in violence as much as possible: she's often among the strongest with her powers being purely elemental and long-range as well as close-distance. Having physical capabilities drawn off of elemental manipulation meant she surely fought among the hardest, often picking up the slack where others fall short, but she also went down the slowest, meaning others sometimes tended to use her as a shield, or relied on her abilities to cover their own asses when they were too exhausted themselves. She's happy enough to lend a hand, but sometimes it could get a bit overwhelming.

If she hadn't just spent three years in captivity, she might've lasted longer and been sharper with her focus, but as it was... It still wore her down pretty fast. There might've been plenty of dark to lend her energy, what with the storm continuing to knock out the power, but she was still malnourished, still going on just over 3 days without any meaningful rest, still mostly running on fumes (and pure stubbornness). The longer she fought, the heavier her body became, and the harder it got to stay upright. She could feel sweat collecting in a thin sheen up the bumpy ridge of her spine; her breath whistled past her nostrils, her ribs surely bruised from a few punches she'd taken here and there earlier in the fray.

She's not sure if the blood on her hands is hers or the guards' anymore, same for the blood smeared across her nose and mouth. (The blood oozing from her ears is definitely hers, but covered by her hair and intermingled with so much other random fluid, it's easy enough to miss. So long as she pretended not to notice, she could easily say the problem didn't exist, right? Right?)

She nearly misses the guards coming up on her left side, distracted as she is by the fighting happening on her right. Actually, she does miss them, and as soon as she realizes that, Wray is beyond angry with herself. Jerking around when she hears the sharp note of a whistle too close for comfort, she looks up just in time to see the guard sent backward by the other blonde's attack. She watches them take down the second for her too, and feels almost-- annoyed? Grateful? It's hard to say for sure, as she huffs out a breath, making brief eye contact with the other before the emergence of more officers from the right becomes a more immediate concern. They both paused, seeming to weigh the situation just the same.

When she glances back to the other, she sees them wiping blood from the back of their hand onto the front of their shirt and her eyebrows wrinkle in concern. She's about to take the guards down for them, (even though she knows it might not be the smartest decision because she's already treading thin ice as is) when the other surprises her by sweeping around to position themselves behind her. She feels their backs touch and almost flinches away on instinct with that one small point of contact, but the blonde motioning her to duck and cover her ears is more important, so she does exactly that.

Her spine goes rigid as she slaps her palms over her ears and hunkers down behind the other. It's a good thing that she does follow the other's lead, because when they open up their mouth and emit a cry so loud it fractures cement and shatters glass, effectively destroying the entrance to their exit, if she hadn't covered up her ears, Wray likely would have passed out, her superior hearing being what it was. Even still, the blood leaking from her ears begins to flow a little heavier with the strain, and it doesn't take long for her to realize she's shaking from the force of pressure. Her breath catches in her lungs when the sound continues to echo through the hall a second after she's finally removed her hands, heart-wrenching with the emotion the sound contains and the emotion it elicits in herself.

She doesn't think. Standing still for this long at a time, she notices a few things of importance: the blood on her mouth is definitely her own, because her nose is bleeding (and so are her ears). Beyond that, her legs are too weak to keep fighting any longer, and as she stands back to her full five-foot-nine, Wray nearly stumbles and loses her balance. She catches herself on the blonde's shoulder, which inspires her to action just as soon as she recognizes the true weight of the situation. She slides her hand down from shoulder to wrist, taking hold of their arm just before she takes off running for the exit, pure adrenaline kicking in. The two are lost in the crowd of other mutants doing much of the same thing. The guards, mostly fallen back or crushed beneath the weight of fallen rubble, don't even bother to chase after most of them.

Wray takes the blonde with her, because they've saved her life more than once by this point, and as much as they've sacrificed in doing so, abandoning them seems far too selfish to even consider. She doesn't let go of their wrist as she runs on long, loping strides, hoping they can keep up. She doesn't stop running until they're far, far away from the facility, until it's a mere wink of light in the far distance, surrounded by a storm cloud that continues to rage on, despite the fact it should've moved elsewhere by now.

At least she gets her wish of feeling the rain pour over her, a realization which has Wray almost laughing as she tilts her head back and lets it wash away the blood caked all over her features. When she finally stops running, she tumbles, falling in a heap to the ground in the shade-cover of an old barn. Her whole body aches, chest heaving with every breath, hand hovering over her stomach as she fights back the urge to vomit due to what is clearly overexertion by this point.

"I need a minute," she gasps out, explaining to the other though she knows she owes them no real explanation. They likely need a minute too, but if she hadn't dragged them along with her, maybe it wouldn't have been quite as bad. "We need to get farther away, but I can't keep going like this, I need a minute to recharge." She doesn't explain that it's literal how she means, as others rarely understood that part of how her powers worked (or how her powers worked at all, really).

Simply lying back into the grass, Wray stretches out her limbs and focuses on letting her breath catch up with her. She knows she's only slowing them down, but unless the other wanted to go off on their own, she'd only slow them down more continuing as she is now.

TEMPLATE © BOKEH​

 

[starboob]

MARS BATISTA

She's many places,
but she's homeward bound

“If you give us their names and locations, we’ll consider leniency.”

Heat flares through Mars like a volcano on its way to eruption; she almost launches herself at the suit sitting across from her, but the cuffs keeping her secured to the chair prevent that. Were she not restrained and the chair bolted to the floor, she might have been successful in cracking his head open like an egg on the metal table that separates the two. Instead, her nails bite into the palms of her hand while she wishes for the ability to belch fire.

He smirks, noticing her agitation and reveling in her powerlessness. “We’ll catch them all eventually––you may as well help us now and gain an early release.”

She may not be able to do much to express her disgust, or how insulted she is at the notion she’d ever betray her loved ones, but she does settle on spitting in his face (it’s mixed with her own blood from earlier beatings). In response, an officer comes from the corner of the room and, without any hesitation, hits the unruly mutant with the end of his weapon; this rips open (re-opening) the wound above her right eyebrow. Blood spills from her brow like a stream and her eye is forced shut before it’s irritated (again). No one offers her any medical attention despite the gush. (Earlier, her healing had been able to clot these injuries quickly, but now she’s finding the limits of her healing and its exhausting itself the longer this ‘interview’ drags on––this is the sixth time the officer has opened this cut.)

“No need to be savage about it––refusing to speak would have sufficed,” the interrogator says in a calm, cool tone as he removes his glasses and uses the end of his shirt to wipe the spit from the lenses and then his face. Earlier he had introduced himself as Agent Holmes, but Mars hardly commits his name to memory; his face, instead, is associated with red and his image will always call that red to swell in her vision. “We already know that you are well connected to other high profile mutants. After all, you were seen with the intended target––who could help us immensely with our project.”

‘How is stealing people helping?’ she thinks, jaw clenched tight. She hasn’t said much since being brought into this plain little 10 by 10 room and almost outright refuses to answer any questions. It even took them awhile to figure out that she understood the language just fine. In any case, she knows it's better to keep quiet. She knows the man is lying. She knows better to believe that selling out her friends would make her circumstances any better. They already have her and that is all she will let them have.

“Well, if you won’t share… Then...” His eyes roll, as if this is an everyday occurrence. Another Thursday night staying late at the office. He closes the notebook, putting his pen back into his shirt pocket as he rises. “Officers Howlett, Clark, I think the bitch-mutant may need to be reminded who exactly is in control.” The two officers standing at opposite corners of the room smirk as they approach Mars; she looks up at them with defiance, baring her teeth as they come forward. Neither cower from the warnings, there isn’t much reason to as she is restrained.

The one with Clark stitched across his chest brings the heel of his boot down onto the top of her foot. Pain explodes, shoots throughout their entire leg and she feels bones fracturing, if not snapping under the force. He slowly starts to grind the rubber sole into the blooming injury, with such force that tears involuntarily begin to stream down her scraped cheeks. Her features contort and she lets out a quiet, forced whimper as she twists in her seat trying to get away from the pressure.

Agent Holmes, meanwhile, leans against the back wall, with phone in hand, paying no attention to how the subject is treated. “When you tell us her location, we’ll set you up with a nice dose of morphine and you can move on with your life. Sort of.” A smirk stretches across his placid features, though his focus is clearly on launching another bird into some obstacles on his app game––not on his ‘interrogation.’

The second officer, Howlett, seems to have a moment of hesitation and Mars makes the mistake of hoping for an ally. No, instead he is only waiting for his partner to finish before he brings his club down right above her knees, and then again. Her head flies back, entire body tensing as she pulls against the restraints, bucking wildly against the chair as if it could help her cause. Though it really doesn’t matter if it helps; it’s the principle of fighting, thrashing back that matters most to the free spirit.

Just as the officer finishes bludgeoning her legs––too little too late––the door to the room flies open and an angry woman comes storming in. “Agent Holmes! What is the meaning of this?!” She shoves the two large officers to the side and comes around to the front of the chair, in front of the dazed, seething mutant. She reaches for Mars’ chin and tilts her features toward her. The woman has long raven hair tied into a sleek low bun, with eyes just as dark to match––even dark painted lips that standout against near-translucent skin (Mars thinks she looks sickly).

However, this woman is not looking at Mars; she is looking at the bruises and cuts that now litter the mutant––not yet realizing all the other wounds that covered her under her clothes. “This is not a C.I.A. blacksight. We are professionals, Holmes, and these are subjects––not people to interrogate with illegal force.”

Mars shakes her head out of the woman’s hand and growls at her, fighting off the tears and the need to anguish in her injuries. When their gazes meet, even only for a second, even with the vapid darkness of the woman’s eyes, she almost looks apologetic but the wild woman isn’t sure if she believes its sincerity. ‘No one here is safe.’

“Now we won’t be able to start for another month, at least, you idiot!” She scolds Holmes, who looks neither sorry nor concerned; his shoulders are slouched and his hands are in his pockets––she’ll have to deal with him later. Then she turns towards her subject, who is boiling in the anger she’s forced to barrel age and bottle. It wages an ugly war inside of her. “I’m so sorry about Agent Holmes. He’s new here and still understanding our policies and procedures,” she might have sounded kind if Mars were not automatically suspicious of every person at this strange place. “Oh, and my name is Dr. Waldorf––I’ll be working with you throughout this process. I hope to get to know you so that we can work together on this. I’m quite excited to work with a mutant of your talents as I specialize in physical enhancements.” She smiles, and it is genuine––for all of the wrong reasons and that makes her twice as lethal. A genuine smile that is rooted in ignorance is still poisonous as far as Mars is concerned.

“Officer James, please escort the subject to the infirmary. If she suffers any more injuries under your watch it will be your head under the axe,” Dr. Waldorf commands to an unseen figure. A third officer steps into view, but Mars can barely take in his features before there is a prick in her neck and she succumbs to the drug’s embrace.

“James, make sure you have triple doses on you next time. Her tolerance and metabolism seem to work faster…”

………….​

Much to the pleasure of Dr. Waldorf, they’re able to start experiments much sooner than she had initially anticipated after discovering that her subject has a healing and resilience factor. This also opens more potential for her areas of study, once approved by the facility director and board, of course. This does not mean anything better for the subject.

The subject, in fact, is prodded and poked more. Cut open and stitched up. Things are removed, scraped, or siphoned out of her. Blood, bags and tubes and vials of blood are collected. Things like pain medication and anesthesia are kept minimal, Mars only feels what the doctor wants her to feel. Though sleep never willingly comes to her, Dr. Waldorf is inventive and has her subject sedated each evening so that she is well rested. If too groggy the next morning, Waldorf ensures she is jolted awake. Mars feels like a bag of drugs more than she feels human, mutant, subject.

Everything is as Waldorf wants it. She rises when told. Feeds when served. Quantities, portions, calories are always calculated to their macronutrients ensuring Mars only has the energy she needs. Never more, often less. She has Mars on a tight leash and seems to have studied not just her subject’s ability, but seems to have gathered behavioral information to deal with all of the aggression and defiance she is met with. The psychological torments seem most effective.

“Oh, Mars, please calm down. How long is it going to take before you give up struggling?” She rolls her eyes but wears the face of a friend. Mars hates her. She imagines what it would be like to pull that smile so wide her face tears apart. “We already know you can create tornadoes and run to speeds near as fast as the fastest sports cars. But we want to see for how long––your stamina seems rather low.”

Her eyes scream disbelief, because of the disconnect between herself, the doctor, and reality; it is like they live in two different worlds and in many ways Mars knows that they do. Waldorf lives in the outside world and can always return to something; Mars belongs to the facility, a property to a government she has no loyalties or ties to. When she speaks, she does not address the line of inquiry. “How do you sleep with yourself at night?”

“Ambien,” she replies without thought or any semblance of irony. Mars isn’t even sure if it’s supposed to sound funny and if this is Waldorf’s way of trying to connect with her (she has been trying to for the past week or however long it's been without much success; Mars shares her hostilities as openly as she wears the heart on her sleeve). “I don’t want to make you run; I would rather this be a collaborative process, Mars, but I was also not hired to waste federal funds that could just as easily be used for schools. The choice is entirely yours.”

The mutant snarls and lurches forward with gnashing teeth that nearly threaten to tear her nose off her face had she not backed away when she did. Her eyes open wide in surprise, despite knowing the subject’s behavioral history quite well at this point––intimately even. The surprise is mainly out of habit, but the anger that follows is purely her own. The back of her hand comes down against Mars’ cheek with a loud smack, wedding ring leaving a cut in her skin; the impact echoes through the large rectangular simulation box. Mars’ head snaps to the side and when she whips back to face her, she’s cursing in a mixture of Spanish and Italian.

When it’s clear that there is no way to salvage the rest of the day’s experiments, Waldorf pinches the bridge of her nose before reaching into her breast pocket. “Fine, then we’ll do this your way.” Though Mars tries to move away from her as she approaches, she sticks the triple dose into her (now) track-marked neck.

“We tried nice. Put her in her room and make sure to restrain her––use something with minimal slack. We’ll keep track of her vitals, but no one is to check her. Do you understand?…”

[divided=thick][/divide]

Their head rests against the wall of their cell. It’s a rare moment of reprieve. A rare moment where they are actually able to be awake outside of the laboratory. With their eyes closed, they recall as many memories of themselves as they can. As many memories of their friends as they can. Their family. Lovers. Slowly, they begin to list them off in their head.

‘Osmunda, Jose…’

It hurts to remember before. Though Mars sees this as necessary if they are to preserve who they are and keep any part of themselves through to the next day. It’s not that they are hopeful for freedom––to a certain degree, they know that the odds are against them. But they cannot stand the thought of losing who they are to this facility; to Dr. Waldorf; to the officers. They will remain staunchly themselves. Even if it meant cuts or bruises because Mars knows there are things that violence can never touch and if they can hold onto that… Well, maybe there will be satisfaction in that small victory of keeping one part of themselves intact. Though honestly, they aren’t sure how bright and brilliant they feel, shackled at the ankles and made to feel like a dog.

‘Camila.’

Somedays, it is much harder to remember. Somedays, they do give in. Somedays are becoming more frequent as time wears them down to near nothing.

“Kafele. Mercy,” They whisper, because things spoken are more powerful than things thought. Tears drip down their cheeks as they wish, desperately wish they had listened to all the warning they had been given. This place is bringing out sides of Mars they hadn’t known existed. The weight of their circumstance slowly crushing their bones and they know eventually they will crumble. And yet they still fight against the toll that being stuck, being powerless, helpless, near hopeless has on them.

From across their cell, there is a clicking noise and the small opening on the door drops the ‘food’ they have to eat (not eating is just as unpleasant as eating the flavorless blocks, piles of mush, liquid sustenance; not eating results in more tubes being forced into them). When they look up at what has been delivered, a ghost settles in their stomach because the ‘meal’ indicates long days are to come. While days are usually long, being fed more means tests that forced them to overexert their body.

Mars doesn’t understand why they have to keep running. Or why they are still needed at all––they don’t see the point in the repetition of these experiments. It’s not that Waldorf ever explains much about what they are supposed to be doing or what she is even researching, but the measures always seem the same. Feel the same. Leaves them feeling violated with dirt that can’t be scrubbed off from the outside (if they were even allowed to shower––rather than being hosed off like a fucking dog as needed; listening to the mocking guards and their nasty comments; how roughly they’re toweled down that they feel raw and are reminded of their fragility).

If they do not start eating soon, swallowing the empty nutrients though everything in their body rejects the gruel, there would be a barrage of nurses attaching them to tubes and forcing them to absorb it. Experience tells them this, so they crawl over to the tray of briquettes and pick one up. They bring it to their lips and it’s like kissing Death.

………….​

When they find themselves through the fog of sedatives, they are back in a familiar room. Bigger than most other laboratories they have been in, this room is rectangular, bright, with white walls. Currently, they are sprawled on their stomach at the center of the room––likely (carelessly) dumped there only a few minutes ago.

“Please, get up,” Waldorf calls over the intercom.

Mars groans in response and lifts a thumb up to indicate that they had heard. However, they find it difficult to find the motivation to lift their body. Even the threat of knowing what happens when they do not heed these requests is not enough to gather strength. (Waldorf must be patient today, because no one comes in to force cooperation.)

Weakly, they push themselves up from their stomach into a plank position and stand with their arms out as they catch their own wobble. If they had been given better, more consistent nutrients they could have done more; been better; been stronger; but Waldorf insists on yo-yo caloric diets to keep them in various states of nourishment though they are rarely ever satiated or at their peak––yet somehow she still manages to force a peak performance from them.

Once the subject is standing upright, the intercom crackles and Waldorf’s voice fills the room, “The simulation will begin in thirty seconds; do your best to avoid the obstacles.”

………….​

It is hours of endless repetition, going through the same obstacles, each time being asked to best the prior performances; and each time Waldorf believes her subject is being uncooperative, she has a laser sting at their back. Eventually, in the middle of an exercise, their body collapses and they roll like a tumbleweed into the wall; they collide not with a thud or smack but with a crack––as if they are breaking bones upon impact (and they might be). The simulation they had been running glitches before the mirage drops completely and the room returns to its stark white.

Their chest heaves and they try to catch air, but nothing stays; each time they hold their breath it is sputtered and forced out of them––they cannot, cannot make their lungs hold oxygen and they’re coughing desperately as they try to steal air. They half expect medics to rush in to check their vitals as they sometimes do when Mars has a crash, but they are left in a heap as they wrestle their cardiovascular system into a state of calm.

The intercom crackles, “Get up. Run it again.”

Mars, to their credit, they do try, because they know what happens when they don’t and the lasers are beginning to burn instead of sting, indicating that their healing factor is giving out. With their hands firmly pressed into the ground, they push up but their arms shake, muscles straining against the movement before ultimately giving out under them. Their eyes shutter close and let out a whine and fold into a ball to contain their shakes. This is the absolute max of their natural limits and it feels like punishment for making this discovery.

After a few minutes of stillness (peace), a medic comes in. Instead of assessing their injuries, however, she simply slaps a patch onto the back of Mars’ neck that numbs out the pain they should be feeling; the pain that signals to them they’re breaking. The medic then pushes their soaked curls away from their neck and they half expect the sweet sedative, but instead it feels like pure electricity shooting through their veins.

The drug’s effect is instant. Their eyes snap open, revealing pupils so dilated there is no brown, only a gaping dark abyss. Their heart kickstarts to a hundred and now their body shakes for an entirely different reason. “No, no, no,” they mumble, clutching their chest as they stretch out and flip onto their back, as if this would stop the spread of electric currents pumping through their body.

“Shelley just hit you with a new performance enhancer. You should be able to hit top speed despite having reached zero. Now get up, wipe those tears from your face, and run. It. Again.”

Mars doesn’t really hear Waldorf’s explanation. They are far too focused on the stimulus that is rampaging inside of them. “No, no, no,” they continue to mumble––it’s like everything is going too fast and their breathing is too slow to keep up with the rest of their body. Red wisps of electricity collect around their legs, climbing up and around their torso, into their arms. This kind of unnatural strength is more than they can bear to contain in their current state. Mars shoots upright into a sitting position and then doubles over with their head between their knees; the veins in their neck bulge out and their eyes shut so tight they’re giving themselves a headache on top of whatever is attacking their nervous system.

Waldorf must have grown impatient with waiting for them to launch, because a few seconds or minutes later two lasers are fired from the side of the room, sizzling against the back of their ribs. However, they barely register the pain and only feel dull thwaps against their back. And immediately after their head tears around to find whatever has hit them (it’s like they have forgotten everything, all memories locked away and the only thing that exists is the current moment; it’s as if they have been reduced to primal instinct only). Just as they lock onto the laser retracting into the wall, they spring up faster than they knew they could even move and rush the weapon before it recedes another centimeter. Their fist closes around the device and it’s ripped from the wall and tossed to the side.

The drug continues to rip through their veins and it feels as though it’s tearing through their skin; the only thing they can see is brilliant shades of red. Though they do not register this, Waldorf has started the simulation and decides to test the combat abilities of her subject given their current heightened arousal––this seems like another potential area she can exploit from her subject.

It’s not until she realizes that Mars is avoiding the obstacles to reach the edge of the simulation box that she begins to understand the full effects of the berserker-esque drug she had administered. She watches, and allows, the mutant’s fists to beat against the walls of the room in rapid succession. From her side of the observatory, she can feel the room shaking as the mutant searches for the invisible door that leads to room of scientists. Waldorf’s finger hovers over the panic button. Dents begin to show on her side of the door and while that does bring a smirk to her lips, it is also when she knows to press the button.

Three triple doses are immediately deployed, homing in on the mutant’s genetic signature and landing in the back of their neck. Though they don’t immediately collapse; the other drug, the one turning their world to red, seems to help them fight off the effects for a few more minutes. In those minutes they are able to completely break the door down, ignoring their broken fists––the patch on the back of their neck killing all pain responses and the drug providing the strength to bust through the barrier. However, at the same time that the door comes off its hinges, the second drug starts to hit and they start to collapse against the doorway. It's evident that they are going down, but Officer James must have decided more decisive action should be taken and he slams his fist into their ear to bring them down faster.

“James, that was wholly unnecessary––the sedative was going to take over a few seconds. Rinley, come walk with me...”

[divided=thick][/divide]

Mars is under heavy sedation when the lightning bolts strike the facility. The electric air does little to stir them; little to inspire them. She is gone to the world. Had it not been for the sparse escapees checking cells to ensure people knew to clear out, she might have been left behind. When her door is pushed open by another, her body remains slack. The mutant who had come to her aid sees this and immediately runs to find help––Mars is not the only mutant forced into a near coma. By some miracle, there is, thankfully, another in their block with healing capabilities who has been acting as medic for those fallen, those sedated.

So, with no warning or build up to the climatic events transpiring just outside of her cell door, Mars’ groggy confusion is justified. While she comes out of her stupor, struggling to place which reality she is in, her rescuers are pulling her to her feet before she has even located her legs for herself. All she hears or registers are the sounds of thunderclaps, storming boots, and a rain of chaos.

“Hey, hey, over here––look at me,” the other grabs Mars’ shoulders, turns her face, and forces her attention. “We don’t have much time––we’re ditching this place!” The words… The words don’t make sense to Mars and her brows knit in confusion as she wonders why someone is talking to her––why guards aren’t dragging her into a laboratory, why she isn’t in a simulation chamber, why she’s even up. ‘Is this a dream? What is happening? Where am I?’

As delirium releases her from its hold, Mars notices the flickering blue-green lights; from behind the rescuer, her eyes catch officers flying down the hallway just outside her cell; she starts to put together what is happening––or at least the things she needs to know. The rest she can figure out later. Right now, she has gathered that there is at least an uprising within the facility and that is enough for her to hold onto. Questions begin to form, but she isn’t able to ask them.

Soon after this realization, a rush of guards flood into the cell and it does not even take a second for Mars to react. (Being made entirely of impulse can occasionally pay off.) The flickering lights are no longer as disorienting when she is moving at such a high speed. As she moves on her own accord, she is reminded of this cosmic truth: if she is moving they cannot catch her. Thus, her strategy is simple.

And temporarily, it is uncharacteristically selfish too.

She had the half thought, admittedly, to leave before she remembers the two women who had helped her from her chains and the plethora of others that she hears clamoring and shouting just outside her door. The next thing she remembers is herself and all of the things that had gotten her to this place. She remembers who she is and the person she fought to keep alive during these unknown days trapped inside this hellsite.

Yes, Mars is going to get out, this is something her deep self knows. That alone helps provides a state of calm, because while she does not know what this path to freedom looks like she knows it will be her destination by the end of the night. She can afford to help the two who had saved her, at the very least (and of course more, always more––but she would get out. She has to, for Mercy and her family especially).

All of these revelations and rememberings happen in less than 15 seconds and in that time, Mars has already turned on her heel and has her arm around one of the guard’s neck; she grabs his chin and wrings it to the side. Before his body even drops to the floor, she has claimed his knife and has it jammed in the other two officers’ necks (multiple times). She doesn’t stay in the cell much longer than that; there isn’t time to say thanks, or she sees it as unnecessary as she figures taking out the officers is thanks enough to the two other mutants.

Outside is pure wrath. Elements fly through the air; she sees a tiger ripping out an officer’s throat; a metallic person uses themselves as a human shield against the onslaught––there’s a lot happening and while somewhat disorienting, still, she finds it inspiring. For the most part, she leads the crowd. Where she can, she pulls officers off of mutants and makes sure they meet Hell in the form of her fists.

Briefly, in all of the fighting, the officers take over a portion of the cell block but Mars and a few others make sure that doesn’t last long. With the knife from earlier still in her grip, she lifts it, and positions it so that when she bolts through a narrow gap of officers, she rips into their necks, shoulders, cheeks, arms, whatever she can hit. The force of the action is enough to lacerate, and thus immobilize, the line of antagonists. While this also brings her to the end of the block, she does not exit just yet and goes back once more to tear through the chain of soldiers once again.

When she finishes, her arms are soaked in red, the front of her jumpsuit is as well––it’s smeared across her face. She looks like she’s stepped off the set of a horror film––though her mess is not a concern. She slows (though to the naked eye she would still appear as a blur) and scours the mess before her. Reasonably satisfied with the damage she’s done, she decides to leave this block and continue onto others, to continuing helping others.

Though on her way out she catches some lost, confused mutant running in the complete wrong direction and she slows her stride to a full stop (the officers have thinned out enough she feels safe doing so). “Kid,” she grabs their collar and somewhat violently yanks them backward (mostly an accident––she hasn’t been this excited in who knows how long and it’s not the first thing on her mind to be aware of her own strength). She puts her hands on their shoulders, spins them towards the exit and shoves the curly-haired fawn in that direction. “The exit is that way! Get running and whatever you do, don't stop!”

Though she doesn’t stay much longer after that; she doesn't wait for the kid's reaction and instead zips, in a flash of electric red wisps, towards the neighboring cell blocks where she continues to aid other stragglers and strugglers. One block, where she spends more time than she had initially intended, seems to be filled with children. It breaks her heart to see them, to know they had been robbed of their youth, and she takes great care in helping them out of their cells. Though there isn't much time for comfort or explanation she points them towards safety and assigns the oldest in the groups the leader roles. (She knows helping them does not guarantee anything; this is something that gnaws at her, but she knows this is not something that she can control. She can only do what she can––it’s hard to accept that she cannot save everyone.)

At this point, the blocks are mostly cleared out and the officers who haven’t succumbed to the righteous fury of their subjects are starting to retreat. Feeling comfortable that she has done her share, she starts to turn towards the direction she had been sending everyone else. Though she doesn’t get far before she is forced to stop and cover her ears as an ear-shattering scream echoes through the facility; even from where she is, she can feel the vibrations underfoot and through her chest. It forces her eyes shut––as if that would help block out the noise.

When the wail finally ceases, she pulls herself up and staggers through the facility until she is able to reorient and re-steady herself. Just as she is about to make a final rush to depart and get the hell out of the state, she feels a tug on the back of her uniform. When she whisks around, she doesn’t even think––she decks who she assumes is an assailant associated with the facility. Though she realizes her error a half-second later as the Bambi from earlier is knocked backwards. “Kid! I told you to get out and you have done the opposite of that! Why are you still here?” She bends down and pulls the kid up by their collar, looking at them with wild intensity––it’s unclear whether she is angry or concerned. “Are you trying to get tossed back into one of these cells?”

elsewhere, NV

rage

jumpsuit

sean

coded by natasha.

 

[heartstringss]

SEAN NEILSEN

CAPTIVITY​

There's something underneath his skin. He can feel it grating against his nerves, sharp metal edges cutting into delicate fibrous tissue. Although he can't see what it is, he can visualize it by the feel of it embedded in there so deep it leaves a vague impression in his mind. He knows that it is there because it is something that does not belong and, as it is his body, he knows what should and should not be there quite intimately -- in some ways, perhaps a lot more intimately than he would truly like.

(Whether he likes it or not, he always knows when something is there that does not belong. For example, if he were to have a splinter or some kind of bug bite, it would feel downright unbearable for him to need to leave it alone, hence why he never could. Of course, a normal person might easily recognize these things too, but Sean's way of recognizing them was quite a bit different from the norm -- after all, he himself was very different from that norm, too.)

Fingers move to his bicep, dirty nails scratching at skin already faintly raw due to the fact he's been scratching at this same spot off and on all day. He wants to tear into the tissue, dig down deep into his skin and rip out the intruder object, but he knows he can't; that would only do more harm than good, and it simply wasn't worth the risk. So he lets out a frustrated huff of breath before pulling his legs up onto the mattress to tuck them Indian-style beneath himself instead. He moves his hand down to his knees and forces his shoulders to relax. The room is quiet, but every sound seems to be amplified as soon as he goes to shut his eyes. He has to work hard to block out all the different outside influences.

He begins to visualize his body, the multiple stacked layers of his skin, the tendons and ligaments wrapped around muscle and bone, intermingled with fat. He's studied enough anatomy to know the systems fairly well, although it's not something that he necessarily has to know in order to use his power -- he could do this with or without the visualization if he wanted to, really (but he rather likes it with).

Breathing deep into his lungs, he begins to weave his way through the intricate web of his own vascular and nervous systems. His brow pinches with the depth of concentration, movement flickering behind his eyelids as he works. After a long few minutes of searching, he finally finds what he is looking for: there, lodged inside the muscle of his baby-thin upper arm, he finds the thing that does not belong. It has embedded itself into his body so deep that removing it is physically draining, but as he slowly pulls it up and begins to work it out, Sean feels relief wash over him.

(That is, until he nearly gags while it's traveling up the back of his throat--)

The metal is cold and slimy on the far back of his tongue, coated with the sting of sharp, bitter acid and tasting more or less entirely of old, stale saliva. After what seems like eons of time has passed, he finally lifts his hand and spits the thing into his palm.

Sitting in the center of his hand is what looks to be some kind of tiny mechanical object. It's smaller than his thumbnail, square-shaped, encased in plastic with a faintly glowing red light that blinks out of its center. A number sequence is etched onto the back of its surface, a code he recognizes fairly well by the fact it's printed on the chest of his own shirt. His brow pinches further as he stares down at the thing, what he can only assume to be some kind of microchip.

After a long couple minutes of staring, he shakes his head and tosses the chip across the room. It ping!'s against the wall and then falls straight to the floor, the delicate metal/plastic casing shattering to pieces. The light blinks out as the thing's battery dislodged and its internal power reserves deplete. Sean stares a few moments longer, then shakes his head, lays down, and goes back to sleep.

When they find out he's removed the microchip, they're pissed. Someone comes in to deliver his nightly 'meal', and as the male guard sets the tray down on the end of his bed, they see it. Stooping down to examine the object on the floor several feet away, Sean turns his head to watch them. He is bored out of his mind and feels numb beyond comparison.

"What is this?" the guard asks, seemingly confused at first, as they pick up the broken pieces of plastic and examine the object a little closer.

Sean's not sure if they're really talking to him or if they're simply talking aloud, so he only shrugs at first. When that awarded him a cold, blank stare in response, he opens up his mouth and comments, "I dunno. You tell me."

The guard doesn't seem to like that response. "Listen here, you mouthy little shit--"

He tries really hard not to, but when the guard turns on his heel and suddenly crosses the room with his hand raised, Sean flinches and makes to cower into himself. His tiny body folds up like a pretzel as he turns away, exposing his back rather than his front, hoping only to protect his face.

It stops the guard, for some reason. He grumbles, hands tightening to fists that tremble for just a moment or two longer, then he begins to turn away. He crosses the room and rips the door open, exiting without another word. The door is pulled shut behind him so forcefully that it slams.

The next morning, the guards come in pairs lugging a stretcher between them and a pair of restraints by which to transport him safely through the halls. He backs himself into a corner trying to get away, but they still pin him anyway, jabbing a needle into his neck to sedate him before finally snatching up his limbs and hauling him onto the stretcher. Even though he's been sedated, they still restrain him anyway. 'Just in case you decide to get a little squirrely,' the guards tease as they linger hands in places he wishes that they wouldn't. His prisoner mind screams for when his mouth cannot.

They take him to the infirmary, lay him out onto a new bed, and do up the straps around his arms and legs again. They're stretching a belt across his forehead when the first doctor comes out. (Or whatever passes for doctors in this place, he guessed. They're all a lot more like scientists, really-- every one of them only wants to cut him open, peel back his layers and see what they can find inside. 'A genetic miracle,' they've taken to calling him every time they run a new series of labs or tests. 'So much potential,' he keeps hearing. He spits into their faces in his mind, though in the real world he's often only able to glare.)

"I've heard you found out how to remove your tracker chip," the doctor says, not even looking at him as they walk up and grab his hand, beginning to pull back his sleeve. "No use lying to you about what it is, now that you've seen it, of course. Just a little something to keep you people on your rightful leash. Guess we'll have to find a different method for you, though." He grabs a tray and drops something into it. Sean thinks it's the original chip, but with his head held down by straps, he can't exactly tell for sure.

He whirls his eyes around to find the doctor-- the patch sewn to the front of his lab coat reads 'Mills', but it's a new face, one that he commits to memory just as easily as he has all the others. "I'm not a fucking dog," he spits, the words coming out roughly as it's hard to move too suddenly.

"No, that you are not," the doctor comments idly, not really paying attention anymore. Something sharp stings at his wrist. When he flinches, the doctor smiles and pats a hand to his arm. "There, there. You stay still now, you hear? See, this is going to hurt, but unfortunately, it's simply what we have to do. Really, perhaps we should've known the usual trackers wouldn't work on your type -- with your regenerative healing, the body manipulation ability and all that... now we have to go a few steps further, don't we? Shame, this will likely leave a scar. Less mobility in your wrist, too. We'll figure something out later, though."

Sean can barely focus on the doctor's words, as his mind and body have now erupted with a sensation of pure panic coursing through his veins. There's a cutting at his left wrist as the doctor continues to work, and then something liquid pours over his arm-- an antiseptic, maybe? He can hear something else moving too, a bit more inorganically than the doctor's own movements-- some sort of slithering over metal, wet and sticky and weird.

A second later, some sort of ooze is placed atop his skin, and it's cold, so cold, like metal mixed with slime, and the lick of flame is replaced with icy cold all at once. It feels like something is crawling inside his arm, and the pain is otherworldly, quite literally off-the-charts.

Through the fog of confusion and panic that overwhelms him, he can hear the doctor speaking, "This will bond with you genetically, as well as attach itself mechanically -- you won't be able to take this off as easily as you removed the other. There'll be no rejections here -- it'll be a part of you, an extension of sorts..."

What that's supposed to mean, Sean has no idea. He won't find out what they did to him until a few hours later, when he wakes up later in his room (apparently having passed out at some point during the procedure). He's groggy at first, but then as soon as his mind awakens, he quickly springs to action -- hands fly up to tear away the thin sheet, wrenching up his sleeve to reveal --

A bracelet? That's what it looks like, anyway. It's chunky, metal wrapped around some kind of black leather-like material, but when he peels up the cuff it doesn't budge-- it fits atop his skin like a whole new layer, and when he pulls it aches, the pressure pulling at not just the gauntlet, but his own skin as well. Something like wires or hooks dig deep into his flesh, a parasite clinging on. When he pulls again, it zaps him straight at his nerve endings with a jolt of electricity, white-hot and punitive. He leaves it alone after that. He learns his lesson, in a sense.

He starts out being wheeled down a long hall. A number of doors line either side of the hall, stretching all the way from one end to the next, seemingly never-ending. They are all tightly sealed, windows vented shut, most with signs hanging loosely from their handles, each reading:

❝ ROOM OCCUPIED

TESTING IN PROGRESS

DO NOT DISTURB ❞​

Sean's breathing is tight, his mind panicked. He sits folded up and slumped over inside the chair, his body far too small for the width of space he has been given. The guard pushing his wheelchair takes him to the farthest end of the hall, to one of the few unoccupied rooms. They wheel him to a table before handcuffing him in, then lock the wheels on his chair and promptly leave the room.

When he looks around, he can see fluorescent bulbs hanging from thin wires that protrude like bony fingers out of small holes cut into the ceiling. The light flickers from time to time, though the effect seems to be man-made, to make the room seem like it was built underground rather than inside a top-notch, state of the art government facility.

On one side of the room, there is a one-way glass mirror that stretches all the way across the wall. There are cameras in every corner and an intercom system built into the ceiling, its volume cranked up so high it crackles endless static throughout the room. A sharp hum of feedback whirs out as the line clicks open and a woman's voice echoes out. Sean startles with the sound, his head lifting slightly as he tunes in to listen.

"In front of you on the table, there is a manila folder with a stack of photographs inside. The girl you see in the pictures is being held by the U.S. government pending trial; the nature of her containment is need-to-know, however, make no mistake -- this girl is a criminal, highly dangerous and completely undeserving of your sympathy. You are to examine the pictures closely, then you will shift to match her form. Next, you will read the script stapled to the back of the folder. This will all be video-recorded. Begin now."

The line closes, another sharp whir of feedback ringing throughout the room as it does.

Thin hands lift to the table as Sean reaches for the folder. Flipping it open, he draws in a deep breath and holds it all the while he scans the thin sheet of biography. There is a picture clipped to the top of the folder's insides that he simply cannot ignore -- in the photograph is a girl, probably close to the same age as him. A small stack of photographs sits inside the folder -- school yearbooks pictures, old government IDs, family photos; an entire life reduced to just a couple dozen pictures and a small biography of five lines.

When he finishes examining the pictures, he places them aside and carefully picks up the script instead. Doe-brown eyes flicker over the text as he reads, his face slowly changing. He has given up the facade now; he is no longer pretending to hide his emotions anymore. The clock is ticking, but he does not begin to shift just yet. When he opens up his mouth, his voice breaks as he begins pleading, "Please don't make me do this. I really, really don't want to do this."

His stomach is sour with the thought of begging, but he cannot hold the words in, for his mind seems even sourer than the acid in his belly. He can taste vomit creeping up the back of his throat, though he pushes it back down, unwilling to show that much weakness at once (he has already shown enough).

There is no response from the intercom. Instead, a small panel lifts out of the wall behind him, revealing a machine that he recognizes fairly well by this point.

He looks down at the folder, at the pictures of the girl inside, and swallows back another mouthful of acid. Though he knows exactly what kind of reaction this will get him, he looks back to the mirror and slowly shakes his head.

"Please. This is wrong, you have to know that that is wrong, you can't--"

The machine fires up behind him and a second later, a bolt of electricity shoots out on a thin wire. It hits him square in the center of his back, muscles clenching tightly just before they begin to seize. He lets out a cry. It goes on for only a few seconds, then the line retracts.

"Last warning. Begin your transformation now."

-- And that's the rub, isn't it? Sure, they could beat him with their toys, shoot him with their lasers and their stun-guns, find a variety of different ways to torture him, but his power could still only be controlled by him. It was his mind that made it work, his body that had to make the change. There was no switch that could be flipped, no magic word that could be said -- it was all up to him when and if he wanted to do it. They could not exactly make him use his power (but they could damn sure try, couldn't they?)

Which is exactly why he refuses-- because he still has that choice. They haven't found a way to take it from him yet.

"No."

The line shoots out and another voltage of electricity hits him in the back. They hold it longer this time, so long he crumbles against the front of the table, his breathing erratic. It feels like his lungs are about to explode. A line of saliva dribbles from the side of his mouth; his veins begin to bulge.

"No," he groans, spitting blood. Just as soon as the word falls from his mouth, the door rips open and a guard tears into the room. He crosses the room in a few quick strides, baton already in hand that he flips around in a single toss, then slams onto the side of the table mere inches from Sean's head.

"You forget who is in charge here, freak," the guard warns him sternly.

Sean turns his head and looks the guard over with a hard, derisive glare.

The change is gradual as it takes place over the course of the next several seconds. Curly brown locks shorten to a dark red-brown buzz cut; brown eyes lighten to blue. Sickly pale, sallow skin darkens to a natural tan and then becomes dotted with freckles and age spots, wrinkles spreading all across his face. His features become more masculine and older; he grows and broadens in size, bulking up within his jumpsuit. His composure flickers as he focuses on the chest, trading out breasts for pecs instead. Within a minute, he's an exact copy of the officer standing in front of him at the table. Aside from the gauntlet and the restraints around his wrists, he's looking up at a mirror image of himself.

"And you forget who has all the power," he says in the officer's own deep voice. He smiles menacingly as he does. It's fake courage, but courage all the same.

"I'll show you power," the officer mumbles, reeling back all of a sudden. The baton cracks down on the top of his head at the same moment that the intercom squeals to life ordering the officer to stop.

Really, captivity does not suit Sean well. He's lived in hell-like conditions before, so it's not that that bothers him -- rather, it's the complete lack of freedom. Perhaps he could've managed if they'd let him take whatever form he liked, or if they'd fed him real food rather than the shitty space-protein bars they've supplied instead. If they'd let him go outside a little, soak up the sun and roam around... But no. None of that is allowed, of course.

He sees the four walls of his cell, the interrogation rooms, occasionally the mirror-walled gym, and the infirmary, but that's it. He doesn't know where he is otherwise, and that sense of nameless/facelessness is nearly to the point he starts to question whether he might be in a whole other universe altogether. A vacuum of space, that's what it's like. Secluded. Alone. Everything seems... wrong.

But he sure knows why he's there -- after all, they simply won't shut up about it. Every time they take him back for some new experiment, some new medical procedure to extract "valuable genetic material", he has to listen to those stupid fucking doctors going on about his potential again and again and again. He wants to beat his fists into their heads until their faces are no longer recognizable; the violence is overwhelming and feels foreign -- he's never really been this sort of violent before.

Days blend into weeks and weeks blend into months, until time disappears altogether. He's no longer sure how long he's been there, be it months or years; he doesn't know his own age, hardly even recognizes his own life before captivity. Only the four walls of his cell feel familiar enough to relax within -- everything else is like being an animal trapped inside a cage, but he's no longer fighting for his life, no longer resisting treatments or pushing back at the guards during experiments. He'd given up that act long, long ago.

When they tell him they're happy he's finally cooperating, his only response is a brief flicker of brown eyes swinging around the room to land on each new doctor before he lays his head back and follows out their next command.

(Now he really is a dog, and a well-trained one at that -- the leash is too tight, almost suffocating, but he doesn't dare resist. He's had enough pain to last him a lifetime; the very corpse he drags around is near enough to do him in, and that fact alone is... overwhelming, to say the least.)

When the storm starts in one night, it's nothing too far out of the ordinary at first -- it's louder than usual, sure, but he's begun to lose track of time in here, and it's hard to focus on outside stimuli anymore. He lays with his head tucked underneath his pillow, eyes squeezed shut blocking out each crash of thunder and lightning that dares to interrupt his sleep. He groans with the heavy rattle of the building; it's just another nightmare.

He doesn't notice the flicker of lights, nor the stomp of boots outside his door, until someone comes and bangs his door open. He shoots up then, staring across the dark of his room to the pair of figures standing in his doorway -- too thin to be a guard, and one of them is-- glowing? Regardless, they shout at him, telling him he needs to get up and get his ass moving if he wants to get out of here alive, and that solidifies a plan, or something like a plan, at least enough of one to prompt him up so he can do as he's been told.

When he clambers out of bed, it's on newborn shaky legs that he rises, eyes wide as they sweep the room. He shuffles into his boots before moving out into the hallway. It's chaos all around, true carnage and mayhem as the freed mutants tear apart the building and the men and women who've held them captive over the years. Sean lingers in the doorway far too long, unmoving, shocked -- however, when a pair of hands wrap around his neck and begin to shove him back into his room, he acts entirely without thinking. His leg shoots up, knee connecting with the officer's groin. He yells as the body falls to the floor, hands clutching at privates.

He takes off running down the hall, and as he gains momentum, he also acquires steam. Or maybe not necessarily steam, but rather-- confidence? It feels so foreign to be feeling, to have some kind of emotion, some kind of adrenaline flooding through his veins. It's that same adrenaline which prompts him to join the fight as well, though his efforts are quite a bit weaker, a little more odd as he doesn't use his power, or even his fists or any other sort of weapon. He isn't shooting flame or punching steel, or flying around like a bullet down the hallway cutting throats. There is no kicking ass and taking names with Sean at all, really; instead, he's-- sort of like a wasp.

Anytime an officer tries to grab him, he darts away, and then if bravery suits him well enough, he might come back swinging-- not with his fists, but rather, with his hands. It's almost comical the way he smacks an officer open-palmed across the face and then shrieks away, or how occasionally he'll jump into the fray just to kick one of the males in the gut or between the legs and then runs off again. No one who knows him well would've been surprised he couldn't fight -- actually, anyone who looked at him now might not have been surprised either, seeing as he was only 5'3" in this form, more a child than a girl man of twenty-one years.

It doesn't even occur to him to shift his form; it's hard to disconnect from the fact he hasn't been given permission enough to do so, and it's not until way, way later that he'll realize he can do it freely again.

He tries to stick to groups (because at least he knows there's safety in numbers, if nothing else) but there's so much going on that he gets a little lost. It's hard to keep things straight when every hallway blends together; when they're all wreaked with the same carnage, blood and bodies scattered everywhere, more and more danger lurking around every corner that he turns. Perhaps he's seen more of the layout of the facility than most others in his position, but it's hard to recognize in such a panic.

A blur shoots past him, and he only vaguely recognizes it as a human (though, 2 years in captivity has taught him humanity is subjective now; he would've considered himself human before too, but now he'd rather anything but). When the blur stills, the person screeching to a halt, he doesn't notice because he's not paying them any attention. He's running, just running without a path--

When he's yanked backward by the collar, a scream rips out of his throat. Wide eyes catch on the tall -- so tall! -- lanky form of another mutant in a jumpsuit, this one splattered with blood, for the briefest second before they spin him around and shove him in the opposite direction, telling him which way to go. He doesn't get a chance to thank them, only barely having enough time to grasp the neck of his shirt so he can fix his collar before the mutant shoots off and disappears in red wisps of pure energy. They become a mere blur within seconds.

He's still pointed the same direction the mutant had directed him, and though it should be simple enough to link up with another group and get himself out safely, instead, he maintains his distance. It's pure luck that keeps him alive, wandering around without a single lick of combat training or any useful physical skill. He winds up trapped beneath more than a few guards intent on taking him back dead or alive, but every time his life begins to flash before his eyes, someone rips the guard off and saves him.

The force of the wail echoing throughout the facility tosses him in a crumpled heap to the ground, hands folding over his ears far too late to truly block the pain. He cries out in his own anguish, the sound piercing his eardrums so sharp his head pounds with the force.

When he stays in that position a second too long after the wail has finished, he doesn't notice right away that he's being swarmed, that guards are lumbering towards him ready to haul him off at any means necessary -- truly, he doesn't even realize he's putting his own life in danger. Someone flies forward and pushes the guards back with a bolt of electricity aimed at each one's face, then reaches down and hauls him up by the arm, shoving him out of the way. "Get the fuck up and get going, you fucking idiot!"

He's got a number of guardian angels there, and in a natural state of awe, he worships every single one. They're all so much more powerful than he himself, he can't fathom how he's wound up among their ranks. But when he sees the mutant from before -- the one with the red wisps that erupt around them when they take off at full speed, the one who's tall and fast and brave enough to save others before even taking a second to think about saving themselves -- he picks that one as his favorite.

(Why? Honestly, who fucking knows why Sean does anything, really.)

Perhaps it isn't very smart to approach any of these hero mutants in a practical warzone where they were all fighting for their lives, without giving them some kind of warning first... but with what only feels like half a brain inside his head -- always more visual perception than he was cognitive -- Sean isn't thinking about how the other might react when he tries to grab them by the shirt before they can dart off too quickly and disappear again. He's only thinking that he won't survive for long if he tries to leave this place alone; he needs to team up with somebody, a group or a single individual, whichever will take him first.

He winds up with a fist thrown at his face, a blow so powerful it smarts, and his nose is gushing blood within seconds, but he's grinning through the tears because, at the same time, he can't help but think he hasn't felt more alive in months.

“Kid! I told you to get out and you have done the opposite of that! Why are you still here?”

His hand folds over his nose, staunching the flow of blood as best he can. He's so preoccupied with that he doesn't notice the hands reaching down to haul him up until he's being lifted into the air and righted on his feet. Doe eyes whirl up to the mutant above him, nearly a whole foot taller than himself. Her words echo back a second later and just as soon as he filters through the accent, he begins to understand, until his face contorts with his own confusion. Why was he still here?

Good question.

"I'm scared," he admits freely, almost so freely that he even surprises himself. His free hand clings to the other's sleeve, so tight he's not letting them leave unless they want their shirt ripped off them in the process. "Don't wanna go alone." He flashes desperate puppy-dog eyes up at the other, truly looking more and more a (doe-like) frightened animal by the second. "Can I go with you?"

TEMPLATE © BOKEH​

 

[starboob]

❛REGGIE ❜ NORTH​

Their throat hurts. It feels as though it’s been scraped against the pavement and shredded to almost complete ruination. It’s their own fault for holding that scream for so long––they could have (should have) stopped a few seconds earlier. Maybe then they would have been left with a little more or at least have ended up with less damage. But their logic made it so that they had to ensure that either escape or that they will become useless to this facility. It's both smart and entirely reckless––reckless because now that they have successfully blasted the entrance back and crushed or knocked back squadrons of officers they are left with nothing. (They may have assumed they were doomed and that rationalized their decision to push so hard.) ‘Shit.'

Immediately after finishing their head feels like a balloon and they fall forward only to catch their hands on their knees as they also try to catch their breath (the cool air feels sharp against their injuries). Blood, phlegm trickles down the back of their throat and while they cough, clearing out as much from their throat as they can, tears form at the corner of their eyes with each expulsion. (This raw feeling is familiar, but it won't be until later that they connect the dots between their time in captivity and the manifestation of this power.) Once they've cleared out the excess fluids, a pool laying in front of them, their gaze returns to the destroyed exit––so close and yet they honestly aren't even sure if they can make it.

However when her hand lands on their shoulder, they’re pulled from that despair, and reactively they nearly twist and jerk away––fearful that somehow it's an officer's hand and not the mystery blonde. Relief washes over them when they connect her hand to her face, but it doesn't last long. She doesn't allow that. Apparently, while they aren't certain they can fight anymore, while they aren't even sure what else they have left in them, she's made a decision on their stamina. She decides it's time to run.

Her hand loops around their wrist and they flinch, wanting to pull against the restraint until they realize that her hand isn't a restraint even if it feels as cold. The realization settles and despite that the discomfort that remains; though there isn't much they can do to tear their arm away. Her grip is strong and while they're running it's hard to focus on fighting her while also bounding away from the facility––which they recognize as the more important goal––using sheer force of will. Where they should be thankful she's quick enough to keep them moving, to keep them from being shoved back into cells, they're annoyed. For no reason in particular either––maybe just annoyed she's forcing them to continue when everything in their body wants them to quit.

Eventually, she does stop––only because she has now decided she needs a break. And while they don't quite tumble to the ground as she does, they do crash against the side of the barn, remaining upright though leaning against the structure. When she tells them that she needs to recharge, they only grunt in response. Partly because they're heaving––now that they've stopped their lungs are still catching up to the facts. Partly because more blood sputters out of their mouth––their hand reaches for their throat, rubbing it as it aches and throbs. And, finally, partly because they can't talk. They had tried to open their mouth to say something like, 'No shit, Sherlock,' but only a pathetic crack came out––it's different than when they had the collar around their neck because they can actually feel the strain of effort. They realize that, at least for now, it is going to take significant effort if they want to say anything (and it probably isn't wise for them to try).

They slide against the barn to sit down, deciding they should take the advantage of the reprieve while they can. Once they're sitting, they allow their body to fall to the side as exhaustion threatens to knock them out. The ground feels nice, they guess––it's softer than the old cot they had been sleeping on. Their eyes close. For a moment, they entertain the idea of giving up, because they know even with the facility as a blip behind them––they still aren't far enough away. At the same time, while the rest of their body, not just their throat, is agitated from overexertion and injuries this is nothing compared to their life at the facility. That is a loud truth ringing through their head––it makes what they're feeling right now tolerable as a result. And it's this realization that sparks their will once more.

They start to push themselves upright and when they look over the horizon towards the blinking facility they notice stream lights coming down from the sky, seeming to scope the desert landscape. It doesn't make sense at first, because it has admittedly been a while since they have thought about the existence of helicopters, but it becomes clear enough. In a panic, they lurch forward towards the other blonde and grab her shoulder, pulling her up and forcing her so that she's encouraged to turn towards the direction of the lights. Then they lift their hand and point, in case it somehow isn't obvious that helicopters are likely searching for them.

Reggie swallows hard, then again, smoothing out their throat as best they can to croak out, "Barn?" But it's not really a cracked-soft question, because now it's their turn to drag her along (at least they had the decency to tell her where they are headed). After they’ve broken the rusted lock on the entrance, they take them to the back of the barn and press them into a corner, trying to make them both as small as possible (as if that helps). The interior of the barn is unassuming and looks like it hasn't seen use in years. All that remains inside are random discarded tools and what they only assume were stalls for livestock. Reggie wonders if arming themselves with farm tools will help any and their fist closes around a rusted shovel as if they are going to try. But honestly? It’s starting to feel hopeless again and they’re praying on a miracle.

 

[heartstringss]

𝑂𝐿𝐼𝑉𝐼𝐴 . 𝑾 𝑹 𝑨 𝒀


○ ○ ○​

Wray doesn’t think about the other blonde’s feelings — she herself wants to live, hence why she chose to fight, and why she later again chose to run. She can recognize her own limitations easily enough by the fact she’s had and used her power numerous times in the past, and so she knows pretty well when she’s strained herself too much, when she needs to turn in and call it a night before she makes the mistake of pushing herself too far. The bleeding was one such precursor to straining herself too far — however, they’d still been in the midst of a fight, and even when the other blonde had knocked back the entrance allowing them to escape, they had still been inside the facility then. It wasn't safe yet.

(Truly, she had little other option than to continue using her power or to push herself past her breaking point as much as her body could handle, and perhaps she was paying the price for that now, but at least she’d succeeded and they had lived.)

So she makes the choice for them, and if the other had pushed her to explain why she had dragged them with her, of course, it was a choice she knew she’d stand by without any hesitation. If she’d known the other had wanted to quit, that they were fighting their own will to live, unable to determine whether or not they had the strength to continue on at all, she likely wouldn’t have been able to comprehend that. Back in the facility, in containment, sure, but now that the world was wide open in front of them, freedom literally right within their arm’s reach? She couldn’t have possibly given up, herself. She doesn’t even entertain the possibility; she runs, and she keeps running, and she doesn’t dare look back.

(There weren’t many things Wray would openly admit that she was afraid of, but the past three years of containment, that future that had loomed ahead of her, which seemed so much more dark and foreboding than the very shadows that had followed her for her entire life thus far—? That, admittedly, she was terrified to even remember. (Because yes, mere minutes after she had chosen to run and leave that past behind her as much as possible, already her mind was beginning to block it out. The scars on her arms from all the blood draws, the ones at her lower back from numerous surgeries, even the faint one on her cheek from the doctor’s ring smacking her across the face, sure, those things might not have faded quite so fast, but as long as she could ward off sleep, she figured she could ward off all the rest, too. It’d worked in the past, so she could only hope it’d work again now.))

The ground, at least, was comforting and familiar. Wray always had enjoyed sprawling out across the earth, especially late at night the same as this. Letting the darkness pool over her so that it was only the stars that she could see above, allowing her mind to wander wherever that it liked — sometimes to the past, sometimes to the future... sometimes simply blank.

Except, she closes her eyes now, allowing herself to exist without putting that much thought into, well, anything at all, really. She’s aware of the other’s body slamming into the side of the barn nearby, of how labored their breathing has become, even of their hacking coughs that spit up far too much blood to be a non-issue. She hears it all in perfect clarity, lying in the dark where her senses work at peak performance (even as her ears ring from the force of the scream still echoing around them, even as they continue to bleed themselves). Her brow pinches with the strain to block it out, as she wishes for nothing more than solitude, for the most perfect peace and quiet achievable in this moment.

She’s beyond annoyed when that peace and quiet is interrupted a few minutes later, borderline telling the other to ‘fuck off’ by this point. She almost wishes that she hadn’t brought them with her — not that she hadn’t saved them, of course, just that she would’ve rather been alone, really. Her body jerks reflexively (protectively away, it seems) when the other grabs onto her shoulder, seemingly out of nowhere and, in her mind, for no good reason at all. It’s not alarm that becomes her immediate reaction so much as it is anger... Always, always anger.

Multicolored eyes wrench open, staring with an icy glare as the other’s hands pull her up and force her body to turn. That distraction only lasts a second before she follows the direction of their finger, to searchlights streaming through the sky, far off in the distance back the way they’d come. Her face shifts then, as the sense of danger returns in full force and her fight-or-flight kicks in. Scrambling to stand before the other can even think to drag her up themselves, she simply nods when they suggest heading to the barn. However, before she can make the first move herself, their hand loops around her wrist and this time it’s them dragging her off whichever way they wished.

She doesn’t struggle, even though everything in her wants to fight, push them off, run away, and never look back. Instead, she follows them to the barn, helps them break the lock, and lets them drag her to the back without a single word of complaint.

When they press her back into a corner and squeeze their body in tight enough she can practically feel their heart beating alongside her own… when they grab the rusted shovel as if thinking that might be somehow useful against an entire goddamn army… when the sound of the helicopter’s blades whirring ramps up to deafening volumes… when the floodlights overhead begin to filter through the holes in the roof, illuminating across both their faces, turning the world around them into an actual, literal cage once again…

The only thing that Wray can think in each of those moments is how incredibly small and terrified she feels. Oh, how quickly she was falling back into her ways, back into exactly the same frightened animal she’d felt herself becoming in containment. In that moment, she finds herself wishing only for a clear path out; however, it’s one she’s not quite sure how to carve herself. Maybe even wishing a little bit for death. Hell, she might be more frightened now, having tasted freedom and once again about to have it ripped away from her, than she’s ever felt before.

It’s this feeling of being trapped beyond compare overwhelming her which inspires the darkness to pool in closer than it ever has before, enveloping them so completely in that cramped, tiny corner of the barn, that they begin to disappear within the shadow entirely.

When the world first starts to slip out from underneath her, Wray doesn’t realize it until she feels herself becoming lightheaded... And then she realizes that what she thinks is only lightheadedness isn’t so much lightheadedness as it is absolute weightlessness, and just before they start to slip, her hand shoots out and grabs the blonde’s hand, fingers interlocking tightly. She has no idea what is happening, but somehow knows she needs to grab onto the other, that if she didn’t she might lose them altogether. (And she couldn’t really afford to lose them, could she? Not really, no—)

“Don’t let go,” she manages in a gasp of strangled breath, just before she squeezes her eyes shut and lets the darkness fully consume her.

It’s pitch black, what seems to be an endless vacuum of space that very little can exist within. One minute they are sitting huddled in the back corner of the barn, the next their very world was being ripped out from underneath them, their lives flipped and turned upside down. When Wray opens her eyes, she has to blink a few times before she realizes that she hasn’t truly gone blind — that wherever they were, it simply was exactly what it seems. She can see nothing but the blonde beside her, their colors sharpened to a point of vibrancy so strong it hurts her eyes; their eyes are blue — in this light, so blue it seems inhuman.

Even as she herself was mostly calm, she can easily tell they aren’t. They were struggling to breathe, lost inside this vacuum, rejecting it, and if she didn’t move fast, they wouldn’t survive it long.

They’re upside down, somehow traveling through the earth — and yet, they might not have even been on Earth at all? None of it was familiar, and so it was unclear exactly what was happening, though Wray did know one thing for certain: she was the one doing this, somehow, and therefore it was up to her to stop it whenever she wished.

She’s not sure how, but she does eventually manage to exit. She pull the other out along with her, having not let go of their hand a single moment of the journey, and looks around to fine that they are… well, somewhere. It looks to be a house, except it’s likely no one has lived in it for years, judging by the sheer amount of dust collected everywhere. The air is musty and damp, and there’s definitely mold growing here, but it was dark and quiet (which was always promising to Wray). There were no more sounds of helicopters whirling overhead, no more lights streaming through the roof of an old dilapidated barn trying to locate escaped prisoners. (Which meant that they were likely safe… well, at least for now.)

Only with that realization does Wray finally choose to release the other’s hand. When she steps out of the pitch-black, she feels rejuvenated, oddly refreshed. Her limbs are lighter, her injuries seemingly healed, her mind clearer than it's felt in years. Even though none of it makes any sense, she doesn't worry about it too long (because hey, she’ll take whatever she can get).

“Well, that was strange...” Wray remarks distantly, not even paying attention to Reggie as she turns and begins to poke around the house. “I have no idea how I did that.”

 

[starboob]

❛ MARS BATISTA ❜

This is not exactly what she wants––no, this is in fact the very opposite. Mars is not interested in traveling with a comrade. While she can see the benefits of teamwork and dreamwork this is not the time where she needs to be slowed down by someone who is likely much, much slower than her (actually add perhaps 10 more much-es). Though she doesn't doubt she could probably carry this small fawn, the exhaustion from running through the facility, pummeling guards into pulp, and liberating her siblings? It is catching up to her faster than she may be able to outrun it. If she does not make a decision soon, her body will for her. She leans forward on her knees and looks the kid in their stupid fawn eyes. 'Quickly, quickly, are you really going to do this?'

(Un)Fortunately, Mars is a helper to a fault and even though this kid is not in fact a kid they're just as helpless (and honestly a little pathetic). She curses under her breath and looks at them. Thunder rips through the building, the noise of fighting dying off as the time tick, tick, ticks and nearly runs out. "You are very sad." Before her muscles can even protest, she begins to gather the boy into her arms and cradles him bridal style. "If you want to keep your eyelids, look behind me only. Never forwards." Her arms tighten around him as she readies herself, concentrating on the flow of energy through her body directing it to her legs. Once more, red wisps gather around her and just before she springs, she warns, "Your life depends on holding on tight."

She pushes forward and both become blurs to the landscape around them. Mars, though, still sees forward in perfect clarity and she looks for the nearest road, wanting to avoid kicking up a sandstorm and leaving a literal trail to follow. Though, the weight of the kid in her hands is starting to slow her down––and she's going much too slow for comfort (perhaps now only about the top speed of a Prius). She slides, skids to a stop and almost drops him in the process but clings tighter to prevent that outcome. Her chest is heaving and though they are miles away from the facility––it's not even within their sight and the storm is so far behind them it is doubtful it ever crossed their current location––she knows it's not far enough away. It will not be far enough away until her legs collapse––this is when she will use the last reserves of her energy and will. Her body is starting to tire, lungs aching, but the silver lining of the facility? It had taught her a painful lesson in endurance and perseverance. Gently, she lowers the short boy onto the red canyon dirt.

"Look––" she coughs, puts a finger up to say 'pardon me' and forces her lungs to calm down (another trick thanks to Waldorf deft handling). "I'm going to be Mars about this," because she's not Frank, "You are weighing me down. You aren't one of those shrinky-dink type mutants are you?" It's a joke, but the look on his face says he actually might be. 'Wow, okay. Cool.' She doesn't spend more time on her luck than that and when he tells her to look away? She ignores that and she watches with wide eyes and an open mouth as it appears his skin starts to crawl (literally); with each little wave, he shrinks and the clothes turn into a puddle around him. Of course, when he's finished shifting, he has to raise his hands like an actual child to indicate he is ready to be whisked away again. She manages to find the humor to roll her eyes as she reaches to pick him up, both of them grabbing his clothes tightly so that they don't fly away in the wind. Once she is certain that everything is secure in her arms, same as before, the energy collects around her and they are pulled forward by the sheer force of Mars' will power to survive.

She isn't even thinking of what direction to go in or where she should run to––a list of friends cycles through her mind, but she does not settle on any solid address as she isn't exactly sure where she is currently. So she decides simply getting far away is the goal. (At the moment, she is taking them mostly east and a little north.) While the distance covered is significant, the time it takes is minimal. Apparently, she only had about 20 minutes left in her––perhaps she would have had more if she had not started and stopped so much, giving her body enough time to regret moving any further. While she does wish they were farther away (there is perhaps no distance that would satisfy her), they are at least in a completely different biome––from the desert to the forest.

As they come to a stop, she slides several yards that drives them about 3 feet deep into the Earth and kicks up dirt all over them. (Which Mars immediately starts coughing up and rejecting as soon as it gets in her airways.) She pushes the kid off of her and rolls onto her side. Her fist beats against her chest, calming that screaming animal that feels like it is on fire. A groan leaves her lips as she sits up, but she doesn't rise––she admittedly isn't sure if she can but she knows they should probably find shelter and––her stomach grumbles loud as the thunder had been at the facility. Food. She needs food––actual food with taste, texture, temperature. In the event this is their only night free, they need to have a real meal. "I––I don't think we're too far from people," she mutters through heavy breaths. Just before she her tank hit empty, she had seen a small group of lights in the distance and had tried to make it over to them but she didn't even have that left in her. "A few kilometers?"

But before walking, she just... She just needs to keep her eyes from closing. She just needs to keep the exhaustion from pulling her under. Though it's hard to resist the tug; her head is completely dizzy and it feels like her brain is twirling itself around in her skull. The croaks and screams of her body come in the next wave––her knuckles are throbbing (and she knows they're swelling too; she's not sure how much her body can heal in her current state); her lungs sting with each breath; and her legs feel something like overcooked spaghetti. Her hand rests flat against her chest as she fights with her eyes to stay open. "I––I'm just..." Weakly, stubbornly, she shakes whatever fatigue is trying to take over and she lifts her hand up, demanding, "Pull me up. We are getting food."

⇋

❛REGGIE ❜ NORTH​

Fear grips them like a ghost taking over their body––they feel small and they wish they were smaller! Smaller and smaller until they disappeared completely because the thought of getting captured again forces the worst thoughts to the forefront of their head and they're staring at the point of the shovel like its an answer to their problems. While they wish they could say it's involuntarily, their hand tightens around the farm tool and they're already formulating a permanent escape, but they’re stopped by a vantablack cloud pooling around them, getting to the blonde behind them. The icy shadows nip against their exposed skin and bite against their injuries (though it admittedly feels kind of nice) and there's already so much fear running through them that this does not even seem to faze them. Instead, it actually distracts the fear and turns it into confusion because they are not sure what is going on exactly.

There's a moment where they start to feel her disappearing behind them, but before that even begins to cause panic her fingers lace with theirs and she's telling them to hold on. Darkness completely envelops them––no, it swallows them and swirls them around and over her tongue as they are uprooted from reality. Instinctively, they are resisting against whatever evil is trying to prying against their chest and begging to leech life from them (well, that's their assessment of the Dark). It's even worse or it somehow gets worse as every ounce of oxygen in their body is pulled out of their lungs and they're struggling to keep the air for themselves. It's beyond them to even thrash or jerk around, because they are completely immobilized, overpowered by the shadows that threaten their life. Panic seems to only add to their suffering, because they cannot even think to remind themselves to stay calm.

In a few seconds they swear they are going to lose consciousness, but before that can happen they are spit into the dusty living room of an abandoned home. They don't even register their surroundings at first because the minute she lets go of their hand they're flipped over heaving for breath at the same time their stomach continues flip and flip around––like it hadn't yet come out of the shadow realm yet. They stagger to their feet and begin to stumble towards, well, somewhere else in the home. They don't make it too far before they fall against a doorway, one hand bracing against the frame and other over their stomach. There is no point in fighting the high tide in their stomach––experience tells them it's almost always better to throw-up––and they empty whatever power blocks they had last eaten and then some onto the floor. The acid from their stomach sets their already damaged throat on fire literally burning their injuries and they clutch their fist tighter around doorframe as an agonized whimper involuntarily leaves their lips. They hold their breath, stifling any more cries and stilling their body until it relaxes again, releasing them from pain.

When she decides to make idle observations, they wish they could curse a storm at her because they are not pleased about what has happened even if a thanks should be in order. That had been one of the worst... They don't even know what it was but they are upset they had been dragged along. So they flip her the bird––not even caring whether or not she sees it or not, because its the principle of the gesture.

Once they have recovered enough, they straighten, gather themselves as best they can, and explore the house for themselves. Which is barren. Yeah, now they are definitely not feeling any guilt over not saying a thank you, because what good is this shit hole? The cabinets are cleared out, it looks as if someone has beat them to the copper wiring if they were going to strip the house for money, and the black mold that makes up one bathroom seems to have spread throughout the rest of the house. Where they are glad to be out of the facility, somehow, this place is (physically) worse. Just because they had grown use to being treated as a rat does not mean they willingly live amongst rats (and they are pretty sure they see one scurrying from the corner of their eye). Especially since they bleakly understand their freedom can be stripped away at a moments notice––it had been before and they figure it can happen again––if that is still true they won't spend any more time free in this desolate place.

Since this place seems entirely foul, they leave. And they do not bother giving the other blonde a notice that they are heading out. Where they fought alongside her before, they do not feel a particularly strong loyalty to her now. So with little remorse, they exit through the front and get their bearings. The neighborhood they're in is generically suburban and it seems the other blonde had managed to land them in the one home that was falling apart both inside and out. Any other house on the block would have worked––it's almost humorous that she managed to land them in the only home that is wholly unacceptable.

They cross over to the next property, careful of security systems, pets, and any other sign of life. When they confirm that the neighboring home is not only currently unoccupied but seems to have signs of occupants in general, they decide to put their old burglary skills to some good use. And maybe God feels bad for letting them rot for however long, because breaking-in isn't even all that challenging. A window on the second story is cracked open and it's not hard for Reggie to scale the tree nearest to the window, hop onto the roof, and crawl through the opening to get inside. They tumble into what appears to be the room of a teenage girl––posters of various K-Pop bands line the walls and ceiling but they don't spend much time inspecting this room. Their stomach growls and their lightheadedness reminds them how spent they are.

Reggie slides halfway down the railing of the stairs before rolling off the side when they're sure they can stick the landing. The kitchen isn't hard to find and when they rummage through the pantry, cabinets, fridge, they haphazardly, greedily, pull out anything that seems remotely appetizing (which is nearly everything). At first they aren't even sure where they want to start and it's with surprising simplicity that they reach for a bowl, grab the box of Trix they had pulled from the pantry, and overflow the bowl with the colorful cereal before overflowing it further with oat milk. The mess is hardly a concern, because when the first bite hits their tongue? An explosion of sugary flavor assaults their senses, tingles their jaw and they're shoveling the rest of the contents into the mouth; the cool milk feels good against their throat and while the cereal scrapes their mouth, mostly because the bites they take are too big, it is ambrosia to them. The cereal is finished in a minute and they are already deciding on their next conquest––voracious is their appetite having been starved of any meaningful eating experiences while in captivity. (They don't even notice that the other blonde had eventually followed them inside).

 

[heartstringss]

𝑺 𝑬 𝑨 𝑵 . 𝑁𝐸𝐼𝐿𝑆𝐸𝑁


○ ○ ○ ​

Holding the puppy-dog look was easy enough for Sean, especially being that before captivity it was a look he had used fairly often to get whatever the hell he wanted with his friends. (He was an expert of his craft, truly-- Catie had always teased that it was a side-effect of something she liked to call 'Sad-Sack Syndrome', and while of course, Sean knew he probably should have taken that as an offensive comment, it'd only ever made him laugh instead. Call it what you will-- hey, as long as it worked, right?)

Being able to change the structure of your face, the color of your eyes, the length of your eyelashes -- all of that was convenient, sure, but being naturally small and relatively large-eyed was probably the best trick he had up his sleeve. Honestly, who'd've thought any features of his natural form might one day come as an advantage he’d want to use in, well, any situation? Normally he rejected this look, damn-near every single aspect of it, from the shortness of his legs to the smallness of his hands, not to mention the weight upon his chest, the shape of his hips, the softness of his jawline… Now, however, he was leaning on it like a crutch. Maybe that even worked a little stronger in his favor, because the runner? Fortunately for him, they accepted his request for company (albeit seemingly reluctantly), and Sean’s response? Well, the desire to jump for joy was pretty overwhelming he'd admit, but that seemed fairly inappropriate for the times.

"I know," he answers to being told that he is sad, although admittedly the other's meaning is more than just a little lost on him. (Did they mean sad as in pathetic, or sad as in emotionally sad? Anyway, the answer to both was yes. Regardless of their meaning, the assessment was perfectly justified. He was indeed both sad and pathetic. Not even he would try to deny that.) He doesn't get a chance to react much any other way before the runner is stooping down to pick him up and he winds up cradled in their arms. Held tight against their chest, he feels just as much a baby as he does a bride, and he looks up at the runner wide-eyed, his expression a mix of astonished and concerned. The idea of shifting and making himself smaller (or maybe at least a little lighter) doesn't even occur to him, mostly because he hasn't been given permission. (And the fact he's wrong in thinking that he needs it in the first place? Well, you'd likely have to point that out to him, because undoubtedly he wouldn't realize himself.)

Anyway, he doesn't have much time to react any other way before the runner's taking off and pure adrenaline and actual red wisps of energy envelope them both. His last hoorah is to wrap his arms around the other tight, taking their final warning as seriously as if his life depended on it -- because according to them, it did. He tucks his head against their chest, the steady pounding metronome of their heart made into a soundtrack for the moment. Even with their warning, there was no point in looking forward anyway, because if he couldn't see anything, why bother? So instead he closes his eyes and simply lets the moment sweep away from him -- that is, until hardly even a few minutes later the runner comes screeching to a halt. He feels the jolt of almost being dropped and releases a small noise of surprise as he tries to prepare himself for an impact, though they clutch him tighter just in time to prevent the actual fall from happening. When he's lowered to the ground, he promptly shakes his limbs off to rid himself of the odd feeling of lost time and severe disorientation.

HIs hair is a mess (though that's nothing new), but he doesn't bother to reach up and tidy it. Head swiveling this way and that to take in their surroundings, he's surprised to find the facility nor its storm nowhere in sight. He's about to open his mouth and compliment success when the runner stops him (and then stops themselves to cough) and informs him that, by their standards, it's not quite success enough. ('I'm going to be Mars about this' --? He's not sure he understands the joke, but a smile drags across his lips all the same. The implication of their name is lost on him; he'll ask about it later, if he remembers even then.)

Only when they comment that he's weighing them down does Sean realize his blunder in not shifting to make himself smaller/lighter, and when they make a joke about shrinky-dinks? It's pure surprise that morphs across his face then -- surprise and amusement, and a grin that apparently reads successfully as the 'yes' that he intends.

"Um, you might want to look away--" he warns, turning sideways just before he closes his eyes and starts the shift. Shrinking is a lot different than making himself big. Technically, he might not even be supposed to go this far backward, but as nausea and lightheadedness begin to wash over him, he ignores it in favor of imagining himself a balloon slowly letting out all of its air. Next thing he knows, he's just as small as he was in second grade, and his clothes, once a perfect fit, are now literally hanging off of him. He looks up, up, up to find the runner and once he does, he raises his arms up to the sky, lip trembling slightly as he practically begs them to pick him up and hold him. The mentality of a child is there just as much as the appearance, for he practically squeals being whisked up into their arms, nearly forgetting to grab his clothes (though he does remember when they start to slip away, hands shooting out to grab his pants before they can fall away completely).

Running this time is much more exciting because, to Sean, it's become a lot like a game. He doesn't resist the urge to make race car noises as they zip this way and that across the earth… even though having to keep his eyes shut is a shame, he still remembers their warning from before, the one that his life depended on how tightly he could hold on. Truthfully, he could almost fall asleep like this, cradled securely in the other's arms, his head tucked down against the flatness of their chest. The wind whips around them turning every sound into a roar, but it still feels safe somehow -- he's confident they wouldn't drop him, if nothing else.

Still, that literal skidding to a halt is more than just a bit alarming, as the ground rushes up to meet them and they begin to sink into the earth. He almost screams out his surprise, but when the other dissolves into their coughing fit he's more than just a little distracted, concerned at first before he himself begins to cough from all the dust, too. Once he settles, he begins the shift back without putting too much thought into it, limbs growing, quickly filling out his clothes. He considers going further but he stops himself before he does, uncertain how the runner might react with the reveal. Anyway, the moment's lost in the noisy rumbling of the other's tummy, and then his own, as his stomach echoes back the sentiment of just how much they both need food.

Unfortunately, it seemed the runner was struggling to fight the pull of exhaustion overwhelming their own body, although what kind of comfort Sean can lend them, there likely is none. He sits with his legs crossed beneath him watching as they wrestle with their own fatigue, something he himself is conveniently free of due to the fact he hasn't pushed himself quite as hard. When a moment later he is ordered to help them stand so that they can go get food, he scrambles eagerly to his feet, grasping the runner's hand and hauling them up as best he can. He's ready to help them walk too if they need it, ever the convenient sidekick. However, if they need help at all beyond getting up onto their feet, they doesn't quite let on. Rather than backing off as he knows he probably should, Sean fusses over them a bit, hovering perhaps a bit too close nearby -- perhaps a bit too needy, a bit too clingy, too.

His attention doesn't linger long though, as the scenery opens up around them, forest giving way to field and then eventually to road. He talks idly, pointing out different features of the landscape-- the colors of the sunrise creeping up over the horizon; a flock of birds flying overhead; a pair of bunnies in the grass off to the shoulder of the road. The last one he takes off chasing, and when he falls back to the runner's side a moment later, oddly pleased with himself (much like a mischievous pup), he's grinning up a storm. You'd hardly think the last two-ish years of captivity had affected him much at all, the way he was acting now -- in truth, as long as there were other things in life he could use to distract himself, he would most likely be just fine. It was the idleness that would inevitably come to kick his ass-- though it seemed with Mars, idleness likely would've been in short supply.

"You know, we should probably change before we get too far ahead of ourselves," Sean remarks when, at one point, he's walking behind the other, somewhat struggling to keep up on his much, much shorter legs. He'd nearly forgotten the uniforms that they were wearing, the exact detailing of the jumpsuits that clearly branded them as mutants. Now, it stared him straight in the face, big bold letters on the back of the other's shirt and his own. He slowly unbuttons his top, turning briefly bashful as he looks down to his own chest, at least partially concealed by the tank top he wears underneath the top. When he slips out of his sleeves, he lets the fabric fall down to his waist and knots it so that it can't go any further. At least now the branding was hidden.

However, before he knots the shirt too tight, he breathes a sigh of relief in realizing that he's just freed himself from the constraints of a mostly too-small uniform if he wanted to change his form. And by God, he does, doesn't he? More than anything in the world, he wants to shuck this meat-suit and never once pick it up again. Instead, he simply settles for a shift. It could've taken longer to remember his old form if he hadn't spent every day of the last two years dreaming of going back to its appearance. He keeps walking, even as he continues to focus inward. His hair lengthens to a more medium appearance and turns to springier curls around his ears; his chest flattens; his eyes turn to blue. His face breaks out in freckles all across his nose and cheeks. All at once, he finds himself keeping up a lot more easily with the runner, as within minutes he's shifted himself to 6'0" tall. He's a skinny beanpole of a kid but at least he's a happier him, and really, that's the only thing that matters.

Well… until he realizes that the other is staring (perhaps more fascinated with the rippling/crawling skin effect of his shift than they are the fact he's turned himself into a boy, although the self-consciousness that quickly overtakes him makes it quite a bit difficult to distinguish between the two). Then he's almost bashful, looking away as if trying to hide the fact he even cares about their opinion in the first place. As subtly as possible (which is to say not quite subtly at all), he clears his throat and works to fake a little confidence. "By the way, I never got your name. I'm Sean," rather than extending his hand for a shake, he bears a grin and gives a little wave instead.

𝑂𝐿𝐼𝑉𝐼𝐴 . 𝑾 𝑹 𝑨 𝒀


○ ○ ○

​

The house is disgusting, to the point of being completely unacceptable conditions… and while of course Wray knew it might’ve been a little silly for her to want to be so picky considering they didn’t have a lot of options in the first place, she almost can't help but think that as long as she’s spent having all her freedom stripped away from her, she's more than earned the right to be whatever the hell she wants. Beyond that, it's clear enough the house was useless-- it was practically a shell, stripped to the bare bones of anything and everything that could've been useful in any way whatsoever, and as if that wasn't bad enough, there was mold everywhere she turned. (Yeah, no. Not staying here, that’s for sure.)

She loses focus observing the layout of the house, however, as soon as she heard the sound of retching from behind her, Wray swung around, peering through the dark to find the source. She locates the blonde just in the knick of time to watch them begin to spill the contents of their stomach (what little that there was) out onto the floor, and has to press a fist to her abdomen to calm the roiling of her own stomach when it begins to twist into knots. A pang of guilt strikes her hard in realizing that she hasn’t paid the other near enough attention, especially not enough to notice that they weren’t feeling well. While it’s easy enough to let herself get too far caught up inside that guilt, watching Reggie toss their lunch also solidifies quite a few other things in her mind.

For starters, it was fairly easy to come to the conclusion that the feeling of refreshment she herself feels coming out of the shadow realm might not have been shared at all by her companion. In fact, it seemed perfectly reasonable to assume it might have even had the opposite effect, and with that realization… Secondly, she knows that she’s the one that has done this to them-- that in dragging them along without knowing a single thing of what was happening, she had put their life in jeopardy, and even though she hadn’t meant to (and had in fact also saved their life, perhaps in more ways than one), that still didn’t change that she was at some kind of fault.

Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, it solidified that they definitely weren’t staying in this house. It smelled more than enough of rot already before adding the scent of the other’s vomit to the series of aromas too, and with all the mold and complete lack of resources at their disposal, there simply was no point to linger any longer.

Trapped inside her own thoughts, Wray was focused too far inward (once again) to catch the motion of the other flipping her off, but when the blonde began to shuffle out of the room, Wray looked up then, watching as they wanderer off to look around the house themselves. She was fine with that, but when they wandered back into sight a few minutes later heading straight for the front door without a single word of parting, anger flooded her system and it was hard not to feel annoyed. She raised her hands at their back, though she still received no answer-- not a goodbye or even the vaguest hint of an explanation. ’Wow, okay. Rude.’

Swearing them off would have been too easy, for in Wray's mind the complete lack of consideration in their actions was entirely unacceptable… but then the image of them suffocating in space flashed through her memory and she remembered the puddle of vomit in the doorway. Gritting her teeth, she began to understand their clear feelings of indifference, and decided to give them the benefit of the doubt. Regardless of whether or not they truly deserved it (they would prove themselves soon, she was sure), Wray kept her distance to give them a little space. Eventually, she followed out the front door after them, just in time to watch them climb onto the roof of the house next door, pry open the nearest window, and duck inside its room.

It was impressive skill that they'd managed to scale the tree so easily, that’s for sure. Wray couldn’t help but smirk watching from the ground as the scene unfolded, thinking to herself, ‘at least they’re smart and resourceful, even if a total ass.’ No way was she climbing a fucking tree herself though-- while she could have done it easily (if she’d even wanted to in the first place), she was stubborn and refused.

(Honestly, it really was a shame that Reggie hadn’t taken the time to let her in on what they were thinking, because Wray-- oh, she had quite a few tricks up her sleeve, and funnily enough, not a single one required putting herself through any sort of physical strain. For example, one of the most useful of her skills was that her power gifted her the ability to convert the darkness’s energy into solid matter, meaning that--)

Pausing a moment to conceal herself entirely into the shadows, Wray crossed the yard over to the neighboring house and walked straight up to the front porch. Once there, she crafted a lockpick out of the shadows and began to feed it into the door’s keyhole. Fortunately for her, she's already fully certain that her tools will work just the same as the real deal, except for the fact that the lock becomes a little stiffer when the temperature of the tools frost the mechanisms on their way in. It's obnoxious, but with a little bit of jerry-rigging and a whole lot of patience, she eventually gets the door unlocked and a second later, she’s inside.

The house opens up into what appears to be the living room, and beyond that Wray can see the makings of a dining room, then the entryway to what’s most likely a kitchen on the other side. She can hear the sounds of shuffling coming from that direction, assumedly the blonde working hard to raid the food supply likely wanting to refill their newly emptied belly. Wray couldn't possibly blame them, of course, but for her food is not the most immediate concern; while she knows she probably should eat anyway (being that she’s still malnourished, even if not starving at the moment), with her energy level being at full strength, she’s simply not even hungry in the first place.

Instead, she ignores the kitchen and heads straight upstairs to raid the bedrooms, wanting more than anything else to freshen up and get the fuck out of the branded attire forced upon her. It isn't hard to find her way around, as within minutes Wray has located the master suite and begun picking through the closet. Ignoring the side that consisted mostly of different men's clothes in favor of the side stocked with women's clothes instead, Wray tosses her hair over her shoulder as she lets her eyes flick over all the different options, checking tags to see how closely she can match her own size. When she happens upon a pair of black jeans and a white blouse that are damn near a perfect fit, she yanks them off the hangers and wanders off to the adjoining master bath.

Sighing as she averts her eyes away from the mirror, Wray begins to undress, all the whil refraining from turning on the light to avoid observing her own body as much as possible. Really, what with all the mirrors on the ceiling in her room back at the facility (and all her 'free time' that she'd had there too), she's had plenty of opportunities to familiarize herself with the decline of her body over the last several years. It's not something she takes pleasure in at all, however, she's intimately familiar with each new scar; with the delicacy of her bones showing through more than normal just beneath her skin; with the collection of odd bruises and needle tracks that line her inner elbows making her look like something of an addict rather than a lab rat. She hates every bit of what she looks like now, post-captivity; she never hated her body much in the past, but now she can barely even look at it.

Standing in the dark inside that bathroom, Wray vows to herself now that she's free she's going to take better care of her body than she ever has before. (See how long that lasts -- start the counter now.)

She starts out by taking her time in the shower cleaning up-- something she hadn't had the luxury of back at the facility (let alone bathing without supervision and actual soap, for once). Setting the temperature a little more towards warm than hot, she's overjoyed to find the sprayer head to be one of the fancy massager kinds with an extended-reach hose and multiple settings. It feels like heaven standing underneath the faucet letting the water run over her back and knead away all of her tension. As she watches dirt and blood leak down her skin, she follows its trail down her legs leading to the shower floor before it begins to swirl down the drain. It's almost mesmerizing-- if she didn't start losing warm water, she might've stood there for hours just watching the drain.

Adjusting the temperature to make the shower a little hotter, Wray reaches for the soaps and begins to wash her body. While touching her own body is nearly just as bad as looking at it (almost worse, actually), she can't avoid it if she wants to be clean and free of the stain the facility has left upon her soul. So instead, she scrubs a little harder, using quite a bit more soap than necessary, washing her hair and skin multiple times. At some point, her chest starts to become a little tight, breath whistling in and out of her nostrils as the panic ramps up. When she catches herself beginning to slip, she forces herself to still and yanks the nob on the shower all the way to cold, letting the frigid water cool her skin, shock her senses and entirely wake her up. After a couple minutes (once she's calmed back down enough), she shuts the faucet off and steps out to towel off and re-dress.

Her hair is still a little damp when she discards the towel onto the floor several minutes later; the wet dripping down her back is oddly soothing, something else to focus her mind on while she tries to avoid spiraling back into anxiety. Once she's stepped into the jeans and pulled the shirt onto her torso, she begins to button up the front (most of the way) and tucks the end of the shirt into the waist of the pants, leaving it just loose enough to give off a slight billowing effect with the material. As much as she wants to roll the sleeves up too, she leaves them down in favor of hiding the bruises and track marks, far too ashamed to let them show even around someone else who might've understood. Just before she heads downstairs, she pauses to snatch a belt off of another hanger from the closet and loops the thin leather around her waist, then grabs a pair of black boots from the floor and slips into those in favor of the ones provided for her in captivity. Once her style is complete*, she shuts the closet light off and snatches her jumpsuit from the floor.

She drops the outfit at the foot of the staircase once she's reached the bottom of the landing, resolving to deal with it later. Finally joining the other in the kitchen, when she walks over to the fridge, she's surprised to see the sheer amount of food laid out along the counters-- the cabinets damn near fully emptied, splashes of milk and cereal left in a mess all over. It's like being home with a roommate except that roommate was a child. When she's finally able to tear her eyes away, Wray looks over to the blonde with her eyebrows slightly raised, wondering vaguely if they might have actually been raised by wolves.

Shaking her head, she wanders over to the mess and begins to sort through the options. She's still not very hungry, but when she sees a bottle of honey and a box of tea laid out nearly side-by-side atop the counter, she gets an idea and grabs a mug from above the sink. Pouring water from a Brita found inside the fridge into the mug, she grabs one of the teabags and pops it into the mug, then sticks the mug inside the microwave. When the timer goes off a couple minutes later, she pulls the mug back out, stirring a couple spoonfuls of honey into the beverage and mixing up the entire concoction.

Once finished, she takes the mug over to the table and sets it down in front of the blonde, giving them a pointed look before she clears her throat and finally speaks, "You should drink that."

*complete: her shirt is not unbuttoned that far down though ;')

 

[starboob]

❛MARZ BATISTA ❜​

When the kid responds to her request, she does her best to help him out but, ultimately, she does let him do a lot of the work. On her feet, she wobbles on her overcooked legs and knows, from experience (even before Waldorf), that all she needs to do is walk forward and deal with the instability. The feeling that her legs are floating under her? That would go away eventually. However the emptiness? The feeling that her entire body has rid itself entirely of all energy reserves and all it can do is fill itself with air? That might not go away so easily. As a result, and in a rare moment, Mars is not as chattery as she may have been otherwise. Though that doesn't mean the kid's constant comments annoy her, for the most part it's something else to focus on while they continue forward along the road. She isn't necessarily bothered that he is getting in her space either, though later she may regret not establishing a boundary sooner as this may leave the impression that he is welcome in her personal bubble (which isn't even as large as some, though it does exist).

Interestingly, as she listens and nods along, watching as the kid runs around with the spirt of a hummingbird, she is no longer resistant to the idea of having a companion. Though earlier in the facility she had not wanted to travel with another, she sees it as beneficial now. Especially with how weak and therefore vulnerable she feels. No, she does not think this kid can defend her for shit, but it's comforting to not be alone anymore. And this kid is so full of life it's hard not to be affected. 'You still get attached too easily... I suppose that's not so bad.'

When the boy suggests they'll need different threads, she nods in agreement, "Yes." She watches as he slips off the top portion of his jumpsuit and ties it around his waist like it's the 90's again. Though, the image of the block letters across her own back crosses her mind and she decides to do the same. "What are your feelings on stealing?" She asks as they start to reach the edge of the town (it shouldn't be too hard to find the nearest department store––even with no idea of where they are, these things are usually all located in similar areas of each town. They just needed to find a sign pointing them to a 'downtown' region). "I would do it myself, but I'm gassed. So you better get over your feelings if you are one of those babies who cannot steal; it is not that scary––the employees don't even care. Anyway, if I do not get a hot normal meal in a normal restaurant I will never forgive you. This could be our only chance. Do not fuck up."

Then as she watches him shift once more, the same stunned look walks across her face and a second later an idea forms in her head. She ignores his introduction and slaps his waving hand (like it had been an invitation for a high-five), "Oh, you're a shifter!" A smile erupts across her features and she reaches over to ruffle his hair, though she is a little rough and pushes him down a few inches. "That's fantastic! Getting caught should not be an issue then, no? We may not want our faces on camera," she says, pushing them both across the street in the same moment that she spots a CCTV camera hanging off a streetlight. Mars has trouble believing they will be safe simply because they got away. Technically, they are fugitives and given that her captivity, at least, started as a unwarranted raid she knows that anything can happen now.

Her brain reminds him of his earlier introduction and she walks back to that moment, without warning either, "Sean is a cool name, but I like mine more." No, she isn't concerned that she has offended him, because she is being honest. She does like her name. "I'm Mars, sweeter than the candy and angrier than the planet. At least someone said that to me once."

A few more blocks and their prize is within sight, the quintessential store for American Shoplifting: Wal-Mart. (Mars had learned this of the United States early on in her travels when she had first met Mercy.) "My shoe size is 10.5 and I'm a runner, so sneakers are preferred," she pauses, "Grab a couple candy bars too." She doesn't explain why, but she knows they'll help spike her blood sugar and fight off fatigue-sickness until she can eat something real. "I'll see if I can get use some cash."

❛REGGIE ❜ NORTH
​

The first bowl of cereal had gone down in a matter of seconds. The second one just as fast and once they feel sated enough they begin to think of other things they may want to indulge in. The sugar, at the same time, kickstarts something in them it reminds me of all the stimulants their mind has been missing (their body has forgotten, by this point, its love of addiction but the mind? She's like any stereotypical sitcom housewife––never forgives or forgets, always nagging them with her criticisms. At least, that is how Reggie's own works, though much nastier). When that comes to mind, they realize they hadn't seen beer in the fridge or anything in the freezer; when they start rummaging through other cabinets and even desperately search the second fridge located in the garage? They realize this must be a home of squares, because the house is bone dry. 'What is this? Fuckin' prohibition??' (No, it's Somewhereville, Utah, they discover when they catch the second car's kitschy state license plates. 'Of fucking course it is.') They don't even find anything that could supplement their need to feel something different. With defeat, they sigh and return to the kitchen.

'Suppose I should have kicked that anyway...' They muse, reflecting on past behaviors under the influence. Not that they hadn't spent eons of time thinking and overthinking their entire life while strapped with boredom during captivity. Still, even then they had wished for their vices because they knew, and know, no other way to maintain; it's not like the facility's rehab program gave them new skills to handle adverse stress. Actually, it just added to the list of reasons they desired mental escape if their body had to stay behind––because for some reason they were still attached to the idea that maybe it does, in fact, get better. (They're doubtful though, honestly.)

Anyway, these thoughts collect as they aimlessly put together a sandwich––which seems to have about everything that had caught their eye while lost in their thoughts. The taste? Hard to track exactly what flavor profile they had been going for in between the layers of marshmallow fluff, potato chips, peanut butter, pretzel sticks, and Nutella––but it's comforting and that's exactly what they need right now. What they do not need is the other blonde who, actually they almost don't recognize because (1) they hadn't had a good chance to look at her before and (2) she's cleaned up (which reminds them of the grime clinging to their skin). Though as her familiarity puts the puzzle pieces together for them, they watch her with vague suspicion as she pushes them to drink tea. Not that they don't need some wound-care to address their shredded throat, but they're surprised she seems to be so confident about their needs; they're also annoyed because within the first few hours of knowing each other, she's decided to care for them––something they very much can do on their own (re: cereal (x2) and sandwich).

They look at her with something cold in their eye, but they do take the mug. Mostly because the peanut butter is stuck to their mouth and they need something to wash it down. When they realize the concoction not only tastes, well, it tastes fine––a little too light on actual flavor (to be expected with tea), but also immediately soothes their throat, it's gone in seconds. Now, feeling somewhat better, they finally take a minute to get an actual look at their partner in crime. Though, to be honest, not much comes to mind, because there isn't much to her––she's hot. Damp blonde locks falling just past her shoulders, leaving pools of moisture on the white shirt, and with her the top buttons already undone they barely need to even flex their imagination.

The last however many days, months, or years (a horrifying thought) had sucked major ass but if it had all meant that this, her––that she's the reward for all that suffering? This smoking hot babe? (Probably the finest, sweetest piece of ass that they had ever seen?) This may be alright. And if this is also proof that God is real? Well, then maybe they would start going to church every Sunday, praying before meals and shit. 'Holy shit.' "Holy shit..." It's said just above a whisper. Then a half second later when they notice her multi-colored eyes (staring just a bit too long, but at least they're looking at her eyes), they add, "Gorgeous eyes, honey." Instead of saying anything else to her (like thank you), they reach over for the bottle of honey, wink, and then squirt about a tablespoon directly into their mouth before literally peacing-out and heading upstairs.

(Years of distance between meaningful human interaction or not, Reggie has always been like this.)

As they reach the landing, it doesn't occur to them that they can choose a different room to explore, always having been a creature of habit, so it's not surprising that they end up back in the same K-Pop splattered room as before. It still works in their favor, regardless of aesthetic, because it has a Jack-and-Jill style bathroom connecting it to the room next door––which seems to belong to the emo-sibling. 'I bet their arguments are fucking legendary,' they think, as they screw around with the shower faucet (since every fucking shower has to have it's unique learning curve, apparently). Once they seem to have figured out the settings, they strip. Reggie, unlike their companion, does spend time staring at themselves in the mirror. It's hard to say what or who they see staring back at them, but it captures the entirety of their attention. They'd spent a lot of their captivity staring at two-way mirrors and it's not until the steam starts eating away at their image that they're pulled away from the reflection, somewhat dazed.

Reggie doesn't even care if the water is hot or cold, they're mostly pleased it's not something of a power hose and is more of soft splatter against their sore muscles. The sweat, dirt, blood, all come off their body and for a minute it almost seems like life can be normal again. For a moment they're tempted to stay in the shower for the rest of the night, embraced by its boiling heat, but they remember the hot blonde from before and decide maybe it would be worth getting to know her. (God must have paired them together for some reason, maybe it is the apology for letting them rot the past... however long.) So they step out of the shower, dry off, wrap the towel around their waist and head into the bedrooms.

Most of the clothes they choose, unsurprisingly, come from the emo kid's room where they find a pair of black skinny jeans, a dark flannel, and a black denim jacket. The entire outfit would have been entirely from her room, but as they rummage through her t-shirts, they find an old SYRIN shirt and their face immediately screws into a grimace, 'Fuck off...' They slam the drawer shut and decide to search for a t-shirt in the K-Pop princess' room. While there are mostly LOONA shirts in her collection, she seems to like pop-music generally and they pull on the first shirt from an artist they're familiar with (Ariana Grande). Then they tie the flannel around their waist and take a black denim jacket just to have. Shoes prove more difficult to find, because of size differences, but they find a third bedroom (too-cool-for-meaningful-aesthetics vibe) and find a pair of too-clean white Converse.

When they return downstairs (again sliding halfway down the rail before hopping off the side), they grab the blonde's discarded uniform and wad it with their own. Initially, they thought to just discard them in the trashcans (not even thinking of all the reasons that is a bad idea), but as they walk through the bottom level they spot the fireplace in their peripheries and a much better idea comes to mind. The fire place, much to their surprise, is already loaded with a Duraflame log and the lighter is on the mantle; in a second the wrapper is lit and they watch as the flame eats away at the paper and attaches to the wood underneath. The flame grows, becoming more confident as its heat fills the room and they feel their cheeks getting hot (it feels nice). A few minutes later, they sense the other blonde near them. They look over and offer her uniform to her, pointedly giving a look from the uniforms to the flame. They whisper (it's still forced, still hoarse, still barely audible), "Cheaper than therapy?"

 

[heartstringss]

𝑂𝐿𝐼𝑉𝐼𝐴 . 𝑾 𝑹 𝑨 𝒀

○ ○ ○

​

Wray isn't the type to shy away from confrontation-- she never has been and likely never will be, at least as long as she's able to keep her fighting spirit and her wits about her. Therefore, when she pushes the tea in front of the blonde and orders them to drink, she doesn't deign to look away when they shoot her an annoyed glare as their only response. Instead she keeps her head level and returns the stare unflinching, practically daring them to try and argue with her. (She'd really like to see them try, their voice being what it was. How amusing that would have been to witness with them having only the tiniest, hoarsest whisper that they could manage.)

(Un)fortunately, they don't argue; instead, they take the mug and put it to their lips, and just as soon as they begin to realize the benefits of the concoction she has crafted for them, they toss it back more eagerly and empty the mug fast. Wray smirks in knowing satisfaction, almost tempted to take the mug and refill it with more tea. However, when the blonde sets the mug aside and at once turns their attention back to her, she stops. She watches them curiously as they begin to look her over in a way that clearly exposes them checking her out; more than just a little distracted with the moment, she completely loses her train of thought regarding making them more tea.

It's an odd kind of predatory that she reads off of the other's flirting, not anywhere near the same level as the guards but definitely something that was going to need kept in check. Their attention lingering a moment or two too long around her chest, she doesn't necessarily mind the attention (on some level, she even kind of enjoys it), but it's a little overwhelming this early into regaining her freedom. Where she knows exactly how she would have reacted before, now she isn't sure what to do with herself, with this new state of her body that she's bordering on hatred. Still, a flush of excitement and pride overflow her chest, intermingled with the barest traces of anxiety and wariness, and then a little deeper, something that much too closely resembled insecurity for comfort.

The compliment on her eyes coupled with the other's flirty wink and the corniness of their joke has her rolling her eyes in response. It's the only reaction that she manages before they peace out, assumedly going upstairs to do the exact same thing that she just did. She shakes her head and turns back to the mess of the kitchen counters. Poking through the options a moment to consider if there's anything she herself might be interested in, she decides against the scatter of junk food and so opens up the cabinets, beginning to put things back into their rightful homes. Once she's cleaned up the other's mess (because old habits die hard, even years later, she guesses), she opens up the fridge to peruse the fresher options held within.

Unlike her companion, Wray doesn't collect every single mouth-watering option that she sees and spread it out along the counter like a buffet. She pokes around a bit, narrowing down her options, finding what she's most interested in out of everything she can make out of all these fresh ingredients. Her thoughts linger a bit on the possibility of some kind of salad, a stir-fry, flittering back and forth between something light and refreshing or heavy and filling. Still, she's not very hungry in the first place, so when she grabs a carton of fresh strawberries it's only with the intention to snack. A bottle of apple juice is swiped up too, a glass poured within an instant and then lifted to her lips to taste the heavenly sweetness held within.

It's not sugar that she's craving, as she's never really had that much of a sweet-tooth in the first place. If she'd been a bit more hungry she might have eaten more, but even with the strawberries she's being fairly picky, playing with their scraps a bit more than she is eating. Left alone with one too many thoughts swirling around inside her head, Wray finds she has no interest in much of anything at the moment. It's not hard to figure out why that is, her thoughts lingering on the type of food they'd been fed back in captivity, the protein bars that barely kept them sustained enough to function. An already complicated relationship with food made more complicated now; she had always been far too picky for her own good.

More than anything else she just misses cooking; growing her own food, getting excited about dinners, preparing her own meals and just generally having a choice in what she eats. Before capture, Wray had actually been something of a vegetarian (bordering on sometimes-vegan), a little bit of a health nut, even -- so much so that compared to the other blonde, their food interests were two entirely different worlds. It was almost laughable, coming downstairs to find them eating the most inconceivable combination of ingredients stuck between two pieces of bread -- a hodge-podge sandwich, it had seemed. Though she doesn't judge them for wanting to fill up on comfort foods, it simply wasn't a desire that she shared in. After all, she only had to eat enough to sustain her body; the energy she acquired from the dark provided nearly everything else she needed.

Instead of putting the strawberries back into the fridge, Wray takes them with her when she hears signs of movement coming from the other room. She watches from the doorway of the living room, observing quietly the blonde in their new emo-rocker style outfit, not even vaguely surprised that that's their style. It suits their image and, in a way, the few flashes of personality she's been gifted thus far. (Although she almost can't help but think they were likely going to clash; them being so open with their attraction, whereas her quite a bit more muted. They'd reduced her to a body before they even knew her mind… maybe she wouldn't have minded that so much if she hadn't just spent the last three years being treated like a lab rat, like she was truly nothing more than that the entire time she'd been held in captivity. The guards' lingering stares, filthy commentary, and far-too-confidently wandering hands had left quite a scar too. Now, it was like she wanted the attention but at the same time she didn't; it was comforting to know she still had it in her, but she didn't have the emotional wellbeing for all of that right now.)

She keeps her distance lingering in the doorway, watching the blonde from afar when they bend down to light the log in the fireplace. It was obvious if one paid close enough attention, the more the world settled back into 'normalcy' all around them, Wray kept herself in an entirely different space and time away from all the rest of humanity. More solemn and thoughtful now, she can sense herself slipping down into uncomfortable headspace, something far softer than the panic she'd dissolved into in the shower, but still quite a bit too prickly for where she wants to be right now. (And where she wants to be? Honestly, she's not too sure herself -- for once, she's almost grateful to not have to be alone, a little scared of her own thoughts, what she might've done to herself, post-captivity, if she'd been alone trying to refamiliarize herself with the world instead.)

Unintentionally, she begins to drift a little closer to the blonde-- relishing in the warmth from the fire, the soft glow in the mantle that gave her something else to focus her attention on. She places the strawberries aside, quickly forgotten within seconds; when she looks up and notices the other staring at her, her shoulders tighten, guard going right back up. Then she notices the balled up uniforms held within their fists and almost immediately as she does, they lift one up and offer it out to her. The patch sewn across the chest reads her own name, the words the blonde utters (low, barely audible, but still there--) coming as almost something of a comfort when she begins to feel the anger bubbling right back up. She's more than eager to burn the jumpsuits, snatching hers within an instant and stepping closer to the fireplace to hurl it straight into the fire. She doesn't realize she's holding her breath until a minute later her chest begins to grow uncomfortably tight. She shuts her eyes, force herself to release it slowly, calm back down. If they'd been outside, she would've dissolved into destruction, but they weren't outside, they were in somebody's house, and sure, they might've broken in and were now stealing their shit, but Wray had little interest in leaving them a mess to clean up, too.

Eventually, she bends her knees and lowers herself down to the floor, sitting with her legs pulled to her chest, arms folded around her shins. She stares at the flame a long time, at her uniform still cooking deep within the mantle, at the other blonde's tossed within a second later, too. She stares for a long time before she realizes she's staring at their name tag, but the flame has eaten away at the fabric too much for her to read it anymore. She's gone this long without knowing, but suddenly it feels wrong to pretend that anonymity was so important they must uphold it at all times. While she valued privacy far too much to let them in all at once, names were bare minimum anyway, so she could manage at least that.

(… Maybe. If she could just get her mouth to work, that is.)

At some point Wray lowered her chin down to rest upon her knees, her head tilted just enough to the side she could watch both the flame and her companion at the same time if she wished (though she watches the flame instead, her attention rapt as the jumpsuits continue to smolder deep within). Eventually she sighs, unfolding her limbs to stretch her legs out before her, arms moving behind her back to balance her weight upon her palms. (It made her wrists a little sore but the pressure was also comforting, in a way. Hey, anything to pull her mind back to the present, right?) "What's your name?" she asks softly, not looking to the other even then. Instead she stares straight ahead into the fire, at the place where her name tag on her own shirt had once been, but now had been reduced to only ashes.

𝑺 𝑬 𝑨 𝑵 . 𝑁𝐸𝐼𝐿𝑆𝐸𝑁

○ ○ ○ ​

Traveling with Mars — even if they aren’t talking too much and might have possibly been only tolerating his company — Sean’s decided, is fun. Of all the things he’s missed over the past however long he’s spent living at the facility, meaningful human interaction has to be pretty well right at the top of the list. (Beyond that, he thinks the list follows most accurately as (2) food, (3) Netflix, (4) booze, and, though he refuses to rank it officially, (?) Catie was certainly up there pretty high too. In fact, she was almost certainly tied with number one, though he doesn’t dwell on thoughts of her long enough to really make a firm enough decision. In all honesty, she hurt too much to think about, and when he stopped to really consider what that implied, he knows that pain is the very last thing he wants to feel right now. It never led anywhere good when he dwelled on his pain too much, and for the first time in what has to be years, he’s completely clean, a little more level-headed than he used to be, and perhaps never felt freer in his entire life.)

When the runner asks his thoughts on stealing, Sean pauses in his darting around to rejoin their side so he can listen better. It dawns on him that they’ve assumed he might be too scared to do it before he even has a chance to answer that he’s not, and their reaction has him grinning though he supposed they expected him to be shivering in his boots instead. Mischief streaks across his face with the vaguely threatening comment not to fuck up or he would never be forgiven. While he isn’t entirely nonchalant about his past of stealing either, he’s had to do it quite a few times and so favors himself a pretty good thief. When he’s not just doing it for the thrill, he knows he can survive off of shoplifting if he needs to. (After all, desperation could do that to a person; when there weren’t always near enough resources in the community, sometimes you just had to do whatever was necessary to survive.)

“Mars?” Sean echoes the other’s name, easily distracted as a look of wonder and amazement overtakes his expression with the other’s introduction. ”That’s a lot better than mine, yeah! So many cool nicknames you could come up with too! I get pretty shit nicknames myself, usually,” he almost pouts with this revelation, reflecting on the few he’d been dubbed in his life since coming out as Sean. Regardless of his statement, he was perfectly fine having a boring or only regular-level ‘cool’ name. He knows his birth name was a bit more unique, as it was something he’d received quite a lot of compliments on growing up before he’d switched it, but being different wasn’t necessarily something he even cared to be in the first place. (Not being different for anyone else’s benefit, anyway.)

Easily distracted once again, as soon as the Wal-Mart is in sight, Sean begins gearing up for the task that lies ahead. Hopping up and down on his heels like a prized fighter about to jump into the ring, he's instantly energized. He looks over his uniform, making sure he won’t look too suspicious just in case there happened to be any security or extra cameras. While he’s patting down his pockets, he realizes that at least the folded-down bib of his coveralls provided him a bit of extra space to store his treasures, so overall, he wasn’t too worried. In fact, he was excited, beyond jittery like someone who had drank about a dozen cups of coffee and was now running entirely on caffeine.

Unfortunately, this state of being also typically made him quite a bit more impulsive.

“Don’t you fret a single hair on your pretty little head,” Sean coos without thinking anything of how his words could’ve been misinterpreted as an insult. His voice is sickly-sweet, almost childish. When he bounces over to the runner’s side and reaches up to pat their curly mane, he’s not really trying to tease them, but it’s clear he doesn’t have a single care for personal space boundaries either. (His own personal bubble was practically non-existent, which is why — only his depression made it narrower. Any other time, he truly didn’t mind who got into his space, as long as they weren't trying to start a fight.) “I’m a regular sticky-fingers, so I’ll get you your hot meal and your candy bars — no threats necessary.”

Without another word, he turns and paces right into the store.

Fortunately, it was still pretty early in the morning, so there wasn’t a whole lot of staff on hand. What little that there was seemed to be mostly stocking shelves or ‘cleaning up’ — whatever passed for cleaning at Walmart anyway, which Sean’s pretty sure the cashiers think is just standing around reorganizing the items held upfront at the registers and maybe occasionally running a broom around the store. He also doesn’t see any security staff, and when he flicks his gaze up to the ceiling and sweeps it around, there’s hardly any surveillance cameras either.

Even still, he’s extra cautious ducking in and out of the clothes aisles like a spy on a covert mission, grabbing anything he can get his hands on without looking too much at each individual item beyond its size. He’s terribly out of practice so it seems the panic seeps in a little easier than he’d originally thought it would, his heart-rate skyrocketing to the point he can feel the organ slamming painfully inside his chest and wonders if it might leave bruises on the other side. His brain and the entire rest of his body is running in hyperdrive, fingers ripping tags off of items left and right. In the end, he winds up with a few different sizes of jersey shorts (like the kind basketball players wear, which seems most fitting for someone with a power like Mars), a bright mustard-yellow hoodie, a couple ball-caps and a beanie, a pair or two of flannel pajama pants, a few basic white tees… He snatches a pair of candy apple red heart-shaped sunglasses from the accessories section as he passes, peeling off the stickers and then perching the glasses atop of his head, not on the bridge of his nose but rather in his hair.

He almost forgets Mars’ sneakers and candy bars, having to circle back to grab them and then snatching a backpack to shove his spoils into too (when he realizes he’s gone a bit overboard but doesn’t want to put anything back, even though he can’t conceal nearly as much into the front bib of his coveralls as he would have liked to do originally). He’s sweating profusely by the time he’s got everything on Mars’ list, definitely looking more than just a little suspicious with his rabid twitchiness and the packed-to-overflowing state of the stolen backpack. However, he’s practically memorized the layout of the store by this point, so he knows exactly where all the staff is (or was upon last sight), which is mostly communed in the back stock area, the non-perishables section restocking shelves, or hanging around the front registers.

If anyone’s paying attention when a scrawny, curly-haired kid of barely 21 darts out of the store with a brand-new backpack stuffed to the brim with merchandise, no one seems to give a shit. Still, Sean takes off like a bat out of hell, running through the parking lot faster than he’s ever run before. He feels the urge to scream success, raise his hands to the sky and whoop out a holler, but he resists as best as he can, knowing that he’s already drawing a lot of attention to himself and clearly not needing any more. He makes a sharp turn around the side of the building and doesn’t stop until he’s a few blocks away from the store, almost exactly back to where they’d been when the Walmart had first come into sight. When he finally stops, it’s not until after he’s found the alley meeting place that they'd decided on. Hurling himself straight into the cover of shadows, he rips off the backpack and tosses it against the cement wall, then immediately drops his body to the ground. He doesn’t care a single bit that the alley floor was dirty; he’s slept in worse places anyway, and more than anything else he just wants a moment to catch his breath.

Honestly, he barely even notices Mars until they’re standing right above him, a shadow overhead looking down. Of course they’d get there first… hell, this hadn’t even been a race and yet he’s still a little disappointed in himself. Groaning as he drags his body up into a sitting position, Sean reaches for the backpack and tosses it to Mars. ”Told you I wasn’t scared,” he grins cheekily. (Okay, maybe he’d been a little scared, but they didn’t need to know that.) "How about you? Did you get any cash?"

starboob

 

[starboob]

❛REGGIE ❜ NORTH​

Their eyes, for now, remain innocent and do not carry their prior perversions––even with their attraction still present. There are moments when Reggie does not engage with that nastier part of their dented personality––usually, when they are not thinking (interestingly). This moment is one where the attraction is subdued and their intentions are crystalline when they offer her the uniform. (It feels like a small victory when she takes them up on their 'therapy' offer.) Hers goes in and at first dulls the fire before it realizes it's been given food and continues happily on. When they're certain adding their own uniform won't kill the fire, it's fed more cotton fuel. It's not ceremonious, however. It doesn't even feel cathartic, because it doesn't feel like enough. It doesn't feel like it's enough to get rid of identity they had created for themselves while holed away. While being forgotten. While being dead. And they aren't really sure how they can even get back to their life before and whether or not they even want to. That life seems so far away, on its own timeline and the timeline they're in now? They can't even think too far into tomorrow––strapped with the fear that they just don't know what is going to happen next and if they will ever feel regular again. That thought haunts them––not knowing when they can let their guard down.

After all, what is normalcy? What was it and what is it now? Had normal even been that great for them before? Because from what they can stand to recall, they hadn't been exactly a model citizen. And where they can recognize no person deserved what they had gone through––in some ways, it did feel right. Escaping that Hell also feels right and they wonder who else, more deserving, had not been so lucky? They assume that despite the prison break experience and the overwhelm of free mutants not everyone had been able to leave the grounds. They remember those that cowered in their cages (and even if they cowered that did not mean they deserved to stay, Reggie knows this). They remember seeing... dead mutants too. These complicating contradictions seem to knot them together in thought. (It doesn't occur to them that this could be a new start, a fresh one, most likely because they have never thought to break patterns.)

At some point during their contemplations, they had moved back from the fire and settled on the floor near the couch, using the furniture as a prop to lean against. When the woman asks their name they welcome the sound that shatters their thoughts. Their eyes watch her through peripheries. The tips of their fingers trace idly around the angry red marks around their throat, remembering that even a few hours ago they wouldn't've been able to answer on their own, without permission. Even that notion feels surreal, both that they can speak freely and that they hadn't had that luxury before. The sting that comes with rubbing the wound doesn't even make it feel real. Their hand drops from the mark when they finally reply, "Reggie."

Now they wish they hadn't fucked their throat while they escaped––throbbing aside, vague taste of blood at the back of their tongue aside, how are they supposed to actually talk? They pull the bottle of honey from earlier out of their pocket, because they had kept it with them and remembered it just now, and squeeze more into their mouth. Once it's coated their throat enough they return the question, as best they can, "What 'bout you?"

The night creeps in around them and Reggie wishes that exhaustion were enough to knock them out, but, on the floor and leaning against the couch, each time their eyes shutter close something claws them back into life. The tapping tree branches, a crackle too loud from the fire––it's just not quiet enough and the noises make them jumpy. That's the troubling thing too, how not real this feels despite knowing quite intimately they are not in a cell, they are not in a facility. They have showered, they have eaten, they dressed themselves... But the line between where they had been and where they are is blurred and in confusion their heart tortures them with her erratic and wild ways. They reach for the discarded strawberries on the table, set them in their lap, and begin picking at them, focusing on the flavor of the fruit. The texture of the seeds caught between their teeth. The softness.

In all honesty, they do kind of wish that they were alone because they feel too exposed. They pull their knees into their chest, finding comfort in a position that reminds them of something warm. Of being held (maybe the last time their mother actually held them). Rain begins to beat against the windows and echoes down the chimney. They use that as an excuse to scoot closer to the fire, sitting next to the woman because despite wanting to be alone, despite feeling exposed, they also crave closeness after knowing what lonely and alone feel like together. That call screams louder than the one that tells them to run. "Kinda..." They pause, clear their throat then continue, "unbelievable." The musing could be about a lot of things, though they are referencing the escape. It's not really an invitation to converse, just an open acknowledgement of their own disbelief of the situation (in some ways captivity would have been safer because it is a Devil they know).

❛MARZ BATISTA ❜
​

The plan is simple: acquire the goods and meet at the spot where they had seen three raccoons feasting on a discarded pizza. (The location having been chosen because they both remembered it with such clarity it was the easiest place for them to meet in this strange town.)

First, though, before she can even think to pick through pockets, she realizes that because in combination with her current energy levels and appearance she does need to clean up a bit. After all, as the city they're in comes alive, it does become stranger and stranger to walk in broad daylight with grime all over her face and arms. Perhaps even suspicious when the grime looks a little bit like dried blood. So she acts as casual as possible as she whistles through the streets looking for a solution to the current dilemma. Thankfully, with the city springing the cafes begin to open and she takes a minor risk and zips into one, sliding herself into the bathroom before the employee who had been cleaning it can even notice the wind hitting her face. It's not an ideal cleansing, but she is able to wash her face and arms and look somewhat presentable before she dashes out again and scans the streets for people who look like they could use help redistributing their resources to those in need.

Again, being so early, not too many people are out and those that are range from older adults strolling through the area before it becomes overcrowded by people, shop owners and workers readying for the day, and, the real prize, the business people filing into cafes. (The smell of coffee, pastry, delicacies they haven't had in months fills the streets and releases a waterfall in their mouth and they do strongly consider not sharing their first meal with Sean. The only thing that holds them back is guilt and a secret promise to share that moment with him.) While they normally would weave their entire body through the streams of workers heading into the establishments in order to claim their prizes, they know that would be too risky with their current fume reserves. So they act more precisely and as they idle in a line they only move their arms fast enough to not get caught reaching into the pockets, purses, and backpacks of those in front of them before they feign a 'Oh, actually I do not want coffee' face and leave, moving onto the next cafe.

After that, they head to the dumpster of Three Raccoons (who are thankfully, gone) and count their spoils. It's definitely enough for a few meals (though a few meals for Mars is one meal. They know they'll have to compromise their needs for the sake of Sean––though that isn't even a disappointment to them as they are more happy with the idea of getting a hot meal at all). When Bambi comes running into the alleyway, a few minutes later, looking about as suspicious as someone who definitely did not just steal anything, they go check to see if he had been followed before towering over him. She catches the backpack easily and sets it aside. However, instead of rewarding his bravery or returning his triumphant grin, she bends down to smack him upside the head. "Do not touch my hair." She had not forgotten that and had been thinking about it quite a bit after the action.

But after that warning, she grins and tosses him the wad of bills she'd managed to get. "Yes, easy as baking a cherry pie," she doesn't actually know how to make a cherry pie or if it's easy, but it just felt like a good thing to say. And with so few good things? She has to be as indulgent as possible knowing that goodness can be taken away. She sits down next to the kid, and opens the bag, dumping the contents onto the floor (not really caring about the grime).

At first, she ignores the clothes, and tears into one of the candy bars first, a Snickers bar, and she barely tastes it before it's gone (she is okay about not tasting it as it is a candy bar and not the meal she is craving). She takes the second candy bar, Twix, and inhales both sticks in seconds. "Right Twix, I think is better, secretly," the comment is said quietly as she pulls the clothes into her lap and rifles through them. On the one hand, she knows to be grateful he stuck his neck out for both of them; on the other hand, her reaction is, "Do you have any style? What is this?" she asks, holding up the basketball shorts that are probably the most boring color of blue she has ever seen. So plain. Lifeless as a Crayola color pallet.

Still, she doesn't complain much more than that and strips, with no care for boundaries in that regard, and slips into the elastic band shorts with ease. She replaces the grime-white undershirt she had been wearing with one of the clean shirts and then claims the mustard yellow hoodie for herself––it's the flashiest thing he managed to grab so she decides it is for her. A beanie goes on next––mainly to hide the state of her curls––followed by the sneakers. She feels like a damn fool in this outfit, but her options are limited so lives with it. "I am choosing the fucking outfits next, you fashion disgrace." In that moment she spots the heart-shaped glasses sitting atop his curls and, yes, does exert herself once more to swipe them from his head and put them on her face. "But thank you for the disguise, I guess. Even if it sucks. Anyway, I saw a few diners that should be opening up soon. Eat the last candy bar, get dressed. I can only be civil without real food for so much longer, Sean."

 

[heartstringss]

𝑂𝐿𝐼𝑉𝐼𝐴 . 𝑾 𝑹 𝑨 𝒀


○ ○ ○

​

Asking the blonde their name, it's a long while before they finally answer. The silence that follows is so heavy it seems to change the very atmosphere of the world around them and above all else, it's concerning. When Wray eventually tilts her head aside to check on her companion, her attention immediately catches on the fingers tracing over their throat, over the fresh wound she'd hardly been in the right frame of mind to notice any sooner than, well, now. She only lingers her gaze for a few seconds before she has to force herself to look away, although her reaction has absolutely nothing to do with squeamishness. (She doesn't bother trying to guess what might be going through their mind — in all fairness, it was none of her business anyway. Prying would have only felt like a complete invasion of privacy; just the same as she wouldn't have wanted them to ask her about any of her injuries, she wasn't going to ask them.)

Whether or not they wanted to share their name or anything about themselves was entirely up to them, so Wray wasn't going to push, regardless of however long it took. She didn't bother keeping watch of them anymore beyond that, her attention turning back onto the fire instead. The longer she sat and let her mind drift over her thoughts, the more she began to realize that the caged-bird feeling she had developed over the course of her captivity still hadn't gone away; moreover, it was becoming increasingly difficult with time to continue trying to ignore her new spiritual restlessness. She wanted to run, run, run, and never look back.

It was strange to be back within the cover of the dark, and the company of people who didn’t only want to hurt her. It was almost even stranger to have free range of all her movements again; to be able to close her eyes and not have the harsh glare of a million light bulbs reflecting on the backs of her eyelids every second of every day. (If the storm hadn't happened and fate found a way to free her, what would have happened to her then? Would she have died there eventually, or would they have found a way to stretch her life out even longer, so that they could keep her prisoner long enough to drain her of absolutely everything she had to offer? Even now, she still didn't feel entirely free. The bruises around her wrists and ankles might've faded with her time spent inside the shadow realm, but she could still feel the heaviest of weights pressing in around every corner of her heart, a beast trapping her inside its jaws, threatening to crush her with each second passed. Would that feeling ever go away, or would it be with her forever?)

The shadow wrapped around the room, and like a lover who's become clingy over a hard few weeks away (more like months--wait, no, definitely years), Wray leaned into its presence. She wanted…

...Honestly, she didn't know what she wanted anymore. (A chance to start over, maybe?)

The other's voice was so soft, Wray almost didn't catch their name. Multicolored eyes flick open, turning her head with a curious gaze to take in their features once again, now that she has a name to put alongside the face. Reggie. (How oddly fitting.) Then, watching as they withdraw the same bottle of honey from earlier, Wray almost smiles watching them squirt a line into the back of their throat to coat it. (Almost, but not quite--a ghost of a smile, really.) When they return the question, answering her own name takes remarkably less time for her to get around to than it did for them.

Her gaze already turned back to the mantle, she answers simply, "Wray." Same as always, she doesn't share her first name; she only ever shares her last.

After that, silence envelopes them again, but at least this time it wasn't quite so heavy. It still felt tense, but for an entirely different reason now; almost back to the same reason it had been tense before — because of the circumstances of their meeting, the event of their escape. Fear clings onto her heart, unwilling to release her. She knew she had to keep her guard up, because at any moment the owners of the house could've walked in through the front door and they would have had no chance but to run again, thrust right back into the danger that came with living in world no longer willing to tolerate their presence anymore. From here on out, they might only be safe as long as they could still fight. (What about when they were too tired to fight anymore—what would happen then? When she was too tired to fight, too tired to run, too tired to keep on going? Then what?)

Wray knew from experience she could go probably three, four days without sleep and still be perfectly fine, that the extra energy she received from the dark extended her tolerance quite a bit in that way—but somehow, now it felt like she hadn't slept in weeks. Her eyes stung and her bones were heavy; every tiny noise pricked her sensitive ears with all the sharpness of a cymbal crashing from mere inches anyway. She was used to the quiet of her cell, only having to listen to the buzz of static from the lightbulbs. The sound of rain beating on the rooftop should have been a comfort, but it wasn't anymore. Nothing was comfortable at all. Nothing would ever be the same again.

One look at Reggie, Wray could easily tell that they were having the exact same problem as she was. They were both exhausted but unable to sleep, unable to relax no matter how much their minds and bodies wanted to.

When they scoot over to be closer to the fire and wind up sitting next to her instead, Wray tenses, but she doesn't move away — it's both an involuntary reaction and a voluntary one, her past antisocial wariness fighting for dominance with a new automatic response to up her defenses at even the smallest sign of danger. She has to forcibly relax her muscles in order to remind herself that Reggie wasn't a danger — or at least they weren't right now. When they speak up, it's a little easier to relax because the words they say, sad as they are, are true. She doesn't need to ask what they mean to know what they are referencing. Even if she'd guessed wrongly, there were a lot of ways she could also still be right.

"Yeah, it still doesn't feel real yet," she shrugs her shoulders. Drawing her legs up to tuck them closer, her knee brushes against Reggie's due to the new closeness. Wray glances down to take in the point of contact, still naturally wary, but even though alarm bells are going off inside her head (and not only are they yelling, but in fact, they're screaming) she doesn't bother trying to move away. Instead, she shifts her eyes over to her boots, then Reggie's Converse. Ironic that they both were still wearing shoes inside. She briefly considers untying her own, but ultimately decides against it when she remembers they still weren't safe, and anything could happen. Better safe than sorry, right?

Letting out a sigh, Wray stands up and stretches, unknotting the ball of tension settled into her spine by lifting her arms high over her head and then back down again. Glancing around the room, she spots a basket filled with blankets near the entertainment center and walks over to pick out a couple Afghans, one for herself and one for Reggie. Tossing the second one onto the couch where it lands alongside a couch cushion already propped against one armrest, she turns back to Reggie and waves them over to the set-up, "You should try and get some rest if you can. I don't really sleep a whole lot, so you can take the couch unless you want to go upstairs instead."

Even though there were plenty of other armchairs and couches she could have moved to, Wray sits down with her back to the front of the same one she's offering to Reggie. (Without even thinking about it, she's seeking out the same comfort of closeness as they were just moments beforehand. Unwilling to admit it as the comfort that it was, she makes up an excuse in her mind that it's just to keep closest to the fire instead. Sure, sure, whatever.) Stretching her legs out in front of her, she points the toes of her boots to the fireplace as if trying to prove a point to herself. Pulling the second Afghan over her shoulders, Wray nestles down into its warmth. Settling in for the long haul — hopefully, as long as nothing else went wrong. "I'll stay here and keep an eye out on the doors."

'I'll stay here.' It's the most important part of what she said, perhaps even more than the offer of keeping guard over the house. In case if Reggie needed that little extra comfort, same as she herself would have wanted it, whether she was willing to admit it to herself or not. 'I'm not going anywhere,' she offers silently, staring hard into the fire even though her attention is trained most on her peripheries, waiting to see if they'll take the couch or choose to go upstairs and leave her by herself.

𝑺 𝑬 𝑨 𝑵 . 𝑁𝐸𝐼𝐿𝑆𝐸𝑁


○ ○ ○ ​

The smack upside the head comes as a surprise to Sean, who was much more prepared for Mars to want to tear into the backpack immediately (and perhaps even congratulate him, thank you very much) than expecting her to come swinging dealing out some sort of—what even was this, some kind of punishment?! Nonetheless, he cries out in shock, his hand flying to the side of his head where hers had connected. As if his hair wasn’t a big enough mess already, now he harrumphs, raking thin fingers through the dark curly strands to fluff them out as best he can with the curls thoroughly drenched in sweat. It’s nearly ironic, considering their reason for the slap. Oh yeah… By now, he’d completely forgotten ever touching their hair in the first place.

“Jeez! Yeah, okay, princess,” he mumbles to himself, at the same time that she tosses a fat wad of bills his way. He whoops out a holler as he catches the stack, suddenly all too eager to retract his prior sassiness with a quick addition of the words, “Never mind, you can slap me anytime you want I guess.”

It’s a lot of money, more money than he’s ever had in his hands at one time himself. The way his eyes shine, and how his mouth falls open as he shuffles through counting all the bills? “Color me impressed,” he remarks cooly, an easy grin morphing across his features as he finally sets the stack of bills aside. Turning to face Mars when they sit down beside him, he gives a short laugh as he watches them upend the backpack right onto the floor, not even worrying about the clothes because they instead dig straight into the candy. It’s something he can relate to, that deep, deep undying need for sugar and caffeine (what he thinks they’re craving, anyway)—once he gets his first taste, he’s sure he’ll go right back to being hooked within seconds. (How long has he gone without real food? How long has Mars? He almost doesn’t even want to know. God, he was never touching a protein bar again in his life. The astronauts could keep that shit, okay! No fucking thank you, man.)

At the comment about Right Twix, he only shakes his head, ”Nah, you’re crazy. Left Twix is the way to go, man.” But the argument is quickly lost in Mars’ reaction to the stolen clothing—

“Whoa, hey. Do I have any style?” He slaps a hand to his chest, perhaps a bit more genuinely offended than he is just being dramatic with the moment. “I’m sorry, have you ever been inside a Walmart? I mean, it ain’t exactly the Ritz, honey. Little bit more, uh—” ’trailer trash’, he wants to say, only Mars’ standing up to change distracts him before he can find the words to finish. When they strip out of their uniform right there in the alley without a single care in the world that he was still right there too, Sean’s mouth falls open. He averts his eyes with a hand to his face, freckled cheeks and neck slowly turning beet red. Although it’s not as if he hasn’t ever seen another person undress in front of him before—frequenting bars and living with Catie, of course, he’s seen other people undress in front of him a million times or more, but even as friendly as him and Mars were becoming, they were still mostly strangers and—wow, okay, just… how very sudden.

He’s not offended, he’s just surprised. “Okay, I am shook. Genuinely shook. Warn a guy before you plan on breaking down to your skivvies next time, okay?” However, as soon as he looks back and sees them dressed in their new outfit, he’s right back to jovial, grinning as he takes in the get-up they have chosen. It’s… okay, yeah, maybe she was a little justified in her annoyance. ”Yeah, okay, you can pick the next outfits. Whatever you say, Colonel Mustard,” he teases through laughter covered by his hands.

The smile is wiped clean from his face when a burst of bright color flies forward, hands snatching the heart-shaped sunglasses right from atop his curls. He pouts dramatically but doesn’t argue, simply crosses his arms over his chest and… well, what other choice does he have but to accept defeat? (He’s seen Mars fight, alright? They could kick his ass in a heartbeat, no doubt about it.) Only shaking his head as he mourns the loss of his glasses, he snatches the last candy bar from the pile in a huff, shoving the Milky Way into his mouth so fast it’s an honest miracle he doesn’t choke, and… yep, right back to being a sugar fiend he is, just like that. Once he’s licked the last remnants of chocolate from his fingers, he wipes his hands clean on his pants and turns onto the pile of clothing.

He’s not nearly as picky as Mars with what he chooses to wear, digging out a pair of red-and-black pajama pants and a simple white t-shirt with some random-ass sports group he wouldn’t recognize even if he had been local to the area. He turns away before he strips, kicking off his boots and discarding the old outfits in favor of the new—it’s comfortable, it fits, and that’s all that really matters. He pulls the second beanie atop his head before tossing the leftovers back into the bottom of the bag, pulling the straps over his shoulders and standing up. Once ready, he snatches the discarded facility jumpsuits off of the ground and walks purposefully down the alley to a dumpster set up at its farthest end. Slam-dunking the balled up outfits straight into the back of the dumpster where they fucking belong, he makes a point of pumping his fists into the air as they land. Then turning around, he skips right back to Mars’ side, happy as a clam.

“Alright, let’s skedaddle, gang,” he says to Colonel Mustard as he lands with a heavy thump beside them. He’s almost tempted to jump onto their back and demand a piggy-back ride, but remembering they hadn’t eaten yet and were still likely exhausted, he resists the urge… for now.

 

[starboob]

❛REGGIE ❜ NORTH​

Reggie doesn’t think and they don’t believe this will ever feel real. They feel doomed to live with the feeling that this is all but half-dream; feeling split between real, too real, not real enough. Brain constantly ticking and sifting through information to construct a reality that could make sense in a world that doesn’t. “No,” is what they offer in response, guzzling another mouthful of honey. Though they hadn’t meant for her to reply it’s nice to have another voice in their head. A new one after years of cruel ones or ones associated with such. Hers is a welcome change—like an angel’s choir, if they had to be dramatic about it. (They do wish they could hold a better conversation. 'Way to go, dumbass.')

As she rises, they watch her––not suspicious or curious, just observing as she stretches and gathers blankets from the basket as if this were her own home and her own couch she were offering to them. The thought of sleeping had occurred to them, obviously, but actually getting comfortable into the ritual had not. Though one might have or could have assumed Reggie may have preferred the comfort of a lone bed in a lone room, honestly? They hadn't much liked sleeping alone before they had been taken away––usually, if they hadn't found someone to keep them warm for the night they would sleep on the couch. At least the narrow seat and the feeling of something pressed to their back could give the illusion that they were bumped up against another person, even if never felt warm. ‘You’re so fucking pathetic.’

They don't even pretend to explore the other options around the house and quietly agree with her assignment by slipping onto the couch. It doesn't even occur to them to concern themselves with how she is taking care, mostly because caring beyond themselves is not an inborn concept to them. It's why they don't fight her on taking the watch, whether it's the first watch or the entirety of it, they'll find out later. They curl into the blanket and watch the shadows cast by the flame (that seem to draw toward the other mutant). Sleep comes a little easier once they're actually comfortable and relaxed into the cushions of the couch. It's such a distinct contrast from their the hard cot of their cell that it's easy for them to get lost in the feeling that they are floating on actual clouds––exhaustion envelops them and they seem to sink further. Though, as with the past couple years, their sleep is not restful. It's full of abrupt starts and stops, and each time they wake, while disorienting in and of itself, the back of the blonde's head is still within sight and there's some comfort knowing that they are not alone in the dark.

They aren't sure how long its been when they wake again––as each time leaves them feeling years older before they realize surely not that much time had passed. However, there isn't much time for them unravel their confusion because Wray is rousing them in a hurry and she's already got their hand, pulling them up from the couch. "Wha––?" If she's talking, they don't hear her, because the only thing their body takes in is urgency. In the rush, they only manage to grab whatever is already on their person which does happen to be the honey bottle they had been clutching in their sleep, the blanket, and the flannel tied around their waist as they twist through the first level of the home.

From just outside they can hear yelling and the sound of something ramming against the door as authoritative voices yell just beyond the safety of the home. Upstairs they're pretty sure they hear a window breaking. "Shit––what the fuck!" They say, not realizing the only pain in their throat is a throb and not a deep scratch.

The house is brighter now––no longer night, but exactly what time it is they don't know and it isn't on their list of things to untangle. At current, Reggie is still groggy, their eyes still blurry, and they only follow the direction that they're led. Even as their eyes come to focus and they take note of strange men filing into the house, it's not until they hear the familiar cry of an officer get torn in two that the scene before them comes together in its full clarity.

They've been found. Somehow. There are officers, obviously, now inside of the once safe haven as well as outside. Though Reggie cannot see this for themselves, a few large vans surround the home as well, intent on trapping the runaway mutants inside. Even if the mutants inside are not going to give themselves up that easily.

Right now, Reggie cannot afford to be afraid in any meaningful way. While their heart stops inside their chest, it starts again just as fast––not at all processing the devastation that they have been caught (so quickly too––and how? Reggie barely knew where they were how could the facility already know their whereabouts?). Instead of investigating those valid questions further, they surge forward, somehow able to act quickly and clearly in the chaos of the moment––it feels like home or at least a familiar battlefield that they can navigate with steadfast ease (in some ways, same difference). While they had the half thought to try out their sound amplification once more, Wray doesn't even give them that opportunity.

While she fights––they cannot even count how many of these operatives are filling the house––they search for a clear exit. Only knowing a few locations in this house, an idea pops into their head and they pull her towards the garage even if she is the one with the hold on their hand. In the garage, they break the window of the second car to get inside of the vehicle. Shards of glass cut into their back as they slip under the steering wheel, but unless their injuries are lethal or fatal they choose not to them any attention. Even though they are assured that Wray has their cover, they still are not trying to waste any time.

Reggie pries at the panel underneath the steering column and shakily pulling out the wires beneath, finding the ones they need to make the engine roar. A few sparks later, the engine;s sound rips through the garage, and they're behind the wheel with the other in the passenger's seat. Intuitively, they know that Wray will take care of any of the obstacles that come their way so they only concern themselves with driving––which, thankfully, is much like riding a bike in that you don't really forget it. It also doesn't take long to figure out this car's particular quirks, such as acceleration and speed. Without a sense of direction, they merely rip through the town with the only intent to put as much distance between themselves and their assailants as possible.

Eventually, they do manage to get them onto a highway heading east––not that they had cared about direction in the first place. No thanks to the other blonde, the special forces are not following them either––they didn't exactly catch how she got rid of them but they suspect it was less than what any of them deserved. Sufficiently amped from the jolt of the morning, they slam their hand into the steering wheel and exclaim, "Dude, how the fuck did those shitstains find us?" Halfway, they register that they are talking relatively normally now––though their throat is sore and the pitch of their tone suggests as much too. It hurts, but it is far more bearable than it had been the previous night. "Like am I trippin' or was that fuckin' unreasonable?" Not that Reggie has been on the run from police before (not in this capacity, anyway), but this seemed too fast for those single-cell imbeciles working for the government.

❛MARZ BATISTA ❜​

The sugar spikes her blood almost before she can even toss the candy wrappers into the trash––it's a pleasant surge of energy, of course, and nothing someone built for speed can't handle. It's just the small boost they need to at least carry themselves to one of the early-bird establishments. However, before that, and able to keep multiple things on her mind at once (or it appears that way to anyone who is too slow to keep up) she raises a fist and arcs it down towards Sean's shoulder. "Do not disrespect princesses like that––what are you? A little toad who thinks princesses can't be badass? Because new flash for your ass to wipe––princesses can absolutely be badass. I wouldn't have dated one otherwise." (A humble brag of many.)

Next on her list of grievances to file with Sean's shoulder? "And that one is because I am not your honey. I don't even like honey––I thought about it way too much and I just cannot get past the facts." Deciding his shoulder deserves a break, she then aims for his arm when she connects her next punch. "Who even is Colonel Mustard? It better not be me," she gives them a hard look, daring him to suggest that she is, in fact, the colonel that he is referring to; even if she knows it's about the outfit, she is not pleased. Especially since she had no say in the get-up––though, had she had a say in it then his punishment would have been far worse. Mars prides herself on her style and since her true style is so elegant and extravagant it is easy for those with boring eyes to assume they are a fashion disaster when they are a fashion artist (a review they have received from themselves and, actually, several other stylish friends).

"Okay, now that business has been accounted for, friend, we can go," she says, beaming as if she had not just slugged her new friend three times for seemingly minor infractions (infractions that really only makes sense to Mars herself, but as the ruler of her own planet she does think she gets to be the judge, jury, and executioner). As she watches him ditch the uniforms in the dumpster, there is part of her that has the half-thought they shouldn't just toss out their branding so carelessly but, ultimately, it's not important enough to her to actually investigate further. Besides, she figures they will not be staying in the area much longer and so long as she stays moving? She cannot get caught and she'll take the kid along with her to keep him safe too. They both (probably) had people to go back to so they just needed to get settled, figure out where they are, and pick a person to return to. She figures, she can stick with him long enough to make sure he's safe and, in the meantime, she'll figure out a way to get word to her network that she is safe––that of course is priority.

Friendlier, warmer, more alive than she had been sans-candy bars she wraps an arm around the boys shoulder, despite being shorter than him now, and saunters out onto the sidewalk. Though there are plenty of chain restaurants available, and at first it seems that will be the only option, Mars drags them instead to something of a converted subway car diner. Partly because it looks cool and it also seems locally owned––which, if Mars is going to redistribute the wealth that she had redistributed to herself, she may as well keep up the pattern of redistribution into the hands of people.

Early as it is, and apparently a weekday, they are seated near immediately and Mars even convinces the waitress, with a flirty smile, to let them have the booth in the back corner. It seems safer and Mars wants to have eyes on the rest of establishment––just in case. Across the narrow aisle of the converted subway-car restaurant is some counter seating (where the waitress had originally tried to place them), standard diner things behind that, and a television going through the news cycle. It's CNN so at least that tells Mars something about the political slant of the area. "Holy––the date––" May 8th, two years after she had been taken.

Red streaks their vision and may have completely filled it had the pretty waitress not come back with water and coffee to start. The interruption is soon enough into the flare that she doesn't lash out, but their fists are curled tight on the table and the heart in their chest feels like its trying to gnaw itself free. Despite their hunger, they no longer have an appetite (not that they don't still place an order of fresh wild fruit, granola, and yogurt; a stack of waffles; and a side order of home fries––because they're certain their appetite will return). Once the waitress is gone with their order, Mars launches across the table and grabs Sean's shoulder, looking at him with an intensity that almost suggests she wants revenge, "How many years did they steal from you?"

 

[heartstringss]

𝑂𝐿𝐼𝑉𝐼𝐴 . 𝑾 𝑹 𝑨 𝒀


○ ○ ○

​

She thinks she does a fairly good job of hiding it, but when Reggie doesn’t fight her on the offer of taking up the couch, Wray’s shoulders drop, her body relaxing somewhat underneath the blanket. Knowing that they aren’t going to leave her by herself, it feels as if a weight has lifted off her chest, allowing her to finally breathe again. It was comforting, which, at the same time, felt somewhat upsetting for Wray — especially knowing that, before the captivity, there was simply no way in hell she ever would have let herself wish so desperately for another person's company like she was right now (unless it was in-between her bedsheets, that is, and even then… well. Desperation just wasn’t an emotion she wore all that often, to begin with). Then again, she’d spent so much of her time in captivity in such long periods of solitary confinement, it sort of made sense how much she practically dreaded having to be alone with her thoughts any more than she absolutely had to be.

(It was strange how things worked out like that -- solitude having once been something of a comfort for the loner mutant, yet now it only made her feel extremely anxious. Honestly, she never would have expected to find herself... here.)

While she keeps her back turned to give the other a bit more privacy, every time they shift to get more comfortable in their position, Wray’s head tilts along with the movement, her attention following to track the sound. (Her ears are fine-tuned with the dark, so she can truly hear it all — from the very first moment Reggie's breathing begins to taper off as they slowly fall asleep, to the moment their breathing first begins to shift... as their lungs hitch with every interruption of their seemingly endless restless shifting. She can even hear the fire crackle as the embers spit and pop around the logs within the mantle; the dull, lifeless hum of the refrigerator in the other room; the sound of the rain beating down upon the rooftop of the house all around them... If she shut her eyes and strained her ears to block out all the other sounds so that she could listen closest to the ones originating from right behind her, she could even hear Reggie's heart beating from inside their chest — right alongside the steady thump, thump, thump of her very own. Something about listening to the blonde that closely this early into their knowing each other felt like an insane invasion of privacy, though, so even tempting as it was, she resisted as best as she could.)

Once Reggie fully drifts off to sleep, Wray pulls her legs up to her chest and nestles down a little lower against the front of the couch. From underneath the blanket, she wraps her arms around her shins to hold herself safe and warm against her own body. Despite that she knew she was supposed to be watching the doors, she eventually gives in to her exhaustion a little, by leaning her forehead down onto her knees and shutting her eyes to perceive the room by touch and sound instead. As she does, she can feel the cold shadows begin to nip a little closer ‘round her heels, feel the familiar sharpness of her breath every time she inhaled. Strange how absorbing the dark always felt like that: like her lungs had been coated in straight menthol, or her entire body perhaps dipped into a large vat of ice-water before being left to soak for hours. She'd missed it more than she realized, truly.

She falls into an odd stasis, somewhat halfway between sleep and wakefulness but still fully tuned-in to the world around her. She could be up within a matter of seconds at the first hint of danger if she needed to be — and she is, in fact, the very instant she senses Reggie's breathing and sleep patterns change in ways that genuinely alarm her. Adrenaline floods her system as she bolts upright, the blanket falling from her shoulders just before she yanks her body around to find the other blonde. As soon as her eyes land upon their sleeping form, still tightly curled within the blanket loosely wrapped around their shoulders, her expression softens with understanding. She releases a long sigh to try and relax the tension knotted within her own shoulders, but it isn't easy. Watching Reggie struggle with a nightmare doesn't just tug at her heartstrings, it yanks them, and as she inches across the floor to bring herself a little closer, she thinks she might have a pretty damn-good idea what they might be dreaming about.

A soft whimpering fills the room, the sound seeming to creep up from the very back of the sleeping blonde's throat. Their features pinch so tight with worry it morphs their expression into something else entirely — something which reads closest to Wray as pure panic, but could very well have been just about anything, really. The longer she watches them struggle, Wray begins to realize they aren't waking up from their nightmare, only falling deeper and deeper into it instead. Her breathing catches, although it's easier to say Wray is hardly aware of her own body anymore as she reaches up to place her hand along the edge of the couch and then carefully grasps the other's shoulder to shake them awake. Though she meant the gesture to be gentle, it doesn't seem to translate that way to Reggie who, deep in the throes of whatever nightmare they were having, must read the touch as a physical attack instead, for the blonde bolts immediately upright on the couch, knocking her hand away without a single moment's hesitation. Sweat beads along their forehead and drenches the neckline of their t-shirt, slicking a few stray strands of long blonde hair to the sides of their face and their forehead... but it's their eyes that Wray gets stuck on most of all — eyes which penetrate her very soul with the depth of emotion held within, and yet, at the same time, seemed to be entirely unseeing.

"— it's okay, it's just me. Hey, it's just me, alright?" She lifts her hands with the palms face-up to show she means no harm, carefully leaning back on her heels to give the other a bit more space.

An annoyed grumble and a few muttered swears are all that Reggie gives her by way of a response before they lay back down, returning to much the same position that they had been in earlier. Now seeming quite a bit more guarded, it's easy enough for Wray to assume they might want to be left alone. Sighing with the tenseness of the moment, Wray lingers by their side only a beat or two longer before she finally turns away, returning to the foot of the couch with her own blanket to continue keeping watch over the rest of the night.

​

It's not Reggie having another nightmare that stirs Wray from her calm again a few hours later — rather, it's the sound of a car door slamming right outside the house, and then another three or four doors slamming (one after another) right after that. Wray's eyes snap open, her head lifting off her knees with the sound of the first door slamming, immediately suspicious. As more doors quickly follow suit, she tosses the blanket off her shoulders and rises to her feet. Pacing over to the window beside the front door to look outside, her first thought is that the owners of the house might be home and she's a little worried, yes, but not too much because she doesn't think it would be difficult to sneak out the back and disappear before anyone made it fully inside. Though she knows she wouldn't recognize the family even if she saw them (because she hadn't bothered to look around at any of the family photos hanging up around the walls), it turns out she doesn't have to recognize them anyway.

As soon as she lifts the curtain back to peek outside, her heart drops into her stomach and the owners of the house disappear from her thoughts completely. After all, it's not the family that they have to worry about — it's the fucking feds.

She doesn't bother lowering her voice or quieting her steps, because there seems to be no point. While she watches, the officers outside are already gathering a battering ram from the back of one of the SUVs and more cars are also pulling up, every single one of the men outside fully strapped and prepared to rage an all-out war. Somehow, they had been found... there was no time to wonder any of the usual who, what, when, or why though — they needed to run.

Wray paces back to the couch on long strides, her resolve solid as pure steel. Without warning, she stoops down and digs Reggie's hand out from the nest of their blankets, already pulling them up from the couch before they've even had a chance to fully become aware of what was going on.

"Get up," she says firmly, eyes flashing with the sense of immediate danger. "We need to go. Now."

The world blurs around them as the two fly to action, neither mutant seeming willing to let go of the other's hand and instead clutching tighter as they tear through the ground level of the house as fast as possible. It's not nearly fast enough, Wray realizes, as the front door is rammed through, and she hears a window breaks upstairs. Officers file into the house from multiple different points of entry. The noise is deafening, though even as she winces with the pain, Wray doesn't hesitate a single second — still dragging Reggie through the house, she turns her head to locate the closest officer before lifting up her free hand to draw in the shadow from underneath the kitchen table. The teeming vantablack mass glints dangerously as it shoots across the room, no more solid than it was a second earlier when it rips through the first officer. Blood splatters the walls as the man's body is cleaved near entirely in two, his heart stopped before he even hits the ground.

Wray is breathing hard, her face, shirt, and arms already streaked with blood from the first officer (though she hardly notices herself). Having already located the next closest pair of officers, she moves fast to pull in more energy and keeps pulling until the entire kitchen all around their feet and down below their ankles is cloaked in shadow. The darkness swirls all around them, and it holds the officers off for just a second... but then more officers pile into the space between the kitchen and the dining room, each one holding a rifle surely loaded with tranquilizer darts, and Wray panics. Knowing she has to act fast if she wants to keep her strong advantage, she draws her hand up and sweeps it in a wide arc across the room, sending a flurry of daggers towards the crowd of officers. She doesn't get a chance to see how well the attack lands before Reggie tugs her in a new direction, stumbling as she turns around. With one last glance over her shoulder, she forms a protective shield from the shadow to keep cover of their backs as they retreat towards what she can only guess must be the house's garage.

There's a second car in here, but when they go to check the handles, they find the doors are locked. Without even bothering to look for keys, Wray already knows she could use her power to form something solid to break the car's window so they can get inside. As soon as Reggie is inside, Wray smacks the button on the console to unlock the rest of the doors and darts around the front of the vehicle to climb into the passenger's seat. She doesn't bother watching the other blonde as they work at the wires underneath the steering column, her attention trained on all the different points of entry to the garage in case if any officers have followed them.

It's only a matter of seconds before Reggie gets the car running, then just as soon as they were both inside the vehicle and had the doors shut behind them, more officers clamber into view, surrounding either side of the car. Wray stretches the shield wider to surround the entire vehicle, ignoring the trickle of warm blood that flows down her upper lip from her left nostril as she works to hold the feds off long enough so that Reggie can focus on getting them the fuck out of dodge before they're fucked entirely. Once the car is tossed into reverse and they have ripped out of the driveway (taking some of the officers with them, no doubt), Wray drops the shield and uses the last remaining dregs of her energy to flip as many of the SUVs as she can manage and blow the rest of the officers back onto their asses so that they can escape without hopefully being followed. Only then does she release her hold entirely, or at least long enough to reach up and wipe the now-heavy stream of blood from off her mouth.

Though she's sapped away most of her energy and isn't entirely sure how useful she would be trying to control shadow from a fast-moving vehicle, Wray keeps herself hypervigilant as possible. Watching the side mirrors and the windows out the back for more special forces in case they might've still been followed, all the while her nose continues bleeding. Pinching her nostrils, she eventually rips around to dig through the backseat and then the center console, finally pulling out a lucky pack of travel-tissues and wadding a handful underneath her nose to staunch the blood flow. It's about that same time that Reggie slams their hand onto the steering wheel, Wray damn-near jumping out her skin with the surprise as she jerks around to face them. Her eyebrows shoot up at the fact they were able to talk at all, their voice much clearer and smoother than it'd been the night before -- but she's not displeased, and still a little amped from the chase as well, she hardly focuses on it long enough to form any sort of opinion beyond the initial shock.

"No idea," she mumbles around the wad of tissue pressed against her nose. Pulling it back a moment later to check the blood flow (which has slowed considerably by this point), she finally drops the tissue into her lap and turns to Reggie more fully. Even though her exhaustion is pressing heavy over her entire body and her head is swimming with a certain breed of nausea that helps her realize just how badly she needs food, her anger is still boiling too. It cracks out like a whip, sharp as knives and equally as dangerous, too. "Did you see how many of them there were? We're lucky we got out of there unharmed. Fuck!" ...Well, mostly unharmed, that is. A shaky hand bangs against her knee as Wray lets out a frustrated sigh, then trails her fingers up to her face to push back the wavy (and lightly blood-streaked) pale blonde locks of her hair that were sticking to the light sheen of sweat across her forehead. So much for being clean, right? "Alright. Well, don't stop driving now, but we need to ditch this car as soon as possible. No doubt they're already looking into the owners of that house and this car's plates... We need to disappear, like, yesterday."

We, we, we. So they were becoming a solid 'we' now, huh? (In all fairness, the thought of abandoning Reggie — neither in the heat of the moment nor any other time before that — hadn't even occurred to Wray until just now.)

𝑺 𝑬 𝑨 𝑵 . 𝑁𝐸𝐼𝐿𝑆𝐸𝑁


○ ○ ○ ​

Easily (and heavily) distracted by the world around them, Sean isn’t paying Mars any real attention when they go to throw their first punch out at him—so, needless to say, he has no time to prepare himself. When their fist lands upon his shoulder with a heavy thud that stings and aches immediately, he stumbles backwards dramatically, nearly losing his footing altogether before he manages to catch himself. His expression mirrors shock and confusion when he whirls around to face Mars—however, it doesn’t occur to him at all that they might truly be mad at him for anything he's said. Too dense to realize that his relentless teasing could be taken as any sort of real offensive, in his mind, he’s just being playful. As he has no context to build that basis off of, he just assumes they’re being ornery instead.

At the same moment that Mars is preparing to throw out their second grievance with his shoulder, Sean is reaching up his hand to rub out the soreness they've inspired from the first. “Wait, you dated a princess—?” he asks at the same time, perhaps the biggest airhead in the entire whole wide world. Needless to say, his hand doesn't make it all the way to his shoulder before Mars throws out their second punch. This time he shrieks with the impact, and now his own hands fly out too, palms swiping through the air though not landing any meaningful hits himself (and honestly not even trying, which is obvious enough by the fact he's halfway laughing at the same time).The third consecutive hit, this time a little lower, earns Mars an exasperated groan but, but still it's more like hitting a brick wall in that the punches land but their point does not.

He’s more focused on their words and the shock each reveal inspires within him than he is on their actual emotions or anything else they were trying to convey. When they speak of his reference to Colonel Mustard, he gasps dramatically and answers their question earnestly, “Oh my god, you really don’t know who Colonel Mustard is?” but it's not intended as an insult that he throws a question back—rather, he is genuinely shocked, and perhaps more than just a little curious how big a rock they must've grown up living underneath to somehow manage not knowing what Clue was.

He looks like an actual child with his bright blue eyes wide as compact disks, his grin so cheeky it stretches more than halfway across his face. He considers drawing up an image of Colonel Mustard in his mind to do a shift, but then thinks better of it when a car passes by in front of the alley, reminding him that they were too far out in the open for stunts so public now, and that they simply couldn't afford to draw anymore attention to themselves than they already had by stealing.

Instead, he smiles as Mars wraps their arm around his shoulders, his own arm lifting naturally to sling around their neck in return. Letting them drag him out onto the sidewalk and lead the way to whatever eatery looked the most tempting to the runner, Sean can't help but feel at peace, the most at home he's felt in years. The closeness reminds him of closeness he once shared with Catie, though, and that makes him sad. He tries not to focus on the sadness as he enjoys his time with Mars, his new friend, someone who's chosen him for exactly who he is the same way Catie once had, and hopefully wouldn't have to lose the same way once again.

Being around people, at least, is nice. He's a little extra skittish to how he was Before, but for the most part still prefers being out and about in the world as much as possible. He enjoys the lively chatter, the early-morning buzz, the scent of fresh coffee brewing that smacks him in the face damn near right as soon as they walk into the streetcar diner. He's excited, bouncing on his heels, as he follows Mars to the back of the diner to sit in their chosen booth. The runner's sauve-ness with the waitress does not go unnoticed but isn't commented on—he doesn't get much of a chance because almost as soon as they were seated, Mars' attention trains onto the TV across the room. When he looks over at their comment on the date, it's easy enough to figure out why the other's fists were suddenly curled tight atop the table, why they looked angrier than he'd seen them in the last several hours.

For him, it's not quite two years but it's close enough that he can empathize with Mars' anger before they've even gone so far as to voice it. Although for Sean, it's something more like shock and despair that fills his own chest, his expression morphing into one of pure disbelief rage than one of rage like theirs. He tries to wipe the slate before the waitress returns to take their orders. Far too hungry and excited about real food to let the news affect his appetite, he does another quick glance over the menu and then sets it aside, rattling off a string of orders so elaborate it makes the pretty blonde waitress's eyebrows disappear straight into her hairline.

("Um, can I get a grand slam breakfast with an extra side of bacon, make the eggs over medium and the bacon extra crispy, and um, lots of butter for the pancakes--"

"...Okay. Is that all?" the waitress makes the mistake of asking.

"...er, no. Can I also get a side of extra crispy hashbrowns, a glass of orange juice and a glass of chocolate milk? Um, please? And- and thank you?" With his chin propped inside his hands, Sean throws out the best puppy-dog eyes he's got in his repertoire and thinks it works, for she gives a nod rather than telling him to get lost. (He silently vows to make sure they leave the girl a hefty tip for all her troubles before they leave. God knows she was about to earn it.))

As soon as the waitress had disappeared out of sight, Sean reaches for his water to wet his tongue, then nearly spills it when Mars flies across the table to grab his shoulder. Glancing back and forth between the other mutant and the TV, the hand on his shoulder (which, ouch), all the people in the diner (some looking at the pair curiously with Mars' creating a little bit of a scene, though most continue to mind their own business as if they're hardly there at all).

Again, it's easy enough to empathize with Mars' anger, but the intensity of that look held in their eyes? In all honesty, it scares him a little bit. By comparison, he never wants to see another government facility or officer ever again. He doesn't want to think back on his time spent in captivity, doesn't want to reflect on where he was before, and certainly doesn't want to hurt anymore (not himself, or anyone else, for that matter, ever again). Talking about his problems and his worries doesn't scare him in general—he could do it just fine, normally, but it's still a little too fresh right now. Besides, he's not too good with anger himself.

He leans back a little, feeling nervous, shifty. Focusing on the weight of Mars' hands gripped upon his arms to ground himself, more than anything else he can feel their anger wafting off their skin and focuses on that, too. How it sizzles the air around them as if they were literally boiling from within, and yet, Sean? By comparison, he's something more of a low simmer himself.

Blue eyes glance back to the date on the TV one more time before he finally answers the other's question. May 8th, 2019… Wow, yeah. A hand reaches up to ruffle through the curls atop his head, though it doesn't pull away in the end. Holding the back of his neck as he speaks, he looks to Mars and shrugs his shoulders, "About a year and a half… How-how many did they steal from you?"

 

[starboob]

❛REGGIE ❜ NORTH​

Their heart beats like a drum––specifically the opener to Hot For Teacher by Van Halen––as they speed down the highway, willing this incredibly outdated and well-loved soccer mom van to exceed 80 mph with their foot pressed to the floor. It doesn't even occur to Reggie to try and find the highway home (Los Angeles) or even to try and find a direction that would be somewhat familiar to them. Whether it is instinct or that their brain truly has shut down from years of abuse and ill-use, is unknown. Mostly, their mind is pre-occupied with finding somewhere safe for them both to just... Relax. Because, fuck, Reggie is tired (they almost want to sob like a baby who hasn't been allowed to sleep for whatever reason).

"Fuck, fuck––that was way too fucking close," they mutter, waiting for them to clear suburbia and enter the vastness of Utah's red desert scape before they easy up on gas––just enough in the event there are speed traps (yeah, their brain works to remember all their speeding tickets––does it have other useful information? The jury is still out on that one). "Yeah, I'm not gonna fuck stop until the tank hits fucking empty," which should be a few hours since the tank is essentially full. If that hadn't been her idea of ditching the vehicle soon, she can sooner try her luck at moving a mountain since Reggie feels safest while they can move and actually get away. (While they have not forgotten about their barf-o-rama experience passing through the shadow realm, it doesn't occur to them to ask her about it––not that it had guaranteed them much safety in the first place, but it is a good trick). Their eyes flicker over to the rearview mirror every now and again, even miles and miles after they have escaped and have reasonable assurance that they are not being tracked.

It hits them, too, that without her, they would most definitely be tossed into the back of one of those many vehicles they had watched her flip over. And where a thank-you may have been protocol, those sorts of formalities have always been useless to the blonde––who sees them more as lip service than anything else (obviously, people should know when they've done things that warrants gratitude and should just... absorb the obviousness themselves instead of forcing someone else to say it; after all, isn't bad to seek validation from external sources?). So what is that now? Two or three times, at least, that she's saved their skin? 'Alright, alright––I won't let that go fuckin' unpaid...'

(They hardly account for all the times they had saved her. It doesn't seem relevant because their actions always amount to nothing or too much of the wrong thing. They aren't trained to notice the nobler things they've done––granted, those are far and few between.)

They steal a glance at her through their peripheries and notice the blood drying on her white shirt (hadn't anyone told her how dangerous it is to wear white? Enough blue Slurpee spills on some of their favorite white t-shirts had taught them as much). With one hand on the wheel, they wrestle the flannel from around their waist and hand it over to her. If this is their way of saying thank you they do nothing to make that clear. "You look like the Bride of Chucky, no offense––but honestly Tiffany Valentine is a total babe. Like I get why Chucky had such a hard-on for her." Okay, well apparently, granted the gift of speech again, they are just going to immediately use it to be vulgar; though this is rather tame for the screamer.

"I won't look––" which is true and only because they are driving. Caught in a different situation, such as a scenario where Wray is behind the wheel, and they would definitely be ogling at her this very second; but since they should probably keep their eyes on the road, their attention is more or less in one direction. "But it has been a fuckin' minute so I wouldn't complain about a show either," soon, certainly, they would realize that this is not how to make a (third) impression. (At the same time, it had been a while and, Jesus Christ, they needed something to distract them from everything else on their mind so of course reverting seems to be an appropriate course of action).

"... Jesus fucking Christ––how long has it fucking been?" While Wray is their only audience, the question is not necessarily for her (unless she wants to, you know, help them out).

❛MARZ BATISTA ❜​

Mars knows her temper can flare hotter than the Sun. The only problem with that bit of self-awareness? It's pushed to the side when their fuse has already been lit and they just get hotter and hotter and hot––'Oh.' (The other thing about Mars? They are easily distracted.) The kid looks a little jittery and even if that possibly is just the way he is, Mars doesn't know this for sure and it clicks that their fire might scare him. It can be scary after all. In fact, they remember several instances where she had scared loved ones and lovers with its volcanic nature and it reminds them that this is not their favorite look. Thankfully, hot as the runner can get, she can cool down just as quickly as she cycles through a number of calming images she has gathered or garnered over her years.

"Sorry––I just. Well, you understand," she says, comfortable with the assumption, and not making an ass of herself, because she does not doubt that he gets it. He has to––they had just come from the same place even if the treatment had varied. She doubts anyone had been given the cotton candy and rainbow treatment everyday (or any day).

She sighs and looks over at the T.V. as she thinks about just how long it's been for her, and the day she didn't save enough to go home. One of the biggest errors she's ever made and she has paid the price on top of debts she has yet to owe. And of course she remembers the precise date too––mostly because it had been Mercy's show and they had had the date saved since she mentioned it to them. ‘Mercy...’ the name alone is an ache in their chest and if just her name hurts? Then they don’t dare think of their family because that will certainly crumble their planet entirely.

‘Happier things. What are some better things...’ They take one of the jelly packets sitting on the table and open it, sticking their finger into the center and swirling it around in the goop. (They're making a mess like a tall child.) Mars has a glob on the tip of her finger and without thinking, smears it across the kid's cheek. To lighten the mood, she figures. Then, not even thinking about how gross it would be to do this, she just does and cleans her finger off in her mouth. Despite touching a disgusting boy. "A little over that as well. But we don't talk about that over breakfast––that's for a never time, I think." Or a long while.

The waitress comes back with their orders and all conversation stops. It has to because this? This is probably how all those people felt when they were fed that everlasting bread and fish stuff at the holy picnic. Mars dowses their waffles in a healthy layer of butter and syrup, mixes the granola with the yogurt, pops several berries into their mouth and is not strategic when it comes to what she’ll eat first. In fact, she more or less seems to rotate between bites of whatever sounds most interesting to her (and discovers the combination of home fries and parfait is not the best).

Once she has something in her system and is starting to reach capacity––more due to how shriveled her stomach is than a lack of need––she sits back in the booth and gently picks at her food, taking more care with their bites. “You should try the fruits––they’re a kiss for your tongue,” she pushes the bowl to him––willing to share and bond over similar bites; she believes that food and shared meals are the best way to learn about a new person. “If I never eat a pile of bland mush again, I think I will be able to reach basic life satisfaction again.”

"So, Sean. Where should..." She stops, distracted by the sci-fi looking watch attached to his wrist. She squints. "Um, did you steal that from Wal-Mart too?" Either that or it’s a product of the facility and now she’s wondering if he had had it before—but she hadn’t been committed to making memories of his wrists when they first met so she doesn’t know. “Why does it look attached to you?”

 

[heartstringss]

𝑂𝐿𝐼𝑉𝐼𝐴 . 𝑾 𝑹 𝑨 𝒀


○ ○ ○

​

Wray doesn't bother arguing with Reggie that they aren't going to ditch the car until after it's run out of gas—as she's not sure they have very many other options, that sounds perfectly goddamn fine to her. (She doesn't consider her new shadow travel ability all that much of an option at this point either. Seeing as she had no idea how it worked in the first place, experimenting only seemed far too dangerous for the circumstances they were in. Especially remembering how it had affected Reggie when she had drug them along with her the first time… yeah, no, she definitely needed to try to learn the ropes a little better first. Experimenting could come later, as far as she was concerned—perhaps sometime when the situation was laxer and escape not near as pressing as the circumstances they were in currently. Convenient as it was, it was also a really big Unknown, and Wray, above all else, shied away from big unknowns as much as possible.)

Without the seatbelt done up around her waist, Wray uses her increased mobility to its full advantage by taking the opportunity to dig around the car a little more, curious what kind of spoils she can dig up out of all the forgotten rubbish scattered around the floorboards. She finds a pack of wet wipes underneath her seat and promptly rips these open to clean the dried blood from around her hands, arms, neck, and face. Scrubbing a little harder than perhaps is truly necessary, the look of disgust etched across her features does its due diligence in communicating her feelings on being covered in somebody else’s blood. Though it’s certainly not the first, she’s never been particularly fond of carrying her kills around with her everywhere she goes. (Violence in self-defense was necessary, true, but did it always have to be so messy?)

Catching movement from her peripheries, she stops rubbing her arms long enough to glance over, watching as Reggie wrestled the flannel free from around their waist. She doesn’t realize it’s for her until they hold it out a second later. Genuinely surprised but far more grateful than she’s willing to let on, she doesn’t offer a ‘thank you’ for exactly the same reasons they haven’t with her nice gestures—verbal communication is not her strong suit, so instead she simply nods as she takes the shirt, still warm with traces of the other’s body heat and scent clinging to the fabric, and places it within her lap. When they comment that she looks like the Bride of Chucky, a ghost of a smile begins to quirk her lips, hand twitching as she represses the urge to reach out and swat their arm. While the assessment is fairly accurate (she does, indeed, look just like a murderous doll), it’s the method of delivery that holds her back from sharing that amusement.

It’s a fine line that Reggie treads, remembering their comments from the night before that leaned them towards displaying a rather obvious, albeit slightly insensitive attraction. While their attraction was, in its own way, somewhat flattering, the vulgarity certainly was not. After years of dealing with the guards at the facility treating her more or less the same way, Wray truly has no patience for this nonsense. No patience for the lack of respect, no patience for the constant feeling like she was being reduced to nothing more than ‘just a pretty face’ with everyone she meets. While it was, of course, fairly convenient when the attraction was at least returned (not that it wasn’t with Reggie—because it certainly was, though it was still far too early for her to tell if they were even worth the trouble in the first place), other times it only made her feel like garbage. Knowing what her body looks like underneath her clothes—bruised, scarred, malnourished to mere skin-and-bones—it’s more an internal judgment than it is an external one that she’s not all that comfortable with Reggie’s attraction now. (Unfortunately, it’d seemed they’d fallen right into the crosshairs of a textbook ‘wrong place, wrong time’-type situation.)

Just when she thinks they might be in the clear, (not that she really cares whether they watched her change in the first place, as long as they at least knew better than to touch her without her permission), the facade is ruined a second later by the other’s going on to remark how long it’d been since they last had a good show. This time she doesn’t hold back, her hands swatting out to hit their elbow—hard. (Though not exactly hard enough to risk throwing them off their driving and causing any sort of accident.)

“You really are quite the smooth-talker, aren’t you,” she remarks somewhat bitterly, head shaking all the while her fingers are already beginning to undo the buttons on her blouse. Although she could have easily pulled in a bit of shadow to give herself a bit more privacy, she doesn’t bother here because, for one, it would have been too physically draining in her current state, and secondly, she figures there’s no need what with there being no one else on the road around them anyway. Figuring she can handle Reggie if they get too out of hand, she leans slightly forward, not to give them any sort of show but rather to work her arms out of the blouse’s sleeves. Once she’s free, she tosses it straight onto the floorboards, remorseful for the loss of the one good piece of clothing she’d managed to score back at the house, but at least grateful for the other’s giving her a backup.

This leaves her topless, exposed, for only just a moment before she moves to gather up the flannel and slips into it instead. While the red-and-black plaid is much less her style, the pattern far too bold and brash but fortunately still quite warm and soft, it’s comfortable enough to do for now and so she has no real complaints. As she does up the buttons on the front of the shirt, same as before, she leaves the top few undone to leave a flash of pale, creamy skin, fine collarbone, and just the slightest bit of cleavage.

Reggie’s comment from before doesn’t go entirely ignored, even if a show is one of the very last things Wray plans on giving them right now. Once she’s finished changing, she leans forward in her seat to tear into the glove compartment, wondering if there was anything inside that might reveal a clue as to the date. Digging through the contents, she pulls out quite a few lucky spoils, actually — a couple of lighters, a half-empty pack of Pall-Malls buried towards the back and, perhaps most importantly, what seems to be the most current registration for the vehicle (or at least it was the only one).

“Found cigarettes. You smoke?” 'Of course they smoke,' she assumes, already tossing the pack into their lap. Having already dug out a stick for herself, she puts the cigarette in-between her lips to light the end, then tosses the lighter over to Reggie too. The very first drag is heaven — and a good buffer for the news to come, it seems, as she rips open the envelope for the car’s registration and begins to scan the paper for a date. Her fingers tighten around the edges when she finds one, lips pursing as her vision swims with shades of red and black. When she can't stare at it any longer (when she realizes that she's sitting there hoping if she glares hard enough it might change), finally, she crumples the paper in her fist and tosses it onto the floor.

“Well, this car is registered for the years 2019 to 2020, so,” she speaks low around the cigarette clenched between her lips, so angry she can hardly see straight.

So angry that she wants to scream.

So angry that she lashes out and kicks the dashboard, harder than she meant to, nearly even hard enough to dent — more violent than she typically is, because of course she just can’t hold it in.

She digs her fingers through her hair, scratching her nails along her scalp. Pulls her legs onto the seat and hugs her shins, pressing her face hard into her knees. “Assuming we're still somewhere in 2019, that’s at least three years lost for me.”

𝑺 𝑬 𝑨 𝑵 . 𝑁𝐸𝐼𝐿𝑆𝐸𝑁


○ ○ ○ ​

While Sean trusts that Mars’ anger isn’t aimed towards him, he isn’t in the right frame of mind to deal with it right now. (How the news of the date affects the two of them is so vastly different, and while Sean can, of course, completely understand the justification for their own anger—especially being that Mars’ time seems longer and their treatment so much more brutal—he’s never been the best at dealing with others’ flaring tempers. Not his parents’, not his bullies’, not even Catie’s, rare as it was. He doesn’t know how to respond to it any other way than turning inward, being that he wasn’t any sort of violent himself—much more sunshine and rainbows, so much quicker to cry than lash out anytime he was upset.)

Even still, he doesn’t want them feeling guilty for their angry either, because of course he understands. ”It’s okay,” he’s quick to toss out, offering a small smile to reassure Mars they haven’t offended him the slightest bit. When they slip into silence thinking over how long their own captivity had been, he tries to give them their space by attention elsewhere instead — which is why when they grab one of the jelly packets and begin swirling their finger around inside of it, he’s genuinely intrigued, and then equally surprised, when they reach out and smear a glob across his cheek. “Hey!” he laughs, all quick, easy grins and bright, shining eyes as he sticks his tongue out at them and then reaches up to wipe the glob clean from his cheek. Just like Mars, he sticks his finger in his mouth to clean it off. It does indeed lighten the mood and the sugar that comes with it? Yum.

Though Mars’ words twist his mouth into a deep frown, he doesn’t make any effort to comment further (because there simply were no words). Instead, he only gives a small nod with their declaration that the topic could be saved for another time and anyway, their food arrives soon after that and, well, of course, it’s fairly easy to forget the sadness then. The sheer amount of food had their waitress needing to deliver it in two separate trips, but though others might have been judging them (probably thinking they were high), for Mars and Sean, it’s nothing but pure cause for celebration.

Seemingly two halves of the same whole, it’s a spread of pure heaven laid out before them and both are eager to dig in. All the different flavors wafting up from the table starts his mouth-watering right away. Without any consideration for manners and truly unable to resist, he rushes through giving his thanks to the waitress, already pulling the pancakes close and beginning to drench them in butter and syrup just as soon as they are set down before him. Although some of Mars’ food looks tempting, he sticks to his own side of the table for now—until that is, a few minutes later when they offer him to try their fruits. Then he reaches out, excitedly grabbing up a small selection of blueberries and strawberries, popping them straight into his mouth all at once. It really is a kiss for his tongue—the phrasing is odd, but it suits—and so he eats a couple more, too.

His mouth is still full of food when he chips in to reply, “Yeah, I don’t want to see another protein bar so long as I live. Like, it’s all junk from here on out, you know? I mean, if I die from high cholesterol in twenty years because I’ve eaten too much grease and fried shit and finally screwed over my arteries, at least I’ll get to go with a full belly and a happy… well, maybe not-so-happy heart.” He shrugs, grinning, swallowing the last bite in his mouth and then finally, finally, setting his plate aside. Even though his own belly is mostly shriveled too, he’s managed to eat most of his food—the only thing left is one of his pancakes and some of the hash browns. Other than that, he’s entirely full-up on bacon grease, butter, fried eggs, and juice/chocolate milk. Needless to say, a very happy boy.

Once he’s set aside his silverware, Sean wipes his hands on his pants (classy) and then his mouth on his sleeve (even classier). He is so easily distracted that when Mars turns to him a second later with her voice trailing off and her eyes narrowed suspiciously in his direction, he is caught like a deer in headlights, unsure what he might’ve done wrong. Then, following the other’s gaze to the bracelet hooked (well, more literally attached) around his wrist, he tilts his head confusedly. Looking to their wrists next — only to find that, unlike him, they did not, in fact, share the same accessory.

“No, I got it a few weeks into being at the facility. It um-- it is attached to me,” he whispers the last part, a bit ashamed when he remembers every time he’s tried to remove it in the past, it’s only hurt him worse instead. (Eventually, he’d given up trying and finally forgotten about it altogether.) Then, eyes slowly going wide as a dark, terrifying recollection of memory begins to dawn within his mind, he lowers his voice even further and leans across the table, “Wait… where is yours?” He furrows his brow, remembering that he had originally started with a microchip and only been given the bracelet after he had figured out how to remove the chip. “You must still have just the chip—I mean, you have to have one. They said we all have them, so that they can, um... keep us on a leash, I think they said? I think-- I think they said that they were some kind of tracker, or um— wait. Oh. Oh, shit.”

 

[starboob]

❛REGGIE ❜ NORTH
​

It's unfortunate that if Reggie had been gifted with abilities that allowed them to read minds, knowing what is currently going through their companion's head would likely NOT change their behaviors. It may only increase them tenfold––just so they can be sure she knows how attracted they are to her; they'd miss the other nuances attached to her insecurities. (And therein lies the heart of many of their problems: reducing the complexities of the human condition to things that fit their desires and their own modus operandi. Is it impossible for them to think outside of themselves? Unlikely, because theoretically every person can. Reggie simply doesn't.) Me, me, me is the only thing that truly runs consistently through their head––stuck at some second order of development when they should have been at least at three, given their big age of twenty... 'How old am I?'

However, when she reacts to their tactless affections they are pulled from that existential crisis (likely of many to come) and nearly swerve into oncoming traffic out of sheer surprise more than anything else. Honestly, while a reaction like this is not new to Reggie, it has been a while since they've had to remember how easy it is to make a woman angry. They had also forgotten how it made their cheeks flush––a sharp contrast to their white, distinctly NOT sun-kissed skin. "Yo, what the fuck?!" Of course, their tone reflects astonishment rather than anger––too intrigued with the newness of her quirks to actually be mad (not that their anger would have been justified). "I'm trying to fucking drive here, okay? Could you cut it out––I was just trying to give you a fucking compliment. I thought chicks sorta digged... Dug? Dug that shit. Jesus fucking Christ, man."

Like what is her deal, specifically? Wouldn't she want someone other than burly gorillas making lewd comments about her body? 'You try and be fucking nice and this is how it gets rewards. Can't believe the world is still the fucking same,' "Excuse the fuck out of you––I was just trying to be fucking nice and spare you a compliment. It's not like I tried to fucking get us killed––but keep up the smacking and I'm sure we'll get there, babe." Somehow, it also just occurs to them that the last time they had been behind the wheel of a moving vehicle, it hadn't exactly ended all that well for them (granted, they were crossed as fuck––and, also, they had died, technically speaking). They decide against mentioning that, however.

When the pack of cigarettes lands into their lap, along with the lighter and her (correct) assumption that they smoke, this is what they decide warrants, "Oh, sick, thanks." And almost just like that, their resolve to be annoyed with her dissipates. Not that they would have held that grudge for too long––pretty privilege went a long way in the eyes of this beholder. And with one such eye on the road and the other on the pack, they pull one loose and toss the rest onto the dashboard along with the lighter once it's lit. Even with their experience under their belt, they are no longer used to having more than just oxygen in their lungs and the first drag does cause them cough. Though they don't mind that too much, because the lightness of nicotine wraps around their head comfortably, relaxing the remaining nerves they had been holding onto beforehand.

It reminds them of all the other things they used to smoke, all the other things they used to drink––their mouth even starts to water at the thought. 'I bet my tolerance is a lot lower too... Shit maybe that detox wasn't so fucking bad after all.' That's not actually how they feel––because the reason behind their sobriety hadn't exactly been ideal or pleasant and certainly only added to all the reason they're looking to feel something different. Even if not necessarily anguished at the moment, escape is a home they know better than any specific place.

Their desire to find Escape as a destination only increases when she mutters the date; on top of that shock alone, her violence only startles them further and they swerve once more. "Shit!" is all they say. The gears in their brain get to work on processing this piece of information that rapidly is causing them to get hot, sweat breaking along their brow and they aren't even sure if they can properly identify one emotion that they are feeling. It's too complex for a name. However, they do know, and can admit that their loss and grief now know exactly how deep they should be and it’s uncomfortable. Their knuckles are practically breaking through their skin, wrapped as tight as they are around the wheel.

"Alright, you know what?" They ask, looking over at her for a long second, something nasty spiraling in their eyes, before they return the focus to the road. "Fuck this shit." They've been driving for a minute now and they decide they don't care about the dangerous thing they are about to do––mostly, because, there is too much in them to concentrate. So they peel off at the next exit and they're so far off in the middle of Nowhere, Somewhere that they aren't exactly concerned about what can happen. No, nope. They need some form of fucking release before they can get back to running away (their new life even if they don't know it yet). Being the middle of Nowhere, is actually a blessing, because in these Nowhere towns Reggie knows how to find the saddest dive bar where no questions will ever be asked of the questionable patrons. "Cigarettes just aren't going to do it, honey. I need a fucking drink after that unwanted dose of reality."

❛MARZ BATISTA ❜​

"Kid, while you are entitled to do whatever you want with your body––I do at least recommend a vegetable every once in a while and water," she shrugs. Though she holds onto the not-so-happy-heart qualifier. Whether a product of the facility or not, she suspects that could be part of the cause and, maybe because she is too tired to be angry (perhaps having spent her last flare on her prior outburst) she feels sad instead. Sad for him, because he doesn't seem like the kind of kid who deserves to feel sad. At the same time, maybe the kid is an asshole and deserves to feel this way. She’s only known him not even a full day so she doesn’t really know him at all. Not enough to make these assessments that's for sure. So in any case, feeling pity does neither of them any justice and she lets go of the emotion and attends to the carbo-load glee blanketing over all of their problems.

With all of their starts and stops while feasting, Mars does finish their meal and are reaping the uncomfortable reward of a stomach that feels like its full to their throat. Though, they couldn't really blame themselves for the indulgence––they just hope it doesn't backfire and make them sick later. 'Let's hope this fast metabolism spares me any suffering... That would really suck. Bleh.' They sigh and shift their attention between the television news to the boy's story about his bracelet, catching and holding all the pieces of information from both stimuli.

‘—tracker—‘

However, when he mentions the microchips planted in their bodies like a tick head, that’s all it takes. Just that one slice of information for Mars to know a dark fate has been sealed. They had never expected that normal would be something attainable after they had been exposed to so much ugliness, but the runner had been hopeful that perhaps they wouldn't always have to watch their back. But there can only be one purpose for placing tracking devices within a person and they guess it is exactly the same as why pet-owners embed them in their animals. (Ownership.)

The air starts to feel like poison in their lungs.

It's like it goes from bad to pretty much as bad as it can get in a single seconds––no gradual build up for them to adjust to, just a brick wall to smack into. Again, with the reserves of anger depleted, now all that is left is a hollow in their stomach where they feel the anvil crash. Their chest feels tight and there's only really one other instance where they can recall feeling this way––the single year of their life they spent feeling helpless and powerless; so much so they hid themselves from the world they admired and explored in spite of the terrifying complications that exist for someone such as themselves. That's not a time they care to remember or think about, but they cannot ignore this familiar feeling or the need to recall how they had handled it then. "They're tracking us? I don’t want to believe that,” but she knows it’s true.

Her brows knit together in thought, figuring out not only her own reaction but also the options available to her now. However, while Mars had thought she’d have more time to suss out how to handle this development, that is apparently not going to be her luxury,

In another sour second, it goes from as bad as it gets to the World must specifically be out to get Marz Batista (and maybe Sean too). The television flashes, then blares a monotone note, before the screen crackles and a robotic voice reads:

PUBLIC SERVIVE ANNOUNCEMENT:
Fugitive mutants have
escaped a high security detention facility.
These mutants are violent and dangerous.
If you have any information on the whereabouts
of these individuals call your local authorities.

This has been a public service announcement.
​

The television then starts to flash wanted posters across the screen. (This might be one of the worst days of Mars' young life.) They don't stay to see how their mugshot looks, because they know it's in the stack somewhere and it's best to leave before they can be identified by the patrons. "Okay, so this is the part where we jet––" While many of their defining features are hidden under the beanie and the heart-shaped sunglasses, they are not going to take the chance. Their own freedom aside, they must also consider the kid who, even if he can make a disguise, they are still the liability if caught. As they step out of the booth and beeline for the exit, Mars doesn't even think about how this is going to effect them later, they simply just toss the entire wad of cash on the table and leave the establishment. (Service workers deserved that tip regardless so they'd never get too hung up on it anyway).

They pull the mustard yellow hood over their head and tuck as much of their hair as they can beneath the beanie. Mars even slouches their posture to make themselves appear shorter even if there aren't necessarily any eyes on them––though it certainly feels as though they are being watched (who has seen the news? Who knows that they are listed as a criminal?). The direction they choose to go in is aimless, but they are just trying to stay moving while they figure out their next plan of action. Knowing the facility has means to track them, knowing that they have been listed as wanted criminals, they cannot afford to stay in any one place for too long.

As they walk through the streets, trying to avoid looking too suspicious, they ask, "Okay, okay, so we know we are being tracked. We know that we are wanted... Do you know where the chip is? How do I remove it? And why did you get that bracelet instead of a chip? And also, we need to get out of this city and stay moving for probably forever or something close to that."

 

[heartstringss]

𝑂𝐿𝐼𝑉𝐼𝐴 . 𝑾 𝑹 𝑨 𝒀

○ ○ ○

​

...in all honesty, Wray was feeling pretty fucking unimpressed with Reggie at the moment. Like, how had she somehow managed to pair herself up with the single most entitled horndog in existence? And sure, while they didn't seem like they were necessarily all bad -- there were times they had been almost sweet (and even useful, in a lot of ways) -- their carrying on as if they couldn't possibly understand why she should be so annoyed with them in the first place... almost makes her want to reach across and slap them for a second time.

When they first swerve the car, Wray curses loudly, not bothering to hide the annoyance in her voice or the swell of anger, hot and heavy like a stone, as it fills her chest and nearly consumes her altogether. (She was usually better at controlling her temper, but she hadn't needed to hold back anything about herself in so long, it was possible now that control was no longer her first instinct anymore. In fact, it might have been the farthest possible thing from her mind, and that was likely because she was so unused to being around other people, now, she no longer knew how to behave.)

Shooting a glare at her companion rather than going off at them any further, her facial expressions are about the only implication that Wray gives exactly how thin the ice that Reggie is skating on has now become. Her body language already pretty well closed off in the first place, she simply purses her lips as she works to pull the first blouse off her shoulders. Carrying on about her business without a single word of interference, letting Reggie vent their annoyance as long as she can stand to tolerate it -- not because she cares whether or not they needed the release themselves, but rather because she wants to see how far they would take it before they finally stopped themselves. (...Although perhaps that was a bit more dangerous for Reggie, considering it also meant she was keeping score.)

It's the implication that she should've taken their 'compliment' without complaining how they'd chosen to deliver it that is the final straw. Quirking her brow when they call her 'babe', she shoots them a Look while she reaches for the glovebox to tear through for the date. "...You can shut up at any time, you know," she says, not bothering to lower her voice because she's not afraid of speaking her mind, or even of them in the first place. (It's something Reggie would learn quick, should they choose to stick together: if Wray had something she wanted to say, she would always say it loud and clear. It's when she chooses to say nothing at all that is the most dangerous, by comparison.)

It's all she offers by way of response: that one single warning -- the line drawn in the sand.

At least the cigarettes help to calm her nerves, or at least she thinks they will, taking another long drag off the filter while she fights back the urge to cough herself. Ruminating over the discovery of the date herself, it's clear Wray is no longer paying her companion any attention whatsoever, so, needless to say, she's caught entirely off-guard when they swerve the car a second time. Without her seatbelt on, she goes sliding sideways across the seat and slams into the door panel. Though it hurts, this time she doesn't flare to temper quite so fast. Instead, she merely shoots a second glare Reggie's way before she reaches for her seatbelt and fastens it across her chest, now planting her feet firmly on the floor. Reggie's reaction to the date was justifiable... even if it still made her want to reach across and slap them for being a total idiot on top of their prior perversions.

She's about to at least chastise them for not being more careful with their driving but stops when she turns around and spots their hands wrapped so tightly around the wheel their knuckles are stark white in contrast. The words die on her lips entirely when they look over too, when she catches the nasty spiraling look within their eye... god, how it mirrors what she feels inside (but perhaps contains a little better) in damn near perfect clarity. In that moment, she can only think to herself, regardless of however long Reggie's own containment might've been, they'd both had years stolen off their lives, hadn't they?

Although she'd offered the information quite freely herself, Wray doesn't bother asking how many years Reggie has lost. The way the blonde looked, it was no doubt in her mind they'd likely suffered too, and whether it was only six months or six years hardly mattered in the long run. Your body could malnourish fast if you weren't receiving the right nutrients in your diet, but this degree of deep physical torment? The scars, old and new, that littered their body just as much as those that did her own (especially the ones around their neck?); that far-away, dead-and-buried look inside their eye? Not to mention, the nightmares from the night before. It was years of trauma built up over the course of likely no-long-time-at-all, because, really, in the grand scheme of things, her own three years wasn't even all that long (but it'd felt like a lifetime when she was still inside, hadn't it?)

She could sense that about the blonde, that they had suffered greatly too (well, every mutant inside the facility probably had, but she wasn't with every mutant, now was she?) on what felt like a much deeper, much more personal level... if not only due to the fact she'd shared a similarly brutal trauma herself as well. Like attracts to like, after all, and her and Reggie? ...Well, maybe they were more alike than she cared to truly compare in the first place.

When they turn off the next exit saying that they need a drink, she laughs bitterly, "It's like six o'clock in the fucking morning," but it's more a statement of fact than it is an argument or a complaint. She lifts her hands, palm-up in a kind of surrender and continues on, "Whatever, I could use a drink myself, but I doubt anything is going to be open yet..."

Unfortunately, that winds up being true. Or at least there aren't any open bars or liquor stores... which are so rare Wray eventually comments on how strange it is, to which Reggie drops the fact that they're in Utah. "Oh, Jesus Christ. Of-fucking-course we are-- I mean, why not, right?" she mumbles underneath her breath. They drive for the next 20, 30 minutes circling various parking lots and side-streets and back-alleys in the nearest town, looking for something, anything that might've provided an escape.

With both the blondes' agitations growing, the negative energy building up inside the car was nearly suffocating.

"Just pull over, just... stop--" She's already yanking on the door handle before the car has even come to a complete. When she jumps out and her feet land on the pavement, she stumbles, long hair falling in a sheet across her face. She catches herself on a nearby light-pole before she can go down, though; already tucking back her hair, multicolored eyes flit across the scenery looking for-- well, it hardly matters. God, there's nothing here either!

It looks like they might be somewhere downtown, except everything about the street they're on reads that the area has likely been abandoned for years. The buildings were in ruins; brick and sign graffitied; the grass overgrown. Where there had once stood fencing meant to ward off the homeless and adventurous, anarchic youth, now it was torn away, cut, falling apart. Wray shakes her head, thoroughly disgusted. There's trash everywhere, used needles and cigarette butts littered all along the sidewalk, broken shards of glass, and god knows what else that threatens a trip to the E.R. if one weren't careful enough about where they stepped.

She doesn't think to get back in the car and have them take them someplace else, because even as dirty as the entire area is, it's still at least a little convenient in the fact that... well, there's also no one else around. More than anything else, she doesn't want to be confined to any more small spaces; she needs room to breathe, room to walk around, room to vent her feelings, same as she assumes Reggie might need to.

When and how Reggie eventually catches up with her, Wray hardly even cares to notice (hardly even cares to remember she had a companion in the first place). She just keeps walking, powering on without so much as a single destination, until, somehow, she finds herself standing at the farthest edge of an abandoned construction lot. When she glances around to check her surroundings and make sure the coast is clear, at first her eyes are vacant, entirely unfeeling, entirely unseeing. After a moment, they land on Reggie and it's not even Reggie that she sees... instead, it's Am, twelve years old with messy hair and eyes the color of honey (and yet, the farthest thing from sweet), with cuts and bruises and scars all over her body, too.

Specifically, she sees her own younger self turning to walk away in the midst of a fight, only to wind up yanked back around. Remembers the smaller girl's hands flat but still just as brutal as her fists as they slammed into her shoulders and her chest, over and over, backing her into a corner, backing her against a wall. (She hears Am's voice in her memory too, hears her calling her a coward, telling her to fight back, to face whatever she was feeling instead of just walking away from it all the time.)

Eventually, she even sees herself exploding. (Sees the other girl blown backward in a blast of pure energy that throws her up against a tree, winding up with even more cuts and bruises on top of a newly sprained wrist and a concussion. When she comes back down from her explosion, she sees Am's stupid face breaking out into a smile, even despite the heavy flow of blood dribbling down the side of her face from the new cut carved along the side of her forehead; never feeling any pain, and now not even any more anger.)

She sucks in a breath, blinks the memory away, and looks again, finally seeing Reggie this time. (Reggie, with their hands balled into fists at their sides; Reggie, with that awful, nasty spiraling still held within the blue depths of their eyes; Reggie, the night before, startled from a nightmare ready to attack before she reminded them that they were safe.)

The parallels, oh, the parallels.

Turning around to walk away, Wray grabs the mangled edge of the fence and pulls it aside. Holding it aside a moment, she looks back across her shoulder to the other blonde, "You coming with me or what?"

𝑺 𝑬 𝑨 𝑵 . 𝑁𝐸𝐼𝐿𝑆𝐸𝑁

○ ○ ○

​

Fuck, fuck, FUCK!

Seriously, how had he been stupid enough to forget about the trackers?! Like, you'd think having a device embedded in your fuckin' arm might've served as a pretty damn good reminder (especially when it was just as much external as it was internal), but uh-- yeah, no, apparently fucking not! (And while he could, of course, completely understand Mars' not wanting to believe they were actually being tracked, pulling the wool over their eyes was not something either one of them could technically afford to do this very moment. He knew that himself too, so even while he was panicking, it wasn't necessarily the type of panic that would've normally inspired him to run away from all his problems -- rather, it was the type of panic that had him looking to Mars as if desperate for advice, a solution, any sort of answer they could've given him. Because uh, how to handle this himself? ...he had no fuckin' clue.)

Before he can so much as fathom a response to Mars' disbelief -- before he can do much of anything at all, really -- the situation gets worse. Worse, worse, so much worse it feels like the entire world might be out to get him, and all he wants to do, now, is hibernate. Hibernate and never come back out again. But he can't. Instead, he's glued to the spot as the TV all of a sudden flashes and blares a note, and then begins to read a public service announcement that, nearly just as soon as the text appeared across the screen, Sean already knows is all-too-sinister to stick around for its entirety.

His fists are white-knuckled as they grip the edge of the table, blue eyes wide staring across the room at the TV. Panic floods his system and while he knows that they should bolt, Sean instead finds that he can't move. He can't move, he can't think, he can barely even breathe as he reads and re-reads the announcement a dozen times in a matter of seconds, and then... and then there are the mugshots. It's a good thing Mars is just as quick a thinker as they are a mover because the only thing that truly inspires him to get up off his ass and get going--? It's not the thought of being recognized on TV (because he knows he wouldn't be, not unless they somehow had a picture of his chosen form as well), it's not the thought of imminent danger for Mars, it's not even the thought of just how bad they both needed to disappear...

Instead, it's the thought he might be left behind and wind up all his lonesome once again.

'Okay, so this is the part where we jet,' they say, already beelining for the exit. Sean's heart is in his throat long before he scrambles out of the booth himself; already he can feel his stomach churning, wanting to eject the entire contents of his belly. Trying not to make a scene, he shoves his hands into the pockets of his pajama pants and ducks his head to hide his face. He keeps his eyes locked on the other's back, on the mustard-yellow hoodie, not even realizing they've thrown the entire wad of cash onto the table in the process of their getting up. His hands are shaking, his jaw firmly set, his body language stiff and awkward as he strides to keep up with Mars' pace as best he can. He almost thinks to grab their sleeve, their hand, their elbow... (If the two were closer, he probably would have.)

Once they're on the streets, at least it feels a little safer than inside the restaurant where the announcement had just been given. There aren't as many people out-and-about this early in the morning and even the ones that were were mostly going about their own business and might not have even seen the news yet. (Had it gone across people's cell phones too? Had it been released like an emergency with a notification sent to everybody's phones as well? ...Had Catie seen it? ...Had his parents? ...Did either one of them still care?)

Swallowing hard, he looks over to Mars when the other's voice interrupts his thoughts. Their elbows bump as he steps further into their personal space but he barely notices himself, hands shoving deeper into his pockets, shoulders shrugging like an angsty teenager trapped too far inside his own mind. After a moment, he pulls his right hand out of his pocket and begins to pick at the leather strap around the bracelet's edge. "I think mine was in my upper arm somewhere," he answers about the microchip, remembering back to the countless sleepless nights he couldn't focus on anything but the feeling that something inside his body was terribly, terribly out of place. "I only got the bracelet after I removed the chip first, but I did it... well, I can sorta do it from the inside, you know? I just work it out of my body over time, but-- but it felt like it was deep, so if you're going to try to remove yours, you're, um... you're probably going to have to cut it out."

The more he talks, the more he gets trapped inside his thoughts, the less he's paying attention to what he's doing with his hands. When he makes the mistake of tugging on the bracelet a little too hard, it sends a shock of electricity straight to his nerve endings and he whimpers, clenching his fists so tight his nails cut into his palms. He's used to it enough by now that even though it catches him off-guard in the actual moment, he's able to shake it off and move on right after. (Although it's far from nothing, really, because it shows exactly why he has the bracelet, and just how deeply it has been embedded in his arm.)

"I think every shifter probably has one of these," he continues more quietly, rubbing his arm closest to his wrist where the muscles were still seizing up the most (where the shock was strongest, in other words). "Anyone who can manipulate their appearance, anyway, because I doubt I was the first..."

Get out of the city and keep moving, never stop. Never ever ever, his thoughts just spiral. When panic begins to seize his chest, he stops on the sidewalk, grabs Mars' sleeve, and pulls them off into the shade-cover of an alley. His hands, his mouth, his whole body is trembling. "I don't know, Mars. Maybe you should-- maybe you should go on by yourself and just forget about me now, while it's still early. I can help you find and remove your chip, but mine is-- mine is a lot more complicated..." He doesn't want to drag them down, he doesn't want to be any more a danger to them than he was to himself already, and especially not if they still stood a chance themselves. "You've done a lot for me already, but you don't owe me anything, you know?"

 

[starboob]

❛REGGIE ❜ NORTH​

Yeah, no surprise that Reggie had never turned their brain back on enough to realize that based on the time of day (six in the fucking morning, apparently!), no bars were going to be open and, to top it off, they had not actually left the state of Utah. 'It should be a crime to teleport someone against their will to fucking Utah. I swear to fucking God.' Their annoyed thoughts don't help, because as they drive around it only adds to the annoyance wafting from the other blonde. In fact, it doesn't take too much for the car to become a cesspool of their combined brooding tendencies. It's almost suffocating and it's getting to the point where they don't even want to look at her let alone spend another fucking night in her company.

"The great fucking dumbass state of Utah," they mumble when nothing, not even a corner store appears to be open... Or even operational? It's the fucking story of Reggie's life that they'd peel off the road in some ghost town with not a drop of alcohol or a pack of cigarettes in sight––they don't even bother being hopeful for someone's forgotten bag of dope. Is this some sick joke from God? Is this some fucking sign from a Higher Power that they aren't destined to return to that lifestyle? 'For Christ's sake...'

Whether or not they take this sign or not, is still up for heavy debate. However, beyond that, there isn't really anything they can do other than brood over their current and devastating non-existent blood alcohol levels. Even then, that's not what they're really brooding over. It's just easy to blame it on that, on the fact that they're forced to live in this awful feeling they've never had to deal with before. Not since they were at least ten, they estimate. Everything, everything is just tightening around their throat and it seems as dry as the desert outside; hell even their mouth feels dry. 'Shit, shit, shit.' They sweep their hands through their blonde hair, moving it over to the side and maybe hoping their thoughts move to the side as well (they don't). The thoughts are stickier than they care to admit, like gum on their shoes.

When she tells them to pull over and then proceeds to get out of the car before they even stop there is a split second where they think, 'Now. This is your moment if you wanna fuckin' leave her behind...' Instead, they finish parking and unbuckle their seatbelt, tripping out of the car as they rush to keep up with her. For no reason in particular... They just don't feel like being alone. Selfish? Always. There are plenty of other reasons to stick with her too; practical ones like the fact that she has saved their life, worthless as it is, multiple times. She's more a guardian than they can be for themselves, so there is safety with her. Even if she isn't particularly keen on them and they are similarly becoming annoyed with her, despite how devastatingly attractive she is. Ultimately, she is better than nothing. Better than a ten by ten box and their thoughts that only cut like knives and left gaping wounds in their psyche.

As she opens the tear in the chainlink, they shrug and follow her onto the construction site. It's nothing that impressive. Just some steal beams in the ground and piles of brick spread throughout. It's surprising to them, that for as stripped as this town is, no one had bothered with the free materials. They walk over to one of the piles and pick up the red rock. They let it fall to the ground and listen to it clatter off the beams before losing itself in the desert. Wordlessly they pick up the brick and walk around the site until they find glass panels lining one wall. It doesn't take a genius to figure out where their train of thought takes them, simple as they are.

The brick crashes against the glass, shattering it over the floor like ice. The sunlight glistens off the glass and there is an impulse to stick their hand into the pieces, but when they sweep their eyes over the premise they catch the blonde and decide against it. Instead they pick up the brick again and throw it against the adjacent panes of glass. Each crack and crash reflecting how they felt––except maybe they felt more like dust than shards. They came into the facility as shards, really, and had lost their edge there. Suddenly the open space they're in feels small, like it's closing in on them and they sit backwards onto their ass as they stare at the scattered glass and toss the brick to the side. 'Jesus fucking Christ, what the fuck is my life anymore?'

❛MARZ BATISTA ❜​

Mars takes this information in as best they can; and as best they can, they try and remember to stay calm. To stay not-angry. To stay casual, because they are out in public now and the scrutiny of Big Brother feels like a hot breath on the back of their neck. Although, perhaps, a million and zillion times worse, because they are nearly convinced that this feeling is actually inescapable––unlike the facility. (Though even that, at one point, had felt eternal so maybe there is hope for things to change––maybe they are not doomed? Mars wants to hold onto this thought and hope, but she's fleeting and before Mars can even close their fingers around her, she's gone with the wind.)

"In my arm?" They repeat, fingers traveling up their arm to see if they can feel anything underneath their skin. Nope, nope, nope... They reach up higher to their inner bicep and feel the smallest bump (like the princess and the pea, this is now the only thing that they can think about––just slightly annoying; not anything to fuss over and also not something that can be totally ignored). The tip of their finger presses down on the area and they feel the bead dig into their muscles. They cover the area with the palm of their hand, as if that could somehow stop the device from existing in the first place; or maybe that could stop the device from even working? Either way, it's somehow soothing.

"Okay... It's probably... Fine," but nothing about their tone sounds fine. In fact, they sound quite hoarse and their voice even cracks. They know this is not fine. None of this okay. There is a tracking device in the arm and they are wanted for crimes they have never committed! Sure, they are violent, but they are not dangerous and not a criminal! Twelve tornados seem to pound around Mars' heart as the implications all hit them at once––this is not something they can ignore. This isn't something they can brush aside, because it's already happened––the implications of the tracking device exist already. Nope, their heart-shaped shades have been lifted (really, they do lift them off their head and put them into their pocket).

When the kid pulls them into the alleyway, it's unexpected––and this is coming from someone who rarely expects anything (of course, now there are so many surprises in their life they don't know how to juggle them all at once). Though aside from a surprised noise, she doesn't have a bigger reaction to the shock. Instead, she's not paying too much attention to rambling, too far gone in her own inner rambles to be focusing on someone else. Under usual circumstances, she may have been able to do both at the same time but right now she needs all of her energy focused on a plan. With her brows knit together, and her chin propped on her fist which propped up on her other hand, her mind works quickly for any sense of solution.

"The trackers are stuck, that is fact. Nothing to do about that at the moment––maybe later, but a later priority," she says, finally looking at the kid and giving him her attention if only so he will gives his to her––of course, what she has to say, she thinks, is always important. "That means no contact with loved ones; don't want to risk their safety." She starts to pace as she thinks and, without meaning to, is actually moving much faster than she should be––but it helps her think! "The authorities are not that smart... If we play our cards with the best poker face, we can beat them."

Firmly, with more force than intended, she claps her hands on Sean's shoulders and pulls him close so they're practically nose to nose. "Game plan: find out where we are. Acquire a map... And, most important. Most fucking imperative, Sean, my boy?" With all the gravity of the world crashing in on them, she says, "We figure out which sites we want to see in the continental United States and then you know we can work our way down. Canada is mostly just ice, faux-friendliness, and maple syrup––so not worth it. Just go to Montana."