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| Canvas; [Betsy] | |
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| Topic Started: Jul 20 2009, 10:58 PM (731 Views) | |
| Chamber(Old) | Jul 20 2009, 10:58 PM Post #1 |
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Psionic Biokinesis / Telepathy
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Time of Day: Unknown Place in Timeline: June 19th “Maybe you’ll get sick of me.” Smoke wheedled from the chimney like the reedy wheeze of a cancer patient, washing line still slick with the slime of frost, hanging slack across the patio. A half empty bottle of whiskey cast amber at awkward angles, dividing the light into segments. This early in the morning the only things moving were milkmen and stray cats, city lights doused, fog patches smearing the passages and alleyways. “I can’t stand your-“ They imagined they were the only people awake. “Bad timing?” But morning twilight was too short, and the world came to life with squealing brakes and popping toast. “Paranoia.” Stretched out on the cot, Jono remained motionless and unresponsive. Two months had flitted on by, and he’d had visitors, and counsellors, and their telepathic probes had been rebuked and fought by Famine, while Jono remained quiet and subdued, hiding somewhere in there. It came in flickers. Small patches of light breaking through the gloom, tiny fragments of awareness that jarred like the knife-edge of daybreak. Probably just snapshots of moments that climbed near semi-consciousness, just the roll of an eyelid letting in the flash of harsh holding cell fluorescents. Jono had retreated so far back into himself that he’d lost his way. Dreaming was waking was dreaming, and he’d be hunched up against his guitar case on a drizzly September afternoon, waiting for his band mates to arrive, watching the flickering scroll of numbers snicker along the platform clock telling him they were late, and later, and later. Then there was the smell of burnt eggs and red Leicester, Lurpak and a butter knife, and his mum wielding it like a machete and shrieking at his dad about… Apocalypse… and then he was snuggled up next to his grandfather, being told tales of ancient Egypt. And everyone was dead. His heart and mind and soul belonged to… En Sabah Nur. But he didn’t have a heart or mind; they had been filtered and kept thin. His soul was a superfluous thing, bent and tarnished. Any time the possibility of nearing a state of awareness came close, his mind would recoil, snapping backwards, and sometimes there were people he knew standing next to him, talking to him, telling him tales like his granddad had all those years ago, and sometimes they were worms and insects, and deep inside his mind he cursed and raged at them for keeping him pressed down inside this pocket of nonsense. Maybe you’ll get sick of me. Famine shrunk forward through the gloom, lovingly crooning about their Master, tugging down everything that had built up as Jono lay there catatonic, the memories, the faces. They did this over and over. He’d fall back into REM, flashing from one place to another, the mansion, back home, and he’d just be Jono Starsmore, in that way you could be in dreams, forgetting all other things. The Horseman would shiver through the spaces in between one set of snapshots and another, snagging at the corners until they frayed and collapsed and there was nothing but Famine, and his love for Apocalypse. But he was asleep. Comatose. And he imagined he was the only person awake, that he was paranoid, that it was five-thirty on a cold autumn morning and the only things moving were milkmen and cats. The duvet slumped across his knees smelled of ash and whiskey and soapy notes of Lenor that still clung to the fibres. He’d try and stay awake as long as possible, because sleep meant giving in. It meant monsters and memories he was trying to avoid, the feeling of being split down the middle and forced away by the sneering face of Famine. So he let himself get lost in there. Sometimes he wasn’t even sure who was who, and maybe he was the Horseman, and Apocalypse was all he knew, and he had always been meant to serve… I am the child born of greed and hunger, the desperation of starving infants, of drought and poverty and destitution. He was a kid with a mohican and an old biker jacket, a crumpled cigarette and Doc Martins, too much attitude and not enough common sense. He was Apocalypse’s servant, His general; His until the sun had bleached his bones and turned them to dust. He was… awake. It was five-thirty a.m. The only things moving were cats and milkmen, and paranoia… |
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| Betsy Braddock | Jul 21 2009, 02:25 AM Post #2 |
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Telepathy (I'm not a bloody ninja)
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The White Queen could not sleep. She could not bring herself to eat more than what she needed to survive most days, or to laugh or to party with those in the rooms of the Hellfire Club, trying to forget their existence, tarnished by Apocalypse’s fury , set loose on the world in April. But most of all, she could not sleep. Sleep brought dreams, dreams ushered in nightmares, cloying, suffocating nightmares, clinging to her like barbs, digging into her pale flesh and refusing to let go of her. Ever since that day in the Temple…She rubbed her head, glowering out over the New York city skyline. It was still…broken, in patches, but recovery had been swift and efficient, things would not take forever to heal. Damage had been limited to certain areas, not like London, not like home, whose skyline might never be the same again. That thought stung; that home might never be home again. Her brother gone, her family business in need of rebuilding and Betsy the only one to do it, despite her lack of knowledge in such matters, more used to sitting pretty for the camera, or using her psychic skills for whatever purpose was required. Those psychic skills were the cause of her mood. She shifted away from the window, rubbing her milk pale forehead as she trailed, ghostlike, across the floor of her chambers, kept and furnished for the delight and comfort of the White Queen, as if she were true royalty, instead of just ranked so within the dark faction of Hellfire. Her thoughts cast back to Egypt again, as they often did, of the young man she had battled with on a psychic level, seemingly freeing him from the control of his master. Being a member of the X-men’s flock, he had been taken with them, as she had been taken to safety, deeply unconscious for the following hour, by her own fellows, awaking with a great headache and a deep, dark feeling inside her that was proving impossible to shift away. The face…well, what remained of the young man’s face often crept into her dreams. It was if she were now responsible for him, for his welfare, after freeing him from his mental cage, bound so tight he might well have shut himself in that box, away from everyone and anyone who might subject him to kindness and compassion, to love. It was not her place and it was not her responsibility, Betsy knew that, really, but she could not help but wonder…Was he alright? The question had been knocking gently at her conscience for days, maybe even longer, maybe weeks…Maybe if she knew, she might sleep better, the nightmares born out of what she had seen and felt within the mind of Famine would quieten and she would not feel so much fear over sleeping… Would it hurt, to visit the young man’s mind, to put this all to rest? Pacing like a caged tiger over the soft carpet, Betsy stopped at the discreet drinks cabinet. It was sparsely stocked, a small refrigerator was the fullest, keeping bottles of water, some milk for her tea and fruit juice. However, this did not appeal to her tonight, instead she poured vodka into a glass, taking a bitter swallow, the alcohol flaring up in her throat as it slid down. She winced and let the glass down, deciding against another. Drinking alone gave her very little pleasure, often it made her feel worse. The question still burned in her, like the vodka had and she could bear it no longer. Turning, she went to her bed, as it was better to be comfortable when allowing ones mind to venture out. She allowed herself to fall down on the bed, spreading her arms out a little, sprawling for a moment, silence as well as the soft duvet surrounding her, the silence her blanket for the time. She had to do this, she would just fall into insanity of she did not set this to rest… Closing her large blue eyes, marred by the presence of dark circles, she focused, centred, prepared for the ‘trip’. It was no easy feat, finding and entering someone else’s mind when they were not nearby. Of course, having previously been inside that mind, it could make things a whole lot easier. Knowing the location of the other, well that helped too, and logically, where else might he be than at Xavier’s? The fact that the school was overseen by potentially the most powerful telepath on the planet was a little off-putting, but for peace of mind, Betsy was willing to risk it. If she went dotty, then life would not be worth living anyway. Her eyelids fluttered for a second as she stopped thinking about that and allowed her mind to let go, pushing out, allowing herself to float and flow, her thoughts taking her on her way. She glided through this world of thoughts for what seemed an age, though was probably only minutes, before she found what she was looking for. The world of Xavier’s was well protected, but she had no interest in the children, or any of the grown members of the team and no wish to bring harm to Jono for the sake of the link she felt they now had. She just wanted to be able to rest once more. Swift and subtle, she slipped inside his mind, fearing what might be there. Would there be much difference to what she had found before? The telepath was dubious, to say the least. Edging her way in, expecting to be expelled any moment, Betsy pushed and pushed, trying not to damage, as she came past the walls before her, her more subtle telepathic form able to slip and slide a little easier than that of others. Once in, she looked around, expecting to come face to face with Famine. It seemed to...still, so silent, yet with confusion ebbing all around. Breathing in, if that were possible on a psychic level, she looked around once more. “Jono?” |
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| Chamber(Old) | Jul 23 2009, 02:42 PM Post #3 |
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Psionic Biokinesis / Telepathy
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“Jono?” Jono started, head tugging up from the tangled pile of quilts, tousled and awry. The call of his name still echoed in a fading whisper, travelling like liquid, smearing across the rumpled peaks and dips of strewn clothing, catching on wires. It wasn’t possible. He was the only thing awake. He’d made it this way. Nothing else but wandering felids and roving milk carts, and the numbing forebode that settled in his stomach. Nervously he spilled from the bed-fort, shedding mountainous reams of sheeting, awkwardly traversing cloth foothills, which loomed fuzzy and pale like fabric corpses in the gloom. The window stretched above him, yawning up and away, curtains protruding from a great height like two massive tongues, black-blue in the early morning light. He wrenched one aside, limbs sleep-weak, muscles trembling with fatigue. Why was he so exhausted? He felt heavy, his bones leaden. The curtain took some wrestling with to fully open, and through the dreamy fog of semi-consciousness Jono wondered if they were weighted down. He felt his mouth drop open, past remembering that somewhere beyond this place, he no longer had one. (He didn’t remember. He couldn’t. Couldn’t.) After the glass the city sprawled and heaved, and although in shape it resembled the writhing metropolis that he had once called home, it had somehow collapsed in on itself, staggering underneath its own weight. Above, the skies choked with the churning turmoil of smog, vomiting chemical detritus and spewing steady streams of black until the air was nothing more than a vile cauldron, the roads like shrivelled arteries smattered with cholesterol struggling to squeeze traffic along their strangled stretches. Along the rail track slagheaps withered into festering mounds, the retch of wild dogs drowned by the gasping scream of trains. In the street below crawled things that weren’t entirely human, skin maggot-white, scraped parchment-thin over bones clearly visible beneath opaque flesh. They grinned nauseating grins, and they pawed and crooned at the vacant, dribbling junkies that propped themselves up on severed legs, and nearby, the shriek of a hooker getting her ass pounded gurgled to a sudden halt. And there were more to take her place, and the city was a whorehouse, a slaughterhouse, a smear on the horizon, its skyline crisscrossed with scaffolding sticky with grime, and that seemed to be the only thing holding it all up. Battling with the handle, Jono managed to work the window until it tugged free, and a foul wind immediately slammed into it, burning and thick with the shit stink of sewage. The unnatural heat stung his nose, his eyes, the back of his throat, and his lungs, and he gagged, slapping a hand over his mouth. Tears prickled. Whether it was the combination of rot and ammonia, or the shock of the mindless degradation, Jono wasn’t sure. He slid down the wall, turning away, and the sounds and smells immediately dulled, as if the window had been a portal to some other dimension. Maybe this room was the other dimension; a safe pocket riding in between fragments of Hell. His name still wriggled around on the floor somewhere, muffled and distended, as though fed through filters. “Jono?” Gentle and tentative; it only sounded mocking. Jono snarled at the floor, “Get out,” and slammed his fist against it. “Get out!” |
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| Betsy Braddock | Jul 24 2009, 02:29 AM Post #4 |
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Telepathy (I'm not a bloody ninja)
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“Get out…Get out!” Betsy turned as she heard the scream, almost animalistic, that has started as a snarl and risen up, the shadows of this mind making it seem louder and sharper to her ears. Well, she had barely expected a welcome, but it affirmed that not all was well for the young man. His mind had the feel of a sickroom to it; too long spent trapped in there, with rumpled tissues and stale glasses of water, curtains part drawn to conceal the summer sun that mocked you with everyone else’s fun as you lay abed with the flu or chickenpox scattering your body and told not to scratch. Betsy could almost feel crumbs under her feet and smell the dead air, touch the smudged bedside table that would hold apple cores or bottles of lucozade, shiny orange when the sun caught it. Books…she’d had books when she was sick. Brian and her had shared a nursery when she was younger and they had had a television in there, meaning none for their rooms, until they were older and no longer needed a nursery. So Betsy had read; fairy tales and school stories, Enid Blyton books, full of simple, gentle adventures from a time gone by, or the Chronicles of Narnia as she grew older, the myths of King Arthur, which had equally captivated Brian…She could almost feel the duvet pulled up high, tousling her blonde hair, sunlight splashing across the large floor of her snug bedroom, the beams of the ceiling protecting her as she slept, like giant fingers, laced over her, the four pillars of her poster bed adding even more safety, as if she were a princess in a castle, safe and sound from the world outside… No, no that was wrong. She wasn’t six anymore, she was twenty-five, a gown woman and she was not sick. She brushed these recollections aside like cobwebs as she kept on passing through, her butterfly form floating gently, pink wings fluttering with almost no sound or disturbance. “Jono…I’m not going to just get out. Awfully sorry,” she bit her lip, or would have had she not been in her astral form. What was she doing there? The others would think her insane and gone soft, sentimental, as she tried to make…amends? Was that what she was doing? I left you comatose when trying to rid the world of a great evil, awfully sorry old chap. It sounded bonkers to her own ears, how would it sound if others found out? “I put you here in many ways, but that doesn’t mean I want you to stay here. Even if only for my own sanity, you cannot stay shut in here. You need to heal.” The dark, murky world continued around her, familiar shapes looming up now and then, as if she was walking down a road that she felt she should know somehow. It was early, or felt early. That kind of feeling when you’ve been dancing all night and only just left the all-night club, kebab demolished and digesting and there were no busses running yet due to the unholy hour…The shapes forming were a good sign though, it showed she was maybe getting closer to something, maybe understanding, or closer contact…Her stomach rumbled for a bacon sandwich or a pot of tea, left to stew for too many minutes, a bottle of HP sauce to accompany her fried rashers and buttery bread. This street she could feel around her screamed out to her. It was like she was in the wrong end of London, or some far north town, forgotten by long closed coalmines and strikes, left to wither and die in ashes. “Jono…Just let me in. I’m not going to go away.” She stopped in the street, forming around her more and more real, and looked around. If was going to play games, then maybe she would start too, but for now, it was up to him to accept her help or to deny it, push her out and away from him. As if it would be that easy… |
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| Chamber(Old) | Aug 2 2009, 12:50 AM Post #5 |
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Psionic Biokinesis / Telepathy
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“Jono…I’m not going to just get out. Awfully sorry.” There was a girl nearby, and she sounded like mildew, like bath grot, like the intersection of an eyeball, tracing the optic nerve up into the vitreous humor, if sound could liquefy and compact behind his socket like a fucking migraine. “Don’t know what you’re talking about luv.” He croaked the words, staring up at the glowering trough of a ceiling. It loomed at him massively, buckling and doming, and he wondered if it would collapse on him and crush him entirely. It didn’t. Instead it disintegrated, fading away to reveal skies writhing and bucking, stormy froth pounding across the red-black expanse like pitbulls shredding at each other’s throats. He didn’t think much of the change, didn’t really notice it, it was just the way things were, just another day in this place, which was home, which was pavement and flagstone and train track and a noisy one way system. About seventeen now, he sported the lazy flop of an untrained mohican drenching one side of his head, mess crazing in the wind, the other side shaved and spiky with regrowth. He smoked, pressed unassumingly against a weathered pillar. Around him milled the skinny jeans brigade, the leather doused punks, the trendy-to-be-not-trendy metal kids, with their spiky hair and school ties and New Rocks. They’d collect like this after school, after college, merging together like being different was a fashion trend, despite their exultant casting off of anything that might spell out conformity. Engines screamed, tyres shrieked, brakes squealed like bats getting their wings torn off. Nearby, a train snickered past, incessant, wheels clacking on sleepers with low bass rolls. Buses howled, cars blared, some shared their stereos with the world, others mashed upon their horns and filled the air with the raucous spite of road rage, preaching curses and evangelising their lack of faith in humanity with colourful strings of insults. Birds nattered, people twittered, heels spat and spittled on the pavement. Vendors howled like hungry wolves, saliva glittering in the fierce light with every snarled consonant. It was deafening, roiling into one massive crescendo. Betsy was somewhere nearby now, purple tresses lost amidst a sea of dye, dreads, liberty spikes, blacker-than-thou goth. “Jono…Just let me in. I’m not going to go away.” Jono dragged lazily on the metaphysical cigarette, face skewed into a lopsided scrunch, wagging an index finger at his ear and mouthing that he couldn’t hear her. He shrugged as though it was inconsequential, slouching down against the roughened terracotta brick edges, a sardonic smile lacing his lips like a smear of Tip-Ex… like it wasn’t supposed to be there. Like it was correcting whatever shifted beneath it. The hand that held the smouldering stick still trembled, as though it was too heavy to hold up. Flecks of brown shredded leaf mulch dribbled and vomited into solidity, sticky and slimy black with rot, materialising in front of the intrusive telepath, melting through the landscape like some osmotic tumour. The Horseman part of Chamber’s mind seemed perfectly aware of what was really going on, and proceeded to devour the false concrete and the fake vehicles and the pseudo apparitions of Jono’s once-friends. “You shouldn’t be here,” it grated, and despite the cacophony his voice sluiced thunderous over it, but it was strained, quavering. Famine was crooked now, walked with a limp and shuffled gait that left him looking withered and broken, but his eyes were the same. Jono ignored him, like he wasn’t there, like he couldn’t see him, sucking brainlessly on his cig, oblivious to the collapsing landscape. Maybe it wasn’t collapsing. Maybe it was just a daydream, and maybe he’d go back to that bedroom… Famine slid close and dragged his fingers across Betsy’s face, tracing the curve of her jaw. His hand quivered, greasy fingertips quaking as they pressed against her chin. A battled raged behind his eyes, they glazed over, staring intently at nothing, fixated on that spot his thumb imprinted itself upon. “It’s all about the fucking emotions, these days. Superficial shallow mindless brain rot, all congealing underneath whatever the hell you want to call a brain. Emotions, feeling, remorse, pity, regret, guilt; it’s a lie you little wench. You’re pathetic. You’re all pathetic. All of you. Him. He’s the worst. Disgusting. I’ll rethread your synapses and make a fucking rug out of them unless you kiss the ground and submit to your master.” |
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| Betsy Braddock | Aug 3 2009, 12:07 AM Post #6 |
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Telepathy (I'm not a bloody ninja)
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The plane that was Jono’s mind shifted around her, the change almost unnoticeable at first as the streets changed, people drifting in and out, milling around like wisps of smoke. Her psychic form had changed to adapt to the world she had found and she allowed it to change to fit in and be a part of what was happening, as potentially dangerous as that was, it might be key in helping him or at the very least, make her less threatening, part of the background until she could prise him out of his hole. She was no longer in the early morning street, in a much more urban area, with life all around and plenty of people filling the spaces that had been a desperate emptiness in the previous scene of his life, being played for her like a film. The street looked vaguely familiar to her, as if she might have passed down it before, back in the real world, when things were relatively normal. It was crowded, full of memories, shadows of people long moved on and grown up, frozen for the rest of time within this picture frame, this snapshot of life. It was different, her experiences naturally, were different, but still, she felt as if she had walked this street many times, blending with the punks and the goths, sitting on cold brick walls, eating chips with lashings of salt and vinegar out of polystyrene trays and paper wrapping with her fingers, hood pulled up against a chilly breeze. The telepath could almost taste them and got a small urge for a can of Tizer to go with them. Shaking her head, she paced the group. That was wrong, that wasn’t how she had been as a teenager; most of the time she was at school, or in the nearby town on allowed weekends. No chips on walls with the grunge crowd, passing around cigarettes and loitering, sullen faced and disagreeable. No…Passing through another person’s memories was often disconcerting, threatening to implant like a photograph on your own mind if you looked for too long. She felt like she should be wearing black skinny jeans, her school blouse partially buttoned up over a skinny fit band shirt, faded and worn from gigs and spending the night on floors in various friends rooms. Her tie should be askew, worn, frayed with biro tattoos and badges of her favourite bands and anarchy symbols…No, wrong. Betsy was not one of those teens Americans would describe as preppy, but she was well dressed, usually vintage style clothes and her time was taken up by many activities, leaving little time to slump about on the streets. Putting her head back, she focused, her appearance forming as it should, giving off a powerful sense of the real her as she moved closer towards Jono. Now, she was neatly dressed in a school uniform, various badges down the lapel of her blazer, proclaiming her various sports teams and positions within the school. Betsy had been too busy to waste her time on the streets. As she changed and moved, the memories seemed to shift around her and the friends vanished, guttering out like flames on many candles. Famine was there, making his presence felt by destroying the landscape around them, approaching her like some sort of nightmare, dragging his fingers across her face, getting in close, touching her to show he could and he would get rid of her. Betsy held her ground, head high and defiant. His words crawled around her mind like maggots on old meat, snagging and digging in, trying to weaken her, but she was tired and past all that. She wanted to be rid of this foul nightmare, almost as much a part of her subconscious as much as he was rooted firmly in Jono’s head. This irritated her, that something would dig in so firmly like that, take such control over a mind. Her fellow Club members would find her concern almost weak, yet she could not help it. Famine needed to be rid of, once and for all. Looking the apparition firmly in the eye, she smirked. “I defeated you once before. You were no match for me then. You can try to fight me, to win me, but I assure you, you will fail. Pathetic. Disgusting. You’re nothing, your master was nothing. I do not bow to those who are weak. I bow to no one. I do not bow to you,” her hand flew up and grasped hold of his wrist, pulling it hard, away from her face. She felt like filth where he had touched her and her skin crawled where her fingers curled around the wizened wrist, so much like something dead that should be finally laid to rest and forgotten. “Just try to fight me, just try it…” she threatened, squeezing with her telepathic strength, pink light flaring around her as she pushed against him, but not with her full strength, not just yet. Betsy was not stupid enough to underestimate this creature; looks could be deceiving after all and it would not be wise to fight with her full power just yet…maybe allow him to think she was, that was tolerable, but she would not use all her strength until she had seen what he could still do. “You’re weak…Hiding in this unconscious body. You’re weak.” |
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| Chamber(Old) | Aug 10 2009, 02:09 PM Post #7 |
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Psionic Biokinesis / Telepathy
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She knew only insolence; her words burned and cut and chiselled, and they were greedy things, like termites, burrowing industriously, incessant riddling pests. Famine stirred, withdrawing his hand, knuckles popping as he clenched them together into a tight knot of bones. In the depths of the meandering black that swilled like ash and blood across the undulating foothills, which swelled up and shrieked with the grating chokes of sea-bitter gulls, he pressed himself into the landscape. Jono turned and stared at her. She was a fissure, a crumpled feather, a granule of strained coffee. A chalk smudge, a smear of charcoal, a diluted fleck of paint. She was colourless and faint, translucent, opaque, a strand of steam, evaporating like vapid strings of smog. Memories melded, and they were in two places at once, three, four, there were people with ties and pressed shirts discussing theoretical physics, and there were X-Men in X-suits, and hordes, and hordes, and Apocalypse and his servants and worms and bluebottles… and there were family and friends and punks that smoked too much, punks that liked the feel of their frowns too much, sheet-white goths wearing doll-faces and fishnets. Somewhere in there was Gayle, but everything about her was wrong. Her hair was straw, entangled and ferocious, her smile was a tiger shark’s, cold and wet and sharp, and the smoke she breathed was black. She hid behind oversized sunglasses, her clothes too big, spilling in swathes and draped like a second skin over a frame as thin as reeds. And he didn’t look at her. “Elizabeth Braddock. Elizabeth Betsy Braddock.” Famine… Jono… both or either one, or neither… he smirked the triumphant smirk of a desperate man finally finding a purchase. “Betsy luv. You’re fucked.” Beneath him the ground burst, tar and phlegm and ichor bubbling around his feet, the features of those countless faces all closing in together, melting like hot wax, skin and fat blistering. It rushed upwards, an inverted waterfall devoid of clarity, thick and syrupy, and it pounded into her, slathering chunks and globs and slimy slop all over her mental body, her skin, her hair, her clothes, into her mouth. “Silly little girl.” Jono squirmed, Famine sneered, and then he wasn’t sure of either, so he felt nothing, and watched indifferently. |
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| Betsy Braddock | Aug 14 2009, 10:41 PM Post #8 |
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Telepathy (I'm not a bloody ninja)
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Almost flinching as waves of memories, churned up and tumbled together like floodwater, washed over her, Betsy pushed backwards from where she had been standing, Famine having released his grip on her. The foul presence polluted the ‘air’ around him, locked in that memory where he had no place. She watched, remembering to keep herself anchored firmly in place, remembering that this was not her body, not her mind, she was just a tourist and in time, she would be leaving once she had done what needed to be done. Betsy curled the corner of her mouth up in a wry smile, as Famine spoke her name, almost gloating with what was to happen. She did not expect it to be a mere trifle, something she could easily fight, but she kept her exterior appearance cool and calm all the same. Bastard. “Yes, dear, you know my name. Well done. Only a few million Europeans know it. I suppose it’s the hair, some would call it vulgar maybe, but I prefer the term distinct, you know,” rolling her eyes a little at his next statement, she primly folded her arms over her chest, still wearing her school uniform. “Fucked? I really doubt it. I prefer men you see. Grown men. Not childish little entities who are afraid to take control. After all, you’re not in control here, not really. You may think you are but Jonothon is unconscious, still and silent in the basement of Xavier’s and you’re trapped here…I’m not the one who’s fucked, luv,” Betsy spat as she felt the floor becoming less stable before her. It split and cracked around her feet, something bubbling up from beneath them. It all rushed towards her and with a small gasp, Betsy broke her mental shape, instead retreating into her usual psychic appearance of a butterfly. Spreading pink wings, she rose up above the scene to attempt to escape the mass. It was not real, she told herself. It was psychic chaff, horror riddled memories that oozed through Jono’s mind to keep him down, to drag him further into himself and away from the waking world. Fighting against it, she struggled to breathe as the thoughts choked her, tearing at her consciousness. Concentrating on keeping herself away, Betsy started to split her focus; she had been able to change her shape inside his head, maybe she could change other things…If she had a lip, she would be chewing on it, but butterflies didn’t really have such a physical feature to them. Instead, she descended towards Jono, hovering before him, wings beating almost with a glow. ::Are you really going to just stand by and allow your mind to be infested? Are you really going to allow your life to just…not exist? To just give up and suffocate in your own memories?:: Struggling against the waves of filth that Famine was aiming at her, Betsy furiously continued to beat her wings, trying to drag some of her own light and memories into the chaotic situation around them, to try and level the playing field into something more stable… …Like, the playing field at school. Large and sweeping, catching and soaking up any bit of sun, the only shade given by the huge, old trees that bordered the field, oak, mainly and sycamores. The large, old building stared down from atop a gentle slope, cased in with a low wall and shrubs, stone steps flowing gently down to where they were stood. The telepath had no idea how long she would be able to sustain this image, but she needed to. Fluttering closer towards Jono, she sighed. ::See? If I can create in your head, as could any telepath with power, imagine what he will do, every hour, every day that you allow yourself to be trapped inside here. You need to open the door and wake up…:: struggling still to fight the attack on her, Betsy began to feel tired, her wings beating sluggishly. |
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| Chamber(Old) | Aug 18 2009, 08:03 PM Post #9 |
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Psionic Biokinesis / Telepathy
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Jono was quiet, too quiet, frozen on his fractured section of shattered wall, the world rushing wildly about him as though he spun violently on an out of control roundabout, or as if he circled again and again and again through revolving doors, hearing nothing, universal mute button flicked. Bricks and motor disintegrated into the void, joining the tarlike conglomeration, and here and there bits of his skin would flake away, freckles scattering like stardust. Instead of becoming engulfed, instead of collapsing beneath the filthy liquid explosion and swilling away with it, Psylocke transmogrified, body contorting, condensing into a pulsating flutter of light. Calm settled, sound rushing in like thermals through treetops. Nearby, the grating lurch of laughter echoed through hissing foliage, choppy and distant, the sound of children breaking through in splinters, feet skittering, voices muffled. Betsy’s aerial dance twined in violet, her wing beats resounding like torpedoes through water, slow and dull and grotesque. She screamed something at him about giving in and waking up, and it sounded like lines from one of those self-help tapes, the kind you leave underneath your pillow at night and hope your subconscious will get the fucking idea, because you’re sure as hell you can’t consciously pull your finger out and will yourself happy. And Jono noticed, visibly flinching. He kept his eyes on the gravel beneath his bare feet, focused on the gnarling bite of the jagged stone teeth that drove up into his soles in myriads. Needlepoint grass shards thrust themselves through the grit, forcing the jumbling pebbles away, drenching them in sharp green turrets, floral battlements, verdant fortifications, standing tall and proud against the harsher stony backdrop. He felt the sun on the back of his neck, heard the off-key twang of a nearby ice cream truck, smelled the dank musk of dirt, like forest floors after rainfall, musty compost, the scent of damp and citrus, lawn clippings, lemons and ash and something unsavoury. Famine reacted with irritation to the calming scenery; a violent wind slammed through the field, sudden and angry, trying to tear clothes into tatters, threatening to shred the greenery. Beyond the school field pocket his influence raged, pressing against the outer rim, towering storm clouds mingling with the clear frostbite blue that stretched above them. Jono finally lifted his head, and when he spoke his voice was flat and insipid, like he had already done too much talking and his tongue was exhausted. “You aren’t really the brightest crayon in the box, are you sunshine? What the hell are you doing? Some unsatiated sense of pity gripped you in the dead of night, lying cold and alone with nothing but the hollow drum of the thoughts rattling around in your empty head to keep you company? Rifled through all my dirty undies and got yourself a guilty complex ‘cause you discovered just what a ridiculously pathetic crate of damaged goods I am? This isn’t about me, is it? It’s about you getting closure on something you couldn’t handle properly, something too big that you just had to slam the lid on.” He wavered, emotions confusing across his mental countenance. “And this… this isn’t… about me…” Jono battled a pyroclastic flow of consternation, certitude eroded, becoming shale, moraine, glacial sediment, compacting inside his mind until his psyche had calcified. Suddenly it felt wrong to talk, to address her at all, it felt wrong to move or think or breathe, even if the oxygen was imagined and his lungs were only an afterthought. Clouds harrowed above them, rumpling like wrinkled skin spittled with age, Famine’s grip tightening as the sunlight faded. …I can’t. I can’t… The butterfly’s form ebbed before him and he reached towards it, but it was intangible. His fingers sifted through it, snatching nothing but air, closing upon purple saturation, just photons and wavelength and desultory metaphor. :::I don’t want to fuck anything else up.::: |
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| Betsy Braddock | Aug 27 2009, 07:47 PM Post #10 |
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Telepathy (I'm not a bloody ninja)
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The words that emitted form Betsy had something of a visible effect on the young man before her, but she could not be sure if this meant he was buckling or not. Barely having scratched the surface, the telepath was frustrated with herself, angry that she was not using the full force of her mind and yet felt so very tired and drained. The pity she felt for Jono was beginning to fade away, scattered by irritation for the situation. He had suffered, of course he had, but it was time to start to move on, to pull himself out of the hole he had slumped into in the wake of Apocalypse, but now it was high time that he did something about it, pulled himself up and out of the trap he was in and would inevitably stay in, unless he actually did something about his current situation. It infuriated her even. He was allowing this to keep him down, to keep him weak and that he dared say that about her, when she had returned to offer help, based on the pain-ridden residue he had left in her mind? She was a Queen of Hellfire, he should count himself honoured that she would even remember his name, not least return to aid him. Around them, the grounds of the school still spread out, but she could hear and see things not supposed to be there, his influence still bubbling through, still letting her know he was there and this was his mind; all she was a visitor to his domain, passing through and taking a good old nose at the state of things. Really, she couldn’t blame him for being unwelcoming and totally resentful over her presence, but still, his words riled her. “I might not be the brightest crayon in the box. I’ve never pretended to be. No, I only had a happy upbringing, led a charmed life to date, succeeded in my endeavours…And then I came across you; hidden underneath this forced persona, this tortured version of yourself. I fought you and I broke through the façade, finding you there, hidden in the depths of yourself…” The beat of her wings grew stronger as her emotions fuelled her and the light she emitted grew stronger, weakening the rolling storm clouds above them, lighting the area around them. “I did not give myself a guilt complex, as it seems, you’re a fine one to talk about that. No, luv. You’re more like a scab that I couldn’t help but pick at. You left something in my mind and I don’t appreciate that, some unsettled feeling that made me feel sorry for you.” Her wrath was starting to surprise her, but then the pep talk of before had not helped. Mollycoddling was not the way, and not particularly her, not these days at any rate. But then things seemed to change and Jono was not the same…It was getting hard to keep track of who she was talking to and making her head hurt with the great effort. Really, she hoped she would get out of this without any psychic scarring or end up too tired to do anything for the next day, as that would just be perfect. “And this… this isn’t… about me…” “Who is it about then, eh? Who is it about? Because you’re doing no one any favours trapping yourself inside your body, no one! You’re of no use to your teammates in this state, no use to anyone. It’s a coward’s way out.” Her form strengthened a little more, growing slightly, stronger against the resistance she was facing now, or maybe he was growing weaker; it was getting hard to tell. She dearly wanted to shake him, to slap some sense into him. Why should he allow himself to rot in the basement of the school forever, through his lack of confidence, his lack of self worth. What had the other X-men been doing to help him, other than keep his body alive? It beggared belief… :::I don’t want to fuck anything else up.::: The words dropped into her mind, like pebbles scattering into water and she froze for a moment, allowing the statement to hover over them like something tangible, something she could reach out and rip apart with her hands. ::Then you need to bloody well wake up and grow up, darling.:: |
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| Chamber(Old) | Sep 6 2009, 07:17 PM Post #11 |
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Psionic Biokinesis / Telepathy
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::Then you need to bloody well wake up and grow up, darling.:: …What did she think this was? Some naïve, infantile griping ‘cause he didn’t like the sound of stubbing his toe or getting snapped doing fifty in a thirty zone? Jono’s anger bristled, his eyes cutting like razors through the insectile wingtips, head thrown up and away from the stoop, metaphysical shoulders jerking back until he had drawn himself up, blazing with insulted indignation. In the holding cell, Jono’s face rumpled and sweat flushed across his forehead, and his fingers inched themselves across the slump of blankets that had been draped in a loose crumple over his unresponsive form. “…You’re off your trolley sweetheart. D’you think this is ‘oh, I don’t really wanna risk upsettin’ the next door neighbours ‘cause backing out the driveway I might’ve turned their precious little Fifi into a pancake’? Or I’m worried about hurting someone’s feelings? Or I don’t wanna run a red light n get a ruddy speeding ticket? Are you really that bloody short-sighted?” He scoffed, canting his head, the mohawk shifting in a nonexistent breeze, flagging until it resembled something more like his usual ruffled mop. The air around them grew thick and stuffy as though the ethereal oxygen was thinning into imaginary wisps, the ground beneath them once again shifting, little areas steadily losing solidity and bubbling up with transcendent tar and dreamlike manifestations of nightmares that when stared at melted and twisted into gunk. “Do you have even the slightest idea of what it’s like watching yourself murder thousands and thousands… kids… mothers, fathers… grandparents… Bloody- …Families. Hearing them screaming and fucking begging you, begging you to stop or just fucking do it faster… and enjoying it?” Stuttering momentarily, Jono appeared to waver in the midst of his snarled repertoire. “I wanted to... I wanted to kill them… more than I’ve ever wanted anything. I wanted to hear children choking n see ‘em clawing at their eyes as they shrivelled up like prunes, and I wanted to hear their parents shrieking and shrieking for me to stop until their lungs started bleeding. I shouldn’t be allowed to walk around like a normal person, pretending to be one of the good guys, pretending that at any time they ain’t waiting for me to pop my cork and go apeshit. “I can’t watch myself kill another innocent person, do you get that?? I can’t be a bloody risk or liability, a fucking loose link that they constantly have to hold onto in case I go haywire and decide that they ain’t worth the shit on my shoes, ’cause they’re not and it’s not me, it’s not but it is… and he’s nothing he’s a fucking insect… but no no no… I’m…” His eyes swept south, skies darkening in a surreal shiver of teal and watery maroon, Famine sinking down down down, until he settling on Jono’s skin and spread his lips into a cancerous sneer. Jono stiffened, visage contorting, grasping wildly at clumps of hair in a distressed flail, trying to battle the encroaching personality switch, confusion straggling up through his brain cells like seaweed and eels and silted saltwater. Infirmed Jonothon thrashed, back arching, twitching fingers clawing at invisible monsters, psychic whimpers leaking from his mind. “I’m… tired.” Thought-Jono’s shoulder’s slackened, and he gave Betsy a weary, glassy stare, arms dropping like lead weights to his sides. Around them things moved backwards until the cars whined in reverse along a grotty street in the dead hours of the morning, shadowcreatures shaking and flapping in surreal spits and starts. “What d’you want luv? It’s,” he glanced at his bare wrist, “five in the bloody a.m.” He was back in his bedroom, posters pasting themselves on the walls, curtains mending rips and stringing themselves to the pole, lights dimming, bedclothes drooping off the bed like fabric corpses. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart.” |
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| Betsy Braddock | Sep 8 2009, 04:14 PM Post #12 |
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Telepathy (I'm not a bloody ninja)
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The words Betsy dealt certainly seemed to have annoyed the young man in any case. His anger rose and bubbled, tangible in the psychic atmosphere around them. She had not meant to please him, placate him, merely give a boot up the arse. Of course, she would rather be gentle, coax him out with kindness, but the pit he had fallen into was so deep, he had to want to get out of it and it was going to take a lot of pulling to do that, by any means necessary. “I’m not short sighted but I might soon be deaf from all your excuses and protestations,” she rebuked him sharply, before dropping her voice, low and quiet. “I know what you’ve done…I know the screams you hear, that haunt you, the deaths you caused…You made it quite obvious you remembered it was me who was there, who tore Famine out of you at the Temple. But I couldn’t finish the job, I can’t do it all for you, you need to rid yourself of the last of this, just as I need to rid myself of what you left in my head. Yes, you have done wrong, but you’re not the only one…There were other Horsemen, people converted by them…They have to deal with what they have done, just as you, just as those who were hurt, lost their families, tried to fight back. It’s little consolation, I know, but it’s the way things are. No one came out of this without being hurt and no one can afford to let it destroy them, no one.” She sighed, feeling pity for him, wanting him to find the strength to get over it, knowing that she could only do so much, and that she was likely doing far much more than the X-men would expect of someone like her. But still, despite her position, Betsy had a heat, and she had lost so much in Apocalypse that by helping Jono, she was in a sense healing herself, getting over what had happened. The space around them had shifted again, once more influenced by his apparent self hatred and feeling of worthlessness. There was nothing she could say to him to make him feel better and she was no councillor, she hadn’t had any training for this sort of situation. “You’re not Famine, luv. God knows, I don’t fancy sounding like a self help book but really…You need to help yourself. What, you think you can stay like this forever, flagellating yourself with the memories of what you did, under powerful, ancient influence? You need to wake up,” she repeated patiently, echoing her words of earlier. The space contorted once more, twisting into a bedroom and she shifted with it, finding herself in plain, shortie pyjamas. Taking a seat on the edge of the bed, Betsy gave a heavy sigh, running her hand through her untidy hair, glancing around the bedroom; it was like watching a video cassette rewind, sounds coming from outside were even backwards. It was disconcerting, and worse, felt as if they were back where things had started; the street outside was much like the one she had walked down on entering his thoughts. “I know you’re tired…I know you’ve been through hell and back and are now stuck between there,” meaningfully, she tapped her temple and sifted one of her legs, bent at the knee, under her. “Can you really live like this? Trapped inside your distorted memories, feeling the pain day in day out…If you’re worried about killing someone again, then train, work so you won’t. You have some of the most powerful telepaths in the world at this school, yet you’re not letting them in, you’re allowing me to be here. Why is that then, eh? I just want to help…As stupid, as hollow and pathetic as that sounds, I want to help. I left you in this state once, I don’t intend to do it gain.” Looking down, she rubbed her slender wrist, folding her hands in her lap as she shook her purple head, before glancing back up at him. The telepath was tired, so very tired and heavy feeling, as if she were made of lead. Her physical head hurt and all she wanted was a good nights sleep, without the need to self medicate on whatever was handy. She had promised her King that this would be sorted and she did not want to have to break that promise to him. Shifting on the bed, she scooted over so she was nearer to him and reached out, tentatively putting one of her hands over his. “I can only do so much to help you get out of this though…You have to want to do it. Do you? Forget the excuses, forget the self loathing or else I will leave you here and next time I won’t come back…I’m sorry.” |
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| Chamber(Old) | Sep 12 2009, 10:29 PM Post #13 |
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Psionic Biokinesis / Telepathy
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”You need to wake up” Outside, in the real world, in that lonely insipid room where the temperature suspended itself on perfect, neither hot nor cold, and somehow didn’t quite match comfortable, where the air tasted stale and plastic and buzzed inaudibly with the toneless whine of the holding cell forcefield, Jono grimaced. His spine lifted from the stiff underside, head turning to smash against the thin pillow, sweat flaring in an iridescent sheet, riddling his forehead with dewy perspiration. In the dreamscape, his jaw slack, eyes leaden with exhaustion, Jono barely heard her but had to listen, and she was so close but too far, and he was mired in contradictions. Her fingers felt silken on his rough, calloused digits, radiating heat into chilled extremities. He tugged them out from under hers, pressing them to his jaw, dashing them over his mouth as though words he didn’t want to say hung there. He didn’t want to look at her… didn’t want to acknowledge her, this violet spire of reality. Maybe he remembered things like cinder toffee on icy autumn evenings, sharing blankets next to bonfires to blot out the biting frost, baked potatoes wrapped in tinfoil, shovelled hastily underneath red hot coals, gingersnaps, toffee apples, marshmallows and the smoky spice of gunpowder cleaving the air like invisible ghosts, and the swell of breath made misty. Orchards that smelled too sweet, rotten, overgrown, with fences that rusted and peeled and lined the perimeter. Maybe… Jono wasn’t sure whose memories he’d fallen into. She got a look. A proper look, not a half dead corpse glare, not the fiery roll of a half mad horseman; a level gaze, if not heavy and worn. “I can’t even tell which one’s which anymore, y’know. Doesn’t feel like either is the real me. That little wanker over there, he needs a good slap. And that tosspot. Dunno where he came from. Part of me thinks, well, I guess he had to be in there somewhere, I didn’t just pull him out of my arse, and that… that’s what really scares the shit out of me. He ain’t me, but he is. And fuck… Dunno about you luv, but this ain’t exactly me either. I can’t focus on one or the other. Bollocks. To the lot of them. Me included. To the lot of us.” He laughed a tense laugh, inspecting those pockmarked hands, unsure if they were his. “I don’t think I have the mental credentials to function…” The coherent slump waned and Jono withdrew, the old familiar warmth that touched his eyes, that gave them that soft milk chocolate glow, fading and dulling, until once again they looked like rotten logs or dried moss or fallen leaves or sewage. |
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| Betsy Braddock | Sep 13 2009, 11:31 PM Post #14 |
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Telepathy (I'm not a bloody ninja)
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The telepath was tired. Her form slouched on the bed, bare legs folded neatly under her and bare arms chilly in the psychically generated air of the room, rolling over her skin like fog. Betsy dragged herself up a little on the bed, flipping the duvet constructed of memories over her legs, remembering for herself what warmth was. Back in her body, her breathing was shallow but steady and overall, she was relaxed; anyone who entered her chambers would merely think she was sleeping. Drawing her hand back, she watched him, pity tugging at her. It was hard, and she had been harsh with him, but it seemed to have paid off, and the man was becoming worn down, ready to arrive at the end of whatever journey he was making, and rejoin the real world once more. “So…give that one a slap, and shove that one up your arse…I think you’re probably experiencing some sort of split personality disorder, or you’ve been in here so long, traits of yourself have formed into individual entities, so you can more easily beat yourself up…” she sighed, looking around the teen boy room. It was in many ways, a glimpse of another life, something she would never have gone near when she was fifteen. It was like an alien world to her, from her life of comfort and grandeur. Turning her head towards him once more, her purple hair, a whimsical bet yes, or maybe a subconscious form of rebellion against her smothering upbringing, trailed over her shoulders, tickling her bare expanse of back. “But, most people have several sides to them, it’s normal and sadly, not an excuse to drive yourself absolutely bonkers keeping yourself locked in here with them.” She sniffed primly and leant down to pick up a magazine from the floor, concentration changing it from a music glossy, to a fashion mag, of course with herself on the cover. Holding it up to her face, Betsy peeked over the top at him, so he was presented with two images of her. “Lots of people hide in lots of different ways, but this really isn’t a wonderful one. While you were controlled, a lot of damage was done. Was it your fault? No, not really. If you can’t owe it to anyone else, owe it to yourself to get up. It’s like riding a horse; you fall, you get back up. If you’re scared of what you can do, you need to learn how to do it better and I don’t think you can do that in a coma, eh?” Letting the magazine drop on the bed, Betsy hugged her knees to her chest and looked critically at him. “You certainly have the mental credentials to create the space which we’re currently residing in. You’ve demonstrated plenty of ability while I’ve been here…Now, for your sake as much as mine – because ever since I fought Famine, it’s felt like I’ve had splinters in my mind of what he did – you need to wake up dear. And, seeing as I’m not wearing any boots to give you a bloody good kick up your arse, we’ll have to settle for a little role reversal, now won’t we?” Releasing her knees, the model leant forward on her hands and kissed him firmly on the lips that his physical body had lost long ago, in a cruel twist of natures humour. If this didn’t shock him to his senses, then she’d have to consider taking her clothes off… |
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| Chamber(Old) | Sep 23 2009, 07:58 PM Post #15 |
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Psionic Biokinesis / Telepathy
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She waffled on about split personalities. Jono fingered a pouch of baccy he’d spied riding down the side of the mattress, debating whether or not to rifle around for some rizlas and fiddle about with a rollie, still trying to distract himself from having to face up to reality. It’d be so easy to boot her out of the door and crawl back under those mussed up duvets and stagnate in this envelope of nothing until it all crushed into still life. He glanced with stinted interest at the fashion magazine, giving her half mooned face above it a cursory, comparative check, and vaguely noted that she’d ruined one of his issues of Rolling Stone. Bastard. Then after she’d finished with another lecture, she cast the glossed booklet aside, threw herself forward, and without warning went and smashed her lips on his. His eyes bulged to unnatural sizes. A supermodel was kissing him. One of the most beautiful women in Britain was snogging him… in his room in London, amidst piles of punker detritus… beer cans and anarchy posters, ashtrays and half finished whiskey and he… had a mouth? What the bloody fuck!? Getting caught up in a whole bunch of surreal contradictions, which were namely him actually having a mouth and it being eaten by a supermodel, Jono sat there stupidly. And then, convinced he’d completely lost the plot, he kissed back, and everything felt like it was turning to ash. She smelled of cinnamon and tasted like toothpaste and cherry cola, and maybe it was just him, but the way her hair tangled in his hands just felt all too familiar, and the heat that radiated from her mouth made his ice cold lips burn, and- He woke up. Jono surged upright from where he lay stricken, the sweat that had peppered his skin running down in droves at the movement, a hand lurching towards his chest. Instead of a racing heartbeat he felt the old familiar rumble, volatile energies straining against the wrappings, eating away at stray threads. His muscles ached, cramping, and relief washed through him, a crazy, wild, giddy elation, that coherent wave of sanity you might experience after waking from a nightmare, and he slumped backwards, fingers that still shook sliding across his forehead. In those few seconds he wasn’t anything but himself, and there was nothing beyond the grit in his eyes and the fuzzy grog that clogged up his thoughts as his faculties started to pick themselves up. His fingertips froze at his temple, eyelids cracking open. Holding cells. Too-harsh lighting. The way realisation hit him was spiteful. Images flooded his mind, carcasses, twisted flesh, writhing bodies, the skyline on fire, Apocalypse and Famine and the world awash with noise, and suddenly it was, too loud, his telepathic shields tattered. Jono shrunk back on the cot, reeling, stunned, believing everything and nothing at the same time, split down the middle. His skull felt too small for his brain. Oh, lord… he wasn’t dreaming… And bollocks, Miss Prim and Proper had kissed him. And he’d bloody well woken up. She’d ruthlessly shoved her tongue down the throat of a man who under normal circumstances was physically unable to, and would probably never again be able to do so. That was on a par with telling a paraplegic they’d found a cure for his paralysis and then turning around and saying woops, sorry, my mistake. Try again next year. Irate and uncomfortable, Jono tried to decide which thoughts were his own, tried to sift through the mire and came back with a few soggy rags, which were all that was left of his barriers. It was like trying to dam a stream with spider webs. He was awake. He was fucking awake, but he was damn well sure he didn’t want to be. |
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8:14 AM Jul 11