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bakerstreet2013-07-21 12:58 pm
( au meme )
 | |
1. never let me go |
( yanked from |
sockies (sockies) wrote in bakerstreet2013-07-21 12:58 pm
sockies) wrote in bakerstreet2013-07-21 12:58 pm[ the world does not look kindly upon mutants, a lesson mako mori had been forced to learn at an early age, before she had been able to discern the venom in the word muties strangers had spat out in reference to her family. if her dreams, she can recall their screams with perfect clarity, how her hands and legs had trembled as she fled from the sight of pooling blood as tears impaired her vision. she remembers pentecost's smile when he had discovered her in the alleys of japan, eyes red and face caked in grime, his acceptance of her the only warmth in memories that are otherwise dark and grim.
she understands the interest he has in housing others like her, admires the invitations he extends to others like them. they might not be welcome to walk among normal individuals, but most of that can be forgotten in a sanctuary for others like them, people bound together by the beauty of their mutations. they are not a resistance, pentercost tells them, but mako finds herself wondering if, some day, they will have to fight against those that would seek to destroy them.
even so, she does not fully comprehend pentercost's insistence to recruit ( rescue, he corrects her, not recruit ) raleigh becket. he does, however, and mako does not protest. instead, she watches him while skirting around pursuing conversation with him, preferring to observe from a distance. he is tenacious with a certain charming aura — that much she is certain of, even as she attempts to keep her distance. it's easier this way, to separate herself from others despite their respective mutations. one touch and their memories will open like a book to her, fill her head and flood her with foreign emotions; most do not take kindly to an intrusion, accidental or otherwise. she avoids any intimacy or closeness, keeps her hands gloved even on a summer day such as this.
raleigh becket does not make it easy on her, she's discovered. he seems to be wherever she is, looks like he's about to begin a conversation before she inevitably flees, timid and skittish, despite her interest in him. she's walking through the corridors of the institution ( academy, pentercost corrects her again ) when she hears footsteps, senses his hand reaching for her elbow and whips around, jerking backward before he can make contact.
she hits the wall in her efforts but hardly seems winded, staring at him with a wide-eyed expression that would resemble a startled newborn fawn. ]
Do not touch me.
[ though her voice is unwavering, it maintains a certain softness to its edges. ]
she understands the interest he has in housing others like her, admires the invitations he extends to others like them. they might not be welcome to walk among normal individuals, but most of that can be forgotten in a sanctuary for others like them, people bound together by the beauty of their mutations. they are not a resistance, pentercost tells them, but mako finds herself wondering if, some day, they will have to fight against those that would seek to destroy them.
even so, she does not fully comprehend pentercost's insistence to recruit ( rescue, he corrects her, not recruit ) raleigh becket. he does, however, and mako does not protest. instead, she watches him while skirting around pursuing conversation with him, preferring to observe from a distance. he is tenacious with a certain charming aura — that much she is certain of, even as she attempts to keep her distance. it's easier this way, to separate herself from others despite their respective mutations. one touch and their memories will open like a book to her, fill her head and flood her with foreign emotions; most do not take kindly to an intrusion, accidental or otherwise. she avoids any intimacy or closeness, keeps her hands gloved even on a summer day such as this.
raleigh becket does not make it easy on her, she's discovered. he seems to be wherever she is, looks like he's about to begin a conversation before she inevitably flees, timid and skittish, despite her interest in him. she's walking through the corridors of the institution ( academy, pentercost corrects her again ) when she hears footsteps, senses his hand reaching for her elbow and whips around, jerking backward before he can make contact.
she hits the wall in her efforts but hardly seems winded, staring at him with a wide-eyed expression that would resemble a startled newborn fawn. ]
Do not touch me.
[ though her voice is unwavering, it maintains a certain softness to its edges. ]
[He's crouched over a fallen corpse; one of the living dead, of which he's been forced to rip the head clean from its shoulders. Luckily it isn't anyone he recognizes, but there are other shambling, rotting corpses on their way. It's like, as if real life weren't bad enough, now they're living Dawn of the Dead or something. Who knows how it started or where, but it seems like they're converging on Beacon Hills.]
Allison... GO. Go find help!
Allison... GO. Go find help!
[ he can pretend he's one of them like this, he thinks, even if just for a little while.
it's a truth instilled into them when they're still small; they're something less than human, entitled to nothing ( not even their own organs ), and have no future.
there were a few with him at the institute who had planned escape, had made out in the middle of the night, and had come back on their own accord with a newly ingrained weariness and the light drawn from their eyes. there's only so far you can get, he supposes, with no last name and no family to call your own.
marius had never planned escape or plotted insurrection, but he had dreamt of it. how it would be to have a real family, to be free to go where he wished when he wished, to not have to face the truth of completion as his only future.
this is as close as he's going to get, he knows, walking around the city streets, trying to take in everything at once. he peers into shop windows, and waves to passersby with a glazed sort of smile-- he's only got a few hours left in the cursory visit to the outside world. he'll be back in the institute walls in only a matter of hours, and the thought causes a bitterness to build in the back of his throat.
he doesn't feel sorry for himself, not exactly. but this is the closest to the sentiment he's gotten for a while.
one day, his organs will harvested and be planted into one of these happy smiling people so they can live for another year.
ducking his head, and taking a deep breath, he tries to curb the spin of his emotions. he doesn't want to waste the time he has in melancholy.
he hardly notices there's someone is his path, and startles when they make bodily contact. marius doesn't fall on the impact, but he does reel backwards a ways, more in shock than in reaction to the actual collision. ]
I'm sorry! [ the apology is instinctive, blurted out as soon as he rights himself. when the two of them make eye contact, he freezes, stuck on an inhale. he hasn't... had contact with anyone outside the institute. on his timed visits outside the compound he had been content with watching people as they went about their business; it had never occurred to him to try to engage anyone in conversation. he's only a vessel, after all. ] You're not hurt, are you?
[ he bites down on his lip, worrying. in his imagination the word donor is printed stark on his forehead, for everyone to see. he wonders if the other boy can tell, from just looking at him, that he doesn't belong.
he just wants to be normal, for once. ]
it's a truth instilled into them when they're still small; they're something less than human, entitled to nothing ( not even their own organs ), and have no future.
there were a few with him at the institute who had planned escape, had made out in the middle of the night, and had come back on their own accord with a newly ingrained weariness and the light drawn from their eyes. there's only so far you can get, he supposes, with no last name and no family to call your own.
marius had never planned escape or plotted insurrection, but he had dreamt of it. how it would be to have a real family, to be free to go where he wished when he wished, to not have to face the truth of completion as his only future.
this is as close as he's going to get, he knows, walking around the city streets, trying to take in everything at once. he peers into shop windows, and waves to passersby with a glazed sort of smile-- he's only got a few hours left in the cursory visit to the outside world. he'll be back in the institute walls in only a matter of hours, and the thought causes a bitterness to build in the back of his throat.
he doesn't feel sorry for himself, not exactly. but this is the closest to the sentiment he's gotten for a while.
one day, his organs will harvested and be planted into one of these happy smiling people so they can live for another year.
ducking his head, and taking a deep breath, he tries to curb the spin of his emotions. he doesn't want to waste the time he has in melancholy.
he hardly notices there's someone is his path, and startles when they make bodily contact. marius doesn't fall on the impact, but he does reel backwards a ways, more in shock than in reaction to the actual collision. ]
I'm sorry! [ the apology is instinctive, blurted out as soon as he rights himself. when the two of them make eye contact, he freezes, stuck on an inhale. he hasn't... had contact with anyone outside the institute. on his timed visits outside the compound he had been content with watching people as they went about their business; it had never occurred to him to try to engage anyone in conversation. he's only a vessel, after all. ] You're not hurt, are you?
[ he bites down on his lip, worrying. in his imagination the word donor is printed stark on his forehead, for everyone to see. he wonders if the other boy can tell, from just looking at him, that he doesn't belong.
he just wants to be normal, for once. ]
People were people. And Rory was a nurse. His job was to save people, and it took a lot to get him angry - but this was human sacrifice. Still, he'd picked up the nicknames 'The Completer' and even 'The Angel of Death' amongst the donors because those he called for donation were never seen again - but he was always kind to the donors themselves.
And he walked in wearing black scrubs. The sign they wouldn't see someone else. "Clara Oswald. Come with me please."
And he walked in wearing black scrubs. The sign they wouldn't see someone else. "Clara Oswald. Come with me please."
[Hard time imagining 1 for someone as weird as her, but all the others seem workable.]
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