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bakerstreet2015-11-10 09:20 am
socketeer) wrote in bakerstreet2015-11-10 09:20 am
THE POST-APOCALYPTIC MEME
 THE POST-APOCALYPTIC MEME HOW TO PLAY - comment in the subject line with your character's name and canon. - state any preferences you might have. - choose a scenario or use the number generator. - have fun! SCENARIOS 1. Alien Invasion ▸ Aliens have taken over the earth. 2. Climate Change ▸ The climate of our planet has shifted suddenly. 3. Cybernetic Revolt ▸ Technology has turned against us. 4. Impact Event ▸ A meteor struck the Earth. 5. Nuclear Warfare ▸ They dropped the big one. Enjoy that fallout. 6. Pandemic ▸ A disease is threatening to wipe out human life on earth. 7. Resource Depletion ▸ There are no longer enough resources to support life. 8. Zombie Apocalypse ▸ A classic, zombies have invaded and destroyed everything. 9. Other ▸ Combine several scenarios or come up with your own! (x) |
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He held his hand palm up for her, gave her access to exposed skin, but otherwise let her control it. That his impulse was to reach up and make contact himself so he was in control of a process he was worried about and unsure of didn't factor in - not in this.
He'd had a lot of people in his head over his life - for all his life, really. From Sinister to Jack to Charles and Jean. He knew damned well that his ability to really psychically shield under any circumstance was basically non-existent and he didn't try now. She had seen enough of him through other people that there was little there that he could hide, anyway.
For her sake he kept not thinking about Jean, and pushed his steadfast determination and faith in her to the forefront, but that was really it. There wasn't much else he could do to help her, here.
Besides not try to flinch away from her and the discomfort that came with that touch. 'Discomfort' - because what it was was fairly indescribable, anyway.
He kept his eyes on her face to monitor how she was doing with it, though.
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Over the many years she'd had her powers, Rogue had easily absorbed hundreds of people in the course of borrowing powers, gathering information, and taking down enemies. She was used to the feeling of siphoning someone else into her mind, of feeling the spark of their life ease into her. But Scott still took her by surprise. The sheer strength of his emotions, the clarity of his thoughts, the force of his energy, all of it rushed into her like an ocean wave crashing onto rocks.
Three seconds. That was all, just three short seconds of contact before she was pulling away with a gasp, falling backwards from her kneeling position and edging away from Scott until she hit furniture, as if the physical distance would put distance between their minds as well. Her eyes burned as his power flooded into her and she squeezed them shut before any damage could be done.
He was so damn strong.
"Lord, Scott, you pack a hell of a punch." Had it been that way with Jean and Charles, with the other telepaths he'd dealt with? Had it been different for them because they were outside his mind looking in, whereas she'd assimilated part of him into herself?
She wanted to say more, to explain what had happened and that she was alright, but then the memories were sorting themselves out, the emotions floating to the surface, and she couldn't speak as her throat tightened and she began to cry. It was overwhelming, the firm believe he held in her, his anger and grief from the war they were fighting. Everything bubbled up around her and for a moment, she feared she might drown in it.
Rogue pulled her knees up to her chest and curled inward, hiding behind a curtain of dark hair shot with white as she struggled to pull herself together.
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Scott couldn't have answered the question of why telepaths liked him - but they always had, even if they sometimes had a really, really funny way of showing it. Maybe it was the relative clarity in his head. That was as good as his guess could be, because he didn't find much about himself remarkable.
Not that he thought about himself at all very often.
He gave himself and Rogue both a second to catch their breath and for him to make sure he was steady before he moved slowly after her. He did not make contact not right away, but stayed close enough that he could have if he'd reached out. "You're okay."
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The waves were already beginning to calm, leaving her trembling while the tears subsided. She felt like she'd been wrung out, stretched and twisted and left to reshape herself. But despite that, she hadn't lost control - never had Scott's psyche overridden her own, and that was what was truly important. She could take in more of him and not lose herself in the process.
"How do you do it?" she asked him quietly, turning her face in his direction even if she couldn't risk looking at him just yet. "How do you keep all of that inside you?"
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He left her in quiet, waited for her to be or at least seem steadier and then put a hand on her back - over fabric and rubbed her back slightly. It wasn't the most natural gesture in the world, maybe, it was sincere.
Then he stopped in honest confusion.
"I don't have any idea what you're talking about." He wasn't lying. "Keep what in? Emotion?"
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"You're in so much pain, sugar," she told him softly, her tone akin to that used when trying to soothe a distressed animal. Gentle, quiet, smooth. "And so incredibly angry. You shouldn't have to deal with all of that on your own."
She wanted to take his hand in hers, this time to offer support and comfort, but she didn't have her gloves. They seemed so very far away in that moment, instead of just a few feet off.
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Except his response, when it finally comes, completely side-steps everything she's just said. It's a beautiful, nice moment or could be but there is no response he is capable of giving to it. He can't deny it, and verifying it won't achieve anything. There isn't anything either of them can do about it, anyway.
Especially not right now.
He's... strangely grateful, though, almost relieved to have that recognized by someone. Uncomfortable, but grateful and something near relief all the same.
"The good news is, you should be able to exercise control over my mutation that I can't." He takes his hand slowly away and gets up to grab her gloves for her. "It might not be perfect, but don't have the luxury of worrying about precision. All you need is a crude on-off switch."
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"Oh, that's rich," she told him, her voice a little more gravelly than usual, perhaps a bit of someone else leaking out from the depths of her mind. An old enemy, or maybe a jaded friend. It was hard to tell. "Being able to control your power but never even coming close to controlling my own. I'd give my right hand for an off switch for this curse." The phrasing there was definitely not her own.
But the sentiment behind the words was real. Yes, she'd come to accept her abilities, to appreciate them for what they could do in the field, and hell, she'd even relished being useful to the team that wouldn't be possible without her unique set of talents. The resentment would always be there, though, that hatred of the way her mutation kept her apart from the rest of the world, even her own kind. So many mutants over the years had been afraid of her, of what she could do... That wasn't the sort of emotionally damaging baggage you could shake.
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"They're afraid of us; we're afraid of ourselves. They hate us; we hate ourselves. They want you dead for not being 'normal', and you'd do anything to be normal." He snorted, inelegantly. "I wonder sometimes if they'd just left us the hell alone if we wouldn't have taken care of their problem for them."
And no, it wasn't the baggage she could shake. He got it. He knew it. His baggage was different, but there were still issues of seeing himself as dangerous and a lack of control and being a weapon for as long as he could remember.
It wasn't surprising, though, that at least three of the survivors were exactly that. People who saw themselves as weapons and had been used as exactly that. Some for good, some for ill, but. Weapons.