THE POST-APOCALYPTIC MEME

[socketeer]

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)

Comments

[notrosecolored]

It wasn't a question, but it might have been reassurance. That she can confirm it is good enough for him, anyway.

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?"

[theycalledmeacurse]

Rogue leaned into his touch ever so slightly, the physical pressure in the real world helping to anchor her so she could pull back from the tumult of her mind. His power finally faded enough to open her eyes, a reddish filter of over her vision for a handful of seconds before the power was gone entirely.

"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.

[notrosecolored]

He watches while she steadies, her eyes open and the red in her eyes fade. He watches in silence, giving her the time. He stays silent beyond that to give himself the time.

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."

[theycalledmeacurse]

Rogue couldn't help herself. She laughed at that, the sound bitter and coarse to her own ears, but the humor real despite the thick darkness wrapped around it.

"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.

[notrosecolored]

"What's one more layer of irony in our lives?" His tone was as dry as hers was dark, but so is the fact that there is real humor in it.

"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.