aeneia: (Default)
a e n e i a . ([personal profile] aeneia) wrote in [community profile] nonsuch2017-05-18 12:17 pm

& open gen post iv.

↠ lyrics, images, prompts, take your pick

circumspector: (( turn ) » wishing to leave)

[personal profile] circumspector 2017-05-18 11:14 am (UTC)(link)

[ The room was white.

Not white like paint-white, or even fresh canvas white. White like pure water, snapped frozen. Like the pure chemical compound of emptiness made to cover every surface. The chair, the cushions, the rug, the soft padded floor, the bare cement walls, the netting around the bed with laced sheets and crocheted pillows.

The kind of white that made light look grey, and the girl's hair that was spread out over those pillows, pitch-dark. Black like void-space. Like emptiness that full-brightness. Dressed in the same coloured material, she was not the occupant of it, but merely a feature. Sprawled out over the sheets and fast asleep. Of course she is, she has always slept soundly when dreams don't happen. Her dreams aren't white, they're purple soaked. But it was only weariness of within, and not without. So, of course, she does not rise to the sound of unclean footsteps in her chambers.

For the war in the streets below her high, high tower, do not touch her. Oh, she knows of them, she sees them, when she is coaxed by her father to do so. Through her, he sees all, knows all, and all might be punished by her sight. She knows that it makes her a target for how powerful that makes him. But she has never been touched by those who she only deems as - below. Physically, mentally, away from her.

For Princesses were not to be touched, and an oracle of a daughter, could not be allowed to have her vision corrupted. That is what she had been told by her father, the Emperor, when he first began to keep her. Accepting of it, too young to know better, then, and not quite so understanding of anything else even with everything she saw. Because what she saw she could not imagine being part of to want to know otherwise. She did not exist among, and Jack was always quick to foster that feeling.

So he puts her far away, he puts her high and never tells her of particular dangers. Only of the vast great one that no one would need her like he needed her, that no one would know what she needed like he did. He gave her this vast emptiness and he called it her happiness.

Thus, she stayed, unknowing to any other plans to say different, and when someone comes into her rooms - she sleeps soundly, untroubled, deeply set in her dreams. Comfortably asleep, in a luxury that could be shared with the masses below, Jack insisted, if they would just stop fighting him and accept what they were bringing. He only had everyone's best interest at heart, after all.
Edited 2017-05-18 11:14 (UTC)
rioter: (pic#11170261)

[personal profile] rioter 2017-05-19 09:36 am (UTC)(link)
[ Legends are only stories told by weak men, and weak men will always make up stories of great feats about themselves. Of slaying dragons, of conquering nations, of overthrowing powers beyond comprehension. Of painting the world with the blood of enemies and of extinguishing fear itself from their own hearts. Legends are born of a need to make oneself greater, they are a shield against future enemies. Strike wary and make others think twice and again before taking down a legend. The mind is stronger. Cleverness has the tendency to overcome ruthlessness. But both combined are dangerous. The thing is, Parker never believed in legends. She did believe in the cruelty of Man. She had seen it, over and over, long before the invading alliance came crashing through Earth. The thing is, cruelty from Jack is a higher plane that not many are able to achieve it. The atrocious actions lashed out on any opposing force quickly made rebellions thin out and submit. Quicker where the rich and powerful to strike deals and become right hands to him. Many wish they could be surprised, but most were not. The weakened rebellions struggled to push back, but giving up was never an option. Freedom or death for many of them. Some play a game longer than others - but it has just barely begun.

The outside is not as loud as you would have guessed. War is an odd thing. War is never-ending, but it sleeps on odd occasions. The last onslaught on the riots of the streets by Hyperion, the allied forces of Earth and Jack, has made it quieter in recent nights. But silence can be under the loudness of protesters. While activists push through the safe zones, holding their signs and screaming their throats raw, on the other side stand the handful of instigators. They carry the voices into action in silence.

Reading between the lines, it did not take long to see through Jack. A boastful creature, displaying his achievements like prizes, there is one thing he seems particularly careful in hiding. Whatever there is on the towering building in the heart of the city, he keeps it hidden. And Parker has to believe whatever it is, it's something precious.

The distractions begin early in the morning. The riots push too close to the city centre and it draws out more security. The clash of voices and strength is always distinct. The vibrations of opposition, the loudness of injustice. It rattles through the streets, their footsteps and instigated cries for freedom. They are more important than many give them credit, these people of many different background - the students, the fathers, the mothers, the young, the old. They shout for what they believe. And as they do and draw out the violence of Hyperion, a handful of rioters infiltrate the tower. It is not easy to do so, but with patience and careful planning, they slowly make their way, floor after floor. Climbing up the tower, it takes a lot longer than you would think. Finding the entrance to that room is even harder.

Eventually, it is Parker who volunteers to take the risk to slip in the room. They have to go around again and finally, she manages to find the way inside through the window. Had to go around, too high up to be spotted by anyone, and who would think anyone insane enough to crawl along the slick, slippery surface of the tower? The rain that falls makes it harder to hold on to the building, but it does not stop her.

The room hurts her eyes, too pristine, too clinical. It makes her feel uncomfortable. She is a stain of dirt against the chemical white of it. Maybe it is the cleanness of it, maybe it is not. Wet fingertips let drops trickle down against the floor and where she stands is soon stained, impossible to hide her presence in her dark clothes. Down the helmet she uses, the water trickles down slowly and loudly in the artificial silence of the room.

Her feet move forward then and as she does, the evidence is left there - the blood trickling down from the wound on her leg, hard scarlet against too much white. Her footsteps are lighter than they look, barely no sound at all, silent save for the soft sound click of a gun as she reaches back into her holster and pulls it out as she walks to the bed where the secret lies.

The barrel of the gun is cold, metallic, dark. It is rough and worn out. There are a million scratches on it, of long use. It is not a gun that has been recently acquired - it is a gun that tells a past, a true story and not a legend. It settles slow and oddly gentle, a juxtaposition against the action, under the chin of the girl. A little tighter then, to bring her out of the slumber. From her hands, water still trickles, down the drenched dirty clothes against soft pale skin, staining it grey and red and black and all that is tainted, from the wounds in the palm of her hands inflicted during the climb of hard stone and glass. She does not speak, however, just waiting for her to wake. Parker does not have much time. But she is not afraid.
circumspector: (( considering ) » i'm trying to move)

[personal profile] circumspector 2017-05-19 10:31 am (UTC)(link)
[ In Angel's dream, it is raining.

A steady rain, a drip, drip, drip, thud, drip. It only seems to grow louder, grow colder, she shivers where she feels the trickle of it cold and slick and wet down her chin and her nose wrinkles, trying to turn her head away from it, but it does not leave her and she shivers once more, trying to loosen herself away from it. Still, nothing.

When it does not part from her, it draws her up, awake, a slow blink of half haze. An extension into herself, that crossover point of unawareness to true consciousness is slow, ill-done, clutching at the blanket and sucking a deep breath like her skin was an unwelcome feeling, and in many ways it is. Looking for what - what that feeling could be. Her head lifting, and when she meets the barrel of a gun and eyes she has never seen before, she draws in a breath. Mouth parted and her blue, blue eyes light from underneath, deep down depths. Pale but coloured in soft tones against all that colour that makes her flushed in comparison.

She tries to work out if she should feel something when she meets the face of death. She realises, she still can't manage much of anything.

Have you come to free me?
rioter: (pic#11181783)

[personal profile] rioter 2017-05-19 11:07 am (UTC)(link)
[ The subtlety of the message under her words is lost in Parker. For her, what she hears is a girl that does not know what is happening and she frowns instead - hidden under the black helmet which mirrors Angel's face back at her, distorted by the opaque visor and rain drops. There is no sympathy of her ignorance, but she does not judge either. Maybe before she would, be irritated with her lack of reality. Days past, there would be no hesitation to bear voice for her convictions. Now, after all the loss she has suffered and endured, Parker is more careful, but not kinder. Trying to uphold herself to a better standard has always been a struggle, to keep away from a less moral path to achieve, what she believes, a greater good. Doing the right thing does not offer an easy solution. There are no heroes in war. ]

No. [ The voice that comes from it is covered with static, a microphone of low quality but purposefully so. Older, shittier tech impossible to be tracked down or taped. ] Get up.

[ Her bruised, hurt hands are steady, as if unaffected by the pain. She moves carefully, dragging the gun from her chin to her neck, down to the chest. Letting it unspoken, the threat of the gun. Her free hand reaches down to Angel's arm. She is not rough but neither is she gentle as her cold fingers wrap around and under her arm, dragging her up to pull her out of the comfort of her bed. ]

Let's go.