#but i might try replaying some instances from the reflecting pool

[heroes-hq-blog1]

BOOKIE IS OFFICIALLY READY TO JOIN THE ACADEMY!

› SONG HOSEOK › 25 YEARS OLD › PARACHRONAL COGNITION › 8 YEARS IN THE ACADEMY

POWER

Parachronal Cognition: the ability to perceive how time plays out in parallel timelines. Wielders of this ability can view parallel timelines that have differing past/present instances, or look into countless possible future paths. Proficient users may contact their parallel selves or other individuals while viewing the parallel timelines.

STRENGTHS

Future Visions: Bookie may predict possible outcomes of events and choices of others. Soulbound: Bookie is proficient enough to communicate with other versions of himself without any extra burden on his part. Etched in Stone: Bookie has full access to his own and any other timelines’s and parallel-selves’s past events and memories.  Number’s Game: Bookie gains complete probability computation of any future possibility through various means, such as seeing percentages, variables, and choices as if they were tangible.

WEAKNESSES

Cosmic Feedback: Bookie receives pain with varying intensity that is equivalent to the amount of parallel futures that he chooses to access and perceive at one given moment.

Own’s Destiny: Bookie cannot influence other people’s choices by simply sharing those people’s parallel futures in hopes of pushing them towards that parallel path as this shuffles and changes the possible parallel futures, therefore deeming the act of sharing to adjust another’s timeline path counterproductive.

One on One: Bookie is strictly limited to conversing with one individual or parallel self at any given time while he is in the act of viewing parallel timelines.

Mirror Reflection: Bookie may only contact or communicate with individuals of other timelines if there is a personal connection to Bookie’s personal memories.

Raw Data: Bookie computes probabilities in real-time and oftentimes me slightly overwhelmed when he considers all possible options or outcomes at hand.

Sleight of Hand: Bookie is unable to inflict any changes to probability through his powers and may only affect probability through normal human means, like cheating or rigging systems.

Scatterbrained: Bookie is prone to consciousness overload due to the amount of parallel selves viewing his timeline or attempting to contact him. (Think more than one person calling a landline, and “please leave a message!”)

Disillusioned: Bookie starts to suffer from Parallel Viewing, a phenomena where he views the present of other timelines melding with his own (though the timelines are still separate entities), as he becomes more fatigued or stressed, where the intensity and severity of this vision is proportional to his total tiredness.

ORIGINS

Hoseok, the eldest son of four in the Song family, enjoyed a semblance of life in relative normalcy. With a mother and father possessing precognitive abilities, it was of little surprise that he inherited the family’s Sight. Unlike his parents however, Hoseok perceived events and gained knowledge neither through slumbering dreams nor sensory touch, but instead through sheer concentration. Visions of different breakfasts next morning turned into visions of answers to next week’s exams, which turned into visions of him experiencing his first bicycle crash that scheduled to happen next month. The boy spoke out in fear and desire of avoiding certain accidents or fatalities, in which his father forewarned him to “allow Destiny to show the paths, then choose one to follow.” Involuntary trauma pushed Hoseok to numb out random calamities, while his mother pushed him to pursue ‘scenes of optimism’ to help tide over all the collected images he deemed useless. “Nothing you see is worthless, my son. Use this newfound knowledge and choose a path that that benefits you. Even if it seems futile sometimes, know that you are the writer of your own Destiny,” she said. Repeatedly, the boy grew with these words echoing within his drums, seemingly finding not a single vision that did not contain his parents’s vision.

At first, the powers turned him playful. Guessing games eventually grabbed a hold of him, making rock-paper-scissors and hide-and-seek no more than literal child’s play. Conversely, remembering every little detail became as simple as clapping his hands. Birthdays were never forgotten, nor were favorite colors. Curious questions asked were rarely entertained again for hearing the answer would be redundant to the tiny boy. Never had it occurred to his young self that accessing his memories was no longer a mental effort, but rather a retro-cognitive one. Having library after library of previous knowledge aided in his excellence at schooling, forming him a spectacular, yet lazy student throughout the years. Life only became more intense as he gradually realized that some of his memories were not of his own volition, and yet he could vividly play out each sequence as easy as breathing. Seeking advice from his loving mother yielded explanations that he could only accept at the time: “You’re just a smart boy. Do not fuss.” Fortunately, the voices in his head would come knocking to say otherwise.

Twelve years of age, it was then where he had his first interaction with the B. Hive, a collection of other Hoseoks who pursued to perfect the next iteration of Hoseok, or at least improve him in his current prime timelines. Altogether, they represent the ‘B.’ of their timeline. Face to face with a familiar, graying man, Hoseok was introduced to the life of a B. Keeper that goes by the name ‘Brain.’ It was here, somewhere in a time between his childhood and his expiration, that brought forth the true expansiveness of his powerful abilities. “They, other Bs alike you, call me Brain, though know that I am no more knowledgeable than you, fellow B. I only desire to unlock that potential within you.” Scenery changed before his eyes, as he revisits his childhood up to a scene unrecognizable by him. “Find this building. And, these people!” Brain exhibited people with amazing abilities different from his own Dazzled by such a display, Hoseok accepted his fate as a member of the B. Hive. Days ahead went by where an adolescent Hoseok continued to practice his ability in future vision, culminating possible likely outcomes and influencing the events surrounding said outcomes in order to attain one favorable to him. To him, trying to predict the next card to come out a deck or guessing someone’s private log-ins became his recent, normal routine.

Expanding the horizons of his powers ended up with him delving in scenarios an average teenager would not be around. Ultimately, Hoseok was struck with an addiction, constantly winning prizes either in cold cash or personal information. Visions of someone’s next personal information or where they hid lucrative belongings where accessible to him. The teen always remained small-scale, blackmailing fellow peers into giving him won to keep their secrets safe with him and recovering wallets that had been previously forgotten by their careless owners. A simple five-minute sit-in would open up a couple handfuls of past outcomes or possible futures of the setting he would be at, and though Hoseok might not always return with a haul, the few times he turned out to be successful made it all worth it to pursue. As his gains increased, so did his greed.

Dipping into this treasure trove charmed him. Hoseok started participating in local bets, especially on sports. Abusing his power to predict with better odds allowed him to push hard onto underdog teams or unlikely scenarios that were destined to likely happen. The list became endless: guessing what round a boxing match would end; determining whether a player would hit their triple-double; or even calling exactly when a goal would be scored. His focus enhanced the more he divulged, doubling his small allowance and strengthening his precognition in a single afternoon. People actively evaded his pools of choice as his infamy rose. Things worsened so quickly that rather than trying to play the House and others, Hoseok began hosting his own sessions with his peers and upperclassmen. Along with aligning to the path he wanted, the teen took on the local nickname ‘Bookie’ to better stand out among the B. Hive and his friends, seeing that his specialty suited such a reclassification.

Midway through his secondary education, Bookie experienced more and more disasters through his vision. Nearly all of the events were avoided by him, until one Friday evening. Heading to his usual hangout downtown proved to be a pain, as an image of a vehicle crashing through a large window kept reappearing. Unable to ignore these invasions of the mind, the man concentrated on the specific time and place. Locating the setting, his eyes flipped through the picture book, only to realize that although minor details change: shirt colors; the people sitting; or the paper posts, a woman in blue would always suffer the same fate of being the first to collide with the automobile. To him, this type of scenario was unexplainable and incomprehensible because some timelines always had some type of intervention that resulted in a different branch of significant time, then it had hit him. Abruptly, his feet started up a sprint to the next block over, with him spotting the lady. Like a madman, Hoseok screamed to get down and dove to yank the girl out of the way. His head shot back up before he braced his ears for the impact, yet nothing occurred. Angry, the woman got back to her feet to scoff and scold him. A finger flies in the air to point at him in scolding fury but alas, the vehicle finally hits its mark right on time. Shards flew everywhere, with Hoseok barely managing by with only a few scrapes. Now, a horrific scene lay before him.

Disdained as a couple of weeks pass by, Bookie laid low, unwilling to manipulate his parachronocognition due to the incident. His mind became distracted, replaying the scene over and over in the confines of his head, only broken by the greetings of a gleaming stranger. “You’re that kid, right? The one that ran in the shop. Ten days ago, was it?” Frustration built up within as he halfheartedly returned an answer before confusion had set in. “Yes, I was there, too. Oh, where are my manners?” Out extended a hand towards him, Hoseok accepting the shake before conversing. “A scout for the Avenger’s Academy. Yes, the very one! And, we would love to have more heroes like you.” Spreading the news of his invitation to his parents set even more confusion into his heart and soul, with both his mother and father saying that they foresaw him bringing home such news. Yet, to him, this future was blurry and unavailable.

Happily, the years went by at the academy without many stops. Bookie was a studious person not by choice, after all. Besides his regular, mandatory classes in mathematics and literature, he dedicated most of his extra time researching quantum physics and space, seeing that they might have applications to him. Other than a single day in a meditation class and brain exploration, the man would spend eternities in the recesses of his mind, communing with fellow Hoseoks of other universes. In turn, he socially suffered and spent more time literally with himselves, until finding an odd bunch of other fellow ‘outcasts’ with extraordinary powers of their own. Quickly, he adapted to provide the logistics and maneuvers to this group. Additionally, his habits have yet to dissipate as he still ‘collects’ information on others and recovers lost items here or there. Unsavory conduct such as gambling have been set mostly aside for him due to the many restrictions in place, but he has gotten away with a few harmless bets. Overall, Bookie finds that there is a future for him here in more than just learning and perhaps use his unique knowledge to help the Academy in the future.

[buckyismyaesthetic]

Nobody (Part 12)

(this is how I imagined the photos would be tacked on the walls)

Plot:  Reader has been held prisoner by Hydra and is discovered by Nat and Bucky.  Post CA:CW (Bucky’s on the team, no one hates each other) Slight AU

Warnings: Cursing, mentions of torture and gore

Words: 1873 

A/N: Just a note that the story takes place in 2016 because that’s when I first started writing.  Hope you like this part.  Feedback is always welcome!

Reader’s POV

You fell down the rabbit hole.

Information swirled around you in a haze, overwhelming your senses, invading your mind.  Your face was frozen in time in black and white photographs tacked on boards around the room.  Eerily, they seemed to take on a life of their own, as if the photos began to move and change, playing out the captured instances of torture on an endless loop. The memories of these moments resurfaced, filling in the blanks and missing the edges of each scene.  Here was the moment they’d shocked you just before your flesh sizzled and burned like bacon in a frying pan.  There, captured in perfect clarity, was the instant your organs slid off the table and, frozen in mid-air, hurdled to the lab floor.  Black pools of blood peppered the background in the majority of photos, spattering the walls, staining the floors.

You stood stock still in silent revulsion.  It was true. All of it.  That was you in those pictures.  The same girl from the window reflection.  The face unchanging except in expressions of agony, from open mouthed screams that went unheard to gritted teeth and squinted eyes shutting out the horror.  And someone, it seemed, arranged the photos in order to show the passage of time. Not that they were dated.  But because there, in more than half the images, whether standing in the background observing or actively participating in the atrocities, was the man in white.  And it dawned on you, seeing it all laid out, that time truly had passed, that your suffering had been drawn out for years, decades, generations.

In the pictures on the board to your left, the man in white was younger.  His hairline was fuller and clearly it had been dark and thick at one point.  His face was youthful, absent of crow’s feet and frown lines.  But as you moved along from photo to photo, from wall to wall, he changed.  The young face morphed seamlessly into that of the sour, wizened old man whom you remembered perfectly.  The dark hair gradually lost colour and thinned so completely until only a handful of winter-white strands remained.  Jowls hung from his face, liver spots peppered his increasingly sagging skin, and his belly swelled and distended as the photos progressed, the bottoms on the lab coat straining to stay shut.

The lab coat. He wore one during every one of your encounters.  You recalled how crisply white it was, as if he’d always just picked it from having it laundered and freshly pressed.  And when it got dirty, soaked with your blood and spit and bodily fluids, he’d grow irate and fling it off into the arms of another doctor.  The precious coat would need to be cleaned again.  But like you, it always came back to the lab, though the coat looked good as new, as if it had never been touched or tainted.  You, on the other hand, always went back into the lab a little worse for wear.  You were never clean.

“X?” Bucky’s deep, quiet voice pulled you back to the present. You snapped your mouth shut, not realizing that it had been hanging open as you moved among the images, and stepped away from where you had your nose buried in the photos, relishing that the scenes blurred and obscured as you moved away, no longer able to see clearly with the distance.  Nobody should see.

“Who was he?” you whispered thickly. A steady stream of tears had been flowing uninhibited as you ghosted amongst the photos and replayed their memories in your mind.  They left a trail of wet drips in your wake.  “The man in white…I—nobody ever said.”  Bucky took a few steps towards you, his hands clenching unconsciously by his sides. The metal one emitted a faint whirring as the plates moved.

It was Natasha who answered. “Iosif Kovshevnikov,” she said quietly.  “He died about thirty years ago.  A few years after he left Hydra for good.”

Thirty years.  The man in white had been dead for thirty years.  And yet…it felt as if you’d seen him only yesterday.  His touch still lingered on you, making your skin crawl.  You could still hear his gruff voice as he snarled unintelligible commands and frustrations.  The memory of his hot, stale breath as he laughed as you squirmed beneath his deadly ministrations made your lip curl.  Thirty years.

The evidence was all laid out.  It seemed so obvious now.  How could you not have known, not have realised? Everything, everyone had changed around you but you remained the same all that time.  How could you’ve been so oblivious?  So unaware?   All that time had gone by and you hadn’t known.  And nobody even noticed.

Time.  Time. What time is it?

“9:56,” Bucky answered the question you’d unknowingly voiced.

But that’s not what you were asking, not really.  “No, what time is it?”  

He looked at you curiously for a beat before understanding what you’d meant and the weight of his answer. “It’s 2016.  The year 2016.”

You screwed up your face trying to remember something about the past, any indication of a time or date. Steve’s voice echoed in your head, ‘That was 70 years ago’.  And you remembered being in that cell, undergoing those experiments, entering the void long before seeing any pictures of Captain America.  I was there before that.  But you couldn't remember when or for how long. Try as you might, you couldn’t dig up any clear memories or visions of a life or time before the reality you had come to know.  No real recollections of a childhood or family.  No memories of a world outside that facility.  It was as if you had simply popped into existence in that cell as Experiment X-25493.  With no name, with no life, with nobody.

“And what time am I?” you asked as you pulled on the edges of the blanket that you’d wrapped around yourself like armour, clinging to keep the edges shut.  You looked down at Bucky’s boots as you spoke but when the silence began to stretch on without a response you wondered if you had actually said anything aloud at all.  His icy blue eyes met your gaze when you finally tipped your head back to look at him.  

Bucky cleared his throat.  “You were there for a while,” he whispered with thinly veiled anger.   You could practically feel the timbre of his voice as it moved through his chest. “’Bout eighty years.”

You nodded absently at that, not wanting to let it sink in.  This was all becoming too much.  A sheen of cold sweat was collecting under your hospital clothes.  Your chest felt too tight, ribs hugging your lungs like a vice. “And,” your voice shook, “How old am I?” I should know that.  Why don’t I know that?

“We’re not sure,” Bucky confessed. His hands grazed over your arms, rubbing gently over the blanket.  "The, uh, notes aren’t clear.”

Notes?  There’s notes?  Not just pictures? Bucky caught on as your head perked up at his declaration.  You wanted to see the notes.  You wanted to know everything.  He ran a hand down the scruff on his face in agitation and then tugged on your blanket gently.  “C’mere.”

When your feet refused to move Bucky dipped his head to catch your eye.  The frown on his lips made him even more heartbreakingly beautiful and you couldn't stand to look at him.  Not here. Not in this room.  Not amongst these horrible photos showing the truth of what happened.  Not with your greatest pains laid out for all to see.  Angels should be surrounded in Heavenly light, not standing amongst the worst depictions of Hell.  This was no place for Bucky.

“X, I promised I’d tell you everything, the truth,” he whispered.  “But you don’t hafta do this now, okay?  We can come back later, I promise.  I—just tell me what you wanna do and I’ll do it.”  

Nobody ever asked you what you wanted. Nobody but Bucky.  “I want to see.”

And so you saw.  And so you heard.  And so you knew.

Natasha had some sort of ghostly, disembodied voice she called “Friday” read aloud the files translated from Russian. She handed you stacks of notebooks filled with calculations you didn’t understand, scribbled writings, poorly completed sketches of body parts and drafts for various complicated machines and devices.  And she used some sort of television screen or lighted window that she called a computer to show more photos and eventually some audio files and even moving pictures. Little films, taken with an unsteady hand, showing grainy pictures of what happened to you like a living memory. Those were the worst.  You couldn't look away, couldn't even blink as it played out across the screen.  It wasn’t until Bucky angrily shut the machine down and ordered that it was enough for the day that you were able to breathe again.  

He’d spun you around in the chair to face him and knelt down, promising to bring you back tomorrow, but stating with finality that it was enough.  It was enough.  Everything that had ever happened was enough.  It was all too much.   And yet it still wasn’t done.  The whole truth wasn’t out there.  It was just too much for one day.  It was too much for one lifetime.

But during the hours that you’d sat there absorbing as much information as possible even though your head ached and your broken and tired bones screamed for sleep, you didn’t get the answer to the one thing that you’d wanted to know above all else.  “Who am I, Bucky?  What’s my name?”

The silence in the room was deafening. It was a simple question really. You couldn't just be Experiment X-25493, could you?  You’d had parents at one point, didn’t you?  You were born into this world, weren’t you?  Somebody had to have known you before. Somebody had to have cared. Somebody had to have notice when you weren’t there.  Somebody had to have called you by name.  Any name…Right? …Right?

“I dunno.  Fuck, I’m so sorry.  I dunno, there’s—there’s nothin’ here.  We’ve been lookin’ but nonn’ov these fuckin’ things say a goddamn word.” Bucky was kneeling at your feet and pulling your hands to his chest.  You could feel him tremble with emotion as the words poured from his mouth.  “I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.  But I’ll—I’ll keep lookin’.  Whatever it takes.  I promise.” A perfect tear fell from his red rimmed eyes, landed in your lap, and joined the ones that had been dripping from your own chin as he spoke.  You bit your lip, unable to bear looking at your beautiful saviour’s face contorted in such pain.

And that’s how you knew it was true. Perhaps the worst truth of all. Because here he was, an angel on his knees, shaking with rage and anguish as he lamented at your feet. Because he made you a promise to tell you everything and you had asked the one question that has no answer. Because you don’t have a name.  

You never did.  

You were just an experiment.  

A number.  

Nothing.

“Nobody.”

TAG LIST:  strike-through means the tag doesn’t seem to work.  If your tag doesn’t work for some reason, send me a message and I’ll take a look.

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[rohirric-hunter]

LotRO was so mean to me yesterday -- I ran a few Moria instances and it gave me no less than 4 bows that have the same name as the bows I'm after with the Deadly Defender's Bow appearance, but not one of them was the right bow.