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#huge and indistinct from sheer distance
thestuffedalligator · 4 years
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Persephone packed her things, put her names away, plucked three apples from her mother’s orchard, and disappeared into the night.
It wasn’t as though her mother was cruel or her husband was unkind. It was just that one day, out of nowhere, it struck her that she had lived her whole life belonging to someone and never to herself. As Kore, she belonged to her mother. As Persephone, she had belonged to her husband.
She tried to ignore the thought, which of course made her think of it more. And the more she tried the more uncomfortable her throne became, and the more she scowled on the growing wheat, and the more she enjoyed the limbo of possession between the seasons, when she made the long trek down into the underworld in Autumn and the long trek back to the world above in Spring.
One year, when the thought had become too big to keep bottled up, she said this to her husband. Like all unpracticed thoughts the words came out in a tumble, but he kissed her brow and told her that he agreed with whatever she decided.
And so, during one summer with her mother, Persephone packed her things and began a long, solitary trek through the mortal world.
She had managed to go a very good distance before the giant eagle caught her.
*
She was a prisoner in a cold, empty castle, far out of the reach of the gods.
It was funnily familiar in a cruel, not at all funny sort of way.
There were differences, of course. Rocky peaks and pine forests instead of black, blasted lands beyond her window. The rumble of distant avalanches instead of the whisper of the Styx. Giants, huge and blue and indistinct from sheer distance, striding through the mist instead of monsters.
There was her captor - the eagle turned out to be a giant in a magical disguise, as you do - who didn’t speak her language, but kept her in a high tower of his castle as a pretty, foreign trinket.
And then there was the huntress.
The huntress was the giant’s daughter, as far as she could tell. Huge and pale, with red braided hair and a grey wolf-skin draped over her shoulders. She would return from the wilds beyond the castle with a boar over one shoulder and soft bundles of violet flowers, the latter of which she would press into Persephone’s hands before walking away.
She called Persephone “Idunn.”
*
After a few weeks of slowly understanding each other’s languages, the huntress and Persephone made a plan.
The huntress enlisted another giant - a giant magically disguised as a falcon, as you do - to steal Persephone out of the hands of her father and out to safety, wherever that was. The huntress would stay behind to distract her father and his forces long enough for the two to make their escape.
Before leaving, the huntress pressed her lips to Persephone’s hands, mumbled her thanks, and then walked away.
Just for a moment, as she brought her hands up to her lips and smelled the perfume of the violets there, Idunn chose her name.
Then the falcon who was really a giant turned her into a walnut.
*
The rest of the story you probably know, in some form.
She woke in a hall that smelled of smoke and wood and rain, surrounded by gods in furs and chainmail. One of them - the grey-bearded one, with ravens whispering into his ears - bowed and said it was an honour to have the great Persephone in the halls of Asgard.
Idunn corrected him on her name, but thanked him nonetheless.
The apples she had brought from her mother’s orchard were a famous success in this new land, and the gods begged her to grow an orchard of them there. And for a year, this was how Idunn spent her new life, planting, growing, harvesting, and having every Aesir and Vanir come vying for her hand.
She said no to all of them, of course. Bragi came close to winning her over, and Freyja came even closer, but she turned them down all the same.
Finally, one year later, the huntress came to Asgard.
She had brought a bundle of violet flowers.
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ktlsyrtis · 4 years
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Jill/Elly - 45. “When’s the last time you slept?”
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A sequel to do I chase the night or does the night chase me? Also on ao3
Jill’s hands are dirty.
Well, that’s not true. She washed them as soon as she got to the hospital, scrubbed under hot water until her skin was pink. But they feel dirty, covered in the lingering specter of sticky wetness. 
Elbows propped on her knees, she wrings her hands between them, rubbing her thumb back and forth against a chapped knuckle, tries to dispel the phantom sensation. Remind herself that it’s not real, that there’s nothing there but pale, calloused skin. 
Her hands may be clean, but her shirtsleeves are soaked in blood. Elly’s blood.
It’s been hours since they took Elly into surgery. How many, Jill couldn’t say, the time going past in a blur. She’s been posted in an uncomfortable chair in a nondescript hallway like a sentinel. Staring at the stain, stark against the white of her shirt, watching it turn from red to worn, rusty brown.
Her jaw aches from clenching against the feeling that’s squeezing at her chest; she still can’t decide if she wants to throw up or scream.
“Guv?”
Jill blinks, looks up to find Quinn standing over her, worry on his face, and a steaming cup of tea in hand. She takes it with a small, grateful smile, sips at the too hot liquid and barely feels the burn.
“Any word?” he asks. Jill just shakes her head, doesn’t trust her voice to not betray her.
Quinn hovers awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot. He’s the only one in the CID who knows about her and Elly, the only one who knows that she’s here in the hospital in a capacity far beyond official. His mouth opens, snaps shut again just as quickly.
“I brought your spare shirt,” he says, holding out a plastic covered hanger. She knows what he’s really saying is she’ll be all right and I’m here for you. But they’ve never been that kind of friends.
“Thanks,” she says, voice like gravel, draping the shirt over the chair beside her. “You should get back to the station. Let them know that I-,” she coughs, the words sticking in her throat. “Tell them…”
“I’ll take care of it, Guv.” The understanding in Quinn’s voice is almost too much. Jill focuses her blurry eyes on the tips of her loafers. “We’re gonna find him. You have my word.” 
A hand squeezes briefly against her shoulder, and she hears footsteps receding into the distance.
Eventually she manages to get herself into the ladies, her legs stiff and heavy. She strips off her shirt in a stall, pulls on the crisp blue one from the bag. Stuffs the ruined fabric into the trash on her way to the sinks.
Jill catches her reflection in the mirror as she washes her hands, sees the tightness around her mouth, the darkness beneath her eyes. She looks old, tired. 
Terrified.
The view shifts in her mind’s eye, a sense of familiarity washing over her. She remembers a morning a few days prior, brushing her teeth in the bathroom of her flat. Elly appeared behind her, fresh from bed; dark hair a mess and sleep-filled eyes, wearing a baggy t-shirt that only just fell to her thighs. She reached past Jill to grab her own toothbrush, pressing warmly against her back for a moment. Their eyes met in the mirror, both smiling around mouthfuls of minty foam.
It’s the kind of domesticity Jill never thought she wanted, certainly never looked for, but now like so many things with Elly feels only right.
Out of nowhere anger boils up inside her; rage at the unfairness of it all mixing with the blind fear of losing Elly. All consuming, bursting out of her with a snarl.
A shock of impact shoots up her arm where her fist connects with the metal towel dispenser, the pain clearing her head a bit. She flexes her hand, glances between her distorted reflection in the dented metal and the smear of blood across her knuckles.  
Doesn’t look back as she returns to her post.
- - -
A faint groan pulls Jill from a fitful doze. For a moment she’s disoriented, hardly knows where she is. A second soft noise snaps her mind into focus, and she straightens in the chair.
One of the nurses took pity on her in the late hours. Somehow convinced the attending that, given the nature of Elly’s injuries, it was only sensible to have a police presence in the room as a precaution. The significant look she gave Jill as she asked if she’d be willing to stay spoke to her perceptiveness. 
Elly’s eyes flutter open and sheer relief that washes over Jill leaves her a little dizzy. She sees Elly’s brow furrow, confused, her eyes huge and dark against the waxy pallor of her skin.
“Hey, you’re all right,” Jill soothes, taking Elly’s hand where it lies limp against the stiff hospital blanket. “You’re at the hospital.”
Her mouth opens as if to speak, but all she manages is a dry cough. Jill grabs the cup of water from the bedside table, holds the straw to Elly’s parched lips as she takes a small sip.
“Did you catch him?” Elly rasps, and Jill can’t help but smile. Of course that’s what she’d worry about.
“Not yet, but we will. Quinn’s on it.” She lifts Elly’s hand, settles it more firmly in her own. “I’ve been slightly preoccupied worrying about you.”
Elly hums softly, squeezing back around Jill’s fingers.
“When’s the last time you slept?” she asks. “You look terrible.”
Jill barks out a laugh at that. “You’re one to talk.”
“At least I have an excuse.” Elly chuckles, the sound fading into a pained groan as her stomach muscles clench, and Jill has to push back the memory of Elly moaning in pain in a pool of her own blood. She presses her lips to Elly’s knuckles, takes a slow shaky breath.
“You scared me, Eliza,” Jill whispers against her skin, voice thick. Elly’s grip tightens, and Jill feels the brush of fingers against her hair.
“I’m sorry.”
There’s so much Jill wants to say, but Elly is already starting to fade, eyelids drooping. In that moment, Jill vows to not let another day go by without making sure that Elly knows exactly how she means to her.
For now, she reaches up to smooth Elly’s lank hair back from her forehead, thumb brushing against her cheek.
“Get some sleep.” Elly murmurs a bit, pressing her cheek into Jill’s hand.
Jill starts to pull away, to let Elly rest, but her hand clenches, holding Jill in place.
“Stay close,” Elly asks, the words a little indistinct, slurred with exhaustion. “Please?”
Jill just scoots her chair closer, slotting their fingers together.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
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mollymauk-teafleak · 4 years
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Perc'ahlia + lazy morning sex ❤️❤️
Oof this was fun to write
----
“How long do we have?” Percy’s voice was raspy from a night of sleep.
It was a hard question to answer, so many variables involved and a good amount of sheer random chaos. But if anyone could be called an expert in predicting what their children would do, she supposed it was her.
“They went to bed late…” she thought aloud as she stretched her arms up above her head, hearing her joints click, “So we might have time. But they’re excited to go visit their uncles later, that will have them up and bouncing off the walls…”
“So the answers is...make the best of what we have and just get on with it?” Percy smiled wryly, propped up on his elbows. He hadn’t taken his eyes off her since he’d opened them, both of them stunned to find a Saturday morning where they’d woken up of their own accord, not by being jumped on by several small children.
What they were going to do with it was obvious to both of them without a word needing to be said.
“Yes, I think so,” Vex laughed, voice made deeper than usual by a combination of just waking up and a strong need, excited to finally be indulged.
Percy grinned and deftly swept the duvet over their heads, ducking down and rolling to crouch over her. In their new little bubble of warmth and blue tinged light, their lips met ravenously. Vex threw her arms around her husband’s shoulders and dragged him as close as physical space would allow, murmuring his name though it was made indistinct by their kiss. Almost as if it had been some kind of secret password, Percy’s jaw dropped open for her tongue, making a sound that was half a groan and half a growl.
Making quick decisions about which of the million ways she wanted to fuck him would take priority, Vex pulled back and replaced her mouth with two fingers, whispering her command, “Wet them.”
Percy’s eyes always looked a little odd when he wasn’t wearing his glasses, like some vital puzzle piece was missing, but they looked beautiful nonetheless when their pupils blew wide and dark with the excitement of obeying her utterly. He did as he was asked and did it well, as always, running his tongue around her fingers and sucking on them devotedly.
While he did that, Vex used her free hand to pull down the boxers he always wore to bed. He used to sleep naked, which she enjoyed hugely, but he’d quickly realised what a bad idea that was when their kids showed no hesitation in barging in on a morning and squirreling under their covers.
“Already good to go, hmm?” she purred, grinning up at him as she found him hard as a rock.
Mouth obviously occupied, Percy just gave a coy shrug. Vex understood, they’d both gotten very good at moving through this fast.
“Well, I’m all yours, go ahead,” she pulled her hand back, drawing him close with a hand at the small of his back.
He was so skinny, even after years of distance between who he was now and the anxious, tightly wound kid he had been, living alone in a penthouse and only eating takeaway food when he remembered to at all. His hips jutted out and his chest was thin, his limbs look like they’d snap easily, just by nature. A body meant for bending over a drafting table, scribbling away into the night, making beautiful things.
Vex loved every inch of it.
Percy moved into her easily, the transition between being two bodies and one smooth after so many years together, after knowing each other so intimately. It was like they were moulded for each other, meant to fit together. There was a lovely sense of familiarity to it as Percy entered her. It was like home, as much as the brownstone around them.
She gave a soft sigh of relief into his mouth as she kissed him hard.
While her hips rocked in perfect time with her husband and their gentle gasps threaded together, Vex’s hand went wandering. She didn’t need eyes to know where to go, she had mapped every inch of Percy a thousand times over. Her fingers found the curve of him, the crease in his body, with ease and she entered him as smoothly as he’d entered her.
Percy’s moan caught and snapped in his throat as he shuddered in delight. As much as he wanted to cry out and scream for her, he busied himself with more kisses to muffle it. They’d learned the need to be quiet a long time ago.
Now every thrust forward brought him deeper into her warmth and every draw back sent him onto her fingers, sparks erupting behind his eyes no matter which way he turned. Utterly lost, he just rode it, happily climbing higher and higher, knowing the fall was coming. Vex was right behind him, it never took long with Percy, it never had. They knew each other too well.
Percy came first, having to battle with himself not to scream, gripping himself tight so he only mumbled her name as he shuddered. Vex came after, after she’d gotten to hear what she’d done to him, the triumph unravelling her as much as anything else.
They kissed loosely, messily, until they came back to themselves and they become more sure and certain, until they were saying things with their kisses again. Percy slid out of her, not caring that they were definitely going to have to wash the sheets today, slumping back to her side so they could hug each other properly and let their muscles go loose, content to lie together.
“Wow…” Percy rasped after a while, a grin in his voice that she couldn’t see with his face buried in her hair.
“Yeah,” Vex giggled softly, “That was pretty good…”
“It must have been ages since we actually got to do lazy weekend morning sex,” Percy sighed thoughtfully.
Vex made a soft noise of agreement. They were both still for a moment, lying in the silence. They didn’t even need to see each other’s faces to know they were thinking the exact same thing.
“I miss the kids.”
“Me too. Let’s go wake them up?”
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solistrix-writes · 6 years
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#002 - kissing omniscience
@fangirltothefullest here it is!! sorry for any bad...ness, as this was never meant to see the light of day lmao
The cave holding the Anisols’ manifestation of their goddess is dark and cold. Only in the orb’s chamber is there light, the otherworldly glow of it throwing bright blue onto the strange planes of stone. The Anisol priestess calls the other paladins over, to speak with them of the danger and sheer power of the Anisol orb.
Lance stretches forward, entranced by the floating orb, pulsating with some sort of siren energy so strong that he can’t look away. The other paladins are occupied with the Anisol priestess, the gatekeeper of this planet’s religion, reciting a warning in low tones. He can feel this force, drawing him in with every pulse of light and soft whisper of a distant voice in his ear. Millions of androgynous voices, chanting in alien languages he can’t differentiate, all urging- touch it, become one with us, join us, see all there is to see, touch it, prove yourself, become one with us, join us, boy, and see the vastness of all-
“NO!” The Anisol priestess screams, much too late.
His gloved finger brushes the blue light, and his mind explodes into transcendence.
He sees supernovas, brighter than anything and blinding like nothing else, blasting into brilliant colour and consuming entire star systems in the blink of an eye. He sees black holes, millions of light- years across, existence spanning from the creation of time to the end of everything, when all stars had blinked out and the universe was cold and empty and dead. He sees planets and stars collide, the Milky Way and Andromeda becoming one, an event that in real time takes place over billions of years, in less than five seconds. He sees the beginnings of life, and the last, unrecognizable life form left in the universe perish at the end of it all.
Atomic bombs, set off so close he can feel the hot rush of radioactive wind from its source, an orange mushroom cloud blooming into the sky on Earth and, in the event of human thirst for conquest, on extraterrestrial planets. An alien mother clutches her child to her chest, the radiation washing over them and blistering their skin and the strands of their hair white as snow.
He sees alien life forms, trillions of them, quadrillions of them, and discoveries in science so far off and advanced he can’t even begin to comprehend what he is seeing. The fusion in the center of a star. Seconds passing in billions of years in the center of a black hole, everything so dark it was past cognition. Weapons of war blowing planets into shards of rock, the destruction silent in the vacuum in space. An endless amount of sunsets and sunrises. Meteors raining down on a pockmarked planet. Mountains so tall and vast they dwarf Olympus Mons more than hundreds of times over. A cold and dead planet, flung out of orbit from its star, skeletons, eons old, littering the surface. Wars and battles and battlegrounds and scarred planets, soil so soaked with blood it is scarlet in the light of a winter’s sunrise. Castles buried under desert sands, the last remnants of a long-dead civilization.
He hears screaming, tongues that even time had forgotten, sounds made by alien voices completely indescribable in all human languages, every piece of music ever crafted by human and nonhuman hands played all at once in a harmonious, beautiful, discordant cacophony of sound. The deafening boom of a massive bomb destroying entire civilizations. The first human voice, the last human word. Commands and battle drums, clanging metal. Fledgling laughter. Birdsong. Death wails screamed over the bodies of fallen lovers.
He feels the soft rush of waves around his legs. He feels ice and snow sting his face. He feels diamond rain slash his flesh to ribbons, and then an alien apothecary sewing up a battle wound with careful concentration knit onto its features. He feels himself running down a cold, wet beach, laughter unrestrained and loud, the sand dark grey except for where his feet fall, glowing warm and white around them. He feels Altean silks wrapped around his shoulders, Galran armor latched around his torso, Balmeran rings shoved through his ears. He feels grass so fine it must’ve been made from satin, obsidian spear blades sharp enough to slice with just a tap. Volcanic explosions sear his flesh off his bones and turn them to ash; the same burning feeling comes after, but much milder, and deepset in his chest, as he is an ancient king gazing at his betrothed, the amount of love in his heart almost unbearable. He breathes in the acid air of Taujeer, feeling the sting, the pain in his lungs, feeling the encroaching death darken the edges of his vision as he strains for air and the acid eats away at his throat.
He is a Sumerian woman, holding her baby in her arms, feeling its soft skin and sleepy breaths on her arm. He is a H’gadii girl, from the planet of Yutuk, throwing herself in front of a young boy- her friend, her dearest friend- and taking a killing blow from an enraged soldier. His-her - their death inciting a 50-year mass rebellion, liberating the H’gadii people. He is a Chtel-ut boy, bowing deeply, before performing a welcoming dance to the Paladins of old as they arrive in the village of Chtel-te. Hard, black soil is pounded underneath his feet as he and his fellow dancers perform a swirling, mesmerizing illusion of a dance. His colorful skirts and heavy robes spiral around him, shimmering and rippling to the beat of the drum in the bright light of midday.
He tastes blood iron in his mouth, stale and hours old, from a hovercraft fight between rivalling city gangs. He tastes an oncoming storm in the ozone-rich air blowing from the south, while on a galleon in the middle of the Pacific. He tastes bile as he watches legion after legion of enslaved Rejor soldiers fall, shoved off a cliff to their deaths in the battle of Mnor.
Suddenly, he is Coran, very young, playing with his siblings on an intact Altea, the blue mountains in the distance huge and imposing over the field where his brother and sister play apothecary and customer. He stares up at the mountains, awed by their majesty, shrill voices talking, indistinct, behind him. A breeze rustles the fluorescent blooms around him, twisting the train of his delicate robes behind him. His siblings call out, and he turns away from the mountains.
He is Hunk, four years old, running into his moms’ arms, after being told they were adopting him. A bright joy, sunshine shoved in a bottle, is hot and unrestrained in his tummy, where butterflies flutter. He is smiling into his Mama’s arms, as Mommy cries happy, laughing tears into his hair, kissing it over and over again. This was so long ago, and he was so young, he barely remembers the words that were said. All he remembers is the happiness, the glee, the warm and security of belonging. He often revisits this memory before bed, feeling empty and alone in the deep, cold reaches of space.
He is Pidge, thirteen years old, sitting on the garden wall with her brother late at night, looking out over the suburbs. He is decoding more and more messages from Dad, the keys clicking constantly. His voice, a rumble she feels more than hears as she leans against him, calms her with its rhythm. He is reading out more messages from Dad, deepening his voice and imitating Dad’s thick midwestern accent, with its flat vowels and varied pitch. She falls asleep under the stars, softly snoring.
He is Keith, barely one, even, and held in a woman’s arms. He can’t see her face- his vision is unclear, and the room is dark. She is singing to him in an alien language, speaking calming and reassuring words to him, stroking his hair, rocking him. Mommy loves you, Kyeryt. Mommy loves you so much.
He is sixteen, almost seventeen, and he is blazing through red desert on a stolen hoverbike at almost deadly speeds. Red dust is rising up in massive plumes behind him, swallowing the Garrison security cruisers up in russet dust clouds. His reason for running is nothing to be joyous about, but the thrill, the adrenaline blaring in his veins makes him shut his eyes tight, tilt his head back, and whoop loudly at the cornflower-blue sky.
He is Allura, at a ball as a younger teen. Her dress is brand new, silver and blue silk draping around her in elegant waves. Embroidered blue gems glitter from the hems and belt, catching the glowlights floating aimlessly above the dancing guests. A fast-paced waltz plays over the sound of talk and laughter, and Allura sits by the window, looking at the crowd. Before long, her father comes over and holds out a hand, a silent invitation. Allura gladly takes his hand, and they twirl out onto the floor, her skirts spinning outward in spiralling murals of silk and lace. Her expertly coiled updo slowly falls out, ringlets bouncing against cheeks flushed from laughter and exertion. She goes to bed that night thoroughly exhausted and smiling.
He is Shiro, a year earlier and readying for launch to Kerberos. He looks up at the sky through the ship’s windows, and sees the moon from afar, a white crescent in the blue.
“Readying. Launch in five.”
He continues pressing buttons, turning switches, adjusting knobs on the screens according to the instructions being relayed into his ear. Matt Holt is reading off strings of numbers into his microphone, and adjusting calculations as a tinny voice gives suggestions. Sam Holt is double-checking, triple-checking, quadruple-checking every single thing on the ship, a bundle of overexcited nerves.
“Launch in thirty. Twenty-nine.”
They buckle in their seats, flip a few more switches, and settle back to stare at the sky. Matt smiles and says into the comms, “See you later, Katiebug.” Sam smiles and repeats the same thing, but to his wife, and now Shiro feels the need to say something to Keith.
“Don’t get into any trouble, kiddo.”
The engines fire, and the Kerberos mission is exploding into the sky, to the farthest reaches of the solar system. Science and discovery await.
He is himself, during some summer visit to Cuba, years ago. He rides his abuela’s old, rusty levscooter through the streets of Varadero, and some girlfriend or boyfriend he can’t recall is holding onto his waist, giggling into his ear. His guitar case is lashed to the back with some old cords, jostling through rough turns and little curb hops every so often. He can feel the Cuban sun and tropical heat beating down on his back. He’s telling a lively story in Spanish to the happy person clinging to him, who seems to very much enjoy his company. Through the gaps between palm trees and Spanish-style buildings with red roofs abound, he sees the white sand of Varadero beach, and beyond, the sun glinting off bright blue water. He smells his favorite pizza shack as the levscooter drones by, hiccoughing a little with the extra weight. The person lays their head on his back, and he can feel their heartbeat pound against his back.
He is himself, years in the future, laying in bed in some bright house. Soft wind rustles the curtains, pulled apart across a wide open window. It’s mid-morning, and golden sunlight pools onto a blond wood floor. He hears the rush of waves against beach sand. He turns to see another person laying next to him, thin white sheets pulled up past their shoulders, soft, light snores coming from them. He rolls over and pulls them close, burying his nose in their dark hair. He feels them huff, and somehow knows that they smile sleepily, before a deep voice says, ‘good morning, Lance,’. Dark eyes open to look at him, sleepy and glazed- familiar eyes-
He feels millions of years, billions of millenia pass in seconds. He ages with Earth, watching her form and be destroyed thousands of times, a record on repeat. He sees humanity arrive, humanity depart, and humanity return over and over again. He sees the beginning of life itself, and the universe tears it apart unceasingly but still life persists.
He sees all of time, stretched out before him; all there is to be and all there was before his very eyes. Every birth, death, war, and all the love the universe will hold and had held is flashing before his very eyes.
For a single moment, Lance Suarez-Famosa is omniscient.
With that, it all stops. Lance separates from the orb, his eyes still glowing aqua, human brain stuffed with an amount of information millions of times its capacity, Keith hanging onto him with an iron grip around his arms and mouth open wide in a shout. He meets Keith’s dark eyes, and whispers, “I-”, before his eyes roll back into his head, and Lance knows no more.
i wrote this to “mountains” from the interstellar soundtrack several months ago
inpsiration to publish it was inspired by this post , as the concept was just so similar!
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readbookywooks · 7 years
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Thomas stared in shock as two of the newcomers tackled the WICKED woman to the floor. Then one stepped back and drew up his gun, aimed.
No way, Thomas thought. No—
Flashes lit the air as several shots exploded from the gun, slamming into the woman’s body. She was dead, a bloody mess.
Thomas took several steps backward, almost stumbled.
A man walked up to the Gladers as the others in his group spread out around them, sweeping their guns left and right as they shot at the observation windows, shattering them. Thomas heard screams, saw blood, looked away, focused on the man who approached them. He had dark hair, his face young but full of wrinkles around the eyes, as if he’d spent each day of his life worrying about how to make it to the next.
“We don’t have time to explain,” the man said, his voice as strained as his face. “Just follow me and run like your life depends on it. Because it does.”
With that the man made a few motions to his companions, then turned and ran out the big glass doors, his gun held rigidly before him. Gunfire and cries of agony still rattled the chamber, but Thomas did his best to ignore them and follow instructions.
“Go!” one of the rescuers—that was the only way Thomas could think of them—screamed from behind.
After the briefest hesitation, the Gladers followed, almost stomping each other in their rush to get out of the chamber, as far away from the Grievers and the Maze as possible. Thomas, his hand still gripping Teresa’s, ran with them, bunched up in the back of the group. They had no choice but to leave Chuck’s body behind.
Thomas felt no emotion—he was completely numb. He ran down a long hallway, into a dimly lit tunnel. Up a winding flight of stairs. Everything was dark, smelled like electronics. Down another hallway. Up more stairs. More hallways. Thomas wanted to ache for Chuck, get excited about their escape, rejoice that Teresa was there with him. But he’d seen too much. There was only emptiness now. A void. He kept going.
On they ran, some of the men and women leading from ahead, some yelling encouragement from behind.
They reached another set of glass doors and went through them into a massive downpour of rain, falling from a black sky. Nothing was visible but dull sparkles flashing off the pounding sheets of water.
The leader didn’t stop moving until they reached a huge bus, its sides dented and scarred, most of the windows webbed with cracks. Rain sluiced down it all, making Thomas imagine a huge beast cresting out of the ocean.
“Get on!” the man screamed. “Hurry!”
They did, forming into a tight pack behind the door as they entered, one by one. It seemed to take forever, Gladers pushing and scrambling their way up the three stairs and into the seats.
Thomas was at the back, Teresa right in front of him. Thomas looked up into the sky, felt the water beat against his face—it was warm, almost hot, had a weird thickness to it. Oddly, it helped break him out of his funk, snap him to attention. Maybe it was just the ferocity of the deluge. He focused on the bus, on Teresa, on escape.
They were almost to the door when a hand suddenly slammed against his shoulder, gripping his shirt. He cried out as someone jerked him backward, ripping his hand out of Teresa’s—he saw her spin around just in time to watch as he slammed into the ground, throwing up a spray of water. A bolt of pain shot down his spine as a woman’s head appeared two inches above him, upside down, blocking out Teresa.
Greasy hair hung down, touching Thomas, framing a face hidden in shadow. A horrible smell filled his nostrils, like eggs and milk gone rotten. The woman pulled back enough for someone’s flashlight to reveal her features—pale, wrinkly skin covered in horrible sores, oozing with pus. Sheer terror filled Thomas, froze him.
“Gonna save us all!” the hideous woman said, spit flying out of her mouth, spraying Thomas. “Gonna save us from the Flare!” She laughed, not much more than a hacking cough.
The woman yelped when one of the rescuers grabbed her with both hands and yanked her off of Thomas, who recovered his wits and scrambled to his feet. He backed into Teresa, staring as the man dragged the woman away, her legs kicking out weakly, her eyes on Thomas. She pointed at him, called out, “Don’t believe a word they tell ya! Gonna save us from the Flare, ya are!”
When the man was several yards from the bus, he tossed the woman to the ground. “Stay put or I’ll shoot you dead!” he yelled at her; then he turned to Thomas. “Get on the bus!”
Thomas, so terrified by the ordeal that his body shook, turned and followed Teresa up the stairs and into the aisle of the bus. Wide eyes watched him as they walked all the way to the back seat and plopped down; they huddled together. Black water washed down the windows outside. The rain drummed on the roof, heavy; thunder shook the skies above them.
What was that? Teresa said in his mind.
Thomas couldn’t answer, just shook his head. Thoughts of Chuck flooded him again, replacing the crazy woman, deadening his heart. He just didn’t care, didn’t feel any relief at escaping the Maze. Chuck…
One of the rescuers, a woman, sat across from Thomas and Teresa; the leader who’d spoken to them earlier climbed onto the bus and took a seat at the wheel, cranked up the engine. The bus started rolling forward.
Just as it did, Thomas saw a flash of movement outside the window. The sore-riddled woman had gotten to her feet, was sprinting toward the front of the bus, waving her arms wildly, screaming something drowned out by the sounds of the storm. Her eyes were lit with lunacy or terror—Thomas couldn’t tell which.
He leaned toward the glass of the window as she disappeared from his view up ahead.
“Wait!” Thomas shrieked, but no one heard him. Or if they did, they didn’t care.
The driver gunned the engine—the bus lurched as it slammed into the woman’s body. A thump almost jolted Thomas out of his seat as the front wheels ran over her, quickly followed by a second thump—the back wheels. Thomas looked at Teresa, saw the sickened look on her face that surely mirrored his own.
Without a word, the driver kept his foot on the gas and the bus plowed forward, driving off into the rain-swept night.
CHAPTER 61
The next hour or so was a blur of sights and sounds for Thomas.
The driver drove at reckless speeds, through towns and cities, the heavy rain obscuring most of the view. Lights and buildings were warped and watery, like something out of a drug-induced hallucination. At one point people outside rushed the bus, their clothes ratty, hair matted to their heads, strange sores like those Thomas had seen on the woman covering their terrified faces. They pounded on the sides of the vehicle as if they wanted to get on, wanted to escape whatever horrible lives they were living.
The bus never slowed. Teresa remained silent next to Thomas.
He finally got up enough nerve to speak to the woman sitting across the aisle.
“What’s going on?” he asked, not sure how else to pose it.
The woman looked over at him. Wet, black hair hung in strings around her face. Dark eyes full of sorrow. “That’s a very long story.” The woman’s voice came out much kinder than Thomas had expected, giving him hope that she truly was a friend—that all of their rescuers were friends. Despite the fact that they’d run over a woman in cold blood.
“Please,” Teresa said. “Please tell us something.”
The woman looked back and forth between Thomas and Teresa, then let out a sigh. “It’ll take a while before you get your memories back, if ever—we’re not scientists, we have no idea what they did to you, or how they did it.”
Thomas’s heart dropped at the thought of maybe having lost his memory forever, but he pressed on. “Who are they?” he asked.
“It started with the sun flares,” the woman said, her gaze growing distant.
“What—” Teresa began, but Thomas shushed her.
Just let her talk, he said to her mind. She looks like she will.
Okay.
The woman almost seemed in a trance as she spoke, never taking her eyes off an indistinct spot in the distance. “The sun flares couldn’t have been predicted. Sun flares are normal, but these were unprecedented, massive, spiking higher and higher—and once they were noticed, it was only minutes before their heat slammed into Earth. First our satellites were burned out, and thousands died instantly, millions within days, countless miles became wastelands. Then came the sickness.”
She paused, took a breath. “As the ecosystem fell apart, it became impossible to control the sickness—even to keep it in South America. The jungles were gone, but the insects weren’t. People call it the Flare now. It’s a horrible, horrible thing. Only the richest can be treated, no one can be cured. Unless the rumors from the Andes are true.”
Thomas almost broke his own advice—questions filled his mind. Horror grew in his heart. He sat and listened as the woman continued.
“As for you, all of you—you’re just a few of millions orphaned. They tested thousands, chose you for the big one. The ultimate test. Everything you lived through was calculated and thought through. Catalysts to study your reactions, your brain waves, your thoughts. All in an attempt to find those capable of helping us find a way to beat the Flare.”
She paused again, pulled a string of hair behind her ear. “Most of the physical effects are caused by something else. First the delusions start, then animal instincts begin to overpower the human ones. Finally it consumes them, destroys their humanity. It’s all in the brain. The Flare lives in their brains. It is an awful thing. Better to die than catch it.”
The woman broke her gaze into nothingness and focused on Thomas, then looked at Teresa, then Thomas again. “We won’t let them do this to children. We’ve sworn our lives to fighting WICKED. We can’t lose our humanity, no matter the end result.”
She folded her hands in her lap, looked down at them. “You’ll learn more in time. We live far in the north. We’re separated from the Andes by thousands of miles. They call it the Scorch—it lies between here and there. It’s centered mainly around what they used to call the equator—it’s just heat and dust now, filled with savages consumed by the Flare beyond help. We’re trying to cross that land—to find the cure. But until then, we’ll fight WICKED and stop the experiments and tests.” She looked carefully at Thomas, then Teresa. “It’s our hope that you’ll join us.”
She looked away then, gazing out her window.
Thomas looked at Teresa, raised his eyebrows in question. She simply shook her head and then laid it on his shoulder and closed her eyes.
I’m too tired to think about it, she said. Let’s just be safe for now.
Maybe we are, he replied. Maybe.
He heard the soft sounds of her sleep, but he knew that sleep would be impossible for him. He felt such a raging storm of conflicting emotions, he couldn’t identify any of them. Still—it was better than the dull void he’d experienced earlier. He could only sit and stare out the window into the rain and blackness, pondering words like Flare and sickness and experiment and Scorch and WICKED. He could only sit and hope that things might be better now than they’d been in the Maze.
But as he jiggled and swayed with the movements of the bus, felt Teresa’s head thump against his shoulder every once in a while when they hit big bumps, heard her stir and fall back to sleep, heard the murmurs of other conversations from other Gladers, his thoughts kept returning to one thing.
Chuck.
Two hours later, the bus stopped.
They had pulled into a muddy parking lot that surrounded a nondescript building with several rows of windows. The woman and other rescuers shuffled the nineteen boys and one girl through the front door and up a flight of stairs, then into a huge dormitory with a series of bunk beds lined up along one of the walls. On the opposite side were some dressers and tables. Curtain-covered windows checkered each wall of the room.
Thomas took it all in with a distant and muted wonder—he was far past being surprised or overcome by anything ever again.
The place was full of color. Bright yellow paint, red blankets, green curtains. After the drab grayness of the Glade, it was as if they’d been transported to a living rainbow. Seeing it all, seeing the beds and the dressers, all made up and fresh—the sense of normalcy was almost overwhelming. Too good to be true. Minho said it best on entering their new world: “I’ve been shucked and gone to heaven.”
Thomas found it hard to feel joy, as if he’d betray Chuck by doing so. But there was something there. Something.
Their bus-driving leader left the Gladers in the hands of a small staff—nine or ten men and women dressed in pressed black pants and white shirts, their hair immaculate, their faces and hands clean. They were smiling.
The colors. The beds. The staff. Thomas felt an impossible happiness trying to break through inside him. An enormous pit lurked in the middle of it, though. A dark depression that might never leave—memories of Chuck and his brutal murder. His sacrifice. But despite that, despite everything, despite all the woman on the bus had told them about the world they’d reentered, Thomas felt safe for the very first time since coming out of the Box.
Beds were assigned, clothes and bathroom things were passed out, dinner was served. Pizza. Real, bona fide, greasy-fingers pizza. Thomas devoured each bite, hunger trumping everything else, the mood of contentment and relief around him palpable. Most of the Gladers had remained quiet through it all, perhaps worried that speaking would make everything vanish. But there were plenty of smiles. Thomas had gotten so used to looks of despair, it was almost unsettling to see happy faces. Especially when he was having such a hard time feeling it himself.
Soon after eating, no one argued when they were told it was time for bed.
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