The morning after her father died, the first thing Laura saw upon waking was Bobby, curled up around his Wolverine doll–the one that he’d carried out of the lab, through a sewer, bundled into the fake bottom of a crate in the back of a truck, up the 5, across the deserts of Utah, the Rockies, and the long flat north that came after. He had carried it through these woods, through this fight and this flight, and there he was sleeping, pudgy hands curled close around it.
Laura had read the comics Gabriela and the other nurses had brought in for them. They had been assigned to learn how to read briefs, maps, instruments, but Gabriela had brought Laura comics about heroes.
In the lab, they had taught Delilah how to drag poison from green veins, how to find the sharpest edge at her beck and call, to strangle. The day before, Delilah had shredded the life out of men with a screaming rain of pine needles. She had wrapped long grasses around Rhodes’s ugly bolo tie and dragged him down and down. But that next day, that dawning day, Laura woke up to see Delilah calling small yellow apples down from a tree blooming out of season.
It had been a story in a comic book, Eden. It had been fiction, a fantasy, a dream, a random set of coordinates. Logan had suspected they would find nothing when they got there. He had been sure.
Sometimes promises are fiction. Sometimes they’re written on the backs of twice-folded photographs. Sometimes the nurse with the steadiest hands whispers to you in the middle of the night come with me child, wake up child, curl up in this duffel bag, stay quiet child, believe me child, we’re going, we’re going, I’ll get you somewhere safe.
Laura had curled up in that fabric-walled darkness, clutching her backpack to her chest. She had her ball, the paperwork that was her life writ out, two battered comic books. A photograph with a list of whispered names. They were not supposed to have names any more than they were supposed to have birthdays or comic books or childhoods.
Kind hands were waiting for them at the end of this journey. There was refuge. There were new names, visas and school where no one should bleed for anything except loose teeth and ignored blisters.
Logan had scoffed, and Laura hadn’t listened. She had said her friends’ names over and over. He had pointed to coordinates in a comic book, and she had said her family’s names over and over. She knew, the way Logan never did, the way Logan never would, that some days stories save you. Sometimes a nurse calls you child instead of by number, and gives you flimsy precious pages to read in the dark.
They knew the comic books were comic books. Laura knew, before she ever met Logan and his smelly, hopeless self, that the X-Men were no gods among men. Flimsy pages—she understood flimsy. She understood the way things tore–pages, clothing, skin and ligaments.
But sometimes you can make the story real. “Eden,” they said. They pressed the coordinates hand to hand, whisper to whisper, and they ran. They promised each other, and they found each other there, at coordinates that had been nothing until they made them a waystation, a place to rest. A watchtower.
Laura had carried so little out of that lab. She had the metal that lined her bones. She had her family’s names. She had a set of coordinates in a battered old comic, and she would carry that forever. It wasn’t real, but she was. It wasn’t real, that Eden, that haven, but she had been there.
She had run shrieking into Rictor’s arms. She had cried on Bobby and danced around the hard cracked dirt with him, each swinging the other in wide circles. Logan had slept safe there for the last time. She would carry it forever. Fading, flimsy pages. A tired man with a funny beard.
They would go next over shallow valleys and dry rocky peaks. Delilah would hunt down a deer in the woods, walking silent on fallen leaves and little sprouts, calling death down green and blooming. Rebecca would cook it up over the fire Bobby raised from sparks, and Laura would lie on her back with her hands on her full rounded belly and pretend she was a lion. When they came down from the mountains, the wide low fields would roll out below them for miles. There would be so much sky.
But for now, in this morning, this dawning day–there was a little boy in a wood, who was the safest he’d ever been. There was a little boy in a wood, with a yellow Wolverine doll held to his chest and Laura sat there in the waking light, watching him breathe.
That’s apparently how he sits on a bench when he wants to sit on said bench with his legs outward. No hate. xD
I gave Andrei proper attire. …. I really don’t mind if he’s shirtless, half-naked, stark naked, whatever, I DON’T, it’s just after a point it’s like okay dude SERIOUSLY - clothes won’t hurt I promise. xD
…….. at this time I very faintly heard a sim rummaging in the trash.
Answer 20 questions and tag 20 followers you want to know better.
1) Name: Corinne 2) Nickname: I don’t have one… 3) Zodiac Sign: Leo 4) Height: 5′8″ 5) Ethnicity: American/Latvian on my mom’s side/Croatian on my dad’s side 6) Orientation: Bisexual and Agender 7) Favorite Fruit: Cherries 8) Favorite Season: Winter 9) Favorite Book: Aaahhh… I honestly have no clue. I guess a favorite of mine would be Carry On or Eragon or Six of Crows or Lord of Shadows or Magyk or The Raven Boys. I could go on for days… 11) Favorite Scent: After it rains and lily of the valley
12) Favorite Color: Black
13) Favorite Animal(s): Deer, and tigers are some of my favs
14) Favorite Beverage: Just regular old lemonade 15) Hours to Sleep: Anywhere from 6 to 12 hours depending on how late I stayed up and when I have to get up. 16) Favorite Characters: Ty Blackthorn ( The Dark Artifices), Zuko ( ATLA ),Arya Dröttningu (Inheritance Cycle), Tsukishima Kei (Haikyuu!!) , Ciel Phantomhive ( Black Butler), Kit Herondale ( The Dark Artifices), Pidge Holt( Voltron), and many, many, many more.
17) Blanket Number: 2 usually 19) Follower Number: 101 20) Blog Created At: November 2016, I really haven’t been here that long
It’s been decades since the last deer died. Overhunting, destruction of habitat, poisoned water sources, and vehicle collisions exterminated them faster than anyone thought possible.
And even still, we see them sometimes on the darkest nights. Their anguished eyes shine crimson in our car headlights as they gather at the side of the road, huddling together in a silent and motionless congregation. Their heads turn in unison as their stares follow the course of our cars. Their antlers are tightly wound, like a nautilus shell. Their bared teeth are mangled and rotten. Sometimes, their wraithlike gazes meet ours.
When that happens, one of them will break from the multitude. The wayward creature will turn and leap into the road, suddenly blocking the forward trajectory of the car, preceding a horrific crunch of metal and a terrible shriek that might be the skidding of tires, our maybe our voices.
Soon the ambulance will arrive, and deaths will be declared. The medical technicians will note the blood stains on the road. No animal’s body will be found.
Only after we die and our spirits emerge into the valley of the dead, do we once again inhabit a world full of deer. They’re surrounding us now, unmoving, unspeaking, staring at us from the shadowy forests. There is accusation in those gleaming red eyes.
But as we begin to transform—our ghostly limbs elongatating, our fingers fusing into scaly hooves, thick gnarled antlers sprouting from our foreheads—we finally understand why these ghost deer cross the boundary between this realm and the world of the living. We understand a desire for revenge, for slaughter, for carnage. The yearning to impose the same genocide on humanity that was exacted on them.
So tonight, we’ve gathered together. We stand on four legs at the side of the road. We wait, poised and tense.
Our heads turn to watch the approach. We think we recognize the humans in oncoming the car. We meet the mournful, startled eyes of the children we left behind.
And then our feet kick suddenly into flight, dashing into the darkness, blinded by the bright light, casting a looming shadow over their frightened faces, a shadow of humanity’s impending annihilation.
It can’t be that hard to believe Andrei likes you both. xD You’re both Grumpy to a fault.
So what if she’s Childish and you are so very not.
He lets you both get away with murder. … that way. xD
… goddammit Agnes.
So what Andrei is attempting to do was for science and I learned something. Unfortunately I will have to revisit it but the conditions must be perfect, which they are currently not.
I learned that the hard way, which is why they sat in this alley in a back and forth, with my poor sim eating so much crow he did not have to eat and me feeling bad.
Double unfortunate is the fact that the thing I need to do with the perfect storm circumstances requires that Andrei’s pride remain bruised and for him to NOT slam Peter’s head into that dumpster, as would be protocol for this much needless apologizing.