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FIFTY SIX ✖ SPAM/VIDEO
[Spam for Erik]
[He could remember dying. He'd known he'd already lost way too much blood, and his too smart for his own good brain was reminding him that it can take only minutes to bleed out after severing the right artery, and from the amount of blood, he could tell the damage was bad. Really bad.
Shaw had been looking down at him, shaking his head and smiling almost apologetically, patronizing, like Charles was just a child who had done something almost endearing, but against the rules all the same, and thus punishment had to be dealt out. They'd exchanged words - not really the poignant last words Charles would have liked to be remembered for, if he had to die - and Shaw had just clucked his tongue and shook his head before almost shrugging and turning away, like it didn't matter anymore.]
"Well, I suppose now it can't hurt."
[He'd pulled the helmet off, and Charles couldn't help it, his mind was too weak, he couldn't control the impulse to reach out to it, and suddenly he could hear everything, and he wanted to scream, but he didn't have the energy. It was awful, it was too much, he could see too many things, Shaw's visions of the future, with him as king of a desolate wasteland, in the White House of all places, and snatches of things he'd done, talking to the kids, calmly destroying the CIA agents at the base, killing Darwin, and worse things, things he'd done before Cuba, during the war, at one of the camps, torturing a mutant child after shooting his mother in front of him, trying to force him into using his gift by any means necessary, and he couldn't hold back a strangled grunt that would have been a scream if he wasn't bleeding to death and choking on his own blood.
Everything had started fading, his vision getting spotty, and it was strange, but he could hear something, something talking to him, asking what wouldn't he do to reverse this, to stop this all from happening, it's a person - a man? - but Shaw and Azazel and Angel and the other man didn't seem to notice him, and he's telling him about an opportunity, and yes, yes, Charles didn't care what it was, he just wanted to fix this, he just wanted this to have never happened, he just wanted everyone to be safe-
He could remember all that. But he wasn't dead. He was still breathing, and although he ached all over, it didn't hurt anymore, and he grimaced and tried to force his eyes open, squinting against the brightness, slowly pushing himself to a sitting position and trying to inspect the damage.
Except... there wasn't really any. There was blood all over the front of the gray jumpsuit he'd been issued by the CIA, staining the fabric a rusty black, but there was no sign of the wound, like it just never happened, except the evidence of it was all over him. He could still remember what it felt like, the hot line of pain through his abdomen as the blade had gone in, punching through the protective material like it was nothing, and then slowly dragging out again before his knees gave out and he collapsed to the floor. There was dried blood on his chin, too, smeared on his lips, but he could breathe freely again, the wet feeling of blood in his lungs long gone even as he felt panic start to rise in his chest.
And suddenly he realized that he recognized this place, this room. It was a room at the mansion, somewhere he hadn't been since he left for Oxford, somewhere he honestly wouldn't have been sorry never see again, except it looked lived in. Like he'd been living here, or someone had just dropped his things off and expected him to be staying here.
What the hell was happening?]
Moira? [It was barely more than a mumble as he tried to scrub the blood off his chin, slowly pushing himself to his feet and fighting dizziness.] Moira?
[No response. He couldn't feel her mind, either, or the minds of anyone else familiar, not Raven or the other recruits, or any of the agents they'd worked with, or Shaw and his followers. He stumbled over to the door, pulling it open and saw-
Well. Not the hallways of the mansion, that's for sure.]
Moira!
[He's panicking, he knows he's panicking, and once he calms down, he'll remember having made a deal with the Admiral, but right now calm feels very far away, and the conversation with the Admiral maybe just like a hallucination, and so he runs down the hall and up the stairs, finally tearing open the door to the deck and seeing-
Stars. He's in space. Open space, and he couldn't tell if he'd forgotten how to breathe or if he was just hyperventilating as he staggers out and away from the door, completely failing at coping at all with what he was seeing.
He'd died. Azazel had killed him, Shaw had won, and this - whatever this was - was the afterlife, and he sucked in a gasp of air that sounded more like a miserable sob than anything else, because this meant that everything, everything was gone.]
[Public]
[Charles doesn't manage to post anything to the network until around midday, and when he does, he's at least showered and changed his clothes, but he still looks exhausted and a little in shock. There are dark bags under his eyes, and he looks pale and less well put together than usual. His hair's a little mussed, and he's wearing a gray t-shirt instead of his usual button up shirts and sweaters. He can barely seem to manage a smile for the camera, and his voice is tired and deliberate.]
My name is Charles Xavier, and I suppose I've been taken on by the Admiral to work here as a warden for the time being. If anyone has any advice or words of wisdom, I would appreciate hearing them.
[He looks like he's maybe considering saying something else, but instead just reaches over to turn off the feed.]
[He could remember dying. He'd known he'd already lost way too much blood, and his too smart for his own good brain was reminding him that it can take only minutes to bleed out after severing the right artery, and from the amount of blood, he could tell the damage was bad. Really bad.
Shaw had been looking down at him, shaking his head and smiling almost apologetically, patronizing, like Charles was just a child who had done something almost endearing, but against the rules all the same, and thus punishment had to be dealt out. They'd exchanged words - not really the poignant last words Charles would have liked to be remembered for, if he had to die - and Shaw had just clucked his tongue and shook his head before almost shrugging and turning away, like it didn't matter anymore.]
"Well, I suppose now it can't hurt."
[He'd pulled the helmet off, and Charles couldn't help it, his mind was too weak, he couldn't control the impulse to reach out to it, and suddenly he could hear everything, and he wanted to scream, but he didn't have the energy. It was awful, it was too much, he could see too many things, Shaw's visions of the future, with him as king of a desolate wasteland, in the White House of all places, and snatches of things he'd done, talking to the kids, calmly destroying the CIA agents at the base, killing Darwin, and worse things, things he'd done before Cuba, during the war, at one of the camps, torturing a mutant child after shooting his mother in front of him, trying to force him into using his gift by any means necessary, and he couldn't hold back a strangled grunt that would have been a scream if he wasn't bleeding to death and choking on his own blood.
Everything had started fading, his vision getting spotty, and it was strange, but he could hear something, something talking to him, asking what wouldn't he do to reverse this, to stop this all from happening, it's a person - a man? - but Shaw and Azazel and Angel and the other man didn't seem to notice him, and he's telling him about an opportunity, and yes, yes, Charles didn't care what it was, he just wanted to fix this, he just wanted this to have never happened, he just wanted everyone to be safe-
He could remember all that. But he wasn't dead. He was still breathing, and although he ached all over, it didn't hurt anymore, and he grimaced and tried to force his eyes open, squinting against the brightness, slowly pushing himself to a sitting position and trying to inspect the damage.
Except... there wasn't really any. There was blood all over the front of the gray jumpsuit he'd been issued by the CIA, staining the fabric a rusty black, but there was no sign of the wound, like it just never happened, except the evidence of it was all over him. He could still remember what it felt like, the hot line of pain through his abdomen as the blade had gone in, punching through the protective material like it was nothing, and then slowly dragging out again before his knees gave out and he collapsed to the floor. There was dried blood on his chin, too, smeared on his lips, but he could breathe freely again, the wet feeling of blood in his lungs long gone even as he felt panic start to rise in his chest.
And suddenly he realized that he recognized this place, this room. It was a room at the mansion, somewhere he hadn't been since he left for Oxford, somewhere he honestly wouldn't have been sorry never see again, except it looked lived in. Like he'd been living here, or someone had just dropped his things off and expected him to be staying here.
What the hell was happening?]
Moira? [It was barely more than a mumble as he tried to scrub the blood off his chin, slowly pushing himself to his feet and fighting dizziness.] Moira?
[No response. He couldn't feel her mind, either, or the minds of anyone else familiar, not Raven or the other recruits, or any of the agents they'd worked with, or Shaw and his followers. He stumbled over to the door, pulling it open and saw-
Well. Not the hallways of the mansion, that's for sure.]
Moira!
[He's panicking, he knows he's panicking, and once he calms down, he'll remember having made a deal with the Admiral, but right now calm feels very far away, and the conversation with the Admiral maybe just like a hallucination, and so he runs down the hall and up the stairs, finally tearing open the door to the deck and seeing-
Stars. He's in space. Open space, and he couldn't tell if he'd forgotten how to breathe or if he was just hyperventilating as he staggers out and away from the door, completely failing at coping at all with what he was seeing.
He'd died. Azazel had killed him, Shaw had won, and this - whatever this was - was the afterlife, and he sucked in a gasp of air that sounded more like a miserable sob than anything else, because this meant that everything, everything was gone.]
[Public]
[Charles doesn't manage to post anything to the network until around midday, and when he does, he's at least showered and changed his clothes, but he still looks exhausted and a little in shock. There are dark bags under his eyes, and he looks pale and less well put together than usual. His hair's a little mussed, and he's wearing a gray t-shirt instead of his usual button up shirts and sweaters. He can barely seem to manage a smile for the camera, and his voice is tired and deliberate.]
My name is Charles Xavier, and I suppose I've been taken on by the Admiral to work here as a warden for the time being. If anyone has any advice or words of wisdom, I would appreciate hearing them.
[He looks like he's maybe considering saying something else, but instead just reaches over to turn off the feed.]
Video
Video
[ Individuals, smaller. Worlds, smaller. ]
It's not a bad thing. It means that everything doesn't rest on our shoulders.
Video
Video
Video
Video
Video
Video
Video
Of course. I'll do my best.
I don't believe I caught your name?
Video
[ Family name is a sore spot, so he's going to cut that question off right at the pass. ]
Video
It's a pleasure to meet you.
Video
Do you want company?
Video
He swallowed, taking a breath before responding.]
I think that might be good, yes. I still haven't been given a proper tour of the ship?
Video - want to spam?
Video - I'm game if you are c:
Video
Video
spam
spam
Hello.
no subject
He burns zinc and brass, feels the twin sensations in the pit of his stomach. He has all of the basic metals, right now, plus duralumin - a paranoid reflex, leaving him ready for everything.
So he gives a delicate nudge to Charles' emotions, making some effort to be undetectable (though it was never his strong suit), gently Soothing some of the fear and skittishness he senses in the other's form. ]
Where do you want to start? Warden areas?
no subject
It's not bad, more like balm on old wounds than something unnatural or unwanted. Zane's only trying to help and so he doesn't reflexively try to block it or stop him from doing whatever it was, and for the first time since arriving here, the relative lack of anxiety lets him actually look interested and curious instead of gutted when he really looks at him.]
What are you doing?
no subject
He eases back on the brass. Draws back, slightly, from Charles. ]
I'm sorry.
no subject
It's alright, I don't mind. I was just curious. [He hesitates, not sure if he wants to just tell people this, here. Erik had seemed reluctant to be too open about what he was capable of, but he wondered if that had more to do with bad memories than because people here were actually intolerant of the gifted.] I've met several people who are capable of truly exceptional things. Are you an empath?
no subject
No. It's - no, not quite. It's called Soothing. It's one of several things a Mistborn can do.
[ He is puzzled. ]
You don't mind?
no subject
I've never heard the term "Mistborn" before.
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