Steve Rogers ☆ Captain America (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
punched_hitler) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
lastvoyageslogs2016-05-21 06:12 pm
punched_hitler) wrote in lastvoyageslogs2016-05-21 06:12 pm
Entry tags:
I know how to fake a hard look
Who: Steve Rogers and open! Please feel free to cross paths with his party, even if we never explicitly plotted anything
What: Traveling through the Land of the Dead
Where: The Land of the Dead
When: During the first three days of the Psuchopompos plot; Steve will be dead before his party reaches the Barge
Warnings: Depression, death; will add anything else as necessary
The Admiral doesn’t give them much warning; for as much preparation as he’s put into this, into making sure there’s food and weaponry available, Steve’s not even necessarily surprised when, shortly after a backpack appears at his feet - which he grabs with one hand - the Barge just… disappears from around him, even as he’s sprinting for T’Pol’s door.
He’s not sure if it was their proximity that deposited them here, in what must be the Land of the Dead, together, but he’s not really disappointed that they und up here together, either.
He is disappointed, however, to find that the instant his feet touched solid ground here, the unexpected weight of the shield on his back - he’s been carrying it with him everywhere he goes ever since the Admiral’s first warning - and the backpack in his hand bowled him over, leaving him flat on his back and staring up at a featureless sky, breathless, squinting - and small.
It’s not that he can’t function without the serum - he can, he has, and he will. But he knows it makes him more vulnerable, and it makes T’Pol - and Wash, and Kirk, after they’ve formed a small party - more vulnerable, too. And that’s what he regrets, even as he resolutely sits down and cuts off the bottom of his pants, uses the excess to pad his shoes enough that they fit, if not well, enough that they’ll stay on when tied tight, and just deals with the too-large shirt, the backpack, the shield strapped to the back. It feels like he must have three hundred pounds on his back, and it’s a relief that he can’t bring himself to hate, too much, when he can give the fifty-pound shield to Kirk.
By the middle of the third day, it’s clear Steve’s struggling - with everything - and just as clear that he’s doing his level best to hide that fact. He’s actually not too bad at the latter, after years of trying to downplay sicknesses, of trying to push through them, of knowing how to move the food around on his plate just so, so it looks like he’s eaten more than he has. But most of those things are strategies that don’t really work, here, when they’re relatively constantly on the move, or when he’s got a limited amount of food to choose from, and he ends up putting most of it back away uneaten.
There’s also the gnawing, gaping emptiness inside him; the last time he lost his soul, he remembers being the tiny, flickering thing, he remembers screaming, trying to fight to get back to a blank slate of a body. This time, he feels like the blank slate, and it’s probably the worst feeling he’s ever felt, but it’s hard to tell, because… it’s getting hard to care. It’s getting hard to think, or feel, or move, it’s getting hard to breathe (he doesn’t, of course, have an inhaler) and it’s getting harder to force himself up after every time they stop. He’s stopped talking much, but maybe no one’s noticed - he’s too busy counting breaths, trying to remember how Bucky did it for him, trying to make sure that every breath out has a matching breath in.
It’s getting hard to think about anything other than when they’ll stop to get a few hours of rest, or how he wants to just find a spot as far away from everyone else and just… lie down. Lie down, and maybe not get back up. He knows he’s felt this way before, but… he knows this time, it might be true. He's... not sure he has the energy to feel sorry about it, just now.
What: Traveling through the Land of the Dead
Where: The Land of the Dead
When: During the first three days of the Psuchopompos plot; Steve will be dead before his party reaches the Barge
Warnings: Depression, death; will add anything else as necessary
The Admiral doesn’t give them much warning; for as much preparation as he’s put into this, into making sure there’s food and weaponry available, Steve’s not even necessarily surprised when, shortly after a backpack appears at his feet - which he grabs with one hand - the Barge just… disappears from around him, even as he’s sprinting for T’Pol’s door.
He’s not sure if it was their proximity that deposited them here, in what must be the Land of the Dead, together, but he’s not really disappointed that they und up here together, either.
He is disappointed, however, to find that the instant his feet touched solid ground here, the unexpected weight of the shield on his back - he’s been carrying it with him everywhere he goes ever since the Admiral’s first warning - and the backpack in his hand bowled him over, leaving him flat on his back and staring up at a featureless sky, breathless, squinting - and small.
It’s not that he can’t function without the serum - he can, he has, and he will. But he knows it makes him more vulnerable, and it makes T’Pol - and Wash, and Kirk, after they’ve formed a small party - more vulnerable, too. And that’s what he regrets, even as he resolutely sits down and cuts off the bottom of his pants, uses the excess to pad his shoes enough that they fit, if not well, enough that they’ll stay on when tied tight, and just deals with the too-large shirt, the backpack, the shield strapped to the back. It feels like he must have three hundred pounds on his back, and it’s a relief that he can’t bring himself to hate, too much, when he can give the fifty-pound shield to Kirk.
By the middle of the third day, it’s clear Steve’s struggling - with everything - and just as clear that he’s doing his level best to hide that fact. He’s actually not too bad at the latter, after years of trying to downplay sicknesses, of trying to push through them, of knowing how to move the food around on his plate just so, so it looks like he’s eaten more than he has. But most of those things are strategies that don’t really work, here, when they’re relatively constantly on the move, or when he’s got a limited amount of food to choose from, and he ends up putting most of it back away uneaten.
There’s also the gnawing, gaping emptiness inside him; the last time he lost his soul, he remembers being the tiny, flickering thing, he remembers screaming, trying to fight to get back to a blank slate of a body. This time, he feels like the blank slate, and it’s probably the worst feeling he’s ever felt, but it’s hard to tell, because… it’s getting hard to care. It’s getting hard to think, or feel, or move, it’s getting hard to breathe (he doesn’t, of course, have an inhaler) and it’s getting harder to force himself up after every time they stop. He’s stopped talking much, but maybe no one’s noticed - he’s too busy counting breaths, trying to remember how Bucky did it for him, trying to make sure that every breath out has a matching breath in.
It’s getting hard to think about anything other than when they’ll stop to get a few hours of rest, or how he wants to just find a spot as far away from everyone else and just… lie down. Lie down, and maybe not get back up. He knows he’s felt this way before, but… he knows this time, it might be true. He's... not sure he has the energy to feel sorry about it, just now.
no subject
(She thought about taking the shield from him, but given how that worked out for her the last time, she opts to pile as much of his supplies into her bag as he'll allow. In her opinion, she doesn't allow enough, but all she can do is watch him from the corner of her eye to make sure he doesn't fall.
Their group grows, and it's a relief that immediately becomes a concern: she thought Jim would be able to help them fight, but it becomes apparent all too quickly that there isn't much fight in him. Wash she doesn't know, doesn't know how to judge, so she takes stock of herself.
She still has the knife Steve gave her, she still feels physically capable, if increasingly tired. When they are set upon because she knows it's a when, not an if in a place like this - she'll have to protect them.
(It doesn't occur to her that this is a strange thought, that she should think she'll have to protect herself instead.)
By the third day, she's feeling the strain, but it's not until she falls back to match her pace to Steve's that she really starts to worry.
"Captain," she says softly, and there's more concern in her voice than she would normally allow. "Do you need to rest?"
no subject
Still, her voice sounds uncharacteristically... emotional, and namely concerned - that's what he responds to more than anything else, really, making a face and shaking his head, though it's a minute before he actually speaks. "I'll rest when everybody else is ready to rest."
Yeah. Yeah, he wants to rest. He's so tired that he's not really sure how he's moving, but he is, and he doesn't want to hold the party back, not if they're going to wait for him. He either needs to keep going, or he needs to stop and make sure they'll go on without him, but right now the former seems more likely.
It's another few struggling breaths before he can lift his head again, trying to get a look at her face. "How are you holding up?"
no subject
(Normally, she would decide that a Human is a Human, and if he's weak, leave him behind. She might even think it of a Vulcan, but to everyone's surprise, T'Pol likes Steve well enough. She doesn't intend to let him disappear at the rear.)
Still, she matches her pace to his, notably struggling less but making no mention of it; her eyes keep flickering ahead and around, keeping Wash and Kirk in sight while making sure no creatures are about to take them by surprise. When he speaks, her gaze darts back to him. She hides the worry well, but it's creeping into the corners of her eyes.
"I can take more of your pack." It's her way of saying she's fine. She even holds her hand out for it, though she doubts Steve will hand it over. "If you have less of a burden, you may be able to keep up without wearing yourself down."
no subject
"It's the same burden as anybody else," he says, even as he's also thinking, in a way, that she needs what he's got more than he does. He's not even really hungry anymore, he's just tired, in this bone-deep way he can only remember feeling a couple of times before, and then only hazily, because he was tossing and turning with fever.
Still. "I don't care if you take what I have," is what he finally says, "but I might as well keep carrying it." He looks at her, at her face, slowing down a little more because it's hard to walk and breathe and actually pay attention to the things around him, but, "I've probably told you that you remind me of the sisters who ran the orphanage, huh?" He can't remember if he's told her that, actually, but he thinks suddenly about that look on different faces, that strange kind of almost detached but yet very real concern. He thinks of the time or two as a kid that he'd woken up out of those fevers, only to find that the nuns had called the priest into the orphanage's little sick room, sure he wasn't going to wake up again. Well, the joke was on them - he always woke up again. It seems to be a running theme. "If I stop to give it to you now, anyway - "
He's not sure he can get going again. Easier to keep up what momentum he has. "You should worry about yourself." It's partly a brush-off, but partly... he thinks she should. It's strange, that she's not.
no subject
She lets her hand drop, though she's clearly not very happy about it. "I don't need what you have," she says, because that seems like the most important thing to clarify. There's a frown pulling at her brows, and she's struggling to fight it back. Does he think she's trying to scavenge his resources before he's even dead? That sits even more heavily with her, leaves her even more uneasy than she was. "You would be better off conserving your strength." She says it because it's true, though she doesn't expect it to change anything. Instead she's silent for a long moment, still matching his pace, still trudging slowly beside him. She's kept her voice low this whole time, reluctant to air her concerns to the group as a whole. She's worried enough about Kirk as it is.
"You haven't mentioned the orphanage." She's not sure that keeping him talking is the solution, here, but maybe it will tire him out enough to rest. She won't accept that he won't be able to get back up again. She'll pull him up herself.
no subject
He's also got no real strength left to conserve; he feels worn thin, run down into nothing, and it's sheer will that's keeping him going, now. He's felt that way before, he's always come out of it all right, he reasons. But he doesn't really want to tell T'Pol how low he's running. He's having a hard time predicting how she'd take it, now, because he honestly would have thought she'd have been easier to convince to leave him behind before now. Kirk, maybe not. But T'Pol, certainly.
"No? I guess I must've just thought it, then," he says, letting out a breathless laugh. "But you do - remind me of the sisters, a little." Disciplined, sometimes disapproving, but - especially now - deep down, caring. "It's a good thing."
She's right, though - talking and walking is tiring. Tiring, and it's making his chest hurt. He glances back behind them, at the indistinct shapes of the things - ghosts - following them. He can guess at more than a few of them. "They're not back there, though," he says, after a minute. "I mean, everybody I know is dead, just about, but - the only ones I can make out are the ones I killed." HYDRA agents from two different decades, German soldiers, Chitauri. He feels like he's being stalked - knows he's being stalked - but while he wants to take the offensive, go charging in, he both knows that won't do any good, and he doesn't have the energy. He's also glad, beyond glad in a way that makes him sad at the same time, that his mother and father, the Commandos, Erskine, Phillips, don't seem to be among the shadows following them. He's admittedly done a lot of pointed not thinking about where they are and what it could potentially mean, in a lot of senses. "I'm not sure I want to see the rest here."
no subject
She sees her own monsters out there, her own ghosts, and the instinct to turn and run is high. but she steels herself, because she is very good at marshaling her will, and keeps her feet beside Steve's.
"I see Xindi." They're easy to spot: non-Human, and in five separate species, from insectoid to - well she's not exactly sure how the aquatics are moving here, but the whale-like creatures are there. She remembers how most of them died, how she configured their weapon to use against them.
Now T'Pol does touch his shoulder, gently, trying to get him to turn away. "I wouldn't suggest we stay to greet them." She sounds grim, because she knows he already knows that: she just doesn't have the words to say I'm worried about you. They don't fit right in her mouth, she can't make her tongue form them. "We can reach the ship in time." In time to be saved, or before they die, she doesn't know, just - in time.
no subject
He glances back up when she mentions the Barge, nodding a little vaguely, because he doesn't know what 'in time' means, either, but it's a goal, and at least it's a goal the four of them appear to share. If anything, the Barge will be shelter, it will be defensible, even if it's in pieces, because he has no clue what shape it's in, but at least it's familiar, when everything else here is not. It's a destination, it's hope, and those things are valuable, at a time like this.
But he's starting to slow down, and stumble a little; picking one foot up and placing it in front of the other is getting incrementally harder; he tries to distract himself, and do what he can for her too, while he picks up the pace, saying, "I meant what I said, when I said I wasn't afraid of this place. I meant what I said, when I said I wanted to get you off the Barge, when I said I wanted you to graduate, even though the system's broken."
He's not really sure why he's saying it now, other than... it feels like it's important to say out loud, again. In case she forgets, in the midst of all this. In case he... can't tell her for much longer. The hurt in his chest is getting sharper, and he recognizes it, knows it's his heart, knows he's pushed himself harder and farther than he really ever had before, even on the Barge. "I - we - " The next footfall is clumsy, the next step is jerky, and he doesn't want to stop, but - "Maybe I need a minute. Just a minute."
no subject
She's not angry now. "Vulcans used to call it Sha Ka Ree. I don't think it was an afterlife, exactly." But she hasn't made a study of ancient pagan religions: it's hard to know for sure. But that is far from the most important thing on her mind. She keeps glancing at Steve, and slows when he stumbles, her mouth pressing into a thin line. When he starts speaking - that's when she knows. She may reach the barge in time, and maybe she can get Kirk and Wash there.
But Steve won't make it.
It should be the sign to leave him, to take his pack and let him face his demons and the plans they have for him, to run as fast as they all can away from danger. Instead, she wraps her hand around his upper arm, steadying him. "Sit down." She turns her head toward their companions, calls for them to wait; T'Pol makes sure they heard, but not that they stop. She trusts they will.
"What's wrong?" Her mind is running through the supplies in her back, deciding what could be of use; she's already reaching for her canteen, handing it to him.
no subject
He stops when she touches him; he knows he just said he needed it, but he's still a little worried that when he stops -
He always gets back up, right? He always -
He sits down - practically falls down, really - and tries to keep himself sitting, because sitting up makes it easier to breathe than lying down. The pack gives him something, at least, to lean against. "Nothin' you can fix," he says firmly, dismissively, waving a hand at the canteen; he's not even really thirsty. "Not unless you've got a new heart in there. Don't worry about it - it happens sometimes." But... not usually this bad.
At least there's air. At least he's not drowning, he thinks. At least it's not the asthma, even if he's still gasping for breath, and his heart is beating painfully hard, painfully wrong, unevenly, in his chest.
He just wishes he didn't feel so empty. He's missing something, and he wishes he had it with him, now, because it might have been the only comfort he'd get. This isn't like before - this, he thinks, is a lot more like how he'd envisioned things. This is what he'd hated most about his body. "Go check on those screwballs," he says, meaning the rest of their party. "They probably need you a lot more than I do. I promise not to get up and run a marathon while you're away." Or even when she gets back - but he'll get up when she comes back, he tells himself. He has to. He'll get up. Except he's starting to slump, and he can't keep his eyes open. Breathing is taking everything he has. Bucky, he thinks vaguely, would be having heart palpitations of his own, right now. The jerk.
no subject
She slows his fall with her grip on his arm, and the worry is etched into her face now: she's struggling to hold it back. Don't die, she thinks, even as she knows that it will happen, it's going to happen, maybe it's happening now--
Her side aches where her heart thuds, already nearly twice as fast in rate as a Human's and thudding faster. Adrenaline is pumping through her, but she can't - it's won't, really, she won't leave him behind. For a moment she considers insisting he drink, insisting - something, anything, but all she can do is help to hold him upright. She tries not to look over his shoulder too often, at the milling spirits that have been following them.
When he tells her to go check on the others, she starts to shift, reluctant to obey but unwilling to disobey. But it's as she's rising, turning to call for Wash and Jim that she hears him start to slump: her sense of smell may have been fulled by her time with Humans, but not her hearing. She raises the alarm - "Captain Kirk!" - then crouches at her warden's side again.
"Captain," she murmurs, then shakes his shoulder gently. "Steve." There's some emotion in her voice that she doesn't entirely recognize, or at least, tells herself she doesn't: it's verging on grief, and she fights to hold it back. "You need to stay awake."
no subject
"Story of my life," he says, though it takes a couple of breaths to get even that much out. "I'm awake. I'm not gonna..." Except... he might. He thinks he really might, only it's like all those times before, sick in bed, delirious, when life and death seemed so very abstract, and he caught instead on the weirdest, stupidest things. "You think Buck'll be okay?" On his own, if Steve just lays down here, because... he wants to. He misses his soul, and what's the point of living without a soul? It's like not living at all, he thinks. It's like having a hole in you that keeps getting bigger, until you're nothing but emptiness.
Then, "Are you gonna be okay?" That - that seems a lot more pressing, right now. He's her warden. He can't leave her - his hand comes up, tries to grab her sleeve, tries to pull himself up again. He's got to keep going. He's got to get up. For Bucky, and for T'Pol.
Except his hand misses, and he just stares at it for a second, before glancing back up, like he knows what that means, finally. "You should go," he says quietly, around the worsening pain in his chest. If he can't pick himself back up again... he doesn't think he wants anyone to see.
no subject
She swallows, feeling her own emotions rising, dangerously close to the surface - they always are, always were, she needs to find a way to manage them, to grieve without letting it break her down. It's a hard line to walk. When he reaches for her, fails and lets his arm drop, she shifts from bracing him with a hand on his shoulder to wrapping her arm around his shoulders.
But he tells her to go, and T'Pol knows that is exactly the last thing she can do right now. "I am not leaving you here." She's pleased by how steady her voice is: it leaves no room for arguments, no room for grief. She found the line. Carefully, she pulls his pack off his shoulders, slings it over hers, hooking it over her own pack so it won't slide off. She'll carry him out of here if she has to.
no subject
Even so, "Doesn't make much sense, does it? I'm just - " A body, he's just a body, whatever it is that makes him whole is gone, and he isn't sure that this is the way to follow it, but it... sort of feels right, in this moment. It sort of feels like the natural choice, and even if he should want to go on, even if he does want to go on, the part of him that's missing is maybe the biggest part of why he always does keep going, and without it - without it, all he can do is feel empty until he can't feel anything else, except maybe a little relief that this time, this time he's not dying alone.
His head drops, finally, because the effort to hold it up is too great, because all he has energy to do is breathe in and out, and that's fading now, too, as the ache in his chest grows tighter, the pace of his heart stuttering, seizing. He finally lets out a little huff, almost a laugh, mostly a cough, and says, "Think I lied, before. I might be a little scared."
Then, "Sorry - I can't - "
It's the last thing he says.
no subject
"You're my warden." Maybe her friend, maybe close enough to count, but the word doesn't come. Her worry is too heavy in her throat, and it is grief that's boxing her in, making it hard to think logically. More than that, he's her captain: he's the kind of captain she could follow just about anywhere, because even like this, weak and dying, he doesn't think of himself first. He believes in fairness above most else.
She doesn't want to lose him to this place.
When he admits his fear, she holds her breath. And when his voice finally trails off, she closes her eyes. For a moment, a long one, spanning several of her faster-than-Human heartbeats, she can't hear anything around them. Anything could attack now, and she would barely notice.
That's when she starts speaking, still holding him up, one arm around his shoulders.
"Sha Ka Ree was supposed to be paradise. Thousands of years ago, when we still worshiped gods, my people thought we would return there in death." It's her turn to trail off, and for a moment she stares off into the middle distance, unseeing.
Then there's nothing for it but to box her emotions away. They have to keep moving, or they'll all go the same way. There's no guarantee here. There's nothing to do but keep going, so she shifts her packs, hands of Steve's, and lifts him over her shoulder. It will be difficult later, but right now - right now he barely weighs a thing. She isn't leaving him here.
Psuchopompos II: The unWrath of Kirk
It's a few hours before he realizes something's wrong. Something other than this place. Something with him.
The feeling is both familiar and not, enough like his normal self that, at first, he doesn't know the difference. After all, he's got enough to deal with, being suddenly deposited on his own in a landscape which vaguely resembles Delta Vega, with its red rocks and dark sky and... oh.
The grave. His grave, still there, though it shouldn't be because Gary's dead, Jim killed him, got him killed, whatever. The memory overwhelms him for a long moment, too long, and for some reason he can no longer feel or remember the cruel necessity of Gary's death, just that he'd caused the death of his best friend.
You never should have brought me, Jimbo. You knew you couldn't handle it, having me there.
He looks up. And there's Mitchell, eyes silver, pointing at him. No. No, this isn't happening. He can't do it again, can't bring himself to raise a hand or phaser against his Academy brother-in-arms. Instead, he begins to apologize, to try to reason Gary out of it and into a realization that they're in a dangerous place, that they both need to get out.
It's clear, to anyone approaching the scene, that Jim needs to fight back. And as the spirit of Gary streaks towards him, Jim only covers his face with his arm.
Kiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirk!
But gradually, the changeless landscape starts changing. Gradually, he becomes aware that there's... something in the distance, some kind of movement, something different. It's hard to tell - he stops, has to squint, and even then, he can't see it clearly - but all the same, he's suddenly running, as best he can with the shield and his backpack and his asthma, toward the scuffle, such as it is. He's not sure it is a scuffle, because the man he thought - thinks - can finally tell is Jim Kirk isn't doing anything but covering his face and waiting to be attacked, and that's not like him, but being small isn't like Steve anymore, and he wishes, honestly wishes, he could run faster, pull the shield off his back and hurl it at the attacker, anything, but -
The only plan he's got is to hurl himself, bodily, at the attacker, but he's not close enough yet. He's closing, though not as fast as he wishes, and panting hard with the effort, but he still manages to get out a breathless shout - "Kirk!"
no subject
It doesn't take much calculation to see it - and it doesn't take much effort to see that something is wrong with Kirk, too. He's not defending himself, why isn't he defending himself? In all their time aboard the ship, T'Pol has thought that Kirk and Rogers were naive in a similar way, but this? She never would have expected laying down to die from either of them.
Steve won't make it, but T'Pol can. She drops her pack for assurance, draws the knife from her hip in a smooth and practiced gesture. She passes Steve on his shorter legs, wants to tell him to stop, to save his breath, because if he has an asthma attack there is little they can hope to do for it - but this concern outweighs that one, and it looks very much, in her eyes, like Kirk is about to die.
Obviously, she can't let that happen.
She doesn't shout, doesn't want to let either of them know she's coming and besides, her focus is on speed: one moment she's running, the next she's slamming into Kirk's side to knock him out of the way, tumbling and twisting before gracefully rising to her feet, knife still in hand. If Jim won't fight, she will.
no subject
Says Furiosa, behind him, in one of those very bad moments. Her voice is quiet; if she can see what he's feeling, what's tempting him right now, she doesn't call him on it. Her group is a little ways behind her- not far enough to risk the danger of them separating, but enough that she's come upon him first, that they have just a little privacy.
"That you?"
no subject
"Furiosa, yeah. It's good to see you." It is, truly, because there are a lot of people on the Barge, and he hasn't run into nearly enough of them yet to assuage his worry. "How are you holding up?"
no subject
She'll assume that his size is what he lost, the way she had her words.
no subject
"I think I know what you mean - I'm glad you found it," he admits - and it's true, because the less time anyone has to feel the way he feels, the better. "You must have made it farther than we have."
Well. Not really surprising, honestly, considering he knows his group is lagging to let him keep up; he tries to pick up the pace, asking, "Do you need any more supplies?"
no subject
She says, and gives his little party a glance over.
"Are you making good time? Not too many dead rising up to interfere? A lot of people are getting hit out at by the souls of people they've fought and killed."
And he isn't exactly in a peaceful little team, is he? Not that any of them really are.
no subject
"We're all right," Steve insists, though he knows they'd be making better time without him. He'd be willing to go it alone, too - has mentioned it - but his party won't leave him, and... it's their choice. He can't make them. All he can do is make sure he doesn't take the help that someone else might need, so the tone of his voice when he answers her is firm, sure. "If they attack - we'll handle it. We've got weapons, and everyone knows how to fight."
He frowns, though, because Kirk... Kirk hadn't been fighting, when they'd saved him. That worries him, though what he eventually says is, "At least the ghosts are only concerned with the person who killed them. I can see why toughing it out alone isn't smart."
no subject
She admits, with a shiver, unable to help looking back over her shoulder. Because honestly;
"I've been luckier than I have any right."
no subject
"I don't think you can really kill ghosts, though," he observes quietly. "Maybe that's the hardest part. We already live with them, and now they're here, in our faces." He... doesn't mean to be so morose, really, but - this place sort of brings it out in you, all the same. "Have you found any stragglers yet?"
no subject
She murmurs, glancing out through the half-dark behind them.
"I think it's because this place is so fractured. Our way was nothing like this- and everyone you meet ahead will have come here by a different road, past a different set of landmarks, and over a different terrain. It feels- well, like the boat does, in a way. Like half the rooms are bigger than they should be."
no subject
"I guess that doesn't surprise me. Not all of the ghosts following us are human, so - I guess everybody comes here." Everybody meaning all cultures, and not just those that are human. "Still - if we're moving in the right direction, I'll be grateful."
no subject
She promises, quietly.
"You'll get there- just keep going. If there's one thing I think you're up for, Rogers, it's a long, hard day's work."
no subject
Of course, at the rest of it, one corner of his lips quirks up, because, "Is there any other kind?" It's half a tease, but... half not. He suspects that they both only know that kind of work, after all. He does glance behind him, at the ghosts still trailing their group, but... all they can do is keep going. So that's what they'll do.
"You know, I'm glad that not everyone is back there," he says, quietly, "I mean - I guess it sounds selfish, but there are a lot of people I know that... I'd want to be in a better place than this."
no subject
She admits, quietly.
"I mean, obviously it's happening, it can touch us, but you won't convince me that our minds aren't throwing our own ghosts at us. There's no way to know whether these are the spirits of our people, or whether they're just our memories, that the only bodies here are the ones we bring here in our heads."
no subject
"The power of guilt is pretty strong, either way. And a lot of us have been responsible for ending lives. Maybe even all of us."
no subject
She says, trying hard to think of anyone who hasn't- and realizing easily enough that she can't. In the slightest.
And speaking of which, it's around here that something begins to shift ahead of them, one of the dead moving towards them with a kind of interest that makes Furiosa's neck crawl.
no subject
If he was going to say more, though, he never gets the chance. When the figure peels away from the group, Steve stops speaking, his body going tense. He doesn't have the shield - Kirk's carrying it - but there was a knife in the pack that the Admiral gave him, and he draws it now, slowly, holding it by his side. He can't see the figure clearly in the distance - astigmatism - but he's squinting, trying to make them out, wondering if it's a HYDRA agent (choose your decade), a Chitauri - or one of hers. It looks human, though. "Think that's one of yours, or one of mine?" He sounds casual, but he's on edge, absolutely.
no subject
She says, voice going dry. The man is white- not ghost white, but painted white. His deep hollow eyes clear up, turn into a pair of goggles. He's in combat gear just like hers, except his chest is bare. He has Nux's scars.
"Oh-"
It's just- sorrowful. He doesn't look angry, exactly, though it's difficult to tell, because of his covered eyes.
no subject
When Furiosa speaks, he glances over at her, then back at the dead boy. "I don't know much about your world. Or about... the way people are in it." Then, "Did you know him?"
He knows that just because you caused someone's death doesn't necessarily mean you knew them.
no subject
She supplies, voice a little dry.
"I-- I killed him. Doing something that mattered, but I-- I don't think I can talk about this here, Rogers. I'll slip off the path, right?"
no subject
"Sorry. Come on - " He reaches out a hand to her, tries to pick up the pace, even though when he does, it's still going to be slower than anything she could easily manage on her own. He knows he's falling behind, but maybe he can put on a little extra speed, for her, for now. "We'll stick together for a bit."
no subject
On the evening the second day he settles close to Steve while he eats his evening rations. "So. This whole ..." He motions to Steve's body "... thing, what is that about? I thought you were from what is way in the past for me."
no subject
He doesn't know much about Wash, so he might mistakenly assume he is a rookie. Even so, some of the chattiness and goofiness is welcome, because Steve doesn't have the energy or the desire to keep up any of that, himself.
When Wash settles next to him, Steve's mostly picking at what rations he has, doing his best to eat a few mouthfuls and maybe discreetly making it look like he's doing more than that. He glances over at the question, smiling wryly, swallowing his bite before he answers. "I think I must be, actually - it was sort of a fluke. It was an experiment that only worked the once." Well. Mostly. Close enough. "I was born in 1918." Just to confirm that he's probably from the past.
no subject
no subject
At the question, he nods - well. He's never really heard it called the Sol system, but, "Yes," he confirms. "I'm from Earth. New York - if that still exists in six hundred years. You are, too?"
no subject
no subject