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ficlet: AoA/X-Men, untitled and unfinished
I... have no idea where this was. It was in my saved drafts folder in gmail (thank goodness). Er. Spoilersfor AOA.
Everyone remembers the day the bombs fell on North America--what was left of North America after Poccy's minions had slaughtered billions. Mountains of skulls and bones giving life to terror and fear, filth and squalor.
The bombs fell, obliterating the tens of thousands of mutants left, the echelons of Poccy's army, the innocents, and the breeding pens.
Everyone remembers, but no one knows exactly how it happened.
-
"I should be dead."
Scott Summers doesn't look up from the careful stitches he sets in the leather. The vest needed only a few more patches and he'd be able to wear it again. He needed the protection.
"All of us--I felt us all die."
You are dead, he thought, but didn't say. He knew that if he looked at her, there would be an oddness to her movements. As if after-images were caught sideways in time, half a step behind her reality, half a step forward of it.
"Talk to me."
He has, before. He doesn't plan to, now.
"Please. I don't understand all of this."
That made two of them.
-
There are days when he's hauling rock, carting bodies, helping to raise the dregs of civilization against incredible odds that he almost doesn't see her. Then he'll glance sideways, catch sight of her frustrated as she tries to help, tries to lift and fails.
Most days, she just stands, watching with distant eyes that see everything and nothing.
-
"I died."
Five months. Scott makes a mark on the wall, and drags his voice out. It's rusty with disuse. He only grunts, most days. "You figured that out, huh?"
"Bombs were falling. And I died." Jean shifts, and he can almost feel the breeze of it, smell that peculiar mixture of skin and soap, fumes and cracked earth from that day.
"Why am I still here, Scott?"
Not a question he can answer.
----er, I have one minute left, shall post now and write more later.
Everyone remembers the day the bombs fell on North America--what was left of North America after Poccy's minions had slaughtered billions. Mountains of skulls and bones giving life to terror and fear, filth and squalor.
The bombs fell, obliterating the tens of thousands of mutants left, the echelons of Poccy's army, the innocents, and the breeding pens.
Everyone remembers, but no one knows exactly how it happened.
-
"I should be dead."
Scott Summers doesn't look up from the careful stitches he sets in the leather. The vest needed only a few more patches and he'd be able to wear it again. He needed the protection.
"All of us--I felt us all die."
You are dead, he thought, but didn't say. He knew that if he looked at her, there would be an oddness to her movements. As if after-images were caught sideways in time, half a step behind her reality, half a step forward of it.
"Talk to me."
He has, before. He doesn't plan to, now.
"Please. I don't understand all of this."
That made two of them.
-
There are days when he's hauling rock, carting bodies, helping to raise the dregs of civilization against incredible odds that he almost doesn't see her. Then he'll glance sideways, catch sight of her frustrated as she tries to help, tries to lift and fails.
Most days, she just stands, watching with distant eyes that see everything and nothing.
-
"I died."
Five months. Scott makes a mark on the wall, and drags his voice out. It's rusty with disuse. He only grunts, most days. "You figured that out, huh?"
"Bombs were falling. And I died." Jean shifts, and he can almost feel the breeze of it, smell that peculiar mixture of skin and soap, fumes and cracked earth from that day.
"Why am I still here, Scott?"
Not a question he can answer.
----er, I have one minute left, shall post now and write more later.