Erik Lensherr | ( Magneto ) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wecanavenge) wrote2012-11-19 03:58 pm
wecanavenge) wrote2012-11-19 03:58 pm
Entry tags:
- [comm] lastvoyages,
- a time bomb ticking away,
- actual table flipping,
- anger and pain are the keys,
- careful he might accidentally break shit,
- fuck this shit i'll kill those fucks,
- fuck you edith piaf this is your fault,
- fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you,
- fuck you shaw,
- i hate feelings,
- no one was meant to see this,
- pretty much going insane,
- shaw's fault too definitely his fault
✘ | 015 | VIDEO
[When the camera clicks on, there's just the Cloverfield/Blair Witch Project effect: everything is shaky and slow to focus. The feed shows one of the suites, and the movement blurs things over - is that confetti on the floor, or just dust? Is the drapery meant to be that red, or was something splattered there? But there isn't long to dwell on those mysteries, because the camera finally focuses on Erik. His eyes are wide, and a little wild; at first the camera is too close as he shifts his grip on the device, and that's all there is to see: very wide, very angry eyes.]
Shh, [he says sharply, pulling the communicator back again. The door into the hall is behind him, and wide open.] Can you hear it?
[Maybe you'll hear nothing. It's faint, certainly, and Erik scowls, glancing around.] Shh, shh!
[And then, just maybe, you'll hear a song drifting up. It's old, decades old, but he recognizes it. His eyes leave the device, and he stares at something off screen for a moment. Then he lets go of the communicator, and for a moment, the camera is in free fall - but it lifts again, steadier this time, without Erik's hand holding it. It hovers in front of him again. Behind him, the door is closed.
Some of the anger clears from his face, and as the song gets louder - for him, at least, he joins in the verse.]
[For a moment, everything is still and (mostly) quiet. Then the anger floods back, and Erik waves his hand; the communicator is thrown across the room, where it falls, propped up against the wall. It has a good view of the suite, and of the damage Erik is doing to it. Mirrors shatter as their metal frames twist in on themselves, drawers with metal runners launch themselves out of dressers and desks, the room seems to destroy itself. And Erik steps into the frame amid the wreckage, pointing at - well. At what might be nothing, or what might be a man in a silver helmet.]
You son of a bitch! You son of a bitch, you turn it off!
[He sweeps his arms wildly, and cracks appear along the ceiling; dust filters down on the communicator, and then there is nothing as beams fall on it.]
[Spam for Charles]
[He has to get out of here. Charles was right, he was so right, everything is wrong here. Because Shaw is here. Schmidt. Erik has seen him - how many times, now? Once in the helmet, twice in the glasses and suit he was so fond of in Germany. He left his communicator in the suite when he barreled out of there, abandoning everything. He doesn't even stop to find a jacket, or gloves - glad only in his turtleneck, Erik rushes down the main stairs, swings his arm to throw the front door open ahead of him, and rushes out into the snow. He's soaked halfway up his calves in seconds, and it's frigid, but he doesn't stop.
Du und ich werden viel Spaß zusammen haben. He spins to the side, but can't see Schmidt, can't even hear him anymore. Over his harsh breathing, and the shivering in his limbs, there is only the quiet of snow falling.]
[Spam for Tosh]
[He was still shivering, even after sitting in front of the fire in the lobby for a long few minutes. His clothes were still damp, and so was the blanket he'd found laying about and wrapped around his shoulders, but it didn't matter. He was already warmer, and he didn't much feel like venturing back up toward the rooms to find dry clothes. He didn't feel like venturing back there at all, certainly not to retrieve his communicator.
Charles had left him to warm up, though not to be alone with his thoughts; Erik knew that Charles was handling this place poorly, that it was wreaking havoc on his mind, but - and he couldn't help the sardonic little smile - he wasn't alone in that. Charles had gone off to actually eat or sleep, two things he hadn't done much of since getting here, and that was fine with Erik.
Being alone was nothing new for him.
And so far, everything had been normal. Schmidt wasn't whispering in his ear anymore, wasn't telling him that the pain would stop once he learned to control his gift. But that had been a lit, because the pain had never stopped. Erik shook his head to clear his thoughts, and stood, grabbing for the poker to stoke the fire higher.]
(OOC: Lyrics translation: 'He speaks to me words of love/Words of every day/And it makes me something/He has entered my heart/A place of happiness/Of which I understand the reason.' For maximum dear God why-ness. The German is 'You and I are going to have a lot of fun together.')
Shh, [he says sharply, pulling the communicator back again. The door into the hall is behind him, and wide open.] Can you hear it?
[Maybe you'll hear nothing. It's faint, certainly, and Erik scowls, glancing around.] Shh, shh!
[And then, just maybe, you'll hear a song drifting up. It's old, decades old, but he recognizes it. His eyes leave the device, and he stares at something off screen for a moment. Then he lets go of the communicator, and for a moment, the camera is in free fall - but it lifts again, steadier this time, without Erik's hand holding it. It hovers in front of him again. Behind him, the door is closed.
Some of the anger clears from his face, and as the song gets louder - for him, at least, he joins in the verse.]
Il me dit des mots d’amour
Des mots de tous les jours
Et ça me fait quelque chose
Il est entré dans mon coeur
Une part de bonheur
Dont je connais la cause.
[For a moment, everything is still and (mostly) quiet. Then the anger floods back, and Erik waves his hand; the communicator is thrown across the room, where it falls, propped up against the wall. It has a good view of the suite, and of the damage Erik is doing to it. Mirrors shatter as their metal frames twist in on themselves, drawers with metal runners launch themselves out of dressers and desks, the room seems to destroy itself. And Erik steps into the frame amid the wreckage, pointing at - well. At what might be nothing, or what might be a man in a silver helmet.]
You son of a bitch! You son of a bitch, you turn it off!
[He sweeps his arms wildly, and cracks appear along the ceiling; dust filters down on the communicator, and then there is nothing as beams fall on it.]
[Spam for Charles]
[He has to get out of here. Charles was right, he was so right, everything is wrong here. Because Shaw is here. Schmidt. Erik has seen him - how many times, now? Once in the helmet, twice in the glasses and suit he was so fond of in Germany. He left his communicator in the suite when he barreled out of there, abandoning everything. He doesn't even stop to find a jacket, or gloves - glad only in his turtleneck, Erik rushes down the main stairs, swings his arm to throw the front door open ahead of him, and rushes out into the snow. He's soaked halfway up his calves in seconds, and it's frigid, but he doesn't stop.
Du und ich werden viel Spaß zusammen haben. He spins to the side, but can't see Schmidt, can't even hear him anymore. Over his harsh breathing, and the shivering in his limbs, there is only the quiet of snow falling.]
[Spam for Tosh]
[He was still shivering, even after sitting in front of the fire in the lobby for a long few minutes. His clothes were still damp, and so was the blanket he'd found laying about and wrapped around his shoulders, but it didn't matter. He was already warmer, and he didn't much feel like venturing back up toward the rooms to find dry clothes. He didn't feel like venturing back there at all, certainly not to retrieve his communicator.
Charles had left him to warm up, though not to be alone with his thoughts; Erik knew that Charles was handling this place poorly, that it was wreaking havoc on his mind, but - and he couldn't help the sardonic little smile - he wasn't alone in that. Charles had gone off to actually eat or sleep, two things he hadn't done much of since getting here, and that was fine with Erik.
Being alone was nothing new for him.
And so far, everything had been normal. Schmidt wasn't whispering in his ear anymore, wasn't telling him that the pain would stop once he learned to control his gift. But that had been a lit, because the pain had never stopped. Erik shook his head to clear his thoughts, and stood, grabbing for the poker to stoke the fire higher.]
(OOC: Lyrics translation: 'He speaks to me words of love/Words of every day/And it makes me something/He has entered my heart/A place of happiness/Of which I understand the reason.' For maximum dear God why-ness. The German is 'You and I are going to have a lot of fun together.')
[Spam]
So he tore down the hall, down the stairs, distantly almost impressed that he hadn't tripped over his own feet and ran out the door after his friend.]
Erik, stop! [He almost hesitates by the door, just like he'd done at the CIA facility when Erik had almost left, but this is more desperate, because the idiot wasn't wearing a jacket and there's no where to run to, he knew, he'd been outside before the snow had started falling even harder, and he was already shivering as he waded through the snow after Erik, despite the fact that he was wearing a sweater and shirt under his jacket.]
Where are you going?
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It's given her a lot of time to get reacquainted with old friends.
She's never shrugged off her guilt. The lives lost because of her - she carries them around with her, dull scars on her heart that still throb with pain whenever she holds still long enough. And the Barge - the Barge is good for nothing if not encouraging stillness. She finds distractions for herself but it's never enough, not really, and if the Barge is painful then the Overlook Hotel is torture.
She wakes on Monday morning to find Tommy Brockless in her bed and he asks if she slept as well the night after she sent him to the firing squad. When she stumbles out of the shower, Mary hands her a towel and tells her that all she'd wanted was to go home. Owen watches her eat in the kitchen and tells her that he'd known she loved him, he'd always known, but the day would never come that he wouldn't take his empty one-night stands over the love of someone as screwed up as her.
When she curls up in the corner of her room on Tuesday evening and presses the heels of her hands against her eyes, Harper chips in, asking softly if she remembers her other self, the woman she briefly became who couldn't feel guilt or pain or love. If she didn't miss that pleasant, predictable numbness and she does, God help her, she'd give anything for life to be so simply again.
He touches her pale cheeks and rubs her quaking shoulders and tells her she can make that happen, and she just nods.
She doesn't even really remember walking back downstairs. She's been longer than thirty-six hours without sleep before, and handled it better, but right now she feels floating and disconnected. The lobby's warm but she observes it rather than feels it.]
Erik.
[She knew he'd gone. More or less.]
Thank God you're alright. I was worried.
[Entirely true, for entirely the wrong reasons.]
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