mental link, day...36? sure.

[headinjuries]

[ Technically, it came up a few days ago, but Sam's been letting something bounce around in his head to see if the possibility gets less troublesome after he sleeps on it. And sleeps on it a couple more times.

or he's just saying it late so the newbies can hear it too, w/e

It's not getting any less freaky. So, out of left field: ]

( So if aliens can hack our emotions, do we...actually know they can't mess with everything else? Memories? Are we actually who we think we are?

What if there is no spoon? )

Comments

wah pinches your cute cheeks

[deployed]

[ The static is uncomfortable, makes him wince the same way feeling too much of Ren's mind against his own does. Bellamy doesn't relent in spite of it. He presses back, meets the returned static with the same steady warmth. ]

( Hey, ) [ gruff, Bellamy's voice unspooling between them. ] ( You aren't there. Focus on me, not that. It's over. )

[ Until Sam gets there. He'll handle it, Bellamy knows. Sam Wilson is the better choice between them. Lurking in the back of Bellamy's mind are memories that are all too similar to the flashes and static Bucky's offering. ]

ㅎㅅㅎ

[bracchium]

[The continued contact fields more static, though the sharpness dulls with Bellamy's steady presence. However, the words don't quite filter through the screen of panic and hopelessness; it isn't over. It's never going to be over. He never got out. Freeze, thaw, screams and his hands dig into flesh with practiced ease. Freeze, thaw.]

[deployed]

[ Maybe an interruption—

Bellamy projects heat, the memory of an explosion to counter the chill of Bucky's thoughts. Bellamy's never weaponized his own memories, and he's very rarely offered them up deliberately. This is important enough to try. He shares the sensation of being blown from the air vent, the impact of his landing and the rush of adrenaline that had gripped him in the aftermath.

It's not real, you're not there anymore. Focus on me. ]

[bracchium]

[Fire breathes hot against his neck and he finds himself pinned against his pod. Crimson and goldenrod swings in to hit him as metal shears away in bursts of flame. Someone's keeping him here, locked inside with no escape.

He snarls as he swings, trying to break free of the iron clutched at his shoulders.

I remember them. Floods his mind. Men, women, children begging for their lives, but destroyed in the same way one might swat a fly.]