station72 | [ open ] the house was awake with shadows and monsters...

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[ open ] the house was awake with shadows and monsters...

CHARACTERS: Rogue & Anyone
WHERE: Hyrypia - The Red Coast - The Barracks
WHEN: Day :028 - :033
SUMMARY: Rogue has nightmares, including of her time during the war. Anyone in the Nest and especially Avior is welcome to experience them in any fashion and/or be present for the aftermath and/or approach her about them during the day.
WARNINGS: Torture, death, imprisonment. Likely concentration camps and suicidal thoughts.

[ She doesn't mean to, and she'll feel terrible each and every time it happens. The nightmares have been near nightly companions for years now, ebbing and flowing through her sleep like oxygen through her lungs. A sound sleep is nothing more than a ephemeral dream for her now, and hard as she tries to shore up her shields each day, there are still too many cracks in the walls of that old plantation house to keep those dark thoughts contained. The memories of the war, the twisted hallways of her mind, the echoes of screams. She tries so hard, and still every night she wakes with a quiet gasp, shaking on the small bed and clutching the blanket she's been provided, trying with all her might not to wake the others.

Some nights she stays there in the little house, finding what comfort she can in the presence of her Nestmates, and other nights she pulls on her costume and flees, needing fresh air and open skies to remind her that she isn't a prisoner any longer. Sleep isn't something that will come to her easily again, and so she'll be awake for hours to come, even staying up to see the sun rise in the sky. It's a sight she's sorely missed, and even now it doesn't feel quite real. There are times when nothing feels real at all. ]

{ NIGHTMARE : the forest }

[ She doesn't feel the branches that tug at her uniform and scratch at her face, tearing strands of hair as she runs, every ounce of energy focused on staying upright, keeping moving, fleeing for her life. The others are up ahead, she'd stayed behind to give them more time, even seconds too precious to waste now. There are footsteps thundering close behind her, and the searchlights of the Sentinels pan nearby as they work to pinpoint the mutant gene within her.

It's a stone that is her downfall, quite literally. A simple rock the size of her hand, enough of a deterrent to cause her to stumble, balance tipping just long enough, and then there's a body ramming into hers and she fights. Like a wild animal, she kicks and punches with every ounce of strength she has left, scrambling for purchase among those layers of fabric to find even an inch of skin. Just one touch, that's all she needs, but the soldier's snapping a collar around her neck before she can manage it. A collar for the animal they believe she is. And still she fights. ]

{ NIGHTMARE : the lab }

[ Cerebro. The mansion. These monsters had gutted the place she'd called home and turned it into— Hell. She'd seen the gates around the perimeter, heard the screams as she was dragged down to the basement levels. The metal plating that had once been warm is now icy to the touch, barren of familiarity and stained with the souls of every mutant brought inside. Because she knows none of them leave, that isn't what this place is for. They're making the Sentinels stronger by studying mutants, and to do that—

Strapped to a metal table, they stand over her, scientists covered in sterile garb, practically every inch of them hidden from view. They might as well be alien, for all their resemblance to human beings. And as they cut into her, again and again, she sees that cruel humanity in them again. It's for science, the way they slice away a strip of skin from her forearm, right above the string of characters tattooed into her skin. M4827. They're doing their duty as the burn her other arm, searing the skin until it bubbles and blackens. They're saving the world by wheeling in another mutant, restrained and wearing an inhibitor collar, and forcing her bare hand to press against his skin. His scream echoes in her mind as she absorbs him against her will, and she begs them to stop, the words a jumbled mess as his healing factor becomes her own, the wounds vanishing as the skin regenerates, but they don't stop until the light leaves his eyes and there's no one staring back at her anymore.

I'm so sorry. Long seconds pass as they record their findings, and then it begins again. ]

{ NIGHTMARE : the mind }

[ The only home she has left is the one within her mind, the great plantation house Charles had helped her erect nearly two decades ago. Painted white and nestled within a sea of green life, sometimes she sits on that sprawling porch and enjoys a moment of peace and quiet, this being the only place she can retreat where none of the psyches will venture. Her sole source of solitude, a few dozen square feet of space within her own head.

But then she ventures within, passing the tall windows and rising staircases leading to the upper levels where her friends reside, the psyches imprinted over the years who have helped her survive. She moves past all that streaming light, further into the house where things darken and the echoes of those she hadn't been able to save are hidden away. And then down, stairs that creak and moan, into the catacombs where the darkest minds reside, the ones who call to her when she slips, who would rather see her fall and suffer than ever live a free life. The locks are methodically checked on each door, even as they rattle and the shouts within increase in intensity, the insults falling with the same sharpness as always.

Monster. Murderer. Abomination. Maybe they aren't wrong. ]

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( Quite. But if "Sugar" is what you like then you can keep calling me that. I won't put up a fight. )

[ he winks easily, without missing much of a beat at all. the weightiness of the name on his tongue tastes like a multitude of pages in a book, this one just another written down on an empty line.

he's more than content with the touch for now, it's hardly even a thought that crosses his mind, to let go of her now at this point. there's a strong sense of needing to keep her from doubling back, of keeping the stairs from calling back to her if he can even do that. he pulls in close to guide her forward down the hall, watching as the darkness of the house begins to recede slowly, fingers pulling away from covered eyes. he hums. ]

( Rogue. ) [ he tastes it on his tongue, tilting his head and looking down his glasses a moment before turning back to the hall. to walk someone else's dreams is... well. is this even walking someone else's dreams or did she walk her's right into his brain? perhaps a bit of both considering the tightly woven interlinked binding that tethers them together, a blanket that's soothing and smothering all at once and peter can't choose whether he likes it or not.

but rogue. rogue is brood. pulls at his brain closely like a whisper. he adjusts his glasses with a free hand. ] ( It's not the most unpleasant circumstance I've been pulled into here, believe me. Don't worry yourself over it. I'm only glad I could be here to... help. If this is helping at all. You were having a bit of a time down there... are you alright? )

[ He's sweet and funny, his comment about sugar making her smile as a weight is lifted slightly from her shoulders and that vise-like grip loosens around her heart. She calls everyone sugar, there's no stopping it. Not even a war could chase that tendency from her, it's so deeply ingrained.

She walks with him without question, the hallways they follow more familiar to her than the back of her own hand. These were built by her mind, the foundations crafted with Charles' help, strengthened by Erik's resolve and Logan's faith in her. Her wounded knights, the reasons she survived-- No, she isn't thinking of that now. Her broodmate is here and she really should be a better hostess. Her mother would be appalled at her lack of hospitality, if she ever cared to worry about more than her adopted daughter's distressing mutant condition.

If she ever cared to worry about Marie at all. More things to set aside and think of never. ]

( You helped a lot actually, thank you. Sometimes I get caught up in their voices and it's... hard to pull away again. I'm okay now though, I'm used to it. ) [ Seventeen years is a enough time to adjust to being haunted by hundreds of voices in her head. ]

( Come on in here, sugar, it's nicer than just standing in the hall. )

[ She gives a gentle tug on his arm and steers them toward a sliding set of double doors, easing them open and revealing a spacious, airy sitting room. There's an unfinished game of chess on a table between two armchairs, a large table covered in a 5,000 piece puzzle, and a game of Solitaire laid out on a coffee table in front of a couch. Everything is clean and comfortable, both in appearance and feeling, greens and creams and pale yellows coloring the room. It's one of her favorites, and certainly one she spends a good deal of time in. ]

[ she's the lady of the house, so he'll follow her lead, her strong steps taking him through the rest of the house. it unfolds to her, yields to each pace she takes until finally he feels the warmth of the room envelope them with sunlight coming in from the bright windows, the furniture littered about in an artful, lived-in sort of way. a place frozen in time, lived in, but lonely in a way. he lets his fingers slide from her grasp, but only in a way that states he's not gone for good, not done with her just yet. he's explorative, curious, mind winding in long curls of unraveling fabric as he takes in each and every detail, seems to commit it to memory.

he looks down at the unfinished game on a nearby table, fingers sweeping lightly over the edge of the board, careful not to disturb a single piece. ]

( How beautiful. )

[ he looks up, and there's more than just a taste of being earnest in his voice. it's almost a little in awe at the construction itself. how wonderful it is, the mind. there's an appreciation for the light that enters the house, for the way it seems to breathe here in her mind, crafted carefully. he sets his hands gently now on one of the arm chairs tucked so intimately close to the chess set. ]

( What would you like to do first? This is your house after all. Nothing quite like this where I'm from, only in the history books. )

[ Even without his touch, there's something incredibly soothing in his presence. Just having him here, watching him examine the room, makes her feel settled and at ease. He's here but he's not, in her mind only temporarily rather than a permanent resident, and it's so nice to have a visitor again. ]

( Why don't we get to know each other a little? Since it seems we're from very different places but we're tied together now. )

[ He's a mystery to her, save for a few faint impressions, and that's thrilling in a way she hasn't felt in a long time. A stranger in her sitting room, and a kind one at that. With a gesture to the board in front of him, she asks ]

( Do you know how to play? )

( Delightful plan. )

[ rogue is just as much of a mystery to him, a new limb attached to avior that feels... very different from what he's grown used to (elliot's quiet, pulled in nature beading along the symbiote like condensation gathering, dripping steadily bit by bit). rogue feels like something warm, freshly bloomed, magnolias unbruised and wafting on the breeze. he has a seat slowly, folding one knee over the other and leaning in just a bit to examine the board. his eyes are sharp as he looks back up at her with a smile, giving a nod. ]

( I know Chess. The rules are millennia old, but they've managed to stay the same. A game of elegant strategy. )

[ he reaches out just slightly to thumb the edge of the board. ]

( Were you playing on your own or with someone else before I came? )

[ The rules are millennia old. Those words swirl about in her mind for a few seconds before she fully grasps their meaning, recalling what she knows about the history of the game that has become a sort of pillar in her life. Thought to be created in the 600s, with the version she knows coming about in 1400s. So for the rules to be that old for him...

They're from very different times indeed. ]

( I was playing with a friend, but he won't mind if we start a new game. )

[ Moving to the armchair opposite his, she lowers herself into it, pulling her legs up into the chair and curling up a bit like a cat might before leaning forward and returning the pieces to their proper places. ]

[ he helps her in resetting the board piece by piece, a mess of pawns and bishops and knights all in various places, frozen where they stand. peter smiles a little bit as he moves each piece, deliberate and careful to center each one squarely where it ought to be until white and black and soundly posed against one another again, board shifted to the present. he leans back a little to admire their work.

this peaceful place puts his mind at ease, a car with a low-purring engine now put to park, keys pocketed. ]

( Have your pick of the two. You're the lady of the house, after all. )

[ He's so methodical and meticulous as he replaces the places, it's almost enthralling to see, the process urging her to take the same care with her own side of the board. By the time they've finished, she feels even more relaxed and settled into herself.

Looking over the board for a moment, she nods and carefully rotates the board so that the rows of white pieces are closest to her companion. ]

( White has the first move, sugar. )

[ everything here is so carefully constructed, established so firmly in the bedrock of this dream. it feels far too real, from the way the board drags against his finger as he straightens it out once its turned to him, to how the chair seems to follow his shape as he shifts to an easy lounge, elbow on the arm rest. ]

( Then I humbly accept. )

[ with a soft hum, pleased, he reaches out and makes the first move on the board. his eyes turn up just a bit, glancing around the room. ]

( Was this your home? ) [ half of a beat ] ( Before all of this. )

[ She gives a shake of her head, studying his piece and absently going through a number of potential options before gently picking up one of her own pieces and settling it in its new position. ]

( No, none of my homes growing up were ever comforting enough for this. I needed a sanctuary, somewhere I could be at peace within myself, so I built this place. )

[ he watches, drawing a leg up close to himself as she takes her turn, casually observing both her hand and then her face as he meets her eyes over the top of his glasses. homes, as though she's been shuttled around and about. there's a soft hum from him as he takes his turn afterwards, a lazy and thoughtful hand. ]

( You've outdone yourself, though your tenants in the basement sound a bit ungrateful. )

[ for a sanctuary, but a mind is such a multi-faceted thing. curiosity, like a cat pacing between someone's ankles. a gentle observation. ]

( Are they always so rowdy? )

[ It's soothing, the way he settles and relaxes, his easy way of moving. Everything about him is soothing, honestly, his very presence a balm to her soul in a way that has little to do with the bond they share through the symbiote. At least, she doesn't think it's connected, but rather the fact of how his mind is constructed. Those complex inner workings are contained, the surface smooth, and it's a relief after some of the others in the Nest. ]

( It comes and goes. They don't want to be there any more than I want them there, but we're all stuck with each other. )

[ If he were a cat, she would pick him up and hold him to her chest, stroke behind his ears and encourage that curiosity. He'd be a cat who observed everything, she feels, not one that yowled for attention and used destruction to get it. ]

( Like your very own hive of disgruntled bees. Not too far off our current situation. )

[ smooth glass gives way to something with a gentle give like silk and satin, finding the shape of her and holding just a bit, contoured in sensation. it’s luxurious, combined with the sun-warmed sensation of her here in this room, like the makings of a perfect place for a nap on a summer afternoon. dark things left to their basement quarters, where she absolutely doesn’t belong. ]

( Rogue. You know, I rather like that name. Catchy. )

[ The idea of the Nest as a hive of angry bees is enough to leave her smiling again, certain individuals fitting the description so well that it's comical. Others here are more like those bees that are content to spend their time pollinating flowers, the ones preferring to be left to their business, but there are certainly a number of them prone to buzzing angrily and stinging at a moment's notice. ]

( Thank you, sugar. I chose it when I was seventeen; I've had it half my life now. )

[ Another second of absent deliberation and then she finally makes her move, lifting a carved piece and placing it carefully into its new position. ]

[ they certainly are, peter could name one within their own brood, but really, bakugo's sting is tolerable in most ways, the aggression and excitement, the thrum of his brain like old world firecrackers being set off rapidfire. he could learn some tact, but that all comes with time, doesn't it? elliot and joshua are both quiet hums within their brood, thoughtful and streamlined. rogue is... well. she's got a sweet and open nature to her, the kind peter certainly hadn't felt upon waking himself. ]

( As they say, control your name and you control yourself. )

[ he reaches forward to nudge another piece into place, a very careful set up between the both of them. it's clear rogue is well-practiced. peter would consider himself not quite a chess enthusiast, but he can enjoy a good game of strategy as much as the next one. ]

( Never too late to start. )

[ She takes all of three seconds to choose her next move, and the motion of reaching forward and relocating the piece is not as smooth as before. There's a wobble to her hand, a preoccupation in her intention, and she settles back into her chair with a more somber air wrapped around her. ]

( I've tried to have control for all those years too, but it's never worked. Not even once. There's a part of me I have no say over and I hate it. )

[ it's palpable, and peter picks up his piece with one hand, teases the thickness of the air invisibly with the other. control isn't something so easily gained, true. she's taken as many as she could. ]

( The part you keep downstairs? Or something more? )

[ he moves a piece, no hesitation, no thought. just momentum. ]

[ She doesn't move to take her turn, doesn't even glance at the board, her attention so wholly focused on her companion. There's confusion in her that rises to the surface like a bit of driftwood coming to shore, and it's only when it washes onto the beach that the shape of the wood becomes clear. ]

( They aren't me. Those are real people who were living and breathing when I touched them and copied them into my mind. )

[ he joins her in examination, leaning on his arm now, spectator and participant both, moving alongside the little current that carries that piece of driftwood, studying it in hands that smooth over it slowly. ]

( You copied them into their mind? What... part of them, exactly? )

[ a soft furrow of the brow. less concern, less judgement (far be it from peter to pass judgement upon any living soul beyond the ones that intend to crush the downtrodden and weak). no. it's a breath of trying to understand just what this means. ]

( You say you've copied them but, I'm not sure I understand. Their mind? Their... impressions? )

( Their everything. )

[ And there's the guilt, climbing out of the ether like some spectre coming back to haunt her. She had no choice in the matter, but each unwillingly victim of her power is a heavy weight on her conscience that threatens to break her spirit daily. She looks down at her hands, at the bare skin that can't hurt anyone in this place, and a sadness tinges her next words. ]

( It's my mutation, the power I won in the genetic lottery. When I touch someone with my skin, I absorb them into my mind. Their thoughts, memories, dreams - a whole personality and mind gets stored in my head forever. )

[ it's his first thought to assume that it's some gifted power by the station, but the moment her sadness bears down upon it, peter flips this as quick as a gear shift. no, this is something far deeper from home, something she's had to bear far longer than this place. peter slowly unfurls from his position, leaning forward just a bit more. ]

( And then it sits there? You keep it and you have to carry that with you? )

[ his hands unfold from a neutral, curled position hovering over the board, originally clasped in thoughtful observation. they lift a bit like an offer. more than on the staircase, more than on their little walk here. ]

( What a dreadfully heavy thing to hold. )

[ Those offered hands are too much for her to accept just yet, a gift far too precious for consideration. He doesn't know who she is, not really, what she's done. The solace she's found in his presence is more than she deserves, she can't ask more of him. ]

( The first few times it happened, I... It hurt, and I couldn't handle it. There were times when I was more them than me. But then I met a telepath who helped me learn to manage them and we built this place. )

[ She pulls in a deep breath and lifts her head to look him in the eye, her expression pained. ]

( I don't just absorb their minds when I touch someone, I take their lifeforce too. If I hold on for more than a few seconds... people die. People have died. I haven't been able to touch anyone in seventeen years. )

[ they're left there regardless, not an offer rescinded. instead, he meets her gaze with his own, eyes not quite soft, examining, listening, taking it all in. if there's any fear in him, it doesn't show (the truth is: it doesn't exist, not here, not of her). ]

( It's no wonder you needed a place to escape. )

[ softly. he's never known any kind of ability like that, not from home, nothing that didn't have some kind of technological response to explain it. even as she talks of touch, he doesn't balk, though a few, somewhat frayed and instinctive nerve endings still raw from beneath the martian wastes, tug at his sense of self-preservation, begging him to lean back just a bit. he defies them quite sharply instead. ]

( This telepath of yours sounds like they've helped you through quite a lot. To make it this far - ) [ to feel as resilient as she does, sad as she is ] ( - It doesn't sound an easy feat by any means. )

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[ open ] the house was awake with shadows and monsters...

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i don't know how to play chess and yet it's an integral part of her character oops

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surprise it's me crusty mcgee

best crusty surprise ever

like that satisfying feel when you rub a crusty from your sleepy eye

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