#fevrals

a moment is taken to collect herself as the two perseus agents fall from the cliffside— their deaths a product of sneaking up on the two women. has their cover been blown? no sirens ring out in the distance, no shuffling from the warehouse below them— the coast is clear and a deep breath is exhaled in response. "remind me to never get on yours." spoken through a chuckle, her right hand is brought up to comb through her fiery hair— a rare moment of camaraderie.

this wasn't the time for friendship, though. friendship led to weakness, weakness led to vulnerability, and vulnerability led to a bullet in the back. (who protects you when you don't protect others, though? that leaves room for a conversation.)

"and you realize this isn't what my shore leave was supposed to entail, right?" anger gets the better of her, the pits of hells enclosing around them. all-in-all, raccoon city was a version of hell; an extremely grotesque and messed up variation of it where the dead walked with flesh between their teeth. it was a sight jane still hadn't gotten used to, adrenaline fueling her. no sleep, no coffee, no food— this would surely be a night to remember if they survived it.

their dynamic made for the start of a bad bar joke: a marine and a cop walk into a bar. jane stifles a laugh as the thought comes to mind, choosing to shake it off with the tightening her grip on her pistol. raccoon city was just another nightmare to add to the bunches that already loitered in her mind.

after all, she's commander shepard. she's survived worse.

holed up in a poorly-themed irish pub in downtown raccoon city, a deep breath is finally exhaled as the groans outside grow louder. "look, if you want to become a human happy meal for our friends out there, be my guest. you'll buy me enough time to get across town while they're gnawing on your corpse." it doesn't begin to tackle the other problem awaiting for them on the other side of the door— his stomps cause the ground to shake, dust from the ceiling to fall among them.

they need to work together as a team, whether they like it or not.

stunted youth, cursed childhoods, bruised knees and hearts > this was nothing new for the mayfield girls. grief had lived in their bones since the day they moved to indiana. [the abandonment of a father, the absence of a mother, the torture from a stepfamily.] only now, a death resided in their midst and darkness enveloped hawkins once again. darkness it couldn't escape no matter how hard it tried. palm trees replaced with oak trees, sunny skies replaced with grey clouds, and smiles replaced with screams. hawkins would be their grave.

eldest daughter syndrome — the weight of sisterhood and motherhood resting on her shoulders, the world threatening to crumble down upon them. ❝ look, i get it. shit has been really messed up lately, and i don't know how to make it better. if i could, you know i would in a heartbeat. ❞ it's the closest thing to a plead she can muster, nausea rising her stomach as marley swallows her pride. [they'd had always been emotionally unavailable at the worst of times— the joys of sisterhood.]

@fevrals, rebekah: ❝ it's no business of mine how you waste your time, ❞ the words are dismissive as she leans against the doorway, elijah sensing a touch of irritation lingering in the air as he notes her expression— skepticism.

closing the book with a gentle thud, five papers scattering onto the flooring, his piercing brown eyes fixate on the blonde. a subtle challenge? he knows it's a prod to discover the purpose behind his latest endeavor, enough for him to indulge momentarily. a composed demeanor spreading across features, he responds, amusement resting on the tip of his tongue. ❝ dear sister, while i appreciate your disinterest in my affairs, i assure you this is no mere waste of time. ❞ stepping away from the desk, he closes the distance between them— his own challenge. elijah's presence exudes an air of authority, his posture radiating both grace and persistent resolve.

@fevrals, claire: ❝ you lost the things that brought us closer. ❞

it struck a chord within him, one that threatens to shatter him and the world around them. the siblings had been through so much together and apart, from chris surviving the mansion and claire surviving the nightmare of raccoon city to facing bioterrorism threats across the globe. they had always been there for each other, supporting one another through the darkest of times [the darkest of minds]. but recent events had taken their toll; they'd pushed chris to the brink. a broken man in a broken illusion of a world. hope still ignited his heart, the reason his feet hit the floor each morning, but hope could only take a man so far.

as he gazed at claire, his fists clenches, knuckles turning white with the pressure. he recognizes she's right, the devil on his shoulder whispers it, but it wasn't a realization he was willing to accept without a fight. his voice, gruff yet hinting with a trace of vulnerability, breaks the building silence. ❝ claire, i... i know i've been distant. i haven't been the best brother. there's no excuse for that, and i know it— but you have to understand, the things i've seen... the horrors we've faced? they change people— they changed you and they sure as hell changed me. ❞

a step is taken closer, an attempt to break the distance / to extend an olive branch, eyes fixed on hers as he searches for a flicker of understanding. they once shared a connection, the bond that helped them survive against all odds. [i love you / i will always love you.] ❝ i've lost so much— friends, allies... people who trusted me with their lives. it weighs on me more than you can imagine. ❞ what do you do when you see ghosts at night when your eyes are closed? you don't shut them.

@fevrals, allison: ❝ you know, i think the lines you’re afraid of are all made up. ❞

when allison's words are proclaimed and reach lydia's ears, the ginger can sense the tinge in her voice— it rests on the spectrum between determination and uncertainty, leaning towards the latter. they're enough for lydia to stop walking, on cloud sneakers coming to a skidding halt. ❝ made up? ❞ tilting her head slightly, expression a mix of contemplation and intrigue, she turns around.

there's always been a fire threatening to rage inside raven. the day she was born, the match was struck and the wick was lit. day-to-day, she keeps water on top of it, but the days continue to grow longer and so does the pain. the pain never dissipates, it only continues to grow. [clarke once told her the earth was evil and wouldn't be missed if it were to be destroyed tomorrow. raven's beginning to believe in the theory herself.] when she looks at octavia, she bears witness to a warrior— the polar opposite of everything raven is. a sword doesn't cling in her grasp, but a wrench does— intelligence existing in place as her weapon. physical strength is something she'll never understand, an opportunity stolen from the paralysis rotting in her spinal cord. but with octavia, it's captivating.

i don't know what to do with all this pain / you grip it tight inside, like a knife. the words flow easily from octavia's mouth and for a moment, raven almost believes she can do it. reaching down into her belly, a hand attempts to grab at the butterflies fluttering. they fail, the flapping becoming more consistent as a result. her anxiety grows, warm tears threatening to spill from her eyes. the pain grows.

"i can't do that, though. i can't... make it into a knife." suffering can feel religious if you do it properly. it can etch itself into your bones and make it into its home. [home is the first grave, after all.] glancing away, her right hand is brought up to her eyes, endeavoring to dab away any tears. "i have tried for months to make something out of all this— out of everything we've gone through, and i never can. it's just this... never-ending cycle of eternal misery. we win, but i still lose."