☄️— Vivid dreams has plagued dreams stretching back forwards and backwards in time, if there had been a time where Jeans dreams were peaceful she did not remember it. Not only nightmares, but brilliant colors and flooding euphoria too, but still, how was one suppose to rest in technicolor 4D? Tonight? Tonight had been a nightmare.

White hot rage, burning in from the inside out, tear tracks evaporated from the fire of a sun. Silk shirt torn to shreds, familiar claw marks leaving it hanging in tatters. Dying, over, and over, and over. Time rewinding, pleading, the claws coming again. Utter loneliness. The spark of connection, acceptance, power. The voices of lovers bashing harshly again eardrums. That fire, that anger, burning everyone in sight. Everything in abstract. But in an instant it was a perfect mirror if a memory. Scott’s eyes wet with tears forcefully held closed as Jean powers ripped his visor from his face, psionic fire burning him to ash. Logan’s yell of grief, her hands reaching to her stomach, where his claws had marked her, then a surge of power as she reached out through their bond, and scattered his cells across the cosmos.

So Jean hadn’t been so keen on returning to her bed, despite the mattress being the one form of anarchism she allowed herself, mental exhaustion and her body being wired fought, and in the end, her body won. Boots and a robe pulled on the mutant had made her way to the outskirts of town, where if you looked just right you could pretend there wasn’t anything outside of timely, you could forget the wretched reality you had landed in.

Heavy footsteps caught her attention and Jean turned to where the sound came from, and before a true thought could run through her mind an honest sob tore its way out of her throat. There, covered dust and looking worse for the wear, but alive and breathing stood Logan Howlett. Her hand shot out, meant to be a warning to give her a moment to stay back, instead a wave of solid psionic energy shot out towards the other mutant.

“Who the fuck are you.”

Perhaps the threatening quality of the statement was lost by the sobs that were racking through her form, unable to breath or think, rage and grief dancing, the spark of phoniex fire beginning to wake.