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through the looking glass.
Jul. 22nd, 2014 12:22 amBefore she can even fully open her eyes, Claire senses the change in the air. Feels the soft fabric of her sheets underneath her fingers, and the folds of her pillowcase pursing underneath her cheek. This isn't the nothingness that everyone on the island had promised, but nor is it the crystal clarity that any of them receive when only on shore leave — instead, it's a gradual shift and a clearing of the fog, much like waking up after a dream.
So this must be what Alice felt like, Claire thinks, when she passed through the looking glass.
The sound of an alarm cuts jarringly through the air, and she blearily reaches a hand out to silence it for a few more minutes. The habit hasn't diminished. It's as regular as breathing.
As Claire stares up at the ceiling, she wonders how she manages not to cry.
It isn't the first time that her mind's deceived her. If there's anything that Claire's learned since finding more people like her in the world, it's that the complexity of time runs far deeper than looking underneath the cover of a book. Time erases lines, rewrites history, and turns truth into the fine grain of sand, insubstantial and inconstant.
That doesn't stop her from filing each memory away in her mind, carefully retracing her steps, eyes focused on nothing in particular as she goes about her day. Folding laundry. Washing the dishes. Searching for tan lines, with her gaze resting too long on the freckles across her skin. They're not the same ones as in her dream, but Claire swears that she can see his lips tracing down the crook of her elbow, pausing to kiss every one.
Her mother frets, pushing back strands of blonde hair, searching for a temperature. But the only fever is in her movements, harried as she brushes everyone aside. If she blinks now, she'll forget the sight of him.
Idly, she slumps at her computer desk, clicking around articles about Bristol.
On the third day, her glass shatters on the floor as she comes across an obituary.
And curses him for having a common name.
"No. Absolutely not. You know that time isn't meant to be trifled with. You don't know what would happen if I went back in time to change this one thing — it could put everyone in danger."
"But Hiro—"
"—no. I am very sorry for your loss."
His silhouette begins to fade in the distance, blending in with the shadow of the trees. Oak, maple — Claire can't remember which, even though she's been in this forest so many times she can't even begin to count. For the first time, she feels the passage of years under her skin, like bolts of fabric expertly sewn together to hide the seam.
Leaves fall around them in a rush of wind, crimson and golden browns carried in a rush.
"Don't you think that if this was really just about saving a person, that I would have asked you for that by now?" she asks, a shuddering breath passing through her teeth as she runs to chase after Hiro, hand reaching out for the slope of his shoulder. "Do you really think that there isn't anything else I'd ask you to try and rewrite for me? Jackie may have been a bitch, but she didn't deserve to die. Don't you think that if I could, I would have asked you to go back in time to when I discovered this power, and just... find some way of preventing me from ever finding out? You get to control time. You're the one who can skip around it however he wants. But I'm like its — I'm like its prisoner. I can't do anything but watch everyone else go by."
She feels Hiro's shoulder stiffen under her hand, and softly, Claire lets it fall back to her side.
"It was real. That island, and those people, they were real. But no matter how well I describe that place to you, you won't find it — you can't teleport there. You can't fly, you can't phase, I promise you, there's something else more powerful than all of us. I saw it there. I lived it."
She wraps her arms tightly around her chest, focused on bringing strength to her voice.
"She was there, Hiro. I know about her. Charlie. She was there, and alive, and she had a child and — she got to live the life that this world wouldn't give her. I know how hard you tried to bring her back.
"Can you really let this go without trying one more time?"
It's not perfect. They don't have anything more than a date and a hospital to go on, and it takes several tries before they wind up in the right room, behind the right walls, without triggering panic wherever they walk. It's trial and error enough to know that they only have the space of a precious few minutes to work with — a canvas that no amount of effort will allow them to paint outside of.
Hiro stands watch at the door, a nebulous fear taut in the bite of his jaw.
Claire doesn't allow herself to look up at his face. Instead, it's the warmth of his hands that guides her, familiar and soft and she swears that even the callouses on his finger pads are exactly as she remembers them, calling forth the memory of a thumb brushed by the curve of her cheek. Her fingers start to waver in strength as they fumble through drawers, finding the supplies that she needs, mimicking the mental image of a diagram she found on the internet.
God, she should have done better than a diagram on the internet.
Pain prickles through her arm, a welcome shift away from the numbness she expected as she sits by his bedside. Not a minute passes before she shifts her arm, the angle awkward, but just enough for her to lace her fingers with his, willing for something else to be transferred to him, less tangible than the pulse of her blood.
She hasn't believed in God for years, but she prays. It's the only thing keeping her from shaking apart.
When she feels the squeeze against her palm, Claire swears that her heart stops.
When she hears her name escape his lips, it's the first time Claire believes that anything is possible.
So this must be what Alice felt like, Claire thinks, when she passed through the looking glass.
The sound of an alarm cuts jarringly through the air, and she blearily reaches a hand out to silence it for a few more minutes. The habit hasn't diminished. It's as regular as breathing.
As Claire stares up at the ceiling, she wonders how she manages not to cry.
It isn't the first time that her mind's deceived her. If there's anything that Claire's learned since finding more people like her in the world, it's that the complexity of time runs far deeper than looking underneath the cover of a book. Time erases lines, rewrites history, and turns truth into the fine grain of sand, insubstantial and inconstant.
That doesn't stop her from filing each memory away in her mind, carefully retracing her steps, eyes focused on nothing in particular as she goes about her day. Folding laundry. Washing the dishes. Searching for tan lines, with her gaze resting too long on the freckles across her skin. They're not the same ones as in her dream, but Claire swears that she can see his lips tracing down the crook of her elbow, pausing to kiss every one.
Her mother frets, pushing back strands of blonde hair, searching for a temperature. But the only fever is in her movements, harried as she brushes everyone aside. If she blinks now, she'll forget the sight of him.
Idly, she slumps at her computer desk, clicking around articles about Bristol.
On the third day, her glass shatters on the floor as she comes across an obituary.
And curses him for having a common name.
"No. Absolutely not. You know that time isn't meant to be trifled with. You don't know what would happen if I went back in time to change this one thing — it could put everyone in danger."
"But Hiro—"
"—no. I am very sorry for your loss."
His silhouette begins to fade in the distance, blending in with the shadow of the trees. Oak, maple — Claire can't remember which, even though she's been in this forest so many times she can't even begin to count. For the first time, she feels the passage of years under her skin, like bolts of fabric expertly sewn together to hide the seam.
Leaves fall around them in a rush of wind, crimson and golden browns carried in a rush.
"Don't you think that if this was really just about saving a person, that I would have asked you for that by now?" she asks, a shuddering breath passing through her teeth as she runs to chase after Hiro, hand reaching out for the slope of his shoulder. "Do you really think that there isn't anything else I'd ask you to try and rewrite for me? Jackie may have been a bitch, but she didn't deserve to die. Don't you think that if I could, I would have asked you to go back in time to when I discovered this power, and just... find some way of preventing me from ever finding out? You get to control time. You're the one who can skip around it however he wants. But I'm like its — I'm like its prisoner. I can't do anything but watch everyone else go by."
She feels Hiro's shoulder stiffen under her hand, and softly, Claire lets it fall back to her side.
"It was real. That island, and those people, they were real. But no matter how well I describe that place to you, you won't find it — you can't teleport there. You can't fly, you can't phase, I promise you, there's something else more powerful than all of us. I saw it there. I lived it."
She wraps her arms tightly around her chest, focused on bringing strength to her voice.
"She was there, Hiro. I know about her. Charlie. She was there, and alive, and she had a child and — she got to live the life that this world wouldn't give her. I know how hard you tried to bring her back.
"Can you really let this go without trying one more time?"
It's not perfect. They don't have anything more than a date and a hospital to go on, and it takes several tries before they wind up in the right room, behind the right walls, without triggering panic wherever they walk. It's trial and error enough to know that they only have the space of a precious few minutes to work with — a canvas that no amount of effort will allow them to paint outside of.
Hiro stands watch at the door, a nebulous fear taut in the bite of his jaw.
Claire doesn't allow herself to look up at his face. Instead, it's the warmth of his hands that guides her, familiar and soft and she swears that even the callouses on his finger pads are exactly as she remembers them, calling forth the memory of a thumb brushed by the curve of her cheek. Her fingers start to waver in strength as they fumble through drawers, finding the supplies that she needs, mimicking the mental image of a diagram she found on the internet.
God, she should have done better than a diagram on the internet.
Pain prickles through her arm, a welcome shift away from the numbness she expected as she sits by his bedside. Not a minute passes before she shifts her arm, the angle awkward, but just enough for her to lace her fingers with his, willing for something else to be transferred to him, less tangible than the pulse of her blood.
She hasn't believed in God for years, but she prays. It's the only thing keeping her from shaking apart.
When she feels the squeeze against her palm, Claire swears that her heart stops.
When she hears her name escape his lips, it's the first time Claire believes that anything is possible.
and that was attempt number six
Apr. 4th, 2012 06:10 pmIt shows up one day, next to her bed. Claire isn't sure that she finds that to be a surprise. Everyone receives gifts from home at some point or another, some infinitely comforting, and others shaking the ground beneath one's feet. She's thought about it on more than one occasion, trying to imagine what the island might gift her with. Her cheerleader uniform always happened to be the thing that came first to mind, red and white arranged in a way that's started to fade in her memory, just at the edges. She remembers the way that it feels on her shoulders more than the way it looks, remembers the way that it used to wrap her up in safety. No longer a nerd, no longer in danger of being a loser, but instead the admired and the revered one in the school. She thinks about something of her dad's arriving, like that impressive display of plastic frames laid out on the table. She thinks about Mr. Muggles' grooming kit, about Lyle's soccer uniform. Thinks of her collection of teddy bears from around the world, the ones she so loved before she realized why her father, manager of a paper factory, really went on those trips.
Thinks of Zach, and his camcorder, and that's the one that returns to mind most often. How so many of their adventures were captured on that length of tape. Dozens of attempts.
Just thinking about it seems like too much to hope for, and so Claire stamps down the thought, cradles her own camcorder close and records the people and sights around her. Old West is a teenage girl's dream— or at least, a teenage girl like her, adventurous and full of love for whimsy and the older tales from generations ago. In reality, it's too hot, too dry, and the lack of certain conveniences is a pain in the butt, but on tape, everything looks beautiful.
Which makes it funny, when Zach's camcorder shows up on her nightstand. That tape might prove to be the exception to the rule.
Claire doesn't know camcorders all that well, not really. Just thinks that it looks like the one that Zach owned, pops open the side to see his handwriting on the tape, black Sharpie that still smells acrid to her nose. It doesn't take her long before she heads to the new and improved Compound, finding the projector and hooking the two up as best as she can, with everything running on that strange technology that doesn't seem quite true to history, instead the type of steampunk found in modern revisions of Westerns. Glancing around her, she's glad that the new terrain has people coming in this room less often. There's too much to see to coop oneself in with the bookshelf.
Then again, somehow she gets the feeling that she wouldn't mind company, for once. And she bites down hard on her lip, pressing play.
Camera ready?
Yeah, almost. Hold on.
The video spans the area of the wall, and Claire releases her hold on the camcorder, lets it rest on the table as she steps back once, twice, three times, and feels her eyes burn upon revisiting memories from years ago.
[ Dated to April 4th, set inside the Old West equivalent of the rec room. Open indefinitely to ST/LT, but only to those who have met Claire before. No limit. ]
While Mr. Muggles had long since learned better than to step foot outside with the streets filled with puddles and ice alike, Claire was starting to think of the whole change in terrain as an experience that she couldn't let herself miss out on. If everyone's predictions were right, then London wasn't likely to last longer than the month, and after eleven straight months of balmy weather, Claire couldn't claim that she entirely hated the change of pace. So she was, once again, hauling the heavy skirts of her dress as she stepped down into the street, a few flat rocks warmed by the stove carefully hidden away in her pockets in case her hands needed to be warmed a touch. It wasn't very long before she spotted a familiar face in the distance heading in the direction of the Compound, and Claire carefully did her best to catch up, walking alongside a few natives of the city— none of whom she'd been able to keep conversation with, and thus had begun to treat more as simply being part of the décor.
Quickly packing a handful of snow into a ball, she grinned before pulling her arm back and launching it directly in Sam Witwicky's direction.
And while Claire Bennet had ultimately become co-captain of the cheerleading squad, it was probably worth mention that she'd held her own in softball tryouts as well. Stifling a laugh, she quickly ducked behind a man wearing a top hat, hoping that he'd provide enough cover for those couple of seconds.
Quickly packing a handful of snow into a ball, she grinned before pulling her arm back and launching it directly in Sam Witwicky's direction.
And while Claire Bennet had ultimately become co-captain of the cheerleading squad, it was probably worth mention that she'd held her own in softball tryouts as well. Stifling a laugh, she quickly ducked behind a man wearing a top hat, hoping that he'd provide enough cover for those couple of seconds.
our breath fogged in the glass
Dec. 5th, 2011 01:54 amIn some ways, Claire couldn't deny the fact that being in London was... kind of romantic. The snow was beautiful as it fell from the sky and came to blanket everything in their immediate vicinity with white too bright to stare at for long, and Claire had almost grown accustomed to rushing back into her apartment and huddling close to the stove, eyes immediately growing drowsy and weary with the burning of fire and embers close to her face. She'd managed to find herself a serviceable dress as well, one which wasn't far too difficult to pull through the snow drifts, and that she hoped would hold a couple of days before demanding a wash— if there was anything she deeply appreciated about all those layers, it was the fact that usually, it was only the undergarments that demanded a wash. Everything else was more or less an exercise in futility.
What she appreciated a little less was how difficult it seemed to be to reach anyone in good time. Having snow and chill alike drive itself deep into her bones whenever she stepped outdoors was bad enough, but having an entire city to navigate somehow made it worse, especially without a map to help guide the way (she had a tendency of leaving it in her apartment, too accustomed to finding her way with her smartphone's GPS prior to the island). Most days, Claire found herself retracing the steps between her place and the new and revised Compound, and only spending time in that square block to keep from getting hopelessly lost in all of the streets. Catching a whiff of bread on her way home, Claire paused for a minute, before caving and rushing into the bakery, hoping that the quick intrusion didn't bring too much cold air into the shop.
"So..." she began, glancing about the place for anyone to help. "I'm trusting that this isn't one of those creepy ghost shops, right? I'm not really in the mood to take from ghosts again."
What she appreciated a little less was how difficult it seemed to be to reach anyone in good time. Having snow and chill alike drive itself deep into her bones whenever she stepped outdoors was bad enough, but having an entire city to navigate somehow made it worse, especially without a map to help guide the way (she had a tendency of leaving it in her apartment, too accustomed to finding her way with her smartphone's GPS prior to the island). Most days, Claire found herself retracing the steps between her place and the new and revised Compound, and only spending time in that square block to keep from getting hopelessly lost in all of the streets. Catching a whiff of bread on her way home, Claire paused for a minute, before caving and rushing into the bakery, hoping that the quick intrusion didn't bring too much cold air into the shop.
"So..." she began, glancing about the place for anyone to help. "I'm trusting that this isn't one of those creepy ghost shops, right? I'm not really in the mood to take from ghosts again."
oh, the weather outside is frightful
Dec. 4th, 2011 02:23 pmAfter the first few days in the new city make it abundantly clear that the new terrain isn't a mere weekend fixture, Claire finally decides that it's high time she sets out to explore whatever the place has to offer. Although she's opted, for the most part, to dress herself in clothes apparently meant for chimney sweeps, today she finally manages to get her hands on a dress that seems less likely to draw the attention of strangers and passerby, while still keeping Claire layered enough to protect her from the cold. A few days of being chilled to the bone may have proven enough for Mr. Muggles, who refuses to leave his post by the fire of her new apartment, but it isn't long before Claire lets the closest of her friends know that she plans on taking a long walk through the buildings and streets, come what may.
It doesn't surprise her that Zuko offers to come along. Claire's fondness is the only thing that keeps her from taking off on her own at once, her curiosity piqued and burning with every step; instead, she waits by the entrance of her building, an umbrella in hand to act as both staff to keep from falling and shield from any potential snowstorms that might start without warning.
"Zuko," she murmurs, singsong, her breath fogging as she waits. "Where are you?"
It doesn't surprise her that Zuko offers to come along. Claire's fondness is the only thing that keeps her from taking off on her own at once, her curiosity piqued and burning with every step; instead, she waits by the entrance of her building, an umbrella in hand to act as both staff to keep from falling and shield from any potential snowstorms that might start without warning.
"Zuko," she murmurs, singsong, her breath fogging as she waits. "Where are you?"
It was the second year in a row that Claire found herself up to her knees in snow for the month of December, and Claire still wasn't sure how well she liked the change of environment. Snow had been a once every other year luxury back when she'd lived in Texas, the chill only obtainable when the family was willing to fly for a few hours until they landed in the powdered peaks of Whistler. In such limited amounts, it had been a beloved treat. But as it was now, occasionally melting when the days grew unseasonably warm, and almost always tainted a dreary shade of gray by the poor air that she could practically feel polluting her lungs, snow was far from fun. Far from enjoyable. And so that morning, Claire had done her best to ignore Mr. Muggles' many yips and scratches against her apartment door, before finally giving in with a groan and reaching for the clothes she'd piled on a chair pushed close to her bed.
As far as she could tell, judging by the many pepole who had approached her asking for her services, the clothes that had waited for Claire in her dresser were those of a chimney sweep. Having done her best to beat the cloth clean, Claire found that the outfit left a lot more room for movement than most of the dresses and corsets she watched people wear around her, very few women braving the outdoors as the snow fell from the sky. Armed with heavy boots, Claire stomped down the stairs of her building, giving the strangers about a wary look, before pushing the heavy door out into the street. Mr. Muggles, with a yip, immediately tore out into the cold, his small paws slipping on the slick surface of the path.
"Happy now?" she asked the dog, raising her brow as Mr. Muggles fell into the cold, slushy puddle, fur shrinking at once in size.
As far as she could tell, judging by the many pepole who had approached her asking for her services, the clothes that had waited for Claire in her dresser were those of a chimney sweep. Having done her best to beat the cloth clean, Claire found that the outfit left a lot more room for movement than most of the dresses and corsets she watched people wear around her, very few women braving the outdoors as the snow fell from the sky. Armed with heavy boots, Claire stomped down the stairs of her building, giving the strangers about a wary look, before pushing the heavy door out into the street. Mr. Muggles, with a yip, immediately tore out into the cold, his small paws slipping on the slick surface of the path.
"Happy now?" she asked the dog, raising her brow as Mr. Muggles fell into the cold, slushy puddle, fur shrinking at once in size.
they'll have to go through you first
Nov. 6th, 2011 10:52 amWhy it mattered, Claire couldn't say, but the bulletin board had made her restless in the past few days, more so even than months past. Ideally, she would have considered it simple proof of the fact that, willing or otherwise, she was starting to assimilate into island life, caring so much for her fellow citizens that having the ideal five overseeing the group was of utmost importance to her. But Claire knew that wasn't it— no matter how many friends she had on the island, if crisis truly stuck, she could think of upwards of a dozen people who would be able to save them all. Superheroes, in her mind, more than a personal savior or someone with remarkable strength of will, but instead people with the very experience of facing crisis after crisis.
If the sky really did start to fall, there were people to keep it standing.
Yet this time, it was Peter who stole the majority of Claire's worries and attention, a part of her wishing that the island would at least give a nod to all of the accomplishments he'd managed, rather than taking too long to forgive a speech given heated, in the moment, too soon after Mary Jane's departure. Which one of them hadn't screamed, cried, torn themselves apart over a departure?
But those in the spotlight always had more consequences to suffer from it.
She'd managed to calm herself that morning by another round of rock diving, new bruises joining a few of the old, wherever water had made more impact than ideal, or wherever she tripped on any of the hikes she'd been pushing herself on as of late. Hair still damp, she paused on her usual way back to the Compound, before deciding to stay out longer on the beach. Laying out a large towel, she exhaled softly as she sat down, quickly burying her feet into the sand. There was so much happening, she thought to herself. Yet, she seemed incapable of getting her hands in it all. An unusual turn of events.
If the sky really did start to fall, there were people to keep it standing.
Yet this time, it was Peter who stole the majority of Claire's worries and attention, a part of her wishing that the island would at least give a nod to all of the accomplishments he'd managed, rather than taking too long to forgive a speech given heated, in the moment, too soon after Mary Jane's departure. Which one of them hadn't screamed, cried, torn themselves apart over a departure?
But those in the spotlight always had more consequences to suffer from it.
She'd managed to calm herself that morning by another round of rock diving, new bruises joining a few of the old, wherever water had made more impact than ideal, or wherever she tripped on any of the hikes she'd been pushing herself on as of late. Hair still damp, she paused on her usual way back to the Compound, before deciding to stay out longer on the beach. Laying out a large towel, she exhaled softly as she sat down, quickly burying her feet into the sand. There was so much happening, she thought to herself. Yet, she seemed incapable of getting her hands in it all. An unusual turn of events.
just when you think you're in control
Aug. 5th, 2011 12:22 pmThe fact that this switch is wrong on so many levels doesn't escape Claire. She's been around long enough to know that it isn't rare for people to wake up in bodies that clearly aren't their own, or for them to be bowled over by any number of strange physical changes, but even Claire has to admit, she's not sure whether it's better or worse to have woken up in the body of a friend. There are some small favors, at least. She's not in Chris' body, not in Peter Parker's, nor Eduardo's— the list of people goes on and on. Still, Claire can't help but feel a little disgruntled and more than a little unnerved at having to wake up to this in the morning, hair somehow cropped short and something very noticeable between her legs.
Fortunately, she knows where Maxxie lives, and hopefully as soon as she finds him, the both of them can work out boundaries and the best course of action to take for the next few days, or however long the switch lasts.
Thankful for the slew of large t-shirts that she keeps in her dresses, Claire hopes that Maxxie won't be too distraught at the fact that she simply doesn't have anything that breathes more for down than a pair of boxer briefs, and does her best to shimmy into a pair of sweatshorts (with the word 'SASSY' spelled out on the back) before kneeling beside her bedroom dresser. Even as her nose wrinkles at the task, she tosses as much as might be necessary into a bag. Clean underwear (is that too weird?), a few bras, some of her more nondescript t-shirts, a couple pears of jean shorts. As an afterthought, she also wraps her flip-flops in an old towel and throws those in too, before sneaking out of the hut and heading straight in the direction of Maxxie's place.
Desperately hoping that she doesn't run into anyone else before him.
Fortunately, she knows where Maxxie lives, and hopefully as soon as she finds him, the both of them can work out boundaries and the best course of action to take for the next few days, or however long the switch lasts.
Thankful for the slew of large t-shirts that she keeps in her dresses, Claire hopes that Maxxie won't be too distraught at the fact that she simply doesn't have anything that breathes more for down than a pair of boxer briefs, and does her best to shimmy into a pair of sweatshorts (with the word 'SASSY' spelled out on the back) before kneeling beside her bedroom dresser. Even as her nose wrinkles at the task, she tosses as much as might be necessary into a bag. Clean underwear (is that too weird?), a few bras, some of her more nondescript t-shirts, a couple pears of jean shorts. As an afterthought, she also wraps her flip-flops in an old towel and throws those in too, before sneaking out of the hut and heading straight in the direction of Maxxie's place.
Desperately hoping that she doesn't run into anyone else before him.
Up until now, everything's been easy. As strange as it might be for most people to imagine, Claire Bennet's leap off the Compound has been the best thing that's happened to her yet on Tabula Rasa. Maybe it isn't the healthiest— after all, where the leap from the Compound was supposed to help her shed that mask, come face to face with all that fate's laid on her, now it's only granted a wish that she's held tightly to for months. All of a sudden, it's the lies that have become truth. She no longer has to think about the ideas her mind's brushed over in past months, wondering if invincibility comes with everlasting life, if wrinkles will never make it to her face, caused by smiles or frowns. The prospect itself is still one that chills her to the bone, lingering in the shadows of her thought, Claire realizing better than anyone else that there will come a day when she returns to the United States, when being a cheerleader is no longer an option, when her dad will come and take her into his arms, family man that he is. She'll have to search for Peter, for Nathan, for anything remaining of the two of them. But for now, one choice has been switched for another, and it feels pretty good.
She's probably driven the people at the clinic mad. Claire keeps on trying to pull off her bandages, keeps on running gentle hands over her injuries, relishing the way that the pain is different each time. This process is healing. Not reversing, not erasing all trace of what's happened, but instead an imperfect process that leaves her slightly fractured, slightly weak, all of the things that a girl her age is supposed to be. The bruises that she sees all over her skin might be about the most beautiful thing she's seen and felt in a long time, her eyes wide with amazement at the human body, that imperfect state of being and how it adapts. It's almost hard to keep the lie in place, with the way her lips spread into a smile at the slightest provocation, how laughs catch in her throat now because her lung hasn't healed enough to be used at full force.
But she can't hide on her own forever. Can't use fatigue as an excuse when all the doctors can see that her eyes are practically dancing. It's time for visiting hours. This is what she's been dreading.
Because somehow, she doesn't think that most people will believe her if she tells them this is the happiest she's been in almost a year. And honestly, she's not even sure if she should.
She's probably driven the people at the clinic mad. Claire keeps on trying to pull off her bandages, keeps on running gentle hands over her injuries, relishing the way that the pain is different each time. This process is healing. Not reversing, not erasing all trace of what's happened, but instead an imperfect process that leaves her slightly fractured, slightly weak, all of the things that a girl her age is supposed to be. The bruises that she sees all over her skin might be about the most beautiful thing she's seen and felt in a long time, her eyes wide with amazement at the human body, that imperfect state of being and how it adapts. It's almost hard to keep the lie in place, with the way her lips spread into a smile at the slightest provocation, how laughs catch in her throat now because her lung hasn't healed enough to be used at full force.
But she can't hide on her own forever. Can't use fatigue as an excuse when all the doctors can see that her eyes are practically dancing. It's time for visiting hours. This is what she's been dreading.
Because somehow, she doesn't think that most people will believe her if she tells them this is the happiest she's been in almost a year. And honestly, she's not even sure if she should.
Night had fallen when Claire Bennet took a seat outside the Compound, the elastic of the trampoline stretching under her, her shoes carefully lined up on the grass below— a pair of yellow flip-flops with orange jelly blossoms. Where the air had been humid all day, now it was cooler, helped along by a steady breeze that blew Claire's hair to the side, blonde strands uncharacteristically limp. She hadn't bothered to curl them that day. Had anyone come across her at that point, they would have seen her fumbling with the settings of her camcorder, making sure that the battery was fully charged, finding a setting that would record even in the dark of night. Off and to the side, there was a blank tape, and on its label words written carefully with purple ink:
ISLAND: ATTEMPT #1
With her legs crossed, she slipped the blank tape in, turned the camcorder until she could look directly into the lens. Her thumb pressed the record button. Claire took a deep breath; it wavered, slightly, before she began to speak.
"This is Claire Bennet. I've been on this island for over three-quarters of a year. They call it Tabula Rasa, because everyone comes here and gets a blank slate. I guess I've taken advantage of that. I've... made friends, I've kind of got a family, I walk around here like I'm normal, and for a few months, I thought it was totally working. And then people started finding out, one by one, and no one's thrown me into a room, or tested on me, or all of those things that dad had to protect me from back home, so I thought that it was okay. That I could just be like anyone else on this island."
Her gaze dropped, her hold on the camera faltering, angle tilting.
"But I don't know anymore. Maybe I'm still a freak. Maybe I shouldn't... be afraid of being one. I can feel you rolling your eyes at me right now, Zach. It's just— I feel so empty these days, like I'm just pretending, or going through the motions. I need to remember who I really am. And if that means that I'm going to spend the rest of my days on this island fighting, I'll deal. So."
Claire slid off the side of the trampoline, placing the camcorder carefully until it was pointed at a spot on the roof, and stepped back a few paces until she was in its view again.
"This is Claire Bennet, and this is going to be attempt number one."
Her heart thudded. Pulse raced. Claire immediately turned and ran, feeling the earth under her feet as she tugged open the door, raced up the steps in her bare feet, eyes afraid and darting around, making sure no one was watching. She'd carefully picked out this time, after weeks of just loitering around. When the halls of the Compound were quiet, silent save for the occasional squeaky door or flushing toilet, when anyone found wandering had eyes heavy and lidded with sleep. Deserted, but safer than the deep island forests that shuddered at night with murmurs and the quiet chirp of crickets.
She burst onto the roof with a sharp intake of air, arms held wide, a shiver running down her spine. Carefully, she walked to its edge, until toes hung over the side of the roof and her balance began to falter. A hesitant smile was already teasing at her lips, breath stilled, skirt billowing with a gust of wind. Closing her eyes, with her arms held out she leaned forward, and for one second felt time suspended with her weightlessness, before gravity took hold and sent her hurtling down.
The scream didn't even last half a second before Claire felt herself colliding with the ground, a crack sounding before she rolled onto her back. This was normal. It always hurt at first. Blood pooled in the back of her throat, coppery to taste, bubbling from her lips as Claire coughed, trying to clear her airway for a much needed breath. One second. Two seconds. It shouldn't have taken long to heal.
Instead, the pain remained, stars shooting behind her eyes as Claire wheezed. Her lungs weren't filling. Shaking, Claire swallowed thickly, looking to the side and managing to curl the fingers of her hand into a fist.
Help, she tried to say, but all that escaped was a soft whine.
ISLAND: ATTEMPT #1
With her legs crossed, she slipped the blank tape in, turned the camcorder until she could look directly into the lens. Her thumb pressed the record button. Claire took a deep breath; it wavered, slightly, before she began to speak.
"This is Claire Bennet. I've been on this island for over three-quarters of a year. They call it Tabula Rasa, because everyone comes here and gets a blank slate. I guess I've taken advantage of that. I've... made friends, I've kind of got a family, I walk around here like I'm normal, and for a few months, I thought it was totally working. And then people started finding out, one by one, and no one's thrown me into a room, or tested on me, or all of those things that dad had to protect me from back home, so I thought that it was okay. That I could just be like anyone else on this island."
Her gaze dropped, her hold on the camera faltering, angle tilting.
"But I don't know anymore. Maybe I'm still a freak. Maybe I shouldn't... be afraid of being one. I can feel you rolling your eyes at me right now, Zach. It's just— I feel so empty these days, like I'm just pretending, or going through the motions. I need to remember who I really am. And if that means that I'm going to spend the rest of my days on this island fighting, I'll deal. So."
Claire slid off the side of the trampoline, placing the camcorder carefully until it was pointed at a spot on the roof, and stepped back a few paces until she was in its view again.
"This is Claire Bennet, and this is going to be attempt number one."
Her heart thudded. Pulse raced. Claire immediately turned and ran, feeling the earth under her feet as she tugged open the door, raced up the steps in her bare feet, eyes afraid and darting around, making sure no one was watching. She'd carefully picked out this time, after weeks of just loitering around. When the halls of the Compound were quiet, silent save for the occasional squeaky door or flushing toilet, when anyone found wandering had eyes heavy and lidded with sleep. Deserted, but safer than the deep island forests that shuddered at night with murmurs and the quiet chirp of crickets.
She burst onto the roof with a sharp intake of air, arms held wide, a shiver running down her spine. Carefully, she walked to its edge, until toes hung over the side of the roof and her balance began to falter. A hesitant smile was already teasing at her lips, breath stilled, skirt billowing with a gust of wind. Closing her eyes, with her arms held out she leaned forward, and for one second felt time suspended with her weightlessness, before gravity took hold and sent her hurtling down.
The scream didn't even last half a second before Claire felt herself colliding with the ground, a crack sounding before she rolled onto her back. This was normal. It always hurt at first. Blood pooled in the back of her throat, coppery to taste, bubbling from her lips as Claire coughed, trying to clear her airway for a much needed breath. One second. Two seconds. It shouldn't have taken long to heal.
Instead, the pain remained, stars shooting behind her eyes as Claire wheezed. Her lungs weren't filling. Shaking, Claire swallowed thickly, looking to the side and managing to curl the fingers of her hand into a fist.
Help, she tried to say, but all that escaped was a soft whine.
how to stop an exploding man.
Feb. 19th, 2011 05:02 pmThe papers read November 7th, 2006. The much anticipated New York congressional elections were underway as people all around the city were filing in lines, some staring with a bit of curiosity or trepidation at the new booths provided by one Daniel Linderman, a big name throughout the whole of New York, but one who came with his share of shadiness as well. Not every household trusted him, the most wary sticking in their apartments, offices, and classrooms, absentee ballots clutched in their hands, but the turnout was decent on the whole, the only event which seemed to set that day apart from most others in that gray city, skyscrapers stretching all the way up into the clouds above.
But, unknown to the general populace, there were a group of individuals scattered around the whole of the city, some whose faces were plastered on posters at every turn, others making it onto national television, and still more trying their best to avoid any detection altogether. And those individuals were special, the pinnacle of human evolution, some believed. Destined to do something great.
A hospice nurse.
A taxi driver.
A watchmaker.
A girl next door.
An office worker.
A policeman.
A socialite.
A soon-to-be Congressman for the 14th District.
A manager at a paper factory.
A cheerleader.
Heroes and villains.
This was their story.
But, unknown to the general populace, there were a group of individuals scattered around the whole of the city, some whose faces were plastered on posters at every turn, others making it onto national television, and still more trying their best to avoid any detection altogether. And those individuals were special, the pinnacle of human evolution, some believed. Destined to do something great.
A hospice nurse.
A taxi driver.
A watchmaker.
A girl next door.
An office worker.
A policeman.
A socialite.
A soon-to-be Congressman for the 14th District.
A manager at a paper factory.
A cheerleader.
Heroes and villains.
This was their story.
home plot 2011: session one
Feb. 12th, 2011 04:55 pmHey everyone, and welcome to Heroes Home Plot! Sorry it took me so long to get this up, but I had a particularly busy week at work. Hopefully we can still get all details squared away in time for Home Plot Session One. :D
This is kind of written assuming that you have Heroes season one knowledge, but if you don't, let me know! I will link to/write up relevant summaries.
Taking this in sections:
( Heroes Home Plot Planning )
This is kind of written assuming that you have Heroes season one knowledge, but if you don't, let me know! I will link to/write up relevant summaries.
Taking this in sections:
( Heroes Home Plot Planning )
this time I swear it is the truth
Jan. 6th, 2011 07:48 pmWhen Claire first catches sight of a small, digital camcorder resting on her nightstand, it's all she can do to run on over to the Compound and hole herself up in one of the empty dorm rooms, checking every single tape included in that box, making sure that her background isn't painted on any of them. If Zach was here, he'd be able to tell her whether or not that camcorder was his, whether the tapes have been used, and the very thought of it makes Claire curse herself until she's sifted through them all. Why didn't she ever pay closer attention? Why was so much of a high school simply a waste, Claire chasing after something she didn't want anymore in the end, an identity that never perfectly fit. And now that she's just starting to find herself, it's not with the most important people by her side.
It's lonely enough that she almost hopes the tapes are Zach's, wishes she could hear his voice in the background, listen to him freak out about her pushing protruding ribs right back into her body. But she's not one for dwelling, maybe because she's still so fortunately a teen, and so she straightens up and places the tapes carefully back into their box, slipping a fresh one into the camcorder and wondering what she wants to capture first. The battery's fully charged for now, so she just wanders around looking down at the tiny screen, not recording yet, but ready at a minute's notice. Her first trek takes her to the trampoline, where she bounces on the balls of her feet and waits for a familiar face to pop by, but it takes long enough that the very sight of another pair of feet is enough for her to press record.
Her face lights up when she sees his face on her screen. "Peeta!" Claire calls out, letting herself land on her rear on the trampoline, holding out a hand to wave him over. "Come closer so that I can get your face."
It's lonely enough that she almost hopes the tapes are Zach's, wishes she could hear his voice in the background, listen to him freak out about her pushing protruding ribs right back into her body. But she's not one for dwelling, maybe because she's still so fortunately a teen, and so she straightens up and places the tapes carefully back into their box, slipping a fresh one into the camcorder and wondering what she wants to capture first. The battery's fully charged for now, so she just wanders around looking down at the tiny screen, not recording yet, but ready at a minute's notice. Her first trek takes her to the trampoline, where she bounces on the balls of her feet and waits for a familiar face to pop by, but it takes long enough that the very sight of another pair of feet is enough for her to press record.
Her face lights up when she sees his face on her screen. "Peeta!" Claire calls out, letting herself land on her rear on the trampoline, holding out a hand to wave him over. "Come closer so that I can get your face."
do i even dare? i just have to do it.
Dec. 2nd, 2010 12:06 amThere's a problem that Claire's come across lately. Which is, namely, that there are only so many times she can bake cupcakes before all of it feels kind of repetitive and no longer serves as a decent distraction from all of her problems. She's had a few of them lately. As comforting as it's been to talk to certain people, like Mary Jane, Claire can't help but think about it all, that nightmare she shared about a month ago, where she scared someone enough that the woman kept on shooting. Bullets searing through her shoulder time and time again, only for skin and muscle to start weaving right back together, good as new. Baking just keeps her in the kitchen, the sort of area where so much has happened in the past. Washing her injured hand under running water. Watching her broken fingers repair themselves after being run through the trash disposal. Blood tripping onto the floor, hands burning after pulling a tray of cupcakes out.
It's just a little too much of a reminder of her previous life and general lack of caring, neither of which apply entirely anymore. So today, instead of using up some of the rarer items in the pantry, Claire sits at the kitchen counter with a coloring book nabbed from the bookshelf (The Little Mermaid, fancy that) and filling it in with completely unfitting colors. That keeps it from being too much like cheating.
When she hears footsteps approaching, she continues coloring, keeping her ears open for any hint of a voice that might help her know who it is. Hopefully a friend.
It's just a little too much of a reminder of her previous life and general lack of caring, neither of which apply entirely anymore. So today, instead of using up some of the rarer items in the pantry, Claire sits at the kitchen counter with a coloring book nabbed from the bookshelf (The Little Mermaid, fancy that) and filling it in with completely unfitting colors. That keeps it from being too much like cheating.
When she hears footsteps approaching, she continues coloring, keeping her ears open for any hint of a voice that might help her know who it is. Hopefully a friend.
you will surely shatter
Oct. 29th, 2010 10:16 pmThe blood smelled sweet. Claire had once been told in her youth that death smelled different to each person, that scent was the memory which dug itself deepest into the recesses of anyone's mind and lodged itself firmly there, only to appear again in a person's last days. And if this was what she smelled in her last moments, vanilla hanging lightly in the air, she couldn't complain. There was a warmth trickling down the length of an arm, and her head pounded with alarming frequency. Thud, thud, thud. Pinpricks pressed against the lengths of her nerves until they met each end, digging ferociously, but Claire welcomed the pain. Passing in one's sleep had never held any romanticism to her. This was better.
This reminded her that she had been alive, once.
But then her chest squeezed tight, lungs breathing fresh as Claire gasped for breath, a long draw that seemed to have no end. Where her vision had been blurry before, now all the details were returning, down to each speck of dirt on the floor of the school hallway. Somewhere in the distance, a clock counted down the seconds, but Claire's body traveled backward, the sticky sensation of blood still holding her fingers together as she sat up.
"Get out of bed, Claire, or you'll be late," a deep voice reprimanded in the background, easing into a chuckle, one which made her blood run cold.
This reminded her that she had been alive, once.
But then her chest squeezed tight, lungs breathing fresh as Claire gasped for breath, a long draw that seemed to have no end. Where her vision had been blurry before, now all the details were returning, down to each speck of dirt on the floor of the school hallway. Somewhere in the distance, a clock counted down the seconds, but Claire's body traveled backward, the sticky sensation of blood still holding her fingers together as she sat up.
"Get out of bed, Claire, or you'll be late," a deep voice reprimanded in the background, easing into a chuckle, one which made her blood run cold.
It's been several weeks now since Claire first stumbled around to the island, and in some strange way, it's all starting to feel like a home. Claire's not really sure what it is. The people, perhaps, kinder and more accepting than any high schoolers back in Odessa had really been— which isn't something that she's bitter about anymore, looking at it in retrospect. High schoolers are supposed to be growing up, and they're bound to be dumb and make mistakes, convinced that they've seen it all when their world views are more often narrow than not. Of course, Tabula Rasa still lacks so many of the things that really make a house a home, like a room that Claire can decorate to her satisfaction, a mountain of teddy bears piled on her bed. And of course, her family isn't there, perhaps the biggest detail that leaves Claire scrambling for purchase on her sheets every morning. But sometimes, the island can be home, and maybe that's enough.
The kitchen is probably where Claire finds that calm the most, a place she visits every day to find a hot meal and to help clean up afterward, the least she can do in return for finding a sense of community that appeals to her. Every now and again, she finds the energy to bake a large batch of cupcakes, her own way of giving back to the kitchen all that she takes from it. Besides, there isn't all that much else for her to do these days, between not having classes and not having to really prepare her own meals at all. There's an idle desire to find a job that always simmers in the back of Claire's mind, but until she manages to find that, baking will just have to do.
She's right in the middle of mixing the batter when someone steps into the kitchen, a face vaguely familiar from the recent newbie mixer. Keeping her arm firmly clamped around the bowl so as not to drop it, Claire smiles in greeting, tilting her head in lieu of a wave.
"Hey there," she grins. "You wouldn't happen to like cupcakes, would you?"
The kitchen is probably where Claire finds that calm the most, a place she visits every day to find a hot meal and to help clean up afterward, the least she can do in return for finding a sense of community that appeals to her. Every now and again, she finds the energy to bake a large batch of cupcakes, her own way of giving back to the kitchen all that she takes from it. Besides, there isn't all that much else for her to do these days, between not having classes and not having to really prepare her own meals at all. There's an idle desire to find a job that always simmers in the back of Claire's mind, but until she manages to find that, baking will just have to do.
She's right in the middle of mixing the batter when someone steps into the kitchen, a face vaguely familiar from the recent newbie mixer. Keeping her arm firmly clamped around the bowl so as not to drop it, Claire smiles in greeting, tilting her head in lieu of a wave.
"Hey there," she grins. "You wouldn't happen to like cupcakes, would you?"
She's happy. Claire has to convince herself of that much.
Ever since arriving on the island, things have shifted back to normal. The people around her are friendly, don't expect to be given any more than they share in turn, don't ask about the lives that everyone left behind and that don't really matter anymore. It's everything that she asked for, could have hoped for, and so Claire is happy. She's starting to make friends again, takes interest in the lives of others, and it's all so great that really, Claire's heart should be bursting from it all. The only problems she has are things like hurricanes, easily solved by staying close to shelter, or keeping a wary eye directed at the sky above. Everything is...
So why is it that she finds herself standing at the edge of a cliff she's come across, hiking up high in the mountains, staring down at the sharp drop-off under her feet? Back home, she would ask Zach to come along, for him to wait underneath and keep his camera pointed right at her. But Zach isn't there, and dad isn't there, and all she can cling to in that very instant is the deep familiarity that standing there gives her. Dirt sifts under her shoes as Claire peers on over to where the canopies of jungle stretch far below her feet.
It's so peaceful out there. Maybe no one has to know, if she does take a jump. Just one jump. She has been so careful up to that point, not even letting herself scrape a hand on tree bark. Never mentioning what she once was to people.
Claire's toes draw closer to the edge of the cliff as she bends over, trying to imagine the wind rushing in her hair and the pain she'll find at the bottom, the only thing she can cling to anymore as proof that she's still human at all.
It's tempting.
Ever since arriving on the island, things have shifted back to normal. The people around her are friendly, don't expect to be given any more than they share in turn, don't ask about the lives that everyone left behind and that don't really matter anymore. It's everything that she asked for, could have hoped for, and so Claire is happy. She's starting to make friends again, takes interest in the lives of others, and it's all so great that really, Claire's heart should be bursting from it all. The only problems she has are things like hurricanes, easily solved by staying close to shelter, or keeping a wary eye directed at the sky above. Everything is...
So why is it that she finds herself standing at the edge of a cliff she's come across, hiking up high in the mountains, staring down at the sharp drop-off under her feet? Back home, she would ask Zach to come along, for him to wait underneath and keep his camera pointed right at her. But Zach isn't there, and dad isn't there, and all she can cling to in that very instant is the deep familiarity that standing there gives her. Dirt sifts under her shoes as Claire peers on over to where the canopies of jungle stretch far below her feet.
It's so peaceful out there. Maybe no one has to know, if she does take a jump. Just one jump. She has been so careful up to that point, not even letting herself scrape a hand on tree bark. Never mentioning what she once was to people.
Claire's toes draw closer to the edge of the cliff as she bends over, trying to imagine the wind rushing in her hair and the pain she'll find at the bottom, the only thing she can cling to anymore as proof that she's still human at all.
It's tempting.
voice post
Sep. 18th, 2010 03:25 pmnote: yes, i realize it should be forty feet, not stories. i get nervous on the phone, okay? ♥