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meadowlarklogs2019-04-16 02:13 am
revlon) wrote in meadowlarklogs2019-04-16 02:13 am
Entry tags:
the world has changed and none of us can go back
WHO: Peggy Carter (revlon & Leo Fitz (retravel).
WHERE: On the train to New Tokyo.
WHEN: October 8th, morning.
WHAT: Waking up after some wild dreamscape adventures.
NOTES OR WARNINGS: Descriptions of death and gore likely.
[ When Peggy Carter fell asleep on the train to New Tokyo, she was alone. Travel is difficult, complicated, and strictly monitored in this world so the car she'd picked for herself (the last car) had been sparsely populated to begin with β no one for several rows, and her own seat tucked in the back end where she could keep an eye on the exit with ease. There were other displaced scattered on this train, of course, twenty-one of them and all on the journey to assist a city half a world away and utterly devastated by a monster attack. Not everyone from their number had signed up for the trip and with such a quick turn around, Peggy hadn't expected them to. But it was necessary; and, quite frankly, she'd wanted to see the world. Or what was left of it.
But halfway through the trip, she'd gotten inexplicably exhausted. Her first time in days to have a moment to herself, perhaps. The rhythmic rocking of the train lulling her into a doze. Whatever the case, the moment she'd sat back down with her tea, she was out like a light, chin dropped to her chest and tea untouched on the table between her and the empty seats across. And she dreams. It's a kaleidoscope of shifting landscapes, some wearily familiar (a desolate, snowy battlefield; a bunker) and others utterly foreign (spaceships, endless deserts, an underwater ghost town) β it feels like days, weeks, lived in a world where time doesn't matter and neither does space. Familiar faces, searing emotions, loss, terror, pain, hope. Solidarity. People she'd left behind (at home, at New Amsterdam), people she'd only glimpsed in passing, people who were meant to be dead. It feels so real. Indistinguishable from the waking world, almost. But dreams are just dreams β aren't they?
Aren't they?
When Peggy Carter fell asleep on the train to New Tokyo, she was alone. But when she slowly drifts awake, she isn't, slumped against the passenger next to her. (There was no passenger next to her. She'd made certain, as a woman who values privacy.) It's not like waking from a nap; the drowsiness is deeper rooted, harder to shake, like coming out of sedation. The world returns in soft focus and she is, at first, acutely aware of the creased fabric under her cheek β someone's shoulder, their shirt. And then her brain catches up with the rest of her body as white-hot pain burns into her shoulder like she'd been shot and she straightens with a jolt (ribs, head, back, one massive throbbing bruise; chest, a pinpoint at her heart) and doubles over in her seat with a strangled sound, left hand grappling for her right shoulder. ]
God, [ she chokes out, as she drags in a ragged breath to manage the pain, checks her trembling fingers: no blood. But the person next to her is awake too, and the cold shock she feels when she looks over at them is almost enough to numb the pain of a phantom gunshot. His name rides on a breathless exhale. ] Fitz?
[ Fitz, who she'd left behind in New Amsterdam to handle Morningstar business. Fitz, who was definitely not on the passenger manifest when she looked over it mere hours ago. Fitz, who she'd just β dreamt about? That can't be. Is this real? Or not? ]
revlon & Leo Fitz (retravel).WHERE: On the train to New Tokyo.
WHEN: October 8th, morning.
WHAT: Waking up after some wild dreamscape adventures.
NOTES OR WARNINGS: Descriptions of death and gore likely.
[ When Peggy Carter fell asleep on the train to New Tokyo, she was alone. Travel is difficult, complicated, and strictly monitored in this world so the car she'd picked for herself (the last car) had been sparsely populated to begin with β no one for several rows, and her own seat tucked in the back end where she could keep an eye on the exit with ease. There were other displaced scattered on this train, of course, twenty-one of them and all on the journey to assist a city half a world away and utterly devastated by a monster attack. Not everyone from their number had signed up for the trip and with such a quick turn around, Peggy hadn't expected them to. But it was necessary; and, quite frankly, she'd wanted to see the world. Or what was left of it.
But halfway through the trip, she'd gotten inexplicably exhausted. Her first time in days to have a moment to herself, perhaps. The rhythmic rocking of the train lulling her into a doze. Whatever the case, the moment she'd sat back down with her tea, she was out like a light, chin dropped to her chest and tea untouched on the table between her and the empty seats across. And she dreams. It's a kaleidoscope of shifting landscapes, some wearily familiar (a desolate, snowy battlefield; a bunker) and others utterly foreign (spaceships, endless deserts, an underwater ghost town) β it feels like days, weeks, lived in a world where time doesn't matter and neither does space. Familiar faces, searing emotions, loss, terror, pain, hope. Solidarity. People she'd left behind (at home, at New Amsterdam), people she'd only glimpsed in passing, people who were meant to be dead. It feels so real. Indistinguishable from the waking world, almost. But dreams are just dreams β aren't they?
Aren't they?
When Peggy Carter fell asleep on the train to New Tokyo, she was alone. But when she slowly drifts awake, she isn't, slumped against the passenger next to her. (There was no passenger next to her. She'd made certain, as a woman who values privacy.) It's not like waking from a nap; the drowsiness is deeper rooted, harder to shake, like coming out of sedation. The world returns in soft focus and she is, at first, acutely aware of the creased fabric under her cheek β someone's shoulder, their shirt. And then her brain catches up with the rest of her body as white-hot pain burns into her shoulder like she'd been shot and she straightens with a jolt (ribs, head, back, one massive throbbing bruise; chest, a pinpoint at her heart) and doubles over in her seat with a strangled sound, left hand grappling for her right shoulder. ]
God, [ she chokes out, as she drags in a ragged breath to manage the pain, checks her trembling fingers: no blood. But the person next to her is awake too, and the cold shock she feels when she looks over at them is almost enough to numb the pain of a phantom gunshot. His name rides on a breathless exhale. ] Fitz?
[ Fitz, who she'd left behind in New Amsterdam to handle Morningstar business. Fitz, who was definitely not on the passenger manifest when she looked over it mere hours ago. Fitz, who she'd just β dreamt about? That can't be. Is this real? Or not? ]