A Patch Of Wind


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Also Featuring:

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Scene Title A Patch of Wind
Synopsis Helena comes to Gillian's rescue just as she's about to succumb to the Nightmare Man (as seen in A Hole In The Ice). Gillian also discovers her "patronus".
Date January 26, 2010


Cold water splashes up on rocks at the bank of Staten Island. The convergence of the Kills and the river sprinkle ice and threaten to freeze along the edges, realistic and detailed even if this is a dream.

A young woman lays on the rocks, body bleeding and twisted, as she stares upwards, into her own face. The one that isn't broken leans down, a cold smile showing dimples on her cheeks as she holds out a small bottle of painkillers.

"It would take away the pain. All of it. You'd never have to feel any of that again— and you wouldn't die alone, either," the raspy voice is familiar. Gillian's, but not quite. Something's not right about it, the way it's tugging toward cruelty.

The bottle shakes, pills knocking the edges, and the other Gillian, the one that's bleeding as if she just fell from a great height, actually begins to reach up for it.

Helena watched from far away, the faint blue tint of the whole scenario quite telling. At her shoulder is Cameron - or well, her patronus, as she likes to call it, in the shape of Cameron. The best part about being in someone's mind is that long walks are rarely as long as they are, only as long as is needful, and hence not long at all. It's like, once she begins walking, that time speeds up for her in the process, and slows again when she and Cameron arrive at their destination. "Gillian," she says in a patient tone, "What are you doing?"

Two sets of eyes glance over. The one that's sitting up, non bloodied, makes a disappointed sound for a moment, but then opens the pill bottle and continues to shake it. "Just trying to take away her pain is all. Why should she have to keep suffering?" It's a quizical voice, not quite patient, but not warm and comforting either. Rough. Harsh even.

The other set of eyes is bleerier, the physical form showing what emotional pain she's probably been going through, even as Gillian's palms touch the rocks and she starts to push herself up. What looked like broken bones don't look quite as broken anymore. "What are you…?" Eyes flicker past the familiar blonde, to a face she doesn't know. "Who…?"

"She's actually important, deserving of a position of authority," the other voice adds on, sharp. The terrain starts to shift, ruins popping up, the kills and river filling in with rubble and dirt.

"Him? That's Cameron." Helena picks her way across the rubble to stand in front Gillian who is still standing, noting, "C'mon, don't you recognize me? You tried to make me take a long walk off a short rooftop. You're not welcome here in Gillian's head. Get the hell out." She looks over her shoulder. "Tell her to get the hell out, Gillian. She's just him in familiar clothing, dredging up everything that's darkest and you hate about yourself. But if you prove the existence of hell, then that means there's a heaven too. Everything strong and good about who you are is within your reach. Use it make this bitch go away." She smiles pleasantly at Gillian Upright - or Stef, perhaps. "She'll find it. And when she does, she'll kick you out. And if she doesn't, I'll do it for her. Starting with this."

The gust of wind has the force of a hurricane, and the uncanny precision required to only effect the Shadow Gillian, provided she doesn't sense it coming. But it's true, what Hokuto said: one's ability can become exponentially more powerful both in strength and in the wielding, once one knows what one's doing.

The gust of wind hits her, blowing back her hair, ruffling the trees that suddenly speckle the area. No longer the banks of Staten Island, but the jungles of Argentina. A step backwards, but Stef, the other Gillian, doesn't disappear, or blow away. The pill bottle blows from her hand, though, spreading the pills out of sight, little white dots that drop down.

"She invited me. You're the one who doesn't belong here," Stef rasps harshly, taking a step back.

Everything she hates about herself. The woman broken on the rocks turned ruins sits up more, the visible wounds faded, but a harsh brand burned into one of her cheeks. "I— I don't deserve your help…"

"That's right— why would you even want to help her, Windy? She tried to steal the man you love. She's caused more trouble than she's fixed."

"You invited yourself, because it's easier to wallow in misery than be assured of one's worth." Helena says matter-of-factly. "And yeah, she kinda did. That doesn't mean she deserves you." Helena shrugs. "She's saved my life more than a few times. And that's a lot more important than which of us is in Peter Petrelli's pants at the moment, don't you think?" She looks over her shoulder at the branded dreamer. "Then act like someone who does."

"Apparently she couldn't even steal him right," the Shadow says, hissing between her teeth, but stepping backwards as she does. "Probably the same reason that Gabriel fell out of love with her…" It seems she is about to continue, lips parting as she thinks she might have another vein of attack.

"Get out," the same voice, with a different inflection interupts. Eyes shift from the blonde, to the branded dreamer. "Get the fuck out." Suddenly she grabs for an item on the ground near her. A small rock. And it's thrown through the air when the shadow doesn't move fast enough. It shimmers a bit, as if starting to take on another form, but never quite making it. But as soon as it hits, the shadow vanishes.

"Really," Helena rolls her eyes. "That was just…that was just sad and reaching. And not even very good." She watches the shimmer disappear and says, "Huh. You didn't even have to pull out your patronus…unless your patronus is a rock. Hey, who am I to judge." Still wary, she turns and walks over to the kneeling form and holds out her hand. "Get up, Gillian."

The rock did start to change, or glimmer, but whatever it was changing into didn't quite make it there. It remains behind, where the shadow has faded. "A patronus? Have you… been reading too much Harry Potter?" she asks as she rubs a hand over her face, beginning to stand up. The blood from the wounds, gone or not, stains her clothes. The brand stays on her cheek, even if it's been healed. Her eyes stay downcast, toward the rubble on the ground.

"It's as good a word as any." says Cameron, quirking his lips in amusement. "What he said," remarks Helena after him. "Your avatar, your Light, whatever it is about you that embodies the best of yourself. Honestly, every dream, it's like I'm a missionary for Carl Jung." She folds her arms across her chest. "You were going to take those pills, kill yourself in the real world, too. You think you can manage now?"

That rock seems to glimmer a bit, again. Small sparkles. Maybe the rock wasn't trying to change, maybe something was riding along. The little spots of shimmering light has a purple glow to it, a little blue tinged, thanks to the Refrain that she took, but still purple. It flutters and moves, coming closer, until it floats between them. There's five or six of them. Tiny things. All independant. With dragon fly wings and tiny tinkerbell bodies.

Faeries. Tiny glowing faeries.

"So that was the dream thing everyone was warning me about." The tiny little specks of light move to land on her. One of them starts to prod at her cheek, until the brand disappears. "Yeah… I guess I could handle it now." There's a pause, before she finally looks back up. "Thanks…"

"We're not entirely even." Helena admits. "You've still come in swinging more times for me than I have for you. But this eases the debt some. And I'd have done it anyway." She shoves her hands in her pockets and starts to walk past the other woman. "By the way," she adds casually, "He's all yours." With that, she starts to walk away.

The faeries continue to hover, moving around her body and fixing the details that are out of place. No wounds, so she doesn't need that blood there on her clothes! They seem to be neat freaks, by the way they focus on things. Gillian mildly waves at one, but doesn't swat it away entirely. "More likely he's all his," she says, not quite smiling, but serious. Not hers, but not really anyone's.

While one of the faeries starts to fuss over an out of place hair, the dream begins to fade so she can awaken.

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