Participants:
| Scene Title | I'm Sorry About A Lot Of Things |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Abby's first foray into self tutelage produces a concrete trigger. |
| Date | June 8, 2010 |
Standing in the ruins of Midtown, it's hard to believe New York is still a living city.
There's life enough around the fringes — the stubborn, who refused to rebuild somewhere else; the hopeful, who believe the radiation is gone, or that they somehow won't be affected. Businesses, apartment complexes, taxis and bicycles and subways going to and fro — life goes on. Perhaps more quietly than in other parts of the city, shadowed by the reminder that even a city can die, but it does go on.
Then there is the waste. The empty core for which the living city is only a distant memory. Though a few major thoroughfares wind through the ruins, arteries linking the surviving halves, and the forms of some truly desperate souls can occasionally be glimpsed skulking in the shadows, the loudest noise here is of the wind whistling through the mangled remnants of buildings. Twisted cords of rebar reach out from shattered concrete; piles of masonry and warped metal huddle on the ground, broken and forlorn. Short stretches of road peek out from under rubble and dust only to disappear again shortly afterwards, dotted with the mangled and contorted forms of rusting cars, their windows long since shattered into glittering dust.
There are no bodies — not even pieces, not anymore. Just the bits and pieces of destroyed lives: ragged streamers fluttering from the handlebar which juts out of a pile of debris; a flowerbox turned on its side, coated by brick dust, dry sticks still clinging to the packed dirt inside; a lawn chair, its aluminum frame twisted but still recognizable, leaning against a flight of stairs climbing to nowhere.
At the center of this broken wasteland lies nothing at all. A hollow scooped out of the earth, just over half a mile across, coated in a thick layer of dust and ash. Nothing lives here. Not a bird; not a plant. Nothing stands here. Not one concrete block atop another. There is only a scar in the earth, cauterized by atomic fire. This is Death's ground.
Stretched out on the hood of the decrepit ruins of a car, staring up at the sky. Pink hair spreading loose against the rusted blues and yellows of a VW beetle that has withstood the bomb and all that came with it in the aftermath. Tank tops, raggedy long shorts, it's a day off. Peter disappeared after shift but had managed to get some sleep after dragging himself in at six in the morning and Abby had shoveled some food into him before he collapsed in one of the spare rooms. Grumpy, snippy, grouchy, it was a side of him that she'd never really seen until that day in the safehouse in the basement with Sasha. Part of her wondered if he was like this with Kaylee. Wondered if this was because of Kaylee?
Was Peter bi-polar maybe? In need of some anti-depressants to even him out? God knows, they helped her. Abigail inhaled deeply, things laid out away from the vehicle, things she'd need. She had a promise to keep to Matt. Get this ability under control, without the help of the negation pills. His job and god alone only knew what else and likely her freedom depended on it. Roberts words echoed in her head. Peter had been taking care of himself for ten years and didn't need to be coddled. When he got the nerve up to say what he wanted to say instead of starting a sentance then derailing to something else, he'd tell her.
She pushes herself off the beetle, leaving the sky to do it's business. Insurance for the car was dealt with today, in a couple days, she'd have her own vehicle. Insurance was progressing on the bar. In another couple weeks she could start finding out how to go about rebuilding it. It was one of the few times in which she might actually consult Cat. Or maybe someone in the Ferry who was in construction. Might as well give work and help support those that she knew and who wouldn't screw her over.
She claps her hands together then rubbing them "Well Lord. Lets try this again hmmm?"
One hour later.
One hour and frustration was high and there were no scorch marks or burned clothing. Doing it on her own without any outside help or influence. She learned Italian faster and better than this. Blue sky intermittently perforated by the presence of a helicopter or a plane leaving vapor trails in it's wake. She'd seen a dog go running by at one point. Couldn't get her concentration to come to and stick.
A couple of the elusive penguins of Central Park. No human beings, Abby had tried to go as deep as she dared, the taser in her backpack nestled by the small portable fire extinguisher. Spent time in prayer, time worrying over everything that had happened, worried over the possibility of being found out, caught. She calculated how much time had lapsed since when she took one of the pills and had discounted that maybe it was lingering in her system longer. More than enough time had passed.
It boiled down, she thought, to just being so damned new at this. She really had had it easy with the healing. Learning to turn it off was all she had needed to do at first. It was time to bring out the sure fire thing to set her off. It had done it already and Joseph had saved it when she threw it at him. She was smart, the original tucked away somewhere, and a photocopy, a couple photocopies were with her.
Abigail,
You probably don't want to hear from me again. So you don't have to read this if you don't want it.
I feel bad. Writing. Like my chest is caving in.
She rubbed her fingers back and forth across the paper, waiting to see if what happened in the terminal would happen up here. Part of her hoped it wouldn't, but another part of her hoped that it did. It would mean that she knew at least one trigger. Blue eye's scan back and forth, picking out the words one by one, processing them, comparing them to what she'd seen and dealt with in her kitchen.
Everyone is asking why and I can't give an answer better than the honest one, which I've already given you. I'm angry a lot of the time. A lot of things in my life are bad. It builds up until I can't move or think and I sit alone and stare and when I turn my eyes off it's dark and I want to hurt someone. Only the people I want to hurt most of all are already dead or don't realize. I thought for a while it didn't matter who as long as it was someone who would struggle and beg and everything I did mattered to them. Everything. For a few minutes. And for some days sometimes I would feel better and like I knew who I was again until it came back.
I've been doing some LSD instead of anti-depressants. I mean. Not anymore. Not since I've been down here. It helps you to see the ways everything may go.
She could feel it, much like she could feel the healing when she called on god and she held it in, crawling around under her skin and traversing the barrier between her and someone else. Could feel the mimicry welling, waiting, licking at the inside of her and curling around her spine as her temperature slowly climbed. Her body and mind trying to decide whether really, she was going to ignite and actually transform.
Not that I recommend trying it. Stick with Joseph. Don't let him lie. He could probably use the company.
I want everything to turn out okay for you and for you to find someone better. And good. Whatever you want to think about me is okay too. You don't have to be soft because you loved someone in a future that I broke or someone else did or because that's what Jesus would do. I'm sorry your healing went into me. I didn't deserve it. I should have talked more, too. But I'm twice your age and it's hard when I don't know what I want and I don't think you want me. I'm sorry about a lot of things. Be careful around Teo.
-Flint
Why couldn't he have spoken all this before he'd killed Hokuto? What was so hard about talking, about asking her how she felt about him, how she really felt about what happened. Pain wells in the blonde's chest, this being the second time she's ever read the letter, actually managing to get through it all instead of halfway. Son of a bitch, bastard, every other name in the book that she could toss up into the air and directed towards him.
"I love you still, you know that? Hate you, loathe you, so many things about you. Do you understand that Flint Deckard? I hate you so much for what you did to her, taking away her ability to do what you weren't able to do. Make up for the wrong you did. Do you see this? Even dead you still break my heart. I just hope you're finally at peace, at rest. Trying to sell the heavenly choir stolen harps." Spoken into the air around her and at the paper in her hands that constitutes in her mind, his last words turning black from the increasing heat that's pouring off of her as warning. The change over from Abigail Beauchamp to fire, woman to flame comes moments later. Clothes go up, paper incinerates and sitting on the hood of that vehicle is the coronal nymph, remaining paint peeling away and metal scorching at the waves of heat and flame that lick about her and curl off to dissipate into nothing.
Great
Abigail pushes away, in as much as fire can do so, turning in spot. The goal today had been to time how long she could stay in this form. She knew that it was possibly at least a few hours, since that's how long that the bar had burned. She'd calculated time, places to move to while in this form if she needed to if people came across her so she wouldn't get caught. First of many days. How long would it take? If Gabriel ever got back to her, maybe it would take less time, who knew. If peter ever decided to help her with her ability instead of just being her extinguisher for if she flared. Who knew. But she still had that deadline. Three months.
By the end of august, she would have control, or so help her god…