redheadcarrier | [DDD | 037 | Dream Virus] It all returns to nothing, it all comes

Entry tags:

asuka,
dream virus

[DDD | 037 | Dream Virus] It all returns to nothing, it all comes

The cockpit of Asuka's Eva unit flickers into view and the viewscreen shows a scene of devestation and death. All around her, the land is laid waste, the scattered wreckage of helicopters, tanks, missile launchers. The remains of an army. And Asuka's laughter is ringing inside (but it's hollow, empty - she knows how this ends). And then it happens. Tiny dots come spiraling out of the clear, blue sky. White birds with wings, machines of war, like her Eva, like her - "Mother," she mutters to herself, "We can take them!"

But there's a count-down playing it's way across one small section of the HUD. A few minutes. Less. She's running out of time. But still, she launches herself at these new foes (the Eva series), and still she fights her way through them. One, she simply slaughters with her knife, before it snaps and shatters. Another is killed by a series of spikes launched from her Eva's neck. Yet another she engages with a giant blade. And one she rips apart with her Eva's bare hands. And others go down, spurting life-fluids. And she's winning, and she knows it, even as she grunts and strains with the effort. But that countdown is almost out.

She turns, looking for her next foe, in time to see a giant sword coming at her, hurled through the air. She lifts her hand and the AT field flares for a brief second, just enough time for the spear to shift into a dual-pointed spear. She has the time to look surprised, to mutter, "The Spear of Longinus?"

And then it blasts through her AT field and goes right through the Eva unit's head. There's a shriek from Asuka, even as her unit loses power and collapses. There's pain. Lots of pain. But she has to get up, she has to kill them because they enemy are getting back up! They're not staying down, they're regenerating and getting back up! She has to kill them. She has to fight, but her unit won't respond as she tugs on the controls uselessly. And then the enemy descend on her and tear Eva 02's guts out and there is more pain, more hurt, before they abandon the unit, flocking and flying upwards on their wings.

Asuka clutches at her eye, at her stomach. It feels like she is the one being dismembered. But yet, Eva 02 seems to regain power. There is a feeling of protection, of hot fury as the unit tries to stand up, one hand reaching skywards.

"I'm going to kill you. I'm going to kill you. I'm going to kill-" Asuka is murmuring in anger as she tries to force herself up. And then the spears rain from circling Eva series, pinning the Unit 02 to the ground and Asuka flatlines as everything goes black.

And Asuka wakes up screaming again.

(( OOC note: this is basically this scene, although very much from Asuka's POV. ))

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

[He was up long before. Minutes and hours. (And it was with no particular start that he woke. That he blinked into the darkness, to find his laptop on. To find his journal updated.)

And he was up long before he had seen hers stream. No locks would work. Rusty, and not. Fingers stilling over the keys. Trying again. Only thankful for the obscurity. Only thankful for the fact it hid more than it revealed. (And he could remember the bitter taste of LCL. Could remember the conversations. The distinctive sound of each of their voices. The endless discussions. Cycling. Again and again and - He remembered as they one by one by one went silent. He remembered the last one. Her voice. Fading out. Dying. And he was only thankful they could not hear what it was they were saying. Their drives and motivations. Different and singular. One in the same.) And it was something he nudged back. That he carefully quieted - though the sensation remained. Pale and ghost-like in the cramped quarters of their dark kitchen. (His laptop the only light. Carried out from his room. An effort to keep busy. To keep awake.) And it wasn't long ago that he had set water to boil on the stove. No intention to sleep, again. Too late (or too early).

And he had been half-scrolling through the community, when he noted another streaming. (So many nightmares. So few pleasant or welcome or--) And though he had only caught the tail end, the voice was enough. (And for it, when she screamed - he almost expected it would come. Had almost expected - Someone had fought them, he knew. Talk had filtered around him in the facility. Years in advance. Mass Production. And yet - he carefully closed the laptop. Fingers lingering on the face of it. She had not slept at night. That much he knew. Though, the precise reason - Beyond what he may have guessed. What he may have assumed - She would wander in here soon, if habit dictated it.]

Edited 2009-06-27 05:47 (UTC)

_{[Kaworu wasn't far wrong. A few minutes later, the light flicked on the restroom and there was the sound of running water. A minute or two later, Asuka wandered in, looking disheveled and a bit bleary. She was dressed (as usual) an oversized t-shirt and a pair of shorts. She blinked at Kaworu, opened her mouth to say something, then shook her head and simply walked over to the stove, starting to work on some tea.

She fervently hoped that he hadn't heard her scream.]}

[He had heard her before he saw her.

In those minutes, he'd reconsidered. Had reopened his laptop. Pulled up what documents demanded editing. Before pushing it gently aside. (Mind still centered on what had come up on the video feed, though his expression was empty of indication. Still placid. Almost tired.) And in those minutes, his fingers had rediscovered the mug he had pulled down from the cupboards hours ago. Had forgotten about in the wake of this virus. (Too many attempts to lock. Too many feeds pulling at his attention.) And when she had walked in, he was studying what remained of his tea (cold), before he glanced up.

And like her, he opted to keep quiet. For a beat. Two. Only permitting himself a moment to follow her movements. Before chancing a sip of his tea, voice quiet around the lip of the mug.]

If you are looking for the teas, you seem to be looking in the wrong spot. [A faint pause, and set the mug down. Almost soundless. Turning to face her. To quietly study her.] They are in the left cupboard.

Edited 2009-06-27 06:42 (UTC)

_{[Her hands tighten on the counter, on the handle of a drawer and she bites down the impulse to glare. Instead she lets out a snappy, strangled response.]}

I know.

_{[She hastily pulls out a packet of tea and sets the water to boiling, grumbling to herself. As she waits for the water to boil, she sets herself down with a faint harumph, staring at the table. She shouldn't be mad at Kaworu (or anyone) she knows. But she doesn't want to get angry at herself, she doesn't want to indulge the fear.]}

[He monitors her quietly. Catches the way her hands clench. Catches the tension that creeps into her posture. And the tone is expected, when she answers him. Takes in what edges and subtleties he can, knowing the root and the sum of it. (And he gathers them, gently. Collects them.) And he understands. Comprehends. Sympathizes. (Empathy is not within his grasp, here.) Though, he is unflinching. He does not aim to feed into it. Instead, he keeps himself resigned to a soft sound of acknowledgment. He knows she will come to him in her own time. To push or to prod would not be appreciated. (He had learned it, and early. With others, he had managed. With others, he had stated and analyzed. But, she had made it clear that she did not want his assessments, that way of understanding. To bring light to her vulnerabilities, to certain and ingrained reasons - ) Instead, he thinks - what company he might provide would prove to be some means of distraction. Even if minutely.

And he's turning back to his tea, after a moment. His fingers tracing the handle thoughtfully. Not inclined to drink it. And he's only looking back to her when she takes a seat at the kitchen table. Studying her posture, if discreetly, keeping to his quiet. Allowing her to speak on her own.]

_{[She stares at the table for a moment, letting the silence fill the room. She almost wants to talk to him about it, but she also doesn't want to admit that she has these nightmares. If she ignores them and doesn't talk about them, maybe... they'll just go away. A faint hope and a foolish one and she knows that, but she still wants to ignore it and hope it all just vanishes. Her shoulders are hunched, she's curled into herself as she waits, staying silent.

Maybe that will work.]}

[[And this is familar. (One night. Long back. Months and months ago. When she had come into his room. When she had raised her hand against him. When she had spoken, voice raw with anger, of what she wished to know. What she believed to know. What it was - ) And this is similar. The same movements. The same method to withdraw. To push back what vulnerabilities had lingered. Remained. (She had broken down on him then, and he can still remember the warmth of her shoulder - the first time he touched her. The first time she didn't push him away. Didn't shove him back. Didn't reject what small comfort his touch may have provided. Could have provided.)

And it is that quiet, it is this quiet, that wakes it. That same, unconscious, urge. That same, soft need to provide some note of reassurance. To gently curl his fingers into this silence. To coax it away. To nudge it apart. (To draw back or push forward.) And he can see the way she draws into herself. The tense line of her shoulders. (The hesitance in her persisting quiet. And he lets himself look. Lets himself glance at her openly. Lets himself repeat what he had done.) And he's shifting his hand, after a moment. Letting it linger between them (hesitant) before resting his fingers (too gently) against the warm skin of her wrist. (And there is no note of inquiry in it. Just the faint offer of some tangibility. Some note of comfort. Nothing more, at all.)]

_{[She's not looking at him when he moves his hand tentatively. She's busy trying to fight down her anger and frustration and the raw fear that pounds through her every time she wakes up from that dream. Deep down, she's afraid (it's an irrational fear, but she knows that and it doesn't help) that one day she's not going to wake up from the dream and she'll be stick in her own personal version of Hell forever (to be utterly and totally alone, without sight or sound or feeling). It won't happen. It can't happen. She's safe in an apartment in Japan, but that gnawing, biting fear still works on her every time.

Her head jerks up, gaze snapping from the table to Kaworu as she feels a soft, gentle touch on her arm. It's almost not there and for a moment she just stares at him. She wants to slap his hand away, like she used to do, to pretend that everything was alright. To be strong. Instead, she shifts her arm, wrapping her fingers around his wrist in reply and just lays her head down on the table, resting it on her other arm.]}

[He had known this once. (The way she had stared at him in the dim of his room. The shorter breaths and longer moments. The way, beneath his palm, he could almost feel the fear within her. Could almost taste the bitter edges of her frustration. Of her, and perhaps only then, ever-present anger.) And he had known this once. (Tension written in the lines of her body. Tension written at the corners of her mouth.)

And he would know this again, now.

He is not flinching as her eyes snap up. And he is not flinching at the present debate. (To push him back. To bring him closer.) And he is not flinching beneath the weight of her stare. The way, and he knows, she defies her need to hide her vulnerability as she secures his wrist with her warm fingers. (And he can feel the stiffness, there. Can feel the strength within them.)

He knows how much that this must take her. (To admit to weakness. To fail to grapple for what she had once and always considered strength.) And he knows how much that this may take, as she lowers her gaze. As she rests her head against the table. (And it is in that weakness, that he finds a particular strength. To reveal is harder than to admit. To reveal was harder than to shove it back. To shove him back.)

And though he cannot return her grasp, he's curling his fingers. After a moment. (Shifting slightly closer, instead of shifting away.) And though he cannot return her grasp, he is not pulling back. (Not stilling beneath the weight of her hand.)

Instead he steady and silent beside her. As some means of comfort. As a soft reminder.

To let her know that she was not alone.]

_{[She takes a deep, shuddering breath, shoulders rising, then falling again. She has to fight the urge to just cry. She's so tired of having to relive it every night, of waking up in terror, of believing that maybe this time she'll never wake up out of that nightmare. She just wants it to stop, she just wants to let it out, let it go. All of the stress and anxiety and fear and tenseness. But she can't. Instead, she buries her head and face further into the crook of her own arm and takes another deep breath.

She's not going to cry here. She's not going to cry. She won't. But, even as she tells herself that, she can feel a tear rolling down her cheek and she has to choke back a soft sob. The fingers around Kaworu's wrist tighten and she tugs on his arm.

Stupid Kaworu. She doesn't want to do this in front of him, even if she knows she's done it once or twice before. She hates crying in front of other people and she almost wants to yell at him to leave. But, she doesn't. She just waits, trying to force back the tears and the ache in her throat.]}

[It is the movement of her shoulders that catches his attention before the hitched sound of her breathing. The soft and stifled sob. (And he could remember even then, in the dim of his dorm, he had wanted to help ease it back. Had wanted to help comfort her. And he could remember the countless times he had this occur, before. Other people. Other names. Other faces. The dampness of tears. Not as quiet. Not so silent. Open. And he had felt a sympathy for them. Not quite like this. Not quite the same as (though, perhaps once) -- And he pushed it back, gently. Coaxed it back, gently. Some stranger edge to that emotion. Unmarked, and unidentified.)

And he focuses on the unevenness of her her breath. Focuses on the way she tightens her fingers. (Almost painful, but he is not wincing.) And he knows she does not like this. He knows she never liked this. To expose this much emotion was to --

And he's allowing himself to be tugged closer. Steadying himself with his other hand against the back of her chair. Steadying himself with the faint curl of his fingers. A sort of half-encirclement. Just quiet. Just listening.]

_{[She tugs on his wrist again, reluctantly, eagerly, wanting him to be closer, but not wanting to show off... this. This weakness, this emotion, in front of him. She finally lifts her head, cheeks streaked with tears and she just looks at him for a moment, a quiet look of despair, anxiety, nervousness, in her eyes. Then she simply tugs herself upward and buries her face against his chest, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt.]}

[He knows what's behind the tug. The faint pause. The faint need. And he confirms what's behind the tug when she lifts her head. When she looks at him. Truly looks at him. (And something quiet within him stings. And something quieter within him twists. (This kind of sympathy.) Just like before. Just like with - And he's understanding it. And he's comprehending it. And despite it, he almost does not expect it when she reaches for him. When she buries her face against his chest. As her hands curl into the material of his shirt. (Already faded and thin.)

And there's a beat, before he's moving his hands. A beat, before he's curling an arm around her. Before he's gently cradling the back of her head. Fingertips buried in the thick of her hair. (And he can feel the tension within her. He can feel the tension in her fingers. The dampness of tears, seeping in. Her warmth and her breath.) And he's careful when he flexes his fingers. Careful when he glances down at her. That same note of sympathy, of some flickering concern, creeping into his expression. Sitting at the corners of his mouth. (And it is rare, and it is honest.) And he listens to the contrast of his breath and hers. Too notable in this quiet.]

_{[For one brief, incredibly dreadful moment, she's afraid she's going to be pushed away, left alone. And then she feels his arm wrapping around her, the hand in her hair and she slumps slightly in relief, starting to cry against his shirt, starting to pour it all out.]}

T-they won't stop. Every night, it's always the same and I can't stop seeing it, over and over again in my head! _{Why can't I just forget? Why can't I just go back to being who I was?}

[And for one, long moment he wonder if she will pull back - before she's leaning against him. Before he can feel her tensing. Before he can hear the harsher edges to her breath. The start of tears. The weight of her words. The realization of how much it must take to speak this, how much this might take to say this. And his voice is soft and rounded. Almost as if to soothe. To do what he might to ease this. If only slightly.]

To forget is sometimes difficult. It is not to say it will not fade, but it requires time, Asuka. [And he's tightening his grip. By such small increments. And he's gently running his fingers down. Almost carding through her hair.] You are not weak for it.

_{[Her quiet tears and soft sobs have built, and now are something louder, harsher, more ragged as emotion starts to overwhelm her, even as she feels shame for this. She told herself she wouldn't cry, she told herself she wouldn't rely on anybody. But here she is and she just clings a bit tighter, listening to the words, trying to let them shore up her sense of self.]}

It was m-months ago! I don't want- I just want it to be over and done with! I just... I... just....

_{[She trails off into more sobs.]}

_{...I hate these dreams. I hate them.}

[And he can feel her fingers tightening. And he can feel the toll it takes upon her body. The harshness of her breathing. The ragged edges. And he's listening to her speaking. Listening to her words. (The pauses and the stresses. The effort it must take to talk on this, at all.)

His hands are stilling, for a moment. Letting his understanding seep in through his quiet. Letting it seep in through the way he curls his fingers. After a moment. After a beat. (Still glancing down at her. Quietly.)

And it takes another, before he is murmuring, almost too softly. I do know.]

_{[Those murmured words are enough for her and she just finally lets go completely. She breaks down, feeling her knees go weak for a moment, before she tries to will herself to stay up, clinging to Kaworu for support. She can't be weak. She can't help herself, though. The sobbing increases in intensity for a few moments as even more of it spills out, not in words, in formless cries and tension. She finally begins murmuring, over and over again.]}

_{I don't want to die, I don't want to die, I don't want to die, I don't want to die...}

_{[She's not about to, the words are meaningless, but they just keep coming, again and again as she clings to him.]}

Edited 2009-07-01 07:43 (UTC)

[And he's listening - and he's curling his fingers. Just a bit tighter. And he can feel the sobs increasing before he hears them. Can feel each and every inhale. Exhale. Each formless word - the growing tension. But, he keeps a hold on her. But, he's supporting her. Feeling the swell of emotions, the way they wrack through her body. The tangibility of her weight. The weight of the idea that he's anchoring her. (And he's listening to the mantra. And he's half-murmuring her name. Letting her cry, letting her release this - Just holding her through this.)]

_{[The mantra slowly trails off, until she's simply sobbing quietly again. And, eventually even that stops. For several long moments she continues to stand there, trying to wipe the tears out of her eyes and then, slowly, reluctantly, she starts to loosen her grip on Kaworu and she takes a shaky step back, eyes looking away and down. She shouldn't have done that and she's a bit angry - more with herself then anything - but she reigns in the sharp emotion and swallows, wipes at her eyes with the back of one hand again and sniffles, trying to think of the right words to say.]}

[He's listening as the mantra slows, quiets. And he's listening as her sobs taper, thin. And for a long moment, he's reading into her silence (not curling his fingers into the corners, not pushing against it or willing it back). And for a long moment, he's listening to her breathing. The gradual leveling of her inhales and exhales. (The way the smooth and steady. No clear distinction between his and her own.)

However, when she pulls back, he is letting her go. (And he can feel the faint pause, his and her own. Hands oddly empty and far too exposed.) But, he's watching her quietly. Reciprocated or no. But, he's studying her gently. Letting her gather herself. His expression softer. A little more open.]

_{[She hesitates, clenches her fists. She meets his gaze for a moment, then her eyes slide away from his and her arms fold defensively across her chest. Her weight shifts slightly from one hip to the other, then back. And for a moment, she wants to step forward again, into the comfort of that embrace. She reigns herself in; to be more correct, pride pulls her back in. Instead, she mutters a quick, low, "Thanks..." and then she moves past him and out into the hallway.

A moment later, her door opens and then closes with a 'click'.]}

[He can feel the weight of her hesitance before he sees it. Before she meets his eyes. Shifts her weight. And he can feel the faint decision before she makes it, the low thanks going unanswered as she passes him - his words stilling, silencing. She needn't have thanked him. He had wanted to tell her as much, but the click of the door is a sufficient response.

And for a moment, he's quiet. Still. Before his hand going up to rest against his neck. Fingers rubbing absently. Thoughtlessly. (And he is not baffled. He is not uncomprehending. He is not - But, there's the quiet barb of something. For a moment. A beat. Before he's rounding it off. Soothing it. Smoothing it down.)

Still, he's glancing back at where she had gone. Still, it takes a moment before he might nudge himself into motion, gathering their mugs. Taking the kettle off the stove. Gently gathering up his laptop and shifting their chairs back into place. (Closing draws. And cupboards as he goes.

And it is not long before he follows. Goes back to his room. (Almost pausing as he passes hers, just to listen or confirm.) Echoes the click of her door.]

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

[DDD | 037 | Dream Virus] It all returns to nothing, it all comes

[derp, action post. :|b]

Re: [derp, action post. :|b]

[action post. :|b]

Re: [action post. :|b]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject