Solo log - Birth of a Supervillain
Characters: Dash (reckless_rebel)
Date/Time: Tuesday, July 27
Location: The ambiguously gay house of couch explosions The Bachelor Pad, Section 4
Rating: R for language
Summary: Introspective.
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Dash finished folding the last of Cross's clothes, the coat Shiro had made. He touched the silver cross on the breast and sat down on the edge of the bed, looking around the room. It was emptied out now. Cross's stuff in boxes, shoved in the closet. It didn't look like someone lived in the room any more.
It was weird, how someone's life could vanish that easily. Just erased. The only evidence Cross had even existed was the boxes of stuff--and the memories. But those were pretty tricky things, here.
It was the same with Billy. Gone. Dash had taken a few of his twin's things and stashed them under his bed, but the rest was up to housekeeping to clear out of his brother's house. Maybe he should have let housekeeping deal with Cross's things, too.
It didn't matter. Just like Sky's rockets, he'd find a place to store the important things. The rest, the junk, the extra generic clothes, he'd donate them to the clothing stall or something. But he'd let Rabbit go through it first. The redhead had as much right to Cross's things as he did, maybe he'd find something he wanted. But Dash was keeping the coat.
It was like this was true death, dealing with the personal affects left behind.
It was twisted that this place made you wish your friends were dead instead of missing. Dead usually came back. You were lucky if you ever saw the missing again, and it was even more rare for them to remember you. That would be hoping for a miracle.
Dash stood, picking up the coat and putting it in the last box, closing the top and sealing it with tape. He hauled it to the closest and stacked it on the other boxes, then leaned his head against it.
He didn't have tears anymore. He actually hadn't cried since Cross and Codename had gone missing. He'd gotten drunk off his ass and passed out on the couch after giving Timcampy to Rabbit. He felt a little numb. Flat. He was tired of losing. He was just tired. But he couldn't stop. Wind down. He wasn't built like that. He was built to move, and so, he moved. He stepped away from the box, closed the closet door and went to make himself a sandwich in the kitchen.
Something told him he wasn't used to being this badly beaten. He knew he used to be a superhero--but had he ever been against situations as futile as this place? Maybe it'd be easier to give up and stop giving a fuck. Smile and joke around and not give a rat's ass if the place was overrun by zombies or lemurs or whatever the hell the Tree wanted to throw at everyone. Yeah, and while he was thinking of easy ways, maybe he should paint his nails black, wear mascara and cut himself while listening to emo rock. That'd solve everything. Maybe he could write really bad poetry on the journals and see if he could start a cult.
Pouring a glass of milk, Dash leaned on the counter, eating his PB&J over the sink, staring blankly at the empty room.
Moping about was stupid. Wolverine would have smacked him for it. So what if Wolverine wasn't around anymore? Or the Midget, or Ran, or her dinosaur, or dozens of others who had come to mean team and family. He wasn't going to live the way they wanted him to, no, but he wasn't going to let the tree beat him either. If everyone had to vanish someday, what the hell did he have to lose in living the way he decided to? It was the ultimate no-consequences game.
Take what you want. Fuck the rest.
Maybe it wasn't the most responsible or heroic conclusion to come to. But he had a feeling, for a super hero, he'd never been all that responsible. And probably only incidentally heroic.
Maybe it was time to break out the name Quicksilver.
Date/Time: Tuesday, July 27
Location: The ambiguously gay house of couch explosions The Bachelor Pad, Section 4
Rating: R for language
Summary: Introspective.
------
Dash finished folding the last of Cross's clothes, the coat Shiro had made. He touched the silver cross on the breast and sat down on the edge of the bed, looking around the room. It was emptied out now. Cross's stuff in boxes, shoved in the closet. It didn't look like someone lived in the room any more.
It was weird, how someone's life could vanish that easily. Just erased. The only evidence Cross had even existed was the boxes of stuff--and the memories. But those were pretty tricky things, here.
It was the same with Billy. Gone. Dash had taken a few of his twin's things and stashed them under his bed, but the rest was up to housekeeping to clear out of his brother's house. Maybe he should have let housekeeping deal with Cross's things, too.
It didn't matter. Just like Sky's rockets, he'd find a place to store the important things. The rest, the junk, the extra generic clothes, he'd donate them to the clothing stall or something. But he'd let Rabbit go through it first. The redhead had as much right to Cross's things as he did, maybe he'd find something he wanted. But Dash was keeping the coat.
It was like this was true death, dealing with the personal affects left behind.
It was twisted that this place made you wish your friends were dead instead of missing. Dead usually came back. You were lucky if you ever saw the missing again, and it was even more rare for them to remember you. That would be hoping for a miracle.
Dash stood, picking up the coat and putting it in the last box, closing the top and sealing it with tape. He hauled it to the closest and stacked it on the other boxes, then leaned his head against it.
He didn't have tears anymore. He actually hadn't cried since Cross and Codename had gone missing. He'd gotten drunk off his ass and passed out on the couch after giving Timcampy to Rabbit. He felt a little numb. Flat. He was tired of losing. He was just tired. But he couldn't stop. Wind down. He wasn't built like that. He was built to move, and so, he moved. He stepped away from the box, closed the closet door and went to make himself a sandwich in the kitchen.
Something told him he wasn't used to being this badly beaten. He knew he used to be a superhero--but had he ever been against situations as futile as this place? Maybe it'd be easier to give up and stop giving a fuck. Smile and joke around and not give a rat's ass if the place was overrun by zombies or lemurs or whatever the hell the Tree wanted to throw at everyone. Yeah, and while he was thinking of easy ways, maybe he should paint his nails black, wear mascara and cut himself while listening to emo rock. That'd solve everything. Maybe he could write really bad poetry on the journals and see if he could start a cult.
Pouring a glass of milk, Dash leaned on the counter, eating his PB&J over the sink, staring blankly at the empty room.
Moping about was stupid. Wolverine would have smacked him for it. So what if Wolverine wasn't around anymore? Or the Midget, or Ran, or her dinosaur, or dozens of others who had come to mean team and family. He wasn't going to live the way they wanted him to, no, but he wasn't going to let the tree beat him either. If everyone had to vanish someday, what the hell did he have to lose in living the way he decided to? It was the ultimate no-consequences game.
Take what you want. Fuck the rest.
Maybe it wasn't the most responsible or heroic conclusion to come to. But he had a feeling, for a super hero, he'd never been all that responsible. And probably only incidentally heroic.
Maybe it was time to break out the name Quicksilver.