INSURRECTION
Title: Insurrection
Written By: vlredreign
Timeline: Season 5
Rating: PG
Warnings: Angst?
Summary: Fear can be a wonderful motivator. Brian’s POV
Author Notes: Excerpts from The Waste Land, by TS Eliot. Thanks to my awesome beta. You know why.
Inspired By Icon:
A heap of broken images
When you heard the news of the explosion, you were stunned. It couldn’t be, it was impossible, not true.
Justin, Michael, Lindsay, Justin
A chorus of voices clamor for dominance in your head.
Told you so, they taunt
Not true, didn’t happen. Even when you saw the smoke, your mind denied it.
Justin, Michael, Justin, Justin
There is shadow under this red rock
Sirens, screams, pandemonium, on the street, in your head.
Told you so, they hate you, hate you, want you dead
Not true. You wouldn’t believe it, even though you told them, told them that they hated all of you, Justin told you, they want you all dead.
Justin. No. Not again. You can’t believe it. You won’t.
I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
Your kingdom, your palace, lies at your feet. Chaos rules, not you. The voices laugh at you; they think you’re funny. You thought you knew, thought that it was just mindless babble and idle threats. You forgot what one loose screw could do
Justin, Michael, Lindsay, Justin, Justin
The litany thrums in your head, like the music that played here, like a pulse, a heartbeat. Smoke, fire, blood, death. No. No. Not again. Not blood, not this time. You won’t have it, it can’t be allowed.
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
Rubble, ruin, ash, smoke and dust. The revelers lay in asymmetric puzzles, mocking you, blocking your progress. You cough out your anguish, and call out his name
Not again. Not this time. Now you know. Now you see. The truth that you were searching for is here, in this smoking hell. You hear the screams of the damned, and still you go forward, because it’s not true. You will be on time this time. This time you’ll call his name, and he’ll duck
There. There. There is your salvation, ahead of you, small, fragile, frightened. Covered in the remains of your goodwill and their hatred. The pulse beats, slows, beats again. You reach out, and you pulse in tandem. Almost whole. Almost.
The voices still, for a moment. But they’ll be back. They like being with you. They want you to fail. They want you to listen.
You realize that he makes them stop. He looks at you, and makes them stop.
Written By: vlredreign
Timeline: Season 5
Rating: PG
Warnings: Angst?
Summary: Fear can be a wonderful motivator. Brian’s POV
Author Notes: Excerpts from The Waste Land, by TS Eliot. Thanks to my awesome beta. You know why.
Inspired By Icon:
A heap of broken images
When you heard the news of the explosion, you were stunned. It couldn’t be, it was impossible, not true.
Justin, Michael, Lindsay, Justin
A chorus of voices clamor for dominance in your head.
Told you so, they taunt
Not true, didn’t happen. Even when you saw the smoke, your mind denied it.
Justin, Michael, Justin, Justin
There is shadow under this red rock
Sirens, screams, pandemonium, on the street, in your head.
Told you so, they hate you, hate you, want you dead
Not true. You wouldn’t believe it, even though you told them, told them that they hated all of you, Justin told you, they want you all dead.
Justin. No. Not again. You can’t believe it. You won’t.
I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
Your kingdom, your palace, lies at your feet. Chaos rules, not you. The voices laugh at you; they think you’re funny. You thought you knew, thought that it was just mindless babble and idle threats. You forgot what one loose screw could do
Justin, Michael, Lindsay, Justin, Justin
The litany thrums in your head, like the music that played here, like a pulse, a heartbeat. Smoke, fire, blood, death. No. No. Not again. Not blood, not this time. You won’t have it, it can’t be allowed.
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
Rubble, ruin, ash, smoke and dust. The revelers lay in asymmetric puzzles, mocking you, blocking your progress. You cough out your anguish, and call out his name
Not again. Not this time. Now you know. Now you see. The truth that you were searching for is here, in this smoking hell. You hear the screams of the damned, and still you go forward, because it’s not true. You will be on time this time. This time you’ll call his name, and he’ll duck
There. There. There is your salvation, ahead of you, small, fragile, frightened. Covered in the remains of your goodwill and their hatred. The pulse beats, slows, beats again. You reach out, and you pulse in tandem. Almost whole. Almost.
The voices still, for a moment. But they’ll be back. They like being with you. They want you to fail. They want you to listen.
You realize that he makes them stop. He looks at you, and makes them stop.