ʀᴀᴠᴇɴ ᴘᴇʀᴇɪʀᴀ (ilusao) wrote in commandhq, @ 2018-03-12 17:26:00 |
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It was a little late for coffee; but Raven was, unsurprisingly, a night owl. In the wee hours of the morning, she could be found awake in her room, poured over a novel, or a notepad filled with scribblings about an anecdote from a newspaper story about Supers she’d read a week ago, or a line she’d heard from another agent around the facility, about the facility. That was one of the drawbacks to this place (well, one of several); privacy was an illusion. If anyone were to ever try and write the story of this place, it would not be from one set of eyes, but from dozens; only then would the true story of this place begin to take its shape.
And even then, Limbo would present an absent, gaping hole; one they all tried to fill with their fears, their anxieties, their ambitions.
Raven shut the novel and slid it across the table. She was finding it difficult – if not impossible – to focus on the words. That’s what the coffee was for; the mug of piping hot coffee sitting in front of her, no milk, no sugar, just black, was just what she needed so she could be lulled back into the story. She considered retiring it for the night, perhaps seeking out Dove or JP or Hector instead, and yet she didn’t move. She sipped on the steaming coffee, stared at the book cover.
She was so grateful to be here, to learn.
But she wanted to do something. What good could she, or any of them, do from behind these walls?
Sighing, she tugged the gloves off her hand and tossed them onto the table by her book. It was important to wear them, she knew, but when sitting alone, in an otherwise empty café, it didn’t seem to be a big deal. It had been a long time since an episode, anyhow; and she was, as usual, recklessly confident in herself.