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Pamela is made of (hemlockandhoney) wrote in rooms, @ 2015-10-05 03:56:00

narrative: dc, pamela.
Who: Pammy.
What: Powers? Check. Crazy lady wandering Gotham in her PJs? Double check.
Where: Egyptian and then Gotham streets.
When: After tiny!plot ended.
Warnings: None.


Choking. Eyes wide and sleep ripped apart like garter strings under greedy hands, the breath was pried out of her lungs by the end of an imaginary crowbar. Ice cold metal jabbing in, cleaving wider the shallow brook between her ribs. Sharp, she inhaled the city, air that tasted like grease and blood, iron flecked residual coating on the roof of her mouth. Flushed, yet afebrile, her blood leached about furiously in her veins. Like madwomen clawing at institution doors, it wanted out of her. Out of this body and back into the ground where it belonged, the primordial nectar of life. Thick and bitter green, she could taste it. Climbing up her throat like a vine. It was a seed blooming in her stomach, she could feel it, uncomfortably large. It stretched, wanting out, and she screamed with her face buried tight in a feather pillow.

It felt like being punched through, but when Pamela looked down at her center mass, there was nothing there. No blood and no hole in the camisole she'd woken up in. The last thing that she could remember was being at Gotham U, but this was clearly no dorm room. On her feet, bare on the floor, she tried to get her bearings. There was hair all in her face. Red, red. Redder than she could remember it being before. She didn't know what she'd been dreaming, but the aftershocks felt horrible. She stumbled to a nearby sink and folded toward the basin, sticking her mouth beneath the faucet while water poured.

Quenched but still confused, her eyes focused onto a potted orchid on the counter. Pretty purple bloom with golden labellum. The longer she stared at it, the more uneasy she felt. She couldn't shake the feeling that it was staring at her, one particular petal pointed her way in undeniable accusation. Pamela frowned, focusing harder on the orchid. It was making a sound, she was sure of it. The sound itself was fuzzy, very soft, but it was definitely coming from the direction of the potted flower.

Pamela crept closer. She listened. The shell of her ear was pressed flush against the stem, and now she was sure of it. Crying. The most delicate weeping, the forlorn sobs of the heartbroken. Once she heard it, she couldn't unhear it. The sound echoed from another direction, as it seemed to be coming from outside the nearest window as well. Pamela crossed the floor and leaned onto the sill, looking out to the street below. She saw sidewalks and people, cars with headlights… but there was no apparent source of the crying. She knew that she couldn't keep listening to it though, she'd go mad. She needed to find out where it was coming from.

Pulling on some fleece pajama pants with little stars patterned all over them, Pamela left the Egyptian through the main level. As a gaming hall, patrons always seemed to be in heavy supply. None of them seemed to take notice of the crying, though. It was getting louder too. It was in her head, but everyone else seemed oblivious as she scurried out the door and onto the street.

Now that she was outside, she could feel it. The same way she heard it, like it as connected to something inside of her. The slow pull of gravity, only noticeable. She wasn't wearing shoes, and she didn't know where she was going, but an unseen force told her to keep walking, so she did.