Wren is a girl mad as birds (ex_oiseau148) wrote in rooms, @ 2014-08-12 18:12:00 |
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Entry tags: | !marvel comics, *narrative, wren henry |
Narrative
Who: Wren (and brain!cameo by X)
What: Transferring Loki to the telepath (mostly)
Where: Danger Room
When: Nowish
Warnings/Rating: Non
Wren was really, really scared.
She knew the world beyond the Mansion was terrible. She'd been watching the news on a television with a bigger screen than anything she'd ever be able to afford, and she missed her maman's house, and the lack of cable in that little salt-licked white clapboard. Here, everything was in bright, bright color. Death was everywhere, and the streets ran red with it. She thought maybe newspapers were better. They always said the imagination was stronger, scarier than seeing things, but she didn't think that was true. A few hours into watching people kill each other for no reason at all, and she didn't think the saying about the imagination being stronger was true at all.
She abandoned the television, and she didn't go back after that moment. Weak, maybe, but she didn't want to see. She knew things were bad, but she didn't want to save the world. She wondered about that, because she'd wanted to save things once. But maybe that was just an angry little girl taking her anger out on the faces of men. Because she didn't really want to do any of it now. Even the tiny bit she was doing at first in Las Vegas, helping, she didn't want. She wanted home, and she wanted family. She liked her music, and she liked her photographs, but she liked them; she didn't love them. They didn't make anything burn in her belly. She wouldn't starve for either, and she wouldn't walk through a minefield. She didn't have that kind of passion, and she wasn't really sure if it made her sad.
Life was numbness, or it had been, and now it wasn't. She thought maybe that was okay, because she was happy. Her tiny curio-life, it made her happy. French music, and she would sing as she made soup. Lia cooed, and Gus babbled about all the things he was going to do with his life. They missed Luke, and then Luke came home, and life was small and tiny, and she loved it.
But then why did she feel ashamed? Like she should want to be more? Everyone else wanted to be more. Everyone she knew, they wanted to be more. Even Evie, dear sweet Evie, wanted to be more.
Wren just wanted to be.
And that had led her here, shame, and wanting to be more, and fear. She'd made it all worse, and now she had to do something she didn't want to do. She was scared.
The Danger Room was too shiny, too clean. It was nothing like home and two kids and three pets. Her life was messy, and this reminded her of all the ways she wasn't home. She'd only been to Italy twice, but she already missed it. Older things felt messier, and they reminded her of her maman. Every day and every footstep older, and she forgave her maman more. She missed tiny; she missed the kitchen with the smell of herbs, and she missed stories in French, and she missed soft touches to her hair.
She wanted that for Gus, and she wanted that for Lia, that simplicity. So she was there, in the Danger Room, hands clasped in front of her belly and violets on her dress.
She felt the professor's presence in her mind, and she hated it. But Luke was there, and she knew he'd make sure everything was okay. She bit her lip, and she closed her eyes, and she waited like a child awaiting inoculation.
It felt like invasion, and it felt like violation, and it felt like even her thoughts weren't her own. She didn't think like other people, and she knew it; she didn't want anyone in her head but her.
She screwed her eyes shut tight, and she breathed, and she didn't scream. Tears made her cheeks damp, damp, damp.
Then, it was done.
She didn't know part of the connection had just been scooted over to the nice professor. She didn't really care about anything, except the fact that she felt lighter; she hadn't even realized she felt heavy before. The something tiny left behind was so, so small, and she didn't even notice, couldn't even tell.
She smiled. Okay. It would all be okay.