Nash (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
latkje) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
exsiliumlogs2013-07-02 05:12 pm
latkje) wrote in exsiliumlogs2013-07-02 05:12 pm
Entry tags:
maybe I'll think of a title later
Date & Time: Forward dated to next week!
Location: An isolated training room in the Hold.
Characters: Gamora (gamora) & Nash (latkje)
Summary: Fun times with the family curse, or: we all bleed red except when the colorist decides we don't.
Warnings: V i o l e n c e !!
"Milady— Greetings and salutations. I don't suppose you'd relish the opportunity to rearrange my face? Refreshments also possible. Please RSPV. Cordially yours, et cetera. Nash XXXXX."
Or at least, that was how it would have gone, if war were polite and this place had proper comment boxes. Nash regretted one but not the other.
This was his problem: the Initiative handed out weapons like grandmas handed out sweaters, even weapons that you personally threw in a ditch fifteen years ago with a corpse of your own making. Of course, the corpse hadn't stayed buried when Nash entombed it the first time. Nash had to admit there was a winking symmetry to the whole affair. It just wasn't his favorite type of affair.
But the Initiative didn't care for the knots of his past, it wanted him practicing with those swords weekly. The trouble with that was they turned him into something else, something all rage and no control, something Nash never wanted to be again, hence going through the whole bother of leaving them in a ditch. So far, he'd avoided the mandatory practices by faking it. (If you'll permit him to brag, he was really quite good at faking it.)
This was his problem: he could feel the swords, still, snaking rivers dark and deep through his corners. It was a shadow, on him, and shadows are a tricky thing to escape. He was growing curious, about what the swords would do, and how they had reshaped them, here. Whether they were really his swords at all. He was growing curious, or maybe the swords were growing him curious. It was getting bad enough that he was growing not to care.
So he'd asked Gamora here for a little experiment. He was waiting in the Hold, his limbs long against the wall. Paler than usual, perhaps. Still smiling.
Location: An isolated training room in the Hold.
Characters: Gamora (
gamora) & Nash (latkje)Summary: Fun times with the family curse, or: we all bleed red except when the colorist decides we don't.
Warnings: V i o l e n c e !!
"Milady— Greetings and salutations. I don't suppose you'd relish the opportunity to rearrange my face? Refreshments also possible. Please RSPV. Cordially yours, et cetera. Nash XXXXX."
Or at least, that was how it would have gone, if war were polite and this place had proper comment boxes. Nash regretted one but not the other.
This was his problem: the Initiative handed out weapons like grandmas handed out sweaters, even weapons that you personally threw in a ditch fifteen years ago with a corpse of your own making. Of course, the corpse hadn't stayed buried when Nash entombed it the first time. Nash had to admit there was a winking symmetry to the whole affair. It just wasn't his favorite type of affair.
But the Initiative didn't care for the knots of his past, it wanted him practicing with those swords weekly. The trouble with that was they turned him into something else, something all rage and no control, something Nash never wanted to be again, hence going through the whole bother of leaving them in a ditch. So far, he'd avoided the mandatory practices by faking it. (If you'll permit him to brag, he was really quite good at faking it.)
This was his problem: he could feel the swords, still, snaking rivers dark and deep through his corners. It was a shadow, on him, and shadows are a tricky thing to escape. He was growing curious, about what the swords would do, and how they had reshaped them, here. Whether they were really his swords at all. He was growing curious, or maybe the swords were growing him curious. It was getting bad enough that he was growing not to care.
So he'd asked Gamora here for a little experiment. He was waiting in the Hold, his limbs long against the wall. Paler than usual, perhaps. Still smiling.