Cutscene: Caesura
IC Details

Between breaths, she is.

IC Date: October 26, 2019
IC Location: ???
OOC Notes & Details
Posted: 26 Oct 2019 04:58
Rating & Warnings:
Associated Plots

Between thoughts, between heartbeats, between tears running down her cheeks, between moments, Alison Blaire leaves this world.

No last swath of light along her skin, where her field would otherwise frame her within these penthouse walls, in the rare moments she would exist without suppression and restraint. No last sign of life in her taxidermy glass eyes.

Yet, even in death, they still find him. When Warren falls, his heart rent and broken in more ways than one, Alison waits unchanging where he left her. She heaps in her own blood, head turned, her low-lidded eyes on him, gaze frozen in terror, confusion, and despair… asking the world for something it can no longer give her.

There is a tear in the corner of the left, trapped there, no time to be blinked away before the bullet ended her. She is his last sight, her body as constant now as Alison's soul strove to be in life, a guide to see him out.

His blood spreads toward her, but it never touches. Just out of reach, she goes cold.

In the hours, her limbs stiffen with rigor mortis.

Her body jostles when touched, moved by strange hands on her. The tear shakes free to streak down her cheek.

Her eyes cloud over, reflecting no more.

The dark nothing is and is not for what is an eternity. No warmth, no chill. No peace, no uncertainty. No light, not even the memory of her own. She is not, and she shall never.

Then she walks barefoot in a desert of azure sand. Her sleeveless white dress licks to her calves, tamed at the waist by a corded sash whose ends run in a wind she cannot feel. The sky belongs to someone else. A bone-white moon tries to smother a smaller, bluer version of itself. Galaxies churn beyond the moons, cycling life and death.

A city lay in ruins around her, achingly beautiful even in its decay. Spun glass of red and gold shine like a starfield on her path. There are accents of marble and once ornate carvings on brickwork domes and heat-curled metal ends. Half-buried in sand, guarding the opened doorways and collapsed buildings of marbled brown stone, are a field of sun-bleached bones. Almost human, close, but some not quite there. And smaller ones. Children.

Never an end until it is sung.

A woman's voice. It makes her think of her mother. She touches her hair, remembering gentle fingers braiding it, a flower tucked just so. She could never remember this before. Here, it is as real as holding a polished stone in her hands, turning the reverie over and over to memorize its corners.

The source of the voice splays before her, white wings stretching the entire length of the wall. A cybernetic angel. Androgynous, pose reminiscent of some shrine god, a bowed head and praying arms, hips and legs tapering like the tip of a dart. Wires looped around its shoulders and fused to the wall. Coils and tubes create the rest of the wings, parts of them merging with its body — elegant structural lines balancing the hips and joints; jutting ribs like a mouth of teeth, and a hole where its heart should be, edges smooth and stained black.

Awash in azure moonlight, its skin shines with a dusty translucence, as if it had been on display for centuries. Shadows cover its face, stirred with its breath.

It breathes.

She steps closer, pulse beating away in her ears. It lives, it speaks to her, but is it real?

The moon shifts. The light changes.

The voice echoes through her head, an enraged, buzzing thing that tries to cleave its way out of her. Black liquid dribbles into her hands, falling from her face, from the hole in the angel's chest.

She breathes.

Alison opens her eyes, and drinks in her first, raking mouthful of air.

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