sᴏʟᴅɪᴇʀ BLUE (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
firstroar) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
ximilialog2022-05-24 04:32 pm
firstroar) wrote in ximilialog2022-05-24 04:32 pm
exhale [open]
CHARACTERS: Blue, any
LOCATION: infirmary, mess hall, sun room, Blue's dormitory
DATE: post-mission
CONTENT: downtime (+dream/memshare option)
WARNINGS: mention of terminal illness, medical treatments/needles
Disorienting moments blurred together in the chaos in and outside of himself, with the context left only to his physical senses and the alarming news coming in from the earpiece. Blue can only hold on and endure as the train is rocked, as the car he's trapped in slows to a crawl, as the noise keeps coming in over the signal...
Until he doesn't. Until his eyes have to wince to readjust to the reflective surfaces and glaring light of Ximilia, until he must shudder and brace against the feeling of his psionics flooding back to him, bringing forth the anguish, fury, confusion, and betrayal flooding the place as much as the bodies. It leaves Blue in something of a shock - one that's well and fine to be ignored, since hard focus on him would likely just rattle him more, and anyway, his own attention keeps getting forcibly redirected toward a fairly unified notion.
Newt.
Newt, monsters...the roiling, gnashing form that bit back when he reached out - is that? What happened? He doesn't know. He just sees Newton getting carried away while he and the rest are left to linger undirected.
The exhaustion creeps back in steadily, bringing with it the old awareness of a failing body that must work harder for less of what's necessary. He puts up no audible fuss about having to be ferried to the infirmary, about getting pinched yet again with needles for fluids that compensate for what he can't intake himself, but his insides are raging. Bodily, he aches. Mentally, he is caging lions: Frustration bubbles over in the face of how unfair it is that he had been given time and means to stand on his own two feet and move about as a hale body, only to have no means or power to do much more than rummage a few suitcases. This isn't how Soldier Blue could help. Why did he have to have his psionics taken away.
It's infuriating to ruminate on, and that fury, while muted externally, still informs the way his brow knits, the way he goes still and quiet, bracing against shuddering, aching waves of discomfort. Now and then, it makes simple objects near him rattle or lift off surfaces just barely when his psionics are up and lacking any other means to vent.
It's worse when those psionics are off, when he feels himself alone in his own mind - that's when he tries to gravitate toward populated spaces: The infirmary, the mess, the sun room...somewhere with familiar-seeming people in that unfamiliar-seeming state of mind. The frustration remains, but at this point, that's familiar, too.
In those spaces, at least, his focus can be pulled outside of himself and toward others, regardless of if their feelings of frustration resonate with his or not. Sometimes he wants to commiserate...and sometimes he wants to simply try and take care of the burdens of others, to feel as though he can leave some good behind despite the decay he's saddled with.
That orb never did respond. Nothing changed. Not for the better, anyway. What else...is he supposed to do? It can't be to just die quietly; he won't allow that.
Just as before, more and more time will be spent bedridden than he'd like. In sleep, should there still be hours left with his psionics active, his mind can be pulled out and toward others at rest, too, and he may find himself walking their dreams just as much as his own. The bleed over doesn't even have to be terribly seamless, since to a sleeping mind, anything and nothing can make sense anyway.
He's just...there, now. There, somewhere with someone, be it happy or sad.
LOCATION: infirmary, mess hall, sun room, Blue's dormitory
DATE: post-mission
CONTENT: downtime (+dream/memshare option)
WARNINGS: mention of terminal illness, medical treatments/needles
Disorienting moments blurred together in the chaos in and outside of himself, with the context left only to his physical senses and the alarming news coming in from the earpiece. Blue can only hold on and endure as the train is rocked, as the car he's trapped in slows to a crawl, as the noise keeps coming in over the signal...
Until he doesn't. Until his eyes have to wince to readjust to the reflective surfaces and glaring light of Ximilia, until he must shudder and brace against the feeling of his psionics flooding back to him, bringing forth the anguish, fury, confusion, and betrayal flooding the place as much as the bodies. It leaves Blue in something of a shock - one that's well and fine to be ignored, since hard focus on him would likely just rattle him more, and anyway, his own attention keeps getting forcibly redirected toward a fairly unified notion.
Newt.
Newt, monsters...the roiling, gnashing form that bit back when he reached out - is that? What happened? He doesn't know. He just sees Newton getting carried away while he and the rest are left to linger undirected.
The exhaustion creeps back in steadily, bringing with it the old awareness of a failing body that must work harder for less of what's necessary. He puts up no audible fuss about having to be ferried to the infirmary, about getting pinched yet again with needles for fluids that compensate for what he can't intake himself, but his insides are raging. Bodily, he aches. Mentally, he is caging lions: Frustration bubbles over in the face of how unfair it is that he had been given time and means to stand on his own two feet and move about as a hale body, only to have no means or power to do much more than rummage a few suitcases. This isn't how Soldier Blue could help. Why did he have to have his psionics taken away.
It's infuriating to ruminate on, and that fury, while muted externally, still informs the way his brow knits, the way he goes still and quiet, bracing against shuddering, aching waves of discomfort. Now and then, it makes simple objects near him rattle or lift off surfaces just barely when his psionics are up and lacking any other means to vent.
It's worse when those psionics are off, when he feels himself alone in his own mind - that's when he tries to gravitate toward populated spaces: The infirmary, the mess, the sun room...somewhere with familiar-seeming people in that unfamiliar-seeming state of mind. The frustration remains, but at this point, that's familiar, too.
In those spaces, at least, his focus can be pulled outside of himself and toward others, regardless of if their feelings of frustration resonate with his or not. Sometimes he wants to commiserate...and sometimes he wants to simply try and take care of the burdens of others, to feel as though he can leave some good behind despite the decay he's saddled with.
That orb never did respond. Nothing changed. Not for the better, anyway. What else...is he supposed to do? It can't be to just die quietly; he won't allow that.
Just as before, more and more time will be spent bedridden than he'd like. In sleep, should there still be hours left with his psionics active, his mind can be pulled out and toward others at rest, too, and he may find himself walking their dreams just as much as his own. The bleed over doesn't even have to be terribly seamless, since to a sleeping mind, anything and nothing can make sense anyway.
He's just...there, now. There, somewhere with someone, be it happy or sad.
no subject
[Blue lets his head rest back against the headboard, closing his eyes.]
I used to wonder about things like that. What it felt like...to have had parents. So few of the Mu kept those memories, Jomy among them. If...I've done right by them, especially those children...I hope it can make up for what they lost.
[he breathes out a faint laugh as he looks back at Peter.] Forgive me, Peter. Those kinds of melancholy thoughts...I have them a lot lately.
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I know we had wildly different lives, but I get that feeling. Wishing and wondering about the parents you never had, what your family could have been. But families of choice are just as important, if not more, than blood ones.
[ He smiles back at Blue and shakes his head. ]
It's all good. Get it out of your system. It's good to talk.
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[ Peter has only seen the Disney 1940's version, so maybe what he remembers of the story is not accurate to the book, but it's still something. ]
There was an old woodcarver who didn't have any kids but wanted one, so he carved a marionette of a boy and named him Pinocchio. That night, he looked up at the sky and saw a really bright star, and wished for the puppet to be real. Because I guess that's what you do when all the other options are exhausted, ask celestial bodies for a hand. Anyway, the guy was in luck because a blue fairy heard him and decided to use her magic to bring Pinocchio to life, promising the kid that if he was honest and brave, she will transform his body into flesh and bone.
[ Peter pauses for a moment to see if Blue is following or if he seems bored by the whole thing. When he was back with the Guardians, he told these sorts of stories to Groot when he was growing up, but perhaps Blue is already familiar with the tale. ]
Okay, so, here's the kicker...Pinocchio's nose grows when he lies. And since he also has no idea of right and wrong, the kid is kind of a walking disaster, that happens a lot. The Fairy calls for a small animal to act as his conscience for the time being and to give him advice on how to behave. The little guy's name is Jimmy, and he's a....erm.. [ Peter's memory fails him, because it's been more than 30 years since he watched the movie. He knows Jimmy was some sort of insect, and that it started with C. So, by that logic: ]....a cockroach. Yeah, Jimmy Cockroach.
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he thinks about it a bit after that cockroach bit, not entirely sure what to make of that, but...]
To me, it sounds...like the way...humans sought to make their computers more like them. Artificial intelligence.
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Kinda like that with Ais, yes. Or ...like that Greek myth of that a sculptor dude who made himself a statue of his ideal hot wife and then asked a god to give her life. Galactica, I think, was her name. Or maybe the name of the sculptor who had no game?
Anyway, that's a different story, I can tell you later. The thing is that no matter if we are talking about computers or statues or wood puppets companions, no one wants to be alone. So sometimes we do all sorts of strange things to not feel so lonely, from talking to stars to falling for women made of stone.
[ But damn it, not he won't be able to stop thinking about whom the name Galactica belonged, if it was to the statue or the sculptor. He is getting sidetracked here. ]
Uh, should I go on about Pinocchio...? If you are tired, I can shut up.
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Pinocchio, the movie I watched, that's it, has one of the sweetest songs I ever heard. I really liked that film as a kid, and my mom sometimes sang some of the music while doing things around the house.
[ Since it's a memory he has clearly, it's not hard to start humming the song 'When you wish upon a star'. If what Blue said it's true, and his psionics work for a bit, he might catch the full song, sung in a woman's voice. ]
no subject
it's not just the song, too: it's the thread of nostalgia that dangles the suggestion of that mother of Peter's - something so intrinsically baked into the fiber of this man's soul, something that fuels a lot of joy and just as much grief. it's a hard thing for a Mu to resist.
barely audible, so as to not interrupt:] It's lovely, Peter...
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They should be something private, but Peter doesn't mind sharing them with Blue, more so because the other man has never known what having parents is like. Meredith would have loved Blue too, if she had met him. She probably would have dotted on him a lot as well. ]
Thanks, Blue. [ Peter answers softly, then makes himself a little more comfortable in the chair, and closes his eyes. He keeps humming and thinking about his mom, not just about the Wish Upon a Star song, but about the things they liked to do together: the sound of his laugh, and the gold in her hair.... Sharing them all with his friend. ]