Kate Bishop (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
alsohawkeye) wrote2024-01-11 07:28 pm
alsohawkeye) wrote2024-01-11 07:28 pm
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KATE BISHOP
KATE BISHOP
[In her sleep, Johanna turns, sharply, against Kate.
This isn't cuddling. They don't often sleep together--not real sleep. Eyes shut, breath slow and even--that kind of sleep, it's rare that Johanna ever gets it, and never in the company of anyone else.
She turns again, away. Her legs kick at nothing, loosing the blanket. Sweat clings it to her skin, and in her head, played across the screen of her closed eyes, Johanna sees green. Green, the evening's light filtered through the leaves, and when the wind blows, they clatter together like applause, distant, quiet, before it slows, and fades. Listen.
In the tree, her father smiles down at her, and holds out his hand. Here. She hears his voice, even though his lips don't move. She's already halfway up the tree, and on the ground below her are the six corpses, laid out with their limbs splayed, and the spatter of gore soaking the dirt.
Johanna puts her hand in her father's, and he pulls her up, one tug, grabs her up and grips at her arm to hold her steady.
And all around them, the trees are on fire, and Johanna's mouth is full of blood--blood, on her fingers, on her hands, soaked all the way to her elbows, sticking her shirtfront to her chest. Only it isn't blood. It's water. Water, and her father's grip isn't her father's, it's the gloved hand of the Peacekeeper, holding her down, and the tight grip of the restraints. The chair, the same chair, metal, and she throws herself to the side, and to the other, and she can hear the hum of electricity already, and her breath sobs out of her, from between the piece of plastic they shoved between her teeth. Water is dripping off of her hair, rolling down her arms, and they're watching, all of them, eyes fixed on her, waiting. The lights go down; the electricity swells, hums, tears from the inside out, and Johanna screams, and screams, and the electricity throws her to one side, and back, and she screams--]
This isn't cuddling. They don't often sleep together--not real sleep. Eyes shut, breath slow and even--that kind of sleep, it's rare that Johanna ever gets it, and never in the company of anyone else.
She turns again, away. Her legs kick at nothing, loosing the blanket. Sweat clings it to her skin, and in her head, played across the screen of her closed eyes, Johanna sees green. Green, the evening's light filtered through the leaves, and when the wind blows, they clatter together like applause, distant, quiet, before it slows, and fades. Listen.
In the tree, her father smiles down at her, and holds out his hand. Here. She hears his voice, even though his lips don't move. She's already halfway up the tree, and on the ground below her are the six corpses, laid out with their limbs splayed, and the spatter of gore soaking the dirt.
Johanna puts her hand in her father's, and he pulls her up, one tug, grabs her up and grips at her arm to hold her steady.
And all around them, the trees are on fire, and Johanna's mouth is full of blood--blood, on her fingers, on her hands, soaked all the way to her elbows, sticking her shirtfront to her chest. Only it isn't blood. It's water. Water, and her father's grip isn't her father's, it's the gloved hand of the Peacekeeper, holding her down, and the tight grip of the restraints. The chair, the same chair, metal, and she throws herself to the side, and to the other, and she can hear the hum of electricity already, and her breath sobs out of her, from between the piece of plastic they shoved between her teeth. Water is dripping off of her hair, rolling down her arms, and they're watching, all of them, eyes fixed on her, waiting. The lights go down; the electricity swells, hums, tears from the inside out, and Johanna screams, and screams, and the electricity throws her to one side, and back, and she screams--]
The wizard situation is parly schoolyard rivalries, partly civil war.
Some overlap. The war was going on while we were in school.
Do you believe Resnik about not being able to tell us anything?
What happened to your eye? Was it one of the boggarts?
Hello, also.
Some overlap. The war was going on while we were in school.
Do you believe Resnik about not being able to tell us anything?
What happened to your eye? Was it one of the boggarts?
Hello, also.
Edited (B)) 2015-01-31 03:38 (UTC)
It is. It's a freckle.
[--slurs Sirius, sloppily, and flings his hand loosely toward Remus' face. It's a gesture that spans his arm across Kate, since the three of them are all kind of generally collapsed on a sofa together, leaned up against one another in the comfortable sag of three drunk people using one another to keep mostly upright and, generally, failing at it.
It is probably sometime in the very early space morning. Or it isn't. Time is, as Sirius has assured them all, immaterial. When he tries to gauge just how long ago he'd verbalised that assurance, he finds that he can't remember but, as time is immaterial, that's quite all right. Good job, Black. He's moved on to more important topics. Like:]
There. In your eye.
[His finger stabs, clumsily, at Remus' cheek, which is a contact he will endure without flinching away or batting away Sirius' hand because 1), it's Sirius, and 2), everyone here is drunk. Sirius is very drunk. Kate is drunk. Derek has wandered away, at some point, but before he left, when he was still a part of everyone here, he was drunk. Remus is drunk, which is a feat, given his metabolism and unfair heartiness that renders him surprisingly impossible to drink under the table and generally unhangoverable. But he is, Sirius thinks, approvingly, drunk, and all of this is good.]
Don't move. I'll-- poke you in th'ye. [Mumbled, through his lazy grin. He transforms stabbing finger to open pat on cheek.] Theee eyeee. You should kiss him.
[Which is directed to Kate, without looking at her, still half in her lap to accommodate the face patting.]
He's earned it.
[--slurs Sirius, sloppily, and flings his hand loosely toward Remus' face. It's a gesture that spans his arm across Kate, since the three of them are all kind of generally collapsed on a sofa together, leaned up against one another in the comfortable sag of three drunk people using one another to keep mostly upright and, generally, failing at it.
It is probably sometime in the very early space morning. Or it isn't. Time is, as Sirius has assured them all, immaterial. When he tries to gauge just how long ago he'd verbalised that assurance, he finds that he can't remember but, as time is immaterial, that's quite all right. Good job, Black. He's moved on to more important topics. Like:]
There. In your eye.
[His finger stabs, clumsily, at Remus' cheek, which is a contact he will endure without flinching away or batting away Sirius' hand because 1), it's Sirius, and 2), everyone here is drunk. Sirius is very drunk. Kate is drunk. Derek has wandered away, at some point, but before he left, when he was still a part of everyone here, he was drunk. Remus is drunk, which is a feat, given his metabolism and unfair heartiness that renders him surprisingly impossible to drink under the table and generally unhangoverable. But he is, Sirius thinks, approvingly, drunk, and all of this is good.]
Don't move. I'll-- poke you in th'ye. [Mumbled, through his lazy grin. He transforms stabbing finger to open pat on cheek.] Theee eyeee. You should kiss him.
[Which is directed to Kate, without looking at her, still half in her lap to accommodate the face patting.]
He's earned it.
I find myself with a surplus of labrador
and a lot of other problems really but perhaps in this one your might lend some assistance
I don't know if you're interested because it is a lot of responsibility in a place like this
and I'd understand if you'd not
but I remember you were Claire Bennet's friend and you seem good with them
so if you like, Diablo needs a proper owner
and a lot of other problems really but perhaps in this one your might lend some assistance
I don't know if you're interested because it is a lot of responsibility in a place like this
and I'd understand if you'd not
but I remember you were Claire Bennet's friend and you seem good with them
so if you like, Diablo needs a proper owner
[The knock on Kate's door is actually a kick, and occurs some time in what is probably the night of space--not quite space midnight, but close to it. Just because some people like to sleep on a schedule doesn't mean that everyone likes to sleep on a schedule. Or sleep at all.
It's steady kicking, but it isn't fast. It's more like a kick that says I can do this all night, and when Kate--eventually--opens her door, it will be to find Johanna, in her giant grey sweatshirt and wool socks, carrying her axe--her chin tinted with just the hint of a rust-red, old blood that she's tried to wash off, without trying very hard.
Her eyes are dull--headache--but she isn't whining about it. Instead, when Kate opens the door, Johanna steps right up close to her, shoves her arms aside with her arms, shouldering in close.
And hugs her.]
It's steady kicking, but it isn't fast. It's more like a kick that says I can do this all night, and when Kate--eventually--opens her door, it will be to find Johanna, in her giant grey sweatshirt and wool socks, carrying her axe--her chin tinted with just the hint of a rust-red, old blood that she's tried to wash off, without trying very hard.
Her eyes are dull--headache--but she isn't whining about it. Instead, when Kate opens the door, Johanna steps right up close to her, shoves her arms aside with her arms, shouldering in close.
And hugs her.]
Kate.
[With regular doors, there are way to talk even when the doors are closed. Whisper through the keyhole--lay on the floor and talk through the gap between door and sill--talk loud enough to be heard right through the door. Loads of options.
Space doors shut a bit more tightly, which puts Sirius at a disadvantage. On top of that, his armload puts him at a spatial disadvantage. But he's determined to manage anyways, which leaves him half-pressed against the door, talking in a stage whisper (when really, he could just ring her on her device, text her, something, but where's the fun in that, eh--]
KATE.
[With regular doors, there are way to talk even when the doors are closed. Whisper through the keyhole--lay on the floor and talk through the gap between door and sill--talk loud enough to be heard right through the door. Loads of options.
Space doors shut a bit more tightly, which puts Sirius at a disadvantage. On top of that, his armload puts him at a spatial disadvantage. But he's determined to manage anyways, which leaves him half-pressed against the door, talking in a stage whisper (when really, he could just ring her on her device, text her, something, but where's the fun in that, eh--]
KATE.
[ In a break from the 'everyone texts forever' show, here's a voice message—a deliberate choice, because he doesn't want there to be any room for thinking he's entertained instead of very very sorry. ]
Kate? Hello. I'm very sorry, but I think someone—Johanna, maybe?—accidentally connected with me somehow while she was with you. Not for very long. [ White lies? ] I wouldn't even say anything, but I thought you should know in case it wasn't only me. Maybe she could learn not to do that anymore.
Sorry.
[ Also sorry for telling Sirius, kind of. You know how it is. ]
Kate? Hello. I'm very sorry, but I think someone—Johanna, maybe?—accidentally connected with me somehow while she was with you. Not for very long. [ White lies? ] I wouldn't even say anything, but I thought you should know in case it wasn't only me. Maybe she could learn not to do that anymore.
Sorry.
[ Also sorry for telling Sirius, kind of. You know how it is. ]
[Simultaneous to sex is the realization of company, which is something Kate will also feel, right along with feeling absolutely everything else. Slight advantage is hers: she's removed enough to offer commentary, commentary that Johanna
hears
and so there's a spike of anger somewhere in there too; what the fuck even as she's being fucked.]
hears
and so there's a spike of anger somewhere in there too; what the fuck even as she's being fucked.]
not to detract from your attempts to manage what's happening from all sides at Charlotte
we're in the throes of putting together an attack group that will likely be necessary when things escalate
you'll have friends there if you're interested in lending assistance
[ Which is a fairly courteous way of asking if someone is willing to do something ridiculously dangerous for the gain of slowing something down, but. That's why they're Marvel characters. ]
we're in the throes of putting together an attack group that will likely be necessary when things escalate
you'll have friends there if you're interested in lending assistance
[ Which is a fairly courteous way of asking if someone is willing to do something ridiculously dangerous for the gain of slowing something down, but. That's why they're Marvel characters. ]
[To Kate's eye--wherever in the jungle or the camp her eyes happen to be; whatever time of day it is--the light starts off as distant but gains ground quickly, springing from tree to tree and illuminating underbrush with eerie indistinct light as it goes. The light is physical enough to look like a mass, a nearly-solid form that darts between the trees and trails lingering threads that cling, briefly, to trunk and to branch like fine hairs caught in the rough bark.
The closer it gets, the more form that it takes. Legs, ears, nose. Tail. Four paws that run but never touch the earth, and as the light gets to Kate it does a quicksilver gambol around her, silver tail fanning the air. Ghost dog!
Ghost dog that speaks in Sirius' voice, an all-important message that obviously necessitated a patronus and not, you know. A walk.]
Hiya, Kate! The river water is still poisoned. We're still sitting by it. This is a patronus. Remind us again, why aren't you a witch? No offence. We like you anyways.
The closer it gets, the more form that it takes. Legs, ears, nose. Tail. Four paws that run but never touch the earth, and as the light gets to Kate it does a quicksilver gambol around her, silver tail fanning the air. Ghost dog!
Ghost dog that speaks in Sirius' voice, an all-important message that obviously necessitated a patronus and not, you know. A walk.]
Hiya, Kate! The river water is still poisoned. We're still sitting by it. This is a patronus. Remind us again, why aren't you a witch? No offence. We like you anyways.
[The tree is a hike away from the main camp--far, but not impossible to walk. The path is a little more impossible, a maze woven between rocks and trees and swales. Johanna walks it with confidence, and does not wait for Kate, or look to see if she's keeping up.
Someone skilled at tracking would be able to see the tells of Johanna's path. She's done a good job of covering up after herself, and rainfall has wiped away the more obvious signs--but there are still bent-back branches here and there. These could easily be from animals, tearing through the jungle--but the treehouse that the path leads to is a little less likely to be from some animal.
The treehouse: a floor and three walls, and a ladder made from square pegs hammered into the side of the tree itself, protruding just enough to allow for hand and footholds. Distance keeps it safe for now. Camouflage will come later. Johanna doesn't offer this information to Kate, but perhaps she can guess it.
Johanna's invitation had been brusque, a sudden appearance from the woods to announce to Kate that they were leaving, now. The further they went from the camp, the less irritable she became, even if she refused most answers to questions that Kate might have asked, telling her only what she needed to in order to ensure that Kate kept on following her.
They haven't reached the treehouse yet, but it's visible in their immediate distance, and Johanna glances up at it with obvious pride.]
You've got one of those stupid mirrors, don't you.
[It's not a question, because it's not a guess. Confirm please.]
Someone skilled at tracking would be able to see the tells of Johanna's path. She's done a good job of covering up after herself, and rainfall has wiped away the more obvious signs--but there are still bent-back branches here and there. These could easily be from animals, tearing through the jungle--but the treehouse that the path leads to is a little less likely to be from some animal.
The treehouse: a floor and three walls, and a ladder made from square pegs hammered into the side of the tree itself, protruding just enough to allow for hand and footholds. Distance keeps it safe for now. Camouflage will come later. Johanna doesn't offer this information to Kate, but perhaps she can guess it.
Johanna's invitation had been brusque, a sudden appearance from the woods to announce to Kate that they were leaving, now. The further they went from the camp, the less irritable she became, even if she refused most answers to questions that Kate might have asked, telling her only what she needed to in order to ensure that Kate kept on following her.
They haven't reached the treehouse yet, but it's visible in their immediate distance, and Johanna glances up at it with obvious pride.]
You've got one of those stupid mirrors, don't you.
[It's not a question, because it's not a guess. Confirm please.]
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