ash. & pan ;; the end of things

[Pandle]

ᴇᴠᴀɴɢᴇʟɪɴᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴇᴛᴛᴇ ᴀᴍᴇʀᴇᴛᴀᴛ

To anchor herself amongst the gravity of his harbour inspires the ignition of hope within her hurricane heart. Tossed amongst the tempest's raging fists had left her battered, sinking and lost, yet she'd managed to navigate the corals of terror to plough into Lincoln's security. Now she could perch herself to the steadiness of his presence. At least together they held greater chance at avoiding the eclipse of humanity. In their poverty, Evangeline captures the failing light in the curious drills of her opals, the glean of a dying star caught against the dirt of her flesh and there is an attractiveness to it that sings of a woman accustomed to such hardship. A steadiness erecting her chin, pride quietly kept in her pocket; she is a woman-girl, grown to old too fast for wearing her heart on her sleeve.

"If he's still alive," whinnies the doe mournfully. "I don't think living here is something many people do," they amble onward, away from the core of destruction along its periphery coordinates, tracking out an unknown route amongst the shelving of crumbling concrete and mutilated carcasses. They are two sorrowful dolls, their masquerade transgressing them amongst the fertile realm of death, the shiver of conversation ebbing between their tongues. Evangeline admits her twilight to Lincoln's probing rays, their momentary rest amongst the dust welcomed to her weary limbs. His digits clasp her's with greater certainty, the tickle of pressure raising an epiphany of peace to her kissers. There is a hesitation, where upon she debated what museful song to propose to this, yet she can think of nothing and opts for silence instead. It slithers around their shoulders, knitting them together as the first plump beads of the monsoon begin to collapse.

In the receding warmth of the sun, the droplets stir up a welcoming freshness, drowning the petrified odours of decay in the bubbling hymn of the storm. It begins lightly, the initial seconds spent in wonder, her cheeks upturned to the skyline, the ominous drapes of the slate clouds winking out the autumnal sun but it turns to a fierce driving downpour, washing colour from a world already hung in fifty shades of grey. Rather than announcing an outcry of displeasure, Evangeline tips her vermilion flushed flesh toward Lincoln, her eyes dancing with laughter as the song erupts from her mouth. For this is something of normality! It floods away doubt and apprehension, filled the new world with a familiarity of home. "Alright, you're the son of a madman here to save the planet, where'd you go?" Glee flutters on her lyrics, the sunburnt mirth of a youthful girl borne to an adventure unwillingly provided yet consumed with secretive delights.



{{ Bea, the bringer of malice! All hail! Pandie sounds good by me! Oh trust me, I'm perfectly immature as well, sometimes I wonder how people even put up with me huehue.

[Pandle]

ᴇᴠᴀɴɢᴇʟɪɴᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴇᴛᴛᴇ ᴀᴍᴇʀᴇᴛᴀᴛ

The monsoon avalanches upon them in sheets of vertical rage, its lambasting forces rummaging for the final strands of colour against the mountainous range of ash and obediently the rainbow of crushed pearl bleeds out, sinking into the monotonous drains of the sewer system. Yet the battle between these warring partners goes unobserved by Lincoln and Evangeline alike; their meandering teetering footsteps driving them beyond the initial carnage and moisture rich channels of antiutopia and into the swarming hive of the honeycomb network. Her own consternation besieges the constellation of tranquillity and begrudging acceptance, like dust upturned in the desert of her heart it blinds and consumes, its howling wilderness drumming through the passage of her senses.

"Get out the road!" A wail emitted from the siren is masked by the delicate phalanges of her appendixes as they clasp her mouth, as if to mute the terrorised screams from sounding in this realm of sonorousness animation. "But this makes no sense, I don't understand-" flummoxed, Evangeline throws her rubbernecked hallucinations upon the direction from which they have ambled. "Which side is Peter on? Which side are we on?" Pivoting on the primrose soles of her pumps, Evangeline coils her hawk on the horizon, for a preview of the twin towers only to find the colossal monstrosities of the developed segment are too great, their turrets mounting the skyline with a cackle of amusement. A second mutiny of auto-mobiles cascades past them, their squealing tires degrading the tarmac, their blaring horns hovering in the street even with their passing until a slow pulse can be derived from their second-hand silences.

Unmistakably it is not their realm: subtle differences distinguish one from the other without so much as a hesitant afterthought to their perplexity. "I thought this world was dying, wasn't that why he sent us here? If it's not dying -if it's just that bit of the city then why are we here, what are we meant to do?" Antagonising on the premise of their purposes, she stumbles upon the sanctuary of an external wall, its solidity pressing against clammy palms and tissues filled with woe. Balancing against the settlement, she runs a haggard drill upon her mask of distress. She cannot let this inspire trepidation within her! Hissing with the release of anxiety, Evangeline flicks her attention back to Lincoln. "I have no idea where his house would be, maybe we should try the lab; even if he's not there there might be something to help," traipsing with newly enthused footfalls, she does not linger to trace her newly acquired friend's own discussion, instead she skitters on, weaving through the humdrum cityscape that sings of familiarity but rings nothing alike to the home she once knew.


{{ If your posts were rubbish then we wouldn't have nearly so much fun: honestly, you've far too little faith in yourself.

[Pandle]

ᴇᴠᴀɴɢᴇʟɪɴᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴇᴛᴛᴇ ᴀᴍᴇʀᴇᴛᴀᴛ

The dunes of time shift like a rising tide, each hollowed gust of sweetened air billowing the grains of comprehension beyond her grasping, an ever-moving cycle of new patterns and memories. Falsified, erroneous; there are too many to match with reality and the bruises that blossom in her palms form from the trial of remembering. The broadchurch of scientific doctrines mingling with half-rehearsed performances and a shopping list abandoned against the coffee-cream peeling plaster of her home. "We'd talk of emotions mostly, I think. I can't remember, my head's all jumbled, I'm sorry Lincoln-" like Romeo, Lincoln pardons his digits into hers, their collision met with the same reluctance of a bluebell pulled from its forest floor; without sound nor vocalised protest, just a lingering, as if to taste this world one final time. Evangeline offers no restraint to the sudden coercion of their altered pathway: some unknown fear has in-stoked in him an urgency to be away. This is not a realm with which to dare, they have fallen once already and now they must evade the impact.

"What's wrong? Are we being followed?" Rapid fluttering within her heart possesses the previously calm rhythm, a new foe lurking in the proximity can do nothing to assist their progress. Panic begins to swell in the churning waters of her gut, an ocean rebelling against this landslide of knowledge, against the sinking holes of a universe which is not their own. "Impose your emotion onto the subject, that's a girl! That's it! Now try a different emotion-nu uh, not one you have, make them sad, make their heart ache to such a degree that they forget-" feet grind to a halt, the growing groan of the approaching vehicle almost upon them, yet Evangline could summon no movement to her shoes. "Emotional control, oh my god, oh god Lincoln, cortexiphan isn't just a transporting device, he's been giving to our parents for years! We've been born with doses in our blood even without the additional doses he administered," The haze of illusions wanes with each grain of remembrance, like a propeller braced to hound the insecurities of their arrival. Tires squeal behind them, yells avalanching through the sunken streets as it empties of human-life, the occupants baring down upon Lincoln and Evangeline. Horror and distress flash across the smoke-screen of her optics, a burning tempest of trepidation ignited within her: "Run!"


{{ Oh Bea I'm so sorry to hear that! *snuggles super dooper tightly* if there's anything I can do say the word and I'm yours.

[Pandle]

ᴇᴠᴀɴɢᴇʟɪɴᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴇᴛᴛᴇ ᴀᴍᴇʀᴇᴛᴀᴛ

Hares harrowed into subservience, loyalty pledged only to the instinctive permit of retreat. Flash-lights chasm against the drunken riot of the masonry as it throttles their escapes, hounding them into feverish fretting. Cowardly, she twists the serpents of fear upon Lincoln, her name bruising the moist Mesozoic flaunting in his jaws. Physical tremors wrack the entity, the onslaught of integrated military force propelled through the void of squirming rodents, sinister apparitions prevailing over their foolish idioms. How they had thrown themselves so innocently into this wicked hoax: unbeknown to their chaste perceptions that the silk threads of their demise had already consumed their future.

Yet the fragile doe cannot accept defeat so soon. This epoch of venture and vagabondage has inflicted a hurricane upon her. A once docile fae submerged in the grinding war of time, a life worn thin with the eastern winds now flared into the blistering wilds of liberty. Never had the nymph experienced the soaring scorch of living against the dried leaves of an autumn existence, now encompassed in the inferno of adrenalin she plucks her fingers between the web of glacial metal, penetrating its barrier with stubborn resilience. Tossing back the silver moon of her recreancy, the pleading timidness of her lenses fall upon Lincoln. Will he follow? Or stay? She cannot read anything of his future in the scant seconds that avalanche upon them, that ride on death and wield captivity. Whatever sin they have committed has been unwilling, yet plenty desire swells within her at the grain of hope.

Gravity gnaws at the shackles of her unsteady decent, the concrete lake of urbanisation driving air from her lungs as the collapse her escape. Yet triumph rides upon the features previously riddled with turmoil. Haste scavenges the limbs of Evangeline's puppet, launching her in rapid succession at the dawning crevice of the alley's end. But a new host of thought plagues her fleeing mind. "Up, up!" Both an impish whisper, a fraction of poverty alleviated through sudden bolts of courage and daring as it is a plea, a wonder, and a request. The iron rings bite at the fragile straws of her humanity yet she scurries above it, hauling the flesh of her skeleton upward along the coal mills of the edifice's building. Surely those that pursue them would be less inclined, or marginally reserved in their haste at least, in following those wildlings that scamper upon rooftops?


{{ I am so, so sorry for not posting sooner. I've been so insanely business it's not even funny. But now, at last, I can de-stress and write for you.

[Pandle]

ᴇᴠᴀɴɢᴇʟɪɴᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴇᴛᴛᴇ ᴀᴍᴇʀᴇᴛᴀᴛ

"Lincoln! No!" Cataclysmic palpitations rocket the vessel as the sapphires of her moons befall the fallen. Sobbing ensues with the fatal waters of mercy and grief, the monsoon of emotions staining her dirt ridden cheeks as below her the swarm descend upon her friend. In moments they will be upon her too, hunters charged with weapons of annihilation, fearing nothing but failure. If she lingers she will be amongst them and the wreckage of a boy too young to die. "Lincoln? Lincoln!" Gravity, in its callous, malicious, spiteful ways, has taken him beyond reach, an island of purity submerged in the pounding onslaught of this world corrupted. If he is dead she cannot go to him, cannot permit herself to be their willing participant for the sake of a corpse. And yet what if life remains in those aching limbs? What if, above the running and rustling, the cahoots and mirage of terror, he lives and she cannot hear him?

What if...

It spirals through her senses, slows time but cannot make it stop. Nothing can grind those chomping jaws to a halt; they will chew through stone and flesh alike, in the end. Consternation spirits away Evangeline, she whisks herself upright, half-choked sobs still dribbling from her lips as she flees along the rooftop, stumbling with every-other half-hearted jolt, the storm clouds in her eyes blurring the world until she too falls, obeying gravity's continuum. Alas she plummets not onto the concrete that swarms below, but the gravel lined rooftop, knees curling up to her with each wrecked shudder. Is he dead? Lincoln, her president Lincoln, is he dead? "Get up, we have to move," curling around her arm are fingers that taunt her of his presence, that cackle manically at her racing heart: for they do not belong to Lincoln, they are another's calculating digits. Reluctance to comply weighs like iron in her muscles. Why should she run now? He's dead. Dead and she stuck here until this world should end. "Up now, c'mon, they're coming," the voice is more urgent and faintly familiar, but through the web of moisture that dampens her gaze on the world she cannot identify the shepherd that guides her from the slaughter house to safety.

They ramble, ignoring her bloodied knee and skinned hands -for what are a child's injuries against death? Threading themselves out across the skyline, constantly working in a trail designed to confuse, for by the time they descend in the heavy breast of dusk, Evangeline cannot place herself against the map. She knows only of its quietness, as if anything with the ability to breathe has withdrawn from this world, leaving nothing but ghosts. "W-who are you? What'd you want with me? Why'd you help?" Why didn't you save Lincoln? The hand which has guided her lets go at last, returning to a pocket where it fishes for a lighter and draws instead a pack of gum. He fingers it lightly, as if to debate about taking one, then returns it to his trousers. "Your friend isn't dead, but we will be if we stay here too long."


{{ frightened little evangeline thinks he's dead oh nu! I hope this was right, it was the wife that was dead and the son that lived, or was it the other way around? I can't remember sobsob. also aaaaaaa plot ideas whooo hoooo go crazy

[Pandle]

ᴇᴠᴀɴɢᴇʟɪɴᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴇᴛᴛᴇ ᴀᴍᴇʀᴇᴛᴀᴛ

In the desolate skyscape it is harrowing to immerse herself so rapidly into the ploy of a stranger, yet the circumstances proffer little saviour by other skins. Lincoln is absent, perhaps he frolics on the edge of eternal oblivion -her President Lincoln, beyond salvation while she deposits her hand into that of the stranger. But she cannot lose herself to the howling wilderness inside her chest, to the hurricane that yearns for recognition. I'm afraid that if I yell I might never stop, she realises as they flee, their forlorn silence swallowing conversation. It is the chasm of familiarity that makes every muscle ache, that squirms inside the cage of flesh and bone. Loneliness is a bitter pill to take, but this is not the first she has been administered. Tied to her friend with nothing more than insubstantial flutters of air in the slowly-dying Earth, Evangeline vanishes from the streets without a trace, pulled into the edifice her companion has deemed appropriate.

For the wreckage and dilapidated façade that cursed her vision, the internal workshop glitters with prized and beloved technology. Spiralling crystal chrysalises pulsate with colours, their slow orbit of the rainbow both enthralling and eerie, they're spindled cases as fragile as frosted glass. The itch to ask of what these strange, pendent formations are for burns on the moist salmon of her maw but it is muffled with the twisting caverns continuous wonders. With each haphazard step, Evangeline is submerged into the miraculous chamber of oddities. Gas-masks of War-torn London pitch against display units beside tokens of modern New York; Wall Street street sign, a cab number plate, the salvaged remains of a hot-dog stand...they adorn the corridors of the abandoned flats with resolute stubbornness. "They're just memories," ahead, lingering on the bridge of a new chamber, the stranger has glanced back to perceive Evangeline's curiosity. Her fingers dance against the diamond palisade, the ghost of summer's smile scrambling on her lips. "Why? I mean, why keep them, of all the things to remember?" His stubble chin dimples with a serenade of reconciliation, his nose scrunching like a dog-eared page of a treasured book but he gives no answer, only a wistful final glance to the number-plate, then migrates, the nomadic wildebeest within his heart betraying the sorrow that haunts his thoughts.

"It's the little things we forget first," in a haste not to capitulate her only source of aid she flings herself at the crossroad and stumbles into his patient frame. Muscular, but mostly he is made of the weight of a comfort led life, save for the chemical burns that mark his digits and the scars of loss that have etched themselves into his eyes. "But they're what we miss the most when they're gone." They linger, caught in the net of misplaced friends. "I have to get him back," she breaks at last, the lucid emerald gashing the flush of her cheeks as she succumbs to fear. "Please! He's my friend, we're not even meant to be here, you have to help us, help him, do you know why they wanted us? Where will they have taken him? He's hurt, please -oh god," wrapping spindly arms around her waist, Evangeline hugs herself against the oncoming eastern wind as it stirs plagues of wretched endings in her mind. But the stranger who so heroically navigated her liberty across the alienable ocean of captivity does not leap to chivalry now. Instead he bows his face to mask the treachery that lingers there. "I can't, if I got caught it would be the end -of everything. I'm sorry, I can't help you find your friend. I have enough food and water here to feed us both-" repelled with each dashed drum of his orchestrated refusal, Evangeline tips backward, pitching from his pleasant decline to save Lincoln with trembling trepidation.

She is alone. "I have to," stutters the celestial plea, "I have to find him."

The dash for darkness drives her along the labyrinth, retracing the dazed footfalls which led her into false security to return to the grimey reality of agony and isolation. Night-air rushes against the milk of her skin, the graveyard of Universes glinting far beyond the rooftops as she hurls herself against the void. But she does not recognise the warren in which she has been led without protest. It is as ruinous as the remnants of the college yet it stands resolute against the distinct chill which claims the atmos. "Lincoln? Lincoln! Please! Someone, anyone, help, help me please," She steals herself against the obsolete before sinking onto shaking knees against the doorway of an emporium, breathless from the sobs that wrack her ribs.




{{ sorry for not replying to your pm, I kept meaning to and then got distracted by something and forgot what I was doing. Your post is great, stop worrying! We're going to have to work on your self-esteem Bea; your writing is phenomenal and it's always a pleasure to read your posts because they're so inspiring and devious aaaaaaaaaaaaa

[Pandle]

ᴇᴠᴀɴɢᴇʟɪɴᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴇᴛᴛᴇ ᴀᴍᴇʀᴇᴛᴀᴛ

The membranes of apparitions once certain and now clouded weave in a throng of anomalous identities, flashing first one beaded eye, its hoax entwined amongst the truth until doubt is numberless in its concoctions, and then another, that sly gargoyle of remembrance not quite whole. If only she could scavenge the scraps of action amongst those of the coiling bestiary, taunting her with its zodiac of calumny creatures, then she could squirm free and rake the drought bound lands of the cityscape for the root of sense and bravery. Oh Lincoln. The fickle doe cannot bring herself to stir for him, so lost he has become to her amongst the warren of ziggurats with arteries devoid of noise and traffic streaming amongst the burghal. So alone, utterly betrayed to that sour sinful creature of her chest, the leering snarl of its faceless schemes chewing at the intricate strings that once caged it. She has written him for death, scripted him in isolation to that grim reaper without the company or faith that she might go to him.

But had she? Truly not. Driven from the captivity of the nameless saviour she had fled amongst the menagerie in some vague and delusional hope of stumbling upon his bright disc, to clutch at the digits that had once enveloped her in momentary safety. Those cognizances stir in the cavity of Evangeline's mind, flocking with a symphony as thunderous and ominous as the funeral march. Untangling the spindled weeds of her carriage beneath her, she rouses with temporary courage. He must be found.

Grazing the eventide with optics borne wide with trepidation the fawn stumbles between the concrete boughs, their limbs sunken into the tide of menace with raptures of laughter or the occasional fictional taunt. These are not edifices of a forest unknown -there is some faint inkling that coos of familiarity and it confirms itself with the rise of her own apartment. That fleshy skin of off-cream stained grit kissed with the eager dregs of coffee-houses and wineries burnt in the summer of 'eight-five. And yet, it is not her own. The crumbling plaster falls into the ozone of the narnian street-lamp with the same flare of neglect and betrayal, but the silk drapes that adorn her window are awash with roses and petunias -not the gabble of ivy common-place to her furniture. At least there is an anchorage. If the colleen has ambled upon terrain blessed with intimate recognition, then the hunt for Lincoln adopts a fresh direction.

Fleeting avidly amongst the honeycomb corridors she steers herself solely toward the institution where the morning had avalanched into this riddle of horrors.



{{ I figured evangeline probably wouldn't know where the fbi headquarters were, so she'd head back toward harvard instead and more of the military figures might spot her?? I knot not, but hey hoo it opens up treacherous wicked plot things horrah. Shh no bob a roo don't apologise for making me wait, it's not a problemo.

[Pandle]

ᴇᴠᴀɴɢᴇʟɪɴᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴇᴛᴛᴇ ᴀᴍᴇʀᴇᴛᴀᴛ

The truth of you comes here.

Those are the shallow voids etched into the stage, a graveyard of its own accord existing independently from anyone, from anything. In its isolation there is a beauty that haunts of a time long since passed and yet she stands upon it now. Drawn into the gloom, a victim of habit. Beyond the militia of scarlet cushions and the dusty auditorium lingers the remnants of a world that it not her own. And yet the truth of her came to be. Somehow they are different now. They're no longer meaningless or perplexing as they hunker in the polish of last seasons cleaning. They radiate a fragile, forgotten warmth that is neither comforting nor alarming. It just is. It is like the last songbird whose tender symphony trembles in the dawn and the dusk with no hope of reply, it is the child on the swings when around him other's have been shepherded to safety: it is the fishing vessel in a fishless sea, the sole footprints in the sand that lead one way and end - end and slowly are no more.

"The truth of you comes here," she breathes them into the air with a sense of awakening stirring in her chest, a subtle siren pulled from slumber with the distant screams of a hurricane and the urgent tug of the destined dead. Evangeline has no hurry here, that ache of necessity that had driven her from the edifice does not linger in these walls. Instead there is a nonchalant crowd, the memoirs of her fable mingling with the ghosts of another world. Of her world. The place where puzzles occupied nothing more than a carpet square in cardboard pieces, where riddles came for fun and loneliness not at all. The dancer's digits lambaste the orchestra pit with a sudden fury, an empire of echoes resonating off the wood and spiralling upward -up into the first floor and between the curtain folds, beyond them and into the chandeliers that have long since forgotten what it is like to host candles and not energy-saving bulbs, further still into the rafters where a pigeon hurls itself out the broken glass window in a flutter of feathers and a coo of distress.

Its panic is fleeting. A brief surge of terror that death is upon it, or that its wings might fail where before they have not faltered. Lincoln's coo was not the same. It was sharp and piercing, it hang in the air as he plummeted and broke off like bones splintering. Dully, the thought of her friend becomes more than a comparison, it blooms inside her head as a spark ignites into an inferno. Evangeline is consumed with guilt once more. It was not by chance that she wondered into the emporium of her labour; guilt that she had survived uninjured whilst he had...had not, had penned her into a fit of procrastination.

She knew not where he lay now, the soldiers had swarmed upon them without mercy and she had left him. And why shouldn't she have done? She owed nothing to the boy! They'd met no more than a day ago, of his life she understood nothing more than that he owned a gun and knew of cortexphan less than she. Why should she have lingered there to follow suit into danger just because of his incompetence? Because he'd fallen so that she might escape. He'd done it with good intentions and single-handedly exposed her for all she was: treacherous, honourless, worthless. But she was also loyal to her word, and on that other world -her world- she had sworn to help. Lincoln was the key to saving Earth, dead or alive Evangeline had to find him.

Trailing reluctant fingers against the dais, Evangeline shuffled from the murky theatre-house and back onto the maroon serpent of the false realm, snaking down the concrete jungle toward the building of beginnings. In the forecourt engines continue to rumble with activity and for a moment she hesitates, fear penetrating the previous courage that shielded her pumps along the venture. There is no activity safe for the purr of engines and the distant bursts of laughter. Now or never, she swallows the broth of anxiety and dashes for the steps, sliding between the broken hinged doors into the cool sanctuary of Harvard's infamous quarters. Coiling in the honeycomb warren, the colleen had travelled no longer than a few minutes when a female voice carried into her ears.

Her voice.



{{ I don't even have an excuse for making you wait this long, your post was so inspiration and I have no idea why I didn't post sooner. Sorry Bea, please forgive a lazy, forgetful pan :c

[Pandle]

ᴇᴠᴀɴɢᴇʟɪɴᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴇᴛᴛᴇ ᴀᴍᴇʀᴇᴛᴀᴛ

Vibrations volt across the cherry bridges, charging them with a quiver of uncertainty and trepidation. The orbs observe but do not understand, the beastly spirits of perplexity joshing in the basin of grey-cells as the entanglement of a falsely perceived reality stampedes through the gates of certainty. "But this isn't possible," the tongue of her reflection jostles without permission, clicking out its questions of grandfathers and shape-shifters, musing as if it were independent of reality. But surely this was not another Evangeline, rather some in instalment of hallucinogenics or mirrors subtly blended to ensure confusion of trespassers perhaps? "I'm not a creation or, or a-" shape-shifter "-there's no such thing as shape-shifters," what degree of fiction had she stumbled upon? A ruminant dazed by the construction of edifices that should have sparked comfort and instead inflicted terror now hopelessly lost in a cavern of fantasies. Drawing the gravity of tempered grace away from the anomaly she shifted her gaze to the corridor from which she'd come roaming. Debates gnawed in the anxious motorway of thought: to run or remain? To interrogate or suffocate?

A diversion draws itself into the fray with the apparition of the military, the same militia who kidnapped Lincoln. As a bubbling concoction of rage foams in the concert of her jaws her doppelgänger identifies herself and fends off the enemy with a simple deceleration: "-I am the granddaughter of the Secretary of Defence-" absurd! She couldn't have been, her parent's were simple dentists tied in the underworld of floss and dentures, and they were the offspring of equally dull practitioners of education and finance. But the pervasion of truth has delayed her escape and she stands rooted by fear as the false-self returns its hostile feminine attention toward her once more. "I'm from Earth, the real Earth," but the philosopher within her appreciates the lack of transparency on the issue: how are they to distinguish world is real when they stand in their own certainty that their world is true and other a fable? She fidgets uncomfortably, uncertain whether to extend further truths upon the granddaughter of the secretary of defence or to hold her tongue. "So is my friend, have you seen him? Please, they-" she gestures with the gemstones of her porcelien features toward the uniformed figures that lurk behind them, "kidnapped him, I have to find him."

{{ this is so short and late and dull, does it give you enough to work with because if it doesn't I'll add more asap for you

[Pandle]

ᴇᴠᴀɴɢᴇʟɪɴᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴇᴛᴛᴇ ᴀᴍᴇʀᴇᴛᴀᴛ

The pit of her stomach knots with palpitations of puzzlement, the crook of her neck tremouring with refusual; "No, no this isn't the real earth, it can't be," denial breaks the certainty, casting the vocals with waves of doubt that do little to convince the speaker, let alone the other. Her hands itch to clutch at Jack; her faithful mutt would restore faith and courage into the dame had she but a chance to scrub his mangled fleece, but Jack was beyond all reaching; stuck in her world -the true world- without friend or explanation. "The twin towers are still there," a sudden ferocity prevails through the perplexity, as if this alone should vindicate her position, "but they can't be, they got blown up on the eleventh of September, there's no way they could still be there," Evangeline shuffles her gaze beyond her double-ganger and toward the shadowy outlines of the soldiers that linger, an ominous and constant presence of oppression. In her realm would those men be alive? Or would they have perished in the rubble and smouldering chaos of the terrorist attack? Fearful that an answer might untangle itself from their limbs she averted her lanterns again, uncomfortable with the notion of knowing. But the girl was providing a solution; and the conditions were far from severe. With eager enthusiasm budding on her lips, Evangeline surrendered a smile of agreement. "Deal. How will we find him?" Hoping that the novel of her arrival could be postponed until Lincoln had been located (and, preferably, recovered), Evangeline swept her new companion into the spirit of the rescue to avoid dallying on the fable.

{{ bub a roo it's fine! Besides, short posts are nice sometimes c;