ash. & pan ;; the end of things

[Pandle]

Self-made scientist Walter Bishop has one chance to save everything. With his son stranded on mirror-Earth, the only hope left are the cortexiphan subjects; children dosed with cortexiphan and graced with the ability to step between worlds, manipulate emotions and read minds, they are the future. Failure will result in the collapse not only of mirror-Earth, but of Earth itself. Time is running out but so too are their abilities.

The final countdown has begun.
It is the end of all things.

[[Plot created by ash.]]

[Pandle]

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--ᴡᴏᴍᴇɴ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴅɪᴇ ᴏғ ɢʀɪᴇғ

Evangeline Colette Ameretat is a twenty-one year old vagabond. Her life has been spent in the presence of Walter Bishop and cortexiphan has become everything. But the ability to manipulate emotions has inspired a streak of unwilling timidness; sensitive to the output of those around her, Evangeline favours small time performance's and stage acts where a wall of lime-light can put worlds between her and the audience. She has no roots, no loyalty and no future. Content to roam and belong to nowhere, the prospect of at last venturing out to mirror-Earth with the task of finding Walter's son, Jacob, and saving the planet, neither excites nor daunts her. It is just another job from which she will return to the dank, unappetising walls of her rented apartment.

That is not to say she lacks a personality, or drive. Evangeline lives for the performance; the bright lights -be it of a stage or unbroken beam of sun-light - enthral her and possess her with a determination to please and achieve. The key strokes of a dance or chance to save the world are everything and nothing at once; if there is no token of worth, no sense of gravity and intregue then the game has not be won, it has merely ended.

For Evangeline, winning is everything. She has given her life -unwillingly at first, and then without contempt or reserve- to Walter and his schemes in the hope that she might win, win on behalf of life, on behalf of the man who has been her father and jailer and for the people she has met and is yet to meet, for those she will never know and those who have never been known.

ʙᴜᴛ ᴡʜᴇɴ sʜᴇ ɪs ᴡᴇᴀᴋ, ᴏʀ ɪɴ ʟᴏᴠᴇ, sʜᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴋɪʟʟ.

[Pandle]

ᴇᴠᴀɴɢᴇʟɪɴᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴇᴛᴛᴇ ᴀᴍᴇʀᴇᴛᴀᴛ

Slumped forward, the tortured spirit blemishes beneath her gaze, the mauve mar sobbing in his uncertainty, the taint of two roads with only one chance to go onward. At her heels the scrawny limbs of a mutt stirs, its head raising and its tongue lolling from its jaws as it to proffer an opinion on the case. "Quite right," asserts Evangeline, adopting the pen once more and jabbing it into the ribs of the ink blot, taming the chortling, rearing head with its frothing lips of stubborn show. How reluctant the blood of the pen is to craft its living, to unfold like the petals of a primrose, its temperament caught in winter. Writing, Evangeline has learnt, is a struggle, for there is nothing harder for an author than to put pen to paper; it is the haunched hours spent lost on the divan, the mindless days stoked in curiosity and possibilities, of unknowing and a reluctance to know before the storm of muse possesses you, and then everything must be discarded in the haste to jumble down the jungle of literature in the hope that, in the aftermath, it will make some form of sense.

But for now, at least, the process can go no further. Again the beast at her heels whines, his quivering tune of attention slipping through the dialogue of her tale. "Oh honestly Jack," turning her doe eyes onto the Russell, his griping increases. Setting down the token of her leisure, Evangeline sets from the chair, gathering her jacket, its old faded blue textiles worn by the weather of several winters past, and fetching the leash. "Here boy," with obedience, the dog bumbled from its bed and hurries forth, the slow, low wag of its banner back and forth a juvenile display of delight.

The streets are empty of activity, the early hour throbbing in the gauze of the street lamps, their amber confectioneries pooling and swimming along the curbs. It is a daft hour to be loose but its peacefulness is welcoming. The air, in its brisk coolness, sweeps around their formation as they totter along the street, turning left then left and right toward the park. An avenue of bent oak sweeps lazily over their trail, its fallen leaves crunching beneath her re-soled boots and Jack's unclipped talons, his happy sniffing and wondering slowing their approach into the greenery. A vibration against her hip warns of a message, its continual throb an omen of a phone-call. There is only one being on her contact list who would be bold enough to call at such an hour. Walter. Fishing the devise from her pocket she presses it gingerly against her ear. "Walter?" "Come quick, don't be late," come quick, don't be late. Don't be late. As she returns the technology to her jacket, wishing fervently that the cursed object could be anywhere other than in her possession, Jack turns his russet dome toward her. "You know, don't you boy? I'm sorry," and of that she is.

Her finger squeezes against the sensor for a brief moment, the fickle pancake of dawn light beginning to wash the deep midnight of sleep from the sky. There is a minutes wait and Evangeline wonders if she has pushed her luck too far this time, but as she turns to retreat the door slips open and the wrinkled face of her father opens the door. His old, cataract eyes flick down toward the Jack-Russell and up again, dismayed but silently agreeing. Pressing a thank you onto her pappa, and blessing Jack's ears with a quick tickle, she takes off toward Walter and his laboratory.

It is impressive on the inside, its familiar walls a home away from home, the muffled ring of her boots on the floor announcing her presence as she slips along the hallway, curious as to who else Walter has summoned and for what. What was so urgent it demanded their presence before dawn had finished pricking the skyline? Something of a disastrous nature? She hoped not, perhaps he had found a way to send them to the other side and his excitement bid them come, come quick and don't be late because he is an old and not-quite sane man with nothing to do but experiment.

{{"this post was terrible" she says, and then proceeds to write the most phenomenal post. Such lies, very false, much greatness. I think the colour text works really well, it's better than not making any changes to the text because it's easier to locate, especially on re-reading it for writing a reply. Smh, it's exiting having him involved with the FBI! As you say, its fiction, think of all those teenage spies -having him in the FBI isn't the craziest thing.

[Pandle]

ᴇᴠᴀɴɢᴇʟɪɴᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴇᴛᴛᴇ ᴀᴍᴇʀᴇᴛᴀᴛ

When you are an independent women, in other words the landlord's abomination, outcast and provokateur all rolled into one, you take what you can find, lodge where you may, and put up with newly plastered walls. Even the thin partitions of Evangeline's sagging home, with its morass of toffee-like, creamy mud - coffee-coloured, maroon and caramel-yellow slushy trifle of crumbling plaster, offer shelter. The floating meringue of concrete occupies a number of independent women, a colony of banshees armed with automobiles and cackling laughter than lingers in the ears like a fox-terrier yapping at the hunt. In comparison, the classical euphoria that incurs the core of peace is nothing more than the bravado of a bull-jumper, or perhaps that of a scholar with a night of submergence study ahead and the desperate attempt to retrain attention and conciousness to the mind.

It is better to occupy this space of terminal adrenaline and academia than the ugly October mornings spent in the company of an iodoform leaking radiator and a grumpy dog, for always he is grumpy when Evenagline must leave him for Walter, and more so when there is frost on the ground. Walter's apparition to Evangeline's arrival strikes her as that of gaiezza volpina, the gay fox but only because the corners of his mouth are folded and his eyes glimmer with the shine of sly and cunning craft. My dear, I have wonderful news, begins his song, the instrumental still a cacophony of distraction, the ill-amused cow's complaints unresolved. He had not found a field to graze it in then, and if such evidence had not been so blindly obvious in itself, there are others to occupy Walter's wonderful news. "Do share, you have us most excited," chime the bells of Evangeline, in an artless force of harsh, seductive contraltos that suit her apache youth well.

She uptakes the hand of Astrid, a fine, rosy mist collecting in the pools of her cheeks at the greetings, I'm Evangeline," she sends the wing'd bird toward the boy, a curiosity plaguing her at his soprano of questions and impatience. Hasn't he learnt that Walter will do things in his own time, in his own way? Like a goat caught in the cycle of chewing and fighting, that self-contained war of destruction from gluttony of knowledge building in his mind. Or perhaps he knows only too well and like her, he pushed for the tendril of an answer for he has places to be, people to see and matters to attend to. Friends, family, a social gathering that would send isolated chills of cold dread down her own spine but that seem to enliven those of the younger and less afraid.

{{ Sorry for the wait, this week and next I have continual deadlines for all my coursework, thankfully when we break up for Christmas, there should be nothing but exams to worry about! And don't be barbaric, that post was sublime! You undervalue yourself too much *wags finger at* Sorry for the shortness, writing about historical feminism isn't very good for muse.

[Pandle]

ᴇᴠᴀɴɢᴇʟɪɴᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴇᴛᴛᴇ ᴀᴍᴇʀᴇᴛᴀᴛ

With his aquiline nose, the professor resembles no less of a character than the Knight of the Dolorous Countenance. It is a bemusing yak to the mind, its spirited migration abandoned in the rapid gathering of events for the fleeting Heralds of their commerce -"Lincoln as in the President? That's a good name, I'm sure it'll serve you well," - are snatched from them like the trinkets of a child bestowed before their time. It does not prevent the swell of felicity from flowering in her breast; his softly uttered compliment the chlorophyll to her burgeoning petunias of pride. Their union may only have arisen through unprecedented, and potentially precarious puzzlements, but faith extricates itself within the turmoil of Walter's fantasies. A misery so familiar to the engagement of society forgotten in the parade of possibilities, as if Evangeline has ventured into a carnival conjuration of prestidigitation rather than a Harvard chamber allotted to a bedlamite.

Obliging the zealot, the colleen follows as a devout pilgrim to his cause, unquestioning but not mindless to the crux ahead. The comradery roves between the enclosure, Walter's self-certain trail among the labyrinth un-mirrored in his counterparts until a blessing of equipment emerges in the concave of an approaching hallway. But as swiftly they have arrived, Walter announces his demise and saunterer away, as if to invite lambs to slaughter, only to postpone the axeman at their fleeting glances. "Ready for what, Astrid?" She could claim little knowledge of the FBI administrator, nothing more than coupled meetings with Walter's ramblings as a bridge between their unknowing, yet it brought a spur of amenity to Evangeline as she wove between the flickering chaplains to plot herself beside Lincoln.

A gracious smile flicks across the pink buds of her mouth, evolving it into the rainbow of safety and tenderness as she spirits its direction toward Lincoln, like the letter of a friend forgotten sent to the trenches, with no promise of arriving and no compensation for its failure. Yet she proffers it anyway, resigned to nominate her limbs as a pin-cushion of Walter's fables: "to answer your question, my dear Evangeline, the key is him." Him? Her lanterns navigate toward the youthful gamin, curiosity turning into marvel like the metamorphosis of chrysalis to moth, her wings of enthralment fluttering excitedly. "Save it? Walter how, we're not ready for this," the advancement of an anaesthetic mutes their questions and transforms it into a blistering scrabble of protest. A fox caught in its hole, the terrier hounding in and the huntsmen's horns upon her. "Walter no, please, stop you haven't explai-" colours slide in a kaleidoscope of illusions, elements bombarding their flesh like the veil of a waterfall through which they have plummeted, and she falls, endlessly slipping through the world into its lithosphere and beyond, into absence.

She lingers in the interim, nonchalantly, for the Diurnal course to comb her face with its dazzling radiance slipping through closed eyelids, and the shadow of each pedestrian swiftly passing over her like a dark blue wing. And then, in a feverish arousal of action, Evangeline begins a delicate probing. No broken bones, no immediate symptoms of trauma; there is nothing more to her afflictions that a devouring headache and a sense of misplaced loss. Folds in the tender silk of her eyelids reveal a penetration of conjecture; the corner of her mouth, where once a smile had lingered, was already engraved in a sad line and her digits fumble clumsily at the triple Venus necklace pressing at her throat. The examination is interrupted by the memory of Lincoln and his jovial spirit, of the brisk bombardment of his sombre questions before they'd diminished to the sub-junction of travel. "Lincoln? Are you hurt, are you alright?"

{{ oh god i love this roleplay so much already, thank you so much for sharing this plot with me!

[Pandle]

ᴇᴠᴀɴɢᴇʟɪɴᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴇᴛᴛᴇ ᴀᴍᴇʀᴇᴛᴀᴛ

It is a graveyard of seraphs, the pearly wan of their pinions dismembered amongst the wreckage, their bodies, thought absent, entwined amongst the cinders. Lachryma of celestial mourning pours between slates of crystal, its interspersed beams highlighting membranes of the remnants, their spiralling descent into death mirroring their own discorded confusion. "Where are you hurt? Can you walk?" Brushing finger-tips against the trunks, the maid pivots on pointe-shoes, the dim gloom untouched by sunlight like coffee on the tongue as she flavours the air with a peppermint breath of concern. "I think we're still in his laboratory," hesitation quivers on the notes as Evangeline extends an arm to Lincoln, kneeling at his brogan with a stain of apprehension.

How could they be in Walter's laboratory when inches of dust foretold of decades spent in absence? Illusions of rust dry the taste of hope in her maw, for it is a landscape of desperate drought and unintelligible fictions. Somewhere in the howling monsoon of her throbbing temples a flag of binary coded services slips from her grasping. Understanding defies its comprehension, for now. "I feel like we should know," curtains shut against the agonising filters of chemical lanterns, fingers grasping for a hold of the circling deer, their bouyant bucking thrumming through her skull as they twist and evade her prying. "The key is him! -Save the world -safe - kill him" Lanterns of perpetual disquiet flicker across his face; why would Lincoln desire to kill him if he was the key? And key to what? Saving the world? But this was not their world -

"Not out world," a slither of decipherment concludes amongst the stampeding beasts within her mind, a riot of thoughts bombarding her intellect with a smog of upturned dirt. "Of course, don't you remember? Core, no, Corte," it slipped like butter on a steaming potato, its trail smeared across her thoughts and yet untouchable. "Cortexiphan!" It drips into tangible memories at last, its cooling surface breaching beneath her relentless pursuit of knowledge. But still questions lingered, for if this was the world destined for saviour, how were they, how was Lincoln, supposed to do so? Even with the jabberwhocky cackling in her brain, Evangeline was certain Walter had made no mention of a plan, least of all instructions to pursue. Tranquillity -or its unstable isotope- is shattered in the ringing chirp of approaching footsteps, their rapid pace directed solely toward their antechamber. Thrashing a look of desperation toward Lincoln -for there was no refuge amongst this graveyard of equipment- she bowed her head in testament of their future.

{{ Yeah, haha that's great by me. Eeeek eeek eek, so much to come, so much to write! By all means use the italics, it doesn't bother me in the slightest. Oh hush, your post wasn't lame at all. Just because it was smaller doesn't mean it didn't pack a punch!

[Pandle]

ᴇᴠᴀɴɢᴇʟɪɴᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴇᴛᴛᴇ ᴀᴍᴇʀᴇᴛᴀᴛ

Mandible's crash in binary code, foaming oasis's churning in the up-heaving breast of commotion. Is this it? The irrefutable crescendo? It lacks the garnish and finesse of stage performances; there is no certainty here that if she leaps she will land upon the dexterous heels of her platoon, or debacle into wooden planks with affirmative assurance that she will continue unblemished by her own magnitude. Not even the pungent perfumes of cigar smoke, chewed tobacco and the rotten filth of roads once walked. An untimely death, one she will not protest to in its aftermath but long for otherwise promises in its cricketing arrival. Lincoln, Evangeline Harolds, is not so quick to accept absolution. In his dizzying aftermath he reels, true enough, but there is a steadiness to his harboured sea-legs that rings of a captain accustomed to peril. "But Lincoln-" he is a cowboy, his ranging pose adheres to every Western; the quip of a holster for firearms he has every intention to yield and a certainty of prevailing in the oncoming storm of Western rogues.

Protest dies on her lips like maize blown dry in the drought. She must suckle herself with his pursuit and pray it bodes them well. Stealing herself against a tempest of blizzard blowing bullets, Evangeline throws herself after Lincoln; a lamb to a Shepard, she trudges after him with manic eyes of bewilderment and shame -for what purpose does she serve in the labyrinth of activity? None. She is an ornamental accompaniment to this cowboy. That is not, in itself, so shaming. Evangeline serves this world as nothing more than that in everyday productions. Some are born for greatness, others must content themselves in its proximity. Lincoln is key. "You seem like you've done this before," their spines pin against to the sickly plaster, mould spiralling up in a pickle of vomit roaming along the vanilla division, its faint custard façade lost beneath a myriad of charcoal and ashen crumbs. The air is damp to breathe and she feels faintly sick at the notion of inhaling the flaked crepes of décor. But mirth dies in her throat at Lincoln's flashing eyes and wildly hissed whisper. Again they mount their steed of flight and charge onward, galloping into freedom.

But their air is sucked from their lungs by the towering giants of their horizon. Evangeline cannot scrape an ounce of decency to her expression as they skid onto iron, spiralling stairs. Perched upon them, clinging, as if to descend them might lead them straight into the inferno of Hell. For this must be sorcery. Demons, some wicked conjuring trick? Hallucinogenics? "But that can't be, that's...that's not possible!" The Twin Towers are nothing more than a memorial ground! How? Evangeline blinks, draws her knuckles against the silk of her lenses and stares again. There is no safety here, however. Cranium revolving with the wreckage of their...their what? Cortexiphan? It was just a word. A word in binary code for the comprehension it failed to dawn in her. It explained nothing. She titters forward, and in a whirl-wind of curiosity throws herself down the stairs, roaring along the iron tapestry of the Harvard building, cantering between the ghostly foliage along pathways as empty as a laundrette on Christmas day.

Avenues echo the same desperation as one fluttering tune throws itself to the breathless world; the hymn of hope, ringing in the clarity of space, undisturbed, unaltered, unbroken. Azure brushes ribbon the sky with shreds of distant clouds, the lonely arrow of a bird the final touch to the masterpiece. From the ground, her held tilted up to the faint warmth of autumnal sunshine, Evangeline lingers to watch. The hour nears noon but the city is empty, the burnt hubs of cars crashed into lamp-posts, to shops, are the only traffic on the road. The corpse of a dog lies broken in a doorway, a single trainer stuck nearby. The remains of civilisation; ashes and ruins. On her right the sky-rise twins stands erect, the only thing to remain untouched since the epoch of brimstone. "What's happened? Oh god this is awful, there's nobody here, it's like...it's like everything's dying."



{{ Oh hush it you! It's not a problem, life comes before the internet and it was weeeeeell worth the wait; that post was amazing!! Aaskhjsfi your writing style is sublime. Ha ha, no worries, if you didn't make those assumptions it would be pretty slow going, if I didn't want her to follow I'd simply write as such in my post. And you interpreted footsteps fine, honestly, you worry too much :p I hope this post is alright, just say if I should change anything

[Pandle]

ᴇᴠᴀɴɢᴇʟɪɴᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴇᴛᴛᴇ ᴀᴍᴇʀᴇᴛᴀᴛ

Meringues of floating debris congregate on the oyster sheets of concrete. Slabs of wreckage deck the aisles. Her celestial innocence drawn in repeat to the twisted limb caught in the automatic frame of a retail supermarket. A limb once animated, now nothing of the sort. How long has its owner possessed that patch of magnetised failings? For what duration has it endured exposure and neglect? "Everybody's dead," the inaccuracy of her preview is illuminated in marmalade and khaki. "Is that the military? Lincoln, who are they?" Burying her beige chops against the earthen reclaimed steps of their shelter, Evangeline attempts to mute her terror and observe the procession as they waltz across the floral square. Death hangs around them, its curtains draped across the stage with moth-eaten tapestries and dampness dribbling off their rings. They rise, replaced with low clouds of the apricot fog. "Evangeline, where are we?" Where are we?

The trucks roll away, their tires crunching across the debris, swinging them out of the ruinous metropolis to leave echoes of their activity behind. Teetering forward, Evangeline shimmers forward, apperating through toward the cadaver that beckoned to her emotional turmoil. It is a child. In the unclenched fingers of its sunken frame lies a half eaten candy bar, her arrival does nothing except stir a dense swarm of flies from the corpse, exposing a wriggling mass of maggots; their squirming bodies sliding and squelching through the exposed ribs. Throwing herself backward, Evangeline hangs herself in the centre aisle, consumed by marmalade spray as she pivots her gaze between the unmistakable turrets and her companion. "New York, Earth but, but not our Earth," clarity clouds her mind in the recollection of Harvard laboratories and classrooms, of hours spent in Walter's company abiding by the intensity of his dictations. Cortexiphan and Lincoln, two pieces of a puzzle she has yet to establish the size of.

They were meant to be here. Evangeline does not question the certainty that swells in her when she calls to doubt the idea that this is a dreadful mistake. "We need to go back to Harvard, urgency pilots her motives as she swings herself back toward the centre of education, toward the studious and infamous buildings in which she laboured -unsuccessfully- for a degree. "Walter bid us here on purpose Lincoln, you're they key, that's what he said. You're the key, and this world is the lock-" this parallel world. Parallel. Is this what they're in? Trailing into silence the colleen raises her gemstones against the harsh outline of the Twin Towers once more. There had been no terrorist attack. No destruction of the world trade centres. All those lives; saved. And yet they stand amongst a destruction far greater than any plane crash. One catastrophe averted for a dystopia. "What do you remember about cortexiphan?" It is her purpose! At last there is a reason for her precense, she is not a trinket to be admired or to provide solace for the cowboy, she is the mastermind of Walter's plans! Lincoln the key and she the locksmith.



{{ You and I have a very very different idea of dull in that case xP

[Pandle]

ᴇᴠᴀɴɢᴇʟɪɴᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴇᴛᴛᴇ ᴀᴍᴇʀᴇᴛᴀᴛ

A miasma of Turkish smoke curled in the confines of the Harvard classroom.
It wound upward, hopeful of abdicating from the climate of cortexphian, only to realise the futility of its venture and sprawl outward, veiling the chamber in a smear of ashen pearl. Piercing through the screen came two dull brown buttons, blinking lazily as if it were a chore, an elongated muscle tapping the cigar to plop a bundle of burnt debris in the awaiting ash tray. A gramophone record spun sadly on the desk between them, the golden trumpet cloaked in feathered dust.

His words join with the bird's song, a symphony to comfort the bruised atmosphere. It proffers little shelter or protection, save for that he is present, that he remains among her grasping. If all else should befall them, they are together in this muddle. "Please, Lincoln, please you must know something, don't say that!" Unease cascades between her ribs, pounding on the cartilage and dancing in her marrow. A sweat chill peppering her instinct, forking it with uncertainty and regret. Walter could not have given her charge of an ignorant boy -this was not a foxtrot with set steps to master, nor a play with words rehearsed. It was his scientific jargon with errors and flaws; it was terror, obscurity and absolution. But a dawn of...memories? Evangeline suspects them to be just such: the memories unfold across his features. First the trepidation diminishes, swept from his flesh with each wind-milling step backward. In a haste she moves after him, bough outstretched to capture his sinking formation, only to retreat.

This time, this time he is safe.

"My mother was a cortexiphan subject of Walter's!" Evangeline stutters out surprise, for she too shares this relation with cotexiphan and professor. Such a happenstance could be no mistake. There was a design to this; its orchestrated chimes of their arrival and the slow draining of knowledge as it filters through the throbbing hammers of their headaches. He careens with the weight of recollecting and she cannot blame him. Trailing in his shadow, Evangeline, the seraph, echoes his depression. For their tales do nothing to solve their dilemma here. There is too much humanity to him, she observes as he flops onto the sidewalk. Around them, Earth -this alternate version of it at least- wheezes in its last breaths. What if it should die, if everything should collapse and they should remain?

She advances to sink beside him, their lonely frames stuck in the slow revolving of a dystopia majesty. "We stay together, that's what we do," should the Earth stop turning, should the seas run dry they will be ghosts of death itself. Echoes of a time they do not belong to; eternal figures cursed to remain. "Find some food, water, that sort of stuff and we head back to Harvard," Lincoln's bashful face pleas with her heart; so much dejection and sorrow captured in the longing to be anywhere but here. What it must be like, to anticipate the paralysing melancholy this will render upon his family, his friends, his cat, she cannot fathom. For she has no one but Jack and his disgruntled whines for company. "If this is the alternate universe Walter's spoken so avidly of, that your mother -and mine- could flick between then there must be something there to help, or at least to give us some direction."

Words. His mouth flops with the weight of them, he who can hardly see amongst the chalk cloud of his richly imported cigar, he who cannot see the infant before him, a druid of chicanery submitted to his ruthless exploits of science. She who was wrapped in the unfortunately rose tinted tights, the saffron cheese of her dress bubbled with daisies. A garment to capture the youthful spirit about to be plucked for the trials of a madman.

Evangeline had been offered to Walter aged four, a daughter designed for this; bred for this.




{{ omg no you cutie stahp, your posts are phenomenal. If they were dull then we wouldn't be having nearly half as much fun and I wouldn't flail around everywhere like a kitten with a ball of string every time you post.

[Pandle]

ᴇᴠᴀɴɢᴇʟɪɴᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴇᴛᴛᴇ ᴀᴍᴇʀᴇᴛᴀᴛ

Shyness withdraws the fledgling from the hissing spirit of Lincoln's tormented being. He boils with stewing rage, a tempest ignited in his mind. Evangeline cannot blame him. She'd drawn the blinds down against the paralytic civilians, against the crowd who shall neither applaud nor criticise, who will migrate nowhere as their venture unfolds. These are not the faces gripped to a performance for which nights of anticipation has held them. Evangeline can do nought to solve their dilemmas, this is not their universe and the words that strangle her tongue feel fake. As if the cries hollering on the edge of release are parallel to the truth, like this world, like everything. Lincoln's roaming agitates the perplexion of her mind and she slips the netting away from her lenses, filling them with the dystopia of this new realm. Stone and plaster avalanche and slump against the canal of corpses. Frothing behind the Twin Towers lies a smothering fireplace of coals; the flickering shadow of lights rumbling amongst the belly of the storm forewarning of the monsoon's approach. Betraying the growing unease and trepidation that harbours itself in her stomach.

Evangeline follows in Lincoln's wake, her doe-gaze reproachful as the stab of Lincoln's bereavement rampages between them. "He's not mental Lincoln, he's a man -a great man- with ideas that scared the government!" Truth be told, Dr Walter's contemplations, experiments and practises inflicted equal terror into her as much the politicians. Perhaps more so. They were not the ones stranded upon the surface of a dying planet. "So they locked him away because that's what governments always do! They squash development, they hide from truth and they project their lies onto the country." Possessed with an inferno of her design, Evangeline tosses her manic gaze upon Lincoln. But he is just as broken as she. Their china skins cracked and warped, one sudden movement and they will shatter. Woeful of her own fairing deceleration, Evangeline turns away, permits him the chance to excuse himself from her presence.

A woman's weapon is poison, now she had turned her dripping venom onto Lincoln. She could not permit the ruptures of the past to breach sensibility; words had summoned themselves into her comprehension. She was operating as a unit in sync with Lincoln. He the key, she the locksmith. To wreck her toxins upon him now would be to corrupt innocence and prosperity.

Ice rises in her chest, its frigid contractions immobilising her as the bursting calls of her companion rocket through the silence. Dazed she moves to see, to peer at the miniature sculpture at his feet. But he is turning, the pirouette carrying him along the rubble. Humbly she seeks his trail, wordless to the issues they incur. "He sent his son here, long ago." The nomad catches up to Lincoln, her lanterns illuminating his features, consuming the emotional turmoil ridden there. A vague smile settles on her lips like the lingering wings of a butterfly come to rest. "Don't be afraid, we've got each other," she adopts his hand, the slender willows of her fingers seeking refuge in his palm.


{{ Oh Bea, don't be sorry! Christmas is always a busy time, you know I wouldn't hold it against you just because you've got things to do! And that post was far from bad: I thought it was emotionally inspiring and utterly relatable to Lincoln: that's what makes your writing so amazing. It captures the gravity and the mood, it's realistic and true to his character. I love your writing. Besides, look at this measly scrap that i've left you! I've hardly given you anything to work with, I'm so sorry. Want me to edit more in?