Cassian Andor (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
candor1) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sixthiterationlogs2017-01-03 12:02 am
candor1) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2017-01-03 12:02 am
Y si pierdes mis huellas que dios te bendiga [Arrival - OPEN]
WHO: Cassian Andor
WHERE: The Fountain
WHEN: Present at large, whenever's best for your character, in defiance of the space-/time-continuum. Multithreading welcome.
OPEN TO: YOU! (Everyone!)
WARNINGS: Vague semi-spoilers for Rogue One. Novelization quotes hyperlinked to citation page. (If not wanting to really be spoiled, don't follow 'em!)
UPDATE: (in comment thread) erm… apparently suicidal ideation and maybe indirect attempt.
STATUS: Closed
Jyn tightened her grip on Cassian, and he found the strength to hold her.
Her breathing matched his, or his matched hers, deep and steady.
He felt every curve of her, wiry and taut; and, despite two pounding hearts, amazingly still. Everything that hurt in him was somehow transmuted. Not less painful but larger than body now; sublime. He closed his eyes into her shoulder. Slipped his fingers under her hair. Went gladly with the astounding gravity of her existence pulling in every corner of his.
The world grew brighter, emerald at first and then a clean purifying white.
. .
He was underwater.
. .
There was too much to process for the mind to lock on. As crafted, though, instincts and training didn't need to wait for the mind. He kicked and started upward.
It was the stroke of his arms that keyed his consciousness into the fact that Jyn was not in them.
It was his survival instinct holding his breath that made him realize he needed to keep doing so.
It was his legs, arms, and torso moving without pain that made him take sudden, instantaneous inventory and discover that the injuries he'd had a moment ago—wrenched leg, fractured arm, cracked ribs, punctured lung, internal bleeding, concussed skull, whiplash—
—were all completely healed.
Which gave rise to the fantastical thought: not water. Bacta. We were rescued.
But just as quickly, the relentless skills refuted: Not bacta. Water. And how in any hell could we have been?
…landmass dissolved, in the ocean now?
Not salt water, not ocean. And also—
Why wouldn't the ocean have been dissolved?
Why wouldn't I have been?
…Why… what… how…
…Jyn?
His head broke the surface of the water and he loudly gasped in the air.
Still training/instinct alone: while treading water, with prep to keep doing so, his hand slapped out. Found something solid. Stone. Hand clamped down, rest of arm engaged, pulled him toward the… (wall?). Grip altered, transitioned seamlessly into his arm pulling the rest of him up, out of the water, onto the stone. Which wasn't wide enough, and he pulled up and rolled himself over the verge, calibrating his weight and center of gravity fluidly, and landing on solid ground.
He stood a moment, half-crouched in combat readiness.
The usual back part of his mind, that had been self-sufficient since inception, was ticking off all the information that would be automatically incorporated but he wouldn't consciously know until reached for.
Plants. Trees. Sentient intervention of framing structures. Artificially flattened ground. Fountain. Spacial measurements. Feel and smell of atmosphere. Air movement. Planet not vessel. Not my clothes. No weapon. Pack on my back.
But nothing touched him.
He stood like a statue, all those usual processes occupied with the correct, invaluable things that no longer mattered to him at all.
Something newer—no… older, but only recently acknowledged; something far deeper, reeled to make sense of what this was and how it had happened… and, numb and shocked, that old force rumbled,
No.
Not more.
That was the end.
. .
As so often in those last, unprecedented, irreversible days, he found the one thing to rouse him—to act on—to cling to—that transcended training, instinct, everything.
He turned to scan in every direction.
And reverberatingly pierced the green-and-stone circle and beyond with his bellow:
WHERE: The Fountain
WHEN: Present at large, whenever's best for your character, in defiance of the space-/time-continuum. Multithreading welcome.
OPEN TO: YOU! (Everyone!)
WARNINGS: Vague semi-spoilers for Rogue One. Novelization quotes hyperlinked to citation page. (If not wanting to really be spoiled, don't follow 'em!)
UPDATE: (in comment thread) erm… apparently suicidal ideation and maybe indirect attempt.
STATUS: Closed
Sigue andando el camino por toda su vida | Respira…
Y si pierdes mis huellas que dios te bendiga | Respira…
Jyn tightened her grip on Cassian, and he found the strength to hold her.
Her breathing matched his, or his matched hers, deep and steady.
He felt every curve of her, wiry and taut; and, despite two pounding hearts, amazingly still. Everything that hurt in him was somehow transmuted. Not less painful but larger than body now; sublime. He closed his eyes into her shoulder. Slipped his fingers under her hair. Went gladly with the astounding gravity of her existence pulling in every corner of his.
The world grew brighter, emerald at first and then a clean purifying white.
He was underwater.
There was too much to process for the mind to lock on. As crafted, though, instincts and training didn't need to wait for the mind. He kicked and started upward.
It was the stroke of his arms that keyed his consciousness into the fact that Jyn was not in them.
It was his survival instinct holding his breath that made him realize he needed to keep doing so.
It was his legs, arms, and torso moving without pain that made him take sudden, instantaneous inventory and discover that the injuries he'd had a moment ago—wrenched leg, fractured arm, cracked ribs, punctured lung, internal bleeding, concussed skull, whiplash—
—were all completely healed.
Which gave rise to the fantastical thought: not water. Bacta. We were rescued.
But just as quickly, the relentless skills refuted: Not bacta. Water. And how in any hell could we have been?
…landmass dissolved, in the ocean now?
Not salt water, not ocean. And also—
Why wouldn't the ocean have been dissolved?
Why wouldn't I have been?
…Why… what… how…
…Jyn?
His head broke the surface of the water and he loudly gasped in the air.
Still training/instinct alone: while treading water, with prep to keep doing so, his hand slapped out. Found something solid. Stone. Hand clamped down, rest of arm engaged, pulled him toward the… (wall?). Grip altered, transitioned seamlessly into his arm pulling the rest of him up, out of the water, onto the stone. Which wasn't wide enough, and he pulled up and rolled himself over the verge, calibrating his weight and center of gravity fluidly, and landing on solid ground.
He stood a moment, half-crouched in combat readiness.
The usual back part of his mind, that had been self-sufficient since inception, was ticking off all the information that would be automatically incorporated but he wouldn't consciously know until reached for.
Plants. Trees. Sentient intervention of framing structures. Artificially flattened ground. Fountain. Spacial measurements. Feel and smell of atmosphere. Air movement. Planet not vessel. Not my clothes. No weapon. Pack on my back.
But nothing touched him.
He stood like a statue, all those usual processes occupied with the correct, invaluable things that no longer mattered to him at all.
Something newer—no… older, but only recently acknowledged; something far deeper, reeled to make sense of what this was and how it had happened… and, numb and shocked, that old force rumbled,
No.
Not more.
That was the end.
As so often in those last, unprecedented, irreversible days, he found the one thing to rouse him—to act on—to cling to—that transcended training, instinct, everything.
He turned to scan in every direction.
And reverberatingly pierced the green-and-stone circle and beyond with his bellow:
"JYN?"