girl_who_waited | Recent Entries

Everything seemed clear. Everything seemed clear, and she had to check. She had to check for him, because this - surely this, if not the powered people all being knocked flat, if not her- the other her dying was enough, surely this was. Surely the Doctor would come. She murmured a very quiet-- "Doctor, where are you-" to herself, just as she heard a door hiss open somewhere behind her, and somewhere in front of her, bringing her walk to a stop.

That was when she realised that 'clear' hadn't meant 'clear', in the exact meaning of the word.

She turned in a circle, and then took a deep breath, her steps careful as she chose a direction, creeping along the hall.

Later, she'd be thankful that Logan heard her scream.

--

She didn't remember a lot of it, just the thing's face- if it'd still been a face, and a ball of metal claws and Canadian anger had been rolling around the floor as she'd managed to get herself out of that room. It wasn't one of the rooms that'd opened. It was a kitchen, it was a kitchen that nobody used, but she was trying to find her way out, her hand leaving a bloody smear on the wall where she caught herself. Nothing immediately life threatening-- she could hear somebody or something else screaming behind her, and the most awful sound she thought she'd heard-- the loud skittering that echoed from somewhere, and all she could focus on was the blood from the cut on her forhead, and the cuts - from a knife, blood soaking into her tights so she was limping, bites on her arm still dripping blood.

It was a nightmare, which was why she was honestly surprised when she saw...

"... Spock?"

October 25, 2012

Amy leans against the doorway of the sparring room, her brows raised as she watches Logan beat the everloving snot out of a punching bag. It started in appreciation, then moved into a sort of surprise that he hadn't noticed her. After twenty minutes, when he'd already thrown medicine balls around, lifted more than she knew humans really could, and killed two punching bags, she was starting to really doubt his ability to actually be the sort of premiere fighter whatever thing he was supposed to be.

It wasn't until he moved to leave, when he finally noticed her and blinked in surprise. "Hi," she said with a smile, tipping her head to the side. "Not very observant, are you?" She says it and it's clear she's teasing him, and she looks him up and down. "I'm guessing if I ask you if you want to get a drink, you'll say something about having to shower?" She pushed herself off of the doorframe, into the room. "See you later, though, yeah?"

And then he was gone, and she smiled to herself as she turned to face the punching bag.

She can't help herself. That's what she'll say later, when they realise that it's the Sphere that caused all this and people getting sucked into it. She'll say that it just sort of stuck itself in her head, just was like a burr stuck to her conciousness. Amy woke up four times, after she'd tried to go to sleep - up and down, up and down, and that's why she found herself, 4AM, in her bathrobe. The hub was dark, and she picked her way past chairs and benches as she peered at it, and where she hadn't before, she could swear that she could see her reflection.

She could swear--

And then it moved. It moved as she looked at it, as her reflection slid from the bottom of the sphere where it belonged, up, up, up until it vanished-- and so did she.

What happened over the next four minutes was for someone other than Amy to say. She was gone, and then she wasn't, laying on the floor some feet away from where she'd started. It was the queerest feeling, that she'd been one place and moment later someplace else. She pushed herself up, turning to look over her shoulder at the sphere-- and she shook her head. "Oh, you'd love this, wouldn't you." She murmured it to herself, clucking her tongue. "See? That's why you need to be here. I get to do all the fun things without you."

She took a deep breath, and stared at the sphere for a few minutes longer, before she pulled out her communicator - she had questions, and didn't quite know who to ask them of. Who to bounce this off of, so she'd not seem mad-- and while Spock came to mind, that was a bridge that was currently a bit covered in scorchmarks. She hesitated, then stuffed her communicator back into the pocket of her robe, frowning. She spoke again, seemingly at nothing. "If there was ever a time that it'd be good if you showed up..." She trailed off, and held her breath for one moment, as if she was waiting for something, to hear something, and then.... nothing.

The station was silent, but for the hum of the engines.

"Alright, then," she said quietly. "Alright."

And then she went back to bed.

Amy.

She can't deal - it's been three days of it, every window and spoon and mirror brings the same thing. Amy.. Her communicator before the screen comes to life. She'd been freaking out, albeit quietly, since the temple. Since she stared into the mirror and saw the nothing coming for her, since there was the crack that ate everything, that wasn't supposed to exist, that didn't make sense in her memories. Ever since she'd lived a life where her parents and her husband and her life didn't get sucked into a crack in the wall, she'd only barely thought about it, but there it was, front and center, the Things That Never Happened.

And it's not that she's so much afraid of the crack reappearing, even though she thinks she sees it out of the corner of her eyes, it's that it shouldn't exist, shouldn't ever exist. That life's gone. So she tried to not think about it, but when she comes home, it starts some ten or fifteen hours later.

Amy.

Every time she sees herself, every time she catches her own eye in the mirror, in the shower glass, in the chrome of a doorknob. It's not constant, it's only once when she sees it, but sometimes it drips and sometimes it flurries and she can't not notice how many reflections there are. Her room's mostly safe but for the mirror - she keeps her door open usually, and there's a big patch of drawings on one wall - drawings on cocktail napkins, of the TARDIS and the Doctor and Rory, the Pandorica and Melody and they're not particularly good drawings, but she'd started drawing them before this all happened, and now it's even more important - which life is real, which one is not, are they both, and while she's drawing there's no reflections and she's well aware that that line of thought sounds ridiculously crazy. She's gone to get herself some more tea from the replicator - she's gotten mint, chamomile, rose-hip and one blissful cup of earl grey before, and she's walking back when she looks up.

"Stop it," she says, for she's caught her reflection in the mirror again. Amy. Her voice rises with the same words as she doesn't think, as the coffee mug in her hand is thrown and the mirror breaks, and even though some shards fall and some don't, there's a million reflections staring back at her and that's all she can hear over and over. Amy. Amy. Amy. Amy.

It's weird, Amy thinks. It's weird that it's not the fact that they all almost just died that's bothering her. It's also not the whole space-station-Indiana-Jones thing, and it's not the web of fine papercuts that sort of cover her left arm from where she'd stumbled, the one on her leg that's deeper but still not so bad. She doesn't care that she's hurt, and while she cares that other people are injured, that's not why she's moved sort of by herself, back from the fire enough that it's clear that she doesn't want to be bothered, her knees pulled up to her chest, her arms wrapped around them.

It's because she's not thinking about those things, but of the tendrils of gold, the ones that slip through everything and just take, and that's not her mind anymore - it never happened, but it did, but it didn't, around and around, those things had never happened but she remembered, she remembered them happening, even though she couldn't remember any of it. It made her want to be sick, the crashing realities, the memory of Rory being taken, that she'd forgotten like he'd never existed. She knew that, but of course he'd always existed, but somehow it'd happened, somehow they'd ended up in France and seen Vincent and Rory hadn't been there and she remembered when other people didn't, she remembered Father Octavian just like everyone else, but she remembered Marco and Crispin and Phillip, and they'd been forgotten by everyone, eaten by that thing, pulled into nothingness and somehow it'd all happened and it hadn't and she thinks she's going mad. She stares into the fire because it's something, and it exists, and that's at least something she can be sure of.

WHO: Amy & Klaus
WHERE: His room
WHEN: May 4

[Unknown site tag]
Amy wrinkled her nose as she walked into Klaus' rooms, without so much as a knock or anything else. She felt more at home here than she did in her rooms - honestly, she felt more at home anywhere than in her rooms, because she pretty much survived by surrounding herself with people, and... well. It'd been a lonely couple of months, but Amy had found some people.

Klaus was one of those people. She flopped onto his bed, her miniskirt just this side of decent, her red tanktop a truer red than her hair. Her flipflops slipped off her feet and fell onto the carpet even as she leaned her chin on her hand. "Blood?" She made a face, before she rolled onto her back, her hair falling down over the edge of the bed as she looked at him upside down. "I see somebody's a walking stereotype for vampire fashion."

Her mouth quirked in a smile as she was obviously teasing him.

S	M	T	W	T	F	S
			1	2	3	4
5	6	7	8	9	10	11
12	13	14	15	16	17	18
19	20	21	22	23	24	25
26	27	28	29	30	31

Amy Pond

Recent Entries

Me vs. the Monster

Days in the Lives of...

And it begins.

June 20, 2012: 8:14pm

(no subject)

(no subject)

Profile

May 2013

Syndicate

Most Popular Tags

Page Summary

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags