Ghost (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hacktivist) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
capeandcowllogs2012-08-07 12:15 am
hacktivist) wrote in capeandcowllogs2012-08-07 12:15 am
Entry tags:
and love is a word in the sand that a wave wipes away with her hand
WHO: Max futurebatwoman and Ghost hacktivist
WHERE: Max's place.
WHEN: Today, August 7th, 2012. The eve.
WARNINGS: Mush.
SUMMARY: Ghost comes clean. Even literally, he probably tried to shower for her.
FORMAT:Purple prose?
All luxuries were expensive. All comforts were shackles. The illusion of safety was herald to the slowing of reflexes, and left the cracks of rocks wide exposed for the first blow to cleave them true through to the flaws they followed. The true test of any man's nature was what he did with temptation - and the temptation Ghost felt now was the strongest he'd ever known.
He wanted to keep the pathway he had forged with her, while he recognized the danger of that mutual possession, and stood torn between his fear and his yearning. He had thought a full confession, a clean and logical break, would put the emotions to sleep, but if anything they paced in their cages more frenetic, bashed and beat themselves against the bars and kept an awful disquiet in his soul day and night. They roared, unslakeable, demanding a greater and greater crescendo of feeling
(of falling)
of joy and affection and tenderness and sacrifice. Things he had thought he had buried deep, rising to be risked anew.
And before he'd had a chance to notice, with the insidious creeping of the tides, he was faced with a choice he could not make. To keep her safe in ignorance would be to control her fate, and he could not abide the control of another being. It repelled him. But to tell her - this woman of iron and deft responsibility so far beyond her years, perhaps that edged towards self flagellation regarding uncontrollable events
(in so many ways they were alike / in so many ways she was beyond his understanding it made no sense how she could be this way unpredictable and reliable
paradoxical)
He spent the night thinking it over. He examined the situation from as many angles as he could turn it, brushing as much bias off it as possible.
Sitting up late, tapping his fingers against the off-white mask with the dead ruby eyes that looked up at him and demanded justice from the void at the expense of everything he had - his body and his mind and his soul, in exchange for retribution. The demand was overwhelming. Logic, his firmest ally, stood aloof and offered nothing but ice. Vulcanus was beyond dangerous. Max had been tortured before. He still was unsure if that event had been owed to ill fortune, or her association with him, or perhaps something else entirely. The Bilderbergs? Her own universe's enemies, of which there was no shortage? Tony Stark was sufficient clout to fight, he had self healing abilities. Max could fix broken things, she
(did not deserve to be)
could not risk being thrown into his war in any deeper capacity.
And the mask had watched him with curious intensity, the prosecution, the judge and jury - but not the executioner. Max could play that role, if he were wrong. Like Shana had. He would welcome it this time, with the experience that time and distance could do nothing but anesthetize. He didn't know people, not very well, though he made it his business to struggle with knowing what they desired and the evil that they could do, for protection, for manipulation. He could find no evil in Max, and he suspected that what she wanted, ultimately, was no different than what he wanted; justice and safety
(love)
for those pathways she called hers.
He made the decision before he'd known he'd made a decision, and an hour later he was washed, dressed, and rang her doorbell by passing his hand through it, with a harsh mechanical interference of static.
In the end, it was his faith in her
(devotion)
that had brought him here. Not his logic.
futurebatwoman and Ghost hacktivist WHERE: Max's place.
WHEN: Today, August 7th, 2012. The eve.
WARNINGS: Mush.
SUMMARY: Ghost comes clean. Even literally, he probably tried to shower for her.
FORMAT:
All luxuries were expensive. All comforts were shackles. The illusion of safety was herald to the slowing of reflexes, and left the cracks of rocks wide exposed for the first blow to cleave them true through to the flaws they followed. The true test of any man's nature was what he did with temptation - and the temptation Ghost felt now was the strongest he'd ever known.
He wanted to keep the pathway he had forged with her, while he recognized the danger of that mutual possession, and stood torn between his fear and his yearning. He had thought a full confession, a clean and logical break, would put the emotions to sleep, but if anything they paced in their cages more frenetic, bashed and beat themselves against the bars and kept an awful disquiet in his soul day and night. They roared, unslakeable, demanding a greater and greater crescendo of feeling
(of falling)
of joy and affection and tenderness and sacrifice. Things he had thought he had buried deep, rising to be risked anew.
And before he'd had a chance to notice, with the insidious creeping of the tides, he was faced with a choice he could not make. To keep her safe in ignorance would be to control her fate, and he could not abide the control of another being. It repelled him. But to tell her - this woman of iron and deft responsibility so far beyond her years, perhaps that edged towards self flagellation regarding uncontrollable events
(in so many ways they were alike / in so many ways she was beyond his understanding it made no sense how she could be this way unpredictable and reliable
paradoxical)
He spent the night thinking it over. He examined the situation from as many angles as he could turn it, brushing as much bias off it as possible.
Sitting up late, tapping his fingers against the off-white mask with the dead ruby eyes that looked up at him and demanded justice from the void at the expense of everything he had - his body and his mind and his soul, in exchange for retribution. The demand was overwhelming. Logic, his firmest ally, stood aloof and offered nothing but ice. Vulcanus was beyond dangerous. Max had been tortured before. He still was unsure if that event had been owed to ill fortune, or her association with him, or perhaps something else entirely. The Bilderbergs? Her own universe's enemies, of which there was no shortage? Tony Stark was sufficient clout to fight, he had self healing abilities. Max could fix broken things, she
(did not deserve to be)
could not risk being thrown into his war in any deeper capacity.
And the mask had watched him with curious intensity, the prosecution, the judge and jury - but not the executioner. Max could play that role, if he were wrong. Like Shana had. He would welcome it this time, with the experience that time and distance could do nothing but anesthetize. He didn't know people, not very well, though he made it his business to struggle with knowing what they desired and the evil that they could do, for protection, for manipulation. He could find no evil in Max, and he suspected that what she wanted, ultimately, was no different than what he wanted; justice and safety
(love)
for those pathways she called hers.
He made the decision before he'd known he'd made a decision, and an hour later he was washed, dressed, and rang her doorbell by passing his hand through it, with a harsh mechanical interference of static.
In the end, it was his faith in her
(devotion)
that had brought him here. Not his logic.
no subject
It's quiet and subdued, and for a moment he just sits right where he is and focuses on the tangible aspect of holding her, of her potential reality and great value to him. Of how warm she feels.
Of how safe this is, and how pleasant, and of the creeping feeling that he hasn't yet earned the feeling of safety. That this is a payment in advance he'll be owing with interest.
no subject
But she's never been the greatest at expressing her own personal feelings, so she just leans further into him and sighs, listening for the beating of his heart. That will do for now.
no subject
Of course the ghosts returned to haunt their grounds eventually, but it just made the brief respites that much nicer.
"...Taking all due caution has become more important than ever before." This careful, so careful. The fact that Vulcanus could ID imports was suddenly weighing on his mind.
no subject
"They're making their move, aren't they?" It tastes bad in her mouth, sour and difficult. Vulcanus making their move - it's going to be nothing but bad, she's sure of that.