Nadia dreams in prophesy lab
Oct. 6th, 2006 10:03 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nadiathesaintIt started with a green spark, hovering in the darkness of her eyelids.
Kinda boring, actually.
It pulsed and grew as she watched, slowly filling her vision. Within it she could see moving forms, resolving into people, slowly taking on color and dimension until they surrounded her on every side.
Then it seemed as though she was shooting forward and spiraling down all at once, images and faces and people and blood rushing past.
The lab. The orphanage. The streets. Fandom. Training. Fandom. Then more training, working, a mission, her first mission, a prison, lying in a bed, can't move, can't breathe don't move don't talk and Sydney comes in and they both go out and there's guards to take down and Sydney's her sister and there's Sloane, a chair, green fluid, writing things. Abraham, a burning bush, full of crap, really, but he SAVES her from the other two, the blondes who don't care if it kills her to tell HIS secrets and Sydney's back and a man and a helicopter and a safe house. Then Sloane again, traveling, a mountain, a floor of colored glass and the Sphere of Life and then they're both falling but they're both back and she's in Argentina. More missions. More death, but that's almost boring now, status quo, really, then Sydney and traveling and Los Angeles and missions upon missions upon missions to find her mother and stop the giant red ball of doom but she doesn't because Sophia's there and Sophia is WRONG, dark and forbidding and INJECTING and Nadia's trying to kill Sydney but Sloane. Always Sloane coming back, stops her, saves her, somehow and then it's darkness.
Darkness that seems to go on far too long.
Smothering darkness and then she wakes and she's fine, she's cured, and Sydney and Jack and Sloane and a niece, can you believe it? a family that won't hurt her, can't hurt her, too small to hurt her, but what's Sloane up to? Following him, a warehouse, his house, his study, the manuscript, a fire, a fight, and she's falling again and this time she won't get up.
But she is up and she's moving, following Sloane, talking to him, killing him with kindness and leaving him in darkness under a great big rock.
She doesn't mind that part.
She turns her back on him, walks into a light, a blinding white light and she's moving without walking or floating or flying.
Handrails appear.
She's on a moving walkway.
Airport.
WHAT?
"I've been waiting for you to get here,"
Nadia turns her head, catches sight of her own hair, streaked with red and cropped short, out of the corner of her eye. The other Nadia is with her again. The dead one without a heart.
"It's not that the heart isn't there. It just isn't working any more."
"You've said that before."
"We've been here before."
"No, we haven't. . . ."
The other Nadia nods to the walls, with the posters for places that Nadia hasn't been yet. No one's been there yet.
Like the streets of London, lit by war with zeppelins in the air. Nadia looks closer as she slowly moves past, and sees figures moving on the paper. A woman in glasses and a suit with long hair, a . . . beast of a man, all glinting eyes and teeth on black. A familiar noise, and buildings crumple with a shouted triumph.
She blinks.
Walter.
The wrong Walter, flipping his hair behind his head as he lights a cigarette, completely unfeeling for the shock and destruction and death surrounding him.
And then the poster goes past.
Nadia shakes her head. "I don't like that. He shouldn't be like that."
"He's already like that."
"You know what I mean."
"And you know what I mean. It's happened. It will happen. It does happen, over and over again. That's just the way it works."
Nadia clamps her lips shut and looks to the next poster.
This one is dark and filled with wires like something out of a sci-fi movie. The Doctor is holding a woman, young and blonde, his expression pained. As she watches, he leans in and kisses her, drawing . . . something golden and brilliant from her into himself.
But all that glitters. . . .
Sure enough, as he slides past, he seems to explode, the golden light shooting out around the edges of his jacket and jumper until he's completely obliterated. She can see the hint of something new and different forming under the light before the poster is gone and she's moving on.
"Stop it. I don't want to see all this."
"It's not about what you want. Never has been."
"I don't--"
But they've moved on.
A street in an industrial district, broken windows and faded paint, lit in too cold, too bright white. Figures in black line the windows as cars pull up, and more figures, in suits, climb out. Gun shots sound and the figures scatter, and she spots Eric among them but loses sight for a moment . . . .
A moment too long.
By the time she finds him in the image again, he's slumped, his hand to his throat, coated in dark red gore as he struggles to breathe.
"No! Not him! He doesn't get this! He's just--"
"It is not so, nor it was not so, nor god forbid it should be so?"
". . . What?"
"But it is, and it was, and it should be. This is just what happens."
"Then why am I seeing it?"
The other Nadia shrugged. "I don't know."
The intercom crackles. "Final boarding call for flight 47 to Alexandria, VA,"
"We need to be moving on."
The walkway jerked, and then started moving faster, and though she didn't want to know, Nadia still craned her head to look at the posters moving past.
There's writing on these, big block letters in white: BE BOLD. BE BOLD.
BUT NOT TOO BOLD
And the images. . . .
Pippi, younger, being lifted by a man, shaken violently. She grabs his arms, PULLS--
El Mariachi, guarding a woman, a gun shot . . . his HAND--
Al as an empty suit of armor, his side cracked and split open into a gaping hole--
Pip. . . .
Oh god, Pip.
"No," It's futile and they're almost past the poster, but she starts walking backwards, the denial repeating itself over and over.
So much blood covering the scene that he's almost unrecognizable, but she knows it's him, the way he's almost smiling, whispering something and she can almost make out--
"That's enough of that." The other Nadia grabs her arm. "Come on, we'll be late."
"But--Pip. . . ."
"We need to be moving on."
An enormous eagle flies by, concentric circles on its wings.
Nadia looks down, then back up at her dead doppelganger.
"But I'm not wearing any shoes. . . ."
Kinda boring, actually.
It pulsed and grew as she watched, slowly filling her vision. Within it she could see moving forms, resolving into people, slowly taking on color and dimension until they surrounded her on every side.
Then it seemed as though she was shooting forward and spiraling down all at once, images and faces and people and blood rushing past.
The lab. The orphanage. The streets. Fandom. Training. Fandom. Then more training, working, a mission, her first mission, a prison, lying in a bed, can't move, can't breathe don't move don't talk and Sydney comes in and they both go out and there's guards to take down and Sydney's her sister and there's Sloane, a chair, green fluid, writing things. Abraham, a burning bush, full of crap, really, but he SAVES her from the other two, the blondes who don't care if it kills her to tell HIS secrets and Sydney's back and a man and a helicopter and a safe house. Then Sloane again, traveling, a mountain, a floor of colored glass and the Sphere of Life and then they're both falling but they're both back and she's in Argentina. More missions. More death, but that's almost boring now, status quo, really, then Sydney and traveling and Los Angeles and missions upon missions upon missions to find her mother and stop the giant red ball of doom but she doesn't because Sophia's there and Sophia is WRONG, dark and forbidding and INJECTING and Nadia's trying to kill Sydney but Sloane. Always Sloane coming back, stops her, saves her, somehow and then it's darkness.
Darkness that seems to go on far too long.
Smothering darkness and then she wakes and she's fine, she's cured, and Sydney and Jack and Sloane and a niece, can you believe it? a family that won't hurt her, can't hurt her, too small to hurt her, but what's Sloane up to? Following him, a warehouse, his house, his study, the manuscript, a fire, a fight, and she's falling again and this time she won't get up.
But she is up and she's moving, following Sloane, talking to him, killing him with kindness and leaving him in darkness under a great big rock.
She doesn't mind that part.
She turns her back on him, walks into a light, a blinding white light and she's moving without walking or floating or flying.
Handrails appear.
She's on a moving walkway.
Airport.
WHAT?
"I've been waiting for you to get here,"
Nadia turns her head, catches sight of her own hair, streaked with red and cropped short, out of the corner of her eye. The other Nadia is with her again. The dead one without a heart.
"It's not that the heart isn't there. It just isn't working any more."
"You've said that before."
"We've been here before."
"No, we haven't. . . ."
The other Nadia nods to the walls, with the posters for places that Nadia hasn't been yet. No one's been there yet.
Like the streets of London, lit by war with zeppelins in the air. Nadia looks closer as she slowly moves past, and sees figures moving on the paper. A woman in glasses and a suit with long hair, a . . . beast of a man, all glinting eyes and teeth on black. A familiar noise, and buildings crumple with a shouted triumph.
She blinks.
Walter.
The wrong Walter, flipping his hair behind his head as he lights a cigarette, completely unfeeling for the shock and destruction and death surrounding him.
And then the poster goes past.
Nadia shakes her head. "I don't like that. He shouldn't be like that."
"He's already like that."
"You know what I mean."
"And you know what I mean. It's happened. It will happen. It does happen, over and over again. That's just the way it works."
Nadia clamps her lips shut and looks to the next poster.
This one is dark and filled with wires like something out of a sci-fi movie. The Doctor is holding a woman, young and blonde, his expression pained. As she watches, he leans in and kisses her, drawing . . . something golden and brilliant from her into himself.
But all that glitters. . . .
Sure enough, as he slides past, he seems to explode, the golden light shooting out around the edges of his jacket and jumper until he's completely obliterated. She can see the hint of something new and different forming under the light before the poster is gone and she's moving on.
"Stop it. I don't want to see all this."
"It's not about what you want. Never has been."
"I don't--"
But they've moved on.
A street in an industrial district, broken windows and faded paint, lit in too cold, too bright white. Figures in black line the windows as cars pull up, and more figures, in suits, climb out. Gun shots sound and the figures scatter, and she spots Eric among them but loses sight for a moment . . . .
A moment too long.
By the time she finds him in the image again, he's slumped, his hand to his throat, coated in dark red gore as he struggles to breathe.
"No! Not him! He doesn't get this! He's just--"
"It is not so, nor it was not so, nor god forbid it should be so?"
". . . What?"
"But it is, and it was, and it should be. This is just what happens."
"Then why am I seeing it?"
The other Nadia shrugged. "I don't know."
The intercom crackles. "Final boarding call for flight 47 to Alexandria, VA,"
"We need to be moving on."
The walkway jerked, and then started moving faster, and though she didn't want to know, Nadia still craned her head to look at the posters moving past.
There's writing on these, big block letters in white: BE BOLD. BE BOLD.
BUT NOT TOO BOLD
And the images. . . .
Pippi, younger, being lifted by a man, shaken violently. She grabs his arms, PULLS--
El Mariachi, guarding a woman, a gun shot . . . his HAND--
Al as an empty suit of armor, his side cracked and split open into a gaping hole--
Pip. . . .
Oh god, Pip.
"No," It's futile and they're almost past the poster, but she starts walking backwards, the denial repeating itself over and over.
So much blood covering the scene that he's almost unrecognizable, but she knows it's him, the way he's almost smiling, whispering something and she can almost make out--
"That's enough of that." The other Nadia grabs her arm. "Come on, we'll be late."
"But--Pip. . . ."
"We need to be moving on."
An enormous eagle flies by, concentric circles on its wings.
Nadia looks down, then back up at her dead doppelganger.
"But I'm not wearing any shoes. . . ."
