xp_logs | Collective Soul: Lingering Adulation

Arthur's psychometry continues to blur into imprinting his own memories into the objects he touches.

Illyana tries to set up an appointment in the med lab, but gets something else.

Illyana was a little grouchy as she headed towards the medlab, still untrusting of well. Everything in medical, really, especially the parts with needles. But apparently she needed up-to-date vaccinations and then some, both for Excalibur and her work with Warren, so she was popping in, hoping to set up an appointment.

She slowed to a freeze as her fingers curled around the frame of the door, paused half in and half out of the entrance as memories not her own overwhelmed her senses and left her slumped on the floor, fingers still touching the door frame.

***

The initial rush of feeling was like being weak in the knees. A prickling sense of pleasure that radiated from the chest, and its only outlet could be a smile.

There was a woman before them. They were out on a city street, and it was a cool December day in New York City. Her laughter painted a picture of many casual days like this, but her eyes held depths of stress. That same feeling undercut the pleasure. Like viewing a picture book where one had to find out what details were wrong.

Just out of focus, Illyana could see the remnants of disaster behind them. Coffee beans, everywhere. Free doughnuts. People rushing in and out of a coffee shop.

For the holder of this memory, however, it was all about the dark skinned woman in front of him. There was no longing, no lust. Just fondness.

The memory fuzzed, chaining backward.

"This moment would be greatly improved with a handball. Think of how Steve McQueen I would look."

They were now in a chrome-plated basement. It was the mansion, and much more familiar. The same woman stood posed in a doorway of the box cell as the viewer’s hand rattled an inhibitor bracelet. The longing was still there, however, layered over the jump like someone might layer music over a television scene.

"Although I suppose metal wouldn't have the same effect as brick in terms of sound. I would also need to steal a motorcycle for dramatic tension and fence jumping."

The voice was familiar. Male, tired.

"Sure, but our fence probably has lasers." The voice came from the door, the woman was standing in a lab coat she'd thrown on casually. "Which isn't great for dramatic tension.”

He smiled truly like he’d forgotten how. There were more words exchanged, but they passed in a blur. He was focusing on her.

She spoke again.

"I want—" She took her phone back and sighed. "Arthur, I want you to understand that it's really easy for me to flirt with you. And very tempting. And I really enjoy it. And I want to let go of all the other stuff, because, like, we're sharing the same space. And it's not your fault that any of that happened. I mean, rationally, I know it's not your fault."

That hurt. It was a deep ache, and suddenly they were back outside that coffeeshop. Now the longing and the fondness was undercut with the deep knowledge that he couldn’t give her what she wanted. Not because of her.

And, like a fool, he’d never told her.

***

There were tears in Illyana's eyes as she came back to herself. How... what? She did not have the power to see memories so vividly, especially not here. So why... how.. confusion swamped her mind, intertwined with the flooding of unfamiliar emotions and a regret that was her own yet wholly alien to her. She swiped at her cheeks furiously, wondering what malfunction was causing these foreign feelings this time, and she had the sudden urge to bundle herself and the animals up in a blanket, invade Arthur's room, and give him the biggest hug. There were other thoughts too, but this was the dominant one. Find the older man, and give him one of those "bear hugs" Pyotr was so fond of. Perhaps cocoa.

It was disgustingly sweet, these intrusive thoughts, and she tossed her head trying to clear them before closing the door to medical with a soft click. This could be an email instead, yes. Much safer, emails. Not touching anything weird like doors or other people's memories. She shook her hands out like she was flicking extra water off, if only memories retreated as easily as the wet drops did.

But still. Blankets. A carefully timed video call. Then something that passed on earth as horror while she ate snacks and carefully didn't think about the fuzzy warmth trying to spread across her torso.

CW: Harmful self-soothing/self-harm, dissociatiation

Shatterstar receives a vision of his mother that he did not ask for.

Shatterstar didn't practice knife-throwing often, but seeing Arthur's preferred style of knife out had him decide that, well, a few throws wouldn't hurt. Maybe he would be able to impress Arthur with his progress next time they threw knives together. Shatterstar had always, always liked to show off. He picked up the knife without looking at it, already his eyes on the target, the next course of action.

But, then. Then there wasn’t a target. There was only the sun and desert.

***

“Catch me if you can, hotshot!” The voice was feminine, bright, and full of spice.

“What for?” This one was familiar. Masculine, cheerful, kind.

“For a lollipop… for a song… for your mother…”

It was here the vision shifted from a pair of grease stained hands doing motorcycle maintenance to a vision of a raven haired woman in denim perched upon a completely ridiculous bike of her own. The relic was completely covered in gaudy ornamentation — feathers tacked to the mirrors, a helmet crowned with valkyrie wings, a front headlight sitting nestled between a pair of wide, mischievous lips. Lips that couldn’t match the other woman’s smile.

“For any old thing!”

Her parting gift was only a peel of laughter as Rita raced forward in the desert landscape and away from the bustling production set. It was all a little surreal, actually — a parked old time train, a junkyard town, and many, many cameras. Rita passed them all, not caring that her head start was completely unfair. Ricochet Rita. A rocket, a rodeo baby, a million dollar star.

That sense of being utterly enraptured only bloomed as she sped off. A rustle of movement broke focus, however, as the hands from before scrambled to set the now forgotten tools and mount his own bike. It didn’t take longer either before those same hands were adjusting the side-mounted mirrors in one last check before turning a key.

It was there that the image of Arthur Centino smiled his perfect movie star grin, checking his own reflection before joining the race.

***

And Shatterstar, even with his perfect balance, was rocked to his knees by the force of the vision. The knife clattered out of his hand. The lines between Shatterstar, Benjamin, and the older fragments of Gaveedra-Seven blurred as he let out a cry, empty hand scrambling as if to catch the edge of the memory and grasp it. Ricochet Rita in action, the figure that haunted his childhood since she disappeared. (She looked so much like her sister Ginny). But there was no dragging the image back, and no explanation for it. It was worse, almost, to have had her for a second than to have no memory of her at all.

The body on the floor of the gym pulled its hair, hit its thighs, but didn't cry. It was a Wayword, that same stock as Ricochet, and Waywords didn't cry. The body beat its open hand against its chest, hard enough the sternum bruised. It was doubled over as the Benjamin-Shatterstar-Gaveedra creature inside screamed and screamed. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair. Why did they have to see that?

The body straightened up as the Benjamin-Shatterstar-Gaveedra creature began to unknot and left the gym on unsteady feet. The knife was left laying on this floor.