Post by Candice Wilmer on Feb 15, 2008 13:24:39 GMT
Title: Contingency
Rating: Edited PG-13 (Actually, there's nothing in it so far to make it anything more than PG. If anything comes along in later chapters, though, I'll edit it)
Spoilers: Concretely up to The Hard Part, but feasibly up to Powerless. Also, up to Episode 9 of Incidental Heroes, but allusions may be made up to 24
Pairings: None at the moment, although eventually (Read: many many chapters from now) Claire/Isaac
Characters: Isaac, Peter, Claire, MacKenzie (IHeroes), Hiro, and the rest of the Heroes cast.
Genre: Action, Drama, Romance, It uses Incidental Heroes storylines and characters, so is arguably Crossover.
Warnings: Speculation!fic, and Character Death(s)
Summary: Is destiny set in stone, immobile? Can disaster ever truly be prevented? And can a broken soul ever find salvation? Four broken heroes will do anything to make certain they can be.
Cover: i2.photobucket.com/albums/y35/Yusagi/Contingency-1.jpg
Disclaimer: Blah blah, not mine.
AN: Up to chapter 4 was written pre-airing of .07%, so the sequence of events are not exactly the same (It was running on theories, spoilers, and clips). It will be smoothed out and explained over the course of the fic, though.
Falling was nothing like flying in dreams. He'd figured that out when he took a misguided leap of faith not so long ago. Flying was nothing like it seemed in dreams. He'd found that out when he'd jumped out of desperation.
This was neither of those, and definitely not landing or crashing through pavement and dirt and more old pavement or a bone-crushing aerial collision.
This was...nothing. That was really the best definition of his state of being, or rather, non-being. All descriptions seemed to lead to contradictions and tired cliche, neither hot nor cold, light nor dark, up nor down. He couldn't even rightly prove he was existing in any way shape or form aside from the meandering thought pattern that skittered on the edges of his consciousness, taking notes and forming sarcastic replies.
If this was the after life, he thought he might be best described as entirely underwhelmed by it. Except if it was, shouldn't there be other people to keep him company? Unless the blackness was them. Not that it was really black at all, there was simply no light with which to discern colors.
Alright, now he was just rambling off into an inane tangent, when he should have been spending his time (Or whatever this place had) trying to figure a way out.
The thought occurred to him that he should have just used the Cheerleader's power before landing, and he wouldn't have been in this situation at all...but...
He just couldn't stop thinking about how he could never, no matter the cost, let that monster get to his brother. He couldn't help feeling proud that he could be the one to save his brother this time around.
And now he was stuck here. With one hell of a migraine, and a voice that sounded disconcertingly like his mother's weeping. In the book of bad signs for the dead and dying, that was right up there with the tunnel of light.
Which just so happened to be about two feet in front of him.
Fantastic.
--
He had to admit to himself, through the semi-catatonic haze the shock from his rather traumatic wounds had sent him spiraling into, it was pretty damn pathetic that all he could do was stare at the high ceiling of his apartment-turned-art studio and wish someone would come barging in without knocking (It figured the one time it wouldn't annoy him would be the time there wasn't anyone left to come through it.)
As the disturbingly calm and overly smug man next to him had commented, at least most people would be screaming at this point. What a hero he turned out to be...skewered to the floor by his own art utensils, utterly incapable of defending himself, and the only one on the planet who'd have cared if he lived or died had been snuck out of his loft in a body bag a week ago.
Oh no, now was definitely not the time to crumble into self depreciation and debilitating guilt. Now was more likely the time to scream for help, and hope Peter had a sneak attack of conscience.
Except, his throat just refused to work properly, much to both he and his attacker's chagrin. He felt an ironic sense of relief (the completely inappropriate sort that spawns when your mind can't take the stress of a situation anymore) that out of all his disturbing and grisly paintings, his visions had not encompassed the idea the madman would decide to straddle him.
Because, really, that would just be embarrassing on top of being dead.
He decided belatedly, as the man leaned closer to finish his murderous deed, that silence to the end was a badge of pride to mark him out against all the others this psychotic maniac had tortured just the same.
Still. Being rescued wouldn't hurt as much.
---
She dug her hands into the pockets of her jacket to ward off some of the New York autumn chill. Shawn was talking animatedly about something fairly important, but her mind had been drifting all day.
Something had been tugging at the back of her mind for a while, like there was something important she had forgotten, like...an anniversary. It was really distracting...and frankly a bit annoying.
It was a good thing Shawn hadn't brought the camera along (it turned out she ran the battery all the way down on the trip...oops.), because she just wasn't in the talking mood. She'd probably end up musing, confusing Shawn, the people who watched it, and even more so, herself.
So much had been happening at once....maybe she just needed a good long break from it all to soak it in, and adjust to the fact that yes, somehow, a TV show was coming to life.
She chuckled softly to herself, and flashed her friend a smile. Yeah, Chandra would take that one just great. And when New York blew up while she was 'taking a break'....
She sighed. No, definitely no time to take a break. She'd just have to suck it up and live with it. Speaking of which, Shawn was starting to suspect she wasn't listening.
"Shawn--"
She would have loved to finish her reassurance, but she was interrupted by a blast of heat and something blindingly painful slamming into her shoulder, sending her flying back into blackness.
Rating: Edited PG-13 (Actually, there's nothing in it so far to make it anything more than PG. If anything comes along in later chapters, though, I'll edit it)
Spoilers: Concretely up to The Hard Part, but feasibly up to Powerless. Also, up to Episode 9 of Incidental Heroes, but allusions may be made up to 24
Pairings: None at the moment, although eventually (Read: many many chapters from now) Claire/Isaac
Characters: Isaac, Peter, Claire, MacKenzie (IHeroes), Hiro, and the rest of the Heroes cast.
Genre: Action, Drama, Romance, It uses Incidental Heroes storylines and characters, so is arguably Crossover.
Warnings: Speculation!fic, and Character Death(s)
Summary: Is destiny set in stone, immobile? Can disaster ever truly be prevented? And can a broken soul ever find salvation? Four broken heroes will do anything to make certain they can be.
Cover: i2.photobucket.com/albums/y35/Yusagi/Contingency-1.jpg
Disclaimer: Blah blah, not mine.
AN: Up to chapter 4 was written pre-airing of .07%, so the sequence of events are not exactly the same (It was running on theories, spoilers, and clips). It will be smoothed out and explained over the course of the fic, though.
Contingency
Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Falling was nothing like flying in dreams. He'd figured that out when he took a misguided leap of faith not so long ago. Flying was nothing like it seemed in dreams. He'd found that out when he'd jumped out of desperation.
This was neither of those, and definitely not landing or crashing through pavement and dirt and more old pavement or a bone-crushing aerial collision.
This was...nothing. That was really the best definition of his state of being, or rather, non-being. All descriptions seemed to lead to contradictions and tired cliche, neither hot nor cold, light nor dark, up nor down. He couldn't even rightly prove he was existing in any way shape or form aside from the meandering thought pattern that skittered on the edges of his consciousness, taking notes and forming sarcastic replies.
If this was the after life, he thought he might be best described as entirely underwhelmed by it. Except if it was, shouldn't there be other people to keep him company? Unless the blackness was them. Not that it was really black at all, there was simply no light with which to discern colors.
Alright, now he was just rambling off into an inane tangent, when he should have been spending his time (Or whatever this place had) trying to figure a way out.
The thought occurred to him that he should have just used the Cheerleader's power before landing, and he wouldn't have been in this situation at all...but...
He just couldn't stop thinking about how he could never, no matter the cost, let that monster get to his brother. He couldn't help feeling proud that he could be the one to save his brother this time around.
And now he was stuck here. With one hell of a migraine, and a voice that sounded disconcertingly like his mother's weeping. In the book of bad signs for the dead and dying, that was right up there with the tunnel of light.
Which just so happened to be about two feet in front of him.
Fantastic.
--
He had to admit to himself, through the semi-catatonic haze the shock from his rather traumatic wounds had sent him spiraling into, it was pretty damn pathetic that all he could do was stare at the high ceiling of his apartment-turned-art studio and wish someone would come barging in without knocking (It figured the one time it wouldn't annoy him would be the time there wasn't anyone left to come through it.)
As the disturbingly calm and overly smug man next to him had commented, at least most people would be screaming at this point. What a hero he turned out to be...skewered to the floor by his own art utensils, utterly incapable of defending himself, and the only one on the planet who'd have cared if he lived or died had been snuck out of his loft in a body bag a week ago.
Oh no, now was definitely not the time to crumble into self depreciation and debilitating guilt. Now was more likely the time to scream for help, and hope Peter had a sneak attack of conscience.
Except, his throat just refused to work properly, much to both he and his attacker's chagrin. He felt an ironic sense of relief (the completely inappropriate sort that spawns when your mind can't take the stress of a situation anymore) that out of all his disturbing and grisly paintings, his visions had not encompassed the idea the madman would decide to straddle him.
Because, really, that would just be embarrassing on top of being dead.
He decided belatedly, as the man leaned closer to finish his murderous deed, that silence to the end was a badge of pride to mark him out against all the others this psychotic maniac had tortured just the same.
Still. Being rescued wouldn't hurt as much.
---
She dug her hands into the pockets of her jacket to ward off some of the New York autumn chill. Shawn was talking animatedly about something fairly important, but her mind had been drifting all day.
Something had been tugging at the back of her mind for a while, like there was something important she had forgotten, like...an anniversary. It was really distracting...and frankly a bit annoying.
It was a good thing Shawn hadn't brought the camera along (it turned out she ran the battery all the way down on the trip...oops.), because she just wasn't in the talking mood. She'd probably end up musing, confusing Shawn, the people who watched it, and even more so, herself.
So much had been happening at once....maybe she just needed a good long break from it all to soak it in, and adjust to the fact that yes, somehow, a TV show was coming to life.
She chuckled softly to herself, and flashed her friend a smile. Yeah, Chandra would take that one just great. And when New York blew up while she was 'taking a break'....
She sighed. No, definitely no time to take a break. She'd just have to suck it up and live with it. Speaking of which, Shawn was starting to suspect she wasn't listening.
"Shawn--"
She would have loved to finish her reassurance, but she was interrupted by a blast of heat and something blindingly painful slamming into her shoulder, sending her flying back into blackness.
