trans_9 | Gently, but with undeniable will divesting myself of the holds that would hold me. (Pt. 5: Chances)

Before the fight, those that were in the company of the CLF could volunteer their memories to be downloaded to a special drive that'd be used to upload them to the Mother Brains during the fight.

They'd get to choose the memories they wanted to send, as well.

[ooc: All tags go directly to this comment. Characters just post what they'd be volunteering. Open only to those that are guests of the CLF.]

It had taken a bit of convincing for Kang to agree to donate some of his memories. He didn't like the idea of other people knowing so much about him. Hearing that he got to choose which ones had been what had swayed him, though, and he'd decided on two of them.

The first one was the Battle of Maranta's Fort, and the incredible odds he and his kind had fought against, for the most basic right to live. The Dark Knights, after finding out that draconians had females and could breed, and thus could no longer be controlled, had paid an army of goblins and hobgoblins to destroy the entire race. They had been outnumbered eight to one, and yet they'd won due to a crazy plan involving a fake dragon and explosives.

The second memory was of Teyr, the draconian nation. It had taken them decades, but they'd made a place for themselves in the world. They had families, and a future that was theirs to create. Their choice.

He hoped those memories would be put to good use.

The scene in Jr.'s memory was one often seen in fiction and movies - something like a person would imagine in their mind. A white house in a country scene, topped with a brown roof and surrounded by a wooden fence in a green, grassy yard with fields of just-as-vibrant emerald fields. A roomy, wooden porch was set up just outside of the main doorway. The memory itself was indeed real, but the feel of the place felt more like the sensoriums. He was in somebody else's subconscious - an image and a home constructed in her mind.

'Jr.' was sitting on the porch, on a swinging love seat. He looked the same as he did now, only without an earring, without a snazzy outfit and holding no weapons on his person. He was dressed in a blue and white outfit that looked more like some kind of uniform. Sitting next to him was a girl around his age with short brown hair and green eyes wearing a cute, white dress. She was talking to him. He felt happy, comforted being wherever he was - almost as if he were in a place he didn't want to leave.

"I hear my dad is researching treatment for me, too. He’s making a Realian that’s a lot like a human, and he’s gonna make it so my senses are always linked up with it. That way," the girl smiled slightly, a hopeful look in her eyes, "I won’t have to make my mom sad anymore."

"Sakura, you sure have nice parents." 'Jr.' said to her. Even though he was truly, genuinely happy for her, and didn't show the betrayal of that in his voice or in his expression, he was a little jealous of the fact that she had that.

"What about you? Your dad is Dr. Yuriev, right? Don’t you have a mom?" As Sakura spoke, 'Jr.' looked away from her, smile slowly fading as he focused his gaze to the wood floor of the porch.

"Yeah, we have one. Genetically speaking, anyway. She had a healthy ovum with a perfect set of chromosomes. That’s all we really know about her."

Sakura inclined her head curiously. "How come you’re not looking for her? Don’t you wanna meet her?"

'Jr.' pulled one of his legs up to his chest, leaning an arm on his knee and averting his gaze further to the grass and the fields beyond the fence. "What’s the point? So I can say, 'Hi! You’re the mother of a bunch of genetically engineered bioweapons'!?" They were the U.R.T.V.s, tools made and to be used for war. Why would anybody care about them? But the way 'Jr.' felt there, sitting next to Sakura in the memory, there was no denying that he longed for it anyway.

Sakura frowned sadly at him, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Don’t say that. You’re not a weapon. You’re a wonderful boy." The words clearly did something to 'Jr.', he felt ... happy, that she said that to him - that she saw him as more than what he was always told and therefore thought he was. But he was still upset, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against his arm.

"Oh yeah? The only time we can leave the Institute is when there’s a war going on."

There was a couple of moments of hanging silence between the two of them. Sakura stared at him in that moment, and then she spoke again. "Hey, Rubedo. I have a favor to ask of you."

(no subject)

carrieswar.livejournal.com - 2011-07-23 06:28 (UTC) - Expand

Superboy gave most of his life, barring some of the embarassing parts like when Ma and Pa Kent walked in on him and a half-dressed Cassie and the times he was in the john.

He gave the good, the great, the bad, and the hideously ugly. He showed them clones that he knew that'd risen above their circumstances, like Guardian and Dubbilex, he gave them all the ups and downs of his life, the mistakes so they'd know not to make them, the successes, so they knew that they could aspire to be something greater.

He gave them life, and those sad, bitter moments before his death--all the regrets he'd had about a life not yet lived, all the hope for a future he'd never see that he helped allow to happen, and all the pride in himself for at least dying for a good reason.

He gave them what it felt like to be loved, to have Tana's and then Cassie's arms wrapped around them. He gave them family, in the form of Rory and Amy tucking him in, Superman patting him on the shoulder, Ma Kent kissing him on the cheek before he went to school, Pa teaching him how to fix a tractor, Robin and Bart and the rest of Young Justice and then the Titans all laughing over some stupid thing or another, goofing around and having all the fun the clones of Galilee--once called Earth--were never allowed to have.

The last thing he gave them was a warm Kansas afternoon, with fields of grain and a wide open sky waiting for him, and the feeling of being excited for tomorrow.

And with it came the thought, the incredibly strong, selfless desire for them to live, really live.

You deserve to live.

Edited 2011-07-23 06:39 (UTC)

Zouichi deemed most of his memories unsuitable to be shared; they mostly consisted of battle in which the only two choices were swift, ruthless ferocity or death at the hands of someone more willing to kill. Perhaps punctuated by the brief stretches he spent traveling between mission objectives.

No one had ever never really taught him what humanity was or why it was worth saving. In fact, one could argue that it was not. Humans tended towards cruelty and excess. Their history was filled with bloody war over property, natural resources, and religious dogma. But how would any of that information help a marginalized group of humans survive, much less find hope?

He found himself gravitating toward a single memory, though he could not ascertain its actual value. Perhaps it would be of use. He could not be sure.

The room was darkened, mostly empty. A series of long windows, half-curtained and set into the far wall, were its only source of illumination. Beside them, a young woman with dark hair stood, her features indistinct with the sunlight at her back. Zouichi was seated in front of a large black grand piano, hands resting on its keys. For a moment, there was no sound but that of the breeze moving through the leaves outside. Then he began to play (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uAAsth8eLps).

Beethoven's Sonata No.8 in C minor, Op.13. "Adagio cantabile". His playing was quiet, measured -- a remarkably light touch for someone whose hands would be more often occupied with the brutal snapping of bone or the fatal pull of a trigger.

As he continued, Zouichi closed his eyes, playing by feel. The feel of the cool keys depressed under his fingers. Of the crisp bar of sunlight that fell past the curtains and brushed past his cheek to fall on the the instrument itself. Of the notes themselves, somehow both vibrant and still, like a heartbeat from a thousand years long past. A faint, unnoticed smile found its way past his usually dispassionate expression.

Outside, the cicadas took up the endless rustling call of summer.

As the last notes of the piece faded away into the warmth of the early morning air, he opened his eyes again, turning to look over his shoulder as if waiting for appraisal.

Though the young woman's face was rendered almost invisible in the light, he could hear the smile in her voice.

"You've gotten better."

Rory had been willing to do this, really he'd wanted to. There were a few memories he wanted to share with the clones, a few things he already knew that they would need to know.

Like Molly, like his love for his daughter, like Conner and his love for his son. Like the willingness to do whatever it took to protect those you valued, completely without a pause. Loyalty and friendship and love. He didn't have much, but he knew he had those.

He lifted the device, carefully settling it on his head and closing his eyes as he focused.

At first it was normal, if such a thing could be considered normal, the memory transfer was going fine. Memories of holding Molly, of holding Conner, of talking with Conner about what made a person. Not an accident of birth, but actions. They could determine who they were by their own decisions. Their fates were not determined by how they were created. They were valid, wanted, needed. They could be heroes too.

It took him a moment to realize that something…it felt...something was wrong. There was no build up to it, just a sudden crippling spike of pain as his body bowed, hands gripping the counter in a white knuckled grip, mouth open in a soundless scream.

He was waiting, waiting, always waiting. For Amy, for the Doctor. It was always waiting. "Stay out of trouble." The words escaped but he didn't seem to realize it, body curling in pain. He had a sword, and a gun, and he had to avoid radio signals and protect Amy and that was the most important thing. There were no stars in the sky but he had to protect Amy. Had to do his best. Because Amy could bring back the stars, he knew she could, if the Doctor could save Amy then the stars would come back. Amy dying had killed the stars. Amy dying had killed the stars. Amy was the most important thing in the universe and he had to protect her and that was it. He had to even as his mind crumbled into chunks and nothing mattered anymore but that box and the people that came to him for help.

Had to had to had to.

And then, strangely, not his memory, even though it was about him. About Amy. Some else remembered this and had recorded it. River saying something strange, something that didn't make sense, Amy screaming his name. Melody Pond is a superhero.

The only water in the forest is the river.

Rory cried, silent tears running down his cheeks without his leave of them. There was no sound.

Two thousand years was too much for a human mind to adapt to, even as he ripped the device from his temple, the memories started to fade. His brain's defense mechanisms kicking in to protect itself. But it couldn't close the door completely.

God, who was he? What was he doing here? Where was Amy? He had the horrible feeling that he hadn't seen her in a very long time, but he'd seen her just before he left, left her with Molly and Jamie and River. He'd seen her just before he left. His hands should be plastic and he had to be careful, they were tougher than human hands.

But he'd been waiting a very long time. Waiting, unsleeping, unchanging. Always watching, always waiting. Unable to leave her behind, unable to completely rejoin the world. That much remained.

Rory Williams had waited a small eternity to save Amy Pond. Unconsciously he looked for the Doctor, seeking reassurance. If the Doctor was here, then Amy would be safe, what he'd seen on the ship. What he remembered seeing on the ship was true.

But only if the Doctor was here. He had to be here.

Edited 2011-07-26 02:31 (UTC)