in the dream i refuse to have [stefan]

[DINAH EVELYN DONALD]

I KNOW YOU WERE NEVER MINE TO KEEP
BUT I KNOW THAT I'LL SEE YOU
IN MY SLEEP

Everything was wrong. Dinah's thoughts were a jumbled mess of... wrongness. She hated when they got this way, all tangled and crashing into one another like waves breaking over the rocks, violent and powerful and completely out of control. It was like every memory, every thought, every experience and dream, everything was suddenly coming down on her at once. And looming largest out of the chaotic frenzy were her regrets, her mistakes, her losses, her heartbreaks...

She couldn't sleep. She could never sleep when she got like this. She was still in her nightgown, a long, white shift with silk straps over her shoulders and a bit of lace at the hem, almost brushing the ground. She'd forgotten slippers or a robe, but that was all right. The floors were clean and it wasn't cold out tonight. She wasn't sure where she was going, but after pacing her dorm for several hours, she'd suddenly felt a strangling need to be out of it. The walls were most definitely closing in, and they looked malicious and hurtful. They would trap her there, crush all the air out of the room. She couldn't breathe, could hardly move, until she'd shoved open the door and exploded out into the hallway gasping for air.

But it wasn't enough. She needed to get more distance from the walls. They could find her here. The hallway had walls too; they might have been in league with the ones in her dorm. They knew things. They knew what she'd done; what she'd failed to do. She found herself running, bare soles slapping against the tile floor, her nightgown streaming behind her. She turned one corner, then the next, trying to find a place where she had space to breathe. But then she realized the crushing sensation wasn't coming from the walls; it was from her memories.

And suddenly a particular one swam up clearer than the others and she closed her eyes, crying out in the dark and silent hallway against the mental image. But it was inside her, so closing her eyes did nothing to escape it. She turned and ran again, blindly this time, hitting a wall and stumbling back, falling, hurting her wrist, but then she was up again, running once more.

The pain in her wrist didn't really register. She was lost in the memory now. She'd been only twelve, still green, still new here. It had been her fault. She'd cried out when she should have kept quiet. She didn't think he was dead, but she didn't know. The last she'd seen of him, he'd been taken away from her, covered in blood, her hands covered in the same blood. She'd called out in apology, but it hadn't done any good.

No, she could still fix this, she decided in a flash of clarity. There was still time. She just needed to focus. Muttering to herself, counting off by twelves as she tapped each finger against her thumb in turn, she moved on now with more purpose, not running away from anything , but walking towards it. Towards the weapons cabinet. She needed firepower. She could save him, but she'd need to be equipped. Then she could find him. He surely could still be found. If he were dead, she'd know it.

Twelves weren't doing it, so she switched to thirteens. Everyone thought thirteen was an unlucky number, but she couldn't understand why. Her relationship with it had always been better than that with eight. She didn't trust eight. You could never trust eight. "13, 26, 3,9 52, 65, 78, 91..." she recited as she deftly worked the locks, using skills her criminal father had taught her to get into places she wasn't supposed to. Or was it the other way around? She wasn't being very stealthy. He'd be angry about that, but it couldn't be helped.

"No, no. I don't have time for this," she muttered angrily at herself as she grabbed the largest piece she could find and began prepping it, snapping pieces deftly into place and grabbing hold of some ammo while she was at it. "Now look what you've done; you've made me lose count. Thirteen is too impatient, but eight can't be trusted."

[STEFAN KOREL VARGAS]

when i shout out, can you hear me?

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look at what we’ve done..

[/color] at their own accord, his feet moved, at such speeds too dangerous to be so absent-minded about. and yet he was. with his eyes closed.

four days prior, he’d risen from a three-week coma, an event even death himself did not seem to anticipate to happen. in all honesty, he was as good as dead, had he not been found somewhere in the sahara desert, face down and left on the verge of eternal darkness by the searing heat of the scorching sun. a soft sigh elicited from between his lips as he relayed what images he could still remember; the tangled, bloodied scarf wound around his neck had swayed as several shadows cast over him. muffled voices echoed in the background, and then he was being carried.

his eyes flew open, and a second ticked by, before he found himself off-foot. suddenly he was falling forward, the moving black coming closer and closer.. his hands shot out involuntarily to the hand rails, turning his body upside down and pushing his body up and suspended over the treadmill. his breathing came heaving and deep, fast-paced and pinching at his lungs. he squeezed his eyes shut, waited for another three seconds, and deftly hoisted himself up on the board crouching to turn off the machine.

clambering down as the machine finally stopped moving, he walked slowly to a nearby bench, an arm over his stomach as he massaged his left ribs, controlling his breathing to calm his heartbeat.

he had been told that his lungs had become weak and torn, verging on shriveled and just about collapsing. his insides were weak and flaring with heat, his nerves searing at his every movement, every blink, every breath. all his ribs were damaged, and he’d suffered multiple gunshot wounds on the back, with deep cuts and slashes on his front. as he came closer to the bench, he opted for his weight to be placed on the wall instead-- his hand pushed on the wall, and there he stood, almost losing consciousness as his eyes flashed with black and white, a growing headache burning at the back of his head.

he was stubborn, he never listened, and he would never complain for the consequences that would soon follow after. sometimes, even, he would be too stubborn to admit needing help at all.

silence pierced his mind, and suddenly his hand clenched into a fist. without warning, pain shot through his arm as his fist came in contact with the wall, at such an impact that the wall reverberated and shook slightly. the part of the wall where his fist met was cracked, and blood was suddenly dripping. he took a sharp intake of air before slowly moving upright-- and then it was gone.

“so much for trying to be normal,” he mumbled to himself as he walked away, flexing his right, bloodied hand as though it wasn’t torn and bleeding. he swallowed before he stopped before his things, reaching slowly inside his black bag.

his doctor had specifically and incessantly told him to rest at least for five days before starting on intense work out, too.

another reluctant sigh escaped his parted lips, but nonetheless a relieving one. at least he would have to deal with the consequences after a day or two, for he was sure that he would be knocked out for quite some time after this-- he stopped, eyes widening. his muscles tensed at the glorious melody clicking from afar. his feet moved before he could even register it; as far as he knew, there was no training taking event at such ungodly hours, especially at the rifle range.

his one place of solace.

his feet picked up pace and before he knew it, he was running. the firearms were calling, the arranging was seducing him and he was letting himself go. and then, he stopped at his tracks. his brows furrowed, eyes holding on the image before him. were his eyes deceiving him, or was there really a girl in a nightgown, so quick and filled with desperation with arranging a rifle? she was poised in imbalance and instability, this much he was sure.

“..too impatient, but eight can’t be trusted.” his head tilted in question, but he knew enough not to startle. the brown curls were familiar, the curve of the body, the structure.. dhela, dimayuga, dominguez, donald. the girl with the sss, should undoubtedly explain the series of words that had just come out of her mouth. he knew nothing else, of course; all she was was a girl in a file he’d read a while back.

he knew enough where to step, though.

“how about six, hm?” he started cautiously, taking a step forward as he spoke out. “six is a perfect number, isn’t it?” even he couldn’t believe at how casual he was making himself out to be, as though this was just another day at the agency. nothing of himself was administered in his head anymore-- he just knew that if he didn’t do anything soon, unnecessary shots would be fired.

“where are you going, dinah?” it was always a blessing to be able to be gentle at the face of the devil, and right now, he was more afraid of her getting hurt than himself. [/blockquote][/blockquote][/blockquote][/size]

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tags, dinah evelyn donald
words, eight hundred and eighty
attire, click for glory, iPod 4s

[/i]
notes, just.. wow for the intro. i apologize for the rambling..
muse, coming up strong by karmin[/size]
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[DINAH EVELYN DONALD]

I KNOW YOU WERE NEVER MINE TO KEEP
BUT I KNOW THAT I'LL SEE YOU
IN MY SLEEP

Firearms were never her strength. They were too loud. Too violent. She'd seen too much blood shed by them to treat them with anything but cautious wariness. But she'd been trained, and there had been those times she'd been forced to use them... and she didn't forget. She couldn't forget. The pieces all fitted together easily as she assembled her chosen weapon. The assembly had always been her favourite part, like a puzzle. Everything was so logical and neat, everything had a place and a role to play. Even the tiniest piece needed to be fit perfectly into its spot or the whole thing was no good.

She didn't even need to think about it, her mind on a million different things, but none of them what she was doing. Her muscles remembered the necessarily movements, like she'd trained over the years, putting these things together and taking them back apart. While her hands worked unguided, her thoughts worried about the man she thought she'd failed, and the untrustworthiness of eight. It's symmetry should have been comforting, but there was just something about it. It was too round.

And then suddenly a voice was there, and not just one of the ones in her mind. "Six... Yes," she seized upon the suggestion, sounding quite glad of it. "Six is safe. Six is good. We can trust six," she said knowingly, her hands still working on putting the pieces together as she looked back over her shoulder to see who had spoken. And then in the next moment, the final piece was in place, and she turned wholly with her body, hefting the heavy weapon up to hold it in a ready pose. Her finger was thankfully not on the trigger, but right next to it, like she'd been taught. She remembered everything they taught her. But it wouldn't take much, the slightest start, the slightest twitch, and in this agitated state, she would fire without thinking, working entirely on twitchy reflexes.

"I have to go save him," she explained imploringly, like she was begging Stephan to understand. "I can fix it. I can fix it. I don't know where he is though. Do you know? I have to find him, and then I can save him." It all made sense. Cause and effect. Find him, save him. She didn't really have anything more to her plan than that, but the part of her brain that would have pointed out that 'find him and save him' wasn't so much a plan as a rallying cry, well, it wasn't exactly operating at full capacity right now.

So it seemed to make perfect sense that she could just follow this plan, except now that she had the weapon, her mind was like a record skipping in its track. She knew she had to find him, that was step one, but she couldn't remember how she was supposed to get from here to there.

And then panic suddenly began to seize her. This was all taking too long. She'd be too late, and she'd fail again. "There's no time!" she exclaimed, growing frustrated with herself and her own limitations. If she'd been a better agent, none of this would have happened. God, if only she could remember where to find him. She closed her eyes a moment, her nose wrinkling as she tried to sort out her thoughts. She had to remember, but it was so hard to pick through the jumble. It felt like an answer she should know, but every time she reached for it, it turned into smoke, other memories and thoughts crowding in and shoving it aside. "There's no time," she repeated again, sounding sadder now. She was going to fail. "Why is there never enough time?"

[STEFAN KOREL VARGAS]

when i shout out, can you hear me?

- - - - - - - - - -

it’s your way with words.. he’d thought that he could control, to contain, the situation.

but her panic-risen tone of voice caused him to tense more so than he had when he’d first laid eyes on her,

was this a test? if it was, it was a thoroughly stupid and irresponsible test of wit, because the agency, of all people, should know that the human mind was the most unstable benefactor that could cause the most catastrophic mayhem, or the most peaceful calm. and he didn’t know her at all-- she didn’t even know him, for that matter. as far as he knew, she hadn’t fired at him because he had stepped on safe ground, because he made himself approved in her eyes.

synesthesia dealt with sensation, and she was showing signs of extreme polarities with it. she was sincere in her actions, desperation painting her eyes blind to the reality surrounding her. her hysteria scratched at his nerve, and at the sudden exclamation of her words, he froze, unwilling to pursue the option of just running at her, dodging her bullets and sending her to immediate sleep. he was told that synesthetes were exceptional individuals with super memories, suppressed unimaginable secrets that only came out when triggered.

he wasn’t anywhere near considering the thought that her only asset worth in the field was tinkering with technology; she was just as unusual as he was, which meant that she was more extraordinary in more ways than one. thing was, the images flashing before her eyes, the tick in her mind that would not stop, carried her to a place where he could not go. the involuntary reflexes were now at such high peaks, that he wasn’t sure of how much strength he would need to use to control the flaring situation.

her past needed not be explained to him, for it was hers to know and hers alone. he felt a tug in their line of connection, but he was as wary as she was; her perception of this reality was warped and inconclusive, so very vastly different from his reality.

“don’t say that,” he took another step forward, voice soft and warning, a hand outward as to gesture his awareness of her situation and to impress himself harmless. “don’t. there’s always time, understand? always.” he had eyed her weapon as it had swayed during her panic attack, which now looked much more less than friendly. already, he could hear the faint sounds of closing doors and fluttering, running footsteps headed towards their direction. “if you’d like, i can come with you. help you find him.”

he was close, so close. but he needed more time. “you can save him, dinah. he’s waiting for you.”

and then, from the end of the hallway to his right, figures started to emerge.

“tell me where, and i will follow.”

[/size]

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tags, dinah evelyn donald
words, four hundred and sixty
attire, click for glory, iPod 4s

[/i]
notes, shit post, rushed. >:(
muse, coming up strong by karmin[/size]
[/blockquote][/blockquote][/blockquote]