checkin | [01] Video | Hypnos: I'm trying my best not to disappoint, again and again

[OOC CW: Death, blood, mention of domestic violence. Comic book canon? Cissie's been trying to stay awake, but that was not going to work forever.]

Winners never quit, and quitters never win. What are you, Cissie?

A winner.

Good girl.

The sky is blue, blue, blue, with white puffy clouds, and the sun is bright. Too bright, and you squint, but it’s warm and sunny and the grass is green, and it’s so quiet you can hear the breeze rustling the leaves in the trees and the blades of grass. It’s quiet and peaceful. You lift the bow, draw it back. Aim the arrow at the target stuck to the fence, the target that seems much, much too far away to actually hit, at your age, at your size. You’re young, not more than seven, maybe eight years old.

You breathe in and when you exhale, the arrow flies and hits the target with a thunk. Hits dead center. Right in the cluster of other arrows you’ve already sent flying.

Again.

The voice is stern, uncompromising, and you do as you’re told, notch the arrow, lift and draw the bow. Let it fly to the target’s center, again. The older blonde woman stalks over to the fence and begins yanking the arrows out, holding her cigarette between her teeth as she calls back to you.

First place or no place. How many times have I told you, Cissie? Second place is the first loser. You’ll never be a hero if you don’t shoot better than this. You want to be better than Green Arrow, don’t you?

Yes, Mommy.

She hands you the arrows, and you take them. You begin shooting.

You’re still shooting, but the backyard is gone, and you’re not eight anymore. You’re older, taller, stronger, faster, better. You’re shooting as you run, shooting after you somersault, shooting arrow after arrow. You race across the rooftop, running and running and then you’re leaping, a running jump up and over the edge, letting the arrow fly just before you fall. Gravity takes you and you begin falling, but the arrow flies true, landing in a man’s arm as he’s aiming a gun at another young girl with blonde hair and a golden W on her shirt, a girl flying straight toward him.

And then you’re not falling, because a boy with dark hair and a grin for days has you and you’re flying too, flying because he’s carrying you. Flying because there’s an S on his shirt.

Nice shot, Arrowette!

You’re in a cave, shooting at targets arranged on the walls, Superboy darting through the air, trying to catch the arrows before they hit the targets, but he never manages. A boy with wild hair and yellow eyes laughs and laughs and runs faster than you can watch, and the girl with the W on her shirt and the boy with a mask and cape and R on his chest are eating sandwiches at the computers, on comm duty. Your friends, your team.

You’re all just kids.

Kids, in combat. Having a pool party. Fighting monsters and secret government agencies and getting beaten and bloodied and throwing popcorn at each other when you watch tv. Sitting around a campfire.

Would you just be normal, if you could?

In a heartbeat. How about you, Cissie? Would you quit?

I’d ask my mother’s advice… and then do the opposite. I have no idea how much of what’s in my head is “her” or “me” or if there’s any “me” left.

Your mother, wearing a gold bedazzled face mask, like she’s the superhero. Chain smoking and supervising your every move. Dance class, gymnastics, self-defense. Ballet, piano. And always archery. Always pushing, always barking orders.

Until she’s not, because one minute you’re spinning, pirouetting over and over and over, using her as your spot until she’s just not there. Your spin goes wobbly, you get dizzy, and you start to fall, but hands catch you, they stop you, hold you safe. Right you. You look up to see who saved you, and you see her, and your breath stops.

Marcy. Marcy, with her kind smile and dark hair, and she’s not your mother but even in a dream the sight of her makes you tear up. So much more than a therapist, and she looks at you, looks right through you, and she worries for you, in a way no one ever ever has before.

I’m worried about you, Cissie. You have so much anger, and you carry a weapon...

Don’t worry about me, Doc.

Marcy’s unconvinced, but before she can say anything, her face twists in pain and she’s screaming and suddenly you can’t reach her, even though she was just there, just in your hands, she caught you, she saved you and you can’t get to her. Can’t save her. All you can do is watch, watch as she screams and cries and begs for her life.

Watch as her ex-boyfriend aims a gun and shoots her in both legs, and you’re running and running, racing through dark woods. Marcy is screaming, the screams echoing through the pitch black forest. You race into the clearing, bow drawn and arrow ready, and he’s standing over her with his gun and you let the arrow fly…

But Marcy’s dead, shot through the heart, and he’s not, that monster is alive and begging you to spare his life, arrows in both legs and the arrow flying through the air is headed straight for his heart, where it belongs, where it should be, because he killed Marcy, he killed her while she begged for her life, and you want him dead…

But Superboy is in front of you, holding the arrow, handing it back to you. He caught the arrow.

You take it from him. Pluck the arrow from his outstretched hand, and turn around. Give the arrow to your mother, place it before her like an offering, the arrow and your mask on her coffee table, an exhibition of your failure.

The slap she gives you is still always a surprise, every time. It stings and your eyes water.

They’re watering from the sulfur and smoke from the fires of Apokalips, the warzone you’re caught in the middle of, caught with your friends who are all fighting with each other and with you while you stitch their wounds and do your best to keep them alive without a bow at your side.

You can’t quit! What would Green Arrow do? What would Batman do? What would Brian Boitano do?

Robin! Do something!

He walks up to you and just holds his hand out. Don’t be a stranger.

You want to cry from relief, but you don’t. You grab him by the neck and pull him in for a kiss. Your first kiss. You kiss him, and when you pull away, you turn your back and walk away, leave your friends behind you.

Walk away from one warzone into another, leave your friends behind to patch themselves up, to tend to their own wounds, and you’re stitching up strangers, setting civilian’s broken bones. There’s a battle happening outside the hospital windows, a city being reduced to rubble and ashes and so much collateral damage. You look out the window and you can see them, your friends and their mentors, fighting for their lives and for yours and all of these people around you.

But you’re not out there with them, you’re in here, watching the news on the television. Watching the list of missing and dead names grow and grow and then there it is. The headline: Superboy dead.

There’s a gurney in the hallway you escape to, where you ran for air and stumbled through tears. A gurney with a body, covered by a sheet. You can’t help but walk to it, and you reach for the sheet, pulling it back.

It’s him. Superboy. Kon. Still and silent and very much dead, and you can only close your eyes. When you open them again, he’s not there--now he’s Bart. Wild hair spread out around him like a halo, yellow eyes open and lifeless, looking at nothing.

Gasping for breath between sobs, you turn to run, but standing behind you are two women. Cassie, older now, the golden W still on her chest and a golden lasso at her hip, and your mother, no mask or cigarette in sight.

You left us. How could you? We needed you.

Winners never quit, and quitters never win. What are you, Cissie?

And then Marcy is there with them, standing behind them, watching you with sad, sad eyes, and a gaping, bleeding gunshot wound in the middle of her chest that you’ll never be able to suture shut.

Marcy answers your mother for you: A quitter.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Um. Cissie.

[He looks so awkward.]

I think you fell asleep.

[There's a bit of a delay before she responds, and she's blinking, looking bleary and unfocused--she obviously is only sort of awake.]

What? Tim... [She trails off, eyes going wide as she realizes where she is and what's going on. And then just covers her face.] ...Damn.

[So many things to deal with there. Mommy issues. Abandonment issues. Quitting being a superhero issues. So Tim focuses on the really important things.

So... you and Dick?

[It's enough to catch her off guard, and she blinks stupidly at him again.]

Huh? What about him?

Uh.

When you left your team?

What? Oh! [Cue the blushing. Blushing is go.] Uh--that wasn't Dick.

...Oh.

I feel like this explains a thing or two.

That's not--it's not like we're dating. Or were. It's--that was--it was just that one...

[SIGH. Let her die now.]

There's no way to make this less awkward, is there?

Heh. Maybe. But it would be hard.

You realize I get to tease you about this basically forever, right?

How do you figure that, exactly?

I feel like I'm obligated. As the honorary little brother here.

Is that how it works? I've never had little brothers before--wait. Bart might kind of count, actually. Darn.

As a younger brother type person myself, I'm pretty aware of the rules.

I'm in trouble, aren't I?

Pretty much. Hate to break it to you.

[god. There's nothing good about any of these dreams, are there?]

Wanna join me for coffee?

[Well. She looks about as tired and frustrated as can be expected, but wallowing and hiding won't be any help. She offers a somewhat rueful smile.]

...Sure. We're going to need it intravenously soon, though.

[he returns it. She won't be lacking in people who knows what she's going through right now at least]

At least we can hold out for a few days before the hallucinations kick in.

[She laughs at that, a kind of sad, humorless laugh, but still--it's a laugh.]

Oh man. I'm not sure if hallucinations would be better or worse, at this point.

Exactly. I'm probably going to take my chances with sleep when it gets to that but, for now, staying awake is what all the cool kids are doing.

Edited 2015-06-01 17:07 (UTC)

[May's been exerting herself, to the point that her exhaustion looks and feels purely physical. Her muscles are sore, and she has herself convinced that she needs to sit down more than she needs to sleep, which was exactly the result she'd been hoping for. She frowns in the message, but it's thoughtful, not sad.]

Tough coach. I know what that's like.

[And she's lucky to have the option of saying so, of revealing or withholding at her own discretion. Other people haven't been afforded the same privacy, and May likes privacy, so she's not sure how much to talk about what she's seeing. She tries to imagine where the boundaries might be, and stick to topics that seem the least fraught. She's warying of making assumptions. These dreams aren't all indicative of a reality or a history; faithful to what the dreamer believes and thinks in their waking life. Still, this particular broadcast is reminding on a few levels, and she's not saying coach to mean coach.]

[01] Video | Hypnos: I'm trying my best not to disappoint, again and again

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