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thejusticelounge2014-03-30 01:43 pm
bossymarmalade) wrote in thejusticelounge2014-03-30 01:43 pm
catharsis
the crack between worlds appears
Steph had been dressing for a run (okay, careful jog on Bai’s orders because the walking cast/boot/torture device was off finally) when she felt something in the vein of cool, foreign breath ghost at the back of her neck. She twisted around and punched light. Her fist went through and she could feel that same cold rush of air, though it only chilled up to her wrist, like sticking your hand in a bucket of cold water. It sent goosebumps up her arm and she heard the light calling out her name.
Instinct didn’t give her a choice. Steph grabbed her utility belt off the back of her closet and leapt through the fissure between worlds. For a long moment, she felt weightless and still, frozen in her mid-jump position as an endless nothingness expanded beyond her endlessly on all sides. She simultaneously couldn’t breath and felt no need to. In three heartbeats, the nothingness seemed to shiver and ripple, then morph into somethingness. All at once, that whole gravity happened again and Steph landed flat on her ass with a yelp.
"Beautiful," she said sarcastically to no one really as she stood and rubbed her sore backside.
Wherever she was, it looked like The Walking Dead and Lord of the Rings had a baby. She was in what looked like a dilapidated town surrounded by a thick curtain of trees. The eery silence left Steph wanting her Batgirl suit more than her yoga pants and One Direction t-shirt. She heard a door squeak and saw a figure duck into an old building with a large hole blown through.
“Hello … ?” she called out, pulling out her bo staff.
Zee’s eyes are shut when she steps into the fissure. She could feel her face pinching, brow creased and frown forming on her lips, as she awaited and expected the worst. But all that came to greet her was the flicker of lampposts on her eyelids and the howl of wind squeezing between buildings.
Opening her eyes she found near abandoned streets, that in all appearances look like a European hybrid. She followed the cobblestone walkway she had stepped onto, with no set direction in mind. On her path she ducked under craggy bridges, and trailed her fingertips against the rail that separated her from what appeared to be a foggy beach. It all looked eerily similar to one she’d visited in Greece with her father, but the town surrounding it wasn’t quite right. That was from another tour, another stop. It was all poorly looped together, that much was clear to her.
With a breath she looped herself under the rail, her arms pulling her body under then swinging out. It felt like a playground game, the metal grit against her hands familiar, leaving a coppery scent to her skin. Zatanna felt lighter as she hit the sand, her stocking covered feet wiggling against the damp packed grains beneath her.
Turning back on the beach she walked back in the direction from where she’d come from, following along the walkway path. As she continued, the walkway began to rise, separating into a wall that stretched up higher than the fog allowed. Along the stones dried paint seemed to etch out words, shakily at first and light in color, and in a language Zee had never spoken. But soon the paint darkened to pinks-reds-burgundies, as the letters growing thick and heavy, and finally the words became recognizable.
"Zoccola" "Mignotta” “Gnocca”
Zee frowned, stopping at the insults, but paid the graffiti was only an irritant till the voices began to howl with the wind. The tone was familiar, disapproving, and erupting with anger. It was her father’s voice. His Italian accent seeping into his tongue just as she’d remembered.
These painted words now dripped from his lips, from his voice, at her.
Her hands flew to her ears, but the insults continued to fly through her fingers, both backwards and forwards. In a panic she dashed away from the only anchor the foggy beach had held with the graffiti laced wall. Further away a decrepit building rose from the fog to her, with holes battering it’s frame. The holes allowed her entry, and what she hoped was a possible salvation from the insults she’d never imagine her father’s voice carrying to her.
Steph walked closer to the crumpled building and she realized why her surroundings looked familiar: it was downtown Gotham. Sort of. It looked just like it had when the Gotham ‘Quake had rocked the streets when she’d been 15. Why she was back here (or at least somewhere that looked like here planted in a weird forest) she didn’t have a clue. Steph hesitated a beat before she opened the door into what she expected to be more rubble from a dusty memory, but instead found herself in a room that seemed entirely disconnected from the outside debris. It was her living room. Sort of. It was her house growing up.
"Stupid piece of shit!" screamed a man’s voice. The man sat in a stained arm chair and he suddenly threw a beer can at a woman on the couch. He stood and Steph saw Arthur Brown’s face in the light of the TV, younger by quite a bit. Red flush with anger, he crossed the room and stood over Crystal, grabbing her by the shoulder in a way that always left bruises. "You’ve got money for those goddamn pills you guzzle but not the good beer?!" He smacked her so hard across the face Steph could hear the impact from across the room. "NO!" she screamed at her father, propelling herself towards them.
She didn’t know whether this was real or not, and quite frankly didn’t care. Steph slammed her shoulder into Arthur and passed right through him, like he was made of mist. Fear flooded her senses as he began kicking Crystal in the stomach where she lay on the floor, too stoned to know to scream. “Leave her alone!” Steph cried out, trying to sweep her father’s legs and passing right through him. She whacked her bo staff at her father as hard as she could again and again and again at his chest, his arms, his thighs, his face. Nothing. He didn’t even bat an eye as he continued to beat Crystal unconscious.
Steph made a strangled noise of anguish as she was forced to watch, noting a little blood beginning to trickle out of Crystal’s mouth as she laid there limply like a rag doll. And then something clicked and Steph realized where she was now. As agonizing as it was, she turned and walked rigidly away from the fucked up couple and to the small coat closet by the stairs. She was taller now, didn’t need to get on her tip-toes to reach the key on the cheap bookshelf. The door opened with a soft click and a cold calm came over her as she got on her knees and crawled in. There, behind old boxes and blankets for winter, a little girl no more than three sat curled up in the corner, knees pressed to her chin as she sniffled helplessly at the muffled sounds her parents made. The girl had messy hair pulled into pigtails and big blue eyes rimmed red with fat, gloppy tears. She clutched her worn baby blanket tight, fingers dirty with superficial cuts and finger paint.
“Hi, Steph,” she said softly, and moved to pick-up the girl and her hands didn’t pass through her. Curling around the tiny girl, Steph pulled her younger self into her lap and kissed her round cheeks, stroked her hair soothingly while she tried and failed not to cry with her. Just when the little Stephanie began to calm down and hug her back, she was gone, as were the sounds of the living room. Panic thrilled in her chest and Steph scrambled back out of the closet, finding herself now standing atop Wayne Towers. Kicking over a flower pot, she screamed in a frustrated rage.
Zee only stopped holding her hands to her ears when the light began to stop streaming into her hiding place. The only thing she could now hear was the crash of what sounded like waves. She hadn’t even heard the ocean when she was on the beach, but maybe she was closer than she had thought. Her knees tucked up against her chest, her arms hugged about them.
There was only a kernel of an urge to move, and as soon as it surfaced he was there. Her father’s back was to her, hands held straight by his side. His shoulders rising and falling with steady breaths, but that does not remain. His shoulders tense, his hands ball at his sides, then arms cross against his chest.
Despite being seated behind her father, she could already recognize the scene. Zee could already picture his face. That flushed look on his face, thick brows darkening his eyes as his expression soured. It only happened at the worst of times, but those times occured enough to make an impression.
"Sono arrabbiato con te. Questo non è come una signora si comporta. Mi aspettavo di più da te, molto di più. Non si può fuggire via con quel ragazzo e di essere felice. Lui è una speranza, tanto peggio di te. Zatanna, si poteva fare molto meglio, eppure vi accontentate di spazzatura!” He reprimanded, and the words still felt like a slap in the face. "You’re not to leave the hotel till we leave Paris."
It was always Paris.
And that got her to her feet. But standing changed the picture. The building rocked. Saltwater frothed and ice cold soaked her stocking covered feet. Looking up from her feet, from the water swirling about on the floor, she noticed her father’s outline flickered like a candle.
Marching through the rising water she drove through her father, his frame melting away as she passed through him. Past him stood herself, years younger- but she felt just like a mirror image of how she stood. There she stood, frowning with salted tears to match the floor.
Zatanna wrapped her arms around the other her. She could feel her mirror image’s frame shrink as she rose several inches higher. Soon her body weighed heavier in a matter of seconds, “Paris isn’t always like that.” she whispered, flashed of green dotting her vision as the words tumbled out.
Then a wave finally crashed, ice cold water shocking her system like a scream. She tumbled through the foam, arms and legs stretched out like a rag doll. But, as soon as the water was there it whisked away, leaving her rocking forward and back on a rooftop where
there was a scream.
Steph had been dressing for a run (okay, careful jog on Bai’s orders because the walking cast/boot/torture device was off finally) when she felt something in the vein of cool, foreign breath ghost at the back of her neck. She twisted around and punched light. Her fist went through and she could feel that same cold rush of air, though it only chilled up to her wrist, like sticking your hand in a bucket of cold water. It sent goosebumps up her arm and she heard the light calling out her name.
Instinct didn’t give her a choice. Steph grabbed her utility belt off the back of her closet and leapt through the fissure between worlds. For a long moment, she felt weightless and still, frozen in her mid-jump position as an endless nothingness expanded beyond her endlessly on all sides. She simultaneously couldn’t breath and felt no need to. In three heartbeats, the nothingness seemed to shiver and ripple, then morph into somethingness. All at once, that whole gravity happened again and Steph landed flat on her ass with a yelp.
"Beautiful," she said sarcastically to no one really as she stood and rubbed her sore backside.
Wherever she was, it looked like The Walking Dead and Lord of the Rings had a baby. She was in what looked like a dilapidated town surrounded by a thick curtain of trees. The eery silence left Steph wanting her Batgirl suit more than her yoga pants and One Direction t-shirt. She heard a door squeak and saw a figure duck into an old building with a large hole blown through.
“Hello … ?” she called out, pulling out her bo staff.
Zee’s eyes are shut when she steps into the fissure. She could feel her face pinching, brow creased and frown forming on her lips, as she awaited and expected the worst. But all that came to greet her was the flicker of lampposts on her eyelids and the howl of wind squeezing between buildings.
Opening her eyes she found near abandoned streets, that in all appearances look like a European hybrid. She followed the cobblestone walkway she had stepped onto, with no set direction in mind. On her path she ducked under craggy bridges, and trailed her fingertips against the rail that separated her from what appeared to be a foggy beach. It all looked eerily similar to one she’d visited in Greece with her father, but the town surrounding it wasn’t quite right. That was from another tour, another stop. It was all poorly looped together, that much was clear to her.
With a breath she looped herself under the rail, her arms pulling her body under then swinging out. It felt like a playground game, the metal grit against her hands familiar, leaving a coppery scent to her skin. Zatanna felt lighter as she hit the sand, her stocking covered feet wiggling against the damp packed grains beneath her.
Turning back on the beach she walked back in the direction from where she’d come from, following along the walkway path. As she continued, the walkway began to rise, separating into a wall that stretched up higher than the fog allowed. Along the stones dried paint seemed to etch out words, shakily at first and light in color, and in a language Zee had never spoken. But soon the paint darkened to pinks-reds-burgundies, as the letters growing thick and heavy, and finally the words became recognizable.
"Zoccola" "Mignotta” “Gnocca”
Zee frowned, stopping at the insults, but paid the graffiti was only an irritant till the voices began to howl with the wind. The tone was familiar, disapproving, and erupting with anger. It was her father’s voice. His Italian accent seeping into his tongue just as she’d remembered.
These painted words now dripped from his lips, from his voice, at her.
Her hands flew to her ears, but the insults continued to fly through her fingers, both backwards and forwards. In a panic she dashed away from the only anchor the foggy beach had held with the graffiti laced wall. Further away a decrepit building rose from the fog to her, with holes battering it’s frame. The holes allowed her entry, and what she hoped was a possible salvation from the insults she’d never imagine her father’s voice carrying to her.
Steph walked closer to the crumpled building and she realized why her surroundings looked familiar: it was downtown Gotham. Sort of. It looked just like it had when the Gotham ‘Quake had rocked the streets when she’d been 15. Why she was back here (or at least somewhere that looked like here planted in a weird forest) she didn’t have a clue. Steph hesitated a beat before she opened the door into what she expected to be more rubble from a dusty memory, but instead found herself in a room that seemed entirely disconnected from the outside debris. It was her living room. Sort of. It was her house growing up.
"Stupid piece of shit!" screamed a man’s voice. The man sat in a stained arm chair and he suddenly threw a beer can at a woman on the couch. He stood and Steph saw Arthur Brown’s face in the light of the TV, younger by quite a bit. Red flush with anger, he crossed the room and stood over Crystal, grabbing her by the shoulder in a way that always left bruises. "You’ve got money for those goddamn pills you guzzle but not the good beer?!" He smacked her so hard across the face Steph could hear the impact from across the room. "NO!" she screamed at her father, propelling herself towards them.
She didn’t know whether this was real or not, and quite frankly didn’t care. Steph slammed her shoulder into Arthur and passed right through him, like he was made of mist. Fear flooded her senses as he began kicking Crystal in the stomach where she lay on the floor, too stoned to know to scream. “Leave her alone!” Steph cried out, trying to sweep her father’s legs and passing right through him. She whacked her bo staff at her father as hard as she could again and again and again at his chest, his arms, his thighs, his face. Nothing. He didn’t even bat an eye as he continued to beat Crystal unconscious.
Steph made a strangled noise of anguish as she was forced to watch, noting a little blood beginning to trickle out of Crystal’s mouth as she laid there limply like a rag doll. And then something clicked and Steph realized where she was now. As agonizing as it was, she turned and walked rigidly away from the fucked up couple and to the small coat closet by the stairs. She was taller now, didn’t need to get on her tip-toes to reach the key on the cheap bookshelf. The door opened with a soft click and a cold calm came over her as she got on her knees and crawled in. There, behind old boxes and blankets for winter, a little girl no more than three sat curled up in the corner, knees pressed to her chin as she sniffled helplessly at the muffled sounds her parents made. The girl had messy hair pulled into pigtails and big blue eyes rimmed red with fat, gloppy tears. She clutched her worn baby blanket tight, fingers dirty with superficial cuts and finger paint.
“Hi, Steph,” she said softly, and moved to pick-up the girl and her hands didn’t pass through her. Curling around the tiny girl, Steph pulled her younger self into her lap and kissed her round cheeks, stroked her hair soothingly while she tried and failed not to cry with her. Just when the little Stephanie began to calm down and hug her back, she was gone, as were the sounds of the living room. Panic thrilled in her chest and Steph scrambled back out of the closet, finding herself now standing atop Wayne Towers. Kicking over a flower pot, she screamed in a frustrated rage.
Zee only stopped holding her hands to her ears when the light began to stop streaming into her hiding place. The only thing she could now hear was the crash of what sounded like waves. She hadn’t even heard the ocean when she was on the beach, but maybe she was closer than she had thought. Her knees tucked up against her chest, her arms hugged about them.
There was only a kernel of an urge to move, and as soon as it surfaced he was there. Her father’s back was to her, hands held straight by his side. His shoulders rising and falling with steady breaths, but that does not remain. His shoulders tense, his hands ball at his sides, then arms cross against his chest.
Despite being seated behind her father, she could already recognize the scene. Zee could already picture his face. That flushed look on his face, thick brows darkening his eyes as his expression soured. It only happened at the worst of times, but those times occured enough to make an impression.
"Sono arrabbiato con te. Questo non è come una signora si comporta. Mi aspettavo di più da te, molto di più. Non si può fuggire via con quel ragazzo e di essere felice. Lui è una speranza, tanto peggio di te. Zatanna, si poteva fare molto meglio, eppure vi accontentate di spazzatura!” He reprimanded, and the words still felt like a slap in the face. "You’re not to leave the hotel till we leave Paris."
It was always Paris.
And that got her to her feet. But standing changed the picture. The building rocked. Saltwater frothed and ice cold soaked her stocking covered feet. Looking up from her feet, from the water swirling about on the floor, she noticed her father’s outline flickered like a candle.
Marching through the rising water she drove through her father, his frame melting away as she passed through him. Past him stood herself, years younger- but she felt just like a mirror image of how she stood. There she stood, frowning with salted tears to match the floor.
Zatanna wrapped her arms around the other her. She could feel her mirror image’s frame shrink as she rose several inches higher. Soon her body weighed heavier in a matter of seconds, “Paris isn’t always like that.” she whispered, flashed of green dotting her vision as the words tumbled out.
Then a wave finally crashed, ice cold water shocking her system like a scream. She tumbled through the foam, arms and legs stretched out like a rag doll. But, as soon as the water was there it whisked away, leaving her rocking forward and back on a rooftop where
there was a scream.