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 'til it was a battle c r y ., tag; open
| Antigone Bennett |
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` don't get B U R N E D.
Group: Mutant
Posts: 11
Member No.: 215
Joined: 6-July 08
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The world was like looking through a veil of smoke, though it wasn’t like any smoke she had ever seen before. Most of the time smoke muted the colors, leaving her encased in a world of grey and pastels that was more like choking on air rather than breathing it. But these, they were vivid colors of reds and oranges, like explosions except less defined. She could only make out splotches of color, no details and no idea what was going on. She could only detect the faintest whiffs of smells, like the wind, chemicals, and something else that didn’t quite sit right with her, and left her more anxious than before. Something was happening and she couldn’t stop it. She couldn’t even tell what was going on, but she still feared it. Her eyes widened as a low booming sound rocked through her eardrums, then there was a blast of superheated air and…
Antigone Bennett jolted awake and bolted from her bed, coughing and shaking her head trying to shake the non-existent ringing out of her ears. She recognized the disorienting feeling of her worse nightmares: vivid dreams of future events that faded and became fuzzy, like a memory that she couldn’t quite remember. She new it would stay there and feaster on the edge of her memory, annoying her till the said event happened, and then she would have a clear memory of what was going on, like she had seen it all on an HD television, or lived it herself. But, still, the dreams took their toll on her. Almost always her temperature would rocket sky-high, leaving her shaking from fear and cold and the knowledge that people could die because there was nothing she could do to remember. That alone made her feel like she had more blood on her hands than anything else.
Carefully she removed her now smoking pjs as the contact with her skin was causing them to ignite. If she handled it right, she could just slip into her flame-proof turtleneck and leggings and avoid the whole covered in flames part before it happened. But first, she needed her gloves. Pulling herself together, she fished in the top drawer of her dresser and removed a stack of black cloth. On the top of that pile were a pair of opera length gloves, treated so they were almost impossible for Tig to ignite them. Of course the whole ensemble was hellishly expensive, mostly because of the cost of the special fabric, but also because of the multiple postages, and the seamstresses and the cost to keep people quiet. Though she wore it because she had to, she still hated the fabric, which to her was always itchy and uncomfortable. And they did nothing for the chills that were her constant companions when she had to wear the fabrics.
Pushing away the annoying feelings of dread, she began to dress herself. First their was her gloves, made to be skin tight and rolled all the way up, almost to her shoulder, then her socks that went to her knees. Over those went a pair of skintight leggings that went all the way up to her armpits, and a turtle neck that wasn’t quite kin tight, but covered the rest of her exposed flesh, minus her face and hair. To her the ensemble was ugly, uncomfortable and from no-names who had nothing better to do than make this clothing from special material and thread that were provided, along with her measurements. Not that she wasn’t grateful… she just needed some scapegoat to channel all her anger and frustration at, and rather than pour her fury into the first person she saw, she would rather it be a no name that she didn’t know. It saved a lost of lives and lawsuits in the end.
Knowing that she would never get back to sleep, though it was only 3 o’clock in the morning, she stuffed her pjs and sheets into a tub of water she kept in her room for that very purpose, and threw on a bulky black sweater and a pair of too long pajama pants, which were hot pink and covered in angel wings. Anyone could say that they didn’t belong to Antigone, and they would be right. The sweater belonged to her sister Isabelle, and the pants belonged to her little sister Cassie, both who outweighed and outgrew her by at least thirty pounds and five inches, respectively. This was her comfort wear, when she wanted her sisters around, but they were too far away to come to her. So she went to them, mentally anyway.
So, instead of sitting around and staring at her wall, or her computer screen, she tramped downstairs, and to one of her favorite… errrr… least favorite places in the mansion: the kitchen. Since her powers manifested, Tig had an ongoing love/hate relationship with food. Of course she needed it, and she liked to cook when the occasion called for it, but the sheer amount of food that she had to eat, and could eat, disgusted her. Most of the time she was munching on something, the higher the calories the better, or just trying to do things and ignore the growling of her stomach. Most of the time she failed at ignoring her annoying stomach, so she usually just eats something to stop the strange looks she got when her stomach started growling, and loudly.
Which is why she made her way down to the kitchen: to sate her hunger before it started getting loud and obnoxious. She was awake, therefore she must eat. It was sad that she had to live her life with such a conclusion attached to it. Wasn’t it bad enough that she could be rented out as a flamethrower if need be? Tig certainly thought so. But what she thought didn’t matter, she realized as she casually flicked on the kitchen light and dug into the freezer. Her life was a product of what her screwed up gene pool had made of her. To console herself, and her already growling belly, she pulled out five pints on Haagen-Dazs coffee ice cream and unceremoniously dumped them into a very large bowl. Then, with her spoon in hand she jumped up on the counter, and seated herself in a corner where she would not be easily spotted if anyone walked in. Of course, her luck would probably be crap and a telepath would walk in and catch her. Yeah, that would definitely be her luck.
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