reverielogs | → nobody said it was easy, no one ever said it would be this hard

» WHO? Charles Xavier / OPEN.
» WHEN? Mid-June.
» WHERE? Observation deck, crew quarters, bar. ( + VARIOUS )
» WHAT? Catch-all intro log.
» WARNINGS? Mentions of substance abuse and potential suicidal ideation. Discussion of disability. Will update if anything more appears.

a. observation deck.

( He hadn't taken it in properly, the very first day. Part of him had still clung stubbornly to the hope that this was all a terrifying fever dream, and that he would wake back up in 1973 alone and safe in his mansion, talk of the future and space and a new yawning emptiness just parts of his subconscious. Now time has passed, Charles is beginning to take that for the foolish wish it was. He knows that the metal corridors that confine him are as real as he is, a miracle of science and invention keeping dozens of people from so many worlds suspended in the dark black of the night's sky.

He spends a long time on the Observation Deck. It might seem like his thoughts are troubled, from the furrow between his brows, but in fact they're mostly silent. There's something awe inspiring about the view, the planet below them, the moons he's never seen before. Sometimes he gets up to walk the length of the windows, frowning down below. Sometimes he sits as close as he can, enraptured.

Sometimes he talks to himself, habits of a scattered, speeding brain working too hard. )

"Well, space is there, and we're going to climb it, and the moon and the planets are there, and new hopes for knowledge and peace are there. And, therefore, as we set sail we ask God's blessing on the most hazardous and dangerous and greatest adventure on which man has ever embarked."

( On this occasion, he realises too late that he's not alone. There's a flash of an embarrassed smile, a tip of his head towards his new companion. ) For me, it was only eleven years ago when Kennedy gave that speech. Space travel still felt like a far and distant dream. Now look at where we are. No wonder the astronauts felt small. Compared to this, everything else seems insignificant.

b. crew quarters.

( Usually Charles liked small spaces. It was a by-product of growing up with too much space. His flat in London had been cosy, two rooms, a small living space, a kitchen with peeling linoleum. He could have afforded better, but back then all he had cared about was getting himself and Raven as far away from Westchester as possible. He'd always thought it would be good for them, to live like normal people did, Charles studying and Raven with her waitressing. A lively street, pubs lining the student quarters, people of all types spilling in and out of old brick.

Looking back, that was probably his first mistake.

His freedom cost him Raven's trust. His head had gotten away from him. The shackles had been thrown off, but without realising he'd put them on her instead. He's trying not to think about that as he lies on his bunk, even though she's only a few rooms down and he could just as easily go to her. There's no point. He's done enough.

The door to his and Hank's quarters thrown open though, just so he can hear the people walking up and down the corridors. Because yes, Charles liked small spaces, but this? There's something cold about it, the grey of the room, the metal of the furnishings, the scratchy blanket that he'd tossed on the floor at some point because his sleep had been fractured until he'd woken up sweating and aching. It feels more like a coffin than he'd like to admit, his mortality staring him down from the bunk roof.

He's going to go mad here, he knows it.

Footsteps pause just beyond the door, and without looking over Charles calls out to whoever's there. ) Don't worry, I'm not dead. I'm just practising my impression of a sardine.

( He's fine, everything's fine. )

c. bar.

( Everything is very far from fine.

He can't sleep, is the thing. The trembling underneath his skin makes him feel like he's the epicentre of an earthquake, he can't settle. His thoughts have been shaken lose, so that the insidious voice he tries to smother down every day has found a foothold and is whispering directly into the bitter broken parts of his soul. He's stuck here. He's stuck on this godforsaken hunk of metal, in an empty blackness he doesn't recognise, and there's nothing he can do, nor no means of escape.

The serum is going to wear off.

He's sure it's already started, the safety it offers him receding like a tide. The fear of it is not new, but it's never quite been this pitch before. Soon, soon he'll stumble. He'll trip. He'll fall. Soon he won't be able to move at all. And the voices of his fellow prisoners will burst through him like a bullet until he's ragged with holes and bleeding out --.

Don't think about it.

Charles takes a shaking breath, squeezes his eyes shut. The bottle in front of him is three quarters empty. His mouth tastes like paint stripper. But he pours another glass anyway. He just needs to sleep. An hour, an hour and then maybe he can figure out a solution. Another glass and maybe he won't hurt quite as much. )

Does everything in space taste this shit?

( Focus on smaller things. It's easier. )

d wildcard.

i'm at athosing or discord @ Sarah#9964 if you need me. pms are also an option.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

A few days ago. ( He'd spent most of the time licking his wounds, but that's by the by. Instead he just shrugs a little, his mouth twisting into something wry. ) I can't say much about the venue I'm afraid. I definitely won't be recommending this as a vacation spot to my friends.

( What friends? Hank's already here. He waves the bottle at Apollo a little, liquid splashing inside the glass. )

Are you sure you don't want some of this? It tastes foul, but it keeps the existential dread of the cosmos at bay, so it's not all bad.

[ Apollo considers the offer; alcohol doesn't affect him, not really. When you're someone of his dimensions (both physically and superheroically-speaking) it takes a hell of a lot of alcohol before he begins to feel it. It's not impossible, but it's unlikely. But still. He's tempted. ]

Oh, go on then. [ He reaches athletically over the counter top, stretching to select an empty tumbler from the other side of the bar. ] Like you said: there isn't much entertainment in space...

[ Which is to say: fill me up, Scotty. Apollo expectantly presents his empty glass for filling. ]

So. [ He sounds cheerily conversational as he waits for his measure to be poured. ] Suffer much from the old existential dread of the cosmos, do you?

Not usually. Most of the time it's earthly. This is my first visit to space.

( He fills Apollo's glass quickly, the only hint he's not in fully in control is the way the liquor shakes inside of it. )

I probably would have been fine. As a scientist, this is -- fascinating. But because my life is a spectacular shitshow, I woke up here to find my --. ( A pause. Nemesis, maybe? ) Someone I haven't spoken to without a fight in a very long time. Quite established, I think. Still an arse.

( Alcohol is his only friend. )

Hence, the bar.

[ He notices that tell-tale tremor but doesn't react, not even a little bit. Apollo has lived with both alcoholics and junkies for too long to not notice the signs. He nods in thanks and takes the glass in his hand; it's small in his fingers, even smaller than the usual shotglass size, but Apollo has a habit of making most things look small. ]

Cheers. [ The other guy is English after all. Apollo raises his glass. ] To spectacular shitshows, now in space.

[ Because, let's be real, you ain't the only shitshow on board, buddy. ]

( He lets out a huff of almost laughter. At least a change in scenery might be nice. He can think about breaking Erik's exquisite jaw to the backdrop of the stars. )

Maybe it's a prerequisite of coming here. Nobody would really mourn for the loss of the unhinged. ( Not that he is. He's just ... wobbly. Like a cabinet with it's door hanging off the hinge. )

Forgive me, I haven't even asked your name. ( Saluting Apollo with his glass. ) Charles Xavier. I'd say it's a pleasure, but with the circumstances we'd both know I'd be lying.

[ Apollo can't help but stare a little as slowly, finally, the penny drops and he realises he knows exactly which arse it is that Charles is referring to. ]

Oh - uh, Apollo. I'm Apollo. Not quite a pleasure, sure, but good to meet you all the same...

[ He offers his glass, knocking it gently against Charles's with a gentle clink of glass on glass. ]

So you're the Charles Xavier. We've got a friend in common, I think. Or 'arse', I think you said.

[ 'We've got an arse in common', he means but even Apollo knows better than to say those words in that order out loud. He may be blonde but he isn't that dumb. ]

My reputation precedes me.

( His tone is plummy, wry. There's something sardonic in his expression, the way his eyebrow lifts and his posture changes. He can't imagine what Erik has to say about him, but from their argument on the plane he doesn't imagine it's very kind. )

Yes, Erik did tell me he'd been here a while.

( A sip of the terrible space booze, and then he's regarding Apollo curiously. ) Though the fact that he's got people who consider him a friend is very surprising. Usually he prefers his companions as cannon fodder.

[ Apollo's smile turns a little distant at that; yes, he'd gotten the impression that Erik doesn't play well with others. Their conversation following his dramatic reveal had been proof enough of that. ]

Well. Maybe 'friend' isn't the word he'd use. [ Apollo's happy enough to admit that; Erik isn't exactly the first grumpy bastard he's befriended in his time. He regards Charles over his glass with a look that's somewhere between knowing and sympathetic. ]

So I'm guessing you two haven't exactly had a happy reunion...

[ He's not prying. He's really, really not. But when Apollo finds a guy who very clearly wants to drink himself in to a world-class stupor, he can't exactly walk away from it in good conscience. And this isn't exactly a big space station. ]

He shot my sister. ( The response is blunt, emotionless save for a flicker of feeling that crosses his face. Charles doesn't have it in him to save Erik's good name, and he won't lie. The man is dangerous after all. ) Which is just the most recent thing in a long line of grievances.

( A noisy breath out. )

Apparently that was years ago for him, and presumably no longer worth my ire, we've all made up. But -. ( He should just drink, stop talking. ) But it's Erik.

( Which isn't an explanation. )

[ So they're from different times as well. Apollo lifts his eyebrows in surprise; he'd thought that it was only Midnighter and himself that had been cruelly stolen away at different points in their shared lives. The fact that it's happened to Charles and Erik as well is some small balm against the hurt.

But all of that is nothing compared to that first little nuclear bombshell. Priorities, Apollo. Focus on the shooting bit. ]

...Did your sister survive?

→ nobody said it was easy, no one ever said it would be this hard

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