Is anybody else still able to see the light at the end of this tunnel?
James rubs at his nose with his thumb, shifting to lean against the wall; he crosses his arms and gives Peter a thoughtful look, half-frowning, Well, I would say my wife would kill me for saying this, but she is quite pacifistic. He shrugs and looks at his shoes. Hm. James straightens out his shirtsleeves and begins folding the cuffs back, a habit he falls into when he’s stressed and uncomfortable. I honestly do not believe that we are in a tunnel. Perhaps, we all got buried underneath the tunnel.
James yawns as he slumps on the bus seat, running a hand over his face. Today has been tiring, and he’s ready to just go home. His hands twitch in his lap - it’s tempting to manipulate the colored lines in the air with his fingers, but he’s mastered the art of using his…
James shrugs, lightly, Well, your stop will do fine. I am not in particular rush to go home, truly, therefore… With a quick glance of his eyes, he’s already checked through any signals that might be coming to him from Joey, but alas, she’s too busy to respond. Mm, he chuckles, Ah, yes, well, I would not want that, especially not the emergency room. He smiles politely, Those tend to give me the jitters. Honestly, James isn’t in any shape to fall asleep, especially now that he’s talking to someone. The constant train of having to pay attention is a great way to keep him from falling asleep, but of course, if he was alone, he’d probably be searching news reports by now. Or, funny animal footage. Whichever one was less depressing.
James yawns as he slumps on the bus seat, running a hand over his face. Today has been tiring, and he’s ready to just go home. His hands twitch in his lap - it’s tempting to manipulate the colored lines in the air with his fingers, but he’s mastered the art of using his eyes by now. His green eyes flicker back and forth as he shoots off a message to his wife - a simple “Heading home. Love you.” - then relaxes in his seat, fiddling with his tie and undoing it to just hang around his neck. Another yawn escapes him, and he glances over at the nearest person, Hey, if I suddenly fall to unconsciousness, would you be so kind as to wake me up at some point? Preferably sometime before I end up spending the night here. He chuckles.
The envelope was thick, made of the sort of paper that seemed as if it would cut you just to prove its superiority, and the first letter inside of it bore the logo of a law firm in Manhattan. It explained in droning terms why Mr. Patrick Danvers, Esq. deeply regretted informing you of the death of Miss Alix Fletcher, and of how her body had washed up on the shores of the Hudson River a week and a half before, though she had placed several documents in his possession at the end of February for safekeeping before an impromptu trip to Europe. It seems that she hadn’t made it there after all, and that her collapse from exhaustion a few days before had little to do with her death, a bullet in the back of the head had contributed far more.
But there had been a bundle of letters on the desk of her home office, stamped and addressed as if she had forgotten them and her luggage in her haste to leave the house, and one of them had been made out to you. Behind the precise, emotionless lawyer’s drivel was another letter, still tucked away in a blue envelope and lettered in a familiar hand. And when you opened it:
William is the one to find Alix’s letter in the mail - weeks after James flies off to Syria but weeks before a fate comes to a close. He doesn’t know what to do with the letter and knows better to than to open it. It goes on top of James’ dresser in his bedroom, untouched for weeks. When his funeral comes, a week after June 12th, there’s a casket but no body, not even ashes. The explosion from the post-human riot that killed James ripped apart almost a dozen people and some of the victims aren’t even certain, only named through witnesses who said they were standing within blast range before the incident occurred. Thus, an empty casket funeral is held.
But, it’s not entirely empty. Williams tucks Miss Fletcher’s letter inside, vaguely knowing of her as James’ girlfriend for a short time, although he never met her. It doesn’t concern him what it is that letter. A red flag ridden flag ridden with bullet holes - the only prop James stole (“It’s a souvenir,” he argued when their mother chewed him out for doing so) from his four-year run as Enjolras in his school’s rendition of Les Miserables - is neatly folded and placed underneath Alix’s envelope; William bitterly regards that James did care more about freedom than anything else in the end. Perhaps, enough to die for it.
The dirt goes over the casket; in a few weeks, the spot will look as normal as all of the other graves surrounding it. William glances at the grave to the left of James’ after the funeral ends - Elizabeth’s headstone rests there, two years old now. Being buried beside family - Will knows James would have wanted that, but it seems much more depressing than anything. After all, four of his family members are underground - two in San Francisco, two here, in New York - and all four went before their time.
Over five thousand miles away, James stares into the space in front of him, gazing through the lens of a street camera over looking the cemetery. Imad’s hand is on his shoulder, amplifying his range. Imad doesn’t see what he sees but can assume as much, “Do you still wish to stay dead?” James chuckles and grips the table as something shakes the room - most likely that terrakinetic that was lounging around that sector for the past few days, stirring trouble that attracted Nexus and more trouble. “We’re all dead here, my friend.” he murmurs as another miniature quake shakes the foundation.
Note: My knowledge over the civil war transpiring in Syria is very limited, seeing as I’m trying to grasp things that are out of my understanding (a.k.a. I’m not into politics as much as I’d like to trip my way through a conversation and pretend I am). So, in order to avoid getting inaccurate information, I’ve focused on a topic that doesn’t exist (in the real world, that is). I mean, there’s bound to be riots and stuff all over the world concerning post-humans. Syria’s just a nice location marker because of its current situation. Besides, by 2015, I’m not even sure Syria would’ve come to a nice solution or not (most likely not but don’t take my word for it).
Warning: Character death.
And here I am, quarter past nine, still waiting. If he wasn’t my brother…
James is walking along, headphones flattening down his hair. His CD player - most likely the last one ever since they went out of style nearly a decade ago - is visible from his jacket pocket, and he’s immersed in his music. His eyes flicker on the sidewalk in front of him, watching out for people and catch the nearby woman’s lips moving. By default, he removes a side of his headphones in case she’s speaking to him, although that is most unlikely of a situation. Did you say something?
Oh yes, I knew that from the beginning. Now that my secret’s out though, it no longer seems to matter what I do. They simply hate me for what I am. Then again, there are now many who love me for it too. There is such a small middle ground… I never truly saw that until now.
Politics is politics, sir. He shrugs. Loved, hated, admired, respected… feared. There is not much else he adds; he doesn’t talk all that much nowadays. Your sense of security is still intact, though? James himself wonders if he’s being sarcastic or serious.
[requested by Anonymous]