Stephanie Brown (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
alwaysroomforhope) wrote2005-09-04 10:42 pm
alwaysroomforhope) wrote2005-09-04 10:42 pm
Entry tags:
OOM: Gotham, II
Steph drifts, incorporeal, disconnected, dazed, barely there at all.
Gotham moves around and through her; waves of people crash against grey steel and silver, in rhythm with the movement of time and the city. Nights are blurs of the smell of cheap vodka and the neon signs above the clubs, punctuated by screams she can't do anything about; days are cheaply metallic, sunlight on steel, business suits beating the pavements. She can't call herself together enough to recall anything but impressions, except ...
Gotham moves. Gotham lives. Cities have a heartbeat, and Gotham's is steady despite the filth it moves with. Steph feels it, pulsing through her own fog of existence; it pulls at her, keeping her there, keeping her alive. If she loses that thread of - of - whatever, she'll lose herself, and that vague knowledge helps her keep a grasp on consciousness.
The temptation to lose herself in the mist and haze that hangs over the city is almost overwhelming. If she lets go, if she relaxes her grip, there would be peace - a way to sleep, a way to forget. A place she can go and never come back.
When she thinks about it, though, faces rise before her - Dick, hugging her and insulting her in a breath; Barry, comforting her and holding her up; Mel, tricoloured hair damp and smile wide; Jason. She can't leave them - she can't lose them - she won't hurt them by giving up. So she clings, desperately, to consciousness, and the city breathes her in and holds her.
Gotham moves around and through her; waves of people crash against grey steel and silver, in rhythm with the movement of time and the city. Nights are blurs of the smell of cheap vodka and the neon signs above the clubs, punctuated by screams she can't do anything about; days are cheaply metallic, sunlight on steel, business suits beating the pavements. She can't call herself together enough to recall anything but impressions, except ...
Gotham moves. Gotham lives. Cities have a heartbeat, and Gotham's is steady despite the filth it moves with. Steph feels it, pulsing through her own fog of existence; it pulls at her, keeping her there, keeping her alive. If she loses that thread of - of - whatever, she'll lose herself, and that vague knowledge helps her keep a grasp on consciousness.
The temptation to lose herself in the mist and haze that hangs over the city is almost overwhelming. If she lets go, if she relaxes her grip, there would be peace - a way to sleep, a way to forget. A place she can go and never come back.
When she thinks about it, though, faces rise before her - Dick, hugging her and insulting her in a breath; Barry, comforting her and holding her up; Mel, tricoloured hair damp and smile wide; Jason. She can't leave them - she can't lose them - she won't hurt them by giving up. So she clings, desperately, to consciousness, and the city breathes her in and holds her.