Quote:
Genre: Disaster
Setting: Deus Ex
You are: the antihero AKA remembering how you were pathetic


This dream was not a dream so much as it was a memory that had been wiped away by the touch of Creation. It was a dream that was both painful and so wonderful because it evoked a sense of intense love and intense longing that were so piercing and piquant that they almost filled the entire dream space. Camille was not the teenager that she knew herself to be now; she was instead the older, more voluptuous woman that she so eagerly bandied around pictures of.

Her hair was short and dark with a fat streak of blonde at the front placed in honor of the two people who loved her. A streak that she was currently considering dyeing over because one of those people had said they didn't love her anymore and the other...the other wasn't sure what she wanted. Cami lay with her head on Maebe's thighs as fingers carded through her thick curls, idly braiding the strands as they talked.

What they talked about was apparently not important to the dream space as there was utter silence. Mouths moved and the blonde laughed at something her companion said. No, the words were not important. What was important was the way that their eyes would meet, then tear apart, because one was afraid of revealing something to the other. Cami was afraid of revealing how badly she wanted to keep this woman to herself, how much she wanted to be loved. Maebe...well. No one knew what Maebe was afraid of revealing.

This was, after all, not Maebe's dream.

At some point the dream shifted and so did the light. What had been a golden moment filled with conflicting, but pure emotions, became dark. Warmth turned to chill and the beautiful figure of Maebe Grace Bertrand became a faceless, almost formless, creature. Camille didn't seem changed at all and was content to gaze up with love at the shadowy nothingness and it was a terrible, almost slavish, kind of devotion. "I love you. I'd do anything for you."

But 'you' was no one at all. You could have been anyone and she would have been just as clingy, just as devoted, a flower so choked for the sunlight of love that she forced herself onto anyone that would give her even a bit of warmth.

A shadowy hand came to her throat and began to squeeze until there was no life left inside of the needy woman, until that love had killed her. A sign? A warning? A memory. A pure disaster.