The Pilot
PILOT
Radiant gold with hues of tangerines, bled like fire in the east over the rivers and beyond the citadel of Ebott itself. The first slither of the sun peeked over the horizon, in a radiant, white form. Gradually it raised, into defined circle in a vibrant backdrop of clair de lune.
Sweet toxins filled his cervical vertebra and exhaled his relief in a cloud of purple grey smoke. It swirled upwards like a dance towards the dull autumn sky, devouring everything in its’ delicately deadly path before curling into the nothingness once again. The pale substance was a ribbon of death, and he stared, transfixed at its thin folds as they ebbed away, dragging his non-existent health with them. It was dangerous and full of mystery, like Execution Points [EXP] and Levels Of Violence [LOVE] of his sins.
Fter all, he had a thing for danger. He often than not flirted with death - the corner of his zygomatic process (of maxilla) [lips] tugged to one side - after all he was a renowned scientist, a mad one, at that.
The sigh that came after was a signal, not of his resolve leaving but of the level his tension had reached. He was more like an old-fashioned kettle - still full even when steams forced its way out.
‘Overthinkin’ again, Doctor?’
‘You could say so.’ He mumbled in his usual voice of tone; that was deep and made at the back his throat. He tilted his head, slightly so to the side -took a quick glance at the clock that hung on the wall - then turned to the side, to look over his shoulder - towards her.
‘And its five thirty in the morning, good morning. You quite early, did something happen on your way here? It has been a long time since your last visit.’
He stared at the depths of those eyes that resembled, the uninvited past of the wonderful old pure white. Eyes of the palest floral that was none other than the Lilac color. The palest bunch, almost ghostly freighting white - unlike his old white haughty, yet elegant eyes of his.
‘You could say so.’ The same given answer, he given her. Half a sentence, half an answer. Unlike him, she often spoke more and gave him more insight, about her own whereabouts, her own adventures or how she often was and felt. Yet, today was not that given d-
‘But I might have fucked somethin’ up…’
Ah, and there was the answer he waited for. He watched her gaze lower, now focused upon her own hands. Hands that were both covered and littered with band-aids, extra-long ones, junior ones, a patched one and finally, a strip or two. - He knew all too well, that she looked beyond those littered scars like stars. And those bruises like galaxies, painted all over her, from her hands to her arms and to her body unseen and shielded away from his eyes. She ogled those nimble small hands of hers, covered with different sorts of shapes and designs, designs made from ink- pure ink. Ink that came from the darkest depths of the void, ink that was darker yet darker. What was strange was, even if the ink itself was darker yet darker of shade. It often shifted from its dark counterparts, to different shades of color. And the more he stared at them. The more he wondered, were she originally gotten them from, not just the designs themselves but the bruises as well. For he knew all too well those designs, were not of his own doings, nor making.
Her eyes moved, shifted from looking at her own hands towards him, towards those heterochromatic eye-lights. And in return, he stared back, as he filled his lungs with air, and breathed it out through his nasal cavity. He sighed then, turned his head around, stared straight ahead, towards the scenery were the rays of the sun were more potent. If only he could feel the warm rays of the sun itself, and not the projectile of it. In this made-shift Pocket Reality he created to keep him from sprawling into the further dark that the void already was. - He took another drag from the toxic substance and held the echo tobacco close enough for him to take another hit, if need be. But he had decided against it and went ahead and extinguished the lit-up butt of the cigarette, against the iron made ashtray.
‘Does it have to do with one your…. aptitudes?’ He asked, turned around, positioned his hands inside his laboratory coat pockets. And strolled near her - near his adopted ward. He stood before her, and as always, he patiently waited for her to respond to his given question.
Her eyes of hers, shifted and looked downwards, and began to stare at her scarred hands once more. Not sure nor certain if she should speak and voice her troubles or tell him what sort of fuck up, she had conjured herself into this time.
The Doctor sighed once more, knowing fully well that she was not going to voice her telling’s of mishaps. So, without another word, he removed his hands from his lab coat pockets, lifted them, moved them towards her, then placed them upon her head. He spread his phalanges and pressed gently against her temple of her head. His eyes flashed blue and orange, then slowly bled to violet, his potent soul magic. And delved into her mind, into her memories to see what sort of trouble, his was had gotten herself into.
A wide smile crept and stretched upon his features, he turned his head and looked, stared into the nothingness, but he wasn’t starring there no, he was stareing directly at US..
✋︎ 💧︎☜︎☜︎ ✡︎⚐︎🕆︎ 👍︎☼︎☜︎✌︎❄︎⚐︎☼︎
[I SEE YOU CREATOR]
💧︎☟︎✌︎🏱︎✋︎☠︎☝︎ ☟︎☜︎☼︎💧︎❄︎⚐︎☼︎✡︎ ✌︎💧︎ ✡︎⚐︎🕆︎ 🕈︎✋︎☹︎☹︎ ✌︎☠︎👎︎ 💣︎🕆︎💧︎❄︎
[SHAPING HER STORY AS YOU WILL AND MUST]
✋︎ ✌︎☹︎💧︎⚐︎ 💧︎☜︎☜︎ ❄︎☟︎☜︎💣︎ ☼︎☜︎✌︎👎︎✋︎☠︎☝︎ ❄︎☟︎✋︎💧︎ 🕈︎⚐︎✞︎☜︎☠︎ ❄︎✌︎☹︎☜︎
[I ALSO SEE THEM READING THIS WOVEN TALE]
💧︎☟︎✌︎☹︎☹︎ 🕈︎☜︎ ❄︎☟︎☜︎☠︎ 💧︎❄︎✌︎☼︎❄︎ ☞︎☼︎⚐︎💣︎ ❄︎☟︎☜︎ 👌︎☜︎☝︎✋︎☠︎☠︎✋︎☠︎☝︎
[SHALL WE THEN START FROM THE BEGINNING?]