hold me in this wild, wild, world

tate x. whitcomb and all their words for glory well they always sounded empty when we're looking up for heaven way down here upon the ground when we're lying in the dirt there's no looking up for heaven

[tatewhitcomb-blog]

jacob-riley:

It took a moment, only a moment for things to just…change. The smiling, goofball of a boy Jacob had gotten to know over the years disappeared, being replaced with someone so different a chill ran up his back. Who was this boy who sneered just like he did? Who bit out words as coated in bitterness and annoyance as his own always were?

He wore Tate’s face but it certainly didn’t feel like Tate.

After the initial shock of his tone passed, the words started rolling around in his mind. If things had been an incongruous puzzle before, they were absolute mayhem now. He had died he had been crushed there were healers–Silver healers–who had clung closer to Tate because he’d risen from the dead like some long ago messiah from a forgotten religion. No. It didn’t make sense. He wouldn’t believe that.

It was a joke. A prank. It was Tate trying to get his goad. That had to be it.

He swallowed back his worry and confusion, the same stone-faced mask slipping into place. “That’s not funny Tate. You don’t joke about that shit. Death isn’t something to joke about. Ever. Much less when there are bodies of the dead filling the grand hall right now. I can’t believe you would make fun of something like that.”

His stomach churn, his mind swum. Tate sounded so honest. Like he really believed it. And the look on his face seemed so genuine. But he had died? How was that even possible? Jacob couldn’t believe that. He wouldn’t. There had to be another explanation. Surely there was. Never mind the fear that wavered in his own heart wondering…What if Tate was telling the truth about all this?

Tate had been unsure whether or not he had expected Jacob to believe him or not – but damn if his response didn’t sting. The muscles in his jaw clenched, and he couldn't bring himself to look Jacob in the eyes. He hoped he wasn't coming off as embarrassed -- what would he have to be ashamed of? He only had told the truth. If anything, he had all right to be angry. He was the one who died. He was the one who was now dealing with the backlash.

“Go check the list of the dead. You’ll see my name there.” His voice was a deadpan, and his shoulders had fallen. Surely to most people, he would claim it was a mistake, if they asked. An error of epic proportions. Would anyone argue with that? "But here I am right? Dead just hours ago, and now standing in front of you? What's there to believe?" Jacob's reaction right here was the reason why. He didn't want to be called a liar, he did not want to lose the trust of those around him.

“Do you think I'd joke about this?" His voice was small, a sullenness had taken over. His shoulders had fallen, again he had drawn into himself. He reached up to wipe at his eyes, shaking his head as he said, "It's fine -- whatever. I wouldn't believe me either."

[scrrcwed]

april 15th 8:34 pm room of silence closed for @tatewhitcomb

     the room means well - or at least, etta thinks it does. it’s difficult to tell what silvers mean by action or word. but the pristine nature of it belies a naivety in their train of thought. if they think equality will come dove white and clean as fresh snow they are surely mistaken. idealism has never been her strong suit, and that is what this pure room embodies in the way silvers mingle with the reds so much in this area - how ability is dampened and empty. it’s foolish, really, to think the world might change so into this spotless thing. fingers itch to dig into soil, to dirty the white floors with seeds and water. growth would be better than this nothingness.      she lingers at the outskirts of the room, mask still secured over her face and eyes sharp behind it. more than anything she wishes to be anywhere but here. to slip away into the gardens or wander away from the heady scent of parfume and alcohol into crisp, cool night air. it would surely be taken as some slight, though, as it has in the past. what, etta, too good for us? brother’s voice rings in her ear over the sound of drifting music and the quiet chatter of those located between these white walls. it would not bother her, usually, but the position she holds at the palace could be taken at any moment. it is better to suffer through parties than be sent to the place she once called home a failure.      eyes scan the room. etta finds the masks an odd distraction. she would much prefer to know who is standing before her to this uncertain unease that fills the pit of her stomach when someone approaches. often they seem to recognize her before she realizes who they are. but one body stands out in particular - oh, she knows him. would know him on the street, as well, with the way shoulders are carried, the cant of his head. tate.      etta quickly turns and makes as if to leave, heading to the door. she’s not the patience to deal with tate whitcomb tonight.

[tatewhitcomb-blog]

         This is most clearly not the right room for Tate to be in. A room of silence. He understands its meaning, he understands the depth at its very core. Still, despite its intention to convey belonging and acceptance, he cannot help but laugh at his feelings of misfitting within it. Looking at it with a childish perspective, he has never been quiet. Throughout his skin and muscles and bones, there is noise. In his breathing, his laughter -- even his smile rings out within a room. If the room is meant to silence a power, his is living, and it would never be able to do so entirely.

         The disguise that has been provided has made him feel different. It’s blurred the line between silver and red ( a voice whispers, ‘with your coming back to life -- are you either?’, but he pushes it away ) and it’s become a game to see who all he can talk to before they realize who he is -- or who he isn’t.

         For the first time in the evening, Lydia is not by his side. He misses her surely, but he will see her by the end of the night, he is confident in saying so. They made quite a pair. The red-headed girl who stands almost bird-like, as if she were ready to make a sprint at any given moment. The boy whose grin makes people forget about their perceived shortcomings of him.

         People have come and gone within the room, and he watches them, observing. He makes brief conversation with some -- most go in and out -- but he never approaches any unless they come to him first. He is making the best with the room -- silence.

         The exception is when he recognizes a head across the room. He thinks it’s Etta

                 “ Etta? ”

         He says her name, and he sees her look up towards him. People glance over towards him. His voice has carried over the humble drone of the voices in the room -- a contrast sharp and alarming. This is the first time he has ever seen her outside of the gardens or by the stables, he thinks, and he walks over to her.

         A lazy smile is on his face, and a look of brief confusion crosses his face as he watches her turn to leave. Is she trying to avoid him? He thinks yes, but that doesn’t bother him. He steps quickly so that he is standing beside her, his grin is even wider now, and he says, “ How are you enjoying this ball -- this circus -- the circus ball thing? ”

        He has begun to ramble, and he can only wonder how long it will be until she asks him to leave her alone, or tells him to be quiet. He doesn’t necessarily understand why she is so against talking to him, but maybe one say she’ll start a conversation freely with him. He can wait.

        “ I personally have liked seeing all of the costumes. ” He looks down at his own clothing. He knows it isn’t as ornate and intricate as some, but he still looks nice. He likes it. “ It’s kind of hard to tell who’s who, don’t you think? Makes it more fun. ”

[tatewhitcomb-blog]

lydiahowe:

      Lydia had been running a message. Everything had happened so fast – she’d been sneaking in to catch the tail end of the King’s speech when a blast of heat radiated from the room. Chaos was immediate. In the pandemonium, it had taken every ounce of skill she had not to touch anyone, let alone investigate anything. ( After all, she hadn’t known her hands were killers until they were. ) In the commotion, it was easy to be terrified, but in the hours since the lists of the dead and injured had begun to be updated, their pages still soot-stained as the ashes floated from the ceiling, she’d felt relieved to see no one she called friend.

      That was why, after delivering yet another urgent message, she’d gone to the list of the dead unafraid.

      Surely they can’t uncover any more, she thought, her face drawn in tangible sadness at the loss of so many people. Most of them, if not all, had been innocent, and where was the justice in that? Her eyes scanned and scanned, and relief began to fill them until they caught on one name she couldn’t bear to lose.

      Tate. Tate Whitcomb. Her best friend. 

      Her eyes filled with tears as she read the name over and over again, unwilling to believe it. Tate? So filled with energy and life he had her giggling even when she’d gone all day without food and her bones felt like they were melting, that Tate? Who ran circles around her even when she was in a position for being fast, just because he liked to say he wasn’t weighed down like she was? There was no comprehending it. The loss was so pure, so final, that she knew there must be a mistake.

      There had to be, because Tate could not be dead. He could not leave her, not when she still hadn’t figured out how to tell him the truth. Not when she’d been so distant, not when she hadn’t made sure he knew he was sunshine and roses in her life. Not when she’d left him alone for weeks, terrified of what she would do if she let him get close. 

      Messages stopped. She ignored the weight of her bag against her shoulder and stumbled away, into the dark, anywhere to get away from the numbing horror of it. It wasn’t just a loss, it was the clawing of her heart from her chest, her oldest friend and favorite smile never to return. She wasn’t sure how long she remained, against those hallowed marble floors, great sobs wracking her thin frame. How could she work? How could she continue? Lydia wasn’t meant to outlive him. He was supposed to live to just the day after her, so he could chase her into the grave and tease her even then.

      Time seemed to slow. It could have been hours or days before she forced herself from the ball she’d curled into, uncaring, unthinking. She had to do something, but what? Everything felt hazy and disjointed, as if something was missing. Tate. He was missing and she couldn’t get him back. The loss cleaved a hole through her, cutting her in two, and when she heard a voice in the hall she almost didn’t register it. The darkness of the area shrouded their face, but she would know that voice anywhere.

      Everything froze. She had to be hallucinating. Ignoring all words he’d said, not that she understood a word in her confusion, she stepped into the light, her face full of confused wonder. ❝ Tate? ❞ His face, too, was half as familiar as her own, and in that moment she didn’t remember to be afraid of her own skin. All she wanted was to hug him tight and know he was real, and she did, throwing herself forward and wrapping her arms around his neck. ❝ You’re alive! You can’t – don’t ever, ever die, I swear, I will do – something bad. Drastic. I can’t. Don’t do that, ever, ever again. ❞

         “ Tate? ”

                   Lydia. 

          He would have known that voice anywhere. It echoed in his most fondest of memories, and composed itself into a symphony whenever his thoughts drifted to think of his closest friend. He found himself grinning despite himself -- he had seen the despair within her features, and his heart had begun to ache once the words spilt from her lips -- and it struck him just how much he needed her in his life.

         Tate was undoubtedly happy to see her. That was a fact as clear as day. It had been ( how long had it been? he couldn’t remember when he had previously spent an afternoon with her, or even the last time they had said something to each other that was more than a ‘hello’ in passing ) too long. He might have preferred to seen her in a more positive setting, but he knew that beggars couldn’t be choosers.

                   He couldn’t imagine not speaking to her for as long as they had gone with out                        again. It was unbearable, the idea of it. If he could, he wouldn’t let it repeat. 

          Her hug felt like home. He stood for a moment, stunned by the sudden show of affection, before he wrapped his arm around her. As off-kilter his world had begun to feel, at least this felt right. Perhaps things were finally getting on track again.

                    It was funny how fast Tate seemed to accept that he had died, and then had                     returned to life one more. It was confusing, yes, but perhaps it was a new normal.                     He had always been able to live with change.

         He didn’t want to let go of her, for fear of her running away and beginning to drift once more, for fear of losing the person he considered to be his best friend, but he let his arm fall to his side and he took a small step backwards. Tate didn’t let his gaze move away from her. 

         His brows had knitted together, though, hesitation washing across his features, and he knew he would have to reply carefully to her. The tone of her voice had struck him deeply, and the idea of hurting her further was one he did not want to consider. He had never lied to Lydia before -- he didn’t plan to start now -- but to see her in such a grieving state was one he never wanted to encounter again. What could he possibly say?

        His voice sounded choked when he finally managed to say, “ I’m not dead. Not now. ” Was that the right thing to say? He was unsure. You can’t – don’t ever, ever die, I swear, I will do – something bad. Drastic. Tate shook his head, a harsh motion, replying, “ You can’t say that, Lydia. If anything were to happen to me -- ” the urge to say ‘again’ was overwhelming “ -- you would be fine. I guarantee it. ”

         This was not the reassurance he thought he would ever have to give her. Maybe something about her job, or something within their daily lives -- but death? That was something he didn’t want to talk about. Tate had more than his fair share of brushes with death, yes, but he was energetic, and bright. He craved life, he lived with no hesitations. This wasn’t who he was.

[tatewhitcomb-blog]

diemhynson:

Diem felt bad for Tate. The boy had died and was clearly overwhelmed at it all and here Diem was badgering him for an explanation over matters he obviously had no clue about. She tried to come up with an explanation herself, a way of getting both of them to move past this and focus on different matters, but Diem couldn’t imagine being dead one minute and alive the next. 

She couldn’t imagine being dead period. 

It made Diem wonder about how her last few moments would be spent and what she would do if she got a second chance at live. Rosa was the first thought that came– how sad she would be for never seeing her again and how her desperation to find her would intensify upon being revived. She couldn’t imagine how upset her mom would be if she got wind that Diem was dead, or how torn up Melody would get at the news. As much as it wasn’t so obviously clear, Diem did have people she cared about.

“To be fair, there’s not a lot of room to run away, and you wouldn’t be able to hear the screaming over how many people are mourning in the room.” She shrugged, a very small smile slowly making its way onto her face. She could’ve screamed and ran away from Tate, from it all, but Diem’s curiosity got the best of her and she waned to know how exactly the boy was up and moving around despite the situation before. 

“I’m just spit balling here. There’s not too many ways that a person can come back from the dead.” She wondered if that ever happened to any soldiers— if they were thought to be dead on the battle field but they turned out alright. It didn’t seem like a problem that would be too familiar, but if Tate did it then maybe there were others.

          Tate glanced backwards over his shoulder towards the people, his smile only growing wider. “ I mean, I might have trodden on a few toes, but I would have been out. ” He was glad to see the smile on Diem’s face -- it made it feel like the tension within the conversation was lessening. “ Are you trying to say that no one would hear my dulcet screams over this din? ” He paused, as if he were considering. “ You’re probably right. ”

         The idea of guessing didn’t sit well with Tate, though he did not say this to Diem. He supposed it was just human nature to try and figure out things that did not make sense. Nothing about this seemed normal, though. He wanted to call it a fluke, a mistake -- that maybe everyone just thought he was dead -- but that didn’t feel right either. It was something about him that made him come back. Nothing else and nobody else had anything to do with it.

                  ( this was the strangest thing that had ever happen to him.                     he’d be content just being regular old Tate.                     if that meant he would have died for real --                     it didn’t feel right to him -- but he would accept it. )

          “ Are there any ways that someone can come back from the dead after, like, five hours though? ” He didn’t want to contradict her -- he really didn’t -- but was there anything else that could be said? It was unnatural. He knew it, he was sure she knew it. 

[tatewhitcomb-blog]

jacob-riley:

Jacob just looked at him, narrowing his eyes as if it would make any of this make any sense. Maybe the day had been too long or too stressful, maybe that was the answer to why none of this was making an sense, but still, the pieces weren’t fitting together. It was like trying to shove a square peg into a round hole. Could all that blood really have been Tate’s? Could the healers really have mended him so quickly when there were so many other people to take care of. His mind just kept spinning around and around, trying to find the error in the logic that wasn’t there.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He was tired. Physically and emotionally drained. He had little doubt most everyone else around was as well. “Even if you’re all patched up, you still need to take it easy Tate. If this was really all your blood,” he said casting Tate a look that said if this was a prank he wasn’t going to be fooled by it, “then you need to relax, give your body some time to catch up on the inside so it can match the outside. Healers couldn’t have gotten you fixed up that quickly with everyone else that was hurt.”

Jacob rolled his eyes. Why did no one understand how the Silvers treated them? Why was he the only goddamned one who saw just how much the hierarchy was short changing them? There were people dying and he had little doubt that even in an event largely for the Silver Elites, the death toll for the Reds would be higher. They’d get cast aside and it would cost them their lives. “Don’t tell me how I get to feel Tate and don’t act like I’m some dick because I give a fuck that you look like you just bled to death. Someone has to be worried since you obviously aren’t bothered.”

His anger only spiked further. How could the boy be so foolish? People like them, they only just got by, he’d be dead if he kept taking stupid risks with his life. “Why the hell would you do that Tate? Fuck, maybe we should go find Bailey and I’ll let her deal with you. If a healer says they need to keep you there, it’s probably because they fucking do. There’s shit that can go wrong inside that you’d never be able to see, especially if a healer is working on you.” He seethed, trying to drag himself to a stop before he steamrolled right over the poor boy.

          Tate knew that he shouldn’t take Jacob’s look to heart, but the disbelief that was reading on his face stung. Of all the things Tate was -- a jokester, silly, energetic -- a liar was never something he had been called. He hoped that would be something he could maintain in saying was true. “Really, I’m fine.” That was arguable. Physically, yes, he’d live to see another day. Emotionally, he’d be tentative to say that he wasn’t confused or overwhelmed. But he wouldn’t admit these feelings aloud. Not to Jacob. 

          The only one he could even fathom telling was Lydia -- Bailey would worry too much, and she would have enough on her plate as is, and everyone else he was just not as close to -- but the fact was that she hadn’t been talking to him recently. He wanted to sigh. He wanted to scream, but it wasn’t the time nor place to do either of those things, not with Jacob hovering around him like he were some injured baby bird.

          He was unsure what was bothering him the most at the moment.           His list of irritations was only growing. Tate didn’t like the feeling.

          “Well, here’s the thing, Jake,” Tate’s voice had turned into a sneer, and the last trace of his playful smile had finally disappeared. In its place was a pained grimace, and he was sure he could hear his voice wobble as he continued to talk. “I did bleed to death.” He paused, letting the words echo between the stone walls of the corridor. “My chest was crushed, and someone watched me die.” Tate squeezed his eyes shut, tears stinging. 

          “So that’s why they wanted to keep me there. Not because I was unhealthy or anything but because I’m some freak red who died and then came back to life five hours later? When I said they fixed me up, I meant it. They fixed me, and then they were talking between themselves, whispering and pointing, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to leave.”

[tatewhitcomb-blog]

jacob-riley:

“We’ll find her. I’m sure she’s somewhere down in the bunker. I’ve seen tons of healers–Silvers and Reds–down there. She’s just working Tate. There’s nothing to worry about.” The words were so easy to say. Verbal comfort came so easily. But he knew from his own experience how dreadfully little they did to actually ease the mind. Tate wouldn’t calm until he saw Jacob, the same way he hadn’t found peace pushing people out of his way as he’d raced through the halls in desperate search for Sam until he’d had her in his arms. Felt her breathing in his arms. 

Tate seemed despondent again for a few minutes and Jacob felt his worry grow, like water coming to an uneasy boil. Was he simply distracted by fear and worry, or was it something worse? Had he lost too much blood and was becoming faint? Had he hit his head and suffered a concussion whoever had looked him over before had overlooked? He grazed into the younger boy’s eyes trying to catch for a sign of them not responding they way they ought to then quickly ran over his skin checking for excess pallor. He didn’t know much of medical studies, but he knew enough. Or so he hoped. If only more hours of schooling had been allowed to him.

Jacob felt the familiar annoyance he often got with Tate rising in him as he was shooed away. He rolled his eyes. “Tate you are fucking covered with blood and I think we both know I’m being a lot more lenient than if Bailey were the one to find you like this. So sit still for fuck’s sake.” He pushed and pulled at the clothing looking for any bruising or sign of injury he could find but there really was just…nothing. Tate had said the blood was his but that just didn’t make sense. It couldn’t have been. Not if his body was any indication (what what exactly else could be?). “Tate…are you really sure that blood was yours?”

Jacob’s familiar scowl is back in place as Tate speaks though. “More pressing matters. You mean, there were Silver matters.” He rolls his eyes and he takes a step back from him. “They just left you alone, covered in blood that may or may not have been your own while they dealt with someone who was born into a decent family?” He shook his head dissolving into curses as he rubbed at his face.

          There were a lot of things to worry about. Tate knew that. Most of the time, he didn’t care. He let worries and anxieties slide off of his back with hardly more than a second chance. But this? A bomb had gone off. He had died, and so had others. People were hurt. Yes, Tate was taking the situation in stride, and he was doing better than others at doing so, but he still understood the gravity of the situation.

          He sighed, finally surrendering to the fact that he wouldn’t be getting away without Jacob making sure he was okay -- he also did have to agree that Jacob would be more lenient than Bailey would have been. Even if it had been Bailey, though, she would see the same thing as Jacob: Tate was physically fine. His muscles ached a touch, but there were no wounds on his chest or abdomen ( anymore ) and nothing else that needed immediate attention. “ I already told you. It was mine, I mean, it is mine -- whatever. But the healers finally got to me when I woke up and put things back the way they were supposed to go and everything was just dandy after that.”

          Tate finally let himself slouch down, relieved that the examination was over. From the start, he knew that Jacob wouldn’t find anything, but that only lead to more questions. He just wanted the day to be over. He wanted a fresh start. He wanted to go to Enzo’s in the morning, see Bailey in the afternoon. Was it so wrong of him to wish for normality?

         “ No, no, don’t get angry at them. At least, not now. ” Jacob had never exactly been the sort to keep privy his disdain for silvers -- not around other reds, at least -- but there was no blame to be put on them. They did nothing to Tate. “ They didn’t leave me alone, and I can assure you they were pretty freaked out -- more than you, which is saying something right now, because you’re driving me up the wall. ”

         “ What happened was when enough of them had their backs turned, I slipped away. ” A slight grin crossed his face. Leave it to Tate to have no regard for his wellbeing. “ They probably would have kept me with them for, like, ever. They were really losing their composure. ”

[tatewhitcomb-blog]

diemhynson:

Diem frowned at his comment. “Of course it was necessary.” She replied back, still shocked to be knowing she’s talking to a boy that was dead not too long ago. She knew her reaction could’ve been a bit cheerier, but it was just too weird. How can a person be dead then be undead a few minutes later? It didn’t make sense. It felt like something in a story, but this was real life. It felt like a sort of thing a silver would be capable of, but to her knowledge that wasn’t one of their powers, and Tate most certainly wasn’t a silver. The red on her and his clothes were enough to prove that.

She knew she should’ve been gentler with him. After all, the only thing worse than being the one around when you die would be the one dying. It was just that the whole scenario was overwhelming her and being stuck in a room with plenty of sad, shaken up families wasn’t helping her. 

Somehow Tate not knowing how he was still alive surprised her. Diem somehow thought that he knew that technique all along, but it was confirmed that he was just as clueless as she was. Diem wondered if the silver man that helped her try to save her friend had seen Tate walking around as if nothing ever happened. If so, she wondered if he reacted any differently than she did. Her eyes softened as he spoke. She didn’t mean for him to recount the moments before this. 

Hell, she didn’t even want to recount the moments. 

She listened as he continued. She was glad to know she wasn’t the only one who looked at him as if he were a ghost. A frown fell on her lips at his comment. “If the roles were switched you’d have the same expression on your face.” She remarked, rubbing the brink of her nose before glancing back at the younger red. “That’s weird. Your story’s weird. Maybe you accidentally got shocked or something and it sparked life back in you.”

          The longer that Tate stared at Diem, the more frustrated he became. He was not upset with her, not in the least -- that would been unfair on his part if he was, and he knew she was just as confused as he was -- but his displeasure was only growing. He wanted answers, and so it seemed did everyone else. 

                 What could he say besides I don’t know? 

         He could have recounted the moments up to his... death over and over with certainty. He could explain what happened when he woke up. But the in between? The how, the why? A mystery. No one had answers.

                  ( Tate wanted to know: was a fluke? was it a one time thing? If he died again, would he die for real? He hated the use of the phrase ‘for real’ for sole reason that he had been certifiably dead, but it hadn’t been permanent. Why wasn’t it permanent? His simply asking questions could take up an entire day. )

         “ If the situations were reversed, I would have run screaming had I seen you walking around after you died -- so not quite the same. ” There was a slight grin on his face, and he offered up a slight shrug. His tone was wry, the harshness of it damped by his attempt of humor. 

          He listened to her reasoning, his lips parting slightly. “ I know that I don’t know why, but I don’t think that’s right, Diem. ” He came back because he came back. No one and nothing had anything to do with it. No one cared about the red boy who died ( current company excluded, of course ) and no one did until he wasn’t dead anymore. This was his doing -- he wasn’t sure how but he was certain of it.

[tatewhitcomb-blog]

octavianrhambos:

Octavian couldn’t believe his eyes. Was he hallucinating? Had all the stress and the chaos of the day gotten to him? He couldn’t really recall the last time he got a good night’s sleep, and he remembers days out in The Choke where exhaustion had gotten the better of him, his subconscious conjuring up any and everything it could to torture his tired mind. But this was different. He’d never imagined up the dead, let alone imagined them bumping into him and profusely apologizing. 

“I—I watched you—” his words fell short, his mouth clearly unable to keep up with all the racing thoughts in his head. He remembers it clearly, watching as the girl he’d been stranded with held this boy tight in her arms. They’d watched together as the life slipped from his eyes and Octavian remembers cursing himself and his own limitations for being unable to save him. 

He’s strong, and always has been—that’s obvious, just look at his muscles and watch as he lifts objects of impossible weight—but still, he’d been no match for the heavy weight of stone that had landed on the boy’s chest. His entire body had been smashed beneath the block. Both lungs and limps crushed beneath the weight. Even if Octavian had been able to lift it, nothing could have saved him. He’s strong, yes, but not that strong.

“I watched you die,” he finally chokes out, anger at his own mind beginning to course through his veins, cursing it for turning against him at a time like this. He takes a step closer toward the boy, reaching out and clamping a hand atop his narrow shoulder. It felt real, but anything can when you’re this deprived of sleep. 

           Tate wasn’t expecting the reaction he got from the older man, the hesitation and the shock, and he looked up with still-widened eyes. Watched him what ? He couldn’t think of anything he had done wrong in the past few hours, at least nothing that would upset anyone -- no one but Diem, of course. It was her arms that he had died him. It was she who watched him take his last breath. She was the only one there

                     Unless she wasn’t.                                 The idea struck him but --                       It was only Diem there. He was sure of it.                                             He wanted to be sure of it.

           But then Octavian spoke again, managing a whole sentence, and suddenly it felt like a pit had formed in Tate’s stomach. He had already felt guilty about Diem having to go through that, and now another? Suddenly, it felt like it would be harder and harder to convince people that his name being on the list of the dead was a mistake. Who had Diem told? ( Besides Bailey, of course ). Who did this Silver tell what he had seen? Who might they?

           “ Do you mind -- ” Tate took a step backwards, shrugging his shoulders as he tried to free himself of Octavian’s grasp. He could hear his heartbeat echoing in his ears and all he wanted to do was walk away ( he knew there was no getting away while they were all supposed to be in the bunker ). “ I’m sorry for making you watch that, like that must have been terrible. But I’m not dead anymore. ”

           The way Tate sounded -- the words made no sense. Who would believe him? I was dead but then I wasn’t dead. “ Do you mind letting go of me? ” His voice sounded tired. He was tired. 

[tatewhitcomb-blog]

jacob-riley:

Nothing had felt quite right since the explosion. First the mess of panic as he had desperately screamed Samantha’s name in attempt to find them. Then came the long hours of work in the bunker, doing what little could be done to make being trapped there knowing death and destruction lay above in mass amounts. And yet, seeing Tate was what made it all hit him how horrible today’s events were.

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t make a joke. He didn’t even smile. Tate and Melody were the two people who were constant lights at all time in all circumstance. Yet here he stood in front of him looking just as worn and weary as everyone else. Jacob had known it was serious–how could a fucking explosion in the palace be anything but serious–but he suddenly felt the weight of it. The sobs he’d heard in the bunker below weren’t annoyances, they were very, very real and things were very very wrong.

“Of course,” Jacob replied, slowly, almost confused. It was jarring somehow to see the normally smiling boy so…unhappy. It didn’t suit him. He wasn’t quite sure how to deal with him. The annoyingly optimistic boy throwing out jokes at his expense? He could handle that. That was familiar. This was altogether foreign and unknown. “I’m sure she wanted to be. Would have been if she knew.” Did she know her cousin was injured? It was hard to tell in all the confusion. “There’s dozens of people injured. Some even worse. And you know we don’t get to pick who gets help first. It’s nothing to worry about.”

“I’m fine. Sam is too. She wasn’t near the blast thank god.” He had to keep reminding himself of that. Sam was okay. She was out of harms way. She was safe. She was alive. It had only been a few minutes he had feared for his sister’s life, but those moments felt like hours that had drive spines through his heart he still wasn’t fully recovered from. Maybe if he was, he would have noticed just how far from normal his friend’s demeanor was.

Only Tate could think that much blood isn’t a big deal.He had, Jacob supposed, lost a limb already. Blood probably wasn’t new to him. This it was disconcerting to say the least. “Fuck, Tate come on.” He quickly reached over, turning over the crate that had been in his hands moments before and maneuvering the smaller boy into a sitting position on top of it. His task hardly mattered now. If not coming back with more bandages for the already saved because he was concerned for a friend was enough to cost him his job, then fuck the goddamned palace and every last person in it. “Where are you hurt, what’s the injury? I’ll go get something to wrap you up and then I’ll take you downstairs to see a healer. There’s plenty, they’ll be able to help.”

           The few things that seemed sensible right now were the words that Jacob had said. Tate’s own voice of reason had disappeared ( if it had ever been there in the first place, that is ) and he found himself nodding along with every new sentence and phrase that he heard. He swallowed, his brows furrowing together, before saying, “ Just -- let me know if you see her, yeah? ” He sounded calmer, but Tate had always had a one track mind. He would worry up until the point he saw Bailey with his own eyes.

          The if that Jacob said was getting under Tate’s skin and, though he was trying not to show it, he had felt his blood run cold. He started to shift where he stood, his gaze once again flitting over Jacob’s shoulders to any figure passing behind. She hadn’t been there when he woke up. Where he had simply though she had been busy before, The idea of Bailey finding out – what if she already knew what happened? what if she thought he had died –

          Tate was pulled out of his thoughts when he realized that he was no longer positioned where he had been -- and then he was sitting. He would have been offended if he hadn’t known Jacob was just worried about him, and probably would have argued, but instead he let himself be pushed into sitting. “This is completely unnecessary, you know?”

          He reached his hand out, making a shooing gesture towards Jacob. “ I’m fine. I promise. Like, if you’d seen me like five hours, I wouldn’t have been able to say I was fine. I wouldn’t have been able to say anything because there was -- ” he cut himself off, shaking his head. “ That doesn't matter. What does is that the healers patched me all up. No more open injuries. ” No more being dead. 

          “ Really, Jake. They looked me over, and they did... what they could. I just didn’t get a change of clothes. There were other more pressing matters that weren’t exactly me. ” The more pressing matters were why he came back to life, not necessarily that it was him who came back to life. He was sure in the scheme of things that it was all semantics to them, but he still had many questions that likely wouldn’t be answered.

[octavianrhambos]

THICK WITH THE SCENT OF CHAOS

DATE: March 19th TIME: 8:52 PM LOCATION: Bunker STATUS: Open to all

The sobs of a woman to his right drowns out all other sounds. A room this size, with as many people as there are in here, should be filled with chatter, enough to drown out anyone’s thoughts, but all Octavian can hear are this woman’s sobs. No matter what corner he runs to, who he talks to, he can only hear her. The sound of absolute grief, pulling at his heartstrings, gnawing at his conscience. It’s been nearly an hour and now her wails are starting to affect his head, resonating just behind his eyes in a strong ache, consuming all his other senses. 

Goddamnit.

He rubs irritably at his temples, willing her to keep quiet, to let the others within the bunker get some rest, get some peace, but her pain is clearly more than anyone else’s. At least that’s how it seems as she widens her mouth once again, sucking in another long gasp for air, only to exhale it a moment later in the same octave as a small child. Jesus Christ.

“For God’s sake, woman!” He turns and yells at her, but instantly regrets it and bends at the knee to apologize, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but you—” he stops momentarily, reaching behind him for a glass of water atop the table closest to him. “Here,” he offers it up and she takes it with a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes; she’s still scared after his outburst, and he doesn’t blame her. “I’m sorry,” he offers again, “it’s been a rough day for all of us.” He stresses the fact that everyone has lost someone. He doesn’t want to diminish her pain, her sacrifice, he just wants to get her to shut up. Any other day and the entire incident would have laid on his conscience for weeks on end, but he’s already had someone die right in front of him today, and he’s seen his best friend lose his soul. He’s had enough. 

He gives her a pat on the shoulder and a sympathetic smile, reaching into his back pocket as he stands and pulls out a handkerchief. It’s red and folded three times in half, sentimental, yes, but in the moment he can’t remember why and hands it to her anyway. “Thank you,” she whispers, barely audible and he nods before turning on his heels to head back into the crowd, but he’s stopped abruptly as he slams into someone hard. “Watch where you’re fucking going,” he barks, not in the mood for carelessness right now, nor rudeness.

[tatewhitcomb-blog]

          Having confirmation that Bailey was alive was soothing. It was a relief. All of his worries had been gone. ( All of his outward worries, at least. Tate still had the worries of what this -- this second life -- meant for him. Was it a one time thing? Was it a fluke? Would it happen again? Questions still ran through his mind about himself, but at least his family and closest friends were safe. ) He talked to those still in the bunker, a smile on his face, jokes flying off his tongue in an attempt to break the tension. He knew where the line was drawn, he knew who he could joke to and who he was better off speaking to softly and comforting.

          It was nice to be having a conversation in the bunker. It broke the alarming sound of silence. It provided a distraction to the sounds of sniffling and screaming and crying. Both the quiet and noise caused his heart to ache. At least his conversations could be productive. People could talk about how they felt -- their pain, the sorrows -- and Tate could provide someone they could bounce their thoughts off of. Though sad, he would rather be helping than doing nothing. Tate, in essence, in both normal situations and not, was a distraction.

                   He offered a smile to his friend, murmuring a goodbye, before he took a step                    backwards --

          The feeling of someone walking into him nearly took the breath out of his lungs. He was, however, grateful that it wasn't a piece of a stone that had slammed into him this time. 

                   Little things -- that's what he had to be thankful for. 

         Already apologies had started spilling from his lips as he turned around fully, and he couldn’t help but jump at the sound of the angry voice behind him. He raised his complete arm upwards, fingers splayed in the air, in a gesture of surrender. “ Sorry, I should have been looking behind me when I moved, but I didn’t, and -- Are you alright? I’m j -- sorry. ”

[tatewhitcomb-blog]

diemhynson:

Diem felt awful. Not only did she feel like something was off with her, a feeling that happened as soon as Tate died in her arms, but she also had to break the news to Bailey that her cousin was dead. It was an awful thing— to see someone lose someone they care about. She was thankful that her dad died when she was too young to really mourn him and her mom was still alive and well. 

But, what if she wasn’t? Diem hadn’t seen her mom since she was dragged away from her village and thrown into Isla’s shop. For all she knew her mom could be dead and she didn’t get any notice of it because silvers have more important things then breaking the news to a red that her mom passed. And what about Rosa? Diem hadn’t heard from her in so long. What if their last moments together was their last?

No. Diem refused to think like that. She didn’t have a lot of people she truly cared about, so to think of the worse for the few she had was doing nothing but hurting her. She’d rather focus on all of the people that survived the attack and how grateful she was to still have them around.

Diem was wandering around the bunker searching for a familiar face to talk to when she saw someone walking over to her. She couldn’t tell who it was at first, but as the boy came closer to her her face turned a ghastly shade of pale. She knew she must be mistaken— since she felt Tate die in her arms. How was he still alive and walking around as if nothing happened?

She stared at him as he talked as if he merely cut a finger not get crushed by debris. She squinted at him before reaching over and pressing a finger to his cheek to see if he was merely her imagination or not. Not would be the right answer seeing as he felt solid and warm. 

“How are you still?? I mean, you died. I felt you die in my arms. How are you walking around?”

         She seemed displeased to see him. At least, that’s what he assumed looking at her. She looked shocked, the way her face paled and the way she stared. In hindsight, he rationalized that she had all the right to seem startled -- though that didn’t take away from the hurt he felt at the time. He matched her gaze with ease, but it wavered when he felt her fingertip on his cheek. He pulled a face, mocking a fake wince, before saying, " Was that necessary? "

                 I felt you die in my arms. 

                           That answered his question.

        Those words felt like a blow had been struck to him, and he could only look at her with wide eyes. What a terrible thing it must have been to watch someone ( you, she watched you, his mind whispered again ) die. Tate could hardly imagine what that would be like, and again he felt the urge to apologize.

                   ( Maybe her checking to see if he were real, alive, was the only possible reaction. )

        She had confirmed what he had thought. He had died.         He had been completely and truly dead.

                 How are you still -- ? How are you walking around?

        Tate's lips parted as if he were readying himself to speak, but all that came out was a sigh. He had no answer for her -- the sole thing he could give her was a slight shrug of his shoulders. " My guess would be as good as yours. " His gaze turned towards the ground, his brows knitting together. " I remember hearing the explosion, and then th -- " his voiced faltered, and he forced himself to swallow the lump in his throat so that he could continue " -- and then there was just pain. Overwhelming pain. I remember your face, but after that there was nothing. "

        There was a point on the wall behind her that Tate found himself staring at it. Saying all of this aloud seemed utterly unreal. He had run the course of events in his mind, but speaking them to someone? 

                 It was entirely different. 

        Even from his own tongue, it felt fake. It felt unreal. From Diem's expression, he knew he shouldn't have been standing in front of her -- he should have been standing in front of anyone.

                 But here he was. Fine, in all sense of the word. He was alive.

        " After that, I woke up with a ton of healers around me, and I swear they looked like they had seen a ghost -- " he paused, a smile edging onto his lips " -- not quite unlike how you look right now actually. It's not the best expression on you, you know. "

[jacalynblake]

location ;; the bunkers date ;; 03/20, 5:24 a.m. status ;; open

     It had been a long night, far too long and gruesome for her liking. Her knees were pulled up to her chest as she sat on the ground, not quite leaning against the wall for fear of even more agonizing pain aside than the constant ache that still plagued her. Jacalyn Blake had never seen anything quite so horrible in her life as the aftermath of the attack. She couldn’t even have imagined something so awful could happen in the world that had always been so kind to her. But it was clear that her rose-colored glasses had failed her this time as she sat in a blood-encrusted gown with a borrowed shawl pulled tight across her back. She had stopped crying a while ago, but her tears had made tracks through the blackened smoke that layered her face. Although she had nearly dozed off a dozen times through the night despite the worried talk and crying that pervaded the bunker, every time her eyes would close and she would slowly fall back on her injuries thus awakening her once more. 

     So there she sat for most of the night, not speaking or moving or sleeping. A state of shock, she thought, finally glancing around her to see the other survivors. “Portia,” she finally said, her voice low and shaking slightly. “Does anyone know if she’s alright?” She’d been separated from her unconscious friend shortly after the explosion. Jack supposed it might have been selfish to only now think of her friend, but so much had happened in such a short amount of time. And for a while, all she could focus on was the harrowing pain in her spine. She pulled the shawl tighter around her, wincing at the added pressure on her wounds. “What happened?”

[tatewhitcomb-blog]

          Bleary-eyed, it was taking more and more effort to keep himself awake. His head had grown fuzzier with the passing of time; his thoughts had grown sluggish despite them still racing. All Tate wanted to do was sleep, but it seemed unlikely.

                   ( Was it a good thing to know that death could be just as exhausting as living? ) 

          He had tried to go to sleep earlier, or to at least try and let his body rest, but each time, just as he nearly fell asleep, adrenaline began to course through his veins shocking him awake again. Despite being physically exhausted, his mind was just too alive.

                    ( His mind was alive. He was alive. All good things. He couldn’t be more thankful. )

          A voice from his right caught his attention, and Tate looked over to see Jack. A pitying expression crossed his face. She looked a mess -- he scolded himself for thinking so, but everyone did look out of sorts. Jack just seemed worse. They really had never been too close, but she was easy to talk to. He appreciated her kindness, her gentleness. 

                    ( This entire situation was unfair. All those people hurt, all those who died. He                       couldn’t believe that it was deserved. He saw the injustices, he knew how people                       felt. But was death the way to cause change? )

         “ Portia’s alive. She’s fine, ” Tate paused, his head dipping down as he mumbled, “ Or at least as fine as anyone could be right now. ” If anyone would say to him they were fine, he would doubt them. He himself said he was fine but he had died. He wasn’t as fine as he’d prefer to be. Everyone was surely feeling the stress, the anxieties, the pain.

          What happened? Her voice echoed in his head, earning a sigh from him. “ There was an explosion. It -- it went off right after the king finished speaking. Everyone in the gathering hall, the hallways. Hurt. ” There was an unspoken ‘or worse’ lingering on his lips. 

         “ How are you feeling? ” He wasn’t sure how long he had been sitting by her now, but he had watched her as she stayed so still for so long. “ Do you need me to get you anything? They’ve got wet rags down here, or I could find a healer or someone -- Bailey, maybe -- if you’d like? ”

[tatewhitcomb-blog]

jacob-riley:

Jacob’s panic had slowly–very slowly–drained from him after finding Samantha alive and well and unharmed, but it still hadn’t left him. Not completely. There had been those minutes, that long, hectic near hour, where he thought he had lost her. Where his mind spun with fear until he thought he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t bury his final sibling. He just couldn’t. It would have destroyed him. And though there had been the sweet relief of pulling her into his arms and kissing her head and scanning her clothes for any sight of blood that could be hers, he still could not put it from his mind.

Since finding his sister, he’d been brushed back into (as always) work. Making sure all the Silvers had made it safely to the bunker. Making his way around ,collecting the buckets filled with dirtied and bloodied water that was being used for people to slowly cleanse themselves. Gathering up scraps of bandages and discarded, blood soaked clothing. There was always work to be done in the palace, even in the midst of a massive crisis. Even in the midst of death. Even surrounded by people sobbing over loved ones, there was so little time to pause. It seemed this country knew so little in how to properly grieve, he thought.

It was nearly dinner time and the people below grounds were growing restless. Among their physical pain and mental pain came hunger pains. Jacob couldn’t keep his angry mind from reeling, even now, even in the face of this tragedy. It’s only been a few hours. Let them go days like I did as a child. See how things are then. But it wasn’t just Reds swept away in the bunkers, it was the pampered and spoiled Silvers as well. Jacob was unsurprised when he and a small group of other servants were gathered together to be sent after food, fresh water, and more bandages. Because who really cared if the workers were sent above to be killed by whomever had bombed the entire castle. 

At least Sam wasn’t in the group. It was very little to be thankful for really, but after a day like today, he would cling to the knowledge that his sister was alive and safe as though it were the very oxygen so desperately needed by his lungs.

Most of the group headed off toward the kitchen to see what food could be found, but knowing his way to the healer quarters thanks to what time he spent with Bailey, he headed off to go get more medical supplies. He almost didn’t recognize the figure in front of him; he didn’t until he got close enough for them to speak to him.

“Tate?” he looked down at the younger boy. “I think she’s in the bunker helping with the healers. I’ve passed by her, I think she’s okay.” Think. Like think could ease his mind. But there’d so many faces they’d all blurred together, the only one he could clearly remember seeing, his sister’s. But as his eyes kept roaming over him, his face dropped into worry. 

His clothes seemed covered in blood. And red blood, crimson blood, their blood.Bailey, she was a medic, she would have jumped in to save someone who could plausibly be producing that much blood but Tate? And to only just be making his way to the bunker? He quickly set aside the crate he’d meant to use carrying supplies. “Tate, there’s blood all over you. Is-” he stopped himself. It couldn’t be. It didn’t even make sense to ask the question. “Is this your blood?”

         Jacob. It should have been a relief to see his friend: Tate should have been sporting a grin, and then he should have spouted off a joke to diffuse the tension that lingered in the air. It’s what he would have done normally -- granted, this was no normal situation -- but his mind was elsewhere. He seemed off. He was off.

                 ( Could he blame himself for not being his usual self?                    The events of the day would be jarring to anyone, and                    to add on top on top of that what he personally was                    dealing with? He deserved a break. )

        Instead, he waited to hear what Jacob would say about his cousin.

                ( His priorities were off. He should have had more concern for himself. He should have--                   there were many ways he could have reacted, many of which would have seemed                   more rational, more correct for the situation. )

       He wasn’t thrilled with the answer he got.

                 Still, I think was better than I don’t know.                  Tate could appreciate that.                  He did appreciate it.

        “ Alright, thank you. That makes sense. ” The words were spoken slowly, but Tate took a breath, nodding. She was doing her job. She would be considered nothing short of valuable in this situation. He knew this. “ I just thought she would have been there with the other healers when I woke up. ” When I came back to life. “ She wasn’t and I guess I started to worry. ”

                         One appropriate response from him so far.

                A beat passed and Tate found himself looking over Jacob’s shoulder. It took a moment to bring his attention back to the conversation, towards Jacob. “What about you? Are you ok? Is Sam fine?” Genuine concern did pass through his voice. He did care about their well-beings. Though, it seemed his questions were afterthoughts, as if he were rambling.

                “ Blood? Wh-- ” Tate glanced down towards what he wore at Jacob’s mention of it, but his reaction was more blasé than his friend’s. “ Oh. ” He seemed unfazed. As if it were no big deal. “ I -- technically, yes, it is probably my blood. I can’t say I really want to lay claim to it considering it’s no longer in my body, but whether it was or it is, there’s really no difference, is there?” 

[thequotejournals]

I would rather die of passion than of boredom.

Vincent van Gogh (via wordsnquotes)

[tatewhitcomb-blog]

DATE: March 19th LOCATION: The Bunker TIME: approximately 6:00 pm OPEN TO: @diemhynson​

          Still no Bailey. Fine. No worries. There was probably someone that needed her attention more than him, and he could find someone else to bother talk to. He walked down the stairs to the bunker -- someone had to point them out to him, seeing as he couldn’t exactly follow everyone else down when they went -- squinting as faces came into focus. His gaze passed over most of them quickly, none of them who he wanted to see.

                    ( he chastised himself for that. some of them were his friends, and he knew he should be grateful to see them alive, but bailey was family. his priorities were missed up, he was shaken. he just needed to let time pass. he needed his thoughts to settle and to compose himself. )

          His shoulders fell, and finally he descended down the last few stairs. He could wait it out. Tate could wait, he thought, earning a cough of a laugh from himself at the attempt of the rhyme. There were people in the bunker he could talk to. Or at least he could listen to the conversation they were having. Those could be good distractors from thought of his cousin.

                    It was only when Tate caught glimpse of a face towards the side of the room that his thoughts of Bailey were all but forgotten. He stopped in his tracks, turning towards Diem -- she was the last person he can remember seeing. “Diem, hi,” he looked startled at the sight of her. If she had really been the last to see him -- did she know he died? Did she think he was dead? 

                             ( well, he was dead. just now, he wasn’t. the death was undid.                                tate was unsure how much he really wanted to think about it.                                he was curious, yes, but it seemed a little rude to look a gift                                horse in the mouth so soon, at least. )

          He glanced down towards his clothes -- his shirt and pants were speckled with now rust-colored sports of blood, some small and some... not -- before returning his gaze towards her.  “Hope I didn’t get blood or anything on you earlier. I know clothes can be expensive. I didn’t really mean it, but maybe I could give you what I can to help you afford replacements?”

[tatewhitcomb-blog]

DATE: March 19th LOCATION: Corridors leading towards the Bunker TIME: approximately 5:15 pm OPEN TO: all

           Thoughts of what had happened earlier in day ran through Tate’s head, repeating in cycles as he tried to get a grasp on it. An explosion had gone off within the hall, and all who stood within it were in the crosshairs -- himself included.

          Tate had died -- that was the one of the few things in his mind he was completely certain of. The last thing he remembered before the bomb went off was that he speaking to Diem -- about what, he couldn’t quite remember, likely just idle chatter -- but then he was overwhelmed by sensations of pain throughout his body and suddenly a pair of warm arms wrapped around him. 

                             After that: nothing. 

                    A voice in his mind whispered, ‘You died.’ The credence he held to this thought was overwhelming.

          It was because of the nothingness he had felt. Blank, numbing. It was a feeling unlike any other he had had before. This alone had him convinced. But if had not been for that, then instead for the healers who had surrounded him with wide eyes, their whispers barely audible as they talked between themselves. They did what they needed to do to heal his injuries, not answering his questions. It seemed that they had just as many. When he was feeling well enough, ironic, considering he thought he shouldn’t even be able to stand right then, he left when their backs were turned. There were likely people who needed their help more than him.

                     ( Tate, you died, but now you’re alive again. You’re breathing. You’re okay. Don’t be asking for too much more. )

          What bothered him the most was that he hadn’t seen Bailey within the group of people. Healers were not the most prevalent of people, he knew, but it did seem like an awful lot had been near him -- why hadn’t Bailey been a part of that group? He needed to find her. Tate couldn’t call to mind the last time he had seen her. Surely he would have remembered if she had been in the gathering hall? Still, there had been many people there, and odds were he didn’t get to see all of them, but he hoped that his cousin hadn’t been there.

          He had heard one of the healers say that most of those in the palace had been gathered into the bunkers beneath the castle. That seemed the next most likely place for his cousin to be, if not helping with the rest of the men and women who seemed to not have enough hands to go around. The hallway was empty, unnervingly so, as he walked down it. Noises echoed off of the walls, and Tate could only hope someone would come around soon enough.

          Out of almost nowhere, it seemed ( or maybe Tate wasn’t paying quite enough attention to the world around him instead of his thoughts ), he saw another figure in the hall. Stepping in front of them before they could walk past, he asked, “ You wouldn’t have happened to see Bailey Whitcomb, would you? She’s a healer and -- ” he gestured back towards the direction he had come from “ -- I didn’t see her over there, and I just want to make sure she’s okay, you know? ”

[ofsilverevents-blog]

The pain is… indescribable. There is something heavy through your chest, and when you try to push it off, the wrenching pain leaves you gasping. You feel embarrassed as drool seems to slip from your mouth, but when you look down, it’s blood, thick and Red and dripping down your chin. Everything feels heavier as you crash to the floor, and though you feel warm arms pull you closer, your eyelids are too heavy to peer through. Instead, you try in vain to lift your arm, thinking it would be really sick if someone had to take more pieces out of you next. The pain ebbs away, and as you fade… you die. You’re sure of it. The world is dark, and no memory penetrates the blackness. Yet hours later, when someone begins to move your lifeless body, you gasp back into life, eyes wide, a sickening cough in your throat. You hear calls for healers, feel yourself being taken to a room that’s far too bright, but you know something is wrong. How can you be alive when you were so certain you were dead?

TATE WHITCOMB — Resurrection (x) ; Tate has the ability to bring himself or others back to life. This includes animals and plants as well. On himself, his ability takes a few minutes to kick in. On others, the body must be whole and intact and not overly decayed – he cannot bring a corpse long-dead back to life, for example. If there is small decay, but the body still wholly resembles what it once looked like, he can revive and restore it to the original life-like state using touch. It will, however, be in the exact condition it was when they died, meaning they will only have a few minutes to live before they die again. This process exhausts Tate, so he would be unable to revive people too many times before they became entirely dead. Therefore, it’s best he does this while there are healers in the area.