raisedbymoogles (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
raisedbymoogles) wrote2017-08-20 01:21 am
raisedbymoogles) wrote2017-08-20 01:21 am
Entry tags:
Based on my dream from last night.
Also based on the fact that this is a canon rich with potential for AUs.
*
Power makes her head spin, after a lifetime of having none. She runs up walls, shatters concrete barriers, plows through the guards who try to stop her like they’re nothing. Even the monsters who patrol the borders can’t slow her down.
She’s never been more terrified in her life.
Part of it stems from having no idea where she’s running to; something in the sunrise-pink power that subsumes her is tugging her forward, into the wildlands between work camps, but what’s out there that’s kinder than what awaits her back there is beyond her. The Empress has eyes everywhere, even in the skies over the empty wasteland, and she is sure there is no escape for her out here. She should stop now, surrender, beg for a quick death and for mercy for her family. She does not. Her feet carry her out and out, faster than any normal human could run, drawn forward by a call that fills her head with impossible wordless promises.
Promises like hope. Promises like freedom.
Scrublands leads to canyons that twist in on themselves endlessly, and it is here that she halts at last. Her steps echo oddly here, and when she sinks to her knees to catch her breath, a square hatch opens in the ground before her as though her presence were a signal, or a key. She climbs down, half-blinded by cascading sand.
Underground it is cool and dim, soothing the initial fever of her power, and there are massive metal constructs that obligingly bend their heads for her to touch. Over it all a solemn voice echoes: ”Welcome, Pink Ranger.”
*
Power makes her head spin, after a lifetime of having none. She runs up walls, shatters concrete barriers, plows through the guards who try to stop her like they’re nothing. Even the monsters who patrol the borders can’t slow her down.
She’s never been more terrified in her life.
Part of it stems from having no idea where she’s running to; something in the sunrise-pink power that subsumes her is tugging her forward, into the wildlands between work camps, but what’s out there that’s kinder than what awaits her back there is beyond her. The Empress has eyes everywhere, even in the skies over the empty wasteland, and she is sure there is no escape for her out here. She should stop now, surrender, beg for a quick death and for mercy for her family. She does not. Her feet carry her out and out, faster than any normal human could run, drawn forward by a call that fills her head with impossible wordless promises.
Promises like hope. Promises like freedom.
Scrublands leads to canyons that twist in on themselves endlessly, and it is here that she halts at last. Her steps echo oddly here, and when she sinks to her knees to catch her breath, a square hatch opens in the ground before her as though her presence were a signal, or a key. She climbs down, half-blinded by cascading sand.
Underground it is cool and dim, soothing the initial fever of her power, and there are massive metal constructs that obligingly bend their heads for her to touch. Over it all a solemn voice echoes: ”Welcome, Pink Ranger.”