Dawn Roberts (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
im_a_librarian) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
nextgenerationmarvel2012-12-07 08:15 pm
im_a_librarian) wrote in nextgenerationmarvel2012-12-07 08:15 pm
Entry tags:
Probably Going Crazy, but in New York, Who'd Notice? (open)
Dawn Roberts stifled a yawn as she left the Mid-Manhattan Library where she worked. It was about six pm and, while it hadn't been that long a day, she still felt exhausted. Which, in its own way, was pretty weird, since she didn't seem to get tired from just physical exertion these days. Not since...
Not since she'd been stabbed. There. She's said it. Since... something had happened. She should have died. She wasn't entirely certain that she hadn't died. Because something had to have happened. If it had just been the sudden change in strength and durability and stamina, she might have suspected she was a mutant, like her cousin David, but she was pretty sure that mutant powers a) manifested earlier and b) didn't come with a sometimes invisible sword and the ability to fight like something out of Braveheart.
The real question was, why was she still hanging on to the sword? Which, the voices which sometimes occupied her head, was apparently called Dragonfang. She could have very easily dropped it in the sewer or in the pond in Central Park or something, but it just felt profoundly wrong whenever she thought about it.
But her nights were filled with dreams of battle and blood and fighting and drinking. Too real, like memories, memories she was certain were not her own.
She should probably see a psychiatrist, but considering her insurance probably wouldn't cover it and she didn't have nearly the kind of money needed to pay for it herself, well, she was just going to have to accept that she was either insane or possibly possessed
Right. Was there some point to all this inner monologing?
Tired. Right. She needed coffee.
Fortunately, this was New York and there was a Starbucks right across the street.
Not since she'd been stabbed. There. She's said it. Since... something had happened. She should have died. She wasn't entirely certain that she hadn't died. Because something had to have happened. If it had just been the sudden change in strength and durability and stamina, she might have suspected she was a mutant, like her cousin David, but she was pretty sure that mutant powers a) manifested earlier and b) didn't come with a sometimes invisible sword and the ability to fight like something out of Braveheart.
The real question was, why was she still hanging on to the sword? Which, the voices which sometimes occupied her head, was apparently called Dragonfang. She could have very easily dropped it in the sewer or in the pond in Central Park or something, but it just felt profoundly wrong whenever she thought about it.
But her nights were filled with dreams of battle and blood and fighting and drinking. Too real, like memories, memories she was certain were not her own.
She should probably see a psychiatrist, but considering her insurance probably wouldn't cover it and she didn't have nearly the kind of money needed to pay for it herself, well, she was just going to have to accept that she was either insane or possibly possessed
Right. Was there some point to all this inner monologing?
Tired. Right. She needed coffee.
Fortunately, this was New York and there was a Starbucks right across the street.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject