1964-11-20 - Dream A Little Dream
Summary: A prophetic dream, or just a really bad case of nighttime indigestion?
Related: Starfall
Theme Song: None
jean-grey rogue 

*OOC Note*: Written by Rogue, aimed at Jean as part of a plot.

She dreams…

An inferno of light boils up out of the sea and pierces the metallic halo around a silhouetted angel, a harbinger of the modern age wielding wires and television as his trump. He shouts a Word, and the Word is Treachery.

Newspapers burn in the wake of a fiery trail of plasma soaring past. The vaguely humanoid figure sweeps up on an arc past glass skyscrapers. The windows melt away into jagged chunks as the ascent reaches the stars, and their cruel glitter launches a salvo of countless missiles, lasers, things for which she has no name. He screams a Word, and the Word is Strife.

Shivering masses huddle on a pock marked street. The half-formed arches of a collapsed building offer little shelter. It's no gothic cathedral but a modern bank building reduced to a shell. Tears streak the children's gaunt and dirty faces. A shadow cuts diagonally across them, elongated body and limbs stretched out to the horizon. But the head is humanoid enough, and the glistening plastic like thing held gun-like in shape even if not a gun, not one at all.

The light dazzles a shocking green, and flesh and bone vaporize in the phosphorescent glow. Someone chuckles a Word, and the Word is Conquest.

Ink-dark shadows become a hooded figure, larger than a man, bowed like the crusading templars of yore. His gauntleted fist rests upon his knee. Brilliant light forming thin filaments, like ice, converge upon him from all directions and wrap around his wrists and ankles, disappearing under his cloak. The web holds him at the center, but confines him, and some of those strands burn an unwholesome shade of green when she looks too long. He whispers a Word, and the Word is Judgment.

A web of lights dance around her, fairy lights wrapped around a patio. People in fancy dress dance and hold their drinks, wrapped up in their own affairs. She hears so many languages — English, French, Russian, Mandarin, Hebrew, Italian, Turkish, Arabic — and they all speak the same Word, and the Word is Duplicity.

One by one the lights burn out, and when she looks up, the stars are falling. One by one they crash to the ground. Shadows turn away from the partiers, each one of them reaching out to tear the faces from the chattering, dancing people. Their expressions are still smiling when the shadows don the masks running like wax, solidified into flesh.

One raises her hand, and speaks a Word, and the Word is unheard because the force cracks the Earth and the sky as one.

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