Disclaimer: I own nothing, but the words on this page.
Outside of our world, there is a hidden home of sorts - a base of operations for those who fight for justice, love and life. It is a place of safety and family and pressure and worries, but for now it is empty.
(The silence echoes like the footsteps that tread there.)
Inside, you'll find a field of trees all clustered together, their leafy branches barely high enough to graze the head of a passerby as they slip past the large trunks.
(As many often do.)
There is a clearing amidst the great oaks - filled with the figures of the fallen.
(This is where they'll all end up someday.)
Visions of strength, bravery and determination - yet unseeing, unfeeling and not hearing.
(But they try not to think about that.)
There is one that is most visited here now - a figure of a young man in red and yellow.
(It's because it's a new addition.)
A raven haired youth - broken, battered and bruised from the inside out - comes and stands before the figure sometimes. He has the countenance and gait of a fearless leader, yet when he is here, his shoulders drop and the tears fall freely as he mumbles out sincere apologies to the ghostly image. (He feels like he's killed his best friend; and in a way he has.) Long ago has he left behind his youthful energy - replaced instead by the seriousness of the life he lives. His hands are deep in his jean pockets, cobalt eyes hidden behind his darkest shades. He's finally taken a break from everything; his uniform now hangs somewhere in the back of his closet, donned only when absolutely necessary.
(They were friends.)
A white haired young man who stands tall and walks with confidence will stand guard some days, staring up at the figure with eyes too wise for his youth. Sorrow washes over him like the crashing waves he loves so much, yet tears do not blur his vision. But he can feel his throat close and his mouth go dry at the sight of the familiar that will never be familiar again. He feels as if he's caught in the current of a whirlpool as the breath hitches in his lungs and he's overwhelmed with the emotions swirling around in him. (He feels as if he's betrayed a comrade.) The burden of secrets and lies he's carried around so long has finally been lifted off his chest, but the guilt clouding his mind is heavier than anything he's ever felt.
(They were teammates.)
A jaded Martian often floats in, landing softly in the places of greenery between the memorials, holding herself. She usually exudes grace and sweetness, but here, she finds herself filling with shame. She hasn't truly smiled in weeks, and you can see her fold in on herself as she stares up into the unseeing eyes of the fallen. She feels as if she should have apologized, and hugged him once more, perhaps told him how much he made her feel like family. She feels like she could have done something - like she could have saved him. A dark haired young man often comes in with her, standing solemnly before the image, holding onto the girl with sympathy. You can see that he's trying to be strong - (for that's all he's ever known how to do) - but you can see that his sapphire eyes are cloudy and he tries to blink away the tears.
(They were family.)
A young boy comes often, but he's not so much of a boy as he used to be since he donned the suit. His suit. He looks almost exactly like the figure he stands in front of all the time. The boy looks around, reveling in the silence of the sacred grounds, his eyes always lingering sadly on the one who looks just like him. (He watched him fade.) An intake of breath can be heard in the silence as he tries - and fails - to keep the sobs from escaping.
(They were brothers.)
And if you wait patiently, you'll see a young woman - tall, blonde and masked. She comes in later than all the rest, so she knows that there is no one there but she. She sits in front of the figure and removes her mask, looking up at it as if he'll look back. (But she knows it can't.) And she talks. She talks as if it would talk back and laughs as if she expects it to laugh right along with her. She tells it all she can, pausing often to ask him something, a small sad smile forming on her face. You can tell - you can tell that she is trying so hard to keep it all together. You see her stand and face the image as she brushes off the back of her uniform and you see her smile and kiss it (him) on the cheek and you see her heart break because she feels nothing but air upon her lips. (For there never will be anything but air ever again.) You see her slip the mask on, but not before you see the tears spill from steel-gray eyes - leaving with a wistful look over her shoulder at eyes that she can no longer see, fingers she can no longer hold, lips she can no longer kiss.
(He was loved.)
And as you stand in this sacred place looking up at the figure that used to be more than a hologram - that once was flesh and blood, life and spirit - you wonder.
How does it feel to watch the figures of the fallen?
Whoa, it's been a while since I uploaded. There's just been so much change in my life recently that I haven't had time to just sit and relax and write. :) Hopefully, I'll be able to upload more soon!
It's been months since this show has been cancelled. And I still can't believe that they killed Wally. I've had this half finished and sitting on my evernote for the longest time.
Wholeheartedly with Love,
DarkHairedDreamer.