Sacrifice (Paula Brooks, aka the Tigress)
by 'rith (kerithwyn@yahoo.com)
Archive: Ask first, please.
Timing: Set during "The Golden Age" Elseworlds by James Robinson.
Disclaimer: Characters and situation by DC, words by 'rith.
From the diary of Paula Brooks:
She's going back to him.
God, I can't even-- she's going *back.* To HIM. Even knowing who he really is!
He'll touch her and she won't flinch, because she's that strong. He'll watch her and sleep in her bed and *force* her--
I couldn't do it, Joan. I don't know how you can.
No, I do. Because you're a hero. And I'm just-- a reformed thief. I'm not like you or Lance. When they offered me the deal I took it, because I'd have been caught eventually and it was a convenient way to avoid prison. And I've tried, I really have. But sometimes those old impulses come back, like when you handed me the locked diary. The *thrill* of breaking into someone's secrets, that nasty little itch to get into places where I'm not supposed to be. Do things I'm not supposed to do.
But you're not like that. You're a good girl, America's sweetheart, a fairy-tale princess married to a fairy-tale prince. Except that it's rotten underneath, it's all rotten and no one knows what kind of hell you're trapped in. No one but you and me. You said you'd go back, and the men praised you for being a good soldier, and they just don't have any *idea.* They're sending you back to be hurt and raped and you can't tell, you can't even scream--
They can't *understand.* But I do.
You're just too innocent for this. I'd rescue you if I could. Protect you from things you never should have seen, never should have suffered. Get you the hell out of there and far, far away, somewhere that we could forget about costumes and villains and monsters who wear stolen human faces.
But you'd never go. You never even *considered* doing anything but going back and playing your role as the dutiful wife. And now you're spy, bait, distraction, and sacrifice, all in one. Hero to the--
Not that. God, not that. Be careful, Joan, be quiet. Do what I do and hide yourself in plain sight. Don't take *risks.* And maybe, maybe we'll both survive this.
Because if you don't, there really is nothing left to believe in.
{end entry}
Sacrifice (Joan Dale, aka Miss America)
by Carmen Williams (cewill8@yahoo.com)
Archive: Ask first, please.
Timing: Set during "The Golden Age" Elseworlds by
James Robinson.
Disclaimer: Characters and situation by DC, words by
Carmen.
Afterward, Joan lies quietly in the dark. There are bruises on her wrists, her neck, her breasts. The man who put them there is stretched on top of her, lost for once in dreamless slumber.
She lies still beneath him. Very, very still.
She's afraid that if she moves--if she even lets herself think about him touching her--she'll start to scream. Or try to run--
Would he let her go, she wonders?
Or would there be a terrible accident? Like poor James Forrestal. She'd wondered why, like everybody else, and never once thought-- Blind. Stupid.
Happy. So very happy... Even as she'd watched Tex slide from devoted to distracted to violent, even as she'd lain sleepless trying to understand why, she'd still been blissful in her ignorance, stubborn in her belief and her love for him.
Joan wonders, now, if she ever even knew him. If there was any piece of the real Tex Thompson in the man whose bright intensity seduced her, whose intent smiles captivated her, whose knowing hands caressed her.... And she doesn't know; she never met him. Before.
Some of the others did. But they're out of reach now, and all she can do is lie here and try not to think about it.
Because some part of her...still loves him. Even knowing. Even now. And if he was only ever a monster wearing a hero's corpse--
Then what does that make her?
She wants to shudder. Controls it.
She has to be in control, now; can't let it get to her. This is bigger than her, and she has to be strong, strong and brave. Like Paula.
Paula felt good. The heat of her anger, and fierce caring wrapped around Joan like she hasn't felt since...
She does not think about the last time she felt cared about.
And maybe she's just imagining it, anyway. Maybe Paula doesn't care at all. Because if...this...is true...then how can she know what's real anymore?
No, no, can't think like that, can't let herself spiral down into those places. That way lies madness--
And she can't laugh, but crying is okay, crying quietly won't wake him up. Because she *is* mad, anybody would say so. She thinks her lover, America's hero, is--
Is--
Don't think the name. Don't think the name. Thinking the name makes it too close, too real--too unbearable to know who's breathing against her right now--
She needs to be strong. Her country needs her to be strong. She just has to do this, just lie here and wait for the heroes to gather. Just wait.
Lie here and wait, and don't think about the thing that calls itself Tex Thompson. Don't think about the names she can't say.
Don't think about Paula, and feeling warm for a moment, because she has to be cold. Cold all through. That's the only way she can get through this.
Don't think about tomorrow. Don't think about after.
And Joan wonders if she even wants there to be an after, anymore.
{end}
by 'rith (kerithwyn@yahoo.com)
Archive: Ask first, please.
Timing: Set during "The Golden Age" Elseworlds by James Robinson.
Disclaimer: Characters and situation by DC, words by 'rith.
From the diary of Paula Brooks:
She's going back to him.
God, I can't even-- she's going *back.* To HIM. Even knowing who he really is!
He'll touch her and she won't flinch, because she's that strong. He'll watch her and sleep in her bed and *force* her--
I couldn't do it, Joan. I don't know how you can.
No, I do. Because you're a hero. And I'm just-- a reformed thief. I'm not like you or Lance. When they offered me the deal I took it, because I'd have been caught eventually and it was a convenient way to avoid prison. And I've tried, I really have. But sometimes those old impulses come back, like when you handed me the locked diary. The *thrill* of breaking into someone's secrets, that nasty little itch to get into places where I'm not supposed to be. Do things I'm not supposed to do.
But you're not like that. You're a good girl, America's sweetheart, a fairy-tale princess married to a fairy-tale prince. Except that it's rotten underneath, it's all rotten and no one knows what kind of hell you're trapped in. No one but you and me. You said you'd go back, and the men praised you for being a good soldier, and they just don't have any *idea.* They're sending you back to be hurt and raped and you can't tell, you can't even scream--
They can't *understand.* But I do.
You're just too innocent for this. I'd rescue you if I could. Protect you from things you never should have seen, never should have suffered. Get you the hell out of there and far, far away, somewhere that we could forget about costumes and villains and monsters who wear stolen human faces.
But you'd never go. You never even *considered* doing anything but going back and playing your role as the dutiful wife. And now you're spy, bait, distraction, and sacrifice, all in one. Hero to the--
Not that. God, not that. Be careful, Joan, be quiet. Do what I do and hide yourself in plain sight. Don't take *risks.* And maybe, maybe we'll both survive this.
Because if you don't, there really is nothing left to believe in.
{end entry}
Sacrifice (Joan Dale, aka Miss America)
by Carmen Williams (cewill8@yahoo.com)
Archive: Ask first, please.
Timing: Set during "The Golden Age" Elseworlds by
James Robinson.
Disclaimer: Characters and situation by DC, words by
Carmen.
Afterward, Joan lies quietly in the dark. There are bruises on her wrists, her neck, her breasts. The man who put them there is stretched on top of her, lost for once in dreamless slumber.
She lies still beneath him. Very, very still.
She's afraid that if she moves--if she even lets herself think about him touching her--she'll start to scream. Or try to run--
Would he let her go, she wonders?
Or would there be a terrible accident? Like poor James Forrestal. She'd wondered why, like everybody else, and never once thought-- Blind. Stupid.
Happy. So very happy... Even as she'd watched Tex slide from devoted to distracted to violent, even as she'd lain sleepless trying to understand why, she'd still been blissful in her ignorance, stubborn in her belief and her love for him.
Joan wonders, now, if she ever even knew him. If there was any piece of the real Tex Thompson in the man whose bright intensity seduced her, whose intent smiles captivated her, whose knowing hands caressed her.... And she doesn't know; she never met him. Before.
Some of the others did. But they're out of reach now, and all she can do is lie here and try not to think about it.
Because some part of her...still loves him. Even knowing. Even now. And if he was only ever a monster wearing a hero's corpse--
Then what does that make her?
She wants to shudder. Controls it.
She has to be in control, now; can't let it get to her. This is bigger than her, and she has to be strong, strong and brave. Like Paula.
Paula felt good. The heat of her anger, and fierce caring wrapped around Joan like she hasn't felt since...
She does not think about the last time she felt cared about.
And maybe she's just imagining it, anyway. Maybe Paula doesn't care at all. Because if...this...is true...then how can she know what's real anymore?
No, no, can't think like that, can't let herself spiral down into those places. That way lies madness--
And she can't laugh, but crying is okay, crying quietly won't wake him up. Because she *is* mad, anybody would say so. She thinks her lover, America's hero, is--
Is--
Don't think the name. Don't think the name. Thinking the name makes it too close, too real--too unbearable to know who's breathing against her right now--
She needs to be strong. Her country needs her to be strong. She just has to do this, just lie here and wait for the heroes to gather. Just wait.
Lie here and wait, and don't think about the thing that calls itself Tex Thompson. Don't think about the names she can't say.
Don't think about Paula, and feeling warm for a moment, because she has to be cold. Cold all through. That's the only way she can get through this.
Don't think about tomorrow. Don't think about after.
And Joan wonders if she even wants there to be an after, anymore.
{end}