[ people die. or maybe death isn't the right word for it. does it count as death when bodies simply dissolve, when people become no more than dust fading in the wind, when all that's left is their name on her lips and their memories tucked away in places too painful to touch? it's disappearance, displacement — somehow, the world settles on vanished, a word that leans on the seeming impossibility of it all.
after all, it had seemed impossible to think that one second could be the difference between all and half. but then, so had giant green men and literal gods. the world was a different place before, and it was a different place after too.
in the wake of the vanishing, the world moves on, as best it can, and expects everyone else to do the same. it's not the same, though. governments crumble, stitched together in half-measures, emergency coalitions rallied to meet the needs; in the wake of the loss, communities collapse, homes and cars and jobs abandoned, half the world's population simply gone and the other half unable to meet the burden.
daisy survives. that's what she's supposed to call it, anyway. her feet remain planted firmly on the ground when her teammates' begin to float into impossible nothingness, her eyes stay open when the smoke and dust clears; she's still standing when the echo of jemma's painful cry for help and mack's low gasp disappear from the air. (they never quite leave her head, though.)
she survives, but it doesn't feel like surviving. shield is a crumble of dust, ironically, and though a smattering of bodies still answer the call, daisy can't. she sheds her jacket and her badge, she takes her van from storage, and she leaves. she drives until she hits a city that lets her slip into anonymity — easy, in the aftermath of so many lost, to pick up another identity, to play into the stories of people on their own, of those just looking for a new life.
and, for the most part, a new life is what she gets. in the aftermath of the vanishing, the tide rises; people want to know how and why and who could have prevented this. they want to know what secrets were kept from them (everything), they want to know what they could have done differently (nothing), they want answers and information and all the pieces of a puzzle daisy thought was put together and thrown away long ago. she gives it. she makes a living, she finds a path, and for the most part, daisy lives her life.
she even tries therapy. group sessions, mostly, where she can listen and commiserate and share knowing looks over cups of weak coffee; individual sessions still make her think of andrew garner, so she opts out of those. group sessions feel easier, somehow, though she's careful to change groups every so often. keep her head down, keep herself anonymous. she thinks she's doing a good job of it, too — until one tuesday afternoon, when the rain had come down hard enough that daisy didn't want to waste another few hours waiting for the late night option, when she runs into a face that's impossible not to recognize.
she tries not to stare, but every so often, as the invisible baton of sharing passes around, she finds their gazes meeting over unexpected agreement; every so often, she finds herself speaking up when she might have otherwise kept quiet, talking around names but mentioning places, peppering in reality when she might have lingered in half-truths. she finds herself lingering, too, finding flimsy excuses to keep from bolting — waiting for the rain to pass, helping to stack chairs, chatting with another woman about a local volunteer organization, anything to make the minutes tick away on the clock until they're the only two people remaining in the room.
until they're face to face, and she begins to wonder why she ever thought she could run in the first place. ]
like the world is gonna end.
after all, it had seemed impossible to think that one second could be the difference between all and half. but then, so had giant green men and literal gods. the world was a different place before, and it was a different place after too.
in the wake of the vanishing, the world moves on, as best it can, and expects everyone else to do the same. it's not the same, though. governments crumble, stitched together in half-measures, emergency coalitions rallied to meet the needs; in the wake of the loss, communities collapse, homes and cars and jobs abandoned, half the world's population simply gone and the other half unable to meet the burden.
daisy survives. that's what she's supposed to call it, anyway. her feet remain planted firmly on the ground when her teammates' begin to float into impossible nothingness, her eyes stay open when the smoke and dust clears; she's still standing when the echo of jemma's painful cry for help and mack's low gasp disappear from the air. (they never quite leave her head, though.)
she survives, but it doesn't feel like surviving. shield is a crumble of dust, ironically, and though a smattering of bodies still answer the call, daisy can't. she sheds her jacket and her badge, she takes her van from storage, and she leaves. she drives until she hits a city that lets her slip into anonymity — easy, in the aftermath of so many lost, to pick up another identity, to play into the stories of people on their own, of those just looking for a new life.
and, for the most part, a new life is what she gets. in the aftermath of the vanishing, the tide rises; people want to know how and why and who could have prevented this. they want to know what secrets were kept from them (everything), they want to know what they could have done differently (nothing), they want answers and information and all the pieces of a puzzle daisy thought was put together and thrown away long ago. she gives it. she makes a living, she finds a path, and for the most part, daisy lives her life.
she even tries therapy. group sessions, mostly, where she can listen and commiserate and share knowing looks over cups of weak coffee; individual sessions still make her think of andrew garner, so she opts out of those. group sessions feel easier, somehow, though she's careful to change groups every so often. keep her head down, keep herself anonymous. she thinks she's doing a good job of it, too — until one tuesday afternoon, when the rain had come down hard enough that daisy didn't want to waste another few hours waiting for the late night option, when she runs into a face that's impossible not to recognize.
she tries not to stare, but every so often, as the invisible baton of sharing passes around, she finds their gazes meeting over unexpected agreement; every so often, she finds herself speaking up when she might have otherwise kept quiet, talking around names but mentioning places, peppering in reality when she might have lingered in half-truths. she finds herself lingering, too, finding flimsy excuses to keep from bolting — waiting for the rain to pass, helping to stack chairs, chatting with another woman about a local volunteer organization, anything to make the minutes tick away on the clock until they're the only two people remaining in the room.
until they're face to face, and she begins to wonder why she ever thought she could run in the first place. ]