chronal-anomaly

[chronal-anomaly]

@violetgleams asked:

let me make you some tea. any preference? || Lost The Meme

Lena extended both legs out, crossing them under the table. Battle-wary bones creaked with the effort, browns giving way to quickly-purpling violet beneath torn and shredded leggings as a memento from the days fight. While vigilantism was a new skillset, something to be learned, the fighting did not change. At least these days, the enemy didn't show up with homing missiles.

"Earl grey, if you're making it some already. Late night, huh?"

[chronal-anomaly]

@mercymedic asked:

“You can’t fly tonight, there’s a storm out there.” || Self Indulgent Winged Au

"I 'ave two hours, sure it'll be fine." Confident cheer chased away the residual down that stormed her brow and pressed her lips into thin lines. Angela wasn't wrong, thunderous clouds choked the distant skyline and the wind had outpaced their grasp to fold the trees over. Still, the wings sat folded along her shoulders, twitching gently at the premise of being freed from the harness hooked to her back.

"I'm just getting some air, be back in a flash. It'll be like I was never gone." The assurance slipped easily from her, punctuated easily by a grin that barely chased the scowl from her eyes.

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I need,,, an scp verse

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Know we haven't talked much but I want you to know I love your writing and portrayal of Lena, keep doing what you're doing ❤️ :3

Hello this is so cute thank you so much??? Made my day nonnie.

Feel free to drop a DM any time! I love making new friends on this hellsite.

[chronal-anomaly]

@ragesense asked:

'i want to help you. let me help you.” || Lost the meme -

"I gotta - let go, I gotta -" the red webbing that traced along the hero's suit blurred in her vision, concussion chasing away vision and giving the world a vibrant, glowing aura. Events strung together unevenly, chased by an unreal glean, of squealing tires and brakes burning red, of a child looking back at her. Lena launched upward from where she lay, the world tilting sickeningly around her, as she sought out the brown haired girl who had stood where a smoking wreck of a semi truck now lay on its side.

Crowds had gathered and the distant whine of emergency response pierced the air. Something automatic within her counted the injuries, a standing man with a gash bleeding freely into his face, another woman lay on the ground with her leg twisted grossly in the wrong direction. Others had minor wounds, glass leaving bloody trails in skin, and some carried that dreamy, disassociated look of trauma worming into the brain.

She was distantly aware of heat at her back, something warm that spelled trouble. Time, there isn't time, prioritize. Nonlethal - she can still feel fingers and toes, and the source of the blood is a few inches deep at best. Missed the important organs. Good.

"The girl," Lena wrenched her vision back into seeing single. Pea soup clouded her judgment and she found herself getting frustrated with the sluggish awareness. "Is she okay, the little girl that was standing there - I grabbed her, where is she -"

[chronal-anomaly]

The expedition between cell and medical ward dragged on, treacherous terrain of doubt and regret snapping at the wheels of the table, heels of her feet. Friends don't strap friends to tables, don't wrap wirey limbs around their bodies and choke them into unconsciousness and drag them in for medical testing. Friends don't try to kill each other. Degrees of separation blurred, Cole's steadfast determination compared to Lena's blind hope and foolish optimism; this does not fit in a black or white category and she doubted herself.

"We're not going to kill you." Her voice remained resolute, unwavering. She was grateful to move, to have a mission. Something to avoid those words born of claws and anger, of a commitment to escape or death via any means possible. Maybe I don't know you. Not this version of you. But that's not going to stop me, either.

"Fine. You know of me. What of you." Darkness flickered in her eyes as she gazed down at him, upside down. A promise of rage, of loss and grief splitting through the cracks in her walls. A promise of revenge, against Talon. "What does Talon call you? Where do you go, when you are not killing?"

Lena had been in planes caught in their final death spiral before. Had faced down barrels of guns that promised doom, held bombs that delivered it. Little surprised her anymore, but the snap of metal barely resisting Cole's determined wrist sent her hands jumping to the familiar grip of her pulse weapon.

As they progressed, the cold linoleum of the floor disappeared as they entered the elevator. All of the ambient buzz that haunted the dank walls in flickering lights and overworked HVAC units briefly cut off in a private ride up three levels to the medical floor.

"Why me? Why are you so hellbent on killing me?" She asked into the silent press of their steel prison.

She talks about fever as though he isn't bound flat on a medical bed. The logic doesn't follow for him, this thing of A to B with its bridge missing woodboards. He can feel the eruption of grief in the tremble of her fingers, muffled by damp cotton rag; sees it well reflections in her eyes, water caustics casting window panes of flourescents over hazels. He blinks slowly, cotton-mouthed. He is as warm as he usually is, as he should be. There is no fever.

He clocks her attention flashing between him, his arm, then to the camera, and he scraps some sort of feeling of ease in being able to — watching the barrel of a gun nose its way from x to y to z. His expression tears to a grimace as the sirens barrel through the air, the hum of a door disengaging locks. It's familiar, almost — some echo of a routine he knows of Talon, of home. CT scans is just another word for maintenance.

"Would be safer for everybody t'kill me." He states it simply as fact. His head cants in the bed of his hair, can feel the keratin crunch beneath his skull. Haughty thing, his voice, dragging around a ball-chain. His eyes falter shut in a wince, ice pick headache jamming itself to the beat of that odd nickname. The roar spills free from some cracked chasm in that jar he calls his head and he finds his wrist slamming against the restraints yet again, outrunning his thoughts, gunning for a throat.

He mumbles, delirious -- hits event horizon where words aren't words, just garbled sound, "I don't know you." You're a mission, a dossier, some mark that aches for the spittle of lead. His hand crashes for freedom, again, blunt force trauma knocking out the song of squeaking metal. "I don't know you folks."

[chronal-anomaly]

I think that Lena is the Patron Saint of Travelers; the wayward, the temporary - those who, no matter where they settle, know in their heart they won't stay here forever. Whether running from something, to something, or just unable to keep their feet in one place. A saint of the wayward who travels in a way no one else cant; and such the only to bear the weight of never being able to settle in a way no other has to.

Hell yeah!!

And it's something consistent across her verses and across the storyline, that there's this energy that is impossible to catch. Lightning in bottle, uncontainable. It's lent itself to her aid, primarily, flitting between people, between spaces, between worlds that may swallow up a more grounded person.

I think it also ties in how to she greets others too - it could be the only time she meets them, during these journeys between realms, she greets them as warmly as possible, gives them hope. Watching over those who find themselves in trouble, wearing the mantle of Time's Champion and being an benevolent one. This isn't a bad destiny, just a permanent one.

[chronal-anomaly]

Smash or Pass + sombra

Smash or Pass || accepting!

"So long as she didn't do any of her hacking rubbish, she might make a good lay. Think I'd need some clarification on who's side she's on - can't exactly go consorting with the enemy, now, could I?" A snort chased the commentary, assurance that the beloved Tracer wouldn't be crossing enemy lines.

[chronal-anomaly]

「 ༀ - smash or pass; a cracked teacup? 」 (i apologize for zen-)

Smash or Pass || accepting!

"If it's already broken, might as well find some joy out of finishing the job -" Lena considered the tea cup in her hand, feeling the smooth rim dance between her thumb print. "Unless you think you can fix it so it'll hold tea again?"

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Send Smash or Pass + a name and my muse will say if they would smash or pass on that person.

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Like this for a headcanon ask(s) about your muse

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hits lena with a surprise water balloon! : )

Oh it's on -

The hallway flickered with blue as she disappeared with a strangled gasp of surprise, vanishing seemingly into thin hair. But Lena can be patient, a trait rare to rear its head, and when Angela goes to wash her hands at the kitchen sink, the spray nozzle will respond in kind. Lena, of course, will be lurking nearby to see the outcome of her crimes, hair still damp from the water balloon.

[chronal-anomaly]

Like this for a headcanon ask(s) about your muse

[chronal-anomaly]

[chronal-anomaly]

Rubber-tipped steel pressed constrictively into her throat, trachea collapsing under the pressure of hate that lurked above her. Lena's limbs were heavy, exhausted, sensation tracking after awareness and movement a far cry from the pair. Predating death, Lena would blink away, roll away, jerk and writhe and move, reclaiming that constant momentum that seemed to occupy her very cells. But the runaway train was so far away and her limbs were so heavy, choked through with iron weights. All she could do was roll her eyes open and blink fuzzily at the lurk of the assassin above her.

Cobalt flashed and flickered, dazzling against the nearby plateau reflected back on the pair at the end of the world. It was a promise, of life unending, an escape in a brilliant flash of blue that would land her a dozen feet away. But for now, she stayed her hand, eyes unyielding as she peered between the curtains of hair. Cold metal stared back at her, tipped down in a promise of a hammer strike predating another murder. Digits twitched in protest, warring back against paralyzing exhausting that plagued her.

Her voice was tight, squeezed through a straw of air that grew ever tighter. "You know what happened, Cole. You know about the Slipstream, the crash. About Time, about it all." Her body convulsed, chasing last retches of hair in a violent, automatic fashion. "You know about the radios, Space Cowboy."

Death was a fickle thing, something unknowing and indefinite in its obscurity. This mystery had sparked countless of passionate pursuits into explanation, man clutching to stories of god, and deities, science, of flashes of memory of a long life past lived and half a dozen other excuses to puzzle through the cruelty of death. Those storytellers that experienced the act were too far gone to reassure the next generation to face their fates. No, in fact, death was a one way ticket, punched with the slam of a hammer or the buzz of an organ failing; different methods, same results.

Lena didn't have much patience for the artistic renditions. Here one second, gone the next. The before usually came associated with flashes of pain, but that bore the extent of warning of the termination. The chill of blood loss, the pain of a bullet lodged in the ribcage, the deafening roar of an explosion, and then, after, nothing

It was a rare portrait, to see Lena Oxton still, quiet, blood congealing at its exit of the severed carotid artery as gray matter splattered the dusty sand. Her legs twisted long, as if she was midstride, died in motion just as she lived. But now, death slammed the breaks, left her stiff and empty, with the exception of violent spasms associated with the bullet slamming through muscle and sinew.

The sun set on her life, bathing the world in a glowing dusk, as the accelerator rebooted and sparked back to life, falling back on backup batteries. A violent flash of blue obscured the recollection of brain and bone that constituted her cranial cavity, and the expulsion of a bullet lodged in her spine. A thin, round circle crests between the jut of collarbones, serving as a reminder of her death at Agent Cassidy's hands.

Consciousness chased her revival, awareness seeping into her extremities before ricocheting into cognizance. Air pressed into her lungs automatically in a violent gasp, her medulla regaining control. Lena's eyes chased the feeling, cracking open with a hoarse gasp of pain. The ache of death fuzzed in her limbs, and her skin felt tight, sluggish, around the indents left behind from her murder.

Too ill to rise yet, Lena simple stared at the smear of stars across the horizon, and tried to focus on maintaining breathing. If Cassidy remained in his vigil, she was unaware, perception poor in her life reclaimed.

[chronal-anomaly]

Lena had never understood the anti-omnic rhetoric. The memories of graffiti and trashed omnic heads that lurked in dusty corners of ruined London streets floated back, teens in jean jackets and a baseball bat looking for their nights thrill at the expense of some xenophobic joy ride. Still, the casualness at how Zenyatta joked of his own removal and replacement made her heart jerk awkwardly.

A hum escaped her, buzzing out from her throat, confirmation chasing his words. Another wire removed, another wire replaced. Theusus, stripped clean and replaced. Lena chewed on her lip.

"What were you - before?" It may have been a taboo topic, something dangerous or unsettling for some omnics to discuss. Zenyatta had always seemed to be open, honest, ready to share in the indulges of the world whether good or bad.

other hand was occupied aiding lean in blind ventures to gather tools for the trade;

as wires grew silent and more steel fell away it was clear to both of them how hollow the monk was under metal and wire.

「 ༀ - out with the old in with the new; that could apply to many things. 」

coolant for blood and copper for nerves; never has the same weight as flesh.

「 ༀ - not to worry- though I have not fixed anything myself,

i have been fixed enough times to let you know if anything goes awry.

and you need not worry about me feeling pain; i am not expensive enough for that.」

[chronal-anomaly]

Cragged stoned left their kisses in shredded flesh and stolen metallic finish as the tread of her shoes caught securely. Monsoon's waste coiled around her knees, creeping up closer to her hips in the precious few seconds she was down here. If this harebrained plan were to succeed, she had to move quickly.

"Got a plan." She murmured, the wind oddly still in this scar in the Earth's crust. Here, it was the plink of flood waters and the roar of thunder that stole her words, voice softer down here. "We're going to Recall out of here -"

It was an act preformed twice, with varying results. At best, hours of nausea, blinding headaches, some body dysmorphia, and at worst, a painful expiry with limbs entangled between realms. Perhaps this would reveal a secret third result - Lena didn't allow herself to ponder it.

"Focus on yourself. Where you begin and end. All ten fingers and toes, your hair, all of it. Don't think of me, or where we are, focus on the stone around the crevice." Lena spoke quickly, cognizant of the ticking time. Limited window closing. She dared not tell him of the potential failures of this mission.

Crooked spine ramrodded straight, back tightening into something hope instilling. It wasn't the plastic response for the cameras - the conviction of her words were genuine and awe-inspiring, pulled on during situations that trended toward hopeless. Lena offered one hand to him.

"Cheers love. We're getting out of here."

She reappears, lips shaping words that tumble mute into a whale's mouth of thunder. Her second attempt ping pongs, distorted, but it's audible and Cole shrugs as though the answer isn't a multi-circumstantially-tested yes, fishing for a cigarette box he's sure he's squashed on his way down.

He snags a flattened cardboard corner and manages some wry "Ain't like I got much of a choice," before she's bounding into the crevice via free fall and gravity. Rock-face walls make a crude instrument out of her accelerator, chasis finish tearing open raw and glimmering like the emptied underside of an oyster. By the time her feet crash lands the water, he's folded a finger along the crooked spine of a crumpled cigarette, has lit its head with a modest ember that fights to breathe in the moisture growing heavy-laden in the air.

"Long way down," He echoes an idle, affirming drawl, eyes shooting sky-ward to that crevice lip disappearing under clouds gone dark. If it were anyone else, there's some haughty, snarky jab about sharing watery graves, but Lena Oxton does not die, and so he smiles lazily around a drag, "'Ppreciate the company. What's that head of your's thinking, flight-risk?"