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[personal profile] concierge
Any entries earlier than this were pre-reboot.
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[personal profile] shifting_skin
She could not breathe.

She could not breathe.

The smell of ozone lingered in her nose as she tried, gasping against the taste of rust in her mouth. Mystique had, in her panic, bitten the inside of her cheek and while she could not remember when, could not think of anything but of the betrayal of her body, the taste of blood only served to keep her in that frantic state.

She had been walking down the hallway in the guise of a sharp-lined man, generic enough in coloring to go unnoticed in a crowd even where months and months within the hotel had offering nothing of evidence to a danger within its walls. She had stumbled, she was sure of it, and thrown out a hand to brace herself against the nearest wall as her body shifted, one shape trading for another without the least bit of her will behind it. That loss of control had been frightening enough, but to discover that no matter how she tried, she remained in the shape into which she'd been thrown.

It was very much like her own. That blonde form she had worn as her default for so much of her life. Yet it was different, just shades of it then as she was aware. Nothing of its shape, but her hair was darker and river straight, her skin lacking the warmth of the that golden tan.

Only after recognizing that she had lost her clothes along with that borrowed shape had she managed to get to her feet, fleeing directionless until she had found the laundry and stolen something to cover herself. She sat huddled at the bottom of a stairwell then, in a too large shirt and shorts that were inexplicably lettered with the word 'juicy.' She could not breathe. She could not stop shaking.

What had been done to her?
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[personal profile] seeorseem
Late December - The Dreamscape

Shapeshifting as she knew it was not simply a physical transformation, although that was always at its core. Her ability was one that required a solid concentration, one that could be accomplished only if she sunk mind as well as body into the new image of herself. It could very well have explained how readily she took to translating that ability into the dreamscape, her mind already used to the flexation required to reshape herself mentally to match the physicality she needed to live.

Eames takes Mystique under into a dream to see what someone who can shift in real life can do in the dreamworld.

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[personal profile] shifting_skin
The taste of ozone lay at the edge of her tongue, the faint pull of muscle and skin knitting too slowly back together at her calf keeping the rush of days just past firmly in mind.

Having found herself from one step to the next transported from the beginnings of a chase she had come to find familiar through the halls of one lush hotel and into an entirely different setting of one, Mystique had thought little of the consequences of her actions and pulled the door closed after her. One shape had melted smoothly into another at the sound of voices approaching, the skin she had worn as her only for so long one she pulled over herself then out of habit and without thought. Gone were the blue skin and red hair, the yellow-gold eyes lacking the human whites that people so preferred. Gone too was the shape of a lobbyist she had borrowed for the sake of a key and a room charged to an account that was not her own.

When a pair of strangers had rounded the corner, swept up in their own conversation and too busy to notice her as they passed, she stood the same blue-eyed blonde young woman she had lived as so long before.

The hotel had made little less a mystery after two days within its walls, an ear kept ever open for anything she might learn in overhearing the conversations of others. The others spoke easily of strange worlds beyond the doors studding the walls of the hallway. Those that served behind the desk had handed her a key to a room of her own with no question of how or why she had come to be there. She had moved through those days with little more than skimming the surface of everything around her, unsure of what to make of the collection of people who walked and lingered through the many bright-lit rooms, less sure of what to make of herself.

She had been drawn in her uncertainty to the massive library, the shelves heavy with books and comfortingly familiar in that same feel all libraries held within their walls of words and of knowledge and of quiet. She stood then fingering the edge of a book's cover on a shelf before her, a smile pulling at her lips as she considered the twisted sense of humor chance had had in her fingers catching over the gold lettering of its title.

The Metamorphosis, indeed.


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