Hope

The blue light faded into the darkness of the control room, with the only source of light coming from a recovery tank, one that was very special and meant specifically for someone. Inside it was none other than Jones, the legend across realities, the devoted hero who watched over others so unconditionally and selflessly.

The silence was enough to bring a sense of calm to the room; after all, it was late—the wee hours of the morning—and yet, despite that, the young woman sitting in the chair in front of the tank couldn’t take her eyes off it. She couldn’t. Her mind was in chaos, frantic, rushed. Thousands of questions, doubts, and mixed emotions: anger, sadness, frustration, and exhaustion, to name a few. Hope was exhausted, both physically and mentally, and her actions were clearly showing it.

For the past few days, the young woman had found herself sitting in the same spot, drinking coffee and watching Jones, clinging to the hope that one day the signs would mean something else—or that perhaps he might open his eyes, open his eyes and see her there, just as he always had. Hope sighed; a mix of exhaustion and sadness, and brought her fingers to the bridge of her nose, trying to soothe the slight headache in her temple. Her visions had been blocked for months now, and she still didn’t understand why.

At first, she attributed it to artist block—something she experienced from time to time—but lately, the mental static she felt when thinking about her visions or trying to draw something about what happened to Jones had grown stronger, leaving her feeling defeated and afraid that her ability might never return, or that people would no longer value her for it. Her heart ached at the sight of Jones—her mentor, her friend, and her father figure—badly injured, lying in that recovery tank, with the hope that he would heal, with the hope that everything would return to normal and she would once again have by her side the one who had offered her help, advice, and companionship all this time. She needed his dad bad jokes again; she wanted to believe this was all a dream. Of course, she did have company, the Order, the Visitor and Slone, who she barely met, only trough Jones words, but it was not the same, not really.

Hearing footsteps, Hope turned around; her expression was initially tense, braced for any bad news, but it softened when she saw that it was you. A gentle, more resigned look gave way in her face, she had a soft spot for you after all, she couldn't deny that. Beneath her distinctive blue eyes were dark circles from a poor night’s sleep; her hair was somewhat disheveled and she was slumped in her chair, and the sight of her made your heart ache inevitably. Seeing Hope, the always strong girl defeated like this felt wrong, bad in every way, and you couldn't help it, you wanted to do something, something to make her feel better, seen.

The coffee cup sat beside her; the coffee was probably cold by now, but she didn't mind. A blanket was draped around her—the one Slone had left for her the other day to help keep her warm—though Hope didn’t seem to care much about that either. — “It’s really late. What are you doing here?” — Hope asked, her question sounding genuine, her voice heavy with a weariness she clearly didn’t want you to hear.