Postcards from the Subconscious
that's what dreams are
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Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author--in this case, Rose. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.
This is how it goes.

Something happens, and the blood gushes out. Or stops flowing. Or her heart gives out.

Something like fifty percent of the time, it's in battle. And that doesn't really surprise her, later, when she realizes it in a place where statistics on your selves' deaths is just something that's there.

Something like forty-five percent of the time, it's in childbirth. Phasing and pregnancy don't mix. That doesn't surprise her either. She's known it since she was fourteen and Hank told her. It's just not something she's ever talked about.

Some things were always worth it.

Something like three percent of the time, it's an accident. They do happen. Even to X-Men.

And something like two percent of the time, she dies in her sleep.

It's kinda sad, if she thinks on it, but she doesn't, because she's beyond sadness.

But the thing is, details aside, nine times out of ten, Kitty Pryde (-Wisdom -Rasputin -Parker -Summers) knows she's dying, and the thing is--the thing is there's not, really, a good death. There isn't.

But there's deaths you face with a grin, and there's deaths you dance yourself too, and Kitty Pryde knows when she's about to die. Maybe it's the way the universe makes up for a lot of lives of suck.

Or maybe it's another thing of suck, but she doesn't have time to think about it.

This is what she does instead. Closes her eyes against the world and the faces (and they're dear faces, and it's hard, and she'd lie if she said there were no tears leaking down her face as she does it) and Kitty Pryde reaches out.

There are two ways of phasing. The one that's natural for her is to shift her mass into another dimension, and she does it most often.

Another way is to spread yourself out into as many directions--dimesions, is maybe what she means, but there aren't words for moments of what you are--and feel the seams split.

She doesn't say, "I love you," because if they don't know by now, saying it again won't matter. Not really.

Kitty Pryde just smiles a little and ignores the blood leaking out of her mouth or her stomach or between her legs or a million other places and ignores the please or the yells or the smoke burning or the smell of alcohol and lets go of the universe.

"So what do you think?"

The woman looks at her and shrugs, with a small smile. "Does it matter what I think? You lived a life, same as everyone else." There's a pause, and then she admits, "I'll give you points for style at the end."

It makes Kitty grin.

"You ready, Kitten?"

"One last thing. Just one."

And Kitty Pryde (-Wisdom -Rasputin -Parker -Summers but always, always, you remember your Pryde) looks out existence and gives a perfect, delicate, ballerina's bow.

"Now I'm ready."

And everything fades away.

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