No, no, no - why doesn't she run, can't she sense how dangerous a thing she's trying to fight, but no she's strangling him with her fucking scarf, and miraculously Zagreus actually yields, pulled back, hands at his throat - enough for Johnny to deliver a sharp rabbit-kick to the gut, pull himself out from under. Greta tugs hard enough that the monster actually crashes down to the ground, and Johnny doesn't wait around to see him get back up. He sweeps up the lighter, seizes her arm, and bolts. He's still gasping for breath, not strong enough to run very far, and already, too soon, he's stumbling, tripping over himself until he goes down, letting her go and dropping onto the floor. Fuck. Fuck, he'll be coming after them, he must be-
-no, no. Stupid. If it were him, he would have said something, he would have warped and twisted the dream so they couldn't escape, and he wouldn't have been downed so easily. Stupid, crazy little Johnny. It wasn't him, it was never him, just the version he carries around in his head sometimes, coiled to spring on whoever he's with. Fucking great.
He sets the lighter down gently, covering his face with one hand, before splaying them both out on the floor.
Stupid again. Trapped by horizontal thinking. You don't need a wall, idiot. All you need is a surface.
With a weary, miserable huff of breath, he opens another trapdoor and hoists himself down without a word to Greta, trusting her to follow.
The world tilts dizzyingly - he's sliding out from a wall now, sideways, not down - he lands on hardwood. Everything is blindingly lit here, bright, cheerful daylight pouring in through broad, welcoming windows. The house, still, but the upper part, the part the Navidsons actually lived in. This is okay for now. This is better than what's in there.
He curls over himself on the floor, breathing slowly.
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-no, no. Stupid. If it were him, he would have said something, he would have warped and twisted the dream so they couldn't escape, and he wouldn't have been downed so easily. Stupid, crazy little Johnny. It wasn't him, it was never him, just the version he carries around in his head sometimes, coiled to spring on whoever he's with. Fucking great.
He sets the lighter down gently, covering his face with one hand, before splaying them both out on the floor.
Stupid again. Trapped by horizontal thinking. You don't need a wall, idiot. All you need is a surface.
With a weary, miserable huff of breath, he opens another trapdoor and hoists himself down without a word to Greta, trusting her to follow.
The world tilts dizzyingly - he's sliding out from a wall now, sideways, not down - he lands on hardwood. Everything is blindingly lit here, bright, cheerful daylight pouring in through broad, welcoming windows. The house, still, but the upper part, the part the Navidsons actually lived in. This is okay for now. This is better than what's in there.
He curls over himself on the floor, breathing slowly.