Tim W█████ (
postictal) wrote in
applesaucedream2015-08-12 10:13 am
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deeper and deeper we go, where there is no light [open to multiple]
[Takes place after the events here.]
They drift without purchase and run without purpose.
Something is missing.
They are not whole. But they are and they must be; they can see themselves, they can hear the warped susurrus of their thoughts as they run without running, spun and torn from the body that is not theirs, except for the times where it is.
But where is it. Where are they.
It is too dark and they run, sluicing through forest and trees, searching for the splash of red on brown and black that is their friend, or even the slash of black and the pale glow of white that would denote the thing that follows them, the thing that they hate. But there is nothing. Simply black, endless, a formless landscape stitched over the murmur of a ragged-torn mind. Trees loom, jagged. Always those burned-black sheathes of wood and leaves, stretching ever upward, obscuring all light, branches to sky.
They run in a blur of gray and white and black, their form ashen, their face bright and smooth, dark eyes staring.
There is something ahead.
There is something ahead, and they slam into it, feral and frantic and afraid.
L̙͖̦̫ͩͬͦ̏̀o̸͕͇̒ͨͦ̉o̰̺̠̳̮̤͗͑ͯ́k͖̯̑̏̔̇͂ͬ̉ ̷͈̉͆́̋̇̓̊b̋̃͒ͬ̅ͯ͆ë̗̩̖̺̹̎͐͒̓̿̈h̘͂ͦ̄̍̄̐͆i͙̳̤͛̌ͥͧ̈́̃n̖̠d̯̺̥̗ͪ́̆ ̯̺͈̟ͫ͆̈̃ͫ̏̇ỹ̹̣͙̂ͪ̅͟o̗̯̟̗u̬͉̼̼͓͇͑͢ͅ
[ooc: Tim's other self has currently been detached from his body and is now roaming about the dreamspace - mostly in the interest of avoiding the cats, who are curious as to what they're about. They'll come into your dreams. They'll come into anyone's dreams. Or you might end up in theirs. It's up to you, really. They're not likely to be pleased about it either way.]
They drift without purchase and run without purpose.
Something is missing.
They are not whole. But they are and they must be; they can see themselves, they can hear the warped susurrus of their thoughts as they run without running, spun and torn from the body that is not theirs, except for the times where it is.
But where is it. Where are they.
It is too dark and they run, sluicing through forest and trees, searching for the splash of red on brown and black that is their friend, or even the slash of black and the pale glow of white that would denote the thing that follows them, the thing that they hate. But there is nothing. Simply black, endless, a formless landscape stitched over the murmur of a ragged-torn mind. Trees loom, jagged. Always those burned-black sheathes of wood and leaves, stretching ever upward, obscuring all light, branches to sky.
They run in a blur of gray and white and black, their form ashen, their face bright and smooth, dark eyes staring.
There is something ahead.
There is something ahead, and they slam into it, feral and frantic and afraid.
L̙͖̦̫ͩͬͦ̏̀o̸͕͇̒ͨͦ̉o̰̺̠̳̮̤͗͑ͯ́k͖̯̑̏̔̇͂ͬ̉ ̷͈̉͆́̋̇̓̊b̋̃͒ͬ̅ͯ͆ë̗̩̖̺̹̎͐͒̓̿̈h̘͂ͦ̄̍̄̐͆i͙̳̤͛̌ͥͧ̈́̃n̖̠d̯̺̥̗ͪ́̆ ̯̺͈̟ͫ͆̈̃ͫ̏̇ỹ̹̣͙̂ͪ̅͟o̗̯̟̗u̬͉̼̼͓͇͑͢ͅ
[ooc: Tim's other self has currently been detached from his body and is now roaming about the dreamspace - mostly in the interest of avoiding the cats, who are curious as to what they're about. They'll come into your dreams. They'll come into anyone's dreams. Or you might end up in theirs. It's up to you, really. They're not likely to be pleased about it either way.]
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This - this thing. They know it.
It is wrong.
The launch themselves forward in a calculated leap as the floor is riven beneath their feet, hands locking around the beast's ankles in fervent desperation.
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They fall for a long time, the thing still clinging to him, Johnny twisting and kicking, until they land on the soft, ashen floor, the impact hard but nothing broken. The house doesn't want them broken. Not yet.
Johnny lashes out, wrenching one of his legs free and aiming a sharp kick to the creature's face. It lands with a hard crack, and though this should dislodge or break the mask, the mask remains intact.
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It drives its foot into their face with a sickening thud but they scuttle upward, undeterred, scrambling for a grip over the thing's clothes, skittering for its neck. If they may hold it still, it will cease struggling.
It will cease everything. The neck is where their hands go.
strangulation and blood (also a general cw for this thread, it's gonna be violent and unsettling)
He raises the floor up around them, curling it back to strike the creature hard enough to dislodge it.
Johnny gets up, but he doesn't run. He faces the thing.
"Try harder," he snarls, still grinning.
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It was never this strong when they faced it. It was weak and skittish, a twisting sticklike thing that broke easily beneath their fingers up until the point that it broke them. Here they feel the surface beneath them roil and buckle like an animal attempting to shed a rider from its back, and it sends them along a path of its own creation. They land, heavy, hard.
There is a phantom heartbeat in their ears and in their throat.
They wonder if this place is alive.
They rise slowly, fingers splayed against ashen wood as they lever themselves upright. They circle it, creeping and predatory.
Try harder.
They barrel for it with unerring accuracy, one hand snatching for its wrist, the other for its leg with the intent to unbalance it with a fierce jerk, send it keeling.
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"This is not for you," he taunts, a howl and a whisper, something uncoiling from the seething dark behind him, filling his mouth with the taste of rust. He licks blood from his lips, releases its jacket, and aims a punch to its throat. It's strong, it's not human, but it still has borrowed human parts, soft and vulnerable, and Johnny knows which parts of those hurt easiest.
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But they cling to its wrist, tighten their grip, as it becomes their fulcrum and they lever as much weight as possible over it, enacting the twist of duress and pressure upon the fragility of bone.
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They realize their mistake too late.
There is no escape.
no eyesFeet slam into their chest until they hit the ground with a low, dull sound. The floor beneath them sounds hollow. They think they can hear its silence. Its silence has a sound, it has a texture, it has a shape and it is so great and looming and faceless that they can do nothing but lie there, their body stunned and feeble as it attempts to struggle to its feet around the shards of wood stretched to encase their leg.
They are trapped.
johnny is scary
"Didn't see that coming, did you?" he sneers, stepping just outside arm's reach. He crouches down to get on eye level. "You come into my house."
He's hilarious.
He could crush the invader right now, but it's too easy, especially after all the trouble they've given him. He straightens up and lets him go with a wave of his hand.
"Come on, asshole," he says, grinning, manic and monstrous. "Come play."
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Their friend is not here.
No one is here.
Their face is empty. Their eyes are dark.
Something coils within them, cold and hot and monstrous, something they do not like, something they do not know. No. No, they do know it, they know it only in reference to the thing that lurks with its blank canvas of a face. Not obedience. Not anger.
Fear.
They are not meant to be afraid. Not in the face of this ragged little scrap of thing, vindictive beast with its grin like glass and its bones so brittle.
So they rise and they leap for it, arms outstretched for its neck, mindless frustration bubbling low and heavy in their chest with the force of an enraged snarl.
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He recoils, letting it connect, riding the momentum back into a wall that wasn't there before. Actually, make that a door. He smirks, raw and dangerous, as the door opens on impact and they fall, not through, but down, for maximum disorientation. Down, deeper, into the dark and the cold.
tw: attempted strangulation
Or has it tilted long before now?
They are being pulled or they are falling, they cannot tell. They just know the dark grain of the wood has fallen away, everything has disintegrated from sight, leaving them with nothing but the icy black stretch of void as they spill into it.
They use the thing's clothing as handholds. They cling to it, hands scuttling up its front until they reach the delicate surface of its neck.
They squeeze.
I'll see that tw and raise you some serious suicide ideation
Everything is unfolding so simply here, like it was always meant to. Like he'd been told. This is where he was always destined to end up.
Still, the body will fight, and as they sink deeper, slow toward some unknown landing, Johnny struggles, switching from eager to vicious in no time. He lashes a hand across the creature's face, dealing no damage, but a tendril of twisted wood and brick and steel whips out to follow the motion, tearing them apart again. Johnny lands unsteadily, picks himself up, staring into the void, searching for that little spot of white.
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They tumble end over end into nothingness, their hands clawing for purchase, for a grip, but there is only the frictionless rush of cold, desolate air as it goes streaking through helplessly snatching fingers, whistling over the contours of their face.
The dark stretches in front of them, endless.
They land heavily. They lie still.
Their bones ache. Everything aches. Their head pounds a dull, arrhythmic tattoo that sends a low, throbbing agony stabbing into their teeth, behind their eyes, shooting down their spine.
They roll over, palms pressed to ground, but they cannot see what lies beneath them. They are standing on nothing, but it is a solid nothing, and so they use it to rise unsteadily and cast their gaze for the thing that lurks with the walls.
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"Come and get me," he snarls into the darkness. He can't tell, doesn't care, whether it's a taunt meant to trap his enemy, or a legitimate request. Either way he's impatient. "Come on."
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They crouch low, one palm to the smooth nothingness at their feet as they gather themselves like a great raptorial cat balancing all its weight on its haunches. They rock, a slight, subtle shift of weight on their feet from one leg and to the other, until they surge forward, source of the noise pinpointed.
This time, they duck out of the way from it before their bodies meet in a clash of wild and reckless weight, roll smoothly, cutting a wide arc around it to hit it from the side in a tackling pin.
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thing.
They lever the full weight of their knee into its center of mass, practically fully on top of it, knee driving into its chest in a vicious spike of pressure.
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He shifts as it presses him hard into the floor and wills that the floor should rise up around him, beat the creature back, crush it for good.
The floor ripples beneath them but it does no such thing. Johnny's eyes blink wide as he realizes the structure is entwining him, both of them, holding them in place. The creature is not being forced back but is now fastened atop him, perfectly poised to wring his neck.
"No!" he rages, twisting one hand free and trying to shove the creature off his chest. Creaking strands of wood wind around his waist, holding him down. He lets out a strangled scream at the betrayal, even though it had to come, he should have known.
The house belongs to no one, Johnny Truant.
Least of all you.
tw: strangulation, claustrophobia
Their hands are tight around its neck, that delicate instrument.
It is not a great effort to compress fingers in a slow, inevitable, crushing grip as the walls curl around them and enfold them in the very same. Even if they succeed, if they crush it, grind it, extinguish into little more than a dead smear in the formless wood and icy dark, they know they would soon suffer the same. This body cannot hold itself together beneath that unrelenting pressure shackled around them, however harsh and powerful it may be.
But perhaps it does not matter.