sad space dad had a bad (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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deercountry2022-07-10 04:24 pm
shiro2hero) wrote in deercountry2022-07-10 04:24 pm
Entry tags:
i'm gonna leave my body ; i'm gonna lose my mind
Who: Shiro & YOU [open]
What: When the Beasthood hits like a truck.
When: July
Where: Throughout Trench
Content Warnings: property damage, grief, self-worth problems, to be updated as needed
BEFORE ;; The House
He's remade this cup of tea more times than he wants to admit. More times than he should have had to. He knows the motions. He knows exactly what to do. But it never seems to come together. He's not sure how or why. The water heats. The bag steeps. But it's wrong. It's not coming out like it's supposed to.
It's just wrong.
It's wrong, he's wrong, the hole in his chest is wrong, there's silence where there should be bubbling warmth there should be shoulders to lean on there are no more containers in the fridge that smell like home he can't stop thinking it should have been different, it was supposed to be different, he should have been able to change things to stop things it should be fine, he should be fine he has to be fine.
I'm fine.
Yet again, he throws the wasted tea into the sink. It's stained brown by now with the sheer volume of discarded liquid. His hands shake. The right one hurts and he can't figure out why. It feels like something is disconnected under the metallic layer, sparking painfully with every motion. He should ask Hunk - no ask Varian no ask Chloe no ask -
- who is gone.
Pain writhes down his back. Warring with the sudden, nauseating rush of guilt. Because he wasn't strong enough, he wasn't good enough, he'd promised and they were all gone. All he can do is clamp down on the feelings, try to block the mental connection from being flooded with his own guilt, his own doubt. The aching, anxious grief threatening to choke him where he stands at the kitchen sink. His eyes burn, and he refuses to blink, lest the tears boil over.
I̸̙͠'̴̓͜m̸̨͒ ̶̨̑f̷̠͝i̶͓̚n̷̳̏e̵͖̐ I̸̙͠'̴̓͜m̸̨͒ ̶̨̑f̷̠͝i̶͓̚n̷̳̏e̵͖̐ I̸̙͠'̴̓͜m̸̨͒ ̶̨̑f̷̠͝i̶͓̚n̷̳̏e̵͖̐ I̸̙͠'̴̓͜m̸̨͒ ̶̨̑f̷̠͝i̶͓̚n̷̳̏e̵͖̐
He has to be fine.
The ocean roars in his ears.
He starts the tea again. Ignoring the raging ache in his hands, the tremble in his arms, or the slithering feeling of something oozing down his skin.
I̴̳̹͚͝'̶̡̤͂̿̎̅m̵̜͒͑ͅ ̸̰̪͉͕̀f̴̣̄i̴͚̽̎̍n̵̨͚̾̓ë̸͙̼́̽̚͝
All he hears is the sea.
DURING ;; The Streets
The sun is a deadly laser. It's high in the sky, high noon. Because of course it is. There are no clouds to be seen. But that hardly matters - a cloud of dust rises instead. Or maybe it's smoke. From this distance, it's hard to tell. The closer you get, the more apparent the source becomes. Especially when you see the Trenchies running from it.
From him.
Oh, it looks like Shiro. If all the color fully drained from his body. If the scars coating his skin turned to thick tar, and his eyes glazed to empty, glowing white. Something flickers around him, like a camera glitch. A dark outline, a shadow, the after-image of a bright flash. It moves, and Shiro moves in an answering echo. Reaching a hand into a pile of rubble - his right hand - letting it catch and burn with white flames.
It - he? - turns, then, head lolling to one side on its neck. Its face is utterly blank, expressionless. But the flickering, the blinking, jittery shape around it just smiles. An expression with far too many teeth. It speaks, and it speaks with the cadence of mimicry. Of a beast not understanding human words, human vocal chords.
" i̴͖̓͑͌͐̏'̵̰̰̗̂̌͐̊ṃ̶̳̠̈̆̋̆̋̕m̸̨̝̥͎̯̚m̵̺̒͑ͅ ̴̧͖͔̟͂̐F̴̦̹͈̲̊̄̈́Í̴̹͒̃̔̇n̸̦̅̌͘e̸̜̮͋̂͑̃͝.̶̡̢̘̠͈̜̽͐͘ "
That's it. That's all the warning. Before the Beast launches itself forward at nearby bystanders. Be they Trenchies, Hunters, or Sleepers.
It doesn't make a difference anymore. Nothing matters anymore.
DURING ;; The Shore
Ironically, the Beast's ultimate destination appears to be the Shore. The beach. The ocean. Where it continues to mutter and ramble to itself, pacing up and down the waterline. Occasionally, it will pick up a squid, examine it, and then hurl the creature back into the surf.
" Ń̵̛̪̍̄̈̈́Ö̷̙̦̲͈̜͔́T̴̮͍͕͚͑̎̄ ̴̢͈̻̙̟́̂͜g̶̢̼̘̃̇ọ̵͛͑̀͗ö̶̠́d̷͈̜̝̪̞̋̓ͅ ̸̰͙͋̒͛̚E̵̢̼̰͂N̵͚̦͉̝̿̆̈́́̌ȏ̸̡̮̖͖̤̠͌́̈́̀̌ȕ̶̱̗͛́̇̓̀g̵̘̪̪͍̑́h̴͓̰̣̤̣́̐̈́̂̕ "
At some points, it starts to race forward into the water, stopping when it gets knee-deep. Then it races back to the shore, almost scuttling. The black shadowy image around it snarling. Pulled back onto the sand by something it can't name, something it can't understand.
Whenever that happens, the Beast grabs rocks, or shells, or any kind of beach debris, hurling it into the ocean, angrily. Disrupting the Beast will cause it to turn that anger on any intruder. Anyone - friend, foe, new arrival, it doesn't matter. There's anger here, and it wishes to burn.
((ooc: Plotting comment is here, cure will be handled by Min-Gi, but all else welcome!))
What: When the Beasthood hits like a truck.
When: July
Where: Throughout Trench
Content Warnings: property damage, grief, self-worth problems, to be updated as needed
BEFORE ;; The House
He's remade this cup of tea more times than he wants to admit. More times than he should have had to. He knows the motions. He knows exactly what to do. But it never seems to come together. He's not sure how or why. The water heats. The bag steeps. But it's wrong. It's not coming out like it's supposed to.
It's just wrong.
It's wrong, he's wrong, the hole in his chest is wrong, there's silence where there should be bubbling warmth there should be shoulders to lean on there are no more containers in the fridge that smell like home he can't stop thinking it should have been different, it was supposed to be different, he should have been able to change things to stop things it should be fine, he should be fine he has to be fine.
I'm fine.
Yet again, he throws the wasted tea into the sink. It's stained brown by now with the sheer volume of discarded liquid. His hands shake. The right one hurts and he can't figure out why. It feels like something is disconnected under the metallic layer, sparking painfully with every motion. He should ask Hunk - no ask Varian no ask Chloe no ask -
- who is gone.
Pain writhes down his back. Warring with the sudden, nauseating rush of guilt. Because he wasn't strong enough, he wasn't good enough, he'd promised and they were all gone. All he can do is clamp down on the feelings, try to block the mental connection from being flooded with his own guilt, his own doubt. The aching, anxious grief threatening to choke him where he stands at the kitchen sink. His eyes burn, and he refuses to blink, lest the tears boil over.
I̸̙͠'̴̓͜m̸̨͒ ̶̨̑f̷̠͝i̶͓̚n̷̳̏e̵͖̐ I̸̙͠'̴̓͜m̸̨͒ ̶̨̑f̷̠͝i̶͓̚n̷̳̏e̵͖̐ I̸̙͠'̴̓͜m̸̨͒ ̶̨̑f̷̠͝i̶͓̚n̷̳̏e̵͖̐ I̸̙͠'̴̓͜m̸̨͒ ̶̨̑f̷̠͝i̶͓̚n̷̳̏e̵͖̐
He has to be fine.
The ocean roars in his ears.
He starts the tea again. Ignoring the raging ache in his hands, the tremble in his arms, or the slithering feeling of something oozing down his skin.
I̴̳̹͚͝'̶̡̤͂̿̎̅m̵̜͒͑ͅ ̸̰̪͉͕̀f̴̣̄i̴͚̽̎̍n̵̨͚̾̓ë̸͙̼́̽̚͝
All he hears is the sea.
DURING ;; The Streets
The sun is a deadly laser. It's high in the sky, high noon. Because of course it is. There are no clouds to be seen. But that hardly matters - a cloud of dust rises instead. Or maybe it's smoke. From this distance, it's hard to tell. The closer you get, the more apparent the source becomes. Especially when you see the Trenchies running from it.
From him.
Oh, it looks like Shiro. If all the color fully drained from his body. If the scars coating his skin turned to thick tar, and his eyes glazed to empty, glowing white. Something flickers around him, like a camera glitch. A dark outline, a shadow, the after-image of a bright flash. It moves, and Shiro moves in an answering echo. Reaching a hand into a pile of rubble - his right hand - letting it catch and burn with white flames.
It - he? - turns, then, head lolling to one side on its neck. Its face is utterly blank, expressionless. But the flickering, the blinking, jittery shape around it just smiles. An expression with far too many teeth. It speaks, and it speaks with the cadence of mimicry. Of a beast not understanding human words, human vocal chords.
" i̴͖̓͑͌͐̏'̵̰̰̗̂̌͐̊ṃ̶̳̠̈̆̋̆̋̕m̸̨̝̥͎̯̚m̵̺̒͑ͅ ̴̧͖͔̟͂̐F̴̦̹͈̲̊̄̈́Í̴̹͒̃̔̇n̸̦̅̌͘e̸̜̮͋̂͑̃͝.̶̡̢̘̠͈̜̽͐͘ "
That's it. That's all the warning. Before the Beast launches itself forward at nearby bystanders. Be they Trenchies, Hunters, or Sleepers.
It doesn't make a difference anymore. Nothing matters anymore.
DURING ;; The Shore
Ironically, the Beast's ultimate destination appears to be the Shore. The beach. The ocean. Where it continues to mutter and ramble to itself, pacing up and down the waterline. Occasionally, it will pick up a squid, examine it, and then hurl the creature back into the surf.
" Ń̵̛̪̍̄̈̈́Ö̷̙̦̲͈̜͔́T̴̮͍͕͚͑̎̄ ̴̢͈̻̙̟́̂͜g̶̢̼̘̃̇ọ̵͛͑̀͗ö̶̠́d̷͈̜̝̪̞̋̓ͅ ̸̰͙͋̒͛̚E̵̢̼̰͂N̵͚̦͉̝̿̆̈́́̌ȏ̸̡̮̖͖̤̠͌́̈́̀̌ȕ̶̱̗͛́̇̓̀g̵̘̪̪͍̑́h̴͓̰̣̤̣́̐̈́̂̕ "
At some points, it starts to race forward into the water, stopping when it gets knee-deep. Then it races back to the shore, almost scuttling. The black shadowy image around it snarling. Pulled back onto the sand by something it can't name, something it can't understand.
Whenever that happens, the Beast grabs rocks, or shells, or any kind of beach debris, hurling it into the ocean, angrily. Disrupting the Beast will cause it to turn that anger on any intruder. Anyone - friend, foe, new arrival, it doesn't matter. There's anger here, and it wishes to burn.
((ooc: Plotting comment is here, cure will be handled by Min-Gi, but all else welcome!))