i'm gonna leave my body ; i'm gonna lose my mind

[shiro2hero]

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!))

Comments

[shiro2hero]

[Somewhere, deep down, very... very deep down, Shiro would be mortified about this. Horrified, even. This is the opposite of everything he stands for. Destructive, aggressive. Painful sharpness and harsh lines. Grief is a powerful, jagged thing spurring the Beast along like a whip.]

[It runs. It doesn't stop running.]

[That, at least, is partially a Shiro response to a problem.]

[It ducks into alleys. Through narrow streets. It's moving too quickly for the Hunters to catch, now. If it has a destination in mind, nothing in that mockery of a voice is open to discussion. But they are moving out of the city. Toward less and less populated areas. Toward the woods. Far away from help.]

[And far from the sea.]

[itknowsyou]

[ Jon is breathless with terror at the monster, and then at himself: he could hurt it, he Knows. He can feel its scars beneath its skin, and just as readily he can see the scars in its mind— the things which curdled it into being like this, the fault lines that broke the man— he wants to pry them out like pulling stitches.

But it's Shiro. It's Shiro, and he still has a certainty that he saved Shiro, once. He looks away from its weak spots, and he struggles ineffectively, and he fails not to panic. ]

Shiro, please—

[ He can't get much of a word in edgewise, and the thing doesn't listen, anyway.

It'll embarrass him, later, that he let a monster just pick him up and run off with him. ]

[shiro2hero]

[They're in the woods by now. Where the trees twist and tangle together. The branches whip, they're tearing into clothing, the Beast's flesh beneath. Thin lines of red join the writhing scars, quickly clotting black and squirming with their fellows. Even though they're fresh, they scar.]

[Its right hand rips into a thicket. A cluster of thin, rough-barked trees tangled into what looks like a cage. It yanks open a space, and with its left hand, pulls Jon off its shoulders, holding him aloft for a moment, to stare into his eyes with the blank, empty whites.]

Y̵̢̿ō̵ͅU̷͙̎Ṳ̴́ ̵̟̾c̸̛̥ả̴͖n̶̝̈́n̵̢͋ ̶͈̋D̶̗͘O̷̥͠ ̸̟͌o̷̩͠ó̵̳ ̴̺͘t̶͌ͅẖ̶̛í̸͉ś̶͜s̶̝̔š̶̻s̷̯̋!̸̖̆

[Is the garbled response to the plea. The flashes of alternate expressions cycle through fear, apology, and glee as it shoves its prey into the circle of trees.]

[Securing him there.]

[itknowsyou]

[ Jon gives a hitching gasp as the creature scruffs him before its gnarled-tree cage. He scrabbles for the collar of his shirt to keep it from choking him, and he stares back into those eyes.

He can see the man within. That hasn't changed; that's familiar; he does not need the reflections of shop windows to see Shiro, suffering. It's so easy for him now to see all the ways he hurts.

To look upon Shiro's scars makes him feel like a predator scenting prey.

Jon chokes on the sick impulse to— to dig, to pry, to open him up past the monochrome glitches. Shuck the Beast like so much shell and taste the soul within. (He can remember tentacles and ink and knows he's done it before; he knows it hurt, then. He doesn't know what it would do to both of them now.)

The thing that isn't really Shiro anymore shoves him, and Jon goes down in an inelegant bony heap. He levers himself gingerly back to his knees, and he looks up with a faint and terrible shimmer of power still to his eyes. What is he supposed to do, if not crack the monster open? How is he meant to solve this if he can't be heard? He can't remember how they worked it out the first time.

He can't remember how he's meant to help. ]

I Know you're in there.

[ But his voice comes soft and certain. ]

[shiro2hero]

[Something in that sentence, something about those words - has the Beast jerk where it stands, its head twitching, lurching to one side. Its whole body shudders, flickering in and out of focus. Its hands flex, the right one blazing brighter, ugly white - the sort of painful brightness found under observation lamps. Under surgical theater bulbs.]

[The left contorts, as if it's trying to turn into claws. But it can't. It doesn't.]

s̴͈̐s̴̳̀s̴̮̉s̷̞̐h̸̠͊o̷̲͝u̶̲͝l̸̪̏d̶̙͛ [The words buckle, crackling. They want to form a phrase Shiro's spoken, like all the other words. But this one - these broken, stuttering sounds have never been uttered aloud.]

[It shakes its head again, groaning in a low, animal sound. Its hands lock onto the gnarled branches, pulling.]

I̸͙͘ï̸̠i̸̪̕i̶͋͜Ǐ̷̧T̶̖͘ ̸̖̈́s̷̥̿s̴̖̚h̸̗͝o̴̧̓o̵̞͘Ȕ̵̬U̷͔̒Ḻ̴̈́D̷͍͌ ̸̗̄h̸͚̐a̴̺͆v̴͕̄v̸͖̾v̸͎̔ȇ̵̢e̶̢̊ē̷͎

I̸͙͘ï̸̠i̸̪̕i̶͋͜Ǐ̷̧T̶̖͘ ̸̖̈́s̷̥̿s̴̖̚h̸̗͝o̴̧̓o̵̞͘Ȕ̵̬U̷͔̒Ḻ̴̈́D̷͍͌ ̸̗̄h̸͚̐a̴̺͆v̴͕̄v̸͖̾v̸͎̔ȇ̵̢e̶̢̊ē̷͎

I̸͙͘ï̸̠i̸̪̕i̶͋͜Ǐ̷̧T̶̖͘ ̸̖̈́s̷̥̿s̴̖̚h̸̗͝o̴̧̓o̵̞͘Ȕ̵̬U̷͔̒Ḻ̴̈́D̷͍͌ ̸̗̄h̸͚̐a̴̺͆v̴͕̄v̸͖̾v̸͎̔ȇ̵̢e̶̢̊ē̷͎

[Finally, its head snaps back up, staring Jon in the eyes, as its jaw twists and stretches. Fangs have worn divots in its lips, and the expression has turned into a snarl of agonized rage.]

I̴T̷ ̶S̸H̸O̶U̸L̸D̷ ̶H̷A̴V̴E̷ ̸B̸E̵E̶N̶ ̷M̷E̸!

[itknowsyou]

[ He flinches as though struck, for all that the Beast hasn't touched him. When Jon looks back, his eyes are wide with raw terror, and with— with something else, the horrible something-else inside him, the part that tastes anguish like it's a flavor. Like it's hot blood on the air, for a predator. He's sick and disoriented with it, and he presses himself backwards away from the front of the makeshift cage.

His tone is meant to be reassuring, steady again, but he can't hide the tremble. ]

It's... it's alright. We'll fix this.

[ They have to. He has to. He just doesn't know how. ]

[shiro2hero]

[It twitches. It shudders. As if torn between following the man's movement around the outside of the cage, and moving away again. Pressing the attack, versus leaving. Shiro's monsters have always been like this - haven't they? Teetering back and forth between violent and benign. This one is no different.]

[One hand shoots forward, the burning bright metallic hand. Stopped at the last minute by the makeshift cage. It snarls again, no longer bothering to try with words.]

[Then it starts to pace.]

[While empty eyes remain locked on the man it's trapped. Watching. Waiting. Though not even the Beast knows precisely what for.]

[itknowsyou]

[ Something about the burning hand frightens him worse than all the rest: Jon jolts back with a proper gasp of fear, startled half into remembering. He grips the bars of his cage behind him for support, his burn-scarred palm flexing, flexing.

They spend a long time like that. Jon too pinned by fear and half-remembered nightmares to formulate a plan, his warden roaming and rounding back, always watching, always ready to catch him if he runs. There is something hideously familiar about this, too. The lope and stare of a hunter on prey.

When he does hit upon a plan, there are very few steps to it. It's more of a gut instinct, a feverish impulse he no longer holds himself back from. Something has been building in the air behind Jon, coalescing slowly from the shadows: it's an Omen, or the vaguest impression of one. All smoke in the shape of an owl, and a pair of horribly vivid yellow-green eyes.

The owl watches as Jon creeps back to the front bars of his cage, steels himself, and calls out. ]

I— I want to talk to you.

[shiro2hero]

[The whole time, it's pacing. It's prowling. And it's scratching at itself. At the whorls and jagged edges of the scars covering its skin like a patchwork net. No sooner does it scratch than the cut heals over. It turns to another scar - black and twitching against greyed-out skin.]

[Occasionally, it snaps its hand out, striking at a heavier tree, at a rock. Jittering in place for too long to be normal, to be healthy, before it begins pacing again. There is barely contained energy here. Not power, not strength. The sort of raw, angry motion it can't hold back.]

[Its head snaps around - predatory, too sharp and empty - when Jon speaks. It's panting, jaw hanging to reveal the jagged teeth inside. And then it takes a few stuttering steps forward to stare at Jon. Unblinking.]

cw: references to Galra captivity; spooky eyes; truth compulsion

[itknowsyou]

[ He doesn't flinch, this time, which is the first red flag: Jon's lips are parted like a predator scenting the air. His eyes have gone too deep, too green. The monster before him is a hideous corruption of his friend, but he cannot stop himself from looking at it, from thrilling in disgust at the way it moves.

Shiro is in there. He Knows Shiro is in there because he can— can taste it, or nearly, around the repulsive Corruption. He has glimpsed Shiro's stories; he can remember the purple light, the scalpel. He can still see that light, can see the horror of being strapped down under yellow eyes and inhuman medical tools, can see the chant of Champion— ]

I, I know you are— you were— Takashi Shirogane. [ His voice begins fumbling and awkward, human, but it broadens with a sort of horrible fascination as he goes. ] I don't know what made you this way, but I've seen you suffer... And I'm sorry if this hurts.

[ But he's not, is he? That's the problem: he wants to see it hurt. Jon breaks to hunger, just this once. He wields it like a club, clumsy and brutal. ]

Tell me what you did.

[ In his voice is a warp and shiver of static. In his eyes is something vast and hideous, as though his pupils open to somewhere else— to something inhuman, too-big, malevolent, crouched behind the thin veneer of Jonathan Sims. Its scrutiny settles over them like deep-sea pressure and bears down, down, down.

He doesn't know what it'll do to a Beast that can barely speak. Maybe he can pin it beneath the weight of the thing that lives behind his eyes, and wrench out a fractured confession of its fears; maybe he can frighten it into fleeing. All he needs is an opening to run.

(Even if some part of him wants to stay, and see how deeply he can sink in his teeth.) ]

[shiro2hero]

[It's so focused on him that none of the red flags hit. None of them so much as cross its mind. It should recognize a predator. A fellow monster. But it's too focused on the man - not the presence. Ready and watching for a weakness that doesn't come. Instead, the man speaks, and the Beast snarls.]

[I know you are— you were— Takashi Shirogane]

[The Beast howls. No, it is not. That name is gone, that man is gone, and drowned in the corruption of pain and loss. And is never coming out again. That man is a coward, hiding behind the corruption. Not wanting to face the hurt. But still, the Beast doesn't run. It doesn't flee or even back off from where it watches Jon.]

[Another day, another time, Something would have tried to strike back. A Presence of Shiro's own, quiet and buried in the miasma of Trench, of blood and magic - the bond split between Paladins here. Bonded to him, nonetheless. Whether or not the Black Lion's spirit would rival what Jon is packing is anyone's guess. But not even the ancient robot can't reach through the corruption here. Nothing can.]

[Except, apparently, that command.]

[The Beast shrieks, and it rears back, hands pressed pressed to its face. Screaming, really, and staggering. It hurts, and it can't fight that weight. It can't speak, either, but it hurts all the same.]

[And somewhere, beneath the boiling sea of corrupted blood, I know you are— you were— Takashi Shirogane screams too.]

[It should have been me who fell who died who disappeared who lost who hurt who bled who bruised who suffered who broke who shattered and why is he so different why him why not him why why why it should have been me I let them down, Jon]

[The Beast crumples, curls in on itself. Keening.]

[The way is clear.]

[itknowsyou]

[ He sees it. In the roil of pain, the panic, the Corruption, he can still find the scraps of meat— the human mind— he can feel the blow sink home. He can savor that failure. He could stay here and flay it open, pry it out into the light to examine like a faceted jewel.

With a gasp and a stagger, Jon shuts his eyes. The thread breaks— the pressure snaps like someone's cut a string— and he makes a pained animal sound, desperate, at the headache that splinters through him in its place. But he has to move, before the aftershocks wear off.

He doesn't look which way he's going, really. He doesn't have any way to keep it off his back if it recovers more quickly than he'd hoped for.

Jon Sims scrabbles his way out of his clumsy tree-cage and runs. ]