like, zoinks

[grice]

who: falco grice and you!
what: a march catchall! a couple general open prompts are available along with some closed, perhaps open event prompts will be added in later! please refer to falco’s corruption page for a rundown; he’ll be experiencing low to mid levels of corruption throughout the month! if you choose to have your character injured in the trenchwood prompt, falco will be healing them with his blood!
when: throughout march!
where: throughout trench!

content warnings: child soldiers, possible gun violence, self harm (for healing purposes), possession, parasitism, slime, corruption, will add more as they come!


ʜᴀᴜɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴛʀᴇɴᴄʜᴡᴏᴏᴅ
[ helping with general beach cleaning once he’d retrieved the injured, dead, or pieces of them after the leviathan’s passing was what falco had busied himself with for most of the first few days after the surfacing. he’d managed to get enough rest to function, though just as any his spirits weren’t quite high. plans to shadow more blood ministers were put on hold when falco began to exhibit a mild flu— just the spring season rolling its way in, perhaps, even though the boy had never had allergies in his short life. one can find him trekking through trenchwood for new herbs, roots and leaves that could be used for oils, mixes and healing agents.

any approach made toward falco will be heard eventually, whether by his own ears or the alarming shriek of his pygmy falcon omen from farther off. he’s usually quite the tame boy to approach, but on this day— the words that press into his thoughts and influence his actions are a slithery: yoͦuͧ can’t ǝʌᴉʌɹns if you don’t вⷡiͥᴛⷮeͤ.

he doesn’t hesitate to lift and aim his rifle at the direction of his approacher, and in worst-case scenarios— he fires and reloads with alarming precision, not counting the shot, which either hits or misses by the push of the breeze. he hasn’t learned that overnight— he’s always known during his stays across the universe, now in trench, learned since he was eight, when the weapon barely fit in his arms and he’d still be forced to carry it across bumpy terrain, mud and rainfall with a backpack and helmet in tow. his place as a warrior candidate was not earned without merit. despite not using most of his capabilities, he was a trained child. training is all it takes to make a dent.

the startling contrast, of course, was that falco would never shoot first, if one knew him well. with the way his heart bleeds for other’s, it’s easy enough to assume he would never shoot at all. he’d never want to enough to take initiative, at the very least. here, for a split second and then more, the look in his eyes is sharp and as at the ready as a dog baring its teeth. it doesn't last; what comes over him after realization snaps his attention in two is utter terror. ]

Oh . . . Oh, no.

ʜᴀᴜɴᴛᴇᴅ ʙᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴇᴘɪsᴏᴅᴇ
[ alternatively, one may find him at the bare coast of a beach that was once a battlefield, now a graveyard for beastblood remains. it's hard not to step onto the black sand and realize the floor is not naturally smoothed from the ocean's winds. there're man-made lines there, and there, and everywhere for a wide stretch of distance, circumference. look closely, and there are words— words upon words upon words, upside down, right sided, sideways, sometimes even overlapping:

ᴛʜᴇ sɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴛⷮhͪeͤ s͛iͥleͤncͨeͤ ᴛʜᴇ
ǝɔuǝʅᴉs ǝɥʇ ǝɔuǝʅᴉs ǝɥʇ ǝɔuǝʅᴉs ǝɥʇ s̶i̶l̶e̶n̶c̶e̶ ᴛʜᴇ sɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴛʜᴇ sɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ǝɔuǝʅᴉs ǝɥʇ ǝɔuǝʅᴉs ǝɥʇ ǝɔuǝʅᴉs ǝɥʇ
ᴛʜᴇ sɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴛⷮhͪeͤ s͛iͥleͤncͨeͤ ᴛʜᴇ sɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ

the young teen with sandy blond hair and his black hood blown back has a stick in hand, focused on this activity and he’s writing it all with an unfit, too casual swing to his aura. those with a certain predisposition to recognize the energy of an entity would feel it like a flash: fear. it makes your gut drop the more you read and repeat the words. it gains strength the more you give it attention. falco himself seems to be oddly himself, at least, sniffy through his stuffy red nose and lifting his head to greet those who approach him. he’s a little . . . twitchy, pale and flaking, perhaps even slightly thinner, but he does seem happy for the visit. his purple tinted eyes (that’s wrong) say so— ]

Ah— Hello, [ sir or ma’am (or nothing, if you’re around his age). ].

[ a bow of his head, a soft, shying smile— he thinks you’re regarding his drawing, what he knows is a rendition of perle, but something isn’t right. starting with the fact that he didn’t draw perle at all. ]

Comments

ғᴏʀ ᴘᴇᴛᴇʀ & ʟᴜɴᴀ

[grice]

[ something had been off the more time had ruminated the flu that wasn't a flu at all, and when falco's fear of feeling combative, of writing things he didn’t know he was writing and then looking at his reflection gave motive, he bolted from the beach, in his await for paul. he bolted straight for peter and luna to spend some nights and days with them— let them know, of course, that something was wrong.

they'd welcome not a warm, serene boy with bright eyes, but a boy that fidgeted, jumped too much at any sound or touch he hadn't expected and would jolt even more when done in silence. silence. that's this thing's name. and that’s the thing he’s so frightened about.

occasionally, small smudges of indigo slime can be found around the residence, a putrid smell of sulfur tagged to it with the same energy you would regard a dangerous animal with— it’s not something worth touching, intuition tells. it’s on falco’s hands, building down his neck like sweat, soaking parts of his clothes or dropping in puddling little globs when he tries to wipe it off. he takes to corners of rooms rather than fabric or mattresses, then eventually to the restrooms, so he’d worry less about the mess he’d leave behind (of course, a dried stain here and there tells a story of him trying to clean up). he can be found usually with his back to a wall but facing the doorway, knees to his chest, towel to soak his slime in one hand while a stuffed falcon is gripped in the other. all possible surfaces that produce reflections are face down or let gently onto the floor. peter’s birthday gift, a pair of matte black headphones, are snug over his ears and play tunes he enjoys, subtly heard through the quiet of the room itself. he may jump at the first sight of movement, eyes wide and frightened and struggling to keep the sudden rise in his gut down— and just as immediately, his shoulders and gaze relax. but not his heart, or his breathing.

or, what perhaps draws either of them to check on him is a sudden, panicked shriek past the corridors. ]

cw: all the possession business, mention of dead child, nightmare of decapitation, let's gO

[possessum]

( Falco had, of course, been welcomed into the townhouse with opened arms and hearts. For however long he needed until the person he's living with otherwise returns — and any mentions of a name "Paul" will get no recognition from Peter, despite the fact that he actually has encountered that young man once before..... lost in the blinding haze of his own Corruption back in December, reduced to some vicious, snarling thing that only knew its name was Paimon. He'd attacked Paul from the highest shelves of the Archives, tried to break his way inside a slender young body that seemed familiar. Peter remembers none of this.

But Falco's welcomed here, safe here. Luna's made it so very safe, especially after the whole Maul Incident; the townhouse is a little fortress guarded with magic, wards. It's warm and cosy (and alongside those things, appropriately spooky, too..... One of its residents being a sleepwalking witch who at times has prophetic visions with cloudy-white eyes, another of its residents being very blatantly demonically possessed by something that behaves as though it's simply another roommate here... There's also a huge wolf-like dog, and a rabbit that sometimes talks, and a two-headed fish that Peter's demon once brought home.)

Theirs is a cursed, haunted home — really, Falco will fit right in.

...But that's perhaps not a good thing, ultimately; it's at once painfully clear how much is wrong in the boy, how horrifying it is for him. And that fact only shows itself more and more.

Peter doesn't like to lose sight of Falco for long. He tries to stay close, keep an eye on him, even though there's some discomforting part of him (and oh, how he's ashamed of it, keeps it tucked securely away like a secret) that wants to flinch away. It's— hard. To see it in Falco: how he shudders and jumps so wide-eyed, as though the slightest movement is a danger. Peter knows the feeling so horribly well; how every single nerve-ending is on alert, how there's never any reprieve from it, because no matter how many blankets you're wrapped up in or how many soothing words come from those around you, what haunts you is inside. You can't escape. You can't breathe, not without your lungs bumping against it, too. It's always there, it fills you up; it's something that shouldn't be there, cold and alien, and it's never going away.

Seeing Falco like this.... reminds Peter of those early days in his own possession, the aching, loneliest ones. Back before he even knew what Paimon was or that something else was truly there with him. It felt like being trapped in some fever-dream between reality and nightmare: never knowing what was real, what wasn't. Only knowing a cold sweat at the back of his neck and an icy frosted breath; haunted, haunted, haunted. At first he'd thought it was Charlie's ghost, appropriately tethered to him. By the time he ever learned it was something much worse, it was too late.

But then there are parts to it that are foreign, too. The... slime. It's worrisome and terrifying and Peter's horrified, doesn't know what to do, has to leave the room sometimes to stand against a wall and close his hot eyes and count to ten. He doesn't know how to help Falco and the nightmares close in on him, nightmares where the boy lies in the dark grass and he's in two pieces — his head's too far away from his body, and he bleeds and bleeds but it's not red. It's that blue-purple slime, and it's spreading out all around Falco's corpse, sentient and hungry—

Peter finds him one afternoon (a little breathless, something like panic setting in because he couldn't find which room Falco's in), tucked with his back against the wall and facing that open doorway, the headphones pushed against his ears. The older boy freezes— hesitates for a beat or two before moving quietly into the room. Closer to the muffled sounds of music, long legs crouching down a few feet in front of him; Peter knows to approach as carefully as possible, but even so there's that jolt of terror from Falco, and Peter swallows, hard. )

It's okay— it's okay. It's just me. ( Words soothing and quiet, the way Luna speaks to him on his bad days. Peter's trying to control his expression but he wants to cry as he looks Falco over: brow furrowed tight, the muscles of his face tense. He's noticed those reflective surfaces turned over, though he hasn't said anything about it. Even now, he doesn't like looking in mirrors, himself. )

Is that uh, Queen I hear? ( Peter finds the hint of a smile, tugs it forwards as he very slowly moves to a sitting position in front of the younger teen, folding his legs inwards. He tries to ignore that odd little prickle against his own spirit; Paimon is... extremely curious about their new houseguest and what ails him, but Peter's very much hoping he stays quiet. The last thing Falco needs is to be face to face with that. )

YOU’RE GOING TO JAIL

[grice]

[ falco had reacted before he could stop himself, brows beginning to pinch in apology by the time peter had settled in front of him. he nods and extends his hand to the older teen’s bent knee for a gentle hold— partially for comfort as much as apology, and partially to make sure what he was seeing was real, pulling the gifted headphones from his ears to a ring around his neck. it had occurred to falco that his fingers could be dirty, oozing something nasty (that, to a spirit, would reek of the parasite he’s hosting), so he does snap them back once he realizes, out of worry— his shoulders slump from tension when his hand, upon a quick inspection, was clean. apparently, it only came with cold sweats, or any sweats.

freddie mercury continues to belt about finding somebody to love, now more easily heard between the two without the ear cuffs snug against both sides of his head. falco hesitated to look up, wanting dearly to meet peter’s gaze and smile but missing the courage to. it raked behind a rock or two of his body in preparar, with fidgeting fingers clipping at nails already too short to do anything with, bitten down to the bud and starting at skin around it—

the relief that washes over him once he does peer up and ahead is a lifeline for him, a savior; he sees a smile and a young man that only wants his wellness. there wasn’t anything to be afraid of, coming from him.

regarding the silence, he had his doubts— which doesn’t leave him completely at ease. despite returning a smile deprived of its own kind, falco continues to seem rigid, the indigo tint to his sclera still present and returning his hands together. he chooses to pick at the skin of his thumbs, dry and flaky like the rest of his joints, keeping him occupied enough once he pinched a flake and carefully tugged. ]

I like their ballads. [ he pronounces that like a foreigner, bale-lads, but it’s got a child-like charm to it he doesn’t quite realize is there despite a solemn gaze above tight lips. ] We don’t have this kind of music back home.

i am here for feels

[creidim]

[ It doesn't seem right to say she's glad Falco's here. He's not in the best of shape; frightened and wary, something is wrong. And considering he's waiting on his friend to return from the ocean, too. But it's nice to have more company, considering it's really just Peter and Luna alone in such a huge house. And even with their self-imposed lockdown thanks to Maul, Luna does all she can to ensure their home is as peaceful as it can be — minus the... usual things that comes with a home that houses two spooky young people.

And while Peter's more of a shadow to Falco during his time here, Luna is more of a gentle ghost at the edges. There if he needs something, or just going about her usual business, keeping the house running and alive with quiet noise. Makes sure he's fed, that he can try get some sleep. Quiet sorts of comforts. She's never mad about the ominous globs of purple slime that keep appearing, along with the boy's attempts to clean them up; quick cleaning and scouring spells see to them gone without a trace.

But she is worried for him; she quietly fusses over the young boy in her own ways but she knows fine he seems to be getting worse. She tries her best, much like when she tries with Peter in his worst moments. Handles him with as much care as she can. But sometimes, just like with Peter, she feels at a loss too.

Still, she perseveres.

It's the sudden shriek that draws her out one day; she sits in her bedroom working on some notes related to her studies at the School of Mutter. A rare chance to get some work done, do a little research on the world — sort through the vast amounts of information of the city, the Patrons, the creatures and plant life available for her. The sound startles her and she lifts her head, wide eyed and panicked: Falco.

For a brief moment, she fears perhaps Maul has gotten through her wards. Here to bring some fresh revenge upon her home. She gets to her feet quickly, wand drawn and heart in her throat. She moves to the door, pulling it open— ]

Falco—? [ She peers out for him, trying to find where he's gone. ] Falco—!

✋ ✊ ✋ (grabby hands) cw for slime, child possession, eldritch horrors, our favorite

[grice]

[ he doesn’t know where it stands, because it doesn’t simply stand, the silence exists. the silence is where the quiet broils a perfect nesting place for quite the opposite of peace. he can’t tell how many appendages he’s seen, if they were slick or chipped, if there were fingers or stubs. was the hole opening up many mouths, or a pit of the sulfuric slime that pooled black like darkness one minute than seemed purple the next? all he knew was that he couldn’t hear a thing, the world around him was mute and a single eye on the entity sucked any amount of good he still felt about trench and mutated it to withering hope, a constant and escalating fear fear fear fear that falco had thought he would truly die at any moment, that his young heart would give out the same way it had once been torn right out of his chest.

by the time luna finds him in one of the sleeping quarters, an entire row of furniture has fallen, thrown onto their side or with wooden legs in the air. decorations have scattered or even shattered if they were fragile enough, blown by the impact of a boy who had thrown himself back to the wall following it. it’d just happened, with a metal candle holder still clicking against the floor from being thrown off a stand. behind it all had been falco, his breathing erratic and his tears far more purple and viscous than clear beads of water that could simply be dried. he doesn’t hear luna coming, he only sees movement and reacts, recoils from her entry at the doorway and curls up right into himself with a greater sob, so strained that his voice waves; from too high, to cracked, to a choking bellow. ]

Go away!! [ a part of him is terrified, repulsed, feeling bile burn his throat and fill his mouth with slime; the other part is irresistibly allured to this presence to the point that the conflict terrifies him tenfold. ] I don’t want this!!

[ he’s desperate and by no means courageous, and what he feels is simply fuel for more. to luna’s luck, the room was empty (just messy), the wards were intact. the house was safe. the only insolent intruder was the one that was with falco, with a presence unseen but certainly palpable, stealing his hearing for its satiation.

and this was a very good meal. ]

worst-case scenario

[eudaimonikos]

[Michael is, perhaps, a little overconfident. Even in the split-second that he sees the gun come up, he doesn't exactly try to leap out of the way. Call it an immortal's natural lack of fear - by the time he realizes that this may be a problem, it's too late.

The bullet catches him in the shoulder, knocking him backwards off his feet. He hits the ground hard. Holy shit, is that what getting shot feels like?]

Son of a bench!

[Glittering darkblood is flowing heavily from the wound, forming a sparkly cloud in the air between him and his attacker. Like involuntary inking - it's a little funny. He immediately puts a hand wreathed in blue flame to the hole, trying to seal it over - or, wait, should you take the bullet out first? Shit.]

[grice]

[ aͣ рⷬaͣlmͫ hͪiͥghͪeͤrͬ ᴛⷮhͪaͣn ᴛⷮhͪeͤ hͪeͤaͣrͬᴛⷮ, was the perverted thought that dared to press against the revulsion creasing falco’s eyes. a sound passed his teeth, came out as a strangled whimper at the man who falls, a glittering mess spilling into air and shrubs and gnarled roots. ]

Mister Michael—

[ the rifle that he carried wasn’t for this. it was for emergencies, only emergencies, not this. falco, in his rising panic and rush, throws his weapon with indignation and rushes to the demon’s side, skids to his knees, holds his tears because he couldn’t cry now of all times, as emotional as he was— ]

I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—! I, I need to see it, please—

[eudaimonikos]

Ohhhhhh - man, that really hurt!

[Michael's voice sounds almost petulant, but the original purpose of demons wearing human suits was to experience pain in them. It's operating perfectly; his skin's gone pale and clammy, and he's breathing hard. As long as he's had this form, serious injury has still been pretty rare - or, at least, the things in Deerington tended to kill him outright before he had to deal with it long.

Some bone-deep instinct has him wanting to keep his hand pressed hard over the wound. But maybe Falco knows something he doesn't? He lifts his hand away. Dark glittery blood is smeared over his palm and fingers, soaked into the fabric of his shirt, and more drifts lazily into the air as he releases it.]

Oh, that's not great. [He might lose this suit and go full squid. Granted, Falco has seen him do that before - but that was so embarrassing, oh god]

haunted beach episode

[terriblepurpose]

[I'd come back for you.

Steady hands pull on a hooded coat, set tinted glasses over blue-on-blue radiance; they fill a thermos with floral tea, another with precious milk, fold sugar into a wax paper packet. They write a note and set it under the edge of a geode, tuck blankets closer around a slight, sleeping form. Light feet step out into the world, and open eyes trace a path past the pale shoots of new caps, through the dark and formless waves of the yet-to-be, until a body stands once more on black sand.

Paul doesn't have to look at what Falco has traced in the sand, because he's already seen it, traced over and over on the wet, folded flesh inside his skull.

(I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past, I will turn the inner eye to see its path.)

He pushes back his hood. He opens his mouth, and a hushed, subdued echo asks:]

Falco?

i’m ready to be haunted by this thread yes

[grice]

[ falco had redirected his attention to the poor rendition of perle-slash-possessed-gibberish spread across his dark canvas once his initial greeting had been given, having yet to see it for what it truly was. it had been the, what was it, a feeling? that he must look up again, and just as he does—

skin pale as moonlight, dark, short locks of curly hair and a hush that sounded like a scream, right through his heart. it had been paul, his reason for so many beach visits; paul, that his purple tinted sclera shine and build something translucent and sticky beneath his eyelids; paul, that he drops the twig in his hand to bolt so fast that he missteps in the sand, falls and plants his hands against scribbled mounds and pushes the tips of his boots to throw him back to his feet.

something came out of his mouth, a sound— a cracked shriek of a name that his age and growing was to blame for making it sound so butchered. that hardly mattered anyway, especially not when this boy, plagued with the ghost that fed off his sadness for days has been thrusted back with the beginnings of a smile he’s missed giving, and the ends of clenching his teeth in a way that braces for the burning up his throat and into his nose.

his arms are outstretched, longing as they are desperately welcoming. the only thing that could stop his momentum head on was whatever part of paul he would reach first. ]

ghosts of our hearts

[terriblepurpose]

[Paul barely knows he's moving before he is already falling to one knee so much closer, his own arms open, guiding, catching- Falco collides with him, rocks him back, and Paul threads gloved fingers into his hair and buries his own face against Falco's shoulder, against the nearly feverish warmth of him, alive, alive-]

I've got you, I've got you.

[For one rippling instant, it's only his own voice, raw and tight. He's rocking them in place slightly, still senseless with deep, drowning relief, with deliverance, with one more piece of the world recovered and returned to him. His arms are walls and anchors both, braced against the storm that has tossed Falco battered and wounded here.

He could stay like this. He wants to stay like this. So he does, for as long as Falco will stand it, lifting his head only to better tuck Falco's face against his shoulder instead of the other way around. He strokes his hair and murmurs nonsense hushing, almost wordless reassurance scattered through with I'm here and it's okay, over and over, his voice coming apart into whispering strands as he does.]

beach episode

[entreats]

[ .. well.

This sure is a scene, isn't it.

It's not quite what Ange expects to find on the beach in the middle of a walk - but on the other hand, maybe this is exactly the sort of thing she should expect while wandering around this place. Just something that seems both extremely odd and extremely omnious, all at the same time. The way those words repeat all over the place almost seems like a cliche, she thinks.

But it would have been easy to ignore them and just move on. Easy, that is, if it wasn't for the fact that she spots someone sitting there actually writing the words.

When he greets her, Ange faintly frowns. ]

.. Hey.

[ She recognizes him. It's been a while, but.. she's spoken with him before, hasn't she?

Did he look so weirdly pale back then? ]

What are you doing out here? [ Indulging in some really, really weird hobby? ]

[grice]

[ it’s been a while since he’s seen ange— the first month he was here, he recalls, on the screen of his omni when he asked for information. he doesn’t quite give a smile too large, he seems a little frail and under the weather for that, but he does answer her with full attention; respect for his elders where do, and all.

he only delays his words and turns his head into his shoulder when his nose tickles, and the tickle comes stronger until his features contort— and out comes a sneeze. augh. ]

I’m waiting for someone. [ a wet sniff fixes his nasally voice, somewhat. he’s sure to wipe his nose dry with a pocket kerchief, but turns to bow his head to her politely once he’s done. ] It’s been a while, Miss Ange.

[entreats]

[ Waiting for someone? While doing this?

.. still odd, she thinks, though Ange decides to not get into it right away. Maybe it's better to focus on the other stuff he's saying, and maybe through that end up being able to draw out some more information. ]

Sure has been. [ To Ange's credit, she manages to sound pretty casual, especially when that frown on her face clears up - her expression fading more into her usual pokerface. Like she's not worried in the slightest here.

Though she definitely is worried. ]

How have you been, all this time..? I know this place isn't great, but how has it left you feeling by now?

beach episode

[peripheries]

[There's another boy out on the beach. He's standing at the edge of the shore with his feet in the water. Or more, accurately, with his feet on the water. As the tide ebs and flows, the water seems to move under him, as though he stands on it as easily as the sand. He stands there, watching, as if waiting for something.

Eventually, he turns his gaze back towards the land and something catches his eyes eye... words carved into the sand, twisted and unaligned like scars on skin. Reading them makes the hair on the back of his neck raise, a chill like he's fallen into cold water and, in his state, there's something oddly delightful in that sort of reaction.

He follows the words across the beach to a boy. ...Yes, he does know this boy. They're similar in ways most others aren't. Kaworu cocks his head, a smile on his face that's small and yet deeply unsettling at the same time.]

What are you doing?

[grice]

[ in all honesty, everything had been haunting as of late; falco was fidgety and uncharacteristically timid, beyond his usual breaks of flush here and there out of humble embarrassment. here, he was reclusive, he was jumpy and as frightened as a shivering baby bird fallen from his nest and stuck in an open field.

he didn’t know what to do with a smile so . . . oddly unnerving, if only to politely duck his head into a second bow, but mostly in an attempt to redirect his eyes. it felt like looking into the mirrors, or the shine of his reflection in glass or water— it would do things when he looked, like grinning or moving or birthing purple limbs of slime and inhuman garble, and that’s already been frightening him more than enough.

his voice cracks, both with dry strain and his age, which follows an appropriate clearing of his throat to continue. ]

Mister Kaworu, [ more direct greetings are to be had, and of respectable gestures in tow (despite it being secondary to feeling slightly uncomfortable, but falco doesn’t strike the blame on kaworu— the silence hasn’t been kind to him). falco knew he had been on the list of those missing in action (or swallowed), he was one to write it down sadly along with paul’s name. paul, by the way, was who he was here for. waiting, returning; they had both made a promise, that one would find the other. why he doesn’t say so was, perhaps, to save themselves the melancholy talk, or feed further into the corruption tainting his blood. instead, he settles with a light rise of his shoulders, and sinks the tip of his stick into the sand enough to keep it upright. ] I’m— drawing a bird.












[ that is not a bird. ]

[peripheries]

[There's a pause. Like when Falco says "Kaworu" like the person in front of him doesn't know that name despite introducing himself with it only a few weeks ago. Then a blinking of unnatural red eyes as if recognition dawns.]

Ah.

[He moves closer, looking at the drawing of something that's certainly not a bird. And again the feeling, the unpleasant twisted feeling, is uneniably appealing to him right now.]

Wheyey did you draw such a thing?

Haunted Trenchwood

[imaglyphwitch]

Luz could have kicked herself. Do her stupid STUPID corruption, she'd missed that whole Leviathan debacle! Now she knew a handful of her friends were in trouble or no doubt stressed and out of their minds right now!

So Luz listened to Ruby and flew down to see if she could check up on any of the people in that fight, and sure enough, she was only flying for several minutes before she came upon Falco, who she recalled had been involved in the fight.

She had unfortunately not gotten as good a look as she should have though, because as she was descending down to talk, he suddenly moved like lightning and before Luz could quite register her immediate reaction to duck down, she felt the explosion at her shoulder, and for a moment she could only stare in horror before falling to the floor, engulfed in a pain that had come quick and unexpected.

"AUGH!"

[grice]

[ one more. one more aimed so close to the heart that falco feels sick. sick, but he hardly gives himself the luxury to truly feel it— he needs to run for luz, the sling of the rifle thrown to his back to free his hands. ]

Luz—! [ down on the floor, falco looks over the immediate damage, trying to keep the ice in his gut from rising to his throat. it does anyway, leaving a terrible knot and his mouth dry enough to crack his words. ] Luz, I’ve got you!

[ calm, stay calm. it was hard to when he felt like his heart was about to burst, but— hushing his own panic forcefully, falco thinks, an rushes to his supply bag for an extra roll of fabric he would’ve used for the runny noses he kept getting. or the slime. ]

P-press this here! I need to— [ he cups her hand to the balled fabric and guides it to her shoulder, guides her to press down even if it hurt to. ] I’m sorry, I—

[ what was the reason for pulling the trigger? she startled him? it was the first suggestion he feels his thoughts pool up— they aren’t his, are they? falco prefers to press his lips tightly together and refrain from excuses. there was no excuse. ]

I’m sorry— I’ve got you. Okay?

[ it felt like so much to ask, now. ]

Haunted Trenchwood

[laminae]

[Thankfully, grass getting shot doesn't have the same impact or injury compared to a fleshy human. The bullet actually goes straight through Fern's arm, sending a spray of glitter and shredded plant matter into the air, and embeds itself in the tree behind Fern. It isn't great, but he doesn't have the same kind of pain receptors as a normal person, so his yelp is more out of shock than it is pain.

Falco's a good kid. What's he doing out here in the woods with a gun, and why is he so willing to fire? He could chalk this up to an overabundance of nervous cautiousness, what with the woods being dangerous and full of monsters, but it's still weird to him. He, of course, had been out there to get some excess energy out of his system, to pummel some monsters lurking too close to the farmlands like he usually did when frustrated about something. He wasn't expecting this.]

What the flip, dude??

[A few thorns are rising defensively up on his hands and arms under his coat and he's automatically moving into a more defensive stance, though he fights the urge to form a grass sword. Probably a good mood, since a split second later he's getting a whole wave of negative emotions from the tree behind him, the one that got hit by the bullet. Making a stressed noise, he puts a palm to his forehead and tries to block the invasive feelings out.]

What was that for?!

cw parasites, slight body horror

[grice]

[ there’s a sort of eerie silence (hah) following the harsh pop of the rifle’s bullet. one that caves and sinks its claws into falco’s consciousness and pries open shock on his face, his eyes, how fast his heart begins to pump blood to his head and pounds a drum in his ears, loud and rhythmic thumps. he’s shot right through fern, and perhaps the only action that keeps falco from reacting with further aggression is the lack of a sword.

the rifle is still raised, still hot and lifting smokey ribbons from its nozzle. falco’s arms remain holding the weapon, but its metal and wood frame begins to clatter with his own shaking. it’s down, at last, no longer pointed at fern’s immediate direction. ]

I-I don’t, [ he breathes, inwardly, but doesn’t feel the air coming in correctly. his chest binds when he tries to expand, despite everything being in working order. something stirs at the jugular of his neck, writhes abnormally and far from the likeness of a vein. it slithers and moves out of place from anything normal in his body; it crawls up, whips a thin tail at the corner of his sclera, burrows beneath the skin of his temple and disappears at the curvature of his ear, to his nape. ] know.

[ he can feel the heat rise, whether from his glue or from the fright. the beads of slime form and stick where they build. ]

Haunted Beach

[ghostharasser]

[Man, a lot sure happened last month. He'd stayed out of the Leviathan fight, for the most part. Dipper could fight ghosts and even giant robots, but that thing? He'd actually listened to his family for once and kept his nose out of it. He spent his time developing magic and working on anti-corruption methods. Both he and his sister had been hard at work at that for some time.]

[Once the Leviathan's felled, he makes a point to go and check on some people. He wasn't actually looking for Falco just now, but seeing him on the shore draws Dipper in his direction.]

Falco! Hey, man. How've-

[And there's a pause as he looks down at the sand. Something grabs his attention. Maybe he gets that single pulse of fear, but now there is apprehension and concern, too.]

...What are you up to?

[grice]

[ mentally speaking— he should be alright. he feels alright. a little stuffed with whatever flu he’s caught, some ways melancholy, but what sticks out the most is how jumpy he is at the simple call of his name. he jolts out of his skin and drops the stick, feeling his heart lodge into his throat so fast he could hear it pounding in his ears.

it’s only a friend; the wide whites in his eyes, large from the initial surprise, aren’t exactly white; they’re purplish, with most of what’s exposed of his skin seems chalky. ]

—Dipper! [ crack, went his voice. he bends his knees just enough to pick up the stick, but he doesn’t divide his attention. it’s all dipper’s. ] I’m, [ he gestures to the sea, a bit sadly, but it wasn’t something he could change. ] waiting for someone.

[ but, immediately? there’s been a grave shift in dipper’s posture that’s palpable. falco’s hands come together to fidget against each other by his front. he can feel it. and he’s starting to feel anxious. ]

So I was drawing . . . In the sand.

[ there’s something implied in the awkward stretch that gives: right? ]

worst-case scenario

[feudalladyshandmaid]

[For someone so unused to guns -they're an extremely uncommon weapon in the Seven Kingdoms, only just coming into style thanks to overseas invention. But Cassandra never cared for them herself. They were clunky, noisy, and smelled of burning smoke once their limited use was made up. Give her a sword any day, and she'd show you just what close-quarters combat could do that a firearm couldn't.

Of course, that bravado isn't going to stop a bullet all on its own, but... that's what armor of unbreakable rock is for.]

Oof!

[The bullet hits dead on, right in the center of her ribcage. It doesn't break through her armor, no, but it leaves a distinct crack where it hands where something else might leave a dent. The force of it brings Cassandra to stumble, but she doesn't fall, no mater how shocked she is at the sudden forcing of all the air from her chest.]

Wha... what? [...] Falco?

[grice]

[ smoke still rises clean off the rifle’s nozzle, the shell of the bullet used thumping into the dirt below. he knew the dropping relief he felt when scanning over a lack of harm done to the body, to cassandra no less. the boy’s hands still grip the weapon, turn the tip away, but it’s shivering. his lips have pulled down and the rifle’s body held securely close to his chest, sideways— he wouldn’t shoot it again.

falco’s lips part open but nothing verbal comes of it. not yet. there’s something else that bubbles from inside of him, like boiling water. he remembers how upsetting it was to be forgotten. he had understanding of how that worked since the beginning, it was never a problem. now— it felt like it was.

there’re so many things wrong with this, causing the boy’s apparent discord; what else did it feel like? right. that he was right.

which voice does he listen to—? ]

Miss . . . [ he swallows tight, and his voice thins into a ripe crack. ] C-Cassandra.

[ he should check on her. he should apologize to her. he should let the gun go, now, like he’s done with others not so lucky.

falco does none of these things. the silence is irritable, to have not gotten a single crack of blood or panic. its frustration trickles into its host, something he feels aware of but doesn’t seem to have the upper hand to discard. he only feels something that feels like his, right then and there, even if he couldn’t pinpoint why. ]