[when it first starts viktor doesn't even ignore it. he sees the creature and immediately takes to the omni, scouring for information as rio watched on in concern at their unfortunate new guest. he doesn't find much on the network, so he does the next best thing and ignores it. focuses on work, clears his head as best he can to hope it will go away.
it does not. it does nothing to him beside mimic with irritating accuracy. looking at it does nothing (good, no more butterflies please,) tossing one of the orbs does nothing. he loses his patience at one point and gives it a little whack with his crutch only to get a bruise on his own arm for his trouble. the whole stupid episode makes him laugh and he considers messaging pal about it, because he thinks pal might get a kick out of it. he even gets as far as opening up to pal's inbox before he falters.
he doesn't know what this is, and until he does he doesn't want to have it anywhere near pal. he doesn't want it haunting the bunker, a place that has become warm in a way his old apartment back home never managed. he doesn't want to turn to find it latching onto pal, or feeding from pal, or any number of possibilities. he needs more information and that he'll get, so he closes the inbox and focus that first night on figuring out exactly what's happening. he makes notes.
mimics <- working title until the name of these creatures is revealed
characteristics: faceless, an oddly metallic sheen? fluid movement regardless of it. solid, water simply drips off them without and absorption from the mimic.
note: physical violence against the mimic reflects on the one it is mimicking!
mostly like that, feverish through that first evening. by morning he can't stop glancing over his shoulder, grimacing at how the creature simply grimaces back. still no obvious method of feeding, and when he goes outside people seem to recognize the mimic is there, can see it. he's avoided and he's grateful, though he's struck with the thought that the moment allen or pal walk into the lab they'll make this their problem too.
for a dying man, it's a thought that slides across his head too naturally to be ignored. for what very well could be a lost cause, all that attention and effort that could so easily be doomed to be just another scar bleeding corruption.
he goes to the docks shortly after, always the place best to think and try and clear his head of that sort of nonsense. the problem is it feels less and less like nonsense the longer he stands there, even rio fading to smoke from where she tried to stay resolutely pressed to his side.
he thinks of pal's words at the bar, the picture of some sickly friend from the seventh he lost. he thinks about how his own steady decaying must feel to watch, wonders if it's similar enough to whatever tragedy pal faced that it eats at him. thinks about it when pal messages him and he offers a clumsy message back, head clearing for a blessed moment with the concern shown.
it doesn't last. maybe later he could untangle the time that follows and the many tangles but mostly he sinks into the silence of it all. he was always here once, that sickly kid who couldn't climb up with the other children so he watched the boats instead. the tether feels like it's breathing down his neck by the time pal comes around, silver seeping up his jaw like prominent veins.
when pal speaks there's a delay before he looks over, the mimic looking in unison, its eyeless gaze somehow more focused.]
Legacy, I think. What that actually means. [he answers after another beat] In a way it's really just our excuse for why we existed in the first place, is it not?
no subject
it does not. it does nothing to him beside mimic with irritating accuracy. looking at it does nothing (good, no more butterflies please,) tossing one of the orbs does nothing. he loses his patience at one point and gives it a little whack with his crutch only to get a bruise on his own arm for his trouble. the whole stupid episode makes him laugh and he considers messaging pal about it, because he thinks pal might get a kick out of it. he even gets as far as opening up to pal's inbox before he falters.
he doesn't know what this is, and until he does he doesn't want to have it anywhere near pal. he doesn't want it haunting the bunker, a place that has become warm in a way his old apartment back home never managed. he doesn't want to turn to find it latching onto pal, or feeding from pal, or any number of possibilities. he needs more information and that he'll get, so he closes the inbox and focus that first night on figuring out exactly what's happening. he makes notes.
mimics <- working title until the name of these creatures is revealed
characteristics: faceless, an oddly metallic sheen? fluid movement regardless of it. solid, water simply drips off them without and absorption from the mimic.
note: physical violence against the mimic reflects on the one it is mimicking!
mostly like that, feverish through that first evening. by morning he can't stop glancing over his shoulder, grimacing at how the creature simply grimaces back. still no obvious method of feeding, and when he goes outside people seem to recognize the mimic is there, can see it. he's avoided and he's grateful, though he's struck with the thought that the moment allen or pal walk into the lab they'll make this their problem too.
for a dying man, it's a thought that slides across his head too naturally to be ignored. for what very well could be a lost cause, all that attention and effort that could so easily be doomed to be just another scar bleeding corruption.
he goes to the docks shortly after, always the place best to think and try and clear his head of that sort of nonsense. the problem is it feels less and less like nonsense the longer he stands there, even rio fading to smoke from where she tried to stay resolutely pressed to his side.
he thinks of pal's words at the bar, the picture of some sickly friend from the seventh he lost. he thinks about how his own steady decaying must feel to watch, wonders if it's similar enough to whatever tragedy pal faced that it eats at him. thinks about it when pal messages him and he offers a clumsy message back, head clearing for a blessed moment with the concern shown.
it doesn't last. maybe later he could untangle the time that follows and the many tangles but mostly he sinks into the silence of it all. he was always here once, that sickly kid who couldn't climb up with the other children so he watched the boats instead. the tether feels like it's breathing down his neck by the time pal comes around, silver seeping up his jaw like prominent veins.
when pal speaks there's a delay before he looks over, the mimic looking in unison, its eyeless gaze somehow more focused.]
Legacy, I think. What that actually means. [he answers after another beat] In a way it's really just our excuse for why we existed in the first place, is it not?
[being a fucking downer, man. ]