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DAY: 011
[ It begins in drum beats, louder and louder over itself, begins like eyes opening out of childhood nightmares, begins like a mother waking to her child's crying in the night, between Sam and Zhukov and something that is the sea - something that is a river in full flood. Out and out to where there is no difference between them. Through the hive and through the void in a space that is not space and like any waters, the void takes the path of least resistance, eager to expand in every direction.
Finds Sam first, of course it does. Wraps about him like a sycophant. It beats itself out against him, demanding, demanding, wanting and pushing and clawing and gnawing at once. Looks for a crack, any crack, just one simple divide, and as Sam splits his mind. It slips in stiletto blade thin between ribs and cracks apart at the edges. To take and take and take, to carve on the edge of a knife a way forward and engulf.
Not in words, but it speaks:
( a city, a city overrun in gnawing creatures, rats, thousands of them, their fur wet and spillery smooth as nails try to pry their teeth out of supple muscles, between fingers as they crawl, of flies, loud and buzzing, sickly honeyed hives that are corpse sweet and they nestle like lovers into flesh. Of something older than modern lights and inventions that sits at the back of the tongue and is suckled out by empires as oils. This is what the flesh of the sea looks like, this is what the water tastes like free of everything and full of nothing. Of cities under the earth, forgotten. Of the rot and the festering and the piling: this is what happens to a body that is on top of another body, this is what happens when the flesh is stripped away in salt and dried to air. Lovers that are in sewers and together, together, together. Looking up is to look down to the depths. There is no left or right, there's only a deep, deep breath and coughing up the taste of blue and violet and dark-light. This is the sun through the ice, reflected over and over again until it sears the skin in its reflection. Objects that float like they never knew the ground, or that they exist and don't exist and forget where to walk, paths that overlay paths that overlay paths,
and black - black eyes. There is nothing, nothing so black as those eyes. Nothing so beautiful as them as when they stare down into these oceans of you. Above and below and no where at all. Crawling in the sewers, through grand mansions, not welcome here but oh, so very, very wanted. Come, come, you are its lover, and it wants to carve purpose in bones. You are so beautiful, it wants to lick the marrow out of your bones, and it will call you pure for the broken parts of you, it wants, just give in, just give it everything.
these waters will never give back what they have taken. )
It takes Sam, where they are a half beat apart, and when he slips, it rushes over the top of him, holding to him tightly and then the everything stops. Expanded as far as it can go. The healing on his body is nothing but tinder, something new to be devoured.
And then, there is nothing but the dark and a naked flame.
Out of mind and body, Zhukov starts screaming as he burns. ]
( ooc: this is the continuation from this thread here, and is open for anyone to feel and react to. I am also happy to have the void reach out to touch whoever wants to from him. If you have any questions, please feel free to drop me a plurk to @aeneia or send me a message here! )
Finds Sam first, of course it does. Wraps about him like a sycophant. It beats itself out against him, demanding, demanding, wanting and pushing and clawing and gnawing at once. Looks for a crack, any crack, just one simple divide, and as Sam splits his mind. It slips in stiletto blade thin between ribs and cracks apart at the edges. To take and take and take, to carve on the edge of a knife a way forward and engulf.
Not in words, but it speaks:
( a city, a city overrun in gnawing creatures, rats, thousands of them, their fur wet and spillery smooth as nails try to pry their teeth out of supple muscles, between fingers as they crawl, of flies, loud and buzzing, sickly honeyed hives that are corpse sweet and they nestle like lovers into flesh. Of something older than modern lights and inventions that sits at the back of the tongue and is suckled out by empires as oils. This is what the flesh of the sea looks like, this is what the water tastes like free of everything and full of nothing. Of cities under the earth, forgotten. Of the rot and the festering and the piling: this is what happens to a body that is on top of another body, this is what happens when the flesh is stripped away in salt and dried to air. Lovers that are in sewers and together, together, together. Looking up is to look down to the depths. There is no left or right, there's only a deep, deep breath and coughing up the taste of blue and violet and dark-light. This is the sun through the ice, reflected over and over again until it sears the skin in its reflection. Objects that float like they never knew the ground, or that they exist and don't exist and forget where to walk, paths that overlay paths that overlay paths,
and black - black eyes. There is nothing, nothing so black as those eyes. Nothing so beautiful as them as when they stare down into these oceans of you. Above and below and no where at all. Crawling in the sewers, through grand mansions, not welcome here but oh, so very, very wanted. Come, come, you are its lover, and it wants to carve purpose in bones. You are so beautiful, it wants to lick the marrow out of your bones, and it will call you pure for the broken parts of you, it wants, just give in, just give it everything.
these waters will never give back what they have taken. )
It takes Sam, where they are a half beat apart, and when he slips, it rushes over the top of him, holding to him tightly and then the everything stops. Expanded as far as it can go. The healing on his body is nothing but tinder, something new to be devoured.
And then, there is nothing but the dark and a naked flame.
Out of mind and body, Zhukov starts screaming as he burns. ]
( ooc: this is the continuation from this thread here, and is open for anyone to feel and react to. I am also happy to have the void reach out to touch whoever wants to from him. If you have any questions, please feel free to drop me a plurk to @aeneia or send me a message here! )
no subject
[ Even so, there's no need to be curt, a reminder to herself that comes a tad too late. Misato makes a face that could pass as remorseful, certainly displeased, as she draws her hand back and lets out a sigh. That helps little to allay her anxiety. ]
Sam's not really answering, is he?
no subject
[ Pidge's response is equally curt, so they're even. She sighs softly (more of a groan) and shakes her head. She is not pleased with the empty buzz where Sam should be, even if she doesn't really like the link. ]
No, he's not. I - we should go find him.
no subject
Would you know where to look? Or should we sound the alarm, get everyone to help?
no subject
[ Pidge winces and rubs her head again. ]
We should definitely find him, though. I think I know where he is. Maybe. But, uh, talking to everyone else would probably a good idea...
[ She glances up at Misato, brow furrowed in a worried frown. ]
I just wish I knew what triggered this.
no subject
[ Whatever it was felt bad. And as much affinity she feels for Sam, when the matter of strategy and most effective placement of resources kick in, it's a terrible idea for everyone to come running to the rescue. If even a trained fighter couldn't take down whoever that was, it would be best to retreat and regroup. She doesn't think Pidge would agree. ]
But he's one of yours. I'll go with you. Come on.
no subject
[ Pidge nods. She's still shaky on her feet, but she's not going to let that stop her. Time to move. ]