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station722017-03-30 09:34 am
sistershoggoth) wrote in station722017-03-30 09:34 am
Entry tags:
This horrid mass shall give us pause
CHARACTERS: Open
WHERE: WAYPOINT SHRIL
WHEN: Day 29
SUMMARY: Alien rock, other stuff in the top levels.
WARNINGS: N/A, will update as necessary.
Annie Westwind doesn't have down the whole 'not bleeding out her every thought and feeling' thing. She's not given to it, really, she's always had too much going on in her head, and she just lets it go where it will. Unless someone gives her a reason better than 'making others comfortable' she probably won't try.
Her excitement starts out tame. She's found something interesting, one of those little sparkles of intrigue that you may even have gotten used to over the past few days. It's not an unpleasant feeling, after all. However, her eagerness ramps up increasingly over the following few minutes, quite dramatically.
She's found an impromptu alien band blocking off one of the alleyways, set up on stage of crates, stolen plating, and torn fencing. At first she'd thought they were just boring ass street preaches, yapping about something dramatic she hadn't listened to at all, but then they began the drumming. Like an infernal military march. So she'd crept closer, winding her way through the gathering crowd. As the other instruments began they were just as wild and noisy, and then their alien singer began to snarl and growl, the crowd of unruly aliens before them beginning to jump and sway.
( Holy shit! )
It's about the most articulate thing that comes out of Annie as she joins them. Unfortunately for the rest of you, she's taking in and essentially re-transmitting this noise. Not just the terrible alien punkrock, but the press and excitement of the pit. Her breathless exhilaration as she dances and stomps and raises up a yell when prompted by the huge hairy alien on the stage.
His first song, assuredly, is dedicated to the large swinging genitals between his legs.
The worst of it, however, is when Annie actually picks up the lyrics of one of the songs. In person, her accent in emulating the alien growling is not up to par, but in her head it sounds legit, ok.
WHERE: WAYPOINT SHRIL
WHEN: Day 29
SUMMARY: Alien rock, other stuff in the top levels.
WARNINGS: N/A, will update as necessary.
Annie Westwind doesn't have down the whole 'not bleeding out her every thought and feeling' thing. She's not given to it, really, she's always had too much going on in her head, and she just lets it go where it will. Unless someone gives her a reason better than 'making others comfortable' she probably won't try.
Her excitement starts out tame. She's found something interesting, one of those little sparkles of intrigue that you may even have gotten used to over the past few days. It's not an unpleasant feeling, after all. However, her eagerness ramps up increasingly over the following few minutes, quite dramatically.
She's found an impromptu alien band blocking off one of the alleyways, set up on stage of crates, stolen plating, and torn fencing. At first she'd thought they were just boring ass street preaches, yapping about something dramatic she hadn't listened to at all, but then they began the drumming. Like an infernal military march. So she'd crept closer, winding her way through the gathering crowd. As the other instruments began they were just as wild and noisy, and then their alien singer began to snarl and growl, the crowd of unruly aliens before them beginning to jump and sway.
( Holy shit! )
It's about the most articulate thing that comes out of Annie as she joins them. Unfortunately for the rest of you, she's taking in and essentially re-transmitting this noise. Not just the terrible alien punkrock, but the press and excitement of the pit. Her breathless exhilaration as she dances and stomps and raises up a yell when prompted by the huge hairy alien on the stage.
His first song, assuredly, is dedicated to the large swinging genitals between his legs.
The worst of it, however, is when Annie actually picks up the lyrics of one of the songs. In person, her accent in emulating the alien growling is not up to par, but in her head it sounds legit, ok.
no subject
Quite honestly, she doesn't want to focus enough to answer Noctis. She's not very good at conversing telepathically, it takes a lot of effort to gather all of her words in on place on her enormous psychic map. Although right now with so much sheer spirit behind her, the attempt comes out overly loud rather than the way she usually sounds as though she's calling out from under water.
( ROCKING OUT?! )
no subject
Now's not the best time to practice, anyway, not with this onslaught of chaos and uproarious music and something else that feels oddly like lust. He decides to find his way out of the club and out into "street" (construction everywhere, as expected), for he's not sure his mind and his physical body can focus in a stream of noise. He can at least give one of them a reprieve.
He can already feel where she is, relative to where he's standing, like a string perpetually tugging in one direction.
(Could you not?)
no subject
Her defiance is jubilant, contrary just for the sake of it. Or maybe contrary because she hasn't had this much fun in years. Not since Daylight came with his dank alien smell and fluttering hands. Before all the bodies and all of the regret. Used to be, fun was all that mattered, but that had given way to saving the world, and all the endless rescue work that had come after. She's had more fun with these aliens in a few days than she'd had on Earth in seven years. Make me. Make me stop.
no subject
A thought that sounds ironically and hilariously petulant for a 30 year-old man, maybe, but Noctis doesn’t seem to care. At the same time, the next part he offers is less of an actual threat, instead tinged with exasperation.
(Don’t make me find you and drag you away from whatever— whatever it is you’re doing.)
He may as well be standing right next to her, the way he can feel movement pulsating all around him, that surge of excitement that he’s trying to push away with varying success. Already, his feet start to move in what he believes to be her general direction. Follow the noise; easier said than done, but a start.
no subject
( Eat shit and die N̼̞̰̯̍ͦo̢̯̩͍̮̪̗̅̇c̕t͎̫̎̀̈́͂i̘͙̭͉̯͌̈͒̃̊ͮ͊͠s̲̼̮͉ͅ )
Warbling and unearthly, infused with stagnant water and delirium. Maybe he should come find her and drag her away over his shoulder.
no subject
He doesn’t bother responding, but instead only follows the pulse of where he believes Annie is. The rhythm and frenzy of it all isn’t difficult to pinpoint when it’s so blaring.
Eventually, the young king finds on the edges of a throng of people, of impossibly loud music and alien gyrations. He shuts his eyes closed, as if blocking out anything unnecessary, and focuses on his broodmare the best he can.
(Please stop?)
Since when did he start sounding like a tired parent since his arrival here?
no subject
Just a second.
And then she turns and there's Noctis with his tired eyes, and all the light and color drains out of her. Leaving behind a tired woman, ten years older. Her eyes widen, shocked by the abruptness of it, and the crowd buffets her to the side. She stumbles, shoves the alien back. They briefly exchange so lewd gestures and growls, but she crawls her way out without actually getting in to a fist fight.
Her clothes are disheveled, her shirt is over sized and distressed with bright color blocking, it slides deep down one shoulder. She gives Noctis a resentful look. Resentful that he couldn't just let her have it.
"Better? You fuckin' happy now, Noctis?" she shouts at him. She fiddles out a cigarette, clamping it irritably between her teeth.
no subject
Still, no need. Annie’s got a hold of the situation, even as she storms over to him, bitterness in her look. The exact opposite of how she had been just moments before, all that life and energy gone. None of it throbbing behind his eyes any longer.
He takes a step or two back, distancing himself from the edge of the crowd. They’re still too loud, just not as loud as before.
“Yes.” The response is quick, because yes, it was better. He crosses his arms, fingers playing idly at the black fabric of his sleeves. “Whether or not you believe it, I’m not trying to police your fun. I just couldn’t hear myself think.”
no subject
Her increase in swearing is a gesture of her frustration, chewing over the words like chaff, unpleasant and gritty in her mouth, spitting it out in pieces.
"It's a fuckin' bad idea, having anyone hooked up to my fuckin' mind. Cause I can't do a goddamn thing about it. It's gonna be like this, every fucking day for the rest of this shitty experience. You're gonna hear me. I'm gonna be there, and what I am is gonna touch you."
no subject
“Even if you’re always in my head, if neither one of us can control it, then I’m always going to be in yours too.”
The intermingling of whatever Annie is, that feeling that makes his skin-crawl, and his own images of flickering light (and unending dark) just feels… wrong, somehow. Like a puzzle piece that fits too tightly, that aligns wrong against the edges of his mind.
“Can’t you at least find a distraction that’s not as loud? Like…”
Like… like what, Noctis? He pauses.
“…reading, or something?”
no subject
She stops,teeth grit. They're the ones who are too small. Singular little things troubled by the press on their individuality, not knowing what it was like to be part of a greater thing. Annie knows it two fold, as a soldier and as a being of life and death.
"Find me some fuckin' art supplies. Pen and paper, paint, whatever. You fuckin' do it if it's so important to you."
Like it isn't important to her, but it is. She's always needed art. She's always made time for it, but this was supposed to be a new adventure, all the routines out the window. But she knows better. She knows what will happen to her if she looses her restraint. She flicks her stub of a cigarette away and lights another.
"And as many cartons of cigarettes as you can get your hands on."
no subject
But that’s not fair, and as much as he wants to say it, it won’t make him feel any better. It won’t make the voices and the feelings go away, it won’t give him his peace, it won’t make this entire Waypoint Shrill place less of a hassle to be on. Noctis drops his hands to his side, fingers flexing.
Art supplies and cigarettes? He’s not sure how reasonable a request that is, but maybe he could manage — maybe it’d be a nice enough distraction for himself. He’ll do her a favor, even if she was just sending him on a fetch quest and nothing more significant than that.
“What, like… brushes and oil paints?”
no subject
And now there's Noctis. A weary king tied to a broken down soldier.
"Yes," she mutters, feeling irritated with him, herself, the reality of her existence: part woman, part symbiote, part stardust. "I'm not picky, just bring whatever."
no subject
It’s decided, then. He’ll find art supplies for her, or at least, he’ll for damn sure try. Maybe even cigarettes if he happens to stumble across a carton.
Already his mind is filtering through a palette of colors he could search for. For some reason it always settles on the color black, though he knows that alone won’t do.
“All right. I’ll let you know if I find anything.”
A hand moves to his hip, considering.
“Just… no more alien rock concerts for today, okay.”
no subject
"I'll go find some coffee."