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mental link; goodnight sweet fuckboy

[ Nyx Ulric slipping from her grasp is like a sun blinking out, her skyline gone suddenly dark, her world gone suddenly cold. It knifes through her, and after a moment of shocked, numb, silence: she starts the vibrate. An earthquake of anger and pain, electricity crackling off of her as her thoughts explode outward.

To call the noise echoing out of her any kind of language would be a gross exaggeration, it is merely a series of ocean's deep lamentations, reverberating throughout the immensity of her. Up from the magma at her core, through the cavernous, lightless space that is her consciousness beyond the shell of She. ]

( Fucking--W͙͇͕̠͈̅ͭi̺̟̩̼͙̮̞̎ͮ̉ͪ̆ͨ͟ț̰̙͌͡h̢̯̹̃ͮ̈́o̩̼̟͚͍̾̔̃͆u͆̊ͤ̾̏t͕͎̞̳̙̙͔̓ͫ̒ ͔͋̐̿̓̊ͩ͛l̮̝̘̼ͩ́i͕̰̠ͦ̐͢g̘̬̺̜̓h̲͖͇̜͇͓͓̊̒͛t͈͉͈̹̫͖ͤ̔͒̍͊ ̠̤̫̄̈́ͯͣͦw͙̺̯̰̔͆̊͗̐̊̍i̻̽̋t͐̓̀̉̿ͮ͐ḧ̰̲̲̼́̒ͥͪ̋ͯ̈͜o̩ͮut̐ͦ̂ͭ̈͘ ̰̝̪̹̩͔̱̃͛͌͋̈́̀h̴̝ͯ̎ͥͯḛ̪̤̫͚ͅͅa̱̦̩͔̺̪ͪ͊̓͗̊ͅtͬ͛̓͌̇̓͜ Son of a cunt-fucking maggot-- S̲̜͈̜̲u̱f̨̥̥̳͍͖̝͈f̵͇̪̼̝͎e̡͕̫̯r҉͕̪͎̹͎ Don't you dare leave me with this, L͖͍̝̠̝͎̾͛ͤo͉̘̖͚͉̳͋̎̍̂ͅś̝ṥ̤̗̊ͤ͗̑͘ you worthless-- Fuck. C̢̩̝̳̫͖̗̆o̖̰͍̱ͨ̃͡m̴͍̫̤̰͓͓̠̋͂͊ͮ̑̆̚ë͖̟̩͙̻̦̬́̆̽ ̬̯̓̅ͮ̽͑b͖̣̒͌͂ͣ͘ả̶͖̮̂̔̂̓̍̒ͅc̝͍̼̩̻̒k̮̤̪̺̋̓̓̈́-- Don't come back, don't come-- A̴̪̯̭̯͓ͦ̾͋̍̔̾̚b̜͘s͗͋ͤͫ͊̀ơ̙̙͔͚̼̹ͦͨ̓̉r̸ͥ̐͛̿̌ͨb̻̥͇̝̊̀̈ͪͭ ̨̲̥́ͭͣͫt̙ͦͩ̏h͎ͬ̚ẽ̱͉͕̥̮̂ͅ ̇̉͗͗bͥ̅͋ͧ̎̂͟o͙ͤͥ̈ͤͣn̰̮͙͓̥͈̞ͩ̍̓͂͋̓e̶̻̋̀͛s̻͔̭̜̽ͨͅ. Fuck.
Fuck fuck-- )

[ Dripping colors and fury, a base shaken. ]

( Nyx. Ņ̘̩͖̙̪͓̔ͮ͋ͤͣͮy̶͎͑̾́ͪ̾x̦̹̳̱ͮ́̋̿̆̃̀͘. Nyx. )

[ ...It takes its time, but eventually her wounded presence slithers off, a poisonous trail of brack and blood in its wake. ]

[ Somewhere in the physical world, she shows little of her internal distress. Still as stone in her robes staring out into the distance, jaw grit, fists clenched. ]

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[Murphy had believed he had better control, these days. That his walls were a little more steady, that his mind wasn't so easily plucked and tugged by the waves and ripples of everyone else's. Whether that's because nothing had been strong enough, or coming off anyone he cared about enough isn't a question he has the time to consider.

The sound of Annie rumbles and shakes through him, howling, and all the grief he's been holding since Clarke arrived rises, resonating. Cold fury and pain, crackling and churning like a heavy storm, spilling outwards from him to meet her before he can take a breath, make any attempt to pull himself back.]

( Spilled like a stick pig, didn't he just-- )

[ Amusement and manic laughter swirls around him, creating a whirlpool of negativity out of his mess of a mind. ]

( Didn't take much at all. )

( Screw you. )

[Furious, like bared teeth, split knuckles and a mouthful of blood. All the pain of a fight when none had been given. But he tries, now, wrenching back. Recognises the sense of her, empty and heavy, vast, invasive, and how he'd always managed well enough against the shadow of that in her in the past. But his walls are gone and she's pulling him in. It's like digging in heels on sand, slipping in inevitable increments.]

[ The laughter rises in pitch and intensity. Ha! ]

( You don't have it in you, sweetie. )

[ Not that she would to start with, but it never hurts to insult someone's manhood, does it? ]

[Months ago he'd been full of pride, swaggering and angry with the desire to face down every authority figure, carve out a sense of power with the violence of his own two hands. Now it's nothing. A sliver, whittled down by experience: fear, pain, pragmatism. But it still flares, her words and whirling laughter pulling it out of him, a flash of Emori reclining in firelight, satisfied and happy.

He wrenches back again, and the pull of her against him makes it twist to the weight of a collar around his neck, the yank of a chain. Ontari naked on the bed, metal wrapping around her hand, uncaring of him saying no. Cold seeps down into the bones of him. He only pulls against Annie harder.]

( Right, because you only care about the people you can bone. ) [Slicing jagged, ice and storm clashing. Something desperate about it now, deep in his gut.] ( Guess that must mean the list just went down by one. )

[ The tentacles are guffawing, a murder of wretched carrion birds. ]

( Keeps her quiet. Wasn't she better, when she wasn't screaming? )

[ When they weren't laughing. ]

[No. He remembers Ilde, her howling, raging grief, how all any of them had done in the face of it was to wish her quiet again. His own, the day Clarke had arrived, the night of the play, how even his leaving was too much noise for some. How he had to be followed, chastised and berated like a kid who didn't know the stakes they were operating under. He won't say Annie was better just because it would be more comfortable, more convienient for everyone else - for him, and his own wretched inability to hold back from reflected understanding. They hadn't all lost the right to feel just because they were plugged into each other's heads.

But he grows colder. Scornful, sharp, the bite of air curling up from ice.]

( Right. Because this is all you, and none of her. )

[Bullshit, easy excuse. He isn't buying it. Suddenly he isn't pulling. With all the contemptuous cruelty of a bully just being told his victim can't hear him, he's leaning in to yell directly in an ear:]

( Let me the hell go, Annie. )

[ Ah, bullies... Maybe that's what she and Murphy have so much in common. That history of being an absolute scumbag piece of dirt and swagger. It mirrors in her so easily, and she's there in the forefront again, shoving aside the distraction of her otherworldly monstrousness, only to look him in the eye with her own human cruelty. ]

( You know what, Johnny? Why don't you fucking make me. )

[ The shadow of the tentacles rises up behind her presence, a cage of writhing flesh and indecent squelching. ]

( You don't have it in you. To do a fucking thing about me. I got enough room in here, Murphy, I could keep you here with me, until you fucking tore yourself apart trying to get out. )

[ Drive him mad the way she's driven mad, let this mouthy little shit feel what it's really like inside her head, the way she's being undermined by herself at all times, sliding towards inhumanity, clawing with bloody fingers to keep some semblance of sanity. ]

[Cruelty against cruelty, and all her threats are now is fuel. A thin smile, chin tipped up, emboldened by the all the casual immortality of the young. He still carries it well, carves his features sharp, his eyes arrogant.

And, there: his skin splits, parting into a dozen cuts across face and chest and back, flesh raw down one shoulder, fingernails ripped out. Bruises purple across wrists, around the throat, one eye swelling shut. Hair growing long and matted, malnutrition tightening his skin, eyes glassy with the despair of months imprisoned alone. Caged. Tortured. Broken. He faces her and he refuses to back down.]

( Go ahead. Try me. )

[ She offended, by what's been done to him. Bristling huge and electric and she'd love to direct that anger anywhere but him, but he's got her attention. He was trying to get her attention and now here it is, wild. She descends on him, wanting him to be quiet, to stop antagonizing her, pesky, pesty little fly that he is. ]

( You just don't know when to shut the fuck up! )

[ Shoves him back into a cage of her own making, wanting to keep his fucking suffering off her, but she's entangled in it now, struggling recklessly in a way that can only see him as collateral, and only sees the chains of it getting caught on too many flailing limbs. ]

( Stop! )

[ It's all intersectional now: the mirror of indignities. They might have fed her at the Academy,
but she was still one of their caged animals to be beaten and restrained for her own good and told to like it--

It's a mirror she's ready to smash her face into, an all too familiar memory. Hands gripped around the edge of a sink, shards of broken mirror and blood in the basin. That stiff porcelain just perfect for caving in a skull--

And she's squeezing him like she'll suffocate him. Wound in limbs upon limbs upon limbs upon limbs upon-- ]

( Stop. You stupid little shit. )

[ Be very. Very quiet, now. ]

[Murphy knows when to shut up. Self-preservation, survival. He knows. But there's no active thought anymore. Annie's pain and anger are still overflowing, and now they crash into him, wrap around him, try to flood him out, press him down into submission.

He fights. It's the thrash of feet kicking, body jerking, bruises and rope burn ringing his neck vivid red. Dumb instinct against the sensation of suffocation, choking. Pieces of him lash out, trying to reach past the enormity of her, desperate and pathetic like pleas for help.]

[ Finally, she manages to disentangle enough of herself from his self. It's like being kicked in the face by a mule as she just utterly ejects him from the circle of her mind. Maybe it would be a relief, if it didn't hurt so fucking much, blinding right between the eyes.

Her too.

It reverbs back to her and she's biting back curses. Or was that Shep punching her in the face? It's all such a goddamn fucking mess.... ]

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