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03 | 🕒 | spam
Jul. 27th, 2014 02:12 am( spam for riddick / open )
[ He stalks Level Two because it has become his territory, the place that belongs to him, of stags and mirrors and something in the air that keeps him primal, sharp, and it shouldn't be something he enjoys but, oh, how it's something he enjoys.
Sometimes, maybe, the wisps of black smoke trailing behind him - frenetically, he constantly keeps checking behind himself for anything, anyone, and it's almost better off in his cell. Where he knows the cracks and he knows the cot and it's slanted and broken now but at least it's better than this, walls of funhouse mirrors that each echo something beastly and unlike himself.
He's upgraded his weapon, from a hanger to a knife won from one of the games a level up. It's difficult to stay out of here too long, the gas in his system; too many bright lights and noises and things crawling, he feels the comfort of the second level as though it's cradling him in his arms. A large mirror shard sits in his other hand, clutched tight enough to let blood pool up underneath his fingers. He gathered the idea from a friend. He's keeping it, for now.
The hall's been quiet, save for the sound of the whispers that surround him - over here, Will, look this way, I can see you - and none of them in his own voice. It's not safe here. The Barge is not safe here, and he can feel it to every fiber.
If he looks a bit deranged as he makes his way down the hall one more time, it's because he hasn't eaten, hasn't slept, hasn't done much but sit and watch and let plans as they are unfold.
It sits sick in his stomach, like a pint of blood. ]
[ He stalks Level Two because it has become his territory, the place that belongs to him, of stags and mirrors and something in the air that keeps him primal, sharp, and it shouldn't be something he enjoys but, oh, how it's something he enjoys.
Sometimes, maybe, the wisps of black smoke trailing behind him - frenetically, he constantly keeps checking behind himself for anything, anyone, and it's almost better off in his cell. Where he knows the cracks and he knows the cot and it's slanted and broken now but at least it's better than this, walls of funhouse mirrors that each echo something beastly and unlike himself.
He's upgraded his weapon, from a hanger to a knife won from one of the games a level up. It's difficult to stay out of here too long, the gas in his system; too many bright lights and noises and things crawling, he feels the comfort of the second level as though it's cradling him in his arms. A large mirror shard sits in his other hand, clutched tight enough to let blood pool up underneath his fingers. He gathered the idea from a friend. He's keeping it, for now.
The hall's been quiet, save for the sound of the whispers that surround him - over here, Will, look this way, I can see you - and none of them in his own voice. It's not safe here. The Barge is not safe here, and he can feel it to every fiber.
If he looks a bit deranged as he makes his way down the hall one more time, it's because he hasn't eaten, hasn't slept, hasn't done much but sit and watch and let plans as they are unfold.
It sits sick in his stomach, like a pint of blood. ]
