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[video/action] 011001010110111001100100011010000110100101101101
[He makes it to the last day of August before it happens.
His body seizes, fingers curling, back arching, tension clenching every muscle simultaneously in an unbearable, untenable, agonizing roar of overloaded nerves and sensory hell and electrostatic energy fizzling away in his skull in all the wrong, worst ways.
He's fairly certain that he's screaming when it happens. He's certain that he
He
Eyes open. Fingers go to face, trace contours. Unfamiliar. Not stark and white. Missing their Face. Missing direction. Missing everything. They've not been awake in...in so long, they think. Everything locked down, the body unresponsive, unwilling to cede control. Then everything ran dry, they nearly died because he did, and without the means to suppress the mechanism of their return, he - yes. He did. And as he lay there, postictal and still and trembling, they'd slithered in and taken things in their favored direction.
Something new on the floor. They snatch it up, run fingers over it, determine its function. It has a good function. They can work with this. They can send a message. They can find a way to. Require...focus. Focus and shape. Need someone, need something. Won't have this skin to themselves for long. Must make the best of it.
The video assigned to the network is odd and flickering, cut through with bars of intermittent static. White letters flit across the screen as a bizarre, warped tone shrills over the words.]
HAV
EYO
USE
EN?
////////we are alone////////
////////we are alone////////
////////we are alone////////
[The words cut out and so does the background noise. And then, briefly, seconds before the video's conclusion, a tiny line of text flares across the screen:]
aGVscGhlbHBoZWxw
[Then, there is nothing.
They roam about the castle in search of their Face, in search of something, of anything. Those who see them, those who find them - they maybe be treated as enemies. As things to be attacked and beaten down and damaged.
Or they may be treated as something much worse.
They may be treated as friends.]
[[ooc: info on the masked figure can be found here. anyone looking for an action prompt is likely to be tackled with extreme prejudice. once the night is over, tim will wake up in the mess hall the next morning with whatever injuries he might have sustained in the interim.]]
His body seizes, fingers curling, back arching, tension clenching every muscle simultaneously in an unbearable, untenable, agonizing roar of overloaded nerves and sensory hell and electrostatic energy fizzling away in his skull in all the wrong, worst ways.
He's fairly certain that he's screaming when it happens. He's certain that he
He
Eyes open. Fingers go to face, trace contours. Unfamiliar. Not stark and white. Missing their Face. Missing direction. Missing everything. They've not been awake in...in so long, they think. Everything locked down, the body unresponsive, unwilling to cede control. Then everything ran dry, they nearly died because he did, and without the means to suppress the mechanism of their return, he - yes. He did. And as he lay there, postictal and still and trembling, they'd slithered in and taken things in their favored direction.
Something new on the floor. They snatch it up, run fingers over it, determine its function. It has a good function. They can work with this. They can send a message. They can find a way to. Require...focus. Focus and shape. Need someone, need something. Won't have this skin to themselves for long. Must make the best of it.
The video assigned to the network is odd and flickering, cut through with bars of intermittent static. White letters flit across the screen as a bizarre, warped tone shrills over the words.]
EYO
USE
EN?
////////we are alone////////
////////we are alone////////
////////we are alone////////
[The words cut out and so does the background noise. And then, briefly, seconds before the video's conclusion, a tiny line of text flares across the screen:]
[Then, there is nothing.
They roam about the castle in search of their Face, in search of something, of anything. Those who see them, those who find them - they maybe be treated as enemies. As things to be attacked and beaten down and damaged.
Or they may be treated as something much worse.
They may be treated as friends.]
[[ooc: info on the masked figure can be found here. anyone looking for an action prompt is likely to be tackled with extreme prejudice. once the night is over, tim will wake up in the mess hall the next morning with whatever injuries he might have sustained in the interim.]]
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Still keeps seeing that thing staring at him with some bastardization of his own, albeit battered and embattled face as he disintegrated into something that wasn't quite bone dust but wasn't entirely shadowy mist, either. Keeps seeing that look in those hollow sockets, the one that said: finally and what took YOU so long?
So, hey! Why not take his mind off things that don't matter and take a walk? Who knew all it took to get him engaging in a little -- ugh -- exercise was a lack of food and a higher number of mouthy shadows in the vicinity? That'll tickle his bro. That'd almost be worth the trouble, too.
Turns out there's someone else who had the same idea. While it wouldn't do to shout (and Sans isn't really much of a shouter), an empty stone corridor is actually pretty good at carrying a voice, so he doesn't have to. ]
Hey, pal. Can't sleep?
[ Oh, give him about another second, maybe two, to realize something's up. ]
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Oh, wait.
They move oddly, as though one leg might be damaged and broken even though the most basic of examinations would indicate that the limb is quite sound and whole. When they are called out to - uttered with that shred of familiarity, which is in and of itself, deeply intriguing.
Their gaze snaps to him, fixating unerringly on that thing that - is not quite what they -
But it's too bony and pale. Those are - suboptimal qualities. Not ideal.
But what is its nature?
But what is its nature?
But what is its nature?
The query continues to run in subsequent, staggering loops, until finally, they ascertain that this thing, whatever it is, is too similar to the nightmare they know and dread. It must be taken into consideration, examined, and eradicated if it is dangerous.
They surge forward in a crisp snap of action, lunging for it, fingers oozing for the rough approximation of where its throat would be.]
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And that shambling thing lurches to fix a stare -- a lot colder, emptier than he knows of Tim, more vacant -- so, heh. Yeah. He's made a mistake. The kind of mistake that's a little more than staring at a human shambling around with a gait that reminds him of broken bones but makes him cold just the same.
He's reminded of birds that have flown down into the Underground, the way they tip their heads with their attention darting everywhere. Curious, curious. Just replace the fluff and feathers with something alien and unpredictable and violent. Hell, even he has the feeling he wouldn't get a good bead on what's become of Timothy if he bothered to CHECK. Fortunately? He doesn't have the luxury of enough time to consider giving that a shot.
Here comes Unsafe Tim.
Sans let's his weight drop his column of vertebrae duck just out of reach before he twists to the side and starts shuffling back, pulling hands from his pockets to add some lazy flourish to an unnecessary shrug. ]
Yikes. This might be the part where I plead with you, tell ya to 'snap outta it' because you're 'in there somewhere', but...
[ A socket shuts, the other keeping one dim light fixed on ... that. ]
Eh, I think we both know that only works in stuff like TV dramas and video games.
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It is unequipped to handle this data. Verbal input is unhelpful.
It will torque it.
It will torque it.
It avoids them and their momentum carries their borrowed body too far and nearly sends it skidding across the floor, then scrambling slowly to their feet, leaning their weight on one leg disproportionately, the other dragging gingerly behind them like dead weight.
Speech does not translate across these barrier waves or sound waves or pressure waves, so they are left with little choice but to lurch again, this time feinting to one side before aiming for its midriff.]
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[ He's a little more right about that only working within a script than he'd like to be. Not that Sans gets to ruminate on what that means about whatever's happened to Tim, because that thing wearing his face like a vacantly-staring mask is coming at him again.
Sans can't help but wonder what the hell he did to his leg, when he takes a leap backwards and a shuffling sidestep just to make sure Unsafe Tim isn't hitting anything he'll regret. The feint, that shows strategy, that could be a real problem. He should run, leave this to literally anyone else.
Make it somebody else's problem.
...Except they'll probably find out the hard way, like he did, that something's wrong with him. Maybe the guy will get his ass killed, and with Ozuma out of commission, there's still no guarantees anyone dying now will ever come back.
What if he encounters Papyrus before Sans has a chance to direct him away? Knowing him, he'd try to welcome him with open arms, to tell him he believes in him, that somewhere inside that blank-faced exterior that continues to press the attack, Tim is a good and safe person.
Yeah, not happening. ]
Yeesh. The hell am I gonna do with you, buddy? Not like I can keep you stuck to the wall until help arrives.
[ He doesn't exactly have a lot of other options, either. ]
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Too many subsequent queries muddy the way things are arrayed and this is disagreeable. It is unsustainable.
Experience indicates that this serial loop of lunge-and-turn will yield no desired results in the long-term or in the short-term or in any foreseeable future unless the target's strategy shifts unexpectedly, and this is not anticipated but given how little of its nature is known to them, this is possible.
They must not dismiss any option.
They circle it warily, making no abrupt movements, motions choppy and slow and uneven.]
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A little personal self-assessment tells him the guy ain't worth the LOVE.
Sans shuffles to keep his distance so long as the thing circles, waiting for an opening, sizing him up. The scrutiny's uncomfortable. Not half as uncomfortable as it'll be if the guy gets in a good hit or two, he can't even be sure he'll give up after a warning hit, the guy might even be playing for keeps.
How about a warning shot of his own. ]
OK. Howzabout a lesson? Yeah, I'll even give you a hint. Ever hear of a stop sign..?
[ He twirls a phalanx in the air beside his skull, pointing up. ]
You see a stop sign, you STOP, right? 'Cept these stop signs, they're special. Instead of red, you gotta think of blue stop signs.
[ One snap of his phalanges, and the ground erupts with a scattering of bones, bright cyan. Maybe Tim ain't so responsive under these conditions, but maybe he can reason. Otherwise? He might be in for a painful lesson. ]
Capiche?
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[Action]
Coming across the Creature Formerly Known As Tim during his nightly patrols, however, does give him pause. Death watches him silently from the other end of a hallway, unmoving and nearly invisible except for the faint, pinprick blue glow of the eye lights in his otherwise empty eye sockets. Something is very wrong here, but he can't quite put his phalange on what.]
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And at that point, the listing process shuts down because all three of those variables conjoin in a dark and ruinous way, a horribly familiar way, like the phantom tingle of a limb long lost or a scar reopened.
They begin to charge for it, wild and uncontrolled. Swipe it away. Score it out of this world. It must be purged and erased and they will do it, they will claw this thing from its station and remove it utterly. And they will be safe. And everything will be safe from its devil touch.]
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STOP.
[The command doesn't pass through the air the way nature intended, but rather arrives directly in the brain itself as if Death had spoken. He rarely bothered with vocalizations, and he certainly didn't bother with considering the possibility that this creature might not stop.]
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That's not right.
That is not verbal input, it is - it is neurological.
It is the same way thoughts arrived in their head because It would deliver, and that is - that is wrong.
They charge at the figure with a fresh spurt of resolve, now more determined than ever to wipe this thing off the map.]
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OH BUGGER.
[He grips his scythe in both hands and plants his feet firmly on the floor, aiming to deflect the tackle. Aggressive or not, this masked man was still alive and therefor was not to be harmed if he could help it.]
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They crash into the thing with an angry tangle of limbs and bones and - and It is not meant to have solidity, It is never capable of being struck in this way.
Output does not yield to desired result.
This is confusion. This is confusion.
This is also, they reflect briefly as pain shoots up their arms form the juddering oddness of the impact, regret.]
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What a weird message. The shrill sound makes her ears hurt, and in frustration Rin turns to indiscriminate button mashing in an attempt to silence it, and only succeeding in opening four other programs before the whole thing just crashes.]
Dammit...! [Tucking the book she only half-finished under her arm, Rin shakes the phone like that will somehow turn it back on again.] I don't get how anyone relies on these things.
[Exiting the library, she pushes the button to turn it back on again before noticing someone passing by.]
Oh. Hey, Tim. Are you feeling better? [He must be, if he's walking about out of the infirmary. The phone screen lighting back to life takes her eyes off of him and back to it.] Did you see that new post on the network? It was really creepy.
[Modern technology isn't her strong suit. She hadn't noticed what username the post was made by before crashing the phone.]
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And so they hear it and they twist, an abrupt contracture of muscle as they launch themselves at her with their face blank (but not their Face, lack their Face) and their fingers stretching, stretching, stretching for her throat and they must bring her down, they must ensure that she never mistakes them for him again because they are not the same they are not the same they are not -
]
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Wide eyes shoot up at the face of her attacker, almost expecting to see someone else. Though it almost feels like looking at someone else. For the sudden act of violence, she's chilled to see no expression in that face at all. It's like being attacked by a mannequin. Rin might have winced from the pressure, but if she had the air for that she'd be gasping it in instead. What the hell is wrong with him?!
It's worth noting that she was still standing in front of the library door, which wasn't all the way closed. It'll give, if they're pushing her back with any force against it.]
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No, she does not fold.
The door folds. It opens and they force her back with the unremitting pressure of fingers to throat and her expression is one of horror and fear and that is right, that is the expected reaction to a thing such as them, wearing this stolen skin with a face that is unchanging and blank, their coordination limited to the flexing of limbs and not of minute facial muscles.
They push back and back, intending to drive her to the nearest solid surface, be it bookcase or wall.]
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He's serious about this, isn't he? Definitely not like Shinji, wanting to hear her grovel. Under the collar of her turtleneck, her adams apple bobs frantically against their palms, a choked squeak forced out of her. No, this person isn't like Shinji; he (it) really means to kill her. Will kill her if she doesn't do something. It doesn't take much in this kind of hold, against a wall. Her vision is already blurring.
Eyes that were panicked and afraid burn with anger now. Rin's hands fall from his, only to shoot back up in the open space between his elbows, slapped together as if in prayer. Her own elbows press against the inside of their arms, like a wedge to drive them apart and make them loosen their grip. For extra incentive, those hands are going to reach for the head, to roughly grab them by the hair and pull them closer to her, close enough to headbutt in the face. The two combined should be enough to break the hold.]
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They will hold it and they will hold it just so that it does not drop off into death merely unconsciousness because to attack a thing is one thing but to kill a thing is quite another and it does not do that that is not its primary function that was perhaps its intended function but it does not approve of that it holds this as a policy.
They will hold it and they will
There is
Something shifts and input does not immediately yield do desired output and quite abruptly there are two arms forming a blade between their stolen arms and slammed into their elbows and the explosion of sensation is undesired and unwanted and they are trying to reassess their function and trying to remake their strategy but then fingers fist into hair and their head is yanked forward sharply and this is
not optimal they
there is an explosion of something approaching pain behind their eyelids and it is pain it is pain and their hands have released the target and why have they done that this was not desired this was not their intended function this was not
they stagger back.]
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The message makes no sense, nothing about it strikes her as a code or cipher she would know how to solve, and eventually the phone is tucked back in to the pocket of her jeans. Broth discarded in the kitchen and dish placed on the window to be washed later, she shuffles agonizingly slow out the door and down the hall.
Bed sounds nice right now, and it doesn't even occur to her that the message might have anything to do with someone she knows...]
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Past experience delineates that confirmation is required.
And so they will confirm. They move forward, slow and precise and steady, one leg being dragged uselessly behind them like a deadweight, an impulse they cannot wholly shake. An impulse based on the phantom snap of bone and arteries that have long since knitted together after that forcible contact with rock cast from a hated man's hands.
Him. Him, him, him.
He was human, and still dangerous.
They must, also, ascertain this human's nature.
The expression on their shell's face is blank and lifeless. They draw close, close, closer. If it attempts to run, they will follow. They must follow.]
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Her bayard was back in her possession and tucked awkwardly in to the back pocket of her jeans, but that small caveat aside she hardly looks dangerous.
The dragging sound echoing down the hall earns her gaze and gives her pause, making her thin shoulders tense and her eyes widen behind her glasses. Who-- what... ?
No, that form is familiar. The face isn't, but--...]
... Tim?
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They have difficulty defining emotional output at the best of times. The rate of change in their utility is poorly calibrated. The rate of change is less than zero. It is a negative integer.
This is dislike. This is dislike.
They wish again for their concealing Face, the white smoothness of a mask shielding familiar features from prying eyes.
They break into a lurching run.]
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Or not completely him.
Or--
Whatever. Not the time for solving the mystery of what exactly what charging at her considering that's kind of a problem.
Eyes wide, Pidge stumbled two steps back before turning and bolting for a return to the mess hall. She skidded through the entrance and wheeled a second time, grabbing the heavy wooden door in hopes of slamming it closed before that thing got anywhere near her.
But the doors here were stubborn, made of solid wood and difficult to shove closed in any sort of timely manner. Her attempt at self preservation through a barrier likely wouldn't be enough.]
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But the doors are heavy, and they do not close at a touch. That is enough for them to dive forward and force the door open completely. They are stronger than their stolen body would imply.
Far stronger.]
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