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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.]]
no subject
But it is escaping. It is escaping, it has elected to flee and they do not lose things like this, they will pursue this and make it reveal its nature to them. They will force it to yield the aspects of itself it keeps hidden.
They will -
They launch their stolen skin after in pursuit, hobbling and pained, and even if they do not require breath the body they are using does and each gasp opens a fresh wave of ache through a respiratory system already taxed to the extreme on a daily basis.]
no subject
Which is look back. ]
C'mon--
[ Sans groans, sliding to a stop that rattles the cage-like door of the elevator shaft when he catches himself on it, only to swing his left arm back and grasp out, blindly, with his Blue Magic. Try to find his soul, whatever's left of it (if he even has one, look at his eyes) and saturate it, weigh it down with the leaden anchor of Karma. ]
no subject
It is like no sensation they have ever felt. They are cold, colder than before, colder than when their skin was being bitten through by ghosting bars of blue bones, and then it is as though the viscosity of the air has quintupled. Their legs are abruptly being driven unbearably into the ground, their spine feeling as though it is being compressed, telescoping into itself beneath the yoke of gravity pushing down over their stolen shoulders, stolen arms, stolen neck.
If they had a conceptualization of sins, perhaps they would feel them seeping into their bones.
They end up on all fours, trying to drag their borrowed skin forward, trying to pursue the thing that is suddenly feeling so very far ahead of them.
It is as though their bones and joints are being ground into one another.
An agonized sound escapes parted lips, wholly incidentally and unintentionally, they - they do not vocalize. That does not happen. It was unintentional.
But it hurts.]
no subject
Get comfortable.
[ Two words, flat rumbling syllables he expects won't be understood. Filling the air with something that isn't the awful sound that still echoes down the hall. Sans doesn't bother to pretend to breathe. Only us creatures here, right? Beings born wrong, raised wrong, or whatever. ]
Hate to leave ya like this, but if that's catching, I don't wanna know what that does to monsters.
[ The lift arrives, creaking to a halt as he gives the lever another pull. ]
no subject
With incredible, wrenching effort that sinks into their very bones, they pull one hand back, curl its fingers into a fist, and slam it into the ground, a brief, soundless indication of their frustration and rage and pain.
Whatever it is, it will leave them here. It will leave them here and they will hurt and their stolen body will simply persist in being trapped and helpless and helpless and helpless and helpless and helpless and helpless...
Their body curls into itself, forehead pressed to flagstones, hands wrapped over hair, knees driving into the stone with a dull, constant, resonating ache.
They are alone.
They are helpless, and they are alone.]