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agogelogs2017-12-17 04:01 pm
circumspector) wrote in agogelogs2017-12-17 04:01 pm
[open] don't let her eyes confuse
WHO? Angel & you
WHAT? you must be dreaming!
WHEN? all over the event
ANYTHING ELSE? heavy, heavy warning for child abuse and drug abuse
WHAT? you must be dreaming!
WHEN? all over the event
ANYTHING ELSE? heavy, heavy warning for child abuse and drug abuse
I. WANDERLUST
The walls of the cave entrance rise up higher and higher out of strange square blocks. A corridor of vibrant stone that shimmers with strange whirls of what at seem grey, until they're looked at harder. A trickle of purple as the light catches them - and the source of it is very direct as Angel walks through the mix of peaked archways, between the eyes of great alien figures that are carved of the same stone, inanimate and look straight into the mind of those that stand before them. In their lifelessness, they watch.
It shouldn't be comfortable, but for Angel: who runs her hand over the stone - it reacts palpably to her, not just because the exposed line of her arm is glowy with markings. Bright and vibrant white, or her eyes are like headlights in the shadows of whatever this ancient place was.
But because in some way, she belongs to it. And just as soon as she might be within in touching distance, she runs a little bit further ahead, deeper and deeper into the vault of something ancient and below the earth, something rumbles, deep and dark and deadly.
You're definitely not alone in here, that much is certain.
II. YOU DIDN'T SEE WHAT SHE DID TO HER MOTHER
The kitchen of the apartment is nothing less than a domestic dream: white rooms, tiled neatly. The floors a the same polished brightness. A bowl of fruit, the arranged pictures of a family on the wall, a man with one green eye, one blue, and woman with dark, dark hair and their daughter between them. The fixtures and dressings for something so close and warm. Safe. A home.
And save for the blood splatters all over the walls, a nice looking one.
Angel stands in the middle of it all. In the middle of the kitchen, the blood - all over her face. She was younger when this happened, didn't remember that well. Too horrifying to know that she's the one that killed her mother. So the body is obscured. Hidden away, a hand that lays loose peaking around the kitchen island, the mess of that dark, dark hair on those white, white tiles. Angel looks from it, up, to her visitors, wide-eyed and confused. Her markings dulled to blue, eyes flat and staring.
She doesn't question whose in the room with her, when she hears the door rattle from the entrance. "Come on. We have to move. He's coming -" And she grabs onto the closest wrist, running up the little corridor that leads off from the kitchen.
III. THIS IS YOUR THRONE
The chair in the middle of the room is as unforgiving as the metal walls of black and yellow light. It speaks of a clean efficency. Stylish. Modern. White punctuating lines, that run down the walls, across a floor where they turn to a hexagonal pattern. The walls covered in screen that project the same face, of a man.
Removed of any affection.
And the girl strapped into it, kept down by bonds on her wrist, a collar on her throat to yank her by, isn't much better. Slumped forward, bound into the great metal chair, her shoulders are heaving with deep, pained breaths. The exposed skin crackles as she shifts in the unforgiving hold. Pushing briefly against it as her head rolls forward, chin against her chest, hair in front of her face. Down her back in marching lines of two - the plugs that pump a thick purple sludge going directly into her spine.
In front of her sit three pieces of stone. Purple, shuddering with that same light, though it's purple itself, it pulses the same as her input to it. Tied into those markings. Heavy and ancient, she matches the swirls on the stone.
The light of her body is strong, now, pulsing in out it doesn't truly go away. She is full of that light and when she looks up, her eyes are hazy, between where the hair is falling everywhere, one eye visible that looks up to the intruder.
"You have to get out, before it starts again."
It's the only warning before the voice cuts over the speaker, Angel looks up sharp, direct, tugging at the bonds that keep her again more sharply: "How's it going, Pumpkin?" The static crackles, she pulls harder and harder on the leather straps, the only sound in the room is that, the jangling creak, her sharp pants of breath. "Ah, ah, ah, - you promised to try as hard as you can, remember. We're not quitters, are we?" She says nothing and soon if she pulls any harder the leather will cut her skin. "Are we, Angel?"
The sound she makes is something like pain: she whimpers, something like a sob working up in her throat as she pushes out the words, slumping back into the chair. Shaking like the leaves that don't live in these chambers, no matter the river that runs on her skin. "No, Jack. I-I promise."
The walls of the cave entrance rise up higher and higher out of strange square blocks. A corridor of vibrant stone that shimmers with strange whirls of what at seem grey, until they're looked at harder. A trickle of purple as the light catches them - and the source of it is very direct as Angel walks through the mix of peaked archways, between the eyes of great alien figures that are carved of the same stone, inanimate and look straight into the mind of those that stand before them. In their lifelessness, they watch.
It shouldn't be comfortable, but for Angel: who runs her hand over the stone - it reacts palpably to her, not just because the exposed line of her arm is glowy with markings. Bright and vibrant white, or her eyes are like headlights in the shadows of whatever this ancient place was.
But because in some way, she belongs to it. And just as soon as she might be within in touching distance, she runs a little bit further ahead, deeper and deeper into the vault of something ancient and below the earth, something rumbles, deep and dark and deadly.
You're definitely not alone in here, that much is certain.
II. YOU DIDN'T SEE WHAT SHE DID TO HER MOTHER
The kitchen of the apartment is nothing less than a domestic dream: white rooms, tiled neatly. The floors a the same polished brightness. A bowl of fruit, the arranged pictures of a family on the wall, a man with one green eye, one blue, and woman with dark, dark hair and their daughter between them. The fixtures and dressings for something so close and warm. Safe. A home.
And save for the blood splatters all over the walls, a nice looking one.
Angel stands in the middle of it all. In the middle of the kitchen, the blood - all over her face. She was younger when this happened, didn't remember that well. Too horrifying to know that she's the one that killed her mother. So the body is obscured. Hidden away, a hand that lays loose peaking around the kitchen island, the mess of that dark, dark hair on those white, white tiles. Angel looks from it, up, to her visitors, wide-eyed and confused. Her markings dulled to blue, eyes flat and staring.
She doesn't question whose in the room with her, when she hears the door rattle from the entrance. "Come on. We have to move. He's coming -" And she grabs onto the closest wrist, running up the little corridor that leads off from the kitchen.
III. THIS IS YOUR THRONE
The chair in the middle of the room is as unforgiving as the metal walls of black and yellow light. It speaks of a clean efficency. Stylish. Modern. White punctuating lines, that run down the walls, across a floor where they turn to a hexagonal pattern. The walls covered in screen that project the same face, of a man.
Removed of any affection.
And the girl strapped into it, kept down by bonds on her wrist, a collar on her throat to yank her by, isn't much better. Slumped forward, bound into the great metal chair, her shoulders are heaving with deep, pained breaths. The exposed skin crackles as she shifts in the unforgiving hold. Pushing briefly against it as her head rolls forward, chin against her chest, hair in front of her face. Down her back in marching lines of two - the plugs that pump a thick purple sludge going directly into her spine.
In front of her sit three pieces of stone. Purple, shuddering with that same light, though it's purple itself, it pulses the same as her input to it. Tied into those markings. Heavy and ancient, she matches the swirls on the stone.
The light of her body is strong, now, pulsing in out it doesn't truly go away. She is full of that light and when she looks up, her eyes are hazy, between where the hair is falling everywhere, one eye visible that looks up to the intruder.
"You have to get out, before it starts again."
It's the only warning before the voice cuts over the speaker, Angel looks up sharp, direct, tugging at the bonds that keep her again more sharply: "How's it going, Pumpkin?" The static crackles, she pulls harder and harder on the leather straps, the only sound in the room is that, the jangling creak, her sharp pants of breath. "Ah, ah, ah, - you promised to try as hard as you can, remember. We're not quitters, are we?" She says nothing and soon if she pulls any harder the leather will cut her skin. "Are we, Angel?"
The sound she makes is something like pain: she whimpers, something like a sob working up in her throat as she pushes out the words, slumping back into the chair. Shaking like the leaves that don't live in these chambers, no matter the river that runs on her skin. "No, Jack. I-I promise."
ii.
Just one. The one he always survived with.
But this is not his dream, it's the one he's been pulled into. There's a strange sense of not belonging, of being somewhere wrong, but Yoshitsugu does not think about it. Touched by his surroundings with clothing to match, absorbed into it as best as possible as he goes with the flow, he accepts the hand that curls around his wrist as if it were the touch of his one friend dragging him along. Moves fast enough to keep up.
"Where?" A cough. "Can we hide?"
no subject
But what she can be certain of is that Jack has rules about his daughter having friends. About who she can and can't talk too. About what she can and can't say and the first, and foremost rule remained the same. There's no one more important than Daddy, is there, sweetie?
And if he catches someone, anyone - here - after what has just happened?
"There's a cupboard, upstairs. H-He never looks in there." It's as much as she gets out when she hears the door finally creak open. No time, no time to hide. Maybe she can just make him think she's - out - how long, until he sees the body. She takes him by that hold still and drags them under the dining table in the kitchen. Desperately yanking them together in a small, huddled ball to hide where the tablecloth will cover them.
no subject
A tickle itches in his throat.
Coughing would be the worst thing to do, though. He can't, no matter how much it hurts. Clapping a hand over his mouth he leans his head forward and tries to breathe as best he can through his nose. Can't cough. Won't cough. He'll hear! He'll hear!
(And because it's a dream she might feel that urge to cough rolling off him, the sense of sickness practically an aura as he pours everything he has into not revealing their location).
no subject
"Angel. Where are you Angel? Daddy doesn't have time for your games."
Don't make a sound, don't move, don't blink, and the footsteps underneath the tablecloth and in the door frame, come into view.
no subject
And inevitably, sadly, it spills out; a sore and painful cough that echoes louder than it should and doesn't stop. Pain splits down his throat and tears begin to stream down Yoshitsugu's face. In one instinctive move he pushes himself out of the secure ball he'd made and despite the fear, despite the way that voice makes him feel, crawls out from beneath the table. Better one gets caught than both. Maybe she can stay hidden.
But still Yoshitsugu coughs as he crawls, coughs more and more until blood drips. Sorry, sorry, he's so sorry, he can't stop himself... his fragile body shakes.
no subject
It comes, like obvious. He shakes him, hard, then again enough to make him cough again.
"You're going to let this kid get it because you aren't willing to act your age? Alright Angel, I don't want to do this, but you're making me. Is this what you want?"
no subject
Fight. Struggle. Protect your friend. We'll survive together, won't we?
The thread of his magic had been undefined when he was a young boy, shapeless and raw, but echoes of who he would become pour out now. Little purple dragonflies start to manifest around them and dance in the air, fluttering their wings as they move; energy hums around each. There's a kind of anticipation surrounding the little illusions, as if they might... explode?
"Hit me." He splutters the words and kicks his legs. "Try to..." Cough. "Kill me. I'll go with the flow. But it'll..." Cough. "... hurt you too."
Hopefully she'll still hide.