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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."
no subject
She wipes messily at the blood on her cheek. "My - " a bite of her lip, a lowering of her voice as she gets them around a corner. "My dad." She presses them both back into the wall - the door at the other end of the hall, opens and closes.
The footfalls step in. One after the other. The set down of something heavy. The voice speaks - her father - loud and clear. "Hey, Pumpkin, where you hiding? Daddy's got a special present for you."
no subject
And he doesn't want to actually ask.
Instead his hand reaches out to cup over her mouth, eyes stern as he smothers the sound of her breathing and casts a hurried look over his shoulder. Only then does he nod to the opposite end of the hallway -- they need to keep moving.
"If he comes," he whispers, barely a sound, "then I can hold him off."
no subject
Dodging low up the hallway trying to breathe as quietly as she can. To the room at the end that she frantically opens. Grabbing onto him, pulling him in after her - that too, as quiet as she can as she looks up him. "Noctis, he's a monster. You have to go - it'll be worse if you stay."
It's only ever better if she's alone - because she knows how this will go, she knows how this always will go because it's how it's always gone. "You think you can hide from me, Angel? Think you can have people other than me?"
He'll kill him, and she can't, just won't, ( not again ) ever allow it.
no subject
"Angel." Noctis hears her father as he calls out her name, immediately applying it so she can hear it from a less terrifying source.
"We stay and fight together or we leave together. I'm not hearing anything else."
no subject
But she stays, selfishly, where he's holding onto her, blood and all. Mess and all. Monster and all. Her mouth opens and closes, words that live and die unsaid. But each step is shuddering and it remains true, since she first met him and even as much as she knows how this goes: how this always goes.
Jack will find her. Because Jack will always find her. Because she's Jack's little Princess, and he will always, always come for her. The footsteps outside the room get heavier and heavier, coming up the corridor, and she curls, smaller and smaller, into herself.
" - I don't want to go back to the Core. I want to stay with you. I don't want to ever go back - "
"Angel! What the hell is this, kitten?"
no subject
The sharp bark of her name from behind him has Noctis immediately whirling around, finally met with the sight of the man that instills so much fear into this girl. He's tall with mismatched eyes and a visible anger currently twisting a cunning face, and it has Noctis reaching back to make sure Angel stays behind him.
"She isn't going anywhere." More firmly, now, and directed at Jack as he extends his arm. An upward facing palm is suddenly filled with a summoned blade, heavy and dangerous. "Back the fuck off."
no subject
"You're a real fucking funny kid. What are you going to do with that? Throw that at me?" Jack sneers, cocksure and arrogant, a man that's killed millions. A man that will kill millions more. "You really think you can stop me - I'm Handsome freaking Jack, you get it?"
The voices talk in multiple, impossible to tell which one was the real one. Behind him, her fingers dig into his arm, nervous, but quiet for now.
no subject
Only to be replaced by a spear with a vicious edge, far better for crowd control than that smaller blade would've been.
"Throwing isn't what I had in mind." As his dextrous wielding of that weapon soon proves, forced to jerk his arm away from Angel as he firms up his two-handed grip on the spear, immediately spinning it into a windmill strike. It slices through two clones at once, jabbing at the next with lightning fast movement.
no subject
Jack's laughter is arrogant, sharp as glass, and at least now, she can shut it out. Does the only thing that makes sense. She ducks. Hits the ground as quick as she can to dodge out of the clones that curse and flicker as they're sliced apart. Crawling out of the way as fast as she could.
A mistake, really, when she feels the hand grab her by the back of her head. Hauling her up by her hair. Her legs out from underneath her, her hands going up to the hands that yank, trying to get them loose but it doesn't work. It never works, it was never going to work. He would always be bigger, he would always be the hero that wins at the end of the story - because he was Handsome Jack.
"Angel - quite fighting me. You're my freaking daughter - and you think you can just run off from me?"