graveyardsmash | TDM: JANUARY/FEBRUARY

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test drive

TDM: JANUARY/FEBRUARY

TDM: JANUARY/FEBRUARY

Welcome to the Ryslig Test Drive Meme! Below are a few prompts to get you started, but you may make up any prompt you desire! Please take a look at the navigation page for rules, setting information, and links to reserves and apps. Have fun!

SCENARIO ONE

You wake up in a dark ditch, the sky cloudy overhead. Dirt cakes into your cuts and scrapes. The air is clammy and damp, and it smells like rain.

You’re in a grave. And when you sit up to inspect the tombstone marking your spot, it has your name on it. Maybe the graves next to you have the names of familiar friends, family, acquaintances. Not all of them are open like yours are. RIP.

There’s a light dancing in the distance, and you hear the jingle-jangle of heavy keys, or worse still, the gravekeeper’s massive pitchfork or shovel. If you're lucky, you can sneak out beyond his notice, and get out alone. If not - you might find yourself on the wrong end of a shovel’s swing, or worse yet, tripping headfirst in front of a pair of monstrous eyes.

SCENARIO TWO

You've stumbled your way out of the graveyard, and you're promptly besieged by the overwhelming sights and sounds of the city. Cars honk at you to get out of the street, and strangers try not to look in your direction for too long. They see your dirty clothes and scraped faces, and pretend to busy themselves with something else. Rarely, a look of pity is cast your way.

But some people try to reach out. Enterprising citizens and those that hope to curry favor with the newcomers pass out new clothes and bundles of food, asking if you have a place to stay the night, wondering about the details of the world you came from. Some are even handing out pamphlets which vary in how helpful they are--"What To Expect When You're Expecting (To Turn Into A Monster)", "Wolpertinger: Fact or Fiction?", "100% ACCURATE MONSTER QUIZ ASSESSMENT: GUARANTEED TO PREDICT YOUR MONSTER!", and "Ryslig Law In A Nutshell".

Then there are the people who aren't happy to see you at all. Glares and silent, judging stares if you're lucky, torches and pitchforks attempting to drive you out of the town if you're not. You may need a friend to help you.

SCENARIO THREE

"Seek us out," the voice whispers in your head, and before you have time to question it you've found yourself in someplace entirely alien.

Maybe it's the Fog God's ghostly town of Dyster, where exultant followers dance around bonfires and sing their praises to the skies above. Maybe it's the Fourth God's arcade, with small robots wheeling about amidst the lights and colors of old pinball machines.

Only one thing is certain: you are not alone, in this sacred place.

SCENARIO FOUR

The time has come and you've found yourself becoming a monster. Is the change instant, or gradual? Are you familiar enough with monsters to know what's happening, or is it a complete shock? Does it fit you, or does it feel incongruous with your nature? Feel free to pick any monster type for this prompt, but note that you may not get the same one in game.

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_{[The manticore lets out a yowl when his rescue doesn't go as smoothly as he would have liked. One corner of the pitch fork grazes his side and that's enough for him. He grapples it with a clawed hand to direct it away from their faces. Where does this guy get off attacking a young girl like this?]}

Take a HINT, man! Get lost!

[As soon as Hythlodaeus turned to observe his tombstone was his attention drawn away by the voice of a man. His start was mostly unobservable - bright, violet eyes shining amidst the dirt that also darkened his own face. It was apparent that, whoever this man was, he was in a similar predicament, though the stranger was fortunate enough to at least have made his way out of the ditch.]

Well, fancy this. Another who shares my muddied fate.

[Hythlodaeus was not as grim in disposition as the man before him, though that was usually the case no matter who it was he had the pleasure of conversing with. Accepting the offered hand, he was a bit awkward in climbing out of the rain-soaked ground, which was eager to sink beneath his loosely-strung leather shoes. Once firmly upon a more solid foundation, he cleared the earth-slicked hair from his forehead, tossing the remaining length of it behind his shoulders.]

Thanks is in order. Though... I fear I have no more to give but words of gratitude at present. Are you perhaps more acquainted with our situation that leads you to believe we are in some sort of danger?

[Fog, Elias, Mana. Previously four gods, two remain. One a stand-in. Hythlodaeus sorts Beat's ramblings as they fall from his mouth. It's just verbal paperwork, and if he had any talent at all, it was sorting paperwork.]

Please, take your time. Perhaps we could go somewhere more conducive to conversation, if that would suit you better?

[Not that blaring car horns and shambling, dirt-caked people weren't charming in themselves. He could do without the stares, however.]

I would be eager to hear more of your gods, if you'd be so kind as to indulge me?

Uh.. yeah sure, yo, good idea. I'll fill you in the best I can, I've only been here since October.

[Thoughtfully looking around, he eventually spots a favorite Monster-friendly eatery of his. He gestures for the person to follow him, the little drooping antennae that make up his ears perking upwards into the air some in excitement over food. Even his colouring shifts, becoming more vibrant. When they reach it, he'll be a gentleman and hold the door open, beaming.]

Been here tons 'fore, they- "Don't you leave trails on my floor, boy!" I AIN'T GONNA LEAVE TRAILS ON YER FLOOR. I TOLDCHU I AIN'T A SNAIL.

[He huffs, though there's no anger or malice in his voice in the reply, and the cook that was peering through the counter that separates kitchen from front grunts and disappears.]

... As I was sayin', yo. They pretty quiet, an' we shouldn't be bothered... Don' mind him, he always grumpy.

[ Getting bumped doesn't even jar her. The grave is her name and thus it's hers, and next to her is Hinata's grave. So. She's not dead, but Hinata is? It's... not real. It can't be real. But hearing her name from a strange voice is enough to divert her attention, that lost gaze moving from the graves to lock eyes with... someone.

Yes. Someone. Him. Another person. And as long as there's another person, she has a duty to focus on. ]

I am. Sorry, I... [ No, shake it off. A hand reaches to her side for a sword that isn't there, before she staggers herself upright. ] Not the time. What needs to be be done?

This was a mistake, he realizes, immediately after pulling Jean in. It’s calmed him down a little, okay good. But now those rumbling voices that have gotten into the whole eating people thing are acting up. There’s a swell of noise in his head, he can’t help but flinch.

HALF LIGHT - (Bite. Bite now. He won’t see it coming.)

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - (Jean is stronger than you, to take him down you’ll need the element of surprise on your side.)

HALF LIGHT - (And your teeth in his trachea. Unless you want to play dirty. Sing him a little song?)

When Jean brushes him away his relief is palpable, composure cracking. Tension falling from his shoulders. He looks away for a moment. He plays with his bolo tie. He knows what this looks like, to Jean. That he went from passably sober one moment to nervous and on something the next. If he wants to think he’s fucked up he’ll let him. The truth is way more fucked up than any drug he could put into his body. He lets the trash comment slide off him.

He turns back, running a hand through his hair, more collected but still frazzled.

“Nah, nowhere in Insulinde. I don’t know where we are. They say this is all there is.”

He shrugs, figures he can get into the warring god shit later.

“People just kind of end up here.”

[He is quiet for a moment, frowning. This is something he had not, to his shame, considered; to wake in a grave had seemed to him so queerly logical, given what he last remembers, that it had scarcely occurred to him that there might be any other reason. It was the waking that had concerned him, not the grave.]

...That, too, I cannot say. Whether we woke in our graves because they deemed us monsters, or whether they deem us monsters for our awakening.

What do you last remember, before you woke?

[To think that he'd be in such a place so different than his homeland. Hythlodaeus had traveled a bit in his life, but not to a great degree. He left the adventuring to those more suited for it. Giving Beat a nod of gratitude, he held his dirt-caked robe between his fingers as he stepped over the threshold and into the diner. It was some sort of common area for eating, it seemed, and the clientele and volunteers both had an uneasy air about them. It was no matter, however. Sometimes those with a disagreeable nature could be quite charming. He chuckled politely, raising a hand to his lips.]

Hahaha, not a problem at all. I'm sure it's quite the task attending to the hungry. One's mood oftentimes does not dictate their true nature.

[Taking a seat next to Beat, Hythlodaeus momentarily feels inclined to apologize for his appearance. Climbing out of the mud doesn't leave one looking their best. However, he then remembers that his current conversational partner is made of slime.]

Now then, I have taken up quite a bit of your time, and I do intend to monopolize it more. I trust if you have reservations, you will make them known.

[He offers a smile, tucking some muddy hair behind his ear. This place would serve well enough for conversation, provided they were permitted to loiter.]

[Faramir is a steady support, at least, offering his other hand to haul the stranger up and out of the muddy ditch. The question has him start a little, fixing his companion with a hard and searching look.]

Must I be acquainted with more than this: that I fall in battle, and awake in some strange grave? I can think of few endings to that tale which are not heavy with doom.

At best, I live, and have been stolen away from home and duty. At worst...

[At worst, he has become something fell and evil, arisen from an end no man should recover from. He will not say it aloud; it falls too thick and heavy on his tongue.]

I fear, though, that is all the acquaintance I have. And perhaps all the aid, too; for my sword is gone, and my shield too.

[He cannot quite keep the bitter smile from touching his lips.]

If I knew, then you may be assured, I would not wander so idly.

[He notes that movement, though; her hand shifting as though to a sword, just as his did when he first woke. Thoughtfully, he brushes his fingers against the empty scabbard at his hip. They have both been disarmed, then - or else she, like him, fell with sword in hand.]

I do not believe that all the graves are filled. At least, not with those whose names are upon them.

True dat.

[A waitress drops off two glasses of water and two menus and is promptly gone again. Have you ever seen a Slime drink, Sir? You're about to, as Beat picks the glass up and just sticks it straight into him. He'll absorb the water slowly like that, the nucleus that's been floating around coming to rest inside the glass. Even as it makes the Waitress give him a side-eye. He better return that glass and not forget it's there.]

Uh, nah, I ain't got be anywhere, I got all the time in the world. Ask away! If I can't answer everythin' fer ya, I know of some peeps who've been here for years that can do you better.

[As he talks he skims over the menu. At least no one already in the cafe is giving them any looks. A dirty robed man and a Slime isn't exactly the weirdest things any of them have seen.]

[ The bitter expression just makes Wakaba's own frown deepen. He doesn't know and no one else is here. This is already vastly irregular. Okay, that's fine, no need to panic. She pulls a cell phone out of her other pocket and - the screen has a hole smashed through it, a few blue petals falling from the gash.

Nevermind time to panic, but the stranger's words wash over her like white noise. The manner of speech is just weird enough that she has to run over the sentences a few times. He thinks the graves are empty.

... Yeah. They're empty. One tiny solace. Whether or not it's meant to cheer her up, it's how she's choosing to take it, and Faramir gets a genuine smile for an answer. ]

Thank you. [ And the destroyed paperweight is shoved back in her coat; unpack that problem with later. ] What's your name, sir?

[He inclines his head a little in acknowledgement. He, too, had a moment of dread at the graves around his own - save that they could not be true graves, for Boromir's name was written upon one, and Boromir had no grave at all.]

[As well, then, that whatever brought them there made such an error. Her smile is a relief. It is the first one he has seen in some time, and he answers it with a smile of his own, though it is not a particularly happy one.]

Faramir. Lately Captain of Gondor, though whether I may still lay claim to that title, I do not know.

...What was that, which you carry? Broken, that much I see, but beyond that, it is strange to me. [And given the situation, it seems to him that any information may be important.]

Your patience is graciously appreciated.

[He can't help but stare at the performance taking place in front of him. Did he just absorb that glass of water? As mentioned previously, Hythlodaeus had encountered slimes before, but their digestion was not exactly the same as what he was witnessing now. He's a bit distracted, what were they talking about, again? Maybe Beat's forgetfulness was rubbing off on him.]

I... hm. Seem to have lost my train of thought. Forgive me.

[He opens his mouth to ask a question, but closes it again. He puts a hand to his lips. He takes it away.]

You're quite adept at nourishing your new body!

[He tried to be supportive, but it sort of just came across as creepy.]

It is not my place to govern how one would assess a situation, however...

[He meets Faramir's eyes with a softness in his own. Their predicament may seem dire, but without all of the details, who's to say if it's perilous or not?]

That we still live should be a blessing, however content I was with my previous state.

[His was a righteous, noble death. He was proud to have returned to the star from whence he came. Hythlodaeus' only concern was that his sacrifice might have somehow gone awry for him to have ended up here. That wasn't Faramir's problem, though.]

Oh, don't say that. You've been such a help already, if a bit pessimistic. I am also unarmed, though I wouldn't fare much better had I a bow and quiver. Surely we will do better together than apart, at least for the time being, wouldn't you agree?

Captain of...?

[ It's genuine confusion, but she can find excuses for it. There were a few cases of foreigners escaping to Shikoku's borders. Gondor might be some strange sporting club, she doesn't keep touch with that.

But... how does he not know what a phone is. He's clearly not joking. To not know what a phone is in 2017 is... absolutely insane. But she's had to accept the absolutely insane before. At least there's an easy to check. ]

A quick question first. Have you heard of the Shinju-sama?

[Never in his life has he come across someone who did not know at least the name of Gondor, and the strangeness of it itches at the back of his mind, a nagging sense of wrongness. How far can he have come, or how long lingered in death and darkness, to find himself so much a stranger?]

[It is less of a surprise, then, to find that her question has no familiarity to him, either. Shinju-sama does not even sound like it can belong to any of the languages he knows, in its ring or in its tone.]

[He shakes his head, his discomfiture flitting across his face.]

Not by that name, in any case. Ought I to?

[ one ]

[ He's good at staying quiet, long since accustomed to keeping his head down and not attracting undue attention in situations like this. He had a few simple things to keep in mind, held tightly at the forefront of his thoughts in the hopes that they might do something to quell the confusion and instinctual panic bubbling up in his chest. It's all a matter of survival--don't be noticed, don't get yelled at, don't draw the eye when you're in an unfamiliar place with no idea how you got there. ]
[ His fucking costume made that last one a little bit harder though, as Abner notes with a grimace upon looking down at himself. Even though it's been smudged all over with grime, the mix of white and brightly-colored dots he's wearing would make him stick out like a sore thumb if he'd actually bothered to pull himself out of the grave he'd woken up in. ]

[ Speaking of which--that was. something. It's fine. It's--fine, he's clearly not dead, even if the headstone had his name on it and everything. Abner reaches up and rips his helmet off, goggles coming with it in one swipe; his dark hair's been tousled to hell and back underneath, but the less bright white there is to announce his presence, the better. Hesitantly, he pokes his head up over the edge to peer around, trying to get a better idea of what he's dealing with before he commits to leaving his grave. It's...quiet for the moment, the cool night air filled with the sounds of foliage rustling in the wind and-- ]
[ --footsteps. Faint, but impossible to ignore--Abner wouldn't have dared to count them out, besides, but the fact that they're getting closer is beyond concerning. One hand flies to his bracers in preparation--only to find that they're completely missing. ]
Fuck. Fuck--

[ Muttering a few more curses, Abner scrambles back down, far more preoccupied with this brand new problem in the moment to worry about whoever was approaching. He's pelted with a cascade of dirt and pebbles, earning a new round of hushed complaints as he does what he can to compress himself into as small of a ball as was physically possible. The moment the silhouette of someone comes into view, he flinches, reflexively throwing an arm up and willing something to happen--but there's no wave of color, no spray of burning dots met with screams and groans of pain. Instead, he's left there, cowering at the bottom of an open grave like it'll do something to stop whatever's coming next. ]

[ two ]

[ Unsurprisingly, not everyone is down with the Fog's regularly-scheduled new arrivals. That's not a problem--Abner's handled this sort of thing before, and at this point, he's more annoyed that it's happening again than anything else. He's still got his pamphlets in hand, fresh on the way back from getting a little advice for getting on his feet in Ryslig; the biggest problem had arisen when he'd gotten too close to a trio of men recently turned out of the bar behind them. ]
[ It's a lot about outsiders and monsters, punctuated with thinly-veiled threats that are hardly anything new or exciting. Abner rolls his eyes, awkwardly shuffling the stack of pamphlets in front of him. ]
Oookay. Yeah, I-- I see what you m--
[ He's cut off with a fresh round of insults, the angry tirade thrown his way shutting him up rather quickly. Abner blinks up at the red-faced swearing Bavanite who's stepped up to him, and the smell of alcohol wafting off of the man is overpowering at this distance. ]

Are we...done? [ He stifles a sigh, looking back over his shoulder. ] I sort of. Had other plans for my day, and you're wasting my time.

[ --getting punched in the face wasn't the response he'd anticipated, but Abner reasons that's enough. He's quick to lash out in kind, swinging back with a few unnecessary kicks thrown in for good measure. On the plus side, the man's buddies are doing little more than laughing at him for getting his ass beat by someone far scrawnier than he is, staying put to get a good view of the spat as it continues. ]

[ four - pooka ]

[ Abner's been settling in better than he'd expected, truth be told. After a few days of not being eaten alive from the inside out, he's even started to relax, beginning careful forays out into the city he'd found himself in. Bavan wasn't so bad, although the way people tended to shy away from him once they understood he wasn't a native had kept him from dropping his guard entirely. ]
[ He'd settled in to a spot in one of the city's many street cafes, one coffee on the way from the back; he's ordered himself breakfast as well, a little something to help him wake up properly. The first few signs of fog creeping in do plenty more to get his attention than the promise of food, however, and Abner jerks upright as what he's in for dawns on him. ]

[ This might as well be happening, he thinks. It starts slow, a creeping sort of strangeness that begins to climb up his spine to take root at the base of his skull; it swept down his arms in an itching wave, soon overtaking his (admittedly limited) composure as his skin crawled with prickles. He pushes the sleeves of his sweater up, pulling a face as he tries rubbing the sensation away--it only gets worse and worse, and before he knows it, there's a scattering of soft white fur left in the wake of his hands. ]
[ He stares. What else can he do? His brow furrows as his mouth works, although nothing but silence escapes him as his changes continue to progress; the fur spreads, black spots appearing with increasing frequency. There's a dull twinge along the outer edge of his ears as they shift into a new shape, rounding out into...what appeared to be a chinchilla's, as he'd find out later when he got the chance to examine them himself. ]

Ohh, I hate this. [ Abner's voice is quiet, uncertain; there's people around, and he needs to keep everything under control while he's out in view. He licks his lips, tugging at the cuff of his sleeve to try and cover it all back up--as though that might do something to stop it, as ludicrous as it sounded. His nails are turning sharp as they curl into claws, catching on the knit fabric and mangling it worse with every movement. ] ...I just--just got this shirt--
[ His fur is bristling, accompanied by the annoyed flick of the new tail currently worming its way out of his spine. Abner stands up abruptly, the sudden movement threatening to topple the table he'd been sitting at--he scrambles to grab it before it goes too far, thankful at least that his drink hadn't made it over here yet to make matters worse. He does his best to right it, although he's just as likely to smack into someone else in the process; potentially even you, if you're not quick enough to get out of the way. Whoops. ]

[ five - wildcard ]

[ is there something else you want to do? go ham i will Roll With It ]

[That softness is not lost on him, but Faramir is not certain how to feel about it. It is not something he is comfortable in; it comes too close to pity, and pity to failure, for it is the duty of a lord and of a captain not to be too openly pitiful. Too readily does he remember his father's last words to him, and all that lay beneath them: too readily does the accusation of softness come to mind.]

[He elects not to acknowledge it, but instead mutters darkly:] If we still live.

[Pessimistic, indeed.]

But you speak truly enough, and well enough; darkness and uncertainty are better faced in company. Ill would I spurn friendship, now most of all.

I thought I saw a light, some moments ago. It may give us a bearing, at least.

[ She has no idea where to take that bit of information. The Shinju has always been the Shinju; to be unaware is impossible. Is this Yomi? Or is she alive and another place outside Shikoku somehow survived? Maybe it's just a weird lucid dream.

Either way, the musing is dumped. She can only handle the problems right in front of her. ]

No. I think we're from different homes. As for my... uh. [ How do you even call a phone not a phone? ] ...object? It's- It was a phone. You use it to keep in contact with people and read the news and such.

I. Six Feet Under

[Spike wakes all at once with the same amount of force one has when breaking the surface of water for a breath after what feels like hours of nearly drowning, a rush of brain-simulated voices calling his name, the sensation of crashing through glass, the image of someone beautiful with golden hair like a halo looking down at him from that shattered glass. It's all noise and overstimulation, and then suddenly, quiet.

He sits up straight, breathing in— and then immediately coughs when part of what he breathes in is loose dirt. Loose dirt? Why? Spike is indeed still drunk, the scent of alcohol heavy on his breath, but he doesn't remember being so drunk that he'd fall into a fucking pit. On his hands and knees he crawls until he's standing, then hops to get a grip of the ledge, but as he starts to pull himself up and out of the dirt, he's overwhelmed by a number of sensations.

First of all: it's really cold. Far from Mars's ideal 72°F, Spike is sent a half-sobering chill down his spine. Second, there's mist, which isn't an entirely new experience but is again, a pretty rare occurrence for any terraformed colony. But the third and most foreign thing to Spike right now is the sound. It's so loud out here, the actual outside is loud. There's a buzzing that doesn't quite sound like a computer or a generator or neon lighting, something rhythmic and repetitive that Spike only recognizes from recording old friends used to play.

Is that... bugs? Is he on Earth, maybe?

Spike pulls himself out fully, taking in the scene around him, and after a quick rotation concludes that despite looking like it's out of an ancient movie, this is in fact a graveyard.]

...What the fuck?

[He's really not having a great time of it, and that doesn't improve when he hears the rush of wind coming off the swung shovel of the gravekeeper who's approached behind him. Spike catches the handle of the shovel, bending to avoid the impact, and stares behind him, affronted and confused by the sudden aggression. But as quick as he is on impulse, he's still in a fuck ton of pain from his recent escapades, and looks just about as good as he feels; now covered in grave dirt in addition to blood and cuts.]

Sir, I really don't want to do this right now.

[Complains Spike, but his aggressor is relentless. The gravekeeper tears the shovel away from Spike's aching hands, and takes another swing.]

Then get back in your grave for good!

[It might be easy to think Spike can't take this guy alone judging by how beaten and broken he looks— regardless... he'll probably eagerly accept a helping hand.]

II. Buggy

[There is nothing more that Spike wants to do than become a. drunk and b. imperceivable. He would like nothing more than to crawl back into that grave and be alone, but it's cold, and Spike would very much like to find some slightly warmer awning to be under. Perhaps hide out in a hotel bathroom.

But there's a few problems with that. First of all; this place looks like some kind of renaissance festival town to him; not an inch of proper technology in sight. Which means the bathrooms can't be all that good, he's assuming. Second of all, people will not leave him the fuck alone!]

Look, I'm telling you, I don't have any idea what's going on— I'm just trying to find a hotel.

[Spike asserts, squinting in ire at the brightness of the fog-cutting street lights over a constant stream of questions from the small group of people surrounding him. They don't give any particularly helpful answer, instead firmly confusing him with mentions of him being a brand new monster and attempting to inspect his fluffy curls.

Annoyed, Spike swats at them, not really attempting to hit very hard— but his motion knocks one of the figures off balance, and the pile of bugs in a man-suit goes tumbling to the ground, separating into a pile of bugs that seem to giggle as they skitter away. Spike jolts straight, letting out a yelp, and in his attempt to get himself as far away from these strange alien shapes, he backs up into another one of the bug-people. This time the cluster leaps to Spike's shoulder, and he once again shouts, shrugging them off and this time taking a much more clear path. Just when he thinks he's gotten away, though, he feels something on his leg, looking down just in time to see one of those bugs waving a greeting as it crawls up his leg.

The tired, frazzled, injured bounty hunter hops on his free leg, trying to shake the parasite (for which he has no frame of reference as a creature at all) off of him. When he's finally successful in flinging the bug feet away from him (with absolutely no care for if the damn thing hits anyone else) Spike notices that... no one else seems nearly as offended by this as he is. And that is all the more terrifying.]

What— what the fuck is that?!

[He practically demands, pointing at the skittering parasite— unsure how anyone else can be so calm. Of course, everyone else actually has a frame of reference for what kind of bugs those even are.]

Edited 2022-01-16 03:26 (UTC)

I remember falling asleep the night of the party my family had to celebrate their magic and Casita coming back. And when I came to, I was in an open grave - not just that, but my family all had graves too.

... They weren't open.

[Mirabel would be a little more scared if this cat man weren't trying to defend her - she does appreciate it, because she can't exactly fend off a pitchfork man by herself.]

Just - just leave us alone!

[Admittedly, he didn't approach Hawkeye for bedside manner. The man exudes "scruff weirdo" energy more than professionalism, aside from being a walking corpse. Who's really concerned with personal hygiene, apparently.]

[He shakes his head. No, he isn't going to wash his face first. There wouldn't be any point, because—]

These.

[Inclining his head slightly, he indicates the horns. It's . . . weird, how calm he seems about this. Kind of eerie. Like it wasn't even a choice. He's stressed, but it has to be done.]

[There's nowhere near enough pride in Muriel's heart to get angry about that look of pity. More than anything, it scans as dangerous. Pity poorly disguises fear, or a sense of proprietorship. It can't be trusted.]

[The shift in his posture isn't one of aggression; the half-step back reads more like an animal tensed to flee. His hands stay carefully at his side, fingers loose and relaxed.]

[Lucky you, he thinks; but he doesn't say it.]

Your choice is to deny reality.

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Page 5 of 32

TDM: JANUARY/FEBRUARY

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this is giving casper dinner scene vibes

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abner krill/polka-dot man | the suicide squad

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Spike Spiegel | Netflix Cowboy Bebop

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self-mutilation cw continues throughout

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