[Perhaps he's dead. Perhaps he's dead and this is the true shape of hell because no matter how hard his mind reaches for it, he can't grasp at a more logical explanation for how he arrived at this point. The last thing he recalls with any real clarity is the gag, the blindfold, the restraints, Zollner's voice droning on as he waits to discover what will be done with him as his mind continues to fall away in snags and starts and razor-edged snatches. Waking to find himself buckled down to that bench with the buzz and thrum of the vehicle moving underneath him, swapping one form of restraints for another, his first hazy thoughts were only that he was being moved, the peculiarities of his situation not having quite made themselves known to him yet. But now, amidst this, the noise and the lights and rhythmic movement of too many bodies, his mind stutters and staggers after a logic that alludes him.
So perhaps he's dead and this is hell. Finally. Finally.
Someone bumps into him, turns, their face filled up with an ecstatic grin, and with an unpleasant whooping noise pushes something into his hand before throwing themselves into the throng again. He doesn't even look down to see what it is before he's leaning back against the cavern wall with a bright peal of staccato laughter, a sound at odds with the tight cold fist of fear that coils at the core of him, holds fast.
When he speaks to you, or perhaps it's to no one, or everyone - did he really say anything at all above the undulating waves of music that crash over them? - it's something like this--]
Funny. I thought one ought to be in possession of a soul in order to end up in hell.
The Safe House
[He ends up here eventually. And whilst it's a vast improvement on the hellscape of his arrival (it's the first party, in the traditional sense of the word, that he's ever attended, okay?), it's still a far cry from being enough to settle the razor-wire jangle of his nerves. He feels...stripped on a fundamental level, vulnerable and open and sickeningly lost and there's something (everything) wrong because the rattle and pant and scrabble in his mind has been reduced to the faintest of whispers and his body feels sluggish and slow to him, he's been here before, and the thought of that fills him with the reaching tendrils of fear.
The Spine isn't functioning quite as it should.
But the near-panic that rises and crests inside of him fails to manifest in his outward appearance; there's only the slight upturn of his lips, a subtle expression of distaste as he runs one hand over the shorn shock of his hair, sliding back briefly to alight on the collar bolted down through flesh and muscle into bone, then away again. With red eyes turned down towards the bed and the threadbare clothes he dumped upon it, his complaint doesn't touch on his real fears, his bone-deep heart-gripping terrors. Instead he focuses them down into this--]
Giovanni Rammsteiner | DOGS: Bullets & Carnage
[Perhaps he's dead. Perhaps he's dead and this is the true shape of hell because no matter how hard his mind reaches for it, he can't grasp at a more logical explanation for how he arrived at this point. The last thing he recalls with any real clarity is the gag, the blindfold, the restraints, Zollner's voice droning on as he waits to discover what will be done with him as his mind continues to fall away in snags and starts and razor-edged snatches. Waking to find himself buckled down to that bench with the buzz and thrum of the vehicle moving underneath him, swapping one form of restraints for another, his first hazy thoughts were only that he was being moved, the peculiarities of his situation not having quite made themselves known to him yet. But now, amidst this, the noise and the lights and rhythmic movement of too many bodies, his mind stutters and staggers after a logic that alludes him.
So perhaps he's dead and this is hell. Finally. Finally.
Someone bumps into him, turns, their face filled up with an ecstatic grin, and with an unpleasant whooping noise pushes something into his hand before throwing themselves into the throng again. He doesn't even look down to see what it is before he's leaning back against the cavern wall with a bright peal of staccato laughter, a sound at odds with the tight cold fist of fear that coils at the core of him, holds fast.
When he speaks to you, or perhaps it's to no one, or everyone - did he really say anything at all above the undulating waves of music that crash over them? - it's something like this--]
Funny. I thought one ought to be in possession of a soul in order to end up in hell.
The Safe House
[He ends up here eventually. And whilst it's a vast improvement on the hellscape of his arrival (it's the first party, in the traditional sense of the word, that he's ever attended, okay?), it's still a far cry from being enough to settle the razor-wire jangle of his nerves. He feels...stripped on a fundamental level, vulnerable and open and sickeningly lost and there's something (everything) wrong because the rattle and pant and scrabble in his mind has been reduced to the faintest of whispers and his body feels sluggish and slow to him, he's been here before, and the thought of that fills him with the reaching tendrils of fear.
The Spine isn't functioning quite as it should.
But the near-panic that rises and crests inside of him fails to manifest in his outward appearance; there's only the slight upturn of his lips, a subtle expression of distaste as he runs one hand over the shorn shock of his hair, sliding back briefly to alight on the collar bolted down through flesh and muscle into bone, then away again. With red eyes turned down towards the bed and the threadbare clothes he dumped upon it, his complaint doesn't touch on his real fears, his bone-deep heart-gripping terrors. Instead he focuses them down into this--]
Denim. Really.
Wildcard
[Any random thing goes here!]