[Time bridges one moment to the next, immediate in unconscious slumber. Cain is bleeding his life out across the Reliant's fighter controls, a bright screen against the dimness at the edges of his vision -- Cain is struggling to open the heavy weight of his eyelids, body strapped down in immobility while faceless figures loom above. His first thought is, I'm dead. Then he inhales, and it becomes, they fucking got us. How did they get us? After that it's just Abel. Abel, Abel, Abel.
Once they're off loaded and the instructions come, Cain's battled the beast of anxiety through a mountain of fog in his head that won't seem to clear. Only veiled aggression remains, like an impulse that sits on the bed of his fingernails, a fleshy sting. Trained and always ready, but he can't obey it. He follows the instructions with cowed submission. Cain's hand is heavy on the white-scrub shoulder in front of him, grip painfully tight, digging in to bruise.
Quiet, they'd said. Not silent.
In small and inevitable rebellion, he leans forward to whoever is in front of him with a rasp that sounds dry and weak out of his throat:]
What the fuck is going on?
2: ball cw: drugs/alcohol use
[The rhythmic bass matches the steady drum of his heart hitched high in his throat, loud like it's sitting on his tongue. Cain's almost forgotten the outside world. He's lost sense of how long it's been since they were marched inside and stamped on the back of the hand like tagged luggage. Time's taken on a separate dimension in his reality -- whether this is the Alliance or the afterlife, his thoughts can't keep a forward track and only continue to unravel.
Someone gives him a drink, tells him to drink it, so he does. Someone gives him another drink. Someone gives him a bottle of water, and then something else: a bright red paper-thin cartoon heart to replace the real one on his tongue.
Time stretches like an elastic band and colors crystallize, clear and magnetically bright, as the drug digests in his system. Most intense of all is the rush of euphoria. Disorientation is replaced with a feeling of happiness and certainty. Gone are thoughts of the Alliance, the bullet in his gut, the fire hot on their tail, the word treason in the back of his mind, far blacker fate than any hole on New Volga could offer. Gone, even, is Abel's face and the words he'd said to tear apart the thin, flimsy fragment of whatever they'd had.
Eventually dancing alone isn't good enough. Cain casts a look around -- dark eyes hunting, pupils blown wide -- and he'll reach out for the body of someone else to steer alongside him. Whether they're already dancing, or whether they're at the perimeter of the room, Cain isn't shy about his approach. He puts his hands on their hips and pulls them right into the next song, wild in his abandon.]
3: safehouse a)
[There are shadows at the creases of his eyelids from an awful, sleepless night. Cain glowers at anyone who turns their head in his direction, teeth bared in moody temperament. He's claimed a cot in the corner of the room, disliking the exposure of open space.
While in the showers, Cain will be shamelessly naked and inspecting himself in one of the mirrors. He drags a hand through short-cropped, wild and untamed hair with a scowl permanently affixed to his face. There's a healing scar on his belly, maybe two months old -- an obvious gun wound. If he sees anyone glancing in his direction, his response is immediate:] What are you looking at, asshole?
cain | starfighter
[Time bridges one moment to the next, immediate in unconscious slumber. Cain is bleeding his life out across the Reliant's fighter controls, a bright screen against the dimness at the edges of his vision -- Cain is struggling to open the heavy weight of his eyelids, body strapped down in immobility while faceless figures loom above. His first thought is, I'm dead. Then he inhales, and it becomes, they fucking got us. How did they get us? After that it's just Abel. Abel, Abel, Abel.
Once they're off loaded and the instructions come, Cain's battled the beast of anxiety through a mountain of fog in his head that won't seem to clear. Only veiled aggression remains, like an impulse that sits on the bed of his fingernails, a fleshy sting. Trained and always ready, but he can't obey it. He follows the instructions with cowed submission. Cain's hand is heavy on the white-scrub shoulder in front of him, grip painfully tight, digging in to bruise.
Quiet, they'd said. Not silent.
In small and inevitable rebellion, he leans forward to whoever is in front of him with a rasp that sounds dry and weak out of his throat:]
What the fuck is going on?
2: ball
cw: drugs/alcohol use
[The rhythmic bass matches the steady drum of his heart hitched high in his throat, loud like it's sitting on his tongue. Cain's almost forgotten the outside world. He's lost sense of how long it's been since they were marched inside and stamped on the back of the hand like tagged luggage. Time's taken on a separate dimension in his reality -- whether this is the Alliance or the afterlife, his thoughts can't keep a forward track and only continue to unravel.
Someone gives him a drink, tells him to drink it, so he does. Someone gives him another drink. Someone gives him a bottle of water, and then something else: a bright red paper-thin cartoon heart to replace the real one on his tongue.
Time stretches like an elastic band and colors crystallize, clear and magnetically bright, as the drug digests in his system. Most intense of all is the rush of euphoria. Disorientation is replaced with a feeling of happiness and certainty. Gone are thoughts of the Alliance, the bullet in his gut, the fire hot on their tail, the word treason in the back of his mind, far blacker fate than any hole on New Volga could offer. Gone, even, is Abel's face and the words he'd said to tear apart the thin, flimsy fragment of whatever they'd had.
Eventually dancing alone isn't good enough. Cain casts a look around -- dark eyes hunting, pupils blown wide -- and he'll reach out for the body of someone else to steer alongside him. Whether they're already dancing, or whether they're at the perimeter of the room, Cain isn't shy about his approach. He puts his hands on their hips and pulls them right into the next song, wild in his abandon.]
3: safehouse
a)
[There are shadows at the creases of his eyelids from an awful, sleepless night. Cain glowers at anyone who turns their head in his direction, teeth bared in moody temperament. He's claimed a cot in the corner of the room, disliking the exposure of open space.
While in the showers, Cain will be shamelessly naked and inspecting himself in one of the mirrors. He drags a hand through short-cropped, wild and untamed hair with a scowl permanently affixed to his face. There's a healing scar on his belly, maybe two months old -- an obvious gun wound. If he sees anyone glancing in his direction, his response is immediate:] What are you looking at, asshole?
[YOU WANNA GO. He'll fight you.]
b)
@anonymous
abel. where the fuck are you