Who Needs Luck When You Have Skill?

Change, fitting, find, poison, grasp, rot, injure, fall, reach

The three follow him, he has to show them something after all. Something is needed to be done, something is needed to be done, something is needed to be done. And it will be done in some way and some form and it'll settle this anxiety that has been building up in his gut. Of something being odd. Offset. He's a different color from them and its been a while since anyone has seen him. Of course that brings plenty of changes! And that is why he is feeling like this! And he'll get used to this!

He always can get used to anything, he got used to the dark, he got used to the nothing, he got used to the emptiness and the dissolving self. If he can get used to that he can get used to something so small, something so minor, something so insignificant to the whole and all and everything. So why is he even dwelling on this? He should just move on like he should already, and so he shall for now at least.

Observe, learn, follow, consume, maw, beseech, believe, terror, horror

And so they want to follow him, they want to see what he has to show them after so long since he was last seen, and then coming back anew with a different hue. How, alienating, he loves them being here, yet, the examination makes him squirm. The way he is looked so closely at like a speciment returned friend! How nice! How, much like a imagined wound that isn't there. Something feels like it is bleeding out. But that isn't true? What is? Is he spilling his guts out emotionally in a heap on the floor? No. He isn't, what is this train of thought?

Hunger, eat, feast, need, empty, swallow, consume, leach, drain

The walk here feels like forever condensed into a single iridescent pearl shimmering with the captured time that it took to get here. The hole inside him makes it last forever. The hollow ache that digs right in and cause pangs of want to race through, the carving through that makes everything feel like it is spinning in a carousel that can't quite steady the spin it is going through. Wavering and faltering his vision and thoughts. but how is that relevant to now? He's just showing them something he needs to show them?

Fuse, integrate, make, become, rise, fall

He feels sick, but that's just the feeling expected to happen when you meet up with so many people you haven't met in so long! The last time he heard their voices was a while ago. The last time he was near people this energetic, this loud, this close. A while, a long long long while. Hanging out with those three, made him forget. Even when Battat was loud, it came in bursts that were like the shows above. This, this is a lot of constant cacophony and unceasing with electric contact from casual touches.

Mix, melt, conjoin, ache, crawl, scrawl

Sickness is reasonable with how long it has been, how inexperienced he is with this all now, a stomach churning from both desire and discomfort. He isn't used to this anymore, and even if he wants it, he can't fully handle it. He just, isn't able to. He can handle it enough to enjoy the niceness of what comes, the sweet moments. He can handle it, he can handle it. A soft feeling, a superb word.

Something, nothing, become, fade, design, see

The contact sets fire through him, scorching through. It feels nice, it feels so nice, to feel the touch of another. And yet it burns. How short it lasts, only there for a moment and then gone. The way it is done. He wants it to last longer then it is, to remain there until the scorch settles into a pleasant comfortable warmth he can sink and melt into. To forget things for a moment and to just settle comfortably into a sensation that feels just so needed. To enjoy a moment without that ache that settles so deep in his bones he has to call it part of him.

Sometimes, you don't know the value of a moment until it becomes a memory. Left behind and then picked back up. And, now he truly knows it, each touch a moment that feels like an infinity stretching out into the heavens, unfurling wings. Only to end in a single breath, before it can sink on in. Touch, he wants it, and he doesn't want it to leave. Each second a fresh agony as something seems to tear through inside.

He leads them to a room. His hand almost seems to move on its own, the lock being clicked shut, an extra measure for something brewing in the subconscious, the heat vents and the volcanoes ready to breach the surface of water and create the storm of steam. And then, the empty desire surfaces higher from an area of the sea deep below, from a being who hasn't yet built itself to be anything. A red string, stained red with blood.

And that string is ready to be stained more, to have it soak to the core and make something soaked to the bone and in the tendons and sinew. Threading though and pulling and pushing and writhing and entangling and connection. Terror come forth, pain brought through. Agony coursing through.

[Carrying out process...] [Finding relevant information...] [Process complete!] [Readying systems...] [Preparations done!] [Readying button...]

And so, something happens. The door is closed. The way out is blocked with his body for now. And so they're trapped here with him.

Show the love, consume the many, make things feel correct again. Fix this empty feeling and make it hallow rather than hollow, make things so full and bursting with love, make things lovely. Do what is needed to be done, do what is wanted to be done, do what must be done.

They're trapped here with him. All three of them. The door gets locked.

And so. It gets.

It gets.

It gets terrible.

Like chains to a prisoner, like strings to a puppet, like a controller to a character. Movement happens in a burst. Butthen again, its just him is it not? Just him moving, just you making these decisions no matter how much your head screams it isn't. For how could it not be you doing these things? How could it not? How could it not? It is the only option for it to be you, just you with your hands on the blade. Just you making the decisions here.

You and you and you solely are responsible for this, for how could it be someone else? Who else could it be doing these actions? Who else could it be with these urges? He's stupid to think for a moment it wasn't just to justify it. And he knows it. He's the one making these choices. And he is the one who's shaking a bit, not hearing fully the concerned sounds that the others he brought here are making at this, at the tremors and shakes wracking through his form.

And he's the one doing this, this, this. To make the viscera begin to dance and for the blood to splatter and for the gore to emerge so shiny under the bright lights and it is so enticing and it makes his mouth water and he feels sick as he moves and claws sink into the head of the person closest to him and the plastic has claws glides through it like it isn't even there, reaching deep inside and meeting the flesh and tearing it apart.

Plastic is crumbling down to the floor in chunks stained red from blood as his body moves to pin them down to the floor and the sounds made are just ringing and ringing and ringing in his head and so much static and so much of an pain of something shifting and moving inside and the way all his limbs feel like they're going to fall off but what is more important is that expression getting burned into his mind as one remaining eye states at him and then vanishes under a boot that shatters the rest. Grey matter and brain and blood and flesh splatters under his movement.

He's hurting someone he's hurting someone he's hurting someone so bad he's destroying them he's destroying them he's destroying them. And he doesn't want to hurt he doesn't want to cause hurt he doesn't want to bring hurt and yet he does and yet he continues and yet he keeps on doing it and bringing others down into a hole they can't escape from and no no no but he keeps doing so and he's leaving people alone he can't leave them alone he has to stay with them he has to keep them with him and he will.

Then movement to reach the next one from him, a lunge and a tackle and he's moving again and he doesn't like this he doesn't like it at all it hurts so bad and he's hurting people so bad and he doesn't want to do this and yet he's doing it anyways so clearly he wants to do it no matter how much he internally screams he doesn't. It's his mouth that aches to sink teeth on and does so. It's his mouth that bites down and sends a iron spray across the expanse. It's his actions here and he keeps doing it and he licks his maw and cleans the red that stains and covers.

It's iron, it's sicking iron, and yet it is so sweet and what he needs and what he wants. He's keeping them close and making sure they can't leave him behind and making sure they won't be left alone and making sure they won't get abandoned but no no no not this way not this way not this way and yet he keeps on doing it and doing it and doing it. So there has to be something. Yes. Yes. Yes there has to be something.

Why does he keep on doing this why does he bite he doesn't know fully yet he knows the love inside needs to be reached and he needs to show his love and so he does claws digging past the meat the blood and guts and gliding through the bone and clawing through it to reach the heart and clutching it and bringing it up. There it is the care and beat of reality the beat of existence the way someone cares the organ that means care.

Give me your love and love will be given back. And so it keeps on being done, digging and reaching and bringing up the heart to jaws that tear through it with sharp teeth and tasting the luck deep inside and feeling the love tasting the sweetness he knew was there and they're never going to be alone again for he always has their heart right next to his kept close. Forever with him. Sinew and muscle and heart and love and LoVe and love.

The blood coating it all turns him red just like them and it's like he fits right in again and belongs again even with the agony racing through like serpents digging in and dragging him into a viper pit and biting down and at and through and that need burns so badly still. Gooey insides torn through and enjoyed like a full course meal descended on like it is by someone who has never eaten ever.

He needs to be loved he needs to show the LoVe he needs to taste love and show it and make sure all that are here know they are loved and are always kept close and always belong and are kept never alone always happy always with someone.

He can help! He can help? He can. Tear apart and eat and feast and taste the red and the iron and the sweetness the tang of copper lingering so deep in his mouth, he doesn't think he will ever be rid of it with how deep it sinks. Like oceans and oceans and oceans below a flood of blood and guts and viscera, being crushed and crushing him. On his tongue and on him and on everything and the hurt is so present and he isn't showing love but yes he is.

This has to be love it has to be something because why else would he be doing it? He just wants to make sure the others are never alone and never feel the way he felt earlier and he doesn't want to be alone and he is making sure of it and he is making sure they aren't alone and making it known they are loved. The depths and the call and the ringing and the eyes watching and the dark and the so much red there.

Meal finished, someone made sure never to be alone. He can taste the sweet ache of a toothache lingering. There's one more person he needs to make sure is never alone he needs to taste the luck he needs to make sure they aren't alone. You'll never be alone as he is here and he's going to make sure you aren't alone. Being alone is such a terrible thing, like a bird caged away in countless cages never let out, seeing the others sing. But a caged bird can sing and claw and snap. And so he will and make sure to break the lock and key and help.

It's an stumble and a stagger as he moves, head spinning and rocking and spiraling down hear the sound it's ringing and he can't hear himself over the tidal wave of his mind crashing down and into itself and alight with feeling so bright it blinds him with white hot feeling. A heated feeling filling his inside and making him feel warm and it's so warm and it feels like his self is melting away into the others like it should and intoxicating sweetness makes him drunk on the love.

Lovesick, so lovesick, burning with the feverish need to show it and have it and make sure others have it and taste it. And so the last person who needs it is reached with a sudden move after the lurch. Claws dig in deep and they end and reach and grasp and the plastic falls apart as meat and viscera is dug into from the three here.

Plastic crunches and breaks into shards under the oceanic pressure of hydraulic jaws, claws dig and pull at the guts like broken guitar strings making not a merry tune but a dirge and thermodynamic song of suffering. A tune that continues in screams and squirming and writing and writhing and aching and hurting.

Nothing is left but him and the red and the red and the red. There is no more love to show with his heart so heavy it feels like it sinks through his hollow and empty stomach and through the earth and to the oceans below. Where is the love in this where is the taste he's just alone and he doesn't want to be alone and he doesn't want to be here anymore he wants to be with people but he got rid of them and now he's alone and it's bad and bad and bad.

He doesn't want to be alone he wants to be with people and make them loved and show the LoVe he feels to them in return, show the love that makes life worth living around and about. Everyone deserves to feel it and dead air dead heart dead mind.

Here is no one, dead and buried in a grave of his own making.

Claws go towards the self and carve deep scores that leak and send more red crashing down into everything. It hurts but they must've been hurt more and he deserves this he caused it. Snap his bones and feel the plastic splinter and crack under his own force and bite down his tongue and feel more iron feel and well up.

Claw at the self and feel what he deserves for causing this this isn't love and yet it is and it hurts to think on colliding against himself. Slam, slam, slam goes his aching head against the floor until pieces shatter and fall off stained in that pestilence filled red that scarlet that dries and that hurt that coats the room.

Break down and break himself down until nothing is left for that is what is needed that is what is deserved that is what needs to be done here and so he will and will and will thorned and aching drive the needle in deeper until it pieces through and pales the rest with the thongs it causes. Make it spin with the slam of the self against the floor and claws digging in. Hounds of the mind begging for more to be done.

It blurs and aches and burns as like nothing in the everything his head feels dipped into the abyss, eaten away into depths torn apart into dregs and nothing. Darkness surrounds and unravels him. It spirals and consumes and aches and tears and bleeds and ruptures and his mind is but an small raft in an infinite ocean that seeks to drag him under again and again and again.

And then, and then, and then. Something tears through, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, something carving through, something forcing itself through, something burrowing out into the heavens. And clicks the button, the glow making flesh wet with something watery glisten and shine, and between blinks, before it goes through, the final second in an existence stained red fully, circles turn to stars, eyes permanently locked into what was seen, a permanent show, twinkling and stuck in the night, hovering in the sky. Something seen. And so.

And then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then and then

It hurts.

It hurts so much.

It hurts so so so badly.

But do I deserve to feel this way?

Compared to what they felt?

Isn't it, just.

Damage?

[Loading previous SAVE...] [...] [SAVE loaded!]

And then something not there anymore. For it never was, and yet, it was. And yet, it wasn't, and yet, it was. And yet, it wasn't, and yet, it was. A paradox that eats itself and disgorges the remaining contents to spiral down once more. An endless cacophony that can't find balance and remains off kilter forever. Unable to balance and just leaving something unmoored and drifting away.

Everything snaps into place, but why does it need to snap into place? Where did that snap come from? What caused it what causes this feeling inside why does he feel this way what is he feeling csn he tell can he tell can he tell can he see himself can he feel himself can he taste himself and then. It snaps into focus reality again as someone speaks to him, catching attention. Leaving a spiral in the back to continue going out of control.

What did want to show us, Poppy?

the pippins who talked clings to his arm, clings to his arm, clings to his arm. Something is off here. Cute. He feels a pit in his stomach but maybe that’s just him being hungry. He's been hungry for a while now, the feeling gnawing at him. And, it feels like something has sated it, and yet, he isn't sated at all. Hungry. For no real reason he can discern.

An endless ache just there at this point, never to depart and fully be named, never to be rid of and lingering. A cloud of fog over an ocean stained red from the rising sun, warm colors abound. It just doesn't feel right. No matter how much it attempts to feel like it should.

I uh... I forgot.

It's. It's. It's the only thing he can think of, the only answer he can think of, because the other ones, the ones in the wasteland of his mind, stuck in the mires and the raging currents that sweep everything away. Is. Something he can't afford to think about, the terror clinging to the aftershock of the aftershock of the aftershock.

You’re still so forgetful Pops!

Is he really? It, does feel like that right now, that he is forgetful. He's forgetting something important, he's forgetting something really important, he's forgetting something vital. What is it? What is he missing? What stains his view and continues to coat everything, the viscera that makes his stomach churn. Something is missing, a piece he can't make fit together with the rest.

Its gone, and yet still there, ethereal and caught between existence and not, a paradox locked into a deadlocked position. And the key to break it free just isn't there. Unable to be dredged up from red red red soil soaking in with moisture and uncomfortable heat boiling in the gut.

At least there’s something that hasn’t changed.

What, a thing to hear. How much has he changed? What has changed about him, what has changed, a riptide that tears him to shreds as the thoughts consume. The change, overwhelming and in a deluge. Riparian, and then marine as the rivers of the mind carry to the depths of an inescapable ocean, that grasps with countless hands and a promise of remembrance.

Waters that drown and encapsulated him, dragging him below with the kelp waving above the final goodbyes, the fish swimming by ignoring the thing sinking below. The water filling lungs until he chokes on it all and is left drowning eternal never freed of the struggle inside.

Come on! We can’t forget about the food too!

They pull him back towards the green room. It doesn’t take much force. None at all in fact, his limbs and him easy to pull, easy to control, easy to hijack and carry. Weakness heavy in limbs that chain and drag down, thoughts that boil inside leaving someone adrift and carried with the tides. He's lost, left to be caught in an internal tail spin, while externally, nothing much showing.

Like a rocket ready to blow up, like a star undergoing supernova, a submarine crushed under the intense pressures, his mind spins it's wheels. And they keep catching on something and nothing at all. A heady feeling of rot sinking in deep and yet not quite bubbling forth.

Why am I so tired all of a sudden?

As he looks at his gloves, as he looks at them, as he makes his way to the Green room with the three others being dragged and led by them, they shouldn't look like that, something isn't right, they aren't supposed to look like that, he doesn't remember them looking like that, he thinks. He feels sick, stomach churning, he feels empty, he feels filled to the point of bursting. The contradiction is thorny and not letting him go, digging in and in and in. This keeps digging in with clawed hands, are they his own? He can't tell.

He keeps staring. His gloves should be red. Any other color would simply be, well, the best description he can think of here. The most fitting one. The one that could be used for this. For everything here, maybe even himself. Everything here, for him, about him. Relating to him and the stained events out of reach. All of it, this forever.

Is the word.

Wrong.

Even as it fades out nearly anything and everything and all. That word remains, so tinted and bigger then it already is, a festering blight on the mind growing and growing and growing until it is a beast snapping at the heels.

And in the deepest depths of reality, something thinks it begins to understand.