#mxlevolence

C'est quelle émotion, ta haine ou de la douceur Quand j'entends ton prénom?

✧ ━━ @mxlevolence

Day 1683 out of eternity. He wasn't keeping count, though. ( Those etchings in his notebook was his countdown to Death, not freedom. The latter was unattainable in five consecutive life sentences plus an additional 150 years. Unless he was immortal. And he was not. ) It was his allotted Outside Time. Where, dressed in his orange jumpsuit, he would stand and glare at the too-bright sky, wishing it were dark outside. But day 1683 was different. Today he ventured from his spot on the outskirts, close to the stone facade of the prison building, and flitted toward an equally lone figure, William Tillich. Danny gestured to the pack of cards in Tillich's hands with a jut of his chin. "Gambler or magician?"

As opposed to most of his fellow inmates, Will seems to enjoy the time he's spending in here, inside this well-known prison; Everything is the same each and every single day: Same toothbrush, same toothpaste, same bed, same farts, same shoes, same window, same floor, same ceiling, same sink, same toilet, same toilet paper, same smell, same air.

Blank. Uneventful. Restrictive. Ouright boring, nerve-wracking in a way, sense-dulling. Most wish for some kind of distraction, for a change in pace, a new sight, a new sensation that will help them to feel alive again...

---To him, it's comforting. It sates something inside Will, a deep urge that eats away on his bones day after day of his tired existence. He likes it, to have the same toothbrush and the same bed, to stand at the same wall at the same spot whenever they're led outside; Part of him even wished the sky would stay the same, just to dull his life even further.

He deserves this. Will has always deserved it, will always deserve it.

Said comfort lies within punishment. The prison-therapist calls his behavior an 'expression of deep-set PTSD'; Will does not really think about it, just keeps flicking his cards back and forth between his fingers...

Until he's being interrupted, that is.

...He doesn't want to be interrupted. It's a change of pace, and he didn't ask for it to happen.

"...Gambler." Yet he does offer this answer to the other, a man he's seen before but never really spoken to; Voice soft and steady, his eyes remain lidded and focused on his task at hand - continuing to flick Cards from one hand to the other, then the other way around. Back and forth, back and forth.

---He peeks up at that guy for a moment then, once a few seconds of silence have passed - but his dark eyes fall away almost immediately; The sun's too bright, he hates having to squint against it.

No... he doesn’t feel better. If anything, his chest burns hotter, a pressure that no punch could bleed out. Would another strike ease it? Two, three— one after another until Danny’s face was unrecognizable? The thought tempts him for a fleeting, vicious moment... then sours. The first blow had been cheap, stolen when the other least expected it. Anything further would just be foolish, opening the hellish gates or brutality. And still, some buried part of Atlas wants cruelty. Wants it to escalate, to spiral until he doesn’t have to think about what he feels at all.

❝ You let me believe you were the fucking victim!? ❞ The words come out like a snarl, jagged and completely unrestrained. What is left of his control fractures, anger rushing in to fill the cracks he thought were long sealed. He trained himself to master his temper, to bleed it out in controlled spaces, in rings and gyms. But Danny has unraveled all of it with nothing more than a truth revealed too late.

It isn’t just betrayal, though. That’s what unsettles Atlas most. It’s the pull that coils tight in his gut, the wrongness of his own fascination. He should hate this man, but hatred will not explain this intensity; explain why his pulse spikes when he looks at the killer with blood running from his lip, eyes still unflinching. That dark intrigue is harder to shove away than the rage.

Atlas shouldn't want to know, and yet he aches to ask: what finally made you act? what did it feel like the first time? How did you hide it for so long? Why did you stop? The questions would sound like admiration if he spoke them aloud, and that thought makes him sick. Yet the sickness does not dull the growing fascination.

---Marc cannot even say anything against that, those words that the one in front of him speaks into the silence between them; He's not sure whether they're meant to be a tease, a taunt, something smug - it's hard for him to focus on such things when the face he's looking at is...

Damn, perhaps he is seeing a ghost, in a strange way. Perhaps not literal, because that guy sure as hell looks like he's breathing and all of that, but... ---fuck this, the fact that these eyes that stare straight back at him look so hauntingly familiar sends a cold shiver down his spine, so intense that it prompts goosebumps to appear all over his neck, shoulders, back.

Marc certainly feels like he's seeing a ghost, wonders if his own features are going a bit pale in return. A tongue flicks out for a second and a half, wets a pair of full lips, then disappears again - followed by a somewhat shaky inhale of air, an exhale that follows, hands curling into fists by his sides.

"What kind of shitty game is this supposed to be?" Low, almost a grumble, but filled with obvious discomfort - with confusion, something unsure, uncertain. Maybe a little afraid, even.

Virus game asks

8. What's your favorite map? Do you have a least favorite?

Favorite map to play on is 100% Lery's, I know most people hate it, but as someone who doesn't play as much as I used to, the map having clear landmarks for where I am and where I can go helps with my brain. The tiles being pretty stationary and only really changing when windows doors and what side pallets spawn on is also really good for remembering which is why I'm kind of shocked when people say it's not a good beginner map. I think it could be an extremely good new player map with a few tweaks, like coal tower does have the giant tower, but the rest is generally some random tile set spawns unlike Lery's. Lery's has a set spawn center room where there's always a gen, blinking lights tell you where gens are, the shack (library) has a set spawn, etc. etc. I understand hating it on killer more, it does prevent a lot of killers from using their abilities to their fullest because of the hallways, but I adore playing on it as survivor to be honest.

Least favorite no question is R.pd. I'm so sorry to people who enjoy it because it is basically 1:1 from the game, but that map is so horribly designed it still needs tweaks several years later. I'm assuming most people who live it did not play when that map was slower to get around than old mothers dwelling. (the largest map in the game) My god I hated even trying to find gens, because unlike Lery's and H.awkin's there is nothing telling you where they are and the map isn't as open or small as Midwitch so you can't see them either. There used to be several infinites on that map so while you're playing a lot of killers with a severe handicap just due to it being an indoor map, you couldn't catch anyone if they ran to the library and other areas. Not even counting how on survivor it can be impossible to win sometimes if your teammates do the roof gen first. I used to alt + f4 in loading if someone brought an offering since you'd dodge the penalty that way like "oh noooo my game crashed thats so sad" just knowing the main reasons survivors took you there was to abuse that infinite at the time.

❝ i've heard a few things about you. ❞

✿ ⧽ muses who are just meeting prompts .

❥ Kiwa couldn’t be too surprised. Stories always drifted around the fog. Everyone had heard of everyone, in some way… and Kiwa knew she was a particularly loud presence in a realm full of those who’d grown silent and bitter. Hearing about her was inevitable, but what exactly he could’ve heard? That was a different story entirely. It could swing all sorts of ways depending on who was asked, she knew she wasn’t exactly everyone’s favorite. Or, well…. Most anyone’s favorite, but still.

Dwight couldn't even begin to comprehend how taking the life of someone else could possibly bring another human being JOY. But then again, he had a feeling whatever humanity had once existed behind that mask had long since faded. The hollowness of the morbid, plastic expression mocked him with the dangerous stranger's every word, giving birth to an uncomfortable lump in his throat. Dwight can't help but wonder what he looks like underneath it, but he finds his curiosity fading as the man's words send chills down his spine. He feels like he could collapse at any moment...

"Why- " Dwight's voice breaks softly, his eyes habitually scanning his surroundings as he backs himself up slowly from the ominous figure, searching his environment for an escape. "Why am I still alive, then? Reached your daily limit of joy?" Wow. That quip was a little bold, though his eyes begin to glisten as he chokes back the threat of tears. Is he seriously trying to act T O U G H right now?

He denies the tears of PAIN. LOSS. SHAME.