#pyrrh1c

a frenzy of paranoia begins circulating through localized online forums. chatrooms. youtube. eight-thousand trending posts scattered across the internet, obsessed with a conspiracy; seemingly random missing persons reports alleged as murders.  science girl's  message boards become increasingly dominated by questions that scare her, a sharp, processed feeling festering like a diseased wound under her sternum. the chemical reaction of acid burns. poisons. the chemistry that seizes the human nervous system in its death-throes. claudette can feel it bleeding into her physical life. in the fliers of missing people layered over bulletin boards and bus stops. in the way she finds herself gravitating towards crowds. eye-witnesses. public places sheltered by the daylight.

she is grateful for jj. he humors her anxieties with a buddy system, escorting her through the long bus rides to and from her internship's field research projects, set up in a federally-protected national forest.

her feet are aching when she sags into the long, leather-bound seat, tucking herself against a dusk-misted window. idly aware that jj takes up the space next to her, sharing the booth.

claudette does not remember sleeping, as she opens her eyes, feeling heavy, groggy, slowly lifting her head from jj's shoulder. the gap in her memory startles her.

@pyrrh1c​ says: “I wondered when you were going to wake up. You almost didn’t survive.”

     “......................”

joey is methodical. they need structure. raging with a categorical ruthlessness that steamrolls the weak, cowardly bodies in their path. to joey, all this suffering is a game. and all this blood is a token for their rewards, their safety. the legion's safety.

with neutral cruelty, joey plays by its rules. they play, and play, and play.

red stains the snow that permanently coats the desecrated ormond ski resort. as a rule, joey cuts into the places that will make a human being quickly start hemorrhaging blood, spilling and spraying and gushing. the generators are untouched. the non-playable characters are scrambling to staunch their wounds. hiding. gutless. joey follows the blood-trails, the clumsy scratch of footprints sprinting in step with palpitating heartbeats.

joey's quick ears catches the noisy, familiar stretch of medical gauze wrapping-wrapping-wrapping. when joey finds them, quickly, inevitably, the fear is fresh and real and digs into the most animal parts of their animal brains. an injured @pyrrh1c​​ is visibly pushed into joey's knife, by his own team.

if joey could, they would laugh. instead, their outrage sends them into an inconsolable frenzy. squeezing their gloved hand over jj’s wet-eyed, terrified face. shoving him against the frozen tractor, the generator’s flickering lights illuminating the blood on jj’s cheek. joey stares down at him, eyes wide and so, so angry behind the holes of the skull artfully etched over their facewrap.

joey shoves him away. walks away. hunts the others. cutting them down and bleeding them out, to watch their dying bodies crawl and writhe over their bloody stomachs.

a body is like a snare, winding tightly around the senses. everything it touches, smells, sees, hears: is biologically constructed within the limited parameters of its perceptual system.

claudette morel's senses feel as if they are working behind tempered glass, now; a thick, translucent barrier between themself, and a dissociated body moving one foot in front of the other, in front of the other, in front of the other. they are vaguely aware that the ground under their thrifty boots is hard, like concrete, and the stretch of space around them is familiar; the campus has no color under the moonlight, a monochromatic vision of trimmed grass and academic buildings. like a scene from an old, grainy horror film.

" hey, claudette! hang on! " @pyrrh1c is slowing down his jog until he matches their pace, " are you good? you look a little spooked, " another glance over, eyes adjusting until he notices, " wait, your arm. are you bleeding?? "

they hear jj's voice as if it were muffled, distant. and then, the proverbial glass shatters. the external world rushes back into their body like water filling into a broken dam. 

fawn-frozen, claudette's gaze drops to the spot of red drying on their ripped shirtsleeve, wet and shiny across their dusky skin. notices it, as if for the first time. "th-there was a f-f-fog,"  the stuttering makes the words feel thick in their mouth, makes claudette feel worse; years of speech therapy betrayed by their frayed nerves. "it... um, it tried to grab m-me and... oh no, that doesn't m-make any sense, does it?" 

they can not find the words to describe it; the way it whispered, the way it followed, less and less like a state of matter, more and more like a predatory creature. but claudette remembers the feeling, cold and dark and so, so hungry.

 THE STAGE IS EMPTY NOW , AKINA IS SAT ON THE EDGE OF IT ; she holds a tape in her hands and wants to drop it but it feels like it's glued to her palms . some music group had been performing here all night and akina was meant to finally see their manager when it was over and talk about the mysterious tape . they told her it was sent to them from an unknown source , researches had led them to a few names — akina mori , reiko asakawa , ryuji takayama , and so on . most of them dead , akina was the only one alive but didn't seem very pleased to see the damn tape either .

 the silence of the stage is broken by the footsteps , at first she ignores it but it gets closer and closer to her so her shoulders gets tenser ; eventually before the stranger could speak , her instincts come to action and with quick movements she's swiftly hitting their ankle with the sharper edge of the tape . using it as a weapon ( — less harmful than watching it at least , no ? ) . immediately , akina is on her feet , growling as the boy stumbles and falls on the ground , gripping his ankle and moaning out the weird greeting ; yes well , definitely not a good start . she takes a moment to get a good look , he's awfully good looking and donned in fancy clothes , stage clothes ? ❛ . . . shit . sorry . ❜ as a polite girl , a good girl , akina leans down to help him up , the tape dropped on the ground . best to simply leave it here , she simply doesn't care who will find it and die , she doesn't care she doesn't — ❛ come on . you're part of the group right ? haha - sorry i don't listen to music but i would listen to you guys if i did . ❜ a small grin , she seems distracted , pulling at his arm to get him on his feet .

say what you want, but say it like you mean it.

@pyrrh1c  /  𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒓'𝒔 𝒅𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒆𝒓

         ❝  it  just  sounds  more  like  you  want  me  to  say  what  you  want  to  hear,  to  fit  your  narrative.  ❞    it  was  a  simple  click  of  his  tongue,  the  irritation  and  annoyance  beginning  to  bubble  in  his  chest.    the  baby  blue,  spiked  bat  was  clutched  tightly  and  held  close  to  his  form.    it  was  like  seeking  comfort  from  his  darling  weapon  of  choice.

        jiwoon  quickly  shook  his  head,  a  frown  on  his  lips  never  wavering.    he's  letting  emotions  do  the  talking,  and  it  just  simply  won't  do.    it's  just  a  stupid  thing  to  do.    ❝  mm-  no.    i  was  just  being  stupid  and  making  assumptions.  ❞    his  lips  pressed  shut,  golden  eyes  gazing  downward  to  nothing.    how  he  hated  that  the  beating  in  his  chest  were  getting  louder  and  louder  in  his  ears,  the  speed  increased.    this  was  just  stupid,  all  stupid.    it's  just  a  long  road  ahead  to  set  things  right.