#silvanebula

This being Jamison Fawkes--sans Mako, enough of a rarity to raise brows--smoking on the back door of the Overwatch London safehouse, dragging some sort of sack and glittering in gold and rubies. Angela heard the news spring to life behind her, suddenly piercing her half-sleeped dazed. Explosion. Museum. Royal Jewels Collection. Missing suspect. Angela took a long deep breath. An exhausted smoker’s breath: strong inhale through the mouth, even stronger exhale through the nose. 

   “Jamison,” Angela said carefully, “what did you do?”

   𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏, a song he had recorded a year before he had been taken by the fog. the melody of it was stuck in his head and he hadn't been able to get it out. he hadn’t found anyone yet, and perhaps the humming and singing wasn’t helping, but he knew it was only a matter of time before he’d find one of them. 𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖.

   he stepped into the storehouse, his quiet singing echoing off the walls. 𝚔𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑, before coming to a halt and his singing ending abruptly. he heard a very quiet creak that he recognised as the rusty locker doors. he continued to sing, a little louder this time as the excitement thrummed in his veins. he didn’t know which locker it was, but he was going to figure it out.

   jiwoon came to a stop in front of two red lockers that stood side by side. he hadn’t turned to them yet, as he contemplated which one to open first. his singing faded to humming as he turned towards the lockers with a smile, 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. it was closer to the opening out of the storehouse  —  he would’ve picked that one if he was hiding, so he could run out and leave if he thought it was safe to. he pulled the doors open and came face to face with the one he recognised as dwight.

texts - not accepting !

to [ JOEY ] -- nowhere

to [ JOEY ] -- im fine

to [ JOEY ] -- i just needed some air

ICON MEME / IDK IM GETTING SLEEPY / @silvanebula

   “Right?” Quentin grunted, rolling his shoulders through aches and spittled glass. “I don’t see you getting the knife in your gut.”

Outside of trials, they were all well and good. Easy to be amicable when you carefully section yourself off from certain shared experiences--murdering and getting murdered--and regarded it more like a distant, unpleasant job. Look into his eyes and sever them from the eyes of your eternal killer. 

When inside trials, it’s harder to accept that when your guts are halfway to the floor. 

He’s slumped partially down the wall, handing trailing blood with the force it takes to keep himself fully off the floor. Hawkins lab was stifled by dust and decay. One dead, one curled up on a floor trying to breath through sliced esophagus, and another halfway gone on a hook. Quentin wasn’t better off than any of them, cornered by the killer, wedged between groaning generator and broken wall. Him squirreled away into the corner, arms wrapped around stomach like a limp stuffed animal, face bloodless, hair stuck to blood-crusted eyelashes and sweat-slick forehead, it perhaps was pitying enough for Legion--Joey--to recollect his mercy.

Quentin’s breath rattled his ribcage.

   “I think I’ve taken more than the recommended amount of stabbings...if you’re suddenly feeling to give me the hatch, I doubt I could make it anyway.” He was bitter. That’s how it was in trials that went especially bad, against a killer that he’d made the mistake of finding sentiment with out in the endless fog. Maybe he just didn’t want special treatment at the cost of his friends’ lives--he certainly didn’t deserve it over them. 

Finally, his bones weakened and he let himself crumple to the floor. Legs slowly pull up to his chest, converse slipping over the slick of his own blood. 

honesty hour - not accepting !

✞   𝐐𝐮𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐬. Tiredly, it starts just below his ribs and escapes as a huff of air out his nose. His pale, bony fingers are laced over his heavy eyes. The grass tickles the back of his neck and stains the soles of his shoes from where he lied.