#w.taeoh

@neotaeoh / the afterlife, system failure, phase 3.

when the communications crash down, it feels more serious. like the world is crumbling out from beneath their feet. a pixelated wipe of memory that leaves the world blank and drowned in a black expanse of nothing. the mods come after, but jinsol doesn’t notice that so much. his only tell is on the back of his neck, hidden from view. a sun that refuses to rise. how fitting.

all he’s focusing on is the anxiety in his stomach. slithering and lashing out like serpents. intent on forcing their way up his throat. blocking off air. leaving him gasping, in the throes of panic. he doesn’t do well like this, being severed from the world. being thrust into the unknown. rua doesn’t either. it’s what pushing him to her apartment. the electronics down, keypads non-functioning. but he managed his way far enough alone to pound at her door. was greeted by silence. and back again, into the heart of the city. into the afterlife, searching for hope. or her. at this point, they seem nearly interchangeable. 

@neotaeoh / the afterlife, system failure, phase 2.

the club usually isn’t bright. that’s the entire point of it. a swamp of light green neon that permeates the room, flashes of spontaneous light, a neon show behind the bar like accent marks to the dim. but even those are gone now. and so is the music. without it, the club feels wrong. it’s purpose robbed from it. there’s a buzz of noise, and a wave of paranoia that circles the room. like a sway of an ocean, but more uneasy now. a calm before the storm rather than the frantic, collective crashing she usually expects from the place.

rin has half a mind to leave. she’s not so sure now why she came in. because it acts like a hub to elysium? because she expected some dregs of normalcy from it? but it all just feels eerie. maybe even worse than outside, on the streets. she finds herself hovering near the outskirts, back stuck to the wall. occasionally jostled by a miss-aimed shoulder of frenzied bodies as they shuffle past her. her jaw’s clenched. it feels like there’s white noise underneath her skin. the radio lines are too scattered now. she can’t make any more sense of what’s going on from the thin waves of police scanners she can pick up on. art of her wants to scatter, too. but she doesn’t. in times of stress, rin tends to root into place. lock-jawed, a strange look of being collected that never seems to match on the inside. she hates when people mistake it for strength. but in situations of panic, maybe it’s for the best.