YOU ARE ONE UGLY BASTARD...

PLUTO

You’re in the center of arguing that has nothing to do with you. It feels like no matter where you go, conflict follows, like a curse. Whether you seek it out or not you’re not willing to admit, but it’s there, it’s there and you hate it. You don’t trust when your life goes without a bump for more than a few months, like you’re in the eye of a hurricane and the calm is going to break. You deserve better than that. You weren’t meant to be like that, you know, you aren’t designed for conflict like that. Conflict isn’t a personality trait and the sooner you realize that the sooner you’ll be able to detach yourself from it - and you need to detach yourself from it. It’s not normal to constantly react to things happening to you rather than act for yourself. Isn’t making bad decisions better than none at all? It’ll get you somewhere, at least. You aren’t a drifter - a drifter is for water, and you aren’t drowning. Not if you don’t let yourself.

𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑.     a chill right down to the bones.    tobogganing.   teeth chattering.    sleeping all day.    sitting by the fireplace.   spending time with family.    layered clothing.  seeing another’s breath. loving the cold.   a state of inactivity.   cold hands.   blistering winds shaking the closed windows.   a bookcase full of brand new books and all of the time in the world to read them.   cable knit socks.   a bitter remark.  a log cabin in the middle of nowhere.    hating the cold.  full-length windows to peer out of.  pale skin.   deep conversations.   watching the snow fall. sharp edges.   hot cocoa.    smelling every candle in the store.   a wild snow storm. melancholy.   lighting candles around the bathtub.  snow globes.   expressing yourself but never finding quite the right words. the softest of blankets.    liking, but not loving something or someone.

𝐒𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆.     the smell after it rains.  being in control of yourself.  a soft breeze blowing your hair. lightning when it strikes.   cherry blossoms.    bright mornings.  the first sign of hope. the relief of finding something you lost.    paris in the spring.  birds chirping.    the art of growing.   a kiss on the cheek. the clap of thunder.    a tornado in the valley.   smiling at a stranger.  planning.    saccharine pinks.   making promises.    trying something new.   hugs when you need them most.  a bee sting.   sitting on the steps of the met.    coming inside drenched from the thunderstorm.   picnics on a red checkered blanket in the new sun.  that feeling you get when you put on a good dress.    a long hike.   rushing when you can take your time. going to the gym at ungodly hours.  excitement for what’s coming.   becoming yourself. rain boots.

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑. lanterns lit around a campfire.   seeing the sunrise like its the first time again and again.   melting ice cream.    the warmth of sun rays upon skin.   fireworks. the feeling of never wanting something to end.  beach days.  the lone blow up floaty left in the pool, drifting with the warm nights breeze and nothing else.   music blasting at 3am, loud and proud. palms trees on sunset boulevard.   longer days and shorter nights. wanderlust.    nights spent staring at the stars.   sand castles.    road trips.  blood orange sunsets. leaving the laundry to hang outside.    flowers in bloom.   sneaking out of your room late at night. pure contentment.  barefoot in the sand.  the street lights coming on. the sound of the ocean in a seashell.   freshly squeezed lemonade.   loose clothing.  a cannonball into the pool.  sunflowers.    the hazy pink before dusk.   relaxation.

𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋.      the leaves changing colors. a heavy backpack.   the smell of old books. eating until you’re stuffed.    deep, dark woods. the silence in loudness. abandoned houses.   ripped jeans.  crunching leaves beneath feet.   feeling like you’ve been somewhere before. sitting at a bay window.   having endless amount of homework.    charcoal drawings.  screaming into a pillow as loud as you can.   pumpkin patches.   creaky floorboards. accepting that some things do have to change.   museums.    small talk.   being ignored.   procrastinating. a door slamming shut.   going to bed early.   baking pies.   the fear of walking alone in the dark. feeling completely and terribly lost.  a twig snapping.   crisp, cool days. belly laughter.   converse.  foggy mornings at the shoreline. writing a daily entry in a journal. a lonely day.

     Curiosity is an insatiable habit. The severity of consequences one may face varied; indulging those prodding questions for the sake of self-satisfaction and self-satisfaction alone. One would think, out of anyone trapped within the confines of a vast city, he’d had known better than to gratify otherwise unnecessary feelings that could so easily be swallowed down.

     Their shape is what ushered forth the waves of questions. Sentience, being the first of many questioned. The hefty weight of a shovel bodes well in easing worries, self assured that any form of assault would be one he’d prepared for.

Red appears to be a common here. I’d have preferred otherwise.

Their shape is reminiscent to that of a crescent moon, a body hidden underneath cloth akin to old draperies. I never much cared for them. Blinds worked well enough given their use, but we were never much ones for interior design, were we?

...Never much ones for making idle chattering either.

    The best means of approach would be that of a lax and casual close in - however - lax and casual were never words best fit for him. Too rigid. Too defensive. Too aggressive. Little mind given to his own hands wringing impatiently around his shovel’s handle; a bad habit that - one of many, really.

{ APOLOGIES!! It’s been a hectic week doin some big ol cleaning but tomorrow I should be able to have enough time to focus on writing those starters and doing replies! Tank yall for ur endless patience esp when I’m such a slow slug,, }

      A flurry of gunfire reverberated against the fog ridden streets. Despite even the best of efforts, his luck could only run for so long; drips of acidic blood slowly beginning to blend back into its former, natural, red hue, trailing behind creating a pathway of liquid oddities down to the very spot where he’d collapsed from exhaustion.

     Whatever struck him was fast and it hit hard. Had it not been for both gunfire and potent blood, whatever aggressor struck from the security of the blanketed streets would have finished the job swiftly.

    Bandaged fingers gently graze against the bloodied wound now decoring his arm. They were much like bite marks in a way, yet so strangely uneven. A mixture of human from what he could surmise, accompanied by others of unknown origins, mangled together to create the deep unnatural pattern accompanying bruising skin. He hadn’t thought it possible at first. Perhaps he’d even tried desperately to deny it entirely. The shifting of eyes were frantic in their search, certain an all too familiar and unwelcome shape might soon reveal itself within the fog. Yet it was that voice; nasally and filled with malice hidden under charismatic tones... Thick spit causing a throaty gurgle to intoxicate his words...

“ I can smell your ROT. ”

      ...A pistol wouldn’t do much, nor would a shotgun given the level of visibility swaying favors heavily towards his assailant’s side. Running seemed just as idiotic of a plan. The awkward shuffling of something heavy and metallic meant he’d brought more than just claws and teeth into this fight. Fingers fidgeted in their momentary standstill. Knowing there would be very little time to react meant taking the risk of vulnerability in favor of rifling through the contents of his backpack would be worth making. One last steady inhale drew in heated air as slow motions here made in both sliding and opening his sack before reaching inside.

     A few pills... Ammo and gunfire... A sturdy shovel and sharpened ax... Cloth and alcohol... Flares...

     Few were taken. Traded in for his pocketed watch, pistol, and unlit torch, the flares, pills, and ax were retrieved just before a cocky cackle from the Wolfman broke through the heavy silence. It was a dumb plan... God it was absolutely idiotic... But what more could be done than to try?

     At best, he succeeds. At worst...

     The flash of red pouring from the emergency flair hisses strongly as it clatters against the ground. The sound more than enough to elicit that immediate gunfire, and he’d expected to take one, maybe two bullets at best, planned for it with the shoveling of pills to counteract impactful injuries. Darting deeper into the streets however, the count of how many had pierced through his side had been more than he’d been willing to account for. Pain flourished in a raging uproar, burning flesh and irritating muscle with every pounding step pressing and pushing against the dirt road. Suddenly the sounds of gunfire halted. There was a firm clatter as the assault rifle had clearly been thrown against the ground in a fit of rage. Further snarls followed, though growing distant. Insults and threats came after, both easy to ignore spare the very last string of vile his ears could pick up on.

     He’d hardly the chance to move much after the announcement. It felt as though the air had suddenly become suffocating, every breath drawn furthering that restrictive feeling burning his lungs. He could hear the shuffling of feet, watch the dancing of shadows race past against brick walls, the stir of chaos only steps away from the shadows he’d taken refuge in. Sweat, spittle, and tears pooled against the concrete. Flashes of heat - then chills - then numbness, riding in unrelenting waves bringing spasms with.

     A month’s worth of slow brewing mutations had all but suddenly began returning at once. He hadn’t noticed it before... Or maybe he’d simply ignored it. The high cruelly gifted from those pulsating mushrooms - those addictive cravings had easily overshadowed worries and rational thinking, yet now it seemed as though the world had decided to punish him for it. 

     Another overpowering convulsion throws him to his side, body thrashing despite all feeble attempts to curl into a fetal position. Soft wheezes drowned out by those harrowing sounds beyond the alleyway. He can feel a scream brewing. Wet gurgling being all he could muster before the shakes - the sweats - the unfathomable fever... Stops.

     And just as sudden, he finds himself able to breathe again. Heavy gasps - a hoarse cough - rattling his body as strength returns with every breath. By the time his body finds itself swaying upright, whatever had overwhelmed felt more a distant memory than any other.

     There was a minute moment of disconnect after that. One moment, his mind had recalled how he’d shambled weakly out from the darkness pooling between towering buildings, and the next he’d found himself stumbling down a road he’d no memory of. Perhaps it was some kind of safety buffer - a weird and unpleasant way for the human mind to cope with such drastic changes - it certainly felt like a fitting theory momentarily.

     But nothing conjured in his rattled mind could explain how or whom had returned his belongings. Bruised fingers rifled through a worn sack, finding every last bit of scrap and every poorly taped together weapon all in place. It was both instinct and fear that drove him to carry the pistol in his hold, the very same he’d wasted no time in firing once the moment tired eyes caught sight of red.

There’s a thing down the road.

It is not a beast or a man.

I don’t know what it is. I can’t understand what it is. I don’t want to understand what it is.

Yet I had foolishly fired in its general direction despite no such apparent aggression or even the plausibility of its knowing of my existence. If what my eyes had perceived from one mere glimpse is to be true... If that really is Śmierć coated in red... 

While she never got along great with Salem’s conspirators, in this new place with no allies around Emerald found herself alone. Apprehensive. But how was she supposed to find her way back? The message from the group calling themselves NULL replayed in her head. Citizens that help us will be granted freedom…  

The sound of ripping fabric pulled her out of her thoughts. Her eyebrows raised as she watched the man from before start building a pile of torn-up clothing. 

She looked away. She’d seen stranger behavior in her time on the streets, and hey, if he wasn’t going to judge her for taking things that didn’t belong to her, she wasn’t going to judge him for vandalism. It was only when he grunted again and pulled out a box of matches that it clicked for her what exactly he was attempting to do. He could’ve said so sooner. Not a talkative man, was he?

“…good thinking. If we get caught, this was your idea, not mine.” 

She then turned around and walked down a nearby aisle, plucking the shelves clean of any fabric that looked flammable. With the store deserted, it was easy pickings even without her powers. Rounding back to the cloaked figure — was this guy homeless? he smelled of the streets, of something rotted — she added the clothes to the pile.

Emerald pulled out a lighter, the one she’d swiped from Torchwick just to spite him. Who knew it’d be coming in handy now.

“Let’s light ‘em up before I get frostbite.”

     Home had always been one to conjure unabated winters, yet even still, he’d never once gotten used to its harrowing storms. Even now, despite knowing the tremble in his hands could very well be a result of more than the steadily creeping threat of hypothermia, his sullen behavior had been taken out upon the final few scraps of cloth; both collected and distributed between backpack and the growing pile.

     The likelihood of being caught was something he had taken into consideration long before impulse had him tearing into the coat racks. Thoughts twirled with hastened plots, though all had been bounced around with several considerations made on whom their astute bystander might be. Anticipation on there being a gun had also played a key part in his silent scheming. There had to be a gun - he was certain of this.

     There was almost always a gun.

      The Stranger’s hands hardly have the time to steady themselves for the first attempted strike against the match box side before his reluctantly accepted company offers a far better solution. Eyes flicker between his own source of fire and her own - a dismissive shrug - a meek gesture for her to carry onward - both given quickly, relief towards not having to waste any further supplies than necessary drawing out a nasally exhale.

The interior of this shop could prove fruitful for a temporary hideout. My current company seems set on lending a helping hand with the fire. There’s no guarantees that this will work or for how long these scraps may burn - whatever gasoline I had is long gone - replacing what was stolen is nigh impossible. It seems generators aren’t as common here.

I can feel myself becoming overwhelmed by lassitude. Seating myself down in wait of our scraped together bonfire helped to mitigate that feeling...