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　　　　　そう人は一人じゃ生きれない

𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚠𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚠 : ɪɴᴅɪᴇ ᴍᴜʟᴛɪ-ᴍᴜsᴇ ʀᴘ indie roleplay blog loved by nate / 18 + minors dni multi-fandom and OC friendly

THE  BOARD  SITS  IN  FRONT  OF  THEM,    FULL  OF  HALF  -  CLUES  AND  HALF  -  TRUTHS.     his  hands  rest  on  his  hips,    a  picture  of  the  stressed  detective        (        his  blazer  stretches  across  his  elbows   :      there’s  so  much  tension  in  his  body  that  it  bleeds  out  into  his  clothes,    a  wound  in  the  shape  of  his  hunched  shoulders  and  a  softening  glare       ).      ‘   i  can’t  do  it      …      i  can’t  look  at  this  anymore.     i’m  starting  to  see  kramer’s  face  whenever  i  close  my  eyes,    which  is  not  pleasant,    by  the  way.   ’      a  hand  lifts  to  rub  at  his  eyes,     a  soft  sigh  peeling  free  from  his  tired  mouth      (      he  contorts  his  face  to  avoid  a  yawn       ).      ‘   i’m  going  for  coffee.    i’m  going  out  for  three  coffees,    actually.    maybe  a  fourth  if  the  first  three  don’t  kill  me.    you  coming?   ’     @viewskew

One step forward, a whole mile back; every new lead just brought with it more questions. The last couple of days had been a whole new level of pain for the case, and they seemed to be met with more questions than answers at every turn. Baptism into life at the new precinct hadn’t been as easy ride, that was for sure. This is what you signed up for, right Anna? The detective’s eyes felt heavy, fresh face already was feeling the weight of it all, but at least she wasn’t alone in all this paperwork. 

From her seat at the desk, she’d watched the other pace and fidget and stare for the last hour or so; just watching Sing at work was a tiring thing- though not an unpleasant one. If anything, she was grateful to be working with him all this; one of the last detectives on the case who wasn’t already exhausted by the growing list of victims circling the murderer’s gruesome visage. Jigsaw killer was an apt name alright- what a puzzle this all was.

Her features light up though as the suggestion of a break is presented, and sympathetic smile accepts. When was the last time the man had slept? 

“That sounds so good right now.” She agrees, arms blossoming in their arc of a stretch as seat swivels just a little under her. An escape from the board was more than needed, and the sweet siren call of over-priced caffeine was just the distraction needed. “As long as we can go somewhere else; I don’t think my body can stand anymore of that junk in the break room... Can you even legally call that stuff coffee?” 

The smile offered is its own fuzzy mixture of understanding and relief; she wasn’t going to be the one to call it quits for now, so she was more than relieved that Sing made the call. She stands with gentle groan on tired legs, happily averting her gaze from the board burned into iris. “Besides, it’s pumpkin season, right? I don’t think I’ve had my fix this Fall yet.” Rubbing the sleep from her hues, she turns to pick up her keys from the cluttered desk. That, she could sort out later.

“Just--- easy on the bean-juice, yeah? Last thing I wanna be doing is pulling you down from the ceiling.”

               this   dream   was   not   a   nightmare   ,   for   they   end   when   eyes   open.   but   the   darkness   is   everywhere   ,   overwhelming   ,   all-consuming   :   tendrils   of   blackened   ichor   blending   themselves   into   his   peripheral.   it   burrows   inward   painfully   ,   taking   root   in   his   bones   and   etching   away   at   what   humanity   was   left   in   this   husk   of   a   man.   its   seen   in   a   dazed   and   distant   expression   ,   the   bags   under   his   eyes   that   never   seemed   to   go   away   ,   the   scars   cut   deep   in   his   chest   like   a   brand   (   possessor   and   possessed.   he   is   vexed   by   the   shadow   in   the   shape   of   a   sharp   blade   …   this   obsession   went   both   ways   ).   this   dream   was   not   a   nightmare   ,   it   was   a   burned   book   with   blurry   polaroids   of   memories   left   forgotten.   remnants   of   a   time   gone   and   a   time   never   to   be   gained.   THEY   WERE   ALL   TRAPPED   INSIDE   THIS   ENDLESS   DREAM.                cold   fingers   reach   out   to   warm   themselves   by   the   fire   ,   knees   curled   to   his   chest   and   chin   resting   in   his   knees.   he’s   focused   on   the   tips   of   his   fingers   ,   brows   furrowed   softly   in   an   attempt   to   stay   awake   (   time   was   never   clear   —   a   minute   felt   like   days   ,   a   day   felt   like   weeks   ,   a   week   felt   like   a   moment.it   was   hard   to   keep   track   of   the   hours   he   had   stayed   up   ,   the   benchmarks   he   passed.   was   he   already   past   70   hours?   ).   lazily   ,   his   eyes   drift   up   from   his   fingertips   ,   making   contact   with   a   blur   of   brown   hair.   quentin   blinks   once   ,   twice   ,   three   times   in   an   attempt   to   focus   his   eyes   ,   though   this   does   not   help.   at   this   ,   he   lets   out   an   exhausted   sigh   ,   pushing   himself   up   on   his   two   feet   and   leaving   the   campfire.                where   will   your   feet   take   you   ,   quentin?   they   drag   on   the   floor   at   first   ,   but   with   conscious   effort   ,   he   picks   them   up   ,   trying   not   to   make   sound   amongst   the   fallen   leaves   that   are   scattered   amongst   the   ground.   he   finds   refuge   on   a   tree’s   root   and   sighs   softly   to   himself.   privacy   was   rarely   available   here   ,   and   he   was   certain   it   was   on   purpose.   any   small   moment   he   could   steal   away   for   himself   was   a   moment   cherished.   hastily   ,   he   begins   to   dig   in   his   pocket   ,   grasping   firmly   onto   a   bottle   of   pills   and   throws   two   into   his   mouth   before   shoving   it   back.   a   mop   of   messy   hair   falls   into   both   his   hands   ,   shoulders   slouching.   “   wake   up   …   wake   up   …   come   on   ,   wake   up   …   ”                he   jumps   from   his   position   on   the   root   ,   ready   to   run   (   survivor   is   in   his   blood   ,   a   prey-like   instinct   to   flee   and   escape.   born   out   of   fear   and   never   ending   nightmares   :   a   boy   far   too   young   forced   to   be   an   animal   by   a   jackal   with   metal   claws   and   rotten   teeth   ).   at   the   sight   of   steve   ,   he   relaxes   slightly   ,   nostrils   flaring   and   brow   furrowing.   “   it   was.   ”      he   snaps   ,   though   his   features   soften.   “   do   you   …   need   ,   something?   or   are   you   following   me   and   being   a   creep   just   ‘cause?   ”

The night grew just that much colder as his sneakers paced the forest floor in silence. That had been a learned thing, a lesson taught in harsh steel and bloodshed; stealth had become second nature now. Where before, he’d been content to pass through with all the noise he’d like --- but now? A snap of a twig or scuff of the dirt was the matter of life and death. Before. Was before even worth thinking about? Before might as well have been a dream, just as much as the ‘now’ was a nightmare. How long had he been here? How long had any of them been here? The silence of the dark was an unwelcome guest in restless mind. Steve very much disliked the quiet; it only served to usher in those hopeless thoughts. It brought with it no comfort. Just... questions. And those weren’t of any use to anyone- they weren’t going to get through this by asking questions. Questions weren’t going to save you from the searing pain of metal through flesh.

When Quentin does at last look to Steve, he’s met with momentary terror. Exhausted eyes blow wide as his body jerks, and the brunette extends his palm with half-bitten apology resting on his lips. He hadn’t meant to startle.  But he understood. Fear had been the only constant in this place; it’d become just as recognisable as his own soft hues staring back in a mirror. It lay in Quentin’s eyes too- that horror clawing away at oceans, stare long enough and you might drown.

He’s unwelcome here. That’s clear enough. Steve really should have guessed; even he needed some time to himself every now and then. The others were fine enough company, but in perpetuity- conversation ran stale rather quickly. He considered heading back to the fire, until the other boy’s expression seemed to lose its fire, his words lose their bite.

“I just…” Steve begins, finding his back against a tree as hands clasp together, “Thought maybe you’d want some company—never know what you’ll find out here.” He spits both explanation and reservation; an offer extended to the other which he is welcome to cast in or cast back. “I’ll be quiet.” He adds, though is deceived by the smile creasing onto youthful maw.

“Just wanted to get some air--- change of scenery, see if there was anything else to this place—hey, how far do you reckon these trees go? Like, forever? Can’t be forever, right? Or maybe it can. What is it..pine?” He cranes his neck up to the top of the treeline, wide eyes met with faded and distant constellations. Were any of those real...? More questions.

“Smells like pine.           Maybe. ------I actually don’t know what pine’s meant to smell like.”

The campfire licks devilishly at tired features. The comforting drops of gold, the dancing amber shines brighter than ever before tonight. Or today. Or whenever this was. Time held very little value to the jock anymore, perpetual darkness marring any sort of body clock long ago. He slept when he could, when he was tired, when his bones refused to carry him further. He slept for as long as the Entity would allow, until he was once again swallowed whole and forced to play its ruthless game.

That much couldn’t be said for the dream walker, however. For as long as Steve had been here, he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen the young man sleep. Quentin seemed as determined to remain awake as much as the sky determined to remain dark. His youth was marred by his exhaustion, pale features scarred with a sleepless existence. It couldn’t be easy. If he was just as tired as Steve was, his body must be aching with drowsiness.

They’d talked a few times before, about where they were from, what they thought about all this. And, of course, of the monster that plagued him. He’d still yet to see him for himself, but if he was anything like the other monstrosity’s that chased them through the trials, he was surely a terrifying beast. Anything that could implore someone to stay awake this hard in lieu of nightmare must be a terror never before imagined.

From across the fire, he keeps catching his eye. He didn’t mean to stare, but it was something in Quentin’s eyes that kept him transfixed. The way the dark-haired man stared into the flames, that long-distance look of determination that had carried him through the trials so far; more than anyone, he seemed certain he would escape. For his own sake, and for the other’s, Steve hoped too.

His concentration was only broken when blue eyes found their way to Steve’s and stayed there. He had been staring maybe a bit too much. There were ways to be smooth, Harrington. He brushes his hair out of his eyes as he turns his head to the side in a move that hopefully clears him of his previous action. Though, perhaps not- as the next thing Steve heard was the sound of shoes scuffing against the underbrush. Brown hues track the sound to find Quentin moving to stand, heading out to the treeline. Now was maybe a better time than ever to try and talk to him.

He stands shortly after, following the swimmer’s trail and finds him sat against a larger tree’s root. Maybe he should make himself known, as to not scare him too much.

“No----, but maybe I do NOW.” Tom turns to look at the smaller man with a look of growing disdain. He’d seen his type far too many times before and had grown far too impatient with it. When life was as short as it was, and filled with as many assholes are there were- when one could avoid associating with it, the opportunity should be taken. Small men with little to say spouting useless nonsense anyway, sparrow-boned boys pretending to be men demanded respect they had not yet earned. He’d seen it on the front line, seen it in his classroom- and by now he was done with it.

Brows furrow down at Paul, frown ever-present and eyes tired as he gives him a look over. Emma worming her way back into his life had been a difficult enough road to face; bright eyes sparking headlights and taillights uncanny in resemblance. But little had he expected the further baggage she’d be dragging into his already hectic life. A battered old, plain and dull briefcase labelled ‘PAUL MATTHEWS’.

He moves a bit closer, eyeing down and squaring him up—but the flame is heatless. He hasn’t got the energy for this; it hadn’t been a good day. Tom shakes his head and moves back to the sofa, sitting himself down. Where was Emma when he needed her? Tim had taken her off to his room to show him some… thing …. leaving Dad alone with Paul. Great.

“Thought I told you to take your shoes off when you came in.”      

…       THIS  ALL  FEELS  SO  FUCKING  HOMELY.       emma  tries  to  not  feel  like  a  trespasser,    but  she’s  already  spent  her  entire  childhood  underfoot,    and  this  feels  too  much  like  a  fragment  of  what  could  have  been      (     they’d  never  had  a  porch  when  they  were  growing  up      …      maybe  she  would’ve  turned  out  differently  if  they’d  had  a  porch      ).      she  offers  a  tight  smile  as  she  takes  the  drink,     warming  her  hand  on  the  alcohol.     just  fucking  peachy.

‘   paul.    and  he  is  a  fucking  moron,    by  the  way.     total  douchebag.   ’       she  takes  a  sip  of  the  drink  and  winces  when  it  hits  her  tongue,    too  fruity  and  too  bitter  all  at  once.    how  can  a  drink  be  both  dry  and  wet?    she  tries  to  cough  into  her  fist  and  pretend  its  to  do  with  anything  but  the  godawful  drink  that’s  been  forced  upon  her.      ‘   i  think  he  loves  me.    like,   actually  loves  me.    fucking  asshole.   ’    she laughs a little awkwardly,    rubbing  at  the  back  of  her  neck.      ‘   hey,   don’t  blame  your  shitty      —      your  semi  -  decent  alcohol  on  me.     if  it  were  up  to  me,   we’d  be  drinking  vodka,    like  god  intended.   ’

#cont      …      @viewskew

“Paul- yeah, right.” Tom corrects himself idly, settling into the seat with that dad-patented groan that came with the bending of knees no longer so elastic. He still hadn’t a handle on the man’s character yet, though in reality its not like the former teacher had given Paul much thought. He was a strange sort, one remarkably normal and nearly forgettable, as if he escaped Tom’s mind the moment he was out of sight.

But now Emma was back, he had to try and make some sort of an effort. For Tim, for Jane. The image of the woman Jane had painted with fond words was not the same woman that sat beside him now, that was for sure. Endlessly, she had praised the reclusive sibling; Emma was the smart one, the fearless one, the creative one, the adventurous one. Rose-tinted marble had begun to crumble year by year, however- phone calls unanswered, invites rejected. It had been the wedding, the baby shower, the birthdays, the thanksgivings---- but she had made it for the funeral at least. Clad in black and mourning was not the way he had wanted to meet Jane’s sister.

Despite that all, she reminded him so much of Jane. It was hard to look at her sometimes. It was that scrunch of the nose, that awkward curve of her smile that haunted him. Fortunately, in his company, it wasn’t something Tom saw much of; it wasn’t like he was all too FUN to be around.

“Oh yeah? That’s something at least, huh?” He grimaces as words follow another swallow of beer, “Love’s not something that’s easy to come by, y’know. You should take what you can get while you can. Unless he’s a total fucking moron-------- which, no offense but uh—” He wasn’t going to chase that up with anything, lest he offend.

The waters were still choppy, the terrain unexplored. He wasn’t quite sure how or when to push, the rhythm of their tide unfamiliar still, which left conversation more often jilted and awkward. They were dancing two different dances to two different songs and trying to make it meet somewhere in the middle for the sake of something that wasn’t even there anymore. But goddamnit, he was TRYING.

“Yeah--- I’d offer but I’ve sworn off the hard stuff.” He breathes out, deciding to just nurse the vile beer for the time being- it really was awful. “Doesn’t sit too right with me these days.” He adds, as if that worked by any means of explanation. He was too tired to justify anything, still not sure how to navigate that sea of conversation. Despite himself, he finds him swallowing another mouthful. Call it a crutch. “You two living together yet? What’s the whole uh---- timestamp on that?”

She holds herself, limbs folding in their fortress across torso. Fingers clutching at fabrics, sweaty palms latched onto the tangible, the REAL (because without such confirmation how could one ever believe this was anything but a NIGHTMARE?).

Even now, she can never wash the dirt, the blood from under nailbed. Couldn't shake that rattle in her lung, that burn that flooded nostril and throat. No matter what colour she painted them, no matter what she did to change appearance outwards; no splash of colour could cover up that sickly, rotting wallpaper. She could smell it still, in her hair, on her skin. She could scrub and scrub and DROWN herself in perfumes. It’d never been enough.

Taking scissors in shaking hands and shearing away at the strands of blonde still tainted hadn’t done it. A new wardrobe hadn’t done it. No level of self-medication had done it. It was still there, stained and dirty. She holds herself a little tighter.

The people here understood, to a certain extent. They were children of pain, frail forms held together by nothing more than the hopes of who they wish to be now; puppets built from the scraps they were still permitted to carry with them. Whatever burden they could bear to carry.

Laura would be near unrecognisable to anyone who’d known her before. Bright and outgoing girl on the scene was nothing more than a ghost; short brown hair choppy as bangs draw curtains across brow. The SURVIVORS GROUP, a circle of miserable souls who poured their hearts out into sacrificial urn in the dead air. There were many who felt compelled to talk, as if their hearts would burst, the pain would overspill if they did not try ~to flush it out in the open. Laura was not that sort. Hearing the horrors of others helped distract from her own nightmare, if only for just a second. She had no intention of retraumatizing herself now.

During their break, she’d gone to the bathroom to collect herself. Paws cupping together to splash cold water onto face wearing nothing more than the necessary cannula. She still felt so weak. Every movement an effort. But here, away from her parent's house, thin form found semblance of autonomy.

But she could never wash it off. It was as she left to get some water from the cooler provided, she heard the voice. That tone all-too familiar; she’d been so in her own head she hadn’t even seen HIM walk in. It couldn’t’ be.

Laura turned to look up at the man behind her, a deer in headlights, eyes wide behind shield of brunette. That man from the house had escaped. Did he recognise her? Did he know? Words are lost and die between slightly parted lips, both hands holding onto her tiny paper cup lest it tumble out of her hands. Speech is slow, a little slurred as mind does its very best. The damage had been irreparable, this is what she carried with her now.

“I’m sorry--- what..?”

Eyes squeeze tight as she expects a rush of something, anything. Bleach was… bleach, right? A chemical used to scrub at floors, at sinks and kitchens to remove nasty blemish, nasty stain and nasty memory. The thought of putting it anywhere NEAR her head had been a prospect reluctant to take up- but when it was Diana’s trained hands holding the applicator, it didn’t feel so bad. It had all been very exciting, the prospect of dying her hair. Even just suggesting it had been SO worth it; wild rose-child’s smile electric and bright upon hearing the news. But there was talking about it … and then there was following it up.

Perched on the side of the bathtub, Corbett opens her eyes as she feels the cold, thick mixture brushed between long strands of virgin blonde. Well, there went THAT colour forever. Oh god, what if it turned out awful? She’d have to show up to class like … like a … “Are you sure… that I’m not going to just look like a clown?” worried voice pipes up as hues settle on the woman before her at work. “Not that I don’t trust you, of course.” The student quickly follows up, chasing strands of conversation with endless reassurance and apology; a learned trait still hard to shake off.

Not a victim, the girl had always been the PERPETRATOR- every problem small or big the fault of brotherless child, fatherless daughter. Tiny spectre in the graveyard of her own home, she was already mourning before they were all gone.

“I’m excited, of course.” OF COURSE. “But.., do you think … PURPLE is a good idea? Like, what if it goes wrong and all my hair ends up falling out?” The smell of the bleach was strong, uncomfortable on twitching snout as she shuts her eyes again. She needed to stop complaining. This was meant to be fun. Lips close together softly, a thin line drawn worried in thought as she tries to compose herself. There was nothing to fear. A deep breath blossoms a weak smile. “We’re both going to stand out, huh?”

…         PEREZ  STRUGGLES  TO  EXIST  IN  SINGULARITY.        she  still  holds  the  aching  leftovers  of  rookie  against  her  spine,    the  burrowing  pain  of  a  partnerless  partner        (        her  hands  press  against  her  hips,    awkward  elbows  spanning  outwards  as  she  considers  him   :        how  do  you  assert  authority?      puff  your  chest  and  jut  your  chin       ).         strahm  would  tell  her  to  yell  a  little,    but  she’d  stopped  listening  to  him  a  long  time  ago       …        she  did  a  better  job  when  she  wasn’t.

‘   what  i’m  saying  is,    caution  isn’t  the  worst  thing  in  the  world.    especially  when  we’re  considering  the  perpetrator   :      a  man  known  for  creating  traps.   ’        she  presses  her  tongue  into  her  cheek,    making  sure  that  her  voice  doesn’t  hesitate  or  stumble.        ‘   nothing’s  ever  as  safe  as  we  think  it  is.   ’

#cont        …        @viewskew​

The boy, ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴀʀᴇ,sprints ahead of the poor stumbling tortoise. A child of patchwork, cuts and scrapes and bruises threaded from chronic over-eagerness. As impatient as he was emotive, Daniel had always been rushing ahead. But child, remember that old tale-  it wasn’t the rabbit who won. She sounds like Mark, sounds like every teacher and tutor he had chasing his tail through training.

Slow down. Caution.

She didn’t sound like Eric. It’d been one of the reasons why they’d worked so well together; finally a hound who could catch up. But she was right, despite the irritation the reminder would bring. There had hardly been a warm welcome for either agent by the already paper-thin task force.

Tired hues glance at her before looking back ahead; with John Kramer- it was always better be the tortoise, no matter how fast the clock counts down. Like smoke in his hands, he’d reached out and grabbed, plucked at the air where Eric had stood. Right before their eyes he’d been snatched, with very little they could do about it. All the prep and planning, the procedure and the interrogation? The hound had become the hare, spineless and desperate as paw stumbles one over the other as he pounds towards the finish line ... if only they had waited.

But he couldn’t blame him. Daniel knew for a fact that if HE’D been in Eric’s situation? He’d have done the exact same thing- even with hindsight. Sometimes you just couldn’t stop the hare from running,

“Look, I don’t tell you how to do your job, and you don’t tell us how to do ours.” His words do not condescend, they’re too tired for that. It was impossible to rid the disappointment from his eyes, that there’d been no trace of Eric here. After what had been weeks …

She was still looking at him, he could feel her eyes on the back of his head. The SWAT commander turns back to face her, an attempt to sound reassuring; maybe she was just nervous under everything? Kerry was always acting her best when she was feeling her worst; always the picture perfect performance of professionalism when beneath the frame she was fit to burst.

“My team’s already swept the area three times.We’re clear for now You’re clear, Special Agent Perez.”

 WHAT   BLIND   EYES   COULD   SEE   ,   WHAT   NUMB   HANDS   COULD   FEEL.   the   blood   that   binds   is   worn   ,   breaking   ,   so   close   to   falling   apart   completely.   every   cold   glare   ,   the   fibers   fray.   one   last   thread   holds   them   together   …                the   blood   that   binds   is   boiling   beneath   pale   skin   (   so   cold   yet   burning   hot   with   ire.   he   could   feel   the   flames   in   the   pit   of   his   stomach   ,   like   claws   digging   into   his   flesh   :   eating   him   from   the   inside   out.   it   was   a   fire   that   couldn’t   be   quelled   with   water   ,   with   any   amount   of   screaming   or   crying.   it   was   a   rage   that   would   never   leave   ).  THE   BLOOD   THAT   BINDS   WILL   TEAR   YOU   APART.                his   posture   is   one   to   be   expected   :   arms   crossed   ,   slouched   slightly   ,   with   a   clenched   jaw   and   nostrils   flared.   this   wasn’t   home   to   him   —   he   wasn’t   home.   this   was   an   unfamiliar   place   that   he   had   been   shackled   to.   he   didn’t   know   what   home   really   was   ,   but   ,   it   wasn’t   found   in   his   father’s   presence.   hostility   built   these   walls   ,   and   he   was   buried   within   them.   

               “   nothing.   ”   he   mumbles   ,   as   if   to   wave   red.   “   i   didn’t   say   anything.   ”   a   lie   that   so   easily   slips   from   pale   lips.   “   get   off   my   back   ,   will   you?   ”   that   ,   daniel   says   clearly   ,   rolling   his   eyes   for   emphasis.   a   beat   ,   then   :    “   at   least   mom   doesn’t   get   on   my   case   for   fucking   breathing.   ”

ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴅᴏᴏʀ sʟᴀᴍᴍᴇᴅ ɪɴ ʜɪs ғᴀᴄᴇ. The sound, that pound of wood rattling against its frame had been the soundtrack to the last few years. Angsty teen’s tiny body shaking and racking with a rage he could not begin to understand or know how to express. In just as many ways father and son were different, they could be so alike.The venom was hereditary. 

That horrid burn of guilt and frustration, tepid churned through blood stream licked out in words that were screamed but never meant. He felt it too. Even in all his years searching for the cure in all the wrong places, he felt it too .ᴛʜᴇ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʙɪɴᴅs ᴡɪʟʟ ᴛᴇᴀʀ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀᴘᴀʀᴛ.  Eric Matthews was a man ripping at the seams.

His teeth grit at son’s disrespect, the verbal door shut right in the detective’s face. Daniel didn’t want to be here, and it wasn’t like Eric wanted him here either- at least not this version of the boy. The son he knew didn’t talk back with acid bit tongue, the son he knew didn’t curse like that, and he certainly didn’t steal. And as the months slipped by, the more he realised he didn’t know his son at all. Has he EVER?

“You wanna watch your fucking mouth, huh?” His voice raises from his seat at the table, lifting head from its rest in his hand as he turns to face the gloomy outline of the boy. Child that was fit to hold the sun between teeth in starshine grin was now nothing more than a beast of the storm. Cloud-child, gloomy with thunderous rage just bubbling beneath the surface. The collision of hot and cold always a breath away from a strike. “Since when do you get to talk to me like that?” If he had the energy, he’d stand. But as it was, the paperwork tying him to the desk was enough to procure shackle around his ankle- limbs heavy set in stone.

“You’ve done nothing but whine all weekend. Why don’t you go and make yourself useful, huh? Go do your homework or something instead of sulking.” There’s a pause, a look of exasperation on scowl as palm rubs at forehead, leaving the skin behind pink and raw. 

“You sure as hell don’t talk to me like that. Why can’t you just … watch TV or play one of your games or something? I’m up to my ass in fucking--, “ words are emphasised with a SLAM of a fist against the table, papers daring to topple in their stack, “paperwork. If you’re gonna be a little shit-head all night, do it quietly.”

He couldn’t blame Daniel for feeling trapped. It was just as stifling for him to be in this apartment as it was for the teen. He didn’t want to be here, locked inside as he finished work. And he was sure Daniel just wanted to go and see his friends or something. But the kid was grounded, on house arrest until things got straightened up down at the station. He couldn’t keep covering for him. The curly-haired boy seemed determined to make his life as difficult as possible.

His sigh is heavy as it escapes his lips, both hands rubbing over his face as if it’d help shake away the growing irritation he felt. It didn’t. The comment about Shannon feels stale in the air, the space hot and dry between them as that cloud drowning the boy grows darker.

“You wanna go back to your Mom’s? Is that it? Give me the word and I’ll call her and you can bitch to HER all night. I don’t need to hear it, ok? I don’t want to hear it, not tonight, Daniel.”

That last he remembered before he fell was the pain. Shocking, stark and unexpected.                                Who brings a JAVELIN to a GUN FIGHT? 

This hadn’t been the plan. Confusion and confoundment had clawed its way across the spine when the blonde clambered over the bank. It had been betrayal. Their plan reduced to ash and cinders the moment that Sheißekopf had opened his goddamn mouth. 

There hadn’t been time for anger, only horror and only action. Blood and sand coated his teeth as he hit the ground, the night’s sky an inky blur in broken vision. The idiot had gotten them all killed. It was carnage. Fire and blood and bullets and boomerangs and all for nothing--. He’d sold them out. Should he really have expected anything else from the other?

A wide grin on pale features glowers at him hungrily, pawing at his face as he brings Gunter’s closer and closer. His skin so smooth beneath lips, that laugh so playful in jilted whisper. He couldn’t wait until it was red raw. “You’re going to be the fucking death of me...playing like that.” “Oh yeah.”

Everything felt so cold, a body riddled with bullets was a body with little use, and little fight left in him. That angel-devil woman would take on the mantle now, gifted in lieu of words before all went black. The sand beneath was of little comfort, it snuck it to every shitty nook and crevice as his breathing slowed. What a fucking shit show. The stars bled dim in their streaky misery. Despite feeling the burn of the distant helicopter’s ruin against the skin, he felt so cold. Cold as balls.

But as he closed his eyes and waited for death to come, it seemed content to leave him be. A sack of yellow and blue flesh washed ashore, soft locks of gold bloody and dirty, stuck against the skin. The damn sand got everywhere. Fucking everywhere….

                                     Death was----------- kind of boring?  It was certainly taking its sweet time. Maybe it was like the DMV, taking your little fucking ticket and standing in line before the grim reaper at the window finally saw it fit to see you at all. But just as Gunter seemed to stomp over to the front of the line after an eternity of waiting- as it always was the case – APPLICATION REJECTED. He’d used the wrong form. Sheiße .

 Down came the rubbery stamp of rejection, crushing down on Javelin’s chest as eyes blew open wide, coughing up blood and sand from his throat. It got EVERYWHERE. He fucking HATED SAND.

Things were eerily quiet as he awoke spluttering, the silence only broken by a loud, singular chirp of a BEEP that rattled his skull. For a second, he thought that it was the voice of the Devil Herself, Amanda Waller’s fast-track past the clerical gatekeeper to the afterlife. Task Force X’s personal autobahn straight to hell. But as hands raised to feel at the back of his skull and matt of damp hair, there was nothing. A stillness…and he was alive.

He took a moment to psych himself up to stand, grimacing and spitting iron a he rose to his feet. He was going to need medical attention, and fast if he was going to survive. And he didn’t have his… FUCK. He’d given it to Harley. Head whips around and the wreckage of the aftermath, the chopper’s body still burning bright in the early hours of the morning. And the other bodies… were certainly there. What a shame.

Javelin paces carefully, looking through the mess of the beach for any sign of Harley or his weapon, with no luck. But underboot he DID come across something soft and wet. “Ew..” he grimaced, seeing the bloody pulp of the very traitor who’d given them up. What a fucking idiot. What a waste of potential. And now his friends were DEAD.

 Disappointment burned in his eyes as he looked down at his lifeless body, giving his side a good KICK for measure before he decides to move on. (It wasn’t like he didn’t have a contingency for an escape. He had just the little safehouse to…)

His head whips back around to Blackguard’s body, a weak whimper of a groan leaving his lips as it begins to move. He was still ALIVE? Ambivalence rocks him for a moment. Does he get the satisfaction of finishing the job himself? Does he leave him here? Does he bring him back to the others to have their way with him? There’s something cathartic in the thought of Harley ripping him a new one, which she certainly would if she saw him again. And he wasn’t opposed to the idea of watching such a strong American beauty take down this rat and tear him limb from lanky limb. A dark grin burns into bloody and dirty features as fist grasps at the man’s shoulder harness, dragging him behind him through the sand like airport luggage.

           ...

…        THE  KID  MAKES  HIM  ANTSY.        it’s  the  same  grand,   rotting  allusion  that  came  when  you  looked  at  old  family  pictures.    actually  old   :       decades  ago,    when  black  and  white  wasn’t  just  a  filter,     where  fragments   of  your  face  lingers.     a  jawbone  here  and  a  curved  eyebrow  there,     the  pieces  that  would  soon  make  you        …        humans  were  just  relics  of  their  ancestors,    after  all.     the  parts  of  people  that  couldn’t  quite  die        (         HE  SEES  TAPP  IN  MICHAEL  AND  IT  MAKES  HIM  WANT  TO  CLAW  THE  FACE  IN  FRONT  OF  HIM        ).      his  mourning  is  still  tender  and  fresh.    michael  slices  into  his  skin  and  touches  the  parts  of  him  doomed  to  never  heal,     the  peach  -  rot  of  his  unkempt  body.      sing’s  easy  smile  has  twisted  into  a  thin  line,    eyebrows  drawn  down.

‘   you  know,   this  really  isn’t  my  case  anymore.   i  don’t  really  touch  that  stuff  since        …        they  said  it  was  getting  a  little  too  personal.     so,   i’d  rather  not  really  think  about  it.   ’       his  frown  twitches  deeper,   his  arms  coming  to  cross  over  his  chest        (        here,   his  reckless  youth  shows,    the  living  tantrum  kept  under  his  skin        ).        ‘   you’re  barking  up  the  wrong  tree  and  you’re  talking  to  the  wrong  detective.    i  wish  i  could  help  you  more,   man.   really.   ’

#cont        …        @viewskew

To get to the heart of the story, of the case, sometimes you had to tap into the nerve. Hands would need to dive, ripping and tearing at the carcass into cavity to claw at the still-beating organ. This case was still alive, beneath buried surface lay a pulse still. And if it were still alive, it meant that it could still bleed. The reporter felt it there, burning away at his own chest, weaseling its way into his own bloodstream like a sickness: NO, he was the CURE.

He knew all too well whilst nwhat little it took to change a life, what greatness one must offer in sacrifice. WHAT ARE YOU WILLING TO SACRIFICE, STEVEN? The man sits defensive, though his sunshine remains through the shadow that draws long over his features. Michael wasn’t going to leave until he got his lead, vengeance still a familiar fiend on the angry young man’s shoulders. Poltzer was a vulture of a man, sucking and slurping at bone and sinew left in the grave of David Tapp. Taking credit where credit wasn’t due, getting fat on his own stolen successes.

The paper was only SECONDARY. The half-truth of a cover to what fate would eventually come to him. There was still preparation to be had, and leverage to be made before they would ALL see just the man the detective was and see just how much he was willing to sacrifice to continue this life.

“Come on, Sing…” Michael tries to appeal to his better nature, letting the youth of his voice in its gentler tone, a learned one from father NEW. “You know just as much as I do what an asshole that guy is. He’s complicit in all of that activity and used his position on the force to get away with it.” Where was that NERVE? Considered words like sharp blade make their attempt to rupture skin. “I know… that Dad knew it too. He was chasing Poltzer’s heel about the K2K incident long before his last case. Sure as hell made things a lot easier for Poltzer when everyone started disappearing.”

Hands tucked themselves into his satchel, pulling out a manilla folder and dropping it onto the other’s desk. No was not going to be an answer here. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna disappear on this too. Let this guy get away with people’s deaths? I bet he’s not the only one around here who’s in on it.” He shakes his head slightly, a selective anger fronting in his frown, not too dissimilar to Steven’s own. “I’ve got the right detective, man. It’s gotta be you. Come on.”

anna  asked:    ‘  hiding  from  the  drunk  crowd  too  ?  ‘

RESTLESS    LIPS    PRESS    AGAINST    ALUMINIUM    RIM,           downing    what    is    left    of    can’s      sickly - sweet    contents      in    a    big      gulp.          ———        this    had    to    be    his    fourth    fucking    cherry - coke    flavored      KNOCKOFF    BULLSHIT     soda   of    the    evening     …      david    wasn’t    drinking    alcohol    tonight.       or    more    importantly,    he    wasn’t    doing    any    drugs         (     cue    the    audience    claps  !     )         he    was      one    sip      of    beer    away    from    contacting    his    dealer,    though       -       and    one    more    lame    conversation    away    from    picking    up    that    beer.     head    aching    from    the     sugar ;        perhaps    it    was    time    to    call    it    a    night.       david    closes    his    eyes,    sighs    to    himself    as    he    slumps    himself    back    against    the    wall.     the    sound   of    a      familiar    voice      is    what    makes    heavy    lids    flutter    themselves    open    again.     no    way.             ‘    ——     i    recognize    you.   ‘

Back at the academy, when they said that your job would devour your social life- they weren’t kidding. A ravenous and demanding beast, it seemed she lost an old contact every day. Her college friends hand whittled down to just a handful, and outside of that … ? Well, let’s just say there was a reason she had braved through the muggy summer’s night to this disaster of a party. 

Clutching her can of soda, she’d been an unwitting wall-flower all night. Everyone was already so drunk or high by the time she’d arrived, there was no way to salvage what was left of the evening. It wasn’t that she didn’t drink, it was just she was driving … and she had work tomorrow. There it was again, that hungry hungry mistress of the law on her shoulder. (It wasn’t like her choice of occupation was making it any easier to blend her way into half-choked conversations in the blasting music..)

But when she had tried to head out onto the fire escape for a breather, she hadn’t expected to see someone else there. Optimistically, from the man’s silhouette she had assumed him to be someone else- but unfortunately mistaken. But he seemed to recognise her. Taking his words as an invitation, the other bird joined him in his perch against the railing.

“Maybe?” She offers with somewhat polite smile, studying his features for some form of recognition. He was… grungy-looking, but in a messy-adorable kind of way. Come on detective, get detecting. Who is this guy? Fingers play with the tab on her cherry-flavoured cola can idly as she thinks, appreciative of how much quieter it was out here.

OH. Come on. It was on the tip of her tongue. She’d seen him before – those eyes, that voice. He’d been to a few of her brother’s shows, right? It was always WAY more embarrassing when someone remembered you, and you didn’t remember them. But in her defence, it wasn’t like she was USUALLY sober at these things. “D…aniel?” Anna offers at the air, but garners no positive reaction. “Shit, wait – no. Derek? D…Darren?” Smile grows apologetic, pink flooding her features with embarrassment. HOW FAR DOWN was the street from the fire escape? Could she escape this fire of a conversation? “Darren, right? Come on, give me something here, dude.”

               “   yeah   ,   yeah   ,   laugh   now.   just   wait.   ”   hands   relax   against   the   leather   wheel   as   he   tilts   his   head   softly.   “   it   ain’t   gonna   be   so   funny   one   day.   ”   a   word   of   caution   (   though   it   sounds   amusing   —   and   it   is   —   zeke   has   a   worn   sense   of   wisdom   that   carries   weight   to   his   words.   been   through   too   much   ,   seen   too   much   ).   his   sleeves   are   rolled   up   and   on   his   forearms   hold   scars   deep   and   rugged   :   a   story   of   failure   displayed.   YOU   COULDN’T   SAVE   ANY   OF   THEM   …   and   you   can’t   save   her   ,   either.                “   i’m   just   sayin’   —   you   gotta   be   careful.   that’s   not   somethin’   you   want   on   your   mind.   believe   me.   ”   he   licks   his   lower   lip.   “   especially   those   crazy   bitches.   never   stick   your   ANYTHING   in   crazy.   ”

The days were getting shorter. Last droplets of sunshine slipping through fingers like fists strangling smoke; the blistering heat of the past summer was nothing more than a fading polaroid. Eyes drift to the passing of streets and people as Zeke continues his well-worn lecture. This wasn’t the first piece of peculiar advice he’d imparted to the rookie. But like hungry pup chasing scraps, she was grateful for every morsel. It wasn’t like he’d been the most agreeable or excited to be taking on a new face in the beginning. At least now he was TALKING to her.

Lips press into incredulous smile at the imparted wisdoms, nodding along as the car rolls to a stop at a light. “Noted. I’ll make sure to add that to the list: Stay away from ‘those crazy bitches.’” Anna grins, autumn-child’s light snuffed out just a little as hues glance over the seldom-seen scars etched into her partner’s skin. But just as soon as she had lingered, did too she avert. A smooth transition to brushing her hair out of her face and picking up her coffee. A terrible reminder that anecdote came with a price. Just how much longer would it be before she had to cough up her own dues? And THEY were still out there, still DOING this. But they’d catch them. She was SURE of it.

“Well---” A breath of laughter in way of lofty sigh is sacrificed to the air between them when the light screams GREEN, and drains the last of her drink. “Got nothing to worry about here. The only people who have to worry about crazy bitches are those who get the chance to meet crazy bitches.” The cursing sounds near foreign on her tongue, and rests just as uncomfortable in her mouth as it does on the ear. “-------What are you doing after work?”