outlast side blog

#monty reblogs: posts im reblogging #my stuff: stuff im either reblogging from other accs of mine or posting all on my lonesome #oc: [blank]: posts about me ocs.....

You can't remember how you got them.

There are a multitude of ways to obtain cigarettes in the Sinyala facility. There's a very high chance that you stole them-- From one of your fellow captives most likely, from the cop if you're brave. There's also the chance that you managed to get them smuggled in, by sweet-talking a naive guard or haggling with the shadowy dame. You can't remember how you got them, it only matters that you have them.

Then you stare at the doorway and see him, so maybe it doesn't matter all that much anymore.

Looking solely at physical attractiveness, he is a sight for sore eyes. Of course he's masked, covered in scars, and is physically unable to speak... This is truly as good as it gets here. She's toned and shirtless, and has more hair than most of the other experimental populous. You could spin him as 'rugged,' if you feel particularly kind. Maybe it's your thing. You, however, are not looking solely at physical attractiveness. It's hard to deny that she's literally and metaphorically hot, but the only feeling welling up inside of you is dread. You have cornered yourself, like a fox in a snare waiting for the hunter to come along and put it down. While hot, you know that she is death. She means you're dying.

After seeing him, you hear him. Her garbled scream, as much of a threat as ashen vocal cords can produce. She moves with little caution, bottles clanking and boots hitting the floor with heavy thuds as she breathes-- Wheezes. He moves like a stalking predator, muscles on display as he prowls searching for prey. For you.

Light coats the otherwise dark floor, slowly creeping up to touch your feet, then your knees, and then everything else. You have so little time. You aren't moving. Death is so, so close to you. You hear the bells toll, you see your own funeral-- What could have been your own funeral. You know you aren't really getting one.

He's fast, you know that. He's a quick draw, always ready to drown whatever he wants to in flame with one good throw. You've seen your comrades burn to death enough times to understand that, at the very least. If you want to live you know you must be faster. You know there's no point in running, but you don't have to run to be quick. Sometimes, it's a matter of wit. It's a matter of remembering, and you remembering reading over the Pitcher's files; Over, and over, and over.

"They exhibit a powerfully hypocritical juxtaposition of serving and commanding fire as a god...They see military-scientific advancement in thermal weaponry and bombing as evidence of fire's deification."

You wouldn't exactly call your idea an homage to military-scientific advancement in thermal weaponry. It's a long shot-- Incredibly long-- but it's the only shot you think you have.

As the light creeps up your torso, heat cradling your shaking form, you hold out the last of your cigarettes. Three measly, worthless sticks shoved into the face of death. You hear the initial grunt, the scraping of glass against glass. Squinting at her radiance, you see the rage in her dark eyes, shining with a clear burning desire to hurt you specifically. But as you succumb to his brightness, you soon understand that you... are not hurt. Not yet, at least.

Instead of rage filling up her gaze, it's more curiosity. It isn't comforting-- It's more akin to the curiosity a house-cat has when it finds a moth in the closet. But you are not hurt.

Seconds pass at the pace of magma. The passing of time is slow, tense, and undeniably dangerous. Seconds feel like months. You've heard her wheeze through her mask for a thousand years, but it's barely been a minute. You haven't moved, and continue not to do so. You don't look either. But you cannot choose to not feel, and the feeling of broken-in leather snaps you out of whatever trance you were in.

A hand against yours. One covered in gasoline and strips of white phosphorous, but a hand nonetheless. Your eyes dart towards your offering as you hear the loud snaps of metal click, click, click. You already have a headache from staring at the Sinyala-sun as well as the intense smell of fuel, but you aren't out of the game just yet. After taking the mental energy to process what's happening, you feel a tiny burn eating through your palm. There is an initial panic, the fear of a slow and painful death once again coursing within you; But as you open your mouth to mutter some form of profanity, the burning on your hand stops and you feel you jaw pushed back up-- Lips closing on the filter of a lit cigarette.

His grasp on your face is firm, but gentler than you'd expect. The hand that was initially forcing the cigarette into your mouth has moved to the top of your head, holding your goggles steady. The other is palm up on your jaw, gloved fingertips just barely grazing your throat. You can't move, and you don't try to-- Not now, at least. You're more shocked than anything. This is both incredibly compromising, and ashamedly captivating. Some combination of her light touches and her fixed grasp truly does something to you, something you would rather die than admit to anyone. It definitely doesn't help that you're on your knees, and it's even worse that his head isn't turned down to look at you. Just those eyes.

You learn that she expects you to hold on to the cigarette on your own, and that you do. This entire situation reads as some sort of religious rite to her, rather than a hostage situation. Regardless of what you or anyone else thinks is happening, you're not so stupid to be disobedient at a time like this. Right now, you are her apostle, and her your Jesus.

He doesn't let you exhale. You've read about this too of course, about her fixation on the ingestion of fuel, fire, and so on. Whatever she thinks will get closer to whatever she thinks is her God. You hold it for as long as you can, trying to avoid eye contact with him as you feel it suffocating you, choking you from the inside out. You try not to falter, not to ruin this somewhat painless moment, to take the smoke into your lungs until the cigarette burns clean through to your lips.

But that's not how cigarettes work. Nor is it how smoke inhalation works, because that's what gets you first. You erupt into a fit of coughs and gags, smoke pouring out of your mouth and nose. You can't breathe. What's worse than not being able to breathe, is hearing the clearly upset grunts of the person holding you between her hands. Your eyes are fixed to the floor as her grip on your head tightens, only moving a hand off of you to pick the cigarette back up and force it back into your mouth. Despite her attempts however, her desire for you to take more just isn't agreeing with your chest cavity. You spit out the cigarette again, unable to form the apology you desperately wish to give him. You watch through teary eyes as he frustratedly stops on the remains of the lit cigarette, leaving a pile of ash beneath his foot. You want to throw up.

It's no matter. You hear nothing other than his heavy breathing-- Breathing you can almost swear has gotten heavier as he's been watching you. Seconds feel like years once again, and before you can blink his fingers click together and light the second cigarette. You can do better this time.

It's much easier now, knowing what to expect. She wouldn't have waited, but your mouth opens and closes upon feeling the touch of the second dart. You're being a much better believer now. Her hands move back into their place, back to where she wants them.

Quickly, your lungs fill with smoke again. Rather than being able to take more than before, you feel yourself able to handle much less. Your eyes meet his, the stranger who's killed more people than you can count-- More friends than you can even remember. You need to cough again, you'll surely suffocate if you don’t. But staring at her masked face, you see a glint of something in her aphotic eyes. You aren't sure what it is, but it looks hungry. If you were to get biblical, you'd almost say it looks downright lustful. A spark surges through your entire body, a flame deep inside of you that gives you the strength to persevere. The trial is long gone at this point-- Getting back to the sleep room a distant, lost desire. All you can see right now, all you could ever want, is directly in front of you. It's within reach. Through some manoeuvring, you manage to exhale small amounts of smoke without dropping the cigarette to the floor. His breath audibly hitches.

You place a hand on her shin as she flinches away from the touch. It's a pleading, pathetic touch; Pawing at her pantleg like a kicked puppy. Eventually, she lets you. As you melt more into her, you feel the heat get closer to your face. Slowly, the cigarette finally burns down to your lips, pricking a few tears from your already bleary eyes as the pain spreads across your mouth. It hurts; but you know better than to drop it at this point. He crouches down, finally meeting you at eye level as you exhale thick clouds of grey. His eyes are fixed on you, on your mouth as the ember grazes your skin. The glint hasn't left. If anything, it's more noticeable now.

You've never been this close to an ex-pop. You get the feeling that if this was anyone else, you'd be much less keen to continue being this close. But it's not someone else. Instead, guilt is overtaken by a desire to submit yourself to her, and whatever God she's giving you to. Her breath mixes with the smoke coming from your mouth, the dart slowly darkening into ash and sediment. But before the light entirely goes out, you pull the butt of the cigarette onto your tongue and before you can even think-- Swallow. It burns going down, it hurts. Your face contorts as you jerk slightly, holding back squeals of pain.

As the hurt subsides, your eyes move back to meet the stranger. Her hands have moved off of your head, allowing you freedom to writhe on the floor however much you'd like. He stares down at you, his breathing beginning to regulate itself once more. He's utterly unreadable once again. While you stare at each other, he opens his palm and drops the final, third cigarette onto the floor. You clamour to pick it up, breaking eye contact as he begins to move away. You'd grown so used to the heat, you feel a deep chill shake you as he makes his exit. You don't know how long it's been. You don't even know if there's people left for him to kill here. You just know that without him here, you are cold.