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+--- Thread: TROUBLE'S ON THE TAILWINDS - OPEN (/showthread.php?tid=5495)
TROUBLE'S ON THE TAILWINDS - OPEN - body - 08-22-2018
[please wait for [member=1309]hamlet[/member] to post]
On paper, the idea of resurrecting his husband had sounded like a good one. He’d spent hours daydreaming about him, making up little fantasies in his head about how everything would go back to normal. However, raising someone from the dead proved to be a lot… different than what he had expected. He had been thinking that he’d have to draw some satanic seal with his own blood, light some candles, and put that dead tourist’s body to good use, but that hadn’t been the case.
That supposed human sacrifice hadn’t actually been necessary. The angel doesn’t need anything fancy, just some duct tape and Elmer’s glue. Zachariah is mildly distraught that he had killed another man all for nothing, but it is outweighed by his excitement. He feels like a child on Christmas morning, in some morbid way. He’s almost giddy, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he walks, two trash bags worth of limbs and duct tape in tow.
He doesn’t want to draw too much attention to himself. There’s only so many places he can lug around trash bags shaped vaguely like piles of human limbs. He would have done this later at night, too, however in San Creado it seems there’s only a small window of time where things get quiet. He assumes that the vampires and whatnot will all emerge at night, and the tourists will start to pack up and head home around dusk, so that’s when he chooses to strike. He travels down a relatively empty street, wandering far to the outskirts of the town, where only a few people are roaming about.
There’s an alleyway up ahead, where several residents have chosen to abandon their furniture. Perfect. He is undisturbed, though the few passersby that happen to witness him certainly give him strange looks.
The angel isn't known for her quality work. Zachariah fears she may glue a hand to to an ankle or pop his eyes in the wrong way. She assures him, taking over his body unceremoniously, that she won’t mess this up, but he’s got a bad feeling about this. Her eagerness to bring Samsa back is suspicious, especially given the fact that she had been the one to murder him. Zachariah chooses to ignore it. He’ll risk anything just to bring his husband back.
When the deed is finally done, Samsa’s body looks like a joke, quite literally held together with tape. Zachariah thinks that he’s been played, and that this is as good as it gets. He doesn’t know whether or not to feel angry or sad.
Then there’s a flash of light, one that shoots straight up into the sky, and suddenly, Zachariah feels like crying. There is his husband, looking as good as new. Sure, there are scars in place of duct tape and glue, and a distinctive seal carved into his stomach, but he’s in one piece again.
No tears will come out, no matter how hard he tries, but Zach still shakes the same. He whimpers when he clings to him. He buries his face into Samsa’s bony chest just to listen to his heart beat, to listen to him breathe, just to touch him. This is better than any dream he’s had. The angel is oddly quiet. She has no smart remarks to offer, not a single sneer to be heard. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say she’s happy for him.
He only gets up to clothe him. Zachariah is afraid to take his hands off his body, fearing he might disappear if he does. Samsa should wake up any minute now. He doesn’t know what he’s going to say or how he’s going to explain why they’re currently in some dark, dingy alleyway. He just cradles Samsa’s face in his hands and quietly calls his name.
”Hilbert….” No response. At least he’s still breathing. ”Sam? Sammy? Hey. Hilbert.” He’s not waking up. It’s been more than a minute. Zachariah is starting to panic. Did he do something wrong? Did the angel miss a step? ”...Sam, come on, get up.”
On paper, the idea of resurrecting his husband had sounded like a good one. He’d spent hours daydreaming about him, making up little fantasies in his head about how everything would go back to normal. However, raising someone from the dead proved to be a lot… different than what he had expected. He had been thinking that he’d have to draw some satanic seal with his own blood, light some candles, and put that dead tourist’s body to good use, but that hadn’t been the case.
That supposed human sacrifice hadn’t actually been necessary. The angel doesn’t need anything fancy, just some duct tape and Elmer’s glue. Zachariah is mildly distraught that he had killed another man all for nothing, but it is outweighed by his excitement. He feels like a child on Christmas morning, in some morbid way. He’s almost giddy, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he walks, two trash bags worth of limbs and duct tape in tow.
He doesn’t want to draw too much attention to himself. There’s only so many places he can lug around trash bags shaped vaguely like piles of human limbs. He would have done this later at night, too, however in San Creado it seems there’s only a small window of time where things get quiet. He assumes that the vampires and whatnot will all emerge at night, and the tourists will start to pack up and head home around dusk, so that’s when he chooses to strike. He travels down a relatively empty street, wandering far to the outskirts of the town, where only a few people are roaming about.
There’s an alleyway up ahead, where several residents have chosen to abandon their furniture. Perfect. He is undisturbed, though the few passersby that happen to witness him certainly give him strange looks.
The angel isn't known for her quality work. Zachariah fears she may glue a hand to to an ankle or pop his eyes in the wrong way. She assures him, taking over his body unceremoniously, that she won’t mess this up, but he’s got a bad feeling about this. Her eagerness to bring Samsa back is suspicious, especially given the fact that she had been the one to murder him. Zachariah chooses to ignore it. He’ll risk anything just to bring his husband back.
When the deed is finally done, Samsa’s body looks like a joke, quite literally held together with tape. Zachariah thinks that he’s been played, and that this is as good as it gets. He doesn’t know whether or not to feel angry or sad.
Then there’s a flash of light, one that shoots straight up into the sky, and suddenly, Zachariah feels like crying. There is his husband, looking as good as new. Sure, there are scars in place of duct tape and glue, and a distinctive seal carved into his stomach, but he’s in one piece again.
No tears will come out, no matter how hard he tries, but Zach still shakes the same. He whimpers when he clings to him. He buries his face into Samsa’s bony chest just to listen to his heart beat, to listen to him breathe, just to touch him. This is better than any dream he’s had. The angel is oddly quiet. She has no smart remarks to offer, not a single sneer to be heard. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say she’s happy for him.
He only gets up to clothe him. Zachariah is afraid to take his hands off his body, fearing he might disappear if he does. Samsa should wake up any minute now. He doesn’t know what he’s going to say or how he’s going to explain why they’re currently in some dark, dingy alleyway. He just cradles Samsa’s face in his hands and quietly calls his name.
”Hilbert….” No response. At least he’s still breathing. ”Sam? Sammy? Hey. Hilbert.” He’s not waking up. It’s been more than a minute. Zachariah is starting to panic. Did he do something wrong? Did the angel miss a step? ”...Sam, come on, get up.”
Re: TROUBLE'S ON THE TAILWINDS - OPEN - body - 08-23-2018
Without Sam, it had been one lonely year.
The first couple days without him, he had been absolutely miserable. Zachariah wanted nothing more than to join him, wherever he was, whether Sam was busy rotting in hell, frolicking in heaven, or stuck in the middle. He would have done anything to be where he was. Believe him, he tried, but there are only so many times you can slit your wrists. Nothing would work. No matter how bad he hurt himself, all that he felt was a faint, dull ache in his chest.
The worst thing was being hailed as a monster by everyone. He knew that once his face was plastered all over the news, it was over. He couldn't redeem himself, and he couldn't hide when everyone and their mother had witnessed his sobbing mugshot in the papers. There were reporters that nested outside where he was held, begging to know why he had done it, what he had been thinking, what he felt. They wanted to know if he was sorry, if he had any shred of humanity left in him. What had turned him psycho overnight?
The truth is, he hadn't been in control of himself. He had been made a prisoner in his own body; it was as if his body had a mind of its own. However, explaining that to the police had been rather difficult. They might have thought he was just trying to get thrown into a loony bin rather than jail - voices made me do it and all, insanity plea, but Zachariah swore up and down, he never would have done this in a million years. Nothing could have ever made him hurt a hair on his husband's body, not of his own volition. It was forces from beyond, he had said, and then they put him in a padded cell.
He had been so full of explanations then, desperate to save his ass and his image, but now he just accepts it. He's a murderer. There's no easy way around it, no possible way to sugarcoat it. He had cut his husband up in the bathtub, for God's sake. How can he justify that?
"No," Zachariah says, voice breaking. "I, uh, just - just forgot to shower. Y'know how it is." He plays it off with a wave of his hand and a brittle laugh, though he can't mask the fact that he's on the verge of tears. He wants nothing more than to cling to Sam like his life depends on it, but Sam has already gotten a whiff of his decomposing body, and there's only so close he can get before the poor man ends up vomiting. He's already looking queasy.
For the sake of Sam's nose, he keeps his distance, though his hand remains on his knee. He's fearful that if he takes his hands off Samsa for one minute, he'll disappear, or start coming apart at the seams. "...how do you feel?" he asks. "Achy? Does... are - are you dizzy at all? Is your throat dry?" It just now dawns on him that Samsa probably can't see anything. Zachariah has no clue where his glasses are. It's probably for the best Sam can't get a good look at him. He's already freaked by his smell - God forbid he gets a look at him and his decaying body. "Are you cold? Does your head hurt? I, uh, I can get you an aspirin."
The first couple days without him, he had been absolutely miserable. Zachariah wanted nothing more than to join him, wherever he was, whether Sam was busy rotting in hell, frolicking in heaven, or stuck in the middle. He would have done anything to be where he was. Believe him, he tried, but there are only so many times you can slit your wrists. Nothing would work. No matter how bad he hurt himself, all that he felt was a faint, dull ache in his chest.
The worst thing was being hailed as a monster by everyone. He knew that once his face was plastered all over the news, it was over. He couldn't redeem himself, and he couldn't hide when everyone and their mother had witnessed his sobbing mugshot in the papers. There were reporters that nested outside where he was held, begging to know why he had done it, what he had been thinking, what he felt. They wanted to know if he was sorry, if he had any shred of humanity left in him. What had turned him psycho overnight?
The truth is, he hadn't been in control of himself. He had been made a prisoner in his own body; it was as if his body had a mind of its own. However, explaining that to the police had been rather difficult. They might have thought he was just trying to get thrown into a loony bin rather than jail - voices made me do it and all, insanity plea, but Zachariah swore up and down, he never would have done this in a million years. Nothing could have ever made him hurt a hair on his husband's body, not of his own volition. It was forces from beyond, he had said, and then they put him in a padded cell.
He had been so full of explanations then, desperate to save his ass and his image, but now he just accepts it. He's a murderer. There's no easy way around it, no possible way to sugarcoat it. He had cut his husband up in the bathtub, for God's sake. How can he justify that?
"No," Zachariah says, voice breaking. "I, uh, just - just forgot to shower. Y'know how it is." He plays it off with a wave of his hand and a brittle laugh, though he can't mask the fact that he's on the verge of tears. He wants nothing more than to cling to Sam like his life depends on it, but Sam has already gotten a whiff of his decomposing body, and there's only so close he can get before the poor man ends up vomiting. He's already looking queasy.
For the sake of Sam's nose, he keeps his distance, though his hand remains on his knee. He's fearful that if he takes his hands off Samsa for one minute, he'll disappear, or start coming apart at the seams. "...how do you feel?" he asks. "Achy? Does... are - are you dizzy at all? Is your throat dry?" It just now dawns on him that Samsa probably can't see anything. Zachariah has no clue where his glasses are. It's probably for the best Sam can't get a good look at him. He's already freaked by his smell - God forbid he gets a look at him and his decaying body. "Are you cold? Does your head hurt? I, uh, I can get you an aspirin."
Re: TROUBLE'S ON THE TAILWINDS - OPEN - Rialto - 08-25-2018
[table][tr][td][div style="width: 70px; height:70px; background-image:url(https://i.imgbox.com/4XVwGFUK.png); background-size: cover; background-position: top;"][/td][td][div style="width: 100px; text-align: center; font-family: arial; font-size: 7pt; color: #8A8A8A; line-height: 100%; padding-top: 5px; padding-left: 10px; opacity: 0.75; text-transform: lowercase"]Secrets on Broadway to the freeway, you're a keeper of crimes; Fear no conviction, grapes of wrath can only sweeten your wine
[/td][/tr][/table][ ooc no rly this is the worst post and i am So sorry but ur posts. my kids. thank u ]
Given all the things he's seen, one wouldn't bet their pennies on anything odd being able to shake Rialto - not after how many years it's been. Not when a wraith runs the grocery store, fingers never managing to quite contact the register but somehow the right amount of change sliding itself over the counter; when Alex whooped and tossed sticks for werewolves to throw themselves into catching, every other night; when whispers crept through to dawn after most of the otherworldly populace quieted, ebbing long and traceless while the very first mortals began to stir. An open secret was what they called San Creado's local pest problem. They ducked down undercover for the sake of it, but to say they hid was a stretch.
Maybe you could call Rialto a touch idealistic. He didn't expect anything to surprise him anymore; he'd lapsed into complacency. Nowadays he lay in his Ferris wheel carriage for the better part of an entire week without a shred of aim, almost entirely off his guard which had once been to him a second skin, because you didn't bum around for a decade in some ride or die vampire colony without a couple of gashes and ten knives holstered somewhere on you at all times. It didn't occur to him, except in the briefest of moments, that something about San Creado would give eventually. Perhaps it had when he was first breaking in the carriage, but that was it. Rialto - wily languid vampire only externally not taking things seriously until that, eventually, became internal - kind of honestly thought very little would happen. Not that any of the citizens couldn't do something, but that they wouldn't.
It had been a hot minute since he breathed through his nose once Zach came. San Creado hadn't been at any means clean for the past fifty years, but it was still functional. If nothing else. Now, from any point in town, one just needed to inhale and they could catch the wind of something no one wanted to think about on a holiday, and considering vampires only needed minimal airflow that was okay for him. He didn't ask.
Rialto had never kept track of the news, really. He should have.
When he was veering into an alley to step out of the sun and start gingerly peeling off a few articles of the protective layers he had on in preparation for the moon to arise wholly (scarf, visor, earmuffs), he hadn't anticipated a whole column of light to downright blind him. It streaked high upwards, and the sudden stimulus striking the moment he'd lifted the visor sunglasses had Rialto dropping them with a sharp inaudible breath. Oh, and then the smell hit him. He stumbled back, blood accelerating, flattening against the wall; or, rather, attempting to, except somehow with all the pinpricks searing his eyes he missed the whole grimy couch that'd been left against the wall.
And so Rialto ended up flailing after the back of his calves hit something solid, and their local eighty year old vampire found himself thrown back into some mouldy sofa, front seat to an exchange he - with an infrequently exhibited speed of comprehension one grew to have once conning laypeople into paying for your meals became a five-year hobby, realised was something he actually hadn't wanted to know about, at all.
Corpse. Talking corpse. Speaking of corpses, said Rialto's head, Zach was sure a talking corpse.
More got the gears churning, faint juddering in a facet of his mind hardly attended to; the name, the smell, the body language.
Rialto opened his mouth, closed it three times as fast while blocking his nose and mouth to boot, and prepared a practised sort of dead-eyed gaze at Zachariah's back to meet his gaze the moment Zach turned with an expression that perfectly conveyed a plea only about half-expectant. Maybe he didn't really want answers. Maybe he was happier not getting them.
Given all the things he's seen, one wouldn't bet their pennies on anything odd being able to shake Rialto - not after how many years it's been. Not when a wraith runs the grocery store, fingers never managing to quite contact the register but somehow the right amount of change sliding itself over the counter; when Alex whooped and tossed sticks for werewolves to throw themselves into catching, every other night; when whispers crept through to dawn after most of the otherworldly populace quieted, ebbing long and traceless while the very first mortals began to stir. An open secret was what they called San Creado's local pest problem. They ducked down undercover for the sake of it, but to say they hid was a stretch.
Maybe you could call Rialto a touch idealistic. He didn't expect anything to surprise him anymore; he'd lapsed into complacency. Nowadays he lay in his Ferris wheel carriage for the better part of an entire week without a shred of aim, almost entirely off his guard which had once been to him a second skin, because you didn't bum around for a decade in some ride or die vampire colony without a couple of gashes and ten knives holstered somewhere on you at all times. It didn't occur to him, except in the briefest of moments, that something about San Creado would give eventually. Perhaps it had when he was first breaking in the carriage, but that was it. Rialto - wily languid vampire only externally not taking things seriously until that, eventually, became internal - kind of honestly thought very little would happen. Not that any of the citizens couldn't do something, but that they wouldn't.
It had been a hot minute since he breathed through his nose once Zach came. San Creado hadn't been at any means clean for the past fifty years, but it was still functional. If nothing else. Now, from any point in town, one just needed to inhale and they could catch the wind of something no one wanted to think about on a holiday, and considering vampires only needed minimal airflow that was okay for him. He didn't ask.
Rialto had never kept track of the news, really. He should have.
When he was veering into an alley to step out of the sun and start gingerly peeling off a few articles of the protective layers he had on in preparation for the moon to arise wholly (scarf, visor, earmuffs), he hadn't anticipated a whole column of light to downright blind him. It streaked high upwards, and the sudden stimulus striking the moment he'd lifted the visor sunglasses had Rialto dropping them with a sharp inaudible breath. Oh, and then the smell hit him. He stumbled back, blood accelerating, flattening against the wall; or, rather, attempting to, except somehow with all the pinpricks searing his eyes he missed the whole grimy couch that'd been left against the wall.
And so Rialto ended up flailing after the back of his calves hit something solid, and their local eighty year old vampire found himself thrown back into some mouldy sofa, front seat to an exchange he - with an infrequently exhibited speed of comprehension one grew to have once conning laypeople into paying for your meals became a five-year hobby, realised was something he actually hadn't wanted to know about, at all.
Corpse. Talking corpse. Speaking of corpses, said Rialto's head, Zach was sure a talking corpse.
More got the gears churning, faint juddering in a facet of his mind hardly attended to; the name, the smell, the body language.
Rialto opened his mouth, closed it three times as fast while blocking his nose and mouth to boot, and prepared a practised sort of dead-eyed gaze at Zachariah's back to meet his gaze the moment Zach turned with an expression that perfectly conveyed a plea only about half-expectant. Maybe he didn't really want answers. Maybe he was happier not getting them.