06-11-2018, 08:00 PM
AND I'M JUST A DEAD MAN WALKING TONIGHT
30 seconds.
"I wonder if we'll get stuck with you again, or if we get to actually die," Echo commented, bored. He had no desire to keep living, contrary to the other two; he didn't believe in powers or resurrection or necromancy. He would have been content to stay dead, let his soul rot, waste away with his unfulfilled potential and incomplete plans like most spirits. He'd walked with Death on his heels all his life -- who was he to protest when it claimed him, too? "Because I've got to tell you, boo, I'm real fucking sick of hanging out with these assholes. They're terrible company."
"I can't wait to see you in Hell," Zaniel chimed, towards Echo, sounding cheerful, "I don't think he's got it in him to make it out of the spiral. I mean, he can't even escape memories." Nothing. Still nothing. Bastille just stared at Echo, silent, head spinning as he struggled to breathe, to function. They continued to chat idly, back and forth, snarking and betting on his survival rate. "I give it... another minute, tops."
40 seconds. The clatter of movement, voices.
"I don't know," Echo commented, after a beat, "Grimmkit is a freaky little fucker. He might not let him go, yet." Three sets of eyes turned towards the little black smoke kitten, who stared straight at Bastille, impassive. Bast stared back, their voices washing over him, distant, vague. His eyes were so green -- vivid and bright, apple-green, luminescent through the mist.
"Hey," Zaniel said, mild, "That's my kid. Show some respect." A snort from Echo's prong of the star.
Their words fades and fades as he stared straight at Grimmkit, and when he blinked, he found that he was now facing that corner. The pickering souls carried on, as they did, and Bastille just... stared. And stared. And tried to remember what it was that Grimm wanted him to remember, because that bottomless stare was lost on him. He could feel nothing, do nothing, be nothing. He felt numb and the mist was steadily rising, cool on his belly as it swirled slowly upwards.
50 seconds. Rustling, contact. More voices.
What do you want? he thought, transfixed. His throat burned, his lungs burns, his body burned. Everything burned and felt numb at once, a wash of sensation and apathy all at once. Grimm was unwavering, unmoving, somehow telling him with his eyes along that he was forgetting something, neglecting something, failing, somehow.
But wasn't he meant to fail? That was the whole goddamn game Fate was playing here, as far as he was concerned. His lives had only ever failed, and it seemed to be a given that it would all spill over, eventually. What else was he supposed to do, with a combination of souls like that? Who was he supposed to be if not a failure like the rest of them, crashing and burning before he could realize any of his so-called potential?
Grimm knew this. Grimm knew this all ended in failure. Didn't he like his morbid stories, his sad memories? Why was he looking at him like that, as if he didn't know and he was waiting for Bastille to do something else? He couldn't do anything else. He was immobile, frozen, staring, lost, losing. He couldn't complete anything. Couldn't carry out any unfinished business. Couldn't achieve anything on behalf of his restless souls.
He wasn't the key. He wasn't the answer. He was no one's anti-hero, recovering from their sins and doing good. He was... nothing. Nothing.
Grimm's eyes were intent, steady, staring. Waiting. Waiting waiting waiting but Bastille couldn't breathe. He could just look back and wait for his time to run out.
60 seconds. Golden radiance, warmth, vanilla and honey. The light. Voices, louder now, running together.
Silence. Seconds ticking by, the clearing was silent now, Echo and Zaniel having faded into the background. The faint thump-thump of someone else's heart beating, echoing quietly through the clearing. Mist, climbing high and high as his throat constricted and tightened, his own chest stayed still. Grimm's green stare, always focused on him. Tick, tock, Zaniel had said.
Faintly, the impressions of vanilla on his tongue, bringing back a wave of... something. Something. What did vanilla mean to him? Did he have memories beyond this place, this clearing, these souls? Silence, as he stared and pondered and waited. Silence, as it trickled through his thoughts slowly, a faint coil of memory.
"Baby boy," his mother has said once, perfectly composed as she stood at his side, pale fur glistening and shimmering in the light. Her voice was soft and wispy, barely there. He couldn't remember it happened, and yet, here was the memory now, at the tip of his tongue. "Why are you so cold? This is not who you are, not even if they tell you that it is."
She had never carried any warmth, not in her spiritual form, but somehow, he'd always gotten those phantom flames -- heat flickering along his side, a comfort. Heat raging in his chest, his souls, his existence, screaming with his anger and his turbulence and his frustrations. He had glared at the ground and muttered, petulant, "Yes, it is. I can only be who they were. I can only be what I'm made out of." Bitter, rotten. So angry at such a young age, consumed by their anger and chaos.
A pause. Silence. Silence, both in the clearing, rebounding through the mist, and in his memories. Then, soft: "You know, they all had their potential, too. They all started somewhere and lost their way. You are made of good, baby, good that was lost. You get to make that choice for yourself, too. You're made up all of their potential, and it's your choice if you fail or not. I think you're here, and they're here, so that you can do what they didn't -- so that you can be the good and redemption."
Vanilla, seeping through the mist, his memories overriding his senses, and then... nothing, gone. Grimm's eyes, staring into his. A faint flicker of something, of acknowledgement, of reminder. He wasn't going to let Bastille go, he realized; Grimm had been waiting for him to remember, to realize, to feel, to be something. A stir of warmth. Vanilla and honey, golden radiance, the light. The thumping of someone else's heartbeat, filling the clearing.
For it is the redemption that saves the soul, a murmur in his head, and then darkness.
Bastilleprisoner jerked forward with no notice or warning, his heartbeat coming back online from perfectly stillness as he gasped in a rush of air. His lungs burned and his throat burned and for a moment there was nothing but the darkness, clouding his thoughts and senses, the groggy sensation of having been lost for a long time and recently returned home. He remembered, in an offhand fashion, what it had been like to wake up from that coma: confusing, startling, instant, like drawing the blinds back on a dark and dusty room so swiftly that the light was at once blinding and awe-inspiring.
The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was that light: golden and radiant and all-encompassing. Too bright too look at, too intense to see clearly, blinding him as he looked away from Hazel in a daze, shook his head, inhaled another unsteady gulp of air as his body struggled to recover, to tell his heart to keep beating, to function. Warmth. He was warm all over, and it hit his sluggish mind a moment later that he was surrounded by warmth, by contact, by others. He blinked when he realized he was staring back at Margy, closer than he'd seen her in a while, but there was... nothing.
Silence. Stillness. Nothing. No flicker of annoyance, of anger, of frustration. Nothing. A slight glimmer of confusion, those first 60 seconds of processing as his body worked in reverse so disorientating and distant that he himself had no idea what the fuck was going on. Slowly, it was dawning on him that there were others here, auras sparking at the corners of his vision, and the first thing out of his mouth, sluggish, dazed, his voice raspy and hoarse: "Beck said yes."
Clearly, he hadn't entirely caught up to the situation, and he had no idea why that was the first thing that came to mind. A problem for when his thoughts started functioning properly in the next few minutes.
[align=center]BASTILLEPRISONER — ASTRAL SERAPH — TAGS"I wonder if we'll get stuck with you again, or if we get to actually die," Echo commented, bored. He had no desire to keep living, contrary to the other two; he didn't believe in powers or resurrection or necromancy. He would have been content to stay dead, let his soul rot, waste away with his unfulfilled potential and incomplete plans like most spirits. He'd walked with Death on his heels all his life -- who was he to protest when it claimed him, too? "Because I've got to tell you, boo, I'm real fucking sick of hanging out with these assholes. They're terrible company."
"I can't wait to see you in Hell," Zaniel chimed, towards Echo, sounding cheerful, "I don't think he's got it in him to make it out of the spiral. I mean, he can't even escape memories." Nothing. Still nothing. Bastille just stared at Echo, silent, head spinning as he struggled to breathe, to function. They continued to chat idly, back and forth, snarking and betting on his survival rate. "I give it... another minute, tops."
40 seconds. The clatter of movement, voices.
"I don't know," Echo commented, after a beat, "Grimmkit is a freaky little fucker. He might not let him go, yet." Three sets of eyes turned towards the little black smoke kitten, who stared straight at Bastille, impassive. Bast stared back, their voices washing over him, distant, vague. His eyes were so green -- vivid and bright, apple-green, luminescent through the mist.
"Hey," Zaniel said, mild, "That's my kid. Show some respect." A snort from Echo's prong of the star.
Their words fades and fades as he stared straight at Grimmkit, and when he blinked, he found that he was now facing that corner. The pickering souls carried on, as they did, and Bastille just... stared. And stared. And tried to remember what it was that Grimm wanted him to remember, because that bottomless stare was lost on him. He could feel nothing, do nothing, be nothing. He felt numb and the mist was steadily rising, cool on his belly as it swirled slowly upwards.
50 seconds. Rustling, contact. More voices.
What do you want? he thought, transfixed. His throat burned, his lungs burns, his body burned. Everything burned and felt numb at once, a wash of sensation and apathy all at once. Grimm was unwavering, unmoving, somehow telling him with his eyes along that he was forgetting something, neglecting something, failing, somehow.
But wasn't he meant to fail? That was the whole goddamn game Fate was playing here, as far as he was concerned. His lives had only ever failed, and it seemed to be a given that it would all spill over, eventually. What else was he supposed to do, with a combination of souls like that? Who was he supposed to be if not a failure like the rest of them, crashing and burning before he could realize any of his so-called potential?
Grimm knew this. Grimm knew this all ended in failure. Didn't he like his morbid stories, his sad memories? Why was he looking at him like that, as if he didn't know and he was waiting for Bastille to do something else? He couldn't do anything else. He was immobile, frozen, staring, lost, losing. He couldn't complete anything. Couldn't carry out any unfinished business. Couldn't achieve anything on behalf of his restless souls.
He wasn't the key. He wasn't the answer. He was no one's anti-hero, recovering from their sins and doing good. He was... nothing. Nothing.
Grimm's eyes were intent, steady, staring. Waiting. Waiting waiting waiting but Bastille couldn't breathe. He could just look back and wait for his time to run out.
60 seconds. Golden radiance, warmth, vanilla and honey. The light. Voices, louder now, running together.
Silence. Seconds ticking by, the clearing was silent now, Echo and Zaniel having faded into the background. The faint thump-thump of someone else's heart beating, echoing quietly through the clearing. Mist, climbing high and high as his throat constricted and tightened, his own chest stayed still. Grimm's green stare, always focused on him. Tick, tock, Zaniel had said.
Faintly, the impressions of vanilla on his tongue, bringing back a wave of... something. Something. What did vanilla mean to him? Did he have memories beyond this place, this clearing, these souls? Silence, as he stared and pondered and waited. Silence, as it trickled through his thoughts slowly, a faint coil of memory.
"Baby boy," his mother has said once, perfectly composed as she stood at his side, pale fur glistening and shimmering in the light. Her voice was soft and wispy, barely there. He couldn't remember it happened, and yet, here was the memory now, at the tip of his tongue. "Why are you so cold? This is not who you are, not even if they tell you that it is."
She had never carried any warmth, not in her spiritual form, but somehow, he'd always gotten those phantom flames -- heat flickering along his side, a comfort. Heat raging in his chest, his souls, his existence, screaming with his anger and his turbulence and his frustrations. He had glared at the ground and muttered, petulant, "Yes, it is. I can only be who they were. I can only be what I'm made out of." Bitter, rotten. So angry at such a young age, consumed by their anger and chaos.
A pause. Silence. Silence, both in the clearing, rebounding through the mist, and in his memories. Then, soft: "You know, they all had their potential, too. They all started somewhere and lost their way. You are made of good, baby, good that was lost. You get to make that choice for yourself, too. You're made up all of their potential, and it's your choice if you fail or not. I think you're here, and they're here, so that you can do what they didn't -- so that you can be the good and redemption."
Vanilla, seeping through the mist, his memories overriding his senses, and then... nothing, gone. Grimm's eyes, staring into his. A faint flicker of something, of acknowledgement, of reminder. He wasn't going to let Bastille go, he realized; Grimm had been waiting for him to remember, to realize, to feel, to be something. A stir of warmth. Vanilla and honey, golden radiance, the light. The thumping of someone else's heartbeat, filling the clearing.
For it is the redemption that saves the soul, a murmur in his head, and then darkness.
Bastilleprisoner jerked forward with no notice or warning, his heartbeat coming back online from perfectly stillness as he gasped in a rush of air. His lungs burned and his throat burned and for a moment there was nothing but the darkness, clouding his thoughts and senses, the groggy sensation of having been lost for a long time and recently returned home. He remembered, in an offhand fashion, what it had been like to wake up from that coma: confusing, startling, instant, like drawing the blinds back on a dark and dusty room so swiftly that the light was at once blinding and awe-inspiring.
The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was that light: golden and radiant and all-encompassing. Too bright too look at, too intense to see clearly, blinding him as he looked away from Hazel in a daze, shook his head, inhaled another unsteady gulp of air as his body struggled to recover, to tell his heart to keep beating, to function. Warmth. He was warm all over, and it hit his sluggish mind a moment later that he was surrounded by warmth, by contact, by others. He blinked when he realized he was staring back at Margy, closer than he'd seen her in a while, but there was... nothing.
Silence. Stillness. Nothing. No flicker of annoyance, of anger, of frustration. Nothing. A slight glimmer of confusion, those first 60 seconds of processing as his body worked in reverse so disorientating and distant that he himself had no idea what the fuck was going on. Slowly, it was dawning on him that there were others here, auras sparking at the corners of his vision, and the first thing out of his mouth, sluggish, dazed, his voice raspy and hoarse: "Beck said yes."
Clearly, he hadn't entirely caught up to the situation, and he had no idea why that was the first thing that came to mind. A problem for when his thoughts started functioning properly in the next few minutes.
Honey, you're familiar, like my mirror years ago, Idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on his sword, Innocence died screaming; honey, ask me, I should know, I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door. [b][sup]▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃[/sup][/b]