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tombguard) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
graveknocker2024-11-28 09:15 pm
tombguard) wrote in graveknocker2024-11-28 09:15 pm
spotlight burn, curtain call.
[ there's a lot of burning.
there's the burn of his nose from the acrid scent of chemicals, more steeped than he's used to. the burn of his muscles, legs aching even now as his fingers pluck and peck at blurry, unfocused metal with a pained grimace. the burning in the back of his mind as the knowledge of their numbers dwindling becomes all that more stark.
then there's the actual burn. the hot sting that had started the moment he'd stepped foot too close, and the one that travels up his bruised arm from the sequence of blows following an errant rescue. it's not like the claws and blades other hunters have, he's found, painful in a way not unlike the hermit's electric sting. it has fingers tugging at the corners of reddened flesh to keep the tattered cloth from sticking to it, all in the few moments he can tear his eyes away from his work.
it didn't chase him. it was hard to get a close look, what with his blurry vision and the chaos of color, but it was all too familiar in a way that makes the skin on the back of his neck raise with an uncomfortable cold sweat. the squeak of rusty springs, muss of blond hair. the abnormally nimble stride, the giggles. it- it's new, but it's not. it's not in ways he doesn't want to dwell on, because if he doesn't, he doesn't have to connect any dots or worsen the unsteady tremble of his fingers.
perhaps that's just the pain and exhaustion, rather than the thought itself. that would be the ideal.
a familiar noise rings out, the notice of a down, and his fingers flinch moments before his whole body does as the cipher sparks in retaliation. the curse that spills from his lips is colorful, features twitching.
damn it. damn it. there's no dungeon. but this is almost done, and if he can finish it, there's a chance...? but there's always the sense he should go, even with the notice crackling for him to do the opposite. his fingers grasp instinctively around the handle of a nonexistant shovel, and with the burn of his skin and ache in his limbs, he likely wouldn't be able to take another good blow. one little mistake on andrew kreiss' part, and he'd fuck it all up. could he handle that?
he should go, even as his fingers return to tapping, sweat on his brow. he should go. but it's so far. there's so little time. he probably wouldn't make it even if he did try.
maybe that's a good thing, for him. too far, hopefully for the bastard to make it over here in time. ]
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the barest blurry glimpse of that mocking cheerful pose combined with the rusty squeak of springs tells him enough of how similar this jack-in-the-box is to the acrobat himself, yet a far cry from the one he's come to know. it had, in that moment, made his gaze avert to avoid looking at it for too long.
andrew can't say he disliked the man, which makes this all the more nauseating.
he can feel the catch in his clothes, gangly fingertips barely latching onto the black, and the fearful burst of adrenaline in that scant few seconds merely propels him forward enough they manage to slide off. small graces, perhaps, knowing how fast the bastard is, but he'll have to take what he can get. andrew can't look back to see the reaction, but he hears...nothing. no frustration, no mocking laughter.
his fingers are gripping the edge of the pallet when that shrill whistle pierces the air,, finding his grip slipping in shock for the dread hits like a train. andrew been here long enough to know what that means, even before he can register the faint noise of something approaching, and he throws the pallet down right in mike's face for some sense of reprieve even amongst the curses rapidly flowing from his lips. he can't vault it again, because that'll put him right back in front of the bloody circus clown, but isn't he really running out of options here? ]
Shit, shit, shit-
[ of all the fucking things, it had to be this? he couldn't pick anything else? he would have taken a blink to the face or even one of those damnable warp gates at this point, but instead he's here; bolting for the nearest window, nearly tripping over his own leaden feet. whatever can put a wall between him and that stupid dog, he'll take.
unfortunately, in a show a speed, that seems unlikely. ]
>tfw trying to describe Hullabaloo's no cool down bullsh*t in a tag
[ Andrew chose to run and this time when the compulsion to chase comes the hunter doesn't fight it in favor of starting up conversation. Now a sinister sounding snicker cuts through the air as the patroller hurries to do what it does best: scurry over to dig crooked teeth into the tender ankle of unfortunate survivors. Credit where credit is due, though, when the path of the little creature is cut off for an extra few seconds by the dropping wood slab.
The patroller... It's not a dog really. Even if the poor thing gives an approximation of a bark in protest and "Hullabaloo" cheers it on with a lively 'do your best!' to encourage it to circle around the obstacle to get at Andrew. It's all another show in the end. Of course it is, because due to the strange unnatural laws of this manor he's got that uncanny control over that little body's actions.
The patroller is so fast, is the thing. It was only a matter of time before it latches onto Andrew's leg. "Hullabaloo" is also very fast. It's also only a matter of time before he's scooted to be on the other side of the pallet and caught up in a blink. ]
Hahahn what a potty-mouth?! Anyways, you'd better brace yourself Mister Potty-mouth!
[ He smirks down at the torn open dark juggling ball in hand. Another interesting rule against nature he'd notice is how these things perpetual spill the contents he'd once stuffed them with when they hit these poor sods.
Which is just as well because he'd hate to have to hit anyone directly. Let the chemicals do all the work! With that thought in mind "Hullabaloo" does a baseball wind up and chucks the ball at Andrew.
Overwhelmingly, the colored aura hanging around the hunter already shifts to place the burning red heat over Andrew before the hit can even land. ]
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after enough stabs in the back, you come to learn who you can tentatively trust to offer pity, and those who can't be trusted under any circumstances. with a new familiar face, though? and after three eliminations in quick succession? he's not going to test his luck. hearing the faint scrabble of small feet in the dirt as it nearly runs into the pallet tells him enough of how this was going to play out. nobody nice brings a goddamn patroller to a match, nor cheers it on with such enthusiasm, if he's hearing correctly.
perhaps if exhaustion weren't plucking at his muscles, he might have just made it. 'might' isn't good enough, however, and whatever progress he made grinds to a halt with a sharp, pained yelp as sharpened teeth close around his calf, straight through cloth and lodging into flesh. his gaze whips down, and his leg shoots out in a panicked attempt to shake the thing off. ]
G-Get off, damn you-!
[ persistent little bastard it is, this doesn't work. while it loses it's strength over time, that's time andrew kreiss simply does not have. especially when that shadow closes over him again, jerking back as the clown himself hops over the pallet with nary a care in the world. he's too goddamn fast, and already the leaden sensation closes over him again, just to top off the throbbing pain of getting bitten.
"hullabaloo" is fortunate andrew is too occupied to snap back about his sharp tongue, because he'd have something to say if the fear wasn't flooding his veins. he hears the words, yes, but he hardly has enough time to actually follow through with more than a defensively raised hand before something small and round smacks into him, black powder erupting over his clothes with an intensity that earns a sharp cough.
and already, then it's too hot. the same burning that plagues his left side now, if not less intense, but the heat itself is enough to kick him his adrenaline into overdrive. hanger-on or not, he's not just going to sit here and take it. despite the blood running down his leg, andrew grits his teeth before promptly whipping around and latching onto the window, using all his strength to hop right over it, patroller included. the movement jostles it enough that the grip loosens somewhat, but it's still hindering him as he ducks and bolts straight away from those gangly arms.
gangly arms which merely nick him again, despite having just hit him already. others tend to clean their weapons, straighten themselves out, gloat when they strike, but this one? nothing. all the more reason to hope the winding gravestones are enough of a hindrance to match andrew's own. ]
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There's a few notable things about the person he used to be besides the status as a star performer. "Mike Morton" was never known as particularly patient even as tragedy hit and he spent each day fastidiously piecing together the shards of his life until the truth was revealed. His hands were always so cold, too, as Bernard could once attest. Tainted as the memories are if he lets them play out in his head that man he once thought as father scolds Mike for sticking cold hands down his collar.
Those apparent traits show themselves in "Hullabaloo" these days as well. For he doesn't give any sort of pause in the pursuit and the hands he uses to clobber the remaining survivor into surrender are frigid indeed—not made any better by death. The despairing and guilty mind of the dull and broken doll won't manage to get the hunter to pause in the assault.
He's seen him leap over a wall once before- did the survivor think that was his only trick? While Andrew is busy marveling at the swiftness of the last hit he's already moving to strike again. Not only that, but a clone also pops up to sandwich Andrew between the original and itself.
A clone that has the audacity to go "Boop!" when the both of them swing at Andrew at the same time from two different directions. At least the clone is smiling! ]
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and if he tries to whack that stupid patroller against the side of a tombstone in his desperation to get the thing off, well, desperate times call for desperate measures. perhaps he'd feel bad about it, if it didn't finally let go with a ferocious snarl and slobber of spit as it wobbles on the ground in it's own confusion. his leg throbs in pain, but the trail of blood it leaves in his wake is small worries compared to his much bigger ones.
bigger ones, dressed in colorful tattered rags and creaking so loud behind him he can practically hear it rattling in his brain.
there's a duck, instinctively; maybe if he's fast, maybe if the hunter misses, maybe, maybe, maybe-
maybe his feet will slam into the ground in a panic to stop, nearly tripping him straight into the ghostly figure that pops into existence in front of him like the pop of colorful confetti. the ice mingles with the fire, an unfamiliar burning sensation that numbs at his legs in the few seconds before one, two things smack into his chest, his back.
he registers the smell, in that first second. chemical, sharp and stinging. then there's a flash, a spark, and everything flashes white with a loud bang and a strangled yell.
his ears are ringing. his eyes are burning. and then there's the pain, hot and stabbing along the already burnt skin of his left side. he's not too sure when he hit the ground, but he's curled up, free hand trembling and hovering over the smoking mess of ugly red flesh that crawls up his arm and the pale of his cheek. andrew kreiss knows nothing of science, but somehow in the back of his head amidst the agony, he recalls watching the hunter's hissing as their clothes are doused in foul-smelling concoctions with a cheerful laugh and a hop away.
but those don't hurt quite as much as this, he's certain. even now, rapidly breathing through clenched teeth, he finds his arm shifting from attempting to assess the damage to shakily reaching for the edge of the closest pallet nearby. not anywhere near fast enough, close enough, nor would he likely have the power to pull it down, but...still.
coward he is, he hates the idea of going without a fight. ]
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With the acrid smell of chemicals and sizzling flesh hanging in the air "Hullabaloo" slinks down to grab Andrew by the ankles. Even when hope and the pallet are both already so out of reach the hunter yanks the survivor through the dirt to bring him further back from the wooden structure. ]
Ah-ah! Hush now. If you struggle less this ends faster. Now, up up and away you go!
[ Oh he knows the more standard way to pull the injured survivors up is with the help of those balloons. At some point he is likely to follow those rules. This time around he decides to pick Mr. Kreiss up from underneath the armpits like one would do with their unruly feline.
In a similar fashion he faces the smaller body away from him in anticipation of flailing limbs, but keeps his back pressed to his torso (or what remains of it as anything besides the spring). For such a lanky man there's not too much heft to him, he thinks, or at the very least there's no exertion on "Hullabaloo's" part to heft the fair haired survivor up.
If the hunter's hands felt cold before then the rest of him feels downright inorganic. No breaths draw in or out of any lungs. When there is movement in the hunter's body it seems to be a semi-subconcious effort to correct his upper body swaying thanks to the spring for a midsection. Turns out the unusual weight distribution to his upper half is taking some adjustments, but not in a way that seems to be causing any bother for the hunter. The floating doesn't exactly help the matter.
Now that he's picked the injured man up... it's as far as Hullabaloo goes for the moment. His head goes on a swivel looking for a final destination in an observably distracted fashion. A thoughtful and prolonged "Hmmm?" releases up from the depths of that lifeless chest. ]
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neither does the pull, dirt scraping along the tender wounds and making him hiss through his teeth. he's gotten...better at swallowing the pain down, after so long, but that doesn't mean it threatens to make him waver. especially with that cheerful, carefree voice above him. at this point, he's just waiting for the familiar loop of string 'round his waist, just so he can look at the ground and get this over with-
and then he. just. gets lifted.
oh, he's been carried similar before. pulled up against the chest of the queen with the glass at his back, or with a bladed fan pressed against his neck. this time, though, he feels less like someone being carted off to their execution and more like some kind of wayward pet. he even has his bloody hands under his arms, for god's sake, a fact which has him staring shock-still in the brief moment they're face to face, before his face swiftly dips into a deep shade of tomato red.
well. thank god he turns him around, but it certainly won't stop andrew's indignant wiggling. it hurts, but the mortification of being handled like a wet cat is almost stronger, twisting and squirming against the cold grip. ]
P-Put me down-! [ his voice rasps, still clearly in pain and uncertain yet unwilling to compromise on this. only this. please. ] Or at least carry me properly...!!
[ it would be done faster if he stopped struggling, but maybe some part of him is trying to hold onto a semblance of pride. or maybe, just maybe, he finds the cold press at his back nauseating. he's touched hunters before, of course; the ones who've been hunters since the beginning. but there's mike's voice in his ears, and yet the sensation at his back is almost icy in nature, the creak of the spring right up against his spine as the taller man sways this way and that.
his coat sleeve catches in one of the springs that make up the hunter's arm with the flailing of his own, giving it a sharp awkward tug with a flinch and a grimace. to see is one thing, but to feel is another. ]
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Come on now. You know I won't do that. But as for your second request- !
[But you know what he can do? Slip the poor survivor into a one arm hold, folded at the waist over an elbow, before the hunter reaches back with that recently freed arm to the retrieve balloons. Thus it's such terrible timing when the gravekeeper's sleeve gets caught on his arm. The singular arm he's using to hold onto him!
Well this is what he gets for trying to multi-task. The yanking causes the hunter to wobble this way and that momentarily. It should quickly become evident that he must think That's enough with some degree of frustration because the arm tightens around Andrew's waist and gives him a short-lived but firm shake in warning.]
Hey ! Stop that.
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if the local circus act was hoping his attempt at finally acquiescing to his request would get andrew to settle down, he's a very wrong clown. regardless of the fact he's got a sleeve stuck in hullabaloo's weird spring anatomy, the new one-handed hold is flailed against with all the grace of an animal in the throes of death. it's easy enough to go with no rhyme or reason when just moving in general stretches the shine of his burnt skin painfully, but he'll bloody well crawl to that rocket chair himself before he has to deal with- with-
actually, he's not going to think about it, because it makes his chest twist uncomfortably in more than the anxiety.
the squeeze earns a raspy wheeze, cold inhuman arms pressing down on his bruised ribs, and it stops him for a moment. then the bastard decides to shake him, once again like an unruly animal, and it urges him to start up again. ]
Th-This is your fault...! [ he can still taste chemicals on his tongue, and he fumbles over his words almost as much as he does in the other's arms. ] If you hadn't been so touchy, i-it would have been fine...!
[ he is Not Looking, Clown. ]
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[As it turns out that sulky look that occasionally hangs over the acrobat like a storm cloud can also do the same with "Hullabaloo." All thanks to the survivor's refusal to even look at him. He's really trying here!--
Nevermind the audacity required to act that way when he knows exactly what Andrew means but he's acting oblivious anyways.
Within eyesight there's one of the aforementioned chairs, also within view there is the dungeon. He's at a cross roads both literal and figurative.]
You've been nothing but rude this whole time so you don't exactly deserve it I'd say, but...! [Dramatic pause.] If you ask me nicely now I'll let you escape through the dungeon.
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[ he's used to getting chaired. he's not used to getting manhandled, especially in such a manner.
and maybe, just maybe, it's because of who's doing the manhandling. his differences from the acrobat are stark, but just as fool's gold is undeniably norton, "hullabaloo" is undeniably mike....which is a fact that settles odd in his gut and burns almost as much as his skin does. if he knew how hard his ears were burning at that little nickname, he'd probably explode once again.
especially when the other knows exactly what he means. he knows he does, because he knows mike morton, even if he'd deny he does.
the offer makes his struggling pause, awkward angle from where he's still technically caught in the rusted springs of the other, but he opts to continue to not make eye contact as he stills with furrowed brows. there's few moments of silence, awkward, before his mouth cracks open. ]
…Am-Am I supposed to believe that...?
[ but- everything does hurt. his numb fingers, his burnt skin, the sides of pale face streaked with scorch marks. rather than sit in a rocket chair and wait for the countdown, if he can leave....
andrew's fingers twist. nervous, awkward. he does have pride, but there is a difference between this and being hoisted about like a prize pet. blond hair falls in his eyes as he tilts his head forward, before he goes limp. ]
...Please.
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To win his attention properly "Hullabaloo" isn't above inching into the survivors space, face getting closer to the other's face inch by inch. From a distance the spineless manner he coils to do it would set off some sort of uncanny valley.
So truly quite ridiculous with all things considered.]
You don't exactly have much choice, do you? So, well, what was that just now? I couldn't hear it so could you please repeat it— but this time make it a bit louder !
[ Showman that he was there's no problem projecting his own voice to accentuate the request... As if Andrew doesn't know how to raise his voice though. No doubt the man merely prefers to be the quiet little dormouse that he seems to be. ]
Only good boys get rewarded.
[ Call it a recently grown awareness of the circumstances of his childhood and those suffering around him- but there's something sinister in that last second addition.]
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he probably looks ridiculous, if andrew deigned to look down to see the stretch of springs like some kind of demented children's toy. unfortunately, he's very distracted with a face full of clown, so he's not going to be doing that anytime soon. it's pressing into his side enough that the view probably isn't needed, anyway.
he sure does flinch at the abrupt rise of volume at his ear, grimace splitting his face, but it's the request that's the problem. while andrew's pitch has known to rise in distress, he prefers keeping his voice to a whisper; it's easier to not be noticed that way. very difficult when someone wants you to be noticed.
also very difficult when the tone of voice drops into something more familiar, more sadistic, but the choice of words is- it's really- ]
I-
[ he fumbles over his words, a shade of red almost darker than the burns coloring his ears and dipping down to his neck. humiliation, perhaps, but he does not like the weird and unfamiliar way his stomach does flip-flops at that. his pathetic grip on the other's arm tightens in reflex, and it takes a few moments for him to actually untwist his tongue enough to speak. ]
...P-Please.
[ louder, yes, but not much. have mercy. ]
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Now now, was that so hard? [A coo.]
[ Looks like in this instance the hunter will drop the survivor into the dirt and dust at a distance that requires him to crawl some length towards the freedom presented by the open dungeon. In a way he's prolonging their time together. As the seconds tick by "hullabaloo" hovers over the prone body. Evidently it's to wait to see what he'll do. Before long and as an additional threat he nudges the light haired man between his shoulder blades with his foot to demonstrate that he's in reach and he really could pick him up in a moment. ]
Alley-oop! You go on then~ say thanks on the way out and I won't pick you up again!
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just like right now, when he's abruptly dropped to the hard dirt, a surprised and equally pained yelp slipping from his lips as his wounds jostle as he hits the ground. there's a moment where he has to pause where he's dropped, inhaling sharp through his nose as the burnt skin tugs painfully with the movement, before the intent finally clicks in his head.
he doesn't want to, really. but his lips purse tight even if they wobble, and dirt stains the black of his coat as he reaches for the dungeon. it's close, so close, and the foot that nudges between boney shoulderblades only helps solidify it.
at the request in all it's bright and cheery glory, in it's mockery of that familiar voice, his fingers coil in the dirt, gaze tilted towards the floor so he doesn't have to meet that starry gaze. all that fuss over being manhandled, and yet he's caving to this. god, he's pathetic. ]
...Th...Thank you....
[ at least he manages to keep it level, despite the stutter but is that truly something to be proud of when he has to debase himself? and yet despite the hatred of the humiliation, the way his shoulders tremble as his knees shuffle across the floor, he probably deserves this somehow. ]
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If Mike Morton hadn't crumbled in on himself, hadn't fallen off the wagon as hard as he did just before his death he'd likely put a stop to all of this now. But for a while now it's really all too late for that. Still the chuckle the hunter gives does sound comparatively emptier.
Untethered to what must be a dire situation for the survivor "Hullabaloo" slowly floats alongside as the man crawls towards salvation. It's that mangled and springy figure which casts a looming shadow over Andrew like a vulture waiting for a doomed creature to give up the ghost. ]
That's it, you're almost there. Keep going!
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andrew kreiss does not consider himself a violent person. he isn't some sadist, who's vision turns as red as those damned eyes of his.
but something burns deep in his stomach, fingers curling slowly into claws. the shovel at his side feels useless, handle worn and splintered and so close to shattering, but the more his grip on it tightens, the more he feels that sensation bubble.
of course he's being humiliated. when has he not been the subject of someone's ridicule? it's enough to make his stomach tighten and twist even if it's nothing new, but no no no, that's not the worst part. it's that it's doing all this, all that giggling and patting and planting that foot between his shoulders while he looks like him.
andrew hates that. just like he hates that odd feeling he had either, just because of the fact they look alike.
it's so close. enough that a few steps on his feet is all it would take to disappear into those depths and be free. but that figure bobbing above him, that mocking tone...after all he's done, he can't be surprised if something thin and worn inside andrew weighs down with the rush of the adrenaline with the plucking of threads and snaps.
and then he's up, wobbling on uneven feet as his vision swims and burnt flesh throbs, whirling with a expression equally torn between fearful and indignant-
and rams that remaining shovel right into that stupid, bobbing spring. ]
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Numbly he recalls that Mike Morton had never particularly liked pain, physical, emotional, or otherwise. For "Hullabaloo" it's just deserts though now isn't it? At first all he can register is a blinding white pain that radiates up his torso and "spine."
During that time the hunter writhes. Agonized gasps and whimpers bubble up from his mouth as he abruptly stops floating and his legs fail him too. He crumbles to the ground and folds himself in half in an attempt to curl in on himself to subconsciously find comfort from somewhere. Pain tricks the mind, it truly does. It makes him act out on instinct to prevent another strike to vulnerable organs that no longer exist.
Eventually pulling the brain power back together enough to remember there's nothing there left to protect makes him feel ill.
There's something fundamentally so wrong about his continued existence. This merely serves as a stark reminder of that. There was no expectation today that the Gravekeeper would manage to stun him like this. He can't even begin to work up the will to feel excited for it.
Ah. Already this hunt today felt so unpleasant but now he really doesn't want to participate anymore. The last survivor can crawl through the dungeon now for all he cares. It's only possible to squeeze the one eye shut nowadays- since the other is forced to stay open like a star shaped wound in his head. Here's to hoping Andrew is satisfied with this and leaves fast enough so he can leave soon too. ]
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but none of that could have really prepared andrew for this
the adrenaline still has his chest heaving, hands ghost white beneath black leather from the grip he has on the splintered remains of his shovel with trembling fingers. but all his own noise, even the rush of blood in his ears, is nothing compared to the agonized whimpers from the creature on the ground. the ground. they never go down like that, never curl up like a survivor on the verge of bleeding out, trying to hold all the blood back in with what strength remains. just one shovel is all it takes, when he's had to stand up again and again after getting impaled, sliced, gutted? they aren't supposed to look so- so...
human.
no, not even human. it's the fact that while he lays there, curled up, those cracked and splintered features pinched in agony...his face just looks all the more familiar. it had been that face that had tilted him right over the edge, and now it's that face that has him rooted to the spot.
he was happy it hurt. or he should have been. after all the pain and humiliation he'd been dealt, it only feels fair. if he hadn't wanted to feel pain in turn, he wouldn't have andrew crawl in the dirt like a dredge. and yet now that it's happened, he feels the disgusting twist of satisfaction drown itself out in the sickening feeling that crawls up his throat and threatens to ooze over. ]
I-I- [ his feet shuffle in the dirt, backwards a step on unsteady legs. his eyes dart to the dungeon at his back, then back to the hunter, hunching further on himself. it isn't supposed to be like this. he isn't supposed to regret it. decent people would. but isn't it fair? it should be. ] I'm...
[ it catches and latches onto his tongue, refusing to leave.
and then he turns and nearly trips in the way he opts to nearly dive into that dungeon, the look he casts back over his shoulder before disappearing more fearful than anything.
whether it's of himself or the hunter, that remains to be seen. ]