ᴀɴᴅʀᴇᴡ ᴋʀᴇɪss ⏳ ɢʀᴀᴠᴇᴋᴇᴇᴘᴇʀ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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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[ 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. ]