spotlight burn, curtain call.

[tombguard]

IN SICKNESS & IN HEALTH.

[ 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. ]

Comments

[neverendingshow]

[ It's sad really. It could make anyone feel sick. It's exactly what Hullabaloo was all along for those who could see it.

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!

[tombguard]

[ this is not the first time someone has made him crawl in the dirt, eyes burning holes in his back as they watch him writhe like some prey animal caught in a bear trap. like something small, hideous, all with those eyes empty and cold with judgement.

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. ]

[neverendingshow]

[ The unpleasant sound of metal scraping against metal pierces through the air. "Hullabaloo" gasps like air is being forced out of his dead lungs.

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. ]

[tombguard]

[ he's hurt hunters before, in a sense. he knows they ( or most of them, anyway ) feel pain from every pallet slammed into their head, knows every shot of a flare guns hits them with bruising force. they stagger from getting slammed into walls by bodies and weapons, and one gets all too used to those cries of pain and rage. it's nauseating how it makes them a little more human, despite it all.

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. ]