[ screaming crying throwing up please have mercy ]
There's you, and...
[ boothill opens his mouth, but the syllables get stuck right behind his tongue, stopping him in place. he had names in mind—or at least he thought he did, before...
the tic happens again. he blinks hard. ]
You, and... Essek... I killed him. I killed him... in the basement?
[ his mind tries to configure the image of essek's broken body in the crying room with his memories of the prism. he can't fit them together at all. his head tics again, this time towards his shoulder. his mind supplies a word he can't recognize. ]
just for fun i will say that he has a vague flash of a memory of a multicolored saintly-looking goat and it makes him go O_O for a second. and then it's gone immediately.
that ever-present anger seems to be draining out of him. he tightly closes his eyes and presses his hand to his forehead. his neurocircuitry..... ]
Who's... Kate? Totty?
[ he shakes his head. ]
No, I... I got this body in order to kill, but not innocents. Never the innocent. That's the line I never cross... I thought.
[ he presses his hand over his eyes and lowers his head. ]
just for fun the mods gave you a memory of roxana's trauma. this is so funny. she can't read his mind or see what he gets a memory of, so there isn't some painful meta to write in response.
she watches as his memories and emotions sway. ]
I can't say how innocent Essek truly is. [ the elf has starting wars on his profile. ] But if by did it again, you mean you murdered and have been voted for... yes. We'll have to say goodbye to you for a few weeks. Is there anything you want before you have to go?
[ ROXANA TRAUMA SPECIFICALLY? HELP ME THEY JUST SHOWED ME A PIC OF A TECHNICOLOR GOAT MAN ]
Anything I want...?
[ right. their four other hosts have all left on that plane. and wherever they are is where essek is now, even if, a day before, boothill took his corpse and... ]
[ anger wells in him as if his whole body were tensing up, forcing insides he doesn't have to well up in him like a raging storm. he drops his hand to look at both of them, still streaked with blue. it's all dried up by now. ]
I'm so fudgin' angry. [ his hands ball into fists again. ] I feel forkin' insane. I wanna take down the whole buildin'. I can't stop it. What the heck's goin' on with me?
[ jan and siz were saving my ass in my dm so fucking much. help me roxana ]
...
[ his head is swirling. he wants to say, who the hell was it? how can we get them here so i can stop this feeling? but he can't say anything for the moment. he killed essek. the grief, the remorse, every feeling is amplified. he keeps holding his head in one hand. ]
That village... [ he tries to remember. ] I got taken over. Possessed by some monster that was out for blood for kicks. Killin' people got the ritual started. It ain't like this color stuff at all.
They called it a murder mystery party. So someone played the part of a murderer and victim and there were clues scattered about, but no one was truly dead.
[ rage swells, red clouding his vision again, but it ebbs and flows. he tries to keep it under control, but his mind locks into this new memory she gives him and works him into it, the setting and all other people surrounding them a blur. ]
Sounds like a forkin' joke to me. Makin' us give 'em a fudgin' puppet show before the real party kicks off. May not have felt like that in the moment, but...
[ does she want to feed him more information and make him more part of the experience? no, she doesn't.
she'd prefer to keep him separate. she'd prefer to keep the prism separate. ]
No one was expecting it even if the whole situation was suspicious from the beginning, but no one expects eight weeks of it when they're pulled anywhere at random.
[ boothill stays where he is for a moment, his eyes on the floor. his hair is all a mess. his broken, leaking hands are drawing into tight fists. memories still blur in his head. roxana is still in them, gold hair moving like water, red eyes shining.
bars of color appear around his head, flashing like static. all different shades of red.
he looks at roxana. suddenly, there are shades of orange amidst the angry reds. then small lines of light pink. ]
[ she has no idea what his new but fake memories hold, and she watches the new colors with no change in her expression. all she knows is something has happened to make him believe he's in the prism and is affected by its imbalance somehow. is this a sign of how things can be reset by the auditors?
[ the admittance makes him visibly relieved. the colored bars turn pink, violet, orange.whether or not attendance is mandatory is beyond conscious thought. to this boothill coming into existence between rushes of static noise, this is a close friend. he's stayed in lock step with her through outbursts and senseless deaths, but also through treasured pockets of time. there are flickers of moments he can only see as things that truly happened—talking with her alone on the outskirts of parties, visiting places together but only seeing her. there's no ring on his finger to ground him.
he steps to the cell bars, more debris crunching underfoot. he keeps his head low. he doesn't look angry or dangerous now, not the way he did just a few moments ago. just tired. the colors flickering around him are only blue and light pink. he's going to die, and no matter what they might know about the other side at this point in chroma, there is a chance that they may not meet again. ]
Hey. I know this may mean squat to ya. I won't make you.
[ he murmurs it, his voice low and raspy. he extends his hand out, but he stops short of passing it in the space between the bars. she can say no. ]
anger is something she is used to, something she buries so, so deep that no one can see it or tell and something she sees all too often in her family. danger is much the same, but that is more visible in her than her anger. his outrages and outbursts would have never cowed her, here or in those memories only he knows.
the colors shift and change, and she looks at the hand he holds out even if it doesn't cross the threshold of the bars.
it is a combination of the effect of this week, the fact that he will die tomorrow, and all the good she will never choose to do that has her gloved hand catch his hand. ]
[ relief floods into him immediately. the vice grip of anger and unrest, wrapped like a hot iron around his heart, finally eases up. the static around boothill flashes and flickers in smaller spots, at a faster pace, but his eyes are on those her delicate fingers in his hand.
whether or not it truly happened, there are memories of a week like this one where roxana is with him. they are friends, and they would hold hands or she would hold his arm or they would sit side by side and they talked and observed. they felt so benign at the time, but without them, this moment might not feel as intimate as it does.
his fingers are cold iron, soaked in blood, but they still curl around hers gently, a careful thumb pressing to her knuckle. he looks at her, blinking away the fog and static in his head. there are pinks and blues and violets around him as he examines her quietly. ]
I can't ask ya for more.
[ he keeps his hold loose. she has every right to slip her hand away from his. ]
But with how I remember you... I'd be lyin' if I said I didn't want to. I sure as hell do.
[ roxana keeps her hands gloved in public and around others out of habit. it's a necessity at home where she's turned herself poisonous enough that while a touch won't harm right away, enough exposure could.
she allows this much from him for now. she can read between the lines, but she remembers that keychain of his, remembers what he said about the name. she has long since trained herself out of having any compunction for most things. ]
[ a little bit of hope floats to the surface. there are more blips of agate around him. (wasn't he supposed to stop wanting things bigger than what he could keep in his hand? haven't there been enough precious things ripped away from him already?) ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
There's you, and...
[ boothill opens his mouth, but the syllables get stuck right behind his tongue, stopping him in place. he had names in mind—or at least he thought he did, before...
the tic happens again. he blinks hard. ]
You, and... Essek... I killed him. I killed him... in the basement?
no subject
that soothes her a little. if they fed him names of people she knew in the prism, she'd be even more furious.
this makes appearing calm easier. ]
Basement? Of this airport? There wasn't much of one in the Prism. Boothill, didn't you have a keychain with a name?
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Keychain with a name...
[ his mind tries to configure the image of essek's broken body in the crying room with his memories of the prism. he can't fit them together at all. his head tics again, this time towards his shoulder. his mind supplies a word he can't recognize. ]
Karlach?
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Yes. I don't know that name. Just like I don't think you know the names of those I favored.
[ how many memories can she jostle? ]
Why was Kate so upset? Why did Todomatsu say you did this again? Were you always meant to be corrupted to kill? Will you turn into an animal?
[ does he even know what she means by turn into an animal ]
no subject
just for fun i will say that he has a vague flash of a memory of a multicolored saintly-looking goat and it makes him go O_O for a second. and then it's gone immediately.
that ever-present anger seems to be draining out of him. he tightly closes his eyes and presses his hand to his forehead. his neurocircuitry..... ]
Who's... Kate? Totty?
[ he shakes his head. ]
No, I... I got this body in order to kill, but not innocents. Never the innocent. That's the line I never cross... I thought.
[ he presses his hand over his eyes and lowers his head. ]
Roxana... I did it again, didn't I?
no subject
just for fun the mods gave you a memory of roxana's trauma. this is so funny. she can't read his mind or see what he gets a memory of, so there isn't some painful meta to write in response.
she watches as his memories and emotions sway. ]
I can't say how innocent Essek truly is. [ the elf has starting wars on his profile. ] But if by did it again, you mean you murdered and have been voted for... yes. We'll have to say goodbye to you for a few weeks. Is there anything you want before you have to go?
no subject
Anything I want...?
[ right. their four other hosts have all left on that plane. and wherever they are is where essek is now, even if, a day before, boothill took his corpse and... ]
I can't have nothin'. I shouldn't.
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[ she tilts her head. she doesn't hold much sympathy, but she knows it's a terrible situation no matter how you look at it. ]
I won't insist you have to think or feel any way about this. That's your burden to bear.
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[ anger wells in him as if his whole body were tensing up, forcing insides he doesn't have to well up in him like a raging storm. he drops his hand to look at both of them, still streaked with blue. it's all dried up by now. ]
I'm so fudgin' angry. [ his hands ball into fists again. ] I feel forkin' insane. I wanna take down the whole buildin'. I can't stop it. What the heck's goin' on with me?
no subject
[ jan's character in chroma, hilariously enough. ]
Was this unlike what happened to you in Scawwy?
no subject
...
[ his head is swirling. he wants to say, who the hell was it? how can we get them here so i can stop this feeling? but he can't say anything for the moment. he killed essek. the grief, the remorse, every feeling is amplified. he keeps holding his head in one hand. ]
That village... [ he tries to remember. ] I got taken over. Possessed by some monster that was out for blood for kicks. Killin' people got the ritual started. It ain't like this color stuff at all.
Fork me. This happen to you too?
no subject
It wasn't quite like that. It didn't start with murder - not genuine murder.
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Sounds like a forkin' joke to me. Makin' us give 'em a fudgin' puppet show before the real party kicks off. May not have felt like that in the moment, but...
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she'd prefer to keep him separate. she'd prefer to keep the prism separate. ]
No one was expecting it even if the whole situation was suspicious from the beginning, but no one expects eight weeks of it when they're pulled anywhere at random.
no subject
[ he suddenly stomps his heel on a broken piece of the cot. it breaks in half with a loud snap and crunch. ]
I can't stand it. I can't be one of 'em. I gotta get outta here.
no subject
[ it will be by execution and death, but it is still a way out of his emotions going full throttle. ]
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bars of color appear around his head, flashing like static. all different shades of red.
he looks at roxana. suddenly, there are shades of orange amidst the angry reds. then small lines of light pink. ]
Are you... gonna be there?
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she looks back at boothill, gaze steady. ]
There's no reason I won't be.
[ she thinks execution attendance is mandatory. ]
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he steps to the cell bars, more debris crunching underfoot. he keeps his head low. he doesn't look angry or dangerous now, not the way he did just a few moments ago. just tired. the colors flickering around him are only blue and light pink. he's going to die, and no matter what they might know about the other side at this point in chroma, there is a chance that they may not meet again. ]
Hey. I know this may mean squat to ya. I won't make you.
[ he murmurs it, his voice low and raspy. he extends his hand out, but he stops short of passing it in the space between the bars. she can say no. ]
But... would you mind?
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anger is something she is used to, something she buries so, so deep that no one can see it or tell and something she sees all too often in her family. danger is much the same, but that is more visible in her than her anger. his outrages and outbursts would have never cowed her, here or in those memories only he knows.
the colors shift and change, and she looks at the hand he holds out even if it doesn't cross the threshold of the bars.
it is a combination of the effect of this week, the fact that he will die tomorrow, and all the good she will never choose to do that has her gloved hand catch his hand. ]
Is that enough?
no subject
whether or not it truly happened, there are memories of a week like this one where roxana is with him. they are friends, and they would hold hands or she would hold his arm or they would sit side by side and they talked and observed. they felt so benign at the time, but without them, this moment might not feel as intimate as it does.
his fingers are cold iron, soaked in blood, but they still curl around hers gently, a careful thumb pressing to her knuckle. he looks at her, blinking away the fog and static in his head. there are pinks and blues and violets around him as he examines her quietly. ]
I can't ask ya for more.
[ he keeps his hold loose. she has every right to slip her hand away from his. ]
But with how I remember you... I'd be lyin' if I said I didn't want to. I sure as hell do.
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she allows this much from him for now. she can read between the lines, but she remembers that keychain of his, remembers what he said about the name. she has long since trained herself out of having any compunction for most things. ]
Why is that?
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...Why do I want more, or why won't I ask for it?
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