TW: Suicidal thoughts, idealization of suicide, violence, blood.
The blast, catastrophic explosions and destruction in many areas. No where was safe ANYWAY, but everything was wrong. Different in ways Michael couldn’t comprehend. Strange creatures, bizarre plants. Crumpled caverns he had once called home, higher levels of desperation and aggression in thieves and desert wanderers had pushed him out of his comfort zone and into more populated areas.
He was only one man, already injured. A coward, sure. Whatever. But, stupid? No. Rarely ever that, a survivalist by any other name. He’d face you if he had no other choice, would take on the entire world if that was what it wanted to do, but he would rather not.
Because, he was tired.
He was hungry and he was tired and he was pissed off and he just wanted it all to stop. Didn’t care, REALLY, how it would stop if it ever did, just wanted it to.
Boots were heavy on the floors as he shoved open the door and strode inside. Slammed it behind him, shoulders shrouded in thick furs and blankets. Boots with patches, pants made from tough material dull black, dusty. Wool for a toque, one that covered his ears. A blanket across his face to protect it, hand-made ‘snow glasses’ to keep the brilliant sun, and even the rays of the moon, from blinding him. Gloves, of course, thick, heavy like the rest of his attire, no openings like rips or tears where the cold might sneak in.
The glasses were pulled free and slipped into a pocket, the blanket drawn back from his face and draped haphazardly SOMEWHERE; he didn’t look to see where it ended up.
Wanted a seat where he could see everything, every exit, every window, every person, every possible space where something could happen. Paranoia like the grit of sand between teeth, a sensation that would always remain long after the sand was spat free. A corner booth chosen, little care about the person who already sat there.
The THUD of the chair as he dropped himself onto it, a toe kicking, pressing into one of the table legs as leverage, another foot lifting to rest on an unused chair. Only then seeming to notice someone else was there, right across from him. Hollow, exhausted blue eyes flicking down toward the cards if only because her hand moved to set them aside.
Michael always paid attention to what people’s hands were doing.
“Great, just what the world needs. A god damn fortune teller.” A mumbled rumble even as his gaze was drawn, shifted toward the kitchen. And the smell of FOOD.
MICHAEL
Kid, get off the ground. Spit your blood and bare your teeth.
It was that god damn thing from the sky.
The blast, catastrophic explosions and destruction in many areas. No where was safe ANYWAY, but everything was wrong. Different in ways Michael couldn’t comprehend. Strange creatures, bizarre plants. Crumpled caverns he had once called home, higher levels of desperation and aggression in thieves and desert wanderers had pushed him out of his comfort zone and into more populated areas.
He was only one man, already injured. A coward, sure. Whatever. But, stupid? No. Rarely ever that, a survivalist by any other name. He’d face you if he had no other choice, would take on the entire world if that was what it wanted to do, but he would rather not.
Because, he was tired.
He was hungry and he was tired and he was pissed off and he just wanted it all to stop. Didn’t care, REALLY, how it would stop if it ever did, just wanted it to.
Boots were heavy on the floors as he shoved open the door and strode inside. Slammed it behind him, shoulders shrouded in thick furs and blankets. Boots with patches, pants made from tough material dull black, dusty. Wool for a toque, one that covered his ears. A blanket across his face to protect it, hand-made ‘snow glasses’ to keep the brilliant sun, and even the rays of the moon, from blinding him. Gloves, of course, thick, heavy like the rest of his attire, no openings like rips or tears where the cold might sneak in.
The glasses were pulled free and slipped into a pocket, the blanket drawn back from his face and draped haphazardly SOMEWHERE; he didn’t look to see where it ended up.
Wanted a seat where he could see everything, every exit, every window, every person, every possible space where something could happen. Paranoia like the grit of sand between teeth, a sensation that would always remain long after the sand was spat free. A corner booth chosen, little care about the person who already sat there.
The THUD of the chair as he dropped himself onto it, a toe kicking, pressing into one of the table legs as leverage, another foot lifting to rest on an unused chair. Only then seeming to notice someone else was there, right across from him. Hollow, exhausted blue eyes flicking down toward the cards if only because her hand moved to set them aside.
Michael always paid attention to what people’s hands were doing.
“Great, just what the world needs. A god damn fortune teller.” A mumbled rumble even as his gaze was drawn, shifted toward the kitchen. And the smell of FOOD.
Go down fighting. Go down savage.
