Out of darkness into the light
If you want me gone

Trigger Warnings: Suicidal thoughts, paranoia, PTSD

Listen.

There are no good days. No bad days, either, that would imply there is actually something to look forward to. There are only DAYS. And nights. Those things defined by whether the sun is up or the moon is. Such stupid god damn terms, no one fucking cares.


How could they in a world like this? Voices in his head. Purple bullshit everywhere. Something tainted creeping, squeezing the life out of everything that isn't IT. Suffocating. Choking. Would have let it devour him whole had he not had that niggling sense of paranoia, that primordial gut instinct to not DIE. Hated that part of himself more than any other, that conscience in his head that fed him dewdrops of false hope.

Even still...

No one to turn to, no new ideas, stale bad memories and old beef jerky. Sleepless nights, a voice in his head he wanted to tear free, no way to stop it even in the unforgiving expanse of Hak Etme. Would have blasted a god damn hole in his brain to shut it the fuck up had he been even slightly less pissed about it.

Lucky for him, I guess.

Maybe one day he'd feed himself to the maroon alien jungle, but it wasn't gonna be today.

He trotted down the steps, each one familiar to him. Paranoia a constant, every detail noted and forged like a brand in his memory. Knew every busted lip on those stairs, every crack, what sound it would make when he stepped there rather than here, here rather than there. Knew how to survive for the most part, though as of late his adaptation skills had stumbled.

It was time to find a familiar face, and with any luck he'd find her here: The horned woman who had been there that day almost a year ago in the temple. She'd brought him to this place, down, down, down, to the Last Whisper.

More often than not these days and nights he called The Last Whisper home. Always on the move, ever restless. But always there unless he had other shit to take care of. Like food, water, and those fading glints of hope he resented as much as the spreading disease of their time.

Inside he went, barely the whisper of clothes as they brushed against the doorframe entrance. Loose-fitting, light for the new sun. Eyes still finding their use after so long in the dark, crystalline blue squinted against dark pupils. Shirt sleeves rolled up to just past his elbows. The one on the right different, skin warped and discolored. Thick scar tissue built over a year covered what amounted to a massive injury that spread up and over his shoulder. Healed since Maea had seen him last, though poorly. Roughly, gnarled like the haphazard trunk and branches of an aged oak.

An immediate assessment of the place, a flick of eyes sharp and wary. He prowled, strode to a chair and flopped heavily. Chair legs shifted, the seat groaned its protest. One elbow and forearm plunked against the table, and he ordered nothing just yet. Sat where he could see every entrance, where he had a view of nearly everyone in here. Gears in his brain on the move, ever shifting. Searching for patterns that he knew, waiting for one to click and alert him that she had arrived.

Or that she was already here.

You pull the trigger yourself

OUT OF DARKNESS INTO THE LIGHT
IF YOU WANT ME GONE

The clang and clack and bash of cups clinking, of plates colliding with tables, of feet stomping. Tripping, shuffling, too much movement to keep track of all at once so Michael focused instead on what didn't fit the pattern. What didn't follow the rest of the flow. Patternless, the nonsense and scribbles between lines most paid no attention to.

He had to be that way, he had to find the holes and all the things that weren't 'normal'. It was survival of the fittest, and he wasn't the fittest. So, he had to take other approaches, find other ways, seek out different ways to adapt and not DIE.

And because of that… there she was.

Her pause near the window, caught by peripheral vision. He didn't look her way, didn't want attention drawn to him in case it wasn't her, in case it was just someone who looked like her. Because she wasn't the same, didn't LOOK the same. Moved similar, stepped through the doorway. Dressed strange, hair strange, smelled strange, she was DIFFERENT.

But, she was her, and he knew she was her when she moved closer, recognition there in her eyes. The way she weaved through tables and chairs, around the bar. Always stepping forward, a destination in mind:

His table.

Her little wave not acknowledged, gaze lowered back to the table as he drew in a breath. Steadied himself, considering just fucking BAILING even though he was waiting here for her. Running away was one of Michael's most prominent natural states, except now it was much harder with


A shift in him, maybe, an extra sprinkling of courage that opposed the cowardice.

And so, no. He didn't run. He stayed there, let her come. Only looked at her when she stopped at his table and spoke to him. When she smiled at him, when he looked to her lips and her eyes, he saw the hollowing of her cheeks, gauntness beneath her eyes. Couldn't say what it was from, but he knew it. Had looked the very same on some days, night… weeks. Sometimes months.


Don't make him laugh, Maea, he might not survive such positivity.

"Unfortunately for me, yeah. I'm alive. And so are you." No bite there in his tone, no accentuated sass or any manner of malice. Just… tired. "Looks like you got a few upgrades. Heard you're some fancy pants guild master or something now. What are you doing hanging out with common rabble like me?" A gesture of his hand, elbow barely shifting off the table. "Would hate to see that dress get ruined by my presence."

Ah, and there it was. A muted little smirk, an angled quirk of his mouth. A sneer, amusement, some form of nipping snark; it was hard to tell.

YOU PULL THE TRIGGER YOURSELF