TW: Suicidal thoughts, idealization of suicide, violence, blood.
How many fucks does it take to give one fuck? Just one. Even half of one. A QUARTER. An eighth was too small to count, a sixteenth would never count, but, come on, Michael.
The world isn’t asking for much.
He disagreed, of course. Made his way quietly, carefully, to the old stone steps with ancient cracks and the evidence of a thousand footfalls. Didn’t care about who had come before him, who would come after him. Survival mode was like that when you were locked in, held so tight you couldn’t breathe, clenched too firmly to disagree when paranoia was a hinderance instead of an advantage. When your every waking moment was spent analyzing everything that could go wrong.
And nothing that might go right.
Trust no one, trust nothing, drink whiskey unless the numb washes over you, drag the heel end of a blade’s hilt across the hard bone of his forearm to distract. Unable to choose between what he really wanted, always tended toward NUMB but sometimes yearned for the flood of endorphins and the heart-hammering rush of adrenaline.
Today, as he glanced over both shoulders to ensure no one had seen his descent, he was leaning more toward booze, seedy bars, and cantankerous assholes. A decision made mostly to evade other people, finding the company of those as fucked up as himself far more agreeable than anyone who might look at life through a more positive lens.
Down narrow streets, eeling through alleys and between decrepit buildings. Knowing his way around The Last Whisper because this was where he came when he was too exhausted to run from his problems, when nothing he did made any sense.
When all he wanted to do was god damn die.
He snuck in through the staff entrance, the quickest way to reach his final destination: A corner booth that was situation in such a way that he could see every exit and every space where people travelled most consistently. Sure, it put him into a corner, but he’d see trouble – or ASSUME it was trouble based on his aggressive paranoia – and bail before anything could happen.
Hopefully.
In this case, paranoia and an innate understanding of how to survive even in the most perilous of situations did not prepare him for what he walked into:
Sticky, grabby spider webs, the skitter of an eight legged VOIDFreAk, and the brilliant flash of SOMETHING that came from the opposite side of the VlamVoed. White dots colored his vision from the strike of the flaming whip and the fire that burst around the thrashing of the creature.
Another didn’t hesitate to take advantage of his distraction, leaping straight at his face with legs spread wide, fangs exposed and ready to STAB. Michael knew he’d be fast enough to avoid the thing, but not graceful enough. His injured right forearm had taken a toll on his overall dexterity, and a simple dodge could be as troublesome as actually getting hit.
Except, he didn’t want to know what would happen should those fangs pierce flesh, and so he fell back. Landed with a harsh grunt and slammed both boots into the side of an overturned table, something light, not that heavy, but… it would stop it for now. Sent it directly into the path of the spider and half scrambled to a knee, that right arm flaring with pain as he applied weight to it. His back and sides coated in thick, tacky webbing.
“What in the god damn FUCK is going on in here?!” Hadn’t yet noticed exactly who was in the room with him. WOULD have had he enough time to care about what people looked like in that moment.
MICHAEL
Kid, get off the ground. Spit your blood and bare your teeth.
The world isn’t asking for much.
He disagreed, of course. Made his way quietly, carefully, to the old stone steps with ancient cracks and the evidence of a thousand footfalls. Didn’t care about who had come before him, who would come after him. Survival mode was like that when you were locked in, held so tight you couldn’t breathe, clenched too firmly to disagree when paranoia was a hinderance instead of an advantage. When your every waking moment was spent analyzing everything that could go wrong.
And nothing that might go right.
Trust no one, trust nothing, drink whiskey unless the numb washes over you, drag the heel end of a blade’s hilt across the hard bone of his forearm to distract. Unable to choose between what he really wanted, always tended toward NUMB but sometimes yearned for the flood of endorphins and the heart-hammering rush of adrenaline.
Today, as he glanced over both shoulders to ensure no one had seen his descent, he was leaning more toward booze, seedy bars, and cantankerous assholes. A decision made mostly to evade other people, finding the company of those as fucked up as himself far more agreeable than anyone who might look at life through a more positive lens.
Down narrow streets, eeling through alleys and between decrepit buildings. Knowing his way around The Last Whisper because this was where he came when he was too exhausted to run from his problems, when nothing he did made any sense.
When all he wanted to do was god damn die.
He snuck in through the staff entrance, the quickest way to reach his final destination: A corner booth that was situation in such a way that he could see every exit and every space where people travelled most consistently. Sure, it put him into a corner, but he’d see trouble – or ASSUME it was trouble based on his aggressive paranoia – and bail before anything could happen.
Hopefully.
In this case, paranoia and an innate understanding of how to survive even in the most perilous of situations did not prepare him for what he walked into:
Sticky, grabby spider webs, the skitter of an eight legged VOIDFreAk, and the brilliant flash of SOMETHING that came from the opposite side of the VlamVoed. White dots colored his vision from the strike of the flaming whip and the fire that burst around the thrashing of the creature.
Another didn’t hesitate to take advantage of his distraction, leaping straight at his face with legs spread wide, fangs exposed and ready to STAB. Michael knew he’d be fast enough to avoid the thing, but not graceful enough. His injured right forearm had taken a toll on his overall dexterity, and a simple dodge could be as troublesome as actually getting hit.
Except, he didn’t want to know what would happen should those fangs pierce flesh, and so he fell back. Landed with a harsh grunt and slammed both boots into the side of an overturned table, something light, not that heavy, but… it would stop it for now. Sent it directly into the path of the spider and half scrambled to a knee, that right arm flaring with pain as he applied weight to it. His back and sides coated in thick, tacky webbing.
“What in the god damn FUCK is going on in here?!” Hadn’t yet noticed exactly who was in the room with him. WOULD have had he enough time to care about what people looked like in that moment.
Go down fighting. Go down savage.
