Michael
OUT OF DARKNESS INTO THE LIGHT
IF YOU WANT ME GONE
IF YOU WANT ME GONE
It was such a weird fucking thing, that thought:
I feel so far from home.
What HOME? He didn't have one, had never really nestled into the idea that one place in an entire world could be any kind of base. A single space where you put everything you needed for survival was DANGEROUS. Michael had caches in many places through the Hallowed Grounds and Hak Etme. A few in the wilder, colder places of Halo. Had reasons to choose the places that he did, though those reasons were beginning to blend together.
The chokehold of violet and chaos had destroyed more than one cache. Inaccessible due to voidfucks or other such things. A net closing by this WHATEVER bullshit, tighter and tighter. Maybe that was why he was feeling so uprooted and afraid.
He was a sculpin in a tidepool, the sun blazing overhead. The tide so far from him, the panicked promise that it would not reach him in time.
And that VOICE.
That god damn monotone, an invasion into the only thing he had any real control over:
His mind.
Even that was crumbling. Small pieces of it chipped away, little pebbles that could begin a landslide. And each time that voice was there, each time he knew there was no escape…
He lost a few more pebbles.
It's what had driven him to The Fangs. He had a few caches up there, little frozen bundles that would save his life if they were still in the places he'd buried them. Dressed accordingly in thick fur boots, pants, coat, gloves. A warm hat, a wrap of cloth and fur across his face. Snow goggles, their slits saving his eyes from the brilliant flash of moonlight or sunlight against snow and ice. A narrow cave nearby, a place to escape should the weather become too vicious for him to withstand.
And then a strange sight as he walked around the corner of a hill:
A man with a glass… box? … on his back? Trudging through ice and snow, his head swinging back and forth like he was searching for someone. Or something.
Wary, Michael crouched slightly and watched him. Tried to discern if he was friend or foe, careful not to wander too close to the group of Ethereal Frostblooms about three feet from one of his boots.
I feel so far from home.
What HOME? He didn't have one, had never really nestled into the idea that one place in an entire world could be any kind of base. A single space where you put everything you needed for survival was DANGEROUS. Michael had caches in many places through the Hallowed Grounds and Hak Etme. A few in the wilder, colder places of Halo. Had reasons to choose the places that he did, though those reasons were beginning to blend together.
The chokehold of violet and chaos had destroyed more than one cache. Inaccessible due to voidfucks or other such things. A net closing by this WHATEVER bullshit, tighter and tighter. Maybe that was why he was feeling so uprooted and afraid.
He was a sculpin in a tidepool, the sun blazing overhead. The tide so far from him, the panicked promise that it would not reach him in time.
And that VOICE.
That god damn monotone, an invasion into the only thing he had any real control over:
His mind.
Even that was crumbling. Small pieces of it chipped away, little pebbles that could begin a landslide. And each time that voice was there, each time he knew there was no escape…
He lost a few more pebbles.
It's what had driven him to The Fangs. He had a few caches up there, little frozen bundles that would save his life if they were still in the places he'd buried them. Dressed accordingly in thick fur boots, pants, coat, gloves. A warm hat, a wrap of cloth and fur across his face. Snow goggles, their slits saving his eyes from the brilliant flash of moonlight or sunlight against snow and ice. A narrow cave nearby, a place to escape should the weather become too vicious for him to withstand.
And then a strange sight as he walked around the corner of a hill:
A man with a glass… box? … on his back? Trudging through ice and snow, his head swinging back and forth like he was searching for someone. Or something.
Wary, Michael crouched slightly and watched him. Tried to discern if he was friend or foe, careful not to wander too close to the group of Ethereal Frostblooms about three feet from one of his boots.
YOU PULL THE TRIGGER YOURSELF
