Collective Soul | Lingering Trauma
Dec. 28th, 2023 07:41 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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xp_logsBeatrice tries to find Arthur, but finds something else instead. Arthur's psychic powers continue to leave their traces across the mansion.
No one had answered but the door had been unlocked.
The suite was cleaner than her own, and Beatrice stood in the room for a moment, brows drawing together as she looked for Arthur. But no. He must be busy at work in the city. Taking another step forward, her shoe came into contact with a tennis ball laying idly. Well, mostly clean.
Leaning down, she picked it up carefully, mind ready to find Felix's toy basket.
She found herself in another room entirely.
***
It was a hotel room. There were more than several things to take in, be it the 70s aesthetic, the ice-cold blonde woman looming with nonchalant menace typically reserved for movie villains, or any of the number of goons that lined the open hallway. This was all overset with a filter of rage, loathing, and confusion. They blended together to wash the scene like sepia.
Then the television set erupted in a burst of static, then sharpened to show an image of what felt like a familiar man behind a desk. "And what kind of businessman would I be if I let people buy their way out of a contract?" the man on the other side of the screen asked, making a tsk sound of disappointment. "That's just bad business, my boy." He leaned over the desk, his jovial expression disappearing. "I -own- you, son."
The rage spiked, and there was a tingling on the back of their neck. Something was calling. A power.
"As amusing as watching you flail about has been, it's time to go," the white haired woman said, and she nodded toward the goons.
The loss of freedom was unacceptable. What had been done to… him. Him.
The viewer’s eye flared like a nova, star-bright, and the unseen tumblers of reality began to click into place one by...
One. There was a sharp squeal of metal as pipes burst across the exterior walls of the motel.
Two. And a snap as the new spray of water sparked against exposed electrical wire hidden behind the television.
Three. None of these sounds were as loud as the sound of metal on cement as a mack truck careened off the highway overpass and into the side of the motel, its driver asleep at the wheel.
The flunkies were scattered across the room like ragdolls by the truck's chassis. They hit the far wall with a trio of thuds followed by the crackle of bones breaking. The truck kept sliding toward the viewer, coming to a halt a foot away.
The man, and it was apparent Bea was in a man’s head now, had fallen on his knees. The world was ringing in his ears, and all he could do was hold his head and repeat "Stay away. Stay away. Stay away."
The rest of the motel began to disintegrate slowly from one unfortunate event or another as if in answer. Any flaw in construction or missed inspection or overdue repair rebounded and redoubled, spreading fire and flood as the once peaceful establishment morphed into a disaster area. More walls crumbled, lights burst, and every single attempt by the men trying to assault them failed in nonsensical, spectacular ways.
The cocky woman was talking again. Frowning. "Arthur—" she began sternly, only to be cut off as she blinked away from a tire that picked that exact time to burst and send heated rubber spraying at the place where she had stood.
Arthur.
"You need to-" she began again from a spot on the other side of the room, and then cut off and teleported away again as exposed wiring whipsawed out of the drywall. "Dammit, you little prick-" she snarled, her perfect composure finally falling apart.
It was then the liquid nitrogen the truck was carrying cut loose and froze over a third of the room.
The tableau seemed to crawl in slow motion as the man took a deep breath and the chaos synced with the pulsing star in his eye. There was a creeping feeling of acceptance at the edge of their shared mind in the memory. It was not a conscious thought, but a clearing of the head. Surrendering to something larger.
"Arooo."
A sharp whine finally snapped the viewer's attention back to the scene at hand. It was... familiar. The yellow dog in the middle of all of this was also familiar, outlined in the doorframe of the adjoined bathroom.
Beatrice knew that dog.
That jolt of something known was enough to break her out of the memory.
***
There were footfalls behind her.
The back of her neck prickled in warning and Bea dropped the tennis ball she'd picked up idly, like a child caught with a toy they weren't supposed to have and had been told before. But just as quickly her hands shot out to catch it. Much too quickly when one took into account her previous state.
Turning around, mouth already opened to apologize, struggling to regain her bearings as she returned to Arthur's suite -- never left? -- when she found Felix's soft eyes staring up at her.
The fear melted away as a smile bloomed. He was older now but still so sweet, tail beginning to flick happily as he confirmed she did indeed have his fetch ball.
When it became apart there was no other shoe waiting to drop, no other living soul in the room except the two of them, she wiggled the ball in front of his face. "Do you wanna play?" She asked the golden retriever brightly. Her eyes scanned the suite, warriness furrowing her brows as she looked over the array of items she was sure were Arthur's. "I think we can make time for that, my dear."
No one had answered but the door had been unlocked.
The suite was cleaner than her own, and Beatrice stood in the room for a moment, brows drawing together as she looked for Arthur. But no. He must be busy at work in the city. Taking another step forward, her shoe came into contact with a tennis ball laying idly. Well, mostly clean.
Leaning down, she picked it up carefully, mind ready to find Felix's toy basket.
She found herself in another room entirely.
***
It was a hotel room. There were more than several things to take in, be it the 70s aesthetic, the ice-cold blonde woman looming with nonchalant menace typically reserved for movie villains, or any of the number of goons that lined the open hallway. This was all overset with a filter of rage, loathing, and confusion. They blended together to wash the scene like sepia.
Then the television set erupted in a burst of static, then sharpened to show an image of what felt like a familiar man behind a desk. "And what kind of businessman would I be if I let people buy their way out of a contract?" the man on the other side of the screen asked, making a tsk sound of disappointment. "That's just bad business, my boy." He leaned over the desk, his jovial expression disappearing. "I -own- you, son."
The rage spiked, and there was a tingling on the back of their neck. Something was calling. A power.
"As amusing as watching you flail about has been, it's time to go," the white haired woman said, and she nodded toward the goons.
The loss of freedom was unacceptable. What had been done to… him. Him.
The viewer’s eye flared like a nova, star-bright, and the unseen tumblers of reality began to click into place one by...
One. There was a sharp squeal of metal as pipes burst across the exterior walls of the motel.
Two. And a snap as the new spray of water sparked against exposed electrical wire hidden behind the television.
Three. None of these sounds were as loud as the sound of metal on cement as a mack truck careened off the highway overpass and into the side of the motel, its driver asleep at the wheel.
The flunkies were scattered across the room like ragdolls by the truck's chassis. They hit the far wall with a trio of thuds followed by the crackle of bones breaking. The truck kept sliding toward the viewer, coming to a halt a foot away.
The man, and it was apparent Bea was in a man’s head now, had fallen on his knees. The world was ringing in his ears, and all he could do was hold his head and repeat "Stay away. Stay away. Stay away."
The rest of the motel began to disintegrate slowly from one unfortunate event or another as if in answer. Any flaw in construction or missed inspection or overdue repair rebounded and redoubled, spreading fire and flood as the once peaceful establishment morphed into a disaster area. More walls crumbled, lights burst, and every single attempt by the men trying to assault them failed in nonsensical, spectacular ways.
The cocky woman was talking again. Frowning. "Arthur—" she began sternly, only to be cut off as she blinked away from a tire that picked that exact time to burst and send heated rubber spraying at the place where she had stood.
Arthur.
"You need to-" she began again from a spot on the other side of the room, and then cut off and teleported away again as exposed wiring whipsawed out of the drywall. "Dammit, you little prick-" she snarled, her perfect composure finally falling apart.
It was then the liquid nitrogen the truck was carrying cut loose and froze over a third of the room.
The tableau seemed to crawl in slow motion as the man took a deep breath and the chaos synced with the pulsing star in his eye. There was a creeping feeling of acceptance at the edge of their shared mind in the memory. It was not a conscious thought, but a clearing of the head. Surrendering to something larger.
"Arooo."
A sharp whine finally snapped the viewer's attention back to the scene at hand. It was... familiar. The yellow dog in the middle of all of this was also familiar, outlined in the doorframe of the adjoined bathroom.
Beatrice knew that dog.
That jolt of something known was enough to break her out of the memory.
***
There were footfalls behind her.
The back of her neck prickled in warning and Bea dropped the tennis ball she'd picked up idly, like a child caught with a toy they weren't supposed to have and had been told before. But just as quickly her hands shot out to catch it. Much too quickly when one took into account her previous state.
Turning around, mouth already opened to apologize, struggling to regain her bearings as she returned to Arthur's suite -- never left? -- when she found Felix's soft eyes staring up at her.
The fear melted away as a smile bloomed. He was older now but still so sweet, tail beginning to flick happily as he confirmed she did indeed have his fetch ball.
When it became apart there was no other shoe waiting to drop, no other living soul in the room except the two of them, she wiggled the ball in front of his face. "Do you wanna play?" She asked the golden retriever brightly. Her eyes scanned the suite, warriness furrowing her brows as she looked over the array of items she was sure were Arthur's. "I think we can make time for that, my dear."
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Date: 2023-12-28 10:59 pm (UTC)