Something Slender || Nightmares (cont.d)
Jul. 5th, 2024 01:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
xp_chameleon posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
xp_logsPeople Rictor cares about are being hurt, but he does nothing help.
TW: (Fake) Character Death
“Madin? Where are you?” Rictor was sure they had been right there next to him, but he had turned around once and they were gone. Odder still, the woods felt decidedly less northeast America than they had a moment ago. Gone were the grand maple and oak trees; instead, flowering trees like amapola and lluvia de oro towered over him.
A deafening BANG! sent Rictor ducking for cover behind the thick trunk of a flamboyan real, and he dared sneak a peek to find the source of the sound. There, several meters away in a large clearing, knelt a dozen elders clad in their white cotton ceremonial garb, his grandparents among them. Two gunmen stood over them, one surveying the group while the other pressed the barrel of his rifle against the back of Rictor’s grandfather’s head, finger on the trigger.
Rictor gasped, and the party of fourteen all turned at once to him. He felt frozen in place, as if the Yucatec jungle vines had wrapped around his legs to restrain him. He could not move, could not make another sound, as his grandfather cried out for help and the gunman’s finger squeezed . . .
Another bang and a flash of light, like thunder and lightning, and suddenly the forest was gone. Rictor stood in the concrete jungle of Manhattan now, dozens of people fleeing past him in terror. What were they running away from? More shouting called his attention, and Rictor pushed through the wave of refugees to find Shatterstar, sword in hand, face covered in blood, surrounded by a group of men with baseball bats, crowbars, butterfly knives. They hurled rocks and slurs at Shatterstar, and the swordsman was too fatigued to fend them off. Even as he sliced through the belly of one of them, more insurgents materialized and attacked him.
If someone did not intervene soon, then Shatterstar would be overwhelmed. Why was no one helping him? Why was he being left all alone? Was New York so full of losers that no one would step up?
Why wasn’t Rictor helping? Why was he crying?
When he brushed away his tears, he found himself in a dark hallway illuminated by several braziers lining the walls. There was another light at the end of the hall, a familiar shock of red hair glowing in the light of a twisted creature floating above and behind her. Hope and her Persona engaged in a brutal melee against walking suits of armor.
Just like his grandparents and elders, just like Shatterstar, Hope was overpowered. She was going to die, too, in this video game nightmare. But what could Rictor do? He was just a man. He could not intervene or he would surely perish along with them. He was useless. He had to hide. He had to flee.
Of course, there are words for men who simply leave other people to die.
Coward. Combarde. Sissy. Mariposa.
And that’s what Julio Rictor truly was, wasn’t he? Just a little boy pretending at being a man, living his life playing in the dirt and indulging in power fantasies, and if he did not give up now, then more people would die because of him.
The Slendermen drank deeply of his despair.
Madin is back in lock up, with Officer Slenderman as their new guard.
TW: Self Harm
The walls were reinforced, steel over concrete. There was a window glazed with six inch thick plexiglass that gave out blurred, wavery images of the outside, a single bed and desk, wardrobe, tv in a plexiglass box, a fairly private toilet, basin and shower - all with no hanging points. Standard issue for dangerous mutants.
And the door was closed.
Madin didn't try to open it. There was never any point if there was lockdown on. They weren't supposed to be here. They weren't. They'd been good. Done the right things. Opened up about their past. And they were back here.
Madin sank down to the floor in the corner between the desk and the wardrobe, where you were almost invisible from the door, breathing deeply, crying without realising it.
Something emerged from the blurred images outside the window - one hand with fingers that were far too long to be human, slapping audibly against the glass.
They curled up further away from the door, picking at the skin on their leg with their nails until it began to bleed. There were other patches on their legs that had already been picked raw. There was no chance of leaving. There was nothing they could do. They were stuck here.
Periodically, Madin got up to range around their cell. The space wasn't large. A handful of small steps one way, until the desk and cupboard got in the way, a handful of steps the other along the length of the bed. Step, step, step, toilet. Turn, step, step, step, bed. Step, step, door.
They leaned against the wall next to the door. They weren't crying anymore. Eyes closed, Madin just leaned against the wall, listening to the footsteps in the hall get louder and nearer. The scratching and tapping on the walls and the window and peephole was predictable by now. Madin curled their arms up in front of themself, picking at the skin on their arm until it started to bleed again.
The footsteps retreated. "Let me out."
They slid down the wall to sit leaning against the door. It swung open and Madin fell backwards through it. Oh fuck. They should just stay where they were. They should just stay.
Madin stood up and started walking. They should just stay. They should just stay in the cell.
Shatterstar comes home to Mama Terry - but something is very, very wrong.
It was like waking up into a dream. It was a mixture of Terry's suite and the apartment back in Manor Crossing. He hadn't been back to Manor Crossing since it started being rebuilt. The layout was Terry's but the wallpaper was the blue floral of Manor Crossing, the photos a mixture of both. It smelled like his aunt's perfume and Terry's cooking. He felt smaller, slightly off balance as he crept into the rooms.
He hadn't ever had this exact dream, but it wasn't unfamiliar to have two places be one place to him. The only thing is he didn't know how he fell asleep.
He caught sight of Terry's red hair, she was standing over the stove and facing away from him, even though the kitchen was closer to the one at Manor Crossing.
"Terry?"
The figure at the stove flickered, light and shadow distending and then contorting before turning around, a wide, facsimile of a smile on her face. Her hair seemed to float about her waist, unbound and so, so bright. "Hello, love. How are you doing? Would you like -- dinner?" She gestured toward the stovetop, elbow joint seeming to elongate for a fraction of a second.
This was wrong. She seemed almost waxen. But almost as if he was compelled, Shatterstar stepped forward to stand next to her. He stood close enough to feel the heat of her skin and realized that this wasn't a dream, likely. You didn't feel things in dreams. "Thank you, Terry."
“No worries, l-love,” she said, smile still far too wide, her hair rising around her head in an orange-red, oversized halo. “You know you’re my favorite.” Dead, black eyes crinkled at the corners in a poor facsimile of genuine joy.
Shatterstar stepped back at the sight of her empty eyes. "Terry- What-" he began, the room beginning to feeling hotter. He realized that he was having to look up at her.
The creature wearing Terry's face couldn't keep it any longer. The facsimile faded away, leaving a creature with a pure white face face in it's place wearing Terry's clothes. Shatterstar went mediately for the penknife in his back pocket. The slender changed again, catching fire and it was Ginny Wayword Russell's face being eaten by the flames. Instinctively, Shatterstar jumped back from the flames.
"Oh, Benji, honey, don't do that," the creature said in a voice Shatterstar hadn't heard in a decade. It made him freeze. When she had caught fire before it had been fast before it was over. He hadn't had time to watch her burning. "Don't do that, stay with me."
His heart was racing, but this- this wasn't Ginny. This wasn't his auntie. Ginny had been dead to begin with. This was- it was-
It like watching himself from outside his body when he flipped the penknife open. The creature lunged for him with burning hands- burning just like the last time he had seen her. Burning like all the other mutants who had spontaneously combusted. It went to pull him close to him.
He drove the penknife into its face. This was not his aunt. This was not Terry. This was not his aunt. It went into the creature too easily, like there was no bone at all. Shatter's powers burst through him right into the knife, shaking his whole arm with it.
The screech of his powers seemed deafening.
The explosion left him coated in the viscera of the creature. The smell of rotten eggs was overpowering. When the creature dropped, so did Shatterstar who fell heavily too his knees and vomitted, tear tracks all down his face. He wasn't sure if it was the over exertion of his powers, the smell and the goop. It was, he knew, seeing Ginny's face melting.
He knelt like that, heaving and clutching his penknife like a life line for a moment before he felt the thought.
Stand up, warrior. Get out.
He was wobbly and dizzy when he got to his feet, but he got to his feet and dragged himself to the door of the fake apartment which was fading around him.
He was going to get out.
TW: (Fake) Character Death
“Madin? Where are you?” Rictor was sure they had been right there next to him, but he had turned around once and they were gone. Odder still, the woods felt decidedly less northeast America than they had a moment ago. Gone were the grand maple and oak trees; instead, flowering trees like amapola and lluvia de oro towered over him.
A deafening BANG! sent Rictor ducking for cover behind the thick trunk of a flamboyan real, and he dared sneak a peek to find the source of the sound. There, several meters away in a large clearing, knelt a dozen elders clad in their white cotton ceremonial garb, his grandparents among them. Two gunmen stood over them, one surveying the group while the other pressed the barrel of his rifle against the back of Rictor’s grandfather’s head, finger on the trigger.
Rictor gasped, and the party of fourteen all turned at once to him. He felt frozen in place, as if the Yucatec jungle vines had wrapped around his legs to restrain him. He could not move, could not make another sound, as his grandfather cried out for help and the gunman’s finger squeezed . . .
Another bang and a flash of light, like thunder and lightning, and suddenly the forest was gone. Rictor stood in the concrete jungle of Manhattan now, dozens of people fleeing past him in terror. What were they running away from? More shouting called his attention, and Rictor pushed through the wave of refugees to find Shatterstar, sword in hand, face covered in blood, surrounded by a group of men with baseball bats, crowbars, butterfly knives. They hurled rocks and slurs at Shatterstar, and the swordsman was too fatigued to fend them off. Even as he sliced through the belly of one of them, more insurgents materialized and attacked him.
If someone did not intervene soon, then Shatterstar would be overwhelmed. Why was no one helping him? Why was he being left all alone? Was New York so full of losers that no one would step up?
Why wasn’t Rictor helping? Why was he crying?
When he brushed away his tears, he found himself in a dark hallway illuminated by several braziers lining the walls. There was another light at the end of the hall, a familiar shock of red hair glowing in the light of a twisted creature floating above and behind her. Hope and her Persona engaged in a brutal melee against walking suits of armor.
Just like his grandparents and elders, just like Shatterstar, Hope was overpowered. She was going to die, too, in this video game nightmare. But what could Rictor do? He was just a man. He could not intervene or he would surely perish along with them. He was useless. He had to hide. He had to flee.
Of course, there are words for men who simply leave other people to die.
Coward. Combarde. Sissy. Mariposa.
And that’s what Julio Rictor truly was, wasn’t he? Just a little boy pretending at being a man, living his life playing in the dirt and indulging in power fantasies, and if he did not give up now, then more people would die because of him.
The Slendermen drank deeply of his despair.
Madin is back in lock up, with Officer Slenderman as their new guard.
TW: Self Harm
The walls were reinforced, steel over concrete. There was a window glazed with six inch thick plexiglass that gave out blurred, wavery images of the outside, a single bed and desk, wardrobe, tv in a plexiglass box, a fairly private toilet, basin and shower - all with no hanging points. Standard issue for dangerous mutants.
And the door was closed.
Madin didn't try to open it. There was never any point if there was lockdown on. They weren't supposed to be here. They weren't. They'd been good. Done the right things. Opened up about their past. And they were back here.
Madin sank down to the floor in the corner between the desk and the wardrobe, where you were almost invisible from the door, breathing deeply, crying without realising it.
Something emerged from the blurred images outside the window - one hand with fingers that were far too long to be human, slapping audibly against the glass.
They curled up further away from the door, picking at the skin on their leg with their nails until it began to bleed. There were other patches on their legs that had already been picked raw. There was no chance of leaving. There was nothing they could do. They were stuck here.
Periodically, Madin got up to range around their cell. The space wasn't large. A handful of small steps one way, until the desk and cupboard got in the way, a handful of steps the other along the length of the bed. Step, step, step, toilet. Turn, step, step, step, bed. Step, step, door.
They leaned against the wall next to the door. They weren't crying anymore. Eyes closed, Madin just leaned against the wall, listening to the footsteps in the hall get louder and nearer. The scratching and tapping on the walls and the window and peephole was predictable by now. Madin curled their arms up in front of themself, picking at the skin on their arm until it started to bleed again.
The footsteps retreated. "Let me out."
They slid down the wall to sit leaning against the door. It swung open and Madin fell backwards through it. Oh fuck. They should just stay where they were. They should just stay.
Madin stood up and started walking. They should just stay. They should just stay in the cell.
Shatterstar comes home to Mama Terry - but something is very, very wrong.
It was like waking up into a dream. It was a mixture of Terry's suite and the apartment back in Manor Crossing. He hadn't been back to Manor Crossing since it started being rebuilt. The layout was Terry's but the wallpaper was the blue floral of Manor Crossing, the photos a mixture of both. It smelled like his aunt's perfume and Terry's cooking. He felt smaller, slightly off balance as he crept into the rooms.
He hadn't ever had this exact dream, but it wasn't unfamiliar to have two places be one place to him. The only thing is he didn't know how he fell asleep.
He caught sight of Terry's red hair, she was standing over the stove and facing away from him, even though the kitchen was closer to the one at Manor Crossing.
"Terry?"
The figure at the stove flickered, light and shadow distending and then contorting before turning around, a wide, facsimile of a smile on her face. Her hair seemed to float about her waist, unbound and so, so bright. "Hello, love. How are you doing? Would you like -- dinner?" She gestured toward the stovetop, elbow joint seeming to elongate for a fraction of a second.
This was wrong. She seemed almost waxen. But almost as if he was compelled, Shatterstar stepped forward to stand next to her. He stood close enough to feel the heat of her skin and realized that this wasn't a dream, likely. You didn't feel things in dreams. "Thank you, Terry."
“No worries, l-love,” she said, smile still far too wide, her hair rising around her head in an orange-red, oversized halo. “You know you’re my favorite.” Dead, black eyes crinkled at the corners in a poor facsimile of genuine joy.
Shatterstar stepped back at the sight of her empty eyes. "Terry- What-" he began, the room beginning to feeling hotter. He realized that he was having to look up at her.
The creature wearing Terry's face couldn't keep it any longer. The facsimile faded away, leaving a creature with a pure white face face in it's place wearing Terry's clothes. Shatterstar went mediately for the penknife in his back pocket. The slender changed again, catching fire and it was Ginny Wayword Russell's face being eaten by the flames. Instinctively, Shatterstar jumped back from the flames.
"Oh, Benji, honey, don't do that," the creature said in a voice Shatterstar hadn't heard in a decade. It made him freeze. When she had caught fire before it had been fast before it was over. He hadn't had time to watch her burning. "Don't do that, stay with me."
His heart was racing, but this- this wasn't Ginny. This wasn't his auntie. Ginny had been dead to begin with. This was- it was-
It like watching himself from outside his body when he flipped the penknife open. The creature lunged for him with burning hands- burning just like the last time he had seen her. Burning like all the other mutants who had spontaneously combusted. It went to pull him close to him.
He drove the penknife into its face. This was not his aunt. This was not Terry. This was not his aunt. It went into the creature too easily, like there was no bone at all. Shatter's powers burst through him right into the knife, shaking his whole arm with it.
The screech of his powers seemed deafening.
The explosion left him coated in the viscera of the creature. The smell of rotten eggs was overpowering. When the creature dropped, so did Shatterstar who fell heavily too his knees and vomitted, tear tracks all down his face. He wasn't sure if it was the over exertion of his powers, the smell and the goop. It was, he knew, seeing Ginny's face melting.
He knelt like that, heaving and clutching his penknife like a life line for a moment before he felt the thought.
Stand up, warrior. Get out.
He was wobbly and dizzy when he got to his feet, but he got to his feet and dragged himself to the door of the fake apartment which was fading around him.
He was going to get out.
no subject
Date: 2024-07-05 10:21 pm (UTC)