The others take their time. Study their forms, reorient, talk to each other and ask questions. Not Beckett. Beckett is out of questions. Beckett knows exactly what is happening: death.
His mind has gone even before the transformation really began. Sometimes in the little hours of the second night in the blank room, curled up on his side with his back to a world he could no longer see as anything but a lie. He'd been ready - not to die, but for comfortable madness. And madness had obliged him. When he'd woken into what he is now, it made perfect sense. This was all he'd been all along. Walking death. Rotting mortality. Grief. The only thing he could trust anymore was grief.
But there were others out there, and they had everything he didn't. Lives. Hopes. Worlds. And what had he been all along if not a predator.
He doesn't care where he's come from, what has been done to him, or where he's going. Only the hunt. He prowls the city, a half-corpse in a cloud of suffocating rot and a trail of steaming ooze. Looking for them.
B - This is a totally normal Norfinbury day, right?
Which is all very unpleasant, but Beckett doesn't know a thing about it. Why would he? As far as he's concerned, he's just woken up after missing another bloody day for no reason he can grasp, and it's really time to get back to the bunker. But he has supplies, he's not alone - Enoch is always good company - and he's feeling downright refreshed by the trip. The missing time is certainly alarming, but more in the general way that everything in Norfinbury is alarming. They'll get back to the bunker and... probably not sort it out, but feel better being together with the others.
That's the philosophy he starts the day's journey with. It'll be better to be together with people. Right.
CW: disease, rotting alive, respiratory distress, bodily fluids
The others take their time. Study their forms, reorient, talk to each other and ask questions. Not Beckett. Beckett is out of questions. Beckett knows exactly what is happening: death.
His mind has gone even before the transformation really began. Sometimes in the little hours of the second night in the blank room, curled up on his side with his back to a world he could no longer see as anything but a lie. He'd been ready - not to die, but for comfortable madness. And madness had obliged him. When he'd woken into what he is now, it made perfect sense. This was all he'd been all along. Walking death. Rotting mortality. Grief. The only thing he could trust anymore was grief.
But there were others out there, and they had everything he didn't. Lives. Hopes. Worlds. And what had he been all along if not a predator.
He doesn't care where he's come from, what has been done to him, or where he's going. Only the hunt. He prowls the city, a half-corpse in a cloud of suffocating rot and a trail of steaming ooze. Looking for them.
B - This is a totally normal Norfinbury day, right?
Which is all very unpleasant, but Beckett doesn't know a thing about it. Why would he? As far as he's concerned, he's just woken up after missing another bloody day for no reason he can grasp, and it's really time to get back to the bunker. But he has supplies, he's not alone - Enoch is always good company - and he's feeling downright refreshed by the trip. The missing time is certainly alarming, but more in the general way that everything in Norfinbury is alarming. They'll get back to the bunker and... probably not sort it out, but feel better being together with the others.
That's the philosophy he starts the day's journey with. It'll be better to be together with people. Right.
Right.