[log] Event: Metamorphosis, Part Three

[snowblindmods]

Characters: everyone
Location: all around town; note location in subject line
Date: Night 415 onward; note time in subject line
Summary: They break out and they wake up.
Warnings: extreme body horror, unreality, eldritch horror, absolutely definitely 100% include warnings in subject lines/before your comment if the subject line isn't long enough

Comments

a(aaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA)

[headjacked]

[ By all accounts, Rhys should not be moving anymore. He shouldn't even be conscious with the amount of pain he's in, from sources he's stopped bothering to track. From crushing hugs to toxic shoves, he's been reduced to a slow limp, vision blurry and progress glacial.

Still. He is moving, and technically on his feet. And he is desperately trying to find his name-twin. ]

Rhys...?

[ His voice is still surprisingly strong. Shame that he's so otherwise weak, like a bleating and injured fawn in a nest of predators. All legs and pain and zero sense.

At least the predators have, thus far, been non-malicious. Only almost-killing with kindness. ]

Rhys!

[ Louder, after a series of coughs. He squints, looking for any sign of movement down the hall. Please be not-dead, Inky. And please still be Inky. No more twisted versions of friends and loved ones.

But hey, when does this Rhys ever catch a break? ]

[bookofnope]

[At least they can be never-catching-a-break buddies. Right? Total buddies. Don't worry fawn, your favourite wolf is coming.

He's right there, down the hall.

Beckett's new, rotting, shambling form isn't built for speed. He approaches step by step, making up for it with inevitabilty. And with the near physical press of the putrid cloud of stink and ash that rolls ahead of and along with him. His eyes glow inside it. Non-malicious is clearly out of style.]

Look at you. Running again?

[headjacked]

[ The smell hits well before the sight, forcing an almost involuntarily arm to sling protectively over his face. He halts in his tracks, coughing roughly into the limb made of flesh blood and bone. ]

Running? ...noooooo.

[ It's not a lie, even, as he cannot gather the stength to do anything comparable to 'running'.

But. He does stand straight and tall, even as he feels like retching.

He can't be weak for Beckett.

Any version of Beckett. ]

Do you wa.... wanna hug me? I love you, b-b... ...b-but I'm all hugged out. For... maybe ever.

[ Don't be scared. Dontbescared. ]

[bookofnope]

[Let's see you not be scared. He knows you, Reeser. He knows that scared is what you do.]

I'm sure you'd love that, [he spits out the words, along with flecks of wet ash. He stops a small distance away - not because he's rethinking any bad intentions, but because if he comes too close it'd all just be over much too quickly. And he's not here to end things. Not quickly. Quick endings are a mercy.]

That's your idea of a cure-all, isn't it? Just hug it out. That must solve everything.

[He is too close to dodge.]

[headjacked]

Heh. What else would you be here fhhgh... fo...

[ A not-quite cough that turns into the genuine article, and from there seeps into his bones and muscles and nerves and every little bit of the man called Rhys

There is someone with confidence taking steps to rule Hyperion while he hangs back, unsure and afraid and unworthy, but at the same time it was him and he's the reason Fi and Sasha and Vaughn are going to die and it all

rushes

sloshes, really, through a skull too empty. Rhys shoves his robotic fingers through his hair, grounding himself with how cold with metal digits are. ]

IF - [ he cannot counter, he can dig his nails into his leg and keep his jaw set ] - it did, would you be s-satisfied?