(( cw: child death/experimentation, general trauma, horror shit ))
[ It is, in the end, easier to be in the a Horizon. He finds he can't stand people right now. How they look at him with wariness and distrust. It shouldn't bother him. He doesn't know why it suddenly does. This—nothing about it is new. Since when does he give a shit?
But after his temper got the better him, after he's sent more than one person reeling with a mere brush, he just. Wants to be alone. He doesn't give a shit who might land in the halls, in the yard. A few have. He remains in his room upstairs, drinking and waiting until they leave. It tastes bitter. Everything tastes bitter, ashes and sour, and he can't even care. (It's not like him, he thinks, not really. Is it?)
Only when he's crossing the main hall in search of more vodka (he can conjure it, he knows, but the motion is what feels natural)—that's when he hears it. A dull pounding from the stairs that wind downwards. His instincts are immediately on alert. There's something here. Something that shouldn't be.
His sword appears in his hand. He hesitates at first. Does it matter? In the a Horizon? The Singularity hasn't been right, though. Not for the past few days. Which means...
It matters. What might be down there.
He takes a deep breath. Forces his feet to move, descending. Darkness engulfs the walls, the stone. A foot or two from the door, he hears it beneath the thumping: grunting or cursing, he recognizes the voice by now. The fuck—
Geralt slams his hand on the door in response. Shit. ] Dean?
dean.
[ It is, in the end, easier to be in the a Horizon. He finds he can't stand people right now. How they look at him with wariness and distrust. It shouldn't bother him. He doesn't know why it suddenly does. This—nothing about it is new. Since when does he give a shit?
But after his temper got the better him, after he's sent more than one person reeling with a mere brush, he just. Wants to be alone. He doesn't give a shit who might land in the halls, in the yard. A few have. He remains in his room upstairs, drinking and waiting until they leave. It tastes bitter. Everything tastes bitter, ashes and sour, and he can't even care. (It's not like him, he thinks, not really. Is it?)
Only when he's crossing the main hall in search of more vodka (he can conjure it, he knows, but the motion is what feels natural)—that's when he hears it. A dull pounding from the stairs that wind downwards. His instincts are immediately on alert. There's something here. Something that shouldn't be.
His sword appears in his hand. He hesitates at first. Does it matter? In the a Horizon? The Singularity hasn't been right, though. Not for the past few days. Which means...
It matters. What might be down there.
He takes a deep breath. Forces his feet to move, descending. Darkness engulfs the walls, the stone. A foot or two from the door, he hears it beneath the thumping: grunting or cursing, he recognizes the voice by now. The fuck—
Geralt slams his hand on the door in response. Shit. ] Dean?