Juji Kabane (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
onlyhalfdead) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
towerofanimus2013-01-11 05:46 pm
onlyhalfdead) wrote in towerofanimus2013-01-11 05:46 pm
Entry tags:
An Uncommonly Quiet Moment [OPEN]
Characters: Jyuji and you
Setting: Floor 48, Friday, late afternoon/sunset-ish
Format: Prose to start, but will match.
Summary: Jyuji is actually trying not to blow his top. For the moment.
Warnings: Potential for violence/a fight if Jyuji loses his temper. Also, language.
There were two floors in the Tower that Jyuji made sure to avoid like the plague once he had the Tower layout etched into his memory. Just the smell in the infirmary and the laboratory set him off; he knew that sterile burn in his nostrils, that lack of anything that didn't smell like chemicals, like disinfectant. It made his skin crawl, made his scars itch. Hell, he got a headache just thinking about it. He hated it. Even more, he hated that it still threatened to make him boil over with terror and rage all rolled up into one white-hot knot in his chest. He despised the memories for still holding so much power over him.
Most of all, he hated that he was expected to drag his carcass into the infirmary and sit there like a good little deadman while faceless strangers poked about his collar on a semi-regular basis. And oh, how he loathed the collar. He tugged at it absently, as though this time it might come loose.
He wandered his way to the graveyard, distracted, all the while thinking of a pair of big green eyes admonishing him every time he nearly took a swing. Why think of Mika so much all of a sudden? He couldn't be lonely. No, he was just angry. Angry and still on edge from his collar checkup, even days later. He twitched, remembering the smells and sounds, wishing the cold would erase the memories and telling himself he'd never go willingly again.
Briefly, he sort of hoped someone would happen along and give him a good reason, one Mika couldn't argue with. He ached for a fight, something to release all the pent-up tension and bottled fury of the last couple weeks. He hated this place. Whenever he found the people in charge, he promised himself, he'd kill them. Slowly and painfully. They'd wish they'd never even considered rescuing him. He'd rather be incinerated with Grave and Mika and RB than here. Being dead back home wasn't great, but it was so much better than this. He couldn't stand this screwed up life here. He couldn't stand himself, either, for missing the twang and scratch of guitar strings on his back, for still waiting on the call that would never come. How the hell was Mika supposed to get hold of him here?
"Tch. Listen to me, why don't ya?" he snorted scornfully at a bunch of flowers placed on a grave as he leaned against its tombstone. There was hardly any fragrance left at all, just enough to know the flowers were there and picture something trite like lilies or carnations; he supposed they were dead already, wilted away with frost and neglect. He let the cold eat at his rage, numbing the edges. He could almost hear that stupid, sad song RB always played, and he couldn't even make himself shut it out. He just crossed his arms and bowed his head. "What a bunch of sentimental crap."
Setting: Floor 48, Friday, late afternoon/sunset-ish
Format: Prose to start, but will match.
Summary: Jyuji is actually trying not to blow his top. For the moment.
Warnings: Potential for violence/a fight if Jyuji loses his temper. Also, language.
There were two floors in the Tower that Jyuji made sure to avoid like the plague once he had the Tower layout etched into his memory. Just the smell in the infirmary and the laboratory set him off; he knew that sterile burn in his nostrils, that lack of anything that didn't smell like chemicals, like disinfectant. It made his skin crawl, made his scars itch. Hell, he got a headache just thinking about it. He hated it. Even more, he hated that it still threatened to make him boil over with terror and rage all rolled up into one white-hot knot in his chest. He despised the memories for still holding so much power over him.
Most of all, he hated that he was expected to drag his carcass into the infirmary and sit there like a good little deadman while faceless strangers poked about his collar on a semi-regular basis. And oh, how he loathed the collar. He tugged at it absently, as though this time it might come loose.
He wandered his way to the graveyard, distracted, all the while thinking of a pair of big green eyes admonishing him every time he nearly took a swing. Why think of Mika so much all of a sudden? He couldn't be lonely. No, he was just angry. Angry and still on edge from his collar checkup, even days later. He twitched, remembering the smells and sounds, wishing the cold would erase the memories and telling himself he'd never go willingly again.
Briefly, he sort of hoped someone would happen along and give him a good reason, one Mika couldn't argue with. He ached for a fight, something to release all the pent-up tension and bottled fury of the last couple weeks. He hated this place. Whenever he found the people in charge, he promised himself, he'd kill them. Slowly and painfully. They'd wish they'd never even considered rescuing him. He'd rather be incinerated with Grave and Mika and RB than here. Being dead back home wasn't great, but it was so much better than this. He couldn't stand this screwed up life here. He couldn't stand himself, either, for missing the twang and scratch of guitar strings on his back, for still waiting on the call that would never come. How the hell was Mika supposed to get hold of him here?
"Tch. Listen to me, why don't ya?" he snorted scornfully at a bunch of flowers placed on a grave as he leaned against its tombstone. There was hardly any fragrance left at all, just enough to know the flowers were there and picture something trite like lilies or carnations; he supposed they were dead already, wilted away with frost and neglect. He let the cold eat at his rage, numbing the edges. He could almost hear that stupid, sad song RB always played, and he couldn't even make himself shut it out. He just crossed his arms and bowed his head. "What a bunch of sentimental crap."