Patrick Dawn (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bashfulshifter) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
towerofanimus2013-08-11 03:06 pm
bashfulshifter) wrote in towerofanimus2013-08-11 03:06 pm
Cabin Fever
Characters: Patrick Dawn and OPEN
Setting: August 11th - Room 1-16/First Floor Dorms, Floor 26 (Morgue), Floor 15 (Workshop), Floor 81 (Fifth-Block Lounge). If it strikes your fancy, characters might also catch him in the Cafeteria for breakfast. POST EDIT: last prompt is in the stairwell, non-specific time near the middle/end of the week!
Format: Starting prose, can match!
Summary: Rick is forced to leave his room after two days to get some food and do his job. Following his death in the Monster Souls plot, there are quite a few people he doesn't want to run into; he will invariably do so. Also, some initial reactions to the Individuation event; last prompt goes further into the consequences.
Warnings: Lots o' angst, possible descriptions of character death/attempted suicide(?). I would not be surprised if there's some violence involved.
Room 1-16/First Floor Dorms: The Cabin in Question
Rick woke up that morning the same way he had the day before: listless, emotionally drained and lacking motivation to do anything more than walk down the hall for the bathrooms, then walk back and go to sleep again. He probably wouldn't have even recognized that it was morning, if not for the internal clock that was Rusty the cat, prodding at his mind as he dragged himself from his dorm.
The smells were strange on this floor again, Rusty complained with annoying persistence. He'd neglected marking for far too long, and that simply would not do. Also they hadn't eaten for two days--and Rick had to agree with the rest of his souls that this much, at least, was inexcusable. He lumbered back to 1-16 to change out of his pajamas...
...but such aspirations were struck down upon inspecting his sweater and pants. Burned, sliced and stained with blood. The massive cut across the front of his shirt which nearly split it in half. Nearly split him in half. The pain in their eyes as he tore them apart, ripping their minds open with their own pasts. Enoch's snarl when he brought the Arch down.
Hurt them so horribly...an emotional WRECK!
Rick dropped his ruined clothes on the ground and stumbled into bed, curled into a shuddering lump while he pushed away the concerned voices in his head. He hid his face in his arms to avoid the judging gazes of all the ones he'd hurt. Something so insubstantial as food would have to wait.
Floor 26 (Morgue): The Necessities
Once Rick was finally convinced to feed himself, he began his harrowing journey through the Tower for the first time in several days. He intended it to be a quick trip, but every time he tried to leave the room, some other dire task wormed its way into his subconscious.
His job, for example--cleaning and maintaining the morgue on floor 26. He'd neglected it for most of the last week due to obvious circumstances; the idea of how disgusting it must have gotten since then did not improve Rick's mood. Covered corpses and random bowls of entrails aside, keeping the place clean didn't phase Rick as much as it probably should. His task was to make those nasty things disappear, anyways. It was less of an inconvenience for him and more a service to everyone else that happened to stop by.
...As if anyone made a casual jaunt to the morgue. The relative isolation of the place also helped, along with the monotony of scrubbing grime and the satisfaction of using one's hands to fix and improve. So, as Rick had hoped, getting into the swing of cleaning successfully distracted him from the troubles of the past week, and so long as nobody came to interrupt him he would feel much better on the outset.
Floor 15 (Workshop): Attempted Repairs
The idea of forevermore wandering the Tower in his pajamas was sufficiently embarrassing enough for Rick to bring his tattered clothes and stop by the workshop, in the hope that they were still salvageable. Given their current condition the task was...daunting, to say the least. Rick had somehow managed to clean the blood out after scrubbing the morgue, and the clean cuts wouldn't be so bad to sew together, but the burns...when did he even get those? Why couldn't he remember?
Unsettled by a combination of his missing memory, the memories that remained, and the dawning realization that his favorite sweater might be irreparable, Rick stayed stationary at his corner of the room and stared, pensive and troubled, at the mismatched fabric strewn on the table in front of him. Of course, the workshop saw a much larger volume of patrons than the morgue did, and the idea of running into anyone was slowly beginning to cloud Rick's thoughts and make him very jumpy.
Floor 81 (Fifth-Block Lounge): The Retreat
Well, that was terrifying!
Rick collapsed into a lounge chair and buried his face in his hands. Part of that was in defense of every person he came into contact with throughout the day, known or otherwise; he had been in no position to be social, and the effects of being social anyways were crippling.
The other part was to pretend like the three shadow things grinning at him from across the room did not exist.
They're only Shades, he tried to convince himself, thoroughly rubbing his eyes before peering over his fingers to watch them. They were Shades, right? He asked them on the way up the stairs, but they were mute, or otherwise uninterested in responding...but he was fairly certain that's what they were. I mean, they just seemed far too familiar to not be Shades. There just...happened to be quite a lot of them, following everyone else in the Tower. And now also him. Well.
Their curious gazes remained locked on his own. Realizing that he was probably being terribly rude, Rick straightened in his seat and addressed them quietly:
"I-I'm...s-sorry. I d-don't think I-I c-can help you."
They didn't move, but one cocked its head inquisitively. Or, at least Rick thought it was being inquisitive. He sighed and slumped forward again, a familiar tightness forming in his gut, drawing him inward.
"...I--I don't th-think I-I c-c-c-can help...a-anyone..."
He took off his glasses and buried his hands in his hair, and then he gave up and shut out the Tower entirely.
Stairwell: If only she were here...
By the last half of the week, there was little hope to be had.
Rick collapsed in the stairwell. Frankly he'd expected this to happen earlier, after finally reaching the Cafeteria upon hiking down one-hundred floors at the start of the week since the elevators were out, but at least he could pace himself, take breaks, catch his breath every couple of flights. At this point he simply didn't have the energy to continue—not helped by the fact that he'd stopped eating again—certainly not helped by the shadow children hounding him at every corner.
Where had he even been walking to? Had he really just been wandering the stairwell the entire day? When did he last sleep? All unimportant questions; all Rick could fathom was that he was tired, so immeasurably exhausted to even continue onward. And now that he could rest, perhaps the voices of his friends could fill the void that the voices in his head, growing as faint as the hue of his collar, had so conveniently left him...
He figured out who they were by midweek. The two children that paced around one another were his best friends, the Epps twins. They were the most vocal, although they talked amongst themselves:
All that training for nothing, I guess, said the soft voice of Clayton, layered with pity. For someone so attached to the astral plane, you'd think he'd learn how to control his own powers better, huh?
Gary's voice, glaringly sharp in contrast, answered without pause. It's almost as if he wasn't prepared for the Tower at all! Geniuses, these administrators. Had to go and pick the most useless pile of spineless meat from our universe! What makes him so special? Well, Rick? C-C-C-C-C-C-Come on, chubby, answer me!
They were frustrated at him—Rick could recognize that. He deserved every insult they threw at him, no matter how much they hurt. But the third sang to him only briefly, and was the sweet siren call that finally pulled him to the floor.
...Honey? What's that in your pocket?
She knew what was in his pocket. Ashamed, Rick couldn't bring himself to move.
Rick. Look at me.
His face was still wet, but he didn't have the strength to cry. Rick slowly looked up and locked eyes with the child that had returned his curious glances since it had arrived, never blinking, keeping steady with the pinpoints of olive green above her toothy grin. She was close to him now; the twins continued to mock and chide, but their voices were quiet whispers, mere salt in his wounds. Codi knew her husband too well—she knew her quiet words would get his attention much more effectively than his friends' insults and screams.
Give me the ring, she said.
Rick shook his head, even though his hand was already reaching into his pocket.
Patiently: You gave that to me, remember? They took it from me. I want it back now.
He managed a sob—quick, gasping, like a single yelp of pain. "...P-P-Please...I-I-I-It's all I-I-I-I—"
—I am what you have left. I'm here. Isn't that what you wanted?
Clayton chimed in: You aren't happy to see her again? Did the last ten years mean anything to you?
Shivering uncontrollably, Rick palmed his wife's wedding ring and held it delicately in front of his face. Codi stared from behind it, unmoving.
Honey...I know this is painful. But the least you can do is let me rest peacefully. Just give me the ring. Let me hold you...
Slowly, wearily, Rick extended his hand.
Setting: August 11th - Room 1-16/First Floor Dorms, Floor 26 (Morgue), Floor 15 (Workshop), Floor 81 (Fifth-Block Lounge). If it strikes your fancy, characters might also catch him in the Cafeteria for breakfast. POST EDIT: last prompt is in the stairwell, non-specific time near the middle/end of the week!
Format: Starting prose, can match!
Summary: Rick is forced to leave his room after two days to get some food and do his job. Following his death in the Monster Souls plot, there are quite a few people he doesn't want to run into; he will invariably do so. Also, some initial reactions to the Individuation event; last prompt goes further into the consequences.
Warnings: Lots o' angst, possible descriptions of character death/attempted suicide(?). I would not be surprised if there's some violence involved.
Room 1-16/First Floor Dorms: The Cabin in Question
Rick woke up that morning the same way he had the day before: listless, emotionally drained and lacking motivation to do anything more than walk down the hall for the bathrooms, then walk back and go to sleep again. He probably wouldn't have even recognized that it was morning, if not for the internal clock that was Rusty the cat, prodding at his mind as he dragged himself from his dorm.
The smells were strange on this floor again, Rusty complained with annoying persistence. He'd neglected marking for far too long, and that simply would not do. Also they hadn't eaten for two days--and Rick had to agree with the rest of his souls that this much, at least, was inexcusable. He lumbered back to 1-16 to change out of his pajamas...
...but such aspirations were struck down upon inspecting his sweater and pants. Burned, sliced and stained with blood. The massive cut across the front of his shirt which nearly split it in half. Nearly split him in half. The pain in their eyes as he tore them apart, ripping their minds open with their own pasts. Enoch's snarl when he brought the Arch down.
Hurt them so horribly...an emotional WRECK!
Rick dropped his ruined clothes on the ground and stumbled into bed, curled into a shuddering lump while he pushed away the concerned voices in his head. He hid his face in his arms to avoid the judging gazes of all the ones he'd hurt. Something so insubstantial as food would have to wait.
Floor 26 (Morgue): The Necessities
Once Rick was finally convinced to feed himself, he began his harrowing journey through the Tower for the first time in several days. He intended it to be a quick trip, but every time he tried to leave the room, some other dire task wormed its way into his subconscious.
His job, for example--cleaning and maintaining the morgue on floor 26. He'd neglected it for most of the last week due to obvious circumstances; the idea of how disgusting it must have gotten since then did not improve Rick's mood. Covered corpses and random bowls of entrails aside, keeping the place clean didn't phase Rick as much as it probably should. His task was to make those nasty things disappear, anyways. It was less of an inconvenience for him and more a service to everyone else that happened to stop by.
...As if anyone made a casual jaunt to the morgue. The relative isolation of the place also helped, along with the monotony of scrubbing grime and the satisfaction of using one's hands to fix and improve. So, as Rick had hoped, getting into the swing of cleaning successfully distracted him from the troubles of the past week, and so long as nobody came to interrupt him he would feel much better on the outset.
Floor 15 (Workshop): Attempted Repairs
The idea of forevermore wandering the Tower in his pajamas was sufficiently embarrassing enough for Rick to bring his tattered clothes and stop by the workshop, in the hope that they were still salvageable. Given their current condition the task was...daunting, to say the least. Rick had somehow managed to clean the blood out after scrubbing the morgue, and the clean cuts wouldn't be so bad to sew together, but the burns...when did he even get those? Why couldn't he remember?
Unsettled by a combination of his missing memory, the memories that remained, and the dawning realization that his favorite sweater might be irreparable, Rick stayed stationary at his corner of the room and stared, pensive and troubled, at the mismatched fabric strewn on the table in front of him. Of course, the workshop saw a much larger volume of patrons than the morgue did, and the idea of running into anyone was slowly beginning to cloud Rick's thoughts and make him very jumpy.
Floor 81 (Fifth-Block Lounge): The Retreat
Well, that was terrifying!
Rick collapsed into a lounge chair and buried his face in his hands. Part of that was in defense of every person he came into contact with throughout the day, known or otherwise; he had been in no position to be social, and the effects of being social anyways were crippling.
The other part was to pretend like the three shadow things grinning at him from across the room did not exist.
They're only Shades, he tried to convince himself, thoroughly rubbing his eyes before peering over his fingers to watch them. They were Shades, right? He asked them on the way up the stairs, but they were mute, or otherwise uninterested in responding...but he was fairly certain that's what they were. I mean, they just seemed far too familiar to not be Shades. There just...happened to be quite a lot of them, following everyone else in the Tower. And now also him. Well.
Their curious gazes remained locked on his own. Realizing that he was probably being terribly rude, Rick straightened in his seat and addressed them quietly:
"I-I'm...s-sorry. I d-don't think I-I c-can help you."
They didn't move, but one cocked its head inquisitively. Or, at least Rick thought it was being inquisitive. He sighed and slumped forward again, a familiar tightness forming in his gut, drawing him inward.
"...I--I don't th-think I-I c-c-c-can help...a-anyone..."
He took off his glasses and buried his hands in his hair, and then he gave up and shut out the Tower entirely.
Stairwell: If only she were here...
By the last half of the week, there was little hope to be had.
Rick collapsed in the stairwell. Frankly he'd expected this to happen earlier, after finally reaching the Cafeteria upon hiking down one-hundred floors at the start of the week since the elevators were out, but at least he could pace himself, take breaks, catch his breath every couple of flights. At this point he simply didn't have the energy to continue—not helped by the fact that he'd stopped eating again—certainly not helped by the shadow children hounding him at every corner.
Where had he even been walking to? Had he really just been wandering the stairwell the entire day? When did he last sleep? All unimportant questions; all Rick could fathom was that he was tired, so immeasurably exhausted to even continue onward. And now that he could rest, perhaps the voices of his friends could fill the void that the voices in his head, growing as faint as the hue of his collar, had so conveniently left him...
He figured out who they were by midweek. The two children that paced around one another were his best friends, the Epps twins. They were the most vocal, although they talked amongst themselves:
All that training for nothing, I guess, said the soft voice of Clayton, layered with pity. For someone so attached to the astral plane, you'd think he'd learn how to control his own powers better, huh?
Gary's voice, glaringly sharp in contrast, answered without pause. It's almost as if he wasn't prepared for the Tower at all! Geniuses, these administrators. Had to go and pick the most useless pile of spineless meat from our universe! What makes him so special? Well, Rick? C-C-C-C-C-C-Come on, chubby, answer me!
They were frustrated at him—Rick could recognize that. He deserved every insult they threw at him, no matter how much they hurt. But the third sang to him only briefly, and was the sweet siren call that finally pulled him to the floor.
...Honey? What's that in your pocket?
She knew what was in his pocket. Ashamed, Rick couldn't bring himself to move.
Rick. Look at me.
His face was still wet, but he didn't have the strength to cry. Rick slowly looked up and locked eyes with the child that had returned his curious glances since it had arrived, never blinking, keeping steady with the pinpoints of olive green above her toothy grin. She was close to him now; the twins continued to mock and chide, but their voices were quiet whispers, mere salt in his wounds. Codi knew her husband too well—she knew her quiet words would get his attention much more effectively than his friends' insults and screams.
Give me the ring, she said.
Rick shook his head, even though his hand was already reaching into his pocket.
Patiently: You gave that to me, remember? They took it from me. I want it back now.
He managed a sob—quick, gasping, like a single yelp of pain. "...P-P-Please...I-I-I-It's all I-I-I-I—"
—I am what you have left. I'm here. Isn't that what you wanted?
Clayton chimed in: You aren't happy to see her again? Did the last ten years mean anything to you?
Shivering uncontrollably, Rick palmed his wife's wedding ring and held it delicately in front of his face. Codi stared from behind it, unmoving.
Honey...I know this is painful. But the least you can do is let me rest peacefully. Just give me the ring. Let me hold you...
Slowly, wearily, Rick extended his hand.
no subject
She glanced around the morgue. In a way, she felt at home here. "I suppose I could get a job here, I'm used to dead things." Another pause. "That sounded weird, didn't it?"
no subject
Instead, he shook his head. "N-No, um...i-if it m-makes you...c-comfortable, I guess? That's...fine."
He had to admit that the extra help wouldn't be shunned, either.
no subject
A professional of what exactly she wasn't really keen on saying right now. Rick seemed like he could faint already.
"I suppose I should get out of your hair. Nice meeting you!"
She darts out of the room, there was a lot more to check out, and a possible job to fill.
no subject
And there she went.
Rick sighed, shuffling his feet. That was...the first somewhat-pleasant conversation he'd had in several weeks. Oh well; if she got a job working around here, he'd be seeing her again soon enough. With a small pang of sadness at letting good company leave so easily, Rick gathered his soapy rags together and got back to cleaning.