Entry #89

[postictal]

[The world is dark, and it's quiet. Suffocation's an unpleasant way to go, and everyone knows it. The heat and the pressure crawls up into the back of your throat and your eyes feel like they'll burst, your .hea'ds poudning., your breath high and tight and ragged in your lungs that scream for deeper breaths, for air, and that's when everything else begins to pulse in an unfurling of phosphenes and scalding colors across the backs of your eyelids.

You get dizzy. The panic, assuming it hasn't set in by then, claws its way up your esophagus as your jaw parts, throat straining to take in air that doesn't exist with a high-pitched, dragging wheeze.

Unfortunately for Tim, it seems the panic settled in early; cloying and unbearable and tearing away at what little composure he still had. He'd switched on his device at some point, though his oxygen-starved brain can't possibly latch onto what that reasoning might have been, not now. Possibly a cry for help, hastily stifled. Have you seen this video before? It's possible that you have. It's possible that it's gone up already, only for the hitching slide of time to roll things back. Déjà vu. It's a hell of a thing.

When you've begun to suffocate, perception of reality - already muddled to a gross fault and exceptionally poor to begin with, for one unfortunate Mr. Wright - tends to be one of the first things to go.

The subject of the video is pressed somewhere in the corner of the room, practically wedged there, curled around himself with his hands sunk into the fabric of his shirt. Words stream from him in a perpetual rise and fall, a breathless litany, high and sharp with a cresting panic:]

Not coming for me and if it does I'm dying anyway. 'S not coming for me and if it does I'm dying anyway, it's not coming for me and if it does I'm dying anyway it's not coming for me and if it does I'm dying anyway -

[His voice breaks. He buries his face in his hands.

He's seeing something in the corner of his eye that's not there, regressed to the state he always regresses to when that thing creeps into his memory, nothing more than a scared and trembling little boy huddled in a windowless hospital room, and it's keeping him pinned until his air runs out. And that's looking to be - soon.

Very soon.]

Comments

video.

[duckies]

( sucre is calm at everything that is happening.

by now, she's used to being trapped in a small space. in fact, it became like second nature to her once she had been in the basement long enough - and before he had come, it had been associated with the feeling of safety. so it's easy for her to be in her room, breathing carefully, questioning when she would next access food or water that wasn't flooding the hallway.

her only worry was zacharie, the reason for her being on the network, scrolling through her inbox, hoping he'll be there and sending reassuring messages. but instead she lands on tim, and her eyebrows crease in concern. )

Hello? Are you okay? What's not coming for you? It won't get in, you don't have to panic. ( nothing is getting in or out, after all. not unless it wants to wade through water. ) You'll be okay.

video.

[postictal]

[A voice is soft, almost wisping, and soft words, gently spoken, have him flinching, his eyes raking across the expanse of the room (windowless) (not windowless) before landing at last on the source.

His phone. It's on. He turned it on. He was going to - phone someone. Call for help, maybe. That never played out. The face on the screen is a flash of pale white, and he recoils for a moment, briefly, before registering the presence of eyes, an almost painted quality to the look of her.

Not what he's afraid of. But near enough to it for him to close hands over his face, eyes screwed shut, defaulting to the childish logic of if it can't see you it can't hurt you.]

'M fine.

[He is a liar, of course.]

Just - seeing things.

[duckies]

Try taking a picture of it.

( while sucre isn't a psychologist by any means, nor is she able to help someone having a panic attack - she could barely help herself - she's good at coming up with ideas. if these little thingies they have been given to communicate can take pictures, or if he has some way of doing it, then that could show him that nothing is there. pictures speak a thousand words (or something like that), and the words could certainly be that the thing he's seeing isn't actually there. )

It won't be in the picture.

[postictal]

[It won't be in the picture.

But what if it is. It shows up on camera - sometimes, sometimes It does, except when Jay had insisted that It was there when It wasn't, when nothing was there at all, and that had been one of the first signs.

Even more terrifying were the times when It did appear.

His voice shrinks, almost inaudible - ]

What if it is?

[action]

[ratsratsrats]

[There were three things Renfield was sure of at this point: The halls are flooded. If he goes into the halls, he'll drown. If he stays in the room, he'll die.]

[How he has come to realize these truths, he has no idea. He just gets the vague feeling that this has happened before.]

[This time, he comes across a room with a cowering man in it. Not much room to breathe, but plenty of space to walk. And here's this fellow in the corner, weeping about something coming...]

[It's instinct that draws the old man in. Instinct that makes him rush out to the cowering fellow and grab his arm.]

Come... Come...[He pants, trying not to pass out too soon.] Come before it finds your corpse!

[Renfield knows not what the other man means by it. But "it" must be a very powerful monster if it scares him so much.]

[action]

[postictal]

[Monster, nightmare - there's a whole slew of words for It, the way It is, how It looms and reaches with fingers that aren't fingers at all because there's no way It has fingers or eyes or anything resembling human features. Or if it does, they're simply - warped, subtly, beyond recognition.

He doesn't recognize the voice that hums across his consciousness. It doesn't matter. He draws back, eyes screwed shut.]

That'd be better.

[If It finds his corpse - maybe that'd be better. Maybe It'd just drag him back to his feet again, without his input, and set him back upon the playing board. Its puppet, now and forever.

Forever.]

[audio]

[saved]

[Peter doesn't know if he'll get a straight answer, but it's not going to stop him from trying. Someone's terrified, panicked. It's obvious to him that he's running out of air, and Peter can't- won't sit back and just watch that happen. He's in a room, taking a breather, looking over the network for- for exactly this sort of thing.]

Where are you?

[audio]

[postictal]

[You hearing voices again, Timothy? No, I'm not. I swear I'm not. No one's talking except you. You're hearing voices again. I heard you speaking to the room while it was empty. I was talking to myself, sir. Please don't tell them.

You're hearing voices again, Timothy.

Who's the tall man, Timothy?

Who's the tall man, Timothy.

Where are you?]

Don't find me.

[The words emerge roughly, harsher than intended, the panic more than evident in the rapidity with which they're fired out, the nervous energy skittering about in his head.]

[audio]

[saved]

Too late. I'm already looking.

[Peter has already started to move from the room he was currently into another one and then another. The answer isn't helpful, but it doesn't mean he's going to give up and abandon him either.

Whatever he's going through, it seems really harsh.]

It'd just be really helpful if you could tell me where. Y'know, help me to help you, cause I'm not gonna let you suffocate, okay?

[audio]

[postictal]

[Wet lips with the darting of a tongue. They're cracked and dry, and he's trembling now - with cold, with fear, it's not entirely apparent. It doesn't matter much, in the long term. Or even in the short term.]

Why?

[Let's start with the obvious, then. Why bother at all? What makes him worth it, huh?

He's a freak with a mountain of issues, and a handful of people who might miss him should he choke on the airlessness of the room he's in. It wouldn't even be the worst way to go.]

[video]

[normandysbest]

[Well, that doesn't look good.

When Shepard answers, she's in her full armor loadout, and her voice comes through filtered from the mask.]

Nothing's coming for you, but if you can't breathe, I'll come get you. You don't have to die.

[video]

[postictal]

[The voice is familiar, distantly. He can't place it, not right now, and the visual is hazy with the way his vision keeps fading in and out in infrequent pulses.]

You don't know that.

[She can't know that. If she does then - then she's fucked, plain and simple.]

[video]

[normandysbest]

If you're worried, I can help get you out of there.

[Seriously, he's... Yikes, right about now.]

You don't have to die. Where are you?

[video]

[catinthemask]

[Zacharie is in a rather similar predicament, stuck on the 8th floor and rapidly running out of options and oxygen. He couldn't swim so getting out that way went out the window and his teleportation thing didn't quite work the normal way.

It felt a little like that puzzle room, trapped and running out of choices with something nasty looming over him. And Tim. Zacharie can hear Tim.

The video flicks on, giving Tim a good look at the bookshelf in the NPC's room. Like sleep deprivation, oxygen starvation led to bad life choices. Or a slightly more logical one. You can't breathe that well with a mask on.]

Tim. Can you hear me amigo?

[video]

[postictal]

[Amigo.

There's a word he hasn't heard in a while. Why the hell is he here. Why's he talking to the guy who ruined things for him so irreparably that they've barely spoken since.

He hunches, peering at the video feed from between parted fingers. Just a bookshelf. No sign of the person holding the video. But he heard him. He knows he's there.]

What d'you want?

[video]

[catinthemask]

[That was mostly Zacharie's own fault. To say that whatever had attacked them hadn't shaken the merchant would be a dirty lie but he had not intended it to seem that he had cut Tim out of his life.

Zacharie's hand sneaks into the video feed, giving a small wave before retreating. There's interesting nick-nacks on the shelves if he wants to stare at them. Otherwise Zacharie's going to stay out of frame.]

Merely wished to speak. Ah, and I know it is fairly obvious that you are not well but do you need someone to come get you?

[He's been hearing his Puppeteer snickering about something but naturally the NPC has no idea what's coming his way. But until then, he can still try.]

video;

[choosetruth]

Tim. [George isn't looking much better than him. Between her room and Shaun's, they have twice the amount of air, but they're also not willing to split up so it all comes down to the same thing. Not enough. And striking out without a destination in mind seems just as dangerous as staying put. Still, for the moment she's still present enough for her to keep her voice steady, even if she's feeling shaky herself. Keep it together, Georgia.]

Do you need help?

[Are you losing it and start killing people, is the unasked question here. She doesn't know what the fuck she can do to stop it considering she's not sure how much longer she and Shaun will even be able to last, but she made a promise. She's going to try her best to keep it.]

video;

[postictal]

[George.

She's - if she sees It, it'll just be another secret he has to spill. He shakes his head. He - he'll be good. He'll be good. He'll suffocate, sure, but that's fine. He can deal with that. It'll keep that little freak from breaking out of its shell, and that's - that's something.]

It's fine. It's not...

[He makes a vague hand gesture to his throat, miming a hand closing around it in strangulation.]

It'll stop it.

video;

[choosetruth]

Bullshit. You're in no shape to stop anything. [Like she can talk. If there was an outbreak right now, she's not sure she'd be able to do anything about it. She's not sure she can help Tim. She's barely able to help herself.]

[ACTIAON]

[alphyswhatsabara]

::Oh look, Tim the Human, the door to whatever mistake of a room you've cornered yourself into has just opened up and a face peers in and it's familiar to you and it's not the thin gentleman, but instead it's the exceedingly large gentleman.::

::It pokes its head through the wall of water into the stale air of your space.::

Hello, Human Tim. It is I, Asgore Dreemurr. Are you doing alright by yourself in there?

::He's smiling. There's water dripping down his beard. He's like some sort of goat-themed Poseidon.::

[postictal]

[Tim sags there, silently, for a long moment. And he has to wonder, fleetingly, if this is yet another hallucination from an oxygen-deprived brain. But surreality was never his strong suit; it's much more along the lines of what that hooded freak - that Brian - would deposit into his subconscious than anything Tim would dream up on his own.

His voice is rough with disuse as he jerks in an unintentional paroxysm, working the words out faintly, and only after a significant length of time to actually parse Asgore's words and formulate a response.]

Y-yeah. 'M fine.

[alphyswhatsabara]

::Asgore has taken a couple of breaths of the air, stealing particles of your precious oxygen.::

Uh, Tim the Human, the air in here appears to be extremely stale... and quite likely about to go bad. Can you swim? I think that you should move to another room, if you can.

[audio]

[assembles]

[ It does feel as if Steve's seen this all before. It's a nagging feeling, something that gives him pause for at least a few seconds, but for now he chalks it up to the fact that this would hardly be the first time that he's reached out to someone who's in need of rescue. Or at least, that seems to be the case here. Hallucinations caused by oxygen deprivation is what he would guess.

Steve himself is in decent shape when it comes to that. He's a strong swimmer, has a large lung capacity, and it takes him longer than most to feel the thinness in the air. All perks of being a super soldier, and all reasons that he's helping wherever he can.

He sends a voice message, figuring that the person on the other side of the line isn't in a state to watch anything on his phone right now. ]

Can you tell me where you are?

[ Because it seems like a bad idea for the guy to stay there any longer than he already has... ]

[audio]

[postictal]

[He's got scant focus as it is - sticking to a voice call is probably a wise choice on Steve's part, not that Tim has the wherewithal to appreciate it at the moment. It takes him a moment to process what's being said, and several more to compose a reply - and then a long pause in which he has to question whether or not he already has replied.

Has he?

A chill races up his spine and along his forearms and he hastens to answer.]

Sixth floor.

[He should've lied. Why's he telling the truth. If someone comes for him and sees It or It sees them, they're fucked.]

It's...fine. Someone's coming.

[Something, rather. But It's coming for him always.]

[audio]

[assembles]

[ Even though the guy gives him a reassurance that someone's already on the way, Steve has to wonder if he should start heading to the sixth floor too. With the flooded hallways and everything else, there's no telling whether or not this guy's rescue will actually arrive.

On the other hand, he doesn't want to overwhelm him when it already seems like he's going through a lot. Maybe having someone to talk to will at least help pass the time until whoever he's waiting for gets there.

Talking uses up more oxygen, though. They can switch to text if need be. ]

All right, but... you said "it's" not coming for you. Can I ask what you meant?

[ Because that doesn't sound ominous at all. ]