come_sailaway | Fable the First: Fuck this shit I'm out

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Fable the First: Fuck this shit I'm out

WHO: New beastie boy Gil!
WHAT: Memory share event!
WHEN: throughout March
WHERE; Everywhere while he gets his settle on, also memories in Arcadia
WARNINGS: Memories may include: Body horror (potential for mutilation, dismemberment, disembowelment, decapitation); cannibalism; cruel/unusual torture leading to death; forcible sedation; mind control/manipulation/commands to murder; Faeries but like, old school Gaelic horror stories. Please let me know if there's anything you'd like to hard opt out of!

I. Where's the beef (OTA, everywhere)

Alright, well. That was a stupid-ass safety drill. And Gil can't say he's fond of Friday either, with the whole No Face thing, but at least he's free and can do what the fuck he wants.

So at least step one is easy: work out what the fuck this place is. Cruise ship? Easy. Specifics? What the fuck. Also he's never been on a cruise ship before so it's very... new.

It's pretty easy to find him: he's the new guy, what's there to say. He's short, he's jacked to the shithouse, he's got a black buzz cut, he has thick scars covering every inch of his visible body in his singlet and cargo shorts and bare feet (some thick and ropy, wrapping around limbs and his neck like the pieces got melted back together, some are small, narrow and deep, and yet others are just shallow and superficial, and everything in-between), he has bare feet as he wanders the decks.

(For those with special eyes, though, he looks a bit different: the same height but a monstrous beast, his knuckles nearly dragging on the floor, arms almost half as broad again; thick, dark fur where the scars glint through like streaks of silver and flesh, the fur short but deliberately clipped down to the same length around his neck and chest, where there was clearly a mane at some point; his face is more like that of a bear or hyena, with jutting fangs and huge, bat-like ears; and his bare feet are now cloven hooves, oil-slick black and almost serrated at their tips.)

II. Thks fr th Mmrs (CW: ALL OF THE WARNINGS ABOVE)

If you're unlucky enough to fall into one of Gil's memory slips, it immediately and intensely feels...

Wrong.

There's a brilliant force of emotion in the air, like the buzz of an audience anticipating a stellar performance, made tangible in the air, like breathing through glitter, a sparkling hit of energy and life that feels like wading face-first into a dream. Or maybe the best high of your life, where everything is surreal, beautiful and overstimulating and intense.

And in every one there's a huge behemoth, black as sin, eyes like burning embers - sometimes it's like a wolf, all teeth and hunched shoulders, prowling - sometimes it's almost a bear, claws and thick fur and a roar that burns through to the soul with unbridled fear - sometimes it's no longer a human, disproportionate, foul and fury.

And in all of them, there's blood.

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It's so quiet he can hear the blood pounding in his veins, there's a ringing in his ears from the abrupt silence. He freezes, but he doesn't lower the gun, even though he knows without a doubt that shooting anything here isn't going to work, because he's starting to think unlike the other places he's ended up which seemed like little tours of his fellow passengers' home worlds, this one... might not be real.

Maybe he's in someone's hallucination. Or dream. Or... well he's not sure and doesn't have time to ponder it.

His eyes flick to the much larger figure, starting to wilt under that gaze, but then he gathers himself, drawing himself up and glaring down the bloody spear beneath his chin, "I asked you a question." His voice rough, irreparably damaged beyond repair.

Whatever language that thing overhead speaks, isn't English. But the message of it sinks into his hindbrain like an icicle, like the realisation you fucked up beyond repair.

You are unexpected. And you are boring. And boring is the last thing you want to be, here.

The shaft of the spear shrinks, the blade bulges and lengthens as the Hero steps closer, in too-poised steps like a ballerina, until the weapon is a dagger, serrated and short and the flat of it pressed into the underside of Pratt's jaw to tilt his head up.

And with his other hand, the golden man takes one of Pratt's wrists, pulling the gun forward with inexorable force until it's pressed against his chest - over his heart.

The voice speaks again, a seductive purr that rolls down his spine like a first kiss.

So, be interesting.

Oh hey, the cold familiar embrace of irreparable fucking up. At lease he's used to that, but being watched over by a giant is new and kinda terrible. Even in grave danger he briefly wonders if that guy is really big, or maybe he's shrunk down really small. He doesn't feel small, but he's not sure if that's a feeling or maybe it's..

Right. Knife.

He stares up into the eyes of the naked golden man in front of him, lamenting that this is never as hot as he imagines it will be.

"Interesting..." Well that's not one that's ever been requested of him before. "What the fuck is even happening."

That's not a question. But there's something really weird about the man pulling the gun to his chest, it feels like a trap. Like shooting him will make it worse. So instead Pratt drops his right hand from the gun, hauls back, and punches the guy in the stomach, hard, hoping he doubles over and releases his grip on the gun so Pratt can do... well he's not sure. But at least back away some.

Perhaps shockingly, the stomach he sinks his fist into isn't cold and hard like the statue sure fucking looks like it ought to be. Instead it's solid and warm, yielding like flesh and deforming like warm metal around his fist before he pulls it back, and the Hero - surely he's younger than Pratt, up this close - doesn't exhale at all. Doesn't even flinch.

Sure as fuck doesn't let go of Pratt's gun hand.

There's just a flicker of surprise in the blank stare for a few seconds, and then the faintest crease of his brow.

And then the knife gets twirled, its point now warm from its contact with Pratt's throat - and as the golden man pulls back, he flicks his wrist, and Pratt's throat gets sliced open like an apple.

But his jugular gets neatly avoided.

Pratt gasps and tries to pull back.

"Fuck you!" Is what he would have said if he hadn't just had an impromptu tracheotomy, instead he aspirates blood all over the gold man's face and chest. Mostly chest, Pratt isn't very tall.

He squirms and twists, a wild animal caught in a bear trap. He's not to the point where he'll cut his own arm off but it's always an option.

Plan B: knee statue man in his fully exposed, and rather exquisite, junk.

And again there's no real reaction - except this time around his eyes visibly creases, and there's a flicker of emotion in them now that's not horrible and blank - pain, and his grip goes slack on Pratt's wrist.

They'll all hear the voice, though, the same booming non-English that goes straight to the hindbrain and freezes the spine.

Enough. End it.

And the golden man steps aside in a smooth motion, still holding Pratt limply in one hand, as the Beast, still relentlessly throbbing gallons of blood from its own throat, starts padding, shakily, closer.

There's a lot going on here that Pratt doesn't understand, and that he's in no position to even attempt to, especially now that he's bleeding all down the front of his uniform and this statue's hand. He freezes when the voice speaks, but then erupts into frenzied writhing immediately after.

"Lemme go. Come on man, put me down." Some of that might be understandable among the breathy wheezes of trying to breathe while having a slit in his throat. It may not have hit his carotid or jugular, but he's still going to bleed out eventually especially while being dragged around.

He kicks and squirms with determination, and finally gets enough space between the gun and the golden man to shoot him not through the heart. In the shoulder preferably so he puts him down.

The beast over there is all but forgotten.

The crack of the pistol shatters the atmosphere like glass.

The golden Hero staggers, and releases Pratt to clutch his shoulder as he goes down all at once, like a puppet with its strings cut.

Then thunderous footsteps that shake the earth, and five of Pratt's ribs shatter as a giant paw smashes into him like a freight train, and throws him back into the trunk of an unyielding tree, and a furious, tragic roar shakes the foundations of the universe.

Pratt also collapses, or he would if he wasn't batted out of mid-air by an enormous furry paw that bashes him right into a tree.

He tumbles to the ground in a heap, one arm around his torso as he bleeds from the neck, from where his head hit the tree trunk, and from newly spreading wounds across his chest as bits of bone try to escape. Still, no matter how injured he is, he'll always get back up, he'll only stay down when someone puts him there permanently. Right now he's on all fours, a shaky, bloody hand reaching for the gun at his belt, forgetting that it's on the ground somewhere, lost in the chaos of being thrown around like a ragdoll.

Having died before, he knows what's coming, knows he has only minutes left if that. There's a wheeze as he tries to get further upright and at least look at the creature that's about to end him, if he doesn't bleed out first.

"Go on. Cull the herd."

And then all there is, is a flash of teeth and tongue as his head gets ripped off his torso.

Pratt wakes up in his bed the next day and he doesn't even have a cool scar to show for his troubles. Whoever's world that was can keep it, Pratt's gonna go get breakfast.

He hopes whoever killed him also ate him and got high as balls off all the various drugs swirling around the blood brain barrier up there.

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