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tampered2006-10-22 11:54 pm
noh-dancer.livejournal.com) wrote in tampered2006-10-22 11:54 pm
Log: Complete
When; Dream Time
Rating; PG-13
Characters; Pyramid Head![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
red_horror, Scarab noh_dancer
Summary; Pay no mind what other voices say
They don't care about you
Like I do
Like I do
Safe from pain and truth and choice and other poison devils
See they don't give a f**k about you
Like I do
Just stay with me
Safe and ignorant
Go back to sleep
Go back to sleep
Log;
...
She was tired.
No, she was more than tired; she was exausted.
She had packed her few meager possessions into a couple of bags, and been staying first with Cori & John, now with Faye.
Well...not now, exactly. She had left a few things in Faye's apartement, but the other woman's concern for Scarab's well being was palpable.
After everything that had happened, she knew she couldn't tell Faye what was going on....but niether could she deal with Faye's little gestures, and not-so-subtle hints to talk.
So instead, Scarab had simply left one evening and started walking.
She walked aimlessly, with no real destination in mind, but occasionally made small stops in near-empty pubs, or to pick up more smokes.
Now she was sitting on the roof of an apartement building, watching the sun set across the city.
She was tired.....so very tired...
It seemed she had been fighting sleep for days on end, but in truth it was only a day or so...maybe less.
Still, the fuzzy corners of exaustion pulled at her mind....
...And all too soon she was succumbing to sleep.
To sleep.....and to dreams.
-
An endless repitition of rooms.
A rust coated labyrinth of decay.
There is one room at the end of a corridor that is special.
This room has no windows, and no door.
The walls are sheer, and a red fluid drips at a measured pace down them to make patterns, though the walls themselves extend away infinetly into the darkness above.
A fire burns in a recess of one wall. There is no hearth to hold it, and no mantle to cover it.
On the floor beyond lies a slab of concrete, rebar still hooks from the ragged edges. As though it has been torn from the wall it was once a part of, and left in this room as an afterthought.
It is an island amidst the pooling red fluid on the floor.
Fabric covers the slab, the color of which is not so much black, as an absence of color.
As though the fabric absorbs the meager light within the room.
A lone woman dressed in decorated lace lays across the slab.
A pattern of crawling vines swirl across her dress, the lace becomes a dress, the dress becomes the cloth.
A long silver chain runs from a delicate ring bolted into the concrete to a polished silver collar around her throat.
The links are fashioned to resemble exquisite strands of barb wire.
Silence, save her measured breathing, and the steady drip, and muted splash of fluid running down the walls.
She has always been here, she knows this.
....And just as intuitevly, she reaches out toward the darkness above her.
A beckoning finger; the third finger on her maimed right hand.
The darkness sighs.
It curls, and shifts. Melts, and twists into a tendril of shadow to reach back...
The liquid darkness encircles her reaching hand, and travels lazily down her arm.
Across her shoulder, and onto the fabric beside her.
Now she is not alone.
Now there is another laying along side her on the stone island.
Faceless, nameless....here there is no need for such things.
No need for sound, for speech.
Thier conversations are far more intimate...the sharing of silent secrets in a silent world.
A sensation passes between them, it causes the woman to smile at her companion.
She doesn't need to be asked..she simply knows, and in knowing reaches for the shadow; wraps it in her embrace.
The shadow purrs, and nuzzles close, tenrils of darkness reaching out and across her to play with strands of her hair, or a fold in her dress.
A ripple of silent laughter, and she squirms away as a particularly curious shadow finds a ticklish point.
Her companion seems pleased, and confused by this reaction. He is often pleased and curious about her reactions.
Instead of horror and disgust, she displays something very near affection....
It is a strange sensation. Foreign.
.....But not unpleasant.
She is learning, slowly, to trust in her shadow friend. She will soon be ready for the next stage of instruction.
For now, though, exploring this half-remembered sensation of companionship was enough.
These stolen moments of sensation, the sharing of memory and image....yes, it was enough.
She sighs after a moment of comfortable quiet, and once again curls into the shadow.
She feels safe here, even when he wraps the silver chain around his wrist and uses the tension on her collar to make her arch backwards.
These small possessive gestures seem to please him, but he offers a warm liquid-darkness of an embrace as well, so she does not mind.
Submission rewarded with a strange feeling of tenderness....
She smiles again and relates the memory of her first mission as an operative:
The cold rain, the warm blood.
The smells of gasoline, the sound of gunfire...
The feeling of sliding her sword into flesh. The wet choking sound as a body tried to breath without a throat to do so with.
This pleases him too, and more shadows curl up around her limbs, while the chain is pulled further taught.
He likes to hear of her exploits, to share in her feeling of righteous slaughter.
No one understands.... how could they?
She is like him. A killer, a judge, a creature of darkness, of blood and pain.....
No one can see this. No one can see past her gender, her age, or the kindness that lived side-by-side with sadism....
No one but him.
Rating; PG-13
Characters; Pyramid Head
red_horror, Scarab noh_dancerSummary; Pay no mind what other voices say
They don't care about you
Like I do
Like I do
Safe from pain and truth and choice and other poison devils
See they don't give a f**k about you
Like I do
Just stay with me
Safe and ignorant
Go back to sleep
Go back to sleep
Log;
...
She was tired.
No, she was more than tired; she was exausted.
She had packed her few meager possessions into a couple of bags, and been staying first with Cori & John, now with Faye.
Well...not now, exactly. She had left a few things in Faye's apartement, but the other woman's concern for Scarab's well being was palpable.
After everything that had happened, she knew she couldn't tell Faye what was going on....but niether could she deal with Faye's little gestures, and not-so-subtle hints to talk.
So instead, Scarab had simply left one evening and started walking.
She walked aimlessly, with no real destination in mind, but occasionally made small stops in near-empty pubs, or to pick up more smokes.
Now she was sitting on the roof of an apartement building, watching the sun set across the city.
She was tired.....so very tired...
It seemed she had been fighting sleep for days on end, but in truth it was only a day or so...maybe less.
Still, the fuzzy corners of exaustion pulled at her mind....
...And all too soon she was succumbing to sleep.
To sleep.....and to dreams.
-
An endless repitition of rooms.
A rust coated labyrinth of decay.
There is one room at the end of a corridor that is special.
This room has no windows, and no door.
The walls are sheer, and a red fluid drips at a measured pace down them to make patterns, though the walls themselves extend away infinetly into the darkness above.
A fire burns in a recess of one wall. There is no hearth to hold it, and no mantle to cover it.
On the floor beyond lies a slab of concrete, rebar still hooks from the ragged edges. As though it has been torn from the wall it was once a part of, and left in this room as an afterthought.
It is an island amidst the pooling red fluid on the floor.
Fabric covers the slab, the color of which is not so much black, as an absence of color.
As though the fabric absorbs the meager light within the room.
A lone woman dressed in decorated lace lays across the slab.
A pattern of crawling vines swirl across her dress, the lace becomes a dress, the dress becomes the cloth.
A long silver chain runs from a delicate ring bolted into the concrete to a polished silver collar around her throat.
The links are fashioned to resemble exquisite strands of barb wire.
Silence, save her measured breathing, and the steady drip, and muted splash of fluid running down the walls.
She has always been here, she knows this.
....And just as intuitevly, she reaches out toward the darkness above her.
A beckoning finger; the third finger on her maimed right hand.
The darkness sighs.
It curls, and shifts. Melts, and twists into a tendril of shadow to reach back...
The liquid darkness encircles her reaching hand, and travels lazily down her arm.
Across her shoulder, and onto the fabric beside her.
Now she is not alone.
Now there is another laying along side her on the stone island.
Faceless, nameless....here there is no need for such things.
No need for sound, for speech.
Thier conversations are far more intimate...the sharing of silent secrets in a silent world.
A sensation passes between them, it causes the woman to smile at her companion.
She doesn't need to be asked..she simply knows, and in knowing reaches for the shadow; wraps it in her embrace.
The shadow purrs, and nuzzles close, tenrils of darkness reaching out and across her to play with strands of her hair, or a fold in her dress.
A ripple of silent laughter, and she squirms away as a particularly curious shadow finds a ticklish point.
Her companion seems pleased, and confused by this reaction. He is often pleased and curious about her reactions.
Instead of horror and disgust, she displays something very near affection....
It is a strange sensation. Foreign.
.....But not unpleasant.
She is learning, slowly, to trust in her shadow friend. She will soon be ready for the next stage of instruction.
For now, though, exploring this half-remembered sensation of companionship was enough.
These stolen moments of sensation, the sharing of memory and image....yes, it was enough.
She sighs after a moment of comfortable quiet, and once again curls into the shadow.
She feels safe here, even when he wraps the silver chain around his wrist and uses the tension on her collar to make her arch backwards.
These small possessive gestures seem to please him, but he offers a warm liquid-darkness of an embrace as well, so she does not mind.
Submission rewarded with a strange feeling of tenderness....
She smiles again and relates the memory of her first mission as an operative:
The cold rain, the warm blood.
The smells of gasoline, the sound of gunfire...
The feeling of sliding her sword into flesh. The wet choking sound as a body tried to breath without a throat to do so with.
This pleases him too, and more shadows curl up around her limbs, while the chain is pulled further taught.
He likes to hear of her exploits, to share in her feeling of righteous slaughter.
No one understands.... how could they?
She is like him. A killer, a judge, a creature of darkness, of blood and pain.....
No one can see this. No one can see past her gender, her age, or the kindness that lived side-by-side with sadism....
No one but him.