(Untitled)

[stoicloyalty]

Who: stoicloyalty Chane Laforet and you!
When: Backdated a little-- between Monday 26th September and 9th October.
Where: Various sectors around the city.
Summary: As seen in this post. Her new powers are firing her personal thoughts a little all over the place; people get caught in the crossfire; Chane is mortified.
Warnings: emotions~. Sectors/times of day

Comments

[vinovidivici]

[ The unruly patron was seen into the back of a night cab, his wallet tossed to the driver. Claire was about to head back into the club, but crouched for a moment to inspect a quelk that trundled along the ground. Having work to occupy himself with had helped distract him from a low, ebbing sense of being out of place that didn’t fit in with the now-familiar area around Lion’s Gate, but it also meant he couldn't act on the accompanying compulsion to call by the boarding house. The weird little tripod creature wobbled along gently, oblivious to the pensive stare it was attracting.

A sudden wave of that unease comes on - now uncomfortably strong, like a neon sign coming on a few feet from his head, and unfamiliar - a burst of genuine fear. It's not something he's used to feeling even in dire situations, and if it were it wouldn’t fit the setting, the potential short dash to safety, the absence of monsters with any lethal potential. It doesn’t fit with him. He shakes his head as if to dispel the panic and gets to his feet, unsettled, two memories flitting in the back of his mind: one of the walk here, of an alleyway he’d cut through with a single daubed graffito in the otherwise spotless neighbourhood; the other is Chane’s pained face, hand hovering over his cheek, deliberating whether to strike. Althoguh he’d looked back on that day repeatedly it had mostly been to think about the evening that followed, reconciling over popcorn and a better-than-average thriller. Somehow the fear that’s making his stomach turn fits to that look, even if it's far more visceral now.

There’s a shout from the doorway - a fellow employee eager to get locked up again. Claire eyes him uncertainly for a moment. It would be irrational to shirk security duty because of a feeling - ] I’ll be right back. [ - but it’s not rational to be feeling this way to begin with. He’s running back to that alleyway. ]

[stoicloyalty]

[ Unable to pull against the stubborn strength of that tentacle Chane crouches lightly, dress trailing through the thick dirt on the ground-- the better reach allows her a quick, clean cut through the gelatinous substance, letting her drop back from the sudden release from the grip. The thick weight of the creature's severed limb hangs dead on her ankle like a cuff. For a second or two she sits dazed, vaguely attempting to distinguish the outline of what exactly attacked her. 8-Hour-Death is not something she has encountered, but then, she does not like to linger after the sirens.

But that pause is a second too long. As she turns away to abandon the alley and continue her journey the sludge that coats the hem of her dress morphs, pulsates into life with the other tendrils the brainless creature slithers in the direction of movement, and winds them around her knees this time. Another gasp follows, another horrified glance and a downwards slice of her knife, but there are more this time. Her fingers wet with dirt slip on unsheathing her second knife and it's enough time for the tendrils to multiply hydra-like and knot around her leg before she cuts at them, cuts again, making slow progress of a step at a time as she picks off the tentacles one by one.

In her head, it feels endless, yet the struggle is a quickly-changing gradual process; a natural fight of only her sharp breaths, her instinctive fear and adrenaline, relentless pursual and the noise of slipping and scraping pavement. Even if she could scream for help, it feels as though it would be optional in this fight-- because now, all of the Darkness is an opponent. ]

[vinovidivici]

[ The closer he draws the more intense the feelings are, growing to the point where they intrude on his physical senses: rustling fabric, clipped breath, and that ever-present fear, although it becomes easier to compartmentalise the latter once he's in motion. At one point he pulls out a switchblade reflexively at the sensation of something gripping at his calf. It doesn't dissipate even though he can see nothing's there; he doesn't put the knife away.

By the time he rounds the corner into the alleyway, tight enough to the wall to brush against the brickwork, he's almost expecting the scene before him. It's fortunate as he doesn't pause to think, and it would have been hard to tell what she was struggling against if that tendril-grasping-feeling weren't already in his mind. His own perspective adds something - the projection from her point of view lacked the line of her shoulders and the look on her face. Matching those to that alien panic makes it easier to push aside, impossible to sustain along with the ferocious protectiveness that rushes up. He picks out one of the lines of more-solid blackness among the rest of it and runs to her with a sharp downward slash through the tentacle, other hand reaching out to steady her against the sudden release. ]

[stoicloyalty]

[ That sudden arc of a blade at her side makes an entirely new addition to the varying degrees of panic she feels each time a tendril lashes out for her-- and her half-formed gasp catches in her throat as that slash throws her weight back with how she'd been pulling desperately, her other foot still bound.

Feeling the firm hold behind her does not give her the same shock, however; even in her overwhelmed state she can recognise that it is not malicious. With a brief, blundered stagger of her weight against that hand she attempts to right herself, the bare minimum to stamp and crouch again, the knives in each hand finding their targets once more. Her urgency to get rid of this, to escape, allows her only a split-second glance to the person come to her aid, but not more of a reaction to his identity than to face the Darkness and keep fighting. ]

[vinovidivici]

[ One of the larger shivering stumps of black matter respawns suddenly, the thick tendril worming out towards her ankle again. He steps over her trapped leg to stomp down on it. Reflex-quick it wraps around his foot but he grinds in with his heel to trap it against the ground without severing. Standing at this acute angle between her and the mouth of the 8-hour death the hand at her back moves to her waist, urging her back away from it; his knife darts around Chane's pair, joining her efforts to slice through the tentacles left on her leg (if he intuits which to cut next from reading her body language or from the imprinting is unclear even to him). ]

[stoicloyalty]

[ Watching the creature lunge for Claire as well and succeed in wrapping its mass around him, the man who can dodge bullets, only serves to rekindle her fear now shared out over the two of them, for his wellbeing as well as her own will to live. Her fear for what his fight means with regards to their safety, what the consequences will be-- all rushing through Chane's mind in a moment as his touch (it does not disorientate her so much as pull her emotions towards a different direction) hardens her resolve once more.

Or-- that's not what his hand at her waist would signify, usually. Crouching, her efforts now combined with Claire's at severing the thick, rubbery binds at her leg, there's barely enough speed in the cutting to progress back several inches at a time before another one catches her, slower than the last. The thought washes over her mind and her senses, dominating, as though silencing the outside world, watching a sped-up movie; she thinks of Claire carrying her back from the diamond. Of his acceptance after she had struck him in anger. Claire arriving here with nothing from her to announce her situation. And now, the alien resolve in her heart battling, winning over the fear that was so clearly hers.

When did he start reading her exactly?

A shocked gasp escapes her a moment after the thought flies from the forefront of her mind and her eyes become focused, no rings or lines of black obscure the skin of her legs, and there are white lines where the backs of blades have pressed. The sight prompts her to back up relentlessly, shivering, into Claire's hand, slipping around it-- both ankles free from the binds-- to crouch at the corner of the building, eyes wide and exhausted as she watches Claire's progress with the creature. The immediacy of both the resolve and the fear is gone. ]

[vinovidivici]

[ She's free - he catches a tendril that tries to trail after her with his now free hand and watches her sink against the wall out of the corner of his eye. It's not exactly relief that he feels - he knew she'd make it, even with that strange fear encroaching on him - but he's glad to see it through, to hopefully abate that panic she must be feeling. ] You all right? [ If she answers he'll miss it as he looks down sharply to give a flick of the knife through the darkness that's trying to wrap itself around his wrist and a quick, precise twist of his foot to dislodge the tentacle there, which squirms as if in its death throes. The mouth of the creature, embedded in the pavement, makes for a tempting target now that its limbs are dealt with, but it would be ultimately unsatisfying. Like hitting out against an inanimate object there would be no understanding of its own punishment. Besides, the creature would just respawn, healing repeatedly and reappearing tomorrow even if he did manage to kill it. There's also Chane, her wellbeing now the most pressing matter. He takes a last swipe straight through a tentacle that rises to grab at his waist, jumps over one that lashes out at ankle height, then he's backed out of range of the still-regenerating monster. He retreats to Chane's side and repeats the question, holding the ooze-covered knife a little behind him with one hand and reaching down to where she's crouched with the other, needing to reassure her even if she doesn't want to be helped up yet. ] You all right? You're not hurt, are you?

[stoicloyalty]

[ From her position she cannot tear her eyes away from the struggle-- in the small way it resembles a struggle, failing tenacity on the creature's side and a rough dismissal on Claire's. It's fast, and her senses seem to be returning to normal like a camera lens refocusing, more aware of the sound of Claire's heels hitting stone through sludge, the feel of the knives clutched in her hands, no longer an extension of her body the way she adapts to them in battle. Releasing her grip on them slightly (the satin of her gloves clings, damp with sweat, to her palm) the blades are slid back into their holsters for cleaning later; and Claire's question surprises her, jolts her from the momentary lapse in attention.

All she does for a few seconds is stare up at him, eyes locked with his. The questions hounding her from moments prior are still at the front of her mind, fighting to win over her senses again. How did he know? Could it be coincidence that he had matched her fighting plans so perfectly, move by move?

No-- even if it is due to some action on his part, he is not malicious, or dangerous. Not to her, in any way. Yet she can't shake the anxious feeling as she silently, apprehensively, reaches up to take his hand for support--

And it's a good thing the wall is behind her because that connection floods into her again the moment her fingertips press weight onto his, thoughts of reassurance foreign to hers overtaking, colouring her mind-- she quickly lets go as though scalded, falling back a step with her heels backed against the brick. Her expression tells the same story, eyes wide, scared, searching for answers. ]

[vinovidivici]

[ Even without getting a jolt of her response when their hands meet, that reaction would be alarming. As it is that touch sends a rush back along the connection from her, and although it's still terror that comes through it's no longer the understandable panicked response to the darkness, but something confused and overwrought and somehow it's aimed at him. The line of his mouth sets a little grimly and his open hand flexes, the ligaments tensing against skin, trying to work out how to deal with this, wanting to know why she'd feel that way. ]

I keep - [ He cuts himself off with a shake of his head. "I keep feeling your feelings" is a bit too reminiscent of that movie he caught the other day with the weird brown spaceman. And he finds himself not wanting to say it - or something trying to dampen that thought. Someone.

There doesn't seem much point asking what's going on with that in mind, and when she looks even more confused than he feels. Rather than offer a hand again he crouches, meeting her frightened look with his own concerned one and shrugging out of his coat (and thank the ridiculous luck that follows him everywhere that he'd been outside when he'd felt it instead of inside the club, without it or the knife in the inner pocket) and offering it to her, careful not to let his hand get too close. His voice, at least, still comes out light. ] It's all right. I'm gonna take you home, okay?

[stoicloyalty]

[ She knows. Without those specific words feeding into her thoughts she knows an exchange of sensations is happening, or thoughts, or mere emotions-- it's tangible but not defined. She cannot locate a source for them, either, a gateway for this that would make closing it off all the more simple, an action as familiar as distancing reason from reaction.

The unfinished sentence still hangs in the air and gives her a brief swerve into panic; why can't he answer? Can't he put words to this occurrence better than she could? Nervous energy runs through her again, sending her frame shivering (shifting feet against stone-- she could run, now, avoid the collision of skin and minds and hearts again), until Claire stoops to remove his coat, that attempt at reassuring her only bringing another possibility to mind.

He doesn't know either. He doesn't recognise it any more than she does, can't explain it, can't understand it. The thought turns her look suddenly fragile, eyes darting between Claire's eyes and the coat as she tries to plough through that and the physical acceptance she would normally not hesitate to show.

It is not disappointment paling her features as she slowly pulls herself away from the wall, head bowed to break their locked gazes, quietly curling into the outheld garment and tugging the collar about her neck. It feels closer to a wavering sense of resignation, or defeat, playing chaos with her will. Physically, she will trust him. Emotionally, she stays silent, movements reserved and thoughts muted. There is too much at stake in the depths of her knowledge to be risked in a haphazard attempt to rely on him for this. ]