A Child of the Head [Active, Open]
Characters: Machi Tobaye, Alice Abernathy, Open
Setting: Cricket Bedroom
Time: Night 001, Later Night
Summary: Machi spends some time alone with his concussion, maybe someone comes by?
Warnings: Cricket noises, emo Machi is emo
After being dumped onto the bed by Rayne, Machi had remained unconscious for an unknown (seemingly long) time before regaining awareness and some control of his own head. The only thing he'd consciously done with that, however, was shift and curl into a slightly more comfortable position and close his eyes again--the sense of vertigo caused by the concussion was overwhelming, and the pain from his hand was intense; he didn't dare move his bitten hand for fear of doing damage to it or reopening the wound, not that he was really capable of thinking so logically. He simply knew he didn't want to move it. The blood from Zetsu's bite had soaked into the front of his white shirt and stained the sheets somewhat, making them rather sticky as the wound started to crust over. This was relatively minor and unimportant. Of greater importance to him was the constant, maddening sound of chirping, which caused him great pain in the form of an enhanced headache, but he couldn't tune it out and there was nothing to drown it out with.
Granted a little freedom of thought, however, he had (of course) returned to the constant question of whether this was real or not. Zetsu had presented the greatest enduring argument for his situation's reality, but there were too many nonsensical things that he couldn't ignore. Unfortunately, he was in a much reduced mental state and trying to solve anything in his head resulted in exhaustion. The end result was hours passed slipping in and out of varying stages of sleep, wakefulness, pain, and nonsensical feverish dreams that left him more drained than innervated.
He wanted his gun back. No, more likely he needed it, now that he knew that he could be in pain here. Reality aside, he didn't want to be alone and a gun was a good companion--more trustworthy than a person, at least a person he didn't know. But he couldn't imagine any way of getting the gun back from Zetsu, not when he was... as he was... and certainly not even if he were feeling perfect. But he was too much in pain and disoriented to move from the bed at all, so he remained where he was, doing his best not to throw up or worse. He would not cry. He was not afraid.
He did not need Lamiroir.
Setting: Cricket Bedroom
Time: Night 001, Later Night
Summary: Machi spends some time alone with his concussion, maybe someone comes by?
Warnings: Cricket noises, emo Machi is emo
After being dumped onto the bed by Rayne, Machi had remained unconscious for an unknown (seemingly long) time before regaining awareness and some control of his own head. The only thing he'd consciously done with that, however, was shift and curl into a slightly more comfortable position and close his eyes again--the sense of vertigo caused by the concussion was overwhelming, and the pain from his hand was intense; he didn't dare move his bitten hand for fear of doing damage to it or reopening the wound, not that he was really capable of thinking so logically. He simply knew he didn't want to move it. The blood from Zetsu's bite had soaked into the front of his white shirt and stained the sheets somewhat, making them rather sticky as the wound started to crust over. This was relatively minor and unimportant. Of greater importance to him was the constant, maddening sound of chirping, which caused him great pain in the form of an enhanced headache, but he couldn't tune it out and there was nothing to drown it out with.
Granted a little freedom of thought, however, he had (of course) returned to the constant question of whether this was real or not. Zetsu had presented the greatest enduring argument for his situation's reality, but there were too many nonsensical things that he couldn't ignore. Unfortunately, he was in a much reduced mental state and trying to solve anything in his head resulted in exhaustion. The end result was hours passed slipping in and out of varying stages of sleep, wakefulness, pain, and nonsensical feverish dreams that left him more drained than innervated.
He wanted his gun back. No, more likely he needed it, now that he knew that he could be in pain here. Reality aside, he didn't want to be alone and a gun was a good companion--more trustworthy than a person, at least a person he didn't know. But he couldn't imagine any way of getting the gun back from Zetsu, not when he was... as he was... and certainly not even if he were feeling perfect. But he was too much in pain and disoriented to move from the bed at all, so he remained where he was, doing his best not to throw up or worse. He would not cry. He was not afraid.
He did not need Lamiroir.