OOC [Dream 001] I had too much to dream last night
There's the screech of metal on metal; a moment of confusion followed by a surge of adrenalin as the world spins out of control, colours and detail bleeding together until there is only grey.
Raised voices; a warning; and his pulse rate spirals in response to the panic and the dread, fingers closing on the hard plastic under his hand reflexively in a desperate attempt to make it stop.
Leave him alone!
A loud report; an inhuman scream that fills his head, drowning out every other sound until there's an abrupt cessation of motion.
...And then everything stops, his body slamming against something solid; an explosion of pain when he braces himself against it, twisting his hand under him and taking his breath.
...And silence. Darkness. A minute that stretches on forever, his ears straining for anything other than the pounding of his own heart in his ears. The metallic smell of sweat and blood and he can taste it on his lips, sharp and strong.
His eyes flip open, blinking hard against the light. He looks down at his hands and they're shaking - a vivid memory of plastic and cold metal searing his skin. Blood, smeared across his palm and spattered across the front of his shirt, the colour of it echoed by the red warning light that pulses angrily in time to the beat of his heart.
He tries to breathe, to speak, but there's no air, and he swallows back the sudden desire to vomit, a sharp pain from the pressure against his chest as he struggles to inhale.
He's dead.
It's an effort to turn his head, but he does, the perspective skewed and the brightness almost blinding now. The air is tainted by the remnants of smoke and there's a brief moment when he can see everything - every particle of dust, every surface, and the redness of the blood still lingering in the periphery of his vision.
The body is motionless, eyes closed, face indistinct. But he doesn't need to see to know who it is and he closes his own eyes again; the lack of oxygen making him dizzy; the nausea returning at the memory.
I killed him.
As his consciousness fades he remembers. Sunlight glinting off his spectacles; the heavy scent of roses and a gentle hand on his shoulder.
Those eyes. His eyes. Blue, like sunlight through stained glass; the smell of peppermint in his hair and an uncertain smile that blossoms into a grin at his words.
And suddenly the laughter, baritone and rich. Not his, and it chills and revolts him. He knows it just as well as he knows his own; knows that faint perfume of lavender and tea. For a moment he resists the darkness, struggling to breathe, to escape the long fingers that close around his throat. But he doesn't have the strength to fight, and the last thing he hears is that quiet voice that slithers into his mind and settles itself there, cold in its certainty.
You have to pay for your crimes, boy. You know that.
[ooc notes - written deliberately such that it can be read as either a confused memory of DL6 and events connected to it, or as a car accident resulting from a high speed blowout on the freeway. The spectacles and scent of roses belong to Gregory Edgeworth. The blue eyes/grin that he remembers with fondness are Phoenix Wright's, but would probably only be recognised by someone who knew him or was extremely observant. The voice at the end is that of Manfred Von Karma].
Raised voices; a warning; and his pulse rate spirals in response to the panic and the dread, fingers closing on the hard plastic under his hand reflexively in a desperate attempt to make it stop.
Leave him alone!
A loud report; an inhuman scream that fills his head, drowning out every other sound until there's an abrupt cessation of motion.
...And then everything stops, his body slamming against something solid; an explosion of pain when he braces himself against it, twisting his hand under him and taking his breath.
...And silence. Darkness. A minute that stretches on forever, his ears straining for anything other than the pounding of his own heart in his ears. The metallic smell of sweat and blood and he can taste it on his lips, sharp and strong.
His eyes flip open, blinking hard against the light. He looks down at his hands and they're shaking - a vivid memory of plastic and cold metal searing his skin. Blood, smeared across his palm and spattered across the front of his shirt, the colour of it echoed by the red warning light that pulses angrily in time to the beat of his heart.
He tries to breathe, to speak, but there's no air, and he swallows back the sudden desire to vomit, a sharp pain from the pressure against his chest as he struggles to inhale.
He's dead.
It's an effort to turn his head, but he does, the perspective skewed and the brightness almost blinding now. The air is tainted by the remnants of smoke and there's a brief moment when he can see everything - every particle of dust, every surface, and the redness of the blood still lingering in the periphery of his vision.
The body is motionless, eyes closed, face indistinct. But he doesn't need to see to know who it is and he closes his own eyes again; the lack of oxygen making him dizzy; the nausea returning at the memory.
I killed him.
As his consciousness fades he remembers. Sunlight glinting off his spectacles; the heavy scent of roses and a gentle hand on his shoulder.
Those eyes. His eyes. Blue, like sunlight through stained glass; the smell of peppermint in his hair and an uncertain smile that blossoms into a grin at his words.
And suddenly the laughter, baritone and rich. Not his, and it chills and revolts him. He knows it just as well as he knows his own; knows that faint perfume of lavender and tea. For a moment he resists the darkness, struggling to breathe, to escape the long fingers that close around his throat. But he doesn't have the strength to fight, and the last thing he hears is that quiet voice that slithers into his mind and settles itself there, cold in its certainty.
You have to pay for your crimes, boy. You know that.
[ooc notes - written deliberately such that it can be read as either a confused memory of DL6 and events connected to it, or as a car accident resulting from a high speed blowout on the freeway. The spectacles and scent of roses belong to Gregory Edgeworth. The blue eyes/grin that he remembers with fondness are Phoenix Wright's, but would probably only be recognised by someone who knew him or was extremely observant. The voice at the end is that of Manfred Von Karma].