etrayalogs | MISSION 003

MISSION 003

WHO: Everyone and their plushies!
WHEN: June 7th to 25th
WHERE: Everywhere
WHAT: The third Mission
NOTES\WARNINGS: Violence against cute inanimate objects, nightmares, psychological horror, potential death and injury. Please add additional warnings as needed within threads.

⏵ care bear delivery⏴

Last week all characters received one of two possible messages informing them about this month’s mission; some people received a message informing them about the plushie delivery and letting them know they are to protect it.

While others were informed that the plushies must be destroyed starting on June 14th, as any ones remaining after June 20th will cause untold destruction upon the city and its inhabitants. Those who received the second message will find themselves unable to share it with other people.

As promised, on the morning of June 7th, all characters receive a delivery from the companion bots: one stuffed animal plushie handed directly to them. The shape of the plushie differs between characters, but their size is somewhat consistent; they’re all bigger than a fist and small enough to be carried around.

The plushies are magical in nature. Those who fall asleep with their plushies in the same room will find that they will not experience any nightmares and awaken feeling refreshed, even if they only sleep a few hours, or sleep in twenty-minute intervals (looking at you, Bats) rather than go for a full night's sleep. If they lock the plushies away, they will still experience some relief, but it won't nearly as much. Those experiencing intense feelings of guilt, sorrow, homesickness, fear, or pain will find that they still feel those emotions, but with significantly less intensity than they may usually have. Stressors are less stressful, and overall, it seems like the plushies and their magical properties are trying to help. It's as if something else is helping to carry the weight of that suffering.

However, characters will also become more attached and protective of their plushies the longer they have them.

⏵ teddy tailor⏴

After receiving their plushies, citizens of Etraya will find a new, colorful addition to the first level of the hospital, where one might expect to see a gift store, decorated with various tiny outfits. Those who wander inside will find that the place is not a store, but a tailor’s workshop. The companion bots manning it will happily guide people through the steps to make an outfit for their plushie. All kinds of fabrics and patterns can be found throughout the workshop, and a few sewing machines are set up for their use.

The companion bots will not physically help, but perhaps other citizens coming in can assist. After all, all those new plushie friends deserve a special outfit.

⏵ tea party⏴

Before the end of the week, citizens will receive an invitation to a Tea Party taking place at Ramsey Farms. Attendance is not mandatory, but the last several days have been nice, haven't they? Surely everyone is feeling like having some tea and scones.

The farm is set up with various tables and tea sets. All tables have exactly four seats and are meant to be occupied by two citizens and their respective plushies. Once seated, citizens may feel compelled to share how their plushie has been helping them these past few days, perhaps they might even get specific about their fears and traumas.

⏵ seek & destroy⏴

As the first week wraps up, citizens receive one more invitation, this one to participate in a game of Hide & Seek with their plushies. Those who received the message to protect their plushies will be told to hide, while those tasked with destroying the plushies will be the seekers. The game will take place over the morning of June 16th; by then, people may feel fairly protective of their plushies.

No information is provided regarding prizes or winning parameters and Aurora will not answer questions pertaining to the game. But hey, the tea party went so well; surely, this will be fun too.

Once a plushie is destroyed, all of those negative feelings that had been suppressed will return to characters. For those who only had their plushie for a week, they'll feel those emotions more intensely, but it won't be as terrible to lose it. The longer they have had the plushie, the more emotions it absorbs, and the more backlash they'll receive when it's destroyed. Characters with intense night terrors may immediately fall asleep once the plushie is destroyed, throwing them into one of the worst night terrors they have experienced.

Characters cannot destroy their own plushies. Those who receive the message to destroy them are welcome to ask other people to destroy it for them, but if they attempt to explain their reasoning, they'll find themselves losing their train of thought or otherwise unable to explain Aurora's mission.

As stated in Aurora's second mission, any plushies that have not been destroyed by the 20th will become a problem all of its own. The exception to this is if Wade Wilson dresses a plushie in the outfit he had received for it. This outfit will both lower the amount of emotions the plushie absorbs, and slow down its transformation.

⏵ cadaver consolations ⏴
And they do transform. After thirteen days of absorbing negative emotions and taking on nightmares for others, the plushies become something so much more than just plushies. Instead of being soft, huggable items meant to assist in lowering stressors, they take on aspects of those stressors. Perhaps your worst nightmare involves watching your loved ones burn to death - your plushie is no longer a cute little teddy bear but is instead the shape of what had once been your mother, burned and singed almost beyond recognizable if it wasn't for her voice calling out to you, telling you that you did this to her as she chases you down. Perhaps you've been feeling guilty for how things went down in the Labyrinth, and the plushie takes on the shape of a friend who had fallen to save you, whispering into your ear about how it is your fault, you did this to them.

From the 20th through the 25th, these plushies remain corporeal. While they may not look soft and fluffy, it's possible to find threads hanging off their bodies. Yanking on these threads will cause them to fall apart, thus destroying the nightmarish creature intent on following its owner to their death. After the twenty-fifth, they will no longer be corporeal and cannot be destroyed through traditional methods. Instead, player characters will need to pull aspects of their fear out of the mangled creature. Perhaps the creature is carrying a replica of a treasured necklace that needs to be yanked off it, or its chest has been torn open, its heart hanging loose for those around it to grab hold of. The character responsible for the plushie will need to devour their fears, which will cause the creature to unravel piece by piece.

How this looks is wholly up to you, as is how far your character's nightmarish creature gets. Whether it's devour in a literal sense, or if it's overcoming their fear by destroying it or overcoming it - the extent of how messy this gets is up to each player, as is how messy their plushie gets.

⏵ NOTES ⏴
The soothing nature of the plushies is magical. They are magically charmed to absorb negative energies and contain them. Characters who can sense magic of this nature are free to notice this.

Those warded from being affected by others' magic may also find that their plushies are not effective for them. This can be played to players' preference; maybe the plushies can work around the wards, but maybe they cannot.

When a character’s plushie is destroyed, the character will feel the full hit of all the emotions it had been holding for them, if a character's plushie survives past June 20th it will transform into a monster, if it survives past the 25th it becomes much harder (and traumatizing) to destroy. They will need to be destroyed, as the plushies will not disappear on their own regardless of how long they're around.

Any questions can be directed to the mod queries thread in the plotting post

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ There's a deep-rooted twinge of rejection as Hannibal mentions severe depression, PTSD, even trauma, Krouse's gaze flitting away like a bird flushed from the undergrowth. Those aren't labels he applies to himself. That's not what this is about. He's not what this is about.

He came here for the sake of what he brought with him. He knows it's not her. If he's delusional, he likes to think he keeps his delusions more mundane than that. If it's anything, it's a fragment of the thing that ate her. The part of her he never figured out how to make peace with, starving and sick. Her and not-her, distorted through the warp of his ugliest feelings. So, really, all it is is a memory.

This isn't how she deserves to be remembered. If he's not what it's about, his head's still where the problem lies. It's easier to accept the premise this is for his benefit than it is to try to clarify that his benefit is the last thing anyone should care about.

His brief deliberations show in the slight furrowing of his forehead as he looks at the teacup in front of him instead of at the needle, breathing through his nose with his lips sealed thin. They part on an inhale as good as a nod, his attention flicking back up to Hannibal's face. ]

All right.

[ The dregs of hesitation evaporate. It doesn't sound so bad, and even if it did - so what? He can get through. He always does.

He reclaims his teacup and brings it up for a steady sip, a half-absent thought spared for hydration. ]

What do you need me to do?

[this is easy, as easy as feeding a starving animal. it's almost pitiful. Hannibal would like to unravel the intricacies that the creatures had begun to trigger in people, too; Krouse is handing it to him on a silver platter. a sacrifice. it's commendable. if all it takes for someone to let go of the little animals is for them to address their deepest, ugliest feelings, then this experiment will have been a success. whether Krouse thinks it's about him, well. it's all about him now. he might be the only one to willingly undergo such extremes for information that may or may not help the rest of Etraya.

he thinks what that may mean for Aurora and the data she is pulling for Echo. every choice has an impact, though it doesn't seem like the kind of choice matters to the AI that brought them here.

it doesn't matter to him, either, so long as he can do as he wishes. everyone is given a good amount of control over how they react, stuffed animals or not.]

It will be more comfortable for you if you lay down on the couch. [a half smile as he motions to the couch beside the chairs, an easy change.] Less problematic for me, too. If you decide to stay in the chair you'll fall out of it. You'll feel rather unsteady with very little muscle control-- as if you're underwater in a dream. Everything slows down.

[translation: once you're in, you're locked in. he leaves the room briefly to go to the bathroom, grabbing alcohol and gauze for sterilization, then the kitchen for a small metal tray. when he returns, the tray is placed quietly on the desk while he situates his original chair to face the couch, leaving it at a professional distance. he'll need room to administer the drug.]

[ The prospect of that locking in triggers another small wave of tells: tightness in his jaw and neck, a fractional dilation of pupils, fear manifesting as the very mechanisms of its suppression. He's not familiar with therapy. He is familiar with this kind of helplessness. ]

Okay.

[ But he stands up all the same as Hannibal leaves the room, compliant and readied. He doesn't watch Hannibal go.

When Hannibal comes back, there have been some rearrangements. Krouse's teacup sits empty in its saucer, while the top of his backpack bulges fuller than it did before, stuffed with the makeshift sling he's shed in another attempt at neatness. Krouse himself is sitting on the couch he was directed to, hoodie shucked and turned into a new nest in his lap. His bare arms are a blotched canvas of bruises and small, irregular bites, layered over older damage - the fresh, pink scars of the wound Hannibal stitched peeking out from under his black t-shirt sleeve and a larger, mostly healed canine bite on his left forearm among them. The worst of the bruises, all of which are looped and coiled, lie above his right wrist, repeated deep compressions speckled with pinpoints of angry scabbing.

Krouse doesn't seem to care about that exposed vulnerability. He's looking at what's hidden inside the bunched folds of his hoodie, his eyes soft as he strokes his thumb in a gentle, repeated motion over something small as he murmurs to it. ]

- and whatever happens with you, it's okay. Whether it works or not. I'm not going anywhere. [ A tiny, bittersweet smile. ] Promise.

[ He lifts his head to look at Hannibal, smile holding like a flickering candle. ]

I don't know if she understands me. But I think it helps. Tone of voice, and all that.

[ He draws his socked feet up, his sneakers tucked under the chair he was occupying, and stretches out on the couch. The hoodie-nest is shifted to his stomach, chirruping and squeaking. ]

Ready when you are, Dr. Lecter.

[ Everything else that's changed in the room since Hannibal left is something Krouse knows about. What he can't know, doesn't have the keenness of olfactory sense to guess at, is what shifting his little creature out of its swaddling has done to the air.

The reek of illness is stronger than ever, a miasma of animal and human ailment, but shot through now with a heated punch of fecundity. It stinks of metabolic processes going awry in two contrasting directions, a flurry of accelerated cell division competing with terminal decline. Over it all hangs the sharp note of fresh bile and the fruit-vinegar tang of ketones, evidence Krouse couldn't have hidden as neatly as the tiny lump of new tissue secreted away in the rags in his backpack if he'd known to even try. ]

[he hears Krouse cooing to the foul creature that he's allowed to cozy too closely to his chest. much longer and he's sure it would send the boy into a form of psychosis, if it already hasn't.

he internally braces himself for the sickly sweet smell that permeates through every particle of air. it's a slap on the face. he does everything he can to remain impenetrable, but a muscle twitches just once in the corner of his eye, breaking past his usual stoicism. he knows it's hardly noticeable and knows Krouse is honed in on caring for the sickness that bleeds into Hannibal's home, so he swallows the discomfort. the only respite is the fire's smoke, but it hardly has a fighting chance against the bubbling stench that rises from Krouse's torso. he recognizes it, knows that smell from patients he's treated in the past and people he's met, but it has never been this pungent.

he has to focus on other senses.

so many stories on Krouse's skin; reds, blues and purples blending together to paint a picture. jagged areas of skin where some scabs are peeling and others fresh. the indents and raises left by scarring.

the tray is moved closer to Hannibal, to the table. firm, steady hands take Krouse's arm delicately to disinfect the area of the median cubital vein. absently, he thinks of grabbing the creature and disposing of it outside right here and now. he can't take care of it inside, he's worried what sort of cleaning he'll need to do to clean his living room just by having it present.]

You may feel slight pinch. Don't fight it, remember you are safe.

[except, with Hannibal's skill, the impact of the needle breaking into skin barely exists. it's done so quickly and precisely that it's possible Krouse doesn't feel it. gauze is pressed against the area, though hardly for more than a few seconds. satisfied, he pulls back, sits himself in his chair neatly. one leg crosses over the other.

he waits in silence for a full minute, long enough for the ketamine to hit the system, early enough that Krouse may still have an crumb of control over what words leave his mouth before everything is taken over by impulse.]

Tell me about what you're holding. What it represents.

[ If not for the flush of contrasting temperature, Krouse wouldn't know when the needle broke skin. He focuses on a point on the ceiling and the sound of his breathing, two fixed references to ground him for whatever happens next.

He's too full of nerves, or too aware of the nerves he has, in the first few seconds before anything starts to happen. It hits him that he can't reverse this now, if he even wanted to. Whatever this will do to him is going to happen, no choice left but to ride it out if it goes wrong.

His stomach churns. The thing on top of it does the same, burrowing down towards his warmth. No hesitation, no fear, no aversion. It reaches for him with the insistence of not knowing any better than to want to be touched.

He hasn't done anything to teach it otherwise. He lets it do it more than he should, even though it only ever goes one way. He thinks he should have told Hannibal that before they got going. He doesn't want him to have the wrong idea about what's been happening. Most of these bruises and bites exist because he invited them.

They feel like they're floating on his skin, or he's floating underneath them. The undersides of lilypads in a sunny pond, or slow clouds in a summer sky.

He's being asked a question. For a hitching split second, he wonders if he won't know how to answer, but words come easily after all. ]

The other part of her.

[ A thumb slides into fabric, searching. It brushes against a tiny grasping talon like a baby bird's. He smiles as it latches on, little claws digging in firmly. ]

Noelle. [ He says her name softly, like it needs to be handled as gently as spun glass. It's the only thing not subject to the slumped slur of the rest of his speech. ] She was...

[ A ripple of discomfort goes across his face, unfocused eyes creasing, but it slips away before he feels it. ]

She was sick. I made it worse. I tried to make it better, but I just kept making it worse. I didn't know how to help her.

[ He lets his head tip sideways, distantly surprised by its weightlessness. He wants this next part to be understood, offered up to those ice chip eyes. ]

I wanted to help her. More than anything.

[the quick ascent to another plane is always a treat to watch. he recalls Abigail and her uncertainty about the psilocybin tea; how he had guided her through her traumas, the broken teacup.

now he has Krouse with his slithering creature that chirps and chitters with the rise and fall of his chest. he observes its movements with what can only be described as reserved disdain. one hand curls around the arm of his chair, if only to allow himself some release of the nauseating discomfort his senses are assaulted with.

if this 'Noelle' is what this thing -- thing, because that's what it is to Hannibal -- is, an embodiment of all of his regrets and guilt, then he's already learned something. the toys handed to them by the bots were meant to absorb every ounce of negative feelings or energy the person hid or wants to hide. it means the toy in his drawer upstairs is all the more dangerous, but maybe it's because he's able to compartmentalize emotions in different ways that he feels nothing toward it now. whatever the purpose of the toys are, it's bordering on malicious. if there is a specific outcome that Echo wants to see, he thinks it must be a negative one.]

You felt helpless with her and possibly enabled her illness because you were unfit to treat it.

[a weighted pause,]

Would you define your relationship as codependent?

[considering how Krouse continues to allow it to sink its teeth into him, he's guessing the answer is yes.]

[ The steady crackle of the fire blurs into Hannibal's voice, a counterpoint to the liquid rush of his heartbeat. Krouse shifts on the couch, arching his back slightly as a feeling of glossy emptiness swells up inside of him. It pushes out, stretching him to a thin, tremulous surface tension, a soap bubble clinging to the rim of a wand dragged through the air.

He sinks back down, the tiny shift immense in his perception. When he breathes, it ripples through him in a wave, then keeps rippling - out into the room, into everything he can feel with the brush of his power, but more than that. ]

No.

[ He still can't tell how Hannibal is looking at him, but it doesn't bother him anymore. He blinks slowly, fleetingly fascinated by the glide of his own eyelashes. ]

It wasn't like that. [ A barely there smile blooms on his mouth. ] She didn't love me back. I don't think she even really liked me.

[ That's what codependent means, doesn't it? Two people tangled together by so much love they can't come apart. It wasn't like that. He was the one who was all reaching vines, and she only let him cling because she had to. ]

It's okay. I didn't need it. I don't. And she was right. It was my fault.

That's why I had to fix it.

[ When he blinks this time, he lets his eyes stay shut. His power keeps touching things, but he isn't sure what they are. He only feels their weight, the hum of their relativity. ]

Have to. [ He swallows a mouthful of nauseous spit. ] Is it supposed to feel like this? It's...different. Not fog.

[a distinct release of sweat and adrenaline leaks from every pore, every shallow breath, as different neurons fire inside the brain to adapt to the drug. each minute that ticks by is precious and while it may feel like hours are crawling by, his high will only last fifteen or twenty minutes. since it's his first time taking it, it may linger on a bit longer.

his slow, absent smile gives it all away.]

While codependency can happen in romantic relationships, it's just as common in platonic ones. Her disorder wasn't yours to fix. You're holding onto a fair amount of guilt for her loss. Do you feel that you can let that go?

[he allows Krouse to get side-tracked momentarily. can't have a patient getting tunnel vision.]

Not fog, no. I imagine you're feeling weightless and delayed all at once. It's normal, and won't be forever. Take a few deep breaths if you need to.

[ Krouse's body takes a deep breath at the prompting, residual conditioning slipping into the gaps of conscious response. It's normal, so it's okay. He can let go of thinking about it, because almost all the thinking is (finally; again) in someone else's hands.

All he has to do is answer questions, one at a time. And he barely has to do that. He just has to let the answers come up out of the loose weave of memories and feelings that make up the person on the couch. ]

...everybody wanted me to let go. Talked around it, hinted. Said it, sometimes. She did.

[ His hand burrows further into loose, sticky fabric, fingers slipping underneath the damp weight of his tiny companion. She butts against his palm, nips at his fingers, disconnected sensations that send odd shivers he can't quite follow up his arm. ]

Everybody wanted to give me permission. Like I must've wanted to, deep down. Like I didn't know I could.

[ From within the hoodie, something arches, flexes, and, at last, snakes out. It's a pallid, pinkish tendril, slightly iridescent in the firelight, tapering to a thin point. It loops around his wrist like a coiling vine. ]

I could let go. Put her in another box, close the lid again. Be finished for good, this time. [ The tendril pulses in a squeeze. The skin coating it is delicate, slippery over the muscle like a hatchling snake. His eyes open, dark and hazy. ] Could've done it whenever I wanted. And I never wanted to. I don't.

I want to let go of me.

[ It seems so possible, now. To take these fragments and push them out to sea, if he could only cut the last binding cords. He's barely even afraid. The high humming in his chest is almost excited, almost brave, almost ready. ]

Whatever it is about me that does this. Did this again. Made this sick, like I made her sick, like I made - everyone I ever fucking got close to sick of me.

[he listens and listens as pieces of Krouse break away with little resistance. absently, he wonders if he should have gone a bit further and used a form of light therapy, or a metronome. he seems to be doing fine without the added stability, but he's interested in what could have been, on the potential. maybe this won't be their only session.]

You created a space for her in the only way that you knew how to at the time. Making those spaces made it easier for you to delay the inevitable.

[he cants his head. he's waiting for the right time to take the very thing that Krouse holds dearly and destroy it, but he's also curious about how much he can let the boy spill.]

This is a perfect opportunity to let yourself go.

[there is much intent in the way he observes. he knows Krouse can barely keep track of what's around him, let alone the uncomfortable creature settled within his hand. it's in these precious moments he decides to quietly ease himself up from his seat. he's nimble, keeping just out of the boy's line of sight while he maneuvers himself around the living room.

his voice will potentially sound disembodied as he stands behind him, by the arm of the couch where Krouse rests his head. the point is to disorient him as he makes his way toward the kitchen.]

If you feel guilty of being the disease, you also have control over being the cure.

[ When Krouse blinks, Hannibal is gone. Or that's how it seems, with no way of knowing how long he let his eyes stay shut this time, or how long any of this has lasted. Time is a gauzy, indistinct valence to organize himself around, as much as he's organizing anything. He fidgets slightly in place, eyes slipping back closed to block out the disconcerting absence.

Maybe Hannibal hasn't gone anywhere if Krouse can still hear him. The thought stirs hooks of self-taught habits - sightlines and security - but they don't snag.

Can he let go? Not of her, but the way he carries her with him, haunted and hungry. Of all the things he already was that he sharpened to turn into what he thought he needed to be for her. For all of them. And for himself before any of that, because he couldn't stand proving once and for all that he wasn't fucking good for anything.

He wants to believe he can. Even now, when it doesn't matter anymore. If he can finish things clean, squared away, it won't make up for any of it, but it'll be different. ]

How?

[ Plaintive, vulnerable, almost childish. The creature wrapped around his hand sighs hot against his slick fingers, one barbed tongue worrying a scab as a smooth one explores the inner crease of a knuckle. ]

How do I stop - because it's supposed to be easy, right? Not hurting people? You just don't. You do what you have to so they're safe, you don't tell them the hard parts, you just - you make it easy. Look after yourself so nobody else has to. Be the bad guy. [ A breathy, scraping inhale, prelude to a laugh that doesn't come. ] I'm good at that.

But I keep getting it wrong.

[he returns to the living room once more, the air sticky with heat and sickness. it bombards him all over again, being so close to it. he keeps his breathing shallow. unfortunate that a third of his thoughts are directed toward how he's going to clean. he's put on latex gloves, one hand tucked away in his pants pocket while the other rests in a closed fist around the handle of a knife behind his back.

he stands at Krouse's feet now, taking up the space left between his line of sight and the rest of the living room.]

Not always easy, no. It's important to let yourself to be vulnerable with yourself and with others. You're being vulnerable with me right now.

[Krouse may need to come back and discuss this later, when he's sober. Hannibal expects it, would even encourage it. he is seeing much more than a teen trying to fix a girl's eating disorder -- he's trying to fix everything.]

You aren't bad for wanting to protect your friends. [every word he speaks is without sharpness. rather, more gentle suggestions.] You became comfortable with the familiarity, expected the more unfortunate outcomes. Do you want to change?

[ The worst things Krouse ever did were for the best reasons he had. He knew that, once upon a time. He'd even thought it mattered, before the bodies started to pile up high enough that justifying it like that became a joke too ugly for even him.

He does feel vulnerable when Hannibal says it, abruptly looming at the foot of the couch and looking down. It's one of the first times in a while that hasn't seemed like such a bad thing to be. A patient on a surgical table is vulnerable, slit open to correct some internal deviation. It's a necessary bleed.

(Vaguely, he remembers Hannibal mentioning one unlucky patient - but it comes and goes, irrelevant to the moment.) ]

Yes.

[ He'd be humiliated to admit that in his right mind. There's a flutter of shame with it even in his state, only it's so much quieter than the longing. He blinks up at Hannibal, noticing unexpected dampness on his eyelashes. ]

I want - [ he stirs groggily, as if to sit up, but gives back into the weightless drag of his limbs almost instantly ] - I want to be able to change anything.

[ For the better, instead of the worse. Even if it's something as inconsequential as himself. Even if it's as small and screwed up as the thing that's finally revealed as Krouse's fidgeting and its twitching conspire to let a fold of crumpled hoodie fall back from it.

A scattering of tiny eyes, each one unique, glare balefully up at Hannibal through Krouse's nipped fingers. Bloodclot irises floating on jaundiced whites, the shape not quite human; a slit-pupiled bead of shocking bilious green; bulging gold stamped with the black hourglass of a cephalopod's strange gaze. Not all of them are set in its several heads. The largest sits above a half-formed replica of a shrunken thumb and forefinger, while tiniest glinting beads of them fringe the corner of a sideways mouth that splits open to show a ring of mismatched teeth, canines and molars of a dozen types crowding haphazardly together. Instead of a tongue, a swollen mass of whorled blisters sits at its center. The extruding tendril pulses and winds tighter as the thing lifts its topmost head, something between rodent and snake, and opens that mouth too, buck incisors stained pinkish with fresh blood.

Krouse strokes his thumb gently over its mottled skin. It wheezes and dribbles, squirming in the light. ]

[it's the first time Hannibal regards the little thing with any form of real attention. cold, detached expression as he looks right back at it; his gaze could send nearly anything into a form of submission. it must sense his intention in some way, he thinks. or it has a will to survive, grasping at Krouse's fingers as a lifeline.]

You have to let yourself change then, Krouse.

[suddenly beside Krouse with calm, malicious intent. he bends down to whisper in his ear,]

Death will accompany your rebirth.

[straightening up once more and with his free gloved hand he snatches the cephalopod up and away from Krouse as a cat would claw a bird out of thin air. should Krouse react, he's now an afterthought to Hannibal. no amount of protest or worry distracts him, no reassuring words left in his wake.

he's grown tired of its existence, its foul odors invading every particle of air like it deserves to take up an ounce of space. with it in his hand, his grip is hardly kind. fingers bare down into it in hopes of suffocation and torture as he stalks out of his home and at least 20 feet out from the house itself. his knife slashes into it, gouging into eyes and piercing through tendrils all at once. warmth leaks and bubbles around his latex, deep red slipping along his fingers. it's meant to be a disrespectful act because nothing about the creature deserves more. there's no honor to this kill, only pure distaste.

dropping it from his hand to the ground, he only returns to its body once more to pour gasoline over it. with one strike of a match, flame envelopes the tiny body, ground blackened with oil and burns.]

[ It happens too fast to catch up to. The glistening bubble of dissociation Krouse had been floating in bursts into plummeting disorientation as Hannibal snatches the clinging thing from his hand, all of its mouths opening in a chorus of shrieks as it's torn away.

The panic is sudden and sludging simultaneously, a burst dam spewing frigid, black slush as Krouse struggles to lurch into motion. ]

No - !

[ He falls off the couch, unfelt impact jolting up his knees, one hand slipping on the floor to send him skidding forward. Nothing connects like it's supposed to, his limbs racing away from his hammering heartbeat as Hannibal leaves the room - has already left the room - the sound of a door ripped open echoing uncertainly under the high, wailing note of a song that almost could sound like words, if he listened to it. He scrabbles to one of the chairs to grasp at its armrest, reaching out desperately, blindly, for lines of attachment, exchange, movement - and his mouth keeps opening around a name, chanted mindlessly in refusal.

All around the room, things are trading places, clatters and chimes still drowning underneath the noise. Outside, the fragment crushed in Hannibal's fist screams a new note, the terrified wail of a girl's voice coming from mouths that shouldn't be capable of the sound. The knife comes down. Halfway up the chair, now smudged with bloodied handprints, so does Krouse.

It's not the worst thing he's ever felt. It's every worst thing he's ever felt, compressed to an explosive core that bursts apart in obliterating shrapnel. Outside, the dead thing is silent. Inside, the body curled up on itself listens to a note screaming upwards in a spiralling cresting rise that never peaks. It goes on, a singular moment of uninterrupted devastation, and what's left of him that thinks knows it's never going to stop. Nothing like this could ever stop.

There's pressure in his skull, slamming outwards in fitful roils that pulse through the room. The bloodied chair he's touching switches position with the clean one, and something deeper than his mind grasps at molecules and atoms, at displacements, at shapes of possibility unrealized, at a dead channel of static incapable of responding to a repeating blurt of query. An electrical storm crackles across delicate networks of wet machinery only to burn out as abruptly as it came on, washes of neurotransmitters and waste products sizzling in its wake.

When Hannibal comes back to the room, it's a sea of disarray. Framed pictures lie on the floor next to shelves whose contents are strewn below where the pictures used to be. Statues have exchanged positions with one another, and the careful place settings on the table are scrambled into chaos. In the epicentre of it all, Krouse huddles in on himself sideways on the ground, sobbing in hard, breathless shudders with smears of blood around his eyes where they're buried against his shaking hands. ]

[the thing wails and screeches so much that he is relieved to have it quieted. the new wailing thing is Krouse. gloved hand slick with blood and remnants of gasoline when he returns. silent in the foyer while he listens, waiting. it isn't caution that has him lingering, it's curiosity. slow steady steps back into the living room to find the hurricane of what Krouse left in his wake.

surveying the scene, he's more displeased at how much he'll have to clean than he is worried about the boy in the center of it. careful steps over frames and paper as he maneuvers his way through it. crouching down next to his shuddering body, he cants his head, blinking slowly. maybe, just maybe a tick downward of his lips to indicate pity or concern.

the view is wonderful. this is Hannibal's doing, a creation as much as it is destruction. a bit of tit for tat. Clint's reaction to the plushie being destroyed hadn't been as severe, but only because it hadn't gotten to this point. he wonders what would have happened if he'd decided to kill the creature in his home.

a latex glove is removed from his right hand with a quiet smack and his hand is placed on Krouse's shoulder. a firm, reassuring grip. a reality check. in this sort of moment, one would expect a whisper or a coaxed sweetness, but his tone is strictly professional. a cold snap through silence.]

Krouse. [then his hand moves to wipe away hair and sweat and blood from the boy's face, to get a better look. to evaluate his pupils and focus.] Are you with me? You should be coming down.

[and you made a mess.]

Edited 2024-07-01 23:49 (UTC)

[ Krouse doesn't know what coming down is supposed to mean. Is it the collapsing weight of disparate pieces crumpling together in his chest in tight, physical hurt? The return of sensation in the form of bruises on his knees and the ragged ache of his throat? Or is it the hideously bereft quiet, anchored only by the cool clarity of Hannibal's voice?

Maybe it's the wave of shame that laps over the ocean of guilt that fills him up from his sweating brow to his trembling fingers as Hannibal smooths back some of the mess of him. His eyes latch onto Hannibal's face, and even through the blurriness of tears, he knows he's done something wrong.

(Everything.)

The smell of gasoline in the air nearly makes him sick, and imagining the shallow puddle of bile he'd heave up over Hannibal's feet leaves him choking on a repressed gag. He swallows thickly, blinking back the burn in his eyes, unable to do the same to the harsher burn of sickly vulnerability in the blunt animal comfort of being touched. He doesn't want it. Not from him, not after what he did - but what did he do that Krouse didn't let him do? ]

Why?

[ The question is eked out around another mouthful of sob, dense enough he thinks he could sink teeth into it and chew. He's not angry. There's no space for anger yet at the bottom of the crush. Just the question, ricocheting in an excavated hollow. ]

[it is animal comfort, because he is treating Krouse as a veterinarian would treat a wounded pet on stainless steel. his own breathing is shallow, controlled in this overwhelmed space. add the gasoline and pure iron on his fingers, sickness is everywhere.

he's ready to peel away in case Krouse does indeed vomit, smelling it before the gag begins.]

I saved you the trouble.

[airy, confident. he's been doing a lot of saving recently, all organized neatly for specialized use in the future, though it may not look like that right now. Krouse is capable of a lot of destruction, even in small bursts, not to mention his stamina. the labyrinth showed him as much. here is a distorted mirror image, left broken and out of control from the drug in his system. with the right recipe, the feast could be generous.]

Come, sit up. You'll feel better.

[not a suggestion. one knee is braced against the floor now as his other arm scoops under Krouse's shoulders and lifts him to a sitting position. it's in these moments of contact that Krouse will notice Hannibal's strength, lean muscle working against the weight of a body. he steadies him easily, like the weight of him is nothing, using this time to inspect his arms and turn over his hands to have a closer look at the wounds left by the cephalopod's gnawing mouth.]

We need to get you cleaned up. Disinfect these bites. Can you stand?

Edited 2024-07-02 01:04 (UTC)

[ The turmoil in Krouse's mind doesn't stop his body from being pliantly cooperative. If anything, the disorientation makes it easier, the rippling spasms of shock and pain quieted by the familiarity of being moved by someone not himself. Hands on his shoulders, the snip of scissors by his ears. A soft fall of dark hair that seemed to not belong to him anymore on bare concrete.

He's been handled like this before. With his protective veneers stripped back, his body only remembers it as comforting in the stability, and that sense of being guided into corrected shapes steadies undercurrents he's in no state to be consciously aware of. ]

I c- I can try?

[ The sound of his sniffling seems huge as he attempts to even out his breathing on instinct, wooziness distorting his sense of place and proportion. He wants to curl back in on himself, his hands closing protectively over nothing until Hannibal coaxes them back open for inspection.

He looks at them after he answers. He shouldn't have. His next inhale comes as a wounded keen, strangled and thin, and he closes his eyes futilely against knowing that it's been heard. ]

No'. [ Another tidal gush of a sob, strained against the limits of his throat to hold it. ] I didn't - I didn't want - we were okay, we were okay, I had it -

[ But while his mouth chants denial, he'll find his legs underneath him when Hannibal urges him to stand with his dispassionate carefulness. ]

[Krouse is handled as easily as a ragdoll. even under the spell of ketamine (or something like it, he isn't entirely sure if it's the exact same, but it does the trick) people have a varied sense of control. he hadn't given him so much that he couldn't function, just enough to coax specific words from his mouth and the creature from his hands. no, his slump has to be related to his past.

he tables it. he needs to make this experience gift-wrapped, tie it up nicely. he shushes Krouse gently with little tuts as one would a child. placating, maybe even comforting.]

Just breathe. You're not yourself.

[with no thanks to him. he keeps one hand on the boy's upper arm, avoiding any (known) injuries. Hannibal wouldn't let him fall. he leads him to the guest bathroom slowly, a firm grip on Krouse as he turns the sink on to fill with warm water and plugs the drain. he doesn't trust him to stand on his own.]

Don't look in the mirror, it may be too disorienting for you.

[a half-truth. he knows that just by saying that Krouse might look anyway.]

[ This happened to him in the days after she died the first time, coming in waves of minutes at a time when he'd simply stop, a broken engine stuttering into a grinding lock. Being gathered up and urged along coaxes motion back into him, so that by the time they're in front of the sink he only wants to crash back down into the tile, instead of it seeming impossible to keep standing under the black gravity of loss.

Sometimes he hates that he can get back up. He hates that this doesn't last, that nothing in him really breaks for how much it hurts. It'd be better if there was something tangible. If his chest opened up to spill into the basin of warm water whose lip he clutches as he smothers his crying one shallow inhale at a time.

When he looks in the mirror, he's not disoriented. He's too familiar with the slick, ugly mess there for it to untether him again. He just hates it, loathing welling up to twist his reflection into sickened contempt for the face that casts it.

It's catching Hannibal's reflection that unbalances him. The lines of building fury collapse into muddled shame, and he drops his chin to stare at the vague, broken outline of his shadow captured there. ]

I'm sorry. [ He shakes his head, tightening his grip on the sink, leaning into Hannibal's support like leaning into a bruise. ] I'm sorry. I fucked up.

[ Who is he even apologizing to? What does he think it's going to do, exactly? Who does he expect to care? ]

[he continues to act as a guide, gently pressing Krouse's hand into the warm water. it's baptismal in a way; how professional Hannibal handles him, how he works and tends around the scrapes and cuts. gentle, but with an air of righteousness. slow, pointed glances into the mirror to catch Krouse's expression: his downcast eyes, his tear-stained cheeks.

words follow Krouse's broken apology as though he knew what he was going to say. he trails off the end of his words to continue,]

Who are you apologizing to right now?

[still he uses the mirror to look at him -- it's how he gets the full view.]

[ Giving over his hands like this reinforces the swirl of helplessness Krouse stands in the center of. If he had a second, a minute to himself, he could recompress. Under this dutiful care, it's as if Hannibal cards away the reins of his self-containment with every pass of warm water turning pink. ]

I don't know.

[ His voice cracks on the last word, his lips pulling back in an attempted reflexive smile that only shows as a rictus wince. He tips his head to one side to roughly scrape his face against his shoulder. It smears more than it mops up. ]

I messed up your room.

[ He flits his gaze back to the reflection of Hannibal's preoccupied eyes like he can't help himself, prodding the edges of a fresh wound. ]

Because that's what I do. I told you, didn't I?

[ A note of bleak, false levity, paired with uncertainty - did he really say that, in those words? Did he give enough of a warning for it to be fair? Or did he give out half-truths that were good enough at the time, muddled with how much he wanted them to be enough that he believed his own bullshit? The illusory spark of light fizzles out, leaving him as ashen and tremulous as he was before it. ]

I'll clean up.

[lightly, agreeable:]You did.

[the wounds are cleaned to his satisfaction. he continues to keep Krouse steady, for as long as he'll have to. he dries his hands, takes bandages from a nearby cabinet to wrap them delicately. there are so many of those creeping bites and cuts that a simple bandaid wouldn't do Krouse any good.

to Hannibal, it's as simple as caring for a wounded animal, one that has completely given up on its autonomy. he can guide and direct as he likes. his eyes snap up from their previous focus on his Krouse's hands, an overbearing air to him even with his gentle tone.]

No, that won't be necessary. [once ruined is enough.] You can't continue to blame yourself like this, Krouse. Using your past as a crutch will eventually drown you. I don't think you want to drown, but you do have a penchant for self destruction that you may want to be more aware of.

[ It's better to be treated like a sick animal than a broken machine. A sick animal can heal, however ugly the scars left behind are. He watches the marks of his ill-fated isolation be covered up one winding turn at a time, conscious of Hannibal's attention turning back to his face.

I don't think you want to drown.

He hitches a little at that, blinking hard. He remembers the river, all the stones they threw that didn't skip, vanishing into the water-that-wasn't. He'd gone back to look for her there when she disappeared. Then he'd stared at it too long, picturing the arc of the stones slipping to the bottom.

But then he'd walked back from the bank. He always walks back, however close he gets, however much he probably deserves to go under. How many times can he get away with it before he slips? ]

It's easier to ruin things first.

[ He licks his bitten lips, vaguely aware of how chapped and worried they are. Like hers always used to be. ]

Before anything else does, you know? Because then at least I did it on purpose. Everything good I try to do, any progress I make, I mess it up. And I know that, and I still...

[ He wants to try to clean things up. A room, the wreck of his life, the shattered splinters of his guilt. ]

How far gone can someone get before they can't come back?

MISSION 003

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cw: body horror

cw needles/drug administration, yucky vibes, also hannibal

cw needles/drug administration, drug use, psychedelics, self harm

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what better time to use this icon

yaaay that icon (':

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cw: body horror, finger injuries

cw harm/death of weird slimy Thing, gore, blood

cw harm/death of weird slimy Thing, gore, blood, intoxication, hallucinations, grief

gross: the thread

gross: the thread, emetophobia

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cw: suicidal ideation

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cw mentions of attempted murder/blood

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scampers in

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