lucetilogs | FOR YOUR CONVENIENCE, MY FELLOW LUCETIANS

FOR YOUR CONVENIENCE, MY FELLOW LUCETIANS

Who: EVERYONE
What: TRAUMA!
When: ALL THE TIME
Where: ANYWHERE
Summary: HORRIBLE, HORRIBLE TRAUMA. FREE FOR ALL IN THE SCARRING EXPERIENCES DEPARTMENT.
Rating: Gosh. I'm not sure. However, I suggest you hide your little'uns.

Basically, the purpose of this log is TRAUMA SPAM. If you didn't want to spam your flist with extra posts, or you wanted to post with more than one character -- or more than one character more than once! -- here is your place to be.

This will be a commentspam style log where you can thread start with your character hallucinating things. Whatever you wish it to be! It can even just be a more general thread start where they're not hallucinating anything -- yet. And each thread can get treated like a post, where that character's CR can react to the trauma going down!

If you still wish to actually post in your character's journal, you're of course totally allowed to do so. This is just here for funtiems and convenience for everyone who wanted a greater chance to post during this event! Feel free to use it anytime over the next few days, through Halloween, to do "posts" and threads with your characters.

Have at, guys!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[When he sees Legato, he doesn't jump to his feet in surprise, doesn't shout or anything that would suggest he was going to attack the man. He knew there was nothing he could really do at the moment—neither of them could do much, during these images.

Doesn't mean he can't be seething in reply as he clasps his gun and leans against the tree log.]

What a surprise, seeing you out here.

[he stares sightlessly at Wolfwood for a moment when he speaks, almost in surprise. The corpse was dressed in the priest's clothes, carried his weapon. But his flesh hung in bloody strips from his bones. He could smell the rot on him.]

[lightly, matter-of-factly] You're dead.

[Wolfwood perks a brow at him.]

You know that better than anyone, don't you?

[He's got a cigarette dwindling away in one hand, and smokes it quietly, eying the man up for a moment. He was seeing things, too.]

[and then, in the next moment, his vision clears. It's just Wolfwood-- the real one, still living. A frown marks this moment and he glances back the way he came, searching for something that might help him catch his bearings. There was only a short amount of time before it would happen again...]

[He can't help but find a little satisfaction in the look that crosses the man's face briefly.]

Not so fun when it's you getting messed with, is it?

This is purposeless...

[he trails off as he distractedly grips his wrist, feeling the sudden bite of invisible shackles. It was starting again already...]

[Wolfwood narrows his eyes, wondering what was running through that man's strange mind. Someone as fucked up as him had to have some pretty intense memories running rampant on him.]

Then you should go ahead and hallucinate somewhere else, so we're all a little happier.

You're just so clever, aren't you?

[he'd love to comply, really. The last thing he wants to do is lose his mind around someone who he is mostly sure is actually Wolfwood. But it's hard to ignore the sounds, now. Throaty chuckles, that horrid grating voice.

Lucky priest. He gets to see Legato in obvious growing distress... but it's also pretty clear that his hold on himself is beginning to slip]

[Wolfwood rises slowly to his feet, pulling the cross slowly over one shoulder. He has a holster in the inside of his coat where the usual handgun remained, but he made no motion to it—not yet. He knows that he can't evade fighting him someday... He's just not sure when Legato will decide to.

Right now? Seems like an unstable bridge ready to fall in on itself. He speaks in a low hum directed at himself as he turns on his heel.]

So you are human after all. Fancy that.

[he doesn't hear Wolfwood. Not over the laughing-- on every side, that disgusting laugh. How was it this clear in his mind when he hadn't heard it in so many years? He wants to get away, find some place where nothing is, but that requires him to open his eyes.

...And when he does, the reaction is immediate. As if the vision was looming, just waiting for him to look, it pounces on him in an instant. That face--that face--is right there, grinning down at him, and he lashes out. ...Unfortunately, the only mind there to grab is Wolfwood's, mentally reaching for the muscles of his legs and twisting]

[Wolfwood's legs give out almost immediately, because he's never had to feel the affect of Legato's powers—he grips his cross tightly, managing to stay on his knees despite the overwhelming force curling his muscle. Seething—it was seething. All he wanted was to stop it.

The other man didn't look lucid... Hell, even though he was batshit crazy, he at least had some sort of twisted purpose in his eye. Now, it was just emotions spawned by something he wasn't really seeing.

And he might just be prepared to kill the priest. With this in mind, Wolfwood drew the handgun from under his coat, aimed as best he could toward the man, and fired—]

[now they were shooting at him. They caught him, and now they were going to shoot him. Again.

He caught the flick of the shooter's arm just in time, both nudging the weapon and twisting his own body to the side quickly to avoid the bullet, and it just barely grazes by. Punching a hole in his coat; hitting the tree behind him.

He needed to stop this. He needed to end that grinning piggish face. So...he slithers his way to the gunman's arm, then. Bending, pulling, twisting... aiming to turn that gun around on the gunman's own face...]

[Shit, shit, there really is no way to pull out of this sort of grasp, is there—? Looking down the barrel of your own gun was bad enough, but knowing that maybe your murderer would end up killing you again was almost beyond the panic of knowing death was close at hand again. Literally, at that...

He struggles against the hold, instinctively leaning his chin back away from the muzzle, gritting his teeth—

and the gun goes off with a sharp crack, a whipping boom]

[...safe.

Between his face and the smoking gun rested the wound-up cross, a small indention in the metal, beyond an insignificant rip in the tan fabric. Wolfwood peers darkly at Legato from beyond the arm of the crucifix, a bead of sweat on his cheek and a long-held breath finally gasping out of him. His hand still shakes under Legato's control, the nose of the gun click-clacking against the cross with every sharp tremble of his wrist.]

Edited 2010-11-05 02:48 (UTC)

[there is a moment there where everything wavers, and it almost seems as though he's going to let Wolfwood go. That gunshot changed the vision, temporarily dispersing it. One beat, and then another, just hanging onto Wolfwood's limbs and struggling back towards reality.

The world never quite reaches the point where it makes any sense, however. The sounds of chains come scraping along again, rattling in his ears, the sensation of hands latching onto his arms suddenly... and he fights back.

Staring at nothing, he wrenches whatever he has his mental fingers around, blindly just trying to harm or destroy whatever he can reach]

[His legs and arms are on fire, and he can barely move them. This kind of strength—no wonder things happened the way they did back home. He didn't have a chance if he let it go any further. Fuck sticking around and fighting no matter what: he knew he had to disable him somehow, and take that chance to get the hell away. No negotiating it, no sudden freedom, no nothin' without a little work on his behalf.

He curled his free fingers into the cross, burying past the wrappings and around the skull-shaped trigger. Just shoot him. Just—

The gun hissed and was open instantly, loose wrappings hanging off of polished metal. Without a beat of hesitation the machine gun fired off rounds. He let the now struggling, tired arm fall diagonally, spraying bullets in a line of directions.

If he can just throw him off]

[if he'd been coherent, he might have been able to do something about it. Either preventing the attack from striking home, or breaking Wolfwood apart before he could even fire.

Instead, he mentally gropes for minds that aren't actually there, and a shower of gunfire sprays across him. A few pops of shattered bark from the tree behind him over his shoulder, and then--sharp punches to his torso--two bullets knock him back, before the line of shots continues past him to the side.

He drops Wolfwood as soon as he's hit, visions cracking apart, and staggers back a step until his back hits the tree.]

[Perfect hits. Or, at the very least, good enough. He honestly can't tell very well through the line of dizzying numbness that soon after accompanies his legs. But somehow, he forces himself to his feet, grinding his teeth in the effort.

When and if Legato looks up, all that will remain in Wolfwood's spot is a dead cigarette and a handful of gun casings. Good luck with those injuries, you bastard.]