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the body electric
May. 4th, 2024 12:07 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
somatotype[ It's never a good day in the Fog. Most days fall somewhere on the scale of miserable. Some days manage barely tolerable, maybe even an unenthusiastic fine, but never good. That's what happens when your crew's been viciously slaughtered by what was supposed to be one of your handy helper robots, you find out you're nothing more than a single cog in the grinding clone machine, and the horrifying monster that killed all your friends happens to be stuck here in the cage with you. And the monster's still intent on some kind of horrible absorption-related science experiment with, surprise, you as the prime candidate for its next eldritch iteration.
And that's before Gabriel even adds in the daily ritual murders. Sure, they're nothing personal most of the time, but seeing any of the ragtag group of survivors he's joined up with bleeding out is a special kind of hell. Especially when he's right there on the ground, bleeding out with him.
So no, never a good day in the Fog. And definitely nothing so much in the way of cheer on a regular basis. He'd call the overall mood a low boil of tepid despair.
Today, though. Today, it's like the Fog's cooked up an extra helping of personally fucking Gabriel Soma over.
He can still feel the cold bite of the psycho with the creepy black tentacles ripping through his body. Whatever the Entity does to bring them back has crept into all the spaces between his cells. It's like he's been frozen solid, everything sewn back together with ice in his veins, achy and freezing and feeling like he's not quite all there despite hours huddled in front of the campfire.
But no, even that can't manage to be the real shit turn to his day. That honor goes to the sudden rustle in the trees around him, the way the air abruptly goes warm and humid and thick. The way he uncurls and sits up to find not a single flickering flame in front of him. No, there's no trace of the campfire left. Instead, vivid plant life crawls up stone and stretches leafy branches overhead, jutting up against the dark, starry sky like some kind of neon taffy mess. This is all too familiar flora. Just as familiar as the gooey, cocoon-like mass hanging from one of the trees.
Even if the thing isn't in it right now, Gabriel still feels it watching him.
He mutters a curse and scrambles to his feet— but already he can hear the distinctive crackle-hum of the monster's teleportation. Gabriel backs away, but he's penned in by the trees. The only way out is blocked by the malformed bulk of the HUX-A7-13. ]
Fuck.
And that's before Gabriel even adds in the daily ritual murders. Sure, they're nothing personal most of the time, but seeing any of the ragtag group of survivors he's joined up with bleeding out is a special kind of hell. Especially when he's right there on the ground, bleeding out with him.
So no, never a good day in the Fog. And definitely nothing so much in the way of cheer on a regular basis. He'd call the overall mood a low boil of tepid despair.
Today, though. Today, it's like the Fog's cooked up an extra helping of personally fucking Gabriel Soma over.
He can still feel the cold bite of the psycho with the creepy black tentacles ripping through his body. Whatever the Entity does to bring them back has crept into all the spaces between his cells. It's like he's been frozen solid, everything sewn back together with ice in his veins, achy and freezing and feeling like he's not quite all there despite hours huddled in front of the campfire.
But no, even that can't manage to be the real shit turn to his day. That honor goes to the sudden rustle in the trees around him, the way the air abruptly goes warm and humid and thick. The way he uncurls and sits up to find not a single flickering flame in front of him. No, there's no trace of the campfire left. Instead, vivid plant life crawls up stone and stretches leafy branches overhead, jutting up against the dark, starry sky like some kind of neon taffy mess. This is all too familiar flora. Just as familiar as the gooey, cocoon-like mass hanging from one of the trees.
Even if the thing isn't in it right now, Gabriel still feels it watching him.
He mutters a curse and scrambles to his feet— but already he can hear the distinctive crackle-hum of the monster's teleportation. Gabriel backs away, but he's penned in by the trees. The only way out is blocked by the malformed bulk of the HUX-A7-13. ]
Fuck.
