thoughtformed | UTTER GARBAGE.

Entry tags:

UTTER GARBAGE.

WHAT: This is stupid.
WHO: This guy and any jerks if they decide to bust in.
WHEN: WHO CARES. HE'S ASLEEP ISN'T HE.
NOTE: Given the fact I'll likely add more dreams later, I'll be commenting to my own entry instead of pasting them in this main post every time. Reply with brackets; reply with prose; reply with a novel; reply with one line; make up something entirely ridiculous and unrelated -- do whatever. I can work with it.

1. ( EVEN IF BY SOME CHANCE I WAS, YOU CAN'T PROVE SHIT. )

2. ( WHAT POINT DO ALL THESE SERVE ANYWAY. SEEMS MEANINGFUL. CAN'T THINK OF WHY. )

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Magnets aren't miracles. They're science. Didn't Gamzee pay attention in the human schoolfeeding sessions? It's like no matter how many times you actually try to explain magnets to him, he just buckles down, belches faygo, and says something like damn, motherfuckin' mystical. No, you stupid son of shit. Nothing was mystical. It was-

A dark blue ring rolls in as if to enclose Gamzee's feet as he stands. Like a counter-attack, green co-mingles in the changing sands, entwining with the blue, but still distinct, pushing it back out as if Gamzee was a large weight dropped in the water and the ripples twirled and scattered to escape him.

In kind, Karkat also rises to fix his crumpled crouching posture.

At some length, he says, "I was trying to catch up to that guy, but I lost him the last time this place flipped." Very descriptive. "I have a lot to say to him, you know? But the fucker doesn't listen. It's like he can't even hear me. He never stops walking."

Gamzee barely acknowledges the rippling, watching the olive chase the cerulean away from him in mute disinterest. Scratches the small of his back. Blinks.

"Man, fuck that guy," he agrees. Cracks his knuckles a few times, like he has a particular relish for the sound. His eyes continue to dart over the sands, blown pupils rolling from side to side. Maybe the weaving is deliberate. Maybe not. "Why's he gotta be like that, bro?"

Licks his hips. Starts to hum.

"We could hunt a motherfucker down," he suggests, interrupting the tune, but only for a moment.

Karkat's face does something beneath its surface that muscle movement doesn't quite betray. Whatever the minuscule changes in the foundation of his emotional state, it leaves him looking quieter. "Just forget about it." He looks away. Where do eyes go? Anywhere but Gamzee. "We're not going to find him now. He's gone."

Even so, he turns and starts walking. What else was there to do? Sit there and observe? Have awkward conversations?

That seems like it'll happen anyway. Might as well do something else while doing it. "At this point I just start eating sand until I can't handle how fucking stupid it is and I wake up or the area changes."

Karkat, brother, you ought to know better than to look away from a motherfucker.

Gamzee lunges forward like fluid through the air, the motion spearheaded by a single outstretched hand. Hot knife slicing through butter. Almost a jump, legs propelling him at top speed; no plans to halt the momentum. Aiming to grab Karkat by the back of his head.

The dream is in a different compartment: paranoia doesn't save him.

"Hey." He turns a look over his shoulder as he walks -- not enough to see Gamzee where he would have been if he was walking like a reasonable creature who does reasonable things. "I th-"

Adrenaline: what takes seconds to say takes less to feel, each sentiment screaming something different. Block him! No time. Dodge him! Footing's wrong. Run! Too close. Fight! No weapon, no chance.

His head drops faster than it would have if a chasm opened beneath them. What follows is like watching a cat twist and spring sideways, escaping by the width of a whisker.

But now what?

Karkat's eyes are wide, teeth clenched behind the cover of a tight mouth filled with the taste of metal. His back isn't turned anymore. His hasty backstepping leaves sloppy red prints as he assesses the need to turn again and run. Misunderstanding? Murder? Misunderstanding? Murder? Misunderstanding? Murder? Misunder-

Owners who care won't grab their fleeing cats by their tails, but those intent on doing them harm will.

It's the same for Gamzee if he continues his breakneck pursuit, only instead of a tail there's an arm.

Edited (KARKAT'S WISHFUL THINKING ON ORIGINALLY WRITING "CHOOSES" INSTEAD OF "CONTINUES") 2014-03-02 22:19 (UTC)

His grip latches onto Karkat's forearm like the bolt of a lock clicking into place. How many pounds of applied pressure does it take to break a bone? A little more than this. But not much. The speed at which the jerking motion is made probably puts a lot of stress on the shoulder socket. Gamzee's not pulling anything off, though.

He's helping.

You tried to get away. Why would you try to get away, Karkat? Why don't you ever hold still.

"Is he, bro?" Licks his chops like a dog. Adrenaline tastes like singing. "Like... we ain't even looked for him yet."

Coaxing wheedle. Gamzee is smiling so broad and expansive and with so many teeth.

Edited (forgot some filler words to make good sentences :o() 2014-03-02 22:40 (UTC)

What a relief that is when it feels like Gamzee's two seconds away from dislocating it! Oh wait. That's not a relief at all.

Pain.

A hpf! pops from his throat, but the noise doesn't open his mouth. That's as good as sealed until he inhales, rattling a seethe through his teeth -- sharper than most humans, but not as sharp as Gamzee's.

He might as well have snapped a yo-yo for how quickly Karkat jerked back to him, but at least he doesn't slam into Gamzee's body. When he catches his balance and steels his posture -- as if being still might free him from the deadlock on his arm -- he finds himself glaring at Gamzee's neck. One eye is winced half-shut. There are flecks of transluscent red at the edges and a glossy film over his eyes.

Head like a heartbeat. Cotton-stuffed mind. The only things Karkat hears are Gamzee's voice, the pulsing of his blood, and the snarl of his own shaking voice when he says, "You fucking asshole-"

The fear hasn't vacated. If anything, it's establishing permanent residence. On occasion things can override it -- like complaining or grumbling, because what the fuck, man? That hurt. His gaze lifts, looking to Gamzee's face. Grains of colour have infiltrated his irises as if blown there by whorls of sand: red stars against a gray backdrop.

At his side, his free hand is a twitching fist.

Around them, patterns persist; indifferent.

It is with the utmost (disturbing) gentleness that Gamzee raps the knuckle of his index finger against Karkat's forehead and then presses his palm to it. As if he were checking the temperature. As if nothing were wrong at all.

"Found him. He's in here, man. It's all up here."

The way he looks at the colors running in Karkat's irises - fascination? Hunger? His own are slowly being eaten by pupil; they'll be pitch black soon. It is a motile darkness, something stirring under the surface. His teeth are parted. He's breathing through his mouth.

"Don't worry none," he croons. It is not a pleasant noise. It dies off into a rattling laugh. "I got this."

With high speed and typical excessive force, he hooks a foot behind Karkat's and then yanks on his arm - intending to topple him to the ground and pin him.

Should've hit him; would've had the same result for as hard as he flinches when the knuckle touches him the first time. His eyes screw shut in a wince, waiting for a pain that doesn't come -- at least not there. When the palm covers his forehead, he lifts his eyelashes to look again. (They're wet.) His face has none of the colour in the sand around them, but the emotions pulling at his face would have appeared all the same if they shared similar visibility -- but it's confusion that dominates his voice. "...what?"

What did that mean? He blinks the film away from his eyes, as if that's going to help him think clearly. There's something odious about it. Should know. Don't know. Can't figure it out: like some crucial portion of the thinking process ceased functioning during his internal conflict. Was this a misunderstanding?

Karkat isn't sure -- but he is sure he doesn't like how Gamzee's looking at him. His brows angle in, nose wrinkling in distaste as he leans back. That second set of words isn't helping the matter. Neither is that voice. "What are y-"

He goes down like a wounded prey animal.

Adrenaline again. Kill him! It shrieks. Don't let him kill you! And if you can't kill him, don't go without a fight. Go for the eyes. The throat. The anything.

He swings his free arm and yelps, "Gamzee!" The movement is quick, but clumsy and without violence: his hand only grasps for Gamzee's shirt -- an endeavour even more useless than blinking tears away to wipe fog from your mind. It won't save him from falling.

Elsewhere it might play out differently.

In here, Karkat never wins.

Poor, small, stupid motherfucker.

Knee settles on the arm he was holding to keep it pinned; Gamzee lets go of it with a reluctant twitch of the wrist. As though the contact were an intimacy he dislikes having to relinquish. Both hands settle on Karkat's temples, instead. Cradling his addled skull.

"The guy, bro. He's in here," Gamzee asserts. The statement is cheerful in its simplicity; punctuated by the press of his thumbs into the skin above each (furrowed, outraged) eyebrow. "It's all in your shitty little thoughtpan."

His thumbs press harder.

Terror and turmoil are interesting expressions on their own. Combining them in Karkat produces mixed results: they refuse to co-exist (should be easy but isn't) and aren't sure which should dominate. Their struggle is an even match, unlike the short-lived violent joke that landed him on his back, pinned beneath Gamzee. It's hard to breathe; like the capacity for it's been crushed from his chest.

"Wait-" A frantic, dizzy wisp of sound.

One arm may be restrained (somehow the knee hurts less) but the other's still free. (Why? Did he want to give some kind of illusion of freedom?)

Tentative, soft like submission, Karkat's palm curls over the back of one of Gamzee's (can't cover the whole thing; might never be able to) and squeezes; as if holding his hand more than resisting murder. "Wait," gentle, but clearer. "Gamzee, don't do this yet."

His eyelashes lower, like dimming lights.

If the request isn't honoured, that face isn't the last thing he wants to see before he dies.

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UTTER GARBAGE.

THE FASTEST REPLY I WILL EVER MAKE AND IT WASN'T EVEN THAT FAST.

I THOUGHT I WAS SAFE

YOU WERE SAFE BUT NOW THERE'S THIS.

oops

GAMZEE IS THE FUCKING WORST.

:o)

I'M STILL CLEANING BUT WHY THE HELL WOULDN'T HE TRY TO GET AWAY YOU DICK. THIS ISN'T HELPING!!

this is a great idea and you should trust him

HAVE A DEADKAT FOR A LACK OF BETTER ICONS. I FOUGHT MANY DISTRACTIONS TO FINISH THIS.

may the lord bless you and keep you

COULDN'T SLEEP SO HERE WE ARE. IMAGINE GOING LIMP LIKE A NOODLE CAT. THAT'S WHAT JUST HAPPENED HERE.