haibanememe | Test Drive #1

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test drive

Test Drive #1


Test Drive Meme #1
Prompts Waking up: You wake up in a bed that is not your own, in a room that is not your own. But the more you think about it, you can't remember what your room looked like. In fact, you can't remember anything at all! But hey, at least you're not the only person around. Reach out, find someone, and get some answers. The Dream: Haibane enter this world without most memories, but they do remember one thing: their cocoon dream. But it's not so easy to understand, is it? Maybe talking through it with someone else will help you figure out just what your dream means. Wings aren't easy to use: So, you're a Haibane. Awesome. But you know what's not awesome? Getting used to these darn wings, that's what. Suddenly having two extra limbs that you're not sure how to control isn't easy, and they're liable to bump into things and just plain get in the way. Actually, you might want to apologize for unintentionally hitting that person in the face, or help clean up that lamp you knocked over. On the town: Glie is a beautiful city, and there are a lot of places to explore! So why not check some of them out? Everyone seems friendly enough, and the townspeople are more than willing to help anyone who gets lost. Check out the setting page, pick a spot, and go check it out! Wintertime: It's wintertime in Glie, which means snow, snow, snow! And even though it's cold, the sun is shining, so the cold is bearable today. What are you going to do? Go sledding? Have a snowball fight? Make snow angels? Well, that last one should be a lot easier to do now. Player choice: Don't like these prompts? Come up with your own! The city of Glie is quite large, and there is a lot to do.

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[neither thing feels extraordinary]

[the scream of a choked, agonized throat or the audible smack of ripping flesh -- hell, even the sudden gush of warmth and wetness on his own hands and face feels commonplace and unspectacular... who is he? is he, too, a monster, like this boy squirming beneath his grip but with a beasthood that is entirely voluntary? (if you aren't crazy; am I?)]

[he's too confused and transfixed by the sight before him, those brand new appendages sticky with gore and plasma and this whole place smelling less like dust and rust and more like freshly-forged iron]

[shouldn't this make him sick? his fingers slide between the two wounds and he feels nothing]

Into the shower. [announces it finally, turning his body halfway to reach for the knob, letting the downpour clear up before he picks the smaller male out of the sink and carries him into the stall to soak them both in the icy spray. he spends no time washing him, more focused on keeping his insane fever down... curiously at the risk of his own plummeting body temperature]

H-hey, you breathing alright? In through your n-nose, out through your mouth. You can scream again if you need to. [oh, he can express concern.]

[Although he's thoroughly exhausted from the entire ordeal, he does shiver and hiss at the sudden chill. His fever has broken and it isn't long before he feels quite cool, despite feeling dangerously high mere seconds before. Now that the wings were no longer roaming under his skin, his body had nothing left to fight. He wondered if the difference he felt in the other boy due to his own perception or if he was going to be sick too.

Shoot opens a bleary eye to watch him, tiredly, from under the slicked-down mop of dirty blond hair, before giving a little nod to confirm he's alright, he's breathing, (no, he will not scream again), reaching back to feel what soaked in the pooling water behind him, slowly, fearfully. The slightest brush and he recoils, before trying again. The bristles cling together, sliding on his wet fingers, but they feel smooth and velvety nonetheless. He thinks of flapping his wings and shifts his shoulders, but they don't move significantly. A pity.

The blood flushing down the drain, his wings were closer to grey now, although there's still a great deal of blood trapped between the feathers, discolouring them in patches. Still, they're far less shocking than the sight from earlier.]

... that's... how they come in?

[He can speak clearly enough now, only slowly. He looks up at the older boy, now bringing his hand to push back his unevenly-cut hair from his blue eyes, sharply scrutinizing, searching, memorizing. Craning his neck to get a better look at his face, to try and learn his features, he exposed the red bruise on his neck.]

Hey.

You never... told me your name. Your new name.

[It's alright if he didn't tell him his dream. He already had the upper hand in every other way, what's one story unshared. He only wanted a name to anchor the memory of that face, something to ensure he wouldn't forget the one who helped him. He wanted to return the favour to this stranger who took care of him despite being just as in need of it himself.]

[he thinks about his dream, of infinitely filling earth and a fire making the air as hot as Shoot's fever had been, humidity coagulating in his own lungs... it contrasts the cold shower and the stern gaze of the younger Haibane too starkly, and his gaze drops under the dark, matted hair clinging to his forehead]

...Cedar. I remember... cedar trees. [it isn't the most prevalent part of his dream, it isn't his blood or sweat or graves, it isn't his leaking blisters or the shine of a working shovel or his muscles pumping acid as strains himself, and it isn't the embers floating in the air]

[but it does feel like the most comfortable part of that dream -- the fuel, the tinder and kindle, the consumables for the sake of destruction: this is his new name]

[sensing the worst has passed, a broad back checks into the tile wall of the stall, face barely being misted, teeth still a-chatter but they're stilling rapidly; what takes its place is a slightly accelerated breathing and pulse ]

Tch... there's got to be somewhere more comfortable we can get you. Can you walk back the way you came? [he doesn't particularly want to carry him, but he will if he has to]

Cedar. [He repeats, tying the name to the tall figure of the boy he'd quickly describe as imposing under any other circumstance. It sounded strong, he thought with a hint of admiration.

But the concern isn't appreciated, not now.] ... never mind that. You don't sound too good yourself.

[Enough of this cold water. He quickly reaches to turn the knob, fiddling with it a bit, not knowing which way's which, before deciding to climb out. He's unsteady on his feet, but only from weakness. Blood loss. Not sickness, not fever, not anymore. His mind is sharp, any exhaustion is easily kept at bay by the pressing need to help the one who helped him.

Well, maybe not need. Want? He felt bound to help this one, call it honor, perhaps. It didn't matter to him, really, how it was decided, he just knew it was something he had to do now.

He looked back over his shoulder.] Take that thing off, leave it in the shower. Doubt they'll care. [Just... look at the place. It's a dump. One soaked robe isn't going to make much of a difference.]

The room I was in before had clean clothes and a bed too. [He turns to get him a change of clothes, but he's prepared to stop if there's something else Cedar has to say before he does.]

[...I don't?]

[maybe he can't hear himself anymore. he thought his voice was steadying, that his body was acclimating to the cold -- the blurry vision and sweat further dampening his bangs shouldn't have any reflection on that (and he refuses, refuses to even mentally acknowledge the muscle cramps behind him, trapezius full-on seizing and shuddering readily)... he's fine]

[he's fine. right?]

Mmn. [the response is a grunt, distantly recognizing the fact that the water's been turned off, head falling back against the tile and eyes closing. he hears his words and tries to respond in an obvious way, fingers reaching up and digging at the front of his cocoon-issued white robe]

[he pulls, hard, strength unchecked despite sickness (or maybe because of it), stitches popping at the seams]

[the sweet, black edge of his consciousness beckons, fighting pathetically against his own clothing, and it's a long moment before he calls out;]

Oi... don't -- go too far. [for whose sake is an order like that?]

... I won't. [He says it calmly, but there's a cold pit in his stomach when he hears that request. He steps out, but as soon as he does, he starts running, stumbling a bit, wings flapping uselessly and scattering half-stained feathers.

He's scared. He's really scared. That something might happen to this person, this haibane, he just found.

When he reaches the room, he seems to startle the older haibane there who was probably expecting him to be in bed with a fever still, not running around with unfurled wings. The older haibane had set things up for him, had a strange, fine little brush and other things to tend to wings.

Maybe he was supposed to lie down? No, probably expected to, he's worried he might be stopped, so he quickly tears away to grab clean clothes and leave. There was another cocoon. He didn't know why he didn't say it outloud. You missed the other haibane who hatched today.

Was it selfishness? Did he want to be the only one to take care of the other haibane, the one he found on his own? Whatever the case, he would run back with a change, grab the brush himself (you can't clean your own wings...?), and race back to him!]

[the sound of a heavy metal door slamming behind the younger boy is the last thing he hears before his consciousness slips off of that fringe, and he keeps hearing that sound over and over]

[dull at first, closer and "real", and then sharper: a clang. a clang. a clamor. this factory is winter-echo silent but he hears screams, he hears chaos, he hears catastrophe]

[fever races down his body from tip to toe, taking patchy red down his neck, shoulders, and chest, and his mouth hangs open for heavy gulps of frozen air to shock his lungs, attempting to raise him from what looks like a wet grave to no avail]

[it's only when that second heavy thud of Shoot's re-entry reaches him that hazy, unfocused eyes open again... the aches are so much more significant now and his face contorts with them, wincing and jerking his head down to try to curl up and away from it all -- but his tight throat keeps that groan of pain down, and that's how it'll stay]

...hey, kid. [calls out to him breathlessly, a wry smirk stretching across his face, almost maddeningly frenzied in its throes]

[The boy's soul is so ill-prepared for this. His knees give out walking to him, he crashes, but hits the bathroom floor knee-first, keeping his hands up, clothes off the floor, acting against instinct. His eyes are widely staring, transfixed with horror, but that voice, that smirk, something locks into place in his mind and his gaze steels over from the watery, fearful blue from seconds before. The quickened pace of his chest's rise and fall, the shallow, frightened breathing also quells into a strange calm, but his heart hammers in his ears still.]

You'll drown like that. [He doesn't expect his voice to sound so clear, so calm. It isn't at all how he felt just a moment ago. He isn't even sure what changed, but he wastes no more time questioning it, shifting everything he brought to tuck under one arm, he tried to grip the older boy's arms to pull him up. Was there any time left to move him or would he have to do this here? He doesn't have the physical strength to carry him on his own, so...

If this is where he'll stay, so be it.

He tears his own sleeve. The fabric doesn't give way as easily as it did for Takasugi, there was, what seemed to him, an embarassingly lengthy series of unsuccessful pulls before it tore off (messily, taking a third of the fabric off his chest as well), he quickly twists it, brings it to the older haibane's mouth. A gag offered to the one who silently granted him dignity when his pride demanded it even in sickness. He's bit down the screams on his own long enough, it won't be so easy later on; a wordless warning.]

[drown? no, none of his dreams had an ounce of water: only fire, only ash, only wood -- ]

[there's a sightless lacquer to his eyes that doesn't comprehend those shameful tugs of stubborn fabric (lucky Shoot) nor seem to even notice the urging on his arms, his weight at least a full third more than the younger boy's while soaking wet. he isn't going anywhere, not like this, not with his chest heaving and his legs so useless]

[his hung-open mouth is filled with the taste of dust and stale soap -- what is this? his own? all he wants is for a claw-formed hand to reach back and dig at skin, blunt nails burrowing beneath that robe and scoring five long tallies from the bottom of his shoulderblade to the side of his neck]

[trying to claw out what's already stubbornly on its way]

Shit -- hurts. [it's quiet and the fabric falls from his mouth, another ragged gasp of pain when his white robe goes dark crimson, primary feathers jabbing wickedly out of stretching flesh]

Pull... pull them. Pull 'em out.

[Pull them out?

His breath hitches in his throat, but his mind is calm still. He sees the blood run down and feels his stomach drop, very briefly noting the sensation, his hands obligingly working to peel back the robes and find the trapped, struggling wings. Even if he nearly lost his footing, even if it felt like he was hardly standing, he could truthfully say he didn't feel anything at the moment, working like an automaton.

He was not following orders because he felt subservient in anyway, but simply because they were rational orders; the fact that they had suffered the same pain rendered him invulnerable to any attack of misdirected sympathy that might stop him. He didn't have much strength left, so, he'd have to get this in one go, wouldn't he? In a similar vein, in this particular situation, it made perfect sense to lightly trace a line up over the blood-mottled skin, somewhat arbitrarily deciding a good distance to cut, so that his nails would be sufficiently embedded before they reach their mark, which would be the most strategic position to take? For convenience's sake, he must've made a subconscious decision to look upon the strongly-built body before him as an object: some drenched canvas, flimsy paper, then— the engorged cocoon he dug out of earlier. Gouge in, drag down, shred apart, flush out, break free.]

[he's rolled over on his side before he realizes it, fingers digging into the grit and grime of this dirty bathroom -- but it's better than the wounds trying to sprout from his shoulders and he knows it]

[eyes slam shut when he feels those fingers on them, too; he's done it to himself so many times, forced infection out with painstaking slowness or ripped a weapon out that had been cutting off his bloodletting until he got to a -- to a -- ]

[the experience of his body doesn't fill in the gaps for the experience of his mind, and he verbalizes another shaking, agonized groan as piece by piece, like old rotten wallpaper, his skin comes off and feathers stab, stab, snap through, rubbed against their grain to unfurl in all of their dark, stained glory, rightly matching Trip's hands and his own gore that covered them]

[he'd held his scream in, that much is admirable; what must this man have gone through to have a pain tolerance like that? the sting of tears in the corners of his eyes isn't remiss, but turned away from the other boy and with sweat-heavy bangs hanging over his face, who could tell]

[it still feels like there's a fever ravaging him... how long will this fucking last?]

How do we... [a croak of a dry voice and a pause for a thick swallow to get it down and speak more firmly;] How do we get out of here?

['here', this place, it can go to hell for all he cares]

[The feeling on his hands is alien; so much so, it throws his senses into disarray. He doesn't like it. It's filthy. He might've carried that out methodically and with surprising viciousness for his lack of strength and size, but he could feel this wasn't something he's done before. His hands were soft, well-kept. He was someone who kept his clean.

The sight before him, however, is beautiful.

Shoot watches the wings break through, with stomach turning and bones chilling, but in awe of it all the same. The blood dashes out and splatters like rain, only thicker, heavier. He thinks he prefers to see them this way, these wings coated in blood for what they've put them through, then clean and grey and dreadfully boring. The mess matched the grime of this dingy little place and suited it best. Suited him, maybe even suited them both? How presumptious of him.

If he weren't so exhausted, having fallen down from the force of the unfurling wings, hands and feet on the cold tiles, chest heaving, he would've been able to give his reply a bit more thought. Instead, he fell back on thoughtlessly blunt responses weighed down with cynicism:]

We don't. [He stops, breathless.] I think... we've been condemned to this place. It's walled-in, we're somewhere we can't leave on our own.

These wings are some sick joke, aren't they?

Angels wouldn't... do what we just did, right? Or— suffer like that...

Hey. Still... feel hot?

[He meant Cedar, of course, but it was a bit hard to make out, his tired voice dropping to a barely audible whisper, as he shifts his weight to one arm, trying to push his hair out of his face, forgetfully smearing blood onto his skin. Ick. He removes his hand quickly and tries to keep his head up, get back on his feet at least, to stay awake long enough to try and get the older haibane out of there.]

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Test Drive #1

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