Yeah, some people have mentioned that all this is different from Sleep's perspective, but I don't give a shit. They cause suffering, and then don't do anything to amend it. Fuck gods. [ It's as if an oven has been opened, heat billowing along the connection, her hatred palpable. ]
I'm human, and I do have powers—I had some before I got here, but they've been replaced. I'm an Illusionist here—which is just a fancy way of saying my magic affects the mind. It's got its uses, but not as many as I'd like. [ Better for hiding, manipulating, twisting perceptions in ways that might benefit her. But she can't hurt anyone—only make them think she has. ]
[ The emotion is hot, noticeable, blowing across the tether in a way that gets Gorgug's attention--in a way that gives him focus. Makes him metaphorically blink, and lean closer into the connection. ]
That's-- that sounds cool to me, but if you could do other things, and now you can't, that's still bad. You lost something about you too because she changed it. [ Even if it's not a body part, that's got to be disturbing. There's a sympathy that slips through, the more he thinks about it. ] That sucks. That's fucked.
[ Even he's starting to feel a smidge mad about it, too. ]
Yeah, it... It's all fucked. Everything here is fucked. [ And she doesn't know if it will ever be unfucked. ] All of us have been taken, and changed, and... [ A small sound of frustration escapes her, her emotions turbulent. ]
[ Yeah, you know? Nothing about this is cool, actually--no powers, no nothing. He sees that now, understands it, like his focus is starting to sharpen. They're stuck, Sharon's been stuck for longer than him, and how-- can you take a piece of a god out of you? Isn't the problem what how those stories about fickle gods went? The people in them never got out unchanged. Didn't always get out with their lives.
Reality is looking a little clearer, and Gorgug's own emotions start to rock, become uneasy. A weight pulling on him. ]
How long have you been stuck here-- how long has this been happening? [ Does that matter? Isn't the real question actually: ] --Do we think we're fucked?
[ Do they have anything to think they're not stuck? Fucked? ]
[ His emotions feel as turbulant as her own. It's almost refreshing. ]
Nine months, maybe. Ten. It was hard to keep track in the beginning. We didn't have any sunlight. It sometimes still goes out. [ She doesn't understand the how or the why, just that it happens and they have to suffer through it. ] That's how long this has been happening, too. This as in... people being drawn here from other places. This world was fucked years ago. Two, maybe. Three.
[ That last question seizes her, and she hesitates to be honest. Most everyone seems to believe one thing or another, but they all cling to some form of hope. She doesn't have that, and she won't rely on it to get her through this. ] I think we're fucked. Other people don't. I think they don't understand just how bad the situation for us is. Maybe they don't want to.
[ Gorgug appreciates the honesty--it sounds honest, just because it isn't hopeful. There's always the expectation of it, like any question about how fucked a group of people are should be followed by it, and it's not that Gorgug doesn't appreciate the sentiment behind it. His parents have always been that with him, even as he grew up the friendless kid, the too-angry kid. Too big, too other.
But there's something more real about this: Sharon's pessimism, the understandable reason for it. Gorgug's conflicted, thinking through it; quiet as he does, but present in how his emotions struggle with his thoughts. This could be it, this bizarre world, this weird shitty thing with gods. This could be all they get.
... ]
I could be stone for the rest of my life. [ It's a sobering possibility. Acceptance in the observation, and Gorgug speaks slowly as he continues. ] You know, I didn't-- when I was growing up, I didn't like my body. But before I came here, I was... I started to feel better about it. I had friends for the first time, and I even-- I got a girlfriend. I made her pretty mad before I had that weird dream that led me here, but...
[ But what is he saying? The thing is, he isn't surprised, in a sense. He's been waiting for the other shoe to drop, the one that's been dangling for over a year of his life since he died. He came back, and it never felt like he should have. It was too good. He was never meant to have it good.
And his agitation, it's not really anger. But the city air is thick with it, and his confusing feelings makes it easy to infiltrate, tasting different across the tether. It's humid like how the streets of Manhattan currently are, soaking through Gorgug's stone.
It presses against their link, Gorgug feeling it rise in himself--and whatever other thoughts he had, they're gone as he hurries to excuse himself, mental voice thick and apologetic: ]
I have to go punch something.
[ He pulls away from their connection, going as far as to remove the mask from his face just to give distance from his emotions. Even if it means he can't see, only adds to his upset, fuels the rage he finds he can't contain.
[ It's a terrible realization to hand someone, and hearing the quiet acceptance in his voice makes Sharon's chest tighten painfully. For a fleeting moment, she wonders if she's made the wrong choice. Maybe she should've softened it somehow, dulled the edges of the truth enough to make it easier to swallow. But would that have been any kinder?
He starts to ramble then, words tumbling together as he pieces through everything he might have just lost, every implication crashing down on him. Emotion surges through him in waves, not quite anger yet, but something close to it, something that will burn hotter the moment it finds the fuel. Guilt coils low in her belly. ] All right. [ It's the only thing she can manage before he removes the mask. The direct connection severs, cutting off that clearer stream between them, but the tether remains. She can still feel the shape of what he's carrying.
She doesn't attempt to pry into him, but instead, she lets something gentler drift across the bond—a warmth, an unspoken offering of comfort if he needs it. She's already accepted the awful reality before them; she's willing to help him through the same. ]
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no subject
I'm human, and I do have powers—I had some before I got here, but they've been replaced. I'm an Illusionist here—which is just a fancy way of saying my magic affects the mind. It's got its uses, but not as many as I'd like. [ Better for hiding, manipulating, twisting perceptions in ways that might benefit her. But she can't hurt anyone—only make them think she has. ]
no subject
That's-- that sounds cool to me, but if you could do other things, and now you can't, that's still bad. You lost something about you too because she changed it. [ Even if it's not a body part, that's got to be disturbing. There's a sympathy that slips through, the more he thinks about it. ] That sucks. That's fucked.
[ Even he's starting to feel a smidge mad about it, too. ]
no subject
It's hard not to be angry about it.
no subject
Reality is looking a little clearer, and Gorgug's own emotions start to rock, become uneasy. A weight pulling on him. ]
How long have you been stuck here-- how long has this been happening? [ Does that matter? Isn't the real question actually: ] --Do we think we're fucked?
[ Do they have anything to think they're not stuck? Fucked? ]
no subject
Nine months, maybe. Ten. It was hard to keep track in the beginning. We didn't have any sunlight. It sometimes still goes out. [ She doesn't understand the how or the why, just that it happens and they have to suffer through it. ] That's how long this has been happening, too. This as in... people being drawn here from other places. This world was fucked years ago. Two, maybe. Three.
[ That last question seizes her, and she hesitates to be honest. Most everyone seems to believe one thing or another, but they all cling to some form of hope. She doesn't have that, and she won't rely on it to get her through this. ] I think we're fucked. Other people don't. I think they don't understand just how bad the situation for us is. Maybe they don't want to.
no subject
But there's something more real about this: Sharon's pessimism, the understandable reason for it. Gorgug's conflicted, thinking through it; quiet as he does, but present in how his emotions struggle with his thoughts. This could be it, this bizarre world, this weird shitty thing with gods. This could be all they get.
... ]
I could be stone for the rest of my life. [ It's a sobering possibility. Acceptance in the observation, and Gorgug speaks slowly as he continues. ] You know, I didn't-- when I was growing up, I didn't like my body. But before I came here, I was... I started to feel better about it. I had friends for the first time, and I even-- I got a girlfriend. I made her pretty mad before I had that weird dream that led me here, but...
[ But what is he saying? The thing is, he isn't surprised, in a sense. He's been waiting for the other shoe to drop, the one that's been dangling for over a year of his life since he died. He came back, and it never felt like he should have. It was too good. He was never meant to have it good.
And his agitation, it's not really anger. But the city air is thick with it, and his confusing feelings makes it easy to infiltrate, tasting different across the tether. It's humid like how the streets of Manhattan currently are, soaking through Gorgug's stone.
It presses against their link, Gorgug feeling it rise in himself--and whatever other thoughts he had, they're gone as he hurries to excuse himself, mental voice thick and apologetic: ]
I have to go punch something.
[ He pulls away from their connection, going as far as to remove the mask from his face just to give distance from his emotions. Even if it means he can't see, only adds to his upset, fuels the rage he finds he can't contain.
It just makes sense in the moment. ]
no subject
He starts to ramble then, words tumbling together as he pieces through everything he might have just lost, every implication crashing down on him. Emotion surges through him in waves, not quite anger yet, but something close to it, something that will burn hotter the moment it finds the fuel. Guilt coils low in her belly. ] All right. [ It's the only thing she can manage before he removes the mask. The direct connection severs, cutting off that clearer stream between them, but the tether remains. She can still feel the shape of what he's carrying.
She doesn't attempt to pry into him, but instead, she lets something gentler drift across the bond—a warmth, an unspoken offering of comfort if he needs it. She's already accepted the awful reality before them; she's willing to help him through the same. ]