Karrie (Vandal) Norton (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
vandalization) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
re_alignment_logs2012-08-01 12:29 am
vandalization) wrote in re_alignment_logs2012-08-01 12:29 am
Entry tags:
Pathogen [NARRATIVE]
WHO: Vandal This is meant to be a narrative for the sake of storytelling, but if you think of something and want to tag this, let me know so we can work it out!
WHERE: The Medbay
WHEN: Wednesday morning, early.
WHAT: Karrie struggles with the Marker's infection of her mind.
WARNINGS: Yes very. Probably gore, talk of self harm, violence... it's a horror game.
Soundtrack start.
She runs, clopping down the dim corridor. Her lungs burn, but she can hear the scrape of bones on metal behind her. The moist gargling of that slack mouth that is open too wide. The skin like putty pulled taught against it's skull. She tries not to look at them, but that's hard when they're suddenly up on you, pressing in with those blade-like appendages, drooling stale blood over your RIG. The reactor isn't too far now.
She lets the door close behind her and she feels the sick thump of the creature against it, the popping hiss as it no doubt stupidly wondered where it's quarry went. A brief reprieve. She feels her chest tighten. This is not what she wanted. The church had promised her grand acceptance. A special mission.
This was not what she expected. It felt as though her last hope had been torn away. She wants to sob, just sit down and curl up- but she can't stay in one place. Can't make too much noise. It attract them and they come wriggling through the vents, slopping their fluids across the floor grates. Her nerves are frayed. She only takes a moment to reload the cutter as she pushes from the wall, heading down to the left.
She powers on her recorder. It will be her final message. She's accepted this.
It comes from a hallway she didn't notice. Soundless, pouncing on her, and there's no struggle. It's sharpened hand pressing soundly through the belly of her RIG and into the soft, velvety wetness therein. She only has time to look down to see the blood drooling out of her slowly, thickening the fabric of her RIG before it's disjointed maw collides with her shoulder.
She is immobile. She lets it happen. Feels her ribs spread as it pulls and another blade-like appendage joins the first, prying her, bisecting sloppily. She doesn't even scream. She's just.
Tired.
She bolts upright, instantly regretting the motion when it sends a throb through her body, starting at her side. Her ragged blankets are soaked in sweat, right down through the mattress. Hands rub over her clammy face and she wings her legs gingerly over the side of her bed. She's fairly certain, with the understandably lacking medical abilities here, she may be permanently lame on the right.
She peels up her shirt, peeking at her bandages. Pus is starting to show through to the other side. She gags a little at the smell and just strips the shirt off, grabbing the supplies Ratchet had left her. She'd insisted that she could clean and change her own wounds. Which she could. The bandage is pulled away along with the gauze, a few sticky strings clinging as they separate. Karrie winces, hissing at the sting of the cool air against her stitches.
Soundlessly she repeats the cycle. Clean, disinfect, redress. She unrolls the fresh bandages around her waist.
The stronger painkillers are out now, and so is the whiskey. Six ibuprofen from a ruddy bottle in the small box. She swallows them dry and then drops her face into her hands.
She never had the chance to have a proper breakdown, and now she just feels numb.
She's been under the care of an ambulance, a robot samurai and a possibly gay medic who has a thing for a group called the "Wreckers".
And to be honest? If any of them knew what she'd done? They'd probably have let her just die there in the junk heap. She should have just let it happen. Not called for help. And since that point it's been a blinding ride of pain drugs and avoidance.
A whole god damned station. And she was responsible. She could blame the church all she wanted. Say that she was tricked. Manipulated. But it only takes one fucking idiot 'just following orders'. Well. She was paying the price now.
Whatever it did to her... it was in her head now. She felt like she was going to burst. Information she didn't understand, the symbols begging to be scrawled out. She had such a need for it. She doesn't bother stealing a glance at the small notebook filled with the incoherent scrawl. She didn't even realize she was doing it sometimes. She'd just wake up, already sitting upright, hand scribbling something desperately onto the page. She'd adopted the notebook the first time she'd caught herself writing on the wall behind the bed.
Drift told her he'd be there for her. That she was safe. She'd been torn between screaming at him and crying. She'd chose neither. Just laugh it off. Laugh it off.
Now though, it's safe. She's alone. She feels the warm sting dampen her face, soak into her gloves. The tight knot in her throat. She allows herself the luxury, for a few minutes, of sobbing. Rocking herself slightly on the balls of her feet.
She was tired of this place. Of the nightmares and the avoidance. The blending of days, the humidity of the room, caring for the wounds that should have been her penance for her crimes. She'd fucked over thousands of people because she was so damn naive.
People like Wing and Drift, Ratchet and First Aid made her feel so disgusting. They were good people. They were so good. And here she was, like a spy in their midst. A dark stain on this place that she felt belonged in some kind of children's book. She let them take care of her. Let them worry about her. In a brief, bitter moment her eyes flick to the plasma cutter on the workbench.
She could just take her head off right there.
Though even ending it seems too good. Too easy a punishment. Maybe she should live with this. Let it slowly eat at her. Drive her insane.
And just like that she stops her simpering. She'd cried for ten minutes.
That was more than enough. She wasn't really a weepy person. She rubs at her face, streaking the dirt that had been made sticky. Carefully, she takes the notebook, flips to an untouched page and plants the ballpoint pen to it's surface.
It pours out of her. It makes her feel better getting it out, though.
It's like a release.
She sighs, watching, almost as though in third person, as she fills the page with the incomprehensible symbols. She knows it's fucked up. But she doesn't stop until the page is full, carefully stowing it under the mattress and slipping her shirt back on.
No more sleep tonight.
Outside is cool and quiet and she can sit on the massive steps of the Solus temple, staring out over the alien landscape.
And she's fucking terrified.
WHERE: The Medbay
WHEN: Wednesday morning, early.
WHAT: Karrie struggles with the Marker's infection of her mind.
WARNINGS: Yes very. Probably gore, talk of self harm, violence... it's a horror game.
Soundtrack start.
She runs, clopping down the dim corridor. Her lungs burn, but she can hear the scrape of bones on metal behind her. The moist gargling of that slack mouth that is open too wide. The skin like putty pulled taught against it's skull. She tries not to look at them, but that's hard when they're suddenly up on you, pressing in with those blade-like appendages, drooling stale blood over your RIG. The reactor isn't too far now.
She lets the door close behind her and she feels the sick thump of the creature against it, the popping hiss as it no doubt stupidly wondered where it's quarry went. A brief reprieve. She feels her chest tighten. This is not what she wanted. The church had promised her grand acceptance. A special mission.
This was not what she expected. It felt as though her last hope had been torn away. She wants to sob, just sit down and curl up- but she can't stay in one place. Can't make too much noise. It attract them and they come wriggling through the vents, slopping their fluids across the floor grates. Her nerves are frayed. She only takes a moment to reload the cutter as she pushes from the wall, heading down to the left.
She powers on her recorder. It will be her final message. She's accepted this.
It comes from a hallway she didn't notice. Soundless, pouncing on her, and there's no struggle. It's sharpened hand pressing soundly through the belly of her RIG and into the soft, velvety wetness therein. She only has time to look down to see the blood drooling out of her slowly, thickening the fabric of her RIG before it's disjointed maw collides with her shoulder.
She is immobile. She lets it happen. Feels her ribs spread as it pulls and another blade-like appendage joins the first, prying her, bisecting sloppily. She doesn't even scream. She's just.
Tired.
She bolts upright, instantly regretting the motion when it sends a throb through her body, starting at her side. Her ragged blankets are soaked in sweat, right down through the mattress. Hands rub over her clammy face and she wings her legs gingerly over the side of her bed. She's fairly certain, with the understandably lacking medical abilities here, she may be permanently lame on the right.
She peels up her shirt, peeking at her bandages. Pus is starting to show through to the other side. She gags a little at the smell and just strips the shirt off, grabbing the supplies Ratchet had left her. She'd insisted that she could clean and change her own wounds. Which she could. The bandage is pulled away along with the gauze, a few sticky strings clinging as they separate. Karrie winces, hissing at the sting of the cool air against her stitches.
Soundlessly she repeats the cycle. Clean, disinfect, redress. She unrolls the fresh bandages around her waist.
The stronger painkillers are out now, and so is the whiskey. Six ibuprofen from a ruddy bottle in the small box. She swallows them dry and then drops her face into her hands.
She never had the chance to have a proper breakdown, and now she just feels numb.
She's been under the care of an ambulance, a robot samurai and a possibly gay medic who has a thing for a group called the "Wreckers".
And to be honest? If any of them knew what she'd done? They'd probably have let her just die there in the junk heap. She should have just let it happen. Not called for help. And since that point it's been a blinding ride of pain drugs and avoidance.
A whole god damned station. And she was responsible. She could blame the church all she wanted. Say that she was tricked. Manipulated. But it only takes one fucking idiot 'just following orders'. Well. She was paying the price now.
Whatever it did to her... it was in her head now. She felt like she was going to burst. Information she didn't understand, the symbols begging to be scrawled out. She had such a need for it. She doesn't bother stealing a glance at the small notebook filled with the incoherent scrawl. She didn't even realize she was doing it sometimes. She'd just wake up, already sitting upright, hand scribbling something desperately onto the page. She'd adopted the notebook the first time she'd caught herself writing on the wall behind the bed.
Drift told her he'd be there for her. That she was safe. She'd been torn between screaming at him and crying. She'd chose neither. Just laugh it off. Laugh it off.
Now though, it's safe. She's alone. She feels the warm sting dampen her face, soak into her gloves. The tight knot in her throat. She allows herself the luxury, for a few minutes, of sobbing. Rocking herself slightly on the balls of her feet.
She was tired of this place. Of the nightmares and the avoidance. The blending of days, the humidity of the room, caring for the wounds that should have been her penance for her crimes. She'd fucked over thousands of people because she was so damn naive.
People like Wing and Drift, Ratchet and First Aid made her feel so disgusting. They were good people. They were so good. And here she was, like a spy in their midst. A dark stain on this place that she felt belonged in some kind of children's book. She let them take care of her. Let them worry about her. In a brief, bitter moment her eyes flick to the plasma cutter on the workbench.
She could just take her head off right there.
Though even ending it seems too good. Too easy a punishment. Maybe she should live with this. Let it slowly eat at her. Drive her insane.
And just like that she stops her simpering. She'd cried for ten minutes.
That was more than enough. She wasn't really a weepy person. She rubs at her face, streaking the dirt that had been made sticky. Carefully, she takes the notebook, flips to an untouched page and plants the ballpoint pen to it's surface.
It pours out of her. It makes her feel better getting it out, though.
It's like a release.
She sighs, watching, almost as though in third person, as she fills the page with the incomprehensible symbols. She knows it's fucked up. But she doesn't stop until the page is full, carefully stowing it under the mattress and slipping her shirt back on.
No more sleep tonight.
Outside is cool and quiet and she can sit on the massive steps of the Solus temple, staring out over the alien landscape.
And she's fucking terrified.