#◟〈 ♠ 〉 kallen ━━ 🇨​🇭​🇦​🇷​🇦​🇨​🇹​🇪​🇷​﹒

[avcnturine]

FORGET REVENGE ; SUICIDE IS A DISH BEST SERVED COLD.　♤　penultimate images are hazy behind the eye, having seared themselves into the dead brain like palinopsia grafted in the aftermath of a flashbang. the outline of the doctor's stern face, the angle of that unmoving expression, permanently stuck in disapproval——perfectly etched.

"agh. . . !" he wakes up to pain, a dull and throbbing war drum centered in the left side of his chest, beating rhythmically down upon the ribcage like it's threatening to burst. it's the first indication that he couldn't be dead, or that if there was still any chance he was, anyone professing death to be an afterlife of painless peace would have to be reconsidering their tenets soon.

his bed is one near the middle, on the second row closest to the large observation window. as his knee bends and he fights to sit up, convinced that doing so would lessen the phantom second pulse threatening to burrow straight down through sinew and bone, two things happen. first, the pain does, thankfully, subside, receding to a sullen smarting like the kind a large bruise might leave after the sudden impact of something roughly baseball-shaped against his heart. second, he becomes vaguely aware of a different uncomfortable sensation elsewhere, and with an inconvenienced sigh, shifts the blankets draping his legs with his other hand to borrow their subtlety for the time being.

a party, a gun, a bullet to the heart. he takes in the new surroundings, white again to white, and thinks that he'd almost be led to believe he didn't accomplish anything except knocking himself out for a while if not for the comparatively much larger size of this room and the rows upon rows of identical, medical gurneys. at least a hundred people could fit in here. . .

. . . at least hundred people had been fit in here, he realizes as brain finally processes what the eyes take in ; squinting, he peers closer at the lumps, each of them sheathed like morgue statues under drawn pristine white sheets, undoubtedly in the shape of people. he looks down at his own set, identical to the rest. and then, finally distantly registering a soft exchange of voices not far away, looks to the only upright, moving things in the stadium-sized chamber. "heavens." it's like each of his senses are returning one at a time, taking their time plugging connections into the brain and getting everything gradually back online. whatever they'd been hit with to put them all into that——dream? simulation?——it wasn't just the usual stuff.

right, the people. one, two, three of them, two men and a young woman crowded by the observation window ; on the other side, a scientist. researcher? the name ' ernest cranebill ' comes back again by association, accompanied by a migraine radiating behind his left eye. "ugh. . . " heel of palm presses to temple and rubs in deep, circular motions against the socket, head spinning with disconnected thoughts about consent, clothing, and legal ramifications in that order, none of them finishing before unraveling off into loose thread out of reach.

⋆✦₊‧ — PURGATORIO.

Blade, Mr. Reca, & Kallen. — Revelation 2025 : Research.

[avcnturine]

IN A ROOM WITH NO CLOCKS AND NO WINDOWS ,　♤　it's hard to know how much time has passed. have they been milling here for an hour? four? a day? he'd like to believe they haven't lost so much track of time for it to be that long. thankfully, he feels much better already than he did right after waking up ; the ache in his chest——phantom pain of a body registering a shot to the heart that'd never happened——is almost completely gone, and he finally feels more like himself.

the passage of this third, or eighth, or twenty-fourth hour finds him loitering toward the leftmost end of one of the seemingly endless rows of gurneys a couple rows shy of the room's halfway point. one bed after another, after another, after another. the only difference between each of them is slight variations in the shape and size of the lumps under the sheet, and otherwise small inconsistencies in the exact angle of the attached instrument here or the direction of a cord's twist there. these are mundane observations, but feel strangely critical after the last room he'd stood in before escaping the dream. he can still recreate it clearly: a hall of infinite identical black doors, each embellished with the same silver handle. the same thickness of paint, the same bump where the sealant met the hinge. he'd only gone inside one of the rooms, but he's sure without a doubt that if he'd opened any of the other doors, he would've been greeted with the same room. not just an identical one ; the very same.

click, click, click. the punctuated rhythm of someone's approach is a welcome anchor drawing him back out of his reverie, and he turns readily, eyes settling on the pale-haired young woman who'd woken up before him. in the harsh light of the lab that permitted no shadows, she looks smaller than he remembers, the energy and verve she'd displayed before muted like something that shied from the sun. "if not for all this mess, we might still be playing darts in the corner of some out-of-the-way dive bar," he greets with an easy smile. "i hope you were at least able to enjoy it while it lasted, miss kallen."　/　@virtuouslife

𝗣𝗔𝗧𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗡 𝗥𝗘𝗖𝗢𝗚𝗡𝗜𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡⠀──⠀⋆˙⛃

#GHRevelation2025⠀∶⠀research

[avcnturine]

GRIEF BEARS DOWN HEAVY ON HER SHOULDERS LIKE A SHAWL.　♤　he watches her tentative attention flit from him to the covered bed they're standing by, on which it's all too easy to imagine a corpse instead of someone sleeping, and his own idly follows. for what it's worth, the rise and fall of those put under is still visible and helps to dismantle that kind of macabre illusion——up. . . down. . . together, all hundred or more of them create some kind of silent, syncopated heartbeat, the deafening silence of their breathing loud enough to fill the room. isn't it funny how none of them are snoring?

miss kallen is a compassionate person, kind enough to think of the suffering of others inside a dream and tender enough to let that rob her of her own fulfillment. that's a shame, he thinks. after all, fun was had, regardless of whatever was happening now. she'd won their little competition too——easily. of the two of them, it was his heart that hadn't been in it that night. all this goes unspoken behind a smile in the wake of her frown: small, empathetic, an acknowledgement of her misgivings and maybe even agreement ; the slant of his eyes is gentle.

it dissipates in the next second when she changes the topic, and he looks again at their bleak and spartan surroundings. "probably not, but then not everyone in empyrea was hearing voices either." a thought comes to him then, planted by the seemingly unspoken curiosity undercutting the girl's own question. "most likely only the ones who did are here."

a beat. then, without preamble, he circles around to the head of the nearmost bed, looking down at the draped sheet——and reaches out, peeling the edge of it back without ado. short wisps of brown hair greet him from beneath, the ends dyed blue ; angular and freckled features ; a prominent nose. someone he doesn't recognize. but now he wonders if the others might be. ratio should be somewhere in this room, among others. "have you considered looking around?" periphery of bright eyes catches kallen again, smile once more subtle. "i'll admit i'm pretty curious to see who else they took."

𝗣𝗔𝗧𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗡 𝗥𝗘𝗖𝗢𝗚𝗡𝗜𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡⠀──⠀⋆˙⛃

#GHRevelation2025⠀∶⠀research