ukulclc

[ukulclc]

Person of Interest | 2.16 'Relevance'

[ukulclc]

@miratenebrarum / shaw. " hey clef sorry I was looking for my confetti cannon and Glass said you confiscated it for totally not nefarious reasons can y" 🐴 " (benrey vc) hey what happened to your arm"

« Oh, nothing. I grew tired of it and cut it off, and took a pill to make it grow back new, but you know… security breach, you don't have time to read the etiquette… I took the wrong thing, and now ta-daaa. »

He blinks wearily. He never really tries to make his lies believable, people just take the bait or don’t, but this time he really seems too tired to even try. Or care.

« But I liked the result, so I'm keeping it. »

[ukulclc]

Her reaction is immediate; his, despite numbed by pain and shock, immediately follows. The head spinning doesn't stop him from pushing himself sitting, and a hand - the only one, now - lifts to wave gently in the air in a gesture inviting calm, and then lowers on her shoulder, weak and trembling and full of love.

« Shh, Claire, it's o-okay. Shh. » he begins, his voice so weak and hoarse he can barely recognise himself, yet he doesn't stop. A weary smile paints itself on his lips, as his hand caresses her arm and pulls her closer in a hug - thanking anything that comes to his mind that she's too shocked by his arm to look at what is left of the SCP, because while he's trying to cover it with his own body, he wouldn't have any strength to avoid her turning.

« No no no, don't be s-sorry! You d-did nothing wrong! Y-you stopped the bleeding! ». Small consolation for her, he's aware, but he wants her to see the good part of it. He suffered like hell and back, for sure - it doesn't seem that it keeps hurting like a tree is growing inside of him just because, despite the weakness, he's still a wonderful liar - but he's alive thanks to that pain. Thanks to her. « You saved me, Claire. You saved me. Th-thank you. »

He tilts his head to kiss her on the forehead, were she not to draw back, his hand still giving her small caresses on the arm, doing his best not to lean on her nor to show any sign of pain as he feels the roots stirring inside of him. His glance falls on the blossoms, and stays there as he sees the flowers opening timidly. He can't but chuckle wearily as he slowly recognises them.

« Heh… Apple blossoms… ». He would be laughing if he had enough strength in him. « Accurate, I must say… » His smile widens just slightly.

« … y-you know, Claire? I love it. I really love it. »

He screams. They scream. The monster, and the monster who happened to be her father. He may have called for her in the chaos of it all, not understanding that the pain he was feeling was his salvation, but the one who beared the name he chose was still asleep. He called, he plead, for her to stop. Stop what? Help him? Kill that abomination against God?

Become a monster just like he is, just like her other creator was deemed as? Wouldn’t be the first time the Goddess had to taint herself with heretic’s blood, after all – the only difference is that this time He answered her prayers and will let her not remember this necessary atrocity.

Continua a leggere

[ukulclc]

@miratenebrarum / karl. "You know Arma? I almost feel bad!" Saying that with his usual bright smile on his face while covered from head to toe with the blood of any doctor, D Class or guard that tried to stop the massacre feels so, so fake. But yet, it's not like he wanted to sound genuine to begin with! It was all part of the scene. "No, I mean it!" he keeps on, giving a little boop on Arma's beak "If they did what I asked and kept us together I would've stayed put, I swear! I mean, we don't get many vacations, do we?" The crow scoffed, the statue smiled. Stay put, sure. That's funny. "Now, maybe we could've left one alive. At least they'd tell us where the exit is", he kept on humming, walking to yet another door and figuring he might as well make this containment breach even more interesting, casually kicking out the door to let out. Sssssomething? An ugly statue. Who knows, he lost count of how many of those weird things he freed up until then, for no reason but to mess further with that ugly place. "Might as well keep on looking!"

Not so distant from there, Clef is holding the phone between head and shoulder while he reads the current day's newspaper without real interest. On the other side, someone of the security is screaming and crying, words wet as ( he supposes ) he keeps throwing up blood, begging for him to take action and going insane everytime Clef says ‘no’. It's not even particularly funny - he's not closing the call because the other one would simply start it again, and he'd rather hear him screaming than the nauseating constant driiiiin of the phone.

« Listen - no, really, listen. » he sighs at last, as his eyes linger on the latest case of people beating each other up at the stadium and wondering if he should start following sport to end up in one of those brawls, just to kill time. And potentially some idiots. « Last time I did something, you lot got mad at me and closed me in a containment cell. Again. You can't let me be me only when you're more comfortable. You're calling just because you bunch of idiots couldn’t do anything, so you come crying to me. ». He pauses, sighs louder, turns the page. « And you're not even trying to listen. Should I restart and talk slower?... »

He stops himself, his eyes finally lifting from the paper to land on the door, as he hears clear as day particularly heavy steps approaching. Despite himself, he can't hold back a wide, happy smile. « You lot are lucky motherfuckers. ». Or, should he say, he is? « Your containment breach is here. Call me never. »

He puts down the receiver, and at the exact same time, the new little anomaly and his little friend kick the door into his office. Clef doesn't even flinch, feet still on the desk and back comfortably resting on the chair - the only movement he does is to give a little tug at his newspaper, and after looking at the anomaly, returns to look down at it. « … wrong door, I suppose? » he comments flatly. « Knocking is a thing, buddy. Not all doors around here are locked. »

[ukulclc]

He smiles and nods at her mention of his name. Her voice is broken and dry, as he expected it to be - he has seen enough to not need to know the details to understand by himself a victim’s condition. The papers in his hand weight, just a little: he should fill them up with her story, one that he’s not entirely sure he wants to ask her now. Once again, he has seen enough; and to be fair, that’s what the they at the other side of the glass want, and he has never been particularly prone to make them happy.

« Oh, don’t mention it. » he replies, waving a hand dismissively. « All I did was to unlock that door and take you out. Didn’t really do anything. » Apart from guiding the rescue mission and keeping everyone calm when they started to freak out at the sight, but he digresses. He wouldn’t have had to, if they didn’t assign him the rookies, because “of course, what do you expect to find up there?”. Let me tell you, shitheads. Let me tell you. If anything, it was a good experience for the younglings that went with him - that was even mild, compared to some of the missions he went through.

« Furthermore, » he continues, finally moving closer to the table at the centre of the room and leaving the papers on it, before taking a seat. « you might not thank you in a few minutes, I’ll be honest. The higher ups want me to fill these, and it’s full of unpleasantness. ». He snaps the tongue on the palate, giving them a quick glance before returning to look at her, pencil dancing between the fingers. « It’s mostly tests to evaluate your psychological health, and I hate them all, so if you don’t want to do this, just say the word. » He shrugs. « I don’t care what they say out there. For what I care, we can play Monopoly for an hour straight. »

@crownhcart

He makes sure to let her know he's about to come in, first knocking and then announcing his presence. Suspiciously kind, think the they watching as he makes his entrance in the containment cell - one of the most normal, basically a simple bedroom, only with a sealed door. He insisted for her to be put there, instead of a much more secure one. He said that by his own observations, she wasn't a threat - but he's sure they think he was just straight up lying to put them in danger. Perhaps. You can never tell, can't you? Hah. « Hello there. ». But let's be more serious now. Clef closes the door, but doesn't impose his presence in the room, simply staying there for the moment, the psych evaluation papers dangling with apparent lack of care from his hand. He smiles at her. « Sorry for the intrusion. Boring paperwork. I'll be quick. Do you remember me? »

Her hands stay on her legs, so they don't go to peel the skin around her nails; her eyes remain on the ground, so she doesn't get overwhelmed by the light; her mind is filled with numbers, she's been counting ever since she was brought in that room, so she doesn't think of the past. Anya was forced in that little room of the Tulpar for so long, she almost forgot how it felt to sit on a chair - an awfully uncomfrotable one, but better than the bloodied floor.

She didn't see the aftermath of her attempt, but she could hear. Daisuke's sobs, Jimmy's pleads, Swansea's rage. Gunshots, screams, crying and vomiting and the sound of chewing. One last gunshot.

And then it was her and what remained of the being inside her. It didn't survive. Somehow, she did. Especially thanks to the man who just entered the room.

The knocking made her jump, but at least gave her time to relax, breath. Realize she actually lost count.

Anya wanted nothing more than offer the other a smile, and yet her lips remain down. Maybe, chairs weren't the only things she forgot.

"Agent… Clef, was it?" she mutters, her voice still dry and rough. After all the screaming and crying of her own, could anyone blame her? She would. Clearing her throat, finally she lifted her tired eyes towards the other.

"I… still have to thank you. For helping me, up there, I mean."

[ukulclc]

@infernalpursuit IC ask: what's one of your earliest memories?

« The tree. No - no, the apple. Yes, definitely the apple. »

He waves a hand, his eyes moving up, as if lost in a memory you can’t see - even if you’re not entirely sure that’s true. For what you know, he’s pretending, despite his smile seems as dreamy and full of wonder as a happy, sincere child. « To be fair, it’s… more than that. Yes, it’s the apple, but more the drop of juice that slid down of it as I sloooowly took it. It was… pretty magical, you know? Just a small movement, and the apple was so juicy that a drop of it came out. Full, tasty… it caressed my tail in a unique way, and then it fell. I would have licked it away, I was so tempted - but that apple wasn’t for me. I couldn’t just take what wasn’t mine, could I? »

He leans on his own hands, dreamily licking his lips. He’s not even looking at you anymore, as if he forgot entirely you’re there. You’re tempted to ask him for some more details, but would he give you actual information? That entire story seems made up, despite not being the first time he talks about the apple. Suddenly, he snaps his fingers, and looks right at you again. He leans against his chair, as if he suddenly remembered something.

« No. Actually, there is an earlier one! » he exclaims happily. « The sword. Definitely the sword. »

You’re not sure you want to listen anymore.

[ukulclc]

For some reason, Wondertainment’s words make him burst out laughing. They shouldn’t, it’s not funny, to think how he works for an organization that would gladly lock up everything that doesn’t follow their subjective definition of normal, yet he can’t stop himself. He waves air at himself, wheezing as if that was the actual best thing he ever heard, blaming the cocktail for such a strong reaction - and laughing even more as he thinks that this laugher is probably the first thing the drugs aren’t responsible for.

« God! You wouldn’t believe! » he exclaims, waving now his hands inconsistently in the air. « I’ve seen some papers around - they-they would love to have someone like you here. They would— they would make you the star attraction of Site 17! 963 would be nothing then! » He unwillingly laugh even louder, realising late he just said 963. Old habits are hard to lose, and what can he say? Being locked up like that is bringing back some sweet memories of being a trainee for the Global Occult Coalition. Perhaps. Maybe. Can you really tell? He can’t, that’s for sure. Almost sure.

He leans against the wall, half lying down on the mattress - the only piece of furniture the Foundation graced him with, without even a blanket or a pillow -, eyes closing and a smile widening glad on the lips as Doctor Wondertainment pronounces his name; his actual name. He always pronounces it so wonderfully, enjoying every note, and for Clef it’s so rare to hear someone saying it that it’s always a treat when it happens. The other says that he is not that kind of doctor and can’t be of any help, but Clef doesn’t care at all, his mind still lingering on the notes. He just loves his own name. He finds it a beautiful name. He should insist on people using his ukulele to call him more, actually.

« Don’t worry, doc. It’s fine. ». He smiles. « It’ll be better anyway. Sooner or later. »

His eyes hatch at the question, his smile getting wider, much more similar to his chesire one. He hasn’t been able to control his own facial muscles enough to make it, but now it’s slowly returning. Oh, yes, it will be better. Very soon, he’d say. He will make it better, if they don’t do anything themselves.

« Containment breach. » he whispers, barely a murmur - a conspiratorial one. « Of yours truly! I can’t leave the facility unless they give me permission, but I was bored. And what else of a containment breach can cause these kind of consequences, eh? ». He chuckles, closing his eyes again. « There might have been a victim or two in the process… and I may or may not have accidentally caused the containment breach of other, mmh… three or four SCPs? Maybe fewer. ». Actually, a lot more. « Everyone got a little teensie weensie mad up there. Always so quick to judge and scream... As if I give a damn, eh? »

@simpletoymaker

⍵ . “ Well, I wouldn’t give yourself too much credit. I’m more than certain that if your fine company could figure out a way to, they’d throw me in a place like this in a heartbeat ! ”

     His words were lighthearted, filled with humor as he cocked his head towards the door and cheerfully waved. They couldn’t see him. At least, he was fairly certain they couldn’t see him, or else they would have likely sent someone already — the Foundation were always courteous like that, after all.

     If he were honest, this was all a little bit of an accident anyway. Oh, you know how it went. A few wrong turns here, a left instead of a right there, a little bit of gossip overheard that he just couldn’t resist. After all, Clef was one of the few who Dr. Wondertainment found a spark of personal intrigue towards.

     The Foundation, love them or hate them, certainly knew how to find interesting people.

     Even if they didn’t quite know how to treat them. What a waste !  Truly, what a waste.

“ Sorry — ”  Clef’s name was always a special treat to say,   “ — I’m afraid I’m not that kind of doctor, ” he chuckled after the other’s complaints, leaning his weight against his cane as he idly inspected the other. Didn't look too roughed up, thankfully. Dr. Wondertainment never did enjoy bloody messes, “ Regretfully, I’ve left all of my  ‘ Dr. Wondertainment’s Porta-Med-Packtastic™ !  Try them now and become the real field scout of your mother’s dreams ! ’ at the office. ”

     Those lawsuits had been particularly fascinating, considering the people trying to sue them were already sewed... But, ah, he digressed.

“ Truly is the cruelty of cruelties, depriving one of entertainment. Why, I would never be so callous with my employees, ”    he was sure they’d agree, a smile gracing Dr. Wondertainment's face,   “ Say, what’d a fine fellow like you even do to get himself all locked up in here in the first place ? ”

[ukulclc]

The anomaly is surprised by the sudden freedom, he can see that. Ukulele stands behind him, the dagger returning to his belt as he waits for the doctor's next moves - expecting to see him react in some stupid ways, because honestly? With him there, pretty much any choice of action would be stupid. He smiles at his remark, watching him stand up on shaky legs. « Yeah, I didn't. » he replies cheerfully - a tone that murmurs evidently that he's not about to in the near future.

He'd add something to that, but then he sees the anomaly taking away the amulet - and, going against anything he thought would happen, hands it to him. He expected him to use the object for a daring escape ( and fail horribly at it ), he expected many things, but… this? Ukulele rises an eyebrow, his smile widening further.

This… is much more interesting.

A gloved hand lift to place itself under the object, his eyes never leaving the anomaly's figure. The amulet trembles slightly above his perfectly still fingers, the agent the perfect portrait of total calm and control, a sharp contrast with the other. « I won't. » he says, without hesitation. He's still smiling, but there is nothing mocking in it. Only confidence.

The amulet slides through the anomaly's fingers into his palm, and the body falls lifeless on the ground.

*

“Ukulele.” Again the cold voice. Ukulele turns without a real reaction, eyes made emotionless staring at the other, the amulet well hidden in a closed fist. « Chief Data. » “I couldn’t find Stonebird.” Clear accusation. Ukulele doesn't even react. « Weird. » “You’ll show me where he is.” « Of course. »

Chief Data waits for him to go in the front, then starts to follow. They can make just a few steps before the small grenade Ukulele left under the former body of the anomaly explodes with a muffled but loud enough bang. ( Thank you, former body, very kind of you. ) Chief Data turns suddenly, fingers already closing around the walkie-talkie, but never manage to even take it out. The amulet flashes in front of his eyes for barely a second, before Ukulele lets it fall around his neck, and chief Data stops existing.

*

« Upgraded! » Ukulele chirps happily, his normal demeanor back again as he sees the former chief blinking normally for probably the first time in years. He gives him a pat on the back, much stronger than really needed - a well built body taking it without a problem.

« Dear 963, welcome, you're now chief Data. Who better than a boss to get everywhere, am I right? All you need to know is that he moves like a robot, the end. ». Oh, he needs so much more - but time is ticking! No time for that! « For your friends, please follow me, thank you. »

Weird, weird, weird. Once again, Elias didn't even try the fear he's been feeling for the past… whatever he spent in that place - but this is new. This isn't the fear of someone who's likely going to be the tortured and killed in any way possible until Site-17 decides that they might as well try and bring him back, no. The agent smiles, and dr.Shaw feels exactly how he felt when he had his head inside 682, or when 076 accidentally started this eternal loop of life and death. He may not recall his certainly gruesome death by the hand-- er, teeth and sword, of those goddamn anomalies, but he remembers the terror, so eeriely similar to the one he feels as the other speaks, changes expressions, talks calmly to his superior as if he was playing a part in a subpar school play.

Terror that just gets more evident when the other reveals his name. Ukulele. Such a childish codename for someone as brutal as the man standing between Shaw and freedom.

"Fuck me…!"

Terror he lets out with a groan under his breath, leaning back as he listened carefully to that conversation. Elias might act goofy and silly, sure, but he still got his doctorate and job because his brain worked. The possibility of this Stonebird guy to be sick for natural causes was thrown out the window as soon as his interrogator's identity was revealed, and for some reason so was the chance of him being still alive to begin with.

The man smiles. Approaches. Once again calls him like that, causing yet another groan of irritation -- and, surprisingly enough, indeed frees him, even if he stays too close for comfort. The surprise registers a second too late, and in the second that follows Elias really, really considers throwing the amulet dangling over his neck at him. It would be a fun twist, an epic way to get out. Yes, it was the same amulet that killed most of his cellmates, but he'd be the brave doctor who took over agent Ukulele! How cool is that?!

"…"

…who is he kidding. Dr.Shaw isn't a hero. He doesn't save the day. He's just an actor, just like the man looming over him -- with the exception that he's too tired to play his part. Ukulele's smile, as frightening as it could be, feels genuine in a way his never did; his expressionless tiredness feels way more his, at least. To hell with the guy who throws 963 around for fun, the one who throws hands with people bigger than him because he knows the consequences are minimal.

He just wants to go home. To another prison, but a prison where he can return to follow his script.

"…you didn't answer my question yet."

One more second lost, and then he finally stands, his legs shaking ever so slightly.

"This body isn't suited for running."

Again, he doesn't trust the man. Not one bit.

But he has no other choice.

Removing the necklace but still holding on the amulet, going against any common sense, Shaw hands it to the other, his eyes fixated on the door.

"As soon as I'll let go of this, this body will die for good. Throw it at the first guard you find and tell me anything I need to know about them when I take over and lead me to the other doctors."

This is what the anomaly does, then. Make a plan, serious and precise, knowing exactly what they should do. The hand holding 963 trembles.

"Don't make me regret this."

[ukulclc]

Send “Examine!” and an item or person and I’ll write an RPG description of it/them.

For example, a stormtrooper mask: “A white mask with a black visor on the front. Putting it on, you realize that the visor isn’t even transparent. How are you expected to do anything competently like this?”

[ukulclc]

𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫𝐬 : a little assortment of action prompts for muses who may or may not hate each other. remember to tag your blood and violence. add +reverse to swap the roles.

[ 𝐧𝐨 𝐚𝐢𝐫 ] : sender is holding the receiver by the throat. [ 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐥 ] : receiver is on their knees in front of the victorious sender. [ 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 ] : exhausted from a battle, the receiver gives up resistance. [ 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝 ] : sender attempts to stab the receiver. [ 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 ] : sender grabs the receiver by the hair. [ 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐞𝐬 ] : receiver is being held as captive by the sender. [ 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐩 ] : receiver finds the sender trapped and unable to escape from them. [ 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧 ] : sender is lifting captured receiver's chin up. [ 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 ] : sender breaks one of receiver's bones. [ 𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐝 ] : sender has made the receiver bleed. [ 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞𝐝 ] : sender forces the receiver to watch their loved one die. [ 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐝 ] : sender pins the receiver against a wall out of sheer rage. [ 𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐲 ] : sender spares receiver's life. [ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 ] : sender warns the receiver to not antagonize them. [ 𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐬 ] : sender and receiver are sharing a kiss that draws blood. [ 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝 ] : receiver is trying to win sender's trust in order to escape later. [ 𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 ] : facing a greater threat, sender and receiver must work together.

[ukulclc]

Instinct pushed a scream in the back of his throat; shock stopped it before it could tear through his lips. What remains is the weirdest sensation of numbness; in his head, in his body, as if SCP-3288 ate much more than a single arm.

His gaze swims over the gigantic figure, finds his face with great difficulty. Stares at that anomalous mouth chewing, chewing, chewing with pleasure at the arm - his arm. His... arm. Give it back, he thinks automatically, and almost laughs at the thought. He would have, if Claire wasn't in danger behind him. Why is he even thinking that? Come on. Stand up. He winces, but can't move - just a few instants, but they seem like hours. Soldier. Stand up. Now. Bloodied fingers leave the injured shoulder, find with difficulty the ground, to attempt to stand despite not feeling very much at all.

And then, he sees the vines.

He freezes. They rush past him, grasp SCP-3288 by the legs, creep up violently on its awfully large figure. Before the thing has any time to react, Clef sees the vines force its mouth open and push themselves into its throat. For the longest moments, he can't but stare at the SCP as it attempts to fight back, only for the plants to tight around his arms, stop most of its movements, and dig themselves even deeper. It curses, screams, then it all becomes chocked sounds as its mouth suddenly starts bleeding, mangled red things being pushed out to harbour more of the vines inside his body. Clef is pretty sure to see a piece of his hand fall out as well.

At that, he suddenly snaps back into himself. The SCP hasn't died yet, emitting nightmarish choking sounds as life is being slowly tore off of him piece by piece, but Clef turns suddenly. Not out of not wanting to see the scene - but the vines came from behind him. From Claire. His heart misses a beat as he sees her. « Claire-- Claire, no-! » he calls, his bloodied hand sliding on the floor to attempt to draw closer, but the slightest movement makes his head spin terribly hard. Yet he keeps pushing, shaking, trying. Don't do this. It will change you forever. Don't do this!, he wants to tell her, but only trembling breathing comes out of his lips. Breathing that suddenly stops, as newborn vines head towards him.

For once in a really long time, Clef sincerely panics.

Pure adrenaline makes him push himself back, trying to get away from them - instinct still relying on a missing arm making him trip and fall on his back. He tries to lift his torso, but the vines are already on him, wrapping around his thin figure and violently dragging him down again. « C-Claire! CLAIRE! STOP!! » he calls, screams, sounds mixing with the gurgling dying noises the SCP is making just a few steps from him. The vines continue inevitable, wrap themselves around his injured shoulder. Clef expects them to jump in his throat in any second - and instead, sees them heading for his missing arm. Instinctually, his hand moves to push them off - tears them away from his flesh, just as violently as they're keeping him on place. But more of them spring to his wrist, pull it far from himself and locks it on the floor beside him. His breath comes ragged, desperate. Clef tries to break free for but a moment before understanding clearly that he will never make it in time. « CLAIRE...! » he yells - he pleas. « S-STOP! STOP--!! »

But the vines don't listen. They are rough, awfully precise, as they push inside the torn flesh of his missing arm. Any word is cut by loud, short, continuous screams of pure and unfiltered pain, back arching helplessly, his legs the only free part of him remained and kicking the air, as if attempting to push it all out. He has no time to lie to himself, to convince his own mind that it doesn't hurt as much as it does - because it does, wildlife pushing itself inside veins too little to house them, sliding through muscles and skin, up the shoulder, into his back, into his chest. It's so much pain, Clef feels he's about to black out for a few seconds - but can't, he never can simply black out. It seems to last forever, and when they do stop, when he feels his chest being released and his reddened wrist free again, he can feel clearly it didn't really stop. He feels them pushing, weakly, more gently, but still pushing. Trying to find a place inside on him, he supposes - the plants. The roots. Probably. He can't understand it very well.

His gaze falls, slowly, weakly, on his own shoulder. He's lying in a pool of blood - he can't understand if only his own, or if the SCP's as well. He can't hear it scream anymore, actually. Is it dead...? He wants to move his eyes up to check, but he can't move it from his own missing arm. He can see vines. On his skin. Under his skin, still moving. The bleeding as stopped, his injury covered by tight plants keeping everything together; some are still growing, slowly, now almost gently. He blinks, as if he can't understand it. Little blossoms are starting to form.

... Claire...?

« Cla...ire...? ». Weakly, he attempts to push himself up. He manages to roll on his side slightly - flinches at the sudden stab of pain of the shoulder, but doesn't give it attention. Blurry eyesight looks, dumbfounded, confused, at the Goddess tearing up a life in front of him.

... no. His daughter. He looks for his daughter.

She should’ve run. She should’ve left. If she actually moved, if she actually did as she was told, her father would still be in one piece. In fact, Clair was certain he would’ve left as well or simply shot that creature dead if she remained in her room.

And instead, all she can do is stare and scream, wide teary eyes now staring at the beast munching on her father’s arm, her own hands clasping on her lips, her whole body trembling. She finds herself on the ground before she could even realize she completely lost control of her body, her legs unable to keep her up in front of that unholy, terrifying sight.

Continua a leggere

[ukulclc]

What's the catch. An affirmation, not a question. Someone was demanding.

Clef's smile widens with amusement, enough for it to really start looking anomalous, yet still barely normal enough to plant solely a little doubt in 963's head, be him observant enough. Oh, he's already starting to get the game, then. Good. He loves perceptive people.

« Oh, how suspicious. » he replies. He straightens his back, withdrawing from the anomaly to tower over him - looking so small, so useless, tied to that chair, especially when compared to the considerable height of Ukulele. He finds it almost funny. Perhaps? Almost certainly. « Why should there be a catch? Because I'm one of the bad guys? » A knock on the door forces itself in their dialogue, sudden, loud, regular sounds, as if made by a machine. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Clef doesn't turn at first, doesn't even flinch, as if he didn't even hear it, his eyes only for that scared and confused anomaly in front of him.

« I'll tell you a secret, mister 963. »

He saw it, before. The irritation that being called with a number gave the anomaly. He could avoid it, thought of it for half a second before pronouncing those words: truth be told - always a fun expression - he didn't need to torment him in this way. But then, that rescue mission would be just a boring job, wouldn't it? And he's still waiting for a reaction worthy of the name. He craves for 963 to make the wrong move.

« I am one of the bad guys. But not the ones you're thinking about. »

He snaps the tongue on the palate, as if proud of the words he chose to say; and then, the smile widens more, more, inhumanly so, while he walks backwards to approach the door. He keeps it for just a few moments, before a finger presses on the lips, an accomplice « Shh. » slipping out of them. The hand then lifts to the forehead and touches on the features as it lowers; like a mime, his face changes instantly. His smile is suddenly gone, replaced by a thin straight line and expressionless eyes. He turns, unlocks the door, and opens it just enough for his body to be visible.

“Ukulele.” Cold voice. He's suspicious. The man stares at him with eyes just as expressionless, his body a machine moving only when required. Now, it's blocking him the way out. As if he cared. « Chief Data. » Voice just as cold replies, every musical note in the voice gone. Just as much as a machine, awaiting instructions. “You shouldn't be the one here.” « I am aware, sir. Apologies, Stonebird should have. He felt sick, asked me to take his place, sir. » “Where is he now?” « In bed, sir. » A pause. Brief, yet sounding very, very long. “Quick execution.” comes then, as he begins to turn to leave. “I'll check on Stonebird in the meantime.” « Of course, sir. »

Without waiting to see where the chief would have gone, Clef closes the door and locks it back. He turns with a sigh, letting out all that mechanical movements to slowly return himself. The one he likes to be now, anyway. « He was way faster than I thought. Better be faster as well, eh, mister 963? »

And there it returns, his chesire smile, quick to reappear as much as it was quick to disappear. Clef approaches the anomaly's chair quickly, one hand extracting his dagger from the back of the belt with an expert swing of the wrist - moving it a bit too near the other for but a moment, just to give him a bit of an adrenaline rush before getting behind him, and cut the ropes keeping him down.

Wondering, with way too much amusement, what the time limit will make the anomaly do with this sudden freedom.

Oh, he really doesn't like this guy. Shaw scoffs, shifting on his position - well, as much as she could, anyway -, keeping his eyes on the gun for a second more before returning to look at the other. At least he knows how he'll go down this time. A good ol' execution, America style! Yeehaw!

Or... not?

He lifts an eyebrow at first, again moving as much as he could to press himself against the back of the chair, not caring at all ro try and act brave and cool for any reason. He's tired. He's scared. He's... confused.

And a little annoyed that he's referred as his goddamn cursed amulet, but what can you do. He's not really in the position to introduce himself, anyway.

"...what's the catch."

Yes, sure, they should hurry. But he trusts this blondie just as much as he can throw him. And we all agree that physical strenght isn't really Elias' thing.

[ukulclc]

@crownhcart, clef to shaw for *that* moment :3c

« now, don’t panic. we don’t want to make a scene, do we? »

This is going to shit.

It was meant to be just a quick mission outside Site-17, an exchange of datas and notes between his co-workers and their colleagues on the east coast, a check-up barely worth mentioning that involved Shaw and a handful more of researchers mostly to make sure everything was alright and keep an eye on mister Amulet, over there.

And then everything went to shit.

It didn't take much for them to recognize their attackers as members of the Chaos Insurgency. Insults were thrown around, and soon enough bullets started flying -- a pair of which, specifically, managed to reach the forehead of both the was in the body he left the Site in, and when a careless member of those sorry excuse of a terrorist organization went to check 963, allowing him to respawn and attempt to pull the trigger on his own, with little to no good results. A mix of bad luck, crappy aim on his part, and particularly good one from a blondie with a snarky grin.

The next days (because he spent days in there, right? Trying to follow the time when you bodyhop down in a bunker is difficult) have been a blur. He woke up, he realized those bastard forced one of his co-workers to wear 963, he got tortured and killed either for refusal to speak or for the pleasure of those sick bastards, rinse and repeat. The first time it was horrible, filling him with a sense of guilt he knew he didn't have to feel - the second pissed him off enough to manage to take out a finger of one of his enemies with a particularly good bite before being tazed - the third, that morning (citation needed), just made him tired.

He should be used to die. He should be used to see people die. He should be used to get hurt.

He should be used to be tied on a shitty uncomfortable chair and deal with the sadist of the day, in today's case the blonde shithead who put an end to his stupid attempts at being the Foundation's worst hero-in-charge a few days ago. Hours. Weeks. Months. Who knows for how long they left him dead everytime they put an end to his suffering.

"Ran out of panic points last time, don't worry."

He speaks with yet another of his co-worker's voice, today. Paul Rogers. Specialized in plant-based SCPs. A handful of days away from his only vacation of the year. Three down, two more to go -- not including him, of course. He'll never have the luxury of just staying dead.

Heavy eyes roll, finding the ceiling, then the... ukulele next to the guy. Right next to his shotgun.

"Are you going to play me some music, or something?"

[ukulclc]

in honour of gio bringing shaw to her multimuse and me deciding then to move clef on here in the next days, have a mun vs muse, why not! <3

tagged: snatched from dash hehe tagging: snatch it as well

[ukulclc]

hi, hello.

[ukulclc]

timeline tags.

[ukulclc]

rules. ( i don't require a password, but please do throw an eye at them! )

i. mun & activity. hello! i go by ghost, 29 years old, any pronouns. i'm italian, and english is my second language, hence you might see mistakes or weird phrases in my turns! i can get pretty busy and lately i worked to take the habit of staying as little as possible at the computer, which means that sometimes i can't get to it for days or even weeks. because of this, this blog, as all my blogs are, is permanent low activity! it might take a while for me to reply, but eventually always will! this blog is a sideblog of ghostories!

ii. adult content and tagging system. due to the nature of the muse of this blog and the themes the scp foundation can touch in general, mature themes might be present very often. because of this, this blog is 18+. everytime a trigger appears in my turns, i will tag it with the name of the trigger, followed by "//" - for example, blood //. if i forget or don't think about tagging something, never hesitate to tell me!

iii. shipping, suggestive and smut. i tend to ship only with people i know, and write suggestive rarely and with the ones i trust the most. do not force a ship on me, because it's the right way to not get me to write it to begin with. as for smut, it makes me extremely uncomfortable, so i will avoid it altogether.

iv. starting threads and prompts lists. anything works for me to start a thread - prompts from lists or original ones, or plotting, anything! i just really enjoy writing, and love receiving things that give me new excuses to write even more. send anything anytime you like! i do my best to send often prompts as well, but i might always be a little late for prompts lists or for particular events for the aforementioned low activity. if you want to reblog a prompt list i reblogged, please go to the source and don’t reblog directly from me, unless the source itself is broken.

v. dropping threads. if you don’t feel inspired anymore for a thread of ours, don’t be afraid to drop it! no need to tell me, and i promise i won’t get mad, it’s alright! due to my constant low activity, i know inspiration can simply disappear after a while. don’t be afraid to drop it and move on - we can always start something new!

vi. mun's drawings. i like to draw little things that might involve my muses as much as my writing partners’, and sometimes i like to post them. if the drawing is posted on the rp blog and i specify that only certain people can reblog, please do not reblog them unless you have permission. if i post them here instead than my art blog, it is because i’d rather keep them in a smaller circle.

vii. muse's thoughts. mun =/= muse! i often write muses i disagree with, and clef many times is one of them. what he does or thinks is not necessarily what i would do or think. don’t compare me to him.

viii. fixing and rewriting turns. if you can’t understand something i wrote, don’t be afraid to ask me for clarifications! as aforementioned, english is my second language: while i do my best, mistakes might not be that uncommon in my turns. furthermore, i might misunderstand your turn as well - if it happens, or if more in general i need to change anything in my turn for any reason ( be it also that i might have written you into a corner or you don’t know how to continue! ), don’t hesitate to tell me! i have no problems at all in fixing my turns, or even rewrite them entirely if necessary!

ix. turns length. i tend to write A LOT, especially when i’m very inspired by a thread. please remember, you don’t need to match my length in your reply! don’t feel pressured to write more than you wish, write as much as you want.