tapestodiane | 031

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031 - 4th wall

[If you're around ... wherever he is, but it's out in the woods somewhere, you might hear gunshots. And if you're curious enough to see what's up, you'll see that Coop evidently has his gun back and is shooting at targets. Where they're from is a mystery, but he's making the best of their presence - his skills have waned some in the years he's been stuck in pokémonland, but it's evident the longer he's at it, the more confidence and skill shows in his shooting.]

[Until he's at the point where he's consistently hitting the bullseye in every single target every single time.]

[Yeah, he's that good. He could shoot you a pattern if you like.]

[... and there magically seems to be ammunition around whenever he needs it, so hey.]

(Action absolutely anywhere as per usual - feel free to just bump into him wandering if you prefer. COME AT ME.)

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_{[He didn't know, not until he was older. Forests had been places of excitement in his youth, and he'd been taught how to not only survive in them but make the best of them.]

[It was only later when the monsters really started showing themselves. Only later when things started crashing and burning. Yet woods have always been a constant presence, just waiting in the back of his mind.]

[And then he finally wound up exactly where he was supposed to be and the woods in his head grew and started suffocating what lied beneath.]

[But then he was gone.]

[This isn't it. This is far from Ghostwood.]

[But that makes no difference in the sudden pinpricks of fear that makes Cooper turn his head to look over his shoulder.]}

[My forest is damaged.

But no one's warned you about that, yet, have they?

Damage comes in all shapes and sizes and splinters that get beneath your nails.

Did you think it would be any different, just because you're here and not there?

Oh.

Oh, Dale.

You didn't really think you'd gotten away, did you?]

_{[Away? Away from what?]

[He doesn't know, doesn't think - he turns. Walks instead of runs. Where to, exactly, he doesn't know either, but maybe he doesn't have to.]

[Away.]

[It's not about getting away because he doesn't know what he has to get away from. He hasn't learnt. Not yet.]

[But maybe he will.]

[Maybe that's what he's going to run from.]}

[There's a funny phenomenon that occurs when a person walks alone in the deafening stillness of their surroundings. Even the most friendly, the most familiar place can start to seem too wide, too empty.

The tiniest crack can let a hint of fear in.

Left alone, the tension mounts. The footsteps quicken. A cool composure beings to tip toward panic.

Walking turns to hurrying turns to running.

Fumbling.

Frantic to get away.

It's only after they're safe behind locked doors that they start to wonder, what was I running from?

More often than not, it's nothing at all.

More often than not, their fears are misplaced.

But sometimes they aren't.]

_{[It's worse when there aren't any doors to find. He barely remembers it from the future, the endless cycle of door after door after door; but those had no locks.]

[But even if they had, maybe they hadn't been safe. Because locks go both ways, and in locking something else out, you're also locking yourself in.]

[...]

[There's nothing here other than footsteps.]

[And just like the other pair of them knew he would, he eventually starts running. It's not desperate at first. Not until he realizes the forest isn't really a forest.]

[It's a maze.]}

[There's a lesson to be learned from a fly in a web. The harder you fight it, the tighter the snares tangle you in.

And all that thrashing, well.

That's what alerts the spider.

Is that him now?

A black shape is lurking behind the trees.

Or is it?

Here today, gone tomorrow.

There it is again.

If it's coming closer, it's taking its time.

But of course, the spider is in no hurry, is he?

He can take his time.

He's got nowhere to go.

And neither do you.]

_{[He slows when he realizes. One breath. Two. If you breathe right, you can calm your mind. Control your self.]

[But it's easier said than done when there's something right there and then not.]

[He exhales and walks forward and then inhales and keeps going, trying not to give in to the building sense of dread that's settling somewhere in his chest and deep inside his head.]

[There are always options.]

[There has to be a way out.]}

[Trees all around. Trees and trees and trees. I wonder what kind of trees are these?

Walk long enough and you'll find out.

There to the side, swaying-swinging in the wind: a man in a hangman's noose.

Don't get too close; there's death all around him. La muerte. It clings like the death in your face.

The Hanged Man dangles suspended between two worlds.

Here again, gone tomorrow. He's gone now, but perhaps not forever. Perhaps he'll be back in a heartbeat. Perhaps it will take him twenty-five years.

But he'll see you again.

Hanging like a spider from a web.

The trees shift and gather together, branches rustling, wind whispering. The leaves dance like men. The foliage shifts like curtains.

And an owl hoots a sinister hello.]

_{[Owls. Omens of death.]

[It almost doesn't matter which culture you're in, what beliefs you subscribe to; there's always something about owls that people don't trust.]

[The silent way they move might be one thing, not even a whisper in their feathers when they swoop down. But it's probably more to do with the hoots.]

[Sometimes they sound almost human.]

[Coop's breathing catches just slightly when he hears it, but it throws off his rhythm, carefully controlled up until then. Death wasn't new. Death, he could walk by. He doesn't even trust it to be there.]

[But the shifting is almost like a movement in the very fabrics of the world and together with the owl, he stumbles.]

[Stops, waits, and doesn't breathe.]

[Then he starts over. And keeps looking.]

[One.]

[Two.]}

[Peekaboo.

A mass of feathers and talons slams into his shoulder, bones snapping audibly as one wing crumples from the impact.

It thrashes and fights, trying to get back in the air, wavering and weaving with its broken wing hanging uselessly from one side, but finally it tumbles away, spiraling down to the leaf-covered ground.

Yet the cry it makes as it falls is the sound of a man's scream.]

_{[For a moment his mind goes completely blank and his heart is hammering so loud in his ears he hears nothing else, feels nothing but his own voice stuck in his throat and without being aware of how or when or why or anything, he finds himself aiming his weapon at the bird on the ground.]

[His finger is on the trigger. His hands aren't shaking.]

[But the memory of wings against his skin and the claws and the bone snap, they come back immediately when he stares at the pitiful bird that still manages to evoke such fear in him.]

[He stands there for what feels like a long time and every passing second he feels slightly more sick. It could be a mixture of the way he's high alert, of the sickening sounds the owl made and keeps making, of the dread and fear in his system.]

[Or it's just his own weakness.]

[It could be that, too.]}

[He waits too long.

Miserable, wretched, and pitiful, the bird thrashes in the dirt, until finally its wingtips flutter and still. Strange how something that once seemed so huge, so menacing, is now just a fragile mass of feathers crumpled in the dust.

A bird like this came at him once, didn't it? It flew about his head, slashed talons into his hair. Six months ago now. Could it be that these two birds are one and the same?

Quite a bit of doubling going on, isn't there.

Miserable, alone. Broken and quaking in the dirt. Brought down by a man with death in his face.

Is that how you'll die, too?]

_{[It just might be. When the bird finally stills, after those agonizing moments, Cooper falls into himself; one hand over his mouth for just a moment, and then he drags it over his face, eyes, when he turns away from the body. Like that simple action can help him gather himself.]

[It doesn't really.]

[Whatever death he has in his face is permanent.]}

[Yes, good. Turn away. Out of sight, out of mind.

Except that's not quite true, is it?

Oh.

You didn't forget about the spider, did you?

He didn't forget about you.]

_{[And there it is again when he opens his eyes; right at the edge of his peripheral vision. He snaps into a new focus in an immediately response to the threat, but with that focus is also exposure to is an all new fear.]

[He's right there. So unmistakably himself, too. And so very very wrong.]

[He takes a step back, recalls his footprints behind him, has a feeling he'll need them.]

[He.]

[Him, it.]}

[No, not yet. No need to hurry. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain; isn't that how the saying goes? There's still so much to see in these dark, dark woods.

There, what's that?

Footsteps rustling through the leaves.

How can that be, when no one has moved?

Unless.

(There's a saying about killing two birds with one stone, too. Maybe you should take a look back at the Natu lying broken where you left it to die.)

(What's that?)

(You mean it wasn't a Natu before?)

Two birds, one stone.

Could it be you're not as alone as you think?]

_{[He knows he's not alone. It's what all his instincts are telling him - screaming, even, as loud as they can. But he doesn't quite dare turning. Not yet.]

[He waits, heart still beating loud, looks up into the trees. Around himself and the pressing darkness. And when he does spot the green feathers on the ground he stops to stare.]

[Again.]

[But he can't think about it, he tells himself. Not now. It's a trick.]

[Something is coming.]

[Something wants him scared.]

[He forces his eyes back to where he last saw the other.]}

[The wind kicks up as the rustling grows and the spider slips back out of sight. The web is in place; there's no hurry here. There's time, time, time. Perhaps he's not hungry enough.

Perhaps it's your fear he's thirsting for.

That sort of thing takes time to mature.

Here it comes now, through the trees, shrouded in shadow, outlined by light.

It's a woman's silhouette.

The wind catches her hair, and the trees begin to wither and melt.]

_{[He looks away from her, unnerved by the changing scenery, but his eyes find her almost right away regardless. It's a bit of a pattern with him, isn't it?]

[Always keep an eye on the important women. They have an uncanny tendency to wind up dead or injured or otherwise torn away from him.]

[He breathes in. One.]}

Carmen?

_{[Her, or Caroline, or neither. (It's a trick.)]

[But yet he can't help reaching.]}

[She turns, hair drawing against her face, flooded in the gold halo of the light behind her. The rest is black, black as ink, black as scorched motor oil spattered against the floor. Light and dark. Maybe she's the one between two worlds. But aren't we all, really?

Or is that really a woman at all?

She sees him; recoils.

Her hands come up, defensive.

No. Stay away.

The tops of the trees are sinking into the reedy, burned-out grass underfoot, and the sky overhead yawns wide and gray.

Don't. Don't!

As if on the strings of some unseen marionette, the dead bird begins to twitch.]

_{[And right away his gun is aimed at the corpse. What should be a corpse. But he's not looking at it long - that attention is hers. He trusts her enough to trust even what might be an imprint of her, a vision or a game of his mind - at least for now.]

[So he stays, but he watches her. Tense. Ready.]

[Mindful of the trees.]}

Carmen, talk to me.

_{[Faint, but insistent. It's easier being an FBI agent than just a man.]}

Edited 2012-11-28 23:42 (UTC)

[Selfish boy.

What makes you think she was talking to you?

Something black and feathered rockets by, missing him this time, but close enough that the feathers clip his arm as it hurtles past, up and up and up, soaring high into the open gray sky.

One second.

Two.

Another flies past. Another. Another.

Bird after bird after bird, faster and faster, coming from behind him, coming from the shadows, behind the curtains, rushing higher and higher and up and up, black stains on a gray sky and her arms come up, she covers her head, as the hurricane sound of jaying and crowing contends with the wind for dominance.

At this rate, they'll block out the whole sky.

Alone on a field as thousands of birds fill the sky.

Two birds.

One stone.

Better hope you don't wait too long.

Otherwise, this one might die, too.]

_{[He figures it out somewhere by the sixth bird, the sixth time he feels his heart stop; it's not Carmen. It's not her at all.]

[Yet for a short moment, a single moment of clarity in all this, that knowledge is what helps him focus. It's what helps him deal with the onslaught of birds, the terrors flooding his mind. It's almost too much to bear.]

[Almost.]

[He can feel tears sting his eyes when he lifts the gun to aim at his mother.]

[You're dead, he tells her quietly, but he can't open his mouth to say the words. He's pretty sure they wouldn't get anywhere anyway. I'm sorry.]

[But he doesn't shoot.]

[He can't.]

[The moment passes and gives way to panic when the noise of wingbeats crowds in on him as that second of silence fades. It's almost like voices, screams, attacks and he cracks beneath them, ducks to the ground, covers his head and face with his arms and face and he can't bring himself to look.]

[There's a sob in his throat. And sickness, too.]

[Is it defeat already?]}

[There's no scream, no shriek. No woman's cry piercing through the cacophony of wingbeats. That would be too easy, too expected.

Too final.

That would ring of closure.

This will never end.

The sky is black, and the world goes dark, raven's-wing, like a candle blown out.

Don't cry, little boy.

Have a comforting (or is it?) hand skittering like spider's legs down the length of your spine.]

_{[His nerves are too frayed to snap at the touch. But he squirms, moves, turns; doesn't dare trust whoever could be there so suddenly. Still, the movements feel a bit heavier than normal, even when he once again lifts his weapon.]

[But it's so half-hearted. He's losing touch with reality, if he even had it to begin with.]

[Losing it. And everything else.]}

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headtrauma - 2012-11-29 02:00 (UTC) - Expand

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tapestodiane - 2012-11-29 02:46 (UTC) - Expand

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