031 - 4th wall

[tapestodiane]

[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.)

Comments

[tapestodiane]

<sub>[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.]</sub>


Carmen?



<sub>[Her, or Caroline, or neither. (It's a trick.)]

[But yet he can't help reaching.]</sub>

[headtrauma]

[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.]

[tapestodiane]

<sub>[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.]</sub>


Carmen, talk to me.

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

[headtrauma]

[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.]

[tapestodiane]

<sub>[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?]</sub>

[headtrauma]

[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.]

[tapestodiane]

<sub>[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.]</sub>

[headtrauma]

[Undaunted, his own face on a shadow's body leans in painstakingly slow, grinning too wide and too merciless, touching a hand to the side of his face as it seems to whisper a secret in his ear.

One

and


the


s

a

m

e


It pulls back.

It tilts his face for a kiss.

It bares its fangs for a bite.




b l i n k




It's shady and comfortable in the Johto woods. A set of targets shot perfectly in the center wait nearby. There's ammunition to spare.

A little bird trills merrily from one of the trees.

Why, what are you doing on the ground there, Cooper?

It's too nice of a day out to spend it


broken.]

[tapestodiane]

<sub>[It's scary how he yields at his own touch. Even scarier how he doesn't fight the words despite feeling the denial in his entire being.]

[He doesn't fight the kiss, either.]


[And when the flurry of birds disappear and the touch with them and he looks up into sunlight and cold empty air, he doesn't get up.]

[He can feel the tear tracks on his face.]</sub>