Venus Dee Milo (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
celebrityskinned) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thearena2014-02-06 12:56 am
celebrityskinned) wrote in thearena2014-02-06 12:56 am
Entry tags:
But In All Chaos, There Is Calculation [Closed]
WHO| Venus and Mouse, Venus and Jean and Kankri
WHERE| Anywhere in the museum
WHEN| Towards the end of week 3
WHAT| Venus tries to accelerate the end of the Arena by killing off strangers.
WARNINGS| Death, mental illness (dissociative), some description of gore
Venus doesn't have time to feel alone. Or rather, she has all the time in the world, but she's moving too slowly to hold on to the back of such a powerful emotion. Time sprawls out in languid hours tucked into the minutes before her. Everything is slow motion, especially her.
She's well-aware she looks like a monster from a horror movie now. The slash across her face is blood-crusted, purple and pink with unhealed gore. Her limp is impossible to hide, but the worst part is how disconnected she is. When she looks in the mirror, it's as if she's inside herself behind glass. There's a deadness in her eyes of someone not quite attached to the mortal plane at the moment.
The waterways of her mind whip and twist through rapids and eddies, pool in swamps and mires, plunges over waterfalls she never reaches the bottoms of. Knowing she isn't okay isn't enough to pull her back to the surface.
But she's aware that the only way to get her medicine is to kill for it, and she knows the only way to keep Kankri safe is to guide him. It's with the twin aims of murder and rescue that she ventures deep into the organs of the museum, dressed in hot pink sweatpants from the giftshop and a sweater with the her own name emblazoned over the front. She'd have to be dead to forget how to brand herself.
She thinks she agonizes more over the act of killing now that she's sick than she ever did while stable. The knife is heavy in her hand. Kankri's absence is a void at her side. She only wants to push past her bodily constraints long enough to ensure a victory for someone worthwhile, and then she can figure it out from there.
WHERE| Anywhere in the museum
WHEN| Towards the end of week 3
WHAT| Venus tries to accelerate the end of the Arena by killing off strangers.
WARNINGS| Death, mental illness (dissociative), some description of gore
Venus doesn't have time to feel alone. Or rather, she has all the time in the world, but she's moving too slowly to hold on to the back of such a powerful emotion. Time sprawls out in languid hours tucked into the minutes before her. Everything is slow motion, especially her.
She's well-aware she looks like a monster from a horror movie now. The slash across her face is blood-crusted, purple and pink with unhealed gore. Her limp is impossible to hide, but the worst part is how disconnected she is. When she looks in the mirror, it's as if she's inside herself behind glass. There's a deadness in her eyes of someone not quite attached to the mortal plane at the moment.
The waterways of her mind whip and twist through rapids and eddies, pool in swamps and mires, plunges over waterfalls she never reaches the bottoms of. Knowing she isn't okay isn't enough to pull her back to the surface.
But she's aware that the only way to get her medicine is to kill for it, and she knows the only way to keep Kankri safe is to guide him. It's with the twin aims of murder and rescue that she ventures deep into the organs of the museum, dressed in hot pink sweatpants from the giftshop and a sweater with the her own name emblazoned over the front. She'd have to be dead to forget how to brand herself.
She thinks she agonizes more over the act of killing now that she's sick than she ever did while stable. The knife is heavy in her hand. Kankri's absence is a void at her side. She only wants to push past her bodily constraints long enough to ensure a victory for someone worthwhile, and then she can figure it out from there.
no subject
She holds her breath, and the cloak of darkness in the stairwell falls like a curtain between them. She's so close she can hear him breathing. She can hear the pop in his shoulder when he rolls it. Can see the only light, shining from two floors above, glinting off the sclera of his eye.
That's when she moves. A whuff of air escapes her lungs as she bends over and grabs the robot, and she twists as if hoisting a gigantic discus at Mouse's face, with enough force to smash in a car window.
no subject
And Mouse hit the ground, head bouncing against the unforgiving surface.
no subject
She lifts the robot over her head and brings it down again and again and again, until blood and bits of bone spatter the stairs and dribble down the rails. The splintering and smacking sounds echo up the stairwell like yells inside a throat.
When she's done, she's covered in gore. She sets the robot aside, taking a deep breath. Mouse's head is a splatter with a a hemisphere or bone lolling against the floor. She doesn't have eyes to close.
She takes off her hoodie. She drapes it over him and straightens it, pats him.
"Wake up in the Capitol, man." She presses a button on the robot and it starts to clear up the mess.