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Entry tags:
le vrai d'avec le faux l’on connaîtra, le citoyen pour le bien soutiendra :: OPEN
Who| Les Amis de l'ABC + Mariko, Charles Xavier, and whoever else.
What| la Terreur
Where| Bob's Bargain Basement. Because savings are distinctly egalitarian and we're about that life.
When| Weeks 2 and 3, just specify when.
Warnings/Notes| Gruesome death via clothing fixtures, definitely. Possibly discussions of torture, past mutilation/disfigurement, and gratuitous mental instability. ... I'll update if anything else pops up.
Enjolras winced as he slipped his mangled hand into the pocket of the work pants he'd stolen with some difficulty at least two weeks earlier. It pulled at the fresh scars around his cheek. They wound their way up to his temple causing his hair to grow unevenly on one side. He'd probably care more if the only reflections of himself he could see in their chosen hiding place weren't crooked and mangled as well, after he'd taken the liberty of smashing the mirrors to little, tiny pieces until the shards had cut into the knuckles of the fist he could barely make. Courfeyrac hadn't complained and if there had been any reaction at all from his friend, it was effectively hidden by the beard he'd made no effort to control. Combeferre had the grace and good sense not to say anything, even if his eyes suggested that he wanted to. Joly had looked disturbed when he'd seen, but there had been a type of pitying comprehension under the expression that made Enjolras very nearly want to vomit. He wouldn't have cared about Marius' opinion even if the man had seemed self-aware enough to have one.
He breathed the recycled air, counted the notches carved into one of the support beams on the wall. They counted the gunshots and other destructive noises they'd heard in their time here. Despite their inherent drama, it didn't actually add up to a lot. There would still be several more weeks of this.
Several weeks in which they would skulk around and either be starved out or brutally killed yet again. Several weeks in which they would feel whatever human dignity remained to each of them slowly plied away with the knowledge that the more they clung to it, the more amusing it would be for the people on the outside of their proverbial cage. Several weeks of catching sight of inhuman reflections, of waking up suddenly with shooting phantom pains with the knowledge that each of them had betrayed themselves in some way. Several weeks of wishing he'd been allowed to die pinned by several dozen bullets to the wall of a rundown tavern on a rundown block of Paris arm in arm with a man he but almost hated.
No, it was time to end all of this. If they were going to die, and they were, it was best it be done quickly, unceremoniously, and with some end in mind.
What| la Terreur
Where| Bob's Bargain Basement. Because savings are distinctly egalitarian and we're about that life.
When| Weeks 2 and 3, just specify when.
Warnings/Notes| Gruesome death via clothing fixtures, definitely. Possibly discussions of torture, past mutilation/disfigurement, and gratuitous mental instability. ... I'll update if anything else pops up.
Enjolras winced as he slipped his mangled hand into the pocket of the work pants he'd stolen with some difficulty at least two weeks earlier. It pulled at the fresh scars around his cheek. They wound their way up to his temple causing his hair to grow unevenly on one side. He'd probably care more if the only reflections of himself he could see in their chosen hiding place weren't crooked and mangled as well, after he'd taken the liberty of smashing the mirrors to little, tiny pieces until the shards had cut into the knuckles of the fist he could barely make. Courfeyrac hadn't complained and if there had been any reaction at all from his friend, it was effectively hidden by the beard he'd made no effort to control. Combeferre had the grace and good sense not to say anything, even if his eyes suggested that he wanted to. Joly had looked disturbed when he'd seen, but there had been a type of pitying comprehension under the expression that made Enjolras very nearly want to vomit. He wouldn't have cared about Marius' opinion even if the man had seemed self-aware enough to have one.
He breathed the recycled air, counted the notches carved into one of the support beams on the wall. They counted the gunshots and other destructive noises they'd heard in their time here. Despite their inherent drama, it didn't actually add up to a lot. There would still be several more weeks of this.
Several weeks in which they would skulk around and either be starved out or brutally killed yet again. Several weeks in which they would feel whatever human dignity remained to each of them slowly plied away with the knowledge that the more they clung to it, the more amusing it would be for the people on the outside of their proverbial cage. Several weeks of catching sight of inhuman reflections, of waking up suddenly with shooting phantom pains with the knowledge that each of them had betrayed themselves in some way. Several weeks of wishing he'd been allowed to die pinned by several dozen bullets to the wall of a rundown tavern on a rundown block of Paris arm in arm with a man he but almost hated.
No, it was time to end all of this. If they were going to die, and they were, it was best it be done quickly, unceremoniously, and with some end in mind.