fou nd you forever [open to multiple]

[postictal]

[tw: weird formatting, dissociation]

When did they last - ?

They cannot remember. This body has not been theirs in so long.

w     e  w  i ll wait for you no more                              

It is theirs again. They have slid the familiar pale disc of their face to shroud the one belonging to the skin they wear, wrapped in their old, familiar mantle. There was a window, and they climbed out of it. They are awake for the first time in -

control is being ta  ke n away from y  o   u                                                                      

No matter.

They do not exist in that limbo of chemical suppression, not any longer. They could not have been muzzled by that chemical impulse forever. He should have known that. Their skin. The liar. Scared little boy. He is quiet now, and they are awake in his head. They flex fingers. They move silently but for the scrape of their leg dragging behind them in dead weight. They pull in breath, crisp and cold. The mechanics of existence are difficult. Half-remembered. Familiar again.

f   ro  m the sta rt it's been a game for us                                    

Quiet. Ahead, the woods. It is to them they creep. Tall things, slender trees, trunks stark and reaching to a sky fuzzy with stars. Wind stirs leaves, sending the curled husks of those dead things whispering over carpeted grass and sticks. They trace the skeleton claws of branches scratching the sky, and wonder if it is waiting for them. It always is.

Always watches. No eyes.

not anym o r  e                                                  

I'm coming for you                                   

Noise. Snap-twigs and rustled underbrush. They still, fall silent, scanning the place to which they've come. Something nearer? Something close? Something moving. Something here. Something they can find. Something they will find.

There's a trickle of code in their head.

and you will l e  ad me                

They remember. It is where they go. It is where everyone goes.

to t h   e      a    r           k

[ooc: so just after the fallout of the Rebel Base debacle, Tim ran out of medication and has masked out. The masked man is an alternate persona entirely - they don't have any of Tim's memories and are a very underdeveloped, generally aggressive consciousness. They don't talk, and basically look like this. Their instinct upon coming across anyone is mostly going to fall in the 'tackle and abduct' category, though reactions can and will vary. If you want to read more about their deal I've put info here and here. They'll be roaming Central Park all evening/night until the sun comes up again, at which point Tim will wake up and proceed to remember nothing of it.]

Comments

[erratic_hematic]

The evils that exist in this universe don't seem to be anything like the ones he's used to fighting and it's hard to find anything here worth throwing a fist at. Spike has stopped regularly going looking for trouble and perhaps a demon to fight (if he could find one), but he hasn't entirely gotten out of the habit of wandering about at night.

The night is warm enough for him, but he shrugs on his coat anyway. He'll blend in better as he's walking through the park.

It's a nice night for it. The moon is nearly full, so there's plenty of light as he wanders into the park, up past the lake, and onto the path that passes through the ramble.

[postictal]

The hissing crackle of leaves beneath feet. Footsteps. Close, close.

They miss their friend. They would tell them what to do, what to hit. Direct the hands that are not theirs.

There is a silhouette ahead, pale and indistinctly etched in a palette of black-grays.

Would their friend want them to take that familiar action? Is this what their friend would like? Maybe if they do - their friend will come back. They miss them. Here they wander, directionless. Drifting. Without purpose.

Their leg slides over the ground in a slither of bracken and leaf mulch, an imperfect mechanism in an imperfect body, and there will be no silencing the muffled thud of their footsteps as they approach. But there is ease in the remembered movements. A rhythm, unmistakeable. They hurtle forward, dark and unerring, hands arcing for the center of the tall thing's mass to bring it crashing down. Burn it. Break it. Stamp it out.

Just like their friend would have wanted.

[erratic_hematic]

He hears the steps behind him before the attack comes. He expects a threat or a demand, maybe someone looking for money. What he doesn't expect is an outright tackle. He lets the person take him down, but the force of the tackle is easy to turn into a roll. From his side, he knees his attacker's chest, which gives him enough room to pull back and see the mask.

He pauses for a moment and laughs, incredulous. "It's past midnight. You really think you need a mask to mug people?"

[postictal]

It pitches unexpectedly and they grunt, a quiet little burst of sound edged out roughly from their host's vocal cords. And then it makes a noise, loud and - not scared? Not scared. They do not know this noise.

That's interesting.

They cock the head they've seized as their own, uncertain. This is not the reaction they are accustomed to. Mostly they run. Mostly they run, and yell, and once the angry man - Alex, he - he was different, he did something to them, and they shudder at the phantom snap of bones beneath the pressure of a chunk of cement, flung down hard and vindictive.

This one is different, difficult to sense. They waver. There is an expectation here. Response? No. They do not understand the operation of teeth and jaw, the way to make sounds beyond the grunt and the pained no. That is not for them.

And so they lunge again, fingers aiming to wrap around the thing's throat.

[erratic_hematic]

"Wh- Oi." He acts before the fingers can find anything to grip. A swift jab to the masked man's throat is enough to distract him. He's curious about the motivation behind the attack. Could still be money, but the smart move would be to get away if that was the target. This guy went for him again. Didn't speak, either. Just barreled into the attack like an clumsy animal or a violent drunk.

As he hops back to his feet he tips his fingers under the mask and pulls it off.

"Got your mask." The man has his head turned away, so Spike dances back still holding the mask, waiting for him to stand. He wants to see his face. He waves the mask in front out his face and looks out through the eyes, taunting him to come back at him. "Come on, you want it back?"

[postictal]

A fist slams into them, and it jars everything from the sheer shock of it. It fights back. There is a distant sting from the blow but they are in the position to disregard it. Pain is no object. This body is not theirs. They borrow it until they are done, and it is not their place to be concerned. When the mind nestled in with theirs stops sleeping, it will not matter. They will be gone.

Far more alarming is the sliding of fingers beneath the smoothness of their face as it is ripped off, ripped away. They scuttle at it, grasping blindly, horror thrilling through them. No. No. It can't take their face. They need it. Without it they are not them.

The face beneath is blank and dead-eyed and lifeless. They've no means for the subtle manipulation of facial muscles. Instead they lurch for their face, snatching with fingers outstretched. Give it back. Give it back.

[erratic_hematic]

Jesus. Well, he's human. Or at least he looks human. He dances back once more, enough to get a decent look at the face in the moonlight before letting him grab back the mask. He braces himself while the mask is slotted back into place and waits to see if the man will strike out at him again.

In any case, this fight has been a little too easy, and he doesn't want to kill someone if they're human, so the best course of action is to scare him away.

He looks over his shoulder to check and see if there's anyone else coming and when he looks back his face has transformed. The grotesque forehead ridge and yellow eyes are usually enough to scare people away if they don't know what they've gotten into.

He smiles to show his teeth. "I've got a mask too"

[wildmage_daine]

She'll say this for having an above-ground apartment: they're much easier to leave in a hurry. The window is already propped open, so it's only the work of a few moments to slip out of her clothes, shift into owl shape, and fly out into the darkness - or as close to 'darkness' as the city gets, which isn't very.

Most of her friends have bedded down for the night, but there are still plenty of animals about when she reaches out for help. Listen, she calls to the owls, the bats, the raccoons and possums, the still-awake pigeons in the brightly lit squares. One of my friends needs help. Tim. She sends them his image as he'd appear before their eyes - or painted in sound, for the bats. Do you see him?

Wait, they reply, leaving her to circle the building and scan the surrounding streets. If someone's taken him, they shouldn't be that hard to spot - there'd be a struggle, or a pair of folk with an insensible weight between them - but she spies no such things. Curse it. Maybe she shouldn't be surprised - maybe that video was a taunt from someone who already has Tim well in hand. How is she going to find him if he's not anywhere her friends can easily reach?

Fortunately, he is. I have found him, says a hoary bat in the park. Daine banks toward the animal as he continues, with a hint of reproach, You did not tell us he had two faces, or I would have known him sooner.

Two faces? Daine repeats as she soars over the treetops. The bat replies with an image of sorts: the whispery echo of sound produced not by human skin, but a hard, smooth mask. Why is Tim wearing a mask? Is anyone with him? Daine asks.

Someone was fighting with him, but they have gone, the bat replies as Daine alights on the branch the little creature's chosen for a perch. The bat gives her owl form a dubious look, ears twitching, and Daine sends him a thread of reassurance.

Thank you, wing-brother, she says, before turning her attention to Tim. His white mask seems to glow in the darkness, and he's moving oddly. Is he injured? She drops off the branch and wings her way to another one, lower to the ground and well within his sight line, she'd guess. Then she lets out a screech to get his attention. There's no mimicking human speech in owl shape, but how many owls does he know who'd make a point of calling out to him? Hopefully he can guess it's her.

[postictal]

They must move slowly, slower than before to accommodate the dull agony that infuses each movement, but pain is of little consequence to them. This body will only be theirs until it isn't, and when they sleep again the pain will linger where they will not. The rasp of one shoe pulling over the many tangled roots, one leg trailing behind them, it is the familiar rhythm of movement they may fall into. It is normal, and good.

They broke it, the shape with the wrong-bright face. It was the right thing.

There is a darting pale thing making noise and fluttering past, and they stop to stare, head tipping sharply to one side in birdlike curiosity. But it is only one of the many flighty things that live in the dark. They turn away, resume their path. They're looking. They need to find someone, they think. Their friend? Yes. They will know how to help. They need their friend.

Why else would they be here if they do not have a reason?

[wildmage_daine]

... Or not. Daine watches, caught between worry and consternation, as Tim cocks his head at her before turning away. When has he ever moved like that? He's acting like... like a mummer, or something. Even if she could imagine Tim entertaining folk in such a way - and he's far more shy and nervy than any player she's ever met - there's no reason for him to be doing it now, out in the dark with no audience.

Did he really not recognize her, or is he ignoring her a-purpose?

Daine huffs out a silent breath, then takes off after him again. As before, she alights on a perch ahead of him, a little above his current eye level. But this time, she reshapes her mouth. "Tim," she hisses, sharp and disapproving. "It's me. What's wrong with you?"

[postictal]

When it darts out in front of them again they stare at it balefully. This is not right. This is not - it's making little sounds, speech-sounds, the short, rough noise belonging to the name of the skin they're in.

It has been so long since anything has flung that name at them. They shiver. It is not fair. That name is always thrust at them, but he isn't here right now. He is asleep, deadened and silenced by shivering weight of their consciousness, and so now this body is theirs.

They regard the little feathery thing with their face's hollow expression. Is this wrong too? Are tiny things like this meant to make those sounds? Their friend would know. They always knew.

They shuffle forward and swipe at it, a sloppy, experimental sweep of one stolen arm.

[wildmage_daine]

There's no trace of recognition in what little Daine can see of his eyes. There's no trace of anything. It's like looking into the eyes of a shark, but at least a shark would have the decency to speak with her.

She's let her mouth lapse back into a beak, so when he has the gall to strike at her, it's an indignant screech that accompanies her hasty take-off. The swipe is clumsy, at least, and not hard to avoid despite how surprising it is. More than anything else, it's just baffling. Tim wouldn't do this. Is this some kind of lingering mischief from the rebels? Did they do something to him that's only taking effect now?

Is this even really Tim? Has someone taken his shape?

She puts some distance between herself and him and lands again - on the ground, this time, and downwind. There, she takes wolf shape so she can test the air, ears back and muzzle wrinkled in a warning snarl in case this person should feel like doing anything foolish. But he smells like Tim, so if he's some sort of copy, he's a good one. This doesn't make any dratted sense.

[deadeyedchild]

Jay runs, cursing softly under his breath, through the woods at night. Not high on the list of habits he ever wanted to revisit, but needs must. After months of spare-time codecracking the cipher wasn't too much trouble, and if Tim - or whatever that thing is that's taken him back, again (fucking hell he should have seen this coming, why didn't he see this coming) - sent that message to more than just him, others are probably gonna figure it out too.

So he runs, stopping periodically to listen. No flashlight to draw attention to himself, just a camera with night vision switched on. Recording, too; he hit the button on muscle memory. Another habit he can't seem to shake.

The sharp screech of an owl catches his attention, and for a moment the camera frame only shows the ground, trembling in his hand, while he breathes heavily next to the mic.

There's more rustling and assorted animal noise where that came from, and he sets off toward it at a dead sprint. When he comes upon Tim (or that hunched, masked creature - fuck, where did the mask even come from?) there's a wolf standing opposite, snarling softly. He's done a lot of stupid shit in his life and there's no point stopping now, so he takes the reasonable chance that the wolf is Daine and lunges to put himself between them.

"Don't hurt him!" he yells, which, if it is Daine, probably wasn't her plan anyway, but it's too late now because he's planted between them like his stupid fragile body would make even the remotest difference to either of them, like he isn't complete and utter prey.

[johnny_truant]

Codes are sort of more in Johnny's wheelhouse than he'd like to admit. It didn't take too long to work out what Tim's weirdass message said, and he's too him not to go looking. Hey remember when Lude called, and you picked up, and everything changed forever? Because he knew you'd look. Of course you'd look.

He dials Tim's number for about the sixth time, listening not for an answer but for a ringtone or vibration anywhere amidst the trees. It's hard to pick out any particular sounds, or see anything in the dark, and it's a long shot; it's not like this area is small. He's sticking mostly to where he first met Tim, it's as good a place to start as any.

As he strays further off the path, heading into the Ramble, he decides to switch on the flashlight on his phone. This feels like an incredibly dumb idea, walking through the woods with a light flickering around, but he doesn't know what else to do. He's too familiar with the kind of shit that makes someone send out messages like that to do nothing. To just wait.

[postictal]

There is a light.

It is what they see, wavering ahead. A light, dim and traveling, and the one who bears it, a silhouette stamped between the dark towers of trees. The look of someone who is searching. For them? Perhaps. More likely the skin they're in.

But he is asleep now. And they are awake, and watching.

They draw close. Something of this one - different. Discordant. Clanging. What is this. What is wrong with it. It isn't right. It isn't right. It isn't - this is wrong. This one's head is a mess, chaotic, fractured, torn apart.

The nature of this damage is not a nature they are familiar with.

But their friend has been very clear. They know what they must do. They know what is expected. This thing is wrong, an angry little smear, a blemish.

Erase it.

They plunge forward in a blur of asynchronous footsteps and trampled underbrush, and when they burst for it their arms lock around its waist to bring it to the ground.

[johnny_truant]

He hears the rising beat of uneven footsteps just a moment too late, only once they're practically on top of him, he wastes precious seconds slipping his phone back into his pocket and turning with his arms raised for a fight, and he is utterly unprepared for Tim shooting out of the darkness and tackling him to the fucking ground.

He lands hard, head narrowly missing a root, striking softer earth by some lucky chance. He only sees flashes of his assailant - it's got to be Tim, the build is right, he sees a glimpse of familiar hair sideburns, but he's masked, holy shit, like a fucking serial killer, like something out of a slasher movie. He lets out a breathless little shriek that barely qualifies as a noise, not enough air to make it, and struggles instinctively, trying to squirm backwards out of his hold, hands going to grip the arms around his waist for leverage. This is not Tim, he refuses to believe Tim was hiding this from him that whole time they were in a hotel room together, when anything could have happened and no one would have cared. There is something really, really wrong right now, but he can't think clearly about it, all he can do is try to escape.

[postictal]

The thing writhes against them, small and struggling and wiry, and their hands twist from where they have locked around its waist to pin one of its wrists over its head. It will not stop thrashing. It kicks, struggles, like many of the wriggling things they tried, tried to subdue.

The patterns in its head are not patterns they have ever seen before, abstract and unraveling in great shuddering designs, and they do not want to look at them. It is unnatural. Like Jay. Like the skin they wear.

This is what they do to things that are unnatural.

They wrap their free hand around its throat and begin to squeeze.

tw mooore strangulation

[johnny_truant]

He grunts and writhes like an animal, twisting, struggling as Tim pins one of his wrists into the dirt, holding him down with weight and surprising, seemingly unnatural strength.

And then his other hand fits around Johnny's throat. Johnny's head snaps back reflexively, trying to wrench free, but the grip is solid, unbreakable. His free hand seizes Tim's wrist, pulling, digging his nails into his skin, but nothing makes a difference, the pressure just increases, pressing down against his throat, oh god, fuck, fuck.

"Tim-!" he rasps out, panicked, desperate. He keeps fighting, trying to get enough leverage to break free; his hand goes from Tim's wrist to his shoulder, fisting in the fabric of his jacket, pushing back as hard as he can, but he's starting to weaken, he needs to do something or he's going to die, Tim is going to kill him in the fucking woods, just like that.

His hand loosens and moves, scrabbling ineffectively, until it reaches the edge of the mask.

He pushes it off, slides it right over Tim's head, and hurls it away.

[postictal]

The little struggling thing starts fading. Good. They watch it, satisfied as its ineffectual thrashing and twisting dims to the frantic jerk of limbs they recognize. The strength from it is draining. Their grip tightens. Little weak fluttering thing. Scrub away the stains in its head. In all their heads.

They jolt back when fingers slip beneath its face again, again! - and send it hurtling into the carpeted shadows. They untangle themself from the weakening thing immediately, scrambling in search of the bright roundness lying atop the leaves. It is here somewhere. It must be. Where is it. Where is it.

Their fingers skitter across dead leaves, frenzied, panicked. Their face. Where is it. They need it. What did it do to it.

[eliotwaugh]

For lack of anything better to do, Eliot heads to the park in search of a nerd speakeasy. He's not even sure such things exist, and that message could be about something entirely different--will he stumble onto some weird hookup? But he's reasonably confident that this excursion will make his night entertaining. It didn't take all that much effort to decipher the code, but the activity gave him that persistent little itch for activity and problem solving, like a really nice bit of magic, and he couldn't not go see what all the cryptic fuss was about.

So he wanders familiar paths and smokes, keeping a casual lookout for anything that seems out of the ordinary or potentially fun.

[postictal]

The thing is not so tall as the other thing, the flicker of black and of faceless white. But it is taller than near anything else, a silhouette wreathed in smoke.

Smoke, like that breathed in by the skin they wear.

There is a hard gleam to it, an unnatural prickle staining the air at its breath and fingertips. They tilt their head to one side, regarding it with nervous caution. Perhaps it has not seen them. Perhaps, if it is not tainted by static and staggered coughs, they must pass it by.

They waver.

Their friend would know what to do.

They cannot disappoint them.

And so they run, a pale streak moving fast and unerring for the man they see ahead. They have no strategy but to slam into it, pin it down, just as they always do. Discern its nature. Decide its fate.

[eliotwaugh]

Eliot was expecting something clandestine but not too out of the ordinary, like coded directions in sidewalk chalk or strange signs posted on the park railings. Not an actual literal assault from the shadows.

He certainly doesn't expect the blur rushing at him from the corner of his eye. He turns, sees that it's a person-shaped blur and catches one heart-chilling glimpse of its face, or whatever it has in lieu of one, before it hits him around the legs and he goes down hard.

"The fuck-" he shouts, trying to twist away from whoever or whatever decided it was the cool thing to tackle people in the middle of the night. Something about this doesn't seem like a mugging. Eliot flails at his attacker's head with one fist, hoping this is enough of a deterrent. He is entirely unprepared for violence.

[postictal]

It folds beneath them with little resistance, thin and bony and easily collapsed beneath the weight of this body of theirs. Its blind struggles are like any other's, and they must recoil when a flailing fist collides with the side of their head.

Were they not awake, they think maybe their ears would be ringing.

As it is, it does not truly matter.

The hands or the feet or the neck. This is where they must begin. There is too much thrashing against them, too much force thrown to every side and angle. They must make that choice. How best to incapacitate a target.

The hands or the feet or the neck.

Perhaps now, the neck. They twitch closer, fingers oozing for the thing's throat. If they may wrap hands around it, press in exactly the right way, it can soon be over.

[eliotwaugh]

Eliot's head is pounding, whether from injury or adrenaline he can't tell, but there is a suspicious popping feeling in his shoulder where he fell every time he tries to move his arm in defense. So that can't be good.

He can see his attacker clearly enough now that he can tell it's a mask, a man wearing a mask and not some sort of supernatural horror. This would be bad enough on its own, only he's not saying anything, no demands for money, no slurs, just silence, and that's a completely different level of frightening.

Eliot starts to kick at him, starts to try to maybe lever this masked man off of him, and oh shit, his hip is fucked up somehow too. Stupid sidewalk. For a moment all he can feel is indignation at the unfairness of it all, how the hell is this even happening, to him of all people, this world was supposed to be a fresh start for him, and he must be more addled than he previously thought because then there's hands around his throat and he didn't even notice. Shit.

tw: strangulation

[postictal]

Their fingers drop over the neck, their grip hard and inescapable. They know how to long to hold, so that it only stops its breath for the shortest moment. They throw their weight onto their grasp over its throat, pinning it, driving relentlessly down.

It lashes out with legs that are too long, and they feel the sting of bruises beneath each impact but it means nothing to them. They are not the one who will wake with the howl of pain buried in every twitch of motion, each groan of bone. And so they press down, unflinching.

They will hold it until it is still, and stops its frightful protest.