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blackmagus) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
kore_logs2013-06-05 03:09 pm
blackmagus) wrote in kore_logs2013-06-05 03:09 pm
If you don't stop, you'll lose control
Who: Fortescue, and you (open)
Where: The bar.
When: Day 78, late morning/early afternoon.
What: Fortescue stops holing herself up in her room and decides to go to the bar to self-medicate her discomforts.
She was cut off from the Planes, and that was the problem. Normally the connection was healed in what felt like a matter of minutes. But when the barrier had split open, it had ruptured the connection to her soul, safely contained within Jazz, and now it was healing, but slowly. At first she had felt normal, as far as being severed from your soul was concerned, but here in the Cape she was cut off from the medication that stopped the later panic attacks and hallucinations. One of her superiors had once, with immense gravity, described it as the little bit of your soul that's left, having a nervous breakdown. She had crawled under her metaphorical rock and had barely come out, Jazz howling up a pained storm. Normally he was knocked out and kept that way, when he had to handle this much time alone with a human soul.
Fortescue didn't like to think of what it could be doing to him. It wouldn't kill him, she knew, or they never would have let her pick him as the carrier of an exanimed soul. But she knew it was painful, both from his cries and from the fact that — as the connection started to heal — she could now feel it. Prolonged pain did funny things to both people and animals. And this was like sitting in a sauna, with a switchblade being, occasionally, stuck straight through the heart.
Whether her Guide or the Planes itself normally healed the connection, she didn't know. But it would be at least another day, at this rate, before she and Jazz would both feel closer to normal.
To that end, Fortescue decided to go drink until she couldn't feel it as much. It was her standard solution to such problems, her tolerance being decidedly average. Imperium had always kept its secret weapon well-stocked, though maybe they had been starting to regret that move. And she needed to get out of the house before she started crawling the walls. Even when curled up in bed, she didn't like it, though possibly that was because of being curled up alone. That was being safe, however, because she knew exactly why her superiors cut her off from Jazz on certain missions. She was more... 'effective', that way. More likely to question instincts that others would consider moral or human. No matter how much she liked to pretend otherwise, she'd been trained to kill and that was what she did for a living. So for a few days, she kept herself away from others and only let herself talk to them over the comms. Or in short bursts.
Now that the tether to her soul seemed more stable, however, she was eager to get out. But sitting up and on a stool, or in a chair, seemed to magnify her discomfort. So late morning and early afternoon found Bethmora Fortescue sitting against one of the bar's walls, near the counter, with a twitching cat in her lap and a bottle of something nameless in her hand, humming something that was closer to a funeral dirge than anything else. It was 3AM somewhere. Probably. Despite the tone of what she was humming, she had a pleasant expression — aside from the occasional twinges of discomfort.
[ooc: For those who can sense such things, her soul residing in her kitty is about 500% more obvious right now. As the connection is still sealing itself.]
Where: The bar.
When: Day 78, late morning/early afternoon.
What: Fortescue stops holing herself up in her room and decides to go to the bar to self-medicate her discomforts.
She was cut off from the Planes, and that was the problem. Normally the connection was healed in what felt like a matter of minutes. But when the barrier had split open, it had ruptured the connection to her soul, safely contained within Jazz, and now it was healing, but slowly. At first she had felt normal, as far as being severed from your soul was concerned, but here in the Cape she was cut off from the medication that stopped the later panic attacks and hallucinations. One of her superiors had once, with immense gravity, described it as the little bit of your soul that's left, having a nervous breakdown. She had crawled under her metaphorical rock and had barely come out, Jazz howling up a pained storm. Normally he was knocked out and kept that way, when he had to handle this much time alone with a human soul.
Fortescue didn't like to think of what it could be doing to him. It wouldn't kill him, she knew, or they never would have let her pick him as the carrier of an exanimed soul. But she knew it was painful, both from his cries and from the fact that — as the connection started to heal — she could now feel it. Prolonged pain did funny things to both people and animals. And this was like sitting in a sauna, with a switchblade being, occasionally, stuck straight through the heart.
Whether her Guide or the Planes itself normally healed the connection, she didn't know. But it would be at least another day, at this rate, before she and Jazz would both feel closer to normal.
To that end, Fortescue decided to go drink until she couldn't feel it as much. It was her standard solution to such problems, her tolerance being decidedly average. Imperium had always kept its secret weapon well-stocked, though maybe they had been starting to regret that move. And she needed to get out of the house before she started crawling the walls. Even when curled up in bed, she didn't like it, though possibly that was because of being curled up alone. That was being safe, however, because she knew exactly why her superiors cut her off from Jazz on certain missions. She was more... 'effective', that way. More likely to question instincts that others would consider moral or human. No matter how much she liked to pretend otherwise, she'd been trained to kill and that was what she did for a living. So for a few days, she kept herself away from others and only let herself talk to them over the comms. Or in short bursts.
Now that the tether to her soul seemed more stable, however, she was eager to get out. But sitting up and on a stool, or in a chair, seemed to magnify her discomfort. So late morning and early afternoon found Bethmora Fortescue sitting against one of the bar's walls, near the counter, with a twitching cat in her lap and a bottle of something nameless in her hand, humming something that was closer to a funeral dirge than anything else. It was 3AM somewhere. Probably. Despite the tone of what she was humming, she had a pleasant expression — aside from the occasional twinges of discomfort.
[ooc: For those who can sense such things, her soul residing in her kitty is about 500% more obvious right now. As the connection is still sealing itself.]
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In any way other than an official, employee sort of way, at least. While she and Darby are friends as much as they can be, it just really isn't the same as what Rat's referring to.
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And whether or not he counts himself in the equation, he can expect the same treatment back if he was ever in a similar way.
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