John Mitchell (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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ataraxionlogs2014-05-27 03:15 pm
humanistic) wrote in ataraxionlogs2014-05-27 03:15 pm
Entry tags:
not the time to be hanging around here
CHARACTERS: Mitchell & VARIOUS SUPPORTING CAST
LOCATION: in the dark corners of space
WARNINGS: vampire stuff!--which means strong potential for violence/blood/etc. will update as needed!
SUMMARY: here lies a catch-all dumping ground for the month of May, for some preplanned encounters, especially those regarding the status effect subplot. this log is also MOSTLY OPEN as I'm also up for anything else, planned or not planned - shoot me a PM or just surprise me with a comment, I'm easy!!
[At the end of the month, every extra sense and dark instinct has eaten away at Mitchell from the inside out. The smell of lycos, thick and greasy--the constant presence of heartbeats, pulses, and it's become something so much more, worse and deafening worse, until it's like the walls themselves are throbbing, until he doesn't know if stepping outside will trigger that feeling, that super feeling that's so far beyond mere feeling, like being a fucking lightning conductor just before a storm.
And he can't let on. He makes his excuses; he puts himself in lounges and rooms far away from everyone--far away from George, far away from Annie, for as long as he can. He can't let on.
And for awhile, that's enough. But it seeps in, just the way that it always does. Pushing him closer, and closer, to some edge that he has always known he'd someday be facing down. Leaving him brittle, and desperate, and hungry--hungry above all else. In dark rooms he sees their faces; he replays his murders in his head, and sometimes he feels guilty and sometimes he almost laughs--but always he feels the fingers of hunger winding tighter around every coiled muscle and sinew. He remembers lying back, senseless, covered in blood. He remembers licking blood off of Daisy like an animal, every inch of her skin slick and sticky. A thousand girls, a thousand young men, a thousand wives and husbands and sons and daughters; a trail of blood almost a hundred years long. Skin splitting under his teeth, feeding until the ache in him goes away, until he forgets what it is to feel. He sits in the dark, looking like anyone else, like a man, like the young soldier who died in the mud, on a battlefield in France. But inside is all cold blood, and an old heart, and nothing else except the same old hunger, waiting.
Waiting is exactly what he's doing.]
LOCATION: in the dark corners of space
WARNINGS: vampire stuff!--which means strong potential for violence/blood/etc. will update as needed!
SUMMARY: here lies a catch-all dumping ground for the month of May, for some preplanned encounters, especially those regarding the status effect subplot. this log is also MOSTLY OPEN as I'm also up for anything else, planned or not planned - shoot me a PM or just surprise me with a comment, I'm easy!!
[At the end of the month, every extra sense and dark instinct has eaten away at Mitchell from the inside out. The smell of lycos, thick and greasy--the constant presence of heartbeats, pulses, and it's become something so much more, worse and deafening worse, until it's like the walls themselves are throbbing, until he doesn't know if stepping outside will trigger that feeling, that super feeling that's so far beyond mere feeling, like being a fucking lightning conductor just before a storm.
And he can't let on. He makes his excuses; he puts himself in lounges and rooms far away from everyone--far away from George, far away from Annie, for as long as he can. He can't let on.
And for awhile, that's enough. But it seeps in, just the way that it always does. Pushing him closer, and closer, to some edge that he has always known he'd someday be facing down. Leaving him brittle, and desperate, and hungry--hungry above all else. In dark rooms he sees their faces; he replays his murders in his head, and sometimes he feels guilty and sometimes he almost laughs--but always he feels the fingers of hunger winding tighter around every coiled muscle and sinew. He remembers lying back, senseless, covered in blood. He remembers licking blood off of Daisy like an animal, every inch of her skin slick and sticky. A thousand girls, a thousand young men, a thousand wives and husbands and sons and daughters; a trail of blood almost a hundred years long. Skin splitting under his teeth, feeding until the ache in him goes away, until he forgets what it is to feel. He sits in the dark, looking like anyone else, like a man, like the young soldier who died in the mud, on a battlefield in France. But inside is all cold blood, and an old heart, and nothing else except the same old hunger, waiting.
Waiting is exactly what he's doing.]
no subject
He reaches over with the hand the stake is still hanging in and pops his wrist back into place with a really gross crunch, he's learned a thing or two about broken bones from 'sparring' with Peter if it could even really be called that. In fact, he's somewhat surprised Mitchell is as good off as he is. He's older than Spike but until now he didn't really think that meant anything. Seeing the evidence is something totally different though.
"It's what I get--" he hisses through sharp teeth, warping his speech into something lisped and unrecognizable. He deserves this. He couldn't stop this from happening so now Mitchell kills him, unless he can manage to throw this the other way. And hell, maybe he can, he really doesn't know. The majority of him? Doesn't even really care. "Now you die."
It's so Terminator or something he's not even sure he said it at first, good hand flexing around wood. He remembered carving the damn thing, back in Sunnyhell; back before things got so damn bad. He goes for broke, it's over. He doesn't want some long drawn-out fight. He wants an ending with dust on the cool metal of Mitchell's space-floor and it doesn't seem to matter who it ultimately belongs to.
Pitching himself forward into the other vampire, it's almost as though he's tripped, broken hand coming to grip Mitchell's shirt with in frightening vice. Tighter than should even be possible given his injury. His other hand brings the stake up into position, readying it over Mitchell's heart. You were my friend. He doesn't say it-- he can't. Even if he wanted to, he wouldn't be capable of such a thing in this form. Final words are overrated anyway.
no subject
There had been days where he'd wanted to die, but he'd always come out the other end of it. At first it was cowardice, or some grim bravery--too scared to see what was on the other side, keep fighting--until living was some route action. And then there was George, and then there was Annie, and they changed everything. He isn't thinking of them now, except in some spare corner of his mind, like he can cover their eyes even in his memory. This is what he has to do to survive. Kill his friend to keep himself safe. To keep his friends his friends.
He grabs for the stake, the heavy wood. His eyes have flipped to black, deep, inky, nothing; he grips at the stake and he hisses, all fangs, like that show will be enough to unnerve another vampire. It isn't for show. It's a surge of strength, and he shoves at the stake as he shoves at Spike--fingers in his eyes, tearing at his face with blunt nails--anything to drive him off. And when he drops the stake--because he will, because Mitchell's desperation puts extra strength in his arm--then Mitchell will get it, and that will be all.
no subject
Peter is going to be so pissed he didn't say bye.
The stake drops out of his hand and he watches it fall in slow-motion, right into Mitchell's hand. Thinking fast, he brought the full brunt of his forehead down against Mitchell's, his head in this state at least a pound or two heavier than normal. Nails dig into cloth, tearing the fabric of Mitchell's shirt as he tries to shove Spike away.
no subject
His fear has all burnt away by now--it's only anger that moves him, that same black familiar feeling, all of it his, no matter how he's tried to deny it. It's enough to yank him out of the aftermath of pain, enough that he surges up against Spike with a snarl, full of a wordless rage that's more animal than anything else. Spike's fingers are twisted in his shirt, tearing at it, and Mitchell still drives up against him, twisting so he can jam his shoulder against Spike's, against his throat--anything to heave him off, to get above him so he can drive the stake into his heart, do it, finish it--
no subject
"I always thought it'd be the dragon," he mutters, not to anyone really, just to the air. He says it, but he's wanted to die in space since he's been here. Not in a morbid or suicidal way, just in a this place is home now way. Or it was. Peter was home. Space was just the backdrop.
He hopes someone will at least tell Buffy he's gone. Maybe if he asked Mitchell-- but they're not friends anymore. Something strange shifts behind his eyes as they go blue again. It's not complicated, actually; it's just acceptance.
no subject
But what he's used to is a fight. In a fight, where it's kill-or-be-killed, you do what you have to do to survive. That's been his whole life for so long, living day to day--and then, with his own death looming large on the horizon, casting a shadow so long he could never hope to crawl out from under it.
The lack of resistance is worse than a fight. It makes Mitchell think of Lauren, pleading with him. That girl is almost gone now. Her face, pale and smudged, her grip on his hands as he drove the stake into her, like she was helping him. She wanted it, in the end, and there's nothing of a lie in that, it's God's honest truth.
He's got Spike where he wants him, the stake over his chest--but he doesn't drive it down. Another hiss of breath, almost a laugh, incredulous--
"What--that's it?"
Impatiently, he shoves Spike away from him, hard, enough so that he'll stumble, and hefts the stake in his hand with a sneer.
"Come on, man. Don't just give up. Bloke like you, that can't be all you've got."
no subject
Spike just shakes his head, backing up until he hits the wall. Is he even worth anything? He thinks he can fix Hell but he can't even exist in the space equivalent without stirring shit up. That doesn't seem right in the least. Well, actually, it does; it does make sense because he's here just to shake things up. He's here to be the exception.
Screwing up his face like he doesn't know what expression he actually wants to make, he holds his hand out for the stake. This fight is over, is what his expression says. I won't kill you if you don't kill me. See, he's growing up. He can be reasonable.
Except it feels way more selfish than that. "That one's got sentimental value, hand it over."