Marty Mikalski (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
foolproofed) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
ataraxionlogs2013-07-10 02:35 am
foolproofed) wrote in ataraxionlogs2013-07-10 02:35 am
Entry tags:
[open log] the saddest little stoner that couldn't
CHARACTERS: Marty Mikalski and you!
LOCATION: Hallways + Holodecks + Kitchens (a few days after the jump)
WARNINGS: Sad stoner kid. Probably talk of the world ending or something idk. Also weed. Lots of weed.
SUMMARY: Dana's gone, and Marty's taking it badly for a number of reasons.
He really thought he'd be doing better at this.
Like, she was already dead the moment he heard her over the comms. They were both already dead; died with their hands locked together, so close to each other's faces that he could feel her iron-tinted breath against his nose. They were dead together. And then they were alive together. And for a little while, everything was good.
Until this jump, when he'd gone to get Dana and found her pod empty, her locker abandoned.
She was gone, just like that.
He doesn't expect the cold, numb sensation to wash over him, not like this. He figured he could just pour one out for his homey, appreciate that she was resting in some way (it brought him comfort, okay?), and then maybe go to his room and sleep it off. None of these things happened. Instead he just drifted the hallways with a sag to his shoulders and a slow drag to his step.
Dammit, Dana.
He's alone again, and they're all gone. Once again, he's reminded how much it's not fair to be alive, and how ready he was to be dead. He doubted there'd be pearly gates for him, but at least he would have that much. As it is, he just feels tired. Now if only he could bring himself to sleep. There are so many thoughts rushing around in his head, he feels like his brain'll burst if his heart doesn't first. He passes the kitchens and lounging rooms up, but when he finally comes to the holodecks, he can't help but go there.
Poor foxy minx. Poor redheaded heroine. She was so good; such a good ray of sunshine. Everybody he met here would have loved to be her friend. Is it possible to mourn someone a second time? Possible to mourn them even worse than the first time? He scoffs and shuts off the gravity in the room, and then just lets himself hover quietly through the space with his knobby knees drawn up close to his chest.
He's a floating ball emanating heartache. It's not him at all.
Jesus. Jesus, I'm a fuck-up. He couldn't even properly respond to this shit. Just... hover like they did, and as much as he wants to appreciate that memory, he keeps getting caught in a mental feedback loop of: blood, blood, monsters, Dana, fucking godhand of death. No, when Dana disappeared on him this time, he had to restart the grieving process all over again. For all of them.
Maybe what makes him choke on something empty and lost is the fact that Dana wasn't dying outright. No.
She was going back to being half-drowned in a lake, being manhandled by a zombie fuck, and then watching as the entire world shattered around her.
Hand in his.
He chokes again and his eyes burn, but he fights it away.
Fuckers.
Motherfucking fuckers.
Of course, about a day later, Marty's taken residence in one of the kitchens with his trusty bong Nancy and a good dozen rolled joints expertly lined up on the counter (he was just counting them out while figuring out how his hands made edible shit from the fridge). Beware, this kitchen smells like weed, and the smoke fogging the doorway doesn't help the scene. Marty's in a sharing and caring mood today, at the very least; maybe it'll lift his spirits. Hell, he's already sitting on a bar stool chair, laughing into his hands about something or another.
It's probably not all that funny, and he's not about to say what it is.
LOCATION: Hallways + Holodecks + Kitchens (a few days after the jump)
WARNINGS: Sad stoner kid. Probably talk of the world ending or something idk. Also weed. Lots of weed.
SUMMARY: Dana's gone, and Marty's taking it badly for a number of reasons.
He really thought he'd be doing better at this.
Like, she was already dead the moment he heard her over the comms. They were both already dead; died with their hands locked together, so close to each other's faces that he could feel her iron-tinted breath against his nose. They were dead together. And then they were alive together. And for a little while, everything was good.
Until this jump, when he'd gone to get Dana and found her pod empty, her locker abandoned.
She was gone, just like that.
He doesn't expect the cold, numb sensation to wash over him, not like this. He figured he could just pour one out for his homey, appreciate that she was resting in some way (it brought him comfort, okay?), and then maybe go to his room and sleep it off. None of these things happened. Instead he just drifted the hallways with a sag to his shoulders and a slow drag to his step.
Dammit, Dana.
He's alone again, and they're all gone. Once again, he's reminded how much it's not fair to be alive, and how ready he was to be dead. He doubted there'd be pearly gates for him, but at least he would have that much. As it is, he just feels tired. Now if only he could bring himself to sleep. There are so many thoughts rushing around in his head, he feels like his brain'll burst if his heart doesn't first. He passes the kitchens and lounging rooms up, but when he finally comes to the holodecks, he can't help but go there.
Poor foxy minx. Poor redheaded heroine. She was so good; such a good ray of sunshine. Everybody he met here would have loved to be her friend. Is it possible to mourn someone a second time? Possible to mourn them even worse than the first time? He scoffs and shuts off the gravity in the room, and then just lets himself hover quietly through the space with his knobby knees drawn up close to his chest.
He's a floating ball emanating heartache. It's not him at all.
Jesus. Jesus, I'm a fuck-up. He couldn't even properly respond to this shit. Just... hover like they did, and as much as he wants to appreciate that memory, he keeps getting caught in a mental feedback loop of: blood, blood, monsters, Dana, fucking godhand of death. No, when Dana disappeared on him this time, he had to restart the grieving process all over again. For all of them.
Maybe what makes him choke on something empty and lost is the fact that Dana wasn't dying outright. No.
She was going back to being half-drowned in a lake, being manhandled by a zombie fuck, and then watching as the entire world shattered around her.
Hand in his.
He chokes again and his eyes burn, but he fights it away.
Fuckers.
Motherfucking fuckers.
Of course, about a day later, Marty's taken residence in one of the kitchens with his trusty bong Nancy and a good dozen rolled joints expertly lined up on the counter (he was just counting them out while figuring out how his hands made edible shit from the fridge). Beware, this kitchen smells like weed, and the smoke fogging the doorway doesn't help the scene. Marty's in a sharing and caring mood today, at the very least; maybe it'll lift his spirits. Hell, he's already sitting on a bar stool chair, laughing into his hands about something or another.
It's probably not all that funny, and he's not about to say what it is.