Your suffering is almost at an end

[weboftime]

Who: Henry and his victims!
Where: The Brig - various places
When: Time is fake. August is weird. Anytime that makes sense. Can be before or during the Bad Vibes, too!
Warnings: Mind any cw/tw but there’s nothing in the initial post except mentions of blood.
Notes: I am always open to more victims! Just let me know what you’d like inflicted on your characters and I'll make them a toplevel. waningsunflower or Discord: Kota#4814.

Henry considers this practice. Practice for helping others. Practice for helping himself. Humans, and those who live by their same arbitrary standards of life, are no more than the prey he seeks to keep in line. Less like a shepherd. More like a wolf.

So he stalks his prey throughout the Brig. Not physically, but mentally, seeking them out, watching them if he can, finding the right time to strike.

He finds a room that’s out of the way. There’s no lock, of course, but he’s twisted the metal handle into a makeshift bar to keep it from opening easily. And he sits in a comfortable chair, hands in his lap, blood streaming slowly from his nose as he seeks them out.

Each person, each victim, comes with a careful inspection of their trauma, of what hurts them, of what’s in their mind. Some may experience nightmares. Some may have headaches. Trouble sleeping. And some may simply be hit with a hallucination that they might not understand. Each victim will seem to go into a trance, and Henry doesn’t care who they’re around.

Comments

Crozier

[weboftime]

When he walks through a door, Crozier finds himself back aboard Terror. The shipboards creak under the immense pressure of the ice, and the air is impossibly cold. The boilers have failed, the good English coal has run out, and his breath comes out in soft clouds around him. Ice crunches beneath his boots.

Ahead of him, through the narrow and darkened passageway, is the silhouette of Fitzjames. His uniform is tattered and worn.

“Francis,” he says, his back to the other man. “Where have you been?”

[goingtobeunwell]

The listing is far worse, the pipes frozen and crossbeams buckling. Her floors are warped, her doors off their tracks and fine, porcelain china that they'd left behind laying in pieces in the small pantry.

"James?"

His mind doesn't quite understand. But James is dead -- no, alive, is he not? No, he's dead, he's left him behind under a half-built cairn. He takes a few steps forward, careful to not slip on the buckling deck.

[weboftime]

Fitzjames turns around, his chin raised a little high. "You left me. You left us all," he says with an impossible face, flesh oozing from old wounds on pockmarked and sunken cheeks. His eyes are empty sockets, and blood trails from all the missing teeth in his mouth.

[goingtobeunwell]

Crozier recoils at the corpse-like Fitzjames, horrified at the rotten flesh and skull-like face. He steps back and feels the crunch of bones under his feet, fragile ribs cracking and large, gnawed-on femurs and tibias scattering against the narrow walls.

But as terrible as Fitzjames' visage is, the words are far more disturbing. "You -- it was you who made me promise to survive. You did, James. By god, I never wanted to!"

[weboftime]

More voices, all of them familiar, echoed within the various doors. And the men began to appear, all in various levels of death and decay. "You abandoned us. You left us," they moan, some holding their insides, others bleeding from invisible wounds.

They advance on him, the only open door the one behind him. One that seems to be boarded shut.

cw: gore

[goingtobeunwell]

There's Edward Little, the walking sacrifice, with chains looping through lip and ears and cheeks and eyes sunken and unseeing. Thomas Jopson claws his way out from the shadows, dragging himself forward by inches as bones snap in his fingers. The Hartnell boys, Thomas riddled with holes and half-eaten, John frozen and gaunt and his chest wide-open to bare his organs -- Evans, his lower half missing, Private Heather with his brains falling out from his skull, Doctor Stanley charred to a crisp still wearing that damned pierrot collar --

His back presses against the door.

"No, no -- please, hear me, I'm only here to bring you back. I promised..."

He promised to lead them all home, and look at what happened.

McDonald stumbles forward, blood pouring from his mouth and running down his chin. Sir John, one-legged and stiff from the ice, steps out from behind Fitzjames.

Cw: fire

[weboftime]

"Captain..." they all hiss. "You have sent us to hell." Their voices rise and fall and croak and moan. They are walking corpses, nothing but putrid flesh and decayed eyes and teeth.

And then they all erupt into flames. Each one of their pained and tragic noises turn to agonizing screams as they retreat back into their rooms, though their haunting screams only increase.

Fitzjames stumbles forward towards him, through the hallway.

Sam

[weboftime]

Inside a room that Sam passes is the sound of a ticking clock. “Sam,” comes a very, very familiar voice. A whispered plea. “Sam, come in here.”

Re: Sam

[droppinnoeaves]

That sound stops Sam like someone's just grabbed him by the skull. For a second, just a second, just a tick of that clock, he's frozen in place, overcome by the sudden rush of- it's joy, it's joy like he only thought he felt when he first held his daughter, when the eagles landed and they were safe, when Mister Frodo took his hand on their long walk home and smiled the way he'd smiled before it all.

Just a second, and he drops the load of net-goods he was taking down and pushes open the ajar door in almost the same instant, rushing inside. "Master Frodo!"

Re: Sam

[weboftime]

The door opens into a dark and wet cavern, though it seems fairly empty. Save for a lone figure on the floor. A small and pitiable creature, wrapped up in webbing on the floor. The voice had come from him, but the place is silent at the moment.

There's no other pleas, no other sounds.

Re: Sam

[droppinnoeaves]

Joy goes sour in his throat faster than last week's milk, and Sam scrambles down the slope, so close to a run he almost goes tumbling nose over nails, skidding to a stop on his knees on the floor beside the small figure. "No, no, Master! I'll have you out of there!"

He fumbles for his belt knife, a pitiful blade when he suddenly wants a sword again, but it's not sharp enough to cut the tough webbing, and he saws desperately at it, trying to listen. Trying not to look at the face.

Re: Sam

[weboftime]

That face is there and it's cold and hard, eyes dead and lifeless. But as Sam begins to jostle him, everything shifts.

"You wanted to leave me here, Sam. Didn't you?"

The dead lips move and sound comes out, but otherwise, his face stays blank, hair plastered to his forehead from a cold sweat.

For Sweeney

[weboftime]

It happens on deck. Or in a hallway. Or while he’s sitting in his room. It doesn’t matter, because the world suddenly goes black around him. ”Coward.” The hissing starts softly, like a child’s whisper. ”Coward,” it comes again, louder, with more voices combined. “COWARD COWARD COWARD,” a chorus of angry voices whisper and moan and scream in a cacophony of accusation.

For The Corinthian - cw: gore

[weboftime]

Henry’s intrigued by this one. He doesn’t stage any sort of attack on him. Instead, he watches from what he feels is a safe place. Muffled splashing echoes as he walks across water, the world blank around him, save for the form he approaches. This sort of astral projection, not that Henry knows the word, takes a lot out of him, but he wants to watch him. He wants to see him. There’s someone else with him. Someone in danger.

And Henry simply watches, fascinated.

cw: eye gore

[tastehumanity]

The Corinthian is tucked away in one of the man rooms, shadowed by overgrowth, kneeling over a body. He has just plucked an eye from his victim, which lies still in a pool of blood. He's considering the orb he holds in his hand before there's a pause and a straightening of his back, like a wolf perking its ears. He turns his head, fingers wrapping around the eye and slowly tucking it away in his pocket as he rises to look around with a furrow on his brow. He senses someone watching him but realizes they aren't physically near.

There's a soft tutting, "That's rude, you know, if you wanted to watch me work all you needed to do was ask."

He stoops to carefully pluck the other eye out with his knife, he pockets the orb with the other and takes out a handkerchief to wipe off his blade slowly.

"I don't like to be interrupted." He opens his jacket and tucks the knife away. He tugs his tan jacket back into place, straightening himself out before tipping his head up to whoever is watching, not quite pin-pointing the location but feeling back to try and find them. Whoever they are.

"You can come out. I'll find you one way or the other."

[weboftime]

Henry laughs softly, surprised. He wasn't sure if anyone was able to actually sense him around, and he appreciates the challenge.

"Come and find me," he says, though he's not sure if he can hear him. Instead, he snaps back to himself, back to his own room just down the corridor, and wipes blood from his nose. He flips his hand forward and unlatches the door, waiting to see if he'll follow up.

[tastehumanity]

The Corinthian feels the draw as the other pulls away, and smirks softly at his words. He can hear him, distantly, like noise on the wind or hidden behind static. The presence slips in a direction and he'll turn and follow it through the winding corridors, sensing, and following any residual footprints left behind. It doesn't take him long to find the other, pulled to him by invisible strings.

He reaches a hand up to rap his knuckles on the door. He doesn't want to be rude, after all. But he tries the latch and pushes the door open to spot the gangly young man within. He leans in the doorway, crossing his arms over his chest and tilting his head to study the other.

"Like what you see?" He had felt something like amusement before he'd pulled away.

[weboftime]

Henry doesn't get up from his chair, but he does put his feet on the floor. He's managed to find clothes more suited to him. Gone are the orderly whites. He's found himself a closet full of 50s style sweaters and trousers, and with a little creativity, they've managed to fit.

"What an odd question," he says softly, still wiping blood from his face. He does eventually stand up to find a towel he'd stashed away. "What was the purpose?"

CW: consumption of eyes

[tastehumanity]

"Well, I felt a little tickle of amusement," He lifts a hand to do a little waggle of his fingers up near his temple for emphasis, "before you slipped away."

He watches the other, tilting his head. He doesn't have a physical set of eyes but he can see very well and his senses are heightened enough to pick up on a lot of things. At the second question, he'll step away from the door and dig in his pocket to produce the pair of eyes he'd plucked, still wet with blood and mucus.

"Point of what? Of this?" He asks, rolling one up into the tips of his thumb and index finger carefully to blow on it as if to dust off whatever pocket lint might've stuck.

"I wanted a snack." He uses his free hand to pluck off his glasses and fold them up to place them in a different pocket, revealing his toothy sockets. He'll pop one of the eyes into the teeth like one would a grape, or a bonbon, and the teeth will chew and consume the eye with a little viscous fluid running out from the corners. He pulls the bloody handkerchief from his pocket to dab at his cheek and cleans up his face.

"Want one?" He asks holding out the other, smiling softly. He can't quite put his finger on what Henry is but he feels darkness, feels something familiar in his abilities or energy. Something they share. And if the other already peeked at him murdering someone, why hide what he is? Surely he can tell he's not human by now.

"That human was... hmm..." He lifts his chin as if savoring and sifting through the details of what he was seeing and feeling from the eye he's tasted.

"Broken, delicious, quite a lot of trauma there."

For Tim

[weboftime]

It happens to Tim as he's walking out of his room. The hallway he enters isn't the strange, leafy corridors of the Brig. Instead, Tim finds himself in the hallways of the Institute. Everything about it is picture perfect from memory. No distortions. No oddness. It smells the same. Feels the same. Sounds the same. And behind him is simply an empty room.

There's an open door up ahead and within it, two familiar voices float back to him.

"I thought it was pronounced ca-lee-o-pee?"

"Sasha? You’re...back early."

"Yes, yes. Early enough to tell you that you're saying it wrong. Tim! Tim come back here. Tell him he's saying it wrong."

Sasha reaches a hand out from the other side of the door, gesturing him closer.

[statementfuckingends]

His footsteps stop, immediately, when he recognises the hallway, and automatically he turns to look behind him at the door he came from. Which... is not a surprise, that it's not the room he left.

He just sighs, already over with this; but then there are those familiar voices. And he freezes, until he sees the hand waving from the doorway, and there's such a violent ache in his chest that he lurches forward, half running for the door.

This isn't real, she can't be here, not here, he'd have seen her already, Jon isn't here but a part of him needs to see it to make sure--

He grabs onto the door frame, to stop him from throwing himself into the room, eyes honing in on Sasha's face immediately.

[weboftime]

Sasha turns to face him. Her smile, her real smile, the one he knows from her actual picture, rather than memory, is bright and clear. Jon is nowhere in the room, but his desk is right there. Right where it should be.

"There you are," she coos. "Where have you been? You're late."

She outstretches her arms to him.

[statementfuckingends]

"Sasha...?" He steps into the room fully, reaching his hands to take hers but not fully stepping into her reach. "What are you..."

His eyes flick to the desk, frowns at the lack of Jon when he's sure he heard his voice. "Wh- where's Jon?"

[weboftime]

She tilts her head. "Why are you asking about Jon?" Sasha sits on the desk, crossing her legs.

"Why do you care? You never cared before. You just wanted your revenge. You were too angry to even know I was dead. Too selfish to care. I cried for you in the end. And you didn't even know it."

Tears of blood begin to stream down her cheeks despite the casual tone.

[statementfuckingends]

That slams into his stomach like a freight train, and his hands tremble as he lowers them again.

"I- I know I was angry, yeah. I knew something was wrong, but--" He throws his hands out in a gentle motion of surrender. "I cared, Sasha, I still do. I- I made a deal, on the Barge, you're going to be okay."

But- will she, now, that it's all been disbanded, that he's been demoted?

"I never stopped caring about you," he mumbles, moving to meet her at the desk. "I promise."