Law A8iding Citizen.

I am an equal opportunity employer, with multifaceted 8usiness interests and a diverse clientèle.

[8andits-blog]

A New Timeline.

| SBURBless/AU Timeline. Please read all pages before applying.

If you like post apocalypse stuff with aliens, radiation, mutants, and the occasional tree, boy do we have the timeline for you!

[amorteacolyte-deactivated201707]

After that last punch, you are done.

You sit back, breathing harsh, eyes wild (yet dimming, slowly, very slowly), and release your intricate, violent mental grip on your own useless arm, let it fall to your side. You stare down at the mess that is Vriska Serket, crime lord, 8rigandz 8oss, murderer of hundreds, probably thousands— a bloody puddle of pathetic gore and dying weakness underneath you.

Her eyes are closed. You can’t even look at her. You can only feel her chest, breathing labored, underneath your palm, see it rise and fall faintly, faintly, faintly.

She is dying. And something inside you, exhausted, knowing it has won— maybe it’s adrenaline, maybe it’s your conscience, maybe it’s the shock that’s kept you from keeling over and dying of your own pain— shuts down.

You slouch, slump, staring at her blankly. You feel the cool stickiness of her blood on your hands and on your face. You feel the violent heat of the red Alternian sun pulsing in on you from behind the boundaries of your shade. You feel…

You feel almost nothing.

You hadn’t expected to win. You don’t think you should have.

Your hand returns to clutch at your rust-dripping waist and you slowly ease yourself off of her, turning yourself around to fall back with a heavy thump against the thick tree trunk that she is leaning on. You let your head fall back, let your eyes close, let your breath shudder through you slowly, painfully.

And you wait.

[8andits-blog]

Briefly your mind flickers back into whatever there was left to call your body. Your one remaining eye opens slightly, squinting hard against the impossibly searing light, the tree thankfully keeping you from being blinded completely.

What little you can feel is pain, you think. Thinking wasn't coming easily either. Most everything had numbed. Slowed down. Everything was thick, heavy, and disgusting. You try to take a deep breath, but a series of sharp pains causes you to quickly abandon this. 

As you flick your eye around what was probably going to be some of the last scenery you'd ever see, all you could think was it wasn't fair. This wasn't fair. None of this was ever fair. It shouldn't have been like this. There was a million other ways it should've been but not like this. There was no one to see it. There was no one who'd remember it save someone who'd no doubt paint it as poorly as possible. It wasn't even a good fight.

Your eye finally lands on Aradia. Sitting next to you. Not even mortally wounded. You wish you could manipulate her. You wish you could force her to shove those disgusting fingers of hers into her eyes and then leave her blinded and alone out here with you. 

But you can't. All you can do is glare. What features could move twist into disgust, then rage, and then you want to scream at her if you could manifest the effort. But nothing happens. Nothing continues to happen. In fact you find you are quite literally not doing anything at all, to the highest amount someone can not do anything. You lay perfectly still. No breathing. Nothing. It would dawn on you that you are dead, but you are currently too dead to notice. 

[amorteacolyte-deactivated201707]

You are throwing her around with absolutely no remorse.

No restraint. It shows in the wild flinging of your arms, the curls wet with blood and sweat hanging in your eyes, clinging to the skin of your face, the grunts and yells that burst from your lips with every thrust of your hands even though all the work you’re doing is with your mind; you want to throw every piece of your beinginto hurting her, maiming her, destroying her. You want it to be a dance your entire body is in on; you want to lose yourself in the complete annihilation of this plague of a woman, Vriska Serket, but none of that runs through your mind as eloquently as it may seem but for the single thought— fuck you, FUCK you, FUCK YOU, with every smack and crack of her body against the dirt and wood.

And then, all at once, you let her drop.

You leave her no peace. Stumbling,clutching at your side, bleeding, you still run, and you fall upon her in a whirlwind of Universal and Insular, screaming and spitting, cursing, swinging your fist at her again and again and again, striking down her every attempt to push you away, to hit you back— and when you stop, breathing ragged, sweat dripping, skin burning from the sun, you stare at her with the hardest, deadliest eyes, at her covered in dark-tinted cerulean, a bloody mess, face broken, and you determine that she will fucking die.

And— you think, metal creaking, cracking, as you will the useless digits of your right hand into an awkward fist, as you pull it back despite the mechanical ruin, the electrical disconnect— it will be with the very arm she graced you with.

One— crack.

"それはネペタのためだ。" That’s for Nepeta.

Two— crack.

"それはKarkatのためだ。” That’s for Karkat.

Three— CRACK.

“それはSOLLUXのためだ。" That’s for SOLLUX.

Four—

"そして、これは私のためである。"

And this is for me.

C R A C K .

[8andits-blog]

There wasn't much for Aradia to stop, you were doing very little blocking. In fact, you weren't doing much of anything save laying around and bleeding copious amounts. Mostly internally, but you could tell there was at least a touch of it pouring out somewhere, though you weren't terribly sure quite where that was.

Frankly you weren't sure where most parts of you were. Everything just sort of ached in a vague nondescript manner. Even her punching with that broken metal fist didn't add anything to your suffering thanks to the magic that was some serious shock. She could probably be tearing some things out of your chest cavity and get little more than a displeased gurgle. 

Currently all she was getting from you was an occasional blood-soaked tooth and little pieces of dark plastic scattered on the dirt. If there was a sound for you to make or a fight left to put up at that instant, you weren't around for it. Your mind was somewhere very far away it seemed, tending to something it had deemed much more important, leaving your mortal husk of a body a little more than a shuddering blue mess. The only think your body was thankful for was the shade and the fact that your eyes were closed, even if one of them was currently being crushed by what was formerly its socket. 

[amorteacolyte-deactivated201707]

You are still shouting the worst kind of abuse at her in Insular and yanking her head back by your fistful of her tangled, grimy hair by the time she opens her mouth to speak, and you continue well into her first question. And you don’t fade off, more like stop abruptly, your frenzied, anger-fueled, hate-driven and adrenaline-laced mind trying to process the Universal that she is speaking to you in.

You catch on just in time to feel your heart stop for a full moment.

Were you in your right mind, and looking back on it you do see that it’s so, you would immediately peg this for what it is— a cheap, stupid distraction. But things are very different in the heat of a life-or-death brawl, and it’s all you can do to pause your assault on her scalp and freeze, shoulders stiff, eyes wide. It’s only a second or two to stare, dumbfounded, and say “.. Huh?”

But, it’s all she really needs.

[8andits-blog]

Perfect, that was all you really needed. 

With your distraction working perfectly, all it takes is a few deft movements for you to tug the broken sliver of sword from its hilt and stab it into her side. Once. Twice. Three times you stab wildly into her before you push hard on the hilt to hopefully get her the fuck off of you. You try to ignore how disgusting her maroon feels on your skin, its heat only compounded by the sun pounding down on the both of you. Some how your mind manages to get cleared up tremendously by this sudden turn of events, as usual you winning means you are a little less unstable.

While you were doing all this stabbing and pushing, you'd been speaking. The words you were saying didn't have an awful lot of thought behind them, but they were still nice and thick with gloating. It all went roughly along the lines of "I killed her. I killed that self righteous teal freak, I killed her and no one ever knew about it. And after you're dead, no one ever will. She'll simply be gone, just like you." But was significantly hindered by panting, screaming, and growling with the effort it took to stab her while in this decidedly uncomfortable position.

[amorteacolyte-deactivated201707]

Broken nose? Definitely. Two black eyes and then some? A given. But, of course, you won’t assess the damage done to your face until much, much later: right now you are mainly preoccupied with regaining your ground and maybe getting the drop on her while shes quivering over her crotch.

If Vriska thinks you are a paragon of moral high ground, she is sorely mistaken. You are an independent third party, and always have been. You and she? You take whatever path suits you best.

 It’s just that your priorities are different.

 Your friends are the bull, and you are the horns. And boy, has she been messing.

 You lock your teeth around the looped links of Sollux’s platinum chain and yank, ripping it from your wrist. You taste blood beyond the metal, and it drives you forward. With a snarl you dive at her, slamming you both into the dirt again, and you pin her with a leg while you pull the chain tight against the front of her throat, one end in your left hand and the other clenched between your teeth, and you are

pulling, pulling, pulling.

[8andits-blog]

For a brief moment, you think you might actually be able to recover. This is cut brutally short however, when unexpectedly you find it a lot harder to breath. As per everyones first instinct when being choked by an object that slowly cuts into their throat, your hands fly up to your neck, prying at it and pulling at her hand. It's only when you manage to remember that the other appendage holding the chain in place couldn't be a hand that you get an idea, grabbing on the bit that ran up to her mouth and tugging on that silvery metal as hard as you could.

There was nothing going on in your head at the moment aside from hate, deep dark unfathomable hate, some of the most overpowering, pure spite you had felt in ages, and the strong urge to breathe, which unfortunately means this response is going to be cut brutally short. 

[amorteacolyte-deactivated201707]

Smack-dab in the middle of a fight, oddly enough, you aren’t thinking about dying, or how okay you’d been with the idea, or even how much you want to punch her in the face again. In fact, you aren’t thinking about much of anything.

The good thing, though, about brawls, is that it is exactly the kind of fighting that you are good at. That you have always been good at. So while Vriska is busy pounding your face in, you are busy trying to hold ground and also to figure out how to get her the hell off of you.

The answer doesn’t come in any sort of particularly brilliant battle schema brain blast, though. As said before, this is simply a brawl.

So you bring your leg up and drive your knee right into the hollow of her groin.

[8andits-blog]

The first thing you do after that particularly cheap shot is let out something that could be described as a wail, but was more like a painfully high pitched screeching noise. The second thing you did was double over and fall off of her, hissing and cussing loudly as you tried to recover, or at least scramble a little bit away from her so she'd bee to busy recovering to strike back right away.

Somehow the fact that she got a chance to pull a move like that before you pissed you off. You were supposed to be the tricky slippery bastard, not her.  She was supposed to be the paragon or some bullshit. She was supposed to be out here for her morals and showboating how much better she was than you. It seemed so terribly unfair she got both the high ground and the cheating. 

Granted your thoughts are not nearly this complex and are much more laden with words like "bitch" and "fuckface" but, this is a general synopsis censored for the sake of everyone.

[amorteacolyte-deactivated201707]

Pain before pleasure, or something like that. At least, you’re pretty sure some variation on that phrase could be considered relevant in this situation.

You don’t regret punching Vriska Serket in the face, but with the unbelievable sharp, stinging pain that’s coursing through the nerve endings in your stump and confusing your brain because is your wrist hurting, but no, it can’t be, there’s no wrist there—

Whatever the science behind your limp and dangling metal digits are, you are gasping, and she is grabbing. Half in blind pain and half in desperation you yank your left hand up to knock her in the face with her own wrist and bend your lame elbow into her throat, and then you roll. It doesn’t matter if you end up under her; you have to get her away from the gun.

And you two end up struggling in the dirt for a few moments and Jesus, your right arm is useless and killing you, when she finally has you on your back and you can’t fucking get up again, fuck—

[8andits-blog]

At first when she struck you in the face with your own hand, you thought that this might've been a particularly bad move on your part. It wouldn't be the first time crippling your opponent has ended up coming to bite you back in the ass, after all. 

But no, she actually rolls you on top of her in a startling move of tactical ignorance. Or at least, you think it's a move of tactical ignorance. Currently as you hold down her good arm and swing a couple hooks at her face with your free one, you'd forgotten all about the gun. There was a much more obvious advantage presented for you, and there was no way you were going to do anything but capitalize on it no matter how better off you'd be doing otherwise. 

As usual when you were winning, you were grinning and enjoying yourself quite thoroughly, emphasizing each and every swing with grunted expletives. 

[amorteacolyte-deactivated201707]

Whoops, there goes your footing.

As Vriska goes down, her legs go flying, and so do yours, to some extent, and suddenly you are falling. And you see her reach out for her gun as if in slow motion— if she grabs it, it’s all over; one second to place the barrel at your ear and another to blow your brains out.

Fuck that shit.

You land hard on your forearm and push against the ground, using the kickback force to right yourself somewhat and straddle her legs and hips. A terrible pain shoots up inside your ribs, your torso, as you move, but you ignore it in favor of grabbing her wrist and jerking it away from the gun.

You should probably incapacitate her left arm, too, but logic takes a backseat for a moment as you ball up your metal fist and slam it right into her face.

[8andits-blog]

You could already tell the punch had broken your nose, and not just because of the searing pain, and cold blood running down your skin. Mostly because now it seemed bent abnormally to one side in your vision.. How you loathed the day you ever decided to give her that particular advantage. Of course, you don't regret removing her arm in the first place, just that she had the audacity to get a powerful replacement.

Deciding it best not to let her do that again, you grapple her cybernetic prosthetic with your own, grabbing and bending the wrist with all the force your superior replacement could muster. Too your surprise and pleasure, it breaks, a couple sparks shooting out of the damaged electronics and the fingers dangling uselessly.

A sadistic little laugh escapes you as you think about how it seems you now have the upper hand here, and just how fitting that phrase is. Releasing the now slightly more useless arm you grab at the other, trying to pry it off your hand. 

[amorteacolyte-deactivated201707]

Honestly, you would be delighted to take credit for all the shit Vriska feels she’s gone through. You would be ecstatic and proud to. In the grand cosmic scheme of things, whatever god is out there looking down on your strife with the worst kind of disappointment in its eyes for how far trollkind has fallen— in the coil of justice and all that is right and fair outside the realms of mortal poison, if she is right and you are wrong, you honestly do not give a single solitary shit.

You will gladly be the villain if it means getting to make her bleed.

This doesn’t have much time to fly through your head, though; she’s pummeling you at the edge of your ribcage, sometimes hitting bone, sometimes hitting the tough (but still very much soft and vulnerable) muscle of your gut, the little enclave at the ride in your torso. And for a moment you’re too shocked to react, breath gone, spit bubbling at your lips as the pain makes you want to gag; then with the second punch comes back the wind to your lungs and she only gets in a few more before you bring in your own robotic arm from the side, across your body, to slam against her wrist and knock it away.

In that split second you bring your knee up into her stomach and body-check her again, aiming to throw her to the ground.

[8andits-blog]

The only part about hitting her that you didn't like was how that you had to do it with the hand that had such little feeling. Something about not being able to feel the flesh beneath your fist as you pummeled it took away from the experience. You wanted to feel her flesh tear and the bones break. You wanted to cave in her chest cavity under your boot and let her spend her last few minutes struggling in the dirt. You wanted to see her, a nobody who thought she was good enough to challenge you, suffer. Not even for simply for that. Aradia would suffer for every single wrong levied against you and every single wrong you've had to do to get what you wanted.

Her suffering would save you both really, in your eyes. She was a sacrificial lamb that no one wanted in the first place that made horrid choices. You were a person who had made themselves something great with only a few minor missteps along the way. Both of you could obviously be redeemed by her just simply dying for you. 

Unfortunately your admittedly insane line of thought was cut short by her suddenly realizing that she could fight back. Your hand gets knocked away, and before you could react you are kneed firmly in the gut, a move that gives you a distinct ill feeling. With your current winded and queasy state, you are easily knocked onto your back in a gasping heap. Thankfully you manage to think straight enough to kick at her legs to bring her down along with you as you reach a shaky hand out for your gun. It was just out of reach, you only had to stretch just a few inches further and it'd be back in your hand..

[amorteacolyte-deactivated201707]

Her reaction time— or lack thereof— is exactly what you’re counting on.

Also not getting shot, but that’s a given. As soon as you launch your phone you are diving at the ground to avoid a probably spray of bullets, and the fact that it doesn’t come is only a blessing. You tuck your arm across your face and roll along your shoulder, sharp rocks and juts inn the dirt cutting and jabbing through your jacket, and launch yourself back up off the ground to fly at her.

You body check her with the brunt of your chest and grab onto her wrists, twisting the one holding the gun until her grip is weak enough to slam it away with the side of your fist. It clatters to the ground, and now you are grappling, eyes locked, and you can see— for the first time, truly and up close— how haggard and wild she looks, how ragged you have run her.

You’re sure that your eyes, deep maroon, orange rimmed with pupils impossibly small, mirror them almost exactly.

=> [S] Aradia and Vriska: Strife.

[8andits-blog]

How slow she seemed to encroach on you made you all the more pissed at yourself that you were unable to react fast enough to do anything. By the time you manage to squeeze off a few shots, she has already grabbed your hand and twisted away, the bullets harmlessly burying themselves in the dirt. Snarling at the slight pain her twisting caused you, you leaned in to try and keep your grasp on it but it was ultimately futile, it clatters uselessly onto the rocks and dirt below.

But thankfully, all that focus on one hand has left you with a nice open robotic one. That your promptly bury the knuckles of deep into her ribs, over and over again, staring her down, or at least trying to, through your goggles. You may be down a gun but if she kept leaving herself so open, you likely wouldn't need one.

All you can think about is getting back at her for all the suffering she's caused you. All the suffering her stupid fucking friends have caused you. All the time you wasted hauling her sorry fucking ass around the low city when she was just going to fuck you over. In short, you are getting unbelievably pissed for things that likely weren't even her fault at this point. 

[amorteacolyte-deactivated201707]

You meet Vriska’s glare head-on, tired eyes for tired eyes. And she tells you that she’s going to kill you and all you can think is, yeah, okay. You hate her with the white-hot fury of a thousand red Alternian suns conglomerated into one giant single solar flare, an explosion that obliterates everything around it and then—

And then turns into the sucking emptiness of a black hole.

And that, on some level, is just about how you feel right now.

You aren’t afraid of her. You aren’t afraid to die. Maybe it’s the days-on-end contact you’ve had with the spirits of the dead, maybe it’s the lack of sleep, maybe it’s the quiet obsession and forced solitude of psychological warfare and the smugness of finally getting her to cower at her knees, of breaking her no matter how collected she looks now—

You’ve won, at least in that.

You aren’t afraid.

She can’t make you cower anymore.

"I wasn’t expecting it to change anything." You shrug, eyes on her, fingers on your knife, gears turning as fast as they possibly can in your hazy head.

Still, though. You don’t plan on dying immediately, not if you can help it. If you bleed out before you get to punch her in the face, you’ll haunt fate itself for cheaping you out.

Which means you have to get that gun away from her.

She’s got a finger on the trigger and you’ve no idea what kind of firearm it is first. You need to see it, and preferably without its rounds buried inside your gut.

"Hey, Vriska."

You slowly unclench your fingers from around the knife—

"Think fast!!"

— and throw your phone at her instead.

[8andits-blog]

The phone pegs you directly on the forehead, making a small cut, and then smashes itself on the ground. While the sudden flurry of movement had caused you to pull your pistol out and have it at the ready, both the impact and exactly what she had thrown at you leave you dazed for a moment.

Did she just throw her phone? Why the hell would someone throw their phone at you? This development suddenly takes up the majority of your brains processing power for a few vital seconds as you stand there looking puzzled. 

[amorteacolyte-deactivated201707]

Despite the fact that she is undoubtedly in a worse place than you are inside the confines of her mind, you both reflect the image of someone battered and worn, frazzled and evident of— perhaps many— sleepless nights. Pale skin, shadowed eyes, grim brow, dull gaze.

It’s almost sad. Jaded and weary wasn’t how you’d have hoped for something like this, if you ever did. Maybe sweeps ago, as a child on play-pretend adventures, duels with bad guys— saving the day, like Indiana Jones.

That’s not how it feels now. You’re just tired, and a little bit ready to die.

When she pulls up you straighten, feeling some dull panic in your chest, but your protective layer of apathy and exhaustion hides it well. You watch her carefully from behind your goggles. She’s got a gun. Fuck. Leaving yours behind had not been a smart move. You want to chalk it up to tiredness, and you can’t think of any other reason, so you do and then move on.

Wishing you had a gun won’t keep her from shooting you.

The distance between you is too much to be comfortable, but you really aren’t sure what to do now— how to move. So you slide a palm down your back slowly, fingers wrapping around the handle of your pocket knife.

"How’s your head? I kept my promise, didn’t I?" you finally say, shifting your weight, body tense, movements slow.

[8andits-blog]

You unfasten the small strap that kept your gun from falling out of it's holster during particularly sporadic moments and wrap your fingers slowly around the handle, resting the index gently on the trigger where it belonged. But you didn't draw yet. Even with the hard glare you were giving her, you were monstrously tired and had a loose concept of where she actually was in relation to you at best from this distance.

But she doesn't know that. And clearly she doesn't have a gun. "Yes, you did. Doesn't change anything, I'm afraid. You're still going to die out here." You say, your voice wavering slightly from its flatness only due to exhaustion.  Even though in your current state you weren't quite able to express it, you were seething. You hated everything and everyone, and were more than ready to unleash that on Aradia.

But you wait. You wanted her to move first. You don't know why, but you did. 

[amorteacolyte-deactivated201707]

Vriska’s instability is, largely, what you’ve been relying on. And there’s that sick satisfaction there, that she’s lost in her own head, that gets you through the idea that you may be joining the very voices you sent to torture her soon. And there’s some kind of poetic justice in the vengeance of her losing her mind to the ghosts that she’d so callously dumped on you.

And for all the shit they’ve given you, at least you have life-long semi-immunity.

Dawn may have been a bad idea, but she agreed, and you’ll be as prepared as you can be. Shoplifting is hardly even a petty crime from a man who stole his goods to begin with; if you come back, you can pay Koroni for the tinted goggles you swiped, but if not, you’re sure one more crime on your conscience won’t matter as you take your last breath.

You strap them on, tie back your hair— what little there is left of it— and slip your knife into your back pocket alongside your mobile (shut off) as the quiet of the morning tram sways you from side to side. You are just another rustblood on her morning commute in the wee hours of the day, just before curfew.

You know the way out of the city. You’ve taken it countless times before.

The sun is more than halfway over the horizon, red and murderous, its light reaching far across the landscape, by the time you— heart thudding— thump your boots against the dirt and lean against the smattering of trees leading into the forest, dig out your mobile, and send a single— perhaps final— text.

— amorteAcolyte [AA] began trolling apexGangster [AG] —

AA: Here.

— amorteAcolyte [AA] sent file [location.exe] —

[8andits-blog]

You don't even bother responding. Instead you just pound your foot on the gas, set the palmhusk to give you directions and drive in silence, shutting even the music off. It didn't matter if you heard the voices anymore. They'd all stop soon. Everything would be over. This bitch that'd been a pain in your ass for so long would finally bite it. Maybe. Probably. Now wasn't the time to start doubting yourself. Not after you'd come this far all on your own.

It was just one more little lowblood. One more little fight. Another day in the long, long life of Vriska Serket. 

Before you even get out of the car you can feel the immense heat bearing down on you. It doesn't get any better when you get out of the car. Though you hadn't looked at yourself for days, you knew what you looked like. Your hair was somewhat frizzy and an all around mess, your clothes permanently disheveled and not quite put on properly and your grey skin seemed somehow paler. The bags under your eyes more prominent and a brighter shade of cerulean than usual. In short, you were a fucking mess. But you didn't care.

You were too busy glaring at Aradia and resting a hand on your pistol as a disgusted sneer spreads across your face. You didn't say anything. There wasn't much to say, as far as you were concerned. You just waited for her to move. 

[amorteacolyte-deactivated201707]

You’re amazed that it’s gotten to this point, beneath the simmering anger, beneath the grim apathy, beneath the near-cruelty of your mocking tone. That you would die for a chance to punch Vriska Serket in the fucking face.

You’re not scared, per se, but something in you clenches up as you write your notes to Karkat and Sollux, as you place them down quietly and give each snoring love of your life a respective kiss that might be your last.

Something in you clenches up while you send off a text to Tavros, and you let yourself get stuck for a moment, but then you swallow it down and pull on your big-girl boots and go.

There’s no looking back. Fengbei will be a welcome sight if you return, and if not— well, the dead don’t need memories, anyway.

[8andits-blog]

The state of your mind is perplexing, to say the least. You think a thousand things in an instant and then it all flickers out for a moment. In and out, in and out, in and out. You blink, and you're dressed. You blink again and you are Unoojo are fighting about something, no doubt about where you were going. By the time you are sitting just outside the wall in your car you are having trouble convincing yourself that you are awake, and this is indeed actually happening.

It's late at night and you have a cigarette in your hand, listening to something thrashing on the radio just in case any voices suddenly decide to start bothering you. You try and remember what the last thing you said to Unoojo was, but you can't. Leaning back in your seat, you pull your heavily tinted goggles down over your eyes to just enjoy the darkness for a moment. Seconds pass and suddenly there's a light shining faintly through your visor, and a small twinge of pain in your fingers where the cigarette burnt you.

It was time. You just had to wait now. You glance down at your palm husk, dead-eyed. Waiting. And waiting. And waiting. And waiting. And waiting. 

[amorteacolyte-deactivated201707]

— amorteAcolyte [AA] began trolling apexGangster [AG] at 15:05 —

Read More

[8andits-blog]

You have not had nearly enough sleep. Parts of days are missing. Hours and minutes, gone with no recollection. All you know is you were awake for them. People send you messages with answers to questions you didn't ask and updates on missions you don't recall ordering. 

These fucking spirits are going to drive you insane. Even the small downtime between them returning were no reprieve. Too often you spent them trying to make absolutely sure there were completely gone instead of stealing as much rest as you could.  The bags beneath your eyes were even heavier than they usually were, and all about your form were the signs of your constant stress and total lack of energy. 

Through this latest break you had simply sat on a sofa, staring into nothingness, trying as hard as you could to think about why this was happening to you of all people. This introspection was cut short however when you were surrounded by the most vivid phantasms yet. You stare wide-eyed at the great many shambling forms, all which look like they had drug themselves out of a pile somewhere and were now standing in your hive. Not to mention the voices, the screaming and wailing. 

In only a few seconds your voice is among them as you stumble out of the sofa and rush through the crowds of spirits, pushing things out of the way that simply weren't there. Lights pop and flicker, electronics that weren't being thrown around by the spirits going haywire. 

You trip over your own feet and lay there on the floor, sobbing. There was nothing you could do, you were powerless and what's worse, you knew it. You hated it. You cursed and you cried at the ghosts who were cursing back at you, you damned whatever caused this, and you damned the universe for letting this happen to you.  But of course, these few acts of angry defiance did nothing. The spirits continued to torment you. Quietly you curled up and waited for them to leave, staring hopelessly into their mutilated forms as they swarmed through your apartment.

[8andits-blog]

abactortiro said: tHAT IS ACTUALLY MY MIDDLE FINGER, eXTENDED JUST FOR YOU,

See I read the last part first, and that made it a8out 800 times funnier to me.