A roleplay/(also containing art and quotes) blog concerning Russell and the Informant. Both belong to End Roll by Segawa. Spoilers ahoy. Not selective.
When Russell had selfishly decided to end his own life, Informant had drowned.
He couldnât move, couldnât think, Informant couldnât even say a word. He simply watched from Russellâs eyes, waited for it all to end in a pool of red. Informant could still remember the sluggish pull, the prickly drain dragging whatever was left of him, a mere thought into nothingness as Russell bled out.Â
But Informant wasnât scared at the time. No, he was dragged by the weights of failure. Informant has never breathed before but at that moment; it was as if he could, and oxygen was something he would never be able to achieve in a world of grief.
As if his mouth was sewn shut by barbed wire, Informant stared at the One-Eyed Specter who actually wasn't a ghost at all.
It's not every day the informant of dreams feels insignificant and transparent. Yet here he was, exposed, frozen still, staring without his smile.
Oh, dear. His smile.
Informant willed himself to summon his pride and shield but like the wind; it swiftly fell away with the autumn leaves. Without a word, Informant bites down on his teeth and decides the cracks in the gravestone were far better than lasting eye contact with Blues.
"Worried? No, I..."
Strange. His throat feels like the old paper in ruined books he would toy around with.
"Does it matter? It appears you're not entirely gone as I had originally theorized." Informant grabs onto his other hand, wonders just how far someone can run with multiple inhuman eyes all over their body.
If Informant could get away, never come back...But that wouldn't be fair to Blues, would it?
"No," Informant will throw a bone only because of his unfair thoughts. "I am not okay, but there is nothing to do about that." Informant finally turns back to the robot, fakes a breath. "This was supposed to be my very last visit before I vanished from this world; why is it you're here instead of any other place?"
...Coincidence?
"Why is it," Informant hisses, scratching at his itchy skin. "That you've decided to waltz back into my life with a smile?"
When Russell had selfishly decided to end his own life, Informant had drowned.
He couldnât move, couldnât think, Informant couldnât even say a word. He simply watched from Russellâs eyes, waited for it all to end in a pool of red. Informant could still remember the sluggish pull, the prickly drain dragging whatever was left of him, a mere thought into nothingness as Russell bled out.Â
But Informant wasnât scared at the time. No, he was dragged by the weights of failure. Informant has never breathed before but at that moment; it was as if he could, and oxygen was something he would never be able to achieve in a world of grief.
Informant has never wanted to inflict so much hurt on someone who no longer existed.
Well, no, that is a lie, but past ties are not important, like this very thread which threatened to strangle him every time the Not-Blues opened his mouth. It's the same string that flew Informant into a furious rage the first time he came to terms with losing someone again.
And the fact he hadn't been there.
When the Not-Blues took a few steps, Informant merely kept his smile, the edges of his mouth stinging from the sheer force of contempt. He doesn't bother covering up the silts of eyes that open further, peering at whatever Informant kept his focus on.
How ridiculous, Is his first thought when the robot takes a couple of steps. All of this, and for what? He wasn't scared. Informant wouldn't back down. He would look this Not-Blues in the eyes and tell him hurtful things. Informant would open his mouth and spew nonsense because he could.
Informant could look to the Not-Blues and expose even more of his revolting sense of self; because, in reality, there was nothing to hide from the grass, the stones, and the wind.
But then, against all odds, he felt the pressure of weight on his knee.
Informant has only heard the sound of shattered glass when his first reality broke apart.
This is the second time but instead of the stars, ground, and air breaking into pieces; it's his very composure.
On pure reflex, Informant threw himself backward.
His back hits the gravestone but the dull throb is a mere flame compared to the wildfire rushing over his skin and senses. His hands fumble--scramble to hold his body up as a sardonic smile drops out of existence.
Frozen emeralds stare at Blues.
"What," Informant does not croak-- "Is this a joke?"
Let this be a trick of the universe. Let this be a dream even if Informant is forever dreamless.
He is not prepared for a conversation with someone who should've been dead.
When Russell had selfishly decided to end his own life, Informant had drowned.
He couldnât move, couldnât think, Informant couldnât even say a word. He simply watched from Russellâs eyes, waited for it all to end in a pool of red. Informant could still remember the sluggish pull, the prickly drain dragging whatever was left of him, a mere thought into nothingness as Russell bled out.Â
But Informant wasnât scared at the time. No, he was dragged by the weights of failure. Informant has never breathed before but at that moment; it was as if he could, and oxygen was something he would never be able to achieve in a world of grief.
Newly crushed leave growth was enough for his entire non-being to tense and fingers gripped into the sides of black sleeves. Informant took up silent residence with the wind, listening to the whistle pass his ears and into the tree branches.
His skin itched and itched the longer Blues spoke. As if inviting him along to release whatever concentration held steadfast on his sense of self.
Informant had always been one on the trendline of temptation.
And it was almost always Blues' fault for the times he lost his balance.
This was cruelty in its prime.
"Perhaps you're correct. The dead has never come back to life before," Even Russell's continuous ghost status was a miracle in itself. "Trick or Treating has never been on my mind in the past." The grip on his sleeves finally eases. "I wouldn't want anyone to see what a disgusting creature I am," A hand falls, flat against the ground.
Informant opens his palm, fixes the hat so he could focus on the specific point of his hand.
A single black eye blinks open, wide, and sightless.
It's ugly.
Revolting.
And there were so many more festering all over his skin. Closed silts of black-eyes, closed but watching. Hidden but still there. He could feel each and every one if he tried. Disregard the lack of privacy given by the unwanted pits of darkness.
It was hallucinations like this that he hated the most.
Informant's smile sharpens.
"No, I'm not sick." He replies, curt, eerily calm.
(The dead cannot come back to life.)
With a swift slam of his wrist, the single eye was bashed across the gravestone above him.
Orange splattered, dripped as the ruined eye began to bleed out.
Several more of the eyes sprouted up and down his arms with a vengeance. He could feel one blink just below an envious eye of green. Most of them had flown open, wide with an unseeing glimmer. With the impact, came the disruption of everything held together. There were so many of those terrible things all over him--And Informant can't do a thing about it.
Informant keeps his smile, knocks his head against the stained stone.
(Informant doesn't mind showing this to someone who had left without a word. It's not like Blues was truly here, was he?)
"I'm simply shedding a 'mortal skin', or as the fairy-tail books say, turning into a monster."
When Russell had selfishly decided to end his own life, Informant had drowned.
He couldnât move, couldnât think, Informant couldnât even say a word. He simply watched from Russellâs eyes, waited for it all to end in a pool of red. Informant could still remember the sluggish pull, the prickly drain dragging whatever was left of him, a mere thought into nothingness as Russell bled out.Â
But Informant wasnât scared at the time. No, he was dragged by the weights of failure. Informant has never breathed before but at that moment; it was as if he could, and oxygen was something he would never be able to achieve in a world of grief.
Graveyards should be empty, quiet places to mourn. So says the memories of the silent cemeteries Russell used to pass by after school near the church.
There had once been an old woman sitting by a grave, a beach chair, and a newspaper, reading the words to someone buried six feet deep. The dirt in front of the gravestone was already full of grass and relatively flat. She spoke but her voice was gone, she was clearly talking but Russell couldn't hear.
It must be respectful to be hushed in an area of the dead. To give a silent story to someone special, like a secret.
Informant barely twitched when he heard footsteps. Each foot on the ground was almost a lull for sleep, a heaviness he had come to recognize with clarity. It was easy enough to ignore but resulted in a churn in his non-existent core.
This stranger began to talk, to him, and emerald eyes peeked out from the darkness.
He stares at Blues, doesn't blink. Informant's smile doesn't fall but a glitter of poison ivy sharpens his gaze.
It's not the first time something 'impossible' happens to him. With the many eyes currently shut on his skin, Informant can easily theorize torment as his punishment.
Either that, or his eyes were adjusting to peer past things of reason, and into multiverses further than the current. How does it feel, to be able to see everything at once? To see multiple copies of people you have met, have left, talked to.
Informant never wants to find out.
His skin itches with feverish heat meant to be scratched. He ignores it.
Informant knows if he gives those things any amount of attention, he'll lose it.
"Have you come to mock me?" He tugs at his hat, pulls it down to block half of Blues out of his sight. "Am I not allowed to be here?" A pause, there's a hint of chill that wasn't quite as cold as before. He holds onto it with a quieter breath. "I am not capable of brooding. Perhaps I came here to wait,"
Informant hums. "I heard in passing, Halloween is a holiday of the dead."
Emeralds shine, averted to the cold stone of a grave.
"I lay here in wait to see there was anyone who would seek revenge. Take what I had taken from them. Although I must admit," His eyes fall shut again. His smile stretches but not in a friendly manner. "I do not see reason as to why you're here." Informant fakes a breath, tries to feel real.
When Russell had selfishly decided to end his own life, Informant had drowned.
He couldnât move, couldnât think, Informant couldnât even say a word. He simply watched from Russellâs eyes, waited for it all to end in a pool of red. Informant could still remember the sluggish pull, the prickly drain dragging whatever was left of him, a mere thought into nothingness as Russell bled out.Â
But Informant wasnât scared at the time. No, he was dragged by the weights of failure. Informant has never breathed before but at that moment; it was as if he could, and oxygen was something he would never be able to achieve in a world of grief.
And now, years laters, after traveling worlds, wandering dimensions and exploring what âLifeâ is, Informant finds grief once again.
There is a certain world Informant favors. One with creative robots who bypass any regular sci-fi ever to exist, a place with both humans and robots.
Disregarding the obvious gap between the two; discrimination running rampant; Informant made a friend.
A dork, really. A bit of a weirdo with the sharp shades, and how Blues never really cared how others thought of him. Pink fairy pajamas? Wear it with pride. Faking a heart attack at a gas station? Ridiculous. Wacky attire? Who cares?Â
Blues was music lover who ate pop tarts with the wrapper on.
Blues was a cat person with an old shack for a house and too much objects to be anything shorter than a hoarder.
Blues was a robot who once found Informant in the cold.
Informant was a creature, who isnât really sure what he is exactly, but found himself revisiting this same world of odd robots over and over again.
Jokes. Shenanigans. Christmas. Arguments. A Murder. Informant could write an entire diary of the times he spent with Blues, picking at the other, wondering, just how someone made of metal could be so interesting.
But he forgot.
Blues had always been sick.Â
And Informant showed up one day, a teasing sentence on the tongue, but couldnât find his scarf-wearing friend.
Informant reasoned the other must be on some important work and left.
After the fifth visit without a trace, he searched.
And searched.
And searched.
Russell had dragged him back to their shared space after a month of meaningless wandering.
Informant does not recall what occurred during his mission to find Blues. But he remembers coming to a realization mid-week. A prickly chill brushing his neck like an icy needle.
And he stomped around the world in a haze, full of wordless violence, until Russell had enough sense to rip him back to the shop.
His feet were bleeding all over the blue tiles, shoes shredded from extreme activity. Informant stared at his trembling hands, ponders what this new chill was, and why it wouldnât leave.
Then, as if figuring out the new book heâs been reading had two stuck pages together, he understands.
I forgot you were always a breath away from dying. I had simply never acknowledged it because I have never lived before. I do not know what it means to live. To be in a world of existence. I brushed you off and carried on because I did not understand. I underestimated your words. Emerald eyes blink slowly in comprehension. His vision is blurring in and out, his smile burns. What a worthless informant I am.
(âItâs okay,â) Russell had told him in a whisper. (âYou werenât the one who broke him.â) âThis timeâ goes unsaid.
And Informant once again, drowns.
He tears up books, shatters bottles, Informant isnât the type to scream so he grabs the brewing storm within him and wrecks havoc on his environment.Â
He has dealt with grief before.
However this time, it feels as if he lost something. A crystal piece--And isnât that nonsense?
Itâs almost as if it was a new part of him that had been growing since he met Blues.
And now that Blues had passed, the warmth had left.
Informant shouldnât be able to be this affected by the cold. He doesnât exist.
And yet.
(Informant tears out a page from a shrieking book.)
Informant would normally never show up to this world during this time of year. It was too risky, too much of a chance to let Blues see him for one of those Nightmares who had attacked them both on a cold day. It was the time of Halloween, slits cutting into his arms and opening to reveal pit-black eyes staring at nothing.Â
Informant had these stains on his legs and stomach too, in fact, his chest and stomach combined had the largest three wide eyes of judgement. It was revolting so he never took off his shirt, not that he ever needed to.Â
Informant never wanted the robot to catch him in such a state. Never wanted to admit he might be a creature of the damned.
But Blues was gone, wasnât he? Returned to the Earth, as creatures who exist, do.
But Blues cannot rot with a metal body. It would take decades.
And so, Informant visits a graveyard.
There is no one here, perhaps. If there were, itâs not like anyone would see him.
By a grave stone, curled up on his side, Informant hummed that ridiculous first music selection Blues had played in that messy shack. He doesnât remember the words, only the tune. His smile stays as it always does, faced in danger, faced in crushing pressure.
His arm itches and so does the rest of his skin.
Stupid eyes, Informant closes his eyelids and lets the quietness of the night sweep his thoughts.
He wonders if Blues had a grave.
Did Russell get a grave too? Despite all he did?
So many souls deserve a mark to indicate their past presence.
Informant wonders if heâll ever get a grave.
If someone will ever be around to remember him after heâs gone.
What would happen to Info if he walked into someone's dream and the dreamer died irl?
Informant would likely attempt to high-tail it out of there to preserve his own self. While thereâs a super small percentage of a dream coming to âlifeâ because the sacrifice of a life-force, Informant would rather not stick around in another dream created by impossible means.
However, rarely--rarely, he leads the dreamer out of their last shell of defense(the dream) and onto their own path. If that path is the afterlife or not; is up to the dreamer.
âI havenât met a âRayman,â but Iâve met a Raymond...And if this âRaymanâ is anywhere close to him, then I must excuse myself and go out of my way not to meet him.â A cruel smile grew in size. âThere are far too many scammers these days.â
Informant didnât bother to take mental notes because he was certain they wouldnât be meeting again. Thereâs simply no need. Also, what kind of...IPS does that? Mister Genie was sure the complicated person. Itâs almost no wonder why the other suffered illnesses of the mind.
The brighter colors in this forest wonât serve much to someone whoâs already damaged.
Curious to the Mister Genieâs words, Informant straightened a little. Informant feels a bit as in heâs intruding, but this never stopped him from asking questions before. â...Whatâs wrong with the journey? Do you have to battle worse monsters in order to wake?â Heâs a little puzzled. Isnât it simple enough to just wake? Informant knew of people who just didnât bother exiting their dreams, preferring to wilt away in their beds. Why is the dreamer holding back now? Mister Genie wasnât Russell, nor was he an experiment of the Happy Dream Program. The blond canât find reasoning in the otherâs statement.
Itâs a good thing Informant didnât have to take drastic measures to wake Mister Genie up. Donât make him regret that choice.
If Informant twitched, he made no comment on his own visible annoyance despite his everlasting grin. âIâd rather not be trapped here, thank you.â His tone was slightly icy, patience evaporated because the two were taking far too long for his liking. Heâs not picky about who he has to occasionally work with, but the fact is he has someone to check on from time to time.
Russell will assume his demise if he does not return soon.
âSuch a tedious task.â Informant breathed out a sigh. âI wonder how you do it with this kind of teamwork. Simply disastrous. ...A heavy artificial rock against the stream.â He could go for some orange juice right about now.
Informant slowly nodded...Because he didnât comprehend most of that. Oh well. Itâs awfully clear he wonât be able to understand all this technobabble without research and actual studying. Itâs the latter the blond is unable to do. âDoes this mean youâre close to waking up?â Informant inquired because the other had mentioned passing out quite a while ago.
Perhaps this...Process will speed up Mister Genieâs recovery.
And then heâll disappear from this dream without a trace.
The amount of glee rushing through his non-existent veins was enough for Informant to hide his hands in pockets once more. Poisonous dreams took interest in the pool below. âI get it.â Informant murmured, understanding how one canât function without causing needless trouble every other minute. He isnât quite like that, no. However, itâs quite funny to find someone else with such a cap!
Could have been? ...You should be relieved, Mister Genie. You wouldâve received quite the downgrade. Informant quietly hummed. âIs this going to take any longer, snails? At this rate; I could take a nap.â He was actually a very patient being. The blond also happened to be restless. Staying in one place for too long...It reminded him of being stranded in his blue shop.
The present dreamwalker looked between the two questioningly, intrigued but also very puzzled. This was...One of those scenes in a movie where the main character is suddenly placed on the spot from an irregular comment, correct? Informant canât exactly place the reason for this exact scene, but he isnât afraid of listening in on them.
Itâs not his fault the two were speaking as if he wasnât there. Also, many people have blond hair and sometimes green eyes too. His appearance isnât too uncommon!
...Still.
Copy-Genie was being quite the annoyance.Â
âCopy, Iâd appreciate it if you didnât bother Mister Genie while youâre both doing something important.â He isnât an expert on what they were doing, but getting distracted while toying with a delicate device is bound to have disastrous consequences. Informant may have bothered Russell to no end but he knew when to offer truthful comments and when to be silent. âIn all honesty, your rambling is a bit annoying.â Worse than Mister Genieâs inability to shut up.
