I’m trying to do Goretober this year (...again!). I am using this list! Thanks to the creator of the list for these good prompts!
DAY ONE: SKINNING
word count: 1.5k warnings: torture, gore, slight unreality themes notes: this drabble is part of the sub-plots of Project Strife; go check out Project Strife's blog and remember! don't stress!
The archives are a vast collection of records. Records of research, field reports, personal reports, patient and monster observation, finances, and the 'legitimate' history of The Program. The archives are largely electronic, towers of computers forming neat lines throughout rooms, coupling with the rows of bookcases for historical texts, personal logs, and files too sensitive to be entered into the database. Everything inputted into the Program's various systems eventually made it's way down into the archives, where it would then be scanned, and organized. It was a very neat and orderly process.
Much like being settled into a grave.
It was not dark, or even dim in the archives, but shadows were long. Numbers hum as computers process information, turning it over and over, analyzing data and sending it on its way. There wasn't much need for a high amount of staffing in the archives; the computers did most of the work. The silence is one made from white noise, humming loudly enough in the background that the absence of a heartbeat is lost. After all, he is somewhat a deadman.
General Sarosh was a busy person, far too interested in affairs that were actually pressing, instead of minor technical errors and information requests. He's left to his own devices more than not. A fine arrangement for him, as far as he was concerned. He and the Captain-- did not quite meet eye to eye. An unfortunate result of the political circumstance that put him here. Though… perhaps political circumstance was a strong phrase. A strong phrase for the smile that spreads wide over a face he can never quite make out.
"Avios."
He breathes for the first time that day, out of habit, and smiles. Not as grandly as the one smiling at him, or as cloyingly, but he smiles. The book that had been in his hands is carefully placed aside, new pages sewn into the spine being rewritten in a meticulous fashion, as he corrected the errors in the transcript. "Yes?" He's learned that pleasantries end at the utterance of his name.
"There's someone who needs your help." The voice is silvery, but nearly static on the edges. It sounded happy today. Perhaps the voice had won a game of Diu Siu that day.
"My help?"
"Yes. Lieutenant Rajani is going to confront Rih today. I really don't think he's going to make it out alive-- without help. You are capable of helping, aren't you?" He's being belittled, like a child might be, when they do not realize the adult they are talking to does not quite like them. He is more than aware of his place here however. His smile does not falter.
"Perhaps."
The dead should not leave their tombs. He feigns the need for breath as humid air beats down upon him, the sun searching for exposed skin, so it might burn it. He will not stumble over thick air or burn in the sun though. He's modest, dressed in layers like the locals ( layers upon layers, rags wrapped over rags to hide the dirt on their skin, to hide the truth of what they were ), and no one stands in his path. No one bothers a soldier, well, that wasn't true. The smart ones did not bother a soldier. Surfacers were not always smart though.
"I have the best of pickles on all of Myrhl!" The cart he walks next to is old and rickety, ready to fall apart at every bump it hits, and yet it remains intact. The man pulling the cart looks much the same. He has aged well, all things considered. A quick glance at the man reveals no obvious symptoms of Strife, no growths, or strange 'disappearances' of what should belong on a human. He was also fairly vivid, even through his current eyes. A warm, toothless smile mirrors the warmth of brown eyes going cloudy with age. He was a strangely charming human.
"You do?" He's polite, even if he's annoyed. He could easily out walk the cart, the walls of the city looming behind them, and yet he holds pace with it. He holds discussion with the old man, letting him pitch his wares as they follow the path, as the cliffs rise around them. The city was built on cliffs, overviewing the ocean, which was quaint. A terrible choice for an oceanic port city, but that was not the city's purpose any longer. The city was crawling in Surface Soldiers, mingling in with the people, even as they stood out unique. This city was a terrible choice indeed.
"Oh yes, of course! I pickle everything myself! My daughter used to grow my cucumbers for me, but ah, she's no more. The village she lived in was taken out some years back, a bad Monster year. Say; aren't you a soldier? Do you--"
"I am not a surface soldier." His reply is not distracted, though he hadn't been paying the man much mind. The cliffs kept reaching higher, the ocean keeps getting closer, and he can smell Strife. His current eyes disguise most of the landscape to him, painting it in colors he almost doesn't understand now, but he also sees more. He sees the Other World stretch out before him, grey and bland, screaming like a void at some part of his mind. "I am a Senior Scribe; I do not do field work. You have my condolences, however." A hand lifts, the half of his kallias in his palm blinking its singular eye as he places his palm over his empty chest, and he bends ever so slightly at the man; his clothes ripple and the shadows behind them grow darker. "Monsters are a terrible blight on us all."
"N'aw--" The old man is uncomfortable now, squinting at him, setting his cart down to sink some in the softer soil on the side of the road. He scratches at his beard, his fingers gnarled with hard work and old age, and he bares his toothless grin once more. "You don't have to be sonny, but I'll take it. Monsters are a real problem for people like me." People who were not rich enough to bathe regularly, who were coated in dust and dirt, and worked tirelessly for-- what? A chance to survive? A chance not to become the things they feared most? It was laughable.
"Please." He's coming closer now, the shadows of the cliffs laying over him heavily, and the ocean roaring in the background. The city was screaming above them, but the old man could not possibly hear it, not as the ocean beat the shore below them. "Let me buy some of your pickles." He's smiling, his teeth bright white and straight, and the old man brightens. Joy crosses his face as he turns to his cart, words already bubbling up about which variety he might like, and gnarled fingers already grabbing a pickle pot. His kallias blinks again as hands reach forward, grabbing the sides of the man's head, and the shadows behind him smile. He's old and human, his bones are brittle as his skull shudders in his hands, and cloudy eyes gloss over as blood begins to run out of the man's nose.
His initial assessment of the old man was incorrect, as Strife had begun to show itself on his body. He had small growths of teeth in his stomach, the teeth forming in immature mouths that still moved as his dead body twitched, and the mouths seem to bite at him. Hunger permeates the body, plagues every soft tissue as the shadows of the cliff face reach forward and cradle the corpse, allowing him to dig into it. His hands split skin easily, tracing from collar bone, over his sternum, to his navel. Shadow claws gently pull apart clothes, removing layers upon layers of fabric, as he pulls apart skin.
He slices open the chest first, so shadowy mouths can reach in and eat at the old man's hunger. His fear of the hunger making his flesh sour and unsettling, but that was not his fear. The mouths reach deeper, pulling apart organs and breaking apart bone, as he continues to pull apart the skin. He just needs it to pull cleanly from the muscle underneath, cutting slips from the armpits and down the arms, mimicking the action on the insides of the thighs. Mouths follow his hands, spreading over the man, and eating what is left behind. There is so little of this man, and yet so much. The shadows of the cliff blink and grin, whispering even as eyes slide over him and pull at loose skin; pulling it over themselves.
There was no blood on the road as the little old man picks up his cart and walks towards the shore, watching with clouded brown eyes ( so full of joy) as a monster falls into the ocean.
"Would you like to try a pickle, Rih?"
