![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
( closed ) the only ones who need love are the ones who don't receive enough
WHO: roland and certain people
WHAT: roland came back after disappearing mysterious and realized some really bad things. plotting comment for reference.
WHERE: the garden
WHEN: around the middle of the month, before the event
WARNINGS: body horror, violence, talks about murder and other nihilistic shit. also major project moon spoilers. see his opt-out for more info.
[ roland emerged out of the darkness like a dream.
or rather, he stumbles into the relatively new location as if he woke up from a horrible nightmare, clutching at his head as he makes his way towards the tea-party setup. this was the last place he'd remembered before vanishing, but the details were foggy. he wasn't even aware how long it's been. all he knew was that he met someone terrible who gave him equally terrible news, but he's used to disappointments -- even more so in this desolate imitation of a city.
someone had left green tea on the table, still hot. binah had told him that green tea is good for him, so he may as well take the load off and hope that the drink will clear his mind, and make him forget the bad news he'd received from argalia.
ah, yes. argalia is here, angelica's own flesh and blood. angelica had come back wrong, he gleefully. right. totally normal.
...
luckily, this isn't the first time this abnormality has taken over roland. he's used to the way the muscular sinews bloom across his body like a second skin (or even a flesh wound), the multitude of eyes blinking themselves open and roving their pupils around to scan the area. a gnarled leg of a bird sprouts from the top of his head, flexing its digits. his own left arm, meanwhile, has morphed into a bulbous club made of muscle and claw, which he is using to thrash at a nearby flowerbed for speaking out of line. ]
Why is he here... Why. Why. Tell me...
[ "i know why he's here," the half-dead flowers insist. "nothing ever goes my way. this city is out to get me, too."
but just because he's too engrossed in destroying the flowers within reach, it doesn't mean that the bulging eyes won't notice whoever comes into the garden, their unblinking gazes boring into anyone's eyes should anyone stumbles this sorry sight. he is making quite the ruckus, after all. ]
WHAT: roland came back after disappearing mysterious and realized some really bad things. plotting comment for reference.
WHERE: the garden
WHEN: around the middle of the month, before the event
WARNINGS: body horror, violence, talks about murder and other nihilistic shit. also major project moon spoilers. see his opt-out for more info.
[ roland emerged out of the darkness like a dream.
or rather, he stumbles into the relatively new location as if he woke up from a horrible nightmare, clutching at his head as he makes his way towards the tea-party setup. this was the last place he'd remembered before vanishing, but the details were foggy. he wasn't even aware how long it's been. all he knew was that he met someone terrible who gave him equally terrible news, but he's used to disappointments -- even more so in this desolate imitation of a city.
someone had left green tea on the table, still hot. binah had told him that green tea is good for him, so he may as well take the load off and hope that the drink will clear his mind, and make him forget the bad news he'd received from argalia.
ah, yes. argalia is here, angelica's own flesh and blood. angelica had come back wrong, he gleefully. right. totally normal.
...
luckily, this isn't the first time this abnormality has taken over roland. he's used to the way the muscular sinews bloom across his body like a second skin (or even a flesh wound), the multitude of eyes blinking themselves open and roving their pupils around to scan the area. a gnarled leg of a bird sprouts from the top of his head, flexing its digits. his own left arm, meanwhile, has morphed into a bulbous club made of muscle and claw, which he is using to thrash at a nearby flowerbed for speaking out of line. ]
Why is he here... Why. Why. Tell me...
[ "i know why he's here," the half-dead flowers insist. "nothing ever goes my way. this city is out to get me, too."
but just because he's too engrossed in destroying the flowers within reach, it doesn't mean that the bulging eyes won't notice whoever comes into the garden, their unblinking gazes boring into anyone's eyes should anyone stumbles this sorry sight. he is making quite the ruckus, after all. ]
🗡️🗡️
sinclair's fingers clench tighter around his weapon in response. that grin is familiarity, too. like there's something within him to build up and then devour — something to nourish someone else's ego, something that will prove someone else right. the way that upsets him almost counteracts the grip of seeing this corroded mess of thoughts in front of him, some echo of a monstrosity from long ago.
he's back in that vent. dusty, suffocating, shaken... the difference being that he can't turn back. that he won't. past memories and the sounds of suffering claw at his psyche, yet they also keep him in place.
kill him before he kills— no. roland may come back, but he'll have lost something important. sinclair doesn't want to take.
breathe. breathe, emil. ]
I'm— not. I already told you what I want to be like. Did you forget?
[ am i walking away from that? i've killed, and killed, and killed.
i'm almost good at it. that scares me, sometimes. ]
🫶
You too will forget... soon enough. So long as you're from that City... you can never truly be yourself.
[ "a hollow being that has nothing but the exterior. that’s me. and i bet you’re the same." "was the pretense i wore enough disguise to make me look perfectly like a human?"
he continues to walk towards emil, until the boy is within reach. ]
No need to be scared. You'll get used to it, like the rest of us.
[ "now do it." ]