£∃G↑∅∏ ♟ (legionnaire_) wrote in monte_logs, @ 2012-09-06 00:15:00 |
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Current music: | Szamár Madár |
narrative
Characters: Max/Legion (legionnaire_) & mentions Bethany/Hel (colddarkhel)
Date/Time: 6-7PM, August 3rd.
Location: Georgia Street.
Rating: R
Warnings: Violence, language, incoherency.
Summary: One army takes on another, and six thousand seems to become suddenly quite small.
Legion is a monster.
Black fingernails turn to claws amidst the chaos, tearing into people the instant he gets into the crowd. He vaguely feels a wash of fear and euphoria, bodies crowding and falling, screaming and running, making ripples in the wave of people. Things rip, crash and break, and there's a moment that is so entirely Legion, as that voice takes over in his head. They're all screaming. All of them. Curses as his heart speeds up. He pretends he's lost his mind, he feels that he has, and yet,
Bethany Bethany Bethany is like a familiar cadence in the back of the hollow of his head. Don't forget about Bethany.
People are grabbing him, he doesn't know what they look like. What they want. What they're doing. They scream and tell him he's crazy, a freak, possessed (or something, that female voice adds. Are you possessed or something?)
Possessed. He laughs at that one. Yes I am. Yes I'm possessed. He screams at them, not saying anything, but making noises the likes of which must be an affront to Heaven itself. An affront to the body, making people wince, and fall away from him. He doesn't see faces, doesn't feel their hands, he just tears at them, staining his hands red with every odd strike, bloody noses and scratches that are twice as fierce as anything he's ever done to himself. His movement, his thrashing, doesn't stop, not even when he's knocked onto his back in the midst of a crowd far larger than he is. They try to grab him, try to push their volume down on him so he'll have to give up. They're large in number, and Max is a very small person. Hands grab out to pull him back, people are screaming that he's a maniac, a freak, over and over again. Freak, freak, freak. Incarnate. Incarnate of something terrible. Monster.
But no, he's larger than they are. The crowd inside him fights through the crowd outside of him. Max can feel the tethers between him, and his conscious thought starting to wane, that part of him that wants to leap out and destroy, and maim, and cut. Legion acts through him, voice grim and unrelenting. He's not the boy who had to be restrained to a hospital bed, he's the demon that could not be bound.
And yet, Bethany, Bethany, Bethany.
Things have decidedly taken a turn in the recesses of Max's head. That spot, that one spot among six thousand that's reserved for Max's podium, where his voice, and none other exist, there's a cadence of Bethany, Bethany, Bethany, don't forget about Bethany.
And Legion cannot ignore him. They try to, yes, once they tear him away from the crowd, once straggling assailants are tripped and pummeled, but they chase him still
he knows not what he does, though whatever he's doing, Max is insisting that he has to keep doing it. Hands tug him back, they want to take him in, but into what? Downtown? A vehicle? Hell? Teeth rip into skin as a fist connects with his face, but his teeth prove steady, and rip enough to dissuade the chase in favor of bandages and trying to get the attention of the police. But by then, Legion is long gone, trying to remember where it was, exactly, Bethany told him she would be.
And it shouldn't be this hard to remember. Somewhere in the clamor, he's lost it. Hands grip the sides of his head, over his ears. Fuck fuck fuck, everyone- needs to shut up. But they don't. All of this, all of this feels like a waste, if he can't remember exactly- he considers calling her for a moment, but his brain won't calm down enough to let his hands stop shaking. His fingers can't navigate the buttons.
Max tries to think about her voice and what she'd said last, wiping the blood from his probably busted nose onto a sleeve. He can't fucking remember, and again, it seems like everything closes in on him. He's small again, and Legion is pressing against his head, telling him all of his faults, he's not good enough, he shouldn't have come out here, doesn't he know what he just did to all those people? he's going to get arrested, they're going to find him, they're going to-
and he cringes, fingers clutched into the black fabric of his shirt. He looks, and thinks of Bethany's cold touch, her small fingers clinging to the back of his shirt.
I think I love you.
I think I love you, too.
Everything in his head seems to quiet, and organize. It's almost as if he were simply looking for a paper, or a pencil. The persistent voices fade to the back, while the pertinent information simply presents itself to the front. He remembers, and sprints. Past people who just seconds ago were trying to get the police after him. Let them arrest him, let them come, all of them. He doesn't even feel like he's breathing anymore by the time he's sprinted to the building Bethany had mentioned. He feels no one on his tail, no hot breath or heavy hands pulling him back, and if they are coming, they can come. He'll kill them, tear the whole crowd to pieces before anyone touches Bethany. And he does push away a few drunken stragglers, forces them to stop their noise-making.
He is a crowd. But he finally slinks in so quietly, not wanting to have Bethany think that he's anyone else. His voice is strained, hoarse, but still just as gentle, and pushing open the door to the men's room, Max utters his first word of the evening. Blood smeared on sleeves, still on his face, fingers bleeding and lips split,
standing there in a band t-shirt and a pair of (now very distressed) jeans. He still cracks a smile at her, and says,
"Bethany."
and everything seems quiet again.