hunter "great social skills" mackenna. (detections) wrote in invol_rpg, @ 2012-11-13 10:30:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! narrative, hunter mackenna, vic reyes |
WHO: Hunter MacKenna, guest appearance by Vic Reyes.
WHEN: Monday night.
WHERE: The infirmary.
WHAT: It's sort of a reunion, but something is not quite right in Hunter's head anymore.
STATUS: Complete.
The battle seemed to be over, but the noise and the chaos hadn't abated. Hunter was lost in the midst of it. Standing in the white-washed hallway, he smelled blood and antiseptic, dirt and the heavy stench of smoke woven into his clothes, though he was in a shirt and sweatpants that he'd gone to bed wearing days ago, not the stained jumpsuit he'd slept in on the forest floor. He heard people calling out, yelling battle cries, shouting their friends' names, screaming in pain, intercut by the clash of metal on metal, gunshots echoing off of the empty carnival rides -- all coming at him from a great distance, muddled like he was hearing it underwater, fading in and out with the currents. His body ached like he'd been torn limb from limb, but he couldn't summon the energy to move yet, and why? He had nowhere to go. They'd tried to escape, they'd gone to the lighthouse, and their efforts had just brought them back here. Whether or not this place was real, it was still a trap. He realized someone was saying his name over and over again, through the water. Turning his head towards the sound, he realized it was coming from inside a room, and he moved to stand in the doorway. There was a young man on one of the beds inside, covered in smeared blood and wearing soaked bandages, his eyes bright with fever or something sick as he struggled to sit upright. "Hunter!" Of course, his mind noted, that makes sense. He's hurt, so I'll feel like he needs me, and I'll get to take care of him for once. The protector becomes the protected. It's so obvious. The-young-man-whom-he-had-made-up was reaching for him, so his feet carried him there, to better feel the warmth of the delusion. Under the smoke and the blood, he could still smell those familiar, comforting notes, the sweat that reminded him of hot summer nights in Los Angeles, a piece straight out of his memories. It was so strong when those arms wrapped suddenly around him, just a little too tightly as always, and as always he said nothing about it because the words were hovering in his mind where he'd placed them, super strength, the gift he'd thought had saved him so many times over the years. He heard that low voice rumbling against his ear, fervent words like you're okay and I was so worried about you. He felt the hand sliding up to grasp a handful of his hair briefly, fisting in his curls before releasing just a moment too late. Little things like that always used to confuse him, give him hope that he needed to strangle back into submission. He'd always fought with himself over the young-man-whom-he-had-made-up, which also made sense. How could he kiss someone who didn't exist? The-young-man-whom-he-had-made-up needed to remain unattainable to sustain the illusion, close enough to touch but never close enough to have. He was numb to it now. He could recognize the tragic element of his story, observe the situation, realize objectively how pathetic it was that he would have shuddered and ached for that touch if he'd still believed it all, but his senses could fool him by conjuring all the things that he needed most and making them tangible. That didn't make any of this real. The-young-man-whom-he-had-made-up released him, to his relief, and he heard the lilting tilt of sentences that sounded like questions. He knew what they must be, but he didn't have answers. He didn't know how to explain what had happened to him, how he'd twisted his entire life into one never-ending lie, a facsimile that seemed flimsy now -- the-young-man-whom-he-had-made-up wouldn't grasp it anyway, even if he tried. He knew his creation too well. They'd been best friends in his mind for so long. And what was the point of trying to convince the delusion that it was a delusion? There was no eject button from this, no exit door to open and emerge back into reality. He was stuck with it for now; the best he could expect to manage was disengagement, distancing himself from the person -- all of the people, now that he thought about it, the friends he'd probably made up to populate this imaginary school -- who anchored him deeper by his feelings. Experiencing a false sense of belonging was worse than loneliness. At least if he ever rid himself of this coping mechanism, it wouldn't hurt as much this time. It had ripped out his heart before. He couldn't get that involved again. He wasn't sure he could survive it twice. "I'm fine," he managed against the silence, "I'm not hurt." (That wasn't true -- whether or not it was real, he could still feel the caked blood on his knee, the sting of blisters on his feet from running over rough ground.) "He didn't do anything to me. We got out okay. Don't worry." There was disbelief and confusion on the-young-man-whom-he-had-made-up's face, but Hunter forced a smile and repeated himself. It was harder that time. Doubt or real concern or maybe even pain was bleeding into the-young-man-whom-he-had-made-up's eyes, and something instinctual and animal bucked inside of him, fighting to seize control of his body, needing to close the distance between them to erase that awful look. The-young-man-whom-he-had-made-up was his weakness. "I'm just going to go rest," he interjected before he could buckle to the desire to embrace the psychosis. "I'll be back later, okay?" He patted the arm closest to him, the one swathed in bandages that he couldn't bring himself to look at directly, and turned away to leave. He heard his name from deep under the water, but he didn't turn around. He wasn't planning to come back. |