It's storming outside. You've always enjoyed the crashes of lightning that were kindled within the bowels of clouds and found their way to land, lashing at the ground like a reminds you of something you've lost - the heavy comfort that snaked around your think-pan - head you mean, head. The word escapes you and you don't make chase because you know it'll start paining and screaming at you in protest.
Your favourite occupation whilst sitting at the edge of the window ledge is staring at the droplets of rain water desperately try and outrun each other - you smile with a bit too many teeth; the poor things. Didn't know tha- you didn't have the heart to tell them that their efforts were futile. They were doomed.
You don't even bat an eyelash at the way the thunder all but screams down with a ferocious noise and you're confused as to why - you've seen Kankri jump a little bit at the abrupt crack but instead of scaring you they feel more homely. Aranea stares at you from across the room, she thinks you can't see her - you do.
They seem to think you need babying and you are most certainly going to object but you feel too homely right here but also a bit restricted as you pull down the collar of your suit to loosen it slightly. The lightning crashes closer and you decided to drop it - it's not like you care too much about their opinions, you weren't the pinnacle of virtue before and you don't expect to change that just because your head can't keep up with you any more and you're about as strong as one of Meulin's copious amount of meow-beasts whereas you were were strong before, glorious wonderful feared fe3are6 fe33ar4e- it was sickening.
You hate how they treat you.
You long for the feeling of a double edge blade just a bit too close to your think-pan, living on the edge with power all but bursting through your cranium and dizzyingly exhilarating as it charges your very veins with electricity and you and Kurloz would wander off and you could both wander for hours and hours and it'd be okay because you'd look out for him and he for you but not like this - not like this.
No one's looking out for you as a friend - as someone they trust. They're looking out for a husk of a person that they hope won't get damaged further.
He feels like that he's died and no one wants to move on, clinging onto his shell for dear life and anchoring him to the living? No dead, he was dead - twice now? It doesn't matter because this isn't his second life but perhaps an elongation of his existence. He doesn't want immortality. Take it back. Perhaps maybe - maybe Damara could answer his question, about how he could stop existing altogether because he's been here too long but she tends to just shrug him off and try and divert his attention nowadays. Just like they all did and still do, they don't really learn.
He needs to put up more firewalls.
He can protect himself.
You miss your psionics. You remember the word and silently congratulate yourself and inwardly spit on your face godammit how could you even forget something like that? You miss it so much. It's removal - forced you must say - is probably why you find your thoughts running away before you can catch them. You miss everything about 'before' you miss the colours and the laughing and the smiles and actually being able to think straight for once, jegus.
Before you know it, you mutely register that there's a soft hand on your back and you suddenly feel a lot more uncomfortable as the temperature around said appendage seems to plummet; you shrug it off a bit-too quickly and bite your lip cursing as you realise you've made the other troll recoil her hand away awkwardly. You would have shredded her hand before if she'd done something to you but now you can just hope she's not in the mood to kick your psuedo-carcass around.
You wish your haml-ha-helmet covered your entire face right now. You don't feel like being seen but you slap a smile on your face anyway and let your mouth quirk up into a goofy smile. It's not too premature to save this encounter.
It's Aranea standing behind you, strong and steady Aranea, her hand now casually at her side as she looks at you sympathetically with glossy blue eyes from behind white rims. Sympathetically and you. Ha- you'd never have thought those two words would be in the same sentence and lo and behold the universe has come up with a giant fuck you and now the word pretty much clings to you with it's greasy little phalangeal appendages.
Poor, fucked-up little Mituna Captor with hair too long to see through, stares back with a dumb and synthetically precise smile on his face.
"Mituna, are you okay? You've been sitting here quite a while" she asks politely and avoiding 'big' words so Mituna could understand. She'd been doing it subconsciously, he guessed, but it still served to piss him off.
You half-ass a somewhat lewd comment at her as you would and as usual you guess the words come out dislocated and fragmented in the process as she quirks an eyebrow quizzically and then pats you again on the shoulder, softer this time as she stalks away. You make a face because she's not supposed to do that; she's meant to look at you with a judging look and try not to giggle at the jokes you make which are often ridiculous in nature and banter with you for a while.
It simply doesn't happen anymore so you don't bother speaking to people as much; Kurloz nags you to speak more again but you look at him oddly and he admits defeat - you miss his voice but you can count your blessings and simply be happy with the fact he doesn't treat you all too differently. You miss being able to have intricate conversations by your respective brain-bending powers so you didn't look like you were having a one-sided conversation every time he was near.
Lightning flashes again as suddenly your helmet is too hot to bear and you sluggishly throw it to the floor as it bumps softly along the carpeted respite-block; you don't remember which room you're in except that people come and go a lot so you're not in the room that houses your recuperacoon. You wait for the next flash to illuminate the sky as you pretend it's red and blue and white and black and suddenly consuming and enveloping your blood-pusher - the rush is unimaginable and you can't remember it correctly without it tasting bitter in your mouth.
It doesn't stop you from trying though.
You look for it as you hear the thunder grumble throatily and the sky crackle softly with promise of what's to come. There's the gathering of light like it's magnetizing the space around it to await it's arrival and then there it is - a brilliant staccato of pure energy ascending at a breakneck pace as you clamp your eyes shut. You see the afterimage when you open them again in a bright, somewhat distorted violet but it's okay you can feel to remember as you remember the red and the blue and the violet and the black and every colour of the spectrum cycling through you, all of space and time and the dark corners and the brightest of stars as the ligh-psionics, psionics you tell yourself. Pretend that they're your psionics not some pathetic childish light-show and a mockery of the power you once had. You feel like an old man pining after a lost lover; it was disgusting. You don't want to see yourself like this.
Your head dips into your knees as they fold up sloppily underneath your chin and compress your body even smaller than it was with bones jutting out and skin seemingly struggling to cover them. You thank Latula that she made your suit so damn thick, it covers your physical cadaver but not the mental one.
You wish it did.
There's another hand on your shoulder and what is with people and putting your hand on thei-no, no their hand; your shoulder you correct again. You grumble inwardly as the words dance in the space between your eyes and then shoot you in the head over and over and over and over. And you run a hand through your hair before trailing aforementioned hand down and meeting the one on your shoulder. You recognise this hand, the size, the shape, the cool chill and the leathery gloves that are coating it like a second-skin and you hold it in yours, slipping your bony fingers through like they were created to be interlocked as you feel coolness seep through thick leather and it even smells comforting - Kurloz.
If it was anyone else, you'd contemplate breaking their fingers off but Kurloz is your safe zone and in turn you are his. You'd never harm him. You'd rather die than do that and he'd never harm you. It's still not the same though. His eye follows you too often - he's too protective now. It hurts you because you feel like you're no longer his equal.
You wish you were.
You offer him the same smile you gave Aranea and he makes a face at you, hiking an eyebrow up his painted face because Makara can fucking see through you like glass; it's okay when he's here.
You don't want it to change.
He takes none of that hoof-beat shit unlike the others and from the corner of your eye you see Aranea peek her head in from around the door and Meenah looks in, wondering what's happening and the scorpio ushers her out, babbling on about 'needing time' and you curse aloud because where you that far gone that even Aranea noticed? You hiss in distaste as Kurloz chuckles deeply in his throat. more like an amused grumble and slinks his towering figure down onto the floor. You tiredly don't say a word; you're sad and angry and annoyed and broken and it hurts again like your blood is boiling and trying to escape through your eyes.
You're not going to cry.
Kurloz smooths down your hair as you lean backwards into his embrace and he just doesn't say a words; not like he can but you feel the familiar tingle of chucklevoodoos and you allow them passage as they ease away the suffering, barring up the fortress and boarding up the windows to your broken head.
Your hair's relatively back to normal as he gently, gently so gently ghosts over your forehead - you don't like people seeing that because of the scars that criss-cross there and make their descent just past your eyelids with ugly angry marks that are darker than night itself.
It's a triumphant battle scar and also a seal of defeat.
It still burns and crackles as Kurloz touches it but you hold your tongue as you feel the voodoos try and keep it contained; the horrorterrors try and crack through your skull to your brain and try and seep out like never before.
You've locked doom up and swallowed the key.
You wish you hadn't.