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@smartass_captain
May. 8th, 2026 07:42 pm[ FINE! You want the Butcher?! COME ON!!!
Blood pours steadily through every shoddy weld of the Iron Lung, thick and metallic in the back of his throat. His body sways, but adrenaline and spite buzz just below the surface of his blistered skin. It's hard to tell what's real- what's the Monster fucking with his head and what's right in front of him- leaving him detached from his body. Almost like he's watching what's happening, but not really comprehending.
He'd retrieved the black box somehow. He doesn't really remember doing it, just the frantic need to keep it safe. To make sure it survives whatever is about to happen. An inevitable end, Simon thinks. This was never an expedition. But fuck if he's going to take an execution lying down. The ship comes alive, tethering him to the battered, rusted hull to halt his progress, and through sheer force of will, he manages not to black out as he rips himself away from the tendrils of matter that have started spreading through the submarine.
White-hot, tearing pain radiates from his left side, and it's with only vague concern that his arm doesn't seem to be cooperating.
Fuck you!! DIE!!!
Vaguely, Simon understands that he's dying.
As the blood fills the small compartment, there's nowhere to escape as it coats his skin while he continues to scream at a monster that may not even hear him. May not understand his desperation.
His vision whites out, a thunderous groaning deafening him while everything else seems to fall away. He hears voices, but he can't tell what they're saying through the ringing in his ears and the almost underwater quality they take on.
drip.drip.drip.
The steady noise of wet splatters on a floor is what draws his attention that something isn't right.
Gone is the chest-height blood slowly closing in on his inevitable death. His head throbs, but he manages to open his eyes, not understanding what he's seeing.
Where he's standing is pristine- save for the spreading pool of blood beneath him- what's even more surprising are the concerned and afraid faces looking at him as they back away like one might from a rabid beast. As if there were any of those left in existence. ]
STOP FUCKING WITH MY HEAD! You won!!
[ He screams his frustration until his voice cracks, the effort and fight draining out of him as his knees buckle and his vision greys out and finally goes dark. The last thing he sees is a pair of boots before he succumbs to oblivion. ]
Blood pours steadily through every shoddy weld of the Iron Lung, thick and metallic in the back of his throat. His body sways, but adrenaline and spite buzz just below the surface of his blistered skin. It's hard to tell what's real- what's the Monster fucking with his head and what's right in front of him- leaving him detached from his body. Almost like he's watching what's happening, but not really comprehending.
He'd retrieved the black box somehow. He doesn't really remember doing it, just the frantic need to keep it safe. To make sure it survives whatever is about to happen. An inevitable end, Simon thinks. This was never an expedition. But fuck if he's going to take an execution lying down. The ship comes alive, tethering him to the battered, rusted hull to halt his progress, and through sheer force of will, he manages not to black out as he rips himself away from the tendrils of matter that have started spreading through the submarine.
White-hot, tearing pain radiates from his left side, and it's with only vague concern that his arm doesn't seem to be cooperating.
Fuck you!! DIE!!!
Vaguely, Simon understands that he's dying.
As the blood fills the small compartment, there's nowhere to escape as it coats his skin while he continues to scream at a monster that may not even hear him. May not understand his desperation.
His vision whites out, a thunderous groaning deafening him while everything else seems to fall away. He hears voices, but he can't tell what they're saying through the ringing in his ears and the almost underwater quality they take on.
drip.drip.drip.
The steady noise of wet splatters on a floor is what draws his attention that something isn't right.
Gone is the chest-height blood slowly closing in on his inevitable death. His head throbs, but he manages to open his eyes, not understanding what he's seeing.
Where he's standing is pristine- save for the spreading pool of blood beneath him- what's even more surprising are the concerned and afraid faces looking at him as they back away like one might from a rabid beast. As if there were any of those left in existence. ]
STOP FUCKING WITH MY HEAD! You won!!
[ He screams his frustration until his voice cracks, the effort and fight draining out of him as his knees buckle and his vision greys out and finally goes dark. The last thing he sees is a pair of boots before he succumbs to oblivion. ]
