Ruby City App: Sampling
Feb. 4th, 2012 06:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
faygospectrumFirst Person: [It could have been hours that the train doors were open - but now, at last, something emerges. Eyes aren’t entirely visible behind red-tinted shades, pointed edges, but nonetheless, the stare is chilling. Grey skin is visible underneath smears of paint and a deep browned liquid, dripping down their chin, coating their mouth. The occupants seems to survey for a tense moment, before moving forward, kicking at the watch at his feet. From below, it films an eerie scene, something held in his hands...
The grey-skinned head has an expression long frozen by rigor mortis, blood coated not only upon the point of severance at it’s neck, but also it’s mouth, a deep rusted orange, almost brown, the same as upon the other’s lips and hands. The new occupant holds it by a horn, long and bull-like. He finally sets it down at a slight distance, before sitting, pitching almost drunkenly, by the watch, and pulling out a laptop to fiddle with it for a bit, a sharp-toothed frown only deepening. Not too long afterwards, however, he takes notice of the watch, turning to that instead. He picks it up quickly, looking it over, lowering the glasses to stare at it in an almost paranoid manner, analyzing before looking it dead-on, then speaking.]
... we got a motherfucker hearin’ me out there?
WHY DON’T YOU MOTHERFUCKIN’ SPEAK UP?
[His voice raises suddenly, and he lets out a harsh, almost cruel laugh, that comes out in a low honking sound.]
Lost my new friend in this whole, miraculous surprise trip. YOU MOTHERFUCKIN’ DIG? Just got my old buddy, who ain’t too present no more...
[The frown twitches, brows lowering into some more forlorn expression, but re-sharpens again as he continues, pitch continuing to fall and rise.]
NOW WHICH OF YOU BLASPHEMING MOTHERFUCKERS... is gonna speak up first with some answers? MAKE SOME FUCKING NOISE, BROTHERS.
Third Person: It was like being tuned into a station of static, little voices coming in, some louder than others, all speaking at the same time. It was a miracle, it was a straight-up MIRACLE like only just now learning the very definition of the word, and after so long of holding back, yes. Never again. Let them all speak.
Gamzee watched the red words break the flow of indigo on his screen, holding appreciation to the boil of everything, this new range of feeling and hatred, only adding to this new wave, this new station of understanding, these whispers of everything that he must have known without even motherfucking knowing. How did that even work? He all at once loved and hated the new epiphany, a stirring of everything that had been broken for him, and everything that had been realized all at once. He continued on, letting it all unfold for the other to partake in as well.
And all the meanwhile, he hand stayed at his side, covered in the blood of the familiar, keeping in that pattern of this double-flow, all the way over his feelings, the duality tearing and building all at once. He knew something had to be done of that. And he knew, just as he educated one, it would be needed for others. From all the voices, that one, tiny and persistent, the other, loud and enrapturing, all the same thing: and goddamn would he listen.
The grey-skinned head has an expression long frozen by rigor mortis, blood coated not only upon the point of severance at it’s neck, but also it’s mouth, a deep rusted orange, almost brown, the same as upon the other’s lips and hands. The new occupant holds it by a horn, long and bull-like. He finally sets it down at a slight distance, before sitting, pitching almost drunkenly, by the watch, and pulling out a laptop to fiddle with it for a bit, a sharp-toothed frown only deepening. Not too long afterwards, however, he takes notice of the watch, turning to that instead. He picks it up quickly, looking it over, lowering the glasses to stare at it in an almost paranoid manner, analyzing before looking it dead-on, then speaking.]
... we got a motherfucker hearin’ me out there?
WHY DON’T YOU MOTHERFUCKIN’ SPEAK UP?
[His voice raises suddenly, and he lets out a harsh, almost cruel laugh, that comes out in a low honking sound.]
Lost my new friend in this whole, miraculous surprise trip. YOU MOTHERFUCKIN’ DIG? Just got my old buddy, who ain’t too present no more...
[The frown twitches, brows lowering into some more forlorn expression, but re-sharpens again as he continues, pitch continuing to fall and rise.]
NOW WHICH OF YOU BLASPHEMING MOTHERFUCKERS... is gonna speak up first with some answers? MAKE SOME FUCKING NOISE, BROTHERS.
Third Person: It was like being tuned into a station of static, little voices coming in, some louder than others, all speaking at the same time. It was a miracle, it was a straight-up MIRACLE like only just now learning the very definition of the word, and after so long of holding back, yes. Never again. Let them all speak.
Gamzee watched the red words break the flow of indigo on his screen, holding appreciation to the boil of everything, this new range of feeling and hatred, only adding to this new wave, this new station of understanding, these whispers of everything that he must have known without even motherfucking knowing. How did that even work? He all at once loved and hated the new epiphany, a stirring of everything that had been broken for him, and everything that had been realized all at once. He continued on, letting it all unfold for the other to partake in as well.
And all the meanwhile, he hand stayed at his side, covered in the blood of the familiar, keeping in that pattern of this double-flow, all the way over his feelings, the duality tearing and building all at once. He knew something had to be done of that. And he knew, just as he educated one, it would be needed for others. From all the voices, that one, tiny and persistent, the other, loud and enrapturing, all the same thing: and goddamn would he listen.
