[It's a tree. Yeah. At least it's a cool-looking tree? It's not immediately obvious that this isn't just some cemetery decoration, a nice bit of foliage to make things more pleasant, but if you look closely there is a tiny metal marker near the roots. It's fairly simple, just a rectangle with a name and a series of numbers:
Dr. William Halston Ingram 08862-27
Are those dates? Sure doesn't look like it. Weird. In any case, those are the only things on this particular plot.]
death vision.
[You knew this was going to happen.
You knew, but of course, no one fucking listens. A part of you hopes they all die. Another part of you is going to make sure of it.
For a moment you just lean against the wall of the corridor, trying to muster what little strength you have left. Every breath— coming quicker now as your system goes into shock— sends sharp jolts through your stomach. You're far too aware of the knife still stuck in your back (what lovely irony), horizontal, a surface wound you probably would've survived if not for the other ones. Whenever you move, you can feel the edge scrape against your ribs. The adrenaline is wearing off. You need to move. You push off from the wall, leaving a streak of bright red behind you.
You remember a time when you were much younger, staring down in fascination at your hand with bloody stumps. The pain was deep, down to your guts, less like you'd had two fingers cut off and more like your whole hand was being crushed in a hot vice.
This is a lot like that, except your guts are where it starts. You're no medic, but a general grasp of human anatomy tells you that you don't have much time left. Either you get help or you die, and that first one's a long shot. The thought crosses your mind, as you stumble toward the ship's bridge, that if that doctor finds you in time she'll have no choice but to save your life. And if she doesn't, you're dead anyway, so what do you care?
It takes a concentrated effort to get where you're going. Out of instinct, you hold one hand over the holes in your abdomen as if that's going to keep the blood inside. It isn't. You're leaving a trail everywhere you go, even if you can't see it because turning makes you dizzy. When you finally reach the door you're after, you worry for a second that the reader won't take your ID card because of how messy it is now. Thankfully the scanner can see through the gore.
You're trying to focus, but it's impossible not to look out through the bridge's massive windows into the void beyond. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you're sort of glad this view will be the last thing you see. This view will be the last thing you see. The thought hits you like a slap in the face and for a moment you just want to collapse and panic and let the weight of the situation crush you.
Thankfully, your spite is the greater force.
You don't bother with the pilot's chair— if you sit you'll just stop moving. Instead your hands go straight for the console, straight to the task at hand. Whoever did this to you made a huge fucking mistake. Maybe they didn't know you could do this. Serves them right, they'll never see it coming until it's too late. Your fingers move across the touchscreen with practiced muscle memory, and you try to ignore the smudges of red they trace.
You change the ship's course, tipping it down at a slight angle toward the planet it circles. It won't be quick, it'll take some time, but eventually this thing never meant to fly is going to wind up pulled out of orbit. And whoever killed you will likely be vaporized as it slams into the planet's surface. Of course, so will you, but you'll be long dead by then.
It's getting harder to concentrate, harder to remember what to do next. The connections you normally make so quickly seem to have gaps between them, lagging and stuttering like a broken machine. You realize, quite suddenly, that you're sitting on the floor. You don't remember when that happened. The pain is like a choking thing, making your breath shallower and shallower.
Fuck, you're really about to die out here. This is ridiculous. All the things you've survived, all the things you've accomplished, and it doesn't mean anything. Nothing means a damn thing. It's always been a fact of your life that the universe is a cold, vast, and uncaring lack of presence, but it was also home, and now it's turned on you. Your luck's run out. You guess it was bound to happen eventually.
Somehow you manage to finish the job, wresting administrative privileges from the ship's system and locking them behind a door only you can open. You don't really remember the process. You also don't remember when you laid down, but here you are.
And then here you aren't. You fade in and out as your frantic heartbeat starts to slow. At least the pain is fading, and at least you'll be unconscious before long. And at least you know that, with your last act, you took the bastard responsible with you.]
elsewhere.
[Will isn't participating in this... whatever this is. He sees the shrines in the firelight from the door of the Invincible, and he goes right back inside. There's plenty of food and coffee to keep him going until it's over.
On some level he knows what's going on. There are graves and half the town's walking around like they've got shellshock. Some sort of death-related trauma is occurring. But he wants nothing to do with it, and that's what he's determined to get.
If you want to talk to Will about the event, his grave, or his death, or anything else during this period of time, he can be found in the bar or his room. He won't be going out to the graveyard, and he won't be leaving any offerings of his own. He'll probably just be messing around on his tablet as per usual.]
Will Ingram | NPC | OTA (cw for gore)
[It's a tree. Yeah. At least it's a cool-looking tree? It's not immediately obvious that this isn't just some cemetery decoration, a nice bit of foliage to make things more pleasant, but if you look closely there is a tiny metal marker near the roots. It's fairly simple, just a rectangle with a name and a series of numbers:
Dr. William Halston Ingram
08862-27
Are those dates? Sure doesn't look like it. Weird. In any case, those are the only things on this particular plot.]
death vision.
[You knew this was going to happen.
You knew, but of course, no one fucking listens. A part of you hopes they all die. Another part of you is going to make sure of it.
For a moment you just lean against the wall of the corridor, trying to muster what little strength you have left. Every breath— coming quicker now as your system goes into shock— sends sharp jolts through your stomach. You're far too aware of the knife still stuck in your back (what lovely irony), horizontal, a surface wound you probably would've survived if not for the other ones. Whenever you move, you can feel the edge scrape against your ribs. The adrenaline is wearing off. You need to move. You push off from the wall, leaving a streak of bright red behind you.
You remember a time when you were much younger, staring down in fascination at your hand with bloody stumps. The pain was deep, down to your guts, less like you'd had two fingers cut off and more like your whole hand was being crushed in a hot vice.
This is a lot like that, except your guts are where it starts. You're no medic, but a general grasp of human anatomy tells you that you don't have much time left. Either you get help or you die, and that first one's a long shot. The thought crosses your mind, as you stumble toward the ship's bridge, that if that doctor finds you in time she'll have no choice but to save your life. And if she doesn't, you're dead anyway, so what do you care?
It takes a concentrated effort to get where you're going. Out of instinct, you hold one hand over the holes in your abdomen as if that's going to keep the blood inside. It isn't. You're leaving a trail everywhere you go, even if you can't see it because turning makes you dizzy. When you finally reach the door you're after, you worry for a second that the reader won't take your ID card because of how messy it is now. Thankfully the scanner can see through the gore.
You're trying to focus, but it's impossible not to look out through the bridge's massive windows into the void beyond. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you're sort of glad this view will be the last thing you see. This view will be the last thing you see. The thought hits you like a slap in the face and for a moment you just want to collapse and panic and let the weight of the situation crush you.
Thankfully, your spite is the greater force.
You don't bother with the pilot's chair— if you sit you'll just stop moving. Instead your hands go straight for the console, straight to the task at hand. Whoever did this to you made a huge fucking mistake. Maybe they didn't know you could do this. Serves them right, they'll never see it coming until it's too late. Your fingers move across the touchscreen with practiced muscle memory, and you try to ignore the smudges of red they trace.
You change the ship's course, tipping it down at a slight angle toward the planet it circles. It won't be quick, it'll take some time, but eventually this thing never meant to fly is going to wind up pulled out of orbit. And whoever killed you will likely be vaporized as it slams into the planet's surface. Of course, so will you, but you'll be long dead by then.
It's getting harder to concentrate, harder to remember what to do next. The connections you normally make so quickly seem to have gaps between them, lagging and stuttering like a broken machine. You realize, quite suddenly, that you're sitting on the floor. You don't remember when that happened. The pain is like a choking thing, making your breath shallower and shallower.
Fuck, you're really about to die out here. This is ridiculous. All the things you've survived, all the things you've accomplished, and it doesn't mean anything. Nothing means a damn thing. It's always been a fact of your life that the universe is a cold, vast, and uncaring lack of presence, but it was also home, and now it's turned on you. Your luck's run out. You guess it was bound to happen eventually.
Somehow you manage to finish the job, wresting administrative privileges from the ship's system and locking them behind a door only you can open. You don't really remember the process. You also don't remember when you laid down, but here you are.
And then here you aren't. You fade in and out as your frantic heartbeat starts to slow. At least the pain is fading, and at least you'll be unconscious before long. And at least you know that, with your last act, you took the bastard responsible with you.]
elsewhere.
[Will isn't participating in this... whatever this is. He sees the shrines in the firelight from the door of the Invincible, and he goes right back inside. There's plenty of food and coffee to keep him going until it's over.
On some level he knows what's going on. There are graves and half the town's walking around like they've got shellshock. Some sort of death-related trauma is occurring. But he wants nothing to do with it, and that's what he's determined to get.
If you want to talk to Will about the event, his grave, or his death, or anything else during this period of time, he can be found in the bar or his room. He won't be going out to the graveyard, and he won't be leaving any offerings of his own. He'll probably just be messing around on his tablet as per usual.]