the_war_won: knives not pictured (knife dad)
[personal profile] the_war_won
where: liewan labs
when: march 20th
warnings: body horror, references to torture and dissection. tragic backstory shit. 

[Well so much for waiting this out. Cal might as well head back to the labs and see how things are shaking out. Hanging around a corrupted area probably isn't the best idea, but this is his work place and he has some observations scribbled down that might prove useful to the staff still on the premises.]

[(And there's something to be said for the way paranoia ebbs into sensations of invulnerability. It's a bit intoxicating...)]

[The point is, he's in the restroom when the spasms start. It's a warning clenching in his right thigh that spreads down his leg, up to his arms. This is very clearly not just an old man thing. He starts peeling off his clothes as fast as he can. His hands are shaking too badly to unbutton his shirt and he ends up trying to wiggle out of it more than anything else. He's doubled over before it hits the floor.]

("She's not here, Cal!")

[He can't try to straighten out his spine without the pain increasing tenfold, so he stays hunched over as he makes himself cozy on the tile. If an opportunistic someone catches him this prone it'll be bad news, but there's nothing to do but ride it out on the floor. His skin is too tight. It burns and itches, unable to accommodate the shifting bones and meat inside of him. This is a far cry from the cleanness of the terrigenesis process...the chrysalis crumbling like artist's plaster, it's all quite romantic. Especially in Cal's mind, since he never witnessed it personally.]

[This is not romantic. It's grisly. It's ghastly.]

[He can only lay on the ground as he listens to the sound of his bones creaking, he can only watch the shadows swirl around in the corner. Except where there were shadows now there are feet. They're bare and must be cold. Vulnerable little toes. Familiar too. Nothing quite inscribes the features of a loved one in the brain like a sixty three hour surgical procedure. Surgery in a loose sense...or perhaps the most basic? To stitch and repair and realign over exposed muscle and nerves from the most bare of scraps and bone...]

("Where is she?!") [He won't- and can't lift his gaze to the face he knows must be looking down at him. He shuts his eyes but he can still hear her, still feel her eyes on him. Why does she have to look at him like that? He thought it had been worse when she couldn't bring herself to, beautiful dark eyes always meeting the wall behind him. The slightest squint of disgust. He would have done anything then for her to just see him. Now he's begging her to look anywhere else.]

[He raises his hand to his face- half to hide his tears, spilling sloppily down his face and half to start itching at his ears. His nails leave angry red marks as he claws at them and his cheeks. He can feel the cartilage twist and stretch out.

[She's still there. Something drips and he feels her step closer to him. He scrambles back, still hiding his face. She smells like antiseptic, and the wet earth he had washed from her skin.]

("You LOST her.")

[She leans down. The breath that grazes his face- despite his best efforts to hide away- is all formaldehyde. Her lungs, of course he remembers the container. It had been so carefully stored away and labeled with the rest of her insides, all packed into jars. Those bastards were real sticklers for organization.] [They had dumped everything else. Her skin and bones simply tossed out into the woods like she was garbage.]

("You promised nothing would happen to us.")

She withdraws from him. He still hasn't opened his eyes but he can see her face clear enough in memory. She'll be wearing the face she wore when she left him. Thoroughly disgusted. Weary beyond his understanding.

---

When he's emerges, dressed and whole; he looks a bit different. He feels a bit different too. His new ears are larger, fluffier. One would be tempted to call them cute if they weren't attached to the face of a scraggly old guy, now complete with bulging veins and what appear to be furry sideburns. The ears twitch, tremble at all the noises and whispers lurking in the shadows.

("You know what you have to do.")

[That he does. There's no reason for him to hang around here.]  

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Calvin Zabo

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