Corporal Randel Oland (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
toten_sie) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
lastvoyageslogs2020-06-30 09:28 pm
toten_sie) wrote in lastvoyageslogs2020-06-30 09:28 pm
Entry tags:
Operation Eight: Shattered Pieces
WHO: Randel and Misty, Randel and you
WHAT: Memories returning... what do.
WHERE: Randel's cabin
WHEN: end of June
NOTES: Warning for blood, self-harm, hand injury
He can't stand it.
He let himself fall to his impulses, he gave up all pretext of being anything else, of being anything but a monster, a demon, the living embodiment of the urge to kill. What rationality he's managed to carve out from that bloody mantra is a delicate balance that keeps his presence on board functional while he works.
But this- he can't stand this.
These glimpses of who he gave up being. The dream he has... Misty, telling him that he can get rid of all the war damages. His body unscarred. His dreams still tormenting him instead of simply being another facet of the world he lives in.
...the small army of cats there to keep him company, content and warm against him, living beings who view him as safe-
His room is his first barracks, complete with a mirror in the wash room. Or it was, anyway; that mirror has been smashed to pieces and the shards of it are still stuck in his hands, not that he cares. But it does make a mess, leave a trail behind him as he leaves his quarter, goes to seek out the one he thinks will help him.
If you encounter him in the hallway, there's no telling how he might react, but he looks more like a ghost than a monster, those eyes empty of their usual urge to kill and just full of a need to-
To anything.
To find Misty. Wherever she might be.
WHAT: Memories returning... what do.
WHERE: Randel's cabin
WHEN: end of June
NOTES: Warning for blood, self-harm, hand injury
He can't stand it.
He let himself fall to his impulses, he gave up all pretext of being anything else, of being anything but a monster, a demon, the living embodiment of the urge to kill. What rationality he's managed to carve out from that bloody mantra is a delicate balance that keeps his presence on board functional while he works.
But this- he can't stand this.
These glimpses of who he gave up being. The dream he has... Misty, telling him that he can get rid of all the war damages. His body unscarred. His dreams still tormenting him instead of simply being another facet of the world he lives in.
...the small army of cats there to keep him company, content and warm against him, living beings who view him as safe-
His room is his first barracks, complete with a mirror in the wash room. Or it was, anyway; that mirror has been smashed to pieces and the shards of it are still stuck in his hands, not that he cares. But it does make a mess, leave a trail behind him as he leaves his quarter, goes to seek out the one he thinks will help him.
If you encounter him in the hallway, there's no telling how he might react, but he looks more like a ghost than a monster, those eyes empty of their usual urge to kill and just full of a need to-
To anything.
To find Misty. Wherever she might be.
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The blood is noticed before she spots him, an unmistakable and very familiar phantom scent she pays particular attention to. She half assumes it's William, walking off some assault or battery, but the footfall - when she hears it - is different. Given Randel's mass, highly identifying.
She knows him enough to dread any oncoming contact just a little.
She knows him little enough that the difference in his demeanor unsettles more than anything else. Book lowered, he's regarded as evenly as she can manage when he's such a risk for immediate danger.
"You're cut."
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No budging. No giving up ground. She was here first.
"You touch me, hand to God, I will pulp you."
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"There's memories. Memories of you."
He holds out his hand, shows off the scars.
"You made these go away. But they're still here. Why? Why are you putting these things in my head?"
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"If you want them gone I can do that, but I promise I've got better things to do than needle at your brain out of the blue. Whatever's happening is shipwide, not me."
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"What are you expecting from me? What do you want me to do, right now? Because I don't remember what you're talking about."
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Although: "Why is softness that bad?"
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Keeping his self, keeping the boy who loved others, who wanted to save people, who believed in a justice, even if it was his own. The words kept coming, would always keep coming. Why make something you'll just lose?
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Not that his predicament seems anything less than a sad one.
"You have to fight. I can't do that for you."
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"Hell awaits me either way."
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"Why are you alive, then? Why are you here, right now, if you're so sure the end can't be changed?"
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Not instigating. Prompting. Waiting and hoping they hit a gap he can't bridge.
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"It's only true for me."
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That he's chosen to live, to preserve his own life. That he's chosen who he wants to live, that he's allowed others to die at his hands, knowing what a horror it is. And, quite frankly, to be a broken thing that wants nothing else. What else really is there for him?
His chances are gone.
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