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A terrible darkness is spreading through the animated realm, driving everyone from their homes and into unknown territory that we know as reality. Now they find themselves at a crossroads: do they fight for their world or do they turn their back on it and make San Francisco their home? What will you choose?

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  SAN FRANCISCO, CALIF.
   PRESENT DAY, 2018
  DANGER LEVEL : LOW
  FEELS WILL BE COMPROMISED





 
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 BEEP BEEP B****ES [ m ], allie / august
mortimer aeron wynter
 Posted: Jan 30 2018, 09:05 PM
  quote

As a multi-dimensional representation of death, i kind of don’t think anything is strange.

  death
  the universe
  22 years old
  TAKEN
  pansexual
  HE | HIM
  sam (SHE | HER)
 185 POSTS

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immortal
  Reckless hardly seemed like the appropriate word to describe what he was. After all it's not like he could die. No matter what he did or how crazy his antics got, there was no risk to his person. Injuries rarely lasted more than a few moments at most, and carried no pain. The portal might have granted him a body that required air and food, but if he stopped breathing right this second he could go indefinitely without inhaling again. The same could be said about all the food he ingested. Tasteless for the most part, he ate them because they were there and they smelled good...not because he needed the sustenance. ( If one could even call five deep dish pizzas in one sitting as sustenance. ) Broken arms repaired themselves with time, and hung uselessly at his side until they did. Not even getting torn limb from limb had hindered him beyond a slight inconvenience. He was...not dead. No. You had to have been alive once to be dead, and that was one experience he'd never had the privilege of feeling. Rather he was, something else. He was Death, and everything that happened to him, everything that would kill a normal person. Was just part of the course, absorbed into him like a memory and quickly forgotten by his body.

A good thing, considering that whether the word suited him or not, he was reckless. Since he didn't need to worry about dying, he didn't necessarily pay much attention to his surroundings or the consequences of his actions. Say something out of turn at the wrong place? A new knife for his collection seemed worth the effort. Show up at a gang meeting or a dogfight uninvited? A few bullet holes in his clothes hardly seemed to matter. He'd stepped off of buildings, spent a little too long with his head underwater, and played with the wrong side of some power tools. Most of it was done out of boredom, some of it happened unintentionally. Some might even say he had a death wish, and honestly Mort couldn't tell you one way or the other. He didn't know if he was trying to find some secret limit- some last level in a long game where he just, didn't come back anymore. Or if maybe he was just projecting all the billions upon billions of ways people died in this world. After all, if he didn't pretend to be the grim reaper, he usually took on the faces of the souls that passed through him. His body mirroring the injuries that killed them.

Depending on which theory you subscribed to there were a few things that could have happened in this moment. The first is that he stepped out on that road on purpose because- well he saw a big truck coming directly at him and what else are you supposed to do in that situation? ( Never mind that natural human instinct is to step in the opposite direction. ) The second is that he was pulled onto that road by some lingering soul desperate to share their own personal experience. Let someone else feel what it's like to step in front of a speeding vehicle, didn't matter if that person couldn't actually feel what was happening like the soul could. Last but not least, he stepped off that curb because he wanted that truck to kill him. On some deep, deep, deep secret inner level. In some base part of himself where he was tired of what he did but was too afraid to admit it, he wanted to die.

Of course, while Mort could be all kinds of deep and philosophical in the right instances, today was not one of those days. The honest answer to why he stepped in front of oncoming traffic was simple: he just wasn't watching where he was going. Craven was smart, Craven had the brains in this relationship and he stayed firmly parked on the sidewalk while Mort just kept going. Ignoring the light, the honking horns, the shocked pedestrians. He felt the truck hit him somewhat belatedly, felt his knees shatter from the impact and his legs give out. He knows from past experience that the car hit him just right to knock him down and not up and over. He hit the pavement and somewhere someone was screaming something, but he was too busy taking it all in to care. One of the tires narrowly missed going over his head, but went straight for his outstretched arm. He felt more bones giving under that weight, was sure it had gone over his legs too, though he wasn't entirely sure. It was over very quickly and a whole truck passed over him in a matter of seconds then sped off down the street.

He doesn't try to get up, just lays on the road where it left him staring up at the sky. He's bleeding- but his blood is, wrong compared to normal human blood. Thick, and dark, and slow. He looks dead, he knows that, and he's still processing so he's as still as a corpse might have been. People are starting to gather, but they scatter quickly when he starts laughing.

 
 
august thomas eckhardt | ### | i apologize. very much.
 
 



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august thomas eckhardt
 Posted: Jun 14 2018, 10:50 PM
  quote

don't waste time on explanations

  time / the universe
  animated original
  old years old
  single
  heterosexual
  he/him
  allie (she/her)
 24 POSTS

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August had never really considered his occupation to be a particularly draining experience. It was a game of numbers, in a way, and he did very well balancing those. The human element to it rarely came into play as they were, for the most part, unconscious during his dealings with them. Or else he was delivering them to unconsciousness or pulling them out again in specifically timed intervals. It was numbers that helped him to do it and numbers were a cold, impersonal thing. A comfortable thing. There were times when he couldn’t escape that thread of empathy that connected him to a patient. Children, in particular. The elderly. The ones who held the secret fear in their eyes that they wouldn’t wake up again once they were under. For all he’d never had to fear death himself, he understood it. He often chose not to parrot the sentiments mose others liked to rattle off when they noticed it, unfeeling as that seemed. Of course, in most cases, they were generally fine. They lived through it. But he would not lie to them.

Especially not when he refused to use his own abilities in this capacity to know whether or not whatever he said would be the truth. He didn’t want to be that close and knowing what he did about their expiration dates. It made it too difficult to perform as he needed to -- in more ways than simply his job in the real world. Occasionally, very occasionally, he would break his own rules and assure them, if he was able and in his own nondescript way, they would be fine. He knew the risk it was for him to do so but that was it, wasn’t it? It was a risk only to himself and his own selfishness only allowed him to go so far. That fear of investing too much in the human lives around him kept him always at the edge of things. He wasn’t unhappy with circumstances as they were in this regard; when all was said and done, it made it easier to play his role in the universe. Yet, there were times, seldom though they were, that some errant spark of dissatisfaction made him wonder what it might be like to be a part of them rather than an outside observer.

That curiosity had, thus far, only ever been enough to have him inching closer, figuratively dipping a toe into the waters of human empathy, before retreating again. He’d been caught once, recently, doing just that. That occasion hadn’t turned out terribly, he supposed. Having someone bear witness to that burgeoning empathy that had somehow taken root inside him despite his best efforts to the contrary. Working at the hospital as he did, it shouldn’t have been at all surprising that it would eventually catch him up. Shouldn’t have, though the decision to do so had had entirely logical foundations by his estimation. He firmly believed it was the sheer amount of time he spent around people that was causing the slow degradation of his boundaries. The shift he had just concluded being particularly difficult on multiple levels.

The foremost being the persistent migraine that had followed him from the previous day into this one. It wasn’t yet debilitating as they so often became but it had made him irritable and, somehow, particularly susceptible to the emotions of others. Back-to-back surgeries, one assigned to him and the other where he’d filled in for a sick colleague, had done him no favors. It had all left him exhausted. Not physically, of course, as aside from the migraines, he never felt tired or unwell but rather….mentally taxed, he supposed was a better word. And it showed in his sluggish movements as he made his way home. He hadn’t even bothered to change out of his scrubs before leaving the hospital, the uniform of blue polyester visible beneath the light jacket he wore to fend of the chilly winter weather.

With silent earphones tucked into his ears, he’d kept his head down for most of his walk home more out of habit than deliberate choice. They didn’t do much to filter the noise of the city and, for once, he was more tempted to listen to music than to simply pose. It was the pulsing behind his eyes that held him back as he counted his steps, trying to focus on something other than the pain and the barrage of other numbers trying to push their way in. He was in the middle of sighing in frustration as he came up to a crosswalk when it was interrupted by a sharp gasp and then a scream. Or perhaps the sound of squealing brakes preceded both? August hadn’t seen the man walk into the street, couldn’t say precisely what he would have done if he had, but he saw the prone body in the middle of the road now. Somebody shoved him hard in the shoulder, another grasped his sleeve, crying that he should do something. He blinked for a moment in confusion before he remembered the scrubs. Oh.

The pleas of strangers weren’t at all why he stepped forward towards the body of the man. He pulled the earphones from his ears and hastily shoved them in his pocket, hazel eyes narrowing at the sheen of a blue-gray aura where a timeline thread ought to be. It had been almost automatic to look for one, to know before ever reaching the man whether he was alive or dead. He steeled himself for whatever he might see there in the street, prepared to remain unreactive to whatever gore the truck had left in its wake. But it was the aura that was the most curious. Despite the obvious state of the man’s body, it was still pulsing strongly -- not a sign of someone who should be dying. Moreover, the absence of a thread gave him pause as he recalled a more recent encounter with another in a similar state. It couldn’t be…. he thought as he crouched down near the man’s head, careful to stay clear of the dark, oozing liquid that was blood but also wasn’t.

”I know you aren’t dead,” August spoke lowly enough for only the man to hear, his face angled away from the gawkers on the sidewalk. He tried not to look too closely at the awkwardly angled limbs or the grotesque injuries that came from being hit by a truck at full speed. The man’s palor on top of it all and the shadows that seemed to seethe beneath the aura only he could see caused him to smirk, a stinking suspicion rising to the surface. He took a steadying breath as he continued through gritted teeth, fairly certain he knew exactly who he was looking at and his accusation reflecting that.. ”Is this your new game?”




this bridge was built over kerosene --
but we can watch it burn down.

mortimer aeron wynter
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