The Psiioniic - Artolo Apemis (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
iitrebel) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
interstellar55552015-11-28 06:44 pm
iitrebel) wrote in interstellar55552015-11-28 06:44 pm
Entry tags:
1 ♊ I've been beaten down
Who: Artolo Apemis and passerby
What: So seafood is terrible.
When: Around noon-afternoon
Where: Pride HQ
Warnings: Body horror, vomit, a sex toy later
A - Noon
The notice that went around said semi-formal. Semi-casual. Same thing. It did not say "Dress up as obnoxiously fancy as you possibly can". Artolo is fairly certain of this. So why is An fluttering about eager to put them in all sorts of bullshit? Nope. No. He was dragged along on the impromptu photoshoot.
You gotta draw the line somewhere. You gotta look inside yourself and say "What am I willing to put up with today?" Not fucking this.
So Artolo does the sensible thing, which is to say that he fucking bolts from Crown of Thorns' penthouse to shamelessly sacrifice his bandmates to their manager's love of fashion. (He doesn't feel guilty. If they don't bolt, it's their own fault.) He's not really sure what he's going to do. He's in an idle state of wandering as he goes through Pride's halls, fingers twitching in want to do something.
It's be pure coincidence that he's passing by a series of food carts that are going up to some other penthouse, a positively decadent piling up of sushi and other assorted seafood all on display. Ha ha, wow, gross, the shit people will eat flickers through his mind first and he's not thinking, not really, just walking by and looking-
Everything hurts.
This is not new, but everything is pain and misery and pure fucking blissful spite, because spite is the only crystal clear thing in his life anymore, spite and desperately clinging to hold onto memories from so long ago.
He h͔͕͉̰ͨ̐ͤ͒́̚͢a̺͍̥̩̭͈̝̮̒̓ț̱̲̑̓̑̓̀̋̚e̤̟̥͋̏s͔̥̤̘̯̦ͯͪ̋ her.
He hates her so goddamn much.
There is pain and spite and hatred in a room only dimly lit by the flickering flare of blue and red lights- from him? from him- and screens set into walls which are nauseating pink and they move, organic and fleshy and he hates fucking pink, too. He'd set it all ablaze, if he could, if water wasn't creeping up to where his knees are, or where they would be except they're consumed by that horrifying creeping mass of fuchsia flesh. He turns his head to the side, just to take care of the crick in his neck, and his arms have been yanked up- the same tendrils hiding away those, too, sinking past the gray of his skin and into his flesh-
A door opens.
He knows who it is.
He knows who it is and he bares every bit of mangled fang he has in a grimace of a smile.
Artolo blinks out of his own head and finds that he's on his knees, hands covered in vomit.
Well, okay, what the fuck.
It hits him, after a moment, what must have happened. Fell to his knees, nauseous, probably, and he'd tried to keep himself from vomiting at all but when the body needed to rapidly expel something... Well, teeth and hands couldn't stop it.
He doesn't get up for a moment. The normally caustic and confident percussionist just kneels there for a second, shaking and staring down at the mess.
B - Afternoon
Somewhere around three in the afternoon, the doors to Pride Headquarters burst open and Artolo rides in pushing a probably stolen shopping cart that is filled to the absolute brim with all sorts of candy and junkfood, and... this draped on top. If you're not an adult, best not ask.
He can be found riding his shopping cart of food through the halls, and waiting impatiently in the elevator.
Have fun with that.
What: So seafood is terrible.
When: Around noon-afternoon
Where: Pride HQ
Warnings: Body horror, vomit, a sex toy later
A - Noon
The notice that went around said semi-formal. Semi-casual. Same thing. It did not say "Dress up as obnoxiously fancy as you possibly can". Artolo is fairly certain of this. So why is An fluttering about eager to put them in all sorts of bullshit? Nope. No. He was dragged along on the impromptu photoshoot.
You gotta draw the line somewhere. You gotta look inside yourself and say "What am I willing to put up with today?" Not fucking this.
So Artolo does the sensible thing, which is to say that he fucking bolts from Crown of Thorns' penthouse to shamelessly sacrifice his bandmates to their manager's love of fashion. (He doesn't feel guilty. If they don't bolt, it's their own fault.) He's not really sure what he's going to do. He's in an idle state of wandering as he goes through Pride's halls, fingers twitching in want to do something.
It's be pure coincidence that he's passing by a series of food carts that are going up to some other penthouse, a positively decadent piling up of sushi and other assorted seafood all on display. Ha ha, wow, gross, the shit people will eat flickers through his mind first and he's not thinking, not really, just walking by and looking-
Everything hurts.
This is not new, but everything is pain and misery and pure fucking blissful spite, because spite is the only crystal clear thing in his life anymore, spite and desperately clinging to hold onto memories from so long ago.
He h͔͕͉̰ͨ̐ͤ͒́̚͢a̺͍̥̩̭͈̝̮̒̓ț̱̲̑̓̑̓̀̋̚e̤̟̥͋̏s͔̥̤̘̯̦ͯͪ̋ her.
He hates her so goddamn much.
There is pain and spite and hatred in a room only dimly lit by the flickering flare of blue and red lights- from him? from him- and screens set into walls which are nauseating pink and they move, organic and fleshy and he hates fucking pink, too. He'd set it all ablaze, if he could, if water wasn't creeping up to where his knees are, or where they would be except they're consumed by that horrifying creeping mass of fuchsia flesh. He turns his head to the side, just to take care of the crick in his neck, and his arms have been yanked up- the same tendrils hiding away those, too, sinking past the gray of his skin and into his flesh-
A door opens.
He knows who it is.
He knows who it is and he bares every bit of mangled fang he has in a grimace of a smile.
Artolo blinks out of his own head and finds that he's on his knees, hands covered in vomit.
Well, okay, what the fuck.
It hits him, after a moment, what must have happened. Fell to his knees, nauseous, probably, and he'd tried to keep himself from vomiting at all but when the body needed to rapidly expel something... Well, teeth and hands couldn't stop it.
He doesn't get up for a moment. The normally caustic and confident percussionist just kneels there for a second, shaking and staring down at the mess.
B - Afternoon
Somewhere around three in the afternoon, the doors to Pride Headquarters burst open and Artolo rides in pushing a probably stolen shopping cart that is filled to the absolute brim with all sorts of candy and junkfood, and... this draped on top. If you're not an adult, best not ask.
He can be found riding his shopping cart of food through the halls, and waiting impatiently in the elevator.
Have fun with that.
no subject
"... The ocean will always be there for you." Wh... He looks up at Artolo, and then back at the message, frowning. "Is it me, or is that kind of... Threatening?"
no subject
"That is definitely threatening," he agrees, digging for more fortune cookies to break apart and shove into his mouth. Honestly, it reminds him far too much of the suffocating smell of salt water in that... bad trip, or whatever.
"Make any enemies of mermaids or scuba divers lately?"