Matt Murdock (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
matt_murdock) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sixthiterationlogs2016-09-22 03:23 am
matt_murdock) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2016-09-22 03:23 am
into the belly of a whale; [Arrival]
WHO: Matt Murdock
WHERE: Fountain, then along any street
WHEN: 22 September
OPEN TO: Frank & OTA
WARNINGS: Nothing yet
STATUS: Closed
For Frank;
For Matthew Murdock, there is no gentle upward tug, no gradual pulling back of the pleasant mantle of sleep, not on this day or most others, anymore. His torpor is stripped from him with ruthless efficiency, the image of Wilson Fisk's red smile still swimming hazily in his mind as he trips, body heavy and graceless, and knocks face-first into concrete with a rattle of his teeth.
Blood fills his mouth as he hisses a curse, hands instinctively rising to palm against the curved barrier, a wet smear beneath searching fingers as he swallows the taste of copper and shudders out a breath. His head tilts jerkily, birdlike, catching sound like cotton, everything a crimson blur pulsing with his own rabbiting heartbeat.
He drags in another breath, and then another, and takes an outward step. Trembling hand at the end of an extended arm, his fingertips at last brush against another wall, more subtly curved and cool to the touch. Slowly, he walks the circular perimeter, listening to the soft scuttle of leaves against the lip of the hole he's found himself so suddenly at the bottom of.
The darkness pulls in at his periphery, a creeping, misty threat, a window fogged with shadows.
There are cracks spidered along the outer wall of the cylinder, but nothing substantial enough for a handhold. A running jump is not enough to angle off the inner wall and out; his feet are sluggish and he tumbles, back smacking solidly to the ground.
"Fuck," he bites out with the breath left him, and pushes himself to his feet, frustration threading through his already precarious composure.
"HELLO?" he raggedly calls at last, bracing himself, prepared for the worst.
OTA;
Matt is still not convinced he has not, at long last, cracked his thick head hard enough to produce an incredibly convincing hallucination. He likes to think that if he were in a coma, he'd be nice enough to let himself see, or at least to not shack him up with Frank Castle, but in truth, that sounds like exactly the sort of masochism his subconscious would cook up when let off its leash. His everyday dreams are filled with Wilson Fisk beating him bloody; it isn't that far a leap to where he's at now, when you think about it.
But more to the point: Coma or otherwise, he is diminished, curtailed, knocked down about a hundred pegs, senses constantly straining for acumen they no longer contain. He is scuffing down a dirt street with a branch in hand, the bark still on and a few leaves, too, far too short for the job of sweeping before him so that he has to hunch like someone's granddad just to put one foot in front of the other.
Somewhere, Stick is doubled over laughing at him; this Matt is utterly assured of.
WHERE: Fountain, then along any street
WHEN: 22 September
OPEN TO: Frank & OTA
WARNINGS: Nothing yet
STATUS: Closed
For Frank;
For Matthew Murdock, there is no gentle upward tug, no gradual pulling back of the pleasant mantle of sleep, not on this day or most others, anymore. His torpor is stripped from him with ruthless efficiency, the image of Wilson Fisk's red smile still swimming hazily in his mind as he trips, body heavy and graceless, and knocks face-first into concrete with a rattle of his teeth.
Blood fills his mouth as he hisses a curse, hands instinctively rising to palm against the curved barrier, a wet smear beneath searching fingers as he swallows the taste of copper and shudders out a breath. His head tilts jerkily, birdlike, catching sound like cotton, everything a crimson blur pulsing with his own rabbiting heartbeat.
He drags in another breath, and then another, and takes an outward step. Trembling hand at the end of an extended arm, his fingertips at last brush against another wall, more subtly curved and cool to the touch. Slowly, he walks the circular perimeter, listening to the soft scuttle of leaves against the lip of the hole he's found himself so suddenly at the bottom of.
The darkness pulls in at his periphery, a creeping, misty threat, a window fogged with shadows.
There are cracks spidered along the outer wall of the cylinder, but nothing substantial enough for a handhold. A running jump is not enough to angle off the inner wall and out; his feet are sluggish and he tumbles, back smacking solidly to the ground.
"Fuck," he bites out with the breath left him, and pushes himself to his feet, frustration threading through his already precarious composure.
"HELLO?" he raggedly calls at last, bracing himself, prepared for the worst.
OTA;
Matt is still not convinced he has not, at long last, cracked his thick head hard enough to produce an incredibly convincing hallucination. He likes to think that if he were in a coma, he'd be nice enough to let himself see, or at least to not shack him up with Frank Castle, but in truth, that sounds like exactly the sort of masochism his subconscious would cook up when let off its leash. His everyday dreams are filled with Wilson Fisk beating him bloody; it isn't that far a leap to where he's at now, when you think about it.
But more to the point: Coma or otherwise, he is diminished, curtailed, knocked down about a hundred pegs, senses constantly straining for acumen they no longer contain. He is scuffing down a dirt street with a branch in hand, the bark still on and a few leaves, too, far too short for the job of sweeping before him so that he has to hunch like someone's granddad just to put one foot in front of the other.
Somewhere, Stick is doubled over laughing at him; this Matt is utterly assured of.
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