Philip (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
radiopalkiller) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
entrancelogs2014-11-20 05:17 pm
radiopalkiller) wrote in entrancelogs2014-11-20 05:17 pm
[closed] What will you gain, making your life a little longer?
Who: Philip [radiopalkiller] and audience (read: Evelyn O'Connell [nascensibility], Will Graham [notyourteacup], Ned (The Pie Maker) [wordvomit], The Once-ler [thneedifestdestiny] & Peter Rumancek [gadjos])
Where: Philip's room (5/499) & assorted Wonderland hallways
When: 11/19 - 11/23
Rating: R for graphic violence, animal death, people death & naked werewolves
Summary: If one death opens a door for darkness, then seven deaths rent a wrecking ball and tear down the walls. Two gunshots, two zombies, one stab, one fall, and one sip of poison later, and Philip is once again caught vividly reliving things he would much rather leave behind for good.
The Story:
His head jerks up, not for the first time in the last hour. Shadows stare back at him passively, from all the corners the lamplight doesn't reach. Three in the morning. Four, at most. Philip doesn't bother to check his watch for confirmation. Another sound in the distance. Wonderland never lies silent, but tonight it whispers ominously, tonight he swears he can hear it groan with the voices of ice and stone.
Tonight is colder and darker, and blaming it on the oncoming winter does nothing to reassure him.
'It definitely has lost weight. This one is so special, so central to what he is doing, he can't stand to wait long, and he doesn't have to. Tomorrow afternoon, he can do it, or tomorrow night. The next day at the latest. Soon.'
Philip turns the page, and watches the book slip through his hands, along with the last of his desire to keep reading. From its permanent paper prison the large moth looks at him accusingly. It's enough to drive him from the sofa, but sitting up feels heavier than it should. Philip exhales, and his breath fogs the air. Darkness swallows his frown as the light goes out.
radiopalkiller] and audience (read: Evelyn O'Connell [nascensibility], Will Graham [notyourteacup], Ned (The Pie Maker) [wordvomit], The Once-ler [thneedifestdestiny] & Peter Rumancek [gadjos])Where: Philip's room (5/499) & assorted Wonderland hallways
When: 11/19 - 11/23
Rating: R for graphic violence, animal death, people death & naked werewolves
Summary: If one death opens a door for darkness, then seven deaths rent a wrecking ball and tear down the walls. Two gunshots, two zombies, one stab, one fall, and one sip of poison later, and Philip is once again caught vividly reliving things he would much rather leave behind for good.
The Story:
His head jerks up, not for the first time in the last hour. Shadows stare back at him passively, from all the corners the lamplight doesn't reach. Three in the morning. Four, at most. Philip doesn't bother to check his watch for confirmation. Another sound in the distance. Wonderland never lies silent, but tonight it whispers ominously, tonight he swears he can hear it groan with the voices of ice and stone.
Tonight is colder and darker, and blaming it on the oncoming winter does nothing to reassure him.
'It definitely has lost weight. This one is so special, so central to what he is doing, he can't stand to wait long, and he doesn't have to. Tomorrow afternoon, he can do it, or tomorrow night. The next day at the latest. Soon.'
Philip turns the page, and watches the book slip through his hands, along with the last of his desire to keep reading. From its permanent paper prison the large moth looks at him accusingly. It's enough to drive him from the sofa, but sitting up feels heavier than it should. Philip exhales, and his breath fogs the air. Darkness swallows his frown as the light goes out.
no subject
Something flickers into his view, a pair of eyes, a flash of green, a memory of Wonderland.
Wonderland, when was that? Before? After? During? The twisting tunnels, the rust and rot, that wasn't it. Not the light, the bricks, the screaming machinery. No, that... that was different, there were people, other people, and--
He sees his room, comfortable and carpeted, a mandatory mirror, a magical wardrobe. It looks safe, and inviting, and- and then it is gone again.
The shimmering void fades, and disappears. Philip is alone again.
He forces himself to breathe, in and out, in and out again. In and out one more time, just for good measure. I'm having an existential crisis here, and you can't even say a word! But that was his choice wasn't it? He could have, and now?
"Hello, can you hear me," he mutters to nobody; at least he tries, but the words don't come out, not as far as he can perceive.
But that means-- It didn't happen like that, not in- not in that place, not before Wonderland. Then what- what if he has it all wrong, what if he has it backwards, if the lies aren't peeling away, they're piling on. Burying him while he still sits... in Wonderland, could it be?
He tries to focus, but the reality of his bleak prison is unyielding. Only the void flickers again, for the briefest of moments at the other end of the room.
Fingers, wasn't there something about fingers? To show you what is real and what is not, for someone buried underneath the avalanche of their mind, to tell which way is up and down. He's not going to like this, is he?
Philip forces himself to sit up, to slump crookedly in that old chair, and place his shackled hand down on the desk's surface. He lifts his ring finger, and presses it apprehensively into the palm of his other hand. He closes his eyes. Then he pushes.
Bone cracks. Philip screams silently.
no subject
It takes him a moment of looking, but he finally spots the key not on any shelf but stuck in the carpet. In fact, he's pretty sure he managed to walk over it twice, but that's not the point now. The point is he has the key and he can unlock Philip. The Once-ler gasps when he comes back over though, and sees Phil's hand and all the pain he's obviously in.
"What the...did you seriously just-?!"
But he did seriously just, and that's obvious, so the Once-ler cuts himself off before he asks any other stupid questions. He takes that hand so he can get at the lock, and swiftly releases Phil from the handcuffs.
"Look, I...I-I don't know how to reset bones or splint fingers, so we should really get you to the clinic," he says, practically pleading. "Can you stand up? ...Can you hear me at all? Hey, Phil!"
The Once-ler snaps his fingers in front of Phil's face a couple of time, to try and get his attention and hopefully snap him out of whatever's happening in his head. He has no idea if that will help or hinder things; he's just guessing as he goes.
no subject
He stands up shakily, his muscles voicing their quiet protest at the new position. He can feel his head spinning, but the sensation is made a relief at the knowledge of his memories gradually slipping back into place. Years of reality dancing and shifting, years of events meant to confuse and deceive, but in the end they never last, and in the end he always comes back to his senses, just as he always has, just as he always will.
Just as he did now, as the final piece clicks into place, and he remembers where the truth has led him, before he strayed from its path.
Before his latest mission on the Mirrorside was so jarringly interrupted, probably by none other than his own counterpart, whose disgustingly familiar face is grinning at him sleazily, right in front of his eyes.
Philip scowls, and steps back warily.
no subject
"H-Hey, come on. It's just me. Just the Once-ler," he says, putting his his hands up defensively. "I'm not gonna hurt you. But we should really...get you over to the clinic and have a doctor look at that hand, you know? Since you, uh. Broke your own finger."
The Once-ler's still kind of in shock about that one. He looks down at his hands in front of him and shudders just imagining it.
"C'mon, we should...we really need to get you some help." Firm in that belief, he risks stepping forward again, and reaches out to Phil.
no subject
Feels the ground soft underneath his feet as he does.
Softer than carpet, like... like grass and earth. Vibrant green sprouting in place of dull furniture, Wonderland's hills and trees, and the scent of honey. The buzzing of his beehive at his back, low and urgent, as if they had a message of their own. His Mirror is gone, in its place another silhouette starts to take form. A breeze makes the forest rustle and dance. Reminds Philip that it is all a ruse.
He cracks the knuckles of his broken hand, and groans through renewed pain. His eyes water, but the blurry truth is better than no truth at all, and he stands firmly back in the mansion again, just in time to see his Mirror reach smirking for his neck.
Philip grabs the thing hard by its wrist, and pulls it forward. Claws his good fingers into the fabric at the back of its neck, and tries to slam its head down against the desk with all the force he can muster.
no subject
He's lanky and too thin, so he's tugged forward with ease. Before he can even react, Phil has him by the collar of his shirt, but from there the Once-ler fights to tug himself free. Unfortunately is head still catches the edge of the desk when Phil slams him down and everything feels weirdly light for a second just before he hits the carpet with a heavy thud.
For a minute or two he just stays there with his eyes shut, listening to the ringing in his ears. That hurt, but eventually it sinks in that Phil is still there and Phil definitely just tried to slam his head into a desk, and that's enough to make him sit up very suddenly and stagger backwards. He's very wobbly and his head...he reaches up to touch it (and misses in the first attempt and has to try again) and when he pulls back his hand there's blood on the tips of his gloved fingers.
He's gone from wanting to help Philip to being terrified for his own life.
"Phil? Ph-Phil, don't-! Come on, whatever you're...whatever's in your head, that's not real! Phil!"
As he tries to talk his way out of this, he inches back, trying to get closer and closer to the door.
no subject
He can barely think at all, not with the noise, something distorted that is and is not his voice, that mocks in the same breath as it pleads, whose words are garbled and jumbled as Philip sways back against the desk, his head ringing with too many sounds, too many voices, too many bees, Jesus, not the bloody bees again!
Philip shakes his head, tries to shake off impressions like a dog shakes off water, tries to- has to focus, because if he doesn't then the Mirror will win, his Mirror - Phil - will win, and it will escape, get more of their kind, and they will-- He can't let it come to that.
He lunges forward, pain be damned, and reaches for the Mirror's throat with his hands.
no subject
To his credit, he has a lot more fight in him than one might expect. When Phil's hands wrap around his neck, he grabs for his wrists and tugs with everything he has, trying to pry him away. Despite everything he's done and everything he's been through, the Once-ler has never quite been able to let go of the will to survive, and it rises above the fear, the shock, and even the concussion - at least, at first.
He's strong enough to block Phil from trying to snap his neck, but not enough to pull his hands away entirely, and his air supply is being cut off very quickly as his grip weakens.
"Ph...Phil." Talking is a waste of air, but he has to try one last time. "D-Don't. Please."
He can feel himself growing faint, and his head feels strange and heavy and his lungs are struggling so much it hurts. He heaves in Phil's grip, desperate for any small amount of air.
One hazy thought sticks out, and it sends fear rushing through him.
He's not going to make it out of here, is he?
no subject
What, does it want him to die again, does it want him to owe his Queen another favour? Jealousy, is that it? That she revived him, that he is alive again because of her--
Philip squeezes deeper, feels his nails digging into flesh. That he is the better one of them, that she prefers him now; that her own creature couldn't compare, and if it dies, then it dies for good this time. He bites down on his lip hard, and pushes his thumbs down on the Mirror's neck harder. His left hand shakes, his left hand weakens, and both his arms tremble.
But it will be enough, it has to be enough, and he won't let go, no matter what.
no subject
The Once-ler's mouth is open wide but he can't breath in no matter how he tries. For a moment the struggle intensifies in a final bit of desperation, but...it can't last.
He lets go of Phil's hands. All of the fight in the Once-ler vanishes, and his entire body goes limp and heavy in Phil's grip.
The light fades from his eyes and he is gone.
no subject
The body turns to ashes in front of his eyes. His hands burn painfully, and their grip slackens. It won't be enough.
The walls are metal, thick and hot. Dead and cold and icy blue they were once, but now the warmth creeps in, along with the sickening colour of rust. Red veins of lava snake in through the cracks. The room smells like smoke. Only Philip's sight is clear.
It's too late. They're coming again. He can't stay here anymore.
Philip stands, and his feet catch on something invisible. He only stumbles; there's no time to fall. Gasping through the smoke he runs out through the door.