[ People gather in disparate clumps; a littering of bodies here, a glob of humanlike structures there. Humanlike, mind, and not expressly human, because in this state, in the atmosphere charged with the threat of violence and first-blood drawn, the people of Old Town are pale pantomimes of their usual civility. Now, hands gripped about clever tools and teeth mashed around not as clever words, they remind him of herd animals, agitated but too dumb and simple to make an autonomous move.
To his peripheral, he sees a splash of color, the diffuse light of a flash grenade overtaking the shapes and forms of the world. The sound of cracking follows, sharp and loud despite its distance, rings in his ears like a thousand terrible bells all at once, shaking the ground beneath his feet.
The herds coalesce, drawing in to one another with an instant, primal magnetism. The patterns of long forgotten but still ingrained instincts come to life in a moment’s notice, unearthed from beneath the centuries of social function as easily as one might clear a stack of papers to reveal the desk beneath.
And that’s all it is, that’s all it ever is,, those layers of civics and infrastructure that humans pride as hallmarks of their ascension from the animal kingdom. They are but a layer of dust waiting to be shaken off the tome of a long, bloody story that is the history of the species.
The ceasefire, called not by formal announcement but by the exhaustion of rioters, a collective moment of breaths taken and anger rested, draws to a close.
Now like a swelling wave the crowds build until they cease to be the plural and become a single, writhing entity of violence. He’s within the fleshy-walls of humanlike creatures, and whatever reason had subsisted up to now to ward them off (not reason, but fear, the badge on his arm, the gun at his side—) ceases, because they’re encircling him, mindlessly mashing around him.
Lavi grips them as they move by, redirecting their force. One person sweeps too close to his ribs, he dips his shoulders and slides away, palms firmly urging the rioter away. It’s not personal, neither the attacks or the defensive responses, and he knows this.
Yet he searches he face he comes across for a familiar structure, pausing every now and again when he thinks he’s found someone—or something—that warrants leaving his cozy indifference and taking action. Each time he’s met with disappointment, and more than a few other encounters result in swinging fists and snarling mouths.
He shouldn’t be here, but should and should not have less and less bearing these days. He’s looking for his friendlike acquaintances, trying to find them and see them well. Friendlike, mind, and not expressly friends, because he would like to claim no such attachments in this world, but he’s here, searching, mindlessly and thoughtlessly drifting through the brawls and angry clutches of humanity, reaching for those people who ought not be more than splashes of ink on paper.
Lavi grabs another passerby, the spark of familiarity felt, swinging around to face them, to see into them and divine if they might be that friendlike thing he's searching for, hopeful. ]
OTA: Week 5, Day 4-6, Westerley
To his peripheral, he sees a splash of color, the diffuse light of a flash grenade overtaking the shapes and forms of the world. The sound of cracking follows, sharp and loud despite its distance, rings in his ears like a thousand terrible bells all at once, shaking the ground beneath his feet.
The herds coalesce, drawing in to one another with an instant, primal magnetism. The patterns of long forgotten but still ingrained instincts come to life in a moment’s notice, unearthed from beneath the centuries of social function as easily as one might clear a stack of papers to reveal the desk beneath.
And that’s all it is, that’s all it ever is,, those layers of civics and infrastructure that humans pride as hallmarks of their ascension from the animal kingdom. They are but a layer of dust waiting to be shaken off the tome of a long, bloody story that is the history of the species.
The ceasefire, called not by formal announcement but by the exhaustion of rioters, a collective moment of breaths taken and anger rested, draws to a close.
Now like a swelling wave the crowds build until they cease to be the plural and become a single, writhing entity of violence. He’s within the fleshy-walls of humanlike creatures, and whatever reason had subsisted up to now to ward them off (not reason, but fear, the badge on his arm, the gun at his side—) ceases, because they’re encircling him, mindlessly mashing around him.
Lavi grips them as they move by, redirecting their force. One person sweeps too close to his ribs, he dips his shoulders and slides away, palms firmly urging the rioter away. It’s not personal, neither the attacks or the defensive responses, and he knows this.
Yet he searches he face he comes across for a familiar structure, pausing every now and again when he thinks he’s found someone—or something—that warrants leaving his cozy indifference and taking action. Each time he’s met with disappointment, and more than a few other encounters result in swinging fists and snarling mouths.
He shouldn’t be here, but should and should not have less and less bearing these days. He’s looking for his friendlike acquaintances, trying to find them and see them well. Friendlike, mind, and not expressly friends, because he would like to claim no such attachments in this world, but he’s here, searching, mindlessly and thoughtlessly drifting through the brawls and angry clutches of humanity, reaching for those people who ought not be more than splashes of ink on paper.
Lavi grabs another passerby, the spark of familiarity felt, swinging around to face them, to see into them and divine if they might be that friendlike thing he's searching for, hopeful. ]