Difference between revisions of "Log:Mycelium Madness"

20 April, 2018

Kip's been having a rough week; what with the bad press and the terrible love life and the Arcadian PTSD and the creeping Fugespore infection which is slowly destroying his sense and sensibilities. All the work he's done in recovering from the shit hand Fate's dealt him, well... He isn't feeling that lucky, these days. Especially not on this day; when a phantom from Kip's past returns: the brother he lost, the brother who drowned, the bother who can't let go, even if Kip did. If the slate can't get wiped clean, maybe some memories will suffice - it's not like Kip was cherishing them or anything.

Homepage Books

It's not /dark/ out yet. It's that weird post-twilight sort of night, where the blanket of evening hasn't quite fully settled in full yet. The lights glow brightly against the descending darkness, holding it back for the moment. The shop is empty. Kip's debating closing it up early instead of lasting out the final half hour of time it's supposed to technically be open. Hey, when you're in a small town like this and there's nobody in the store, you might as well. But that would require getting up from the chair he's dropped himself into, book propped against his lap as he slouches into the seat and reads. He'll get up in a few minutes. He's finally comfortable and content. The half-empty serving of booze in the I <3 BOOKS mug might have something to do with it, though.

Not dark /yet/. But getting darker all the time...

It feels good to end a long day, tiring day with some booze and books, eh? Because it has been long and full of interruptions - the world is so /noisy/ these days - and what with the feeling of being here and suddenly being there, it's like the -noise- is making everything so much more difficult. But Kip knows he's alright - right? He doesn't worry, does he? Until he does maybe. The weight of all that worry -- it drags a man down; but at least the shop is quiet now. At least Kip's good his books. At least nobody is here.

...

Then there's the sound of someone moving, coming from the area behind where Kip sits. Paper, flipping. Foot, tapping. How can a smirk make a sound? It just can.

The world. It's alway loud. Always full of activity. Interruptions. Annoyances. And while Kip has somewhat mastered the art of being able to /almost/ tune it all out, he still uses those crutches of his. The earplugs. The hiding himself away in solitude. The booze. Though vodka is his usual drink of choice, it's something darker in that mug tonight. Something a heavy shade of amber. Maybe something strong. But when his eyes lift from the page, it's not in search of the mug nearby. He stays perfectly still, having mastered the art of stillness more than he has the tuning things out, and just sits there for a moment, listening. He didn't miss someone coming in, did he? The book wasn't /that/ engrossing. So his head turns a bit, making him shift how he's sitting in that chair, peeking over his shoulder while the book is clutched against his chest.

What's it feel like, to know one is sitting in a chair - but to see oneself standing over there?

Because there's Kip - Scott - Brian - Andrew - fuck. Fuck. Who is Kip?

Seriously Kip: who the fuck are you -- because there is a very Kip like figure standing, right over there. His hair might be cleaner and his clothes may have a certain cordination that Kip hasn't mastered, but it's still undoubtedly the man that Enid always rights about. Wait. Wait. /Is/ it the man Enid always writes about? Maybe she's never written about -you- Kip. Wait. Wait, if Enid'd not writin---

"Who publishes this shit, nowadays?" Extra-Kip says; his foot tapping on the ground -- sneakers, converse, but all black. They leave a little wet mark on the ground, like he's been walking through puddles. That voice may be a low whisper, but there's a certain silky quality about it: whiskey and smoke. In his hands, there's a book. He flips a page, reads. Kip will know the book.

He wrote it, after all. Extra-Kip laughs.

"You're-- You aren't..." Kip's voice trails off as he stares for a moment, giving a slight shake to his head. There's no moment of being taken aback. No flinch of surprise. No shout. The panic is all silent. He's locked in the chair, unable to move backward to get away, otherwise with the way he draws back with his legs going up a little, it seems like he'd be scrambling backward. His head looks around, like he's going to find some sort of answer in the surrounding area if he just bothers to look for it. Then his gaze turns back to focus on... "Uh, who... You're uhm..." Taking this surprisingly well, is he? Able to almost sort of form some sort of coherent line of sounds to make words? He sits there, sort of frozen, fraught with anxiety and confusion. "You don't wanna read that. I-- I-- I can suggest something better."

Look all he may, there just is no easy answer to what's going on: maybe locked away in one of those books he's got in here, there's something close to an answer - but then again, maybe not.

Extra-Kip - Contra-Kip - Super-Kip watches -- and Kip will be privy to the sensation of /being/ watched, the heavy weight of it all: not just the observation, but the /judgement/. It's like the weight of those watchful eyes is dragging the very fabric of the room down, down, down - so all the feelings and thoughts sink towards it slowly, drawn towards the inky black void of the doppelgänger's iris'.

"Suggest something better? You could throw me a page of Twilight wrapping up a piece of literal dog shit, and it'd be better than this." The figure says, laughter in his voice as another page is flipped. Oh no, he's not going to start reading aloud is he? Instead he snorts and shakes his head. "The question isn't if I want to read it. The question is, why the fuck did you /write/ it? Did you really think it was worth the time and effort?"

"I didn't-- I mean... I did but... It's not even under my name," Kip stammers out, like just by filling the void up with whispery words he can get a grasp onto what is taking place. The book is still clutched to his chest with one arm, the other hand pushing through his hair like the motion is somehow going to comfort him or something. "I-- look, you don't... What do you want?" he asks, the voice having a hint of a whine to it.

Dammit. There's a reason that Kip's not /completely/ losing his shit. He's been here before. He's done this before. He's had this conversation, of sorts, before. Snippits flood back into his brain, creeping along his brain tissue with inky shadowy tendrils that want back in after he worked so hard over so very many years to clear them out. At least he isn't cowering in the chair, legs pulled up against his chest like if he makes himself into a smaller ball or something he'll be fine. At least he's halfway taking it like a man. Sort of. Kinda. "You... aren't here. Shouldn't be here."

"So you're ruining other people's names now? You don't even have the courage to use your own? Jesus..." Extra-mean-Kip snorts, that whiskey-and-smoke voice all amused yet uninviting. The sensation of being watched never quite goes away - which is funny, since the man is reading the book. But how much of Kip is in that book?

A page is turned. Midway-through being flipped, there is a sound: it is tiny and quite, yet it echoes around the room like a bullet shot.

The page has been torn. Just a little bit. Right near the binding.

"Oops." Says the doppelgänger. It's unconvincing -- and unaccompanied by an explanation. Well, sort. The sound of dripping and movement, as the figure starts to pace -- looping around the shop, getting closer to Kip himself. "What do you want," He whines. "You shouldn't be here." Mocking tone -- then abrupt laughter, which changes suddenly into an aggressive bark, "=YOU= shouldn't be here. If =YOU= weren't here, /I/ would be. Tell me why you should be here, give me one good reason why; what are you doing that's so great, huh?"

The laughter's come back. Suddenly, the figure is close -- putting his hand on Kip's shoulder, patting him chummily; his voice quiet again, a soft whisper of smoke. "C'mon, tell me how you're doing buddy."

"IT'S NOT MY FAULT!" Even though Kip's voice is raised, it's still so ... thin. Almost whining as much as the mock tone the Other One is using. Oh god, he's Episode 4 Luke Skywalker, all teenage angst and whining about how life isn't fair. Or maybe that tone, that waver in his voice, is because of the sound that has him cringing. Almost whining. But he... HE TORE A BOOK. Even in the darkest parts of Kip's mind he didn't think that would be something he could ever even come close to imagining happening. It makes him look like he might be violently ill. Or maybe that's just because of the situation. he does flinch away from the touch on his shoulder. "I didn't have any say," he points out. "I tried-- I tried to save you. I tried... I didn't want to let go. You made me. They made me. You were supposed to get pulled up and be fine and--" His gulps for air between words cause him to stumble a little over what he's saying, but he finally pauses and looks up with an expression that is as much terrified as it is a glare. "You're the reason we were there. You're the one who nearly got me killed when you killed yourself." Oh snap, Kip. Is that a backbone in your pocket or are you just drunk? "Why do you keep blaming /me/?" Good question. Isn't that the whole crux of it? "What do you want from me? To say I'm sorry that you-- that you fucked up?"

As Kip starts letting it all come out -- the whispered fury, the angst, the emotion, the spittle, the snot, the whining -- the Oh So Familiar figure starts rubbing at his shoulder. Really. That happens; like he was consoling an old friend, like he was soothing himself. In a way, isn't he? There's the sensation of bobbing his head, nods of agreement -- but there is also something cold, wet; water droplets, falling on Kip's head, his shoulder, his chest, his book.

All over the book, pressed to his chest. Is the cover out? The droplets pool together, taking on the shape of... Is that an arrow? A diamond? Some kind of spearhead?

Then the figure leans in closer, really listening -- there is the /sensation/ of being listened to. Maybe Kip is getting through to him. Maybe Kip's newly found backbone is making an impression. The Familiar Face that stares back of him, with his wet hair slicked back, looks almost compassionate - understanding - forgiving.

Maybe Kip could be forgiven.

Then hand is lifted from Kip's shoulder, hesitating in the air. Like he's going to reach out to himself - to Kip - touch his face, connect. Only... Only he doesn't.

Fingers flap up and down, open and close. The universal sign language for 'blah blah blah'. It goes on and on.

Oh it's tempting. To fall into the old pattern. The pain, the angst, the anger, then the comfort, even when Kip knows full well that the comfort leads to even more pain on a different emotional level. The sound of his snorting back the sobs and blubbering of his internal weeping echoes a bit, fueled on by the near-warmth in him from the compassionate expression and the weight of the hand that was on his shoulder before things turned cold again. Cold and wet and dark, like the version of him causing it. Like the way that version of him must have felt when--

"I didn't want you to die," he pleads, whines, protests. "You-- I didn't want..." his voice breaks, loses a hint of the solidity behind it so it becomes an ethereal whisper, "I didn't want you to leave me." The air that he exhales is hot against his face, burning his skin left raw from the crying and bleakness. But even as he exhales the air, he also exhales a little of the frailty of his brokeness. It leaves a void that is filled with anger. "No. No. I'm sick of this shit." He looks up, his eyes daggers, glinting and sharp. "I'm sick of you making me feel like shit because of what you did. You don't get to tell me how terrible I turned out when you're the one who fucking left and I had to pick up the pieces.'

Isn't it just? Sure, it's a rough ride - but the comfort... Who comforts Kip, if not Kip? Who can really /understand/ how he feels, besides himself? And if this wet, dark version of himself were to really go away... Who else could Kip share this with? Who would know his story?

So Kip is left there, to blubber and cry and pour his heart out -- while he looks on, looming above the chair with that book in his hand -- damp fingers rubbing at the edge of the paper, which curls up as he tugs at it. Gently. But not so gently that it doesn't give a little tension - causing that little tear in the page to widen, rip, pull away from the binding.

"You're sick of it, are you? What about me - maybe I'm sick of having to watch you fuck up day after day? Maybe I'm sick of watching everything you touch turn to shit - sick of watching you waste every opportunity, sick of you bowing out like a fucking wimp. You're a waste of ink, do you know that?"

Dark and wet. Droplets of water start to drip into the pages of that book Kip wrote, as the terribly familiar hand of his doppelgänger starts to move over the words printed there on the paper. Every time his finger touches the page, water beads at his fingertips and starts to smudge the page; the ink runs, and the paper starts to tear.

Waste of ink. The words echo, permeating the room like a whispery smoke -- again and again, while the roar of a river starts to rise.

Still, that Familiar Figure does not stop flipping pages - dripping water - touching words. Words blotted out. Meaning erased. Gone forever - leaving nothing but... Gaps.

Oh no he didn't! Kip's eyes widen in something that is a mix of fear, panic, anger, horrifying disbelief... A waste of ink? WASTE OF INK? It's not just that it's the ultimate insult to someone like Kip who prizes the printed page more than anything in the universe (redheaded ballerinas not counting). It's what it /means/. What it /does/ to him. Oh sure, it looks like Dark!Kip over there just fucking with a book, but it's so much more than that. So much more as to what it does inside his head as those spores, that damn fugue-driven madness, wiggle their way into his brain's function and eat away at things just like the water and tearing damage the book.

He puts a hand to his head, wincing almost as if the words are painful, as if the activity is deteriorating, as if the very fact that he's faced with this waterlogged shadow of himself is disintegrating and crumbling his whole sense of self. "I'm /not/," he says in a less sincere tone. He's wrecked. He's collapsing into himself. "Stop," he pleads in a whisper. "I'm trying the best I can."

A waste of ink.

He said that - really he did: and more then that, it felt like he meant it.

It felt real. Really real.

Is it real, Kip? What's real?...

Because something is happening -- not really in front of Kip here in his bookshop, but deep inside that Wyrd warped brain of his. The familiar figure in Kips dark, damp image may be pressing his wet finger to the book and wiping away meaning from the text as water drips off his hand and pools across the pages, but inside the Elemental's head something else is spreading. It's all just a manifestation.

But it feels so real.

Like the weight of those words, that echo around the room: feeling bigger and bigger, while they get quieter and quieter: Waste of ink. Waste of ink. Waste of ink... Fading away but never leaving, as the roar of a river rises up -- and the familiar image of Andrew - Brian - Scott - Kip, it suddenly breaks apart.

Washing away, as it bursts like a pipe and leaves nothing by water in its wake,

... Did Kip spill that mug's contents on himself?