I. BRIGHT SPOTS: A (not so) Meetcute [Closed to Cam] So. Jeff's stuck in a tree.
To be a little more specific: he's stuck in a tree, with a glowing puppy cradled in his arms and a small pack of Day-Glo abominations pacing around the trunk, waiting for their tasty dinner to drop down. The things look like the goddamn love children of a wild boar and a crocodile, and judging by the way they're snorting and salivating, they're fucking hungry.
They also have a talent for ramming head-first into the tree, sending insistent tremors that resonate all the way to the top. Jeff clutches the puppy harder, closer to his chest, as it whimpers and tries to bury its lumescent little face into the crook of his arm.
"It's okay, little guy," he shushes, like the dog can understand him. "We'll get out of this. There's nothing we can't handle with... uh... with optimism and a can-do attitude!"
Maybe he's trying to convince himself more than the dog. Is it working? No, not really. But what else is he gonna do? Fight a pack of boar-o-diles? He's not a hunter, man! Or even a zookeeper! Jeff's only got two moves in a life-or-death situation: use his words, or run. And since the creatures don't seem particularly open to his words…
After a while, Jeff cranes his neck, trying to get a look down to see how many creatures are still down there, waiting for him and the puppy. He manages to count to four before one rams its head into the tree trunk, shaking it enough that he nearly loses both his balance and his hold on the puppy.
What follows is a very dignified yelp, and an equally dignified: "FUCK ME!" He gulps, tries to steady his breathing, then calls out: "Anybody out there? I could use a hand!"
A beat.
"Please?"
II. NIGHTMARES: Monster Mash It probably comes as no surprise that Jeff's a fearful person. Anybody who saw the anxiety explosion that was his first (and so far: only) transmission to Anchor could pick up on that. Jeff's nervous, high-strung, out of his element, a total civilian, a suburbanite fish out of water. The nightmare swarms ought to have a lot to work with when he's around.
At first, they scratch the surface, pulling at that nebulous, ever-present anxiety and forming it into something solid. Well. Solid-ish. It's a twisted ghoul that can't quite settle on one face, or which way its joints should move, or how many limbs it ought to have, but it's solid enough to tear at his clothes and claw at anything blocking its path. And the way it howls and keens... It's at once familiar-- intimately fucking familiar, like he's known it all his life-- and so utterly inhuman that the first time he hears it, he can't do anything but go into a panic and run.
It's a good thing Jeff's fast. When he suddenly comes racing into the room (pick a room, any room), slamming the door behind him, it's almost like he's been running from nothing. Either the monster's stopped chasing him, or it's just taking its sweet time catching up. Regardless, Jeff's just going to hold his body against the door as he looks to see if it's got a lock or anything. It's only when he glances up that he realizes he's not alone here. For a moment, he's got a total deer-in-headlights look on his face-- please don't be a monster out to kill him-- before he forces a nervous, slightly manic smile.
"Oh. Hi! Sorry to barge in here, it's just-- I. Uh. I..." Was being chased by a manifestation of his extreme anxiety? "--thought I saw a space rat outside. It's probably nothing, I'm sure everything's fine!"
EVERYTHING'S FINE.
Just ignore the scratching at the door.
III. NIGHTMARES: Personal Demons [warning: addiction] Sometimes, the nightmare cloud manages to dig a little deeper. It finds his old wounds, the root of all the fear and anxiety, and pulls them to the surface. It's a monster that wears his face, but younger, brighter, sharper. He's twenty again, and his eyes are like stars. Jeff can't run; all he can do is stare at his own face as a sick feeling squeezes his heart and twists at his stomach.
Is it narcissism or just total self loathing?
"Look at you. No matter how long you run, no matter how deep you try to bury me... You're still me."
He draws in a sharp breath, pulling his gaze away from that face. That twisted funhouse mirror version of him seems so healthy and beautiful-- vibrant, at its peak-- until Jeff blinks and notices the rot spreading from the track marks on its arms. He can't help but look at his own arms, just in case, half-expecting to see the same infection.
"You'll always be me."
No matter how sick he feels, it's almost a comfort when the ghost of his past puts its arms around him, embracing him, pulling him down to kneel with it on the ground. He wants to scream or cry or shout for help, anything, but Jeff can't find his voice. He can barely find his breath as he looks into his own eyes. There's hands on his throat. He realizes that belatedly, feeling those fingers constrict as he tries to breathe, as his own voice soothingly, sweetly shushes his rising panic.
"C'mon, rockstar. Sing us a song."
Jeff might need some assistance here before he gets choked to death by his own shitty past.
IV. WILDCARD: Catch-All [ Just a catch-all for anything taking place before or during the event log! For all your gen or day-in-the-life needs. ]
a cool dad | ota (plus one closed prompt!)
So. Jeff's stuck in a tree.
To be a little more specific: he's stuck in a tree, with a glowing puppy cradled in his arms and a small pack of Day-Glo abominations pacing around the trunk, waiting for their tasty dinner to drop down. The things look like the goddamn love children of a wild boar and a crocodile, and judging by the way they're snorting and salivating, they're fucking hungry.
They also have a talent for ramming head-first into the tree, sending insistent tremors that resonate all the way to the top. Jeff clutches the puppy harder, closer to his chest, as it whimpers and tries to bury its lumescent little face into the crook of his arm.
"It's okay, little guy," he shushes, like the dog can understand him. "We'll get out of this. There's nothing we can't handle with... uh... with optimism and a can-do attitude!"
Maybe he's trying to convince himself more than the dog. Is it working? No, not really. But what else is he gonna do? Fight a pack of boar-o-diles? He's not a hunter, man! Or even a zookeeper! Jeff's only got two moves in a life-or-death situation: use his words, or run. And since the creatures don't seem particularly open to his words…
After a while, Jeff cranes his neck, trying to get a look down to see how many creatures are still down there, waiting for him and the puppy. He manages to count to four before one rams its head into the tree trunk, shaking it enough that he nearly loses both his balance and his hold on the puppy.
What follows is a very dignified yelp, and an equally dignified: "FUCK ME!" He gulps, tries to steady his breathing, then calls out: "Anybody out there? I could use a hand!"
A beat.
"Please?"
II. NIGHTMARES: Monster Mash
It probably comes as no surprise that Jeff's a fearful person. Anybody who saw the anxiety explosion that was his first (and so far: only) transmission to Anchor could pick up on that. Jeff's nervous, high-strung, out of his element, a total civilian, a suburbanite fish out of water. The nightmare swarms ought to have a lot to work with when he's around.
At first, they scratch the surface, pulling at that nebulous, ever-present anxiety and forming it into something solid. Well. Solid-ish. It's a twisted ghoul that can't quite settle on one face, or which way its joints should move, or how many limbs it ought to have, but it's solid enough to tear at his clothes and claw at anything blocking its path. And the way it howls and keens... It's at once familiar-- intimately fucking familiar, like he's known it all his life-- and so utterly inhuman that the first time he hears it, he can't do anything but go into a panic and run.
It's a good thing Jeff's fast. When he suddenly comes racing into the room (pick a room, any room), slamming the door behind him, it's almost like he's been running from nothing. Either the monster's stopped chasing him, or it's just taking its sweet time catching up. Regardless, Jeff's just going to hold his body against the door as he looks to see if it's got a lock or anything. It's only when he glances up that he realizes he's not alone here. For a moment, he's got a total deer-in-headlights look on his face-- please don't be a monster out to kill him-- before he forces a nervous, slightly manic smile.
"Oh. Hi! Sorry to barge in here, it's just-- I. Uh. I..." Was being chased by a manifestation of his extreme anxiety? "--thought I saw a space rat outside. It's probably nothing, I'm sure everything's fine!"
EVERYTHING'S FINE.
Just ignore the scratching at the door.
III. NIGHTMARES: Personal Demons [warning: addiction]
Sometimes, the nightmare cloud manages to dig a little deeper. It finds his old wounds, the root of all the fear and anxiety, and pulls them to the surface. It's a monster that wears his face, but younger, brighter, sharper. He's twenty again, and his eyes are like stars. Jeff can't run; all he can do is stare at his own face as a sick feeling squeezes his heart and twists at his stomach.
Is it narcissism or just total self loathing?
"Look at you. No matter how long you run, no matter how deep you try to bury me... You're still me."
He draws in a sharp breath, pulling his gaze away from that face. That twisted funhouse mirror version of him seems so healthy and beautiful-- vibrant, at its peak-- until Jeff blinks and notices the rot spreading from the track marks on its arms. He can't help but look at his own arms, just in case, half-expecting to see the same infection.
"You'll always be me."
No matter how sick he feels, it's almost a comfort when the ghost of his past puts its arms around him, embracing him, pulling him down to kneel with it on the ground. He wants to scream or cry or shout for help, anything, but Jeff can't find his voice. He can barely find his breath as he looks into his own eyes. There's hands on his throat. He realizes that belatedly, feeling those fingers constrict as he tries to breathe, as his own voice soothingly, sweetly shushes his rising panic.
"C'mon, rockstar. Sing us a song."
Jeff might need some assistance here before he gets choked to death by his own shitty past.
IV. WILDCARD: Catch-All
[ Just a catch-all for anything taking place before or during the event log! For all your gen or day-in-the-life needs. ]