iker z.

every single day. It's almost humiliating, as he steps back and stares at the scope of his existence laid on the bed: it fits in a duffel bag and a shoebox. He zips the bag up. / @videvare.

on it as his hands move to put everything necessary into the bag, but later he'll come to realize that he's been ready to leave. He's been ready for a while, looking for an excuse to ditch this self-imposed rehabilitation sham of a life, choking on guilt and shame and *loathing*

Ringing in his ears. Rust. Gunpowder. His breathing feels mechanical—regulated only because he remembers that his lungs need to rise and fall because he'd pass out otherwise. Smoke rises from... somewhere. He smells it. Everything happened so fast, too fast, the axe in his hand

devices. Backup is likely going to come in blazing soon. / @videvare.

more dangerous) chasing after him by asking nicely so that leaves Iker to look for other, unconventional ways to glean some form of the truth. In this case, getting that blood-soaked and ugly sweatshirt off of Ciarán. In the back, a voice crackles through one of their comms

@dirvioz generous or strong enough to melt the paint off of a brand new car. "Blow it off, blow it off." He slurs. "I can't be bringing poisonous muth—mushrooms back, the kid's gonna... oh, shit, he's gonna be *so* upsetttt..."

@dirvioz "Don't—say that!" Iker grabs onto her shoulders, tilting his head down until he's practically shoving the top of his head to this lady's face. "Stop laughing!" It takes a lot for a man of his size and tolerance to be even acting like this. The drinks here are either very

thing to death the first time it was given to him. / @videvare.

the sweatshirt from bottom-up, practically trying to yank it off the boy's scrawny frame. It's a ratty thing anyway. "Get this off," he grumbles. "We're burning this ugly thing with the rest of the cabin." He can't believe he just said that—burning the cabin. He'd loved this