[ Well, at least Gen's here, so that's one part of this that's gonna suck less than it already does.
Amos turns back to look at the pathway he entered from as Gen complains about invisible walls, about how even just touching it hurt, so... nope, he doesn't think he's going to try going back the way he came after all. Instead he looks back at Gen, gaze zeroing in on the way he's holding his prosthetic. He's reaching for his toolbox, about to tell Gen that fuck it, take a seat, they might as well get this fixed first, when.
Oh, he hears that crying, too. It's not just in his head. And... ]
It sounds like a kid. [ And that's all Amos needs. He abandons his toolbox on the bench (really doesn't seem like they're about to go anywhere anytime soon), starting to head towards the direction Gen indicated. ] Fuck, if I was a kid in here I'd be freaked out too.
[ Just like that, Gen's arm becomes his second priority.
Except the thing is — the reason Amos had been willing to dismiss it before — is because he's heard something like that before. Something exactly like that, actually. Months ago, when the dryad in the Tree of Life had been fucking with all of them, and it had made Amos hear his younger self sobbing. But one doesn't really expect to hear that pretty much ever, so he'd figured, well, it probably isn't real.
But if Gen hears it this time too...
He's already pushing through that cluster of trees, where the crying is getting louder, both due to proximity and a growing distress on the kid's part. It's when Amos hits the edge, is able to look inside, that he freezes, because no, nope, this still can't be real, and yet.
There's a boy, about five years old, full on wailing. His hair is mussed up, sticking up at odd angles, eyes screwed shut and tears and snot streaming down his face. He's hugging his knees to his chest, trying to make himself as small as possible; his breaths are uneven in between sobs — the only thing that makes his sudden scream of anguish quieter than it probably would have been otherwise.
Amos is left to stare at his younger self, swallowing thickly, his heart in a vice, his breath gone. The overwhelming need to comfort him floods his every sense, paralyzing him — because as far as he knows, there's no way to actually do that.
This is a nightmare. He doesn't have nightmares anymore. This is a nightmare. ]
no subject
Amos turns back to look at the pathway he entered from as Gen complains about invisible walls, about how even just touching it hurt, so... nope, he doesn't think he's going to try going back the way he came after all. Instead he looks back at Gen, gaze zeroing in on the way he's holding his prosthetic. He's reaching for his toolbox, about to tell Gen that fuck it, take a seat, they might as well get this fixed first, when.
Oh, he hears that crying, too. It's not just in his head. And... ]
It sounds like a kid. [ And that's all Amos needs. He abandons his toolbox on the bench (really doesn't seem like they're about to go anywhere anytime soon), starting to head towards the direction Gen indicated. ] Fuck, if I was a kid in here I'd be freaked out too.
[ Just like that, Gen's arm becomes his second priority.
Except the thing is — the reason Amos had been willing to dismiss it before — is because he's heard something like that before. Something exactly like that, actually. Months ago, when the dryad in the Tree of Life had been fucking with all of them, and it had made Amos hear his younger self sobbing. But one doesn't really expect to hear that pretty much ever, so he'd figured, well, it probably isn't real.
But if Gen hears it this time too...
He's already pushing through that cluster of trees, where the crying is getting louder, both due to proximity and a growing distress on the kid's part. It's when Amos hits the edge, is able to look inside, that he freezes, because no, nope, this still can't be real, and yet.
There's a boy, about five years old, full on wailing. His hair is mussed up, sticking up at odd angles, eyes screwed shut and tears and snot streaming down his face. He's hugging his knees to his chest, trying to make himself as small as possible; his breaths are uneven in between sobs — the only thing that makes his sudden scream of anguish quieter than it probably would have been otherwise.
Amos is left to stare at his younger self, swallowing thickly, his heart in a vice, his breath gone. The overwhelming need to comfort him floods his every sense, paralyzing him — because as far as he knows, there's no way to actually do that.
This is a nightmare. He doesn't have nightmares anymore. This is a nightmare. ]