02-03-2018, 10:14 PM
[align=center][div style=" background-color: transparent; border: 0px solid black; width: 460px; min-height: 9px; font-family:arial; line-height: 110%; text-align: justify; color: black; padding: 20px"][sub]tw for mentions of drugs near bottom.
He almost forgot how nice sleeping was without the nightmares. They were all getting softer, now, losing their edge - it all seemed so quick, this passing of grief, grief for his hand, grief for his misery at the hands of a masked thug, grief at killing someone out of pure desperation. But it was now or never. And he didn't want to stay like this forever. Michaelis didn't even want to be himself anymore. It was harder to see way back unless it served him in some way, but he could remember days when he wasn't like he was now - he had still been a sarcastic shit, but a little sarcastic shit, not the one he'd amounted to in the time he'd taken up Northstar District as his new home. He'd been less overly egotistic, too. Maybe even ten times nicer, funnier, more likable. Oozed a clumsy sort of charisma without a thought in his mind. But that had changed when Gage had left him in the dust, and digging his heels into the ground as he fiddled with a wooden block, he thought that just maybe he could get better again. Michaelis put it down firmly, placed his hand on it, and then off again before picking up the carving knife at his side and getting to work.
The doctor he'd met at after "dying" had helped him with the measurements before he'd left, got one of her friends to sketch the outline and the plans, one on the block and one on a white sheet of paper so he wouldn't lose it. It would be hard with one hand, but it'd be therapeutic, she'd stressed, and all he felt was a common thread of boredom, buzzing in his being like an insistent fly. It was grueling work, and he disliked it so, but if he could finally replace this ugly white bandage on his stump with something more digestible to the common eye, he'd deal with it like a man should. His friends in his old group might be proud of him, but in this one he wasn't sure. Everyone disliked him, and rightly so; he'd killed someone, went against a rule he'd made, and still got to sleep with both eyes closed and an ID in his back pocket, with Shere Khan walking up and settling down next to him with mutual respect that he barely bat an eye at.
At his side, Shere Khan lowered his growing body into a laying position. He'd grown since Michaelis had found him and his siblings abandoned in the jungle; he was losing his kitten fur and the fat that had made him cute and chubby, shedding it away into a sleek leanness that Michaelis found was nice to look at. "I missed you." Michaelis said, not taking his eyes off of what he was doing. If Shere Khan heard him, he wouldn't know. "I apparently already have a kid, but. But you're more of my kid than they are, wherever they've gone. Whoever they've become. You're an ass, but I can't blame you for that. You're a cat. You're born with the ability to piss everyone off in a five mile radius. Luckily for you, I've been born with that same ability, too." he paused, glanced over to find Shere Khan looking at him with hard eyes from his side, and added, "I know you love me too. Here, connard." he set down the knife, and withdrew a plastic bag labeled Friskys from his pocket and deposited it on the table beside him. Shere Khan looked at it, curious, before cautiously approaching.
Five minutes later and Michaelis had returned to work, sitting in one of the abandoned booths propped up on a sitting bench while Shere Khan rolled and rubbed himself against the table with increasingly uncharacteristic loud, drunken meows. "Reminds me of the first time I found Gavin's marijuana stash." he mumbled, tapping the knife against the wood block as he oggled Shere Khan. "Who the fuck still gets high after the apocalypse?"
/ to clarify: shere khan got into the catnip, and michaelis is working on getting a prosthetic hand!!
He almost forgot how nice sleeping was without the nightmares. They were all getting softer, now, losing their edge - it all seemed so quick, this passing of grief, grief for his hand, grief for his misery at the hands of a masked thug, grief at killing someone out of pure desperation. But it was now or never. And he didn't want to stay like this forever. Michaelis didn't even want to be himself anymore. It was harder to see way back unless it served him in some way, but he could remember days when he wasn't like he was now - he had still been a sarcastic shit, but a little sarcastic shit, not the one he'd amounted to in the time he'd taken up Northstar District as his new home. He'd been less overly egotistic, too. Maybe even ten times nicer, funnier, more likable. Oozed a clumsy sort of charisma without a thought in his mind. But that had changed when Gage had left him in the dust, and digging his heels into the ground as he fiddled with a wooden block, he thought that just maybe he could get better again. Michaelis put it down firmly, placed his hand on it, and then off again before picking up the carving knife at his side and getting to work.
The doctor he'd met at after "dying" had helped him with the measurements before he'd left, got one of her friends to sketch the outline and the plans, one on the block and one on a white sheet of paper so he wouldn't lose it. It would be hard with one hand, but it'd be therapeutic, she'd stressed, and all he felt was a common thread of boredom, buzzing in his being like an insistent fly. It was grueling work, and he disliked it so, but if he could finally replace this ugly white bandage on his stump with something more digestible to the common eye, he'd deal with it like a man should. His friends in his old group might be proud of him, but in this one he wasn't sure. Everyone disliked him, and rightly so; he'd killed someone, went against a rule he'd made, and still got to sleep with both eyes closed and an ID in his back pocket, with Shere Khan walking up and settling down next to him with mutual respect that he barely bat an eye at.
At his side, Shere Khan lowered his growing body into a laying position. He'd grown since Michaelis had found him and his siblings abandoned in the jungle; he was losing his kitten fur and the fat that had made him cute and chubby, shedding it away into a sleek leanness that Michaelis found was nice to look at. "I missed you." Michaelis said, not taking his eyes off of what he was doing. If Shere Khan heard him, he wouldn't know. "I apparently already have a kid, but. But you're more of my kid than they are, wherever they've gone. Whoever they've become. You're an ass, but I can't blame you for that. You're a cat. You're born with the ability to piss everyone off in a five mile radius. Luckily for you, I've been born with that same ability, too." he paused, glanced over to find Shere Khan looking at him with hard eyes from his side, and added, "I know you love me too. Here, connard." he set down the knife, and withdrew a plastic bag labeled Friskys from his pocket and deposited it on the table beside him. Shere Khan looked at it, curious, before cautiously approaching.
Five minutes later and Michaelis had returned to work, sitting in one of the abandoned booths propped up on a sitting bench while Shere Khan rolled and rubbed himself against the table with increasingly uncharacteristic loud, drunken meows. "Reminds me of the first time I found Gavin's marijuana stash." he mumbled, tapping the knife against the wood block as he oggled Shere Khan. "Who the fuck still gets high after the apocalypse?"
/ to clarify: shere khan got into the catnip, and michaelis is working on getting a prosthetic hand!!