[Body horror content ahead! Please click through to see what Levi’s going through so you’re well warned! If you want a special prompt, PM me or send me a message on plurk at dynamicrange. ]
Wake Up (captives only) [ He woke in a small, shitty cage, and the only sensible first impulse he could possible have here is violence. Who wouldn’t? But there’s not a single good target to be violent towards. Levi feels like shit and there’s not much room to move, but it doesn’t stop him from assessing what he can in the low light. Not the only captive, small quarters, no real room for momentum or anything. It doesn’t stop him from doing what he can to try to force the door that first time. It gets him nothing, making a clamor and proving the cage too sturdy.
As they cycle through their captor’s work, dropping from that cloying gas that makes him want to gag, there’s only one thing left to be done. Survival was all that mattered, and there was nothing but watching and waiting for an opportunity to take action. One of those bare shadows they never quite saw had to let something slip. Someone had to fuck something up. And all the while he watches them get taken or he goes himself, comes back disoriented or feeling like he’s been stabbed in the gut because, well, he clearly had.
On rare occasion, he might even make an awkward bid at conversation. ] These bastards sure are shy. Can’t imagine why they won’t show their faces.
Height (captives only) (A) [ There’s something to be said for his endurance in an impossible situation. This time when he awakes, however, he is entirely too aware of the fact that he has his limits, and that just pisses him off. Muddled, entirely unable to focus, and all he can think as he returns to consciousness is that maybe he’s felt something this fucked up before, but he just can’t recall when. It’s utter agony, and the fresh iron tang in the air layers over the heavy scent of days (days? who knew?) of old blood.
Consciousness hardly worth it when he can’t even seem to move properly. There’s something wrong— something deeply fucked up, his muscles spasm against an impossible strain when he tries to push himself up, entirely too tight, and he clenches his jaw against it. He’s strong, stronger than most people, and it means exactly shit as he collapses against the cold floor, muffling strained, stuttered breaths against one of his fists. It makes no damn sense, he can’t even tell what the fuck happened. Were his arm and legs broken this time?
It’s worse. He knows it’s worse. He can’t tell in the moment that his limbs have been distorted by inches, not in this small space, and not by that single effort. Every other time he’d awoke, he’d been able to pull it together. He had to keep his shit together. But this— ]
Hey, how’s… [ It comes out slurred, practically incoherent. He’s not even directing his words at anyone in particular, doesn’t have the energy to see who is here still and in what shape they’ve been carved into. He can do this. He has to do this. Some of the people here had to survive and report back somehow, and that has been what’s kept him driven.
He’s starting to suspect of an opportunity comes, it’s not going to include himself. It doesn’t matter. He forces himself to shift on the cell floor, biting down a groan. Trying to seem in control would have been a joke, but at least his next effort to speak is clearer. ] How’s the… situation looking...?
(B) [ Or maybe it’s much later, though there’s never any knowing how much, and he’s worked himself up to getting stubborn. He tries to sit himself up, a full-body effort with little reward. Going pale, sweat beading on his brow, he slumps against the bars. Bandaged and bloodied, limbs pulled in at awkward angles, he feels stretched and distorted. For all there’s so little room in the cell, he’s lost so much of his range of motion. He can’t even consider straightening his arms, and his legs are doubtless just as bad.
Now he’s got an idea of what’s wrong. That suspicion earlier about his survival chances is ratcheting up. But he’s not dying just because some assholes he hasn’t even seen. His head lolls as he looks around to assess his fellow captives before letting his chin rest on his chest. Something had to give soon, or there wasn’t going to be anyone in any shape to make a run for it soon. He sure as hell wouldn’t be. ]
Levi
Wake Up (captives only)
[ He woke in a small, shitty cage, and the only sensible first impulse he could possible have here is violence. Who wouldn’t? But there’s not a single good target to be violent towards. Levi feels like shit and there’s not much room to move, but it doesn’t stop him from assessing what he can in the low light. Not the only captive, small quarters, no real room for momentum or anything. It doesn’t stop him from doing what he can to try to force the door that first time. It gets him nothing, making a clamor and proving the cage too sturdy.
As they cycle through their captor’s work, dropping from that cloying gas that makes him want to gag, there’s only one thing left to be done. Survival was all that mattered, and there was nothing but watching and waiting for an opportunity to take action. One of those bare shadows they never quite saw had to let something slip. Someone had to fuck something up. And all the while he watches them get taken or he goes himself, comes back disoriented or feeling like he’s been stabbed in the gut because, well, he clearly had.
On rare occasion, he might even make an awkward bid at conversation. ] These bastards sure are shy. Can’t imagine why they won’t show their faces.
Height (captives only)
(A)
[ There’s something to be said for his endurance in an impossible situation. This time when he awakes, however, he is entirely too aware of the fact that he has his limits, and that just pisses him off. Muddled, entirely unable to focus, and all he can think as he returns to consciousness is that maybe he’s felt something this fucked up before, but he just can’t recall when. It’s utter agony, and the fresh iron tang in the air layers over the heavy scent of days (days? who knew?) of old blood.
Consciousness hardly worth it when he can’t even seem to move properly. There’s something wrong— something deeply fucked up, his muscles spasm against an impossible strain when he tries to push himself up, entirely too tight, and he clenches his jaw against it. He’s strong, stronger than most people, and it means exactly shit as he collapses against the cold floor, muffling strained, stuttered breaths against one of his fists. It makes no damn sense, he can’t even tell what the fuck happened. Were his arm and legs broken this time?
It’s worse. He knows it’s worse. He can’t tell in the moment that his limbs have been distorted by inches, not in this small space, and not by that single effort. Every other time he’d awoke, he’d been able to pull it together. He had to keep his shit together. But this— ]
Hey, how’s… [ It comes out slurred, practically incoherent. He’s not even directing his words at anyone in particular, doesn’t have the energy to see who is here still and in what shape they’ve been carved into. He can do this. He has to do this. Some of the people here had to survive and report back somehow, and that has been what’s kept him driven.
He’s starting to suspect of an opportunity comes, it’s not going to include himself. It doesn’t matter. He forces himself to shift on the cell floor, biting down a groan. Trying to seem in control would have been a joke, but at least his next effort to speak is clearer. ] How’s the… situation looking...?
(B)
[ Or maybe it’s much later, though there’s never any knowing how much, and he’s worked himself up to getting stubborn. He tries to sit himself up, a full-body effort with little reward. Going pale, sweat beading on his brow, he slumps against the bars. Bandaged and bloodied, limbs pulled in at awkward angles, he feels stretched and distorted. For all there’s so little room in the cell, he’s lost so much of his range of motion. He can’t even consider straightening his arms, and his legs are doubtless just as bad.
Now he’s got an idea of what’s wrong. That suspicion earlier about his survival chances is ratcheting up. But he’s not dying just because some assholes he hasn’t even seen. His head lolls as he looks around to assess his fellow captives before letting his chin rest on his chest. Something had to give soon, or there wasn’t going to be anyone in any shape to make a run for it soon. He sure as hell wouldn’t be. ]