Crazy Jane + 63 more (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fuckregularpeople) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
dualislogs2019-12-02 10:04 pm
fuckregularpeople) wrote in dualislogs2019-12-02 10:04 pm
Entry tags:
when we die we will die with our arms unbound
WHO: Crazy Jane/the Hangman's Daughter and OPEN
WHAT: An alarming painting on the side of a building
WHERE: The Gallows
WHEN: December 2
WARNINGS: Gore/executions
The Hangman's Daughter [CW: gore/death]
It started off as a landscape.
The Hangman's Daughter knows it's important, that she has to get the image out of her head and painted immediately. She rushes a rough sketch, grabs her paints and brushes, sets up the pulley system that Drifter had fashioned after Jane provided a wealth of takeout, and begins her work on the Gallows' graffiti wall.
Dualis is a beautiful city. She knows Jane hates being there, that it was as much a prison to her as the mental institution had been, but the Hangman's Daughter tries not to look beyond the surface of good things, beyond the neon lights and the stark geometrical designs of the buildings. She always tried not to, and always failed.
That was why she has to paint in the dark parts of Central Square Park. It was there right under the surface, on the very next page, and she winced as she added vibrant yellows and reds, grays, crimson, maroon, dull pink, white, pale yellow to figures that shouldn't have been there. She feels her stomach drop but doesn't stop, absorbed in the act of purging this image from her mind.
It takes hours. People might have stopped and gaped at her efforts, she doesn't know, but when she hoists herself back up via the pulley system and places her paints on the roof she's shaking. Getting down to ground level again and observing the full building-sized painting does little to comfort her.
It's technically lovely. She certainly captured the Central Square Park well, and the colors were vibrant. The red and yellow of a flaming pyre under a staked figure; grays in an impaled form hoisted high, ruby red blood dripping down the black spear; splashes of crimson across wan skin on the gladiators' bodies; muddy pink in the torn flesh of a drawn and quartered figure with a noose around its neck; the dull gray of a guillotine blade streaked with brown and vibrant red; the brilliant yellow-white of muzzle flash on the firing squad.
The Hangman's Daughter looks up at it, tears gathering in her eyes.
Crazy Jane
After taking a good look at the painting on the graffiti wall, Jane retreats into the Gallows and considers what she's just seen. It's undeniably provocative. She doesn't know what it means, how the iterations will react when they see it, but she knows something will happen. People will see it, might come in to ask what the painting meant, she might get arrested and get who-knows-what done to her. She goes for her stash of spray paint, considering how the wrong message might put a target on her and that it'd be easier for her to just cover up the whole thing, or at least the executions.
She pauses and grabs a can of gold spray paint, retreating to the graffiti wall only for a second before returning to the safety of the gallery. In the lower right-hand corner where the artist's signature often goes, she's left the message ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟ ɪs ᴀ ᴡᴇᴀᴘᴏɴ ꜰᴏʀ ꜰᴀsᴄɪsᴛs.
WHAT: An alarming painting on the side of a building
WHERE: The Gallows
WHEN: December 2
WARNINGS: Gore/executions
The Hangman's Daughter [CW: gore/death]
It started off as a landscape.
The Hangman's Daughter knows it's important, that she has to get the image out of her head and painted immediately. She rushes a rough sketch, grabs her paints and brushes, sets up the pulley system that Drifter had fashioned after Jane provided a wealth of takeout, and begins her work on the Gallows' graffiti wall.
Dualis is a beautiful city. She knows Jane hates being there, that it was as much a prison to her as the mental institution had been, but the Hangman's Daughter tries not to look beyond the surface of good things, beyond the neon lights and the stark geometrical designs of the buildings. She always tried not to, and always failed.
That was why she has to paint in the dark parts of Central Square Park. It was there right under the surface, on the very next page, and she winced as she added vibrant yellows and reds, grays, crimson, maroon, dull pink, white, pale yellow to figures that shouldn't have been there. She feels her stomach drop but doesn't stop, absorbed in the act of purging this image from her mind.
It takes hours. People might have stopped and gaped at her efforts, she doesn't know, but when she hoists herself back up via the pulley system and places her paints on the roof she's shaking. Getting down to ground level again and observing the full building-sized painting does little to comfort her.
It's technically lovely. She certainly captured the Central Square Park well, and the colors were vibrant. The red and yellow of a flaming pyre under a staked figure; grays in an impaled form hoisted high, ruby red blood dripping down the black spear; splashes of crimson across wan skin on the gladiators' bodies; muddy pink in the torn flesh of a drawn and quartered figure with a noose around its neck; the dull gray of a guillotine blade streaked with brown and vibrant red; the brilliant yellow-white of muzzle flash on the firing squad.
The Hangman's Daughter looks up at it, tears gathering in her eyes.
Crazy Jane
After taking a good look at the painting on the graffiti wall, Jane retreats into the Gallows and considers what she's just seen. It's undeniably provocative. She doesn't know what it means, how the iterations will react when they see it, but she knows something will happen. People will see it, might come in to ask what the painting meant, she might get arrested and get who-knows-what done to her. She goes for her stash of spray paint, considering how the wrong message might put a target on her and that it'd be easier for her to just cover up the whole thing, or at least the executions.
She pauses and grabs a can of gold spray paint, retreating to the graffiti wall only for a second before returning to the safety of the gallery. In the lower right-hand corner where the artist's signature often goes, she's left the message ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟ ɪs ᴀ ᴡᴇᴀᴘᴏɴ ꜰᴏʀ ꜰᴀsᴄɪsᴛs.
no subject
Jane can't abide anyone who would wish her death either, and it's not only pure survival instinct. It's defending everyone else in her mind, including the girl all the personalities were born to protect. She's wanted nothing more than to deal out as much destruction as she can to the iterations and the Head since she got here. The only thing stopping her going on the offensive is her selves-preservation.
“Yeah. There is.”
She still didn't understand what he was dealing with, who he was talking to, just that he was in touch with someone else. Jane wouldn't judge him on that, not after what she's been through herself. “Oh, it'll happen,” she sighs. “The Hangman's Daughter never lies.” It seems like she repeats that a lot. “And if you can turn that shit back against it? Fuck the Head, I'll help.”
no subject
He says that with doubtless earnest, a seriousness that could crush steel. Those words held fearless gravity. But, right.
"You got people in your head, right? I'd have to warn you. Somethin' for you to think about for a while. It takes three people, and it takes inviting someone in to tell you how to do it. And Sister? It is a trip. Not the good kind, either. It works, though.
"But you gotta really think about it. Wouldn't want you invitin' this thing in unless everyone in there was on board with it, an' willin' to follow one important rule. Don't make any deals. Oh... it'd see 'em through. But you wouldn't want to deal with the consequences. They uh... They stick with ya."
no subject
"Yeah. A lot of them." That wasn't encouraging, but it also meant she might be able to seriously hurt the Head, and that made things difficult. Could she keep the rest of the personalities from agreeing to anything? Who the fuck knew? She needed more information before that.
"Did you make a deal?" She raises her eyebrows, curious. "Is that why you have someone extra in your head?"
no subject
Was it though? Most of the time the answer is yes. Sometimes it isn't.
"Look, I got a pretty busy head myself, usually. Just a good hunk of the occupants can't get to me here. But this one? It can. An' I didn't like that at first, but if it can reach here, it means it can offer us some solid advice."
no subject
"Are they all other people? Like --" She waves a hand by her temple and turns it outward, gesturing 'elsewhere.' "Exterior people?" Not borne of his own mind and the situations it reacted to, just people who had moved in. "Yeah. I want to hear what it has to say."
no subject
He still condemns what the Ghosts say as lies. His ghost? No different. It's a little jarring to admit its here, all the time its here, but no one can see it.
no subject
"Guess that's the first favor the Head's ever done anyone."
no subject
"They're mostly outa range now, pendin' them figurin' out their own way here. The Hive Gods, though? Span universes. Span the lines that separate us from one 'maybe' to the next 'shoulda been'. And they see how people hurt in every damn one of them.
"Lightbearers as it turns out are extra crispy. Especially people with long lives. There's a lotta history of hurt there. They like that."
And that's a pretty solid warning, he thinks.
"Why is your head so busy?"
no subject
"How many of them can't check in? Is it enough to make a difference?" He has at least one person checking in, which for Jane would be one extraneous person too many.
"What's a Lightbearer?" Because that description would sound more than a shade familiar and she would be wary. As it is, she still accepts Drifter as is, not knowing the more insidious details.
"Someone did something terrible to a little girl," she begins. After that a nonsequitur usually follows, somethng deflective that would brush away the importance of that sentence. Jane doesn't usually like to acknowledge it. But she's off kilter today and pauses, letting the sentence hang in the air. "Someone did something terrible to a little girl and... this is what happened."
no subject
Good enough a consolation, right? Acknowledging someone was scum.
"Lightbearers are... they don't get a choice in what they are. Somethin' chooses them to be special. They search for decades, even centuries to find the perfect person. Supposed to be a great honor, being chosen, and then brought back from the dead. Personally? Those things that do the choosin' don't discriminate as well as they should."
But he's not bitter.
"I do like that it's quieter. I can sleep easier again."
no subject
"See, half of that? Sounds like something my old roommate went through. Except I don't think his something was very happy with him. It just happened, world's worst hookup." Larry got all the ill effects of being a Lightbearer with none of the good ones, it sounds like, and even the Negative Spirit wasn't happy about the arrangement.
"Are any of them yours? From your brain? Or are they all invasive?"
no subject
"I reckon all mine are invasive, yeah. But I'm just wonderin' how many of yours are guests that showed up and were given a home. Not that there's any shame in it? But it's got me wonderin'."
no subject
"No one was ever looking out for me so I had to do it myself. That's why they're here. Not because anyone stepped in to keep the bad man out." And they can't keep the bad man out, not really. What he'd done tore Kay's psyche too far apart and he'd left too many imprints to banish. All they could do was try to contain him as much as possible.
no subject
"Just askin'. Sometimes your brain decides to deal with stuff however it can. Me? I uh... starved to death a few times. More than a few. Never plan to die on an empty stomach again, if I can help it."
If that explains the hotdogs he just scarfed down.
"You stab me and I'll heal right up. I get sick? Or hungry? Or poisoned? It's nice and slow. It just waits it out to bring me back clean rather than tryin' to fix it."
But that's beside the point. "You look a little different between 'em, I noticed. Not that I've seen you in more than a couple."
no subject
The healing part is handy. Seems more than a little unfair that it doesn't kick in until after wear's been done, though. "So it just fucks off unless someone tries to make you bleed. Why's it only doing half its job?"
She shrugs. "They don't all look like me. Most don't." In the Underground the physical differences are enormous, but a lot of those are lost when everyone's using the same body on the surface. "You'll see."
no subject
That's ominous, though.
"You got some plannin' on payin' a visit?"
no subject
He didn't answer her question but for now she figures it's for a good reason, giving him the benefit of the doubt.
"Probably. I don't control when they come out. Stick around long enough and you'll meet 'em all." Not that anyone ever had. Even if someone stuck with her for years some of her would never surface.
no subject
"Well, no harm meant, but I hope we ain't stuck here long enough for all of 'em to make a visit. But so far I haven't been offended by none."
He's got a high tolerance for dicks, and she's less of a dick than the edgelord zealots he fell in with.
no subject
"Really? None of them?" Jane isn't offended, just confused. "You've met more than me, right? And I'm still a pain in the ass." Many people have told her this, it's a solid fact. She kind of tries to be a dick, because it pushes away the people who don't really care.
no subject
He shrugs, rolling his shoulders and spreading his hands. "Besides, look at me. I'm perpetually stuck in middle age, the only damn I give about my appearance is a motif, not impressin' anybody, and I'm older than most people I've met even in my world.
"Your scathin' insults ain't half as bad as what I've been beat with already, and even then you ain't even had nothin' foul to say about to me."
no subject
"Yeah, well, you haven't done anything to fuck me over yet." Drifter had been nothing but helpful so far, in fact. Even the paranoid and pessimistic Jane had to admit that.