FANPORT OVERFLOW LOG

[maskormods]

WHO: ImPorts!
WHERE: Heropa's Convention Centre.
WHEN: April 14-16, from 9 AM - 12 AM every day.
WHAT: Registration is in motion alongside FanPort, the most popular imPort convention around! Come on in and see imPort-led panels, the artist's alley, cosplayers, and more! If you have any questions, or wish to amend the way we have written up your characters' panels, let us know here! The original log can be found HERE.
WARNINGS: None anticipated; please let us know if this should be changed.

Comments

[irassible]

((Continued from here.))

The undead closely resemble the living.

[ There's...thank god, there's no face-touching, though it seems like he will for a moment. Instead, he takes Mitchell's lapels. ]

But there's a pallor to their skin. An un-rightness. You see yellowing at the edges and a grayness in their eyes.

[ Invading personal space now, words emphatic. ]

I know of a witch that merged her dead lover's head with a monster. It was terrible.

[viced]

Ew, that's fucking nasty --

[ He says, taking a step back. Mitchell and personal space violations are uncomfortable things. Only he is allowed to get into people's space, and that is when he wants something and wants to act like a human being with feelings.

He took another step back, and opened an eye with two fingers. ]

My eyes are green? And my skin is normal? I mean, other than -- my scar.

Are you saying because I have a fucking scar, I'm undead?

[ Scars. Lots of them. On his face. But they looked more like circuits than they did actual scars. ]

[irassible]

[ Luckily, Six doesn't move in pursuit; instead, he wavers some, and walks/sways a few feet over to a nearby trashbin, which is, thankfully, large and recently emptied. He can feel a bit of his delighted haze fading in a wave of nausea, not the least because of the current trend of his thoughts.

He nods his head, despite it being a poor idea. ]

I've seen...things. Creatures that should've been long since dead, kept alive by dread machinery.

[ His imagination has transitioned from true undead to the ancient, terrible relics of Allag, but it's all the same to him: monstrous, wrong. ]

I almost...pity...nnggh.

[ The inevitable occurs, but at the very least...his back is to Mitchell. ]

[viced]

[ Dread Machinery.

Well, that was probably at least fairly accurate. Although he probably didn't realize how much it was accurate.

Although his eyes narrowed, slightly, mouth turned down into a frown. ]

Hey -- gross -- you okay?

[ He took a step forward. ]

Promise, none of that bullshit's going on with me. My scar's totally separate from any time I've ever died. I've had this for over fifteen years, now.

[irassible]

That's...good. That's good to hear.

I don't want to kill you.

[ He sounds as though he is fairly sincere. He wobbles again and gags for a moment, but he's been mainly drinking, not eating; there's not much to upend. He eventually let's go of the lip of the can and turns around, one hand over his mouth, and just...slides down, coming to sit on the blissfully cool floor.

He blinks up at Mitchell, as if reminded he's there and not just a picture in his head. ]

...you don't actually look that bad, for dying so much.

[viced]

Well I don't want to fucking die! [ A look. His face screwed up spectacularly. ] Er -- again.

[ But damn, he shifted, back and forth. ]

I promise. I, uh, I'm just as normal as anyone else here. Nothing extra, resurrections don't... make me undead, or a machine, or anything else.

[ Just near-death accidents on the Brooklyn Bridge orchestrated by outsiders from another universe. But who's counting? ]

[irassible]

I will try to believe you.

[ An effort is being made. Or will be made. Or has been made, because overall Six seems calm, breathing slowly and...

...yeah, he.

He passes out, right up against the trashbin. It's questionable just how much of this he's going to remember in an hour when hotel staff prod him awake, save for conflicting impressions of both unease and relief. ]