IC Contact

[offtracks]

WELCOME TO YOUR PRIVATE CHANNEL, NOBORI.

FOR SECURE COMMUNICATION, USE 17.128.903.472

*** NOBORI has joined 17.128.903.472

<NOBORI> Hello! This is Ingo!
<NOBORI> How may I help you?

Other Handles: Wayward [anon]

Comments

[offtracks]

[Ingo doesn't truly register much of the explanation. He already knew, more or less, what he'd hear. The world contracts; Bucky's voice, the sound of the television, everything around him seems to fade away. He stares at the locket in his hand, and there's nothing but a vast rushing in his ears.

Emmet's dead. Emmet was killed, and where was Ingo? Just sitting around at home -

Gliscor whines and nudges his side. The contact snaps him back to reality enough to draw his lips back and snarl:]

Leave.

[buckybbarnes]

[Bucky had enough of his own situation to deal with at the moment, getting his throat bitten out by a grieving relative wasn't going to help anyone right now. He held his hands up, starting to back away.]

My...my friend Sherlock works for the morgue. I'll...we'll...I'll make arrangements with him, and...you can...check there...I'm...sorry...

[offtracks]

[Ingo's breathing is starting to come too fast, a low wheeze in his chest. Without looking - at Bucky or much of anything else - he reaches out to slam the door in Bucky's face.]

cw: suicide, death

[offtracks]

[Once the door is shut, Ingo just stands where he is, panting raggedly. Gliscor butts against him again.

Absently, he reaches into his pocket for the Pokeball and recalls Gliscor to it. He can't accept that comfort. He doesn't deserve that comfort.

Emmet is dead, and he wasn't there.

He leaves the house. It's not much of a conscious decision. Nothing feels like one; his mind is incapacitated, too full of your fault your fault your fault, and so his body has taken the lead. Out to the woods. He walks, with no destination in mind.

Emmet died, and he was just sitting at home.

Eventually he slows to a halt. The claws of his right hand are sunk into the flesh of his left arm, leaving rivulets of blood to slowly trickle down beneath his sleeve. In his left hand, there's a knife.

He blinks slowly down at it for a moment. It's one of his knives, from the butcher's room. One of the ones he uses to skin people and slice them open. He doesn't remember going there and getting it. But the sight of it brings him back to a terrible clarity. Of course - he's deserved death this entire time. Failing Emmet, of all people, simply means that there's no longer anything holding him back.

There's neither time nor reason to think it over. Watching with some sick fascination, Ingo brings up the knife to press against his stomach. A dull point of pain. With a practiced stroke, the same one he's used on so many innocent humans, he digs it in and brings it up until it hits bone.

His knees give out. He falls to the ground hard, one wing crushed awkwardly beneath his body. The pain comes after, blooming like fire. Ingo can't help but cry out. For some reason, he's filled with a sudden gripping terror; tears are already streaming down his face, and he sobs and gasps and presses his paws against the wound. Slick blood pours over his fingers, clumping and staining his fur. His claws are extended in his pain and fear, and they prick against something hot and pulsing - ]

You - you deserve this.

[He pants raggedly to himself. He does not get to be afraid. He doesn't get to wish for comfort, and he certainly doesn't get to regret. He's done this exact thing to so many people. He let his own brother bleed out alone on some unknown forest floor somewhere. This is exactly what he deserves.

He goes on mumbling it to himself as the air fills with the scent of blood and damp earth. Eventually, his hands sag away from the ruin of his abdomen, and he finally goes silent.]