#pierce mullins — dialogue .

[pcril]

* ◟ : 〔 JOHN DAVID WASHINGTON , CIS MAN + HE /HIM 〕 PIERCE MULLINS, some say you’re a THIRTY-NINE YEAR OLD lost soul among the neon lights. known for being both INSIGHTFUL and SYMPATHETIC, one can’t help but think of THEM CHANGES by THUNDERCAT when you walk by. are you still a SOLDIER / PHYSICAL THERAPIST at THE TERRORS, even with your reputation as the THE BASILISK? i think we’ll be seeing more of you and BLINDLY FOLLOWING ONE'S CHOSEN BEACON, MEMORIES AKIN TO A TALL SMOKESTACK BLEEDING OUT GHOSTS, TIRED OF SUFFERING BUT NOT KNOWING WHO ONE IS WITHOUT IT, although we can’t help but think of PATROCLUS (VARIOUS MYTH RETELLINGS), ALUCARD (CASTLEVANIA), AKIRA (JOHN WICK 4) whenever we see you down these rainy streets.

ENTER THE BASILISK.

The tumultuous downpour's all white noise at this point. It's one of the few things that remain steady. Unchanged. If only it's as cleansing as the poets say. Routine continues to be a challenge you're not completely familiar with just yet. But you still try, little by little. Deal with the moments of paralysis in a better, though still difficult, way. Blend in with society where it smells less of dust coated cordite and more of vibrancy.

PUBLICLY KNOWN FACTS:

Name: Pierce Mullins

Appearance: One word summary — inconspicuous. From apparel to expression, Pierce keeps himself to the more minimalistic side. Nothing too loud or in-your-face with his speech or mannerisms. Simply cordial, calm, mostly collected. Tends to dress in a more monochromatic scale. Says he's not allergic to color, but they often exhaust his eyes.

The concept of family ( of a healthy, functioning one ) had never taken root early on in his childhood. A loving yet ill mother and an expectant but rage triggered father lined everything in eggshells at home. As influential and powerful as his father was, he wanted Pierce to be nothing less than of the same standing. Like-minded in greed and politics, never wavering despite the circumstances, charming enough to weave his way into the right field, and obedient. Always obedient.

An accident reaped the life of a peer – seemingly by his own hands. Truthfully, the details of it had morphed into a conglomerated mess, and only the raw emotions stuck out crystal clear. Horror, guilt, and shame. And instead of being fought for, of being offered compassion or even a shred of love, all he was met with was disdain from his own father.

Pierce became a stain on the family name. Single-handedly ruined that hard earned reputation.

The case built against him fell through the cracks with what little evidence there was. Nothing outstanding or suspicious had been found in regards to the deceased. Yet even then, he’d been cast from his parents. Word of mouth travels fast, quicker than wildfire but just as life devastating. So, he was sent away. Told to live with an old family friend that had shown the smallest scrap of sympathy for the boy. Other than a letter or text from his mother once every few blue moons, Pierce was fully estranged from then on out.

High school hardly held any glitz or glamor. Hormones were horrible, rumors that lacked truths festered, and he still hadn’t found a solid connection at ‘home’. Friends were few and far between – a measly handful that he always held at arm’s length; still too plagued by the deeds of recent past. And yet, as the fates would have it, he still managed to find some semblance of a best friend within another.

Graduation couldn’t have happened sooner – even if his plans past school fell rather short. With no family to help, no concrete passion for any career path, he let himself get swallowed by recruitment. At least then he could tread along with the only person that seemed to give a damn about him. The only pillar of light in the midst of ever creeping darkness.

The years spent in the military blurred with one another. Body and spirit were broken, reformed, enhanced – made his strength concrete and wits razor-sharp. Through all trials and tribulations, he stayed consistent by his best friend's side. There to support him, to be supported himself, until everything was severed in one fell swoop.

Instinct had him cover his partner under fire, and it resulted in two gunshots to the abdomen. Not one, but two surgeries were required – both of which came horrendously close to the line of fatality. Yet somehow, by some miracle, Pierce managed to fully stabilize after a long while. By the time he woke and began to gather his bearings, his worst fear had taken wind. His partner hadn’t been safe and well, but rather the opposite with a medical emergency himself. Thankfully, the both of them survived the horrors of war. Scarred both of skin and mind, but very much alive.

Once healed enough, Pierce was medically discharge from service; once again left at the whims of the future’s unknowing. But not all was lost in the gloom. His partner was still there, ready to help shoulder the torment and work through acclimation back into society. Except.. the latter never really happened. The trauma echoed far too loudly, too persistently, to settle into a regular nine to five. Not to mention that their financial needs were more than just tight.

WHAT'S BURIED UNDERNEATH .

HISTORY BEING WRITTEN .

The solution to restlessness and shortage of money alike was presented in the form of a call. An acquaintance of years past caught wind of their unemployment and offered them a job. At first it was supposed to be a one time thing. But one became two, two became three, three became four.. Eventually it became obvious that neither of them had the strength to walk away. Working in a gritty, uniform order was the oil that kept his body’s machine running. So he stayed. Fully integrated into The Terrors. Pierce's loyalty continues to through – even if he carries additional stress from a more recent part time gig.

[pcril]

It makes sense. Still terrible, but more understandable than an agreed meetup he mysteriously forgot about. "Whoa— okay, hang on.." From being confused to alarmed within seconds, he gladly takes the seat to even out the whiplash. "Sorry about being stood up. That's some real shit move on their part, or… The hypothetical careless driver’s. Really hope it’s not the second option.” Ironic given their profession, but he still wouldn’t wish that sort of fate unto another.

Sympathy comes off of him in waves. Plenty of things out there that are worse than being ghosted on a date, but it still really sucks to go through. “Probably not mature enough or maybe they just don’t know how to communicate.” Both of which are textbook red flags to him. “Sounds like you dodged a bullet, though. Even if you dressed up for this— at least they won’t wasted any more of your future time, right?”

Jax’s face fell when she realised it wasn’t her date. She bit her lip and then shrugged. “No, no, I’m sorry, I thought you were my date.” She sighed. “Either I’m being stood up on, or they’re late and don’t have the decency to let me know.” She rubbed her hands together. “Or they got into an accident and died before they could get to me.” At least that sounded far less terrible for them, horrible for their date however. 

She smiled back at Pierce, offering him the seat opposite of hers. She leaned down on her hand, her head feeling heavy. “I don’t understand people, if you plan not to come, why not just say so, right?”

[pcril]

status: closed — @gravefed

“When do they stop?” Pierce doesn't even realize he’s the one speaking — not until his lips press back together in a tight grimace. The backs of his eyelids burn with such a ferocity he knows all too well. Tears will form and well in the corner of his eyes before they fell down the jut of each cheek. A natural reaction to the horrors that grips him in the form of another episode.

It'd been the sound of a particular car alarm this time.

“Does it ever stop?” A better, but still shitty, question. He can still feel the crushing weight around him — in his lungs. Hundreds upon hundreds of feet suspended in nothingness, the scorch of thousands degrees against bare skin, what always comes after — darkness, black as pitch.  The way it sticks to his mind is suffocating.

“Sometimes I can’t tell if I’m awake or not.”

[pcril]

status: closed — @wrvtchedhearts

It’s the smoke that gets to him first. How acrid it is in both smell and taste as it floods every sense available. Through the nose and mouth to kindle the lungs, burns the eyes to bring forth tears, seeps past the pores of his skin to stain sinew and bone.. 

He can’t breathe like this. No, keep low. Even if it makes him look a fool to rush half crouched and puts a strain on his legs. Better that then half dead from too much smoke inhalation.

Pierce has his jacket off but draping around one arm where most of the hungering flames are present. Rotted as his core may be, he still does his best to try and help others. Herd the ones without experience in a raging inferno. All while he tries his damn best to keep familiar echoes of panic at bay.

"Hey— wrong way! You're going the wrong way!" He shouts, straining the strength of his voice as he tries to prevent someone else from diving into the fire's depths.

[pcril]

It’s familiar, that. In more ways than one, he’s seen the same destruction dealt by others. By his own very hands. Pierce knows that he, too, is capable of such devastation and it scares him. Deep down, it’s always scared him. Even when such rage can be deemed necessary— he always comes out of it shaking. Struck cold with a certain kind of numbness that inly drives that fear even further.

So he avoids it when able.

Doesn’t let himself be influenced by proximity. Especially with one as capable as Xiang. Pierce knows he’d be called for if necessary, but things hardly ever get that bad with him. And this time is no different.

He looks over at the exit and almost winces at the clatter of metal. Almost, but doesn’t. Just as he almost accepts a smoke, but shakes his head instead. “Gave it up a while ago,” he says with a polite yet passive shrug, “but you know what I haven’t shaken off? That Sichuan cuisine.”

from: XIANG, the demon to: PIERCE, the basilisk — ( @pcril )

there is blood on xiang's knuckles, his sleeves, specks of red over his pressed white shirt. the suit is hardly clean either, but the color has darkened instead, somewhat concealing the stains that are all over the fabric. it is just another day, so to speak. xiang's hand wrapped around the steel bat goes slack as he takes a step away from the carnage. it was teamwork at first, pierce had been inside at the beginning, but once it was clear that xiang was in one of those moods, he had stepped out to give the enforcer the space to do what he did best. the demon would argue it was nothing personal, but lately with the danger that is looming over the terrors, xiang's methods have been more violent than usual, which is alarming to those both familiar and unfamiliar with his " ways of working ". this time, he had started with his fists — his favorite, before finishing off almost half an hour later with the bat he had found at the den of a small organization, one stupid enough to have decided it would be a good idea to challenge them. as xiang finally steps outside the janky building, he throws the bat outside the door, blood splattering in its wake. i'll need to get this dry cleaned, he laments briefly as he reaches into his pocket to retrieve his pack of marlboros. "want one?" one stick between his lips, he holds out the pack to pierce. "where do you want to eat?" the light of the zippo flashes briefly on their features before it's closed with a flick. he takes a long drag of his cigarette, before exhaling, smoke swirling around them. "i'm famished."

[pcril]

Panic, in itself, is a simple thing. It’s a way of alerting, of a body’s own way to protect. Be it a response from immediate danger or long-term echoes of trauma – everyone experiences it. 

Some might curl their fists and gnash their teeth while others might sprint for the hills . 

Fight or flight.

A few might still in their tracks and a handful might roll over to pacify. 

Freeze or fawn.

He, himself, was of the fight variety. When presented with a particularly upsetting situation ( past or present ), his thoughts flicker off. His body reacts in it’s stead to hit and kick and punch and claw; all while feeling that spark of fear funnel into white hot rage. More often than not, the skin of his knuckles are ruined when he comes back to himself to retether rational control. And most recently, it'd been just that.

His hands still ache with the barest of movements, but the community soil needed to be disturbed and tilled. So he did it regardless. Doesn't stop until a familiar name pops up on his phone. And now they're here. Well, one's more present than the other, but he simply waits it out. Gives an understanding smile when Juilet comes back to the question prior.

"Just wondering how you've been's all." He doesn't mind talking to help fill the silence, but if she'd rather be heard then he'd be glad to listen too. “Where were you just now?”

                          @pcril

LOCATION: slow down cafe. FOR: pierce mullins.

𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐊𝐎 𝐍𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 storm within juliet, found beauty in it even -- pierce somehow always managed to bring her back down to earth. when the world felt too much, she looked for one of them. every day since the attack on the white crocodiles' supply had been hell for juliet, feeling as if she were walking through the very fabric of space and time. they needed to lay low, sure, but she was still riding the high of watching everything fall apart.

the old guard would soon die out. but for now things felt silent -- too silent. as if they were waiting for the other shoe to drop instead of seeing the vulnerability and exploiting it. she trusts niko deeper than she's ever trusted anyone -- and without her leadership, they wouldn't have gotten as far as they had in the first place. she is well aware that it's her own selfish desires calling to her.

" what was that? " she asks, doe eyes looking upward from her cup of coffee to meet his gaze. juliet has had a lot on her mind as of late: carmen, the terrors, adeline ( but she was always a consistency ), leaving her feeling a bit more dazed than usual. the woman offers a sheepish smile as she continues. " i'm sorry... it just feels like my mind is in a million different places. "

[pcril]

It’s hardly comforting, but expected. Even when he's been doing good for some period of time, memories scarred with needle-sharp trauma flash hot from time to time. They still verge on visceral details, though not as strong as before. So Pierce supposes she’s right. Has to trust that she is just to prevent himself from steeping further in a full blown episode.

The heel of each hand presses against closed eyes for a long second. Forces himself to focus on his breathing in a slower, more orderly fashion. “Pierce Mullins.” Feels like there's still rocks in his mouth and dirt coating his tongue. At least the smoke's missing this time. Though just the sheer thought of it makes his skin prickle in the worst of ways.

The next breath in wavers ever so slightly, but he's not gulping down air. His ears aren't ringing and his vision doesn't swim as vigorously. Should be safe to walk again — so he hopes. Even chances a step and is relieved he doesn't falter. "Thanks, um. Lead the way."

A resolution of self to remain soft-hearted,     full of rivers and valleys    —   despite the war,    despite the death.     Violence had a habit of leeching itself to the people who had,   willingly or unwillingly,    experienced it deeply.      She had caved inwards when she had returned to this soil.     Spilled nothing from her failures and her decisions during her process of fighting back against the tide.     She kept a tight lid along her mind,    but occasionally she would feel it loosening.    Night terrors,   hand tremors,   and hallucinations every now and then would attack her.       It was a pattern,   of course,    and sometimes there was simply no preparation one could do for those approaching episodes.     Selena sees the warning signs and the dogs have their ears perked,     their faces trained on the panicked man.    She steps to the side of the walkway,    leash loose in her hands as Fang and Gemini both go to sniff and then sit beside the man.    They spent every day at her clinic,    they knew when they needed to be present   —    when they needed to be supportive.      She keeps her distance,   a few feet away,   brow-bone furrowed in concern.      His question felt like a blade scraping the edge of a wound.    Tender,   a suspended pain.      “That’s a very common response after a highly traumatic experience.    I can tell you that you’re not dreaming right now    [ … ]    this is all very real.”       Gently encouraging him,    drawing him away from that cliff of despair hopefully.    She clicks her tongue and the dogs return to her side,    not wanting to overwhelm him.       “I’m Selena.     I run a clinic for people like us.     It’s a few buildings down      [ … ]    let’s walk together.     You’re safe with me. I'll keep watch.”

[pcril]

He's a bit shaken. Then again, when was he not? The nightmares persist with more ferocity as of late. Some even bleed into reality, but today he's lucky enough to avoid such a haunting. Still, Pierce isn't all here as he goes about his errands. Be a whole lot easier to wear sound canceling headphones, but he knows better than that. Danger's never out of reach and he can't afford to keep it out of mind. Even if that means he has to walk like his body's full of fiberglass.

Coffee's out of the question, but he needs something to take the edge off. So he reason a cup of tea, maybe something a little more fancy, might do the trick. Help him recollect himself in some secluded nook in the corner. That is until he sees a familiar face.

"I'm what?" Pierce falls short of the standard greeting and finds himself pummeled with confusion instead. "Did we.. Sorry, did I miss something?"

OPEN STARTER - Jax Lake ( the terrors - assassin ) @ slow down cafe

Jax lay her phone back down on the table, and picked up the menu again. She wasn't impatient, but five minutes late in her book was already a red flag. Especially for a first date. But she wouldn't be bothered so much if she hadn't already been going on two days without actual human contact. Jobs and small talk not included. She needed an audible human interaction, texts were starting to drive her crazy, and before she could start sprouting off none-sense to the first person she saw, she needed to settle the itch.

She went on dates for three reasons: 1) she was an extravert, solidarity drove her insane. 2) she liked to fill her time with meeting new people, whether it went anywhere or not, having some new friends or acquaintances in town could never hurt. 3) she still believed what her doctors had once told her: that maybe something would some day jolt her memory.

At the sound of footsteps that stopped at her table, she looked up, giving a smile. "There you are," she said. "I was starting to think I wasn't pretty enough for people to show up early for."