The book he publishes tells the story of a man who persists. And in that persistence, he pays the ultimate price. He swallows hard when he realizes that perhaps he will see that story repeat itself. A mission debriefing, and soon thereafter, they're off.

It's only then he realizes that these were never meant to be birds of legend. They were birds of prey. The tale of Prometheus rings heavy as the Zapdos rips and tears into flesh of the poor bloke that dared to try and use it for their own gain. Blood and gore begin to slowly but surely paint the electrical wastelands as entrails are spat along the cracks and electrical burns along the grown. All the bird can do is continue to dig, and dig, and dig. The sound of hollowing something out fills his ears and leaves a dissonance in the air.

They said this would be a two person job. Looks like they were only coming back with one.

Schuyler feels his backside hit the ground as he frantically begins to push himself back. Is it fear he feels? No, it's merely common sense. There's no need to make the casualty of this botched mission exceed more than one dead body. Even from the distance, he can see the way his comrade's eyes glaze over, the way they look past him. Even now, as distance begins to fill the space between Schuyler, his fallen comrade, and the Zapdos who stands proud.

But he can still hear the call that the beast gives in response to the viscera it had created. As its voice booms out, he can hear the faint sound of electricity as it burns what is left of his fellow Rocket to nothing but a crisp.

"YOU ARE NOT WORTHY"

If that were the case, Schuyler himself would never be worthy.

prompt avatarship
words 316
total sleep score 600

⚰︎ divider made by milky!

dream drop distance

What's the point of wealth if in the end, the person isn't fulfilled? After his mother's death, he wasn't sad, happy, angry, anything really. It just felt numb. The way the lawyer drones over inheritance to him as he sits in the admittedly uncomfortable chair feels like his own personal hell. After the pleasantries are exchanged, he heads back to his own apartment to work tirelessly once more.

He sits at his laptop as he sorts through the more questionable tabs he has pulled open. Thankfully public wifi was a failsafe to fall back on. There were so many wannabe writers piled into the small coffee shop, who's to say the morbid topic of car crashes could be traced back to Schuyler? The author takes a sip of his coffee and pulls the blank document open once more. Fingers hurriedly stroke keys as the words flow onto the word document. A collective of short stories had been suggested by his editor, so he was stuck breaking things down into vignettes rather than chapters.

'Metal crunched and buckled as the cars collided, but rather than pain, all he felt was though he'd been ejected from the car. It all happened so fast that his brain didn't even register the pain. Though as he approached the car, all he could see was his mangled body. --'

It took a few hours and a few tweaks, but as each story flowed, Schuyler saved them and delivered each one individually to his editor. But despite how he continued to complete them, he felt empty. Did he even enjoy writing like this anymore? All he could see were due dates, release parties, and more deadlines approaching. The blonde rubs his face and lets out a groan. What was the point of tailoring these stories if he had no joy from it?

As his next book is published, the numbers and sales begin to pour in. And even with the money that they see, Schuyler still feels the heaviness of a lack of fulfillment. Why have all of this if it offers him no sense of satisfaction?

prompt wealth
words 352
total sleep score 400

⚰︎ divider made by milky!

dream drop distance

content warning for notes of implied physical abuse and matricide

His mother loved the piano, and swears that the melodies his father could compose were one of a kind; every stroke of the keys a step towards her heart. Music is what made them fall in love, and music is what kept his father's memory alive. And as her dementia worsened, his mother could only beg her son to play for her. Schuyler pulls the bench out and sits at the dusty piano of his family home. (How long had it been since he'd touched it? A blow of air against the cover was answer enough -- far too long.) His fingers worked in tandem with his feet as music filled the quiet, depressing silence that had once been alive with activity. His mother looks so peaceful.

As he presses the wrong key, Schuyler rips his hands back from the piano out of sheer reflex. Blood paints ivory as he's reminded of the error of his mistakes.

How his fingers ached and bled from the punishment that came whenever he failed to complete the scales perfectly. Failure had never been an option and nothing less of perfection was acceptable.

The only sounds he hears are that of the oxygen concentrator that gives a harsh puff every few seconds. His mother lifts her head to look at him and asks: "Philip, why did you stop?"

They were the reason he stopped. Schuyler takes a deep breath as he rises from the bench. But she doesn't remember how quick they were to punish his mistakes. She doesn't even remember his name, for fuck's sake. As he approaches his mother's bed, he kneels against the fabric mattress as he sinks down. His expression is a mixture of pain as ice cold fingers wrap around her frail neck. The more pressure he applies, the more he feels things beneath them begin to pop and snap.

She's weakened by her bedridden status. That much is obvious. The way wrinkled hands slap against his arm feel more like a brush than an actual attempt to get him to stop. The way his face twisted between pain, fear, and anger reflected this was the farthest thing from a mercy kill. His breath is ragged as nostrils flare and he musters the rest of his strength to finally snap her neck.

And it's that snap that finally wakes him up from this nightmare.

prompt family
words 396
total sleep score 200

⚰︎ divider made by milky!

dream drop distance

Morbidly curious fingers trailed against the exposed arm of the corpse and his eyes flew open. It was freezing. A gentle nudge showed any lack of resistance. A pick up and drop of the arm. Everything he experienced was soon jotted down. The only thing that broke him was the rumbling sound of his Nidoking. Schuyler backed away from the corpse, a little surprised. But he could understand the trepidation the man had in regards of Schuyler's own presence. As much as he could understand it, the author attempted to reason with the man.

"Rather than resort to violence, hear me out," he implored. "Sounds like a battle are likely to draw further spectators. While the probability that others are around is highly unlikely, it's not an absolute zero."

The way he spoke seemed fluid, like he expected the man to doubt him. Schuyler attempted to be the voice of reason in the moment as well as an attempt to save his own ass. But if Zev felt so inclined to battle, who was he to refuse? The blonde withdrew his Pangoro and allowed the panda to take its stance. The Cofagrigus was occupied with the corpse, so unless it closed or dropped the body into the grave, it posed no threat.

"Though otherwise, I don't plan on telling a soul of what transpired here. I could be considered an accomplice in this mess. That corpse has got my fingerprints on it, too. So how about I help you take care of the rest here?"

A simple suggestion that weighed heavy in the air. But he didn't seem to flinch at the idea one bit. Hell, he'd already touched the corpse, what was burying it in comparison?

⚰︎ divider made by milky!

Zev Harcourt

They say when people got to close to a flame, they'd get burned. It's a shame for Schuyler, he was an ever persistent moth that found a light to be drawn to. Mt. Pyre had so many mysteries that were just itching to be uncovered. And from the proper vantage point, you could see just about anything. As the Cofagrigus unveiled the corpse within its coffin-like body, Schuyler began to scratch the pencil in his hand against paper. The body seemed pale, bloated, and most importantly, lightweight. He'd never seen a dead body other than funerals, so to see it displayed so viscerally before him was a treat.

Then his pencil's point had to go and break.

Maybe it could have been written off as a wild pokemon. Schuyler's body stiffened before he began to relax again and carefully rose to full height. Tucked in between a few rocks upon the mountain, he kept his hands raised to show he meant no harm as he began his approach. He was brave enough to meet the grave digger's eyes if he chose to look back at him. Not necessarily a challenge, but an insistence on the fact he meant no harm.

"Livor mortis," he spoke finally, a nod to the corpse. "Recent work, am I correct? What's your method?"

Schuyler took a small pocket knife out and began to carve away at the pencil to sharpen it once more. Once he was ready, he lifted his notebook again and readied himself to take any notes that the dark haired man had for him. But then it hit him. Maybe he should reason why he was there. The stranger's purpose was obvious. But Schuyler's? Absolutely not. He acknowledged this detail and opted to speak once more.

"I'm just here to take notes. I'm fascinated by this sort of stuff, you see. I want my writing to be as accurate as it can be."

He had no qualms to show the man the notes he'd taken already. They seemed organized, like a science project of sorts. Then words spewed out, itching with curiosity.

"Say, do you mind if I touch it? I've never seen a corpse before."

⚰︎ divider made by milky!

Zev Harcourt