a. GLORIA, I THINK THEY GOT YOUR NUMBER. (STORMFRONT.)
[ After the first time losing the sensation in his remaining arm, Venom learns not to approach the crash of thunder or acknowledge it aside from the vague tremor he occasionally feels from the ground up, rattling his teeth from where he has his electronic cigarette clamped between his lips. It's exhausting, it's irritating, it's too much— the steady crash of punishment that rains down on them makes him feel like he's constantly swallowing dirty water, crushing gravel on his molars with each breath.
At the very least, he has experience on his side. He's done this before, the whole song-and-dance of crouching knee-deep in shit and mud, smelling like trash and rotting carcasses until he doesn't remember what air tastes like. He can tolerate it, the slog of nausea and hearing loss, the disorientation and fatigue.
He's not sure that the others are so amenable, though.
In the event that he runs across anyone struggling with their eyes or ears or sanity, he'll pull closer to them and offer a hand, a look, a side to lean on. ]
...Keep moving. Can you walk?
b. I THINK THEY'VE GOT THE ALIAS THAT YOU'VE BEEN LIVING UNDER. (OLD FAMILIAR PLACES.)
[ This is suspicious.
The more Venom travels, the less he believes what he's seeing— not the pathways, not the metal lining the halls, not the chambers that he finds intact. This isn't the first time that his memories aren't aligning with reality, though, so he's not alarmed as much as he feels vaguely sick; he can't trust the tiling under his feet, and vertigo hits him like a freighter.
He takes a step back, away from another incongruity that twists his features into a frown. Somewhere along the way, he bumps into someone: whoever he runs into, he'll turn and fix a sharp, searching eye on them before he lets the tension ebb from his shoulders in increments. ]
...Something isn't right.
[ Straight to business. ]
c. BUT YOU REALLY DON'T REMEMBER: WAS IT SOMETHING THAT THEY SAID? (WILDCARD.)
( obligatory wildcard option! let me know if you want me to set something up specifically for you, homie— feel free to PM me at my journal, or shoot me a PP at deuil! )
venom snake | ota.
[ After the first time losing the sensation in his remaining arm, Venom learns not to approach the crash of thunder or acknowledge it aside from the vague tremor he occasionally feels from the ground up, rattling his teeth from where he has his electronic cigarette clamped between his lips. It's exhausting, it's irritating, it's too much— the steady crash of punishment that rains down on them makes him feel like he's constantly swallowing dirty water, crushing gravel on his molars with each breath.
At the very least, he has experience on his side. He's done this before, the whole song-and-dance of crouching knee-deep in shit and mud, smelling like trash and rotting carcasses until he doesn't remember what air tastes like. He can tolerate it, the slog of nausea and hearing loss, the disorientation and fatigue.
He's not sure that the others are so amenable, though.
In the event that he runs across anyone struggling with their eyes or ears or sanity, he'll pull closer to them and offer a hand, a look, a side to lean on. ]
...Keep moving. Can you walk?
b. I THINK THEY'VE GOT THE ALIAS THAT YOU'VE BEEN LIVING UNDER. (OLD FAMILIAR PLACES.)
[ This is suspicious.
The more Venom travels, the less he believes what he's seeing— not the pathways, not the metal lining the halls, not the chambers that he finds intact. This isn't the first time that his memories aren't aligning with reality, though, so he's not alarmed as much as he feels vaguely sick; he can't trust the tiling under his feet, and vertigo hits him like a freighter.
He takes a step back, away from another incongruity that twists his features into a frown. Somewhere along the way, he bumps into someone: whoever he runs into, he'll turn and fix a sharp, searching eye on them before he lets the tension ebb from his shoulders in increments. ]
...Something isn't right.
[ Straight to business. ]
c. BUT YOU REALLY DON'T REMEMBER: WAS IT SOMETHING THAT THEY SAID? (WILDCARD.)
( obligatory wildcard option! let me know if you want me to set something up specifically for you, homie— feel free to PM me at my journal, or shoot me a PP at