Encounterlogs
Toms Odd Encounter Sr Isaiah 240828
Tom's day begins with an unsettling mixture of disturbed sleep and a strong sense of disarray, propelling him out of his apartment and across the old Franklin Bridge. The interactions with pedestrians, tinged with misunderstanding and prejudice, heighten his sense of isolation. His encounter with a well-meaning but intrusive stranger on the bridge marks the beginning of an inexplicable and nightmarish experience, as the world around him starts to distort. Tom's already agitated state is compounded by a growing, irrational fear, pushing him further towards an emotional edge. The palpable sense of being followed, despite no visible pursuer, signals a descent into a realm far removed from the mundane anomalies of his morning.
The situation escalates quickly when Tom glimpses a monstrous, winged creature through the reflection in a passing car, an entity that seems to be hunting him. His attempt to evade the creature triggers a primal flight response, but even as he tries to escape, an unnerving interaction with a sinister figure masquerading as a preacher, Tylar Vray, anchors him back to the spot with terrifying implications of a supernatural confrontation. Despite Tom's attempt to invoke a forgotten faith in a moment of desperation, the encounter reaches a critical peak as the creature closes in, only for an unexpected intervention by heavily armed rescuers to save him. Left alone and more estranged from his surroundings than ever, Tom's ordeal on Franklin Bridge leaves him not only physically battered but also psychically bruised, wandering away in an attempt to escape the newfound terror that now colors his world.
(Tom's odd encounter(SRIsaiah):SRIsaiah)
[Sat Aug 17 2024]
On Franklin Bridge
The rickety old steel truss bridge runs north and south and affords its
travellers a view of scenic Haven through its rusty black supports. A
walkway runs on one side of the narrow two-lane bridge, five feet wide,
wooden planked and railed with a chest-high railing. To the north, the town
seems crowded and dense, while the south seems more sparse and quaint.
It is morning, about 75F(23C) degrees,
(Your target is attacked by monsters from the nightmare who've found a way through into our world. They need to survive for long enough for their allies to come help them.
)
Once Tom gives an emote on what he's up to, we can begin!
Tom has had a rough night, disturbed sleep. His thinking and emotions dysregulated, he dozed off on a couch for ten minutes and somehow it felt like a whole day had been lost. Waking groggy at early hours of the night, drinking coffee and restlessly trying to be productive and yet never feeling satisfied. Ruminating and pacing about in his apartment, smoking, attempting to read, scrolling through YouTube shorts. His time wasting, so long as his unsettled emotional state lingers. Eventually the sun rises and completely unaware of the state he is in, he walks out of his apartment with the intention of going to the gym but collecting his gym clothes on the way. He looks a bit of a state, unkept, unwashed, haggard with his stress and absentmindedness. And this is where we find him, marching across the old Franklin Bridge on his way.
The morning is crisp and clear despite the long night of howling wolves in the forest as ambiance. The perfect day to be outside, really, if you were anyone but Tom. Crossing Franklin Bridge is an event unto itself: the man's unkempt and unwashed self does not go unnoticed. Pedestrians take a glance at him and cover their noses, or they're moving to the other side of the street, risking being struck by traffic to avoid potential confrontation. The cherry on top might be the man that Tom is walking behind, who glances over his shoulder at him and sneers, saying, "I don't have any cash for your alcohol addiction," before speeding up his walk. But it isn't. That's just the whipped cream; the real cherry is the man who actually stops Tom halfway across the bridge with a soft smile that says he pities the guy. He clutches Tom's hands in his own, settling two one-dollar bills into his grasp, and says, "God bless you. It gets better. May I pray over you?" with that lingering touch and expression.
At first Tom doesn't really pick up on the cues, there is an aloof quality to his focus. His gaze locked on the sidewalk, watching the few feet before himself as he strides along. Ignoring the baseball practice which was taking place in the field next to Prospect Street, even as the group had grown animated cheering on some activity that escaped his notice. So as Tom begins to be drawn back to his senses, he's finding it hard to believe as he starts seeing what he considers to be over-reactions.
The man ahead of him, speaking to him as if he was a homeless person. The gall. His own internal monologue trying to convince him that he didn't look that bad, indignant and embarrassed at the same time. He ignores the first man, keeping his gaze on the floor whilst pushing down his anger. The man who grabs his hands however, seems to over-step a boundary. A boundary that Tom wasn't even aware he had right in that moment, he snaps at the man suggesting that they pray. Shoving with his hands, ignoring the two dollars and raising his voice at them. "Hey! Get the hell off me. Don't touch me." Right now the large man, just can't keep his cool and without waiting around tries his best to walk off and away from the scene he was creating.
Well, that outburst only causes more people to overreact, folks now flooding to the other side of the street when Tom raises his voice- but not that man. There's no shaking that eerie smile that creeps over his face now, shifting with wide-spread lips from soft to utterly unsettling. "I forgive you," he says in even tones, and for a moment it's like Tom is not looking at a human, but looking at the Devil himself. Such is the large man's lot in life as he shoves past, attempting to go on about his day, minding his business, just wanting to go to the gym and forget about, well, whatever it was that had him in such utter disarray. There is no feeling of being followed, and yet Tom would likely know that that strange man from earlier is doing just that. It's not the sound of footsteps, nor the noise of his voice reciting prayers in feverish desperation. No. In any condition of life as a member of mankind, this sensation is easily recognizable and causes a fright in the heart that could push back the though of any reservations or inconveniences that might be caused by the reaction. It's fear. Simple fear.
The passing of a car might catch Tom's eye, and it might not, but it's not the car itself that is important; it is the reflection in the windows, far too tinted to be legal, and yet their appearance here and now couldn't be anything other than Tom's good luck shining its light upon him. It passes in a blink, gone as soon as it had come, and yet it reveals everything in the world that needs to be known in that moment. Following closely behind at around ten feet tall is some freak of nature that shouldn't exist. A massive humanoid Thing with six lovely white wings bursting forth from its back like too many eagles perched upon its spine stalks the sidewalk of Franklin Bridge. Stalks Tom with too many eyes covering every inch of its body to the point where one might question if there is any flesh at all, or if it is simply comprised of ocular orbs that joined together and decided that they wanted to be the Thing. There is no one color to the eyes. In fact, they are every color of eye one might imagine exists in the world. They, them, it, this Thing, could only be described as some Lovecraftian Eldritch horror, or a Biblically accurate angel bathed in a glowing golden glow, and yet it seems anything but holy as it follows, stalks, pursues, chases.
It's funny how the body or the subconscious knows, the way one turns to look about when a set of eyes are watching from a distance. If it were just a set of eyes, one onlooker from a distance Tom would probably have felt no resistance to just peering about and seeking out that gaze. Just wash away the instinct, with the glance that solves the mystery. Usually Tom could sense with some accuracy, using his senses and intuit exactly where the person staring was. Or at least he'd like to think he could and yet in this moment, that sense of being watched was something else. The intuition he felt was one that said: 'Whatever you do, don't look'.
He felt the world narrowing in around him, his nervous system already agitated from a night load of cortisol was now having a nice dose of adrenaline to the mix. His breath quickening, little nasal huffs and sucks in minor hyperventilation that just adds to his already quickly unmanagable state of fear. He tries to focus on the day, the green of Buckthorn Lane and the park just up ahead. Uttering a mantra of self talk: 'It's broad daylight' and 'You're safe Tom, you're safe'. Except every fibre of his being was rather adamant that thinking wasn't what was needed right now. Thinking wouldn't help.
Tom was a sucker for peripheral observations, he's always seeking out the information in the creases of his surroundings that he suspects others might be missing. So as that car drives by Tom is very much soaking in the reflections and his mind reels, his nostrils and pupils flaring and his gaze focusing ahead. His lumbering gait, slows and then comes to a stop as he feels the paralysis of his most common 'F' response. Tom isn't usually one to fight, take flight or fawn, Tom is a freezer. Fear subduing his motory functions, just long enough that he's stood there on the sidewalk. Feeling something intense, growing, a plethora of unravelling chaos inside of his mind. A dangerous curiousity, daring Tom to take a look and embrace. The internal fawn response, already attempting to fathom what negotiation or forgiveness would even be possible. A part of him, screaming at him, imploring him to move, to run until he could run no more. All in just thirty seconds of freeze.
Fight, flight, freeze, fawn, Tom could do any of these things and no one that knows the true nature of this world would be able to blame him. However, he chooses to freeze- or his body does, at the sight of Gabriel Come Down From On High. A reasonable response, to be sure, and as Tom remains in place as thus due to the strong desire in his mind, that man catches up once more, the power of imagination almost overriding the truth the eyes speak as his form flickers between diabolical and ordinary. He rounds the side of the large fellow in a nice, pastorly suit and tie an a smile that resembles that of the most esteemed Joel Osteen; friendly, but dangerous and conniving. Untrustworthy. "Hello, friend," he says again, tall enough to be taller than Tom but not reaching the same height as that Thing the man had seen.
"Have you had a change of heart? The Lord's spoken to you, hasn't He?" Too friendly, too soft, too kind, too nice, those eyes with crow's feet at the corners crinkle with his smile. "My name's Tylar Vray. It's so lovely to get to stand here and chat with you. Now, isn't today a lovely day for prayer?" he asks, his voice growing darker as strings of black begin to fill the veins streaking his eyes. His voice becomes darker, more ominous, and it is as if time slows down with the pedestrians and vehicles ceasing to cross the Bridge entirely. "Did you pray today?" he asks, his voice little more than a hungry growl.
A change of heart. What an accursed phrase for an angelborn's ears to hear. Tom knew better than the average person what it meant to have a change of heart, supernaturally subject to the strings of other people's desires flossing through his soul at the best and worst of times. Now that the Eldritch horror had all but caught up with him, his entire inner monologue had degressively intensified into a chaotic slurry of toxic self criticism, which was primarily focused on the regret of ever allowing 'freeze' to be response in such a situation as this.
The heavy-set man, tries to summon some kind of will. On the verge of disappearing and abandoning his own driving seat, Tom was prone to dissociation and yet there was still some thread of survival instinct compelling Tom for action. He tries to speak, though his voice really does betray him and reveals quite how afraid he currently is. The words fragile and small, like a child, despite his large body. He almost whimpers the word, "Hi.. I uh.." He doesn't smile, he can barely even look at the man. He looks pale and as if realising that there was an opportunity here, to alleviate some private suffering he was having his desire compels him to murmur. "I haven't prayed since I was a little boy.. who.. who would hear me pray?" His eyes close as he hears the intensity of the menace, the ominous weight of the being's presence oppressively taking up multiple dimensions just to be here. The hunger, how odd it is to want to be eaten, the fear is unrelentless despite the underlying bending of his heart. He murmurs in terror with his eyes still closed, "Oh god."
One might wonder if, in this situation, there is a God who can hear that pathetic little noise Tom makes as the Thing rounds him. What God would make such an abhorrent beast. "Why," says the Thing. "The One True God, of course. Our Lord and Savior. The Almighty, the Great I Am," he rambles as his fingers lift, splindly and long like that of a pianist- and as bony as that of a lich as they tuck themselves under Tom's chin and start to slowly urge it upwards. "Look at me," he says, all but vibrating with nervous energy as he urges something that every bone in Tom's body tells him not to do. For once, those muscles, that mind, they tell him he should be running.
Now.
Run now.
RUN
"LOOK AT ME!" he shouts more firmly, not even waiting for Tom's refusal or denial. Only applying more pressure to that chin.
The touch, triggers a sense of such revulsion that it turns his stomach. He feels the strength leaving his limbs, his eyes shut tight locking him inside of some fleshy abyssal prison of his mindseye. His jaw tightening, teeth clenching together in such a way that makes him regret being a long time smoker as they creek beneath the pressure. The fear so palpable that he for a moment is unsure of whether or not he has urinated, he hasn't but the sensation plagues his imagination none the less as it was so possible.
Tom can't possibly want this, why does he want this? Is this what he deserves? Images of his mother flashing in his mind. Forest glades, hoods and pentagrams of blood poured across grass and dirt. Fear, helplessness, sacrifical lamb. Tom growls and tries to run, summoning all the strength he can. The image he saw in the reflection of glass, looming in his mind. He just needs to run. He feels himself slipping, just the urge to run to survive. Perhaps something inside snapped, because he no longer is thinking. He is just one thing, flesh that runs. And he's fast, faster than he has ever been. The speed which angelborn are renowned for, erupting out of him.
Though whether he actually can get away from the creature who more or less has him by the chin, that is another thing.
There is a single blink of time where Tom is captured by the chin, his head being forced upwards and upwards and upwards. Perhaps the Thing expects total obedience, and that is why its grip is so slack, for when the man turns to run away, his chin slips from betwixt those skeletal fingers, and he is bolting down the road for his life. Without looking back it is easy to tell that the Thing isn't far behind- judging by those wings, it, too, is an Angel of some kind. Or was. Or imitates? It's hard to tell at this point in time- there isn't time to think about it. Only time to think about his legs moving, and time to think about which direction he is going to go.
Perhaps getting to a place with more people will help the situation. If he could just find a crowd. A packed restaurant. A police car. Anything.
Desperation and death follow after Tom like his shadow, hot on his heels but never quite tangible as he beats feet, until finally that Thing leaps into the air, attempting to wrap long, spindly arms around him and bring him crashing towards the ground, a single large pupil on its face splitting in two to reveal the presence of a mouth full of ichor-black teeth. This is it. This is the end. Until: "FIRE!!" is called from the distance, and the sound of bullets flying rings out.
The big man is running back the way he came, running along the Old Franklin Bridge and to make things worse he has his eyes shut tightly closed. The only indication he's gone off of the sidewalk is when his foot lands awkwardly onto the asphalt and twists as it catches the lip of the curb. With the pace he is hurtling himself, Tom goes down hard and hears the honking of traffic and the swerving distress of a vehicle.
His eyes open again as he lands, grazing his hands and bruising his knee. He feels nothing, adrenaline has him covered and he's springing back up ignoring the hole in the knee of his chinos. Glancing over his shoulder with the instincts of an alarmed gazelle and seeing nothing, yet why, why does it still feel so bad. He was almost at the end of the bridge, everything was still screaming run even though he couldn't see it any longer. The predatory thing was just avoiding his eye line perfectly.
Yet the large man's instincts and the reality of his situation knit together as the monstrosity descends upon him and the large man collapses in a tumbling fall once again, this time crushed beneath the six winged ancient horror. He screams out, hands pushing at the grit of the ground as he tries to wrestle and fight. Finally he fights, but it is too late. That open maw, he's done for.
Tom braces for an impact that never really comes. He falls to the ground hard, breath likely held, eyes likely sealed shut, and yet...
Death does not await him this day. There's the smell of burnt gunpowder filling the air, but no ripping, no tearing, no shredding of soft flesh and delicious meats. There is only silence, the sound of something drug away, boot steps all around. If Tom does choose to peek he would see little more than figures dressed in a militant fashion, yet wearing nothing but black uploading the tattered remains of Swiss cheese the thing had become. They don't bother with him. They don't even check to see if he is alright. They load up the body, barking orders, clearing the area of evidence, and then disappear in the backs of armored trucks.
Tom just lays on the sidewalk, waiting for something to happen. Waiting for someone to address him, but soon he's just looking like a crazy person laying on the sidewalk. Dirtier than he left the house, holes in his clothes. He now looks like the homeless person he was mistaken for earlier. It takes a labour of effort to come back to his senses enough to even push himself off the floor, he stands looking around at bystanders and feeling their desires for him to get out of their sight and to be alone. The overwhelm of his experience, leaving him entirely shook and shut down in some significant ways. So he shuffles off, mindlessly obeying the shameful desire to be hidden.
The situation escalates quickly when Tom glimpses a monstrous, winged creature through the reflection in a passing car, an entity that seems to be hunting him. His attempt to evade the creature triggers a primal flight response, but even as he tries to escape, an unnerving interaction with a sinister figure masquerading as a preacher, Tylar Vray, anchors him back to the spot with terrifying implications of a supernatural confrontation. Despite Tom's attempt to invoke a forgotten faith in a moment of desperation, the encounter reaches a critical peak as the creature closes in, only for an unexpected intervention by heavily armed rescuers to save him. Left alone and more estranged from his surroundings than ever, Tom's ordeal on Franklin Bridge leaves him not only physically battered but also psychically bruised, wandering away in an attempt to escape the newfound terror that now colors his world.
(Tom's odd encounter(SRIsaiah):SRIsaiah)
[Sat Aug 17 2024]
On Franklin Bridge
The rickety old steel truss bridge runs north and south and affords its
travellers a view of scenic Haven through its rusty black supports. A
walkway runs on one side of the narrow two-lane bridge, five feet wide,
wooden planked and railed with a chest-high railing. To the north, the town
seems crowded and dense, while the south seems more sparse and quaint.
It is morning, about 75F(23C) degrees,
(Your target is attacked by monsters from the nightmare who've found a way through into our world. They need to survive for long enough for their allies to come help them.
)
Once Tom gives an emote on what he's up to, we can begin!
Tom has had a rough night, disturbed sleep. His thinking and emotions dysregulated, he dozed off on a couch for ten minutes and somehow it felt like a whole day had been lost. Waking groggy at early hours of the night, drinking coffee and restlessly trying to be productive and yet never feeling satisfied. Ruminating and pacing about in his apartment, smoking, attempting to read, scrolling through YouTube shorts. His time wasting, so long as his unsettled emotional state lingers. Eventually the sun rises and completely unaware of the state he is in, he walks out of his apartment with the intention of going to the gym but collecting his gym clothes on the way. He looks a bit of a state, unkept, unwashed, haggard with his stress and absentmindedness. And this is where we find him, marching across the old Franklin Bridge on his way.
The morning is crisp and clear despite the long night of howling wolves in the forest as ambiance. The perfect day to be outside, really, if you were anyone but Tom. Crossing Franklin Bridge is an event unto itself: the man's unkempt and unwashed self does not go unnoticed. Pedestrians take a glance at him and cover their noses, or they're moving to the other side of the street, risking being struck by traffic to avoid potential confrontation. The cherry on top might be the man that Tom is walking behind, who glances over his shoulder at him and sneers, saying, "I don't have any cash for your alcohol addiction," before speeding up his walk. But it isn't. That's just the whipped cream; the real cherry is the man who actually stops Tom halfway across the bridge with a soft smile that says he pities the guy. He clutches Tom's hands in his own, settling two one-dollar bills into his grasp, and says, "God bless you. It gets better. May I pray over you?" with that lingering touch and expression.
At first Tom doesn't really pick up on the cues, there is an aloof quality to his focus. His gaze locked on the sidewalk, watching the few feet before himself as he strides along. Ignoring the baseball practice which was taking place in the field next to Prospect Street, even as the group had grown animated cheering on some activity that escaped his notice. So as Tom begins to be drawn back to his senses, he's finding it hard to believe as he starts seeing what he considers to be over-reactions.
The man ahead of him, speaking to him as if he was a homeless person. The gall. His own internal monologue trying to convince him that he didn't look that bad, indignant and embarrassed at the same time. He ignores the first man, keeping his gaze on the floor whilst pushing down his anger. The man who grabs his hands however, seems to over-step a boundary. A boundary that Tom wasn't even aware he had right in that moment, he snaps at the man suggesting that they pray. Shoving with his hands, ignoring the two dollars and raising his voice at them. "Hey! Get the hell off me. Don't touch me." Right now the large man, just can't keep his cool and without waiting around tries his best to walk off and away from the scene he was creating.
Well, that outburst only causes more people to overreact, folks now flooding to the other side of the street when Tom raises his voice- but not that man. There's no shaking that eerie smile that creeps over his face now, shifting with wide-spread lips from soft to utterly unsettling. "I forgive you," he says in even tones, and for a moment it's like Tom is not looking at a human, but looking at the Devil himself. Such is the large man's lot in life as he shoves past, attempting to go on about his day, minding his business, just wanting to go to the gym and forget about, well, whatever it was that had him in such utter disarray. There is no feeling of being followed, and yet Tom would likely know that that strange man from earlier is doing just that. It's not the sound of footsteps, nor the noise of his voice reciting prayers in feverish desperation. No. In any condition of life as a member of mankind, this sensation is easily recognizable and causes a fright in the heart that could push back the though of any reservations or inconveniences that might be caused by the reaction. It's fear. Simple fear.
The passing of a car might catch Tom's eye, and it might not, but it's not the car itself that is important; it is the reflection in the windows, far too tinted to be legal, and yet their appearance here and now couldn't be anything other than Tom's good luck shining its light upon him. It passes in a blink, gone as soon as it had come, and yet it reveals everything in the world that needs to be known in that moment. Following closely behind at around ten feet tall is some freak of nature that shouldn't exist. A massive humanoid Thing with six lovely white wings bursting forth from its back like too many eagles perched upon its spine stalks the sidewalk of Franklin Bridge. Stalks Tom with too many eyes covering every inch of its body to the point where one might question if there is any flesh at all, or if it is simply comprised of ocular orbs that joined together and decided that they wanted to be the Thing. There is no one color to the eyes. In fact, they are every color of eye one might imagine exists in the world. They, them, it, this Thing, could only be described as some Lovecraftian Eldritch horror, or a Biblically accurate angel bathed in a glowing golden glow, and yet it seems anything but holy as it follows, stalks, pursues, chases.
It's funny how the body or the subconscious knows, the way one turns to look about when a set of eyes are watching from a distance. If it were just a set of eyes, one onlooker from a distance Tom would probably have felt no resistance to just peering about and seeking out that gaze. Just wash away the instinct, with the glance that solves the mystery. Usually Tom could sense with some accuracy, using his senses and intuit exactly where the person staring was. Or at least he'd like to think he could and yet in this moment, that sense of being watched was something else. The intuition he felt was one that said: 'Whatever you do, don't look'.
He felt the world narrowing in around him, his nervous system already agitated from a night load of cortisol was now having a nice dose of adrenaline to the mix. His breath quickening, little nasal huffs and sucks in minor hyperventilation that just adds to his already quickly unmanagable state of fear. He tries to focus on the day, the green of Buckthorn Lane and the park just up ahead. Uttering a mantra of self talk: 'It's broad daylight' and 'You're safe Tom, you're safe'. Except every fibre of his being was rather adamant that thinking wasn't what was needed right now. Thinking wouldn't help.
Tom was a sucker for peripheral observations, he's always seeking out the information in the creases of his surroundings that he suspects others might be missing. So as that car drives by Tom is very much soaking in the reflections and his mind reels, his nostrils and pupils flaring and his gaze focusing ahead. His lumbering gait, slows and then comes to a stop as he feels the paralysis of his most common 'F' response. Tom isn't usually one to fight, take flight or fawn, Tom is a freezer. Fear subduing his motory functions, just long enough that he's stood there on the sidewalk. Feeling something intense, growing, a plethora of unravelling chaos inside of his mind. A dangerous curiousity, daring Tom to take a look and embrace. The internal fawn response, already attempting to fathom what negotiation or forgiveness would even be possible. A part of him, screaming at him, imploring him to move, to run until he could run no more. All in just thirty seconds of freeze.
Fight, flight, freeze, fawn, Tom could do any of these things and no one that knows the true nature of this world would be able to blame him. However, he chooses to freeze- or his body does, at the sight of Gabriel Come Down From On High. A reasonable response, to be sure, and as Tom remains in place as thus due to the strong desire in his mind, that man catches up once more, the power of imagination almost overriding the truth the eyes speak as his form flickers between diabolical and ordinary. He rounds the side of the large fellow in a nice, pastorly suit and tie an a smile that resembles that of the most esteemed Joel Osteen; friendly, but dangerous and conniving. Untrustworthy. "Hello, friend," he says again, tall enough to be taller than Tom but not reaching the same height as that Thing the man had seen.
"Have you had a change of heart? The Lord's spoken to you, hasn't He?" Too friendly, too soft, too kind, too nice, those eyes with crow's feet at the corners crinkle with his smile. "My name's Tylar Vray. It's so lovely to get to stand here and chat with you. Now, isn't today a lovely day for prayer?" he asks, his voice growing darker as strings of black begin to fill the veins streaking his eyes. His voice becomes darker, more ominous, and it is as if time slows down with the pedestrians and vehicles ceasing to cross the Bridge entirely. "Did you pray today?" he asks, his voice little more than a hungry growl.
A change of heart. What an accursed phrase for an angelborn's ears to hear. Tom knew better than the average person what it meant to have a change of heart, supernaturally subject to the strings of other people's desires flossing through his soul at the best and worst of times. Now that the Eldritch horror had all but caught up with him, his entire inner monologue had degressively intensified into a chaotic slurry of toxic self criticism, which was primarily focused on the regret of ever allowing 'freeze' to be response in such a situation as this.
The heavy-set man, tries to summon some kind of will. On the verge of disappearing and abandoning his own driving seat, Tom was prone to dissociation and yet there was still some thread of survival instinct compelling Tom for action. He tries to speak, though his voice really does betray him and reveals quite how afraid he currently is. The words fragile and small, like a child, despite his large body. He almost whimpers the word, "Hi.. I uh.." He doesn't smile, he can barely even look at the man. He looks pale and as if realising that there was an opportunity here, to alleviate some private suffering he was having his desire compels him to murmur. "I haven't prayed since I was a little boy.. who.. who would hear me pray?" His eyes close as he hears the intensity of the menace, the ominous weight of the being's presence oppressively taking up multiple dimensions just to be here. The hunger, how odd it is to want to be eaten, the fear is unrelentless despite the underlying bending of his heart. He murmurs in terror with his eyes still closed, "Oh god."
One might wonder if, in this situation, there is a God who can hear that pathetic little noise Tom makes as the Thing rounds him. What God would make such an abhorrent beast. "Why," says the Thing. "The One True God, of course. Our Lord and Savior. The Almighty, the Great I Am," he rambles as his fingers lift, splindly and long like that of a pianist- and as bony as that of a lich as they tuck themselves under Tom's chin and start to slowly urge it upwards. "Look at me," he says, all but vibrating with nervous energy as he urges something that every bone in Tom's body tells him not to do. For once, those muscles, that mind, they tell him he should be running.
Now.
Run now.
RUN
"LOOK AT ME!" he shouts more firmly, not even waiting for Tom's refusal or denial. Only applying more pressure to that chin.
The touch, triggers a sense of such revulsion that it turns his stomach. He feels the strength leaving his limbs, his eyes shut tight locking him inside of some fleshy abyssal prison of his mindseye. His jaw tightening, teeth clenching together in such a way that makes him regret being a long time smoker as they creek beneath the pressure. The fear so palpable that he for a moment is unsure of whether or not he has urinated, he hasn't but the sensation plagues his imagination none the less as it was so possible.
Tom can't possibly want this, why does he want this? Is this what he deserves? Images of his mother flashing in his mind. Forest glades, hoods and pentagrams of blood poured across grass and dirt. Fear, helplessness, sacrifical lamb. Tom growls and tries to run, summoning all the strength he can. The image he saw in the reflection of glass, looming in his mind. He just needs to run. He feels himself slipping, just the urge to run to survive. Perhaps something inside snapped, because he no longer is thinking. He is just one thing, flesh that runs. And he's fast, faster than he has ever been. The speed which angelborn are renowned for, erupting out of him.
Though whether he actually can get away from the creature who more or less has him by the chin, that is another thing.
There is a single blink of time where Tom is captured by the chin, his head being forced upwards and upwards and upwards. Perhaps the Thing expects total obedience, and that is why its grip is so slack, for when the man turns to run away, his chin slips from betwixt those skeletal fingers, and he is bolting down the road for his life. Without looking back it is easy to tell that the Thing isn't far behind- judging by those wings, it, too, is an Angel of some kind. Or was. Or imitates? It's hard to tell at this point in time- there isn't time to think about it. Only time to think about his legs moving, and time to think about which direction he is going to go.
Perhaps getting to a place with more people will help the situation. If he could just find a crowd. A packed restaurant. A police car. Anything.
Desperation and death follow after Tom like his shadow, hot on his heels but never quite tangible as he beats feet, until finally that Thing leaps into the air, attempting to wrap long, spindly arms around him and bring him crashing towards the ground, a single large pupil on its face splitting in two to reveal the presence of a mouth full of ichor-black teeth. This is it. This is the end. Until: "FIRE!!" is called from the distance, and the sound of bullets flying rings out.
The big man is running back the way he came, running along the Old Franklin Bridge and to make things worse he has his eyes shut tightly closed. The only indication he's gone off of the sidewalk is when his foot lands awkwardly onto the asphalt and twists as it catches the lip of the curb. With the pace he is hurtling himself, Tom goes down hard and hears the honking of traffic and the swerving distress of a vehicle.
His eyes open again as he lands, grazing his hands and bruising his knee. He feels nothing, adrenaline has him covered and he's springing back up ignoring the hole in the knee of his chinos. Glancing over his shoulder with the instincts of an alarmed gazelle and seeing nothing, yet why, why does it still feel so bad. He was almost at the end of the bridge, everything was still screaming run even though he couldn't see it any longer. The predatory thing was just avoiding his eye line perfectly.
Yet the large man's instincts and the reality of his situation knit together as the monstrosity descends upon him and the large man collapses in a tumbling fall once again, this time crushed beneath the six winged ancient horror. He screams out, hands pushing at the grit of the ground as he tries to wrestle and fight. Finally he fights, but it is too late. That open maw, he's done for.
Tom braces for an impact that never really comes. He falls to the ground hard, breath likely held, eyes likely sealed shut, and yet...
Death does not await him this day. There's the smell of burnt gunpowder filling the air, but no ripping, no tearing, no shredding of soft flesh and delicious meats. There is only silence, the sound of something drug away, boot steps all around. If Tom does choose to peek he would see little more than figures dressed in a militant fashion, yet wearing nothing but black uploading the tattered remains of Swiss cheese the thing had become. They don't bother with him. They don't even check to see if he is alright. They load up the body, barking orders, clearing the area of evidence, and then disappear in the backs of armored trucks.
Tom just lays on the sidewalk, waiting for something to happen. Waiting for someone to address him, but soon he's just looking like a crazy person laying on the sidewalk. Dirtier than he left the house, holes in his clothes. He now looks like the homeless person he was mistaken for earlier. It takes a labour of effort to come back to his senses enough to even push himself off the floor, he stands looking around at bystanders and feeling their desires for him to get out of their sight and to be alone. The overwhelm of his experience, leaving him entirely shook and shut down in some significant ways. So he shuffles off, mindlessly obeying the shameful desire to be hidden.