[ti]solo[/ti]To Grass Roots

The ground is soft beneath his feet. Cracked earth turns to mush, trying to swallow his every step. The sky has an oily, iridescent sheen that burns his retinas.

He keeps his gaze forwards, imagining a horizon beyond the gloom that bisects both the earth and sky, keeping them from melding together and crushing him.

Silly is an understatement. Coming here once was a mistake, the second was idiocy, and the third is an active death wish.

( Sure, there are other options – he could ignore it all, for starters. The current state of his avatar and his team didn’t impede his battling or gameplay. He could even drop the game wholesale now that he’s made significant progress on his recovery.

Atsushi has always had trouble dropping something once he starts. )

He looks down and is shocked to see there’s grass tickling his legs. He didn’t notice them growing. The darkness no longer shrouds him, instead parting seamlessly without trying to cling to his skin. It refuses to touch Sprigatito.

It strengthens his resolve. The grass is crushed under his feet as he trudges faster, the light that calls for him so much closer, so within reach. All he has to do is stretch his hand out—


and take it.


His fingers flinch, unable to curl around the star.

The star that isn’t a star. The star doesn’t emit warmth, instead remaining flat and static under his finger. On contact, it clicks, a robotic voice calling out two words:

UPGRADES PROCESSED
Y̢͔̤͇̥̮̭͊O̵͔̼ͥ̂Ṵ̷̜̟̟̟̺̦̋̄̓ͅ ̶͍̥͆ͫF̸̬̜̮̓̈ͧ͒Ȕ̡̘̗̯͉C̩̗̙͇̥ͯͪ̐̓͞K̷̲̝̖͔̥͔̆̐͋I̷͎͕̬̓N͚͕̝̘̦̙̥̾͒͗͟G͇͍̓͢ ̨͖̯̯͑̒̈̑I͋͏̗̟D̢̮͈̯͚͍͌ͭͮͥI̽͌̿͏̘͓̞͖̱͉Õ̞̱̖̘͖̹̼̭͘Ţ͇̞̻̱̙͎ͪͪ̋̄.̨̹̰̗͕̤͔̖̇̌

SPRIGATITO || 150/250

TW: Body Horror, Strangulation

His heart is thumping in his ears, the permeating feeling of wrongness reaching crescendo as he watches his inked flesh churn and twitch, as if coming alive.

The grass under his feet wilts into the soil. Sprigatito in his arms groans, the first sound he’s uttered since they breached the threshold. He turns to bury his face against Kazuki’s chest, looking worse by the second.

The kitten’s fur has discolored fully from the shade of mint into an ashen, crumbling umber. The ends of each strand twists into fraying tips resembling baby hair, and as he moves, the strands scrape against the skin of Kazuki’s arms, clinging as if his flesh is water.

The strands curl, growing thicker until they wrap over Kazuki’s arms like thin ropes.

“What did you do to him?!” Kazuki goes into panic, trying to rouse Sprigatito in his arms, but the kitten is completely unresponsive. Attempting to rip off the things growing out of him only makes them wind tighter around Kazuki’s arms. They grow until they’re the size of an ancient oak’s roots.

'Relax. Handling it. Helping you. Got you.'

“The fuck you are!” He grasps one of the roots tight, gritting his teeth as he yanks it as hard as he can.

The rough bark digs into his skin and rips it apart.

The root hangs limp in his hand, a sound of pain wrenched out of him. His forearm bears the scar, but when he looks at the tear, all he sees is black.

The black begins to spill.

It’s a dribble at first, tracing the lines of his tattoos. The scar opens wider, the substance seeping out of him taking on a high viscosity and temperature until what comes out is less like blood and more like bubbling tar. The thick coagulation splats disgustingly on the ground by his feet.

He tries to plug the wound with his hand, but the substance only rebounds off his palm, comes spilling over more of his skin, blanking out the vibrant red of inked flowers, and dyes the fur of Sprigatito. He can feel the roots winding over his arms and legs. They crawl around his ribs, tight enough that it feels as if they’re grinding bone, and cradle his small, beating heart as if it were a robin’s egg.

The entity chuckles in his voice. No matter how many roots he destroys, no matter how much he tries to stop the spill of his wounds, there appears to be no end to the total emptying of his person.

"Please," he wheezes as a root grabs hold of his neck, winding tight around his trachea until the end brushes his jaw. “Just– tell me what you want– whatever it is— anything—”

At this, the laughter grows silent, and the root halts.

‘Anything?’

SPRIGATITO || 50/250