[Comm] Missing, Presumed Dead (Extended Edition)

Pikasso vanishing into thin air at random intervals is about as uncommon as Paris stubbing his toe on the dresser when he wakes up running late for an appointment. That is to say, it happens about once every week or two, give or take.

 

More often than not, Paris will stumble out of bed, cursing the oncoming light of day before shuffling his way into his apartment's chaotic kitchen to throw some coffee in the pot and some food on the stove. He'll only barely register whether there's a pale lump sprawled out on the couch or not- really, the slumbering pile of stubby tentacles is more of a giveaway on whether Pikasso's taken off or not.

 

So at first, Paris doesn't realize anything is amiss.

 

Wake up. Shake his fist at the light filtering in through his window. Roll out of bed with a dramatic sigh and even more dramatic thud. Stumble out his room, distantly note the pile of thulus not yet disturbed by the curse that is a new day dawning, and prepare to pour copious amounts of caffeine into his system to kickstart his day.

 

Paris stares at the coffee maker drowsily as it drip, drip, drips glorious brown liquid down into his waiting cup.

 

"Anythin' you want f'r br'kfast?" He calls out, voice still hoarse from last night's performance. Paris might be exhausted and barely awake, and Pikasso might be barely more than a stranger that has somehow become his part-time roommate without Paris's input, but Paris is still a gentleman. As if he'll let his guest(?) go hungry!

 

...but there's no answer.

 

Well, maybe Pikasso is still sleeping. He's usually awake by the time Paris is stumbling his way into the kitchen, but maybe he's sleeping in today. He's pretty sure Pikasso isn't employed, so he'd be able to sleep the day away if he wanted- how enviable.

 

Paris peels himself away from the riveting activity of watching coffee brew to open up his fridge. Hm, good options for leftovers... that ramen doesn't look too old. He grabs it, popping it in the microwave and entirely forgetting to remove the plastic wrap on top. If Pikasso wants food, well, he'll have to fend for himself.

 

Unsynchronized beeps bring Paris back down to Burrowgatory. He maybe burns his fingertips and his tongue a little bit as he rushes to gulp down his coffee and slurp up his reheated meal, but he can handle it! Anything for the burst of energy they give him. By the time he's done with his meal, his eyesa re clear, and his back is straight. He might still be sporting messy hair and rumpled pajamas, but he's ready to go. Today's another day, after all, and that's always something to celebrate!

 

"Now!" He anounces, his stage-voice easily filling up the apartment (and likely overflowing into neighboring ones as well). "I let you sleep in, but come, that's no way to waste a day!"

 

...there's no answer.

 

Paris frowns, as he stands to drop his dishes in the sink to deal with later.

 

"Sir Pikasso, really, you need to- to..."

 

There's nobody on the couch.

 

There's- nobody there.

 

The pile of thulus begin to stir, woken by Paris's shouting, but the couch remains eerily empty, save for the fiendish bearly now glaring at Pikasso from the far cushion.

 

Ok- ok, no need to panic. Pikasso could just... be in the bathroom! He could be in the bathroom. Like a fascimilie of a good citizen, washing up for the coming day.

 

Paris leans his head into the hallway.

 

The bathroom door is open, its lights turned off, just like he left it. Pikasso clearly hadn't snuck in since Paris had used it.

 

"Um, S- Pikasso??"

 

The theater voice is gone, and without its booming comfort, Paris suddenly feels so, so small.

 

Pikasso is gone.

 

That, alone, isn't unusual.

 

But for all his weirdness, all his quirks, Pikasso is the best imp owner Paris has ever met.

 

And he left his imps behind, all 7 thulus and that single bearly- the one that had glared at Paris from Pikasso's usual spot, the one now toddling over to him to frown up at him in annoyance.

 

Paris looks down at the little imp, biting the inside of his cheek to try and keep his expression in check.

 

"...where could he have gone...?"

 

---

 

It's not so bad, being dead. It was a lot like going to sleep, just with a bit more violence in place of hours of drowsing. Honestly, kinda an even trade-off. If anything, it made it kinda cool.

 

Less cool had been the blood staining the collar of his jacket- bloodstains are a bitch to get out, Pikasso knows from experience. That, at least, is doable, though-

 

The worst part is the lack of control.

 

Pikasso likes to play at being crazy. Maybe he actually is crazy, does it really matter? The point is, it's fully within his control when he gets strapped in to his jacket, or when he gets put in a padded room or cuffed to a hospital bed. Those are his choices.

 

Right now, it's like he's become a passenger in his own body. That, if anything, is the worst part about being dead. Or... undead, he guesses. The dead don't usually move, he's seen enough hospital morgues to be pretty confident about that fact.

 

Pikasso's body jerks, almost like he's being pulled by a string. Is something happening now? Not that he can do anything about it. He can think past the overwhelming thirst clawing at this throat, the hunger gnawing at his stomach, but no matter what he does, he can't overcome the barrier between his thoughts and his movements.

 

He's been wandering around this stupid manor for- he's not even sure how long. Hours? Days?? It's not like he can tell if it's daytime with all the blackout curtains everywhere, and his body won't listen to him long enough to check.

 

Mostly, it's been aimless. A lot of the beginning had been in a cell, which had almost been comforting in its familiarity. For a while now, it's just been nothing but boring old hallways decorated with dusty portraits of fuck-knows-who.

 

It's boring. And he doesn't even have a single thulu with him to keep him company, just other buns who look about as in control as Pikasso is at the moment.

 

So at least the sensation of being pulled means something's going to happen, right?

 

It's like a stampede, if by 'stampede' you mean a group of uncoordinated undead succubuns stumbling into each other and into walls more than anything else in a mad dash towards a small group of... probably not corpses risen from the dead, given their bright eyes and sharp movements. Isn't that the Envy bun ambassador? Hyena, or Dingo, something like that? Pikasso thinks he sees a halo, but in the chaos of everything it's hard to tell- not that he would be able to think clearly enough to figure out if these fools are anyone he recognizes.

 

That's when the thirst and hunger spike, and suddenly, that thin bit of thought, of consciousness that Pikasso had been holding on to vanishes.

 

He becomes one of the hoard, teeth gnashing and fingers clawing, grabbing, needing-

 

It's a blessing, in a way, when he gets a stake shoved straight into his heard. It makes him black out, for the first time since his un-death began.

 

...that tear in his jacket is gonna be a bitch to repair, though. Damn.

 

---

 

Jackal shoves the now dead-weight of a greed succubun away from her, letting the once more lifeless body fall to the floor with a thunk. One down.... how many left to go?

 

"Fuck," Jackal hisses, another stake already in her hand. Her eyes dart from one bun to the next, all with equally unnerving empty stares. Nothing but bloodlust left in those heads, and while Jackal can put up a damn good fight, they only have so many stakes. Still, not point giving up before the end. And this isn't just about her- it's for Oleander, it's for Timothy, and... it's to make sure Dove gets out safe. If she can do one thing, she'll at least make damn sure of that.

 

Jackal kicks the white-clad bun forward, rolling his immbolized body into a couple of oncoming spawn. It doesn't quite topple them like bowling balls like she'd hoped, but they do at least stumble, which is something.

 

More than something. It's an opening.

 

Jackal bears her teeth, more a snarl than a grin, and rushes back into the fray.