Setting: East Hallway, first floor
Time: Night 008
Summary: Madara arrives in the Dollsyhouse.
Warnings: high modernist stream of consciousness, tons of subtext, maybe language, violent imagery, spoilers like whoa
It would've made sense for him to scream such a shrill, effeminate shriek if it echoed in the midst of a forest, scattering birds and leaves alike with the sheer stupidity of it. And the blond that held the sky in his eyes and pulled back his top lip in a snarl of annoyance would usually attempt to silence him, scolding the child shaped in the body of a man (housing a fallen legend that silently watched from within) with a sharply-placed snap and a huff of restrained explosion.
But Deidara was nowhere to be seen (he was too impatient, that boy, too obsessed with validation; all the jealousy he held in his mouths chewed up his desperation and spat it out with a bang) and never would be seen again, as far as Tobi was concerned. He'd seen him go up in smoke, tiny little pieces of him flying into the sky that was once in the artists's eyes, the sky that was missing from the space of hall he now ran in, doors locking and unlocking and going nowhere and everywhere (there was no way out of here; he'd already attempted to bend space and time, only to encounter walls that stubbornly held him in) until they finally led him to a pack of something that looked more like Orochimaru's failed experiments or half-transformed jinchuurikis than anything else he had ever seen.
(Whatever they are, they're not from his world, and wherever he is, it certainly isn't home. He's not sure how he ended up waking in this place, or where or what this place even is. The walls seem to watch with careful eyes, breathing in confusion and breathing out fear they want him to inhale. But he knows better than to hyperventilate like a fish out of water starving for breath. He isn't starved and will never be, so his breaths are slow and even.)
They raged at his back, exactly five feet behind, six powerful shadowy beasts that hulked large and menacing. Their arms dangled far too long for their bodies, hands large enough to grasp and crush the air out of him. Wanting revenge for their inability to breathe, their chests were emptied out with hungry maws lined with sharp teeth, starved for life, for what they didn't have and wanted to fill in by consuming it whole -- skin, muscle, tissue, bone.
Maybe they wanted his light, how it reflected off his surfaces and bounced back into them, swallowed up by their very lack, by the night that cut their silhouettes from the underside of day's step. (Day was never kind at high noon when the sun sat at zenith and ate them up, erasing from the world the imprints of their steps, taking from them what they only ever borrowed and never had.)
Maybe they thought it made them more alive, if thought were possible for monstrosities carved from absence. He could feel their need radiating with each piteous snarl and bestial breath as they chased him, arms flailing and cloak flying, up one hall and down another.
He wondered if they would actually attack, biding his time with each step.
Tobi preferred not to fight. It took up too much energy and time. Maybe he could just make this into a game of tag, and maybe if he screamed loud enough someone would eventually come and save the damsel from distress, and from the effort of getting too close and personal with these drooling, ugly hunks of shadowflesh with legs and too-large mouths attached.