The Long Road for The Lost [Solo Training]

[Colt]

How many people would die around him?

It was a question that wormed it's way through his thoughts every now and then. After all, he was a pistol, for better or for worse. And as he found himself passing from person to person, he began to wonder to himself. Was this all he was going to be able to do? He was, vaguely, aware of the fact that the one wielding him was cornered. His back to the wall, his hands shaking around Colt as they raised that weapon and brought it to bear towards them. Were they about to die?

Did he want that? His attention shifted to those that were closing in. Weapons of their own pointed toward the pair of them. None of them were aware that Colt was sentient, and the kid was too scared to really say much of anything. There was a flash of motion and suddenly, he felt his trigger being pulled. Three shots. One of them went wide, but the other two slammed into the threat immediately infront of them. But in the flash, there were many more loud pops as bullets tore through the young man's frame.

He didn't seem too old after all. He was....what? 20? 23? It felt like all of these guys and gals were too young to be taking part of this. Perhaps a sentiment that was a little rich coming from Colt. He was younger than any of them. But he'd been made, not born. Somehow, he felt....wiser. More cognizant than all of them. For all of the flagrant and impulsive urges that he had, he still felt more sharp, more aware than the ones that wound up with a finger on his trigger.

And as the bullets tore through Sam's frame, he couldn't help but feel a pit in his very core as the kid buckled. His flesh torn open, gushing wounds spraying from the holes torn into his body as he crumpled to the ground and slumped. Eyes had been lifeless before he'd even hit the ground, and some of the men that were closer almost seemed to blanch at the sound he made when he hit the ground. He'd done his best to try and apply a bit of aim. But he could only do so much. The kid had actually pulled the trigger too soon. But Colt had delayed the actual fire until he'd properly been sighted to the target. But it had only helped so much.

He could hear them murmuring about what to do, but with so much lead in the kid's body, none of them seemed inclined to go near them. And though he could feel the slow ebbing pulse of the kid's heart against his handle, and though he could still sense the fading warmth of their hand growing cold. Though some small part of him mourned this unlucky young man, he had nothing with which to shed a tear for them. It was only as the men started to walk away and the first soft patters of rain landed on his frame that he was permitted the proxy of feeling something akin to tears.

It seemed they were just going to leave the body. In a place like this, he wans't surprised. Hollows had begun attacking and though the citizens weren't aware of the cause, a number of bodies had been, as of late, found around the city. IT had gotten people scared and desperate, and opportunistic. And it had gotten this guy dead. It wasn't often he was just LEFT on the ground. And slowly, he felt an itch growing along his frame. He needed to get up. To ... NOT just be sitting on the ground.

Training for TTP for Moddo Ne: Hashu Shushi (Modd Root, Sown Seed) Class 7

At first, he thought about waiting. After all, the rain would keep him clean enough. And after some time SOMEONE would find him. He could simply ignore the itch right? But it was easier to imagine than to actually carry out. And as the minutes ticked by, he began to feel something hot creeping up the side of his faux body. Blood. What little heat still remained in the corpse's body was slowly washing over him as they bled out. And suddenly, the sticky, sickly flow of iron and heat slowly covering him began to push him.

He needed to get up. He needed to NOT be this ... mess. How many times had this happened? That he'd just been...SITTING here on the fucking ground?! Waiting for the next unlucky sap to peel him off the floor?! He focused. HARD. As the mental image of some poor, beautiful woman seeing him like this struck him. No, no he couldn't allow that to be the case. And in that moment, he started to focus. He started to concentrate, and the sensation of determination bled into his thoughts.

It was a small and steady process at first. As that motivation filled him. To push out his roots. To slowly peel himself from the weapon that he so often kept as an emergency form. Dragging his pill from it and sinking into the blood itself. It was disgusting, a reminder that another life had withered away into nothing so close to him. Perhaps because of him. They shouldn't be down here. EITHER of them. And so an idea formed into his head. Slo, steady pants in his head. He didn't have lungs, but still the sensation was there.

Slowly. Slowly. Creeping up and into that ruined body. Digging slowly as he could feel that there was no longer a soul in it's frame. That the lump of so much flesh and blood was no longer a living thing. It was the best thing he could manage. Slowly working his way through the frame. Pulling. Tugging. Focusing as he spread his way through the frame. IN the same familiar way that he would inhabit whatever he was put into. But this was MORE than that. He couldn't just slide in like a glove. There was work to be done.

Heart. Lungs. Bones. Muscle. As he sank up and into that corpse, he slowly began to take over, and then make a mental tally of it all. Moving himself around was the hard part. But he needed to ... fix things up. Patsh the lungs together enough to talk without spitting up blood. Pulling the bones back together as best he could. Mending and stitching. He wasn't a doctor of course. He didn't know this body. But he could try. He could adapt. He could bring it together with... SOME semblance of ... cohesion. To make it at least LOOK like it was supposed to function.

The wet pop of blood gushing from the lungs left him, his eyes slowly screwing shut as he made the body draw breath. A few breaks. Holes. So many fucking holes. But if nothing else at the very least this body was not completely busted apart. Close up the holes. Patch up the bones, makeshift what he could for the ligaments. And slowly, he could feel it coming together. Those organs shifted. the slow curl of the body he was puppeting as the eyes drifted open. And slowly, he came to realize that he'd done it.

Class 7 Sown Seed Mastered
Training for Speed SP[/centered]

"Oh my god... Did....did you... did I just breathe?! What's going on?!" As he attempted to peel himself up from the ground. Suddenly that voice his his ears. Or more accurately: his soul. And a sudden heavy weight struck him straight in his new chest. Sam was ... here. His soul hadn't passed on. And as he struggled to move this new body, he realized that the spirit of Sam, was just above him, staring down at their now-writhing body. A plus fresh and confused.

Fuck. Fuck! How could this get any worse? He blinked rapidly, panting, gripping at the asphalt as slowly he began to realize that this was not going to work out! He had no experience, and he had to FORCE himself for every single nudge! Every slow shift of his fingers and frame were like agony and he had to fight, focus, and push himself to get all the might he could manage. The tiniest of motions, enough to breathe, enough to shift, enough even to barely, slowly, turn this body's head to look up at the ghost in the tiniest little fractions of movements.

He could see them staring down at him. He'd done his best to try and put them back together, but the look in their eyes said it all. He was fucked up. SAM was fucked up. And he couldn't allow either of them to be seen like this. And so his efforts redoubled. Fixed. Concentrated on the task at hand. Slowly, shakily moving those leaden limbs that fought him for every bit of space and trudging motion. As if every inch was a mile and a half he was forging through. But he had to. He NEEDED to get through this. To try and shove this body where it needed to go.

He barely managed to peel himself off of the ground, his eyes blinking in slow, steady little motions. It was agony. What should have been swifty, quick, easy motions were dragged out. And having to slowly force those muscles to steadily drive themselves at a snail's pace was much more energy intensive than just a fluid motion. It was so inefficient. Muscles fighting against every smidge of ground he could gather. But that was all the more motivation to push himself, to get SOME ability to Move away from this damn spot!

Panicked noises, and then a calm from up above. "This isn't happening. This is a dream. Ahah. Holy fuck what a crazy dream. Man that's so vivid. What a fucked up nightmare." He could hear them. Seemed they'd snapped, or maybe this was just part of being dead. It took them a while sometimes to come to terms with the fact that they weren't alive anymore. Better than him screaming he supposed. But still unnerving. Why couldn't you have just moved on Sam? You're better than this.

A soft shudder coursed through his body. Shakily peeling himself off of the ground and blinking a few times. He was doing it. Slowly but surely. His head spun as he moved about, and he steady looked around. Swallowing audibly, gently flexing his fingers and clenching his fists as he looked around. Even that motion was something gradual and sluggish. It was shit. It was hell. Slowly peeling himself up and onto his feet, blinking when he felt something weighing his hand down.

Ah... it was .... Him. For just a moment he barely recognized his own USUAL body in his grasp. His grip tightened. If nothing else, at least he was strong enough to hold himself. A steady sigh escaping him as he shuffled. Staggering forward and swallowing audibly.IT wasn't even a walk that he was doing. But he still pushed into it. Doggedly focused as he headed out of the alleyway at what felt like inches at a time. It was better than nothing at least, but it still made his skin crawl a little.

There wasn't even the benefit of sunlight as he reached the end of the alley, and suddenly he realized that Sam's voice was growing faint, and he turned to realize that they were watching him. He stopped, a bit startled, before his eyes shifted and noticed that chain. One that was locked onto something else Sam had dropped. A suitcase. Was....was it still there? The very thing that had been the focus of this whole fiasco. And suddenly he realized it was the item that Sam had died for.

He turned, as quickly as he could manage. Breath coming in a bit faster, labored now as he shuffled toward that item, staring down at the suitcase as he staggered toward it. Pushing himself as much as he could go. It wans't even his damn body. It was HIM! His roots had to fight and stretch and reinforce themselves just to manage such motion. So very used to only the tiniest movements and adjustments. But still he pushed it further. Faster. The pathetic lurching shuffle being like a marathon for him as he struggled to make his way to the suitcase to which Sam was chained.

"I.....the briefcase.... I.... I need this. It's mine! It's....its for my Sister! Hey PUT THAT DOWN!" But Sam was in no position to stop Colt. But well, in that moment, Colt was frozen, as a memory struck into the center of his mind. The thing that Sam had been babbling on about. Truth be told, he didn't usually listen to the people carrying him around. They all had motivations, lives, troubles. Usually pretty stupid ones. But in that moment, he suddenly remembered. "Morgan..." The words escaped his lips as a look of surprise crossed overt his face.

He remembered now. This ... kid. He hadn't been stealing for ambition or opportunity. He wasn't some little sneak who thought that a gun would make him big or bad. He'd been so distracted that the words had hit his ears and not even been parsed. And yet they still had been so different that he remembered them in passing. Morgan, his little sister. There was a lot of drugs that these psychos had been focused on getting. But one in particular had been what Sam had been looking for. a Pharmacutical drug, as opposed to all the recreational shit. Every now and then, a dealer would make something more mundane. After all, with how expensive that shit was, you could make decent cash just selling it a bit cheaper than the stores.

Morgan's meds. He felt those cold hands of his tighten around the briefcase. No wonder the guys hadn't even bothered picking it up. It didn't have anything super valuable. And even more, the bullets in the case. SHIT! As fast as he could he tore the suitcase open, Ignoring the protesting of Sam from over his shoulder. And whan he pried it open, he sighed in relief. The bottle was still intact. Those goons must have thought it was ruined when it got shot up. But not a single scratch was on the bottle of little pale white pills.

30 Speed SP produced. Speed has gone from 0 to 30
Training for TP

He stood up. Not especially quickly, but at least he could move at SOME pace. He gripped the suitcase close to his side and focused. Any notion of being seen was out the window now as he pulled the coat close to his body. The body had mostly been shot from the front. He'd been able to close up the holes, even if only on the surface. If he was lucky, nobody would look closely enough to see the blood on his clothes. And with the rain starting to come down hard. Maybe he had a better shot at blending in.

With Sam fussing behind him, he started to shuffle out. Eyes set as he found himself a purpose. "Sam. Hey. Tell me where you live. We need to get your sister her meds." He rasped out. And in that moment, it was as if a lightbulb struck behind Sam's eyes. "Of course! Right! Just down here! It's ...it's a mile or two away. But we can make it! Just slow and steady!" The excitement was audible in the young man's voice. The ghost's voice. But their own death and mortality seemed entirely absent from their minds now. They were so much more focused on the task at hand.

[Colt]

It was a long, long trek. And yet, there was an urgency that pushed him forward. More than just the anxious murmurs from Sam as they floated around him. Sometimes harrying him, other times encouraging him, sometimes going quiet and sad, only to remind themselves once they'd spot another landmark. All whilst Colt's mind affixed to a singular question in his mind. Was she going to be okay? It was a sharp, painful thought that threatened to jar his concentration and sent him stumbling to the ground. But he pushed on regardless.

He couldn't afford to distract himself with what-ifs and potentials. The notion that she wasn't alright, it wasn't something that he could afford to think about. No, just focus. If she was hurt, or in a bad way, he'd handle it. Get her to a doctor. Call for help. Something. Even if it meant having to ditch Sam's body. So long as the girl was okay. He was fine. Right? The thought almost made him stop completely as it occurred to him that he was putting in a lot of effort. Why WAS he so fixated on this?

She sounded young. Barely out of college, a bit older than her brother from the sounds of it. It wasn't like she was a kid. And also she was sick. She probably wasn't hot. So ...why did he care? A part of him pondered that cynical question. But Colt. At his very core. Didn't care about thinking of such things. IT didn't matter if there was any sense to it. In this moment, he wanted to try and help. This single soul, who seemed to have something more genuine to them.

He wanted to let them rest.

He owed them ... that much. Didn't he? He could hear Sam getting more and more excited. The pitch and height of his voice showing that they were getting closer, as Colt did his best to follow along. his eyes locking to the door. Just cmon, push. Push. PUSH! Get up the damn stairs! As if somehow, he was going to take too long. She needed this medicine. And so he bulled his way up those stairs, panting as he made his way slowly up the three flights. Trying to just ignore the stains of blood messing the floor. They were going to be a problem later. But who cared.

He stumbled as he got to the door. Blinking rapidly and panting a bit. Even at such a slow, pace, he was still pushing himself to move as fast as he possibly could. He swallowed hard and focused, peeling the keys from his coat. They were sticky and slick with blood. Inside his pockets the rain hadn't done a very goods job, and he had to focus to make sure that it didn't slide off and stick in the lock. He spit a few times, and rubbed with a bit of sleeve that hadn't been bled on. Cleaning it as best he could.

The dfoor came unlocked with a click, and he staggered into the house, wincing as Sam shouted. "MORGAN! Morgan I'm home! Morgan! In the other room, hurry! Get the meds, an-and some water!" That excited voice burst forth from the soul,m and Colt stared straight ahead as he furrowed his brows. Staring at the livingroom. A makeshift little bundle of blankets on the couch. The television was still on. why was it on? How long had these lights been on? But more than that, a soggy mess on the table .A bowl of what had once been cereal. The mush looked as if it had been there for a while, and the smell of spoiled milk hit his nostrils.

And a sense of unease struck him. And he tightened his grip on the suitcase. "What are you waiting for, Cmon get the MEDS dammit!" It snapped Colt out of his stupor and he blinked a few times, quickly setting the suitcase on the counter. Ignoring the hints he'd just seen and his brain had started to piece together. It doesn't mean anything. don't focus on it. He told himself. He peeled open the suitcase and got the bottle out. Shuffling his way over to the sink and pouring a glass of water.

"Oh my god, I ...I can't believe we made it! Morgan, I got you Morgan. Don't worry. Sam's here. I did it. I ...I did it. Cmon she should be in her room!"Sam noted excitedly as Colt took the cup, the meds, and shuffled off in the direction that Sam was looking. Holding his breath as that voice grew more and more quiet. A brief glanse. Ah right... Sam was chained to the briefcase, not the meds themselves. He couldn't go with him. Maybe that was for the best. He turned and kept on walking, as words and little yells of encouragement echoed behind him.

It wasn't as girly as he expected. It seemed almost concise in the way it was put together. A few big stuffed animals, but otherwise, it was something else. Little drawings peppered the walls. Not the frail, raw scribbles of some kid. But poingnant, extensive sketches. Smooth sprawling sunsets, depictions of figure in wings reaching down from the sky. And for just a moment, Colt froze, staring a bit around the room. It wasn't the room of some girl fading with sickness. these were the etchings of hope. Where a body had failed to allow her to see such sights, her mind's eye and her skilled hand had filled in those gaps.

But she wasn't anywhere to be seen. Blankets sprawled across the bed. And Colt's eyes were drawn to a personal bathroom off to the side. The light was still on, and it was then that he noticed the cold, ringing silence in the room, only the shouts from the livingroom cut through the quiet. And Colt suddenly found himself feeling all too cold as he slowly began to make his way toward the bathroom. Not out of his own limitation. But he was simply not moving as quickly as he COULD be.

He didn't want to see. But he still kept moving. He swallowed audibly as he made his way over and gently grapsed the doornob. "Morgan." He called out quietly, and Sam went quiet outside. And he knew that the plus was now listening intently. And as he opened the door, he almost stumbled to the floor when the lights came flooding through that cracked door, and his eyes took just a moment. Adjusting from the darkn night he'd just stepped out from to lock onto what he could see in the well-lit bathroom.

She was on the floor. She'd been there for a long time. Maybe a few days. There was no blood, no struggle, not too much knocked over. It was as if the girl had just slumped down and gotten tired. There wasn't even any signs of a bruise from where he stood. Those eyes simply closed. As if she'd fallen asleep. And then Colt, despite the many many bodies he'd witnessed, was so accutely aware that this ...person. This woman that was on the floor was no longer alive.

They hadn't been fast enough. Sam hadn't been .... she'd been here for a while. As Colt knelt down and gently touched her shoulder, she was incredibly cold. They hadn't just missed her. She was gone, she'd BEEN gone. And the soft patter of salty water pattering onto the girl's cheek almost startled him. He was crying. He blinked a few times and silently tried to take it all in. Sam was outside. And ... she wans't anywhere to be seen. Her spirit hadn't lingered. Her soul wasn't bound to this world.

But sam's still was.

"H-hey there. Morgan right? you...your brother sent me. Sorry I look such a mess, ahah. Kinda a rough guy ya know? Ahem. Cmon, you ... you have to take your medicine." he noted softly. Putting on a show for a soul that could only hear him. And after several seconds of not knowing what to do... he glanced at his hand. The barely covered hole that he had used to crawl into this body. He stared for a few seconds at himself. At where he knew his pill was. And after a few seconds, he ... slowly brought his hand to the corpse's mouth.

It was ... easier, than Sam at least. There wasn't really much damage to undo. Other than a sense that maybe this was wrong. But it also didn't feel right to tell Sam that everything he'd died for was for nothing. He bit back the noises that threatened to emege from his throat. And instead, focused on the new body. It was .... different. Lighter. It wasn't as difficult to peel himself up off the ground, glancing only briefly to Sam's corpse, now inert and on the ground. Some of the blood soaked into his coat dripping to the bathroom floor.

He turned to the Mirror and stopped in his tracks. She wasn't beautiful. Not exactly the body type he went for. But in that moment, he found himself reaching up and touching the face of the person he was now inhabiting. A gentle shift, testing the flesh. A pause, some adjustments. Making sure the ligaments and connective tissue held the way it was supposed to. To keep that face from being sunken. He stared in the mirror, and slowly inspected every bit of himself.

Working. Adjusting. Fixing. Mending. Smoothing things out. Trying to make the new frame look as lively as possible. Before finally he turned and looked to the door. Blinking a few times as he heard that soft voice from outside. "Morgan, Morgan come out, please? Are...is it working? How are you feeling?" He could hear the worry in his voice. And Colt put on a smile. And walked out of the bathroom. Tying his hair back into a little ponytail, and making his way slowly out and into the main livingroom. Trying to move as smooth as possible.

"Hey Sam." He didn't know how he was supposed to make his voice sound. But what came out didn't sound at all like he suually did anyway. And in an instant, he watched as the spirit rushed across the room and locked his arms around Colt. "MORGAN! You're UP! Oh my god, Oh my god, You're OKAY!" He yelled, beside himself as he clung to Colt. Eyes wide, and just... smiling nervously as he gently wrapped those soft arms around his shoulders. Gently hugging back as he watched those excited words slowly ease down.

The energy in his bvoice slowly dying down. Tired, but happy. The smile plastered onto his face was complete. And as Colt stood there, gently hugging the Plus, he watched as that chain slowly untethered itself from the suitcase. Slowly retracting into his chest, still present, but no longer bound. As their body started to slowly fade. "Morgan.... Morgan I'm so glad you're okay. I'm so ....happy. I'm so happy you're okay." Those voices faded into the nothing. And when it finally went completely quiet, the plus was nowhere to be found.

His arms slowly fell to his sides, and a hand reached up to gently wipe the tears from his cheek. A slow, steady sigh escaping him as he stood in that abandoned apartment. Staring as he felt some small solace of comfort. That Sam was passing on. But he still had to sit there in the corpse of a young woman who was dead now. He was still for a long time. Minutes ticking away before he slowly turned and made his way back into that room. Hands gently clutched together as he stepped into the center of the room and looked around.

Soft blue eyes stared at so many drawings. A few scattered books, a little station off to the side with barebones art supplies. But the lack of materials had hardly been an impedement to what had clearly been sheer talent. And making his way to the farest wall, staring at the wall, his eyes were drawn to one drawing in particular. A hand gently reaching up and letting the tips of his fingers rest on the paper.

A slow, gentle move of fingers over the drawing, tracing the edges of a cliff. Two figures holding hands at the very edge, breaking out into the bright starry sky. The far, distant purple glow of a far gone sunset. Was he overthinking all of this? Should he just leave? Why couldn't he take his eyes a way from it. A soft, hard swallow as he felt something inside of him. It wasn't sadness. Well, not JUST sadness. There was something else bubbling up in his chest as he peeled his hand away.

Gently, he peeled the colt from the ground, and opening the dresser, he got himself dressed in ... well...something. Once he was properly dressed, he made his way to the apartment door and stopped in the threshold. Sam's body was still in the bathroom. But he didn't have the energy or the strength to get him out without someone noticing him trying to drag a body out of here. His best shot, was to get out of here. Maybe he should have felt guilty, taking her body. Right?

But he didn't. Something else entirely burned in his chest. Her chest. And an idea came to his head. Maybe it was ridiculous. Maybe it was stupid. Maybe this was just insipid. The look in Sam's eyes. Maybe he'd get to see her in the soul society. Who knew. But somehow, he couldn't let this just ... end like this. He hugged his shoulders, soft and slight. Not the strong broad things he had once expected to inhabit. But he didn't care. Even if Morgan was dead. Maybe some part of her didn't have to.

It didn't make any sense. But he pushed those thoughts out of his mind.

And just kept walking.

[Kristoff Allard]

52 paragraphs counted, meaning that'll be 260 TP! Be sure to spend your allocated TP as appropriate, n' feel free to use what you'd like the rest on~!