FEBRUARY 2021 EVENT: PART TWO

[robbies]

 

CHAPTER TWO, PART 2: THE LIVING ISLAND

Everything you never wanted to see.

YOU CAN’T DO A LITTLE BECAUSE YOU CAN’T DO ENOUGH | JUST A DREAM FROM YESTERDAY | DARKNESS HELD ITS BREATH | YOUR FRIENDS WHEN THINGS GET ROUGH | COME AND PLAY WITH ME

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YOU CAN'T DO A LITTLE BECAUSE YOU CAN'T DO ENOUGH

Perhaps you’ve been on tenterhooks since you woke up to find that your friends, your family, your neighbors somehow went missing in the night. Perhaps you’ve been hitting the pavement and knocking on doors trying to find them. So far, your efforts have been for naught. There’s been neither hide nor hair of the missing, and every attempt to find them has met with a dead end.

Until February 13.

In the afternoon, a strange, unsigned message goes live on the network. What is the meaning of “Living Island”? Does it have anything to do with what’s going on? There’s no elaboration… until midnight, when every neighbor’s television set turns on at full volume, hissing static and garbled noise as the dials turn and adjust. Several disjointed clips follow, ending on a mural that depicts the same words from the post.

“Living Island.”

The following morning, you’ll find that stranger things are beginning to happen. Some of you will be woken up to the blankets and sheets being yanked off your sleeping bodies by a powerful force. Others will find that when they step out of their morning shower, a message has been written in the steam on their medicine cabinet's mirror. Depending on how quickly you shower, you may only be able to see part of the message — but running the hot water longer and allowing the steam to fill the room will reveal it in its entirety:

“LIVING ISLAND.”

As time passes, you’ll find that the same message shows up every time the bathroom steams up, whether you’re in the shower or not. The same force that turned your TV on seems to insist that you pay attention to what it’s trying to show you, and its behavior escalates the longer you refuse. Characters will find that books go flying off of bookshelves, drawers are yanked out of dressers and desks, and breakable objects are smashed. Trying to prevent the spirit from destruction won’t go your way: If you try to catch or grab something that’s about to be thrown, you’ll find it ripped out of your hands anew and smashed anyways. If you tried to take all of your chairs down from where they’ve been stacked on top of the dining room table, you’ll find they’re back atop it the instant you look away.

All that’s to say nothing of the rumbling. It doesn’t start until the end of the first day, but from time to time you’ll feel the house beginning to shake on its foundations, a dull groan as it struggles to keep itself from collapsing in under its own weight. As time goes on, this will get louder and louder until the house seems to roar of its own accord, an unyielding shriek that can’t be stopped until the force causing it backs down.

Attempts to make contact with the spirit will never go well. It does not seem to be able or willing to communicate with you beyond its own tantrums, and characters who try may find that the attempt rapidly goes out of control. Candles flare up and burn wildly, Ouija boards are ripped into pieces and planchettes go flying, offerings of food are knocked over or thrown, and the lights flicker manically in turns. While you may be able to get some sleep at night if you’re lucky, the only thing that will reduce the poltergeist activity is to pay attention to the message it’s sending you and figure out what it means.

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JUST A DREAM FROM YESTERDAY

Living Island. If ever there were a first step to stopping this madness, it’s figuring out what those words mean. But starting is always the hardest part, and with nothing else to go by than two seemingly unrelated, nonsensical words left behind by a force you can’t see much less communicate with, an already arduous task seems even more impossible. This is furthered by the reactions you get when you hit the street and start asking people if they know anything about Living Island. Most of them can only look back at you blankly, as if waiting for a punchline that never comes. Others actually take you seriously enough to consider the question, and to their credit, they do take their time racking their brains to remember where they’ve heard that name before, why it sounds so familiar. But the most you’ll get back from them is a sheepish shrug of the shoulders and a reply that it sounds like something from TV. It gets to the point where their answers blend together, each one more unremarkable than the last. Save for the one you get from the last person you haven’t asked. Living Island. I’m sorry, what was that? What the fuck did you just say? Dale Harding and Rosemary Craven might be as far away from each other as possible, doing things around town that couldn’t be more different, but their reactions are the same. When they overhear you asking what feels like the hundredth person you’ve seen that day about Living Island, they look your way — Harding in the middle of his patrol or lunch break, Rosemary in the middle of grocery shopping. Harding looks honest-to-God surprised. Rosemary simply looks confused, even somewhat concerned. That's such a... strange name. Where did you hear that from? When they hear your explanation, they go quiet, mulling it over. Rosemary’s expression turns thoughtful. Harding’s, suspicious. If I remember correctly, that was a clubhouse the children around town used to play in. I haven’t heard about it in… goodness, I can’t even remember. Years, perhaps. It’s a play on “safety island” — another name for a bomb shelter — and the name of this… stupid kids show that used to be popular. I guess they thought it was cute, calling a place like that something fun. But where is it? Well, most of the shelters in town are still in use, and children aren’t allowed in them unless there’s an emergency. The only place I can think of is… The grade school. Administration ran out of funding before they could finish it, so they just scrapped it. Closed it off and just hoped for the best. Didn’t stop people from sneaking in. I used to bust them for playing down there all the time, the little shits. Harding’s mouth twists into a sneer that doesn’t reach his eyes, which are soft and miserable, while Rosemary waits patiently for any other questions and, when you have no others, excuses herself to go back to her groceries. Now you have something even better than an explanation: you have a destination.

Finding Santa Rosita Elementary is as easy as a fifteen minute drive from North Santa Rosita to Shadyside. Getting in is a different story. By day, the school is open for business and humming with activity, so you can’t very well go barging in and not expect to be reprimanded for disrupting class. This leaves you with three options: go before it opens, wait until school is over, or come in the middle of the night. Each have their own pros and cons, but all of them will get you the same result.

After hours, the school is desolate and still. The wind, the occasional slap of a naked branch against a window, and the squeak of your footsteps on the shiny, clean floors are the only sounds you’ll hear as you navigate the empty hallways. Most of the classrooms are locked, and the ones that aren’t don’t have anything any more unique or worthwhile to them than the occasional lunchbox left behind by a student or the classroom frog croaking in its tank. In a way, this is a good thing — it doesn’t leave that many places to investigate and makes your path that much more linear as you finally, inevitably and silently make your way downstairs into the bowels of the school.

The long corridor that awaits you in the basement is, in theory, not very different from the hallways upstairs. There are lockers lining both sides, dented and darkened with age and dust. The tiles are cracked, dirt and pieces of stone kicked up from exposed areas of the floor. Seemingly, this appears to lead to a dead end. But look closely at the wall and you’ll see the impression of a door, painted to match the walls. The lock is flimsy — in fact, depending on when you find it, someone may have already broken it. All that’s left is to enter and descend down the tiny room’s only feature: a ladder under a rusty steel hatch door, stretching down into darkness.

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DARKNESS HELD ITS BREATH

CW: gore, surgery

Stepping into the old shelter, the first thing that hits you is the stale, uncomfortably moist air. This first room is cavernous and dark, and your footsteps and whispers echo in spite of how quiet you might try to be. There’s a faint smell in the air, a trace of copper and rubbing alcohol that might make your eyes water, making your mouth feel unpleasant as it hits your tongue. As you get your bearings and begin to pick your way through the dark, you’ll notice traces of another smell — something simultaneously spicy and cloyingly sweet, a scent that seems to assault your senses and leaves you with a headache pounding at the base of your skull. Thankfully, there isn’t enough to do more than make you nauseous, but the smells warn of what’s still yet to be found.

As you continue through the labyrinthine warren, you’ll begin to find signs of human presence — some of the trashed rooms may be fitted with tables and supplies one might expect to find in a laboratory, meticulously labeled with typewritten strips. Several of these boxes appear to be old, covered in grimy layers of dust, while others are fresh and clean. All of them contain medical supplies. Eagle-eyed investigators might note that the untouched supplies tend to be the type contained in first-aid kits — acetaminophen, antibiotic ointment, simple adhesive bandages — while the ones that have been opened are for heavy duty surgical work — coiled IV lines and tubing, empty syringes, surgical gloves. One room in particular seems to have been fitted out for someone’s personal use, boasting a stripped-down bed, a chair and desk, and a comfortable recliner.

The trickle of water can be heard in the depths of the shelter, and as you emerge from one corridor that filters into a large chamber, it becomes immediately obvious where you are: This is an operating theater, with a table stationed beneath all manner of lights that can be adjusted and moved. A faucet drips monotonously in the back of the room, over a sink stained with blood with bits of grey, pulpy matter stuck in the drain. A bucket filled with blood and viscera ferments on the ground beside it. There are smears of blood, both dried and fresh, on the cloudy tiles, and a cabinet full of surgical instruments is slightly ajar. Looking at the instruments, characters will find that a couple of scalpels and a pair of tongs have dotted blotches where the metal was cleaned with water; whoever used these tools last didn’t dry them before putting them away. A small table near the operating area has a turntable sitting atop it, with a record already set under the needle: a single of Elvis Presley’s “Heartbreak Hotel.” There are a few other records sitting in the cabinet beneath it, including Big Mama Thornton’s “Hound Dog,” Frank Sinatra’s “Frank Sinatra Sings for Only the Lonely,” and James Brown and the Famous Flames’ “Think!”

In a separate area of this room, an oversized desk is piled with books and empty food containers that look as though they’ve been repurposed for one reason or another. These books are chiefly on anatomy and the medical sciences, though there are a number of books on psychology and how the brain functions. Though some of these books are water-spotted and dog-eared, there aren’t any notes written in the margins, nor are there any papers to be found. You can turn this area as much as you'd like, but all you’ll find is a couple empty cigarette boxes and some broken and bitten pens; the trash can next to the desk, filled with soggy ashes, seems to suggest that any papers that might have given you a lead were destroyed before you got here.

But the lab, with all its instruments, isn’t what you came here to find. There’s still at least one more room to be found…

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YOUR FRIENDS WHEN THINGS GET ROUGH

CW: gore, surgical trauma, amputation, lobotomy, brainwashing and interrogation, mouth trauma, eye trauma, ear trauma, body horror

The missing are being held in small, sturdy cages in a single room connected to the back of the operating room, dim and dank. The cages are placed equidistant around the room, ensuring that even if you try, you can’t reach out and make contact with your neighbors. The missing will find that they wake at approximately the same time, curled up on the ground in uncomfortable positions. Unlike your rescuers, your nightmare began far earlier than when you first awoke in this room, sore and disoriented. In fact, you could argue it started the moment you went to sleep on February 9th, leaving empty beds and concerned family members behind.

With no clocks or watches available to tell the time, you may not be able to tell how long you’ve been here. You sleep and wake, sometimes to a bowl of what looks like sticky rice lying in your cage that wasn’t there before. Sometimes, an overpowering smell will fill the room, faint at first; by the time you register it, it’s already overwhelmed you and sent you into a deep sleep. And when you wake, one cage will be empty. The inhabitant will be returned the next time you go to sleep and wake up, but not quite the same as they were before. They seem heavily drugged, discombobulated — or perhaps there's something visibly different about them. Whoever has taken you is doing a lot of work in their lab — and from the smell of things, meat work — and before long almost all of you will be sporting dressings of some type or other, fresh red seeping through the sterile cloth within a matter of hours.

Maybe you should try to keep each others’ spirits up. You don’t know how long you’ll be here, after all.

All of this goes on for a while — days, although it won’t be easy to count them given that there are no windows in the room. But nearly a week later… you wake to find that the front of your cage is unlocked. Unlatched. Open just an inch. Looking around the room, you’ll find that yours is not the only cage to have been opened — all of your cages have been unlocked.

Is it a mistake? Or are you really free?

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COME AND PLAY WITH ME

CW: blood and violence

Whether you’ve released yourself from your cage, or were discovered by a well-meaning friend before you could, or you’ve simply had your fill of exploring the shelter-turned-laboratory, the time has finally come to leave. Unfortunately, if things were that easy, you wouldn’t even be around by the time the scuttling sounds begin — somewhere down the hall, in the room behind you, fleeting and sly. It’s not an animal sound, a creature picking its way through the garbage and debris littered around the shelter. No, with the way it stops and starts every time you start and stop walking, this is a very deliberate, human sound. And if you don’t believe that, you’ll see soon enough when you see the naked, bone-white figure walk into view at the end of the hallway as casual as you please, their body smooth and sexless like a department store mannequin. They turn (your) their head and stare directly at you with (your) their wide, glassy eyes crinkled in thousand-yard delight. You hear your voice echoed back at you, airy and chirpy and so indescribably wrong it makes your blood run cold.

"Hi!"

Much like the Doppelgangers you encountered in January, these ones look and move like dolls, their limbs connected with ball-joints. However, whereas those ones were near perfect imitations of you and your friends, these ones look like they just fell off the assembly line. Their faces are unnaturally flat and plastic, like all the imperfections have been ironed out of them, but they are unmistakably yours. And when they open their mouths to squeal at you before running with all the unnatural speed not having a pair of lungs affords them, you’ll find that even their voices are perfect imitations — and not necessarily of your own either.

There’s no way to tell how many of these Doppelgangers are down here with you, hiding in the dark. They’re stealthy and sneaky, only coming out to attack when they’re sure you’re alone. Even if you’re not, they’re intelligent enough to come up with ways to separate you from your group, calling to you from another part of the shelter, mimicking a voice from someone they know you’ll listen to. Even if there’s no possible way they could be in Santa Rosita.

"Help me!"

"Is that you...? Oh thank God, I've been looking everywhere for you!"

"Please, don't leave me!"

Other times, they’ll take a more aggressive approach, allowing their limbs to pop out of place so they can sprawl on the ground, imitating a heap of discarded doll parts. Once you get close enough or turn your back on them, they’ll pull themselves together and attack, speeding towards you on fours like a crab.

There are two ways out of the shelter. The first one is the hardest: go back the way you came. With the low visibility, the number of Doppelgangers, and the confusing layout of the area, you’re more likely to get turned around and go in circles than you are to find your way back to the ladder — a location made even more difficult to discern since the hatch door has been lowered, blotting out all light from the room above.

The second way is the longest but also the easiest: head deeper into the shelter, past the operating room, through the rooms filled with broken furniture and ruined floors that are very easy to trip on — especially when you’re in the middle of running away. Eventually, you’ll come to another ladder, this one leading to an open hatch that deposits you into a dark passageway. The air up here is more fresh, but not necessarily pleasant smelling. There’s only one way to go — forward.

After what feels like an hour of walking, you’ll see a light at the end of the passage. Follow it and you’ll find yourself exiting a storm drain that drops you into the heart of Old Growth, just outside of West Santa Rosita.

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OOC INFO

Welcome to the second part of February’s event! You can use this entry to top-level for the event, but feel free to utilize the log and network communities as well.

There will be a top-level posted for NPC interaction tied to the second prompt below, wherein you can request to play out your character’s interaction with Harding or Rosemary. If you would like to have your character interact with either one of them, comment to the top-level with the name of the NPC you would like to thread with. You may only thread with one NPC. The mods will respond to NPC tags until February 28th.

Any questions can go in our FAQ thread below. Try to check and see if your question has already been answered on the plotting thread first here.

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Comments

[grice]

[ he wonders why— and maybe falco just got off on the right foot, then? or was it because he was young? ah, it didn't matter. what mattered was what they saw, and it seemed that those people mattered to her. ]

I don't think we're best friends, but, [ more like adult-watching-child-and-mutual-consideration situation, he thinks; falco's shoulders roll, and he offers a commending smile. ] I can see it. [ and after a beat: ] Miss Rapunzel, right?

[grice]

[ he couldn't say he felt the same way, but falco certainly was happy for the friends (and crush) he's made along the way. it was the only other contact with kids that he had, and trying to bring confidence back to the name grice was something he did for his family. when he was further in, for gabi. ]

. . . Five, I think. I had to for my family. [ it might've been a year older or younger, give or take— eldian children in marley were allowed to enter the program between five or seven. ] I got to be a Warrior Candidate a while after, and then the Mid-East war began for four years. I'm twelve, um— thirteen, now?

[ there's a pause as he rolls his shoulders in an almost uncertain way. ]

If time still works the same.

[grice]

[ this is going to haunt him for the rest of his life, he swears to all existent gods if any. pervert. augh. maybe the lower half of his face isn't as expressive as it used to be, but his eyes still are (embarrassed, objecting), and his ears, his neck: burning, lobster red. the scarf slips and hangs now, from the point of his jaw before sliding halfway off his shoulder as his hastily did what he was told (and why romeo? was that a name for perverts?) ]

I don't think so . . . [ and if they did all of it— he'd no longer have a mouth. ] A-and, it's Falco, Miss.

[ beyond the slurry occasional word that required an abundance of lip movement he couldn't quite attain. before his scarf fell entirely on the floor, he scoops it up and shoulders his jacket back on to better support the mummification he's about to put himself through. around the mouth. ]

[apodictic]

The latter.

An intrepid adventurer might need to force their way in, considering charm doesn't work at all.

[ that could be interesting. and yield some rather important results. ]

[apodictic]

Or trying to make one.

[ why else take body parts at all? ]

It can certainly be something to keep an eye out for in the future.

That being said, I get wanting to protect us from future harm, but that seems unavoidable. It seems to me like small-scale personal projects are better than taking drastic measures because you're highly influenced by recent events. Emotions are not the best guide here.

[m1895]

Vasiliy rubs the back of his neck with one hand and takes the bag of grounds with the other. "No, no, not at all. I do not have skills and education to be doctor."

He was 27 years old when he learned algebra.

(But also, unlike the average American, he was raised to be humble, and this situation is hardly about him.)

"I am like... basic nurse. For emergencies. I ride in back of ambulance, I keep the patient stable until real medical providers come. It sounds more important than it is." He breaks eye contact then, returning his attention to the coffeemaker as he carefully removes the wet filter and saturated grounds. For a few moments his dark irises dart from surface to surface in search of a trashcan; he tosses the paper filter and opens up a new one upon finding it.

[peninhand]

[ She hadn't thought of it this way... But then why discard some of the parts? Something didn't add up. ]

I am aware emotions are dangerous.

[ Her, emotional? Perish the thought! ]

But even from a logical standpoint, leaving this place as is makes little sense. We need to send them a message. Let them know we will not accept this.

[sunborne]

Can’t blame her, really? [ he adds that warning of monika on his wall — do not push, might clam up — as he talks. We must have brought a lot of chaos with us when we all came in and refused to play along.

though honestly, he thinks to himself with annoyance, can you blame them? waking up in different bodies, powers stripped away from you, taken away from loved ones… not the best way to endear one’s self to majority of the individuals you’ve decided to bring over to bump up the numbers of the town.

the flash of aggression is tempered with shame, remembering his conversation in the church— is it really that bad here? why not stay for a while? had been more or less asked to him, making him realise that some preferred this than what they had prior to their arrival.

which he admits makes sense with how going back home won’t be promising for some of them... the likes agatha and wrathion come to mind. ]

—Do you think there are more like her? People we can talk to and see if we can shake information out of? [ he taps at the section he had written up on chief harding, the part of him being possibly one of them. ]

I think he’s our best bet from what Takame and Sans told me. Maybe.

[sunborne]

Oh fuck.

[ oh fuck indeed. the thing is in their way and, judging by the expression, not going to pretend and be friendly.

without wasting time, daylight turns his head, sees a door barely ajar, and knows that’s where they need to make their stand if they are followed. (and they are. because of course they are.) ]

In here! [ daylight slams his shoulder against the door and, thankfully, it gives way soon enough so the two of them barrel through without slowing down. they only stop because daylight skids to a halt, allowing okuyasu to get back on his feet before he looks around, trying to find something, anything. ]

Grab a weapon. Anything will do. [ an example: daylight, not fearing lockjaw at all, grabs an exposed piece of rebar and is trying to tug it out as his weapon of choice. ]

[sunborne]

Nope.

[ an unfortunate answer he needs to give but he rolls with what’s happening, setting his jaw like he’s used to cracking heads open. (maybe he is. he is in a rather bad shape.) ]

Take this. Between you and me, I rather you have it.

[ daylight gives her the baseball bat, willing to let it go because he can handle himself in a one-on-one fight because it sounds like only one of the dopplegangers are approaching them. they’re kept in the shadows, mostly, so daylight needs to squint his eyes and lean forward, trying to catch their features and

he pulls back like he’s been hit, his eyes wide, his expression twisting in horror and confusion. ]

Oh fuck— Oh no— Why—

[ it’s a man that emerges from the shadows and seems to have put daylight in a state of distress and fear. he doesn’t look dangerous. in fact, the best way to describe him is friendly: lean with a shaved head, expression one of jovial surprise as a smile stretches across the cracked porcelain skin.

hey, day! the doppleganger calls out, placing hands (one whole, another broken, missing fingers) on its hips. look at you, all grown up! see that you took after your dad, ha ha haha ha ha haaa haaaa haaaaaa you have a friend ha ha ha hahaaaaahahaahh won’t you introduce her to me, day? aay? aaaaahahaha. ]

[fanoperator]

"Ah." Huaisang's hope deflates at learning that Vasily is not an experienced physician. "I am an artist, and much of my knowledge of anatomy is based in my knowledge of art. I was raised in a martial sect and so I know some field medicine, but I have very little practice with using it. I have also only ever been a support to the real physicians, and rarely that."

He watches Vasily moving around, and curls to sit down on a kitchen chair with a tired sigh.

[demonicmiracle]

S'how I'd do it, I don't remember how they did.

[And he doubts shooting any hands off would work, if it's some sort of compulsion they're putting over them, it likely can't be stopped that simply.

He winces at the question, swallowing down the immediate fear that rises up.]

I don't know, I bloody — he was right beside me and those blasted dolls came out of nowhere, and when I looked again he was gone.

[The only reason he hasn't completely fallen apart about it is because he's trying to constantly remind himself that Aziraphale is a soldier, a principality, that he's a hell more of a fighter than Crowley will ever be.

He's probably fine.]

[weifinder]

( He hums something of assent, given that's going to be the practical reality: they'll figure out getting anyone out of whatever they find, if they find what's expected. If anyone's left, and his assumptions these days lean toward expect everything, particularly if it's the worst.

Wei Wuxian has nothing to arm him. Frankly speaking, after dealing with the dolls, he'd need something blunt enough for trauma, but had nothing on hand. So here it goes: )

And this is considered a good schooling environment.

( These closed off rooms which are dark, due to timing, but also has so little of natural flow or anything appealing or conducive to less than a wish to be free, in his eyes. He peers into one window leading into an empty, shadowed classroom, then mock shudders, moving away from it. )

Makes me nostalgic for Gusu Lan.

( Which had felt like a different kind of hemming in, but was at least a beautiful one, compared. Nothing like Yunmeng and where he learned the bulk of what he knows; or Yiling, where he learned the darkest of what he knows.

Sounds echo strangely, but their progress is a matter of feet light with a lifetime of learning how to move quietly, for this or that reason. Once it might have been play for them both. A long time ago, for at least one of them, that changed.

When they find stairs down, he pauses, listens and motions for Huiasang to pause so he, too, can listen. Wwi Wuxian doesn't have any amazing senses right now, doesn't know if or when he ever will again, but he's still trained to listen, and he hears... nothing. No echoes, not from immediately nearby.

Then again, the trip down into an even darker hall with a heavier scent of dust and the impressions of footprints that go before them: ah. )

Looks like we're on some kind of more correct path. Ah, Huaisang, remember Dafan Mountain? Our first time, way back all those years ago.

( Some of this is lightly sarcastic from him, not aimed at Huaisang, but aimed at the idea of the time since then. He won't say he recalls much, because he does, indeed, recall more than he wants to, but it's the gap in time passed, processed, lived fully that lies between them, and he can't help but poke at it every so often, when it's more on his mind here than it was in the quagmire of events back home. Life on the road had started settling it into his bones; trapped again, solving mysteries, he's simply applying himself. )

[vampirella]

( with the scarf falling she can see the rather horrific surgical alterations. it seems even more pointless and cruel than the first, marking him as other to anyone that looked at him. reminding him of what had been done to him with every glance in the mirror, or the ache from trying to use a jaw that had been forcibly changed.

she doesn't actively comment on it, even if there's a subtle change in her expression. her frown tilting a little deeper. but she doesn't feel the need to remind him of what he likely couldn't hope to forget. )

You seem like a Romeo to me, ( she muses. what with the romance novels, the shoe seems to fit. that said, his name was duly noted. will she ever actually use his name? jury is out, when there's a huge selection of mildly condescending pet names she could use instead. however, as he tries to fuss with his scarf she reaches out to fix it for him, tying it to make sure it doesn't slip but softly enough it doesn't result in any pressure. ) Carmilla. Remember what I said, go look for Austen or something. Perfect pining and courtly romance, none of the sleaze.

( it's a dismissal, of sorts. her curiosity is not satisfied, but none of the questions she has are likely to be easily answered, and certainly not by the victim. )

instead shows up... two weeks later

[weifinder]

Ah, to be honest, with how some people have been walking right into familiar sounding traps... tackling has been oddly efficient.

( The cart has finally come to a stop, just shy of hitting the wall. He brushes his hands off on his pants, though nothing's really lingering on them, and flashes a half-assed sort of not entirely apologetic but vaguely along those lines smile. )

The calling out sometimes less so. This one's imitating Mum?

( He glances in the direction of the voice, and the somewhere lurking doll-like creature that scuttles as one does when... apparently crafted underneath the basement of a school. )

shows up two weeks late... with pete's coffee and tea leaf...

[weifinder]

A friend. Nie Huaisang?

( Name check, since as he's learned, their disparate grouping doesn't strictly know each other's names, even if they're all on that one wrist comm, technically. )

Mm, I don't object. Half of it is the dark, I've run into that feeling before, but if there's an illusions happening... or something affecting the mind.

( He lifts his hands at this point, one holding his makeshift not-quite-weapons (but the dolls had cracked a month ago, so now he aims for joints if he must, anything to slow movements) and the other still carefully empty. )

What I meant, though, is I don't know that every thing down here came in through the school. Also, the airflow. Have you felt it? There's a breeze, not blowing in from the ladder down.

[thotsandprayers]

[Later on when Monika hands Kiara a weapon, she'll be charitable and decline. There's really no time for that right now, so she'll hang on to the bat, instead of trying to give it back to Daylight when this...thing shows up. Seems like a bad idea to distract him by doing something like that.

Her reaction's nowhere near as panicked as Daylight's is, how could it be, she doesn't know this guy at all. In fact, aside from the briefest look of surprise when the porcelain creature makes it appearance, what settles on her face is more of a look of disgust than anything else. She has compassion for all living beings, but really given how the last few days have gone, she's going to be a bit more honest about her feelings than she normally would be .]

...how distasteful.

[Her personal feelings about it aside, she doesn't move to take the bat to it, or utilize that power she got back. She isn't worried about a zap from the pacemaker, she doubts this thing is enough to get her too excited. No, she's more concerned that it might not be her place to deal with it, given Daylight's reaction and familiarity with the face it's wearing.]

[peninhand]

Sans and a couple others went further into. I stayed here to look for clues, but you may catch up to them if you go quickly enough.

[ She slowly goes back to the books. She doesn't think they'll find anyone alive down there, but. Hope is a hell of a drug, isn't it? Then she slowly shake her head, speaking more for herself than anything following Aziraphale's comment. ]

If they're human, they're doing a bad job at being human...

[peninhand]

[ Monika couldn't blame anyone who'd refused to play along, herself included to an extent. On her own, she would probably have gone along with the flow in this place, but... It was hell. Only people whose home were even worse would be happy in this place. And obviously enough, worse hell than this were rare.

She's just unfortunate enough to come from one of these rare places. Perhaps she should meet those other people who don't want to go back home, either. Ideally, they'd find a way for people to go back to whatever world they choose, should they find a way out.

But happy endings like that? Don't exist. ]

I haven't met him yet, but...

[ If Takame and Sans thought so, then she had no doubt they were on to something. And Daylight, too. ]

Yes, possibly. They're likely to be in positions that stand out. Chief of Police. Head of the HHA. [President of the Literature Club.] Positions that foster a greater sense of individuality. Positions where the standard emotionless and thoughtless behavior wouldn't work.

[undiagnosed]

[the rubbing alcohol hits him immediately - archer hasn't eaten anything for the last... while. he shoves his gun in his belt so crowley can't see how it makes his hands shake. well, that and the idea of running into ramon again.]

He's probably bitching some guy out about those gross crocs surgeons wear. [he comments airly. archer's not the type to outright offer comfort.] Come on. He's not in here.

[sunborne]


Daylight laughs at the request and nods in acquiescent, shuffling off his chair and gingerly lowering himself to the floor. (Don’t notice the way he winces now and then, his muscles and limbs sore as hell.)

“Okay, okay, okay.” As he quickly learned from his time with Emer — before and after they got together. — is to know when someone is Not Asking For Something. Especially if they have an understanding or a profession in medical stuff. “Guess I should be glad I don’t have my winglets anymore. Last thing I want to do is smack you with one of them.”

[13thcommander]

Five.

[Erwin has picked up on a few things since being here, and one of those is that his home world accepts people into the military at a younger age than most places. He's learned to keep quiet about having fifteen year olds in his command, and about training starting at age twelve. Apparently, when you're not fighting for your very existence against monstrous enemies, that kind of thing doesn't go over well. But five...]

Why were you paying for the crimes of your family?

[Erwin can't imagine a literal infant of five could do anything too horrible, but who knows, Falco might surprise him.]

[fanoperator]

[Huaisang trails along closely, shadowing his friend beside his left shoulder, wanting as much protection as possible.] It's very ... soulless. There are so few windows. I already feel buried.

[He twitches at every hint of sound or movement, some of them imagined, and hesitates at the steps down. He's never felt so defenseless. All his life he's been surrounded by people who can protect him. Even after the loss of Mingjue, he still always had powerful friends and powerful subordinates to protect him. Now, he and Wuxian don't even have their small charms to protect themselves.] Maybe we shouldn't, Wei-xiong.

[But it's not a real objection and he doesn't expect to be released from this. They need information above all else. If they're lucky, there won't be anything more than that today. Continuing on shyly beside him, Huaisang points the way as they continue. His ability to sense spiritual energy is much handicapped, but it's still there, and he can feel the way they need to go. Partially because it's the opposite direction of the way he feels he wants to go.]

I hope this is nothing like that time. At least then we had Lan Wangji. We had our golden cores.

[blackscales]

Wrathion studies Anduin a long few seconds as he lets go, the expression on his face. The twist of emotion.

Anduin Wrynn always felt everything so keenly. His own pain, the pain of others, and no doubt he feels this too: the loss of his companions back home, the longing to see them again, the regret that this voice is nothing but a trick.

He moves through the doorway, kitchen knife in hand, and as he turns finds himself face to face with... a rather poor imitation, in his opinion.

Hello there, it chirps, and although sound of his voice is technically correct it's also all wrong. He works his jaw, annoyed.

"I sound nothing like that," he complains, and ducks quickly as he moves to drive it hard into a wall. There's a loud crack, and he growls as he feels it begin to try and grab for his throat.

[grice]

[ what he hadn’t expected, maybe, was the aid in securing his scarf over his alteration without a word to it that possibly said more than if she had mentioned it. falco had never expected the best in others when it was so minimal, but it was something he’d always give and always hoped he’d see. standing completely still and nearly holding his breath to let her do her work— he nods, tucking away the name romeo to later search the reference and now, offer her just his eyes— hazel! a sweet hazel gaze that might have well been a melting square of marshmallow. a hint of a smile stressed the corners of his lips and were only seen by the way his cheeks rounded by his eyelids. yeah. he didn’t like pervert, but he didn’t mind the rest one bit. ]

Thank you, Miss Carmilla.

[ austen, she’ll hear him repeating under his breath and behind his newly fixed scarf, a mindful hand brushing by the knitting in reflection of the help (both with his clothes and the recommendations) just offered and already so easily made his chest feel warm as he regarded her before walking back toward the halls of the open library. austen. ]