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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SETTING INFO	calendar | setting | housing | npcs | death and tranquilizing | the story so far | event suggestions/engagements

Comments

[grice]

[ that. ]

My uncle was part of a rebel group and was found out. [ by the falling look on the boy’s face, he didn’t seem in favor. understanding, especially with the way eldians were treated, yes, but trying to fix things that way . . . wasn’t the answer either. ]

He got sent to the island with the others. “Grice” just meant treason after that, so . . . My brother Colt joined first. If he became a warrior, then Marley would make sure our family was honorable. We’d all get sent to “Paradise” if we didn’t.

[ ironic lingo for paradis island itself spoken among cocky, disgusted marleyans. ]

I joined after.

[feudalladyshandmaid]

[Yeah, Cassandra hardly wanted to see a bird stuck in this busy store herself. Birds like Owl much preferred living out in the world; free to soar, but always with a home to return to.]

A flying toy, huh? Don't know if it can beat Owl, though. [The bird friend that sometimes lives at their house.] But I'll admit: that does sound pretty cool. They're certainly coming up with all kinds of inventions now. This place has got more stuff in it than I've ever seen.

[sunborne]

[ daylight nods in understanding and won’t insist on anduin to look them up. If anduin ever comes across the message on the network in the coming days, he can choose to take a look or not then. (unless, like, wrathion deletes it in an attempt to hide the fact, but wrathion doesn’t seem like the type to do that.

... maybe. he needs to figure out if the device can take image captures or not, later.) ]

He meant well but, oh man, my heart just about stopped when I realised what he was planning to do that day. [ to this day, he has no idea how he managed to talk the guy down. dialup had always been the most diplomatic one in the fireteam, hence being their communications. maybe some of her levelheadedness rubbed off of him. ]

But yeah... He cares for you a lot. I hope he didn’t get too scuffed up when going down there in the shelter. [ it’ll be a surprise for him if anyone was able to get out there without any injuries.

for example: daylight winces as he grabs the coffee pot with the bruised hand, hissing a bit as he pulls it out and undoes the lid. ] Okay— You can put all of the stuff in here, see? Put it in there, mix it up good, and we’ll put it back on the stand. The coffee machine can do its thing and voila! Coffee.

[ the poor, poor coffee machine. ]

[grice]

Oh, this doesn't compare to Owl.

[ owl was cool and falco would definitely leave the windows wide open for him to swoop in, hoping that he'd come in his room every once in a while so they could hang out. he might've been the only one falco's told he too, could go feathery and fly when he was home. the bird would only nod and twist his head, or ruffle— but he'd get a loveable finger rub against the top of his head anyway.

either way— falco's actually fine with leaving the toy displays. maybe he'll just stick with his bouncy ball! more than enough, anyway. ]

Can I help you with your errands, Miss Cassandra? [ since he was just browsing to pass the time, well— the tips of his ears go rose. ] I wouldn't mind spending more time with you.

[fanoperator]

"What are winglets? They sound cute." Pleased when Daylight settles in front of him as bid, Huaisang rests gentle hands on Daylight's shoulders and starts to knead at his muscles. He knows exactly what he's doing, having studied forms of massage and knowing a few things about anatomy, and his hands are stronger than one might expect from his slender form. Slim and lazy though he might be, he still keeps up with a minimum of his Sect's daily exercise routine, and much of that strength is focused in his arms and shoulders.

He's careful, knowing that he doesn't have any massage oil to smooth his grip, but he works the muscles deftly, seeking out knots in Daylight's shoulders and neck and kneading at them until they unravel.

[13thcommander]

[And if Falco's uncle got sent to the island, then it's entirely possible Erwin ran into him at some point. For all Erwin knows, Falco's uncle is the one who took his arm.]

And they wouldn't accept the adults in your family? They wanted the children?

[Fuck, but that's a good strategy: getting the youngest, most pliant members of a family and forcing them into the Marley war machine, feeding them all the propaganda they can handle, and promising mercy for the adults, who will stay quiet for fear of their children being murdered. It's brilliantly simple, and so horrific that it turns Erwin's stomach. He's done things he isn't proud of, but he's never sent literal children to do his dirty work.]

[Whether fifteen year olds count as literal children is a matter for debate.]

I'm sorry, Falco. You and your brother didn't deserve that.

[righthandstand]

[Okuyasu jumps off of Daylight and crawls around for another weapon on the ground. He has pieces of broken concrete (heavy), old syringes (useless), and broken crates.

Perfect. He grabs a loose board, stands, and kicks at the box until it disconnects.]

Get its legs. It crawls slower than it runs.

[grice]

[ he's doing his best to make it up for colt, at least. he's doing everything he can, and the apology earns a subdued and mutual sigh as his shoulders wilt. ]

You guys didn't either. [ a beat, and to answer the last question: ] Only children can enter the Warrior program if they're new.

[ being a regular soldier didn't earn them the right for basic human treatment, and adults were usually a bad idea to start with titan inheritance. by the time they were at their prime, they were probably considered too old to keep up. and hey, there's nothing more expendable that eldian children the populace would much prefer to live without.

but with that spoken, falco goes quiet and braids his fingers into each other on his lap. the most he could do to convey unspoken language is the little tip sideways he gives to get a better look at the book they've stopped reading. he wouldn't mind continuing a story that sounded better than their horror shows. the ships and the busy dock . . . ]

What happens next?

it do be like that sometimes

[demonicmiracle]

Humans are very stupid.

[Bold words for the demon who nearly wandered down a dark hallway just because God told him to.]

My mother. Sort of. Not really. She's very much not my mum, I dunno why I said that, thought it'd be funny.

[He frowns, face all scrunched up as he tries to sort through those implications in his head.

Moving on.]

Probably ought to shoot it, either way. So it can't get someone else.

[13thcommander]

[Erwin notices how Falco looks back towards the book, which is laying open and forgotten across his lap. There's something uniquely birdlike about the way he tips his head to the side.]

Let's find out, shall we?

[Yes, the book is clearly better than talking about back home, and Erwin turns the page. Before he begins reading again, he shifts in his chair, propping the book on its arm so Falco can see the pages more easily. Then he continues reading.]

[shalamayne]

Anduin's sympathy is swiftly turning into ire, a classic staple of any Wrynn King it would seem. Normally he would have more patience, try to figure out a way that benefited everyone when it came to such conflict, but no, not in this place. Things have gone too far and Anduin can feel even his own patience severely wearing thin. The Light is not here to guide him and he knows the reality; that their enemy would kill them and not think twice of it. That was, unless, they were the other sort, the ones that liked to experiment on their prey.

They turn the corner and despite everything, Anduin's reflexes kick in hard enough that he comes to a complete stop. There's a poor version of Wrathion there, something that had made an attempt but on probably a description more than anything else. Anduin doesn't even have it in him to make any kind of comment, instead making a move to cover Wrathion's back in the event of others showing up. The creature seems to be going for the throat and if Wrathion doesn't block it, Anduin is going to do his best to grab that thing's wrist, ignoring a pleading voice in the distance that sounds awfully like Jaina Proudmoore.

"They need to know when to give up!"

[m1895]

Vasily questions the realness of these physicians, especially seeing as this Huaisang seems more archaic with every additional word he has to gauge his patterns of speech from. He doesn't know exactly where in China he's coming from, let alone what era, but he suspects even an artist's knowledge of anatomy would be limited— religion and mysticism have always interfered with the study of anatomy, even before the Catholic and Orthodox churches established their chokehold on the general populace. There was so much even they didn't know back in the thirties.

"I can show you what I was taught if you would like. I will be here for... long time, probably."

Undoubtedly, he'll need to default to his own language to explain some of it - but it's not like Huaisang has any frame of reference by which he can identify what a Chinese man from the 1930s sounds like any better than he, Vasiliy, can pinpoint a time in history for the other party's Russian analog, so it's a lot safer a gamble than it would be with a lot of these people.

[m1895]

[ Vasiliy feels the release of the boy's postural muscles as a sudden redistribution of weight into a more natural arrangement than it was in prior, but it doesn't significantly impact the way he's standing. The kid's small, and it's the expected response; even if he wasn't consciously thinking about it, it doesn't catch him off guard. He's carried a lot of unconscious and barely-conscious people by this (early) point in his career.

Angelo's tone, likewise, is fairly unsurprising. He's tired; they're all tired. He doesn't hold it against him. ]

« What was he like when you found him? Was he in the cells with the others? »

[ Any contextual information, any at all, that might influence the necessary treatment: was he drugged? With what, and how much? Were there signs of head trauma? Any indicators on who did this? ...And the list goes on, as they say. ]

[prodigalhairess]

A killer who... what?

[Okay she was planning on just. Getting the others to keep talking, and this is certainly getting him talking, but... is it in good taste to go on about stuff like that in their current situation?

... Honestly, Rapunzel is. Really curious.]

How'd he do that?

[prodigalhairess]

[Rapunzel's dealt with... a lot, in the two years since she escaped her tower. She's seen friends get hurt, her kingdom invaded, a true demon using unimaginable power to destroy everything she loved... it may be hard to believe just by looking at her, but she's seen some shit. And even after all of that, she remained the friendly, bubbly princess that's gotten on Archer's nerves more time than they could count in this odd little town.

So the tired bags under the young woman's eyes stand out all the more, even amid the shock on her face at the gun suddenly pointed towards her. When Archer eases down, she seems to relax a little, but there's just... a heaviness to her posture and expression that's never surrounded her before. Not even her impromptu trip into the freezing lake a few months ago made her look like this.]

I'm- [She flinches as her voice crackles - actually crackles, like the whining of a radio trying to find a station. God, what is she going to do if she can't talk...?] Cass knows I'm here.

[Her words are slow, but it's hard to tell if it's because she's still hurting or if she's simply trying to make sure Archer can understand her.]

Sorry if I worried you.

[prodigalhairess]

[The interrogation was... interesting. In a completely horrible way that even dealing with the scions of Zhan Tiri couldn't have prepared her for. Rapunzel always prided herself on being a mostly honest person, but with people like this? She knew she couldn't answer their questions. For the sake of her family, Eugene, everyone in Corona... she didn't want to talk or give them anything. So the feeling of having the truth just spilling out of her like that...

She shakes her head. No, she's not going to think about that. She has to focus on the others. Especially Levi; something's... wrong. All the times she's talked to him, he's been so sharp, so to see him like this now makes her worry at her bottom lip, shifting nervously.]

Hey... what did they do to you? Are you going to be okay? [Wait, no. That's a stupid question, of course not.] Here... maybe if we keep talking, it'll help. You know... to focus.

[weifinder]

( He gives Huaisang something of a look, eyebrows quirked and head tipped to the side. Not because he can't empathise, but really, Huaisang. )

We're not hastening you to any grave, Nie-xiong.

( And who set up having a certain nephew and then a certain set of Lan-Wei puzzlesolvers traipsing in after. He remembers the Sword Tomb, and he knows Huaisang does too; but it doesn't chance anything about how he feels right now.

The thing is, they have no good choices. They both know it. )

We need information we gather firsthand, too. And if we're not allies of the people here, then who are we? Two normal men with an excess of intelligence that barely applies to this place and a will not to let it drag us down? A good place to start from, not a good place to be left in.

( Because they do both know they need information, and it can't all come secondhand.

Still... down it is they need to go, so at Huaisang's guiding indications, until they find themselves at... a ladder, leading into more darkness. Musty darkness. Not unmoved, but less air flows through down there than this lower hallway. )

Assume it'll be easier and more difficult. Look on the bright side! Even with that dancing fairy, if we ran fast enough, we could outpace her.

( He's deadeying this ladder, but still... )

I'll head down first. Are you feeling anything immediately there?

[undiagnosed]

[archer flinches as well. he's seen a lot of messed up shit like rapunzel has, but this is kind of new to him. not to mention he had those two assassins drilling into his skull at one point. it's easy to forget the damage done to her just by looking.

the gun goes away and he nods over to a pot of coffee on the percolator. doesn't need to ask to know that both of them are going to need it. archer wants to drink until he passes out, but he knows from experience he's too keyed up and sore from the brief, violent fights in the underground lab.]

You didn't, [he says, neutrally. it's pretty obvious he's just trying to snark, though it falls flat. archer turns from the sink, putting the little first aid kit he'd been using on the counter island.] You need any of that?

[he's still washing himself off-- he'd rewrapped the slash on his forearm. popped a few painkillers. he'll be fine. he always is.]

[m1895]

[ Does he need help. Vasiliy could almost laugh at the absurdity of it, were he not so goddamn tired. ]

Yes. You know medicine. [ It's a statement, not a question. ] I want you to take— [ There's a pause as he opens his nylon kit bag and starts rooting through it, quickly sorting what he does and doesn't need here. He grabs several pairs of blue nitrile gloves, bandaging, a couple of re-usable hand-crank tourniquets, and holds them out. ]

These. You need to wear gloves, you can get Hepatitis, HIV, bloodborne diseases. This is tourniquet. You know how to use it?

[fanoperator]

"I'd..." He starts to say I'd like that, but it's not true, not even as a polite pleasantry. He doesn't want to know medicine. He doesn't ever again want to see blood, to stitch a wound, to feel rent flesh beneath his fingertips.

"That's probably for the best," he says instead, relentlessly practical so that he doesn't start screaming or sobbing. He's trapped in a nightmare and he's so tired. "I'm sure I'll pick something up as I assist you. There are plenty of injuries to tend."

Closing his eyes for a moment, Huaisang breathes deeply, fighting back the impulse to sob and scream and curl up. If he closes his eyes, none of this will be real. He'll be a child again, and everyone will be alive, and there will be nothing to fear.

Rising to his feet, he offers a pleasant smile. "Let's drink this coffee and get started, shall we?"

[sunborne]

[ oh ho ho ho... daylight lets out a little grin, eyes sparkling despite exhaustion hounding him at his heels.

this definitely sounds like an interesting- what would you call it? endeavour? yeah. sure. let's go with that word. ]

Got any recommendations for any intrepid adventurer in mind? Or are you hoping to get recommendations? [ or tips?, is not said but daylight wouldn't mind giving an idea or two if angelo needs it. ]

[sunborne]

[ the comment from kiara jostles him from his distressed feedback loop — can he still consider himself applicable for a feedback loop when he’s fully human? the many existential crises he needs to contend with since he came here — and he looks at her, eyes wide and expression distressed.

but it changes over time. his expression hardens into something like resolve and equal disgust, lips twisting into a scowl as he whips his head back at uncle leeds—

at the rat bastard wearing the face of his uncle leeds. ]

Yeah... [ he takes a deep breath and hisses under his breath, ] This is fucking gross.

[ with a surge of renewed indignation and fire he hopes will stick, daylight makes a grab for a piece of rebar on the floor. not as sturdy as the bat but it has to do. he holds it like his life depends on it.

and it will now with how he snarls out, ] Back off, asshole, and don’t go near or my friend.

You’re not Uncle Leeds so you can get fucked.

[ the doppleganger’s smile fades, replaced with, at first, an expression of sorrow and confusion.

then it becomes a snarl, the expression one of pure rage as it screams and launches itself at the two.

daylight throws a swing and he feels it connect into the junction of neck and shoulder, feels and hears something break and crack. yet it surges forward, not caring, and it forces the two of them on the ground, tussling and fighting. it tries to wrap its hands around his neck but daylight holds the creature at bay, shoving his rebar under the creature’s neck to keep some distance. ]

Get off me and fuck off!

[weifinder]

( He doesn't even argue. Humans are very stupid, and as one, he's well aware of it. He does snort, though, because ah, what, then this guy isn't? Glory be, turns out everyone's capable of dumbassery.

... Not, sadly, news. )

So your parental figure who also isn't your parental figure. I get how that is.

( A certain Madam Yu still looms in memory, even if he's. Talking about adoptive parents versus an actual Creator. He looks in the direction of that voice, then back to the weapon in Crowley's hand. )

I'm inclined to agree. That thing keep them down?

[righthandstand]

...Magic. [That's an easy explanation for whatever Stands are.] There's plenty of people in my town that have some kind of power. Like me.

[...Which he can't show off at the moment.]

[prodigalhairess]

[Rapunzel opens her mouth, but pauses before she speaks, letting out only a soft static.

Looking down, she can see her arms and legs and the rest of her body. Her clothes are dirty from captivity and the chaos of their escape, but she doesn't seem to be injured in some terrible way. Aside from... well.

Well.

She can't see it, but she can feel the ache in her throat. It's not gushing blood, at least, so she's not panicking, but she's really not sure how to answer that when she can't assess the damage.]

I don't know. [Again, slow and careful.] Does it look bad?

[She points to her throat; the skin is raw and enflamed surrounding a very obvious surgical scar, but the wound had been sewn up. Maybe a little hastily, and it seemed that the person who operated on Rapunzel didn't really account for how hard it would be to fit the artificial voice box into her neck, but it doesn't look like it's about to rip open anytime soon.]