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

[helloneighbor]

Ten? My goodness, that's... [That's a lot.]

Do you have any leads on what might have happened to them?

[grice]

[ he doesn't even think about outside at first— the first people who came to mind to him were those from home, gabi and the others who flew on his back, they needed him and he missed them just as much as they would be worried sick about him. shortly afterward came the thought of erwin and cassandra, maybe even others he's met, he wasn't sure (and hadn't meant to doubt their care). prickling doubt at the back of his mind that this could be trickery couldn't last, and a risk had to be taken. he was wavering, but the man already helps in coming down to his height at just a little more than four feet, small. he doesn't wince, falco hadn't been used to gentle words since he's learned how to walk. if anything, it was what he needed the most, not a pat on the head or a warming embrace. it was serious encouragement.

it was really now, or never and he'd rot in here because he couldn't trust in anyone, and that wasn't the case for falco. never was. he could have a distrusting hunch to survive, but when there's good in someone he fights to see it. the harm that could've been done here was already at its worst, and he could say without a doubt that he's seen cruel people, but due to cruel circumstances, not because they were that way. it was a shock to experience that anyone in their right mind would do this to them all and for what reason? he couldn't understand it and it kept him here in this corner.

when it should be urging him to see the light again. the boy's gaze does change some; they go from frightened to uncertain, to quickly contemplating to emotional and expressive as his hand extends with more confidence. he wanted to apologize, for not acting as quickly or more as himself— it'd been cramped in here for too long. the man's efforts would never go in vain, he didn't want it to come to that, and grips the offered hand tentatively, then tightly.

his other hand is gentle and quick on his rescuer's shoulder, but it's vivid in expressing his thanks, followed by a tug and blinking the tears far away that built up on his eyelids. he doesn't want to stay here any longer. ]

[grice]

[ falco swallows, swallows, and keeps swallowing, feeling hotness slither down his throat and the aches intensifying if he tried to sniff and adjust the back of his throat that . . . was chafing on something. bolts of metal lodged into his skull to keep these things in place. he tried to touch them again, but retreats his small hands into compressed, trembling fists when his stomach flipped so sickeningly at the thought— not of what it looked like, but what was done and why. he couldn't find an answer, he couldn't find an answer that didn't hurt him more than surgical soreness. what would compel anyone . . . to do this? why take his human jaws? because he was the "jaw" titan? it didn't make sense beyond wicked irony—

sayori, that was sayori talking, and it saves him the extra moment of dwelling on his questions to turn to her as if desperate for a light. her hand is so close but every single time he tries to extend his— even when his ears compress against the cool metal bars, he doesn't stretch too far. the pain keeps him from trying more, as does common sense that he'd only waste more energy. his fingers span and crawl at the stupid green tile and there'd always be an extra hand's worth of space keeping them apart. but he keeps it where he could, to show that if they were close enough, he'd definitely take her hand and hold it tight, just as tight as he's holding some balled fabric of his shirt, in hopes of tricking his mind into believing it was what he was reaching for.

silence is the warning that follows before he truly begins to bawl, even if it's only for a few seconds. falco brings his knees to his chest and leans into the bars as if begging it to hug him in sayori's place. he's never asked for much, he's never sought much of it because that's how things were but he'd always be fighting to see things different. he's always had hope. every time he opens his eyes now, it's as if the difference never existed and that hurt so fucking much. through his hics and sniffs comes a groan, and through the groan, a strained attempt at words.

why would someone, the words sound like. he tries again, but the muttered garbling is too arduous to make clearer, feeling like his lips, or what used to be of them, would tear at the slightest attempt to split them apart: it hurts miss sayori. ]

[grice]

[ it was rare for falco to go off on his own during the next few days to weeks following the incident— certainly, the attention that cassandra would offer was ravenously attached to and possibly the most time he's come to spend with her. helping to make food, fix the rooms, the beds, other domestic errands around the house and so on, falco was a new helper up to even wanting to share findings like he would to his friends, like showing her some books from the library. turns out: cassandra will probably know by now that he leans heavily toward . . . romance instead of rowdy superhero comic books.

but all chicks must fly off on their own one day, or at least start messing around with the branches for practice alone. falco knew his surrogate mother had her own time to spend and others she'd like to see— and hogging it all didn't seem or even was remotely fair just because he wanted to. he was aware enough to wean himself from her company and compel himself to bundle up, hide his face and go out to do something. so focused on actually doing that had kept him oblivious to followers, which brings him to his startled surprise when she catches at him staring at the wham-o bird box in his hands. he nearly jolts, actually, almost thinking it's another robbie clerk that wants to supervise him or something and talk about their OH BOY HOWDY DAY.

the washing relief is instant in his eyes when he realizes that wasn't their case, and if he could smile, he would. he could feel his lips tense as the remaining muscle tries to pull back and makes it all uncomfortable— but luckily, it's all hidden underneath his scarf. she doesn't have to see it. his greeting comes as a surprised hum at first and a tight mouthed: miss cassandra!

he's been refraining from talking, becoming more shy than she remembers meeting him. but for her, he makes a gallant effort. as he puts the box back on its shelf, he speaks, muffled under woolly fabric and tense lips: ]

I just wanted to look around. 've never been here, [ disjointed thoughts, a point at the shelf ] it's a cool bird, [ now he just looks stupidly happy and excited to see her, so much that his wording seems ditsy. ] what're you doing here?

[grice]

[ oh, so . . . oh. it might be mild in comparison, physically, but who was he to call any scar mild? how'd he lose his arm? a tale for later, maybe . . . if he were to be okay with talking about it. that at least gets the boy to ease his shoulders, not yet pulling the blanket down, but gradually doing so as erwin began reading. he wanted to straighten his back and lean in closer each time, occasionally bringing his gaze to the man and back to the open book. by the time he's gotten to the third verse, the blanket is completely on his lap and his jaws exposed. he's watching erwin more than he is the book. out of concentration, muted enthusiasm and a grand amount of growing respect. ]

Is this a true story?

[ murmured and stiff because of the shape his mouth took, it's the first time he's spoken in days. ]

[peninhand]

Plan R like "Really bad plan?"

[peninhand]

[ She shook her head. The unfortunate side-effect of having started looking for her early, Monika had completely missed the "living island" broadcast. Perhaps once again Takame knew more. Heh, maybe they were being a good couple after all! As involuntary of a couple as that was. One was searching for Rosemary while the other gathered information. That's great dynamics! Hrm... ]

No... But I thought...

[ How to word it? ]

That feeling that reality might unravel. That something is wrong. It is not just a feeling. There is something very wrong happening. And you are the only person I know who shares this feeling. If anyone can help, it has to be you.

[ Amongst the NPCs, anyway. ]

[freeflight]

He'll investigate. He thinks about shit like that, so he'll figure it out. [ There's absolutely no room for doubt in his words when he talks about Erwin. He doesn't have any room for something like hope, but he knows what he can count on. It's just going to be a matter of time before Erwin discovered their location.

The real question if Erwin could do anything about it when he worked it out. He's not laying that on the kid. ]

If this is that school, that could be an advantage if we get a break.

[peninhand]

Yeah!

[ She nodded. They had to continue and find... Find whatever awaited them in the next rooms. ]

I'm... I'm gonna take a quick look through the books to see if they left anything that'll help us find them faster. You go ahead and I'll catch up to you in a few minutes, okay?

[ More like she needed a minute alone so she could put herself together to keep on the optimistic facade. She was used to breaking down while alone and then pretending to be fine. Easier that way. In that sense, she was pretty similar to Sayori. Except Sayori hid it because she felt unworthy of help, while she hid it because she didn't want people to see past her facade. It was "funny", how similar yet different they could be. So funny... ]

Rapunzel | OTA

[prodigalhairess]

[Captivity; Pre-Surgery]

[Rapunzel has always been someone who puts on a brave face for others. Whether she's suffering or whether she's watching someone else suffer, she tries to use her relentless optimism to try and help others keep their mind off of the horror at hand. She'd tried so hard to do so during all the misfortunes that befell Corona and her friends in the time since she was brought home, and while she failed at times, she didn't give up. She couldn't give up. To see people lost to despair... it hurts worse than any physical pain she could experience.

It's why she tries to smile now, captured and caged like some sort of animal, when she turns to the person in the cage beside hers. It's a smile that can't entirely hide her own anxiety and fear, with her eyes shining and brow furrowed, but she'll shove her own feelings aside. For now, at least.]

Hey... it'll all be okay. [It's hard to tell if she believes this herself, but her voice is light, with only a hint of a waver.] The others have to know we're missing... they'll be here for us, if we don't find a way out first.


[B; Rescue ]

[When the cages unlatch, Rapunzel's first instinct isn't to simply run. She hesitates, reaching out to bars and nudging them at first, like she can't believe that the door was left open like this. Escape... escape from confinement was never easy. The memories of her eighteenth birthday bubble to the front of her mind; how even just the simple act of leaving the tower had been so hard. It seemed easy, but... was there anything waiting for them outside of this room? Was this a prison within a prison, like Tromus's spell? Trapped in her own mind while trapped within the shell house with no exit...

But no. No. They couldn't be trapped. Their friends would come for them, and they'd help those who had been hurt so much worse than Rapunzel was. She has to believe that. So as the flurry of movement begins to fill the room, she shoves the door to her cell open, running forward and out-

Until she runs into someone that is most definitely not one of the captured. Good! A friend! Rapunzel opens her mouth to talk, but a strange thing happens - a horrible crackling sound comes out of her mouth, like an off-tune radio trying to find a signal. Rapunzel's brows furrow in a mix of pain and horror, and she tries to speak again... and again the same thing happens.

The poor girl looks about ten seconds away from a panic attack, but she tries one last time to speak, and amid the warbling static, two words come out:]

Help them!

[... Yes, despite the very clearly wrong quality to her voice, and the fresh surgery scar running down her throat, Rapunzel grabs her would-be rescuer's arm and points back to the room where she'd come from. There were people who were much worse off than her, after all; she needs to make sure they're safe before she herself can run to find her friends.]


[C; Wildcard]

[Anything else you wanna do that doesn't fit into one of those prompts? Drop it here! If you'd like to hash something out first, feel free to hit me up at OwlKnight]

[helloneighbor]

[Harding doesn't smile, but there's faint amusement in his voice.]

Haven't been around many kids, huh?

[It's just their nature. Just like Wrathion can't help being a dragon, or Harding can't help sleeping until 2PM on a Monday, kids can't help going where they're not supposed to go. It's coded in their DNA.]

Put yourself in their shoes. It's dark, hidden in a secret place nobody else knows about, full of stuff you could pretend is buried treasure, and off limits.

Who wouldn't want to sneak into that shit? [He takes another drink of coffee.]

Kiara Sessyoin

[thotsandprayers]

[cw: blood, eye removal, tranquilization, surgery mentions]

[A – for the captured]

[Understatement of the year, but this is a miserable way to wake up. On the first day, Kiara will definitely appear distressed, but she seems sure that...]

I'm not sure what's going on, but we'll get out of here. I'm sure. Either on our own or the others will find us.

[But that clearly doesn't happen immediately as they're going to be here for a while. And at some point after that, after she's returned to her cage, she can be found covering her right eye with her hand, it almost looks like she's holding something in.]

It doesn't fit...how cruel.

[She's certainly upset, she even looks a little distressed, but she almost sounds like she's detached from the whole thing. There's not a lot of privacy in these cages either, so it's possible to overhear her muttering something that sounds an awful lot like “the other one.”]

[B – also for the captured]

[As captivity goes on, her situation worsens. Physically, as a couple of times she's in her cell, she'll collapse, having just received a shock from a newly implanted pacemaker. But mentally too, which is at the least just as concerning, if not more so. There's quite a few times that she'll be returned to her cell with a glassy, unfocused look on her face, the aftereffects of another Tranquilized interrogation session. They'll wear off, but until then, her fellow captives will be subjected to some uncharacteristically insipid comments from her.]

Oh, this won't do at all. I have to get home. Papyrus should be home any minute and Louis should've finished school by now. They'll be expecting dinner and someone'll have to clean up afterwards...

[When the effects wear off, she'll just be sitting down in her cell with a dour look on her face, pondering over what she was asked and what she said, and wondering what all the point of that was.]

[C – locked to Daylight]

[Kiara's definitely going to step out once she awakens to find her cage unlocked. She'll be taking things a little slowly, trying to do a good thing and not get zapped a bunch of times on her way out.

And of course, she ends up alone somewhere, which hey, normally that'd be great. She could poke around and do her own sort of investigation, but after repeated surgeries and tranquilizations and interrogations, she's had her fill of being here. Someone else can explore this place, she'll just turn to make her way out of this room and stop when she hears footsteps in the hall.]

...is someone there?

[Probably not the smartest idea to call out, given who knows what the hell could be wandering around in here, but she hasn't learned a ton from this experience. Not if she's being honest about it.]

[D – Open]

[After what felt like entirely too long of a escape, both due to trying to take it slow and honestly how confusing that place was, Kiara's happy to see the sun for the first time in a few days. And seriously, what was the layout of that shelter even, she's not entirely unconvinced there was some sort of magecraft or something involved somewhere to make things that much of a mess.

She certainly looks miserable, how could she not be, there's some blood that's soaked through the front of her clothing (apparently at some point she reopened at least one of the surgical sutures from her pacemaker surgery), she's sporting a new poorly fitted glass eye and just generally looks like she had a shit time. Maybe not as much of a bad time as some of the others as she's capable of standing around under her own power, but still bad.

Ultimately, while she is miserable, she supposes it could've been worse. And having a mindset that can be best expressed as do unto others as they'd do unto you, she can't help but think about maybe returning the favor someday. She doubts it's an uncommon thought among the others, but she's not planning on asking around to be sure. No need to get too excited, especially with that new pacemaker of hers.

Still, she'll take a few moments to collect herself and allow others to check up on her or ask about what happened or anything like that while she waits to find out how they're all getting home from here. She'd rather not walk home if she can help it. Or at least, not by herself.]

[helloneighbor]

[Harding doesn't reply, looking away like he's seriously, genuinely thinking of what to say. Eventually, he gives his head a single shake, slowly.]

I haven't been down there for years. [His tone is firm and decisive — honest — but unenthusiastic. He talks like he's poking at an old, sore wound, a place that hasn't healed right and still hurts if you prod at it a certain way. It's just something you live with.]

Once the... [He trails, trying to think of the right word,] shininess wore off, they stopped going. Found another game to play.

[apodictic]

[ years, he says, but that can mean anything in this town. it could be a situation like with rosemary craven who had a sense of time but couldn't grasp it.

it's easy enough to imagine that the kids grew up and found something else to bother themselves with; the novelty of a half-finished bunker can easily wear off once it's been explored, after all, and it's not really constructed to entertain. but the way he speaks about it is curious; it's just a bunker, isn't it? why that tone. ]

It is certainly not the kind of thing to be trifling with, [ angelo says slowly, figuring out how best to approach this topic properly. ] It's not a playground, after all; I imagine it's easy to get lost and trapped if one isn't careful. Those children are lucky to have someone who cares enough to keep them out of trouble.

What happened the last time you were down there?

[purplejaguareye]

[When he turns around, she sees the mask sewn to his face. And her heart sinks.]

Oh Papyrus...

[Her fists clench in anger.]

What did they do to you?

[purplejaguareye]

[There isn't a lot of room, and Kipo dodges as the creature scrambles towards her. As it makes its attack, Kipo is forced into her jaguar form. The 8-ft-tall creature doesn't have a ton of space to fight, but with one of her paws, she slams the doppelganger in its place.]

Re: doppelgängers

[purplejaguareye]

[Kipo can't move very well, so she shifts back into her human form. Scratches and gashes left from the creatures are covering her arms, her stomach - wherever else they could get at her.

She doesn't argue, making a lunge for the ground as Angelo grabs the fire extinguisher, covering her head.]

[purplejaguareye]

You mean like a firework?

[Kipo's never made an explosion before - kind of frowned upon in her burrow, but that doesn't mean she won't give it a try.]

[purplejaguareye]

You got it!

[And Kipo shifts into her jaguar form, an 8-ft-tall purple beast, ready to destroy the lab when Monika gives the go ahead.]

[spaghettimonster]

Yes, exactly. Leaps and bounds above Plan W, for "Worst plan."

[13thcommander]

Somewhat.

[Erwin goes quiet for a few moments as he peruses the chemicals; he's sure Hange or someone better at chemistry than himself could make them explode, but his own skill set in making explosives is sadly lacking. Something to learn on a better, different day, perhaps.]

How about this, then: gather the equipment together, break it so it's unusable, and move on. We do it fast and quiet.

[13thcommander]

[The story of Erwin losing his arm isn't all that interesting, really; it wasn't even a shifter that bit it off, just a regular titan, and it happened during a momentary lapse of judgment. Funny, how you come to expect your Ackerhack own safety on the field, and then it comes back to literally bite you at the worst possible time.]

[Erwin notices the blanket gradually falling, and how Falco is leaning in towards him. It stirs a memory, so old it's grown hazy and indistinct, of himself as a boy, listening to his own father read to him, tucked in against his side and almost dozing, but fighting sleep to hear the rest of the story. Erwin doesn't think Falco would necessarily lean on him, but he's realizing too late that he should have sat on the couch next to the boy.]

[He looks up when Falco speaks; it's the first time he's heard his voice in days, and Erwin smiles at the sound.]

I don't think so. It was in the fiction section of the library.

Are you enjoying it?

[If there's one thing Erwin is confident about, it's that someone who is enjoying a book will want to talk about it, and it's a way to encourage Falco to speak.]

[13thcommander]

[oh fuck]

[It's been a long time since anyone has snarled at Erwin like that. In fact, only one person has ever snarled at him that way, and it was so long ago it seems almost like a dream. He'd never forgotten where Levi came from, or what he was capable of, but he's gotten so used to Levi's softer side--his vulgar sense of humor, his brusque manner that means he cares, his tendency to look after anyone who spent any amount of time around him--that the almost feral reaction takes him by surprise. Erwin rocks back on his heels, out of reach, and he almost retreats before he hears his name, and recognizes the voice saying it.]

Levi?

[Oh gods, it's Levi, and Erwin almost left him, he almost went past this cage and left him behind. Erwin drops to his knees next to Levi, and for the first time in a very, very long time, he's not sure what to do in a moment of crisis. His hand flutters over Levi's torn body, not landing anywhere for fear of hurting him, and then Erwin does what seems like the only thing he can do: he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handkerchief, and starts dabbing at Levi's face with infinite gentleness, trying to wipe some of the grime away.]

My gods, what did they do to you?

[freeflight]

Got the better of me. Not dying or anything. [ Not the most helpful explanation, but it hits that key point. There wasn't much anyone could do here and they couldn't just dawdle. Erwin certainly couldn't, at least, not when Levi was useless if a conflict broke out. It's an entirely unfamiliar consideration, but a crucial one. ]

Whoever did it can gas this room. Even if you cleared the place...

[ There's no reason to take that risk by being here longer than necessary, and that need for action is clear in his voice. It's a matter of practicality as much as it is the low, throbbing dread that grips his chest and squeezes. He's seen some shit in his life, but he's not eager to risk round two. ]

[13thcommander]

[Are you sure about that, Levi? Because from where Erwin is kneeling, you definitely look like you might be dying.]

[This is also the first Erwin has heard about anyone gassing the room, and it's enough to make him stop trying to clean Levi's face and reassess. He's confident he could take anyone who tried to go after him, but he can't fight against gas.]

Then I'd say it's time to leave.

[Which presents a new dilemma.]

How much can you move? Would you be able to get an arm around my neck?