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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COMMS	logs | network | ooc | memes
OOC INFO	premise | rules | faq | taken | applications | hiatus/drop/canon updates | activity check | reserves | mod contact
SETTING INFO	calendar | setting | housing | npcs | death and tranquilizing | the story so far | event suggestions/engagements

Comments

falco grice 🦅 attack on titan

[grice]

ᴡᴀᴋᴇ (for captives only! cw for body horror & war imagery mentions)
option a:

[ since the moment he’s come to the first time to all the other times, this has been a nightmare. falco has been strangely quiet but grossly attentive to their surroundings, searching for a sign that already seemed familiar somehow. he never screamed for help or cried in panic— he only sat in his cage and strained his ears to listen for something. for their abductor, for a tip off, anything they could use. every time a piece comes together, his eyes pull open wide. he presses his ear to the floor, feels the vibration, hears a distant bell. he murmurs once, softly: ]

I . . . Know where we are. [ louder and more convinced, turning his frame and gripping the chilly bars of his cell as he tries to get someone’s attention: ] I know where we are.

[ other times— he doesn’t keep to himself. he actively reaches out to his fellow captors, trying to get their gaze on him by voice at first. if it’s someone he doesn’t personally know: ]

—Hi.

[ if they’ve talked more than once, whether in their cells or out of them: ]

The food bowls— can anyone break them?

option b:

[ every time the sweet scent invades his senses, fear spikes in falco— he tries his best to hold his breath and gives his fellow captors pleading, frightened gazes, swallowing his tears as something deep between his ribs rattles like prey that perceived the coming of a predator they couldn’t do anything about. every time they fell asleep, something happened. someone was taken away, or someone was put back in terrifying, painful shape. he didn’t want it to be anyone, and thought that out loud with a drifting whimper as he spoke out loud and reached between his bars for his neighbors: please don’t go. would any sort of god hear him? he’d fall asleep against to bars in an uncomfortable slant— with a fight. he strives to stay awake until his eyes sting red, until he steals a single gasp when he needs air. his chest burns, his shoulders shudder, and his remaining eye contact with the other captors is what makes him struggle the most to not inhale, but— he doesn’t see what happens after the tickle of a cough itches the back of his throat. it goes black, so does his memory, and this time, he’s the one that goes missing.

when falco’s returned to his prison, it doesn’t and wouldn’t quell anxiety into relief, especially when something was horribly wrong. the child remains knocked out for hours after the syrupy smell has dissipated, and when he stirs, still mildly unconscious and disoriented— he can only sob. all he knew was that something hurt badly, he could taste iron in his mouth, blood and the bitter aftertang of medication. the more he came to, the more he silenced himself, blinked in the dimness of their enclosures, touched his face as he supported his heavy-feeling frame with an arm . . .

that’s when he bolted up, when his breathing had skyrocketed into a rise and fall worthy of contrast to a startled bird who’d just hit a window, and when his hands have pulled away in terror to slowly, slowly reach to his chin, either side of his mandibles where it hurt most— they felt strange. his skin felt stretched, his flesh felt numb, he couldn’t open his mouth because it felt locked and it ached and it wasn’t how it was supposed to be. it wasn’t, because it had been removed. human bone was replaced by metal within, disfiguring the natural shape of a boy’s maxilla into something pointed forward, dreadfully akin to a beak. the stitches were stiff and caked with dry blood, as they were sore and inflamed beneath tainted bandages.

they’ve done something horrible to him, as they’ve done with everyone here. the blond had held off crying for quite some time, one might even say he was startlingly mature for a boy his age. he’d talk respectfully to his elders, at times resembling a young adult who had to grow up too fast and had taken being put in a cage mindfully and aware, but this? the mutilation, coupled with powerlessness, days this way, maybe longer, the pain, no prospect of escape—

he curls up, in shock, holds his breath, and cries like anyone fresh out of a forced mandibulectomy would, though in quiescence, save for the occasional sharp drag inward or hissing between his teeth and nostrils when he breathed too fast. he had grown so used to crying in a way higher officials wouldn’t see, sometimes even ridding himself of needing to in the shivering trenches surrounding fort salva or in the tight barracks of marley that he’s sure no one else would notice, or he’d like to believe that. he wanted gabi. he wanted reiner and pieck. he wanted colt. he wanted his mother, he wanted mister erwin and miss cassandra but all he got was the empty distance between confinement, the biting cold of the pale green floors and the lonely physical comfort it offered when pressed gently against his swollen cheeks, leaving any hospital gauze clinging there soggy and wet from saliva, tears and stained by drainage. ]

ᴇsᴄᴀᴘᴇ (one tag in, please!)

[ falco hadn’t realized his cage was unlocked the next time he awakens, and neither does he think to immediately check. everything is always so dizzy when he comes to, with ripping agony where his maxilla should be— he fell asleep on his side and the pressure acting upon his new jaw had been searing. there’s only one other thing that immediately forces him react, and that was blurring movement coming from outside the cage. it’s instinctive and visceral: the disfigured boy quickly backs up into a corner of the cage and presses his back desperately into the bars behind him. he’s beyond afraid and can’t control how his lungs pull and expel, erratic and on the verge of panic, if not already panicking that something was coming for more of him— ]

ᴀғᴛᴇʀᴍᴀᴛʜ (ota)

[ it takes a while for falco to go back to school. in fact, for the remainder of the month, it’s safe to say he doesn’t. he stays home for the first few days back, resting for hours at a time in bed or couches around the house. he’s always seeking company and unwanting to stay alone if he’s awake to see it. until he was more confident to venture out, his home on 323 midwich street is where he can easily be found, and he’ll be rather glad for visits of all kinds.

a little more self assured, falco can be seen constantly loitering in active locations where people are always walking about left and right. he’s wrapped a scarf around the lower half of his face that can be easily overlooked because of the february nip and hides under a wooly beanie, so one might not even recognize him beyond the short locks of sandy blond hair and hazel eyes. the honeybees was a good place to browse. some hardy store clerks try to sell him toy rifles and g.i. joes that he silently averts from (he’s shot too many of those real ones, thanks). he’s more content in checking out the model airplanes and even has his eyes on a wham-o bird. counting the change he has in his pocket and finding the amount it actually costs takes a moment more than a native child— but once he’s sure he doesn’t have enough, he leaves the gargantuan box on the shelf and admires the invention’s vintage casing before ducking his head, almost disappointedly, and trekking slowly down the rest of the aisle. all the toys here are cool, but they’re way past his current budget, and it’s not like he’d throw a tantrum or even mildly ask his “parents” for it. back home, he didn’t even know what a toy was. seeing them around was more than enough satisfaction for him.

a trip to greene’s groceries or the smaller main street stores fits into his funds better, or just something to do and someplace new to go. he’s picked out a simple goodie from one of the vending machines, but wanders just a little farther into some aisles and . . . is that something beeping? the closer you get to the child, the louder the high pitched alarm seems to ring from underneath his clothes, even he’s looking for it now, um—

it’s starting to attract unwanted attention, especially when the clerk frowns at the child’s whereabouts: he’s more than likely wandered too close to the adult magazine sections, or unknowingly has prophylactic packages in his hand because it said rubber like his bouncy ball and the horse drawing on it was cool, cigarettes, suggestive movie posters— the list goes on. alternatively, the beeping goes off in the library just as falco gets his hands on some book he wanted to take. quickly wanting the beeping to cease before anyone dares to look, he hastily tosses either choice on the closest table. most of his face had been covered, but no hats indoors— he’s tomato red from ear to ear, pretending to be interested in a nearby comic book instead, one he’s flipping pages in too quickly to be reading. he wants to die. ]

ᴡɪʟᴅᴄᴀʀᴅ

( hmu at liberos if you’d like to plot something specific! )

Wake

[freeflight]

[ Aside from trying to force the cage door right at the start and getting absolutely nowhere with it, Levi's settled in for the long game. Something will give. Maybe they'll have a captor show their shitty face or somehow give them something to work with, and they had to be ready for to exploit that chance.

That's what Levi's focused on at the moment anyway. The entirely impersonal, dehumanizing way they're being handled and the utter lack of any time reference is all purpose driven to break them down, and he's refusing to play into that. Falco, he notices, is well prepared for this clusterfuck. Not that much of a surprise.

What he doesn't expect is the kid to say he knows their location, and that gets his full attention. He shifts with a grunt, leaning against the bars. ]

How do you figure that?

[grice]

The sounds.

[ if he was correct, the distant bell would ring to signal the end of some period, the start or end of the day. which one it was, he couldn’t keep count. whenever he fell asleep or woke up again, his sense of time would go completely scrambled, but at least . . . if it’s ringing, it’s not nighttime. ]

I went to school at night, the day before we woke up here and there were things in the rooms, they didn’t belong— [ his head sags though, as does his grip on the bars. ] I didn’t have time to tell Mister Erwin.

[ there seems to be a lot to unpack, though. ]

[freeflight]

[ Even in the dim light, Levi's expression can probably be made out and it's clearly less than impressed by that scattered explanation. The sounds. Things in rooms. He can afford to be patient about this, though, it's not like they're in a rush here. ]

And even if you wrote any of it down, no one out there'd be reading it, right? [ He breathes out a short, heavy sigh. ] Figures.

[grice]

[ there was one thing, ]

If Mister Erwin would check my backpack . . . But I don't know if he'll make the connection.

[ he hopes so, he sincerely hopes so even if erwin wasn't with them to hear the scraping and clattering in the school hallways when nobody was there much like their surroundings here. it would be strange enough to check out, wouldn't it? and erwin was genius. he'd been sharing notes in his little notebook completely in eldian, save for what he found that was actually written in english. survival supplies, office of civil defense, department of defense, on top of the strange power surge that just "happens because of the lab", the list went on. ]

I think we're under the school I'm going to.

escape.

[apodictic]

[ there are merits to working in honeybees, and that was having access to firearms when working on the third floor with hunting goods. and this definitely was that, to a degree: hunting, but for all the wrong reasons. moving through each room with a flashlight that illuminates one horrible thing after another, it reminds angelo of how cyber newtypes were constructed and turned into weapons at the hands of the enemy, be they the federation or zeonists at any moment in time.

he wishes it wasn't familiar, but it was. angelo knew his legacy, and where he stood in the history of zeon in universal century. watching bits of it replay in such a strange way in this strange town has been unsettling, to say the least. when daylight told him that people were disappearing, and when wei wuxian was talking to him about 'living island', the question lingered in his head: are they the anomalies, after all? they're the ones who aren't having a quiet and peaceful time here in shadyside. what is all of this? a taunt, a cry for help, a game? everything that he sees in this bunker seems too elaborate to just be the product of senseless violence. there's disgust in his face as he walks through the halls, a burning unease in his gut as he thinks of his captain and how one creates things, by studying humans and by creating one in the image thereof ....

angelo ends up in this room by accident, and he finds a cage in here, too. it's too quiet, for now, though that doesn't really mean anything. he accidentally bumps into a coat hanger on the side of this room, and that causes some slight movement on the side. he almost draws his weapon as he waits, listening to the sound of it'll make next - friend, or foe? a few heartbeats later and he hears a panicked shuffling instead, and angelo relaxes, but only slightly. one would approach, if the other was hunting and he was here to be killed; while his nerves were all over, the time to fight doesn't seem to be right now, at any rate.

except this. in the debris and the waste of this room that smells too much like antiseptics and raw meat he finds a boy, a nightmare of a boy with jaws too big for him like the big bad wolf they spoke about in some earthnoid fairy tale. it's alarming, to say the least. but he stands there, and shows him his hands in the air - universal sign, perhaps, that he's not here to harm him.

there is simply too much pain and disregard for life in these walls and angelo thinks if his captain were here he would give the other to destroy it, and he will be justified. yes, he thinks; that is the way of it.

but for now, this creature. ]

I'm here to help.

Can you speak? We have to move, and quickly.

[grice]

[ the man's got a gun and falco immediately does the same, an instinct: his arms shoot up and he remains slinked to the corner with his breathing so fast his chest visibly rises and falls quickly beneath the collar of a stained shirt he hasn't washed in who knew how long (a week, almost). he's unarmed, he's hurt, he won't hurt anyone so please don't hurt him anymore— but the man does what he does, allowing the firearm to briefly hang by its support strap to free his hands in peaceful offering.

i'm here to help is the godsend he's prayed for every god damn second he's been awake in this nightmare. the whites of the boy's eyes are clear to see even if lights were dim, and gradually, they glaze with shimmering films,, they go red as the more than relieved tears begin to build and drop from his eyelids down the disgusting maw they gave him and forced his skin to stretch so thin along the new elongated slants. can he speak? falco whimpers, chokes out a louder sound from his throat that sounds scraped and painful. maybe he could, he still had his voice, but right now, with all the swollen stitches tying tissue together— it hurt too much to consider trying.

but he's getting up, wobbly, trying in his attempt and using the bars for support. it's clear in his pleading gaze that he wants to believe that, but for some reason— he's frozen. he wants to move but his legs won't let him. he wants to reach out, but he's too frightened to make the first move. he wants to keep his eyes on his visitor, but keeps darting them to the other cages, to the hallway, to his rifle.

they didn't have much time, if this were true. he takes his first step and tentatively releases one bar to hover his hand outward. ]

[apodictic]

[ it is certainly strange to be in the position of helping someone as opposed to .... arranging their kidnapping, or threatening to execute them over public comms. angelo finds he's ill-equipped to console anyone, considering his actual role back home.

good thing he hasn't do much of that, if only because there's no time - the boy can stand up, though he can't compel himself to escape. angelo takes this as permission to open up his cage, and then he sees what's been done to him: the surgical scars, the fear that pins him in his cage. he thinks of his captain with dread: did they do this to him? when they created him to become their leader, did he experience fear too?

he can't communicate to this child however that his empathy is contingent on someone who mattered to him that was never meant to be human. but it's his way of understanding what is going on with him, because he is in earth and the affairs of earthnoids were never his purview until he was dragged here, as if gravity imposed its weight on his soul until he was plunged into this bunker.

he crouches before him after opening his cage, making himself smaller, and extends his hand. ]

I don't find you frightening or pitiful.

[ well, that's a start. look, he's not the best at this. ] And it's understandable to be afraid.

But there is a town outside of this to return to, and people are probably looking for you. You have to take the first step. You are responsible for their affections; do not falter now.

[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. ]

aftermath

[13thcommander]

[Erwin seems to have grown a shadow.]

[It's strange, having Falco follow him around the house and want to be at his side at all times. Erwin likes the boy well enough, and he's glad that he's okay--as okay as the child can be, with what they did to his face--but Levi has always been better with the younger recruits than Erwin has, and he's not quite sure what Falco wants. Why would he think staying close to Erwin would keep him safe? Erwin can't keep anyone safe, not the way he is now, and it baffles him that no one else seems to see it.]

[Regardless, he doesn't shoo Falco away, or ignore him. If the kid wants to follow him around, then so be it. It's not hurting Erwin to have a shadow, and he racks his brain, trying to imagine how Levi would deal with this situation. Once he gets an idea, Erwin tones down the profanity and tries it out.]

Falco. [The kid has woken up from a nap on the couch, and Erwin is sitting in the armchair next to it.] Look what I found at the library.

[He holds up a book so Falco can see the binding: Treasure Island.]

The librarian recommended it. Would you like to read it with me?

[grice]

[ falco has been keeping a hand towel with him at all times now, and awakens to a wet spot cushioning one of the corners of his mouth during his nap (with erwin next to him— it keeps his heart from jumping into his throat and questioning where he was). his jaws were not exactly the most practical of things now, even though the ache of the surgical sight has healed and dulled enough to become functional. opening it up in front of the mirror in the bathroom made him sick to his stomach, like seeing something that was never supposed to be happening, so . . . he avoids it, when he can.

his body language is more prominent now that he refrains from speaking. he carefully sits up, pats his towel at his chin and delicately where it still felt like he'd salivated close to his cheek. his greeting glance lowers once at the book in erwin's lap, rises then a little wider to show his surprise, his movement slow and he fixates on the man. treasure island.

that he's even offered to share the story has his interest. wordlessly, falco shuffles to the edge of the couch closest to erwin's chair, places his hands in his lap and . . . tries to duck his head without lowering his glance, accompanying a pull of blankets closer to his face. seems like he's still a bit self conscious, even if he feels more comfortable with company. ]

[13thcommander]

You don't have to hide your face from me.

[Without realizing it, Erwin has slipped into speaking Eldian, and his voice is soft. Falco's face is horrifying, but Erwin has seen enough battlefield injuries to not be repulsed by it.]

Then again, I understand the impulse. Of everyone here, only Levi has ever seen my stump.

[Which, being well healed and scarred over, is objectively way less gross than Falco's face. Still, Erwin keeps it covered, and while he doesn't mind mentioning the lost arm, he doesn't want to wave the evidence of it around either.]

[Having dealt with that subject in as much detail as he feels like, Erwin cracks the book open. He peruses the first page, then clears his throat and starts reading. His reading voice is slower than usual, because he's mentally translating from English to Eldian.]

Squire Trelawney, Dr Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island, from the beginning to the end, keeping nothing back but the bearings of the island, and that only because there is still treasure not yet lifted, I take up my pen in the year of grace 17-, and go back to the time when my father kept the Admiral Benbow inn, and the brown old seaman, with the sabre cut, first took up his lodging under our roof.

[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. ]

wake - b

[hxppythxughts]

[It's not fair. None of what's happened to any of them has been fair. Sayori doesn't know her fellow captives very well (though she knows them better now, after a few days of this,) but— none of them could have done anything to deserve this.

The most unfair, though, the most sickening, is the younger boy. The way he's behaved over the past few days has led Sayori to believe that he's not entirely unfamiliar with horrible circumstances — but that's unfair too. She can't wrap her mind around what kind of person you'd have to be to abduct a child for these procedures. These...experiments, or whatever they are. Falco shouldn't be here. He shouldn't even be in Santa Rosita.

When the room is pumped full of gas and her throat becomes tight from trying to hold her breath, she sees him reach out from his cage. She's not close enough — none of them are — but still, in the moments before darkness overtakes her vision, she reaches out for him too.

He's different when she wakes up, still hard of hearing in her right ear but no worse otherwise. Dread carves a cold pit in her stomach when she sees the bandages, the strange protruding shape of his face, and realizes what's happened. He's still asleep for quite a while after she wakes, but she watches him most of that time, waiting with sick anxiety for him to come to.

When he finally does awaken, when he realizes what's happened, her heart twists, eyes stinging with tears she tries to swallow down. As he curls up, as he cries (what a terrible sound; is he trying not to cry? Or is what they did to his face making it too painful to?) she slips her hand out from between the bars of her own cage, her fingers crawling as far out over the tile as they can towards his cage.] H-hey.

[Her voice trembles at first. That's no good. She tries again, softer, more soothing this time.] Hey. It's okay— if you need to cry, it's okay.

[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. ]

[hxppythxughts]

[Sayori's lips tremble as they purse tightly, trying to hold in the tears that threaten to rise in her own eyes as Falco's sobs wrench her heart. He tries so hard to reach for her, and she extends her arm until her elbow and shoulder start to feel a little sore with the stretch but she just— can't— reach. This isn't fair. Isn't it enough that they're being subjected to these experiments? That they can barely eat and barely sleep? And yet they aren't even allowed the small comfort of being close to their fellow captives. The idea that they'd be allowed something so sentimental when it would pose a risk to keeping everyone contained is ridiculous, of course, but—

She just doesn't understand how anyone could subject people to something this terrible. This level of cruelty is beyond her comprehension.

Falco's attempts to speak are worryingly unclear, and the troubled furrow in her brow deepens as he tries to make words. Between his disfigured mouth and her dampened hearing, though, she can't make it all out. She catches why— hurts— and what she thinks is her own name, Sayori.

Why? Why, indeed?

She sniffles a deep, sharp breath through her nose and swallows down the persistent urge to cry before she answers as truthfully as she's able:] I don't know. I'm sorry. Maybe... maybe we'll be able to find some answers when we get out of here.

[When, not if. It's important that it's when. It's vital that she doesn't even consider the possibility that any of them might not make it out of here. If she did that, then crying wouldn't be a concern anymore, because empty people don't cry. Something she knows from experience. So she won't give up. She can't.

Another sniffle. There's a more determined note in her next words, though they're still soft — nurturing and protective.] I'll give you a big hug once we're out of these cages, I promise.

i don’t care how old this is im crying 😭

[grice]

[ crying wouldn’t help him or her, or any of them, but falco had to get it out. as sayori says hug, he wraps his returning arms tightly around his legs, imitating the gesture to give him at least a smidgen of comfort when trying to reach her and being unable to was exasperating. he wants the hug, he wants it badly and not only thinks of sayori, or himself giving one, but of gabi and colt . . .

falco nods. he nods and wipes the tears carefully from the corner of his eyes, careful not to touch the surgical inflammation. with that, he calls out: what did they do to you?, or so it seemed. ]

aftermath

[feudalladyshandmaid]

[Cassandra had never considered becoming a parent.

Not without contemplating the subject, at least in jest of others objections. Few back home objected, of course. Her life was her own. She'd live it as she saw fit, without caving to the pressures of throwing her career, and her life, away to something she barely cared about to begin with.

Yet, Falco... Oh, Falco. Finding Rapunzel in the cavernous torture chamber of a laboratory that was "Living Island" was hard enough, but finding him, just as horrifically mangled if not worse... What a young boy did to deserve this put upon him, she couldn't comprehend. It made the days following the incident quieter, tensed - Not at Falco's expense, no. The poor child had gotten more attention from Cassandra than ever before.

He deserved it. Damned place, playing games with them, treating them like toys.

If he heads out, Cassandra is often not far behind, knowingly or not. It's an effort to keep tabs on everyone she knows, she'll tell herself. Making sure nobody's being sacked and dragged away. When it came to places Falco went, at least Honeybees was sure to be packed. Plenty of locals wandering about in case something happened.

In some way, that made it the worst spot of all.]

Hey, Falco. [She breaks from cover and strolls up the aisle to greet him with practiced nonchalance. The only thing keeping her from throwing fists these days.] Was wondering where you got off to.

[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?

[feudalladyshandmaid]

[He was a kid after Rapunzel's heart. Being just so lively, ready to help at all times, with a love for romance? An errant, downright comical thought hit Cass one evening that maybe Falco should've lived in Raps' house, instead and there was some kind of cosmic mix-up. Not really, of course, but it's still a little unfortunate that Cass had only just begun expanding her interests into romance novels for the sake of trying something new. Those silly superhero comics were definitely being read by somebody in the house though.

Truly, it was an unfortunate fact that Cassandra could not always be around; her life didn't revolve around her fake husband, or fake son. Their little family was nothing more than a facade to showcase around the locals, keep them unawares while Cass hurried off to a job, or check in with Rapunzel... But the feelings. Those were real. And Cass couldn't help feel bad for Falco with each passing day. It makes the visible relief that washes over him the moment he spots her all the sweeter.]

Me? Oh. Running errands. Boring stuff. [A wave of her hand, dismissive. Not a strong lie, but it didn't have to be when it's technically the truth. She's glad to hear him speaking again, even if they couldn't do anything about the... beak.] Cool bird?

[Her eyes follow his pointed finger to the shelf with the "bird" perched on it.]

Huh. They sell fake birds here? This place must have everything.

[grice]

[ falco would prefer a fake bird rather than a real one at a store any day. when you know what it’s like to have wings— it’s even harder to imagine one of those beautiful things in cages. ]

It’s supposed to fly by itself. [ he gives the shelf one more admiring sort of look on his toes before he turns heel. he doesn’t even think about having it for himself with the wrong amount of change in his pocket. ] Neat, right? There’re more inventions than I can think of here.

im so sorry for her

[vampirella]

What are you up to, you little perv?

( Falco, congrats on drawing the attention of the worst librarian this town has ever seen. she takes the book from wherever he stashed it, perfectly arched brows lifting. a corset ripper, huh? not exactly a common sort of title in 1960s. he really must have scrubbed for that one.

she flips it over, scans the back lazily, and her nose wrinkles ever so slightly. probably just about all the sexual excitement the sad housewives around here get, but still gross. Carmilla glances to the little kid that had been messing with it. )

Aren't you a little young for middle aged white lady porn? And what was that sound?

KITTY HELPPPPPPPP

[grice]

[ little perv. oh, no. no no no no. that's not what he is! he's not looking for pornography! never in his life has he wanted to disappear so quickly. not even falco tried to pretend she wasn't talking to him would he look any better. poor boy— while he's successfully buried the lower half of his disfigured face in his scarf, the rest of it, ears included, have turned eggplant purple. did anyone else hear that?

she says "porn", and the aforementioned alarm goes off again in warning: BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP. he starts speaking, but his voice is muffled and hushed once the alarm silences. at this point he's covering his face, and once his hands fall to his sides, he can't meet her gaze. ]

Nothing, miss, nothing— [ was it good or bad that she noticed the beeping was strange while their neighbors hadn't? he doesn't even know how to explain what it is beyond "it goes off with certain things". like now. ] I was just looking for romance.

[ he's more embarrassed with the fact that she thinks he's looking for ......... adult content ]

you asked for the monster i promise i will make you regret it

[vampirella]

( while Carmilla can quite convincingly blend into the population like a picture of a 60s housewife (maybe a little on the dour side, but supposedly she's in mourning), but the second she opens her mouth it's a lot harder to sell. she sure doesn't talk like a townie. and honestly, "porn" is pretty tame for her. )

Sweetie, anything with the corset bursting on the cover is not about the 'romance'. ( she'll give him that one for free. this one seems to be about a pirate, she has to guess that's what the eye patch is about. she does seem to buy that he wasn't intentionally looking for porn, if only because he has to be like 10. )

Try Austen or Brontè. Those are classics. This is just gross. ( that said, she levels a serious look his way, eyes narrowed. ) What's the beeping? A radio? ( she is not going to be detracted, especially when the beeps have only gotten worse since the conversation started. is this little worm recording her somehow??? because she can and will wrestle with a child to break his recording device. )

i have never been more blessed in my life

[grice]

[ at least during this half, the beeping ceases. good. falco isn't sure he can take more attention to himself, and nods quietly at the names (names he may remember, but he'll ask about it later). while grateful for what he sees as a gentle push in the right direction, he still seems to be adjusting his scarf to cover his fluster. half fluster, half hiding his actual appearance, especially when being asked about his beeping. ]

. . . I don't know. [ he rolls his shoulder, a hand raising to cup the offending side. ] I think it's in my back.