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

[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. ]

[apodictic]

[ how small his hand was. angelo nods and leads him away. his voice is still hushed, in the dark; mostly because he has to move slowly to make sure he doesn't lose him in these unfamiliar halls, but also because the boy clearly needs a more human presence than whatever it is he'd been subjected to. ]

Keep an eye out, [ he murmurs. ] And if you see anything strange or hear anything that sounds dangerous, pull my sleeve sharply.

[ if he can move, then he'll live. it's probably best to check in on the kid's welfare before they leave but they haven't got the time to linger. ]

[grice]

[ a curt nod. for the most part, he can walk. he's been fed until now, there's no reason he can't pick up his strength the more he was able to stretch and station his legs more firmly as they walked through dim hallways of the former shelter. he hears no sound beyond their own footsteps and mistakes a double-beat for an echo. there is no pull on angelo's clothing, but there is a short stop when the voice of a young man calls out behind them:

Falco? Are you here?

it mimics human concern and urgency down to the very last drip. his heart drops to his gut and the hairs scaling the back of his neck stand. he wouldn't be able to hear that voice again, and it sends an eerie chill up and down his spine. his eyes blink, and keep blinking. his chest feels hot and his nose burns. he wants to cry. ]

Bruf— [ falco gives angelo a gentle draw, in that direction, his head twisting to him and back to the cast shadows, once, twice, thrice— the unseen young man in a faraway silhouette speaks up again, now with relief and joy as it bends down on its (ball-jointed) knees: Falco! falco can't handle that. not when mister erwin has said the dead may end up alive here. his attempt to speak is ugly. it's splattered with spit and forced through his teeth. ] My, [ his tug slips from his fingers and he very nearly, if allowed, goes toward the caller, ] it'sh my bruver—

[apodictic]

Don't be foolish.

[ he holds him back. he wants to be a bit firm with the way he does but he has no idea about the extent of his injuries yet; when falco starts moving, angelo clicks his tongue and hooks an arm around his waist. ]

This has happened before. Creatures pretending to have voices we recognize to lure you into trouble.

[ "brother", was it? that seems to be the word he said. angelo starts pulling him away. assuming that this kid has good relations with his relative - ] .... if your brother were here, why would he wait until you are suffering to announce himself? Is he the type to wait and see if you would live through all of that horror?

[ and it is a terrible sound, that voice. down to the nostalgia that is made more intense with the pain and loneliness and injustice the child feels. it is very human. it is something angelo can't quite grasp. but for his sake, he will try. ]

cw self harm mention

[grice]

[ in any other circumstance, perhaps if he hadn't been the one in the cage and drugged day in and out, his reaction would've been different— it would've been somewhat leveled, he would've thought some ways rationally before desperation would make him irrational. he's gone just a little farther than that, and while he doesn't fight physically, he tries to reason with angelo by voice. or at least, what little of it would make sense. he wants to talk and bubbling tears makes a heated burst rise in his chest to his nose; the paper-thin skin stretched too far along his new maw tears, and he holds his cheeks through staking sobs. ]

He— He could'ff showed up later, he'sh named Colt— [ denial. but something in him knows he should take this to heart. something is wrong. maybe he already has, or else he would've shaken the man's grip off and made a run for it, but it's become painful. a shimmer of hope that wasn't even real and was simply ripped away from him. but colt doesn't come running during the time they stand there. in fact, his joints shamble forward in a slow drag until it's apparent this doll is as clean and perfect as a department store mannequin with no feature that pins him as a grice. Remember when I said I'd always be your Big Brother? Now we'll finally have the chance to be together forever if you stay!

falco wants to cover his ears but can't peel his eyes— that's a memory that's blurry from trauma but breaches the surface of his thoughts as a malicious imposer. he can't help it this time, remembering it when he once told himself that it had fallen victim to amnesia— it had, for a reason. it was torment from start to finish and tragedy no one ever deserved. that looks nothing like colt. how was it using his voice? how was it posing as him even down to the concern, the sobbing happiness between his words like the last time he heard him? he wants to stab an old scalpel into his palm and keep that thing from harming them, him, but he's powerless. when he realizes that he's tasting blood, it reminds him of earlier: it won't heal. he can't shift. he can't do anything.

this was a nightmare he couldn't wake up from. ]

Stop— [ Stay here with me! though they won't get the chance to talk more than that— the doll throws its limbs to the floor and runs in a nauseating way, its torso twisted down close to the ground, its neck in breaking slant and its legs shuffling as well as a crab's would. falco can only brace the man's arm tightly before abruptly letting go.

he wouldn't be able to use the rifle, otherwise. ]

cw violence

[apodictic]

[ his hands are shaking in ways that they haven't in years, watching falco trying to return to someone he misses dearly. he's been too far away from his captain - too far away, and angelo is starting to feel it after days of having been stuck in this planet and weighed down by gravity. he can feel it sinking in his bones like lead, the back of his brain erupting in a ceaseless angry noise as angelo feels further and further from the pristine future.

angelo thinks of: a pure white sheet over the bed, impudently dirtied by human hands. he seethes as falco continues to defy reason. all humans are the same, angelo thinks in anger. selfish - impudent - stubborn to the end -

the doll climbs over the debris like a spider, treacherous and filthy as it leers before them and it shifts: to a voice he knows. to the echo of a the red comet. hilariously enough the uncanny features fit his face well considering full frontal is manufactured and forced into the mould of char aznable anyway, one of zeon's many sins. of course it is wrong. but it is more of an egregious sin here, when he here is, waiting to be saved again, wanting to see him again, how he adores him, and he is gone - ]

Lieutenant, I give you the following orders -

[ - his mind is loud.

angelo snarls. ]

Filth.

[ he's been in fights before. it's not the first time he has to kill to survive, and if not here, right now, in front of this boy who nearly gave up his life thinking it's his brother, then somehow, someday. but angelo knows it isn't his captain because he could not even silence the anger in his mind. the captain is perfect, angelo knows. the captain is beyond reproach. the captain is waiting to ascend, to become a god, king of the dispossesed. the captain is the picture of the void, the eternal emptiness that wraps around every crevice of his mind and possess it. the captain has shown him grace. the captain is everything. the will of the people, the vessel of spacenoids, liberation -

none of that is present here. he can't feel anything but the steady hammering of his heart, loud as if to surrender to the human in him that angelo keeps rejecting as the newtype that he is, and that is how he knows he is alone. the only orders he knows are these: to return to the mission, and to safeguard himself if that wasn't an immediate possibility.

so angelo lunges to kill. he looks absolutely manic as he does it. angelo kicks falco back, kneeing him to the side to make it difficult for him to move and be attracted to any other noise. he corners falco's escape by forcing him against the wall, where he kneels, aims, and fires. he will not stop until the mannequin quivers on the floor and croaks its words, in which case angelo will stomp on its head until it stops moving. it opens its wide mouth as if to laugh and angelo crushes its face again and again, fist against bone, blow by blow.

in the darkness: more of the dolls, attracted by the sound of violence. the smell of blood. angelo stares at falco in the aftermath; it's hard to catch his breath and he still feels like killing. he truly has a temper where his captain is concerned, imaginary or otherwise: it runs through his veins like lightning, a sweet siren song that tells him defend your captain they are sullying his memory his voice his face his legacy. all of his thoughts depend on one man. what difference does it make in the dark? if they insult him they have to pay. and angelo is well within his rights to mete out justice against all the injustices that are dealt against the red comet; he is his right hand man, his avenging angel, his sword and shield. he will tear the memory apart.

it's good that it's dark. he's covered in blood everywhere.

glory to the republic of neo zeon, indeed. ]

[grice]

[ falco would not escape this time— not even if he wanted to try it did he have a proper opening to do so. the boy stumbles back a step but grounds himself, onto one knee behind angelo's torso and away from the rifle's recoil with a sideways duck. the sound of a gunshot is little to the ears that have grown accustomed to explosions, to artillery shells and grenades, to aiming his own rifle at targets and getting used to the dense pop that would ring in his ears. the doll—

it says something, rings something, a croak of a would-be cackle or maybe a final cry for help that shatters under the rigid sole of angelo's shoes. thwuck, thwuck, thwuck, continuously into overkill. it reminds falco, through his swollen eyes and his gruesome maw. it doesn't stop after the first, nor the second when it was long "dead" (if he could've ever called it living), and rising from his pocket of security, falco could hear the scuttling of more creatures that were too uniform to be animals. he could hear their voices: HELLO THERE! HIYA!

levi said they had to know when to make their choice given the opportunity to, and even if his mind was deafening and his heart drummed wildly in his ears, his nature whispered between the cracks of their chaos, of the mute moment shared between him and his rescuer. he had to do something, more than crying and more than being a nuisance if they wanted to survive. angelo's anger was as vicious as gabi's once. he takes the man's free hand and pulls, their eye contact connecting and falco's body weight pulling forward. guide him like he guided you. ]

—I'll tell you where they arr, and if they're closh 'nuff to shoot! [ but they had to move; it was the only aid falco could offer him when they both had to dash if they wanted to get out, or else they'll keep coming. he knew how to estimate, how to aim, and to hopefully encourage they keep going: ] I know how!

[ he just didn't have a gun, but he could be the eyes of a shooter. ]

[apodictic]

Now we're talking.

[ yes. like that, they can survive. they will have to move slower than he likes considering falco's injuries, but that just means they can be more deliberate when they move in the dark, where these dolls have the advantage.

it's interesting, the way people are pushed to find ways to survive when things come to a head. angelo was in that position, once; he thinks how everything changed since his captain showed him grace. no doubt it is the same for this child, he thinks; perhaps that brother of his he so highly, recklessly regards.

that's not for him to find out, not right now. angelo and falco move through a winding hallway full of debris and grime; the awful smell of mould, even, in some parts, considering the shelter was never properly secured, or finished, to begin with. it was a crypt, and here they were, fighting for their lives. how ridiculous it was. ]

Find another ladder going up. We have to go to the surface.

[ and still, the voices follow. ]

[grice]

Right—!

[ his words are breathless, but he now uses the silence in between to breathe and focus on three things: running, finding a latter, and scope the hurtling mannequins behind them. some literally hurl themselves all while twisting their voices into familiars, of a young girl that calls the boy's name sweetly to an older man that tries to remind him of their promise— he looks over his shoulder not to pay them mind, but to span out where they were and how many times he should consider checking with their speed. one of them said "lieutenant" before, and angelo has proved very well that he knows how to work a firearm, so it shouldn't be a slight to go with something short and (he hopes) universal:

your seven, half-left, and so on were the directions he gave to shoot, and angelo would find that they're accurate. it's just a long run over, and the time spent inhaling anesthetics didn't make falco feel at his most athletic. but, there, eventually there, directly ahead of them, something was shining differently than the grimy shelter walls. ]

There's something ahead!

[apodictic]

[ accurate enough is good for something as dark as this shelter, and falco has enough presence of mind not to get in his way where fighting is concerned. they might just make it. he's optimistic, even if angelo feels like he's being stretched thin with stress.

no matter. he's not the one who actually suffered here; he'll bear with it.

if it weren't for the dolls calling to them they would've been out sooner. he hears voices. he doesn't like them. they call out to him in snippets of dialogues none of them should be aware of or know: This history has made us all refugees! What is our future reflecting on this tragic history? I firmly believe mankind must do everything to prevent war from rising up again. This is the true purpose behind our operation to drop Axis - it sounds like a broadcast he had heard a long time ago, about the coming universal century. a strange murmur -

it makes him pause. it almost makes him look. it's then he realizes that he's been standing where he was, transfixed, until falco turns back to him and he nods. ]

.... right. Good work.

[ how strange it is, to hear him just now. ] Let's hurry.

[grice]

[ getting to the ladder’s feet was another perilous dash, but one that was coming to an end. everything would probably ache on him once he came to a complete stop, but as of now and yet, falco wouldn’t feel it. later, said the adrenaline coursing through him and making his last steps featherlight. once his hands grasp for cold metal poles that climb upward, he tips his head back with haste—

his eyes go wider and urgent. ]

It’s already open—!

[ the echo of his voice travels upward and into the tunnel it leads to. they just had to scale to the top, hastily, and perhaps shut the hatchet to keep the dolls from coming with them. ]

[apodictic]

[ nothing more vulnerable than having to climb and mind what's coming underneath you and over you. he doesn't know where it leads to, but there's not much of a choice here - they need to move, and quickly. everything else can be decided once they surface up wherever it leads to.

angelo is quickly losing ammo. falco is more injured, so he snarls, ]

GO UP.

[grice]

[ he does as he’s told. he scrambles over each metal clamp for a step and courses through what felt like breathing fire in and out of his lungs. it burned and so did the muscles of his legs pores for him to stop just for a moment— everything they couldn’t afford. he wasn’t at his limit yet, it would just have to wait like all the other times. he couldn’t choose when danger was over, but he could choose how much he wanted to live. falco hardly realizes how much he’s climbed until his hands clap against an entire surface— relief makes his heart skip and his gut lurch, but they weren’t out of the clear yet.

as soon as the boy gathers his weight in his knees, he anchors his legs and throws his arms down to help pull angelo up the rest of the way. ]

[apodictic]

[ it is very difficult to escape using a ladder, especially with gravity being as it is - angelo despises the planet. this would not be a problem with space, but then again, there are many things here that normally wouldn't be a problem but are, unfortunately, which ultimately leads to this moment, where angelo kicks a doll and nearly loses his boot over it as he scrambles with falco's help to make it out of the tunnel.

moving far away from the entrance makes angelo feel better, even if the voices calling out to them aren't comforting; distance makes it easier to deal with the horror.

when he's had the time to catch his breath, angelo frowns and looks around. ]

Where ....? [ he feels too parched to talk and the words get caught in his throat; he tries again. ] Where are we. Is this the forest?

[ they went from the east side of santa rosita to the west, if that were the case. he feels exhausted at the thought. he has never been inside the forest, and it is cold here. ]

[grice]

[ there's something different about their surrounds after the rush has passed with the crash of the hatch shutting the dolls within the shelter. there's something he hasn't felt in weeks, and it wasn't the cold of a cement floor or iron bars. ]

The Old, [ he's catching his breath, foremost, but what gets him to slow his words is the pang of gripe and strain along the basis of his new jaws. skin has torn and bleeds out from his movement as much as his earlier labor towards speaking, saliva accumulates in places he's not accustomed to— his cheeks feel numb and swollen, and they're so much worse in appearance than a dislodged tooth that could be quelled with ice cream. his voice becomes a tight lipped mutter as he swallows and gently pads at the would-be corners of his distorted mouth. ] Growth.

[ he uses the collar of his already dirty shirt for that, and it smudges further with froth and blood. he's not looking much at it— he's looking upward, finally, at a dark pink sky lit with specks of stars behind purple clouds. the wind, fresh air, sweeps at his face and fills his lungs. he eyes the migration of a pair of sparrows flying for shelter as the night came.

he could cry, just by seeing their little wings beat. falco doesn't even see when it was that his knees sank into dead leaves and earth. ]

[apodictic]

[ the old growth.

someone had given him warnings about it and he barely remembers them now. it's a shame. would've been handy. but he stays with falco, relishing in the smell of the forest and the fresh air. angelo takes stock of his supplies, and tries to bring himself to a semi-presentable state. nothing much to do about the blood and the dirt on him, however.

he looks through the network again to see messages. medical aide offered at one of the houses as a safeguard. could work, especially with the kid's situation - he is alive, but at a great physical cost. nothing about him will ever be 'normal' again, and angelo wonders how he would even live in santa rosita, who is determined to stamp out any signs of something not being normal.

well. that's a problem to be figured out later on. ]

Come. We can't stay here either. Just a little more.

[grice]

[ just a little more . . . if running had burned the muscle in his legs, then a walk would stretch and ease them into possible disposition for rest, later. with angelo being correct about the forest (there were animals here, he's heard, rare but present, and the ugly laughter that boomed and slipped into weeping was already keeping him on edge—), falco obediently pulls himself back onto his feet, lowers his head, and follows close by to wherever angelo found it better to trek to. his radio is at home, but . . .

he's certain and hopeful that he could let erwin and cassandra know he's alright there. they were not in the clear, yet. ]

[apodictic]

There you go.

[ they are moving, albeit slowly, but the important part is that they are doing what they can to get out of here. and it feels like a nightmare and angelo is wondering if leaving is all that they could do, or should've done - perhaps destroying it is also an option. but one can't guarantee that destroying the shelter would do more good than harm, and besides, that could be dangerous to the children in the school. it's an easy way to attract unwanted attention for themselves, too ... he discards the thought shortly after forming it. the risks aren't worth it.

in time, more information is required and no doubt they will be watched. they almost always are. harding for the most part didn't like the fact that they knew about the shelter or found out about it. something will follow because of that, likely.

all the same, there is still this escape to think of. ]

... my name is Angelo, by the way. You can find me on the network under 'gallica'. Otherwise, I live at 432 Carpenter boulevard.

Feel free to drop by. [ he looks thoughtfully at the strange sky. ] These are strange circumstances, after all.

[grice]

[ his jaws have locked by now, too distended to move, falco finds, after trying and keeping a hand underneath his throat to be sure it wasn't numbness his body was feigning. no, it was real, and exertion would bring an indescribable tension to what was already grisly. if falco knew of something when it came to taking care of people, it was wise and carefully placed self-preservation. to show that he was listening, and got all of that embedded into his memory (no problems with that, he's a sharp boy), falco keeps a yearning extension of eye contact, a discreet nod, and counts on angelo to assume he means no harm in his lack of verbal response.

eventually and at the designated safe haven, closer to a pen and paper (or a napkin, or a piece of telephone book or magazine or whatever he could get his hands on), the boy separates for just a moment, holding his hand out in gesture to "wait", grabs what he needs, then bounds up to him after, pulling the hem of angelo's sleeve down gently to get his attention. he hands angelo a ripped sheet that only says: ]

Falco Grice
323 Midwich Street
Thank you