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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▶ NAVIGATION ◀
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

FAQ

[robbies]

Have a question about the event or any of the prompts we've listed? Throw us a line here. Make sure you check the FAQ on the plotting post to see if your question has already been answered.

DALE HARDING AND ROSEMARY CRAVEN

[robbies]

Leave a top-level here if you would like to speak with either Rosemary or Harding, and the mods will tag back to you. Please note that these interactions will take place before your character goes to the school.

The mods will accept a total of 10 threads, or 5 requests per NPC. Write in your header which NPC you would like to thread with (HARDING or ROSEMARY). You can only thread with one of them, so choose wisely!

Kipo | Kipo | OTA

[purplejaguareye]

[Exploring the tunnels]

[Kipo's followed a group down into the tunnels, looking around for any signs of the missing. In her mind, she's taking in how small the space is, how difficult it would be to turn into the Mega Jaguar if trouble came their way. Things aren't looking good...]

Okay, we just gotta find our friends, throttle the people holding them hostage, and get out of here. Easy!

[Laboratory]

[Kipo makes sure to look through all the equipment and papers she can find, trying to dig up any information on the missing or just what's going on with this town. Unfortunately, she can't find anything worthwhile.]

Well, only one thing left to do here...

[She smashes her fists together.]

Let's smash this place apart!

[Clearly an A+ plan. Normally she'd hate the idea of destroying anything science-related, but a secret lab under a school clearly means evil.]

[Doppelgangers]

[When the Doppelgangers attack, Kipo has one option - shift into her 8-ft tall purple jaguar form and fight back. She bats a few of them away, and she'll offer a paw to anyone who's struggling to fight them off.

But then she hears a familiar voice...

"Kipo! Help me!"

She shifts back into her human form, bolting in the direction of the voice. She doesn't think it's a trap, clearly her dad was trapped down here the whole time! And maybe her friends are down her, her mom-]

Dad! Dad, I'm coming!

[She turns a corner, and it's a doppelganger. She grunts in anger, shifting back into her jaguar form...

But the Doppelganger has lured her into a tight corner, and her jaguar form just doesn't fit very well in the cramped space. Pretty soon, more of then come out and swarm her.

She lets out a panicked roar.]

Sans | OTA

[ribticklers]

A; The Shelter
[Sans, and whoever is with him, isn't the first to get there, but he is there before the school opens. You know how it is--the second mouse gets the cheese. Sans doesn't enjoy using the louder, more reckless, less patient people (not that he's feeling particularly patient himself today) like this, but if Papyrus is here, and then Sayori, too, that's the goal, and that's what's important. Let the whole town act as a distraction if it gets them out. Because he's not the first in, he doesn't have to go to the trouble of breaking in. Stay quiet, stay fast, stay focused. If everyone else does the hard stuff, better for him.

The clean boxes are of note. That means they were placed recently, maybe used recently. Sans dumps an assortment of first aid supplies into the red plaid satchel, decorated with bows, that he's brought down with him. It's Sayori's--he figured he'd need something to carry stuff in. Hopefully she doesn't mind, if she's still alive.

The next box, already opened--IV tubing. Syringes. Surgical tools. Sans goes still, forgets to even breathe. If it's new and open, it was used. This stuff was used. This stuff was used, so--

Sans's voice is clipped and soft:] We're going deeper in. [Now.]

B; The Operating Room; cw: surgical blood/gore remainders, panic attack vibes; dry heaving
[Sans starts to get a feel for navigation the deeper in they go, though that realization leaves a worse taste in his mouth than the cloying, spicy-sweet scent had. Travel with Sans through this place has been a mostly silent affair--Sans is stalking through this place more than he's walking--but his steps have become more sure of himself as he starts to be better able to anticipate what sorts of places are likely to be where. A converted laboratory, but he knows laboratories. That's why he flinches, just a little, before he even sees the operating theater, let alone walks into it. That song is playing, same as it had been on the television broadcast.

A turntable, the source of the music. Scalpels and tongs, washed but not dried. The operating table itself, under an assortment of lights. Blood smeared on tile. A bucket of blood and thick, disgusting mess. Grey pulp in the sink. He doesn't know what that is. His whole torso heaves violently, but his jaw is set nearly tight enough to crack his teeth, and nothing comes up. Sans doesn't know what's in the sink, doesn't know what's in the bucket besides blood, knows too much and not nearly enough of what's happening. His stomach clenches painfully again. Sans doesn't know what they did, if anyone is even alive anymore. He doesn't know why this is happening. Papyrus had never done anything to deserve any of this. Sans had never done anything to deserve this. This isn't fair. What did any of them do? It's not even--not even because of humans and monsters, it's--he doesn't even know, and--

The edge of the sink bites painfully into the palms of Sans's hands. He's gripping it tight enough to draw blood, but a little more on that sink hardly matters.]

C; The Doppelganger; cw: violence, doppelgangers, literal face masks
[It's Papyrus's voice that draws Sans away, because it was always going to be that. It's not even intent to separate himself; he moves toward the sound like he was magnetized to it. It's calling for him, after all--Brother and Sans in turn, and Sans doesn't stop to think that it's ridiculous for Papyrus to have any idea he's down here, let alone nearby.

Then, Papyrus's face at the dim end of a hallway.]

Papyrus? [Sans's voice is thin, wound tight with stress. The doppelganger is happy to reply. Brother! There you are! Could you come here? The Great Papyrus... May need just a tiny bit of assistance!

And of course Sans moves immediately, doesn't even think about it. There's a vague alarm in the backmost corner of his mind, the sense of something off, but so much is wrong here that he can dismiss it was the wrongness of the whole situation. He's halfway down the hallway. Three quarters. It's a long hallway--he's far closer to the dim end of the hallway now than the area he'd just left.

Two things happen almost at once. What happens first, what saves him, is that the face--slides, so it's sitting lopsided. The second thing that happens is that the doppelganger shifts its ball joints and lunges at him like a jungle cat--

Sans whips his left arm forward, holds it out like he intends to stop the screeching thing with one open palm. But it does stop, its torso slamming still in the air while its limbs bounce like it's hit an invisible wall. It's close enough to tear a whole new set of claw marks into Sans's left arm.

And then it flies back and slams into the wall hard enough that, as its porcelain-like elbow strikes before the rest of it, that bloody arm pops out of its socket.]

That's not your face. [It's not. It's not. That's. It's slid even farther now. Detached skin. It's a mask. And it's not Papyrus's face, either, not really but. It was.

Sans whips his arm out wide. The doppelganger slams into another wall. Its remaining arm shatters. And Sans just stands there, looking at it. Holding it there.]

That's not yours.

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! )

Papyrus | Undertale

[spaghettimonster]

- Open to kidnappees -

BEING CAPTURED AND OTHER SORTS OF FUN ACTIVITIES
[It's not the first time Papyrus has woken on a hard surface, though his aching body wishes it was. It's not even the first time he's opened his eyes to a dark and unfamiliar room. But it is the first time he's woken in a cage without warning, and his attempt to sit up and back away from it is quickly stymied by bar against wall and head. He doesn't hit it hard enough to hurt, but it's enough to startle him awake even further.]

Wh-what? Is this... some kind of joke?

[Over the next hour it becomes clear it's not, or at least not any quick kind of joke, and Papyrus scrabbles for other palatable theories to explain what's happening. Puzzle rooms, right? He'd talked with the alliterative puzzle guy about "escape rooms," where people do puzzles to try to escape, and Papyrus had expressed disbelief that people who failed were let out after just one hour... maybe this is a test run of something more hardcore. Yeah, maybe they just have to solve the puzzles here!]

Hmm, can anyone see any writing? Signs, or notes on the floor...? There must be clues somewhere, for what we're supposed to do!


TO SUFFER THROUGH HORRIBLE PUZZLES FOR NO REASON (cw: post-surgery, descriptions of injuries)
[If it is a puzzle, it's not one where they're the players. At seemingly random times, the room's filled with that strange smell, and one by one everyone's been taken away and returned changed. It's something from a horror movie, even more than the snowman corpse or damp trick-or-treat décor enforcers.

This time, Papyrus was the one taken, and it's even harder to remember than October. Bright light, quiet music, scraping sounds. A throbbing all up and down his torso, and when he puts his hand to his side there's something wet and yielding to what should have been braced by ribs - and the pain when he pushes a little harder is enough to make him see lights in this dark room. He whimpers and gasps for a moment.]

Oh my god. My... my bones are gone.

[Carefully, carefully, he tests the rest of that side, then the other. But his hands are moving fine, his legs, his head all feel normal - if sore from the cramped facilities.]

S-Some of my bones. In my ribcage. Can, can humans survive that...??


A SLEEPOVER THERE'S NO ESCAPE FROM
[It's hard to tell when it's night, and it's hard to sleep contently... but his new ridiculous need for rest makes it easier to drift off even without the strange smell regularly filling the room.

Still, he misses hearing a story before drifting to sleep. The old bedtime story ritual with his brother is meant for putting Sans to sleep, and letting Papyrus briefly snooze with the confidence his brother was home safe and not getting into trouble... but it's become something of a sleep aid for him too, since waking in this strange surface town and human body. It's a little awkward to just ask near-strangers for stories like that, though. So instead, after a little more tossing and turning, he offers a question to the people around him:]

What's the first thing you want to do, when you're out in the sun?

[Not if, when. Even if the timing is unclear, and there's no particular hints of how they'll get free... he has to think of it that way. That part's not as difficult as dealing with the cage or the pain - he has a lifetime of experience in waiting for freedom.]


JUST MISS SEEING MY FACE SO MUCH (cw: post-surgery, descriptions of injuries, body horror)
[This time, when he wakes, there's no new pains in his torso - though the healing wounds and gaps in his ribs still ache when he shifts the wrong way. But his face... it feels at once stiff and sensitive and throbbing, and when he puts his hand to it for a brief second he wonders if he has his own skull back. But no, the surface he touches isn't bone or skin, and under it the pressure is hot and stabbing. He hisses with the unfamiliar pain of it, and takes a minute to try to steady his nerves. Something's on his face. It feels like maybe it's growing out of his face, or something...?

After a moment or two of trying to control his breathing, trying not to panic, he faces one of the neighboring cages and knocks on his bars to get their attention. When he speaks, it's a little slower than usual, compensating for the pain of recently injured facial muscles.]

Uhhh... Hey, are you awake? I was wondering... it feels like, they put something on my face. And I'm just curious, what it is.

[The mask is something like this, smooth, and white, and stiff. Nearly everything from ear to ear, hairline to chin, is covered, besides some holes for eyes, tinier holes for nostrils, and a thin gap between the mask's lips. It may be hard to tell in the dim light, but there's red and bruising and stitches in that tiny bit of remaining skin along the hairline. Right around his eyes is darker than it should be, exposed muscles just barely visible around his eyeballs. The mouth gap doesn't reveal anything of the sort, being too small and too stiff - it barely moves even when he talks, and the opening is only about a fork's width and straw's height in size, enough to show flashes of teeth but little more.]


FIND A WAY TO GET US OUT OF HERE (cw: mannequin violence? body horror?)
[There's no way to tell what day it is, in the cages of this dark damp room. But this time, when they all to, they all come to. Whether they're all sounding off or just a few are reporting on their neighbors' status, it's clear everyone is still in the room, a first which alone makes this feel like a new day in this horror.

Investigating their surroundings turns up another change pretty quickly: the doors aren't locked tight, but slightly ajar. Maybe Papyrus really was onto something with that escape room theory, a thought he pointedly thinks to himself for the self-affirmation of success. He looks around for signs of wires, alarms, then tests pushing the door open with a surreptitiously summoned bone. It creaks a little, and he stiffens, but nothing else seems to happen. It just sits there, ajar.]

I don't want... to alarm anyone. But, I think, this is the part where we try to escape.

- Open to all -

JUST KEEP GOING EAST! (cw: mannequin violence? body horror?)
[Of course it wasn't as easy as just walking out the door, that would scarcely be any escape room worth describing as an escape. There's more mannequins, and what they lack in authentic human-like appearances, they've gained in speed, and... well. Sneakiness.

"Papyrus, thank goodness you are here! Please, you must find the way to unlock this door," says a voice an awful lot like Miss Toriel's.

It's enough that Papyrus stops in his tracks, turning to look for a door, but this hall is just lockers after lockers. Are some of them secretly a disguised door...? He gets so invested in checking them, he misses the sight of doll parts in a pile of broken furniture a few feet away].


WILDCARD / OOC
[Want a different prompt, during captivity or during the escape? Plot w/ me at the plotting post, by pm, or by plurk. FWIW, Papyrus's final escape will be with Sans, but there's a lot of twists and turns and ways to get separated along the way with others, plenty of opportunities for brief partnerships in the lab or tunnels.]

Anduin Wrynn | OTA

[shalamayne]

cw: body horror in both prompts.

(ɪᴍᴘʀɪꜱᴏɴᴍᴇɴᴛ)
[ Being snatched from his own bed had never really been given any thought. Anduin had eventually assumed that no-one would be bold enough to walk into his residence and do such a thing (and that if they had he would have awakened before anything happened). Now he knows he was wrong on all counts and making such an assumption had wound up being nothing but downright detrimental. The first few days pass in a dazed blur, though the few times Anduin had been conscious enough to be aware he had done nothing but try to keep some kind of optimism and hope going, even going so far as to speak the words out loud to those he knew were nearby.]

Our friends will be looking for us. Stay strong, we will see the outside again. [ Anduin knows it's easy enough to say and harder to believe, but deep down he knows there's going to be a way out. Either their friends will find them or their captors will mess up. One will invariably happen and Anduin knew that when that time came everyone would need to be ready to move. He needs to be strong for the others like any good King would be for their people. Just what kind of person would he be to fall into the pits of despair only to drag others with him?

Anduin's faith begins to waver when it's his turn to be dragged away, the only warning the sickly sweet and cloying smell he had come to dread. There had been nothing but pain, flickers of images he isn't sure happened or he only imagined, a result on an overly tired and fraught brain. It's only when he wakes up and finds his right arm and hand sluggish and slow to move, heavy almost. Further inspection lets Anduin know those flickers had been the truth and despite being thankful he doesn't remember all of it, he knows it's bad enough. The searing pain that accompanies the new "arm" he's been given has the young King often gritting his teeth, beads of sweat dotting his forehead as he tries to breath through the intermittent waves of pain.

Still he tries to keep spirits up, voicing his thoughts out loud when he knows his voice won't crack and betray him.]

Not long, people will know we're gone. They cannot have taken us far.

(ʀᴇꜱᴄᴜᴇ, ʟᴏᴄᴋᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴡʀᴀᴛʜɪᴏɴ)
Anduin knows that losing faith in such a faith was a bad thing, that it would only hinder him more than anything. Yet knowing such a thing doesn't stop the worry sinking it's teeth in, a worry rat that gnaws and chases it's own tail in his mind. If they aren't found who knows what will happen? He doesn't know the games these people are playing and he can't even begin to understand the why of it. Anduin just dreads the sweet scent that precludes blacking out, can't help but silently fret each time what he'll wake up to next.

It's when he wakes up again, slowly coming around to the (unfortunately) familiar dreary sensation that Anduin realizes something is different. Something has changed. It takes a few seconds for the young King to notice the cage door is slightly ajar, as if someone had begun to open it and stopped short of throwing it open.

Is it a trap? Tired blue eyes take stock of the room. It doesn't seem to be but then Anduin knows that the others have been watching them. He needs to play this carefully, if it's been an oversight by their captors then rushing will do nothing but waste an opportunity.

That and Anduin simply doesn't know if he can stand up so quickly. The cages are short, tall enough only for the young man to sit up in. No, he has to play this right and he sits in contemplative silence, rubbing his "arm" and wincing at the bright flash of pain it brings. He doesn't even know if that's normal or not but then it's not as if the arm is his to begin with.

(ᴡɪʟᴅᴄᴀʀᴅ)
[ ooc: Any other of the prompts look interesting let me know, I'll be happy to plot something! Will match prose! Also feel free to PM. Anduin will be doing a network post later in the week about needing his arm to be dealt with.]

sayori ♥ doki doki literature club!

[hxppythxughts]

CAPTIVITY ♥ GENERAL, ANYTIME. standard CWs apply

[Sayori does not awaken elegantly to this situation. She tries to sit up too fast and bonks her head right on the metal top of her cage, she fidgets out of control trying and trying to stretch her sore limbs but simply not having enough room, she pokes and rattles every imaginable part of the cage wondering if there might be a weak point anywhere. She eats quickly when they awaken with food (usually.)

Even following some trips to the operating room — both her own and others' — Sayori tends to be a restless captive while she's not drugged. She has a hard time sleeping at all after the brain surgery, struggling to find a way to rest her head that doesn't agitate it, so she just stops trying and allows herself to drift off whenever sleep might take her in whatever position she happens to be in.]

A. [She spends a lot of time fussing over the others. Giving them reassuring smiles when she can, when it's appropriate. Catching their gaze with genuine concern when it's not the right time for a smile. And often asking softly:] How are you feeling?

[Never are you okay, because she's not that stupid. None of this is okay.]

B. [Maybe someone looks like they desperately need a distraction for whatever reason. Boredom, or anxiety, or sadness. Not in the direct aftermath of anything too gruesome, but— regardless of her own state, Sayori is on the case with a gentle offer.] Hey. Do you want to play a game with me?

C. [There's also this funny thing she does when not absorbed in conversation with the other captives. Occasionally, with her eyebrows furrowed in deep thought, she traces her finger along the bottom of the cage in short movements, as if she's writing. Those in adjacent cages can probably tell that she's tracing the shapes of letters, but of course there's no reading what she's "written" in this imaginary ink.]

CAPTIVITY ♥ HEARING LOSS. CW: eardrum trauma

[When she finally comes to after her first experiment, it's a sensation she's never felt before. It's even worse than her worst days, her body achey and heavy and simply hard to control in a way she has no point of reference for. It doesn't just feel like fog in her brain; it feels like everything is behind frosted glass, painfully inaccessible while she tries to wake up. The sounds of her surroundings are muffled, as if they're behind the glass too.

She eventually sits up, rubbing her eyes to try to clear the sleep from them. (It's not sleep, not really, but it makes her feel better to go through the same motions.) Her stomach feels a bit unsettled, so she spends a few moments just breathing deeply and hoping that will help.]

A. [The first thing to catch her attention is a sound — maybe someone speaking. Maybe someone speaking to her. It sounds fuzzy, and she can't make it out. She blinks, turning her head towards the source of the sound with an owlish look.] What?

[And that's when she notices, as she turns her head, that the sleepy muffled feeling changes direction. It follows to her right. She turns her head this way and that to test it, expression becoming puzzled, and lifts a hand to her right ear after a moment. Running her fingers over the shell of her ear, nothing feels out of the ordinary. So she cautiously inserts her pinky into her ear — maybe it's clogged? — and laughs with a nervous edge as she addresses who'd spoken.] Sorry, I didn't hear you! I guess my head's a little stuffy...?

B. [It's a little later, after a lot of uncomfortable fidgeting with her damaged ear, that she begins to wince as she rubs her earlobe between her index finger and thumb. But it's not from irritation on the outside; over the course of a mere few seconds, a fast-creeping ringing sound in her right ear goes from quiet to annoying to piercing.

She squeezes her eyes shut as it grows louder, hoping that might block it out, but it just seems to make it worse. Then she moves on to covering her ears with her hands, pressing her palms to them until she feels them go airtight. But the shrill sound overwhelms, resonating in her skull almost to the point of pain.

She stays like that for a full minute, bowed over her own knees with her hands pressed tightly to her ears and her eyes closed, face held in a tight expression of discomfort. She doesn't respond to any prompting. Only once the intense tinnitus subsides does she blearily open her eyes and look to anyone addressing her, clearly a little disoriented.] S— sorry, I just— did you hear that?

[Of course they didn't. But she's never had sounds in her head like that before. There's still a phantom tickling feeling in her ears as if vibrations from the nonexistent sound still linger.]

CAPTIVITY ♥ BRAIN SURGERY. CW: lobotomy, dissociation, self-harm mention/imagery

[It takes Sayori a lot longer to wake up from her second alteration. Her head is heavily bandaged when she's brought back, to the point that most of her hair is hidden beneath it, but there don't seem to be any visible changes beyond that. And for a while she just sleeps it off.]

A. [When she finally does wake, it's with a groan, and she doesn't start moving right away. Her head is— god, her head is killing her. Even after the first surgery, it didn't hurt like this, like she can feel every throb of her beating heart vibrating the cavities of her skull. She reflexively reaches up to touch her aching head as she rolls onto her side, but as she presses her fingers into the center of the bandaging at the front, a jolt of pain cuts straight through her skull from the tips of her fingers and her sharp yelp cuts the stale air of the room.

A full-body flinch accompanies the sound of pain; however, the sudden movement of Sayori curling in on herself like a pillbug jars her equilibrium in such a way that it sends the whole room spinning and makes her stomach turn. A cold sweat breaks out along the edges of her pale face and she closes her eyes to block out the swimmy quality of her vision.

She doesn't dare open her mouth until the heavy wave of nausea subsides. Even once it does, she doesn't sit up. She just clumsily brushes her fingertips along the edges of the bandaging, sluggish and nearly delirious as she asks of no one in particular:] What happened to me...?

B. [They went into her head.

I pop off my scalp like the lid of a cookie jar. That's exactly what they did. It was a metaphor when she wrote it. Wrote of her own hands scraping the inside of her head raw for every last drop of happiness that she could bottle up and give away. But no, here, they've actually— is that what they've done? Opened up her head and excised the happiness from it to be bottled for later use? They couldn't have, right?

It feels like it. But she can't know for sure. Not unless she takes off the bandages and rips her head right back open, and she'd probably get drugged again before she made it that far.

It would be normal to cry in this situation. She feels on some level like she wants to. But the realization brings her far away from her own body in the same way that the epiphany of Club President did; the horror is simply too vast, too personal to process at a normal emotional level. Her mind forces a disconnect upon her because it's the only way it knows how to cope with the situation: shut down and embrace the foggy oblivion of numbness, just as she does on the days that she can't bear to rise from her bed.

She spends a good amount of time simply staring into space, idly fidgeting with her bandages. When someone finally catches her attention, she fixes them with a distant, haunted stare — and then smiles, gently, sadly.] I'm okay. My head just hurts a little.

ESCAPE ♥ FELLOW CAPTIVES. standard CWs apply

[As disoriented and exhausted and sick as Sayori feels, she doesn't notice right away that there's something different about her cage when she wakes up. She discovers it when she reflexively moves to stretch her limbs — and instead of knocking uselessly into the bars this time, her feet push the front of the cage open.

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. It takes at least that long to absorb what she's looking at. And then she's scrambling out of her cage, heedless of the persistent headache and general fatigue of her battered body; this is the most awake she's looked since they were all taken.

She's quick to offer a word of encouragement to those who may not realize, or who look fearful of leaving. Perhaps they're physically struggling to leave for whatever reason; she's happy to offer a hand there, as well. All the while, she speaks in a soothing voice, lively with an edge of hope.] Hey— hey, it'll be okay, we can leave now!

ESCAPE ♥ CLOSED TO MONIKA (MAYBE SANS & PAPYRUS). CW: surgical gore, emetophobia, brain surgery mention

[Some of the captives are surely like her, though, leaving their cages as soon as they're able. Once Sayori has done all she can do for the others, she begins to explore the lab, as driven to find answers as she is afraid of finding them.

For better or worse, the operating room is her first trip. It's closest, so that's where she ends up first, and— God. What a nightmare. Nausea overcomes Sayori as soon as she steps in and sees the table. Doubtlessly the very table where they were all cut open.

There are probably useful things to find in here. She manages to grab a scalpel, which she doesn't want to use, but her conversation with Sans about the dangers of this place weighs on her heavily and it's the most weaponlike thing she sees. However, her exploration of this room is cut short, because when she looks in the sink — when she finds the discarded viscera — she can't. She can't. She can't bear to look but she can't look away either, and there are fleshy bits and gore she doesn't recognize, and— and something gray and pulpy rots at the bottom of the sink, and what part of the body is gray—?

Her free hand flies to her head. Either from the resulting pain or the smell or the realization, she can't stop herself from emptying the paltry contents of her stomach into the sink.

She's gone from the operating theater quickly after that. Until rescuers begin to arrive, she pilfers as many first aid supplies as she can fit in the pockets of the pajamas she was snatched up in. She holds the scalpel tightly in one white-knuckled hand as if she'd ever actually have the wherewithal to use it, but even when she's finally discovered and startles at the presence of someone else in the room, she doesn't move to wield it properly. Her face is still pale, her skin a little clammy.] Ah— who's there?

WILDCARD ♥ ANYTIME. standard CWs apply

[ If you'd like something different with Sayori, either in captivity or during the escape, feel free to hit me up on plurk at ceesawaseesaw or at my plotting post! ]

angelo | ota

[apodictic]

THE TUNNEL.

[ everything is screaming at him with the amount of dread and danger he’s in, his newtype senses kicking in overdrive. it’s almost enough to give him a headache, making it difficult for angelo to move.

the fact that the air beneath smells moist for a bunker is wrong. angelo knows well enough what civilian projects look like transposed on what’s supposed to be a secure installation, having worked with neo zeon. moist means that it’s been heavily used - but why? what for? violence is a tool, not an end state; there are so many ways this town reveals itself to him that makes no sense to angelo.

he does pick up the medical supplies, however. angelo opens up one of the new boxes with a dagger, to check its contents, and then inspects it; finding it satisfactory, he shoves it in his backpack. he’ll do this to two boxes, just in case.

this continues on throughout the bunker: angelo moving into rooms he can open, rifling through records, taking what he deems as important and interesting. he makes notes of what he observes and watches each room keenly. the operating room makes him pause; too similar to how cyber newtypes are dissected, and angelo doesn’t really know what to feel about it. he truly wishes his captain were here.

in the lingering dark, beyond the horrors of the operating room, sounds of life and interest begin: shuffling sounds that echo in the strange darkness that indicate someone’s come to play. just as they were curious about the underground, so are these creatures who are more familiar with the dark. ]

H E L L O?

[ angelo stops, purses his lips into a thin line. ]

Well now. Someone’s come to play.

ooc. i’m thinking this prompt can either fit to a fighting prompt or an escape prompt, depending on what you’re up for! just let me know - put (escape) or (fight) on your subject line.


AFTERMATH - OLD GROWTH.

[ angelo feels drenched in sweat.

he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. he feels like a live wire. as a newtype, and more sensitive to violence and death, every fibre of his being is screaming to fight, but he can’t. he has to catch his breath, he has to remain calm. he is not in a war. he can’t act like he normally does in a battle.

he thinks of the depth of space and how much he misses the stars. ]

Are you alright? [ angelo runs his fingers through his hair, that curl messy as he tucks the side of it behind his ear. ] Those aren't like the ones months ago.

[ angelo checks the cartridge of his gun. nothing left there. his dagger has gotten much more use all throughout, and in the dark he can hear someone's voice, someone they're not supposed to have access to. a voice coming from the void, but not the darkness he knows - he can hear them crying out, COME BACK, COME BACK. ]

... Let's get out of here.

ooc. anything else = pm me/pp me at plurk/discord @ wrryypugnant#6666.

Levi

[freeflight]

[Body horror content ahead! Please click through to see what Levi’s going through so you’re well warned! If you want a special prompt, PM me or send me a message on plurk at dynamicrange. ]

Wake Up (captives only)
[ He woke in a small, shitty cage, and the only sensible first impulse he could possible have here is violence. Who wouldn’t? But there’s not a single good target to be violent towards. Levi feels like shit and there’s not much room to move, but it doesn’t stop him from assessing what he can in the low light. Not the only captive, small quarters, no real room for momentum or anything. It doesn’t stop him from doing what he can to try to force the door that first time. It gets him nothing, making a clamor and proving the cage too sturdy.

As they cycle through their captor’s work, dropping from that cloying gas that makes him want to gag, there’s only one thing left to be done. Survival was all that mattered, and there was nothing but watching and waiting for an opportunity to take action. One of those bare shadows they never quite saw had to let something slip. Someone had to fuck something up. And all the while he watches them get taken or he goes himself, comes back disoriented or feeling like he’s been stabbed in the gut because, well, he clearly had.

On rare occasion, he might even make an awkward bid at conversation. ] These bastards sure are shy. Can’t imagine why they won’t show their faces.

Height (captives only)
(A)
[ There’s something to be said for his endurance in an impossible situation. This time when he awakes, however, he is entirely too aware of the fact that he has his limits, and that just pisses him off. Muddled, entirely unable to focus, and all he can think as he returns to consciousness is that maybe he’s felt something this fucked up before, but he just can’t recall when. It’s utter agony, and the fresh iron tang in the air layers over the heavy scent of days (days? who knew?) of old blood.

Consciousness hardly worth it when he can’t even seem to move properly. There’s something wrong— something deeply fucked up, his muscles spasm against an impossible strain when he tries to push himself up, entirely too tight, and he clenches his jaw against it. He’s strong, stronger than most people, and it means exactly shit as he collapses against the cold floor, muffling strained, stuttered breaths against one of his fists. It makes no damn sense, he can’t even tell what the fuck happened. Were his arm and legs broken this time?

It’s worse. He knows it’s worse. He can’t tell in the moment that his limbs have been distorted by inches, not in this small space, and not by that single effort. Every other time he’d awoke, he’d been able to pull it together. He had to keep his shit together. But this— ]

Hey, how’s… [ It comes out slurred, practically incoherent. He’s not even directing his words at anyone in particular, doesn’t have the energy to see who is here still and in what shape they’ve been carved into. He can do this. He has to do this. Some of the people here had to survive and report back somehow, and that has been what’s kept him driven.

He’s starting to suspect of an opportunity comes, it’s not going to include himself. It doesn’t matter. He forces himself to shift on the cell floor, biting down a groan. Trying to seem in control would have been a joke, but at least his next effort to speak is clearer. ]  How’s the… situation looking...?

(B)
[ Or maybe it’s much later, though there’s never any knowing how much, and he’s worked himself up to getting stubborn. He tries to sit himself up, a full-body effort with little reward. Going pale, sweat beading on his brow, he slumps against the bars. Bandaged and bloodied, limbs pulled in at awkward angles, he feels stretched and distorted. For all there’s so little room in the cell, he’s lost so much of his range of motion. He can’t even consider straightening his arms, and his legs are doubtless just as bad.

Now he’s got an idea of what’s wrong. That suspicion earlier about his survival chances is ratcheting up. But he’s not dying just because some assholes he hasn’t even seen. His head lolls as he looks around to assess his fellow captives before letting his chin rest on his chest. Something had to give soon, or there wasn’t going to be anyone in any shape to make a run for it soon. He sure as hell wouldn’t be. ]

daylight vis lornlit. | ota. | threadjacking heavily encouraged!

[sunborne]

OOC NOTES
[ as discussed in my plurk - prognostic - this meant to serve several prompts and scenarios that are focused on post-rescue and post-event! these prompts are all written under the context that the characters who were kidnapped have been rescued and accounted for.



you can either incorporate the ideas here into your own toplevels or reply to here and have others reply to you, as this is more meant to encourage activity/interaction with others! i will have daylight respond to toplevels/replies to ensure threads/activity/plot is moving along!

if you’d like anything specific or private, feel free to reach out to me via pm or private plurks. ]

AFTERCARE.
[ loomis drive 101 has been temporarily converted to an area where the rescued kidnapped victims can recover from their injuries and modifications, with relative safety and privacy being semi-guaranteed. daylight makes the announcement on the network with a vague post and he will leave the doors unlocked for people if/when they arrive there. upon arriving, daylight will be quick in ushering them in, leading them to where they can recuperate from what they’ve been through.

several rooms have been marked for patient-and-guest only, mostly unused guestrooms found on the second floor, able to fit maybe two to four people if they want to share/not be alone. the windows’ curtains have been drawn so if you and others need a private moment to yourselves, whether to check on injuries or each other, this is the best place to do so.

the kitchen and dining room have also been temporarily set up as a place for others who aren’t hurt but need a break from the chaos. chairs are available for immediately flopping and almost-edible coffee is almost always brewing if they need a quick pick-me-up. there’s also a note on the fridge that tells them to eat what they want from inside, since he tried to prep food in advance — nothing fancy, mainly sandwiches and fruits and soup from cans, but hey! it’s better than nothing when you’re running on an empty or weak stomach. ]

CARDS ON THE TABLE.
[ if one pops their head in what seems to be a study, it becomes clear that this has turned into daylight’s room of mysteries and clues. his attempts to keep track of what’s been going on, who could be involved, and what it could all mean. the desk is littered in loose leaf notes that he’s trying to transcribe into notebooks proper. books have been pulled down and seem to be in the process of being hollowed out, so daylight can store things in them in the future. furniture has been pushed around to free up the walls, the main events, so to speak, of the study.

daylight has turned one wall into a list of places he’s keeping an eye on for personal reasons, ranging from the hospital to the police station to the tunnel located in south santa rosita. another wall lists several significant individuals from the town — clarke, the mayor. harding, the chief of police. rosemary, head of hha. — and significant details about them. on that same wall is a another list, this one concerning events that’s been happening since their arrival.

the list goes something like this.

POI LIST
clarke — mayor.
apparently signaled out some of us in dec speech.
close with hha?

harding — chief of police.
keeps an old photo: two kids, halloween costumes. (prince, jester.)
did something to takame? (takame knows photo but not he found it, when he found it, etc.)
one of us?

rosemary — hha head
acknowledges people who are no longer around.
is ‘mrs. craven.’ no idea who ‘mr.’ is.
one of us?

TIMELINE
october?

zombie kids. kept at bay by zombie kids.

bus accident killed kids and driver. (kids in h. photo involved? check poi left for ref.)



dec

christmas village.

murderous reindeer. (still around FUCK THEM)

hha involved? (papyrus noted reindeer left houses that were decorated / same thing in oct, jack-o-lanterns and zombie kids)
agatha and erwin (learned from sans) acted like the weirder members of town.

jan

sans and takame (maybe others?) found a photo on harding (read poi list above)
something happened to okuyasu. acted like erwin and agatha.


feb

luncheon and met rosemary craven, head of hha

trying to convince more activity/traffic at south of santa rosita

fuck me

this place seems like the perfect place to speculate with others what’s going on. or find a safe place to vent about what the fuck has been happening. at some point daylight will pop his head in, surprised to see people inside here, but quickly asking their thoughts so far on what they’ve found. or, more likely, how they’re feeling/faring after what they’ve been through for the last few weeks. ]

DOING THE ROUNDS.
[ though the missing people may have returned, it doesn’t mean they’re out of danger yet. it’s something daylight is well-aware of and wants to address soon as possible.

so at some point int he coming days, while in the house or outside of it, face-to-face, daylight will pull your character aside and ask they’re willing to help out in some capacity.

it usually boils down to three options:

1) watch over the kidnapped victims. ensure they’re not alone especially at night. keep them company and, if possible, see if anything can be gleaned from their time down there.

2) help clean up the multiple wrecks that was left behind thanks to the poltergeist’s attempts. whether it’s his house or others’ houses, there’s a lot of broken glass and tossed furniture and fallen objects to clean up. if they can get the houses back in order, that’s one less thing the returned people have to worry about.

3) help with the supplies in some capacity. whether it’s taking stock to make sure they have enough painkillers or trying to rummage around for more blankets, it never hurts to make sure they have enough for what they need.

if they need to be convinced, he promises to do them a favour in the future or do something there and then. he just— needs an extra set of hands for what needs to be done. ]

crowley 🐍 ota

[demonicmiracle]

darkness
[[ooc: Aziraphale is with him for this prompt, so it'll be a three person thread with bibliophilicbells along for the ride.]]

[After a brief conversation with Rosemary that pointed him towards the school, Aziraphale had talked him into going to check it out, since it's — the right thing to do, and because he wants to know what the fuck is going on. They're both reasonably well armed, two hunting rifles and a pistol between them, a decent amount of ammo just in case they need it.

The first thing of any interest they stumble across is the surgical room, and despite Crowley's insistence that Aziraphale stay out, they both end up inside, tentatively poking through the supplies. The blood and viscera doesn't bother him that much, but he's careful not to touch anything he ought not to, when he knows human bodies are susceptible to disease and infections. None of this looks especially sterile.

When he hears footsteps nearby, he raises the rifle, though his finger stays against the trigger-guard, and puts himself between the door and Aziraphale.]

Who's there?

[Announcing himself is a risk, but he knows there are likely others of their group down here looking for the people that were taken. He'd rather not get shot by someone friendly, if they come in not knowing anyone's here.]

come and play

[Crowley is alone. There'd been a scuffle with the doppelgangers and he lost track of Aziraphale, has been searching for him ever since, trying not to panic and mostly failing.

At least he's still armed. He just has to hope that Aziraphale is, too.

And then he hears a voice calling out to him. It's been so long since he's heard it, but there's something unmistakable about it, some part of him buried deep that would know it anywhere.]

Come here, Crowley, let me take a look at you.

[If someone happens upon him, they'll be ignored as he lowers the gun and walks towards the voice, unable to stop himself.

Someone should... probably stop him.]

a timely rescue

[After — all that business, he's a lot more on edge, far more wary of the voices that call to him and careful not to walk to close to the pieces of doppelganger, even if they look to have fallen apart. The more he spends in this place, the more he regrets having come, wishing he'd ignored his curiosity and Aziraphale's insistence they do the right thing. If something's happened to him, Crowley will never forgive himself.

Not everyone is so lucky, though, and when he hears a scuffle he's quick to run towards it, hoping that it might be Aziraphale, that he'll be alright and they can get the Hell out of this place together.

He's not so lucky, but he does round the corner to find someone locked in a fight with one of the awful white mannequins. All the exhaustion and fear he's been feeling is shoved aside, compartmentalized for a later date, as he takes quick stock of the scene, pausing at the end of the hall with the rifle raised.

When the doppelganger knocks the person to the floor, Crowley fires, landing a clean shot in the doppelganger's chest, cracking the porcelain.]

Stay down.

[He cocks the lever again, ready to take a second shot.]

closed to Archer

[So — his latest scuffle with one of the doppelgangers didn't exactly go well, judging by the deep gash on his arm and the dull pain radiating from his chest. It doesn't feel like a broken rib, but it's almost definitely bruised. The gash is more troubling, since it's bleeding so much his hand is sticky with it, his grip on the rifle difficult to maintain.

He slings it over his shoulder, draws the pistol instead, since he can use that left handed, and then he continues on his way.

Hoping to find some stray bandages or something, he slips into the next side room he comes across, trying to be quiet, closing the door carefully behind himself so nothing follows him in.]

Rapunzel | OTA

[prodigalhairess]

[Captivity; Pre-Surgery]

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

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

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


[B; Rescue ]

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

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

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

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

Help them!

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


[C; Wildcard]

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

Kiara Sessyoin

[thotsandprayers]

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

[A – for the captured]

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

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

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

It doesn't fit...how cruel.

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

[B – also for the captured]

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

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

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

[C – locked to Daylight]

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

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

...is someone there?

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

[D – Open]

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

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

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

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

wei wuxian | ota

[weifinder]

( ooc: hit me up here, or on the plotting post with a wildcard, or a request for me to write us a starter! at the moment i'm too brain drained for general opens: i adore writing starters for threads, however, so /opens arms. )

Okuyasu Nijimura | OTA

[righthandstand]

Caged

[The kicking will not cease until he's let out. Okuyasu throws his right foot at the bars over and over again, cursing that his Stand isn't here to help him out. All of his plans - get to the door, pull people out of their cages, get rope - they all depend on an ability to pull things through space.

So the next best thing is to use brute force. Somehow, he'll break through the bars! It's just a matter of time! It's a test of endurance for his body and for his neighbors' sanity.

Eventually, he gives up on fighting and lays face-down on his cage.]

Lobotamy

[When the gas hits, Okuyasu thinks of how must he hates spicy food. It doesn't make the meal tasty while making you suffer for your hubris. His second thought is of how stupid he must be to think of food when he's in danger, and the follow-up is wishing he could have eat something decent again. There are no more thoughts after that.

He wakes up on his back, the world spinning around him. Whatever that was, it must have knocked him out. For what? Are those bastards so afraid of being seen that they knock out everyone before they--

What would they need anyway? To move them to another room. Okuyasu runs his fingers through his hair as he sits up and finds himself slightly balder.

That's not right. Another hand, just to check, and yup, he's lost hair. Further rubbing reveals a ridge, a line of tender skin across the length of missing hair and onto his forehead. The headache. It can't just be the gas. Did they stab him? There's no blood he can see, so how long has he been knocked out?]

Hey! [He bangs on the bars of his cage Who the fuck did this to me?! [Obviously it can't be one of them, but someone has to have seen something!!]

Lung Removal, cw: discussions of breathing difficulty

[This time, when Okuyasu reappears, he remains still for hours.

Whatever happened, it knocked the wind out of him. He'd like to sit up and check what they carved out of him this time, but wearily checking his head doesn't reveal more scars. His front, through, is bloody and bandaged, showing a line of blood over his left torso.

His breathing is shallow, quick, panicking. Okuyasu wonders if this is what suffocating feels like, knowing that you need air but never getting it. He thought it would be more painful, but if he dies, that makes no difference.]

Escape from the Doppelgangers

[He wasn't going to rush ahead this time. He couldn't really, when running was painful. Rather, he made sure to keep close to this group as they wandered away from the lab, from the room of furniture, towards whatever these quiet hallways lead to.

The moment they reach a four-way corridor, one of those dolls crawls out of a pile of debris right next to them.

Okuyasu doesn't remember the details of what happened next, but everyone was screaming, running off, with Okuyasu lagging behind and reaching out to grab one of his fellow captors by the sleeve.]

Wait... [He takes in a deep breath, but it's not enough. He stops running. He breathes in. It's not enough.] Wait...don't run...

[He peeks behind him, seeing a figure crawling at him on all fours.]

vasiliy yegorovich ardankin | original character

[m1895]

INFO | PERMISSIONS & OPT OUTthere's a creeping doubt rollin' up my spine
CLOSED - FOR NATASHA / DARKNESS HELD ITS BREATH / CW FOR YEZHOVSHCHINA, TORTURE, AND EXECUTION FLASHBACKS

[ Everything in him screams Turn and run. Vasiliy's heart races in his ribcage until sweat soaks the armpits and spine of his uniform shirt despite the chill air, every step forward a struggle against the added resistance of the basic human desire to survive. He breathes in the smell of dust and mildew and earth that characterizes subterranean spaces and he's there again, the stiff soles of his jackboots echoing off the cement bowels of the Lubyanka, dropping to his knees on the cold hard floor of an execution chamber four years later. The sight of the revolver he holds out before him shakes madly with the tremors of the hand around its grip; his left remains motionless only because it's anchored by a tight grasp on the damp nylon strap of his EMS kit bag.

But he moves forward at a brisk pace anyway, dark irises scanning the dim space ahead of them. He's already a dead man. The missing ones aren't, and his own icy terror and the visceral shame of the stranger beside him bearing witness to the complete breakdown of control over his own body is nothing compared to this. ]

darlin', where are you now? (gonna find you down in a wishin' well)
OTA CAPTIVES / YOUR FRIENDS WHEN THINGS GET ROUGH / CW FOR TORTURE AND VOMITING
[ Dread tightens his throat and chills his skin as his worst suspicions are confirmed: judging by the blood, the instruments, this is a mass casualty event.

Torture.

He crosses through the doorway, hand finding the zipper at the top of his kit bag.

And then he sees the steel bars and looks in on neighbors and political prisoners and enemies of the state and vomits on the cement as the Lubyanka engulfs him.

Get up. You have to get up. Get up, you coward, now. Vision swimming, Vasiliy dares to lift his head and stare into the bars as the hard floor chills his palms and knees. It's the first necessary link in the chain of events that follow - he stares at the hideous welter of human bodies and rises to his feet with the unsteady gracelessness of a newborn calf. His mind begins to reflexively sift them into categories of severity. He staggers toward the worst of them, opens his mouth, speaks with his own inflection, the 1930s dripping from words he only has the presence of mind to speak in Russian. ]

« You're okay. I've got you. Help's here. »

with my own blood in my mouth
OTA / WILDCARD!
[ Once he's aboveground, Vasiliy wastes no time in doing his best to prepare a relief area for the immediate - hands out shock blankets, tosses orders to any uninjured parties that pass by around his third cigarette of the hour, marks his slew of patients with the appropriate triage designations. It's possible that he orders your character to bring the wounded water, scrounge for supplies, etc, a stark contrast from the softspoken and withdrawn man they may have met earlier. Whether they disregard, agree to help, or react poorly to the sudden authority he's assumed is, of course, dependent on the individual. ]