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[IC] Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP Page 16

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Hidden 2 mos ago Post by Qia
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Qia A Little Weasel

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Location: The Augmented Reality Center - Pacific Royal Campus
Dance Monkey #4.061: Something's Gotta Give
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Interaction(s): Cass @Lord Wraith
Previously: Running in Heels


Harper sighed in relief as she finally found an empty seat at one of the smaller, round tables near the edge of the room. The bustling crowd seemed to fade into the background as she made her way over, her eyes looking for any sign of reprieve. Her feet were already screaming from the heels, but given her minimal effort to break them in, she wasn’t surprised. The brunette wasted no time kicking them off under the table the second she sat down, wiggling her toes against the cool floor in quiet victory. She glanced around, hoping no one noticed her unceremonious shoe removal, but the room was too busy for anyone to care it seemed.

Good, Harper thought, leaning back in her chair while giving herself a chance to breathe and take in her surroundings again. The rhythmic thrum of the music, the swirl of bodies on the dance floor, the bursts of laughter from nearby tables—it was all background to the quiet beat of her own thoughts.

For the first time since the semester had begun, Harper wasn’t moving, wasn’t constantly looking for someone or something. She could just… sit. It was nice, a rare luxury she hadn’t realized she’d missed so much. It was the only indulgence from her past she’d allowed herself. The thought lingered as she rolled her ankles beneath the table, savouring the fleeting relief and the simple pleasure of being still.

Nonetheless, the dull ache in her feet was almost a welcome distraction—something tangible she could focus on, unlike the knots in her stomach. The heels were just a symptom, after all. A symptom of something she was constantly doing: making adjustments, compromises, and small sacrifices just to keep moving. Just to keep up. To be there. To be…useful.

“Long night?” A voice cut through her thoughts, startling her from her reverie.

Harper tensed slightly before glancing up. A guy, maybe her age or a little older, stood near the table, his hands tucked into the pockets of his pants. His smile suggested familiarity, though Harper was certain she’d never seen him before.

Her regard narrowed, cool and assessing. “Do I know you?”

The guy chuckled softly, shaking his head. “No, not really. But you looked like you could use some company. Or, y’know, a distraction from those killer heels.”

Harper’s brow twitched at his regular tone. So, someone had noticed her earlier. This realization made her sit up straighter, automatically pulling back from the uninvited intrusion. “I’m fine. Just needed a break,” she replied, her voice clipped and controlled.

He raised an eyebrow, unfazed by her dismissive response. “Sure, sure. Doesn’t look like much of a break, though. You’re still wound up.” His eyes studied her face, as if he could read something on it that she could not see.

So that’s what that felt like.

Harper didn’t respond immediately, just studied him with a critical eye in return. Who did he think he was, walking up to a stranger like this? The audacity of his casual approach made her bristle, her mind filled with a dozen retorts. She almost told him to leave but stopped herself, realizing there was no point in causing a scene over someone trying to make small talk. Yet, Harper wasn’t one for pointless social pleasantries, especially when she was trying to enjoy a rare moment of peace. Where someone wasn’t being chased. Or interrogated. Or kidnapped.

“I’m good,” she repeated, her tone firmer this time, hoping he’d take the hint.

But instead of backing off, the guy just shrugged and pulled out a chair, sliding into it without asking. “Mind if I sit? Promise I won’t keep you long. Just figured it’s better than standing awkwardly alone in a corner.” His nonchalance was both irritating and intriguing, as if he was used to breaking through people’s defences. The chair scraped against the floor, however, a grating sound that matched her rising irritation. What was the point of asking if he was going to do it anyway?

“Suit yourself,” Harper muttered, tucking Cass’s jacket closer to her chest. “But I wasn’t exactly asking for company.” Her eyes darted around the room, searching for an escape route, but she knew she was stuck for now.

He leaned back in his chair, an easy grin playing on his lips. “Fair enough. You’re not the chatty type, huh?”

Harper’s eyes flickered up to meet his briefly, her expression as unreadable as ever. “Not with strangers,” she replied, her voice cool and detached. She hoped the curt response would deter him, but his presence was like an itch she couldn’t scratch. It didn’t help that when she tried to tap into her powers, she hit that same mental wall as before—the one she knew better than to push through. Which meant she had no way of reading his true intentions.

He let out a low whistle, though his body language remained composed. “Noted. Guess I’ll just sit here quietly then,” he said, as if her refusal was expected, even part of the conversation. His tone wasn’t taunting, but there was something in his nonchalance that made Harper stiffen, her guard rising instinctively. She wasn’t sure what it was about him—maybe the way he wasn’t pushing, wasn’t affected by her obvious dismissal. What did he want?

She felt his stare, lingering just on the edge of her awareness, as she focused on the room—the people, the chatter, the music. Let him sit there. He’d lose interest soon enough. But after a few beats, the quiet stretched, and instead of leaving, he spoke again, his voice lower this time, almost thoughtful.

“You’re doing that thing.”

Harper’s brow furrowed, though she kept her eyes fixed elsewhere. “What thing?”

“Scanning the room. Calculating. You haven’t stopped since you sat down.” He tilted his head, studying her with a keen, almost unsettling interest. “It’s subtle, but it’s there. Bet you’ve already clocked the exits, too, just in case.”

The comment caught her off guard, though Harper kept her face impassive. “Old habit,” she muttered, her guard rising further.

He smiled faintly, shrugging as if to say he wasn’t judging. “Not surprising. You’ve got that ‘always prepared’ vibe going on.” His eyes narrowed thoughtfully, like he was trying to piece her together. “Military upbringing? You’re too precise, too aware not to have been trained for it.”

Harper’s jaw tightened. It was an observation that made sense, but the fact he’d picked up on it so quickly put her on edge.“Something like that,”she answered, not giving him more than he needed to know.

“Yeah, thought so,” he mused, leaning back in his chair as if satisfied with his deduction. The way he moved was almost too at ease for a place like this. Harper noticed then that he had an effortless style, the kind that made him stand out without trying too hard. His hair was a tousled mess of dark curls, adding to the impression that he wasn’t overly concerned with making a perfect impression. But the sleek, tailored suit he wore told a different story—dark fabric that highlighted broad shoulders and a frame built to be noticed. His tie was loosened just enough to lend a casual touch to the otherwise polished look, as if he’d made a deliberate choice not to fit the typical mould.

“You move like someone who’s always thinking two steps ahead. But it’s gotta be exhausting, right? Always anticipating, always guarding. Don’t you ever want to—what’s the word—relax?”

“I’m fine, thanks,”Harper replied, her voice firm, a warning not to push further.

“Sure,” he said, though his tone suggested he didn’t believe her. He leaned forward a little, resting his arms on the table, his scrutiny of her unwavering. The loosened tie and easy posture gave him an air of casual confidence, but his eyes—sharp and calculating—didn’t match one bit. “But are you?”

She met his stare. People didn’t usually press her like this, especially strangers. And yet, here this guy was, picking at the edges of her composure. Part of her wanted to shut it down, to put a hard stop to the conversation. But another part—buried deeper—wondered why it bothered her so much. Why did his simple observation feel like an invasion? Why did he even care? What did he see in her that made him push?

Harper shifted a bit in her seat, trying to deflect. “You really like playing therapist with people you just met?”

He chuckled, the sound low and unbothered, like he was genuinely amused. “Not usually. But something tells me you’re not like most people. Am I wrong?”

Harper didn’t respond, her lips pressing into a thin line. He wasn’t wrong, but that wasn’t a compliment in her world. Being different meant standing out, and standing out rarely came without consequences.

“You know, you remind me of someone I used to know. Someone who never let their guard down either.” His voice softened, taking on a more empathetic tone. “But the thing is, no one can keep that up forever. Eventually, something’s gotta give.”

She didn’t like it. The implication behind his words. The guy spoke with a certainty that rattled the brunette—like he knew something she didn’t want to admit. Before she could form a reply, however, the energy in the room shifted. Harper felt it before she even saw it—an undercurrent of unease. The low hum of conversation around her faltered, then changed pitch, signalling that something was amiss.

Harper’s gaze was irresistibly drawn toward the growing crowd on the dance floor, her curiosity piqued by the sudden commotion. A cluster of students had gathered, their bodies pressed close together, their murmurs swelling into a cacophony of concern. Something had happened. Faint whispers reached her ears, carried on the currents of anxious conversation, and one name stood out, repeated in fragments of hurried speech: Chad. He’d been hurt. And by not just her date but Aurora, as well.

What in the world was going on?

The guy across from her followed her gaze, his own demeanour changing subtly as he took in the scene. His relaxed posture stiffened, and his eyes narrowed with a newfound seriousness. “Looks like trouble,” he murmured, the lightness gone from his tone.

Harper didn’t need him to tell her that. She was already halfway to standing, heels slipping back on as her body moved before her mind fully caught up. Cass. Chad. A fight. The context snapped together too quickly for her liking, and an uneasy knot tightened in her stomach. She knew her date was fiercely protective of his friends, which meant whatever had happened, it must’ve been serious. Lorcán’s words had hinted at just that, but still—a fight? Her fingers tightened briefly around Cass’s jacket as her mind went through the options.

Stay or go? Intervene or wait?

“You gonna let it give?” the guy asked then, a quiet challenge under the question.

Harper’s eyes flicked to him, locking onto his steady gaze. Strangely, she felt a glimmer of understanding pass between them—an unspoken acknowledgment, like he already knew the choice she was about to make. She hadn’t changed overnight, and as Emily had said, she couldn’t be expected to. Not yet.

Without further hesitation, Harper turned away, her feet propelling her into the thick of the crowd. The pulse of the music and chatter rippled around her, but her focus narrowed as she scanned for Cass. She didn’t blame him for getting caught up in whatever had happened; it was just the kind of night where things spun out of control. Nonetheless, she couldn’t help but wonder how he’d explain it.

Just ahead, she spotted him weaving through the crowd, his loosened tie and relaxed posture marking him out. Harper quickened her pace, her heels clicking with determination as she closed the distance between them. When she was close enough, she reached out, her fingers curling around his arm, firm yet gentle. Tugging him back just enough to catch his attention, she leaned in, raising her voice to be heard over the music.

“Next time, maybe leave the heroics until after the first dance, yeah?”


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Hidden 2 mos ago → 2 mos ago Post by spicykvnt
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spicykvnt Sponsored by Yorkshire Gold

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Location: Formal Homecoming - A.R.C., Pacific Royal Campus
Dance Monkey #4.062: Hors D’oeuvre & Cummerbund About It
Interaction(s): Andrew “Banjo” Olyphant@Hound55
Previously: With The Lights Down Low

Cleo's blue eyes surveyed the scene and as she seperated from her teammates, she felt the all too familiar tug in her chest... Desire to dive into the center of it all. To be amongst the crush of people and the tangle of emotions swirling in the air. There was an ache to get lost in it, to be in it - the epicentre of the electricity. But just as quickly... That flicker of fear--knowing she shouldn’t let herself do such a thing. She sighed, grounding herself back to the task at hand. Weaving through the crowd, she moved with careful ease, never lingering too long against someone's space.

Her mind buzzed—faster than her feet. What to drink? What to eat? Are they going to play that song? I hope they don't play that other song. How long will the night go on? When will I want to leave? When will Manny want to leave? Is Manny okay? Did I forget something—what did I forget? A wisp of something familiar surfaced, like the scent of firewood and old books. Curious. She paused, stopping briefly in her tracks as she felt it tug, but the sudden pinch at her temples chased it away. The music crashed back into focus, loud and insistent, forcing her back into the moment. Curiouser.

She sped up her pace, nearly crashing into the bar. Elbows down, she pushed up on her tip-toes, one leg lifting, swaying in place like some awkward flamingo with ants in its pants. She scanned the drinks menu wide eyed. Lucas would want something non-alcoholic but fizzy. Effervescent and sweet. Raspberry lemonade. Manny? Definitely strong, no messing about. Whisky, neat. Cleo? A Whisky Sour.

Following her order, there was a presence that tapped for her attention to her left like a knock at the door. She turned. A face she recognised, though no name floated up to greet her as reminder. He was weighed down, the sensation of shadows curling around him, brewing their own storm within. There was a drink on his suit too that had dripped only slightly to the floor. He didn't seem concerned by it, but his heaviness was felt like thick smoke curling in. She blinked slowly, sensing the tendrils of his mood reach out, brushing against her edges. Her foot lowered back to the floor. Where dae I know ye from? she wondered.

Still, she was eager to share a word... Break the silence. “Ye’ve got a wet leg,” she said, her lips quirking into a playful smirk, trying to cut through the gloom with a flicker of lightness.

“And yet vodka’s s’posed to be dry. Just cos it's today, I reckon I’ll let ‘em off without makin’ a civil case about it.” He said, raising a glass of orange juice to his lips, his tone more dry than the vodka had been. A warm smile tugged at the corners of his lips. The smile reached his eyes, but they looked weary, as if they hadn’t had been called upon for that kind of duty in quite some time.

He tried to place her, but it was difficult in most cases even with those he was more familiar with, as they were out of regular uniform and done up to the nines. He tried to squint through the fog in his head and pull a name, but that was less than no help.

Where have I seen–

He slapped his leg suddenly in recognition, then shook his hand off twice as if to lose the moisture he’d just covered his hand in.

“Rollerskate Girl, right?

“Ayy,” she replied in kind with a smile, “that's me! And I like the nickname and all, but ye can call me Cleo.” She briefly turned to look at the barman as he continued on to making the drinks for her. His accent, too, she noted, another talking point. His mood still held oppressively in the air.

“Ye sound as far from home as I am. Maybe more actually…” she narrowed her eyes, trying to picture the Earth. Trying to figure out the distance, work out who was closer - her eyebrows scrunched for a moment. “How's life been, not being so upside down?”

“Well… I’ll try to remember it, but I’m not gonna make any promises I prob’ly can’t keep.” Names never really stuck with him, it took an uncomfortably long time to remember those he did both on his team and in his dorm, and this was another random girl he’d seen “‘round the traps” who just happened to be in the same year.

He snorted out a quick exhalation and a dry chuckle at how she chose to phrase the Scot’s question, before settling in to answer it.

“I don’t move around as much here, I’ll give it that much. I mean the weather’s a bit more rough than back home, but fortunately I’ve never really been bothered by the col–”

He stopped suddenly and the smile drifted from his eyes. Another exhalation and chuckle at something unsaid.

“Just a different Pacific island, eh?” He concluded, changing tack completely.

“How ‘bout you? It’s ‘round the bend’ for you,” He held his hands out, as if gesturing to the globe and then pointing a finger around the top. “so have they driven ya there yet?” The grin once again widening.

“It's a different lifestyle, that's fer sure. Round the bend? Maybe not. Up the wall?” She paused, mischief laced her next words. “A little.”

She watched as all too quickly, a slight sparkle dimmed in his eyes. She waggled her fingers in front of her, “like this dance thingamajig right?…. Could never have had something like this back home.” She chuckled.

“It'd be a wee daft disco in our school hall.” Her hands moved and gestured as she talked, “boys and girls on different sides. Some near-retirement age teacher in DJ mode… But this?” Cleo exhaled, bringing her elbows back to the surface of the bar. “Before tonight if someone asked me if I wanted an hors d'oeuvre? I would’ve assumed I'm being insulted.

Feels like something out of a movie alright.” She cautiously sensed through his gloom again. “Gonnae try my best to enjoy it though, for all the effort it's took to do it all.” She gave a small smile, not holding eye contact for too long, but she cast a quick look to the orange juice, “I take it… Not your drink that's on ye?”

“Weeeell, it is and it isn't. There's a good yarn there, but I wouldn't even know where to start with tellin’ it.”

His grin widened further.

“I'll tell ya what, if you find the joker who called me a cummerbund, I'll get the one who called you an hors d'oeuvre in a headlock and you can work the ribs.”

“A side quest?” Cleo replied with a chuckle as the bartender placed a raspberry lemonade next to her before continuing with the rest of her drinks order. “And, maybe some other time for your yarn then,” she added, picking up Lucas’ drink absentmindedly for a sip until she remembered herself and placed it back down just in time. Not before picking out the cocktail umbrella to occupy her idle hands.

“Speakin’ of side quests, hobbits and… well, he's too big for a dwarf…” Banjo mumbled as his roommates struggled to make it through the crowd to get back to him.

“This might be my last night with my team,” she sighed, continuing without hearing his snarky mumbles over the night's din, and giving just a small smile. “Not that ye asked,” she clarified, “but I'll tell ye anyway. Lucky you.” The umbrella opened and closed. Opened and closed. “The last big night of Eclipse. Who knows what tomorrow will be, for any of us really.”

Zimmerman puffed up his chest, and lowered his voice an octave.

“Is this guy bothering you?”

Banjo blinked twice, perplexed at the display.

“...”

“...oh Bloody Hell, have we started already–?” Finally recognising what he was seeing.

“Rollersk– Chlo– Cleo, this is Zimm– This is Alec.”

“Alex.”

“Let a fella finish… AleXXX Zimmerman. A good sort who reads too many comics and hasn't thought through the fact that if he starts talking in that tone he's going to have to keep doing it or show that's not how he usually bloody speaks…”

“Aww come on, Banjo…”

“Zimmerman, this is Cleo. A regular hyperhuman female who actually speaks in a steady consistent register. Who's… nervous..? Experiencing consternation, maybe..? about this possibly being the last night of her team.”

Cleo's eyes darted between the two, figuring out what was going on quickly enough - the nerves seeped from Alex, in a somewhat endearing way. “Ye know, I actually think I'm bothering him…” she answered quietly, leaning toward Zimmerman to only play at keeping her words from Banjo's ears.

“Oh… I don't think so. It's kind of just the way he speaks that always gives that impression.”

“Again… Because he's an asshole…” Big Steve mumbled, also unheard over the surrounding sounds.

The bartender placed Manny’s whiskey beside the lemonade. No umbrella, she noticed. Again, she glanced between Banjo and Zimmerman. “Well…. AleXXX... It is very nice to meet you,” she offered an easy smile and her hand to shake.

Zimmerman excitedly grabbed her hand and shook it rigorously, offering a “Hi.” which if anything, squeaked out at a higher register than his usual speaking voice.

“Seamless.” Deadpanned Banjo.

He drained his glass of juice and then re-ordered another.

Blinking with the handshake, Cleo chuckled slightly as the nervous excitement from Zimmerman spilled across to her. “I… uhh. My… That is quite a handshake,” she said. “So, Alex,” she began, withdrawing her hand to her side. “Are you enjoying the dance? Have you tried the… hors d'oeuvre?”

“Ha!” Banjo ejaculated loudly, making no effort to cover his laugh at the in-joke, prompting the pair of young men to only turn and look at him with some confusion, before returning their focus to the girl who had addressed the smaller of the pair.

“Thanks. Dad always said how important a strong handshake was in making a first impression.” He grinned broadly, this was going well, he thought. “Yeah, this is great, isn't it!? I mean… how are you liking it?” He lowered his enthusiasm in a far-too-too-late effort to regain his cool and match her energy level, which he'd clearly overshot.

“Well, it's a lovely shindig,” Cleo said, as the bartender placed the third and final drink beside her. “Oh!” She exclaimed, with a light laugh. “In case ye wondered, these three aren't all for me,” she shook her head. “Not that ye asked, but I’ll tell ye anyway.” As she spoke, she awkwardly pushed the three drinks together and formed her hands around the triangle of glasses. “Last night with my team and all. Apart from these two, Alex, are you here with anyone?”

Zimmerman's face lit up at the question. “No– no. No, I uhmm… decided to come stag. Keep options open. Not… tie myself down to any expectations on the night. Nice night. Glamorous. Good whatdidyoucallit… shindig.”

“Would you, err– would you like some help, Cleo? You know, with anything? Finding the others on your team, or carrying your drinks or holding your purse, or…anything?”

In his enthusiasm, he had sped up a mile a minute.

Her immediate response was to blink again, nodding along as he hurried through his words. “I don't need a hand with my purse, but… I do only have two hands - you could help me get my drinks to the table.” She gave an encouraging smile, hoping to assuage his nerves. “My friends are at the booth waiting for me…”

She knew what this was leading to, aware of the game from the moment he had brought himself over. “That would be so kind of you– of course I'd be very grateful for your help…Hmmmm…” She drifted off, leaving deliberate breadcrumbs for him with her words, she would have asked herself but this seemed more important for him.

Alex scooped up the three drinks enthusiastically and headed off for the booths, without further question, advice or opportunity for Cleo to change her mind.

Banjo turned and ordered the same three drinks again from the barkeep.

“I may not be good with names, but it'll be a cold day in Hell before I forget a bloody drink…”

“You can't just let him have th–?” Big Steve shook his head disapprovingly.

“You and I both know the man… You chose to come here for your own entertainment. You tell me, in his haste and enthusiasm, is there anything surer than the fact he's going to wind up wearing those drinks, or get lost with them? He didn't even get her teammates’ names.”

Far below, he felt The atmosphere shifted. Silence growing from where background noise had just appeared.

As Banjo looked over the railing he watched as Aurora planted a knee so deep in Chad’s bulbs he was pretty sure nothing would be growing for a while. He spat something back, but between the shot he’d just taken and the ambient noise of the venue Banjo couldn’t make out what it was for the life of him.

Instead of following up on the presumed threats, Chad stormed away through a rapidly clearing crowd. A crowd which cleared too quickly for one familiar diminutive man struggling with carrying three drinks. With neither concern nor apology he knocked them all down the front of Zimmerman’s suit who could only stand there and watch as his task to impress the woman young woman he’d just met splashed all over him. Despite being unable to hear, he didn’t have to be an expert in lip-reading to see his forlorn roommate uttered Aww maaaaaan.

The three drinks were quickly assembled on the bar behind Banjo.

“You take these three, I'll have him get cleaned up and bring him ‘round in a bit.” He said to Cleo. “He might be a bit rattled. Thanks for this.”

“Ah…” Cleo sounded out, bringing a hand to her open mouth as she watched it play out. “Well,” she said after a moment. “Ye've got company in the wet leg club now, at least,” she shrugged her shoulders. She was overdue heading back anyway, she thought.

“No. Thank you for your company,” she said with a smile, turning Banjo's way. Cleo twirled the cocktail umbrella in her fingers still, letting something of their shared joke nestle in it, a slight psionic transference to the folds of paper. “Here,” she said, placing it beside him. “Maybe you'll stay dry next time.”

Having spent more than enough time at the bar, she picked up the glasses, offering nothing else but a wink to Steve on her way too.

Banjo threw up half a wave as Cleo left, her seat soon filled with a familiar blonde face. As she looked at him out of the corner of her eye whilst ordering, he could see that something was brewing from the girl he hadn't heard from in quite some time.

He turned to Big Steve and asked “Could you make a start on helpin’ him out down there, I’ll be with ya both in a bit.”

She waited in silence until the bartender made eye contact and wordlessly pointed to the martini glass she had just settled down on the bar.

Banjo picked up the umbrella and twirled it in his fingers, waiting for the words of his old friend to penetrate the evening.

Heh… Hors D’oeuvre… A grin creased up the corners of his mouth.




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Hidden 2 mos ago → 2 mos ago Post by Festive
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Festive Homo Ex Imagine Dei Partus Est

Member Seen 13 hrs ago

The world is nothing without sound.

What is sound? Sound is a vibration within the air, a propagating force that permeates through all states of matter. A force that ravages the ears of the listener, and can captivate one within a single second. Sound will never leave you, no matter where you, no matter where you turn, no matter what you do. There will always be sound for however long one stands among their fellow man in this earthly plane we all call a home.

In spite of this fact, many yearn for the quick peace of silence. To be released into the seemingly safe and inviting grasp of silence is an experience of which many crave with a never-ending voracity. A hunger for nothing, to be sat in a vacuum where sound couldn’t dare travel. For many, it’s an escapism from the trials of life, but for Immanuel, it shall never come. Although true silence is unobtainable for the human ear bar the deaf, Immanuel only yearns to lay in comfort in a warm embrace of quiet, if only for but a mere blip in his time.

Location: Off the beaten path - Hiking Trails, Dundas Island
Dance Monkey #4.063: Turn it off
Interaction(s): Nil
Previously: Turn The Lights Down Low

One’s body shall only endure so much strain.

Strain was but only a single way to put it. Behind his eyes, a war was waged upon the forefront of his mind. A battlefield permeated with the searing pain brought forth by the eternal hell fire that raged upon his nerves. A throbbing, chronic disturbance which to the bearer felt his head akin to that of a pipe about to burst. Every second of his waking existence was accosted by a feeling which could only be lightly described as a knife stabbing area of highly concentrated nerve endings over, and over again without a second of reprieve. A punishment one would imagine only those cast into the deepest pits of a hellish realm would have such an agonizing displeasure to experience. A pain a masochist themselves would wince under threat of.

Immanuel’s eyelids stood stamped shut, his nowhere but upon his temples, rubbing circles around such a part of his head in a fallible attempt to curb the ripping within his head for but a second. Yet as he always knew, no such amnesty came. One of his hands only moved away from the position it held when the bartender sat before him the liquor his mind had yearned for at the moment. He had told the likes of Cleo and Lucas he was going to the bar for a drink yet failed to mention how long it would take him. However, much like his feeble actions of prior the burn that slid down the back of his throat did little to pardon him of the punishment bestowed upon him from procreation. Immanuel’s fingers held a grip akin to no other upon the glass within his hand, tilting the container upwards to allow the last bit of distilled poison to drop into his mouth. In but a second the glass was now back upon the surface of the bar, Immanuel pushed it back over to the bartender with his free hand. ”Are you alright?”

A scoff emanated from his lips, one of his eyes openning to look up at the bartender. Although the utterance from the barkeep was one likely only heard by the two, modulation of his words pierced his eardrums like a mere shout. ”Oh man, I can’t ever tell you I’ve been better than this.” The words fell from his mouth dryly and low, unlikely the intended target ever heard his little mumbling. Immanuel pushed his body off the counter, his shoes planted firmly on the ground as his hand dug into the suit jacket he had received off the bare seat besides where he sat to reveal a twenty from the pocket, sliding it across the counter to the bartender. ”Enjoy the tip.”

With a solitary nod to the barkeep from a head waging its own internal war against itself, Immanuel took off into the crowd. Humanity was a species that knew naught if but noise. The human body was a machine that ran louder with excitement. His wading through the sure inebriated crowd was laced with the evident pounding of hearts from each body he passed, small rustling of fabric threads against each that of another was a sound that pervaded the space as bodies danced against bodies and as shouldered brushed in the sea of people. The hefty breathing of those exhausted from their time upon the dance floor surrounded him throughout his shuffle. The loud voices of gibberish conversations, whispers, or sultry utterances spoken from the mouth of a lover were what was exposed to his hyper-sensitive eardrums. Forlorn secrets spouted by those around him seemed to seep through his waning wall of concentration as he tracked his way to the lavatory.

It was during times such as these he cursed the two people unknown to the likes of himself who struck him with such a curse disguised as a “superpower” he would see in the comics he read as but a wee child. In the hours of the night, Immanuel desired for but one person to truly know what was heard by his ears. To imagine being saddled with such a noise of a Lovecraftian caliber is akin to one imagining the pure and utter silence in which those of the deaf endure, and the absolute absences of all sight the blind must deal with; the brain of one simply cannot. Even as Immanuel broke free of the pull of the crowd and stalked toward the bathroom the noise had yet to lessen. With a push of the metal door and a step within the room, not even the walls could shield him from its ever-presentness. The lavatory had but one other man within its confines but who left not too soon after Immanuel entered. His hands with a slight hint of tremble grasped into a fist as Immanuel looked down upon them. His brown eyes met its match as he stared himself in the face in the mirror. Several beads of sweat lay scattered around his face, his expression contorted into that grimace. The man forced his back into that of a neutral one before starting the cold water on the tap.

Immanuel took a solitary breath before putting his head down before the water, using both his hands to douse his face. His mind tried with his mightiest effort to focus his hearing on simply only the running water. As the sound of the stream entered his ears he felt but a tiny bit of a reprieve until it all came back to him. It started first with small slips of the music sprouting until it finally broke through the wall, the voices came next in a whirlwind of sounds as the vibrations pelted his ears. ”FUCK!” His fist came down upon the porcelain surface at the failure to achieve more than a second of slight peace. Immanuel’s head turned as he heard footsteps approach the door of the bathroom, each louder in volume. With the same hand, now stinging slightly from the impact, he flipped the hand to the sink off. Quick in his pace, Immanuel stumbled back into the last stall down.

The mind Immanuel was provided ran at a million thoughts a minute, he couldn’t differentiate between the sound of his own internal monologue and the voices of the group that had just entered the bathroom, Hell, even between the voices of all those beyond the walls of this room. Why must he be the one to suffer such an impediment, what made him so unlucky? It was a blessing and curse, while yes he could hear everything, Immanuel could everything. The power he held was one he simply wanted one day to truly be able to master. To have control of his own situation was the freedom he yearned for. But all he could think right now was, why was it so fucking loud. His hands moved to his face covering his eyes with quickness before the light could make his head burn any fiercer. Immanuel sat down upon the top of the toilet seat leaning back against the wall as he exhaled, the noise poured in his ears without mercy, assaulting his cochlear hairs with a force that had only been matched but a few times throughout his life. It was too much. Why was it so goddamn LOUD.

LOUD loud. Why is it so LOUD. Loud. EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD. LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. Why can't the noise just STOP. Stop. stop. LOUD. EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD.WHY LOUD. LOUD. Loud. EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD. LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. Why can't the noise just STOP. Stop. stop. LOUD. EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD. LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. Why can't the noise just STOP. loud. Why is it so LOUD. Loud. LOUD. loud. Why is it so LOUD. Loud. LOUD. loud. Why is it so LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. Why can't the noise just STOP. loud. Why is it so LOUD. Loud. LOUD. loud. Why is it so LOUD. Loud. LOUD. loud. Why is it soLoud. EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD. LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. Why can't the noise just STOP. Stop. stop. LOUD. EVERYTHING IS TOO stop. LOUD. EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD. LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD. LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. Why can't the noise just STOP. Stop. LOUD. LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. Why can't the noise just STOP. loud. Why is it so LOUD. Loud. LOUD. loud. Why is it so LOUD. loud. Why is it so LOUD. Loud. EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD. LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. Why can't the noise just STOP. Stop. stop. CAN'T LOUD. EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD. LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD. LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. Why can't the noise just STOP. Stop. LOUD. loud. Why is it so LOUD. Loud. EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD. LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. Why can't the noise just STOP. Stop. stop. LOUD. EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD. LOUD. LOUD. Loud. EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD. LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. Why can't the noise just STOP. Stop. I stop. LOUD. EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD. LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. Why can't the noise just STOP. loud. Why is it so LOUD. Loud. LOUD. loud. Why is it so LOUD. Loud. LOUD. loud. Why is it so LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. Why can't the noise just STOP. loud. Why is it so LOUD. Loud. LOUD. loud. Why is it so LOUD. Loud. LOUD. loud. Why is it soLoud. EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD. LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. Why can't the noise just STOP. Stop. stop. JUSTLOUD. EVERYTHING IS TOO stop. LOUD. EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD. LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD. LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. Why can't the noise just STOP. Stop. LOUD. LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. Why can't the noise just STOP. loud. Why is it so LOUD. Loud. LOUD. loud. Why is it so LOUD. loud. Why is it so LOUD. Loud. EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD. LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. Why can't the noise just STOP. Stop. stop. LOUD. EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD. LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD. LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. Why can't the noise just STOP. Stop. LOUD. loud. Why is it so LOUD. Loud. EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD. LOUD.LOUD. loud. Why is it so LOUD. Loud. EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD. LOUD. HAVEloud. So fucking LOUD. Why can't the noise just STOP. Stop. stop. LOUD. EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD. LOUD. LOUD. Loud. EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD. LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. Why can't the noise just STOP. Stop. stop. LOUD. EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD. LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. Why can't the noise just STOP. loud. Why is it so LOUD. ALoud. LOUD. loud. Why is it so LOUD. Loud. LOUD. loud. Why is it so LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. Why can't the noise just STOP. loud. Why is it so LOUD. Loud. LOUD. loud. Why is it so LOUD. Loud. LOUD. loud. Why is it soLoud. EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD. LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. Why can't the noise just STOP. Stop. stop. LOUD. EVERYTHING IS TOO stop. LOUD. EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD.MOMENT LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD. LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. Why can't the noise just STOP. Stop. LOUD. LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. Why can't the noise just STOP. loud. Why is it so LOUD. Loud. LOUD. loud. Why is it so LOUD. loud. Why is it so LOUD. Loud. EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD. LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. Why can't the noise just STOP. Stop. stop. LOUD. EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD. LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD. LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. Why can't the noise just STOP. Stop. LOUD. EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD. LOUD. LOUD. Loud. EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD. LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. Why can't the noise just STOP. Stop. stop. LOUD. EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD. LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. Why can't the noise just STOP. loud. Why is it so LOUD. Loud. LOUD. loud. Why is it so LOUD. Loud. LOUD. loud. Why is it so LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. Why can't the noise just STOP. loud. Why is it so LOUD. Loud. LOUD. loud. Why is it so LOUD. Loud. LOUD. loud.OF Why is it soLoud. EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD. LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. Why can't the noise just STOP. Stop. stop. LOUD. EVERYTHING IS TOO stop. LOUD. EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD. LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD. LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. Why can't the noise just STOP. Stop. LOUD. LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. Why can't the noise just STOP. loud. Why is it so LOUD. Loud. LOUD. loud. Why is it so LOUD. loud. Why is it so LOUD. Loud. EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD. LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. Why can't the noise just STOP. Stop. stop. LOUD. EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD. LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. EVERYTHING IS TOO LOUD. LOUD. loud. So fucking LOUD. Why can't the noise just STOP. Stop.

SILENCE!


His body moved almost automatically, fishing the sleek black wrist contraception from within his pants pocket to around his wrist. And in but merely a second, the sound that attacked his brain relentlessly had turned into but a muffle within his brain. For the first time in several months, he could hear his own thoughts ring out louder than the noises from the rest of the world. A quiet, lonely reprieve in his mind, accompanied with a breath he felt like he had never had the chance to take before, like his head had emerged from the water after sinking in the depths. It had been a while since he had heard the world go muffled, an odd experience to endure from a man who left nothing unheard. The limiter could only do so much the curb the effects of his powers. The whole world kept chanting its cacophonous record of noises one would rather not hear but to Immanuel, it was a lower, more muted volume. While he could still hear the sounds that permeated his ears now were naught but unintelligible junk, whereas before he could partially make out but a hint of semblance of what he was hearing, now nothing was discernible.

Immanuel placed his hands upon the railing on the side wall of the stall to prop himself up. The war burning within his head began to lessen just as the volume had done. He had achieved a victory, but in the end, it lay as but a pyrrhic one. A pitiful action in a moment of disparity. He had to be stronger than this, Immanuel had to be better than this. Reliance on such a piece of technology, a crutch, would not help one overcome the problems in which they possessed. Immanuel wanted to live with himself, with his own power, not shackled by the quick release provided by the likes of the limiter or inhibitor. He had been taught better than such. In a way the action hung upon his shoulders like a weight, there went his months-long streak, swirling down the drain like the water he had filled up in the sink earlier.

A soft sigh escaped the confines of his lips as he exited the stall, standing before the mirror he had stood but minutes before. His face stood blank in his own presence. The bathroom was now empty once again, it was but Immanuel left alone in the room, and for this one time with his own thoughts. His eyes locked in line with the reflection of them standing before him in the mirror as he felt the last bit of his headache leave from behind his eyes. Starting the water once again, Immanuel put back on the olive-colored suit jacket he held in his hand while he trained his focus on the water. After a process of patting down his outfit and straightening out parts, he once again looked deep into the mirror. While a reflection of his current self, Immanuel could only see the flaws within his character. You can do better than this. The words were shouted across his mindscape as he pulled the band from his wrist.

And in like the first time he received his powers, it all came flooding in like a raging tsunami upon coastal shores. However, this time, unlike that unprepared little boy he was years prior, he was ready for the waves. After all, he had a team to get back, even if it was just for this last night.



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Hidden 2 mos ago Post by Lord Wraith
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Lord Wraith Actually Three Otters in a Trenchcoat

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With a slider in either hand, Lorcán happily chowed down on the delicious little burgers while continuing to take in the sights and sounds of the Senior Formal. His eyes briefly wandered to the figures of O’Neil and Torres, perched above watching the students and looking far chummier than Lorcán had ever thought possible between a PRCUer and a Foundation member. Still, then his mind shifted to Amma again.

So perhaps it wasn’t impossible, still, he had always thought Jim and Miranda were an item of some sort but he supposed that most relationships were far more complicated than either of his parents ever let on. But did they necessarily have to be? It was something he had given a lot of thought to lately, if two people wanted to be together, what could possibly stop them? Love after all was not a feeling, or even an emotion, it was the proactive choice of getting up each day and showing your affection and care to another.

Love was a verb. You had to choose love.

Which meant if Lorcán wanted to be with Aurora, he had to choose to take that step, to show that initiative. His eyes wandered across the A.R.C. again to where she was, watching her with Chad and painfully knowing that she was not enjoying herself because he didn’t take action previously.

That ended tonight.

“Special delivery,” Ripley’s voice suddenly interrupted Lorcán’s thoughts as a hand tapped him on the shoulder and he spun around before finding himself standing over his small and younger cousin.

“Luce will likely shoot you for this if she ever finds out you specifically requested blue roses, those things take a lot of work to grow,” Ripley snarked, “But, if it makes Rora happy, I’m glad to oblige you, even if you’re a moron.” She smiled as Lorcán graciously took the box.

The moment was interrupted by a loud slap as Lorcán turned to see Cassander beelining towards Aurora and Chad. He hesitated before Ripely urged him forward.

“Go get her, Leo.”
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Location: The Augmented Reality Center - Pacific Royal Collegiate & University Campus
Dance Monkey #4.064: Dancing In The Flames
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Interaction(s): @Melissa - Aurora Mitchell
Previously: Look What You Made Me Do

At this hour of the evening, the doors of the Mess Hall were bolted and locked and the lights were long since turned off, the building closed for the night. But that obviously didn’t stop Aurora and Lorcán from finding their way in.

This wasn’t the first time they had trespassed for the sake of dessert. In fact, at this point the pair had lost count of how many nights they’d teleported in to raid the walk-in freezer for ice cream before ending up at their usual spot on the beach. What started as a way to lift the redhead’s spirits from the nightmares that plagued her had now become the answer to any problem the two faced - bad days, arguments, poor grades - it all could be solved with a sweet treat. And tonight was no exception.

Reappearing from the industrial kitchen with a pint of Raspberry Ripple and two spoons, Aurora sat down across from Lorcán and handed him a utensil before popping open the container, placing it on the table between them.

“I should be careful, I don’t want to get anything on your mom’s dress.” The redhead mused before digging in, taking a bite of the sweet ice cream and humming contently, a small smile appearing on her face. The light of the moon from the large windows illuminated the room just enough, casting long shadows on the walls and floor. “Nice color suit by the way, but I shouldn’t be surprised,” She shook her head with a laugh, “Tori Roth is a mastermind, after all.”

“Yeah, my Mom never has steered us wrong,” Lorcán chuckled before taking a long taste of the spoonful of ice cream. He paused, tapping his spoon absent-mindedly on the pint before looking up at Aurora.

“Before everything got crazy in there, I had something I wanted to give you,” He said, lifting a small box and placing it on the table between them before opening it to reveal a wrist corsage adorned with a blue rose. “I noticed you didn’t have one.”

The redhead’s eyes instantly lit up as she beheld the delicate flower in front of her, her lips pulling into a grateful smile. When she found out earlier that Chad had forgotten to get her one, she tried to tell herself that it wasn’t important and it didn’t matter, that it was just a silly custom. But now, as she sat next to the person who knew her best, the gesture seemed to mean even more.

“It’s perfect, thank you.” Aurora softly expressed. She picked up the corsage and slipped it onto her wrist, admiring it before looking back up at Lorcán. “I should have said no when Chad asked me, should’ve known better that he didn’t have good intentions.” She revealed candidly, shaking her head. “I don’t even know what I was thinking, I didn’t even want to go with him in the first place.”

“I should have been there tonight with you.” She stated longingly, wishing she could go back and change things. “You even tried to ask me that night in the tent, didn’t you.”

“I tried, not exactly like eloquently,” Lorcán smiled, “Falling asleep didn’t help any, but like, Lady Dude, we’ve been best friends for seven years and that’s great,” He continued, “But have you ever wondered if maybe…” He paused, blushing slightly as his spoon traced around in the pint shared between them.

“If… maybe, there’s like more here?” He asked, “The way I feel about you, it like goes beyond friendship and if you felt the same-” His voice trailed off again. Lorcán was practically blushing at this point, his heart was beating inside of his chest, violently trying to burst through his ribcage. Aurora looked beautiful tonight, it took all of his restraint not to lean across the table and kiss her.

Instead, he tried to do what he had been failing to do and actually communicate with her.

“I guess what I’m trying to ask is if you’d maybe like to, go on a date with me sometime?”

If Aurora’s heart hadn’t already been racing a mile a minute, it would have simply stopped beating altogether.

He also wanted more. It wasn’t just her. If there was ever a time to tell him how she felt, it was now. So with a trembling hand, she placed her spoon down on the table, the metal utensil clattering against the surface.

“Lorcán, I-” She swallowed, hoping to clear the lump that had suddenly formed in the back of her throat, fighting back the nerves that had abruptly come over her. “If you’ll let me, I’m gonna talk for a second, because I told myself that I’d be honest with you, but I’m going to come back to that question and I promise that I’ll answer it.” She exhaled deeply, attempting to slow her heart rate before continuing, not waiting for him to reply.

Here goes nothing.

“Last week, when everything happened and it seemed like a very real possibility that I was going to lose you, I realized that things between us have definitely changed. At least for me, the way I feel about you…” Aurora reached up to grasp her necklace, but actively stopped herself, laying her palms flat on the table. “You mean everything to me, Lorcán, and-” She paused, struggling to find the words to convey her emotions, and laughed at herself. “God, I didn’t think this would be so difficult.”

She stood up, the jitters getting the better of her, and began to pace in the confined area between the table they had chosen and the table behind her as she spoke what weighed on her heart. She didn’t think she’d ever been so nervous around her best friend - but he was more than that, and he needed to know.

“I was planning on telling you how I felt. Tonight.” The redhead blurted, looking into his molten eyes, attempting to read them. “I think I might be skipping a few steps here, but I don’t even care, so I’m just going to come out and say it,” She took one last breath before taking the plunge.

“Lorcán, I love you.”

She let the words hang in the silence, her cheeks becoming rosy as everything was finally out in the open, her body stilling. There was no turning back now.

“I think I’ve always loved you, to be honest, I just have never been able to put a name to the feelings I’ve felt.” Unsure if the sentiment would be reciprocated, she tried to soften her strong statement. “And I’m sorry if this is too much, and it’s okay if you don’t feel the sam-”

At those words, Lorcán stopped listening, he didn’t wait for Aurora to finish her sentence as he clambered across the table, tackling the redhead in his arms and pressing his lips to hers. His hand cradled her jaw before the other took her by the waist and pulled her tightly against him. He caressed the side of her face as he kissed her, deeply, longingly and with every ounce of passion and missed opportunities from the past seven years. She tasted like raspberries, he was completely and utterly lost in her.

He could feel everything in that moment as her abilities mingled with his own, their HZEs becoming one and Lorcán felt the deep emotion that Aurora harboured for him as she felt the burning passion he carried for her. Taking a deep breath, Lorcán pulled himself away only long enough to reply before stroking the side of her face.

“I love you too.”

Time seemed to stop as Lorcán wordlessly closed the distance between them and every rogue thought in Aurora’s mind instantly dissolved as his lips met hers, her initial shock quickly melting away. The way he kissed her in that moment set her ablaze, sent her stomach in somersaults, and everything she had feared—the uncertainty, the possibility of rejection—was silenced in the way he held her. She wound her arms around his neck instinctively, wanting to draw him impossibly closer, her right knee bending as her heel left the ground, and the world around them ceased to exist. The redhead could feel his heart racing against her chest, beating in perfect sync with hers, and like that night in the tent, two became one.

Aurora blinked as he pulled away and spoke, hardly able to believe what she was hearing. The words were euphoric, they were the sweetest song with the most perfect melody that she wanted to hear over and over again. Her lips parted, but no words came out at first—only a soft laugh of disbelief, a mix of joy and astonishment.

"You- you do?”

"I have loved you every day, from the moment I met you to this one and I can't imagine ever ceasing.”

“I have always wanted you, even amidst all the distractions and noise, you are my guiding light, you are everything to me and I never want to have to experience a world without you in it.” Lorcán smiled lovingly into Aurora's eyes, gently stroking her face before speaking again.

“I’d like to keep kissing you, if that's okay with you,” He asked with his trademark wry grin.

Her chest tightened with emotion, and she blinked back the tears that threatened to spill as she looked up at him adoringly. This was it, what she had longed for, and yet somehow, this moment was so much more than she could have ever dreamed. For years, she had convinced herself that she did not know what love was, that it had slipped through her fingers, distant and elusive.

But how wrong she was, because Lorcán had loved her all along.

It was apparent in every gesture, every action. He’d shown it in the nights they spent on the beach, keeping her warm and warding off the nightmares that continually threatened to pull her under. How he’d spent the entirety of the trial trying to find her, protect her. It wasn’t just in the words he spoke, but in the silence, in the moments where he simply existed by her side, where he had always been.

Aurora leaned into his touch, his familiar warmth radiating across her skin, and this time she didn’t hesitate to surge towards him and capture his lips once more. Her hands slid down his chest and her fingers curled into his shirt, as if to keep herself anchored to him, afraid this would all disappear. The intensity of the kiss deepened and she smiled against his mouth, a breathless laugh escaping her.

"Lorcán," She murmured, voice soft and filled with affection, “Tell me again, please. Tell me this is real.”

Lorcán looked into her blue eyes, smiling blissfully before giving her hand a reassuring squeeze.

“It’s real, it feels like a dream, but it’s real. I love you, Aurora, I could shout it from the rooftops, I could tell the world, but best of all, I can tell you, over and over again.” He nuzzled his face into her neck, playfully kissing the side of Aurora’s face before whispering in her ear again.

“I love you, only you and want you to be mine and I to be yours.”

Her heart swelled, warmth spreading through her chest as a tear slipped down her cheek, though she couldn’t stop smiling. The years of tension, longing, and unsaid words were finally unraveling between them. Aurora’s hand moved to his face, thumb tracing the line of his jaw, her fingers slipping into his hair. Her lips brushed against his once more, softer this time, slower, savoring the moment.

“I’m yours,” She whispered, her voice steady and sure. “I’ve always been yours.” Gazing up into his sunset-colored eyes, she saw the fire that burned there, the notion coursing through her like an electric current. “I’ve wanted this for so long, I just… I was scared.”

Lorcán reached a hand up to her face, longingly caressing it again before replying contently.

“There’s no reason to be scared now.” He reassured her, his hands not moving from her as he stared into her eyes again, lovingly looking at Aurora. If two people wanted to be together, what could possibly stop them?

Lorcán still didn’t know the answer, but he doubted anything could ever change the way he felt about Aurora. For so long he had dreamed, nay, hoped for this moment. Longingly watched her leave every night they departed and now in this moment, he finally had everything he ever wanted.

“I could stay here all night with you.”

The redhead wanted nothing more. Nothing else mattered — not even the fact that the dance was still going on, where their friends were likely wondering where they had disappeared to. In this moment, all that existed was them and the love they had finally found the courage to speak aloud.

“Let’s stay, then. Just us.” Aurora expressed softly, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile magic of the moment. She nestled closer into his embrace, her fingers still tangled in his hair. “I don’t care about the dance anymore, I didn’t even care about it to begin with.” She revealed with a soft smile.

“I only want to be with you.”
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Hidden 2 mos ago → 2 mos ago Post by Skai
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Skai Bean Queen

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Haven had been surrounded by people like her for nearly a week, and yet she still felt like an outsider among them. She’d barely spoken a word to her peers since she moved into the intake house, carrying only a well worn Jansport and a flat expression. To the others she appeared distant and mousey. She kept to herself, with her wings drawn close to her back so that no one would bump into them in passing. Little did they know that her hazel eyes watched their every move. That her silence was an excuse not to speak about who she was or where she came from. Her shyness and timid gestures were all a ruse. Underneath her careful construction of her composure, there lay an untamed and wild mind. Looking for any sign of ill will, danger, or false pretenses within those around her. If they looked close enough they could see her true nature in her sharp eyes.

She stood among them, supposedly awaiting transport to what this school called a Homecoming Trial, with her arms crossed and her wings drawn. Her brand new attire, the physical training uniform they’d given her, had to be the least worn items in her small assortment of clothes, yet she still wore the same dirty sneakers she arrived in. The only sign that she did not belong in such clean clothing.

She’d been assigned to Group 21, Team Blackjack, only recently. Today it seemed like the students gathered around were others within her team. None of them had the same physical markings of the hype gene, she noticed. The team standing nearby didn’t either. Her eyes moved over each one, wondering briefly if any of them had the seed of evil within them that would think her a freak, or call her weak for not possessing an ability like controlling the elements or something of the mind. While a few glanced her way, she was glad to see that none sneered at her or stared at her wings. In her world, it only took one small gesture to unleash that wildness within her and show them her true nature.

Got sidetracked falling off the backend of everything squished loose into bags swinging against legs and hanging off shoulders and hitting the dirt. Nothing bounced, just gave into gravity with everything unsettled when he set his own bag down. He’d found a pencil. Ordinary orange scraped clean and leftover wood pressed into green. It didn’t give the way clothes did, just sank deeper beneath the weight of so many soles ignoring it after losing its point. The eraser was gone, too, metal end pressed thin between worrying teeth. Lost? Or left behind? All used up and waiting for the rain to rot it away… Lucas picked up his bag and stood, brushing the pencil as clean as he could.

Found the wrong group first following new clothes without looking up. Wrong faces looked back at him when he finally did. Nothing familiar but voices he couldn’t put to faces and names he couldn’t place. Turned full circle searching for the direction he hadn’t paid attention to and finally grinned when their team representative pointed the way. Passed her his thanks and the pencil stub before he kept going. The right way this time, but in no hurry. Everyone was waiting for something that hadn’t happened yet. Rolling wheels on an empty road couldn’t carry anyone until they turned into cars and he didn’t see any yet. Didn’t know if he wanted to.

Cars meant wind and bugs and pinging stones and moving pieces with spinning wheels. Radio on or off the sound carried, locked into the coils of seat belts and the rattling chassis. Didn’t want to carry that load, but he didn’t know how else to get where they were going and if everyone else was riding then he was, too. But at least they’d be camping at the other end, right? That’s what he said, alongside fun trick trials for home. He’d wanted to ask about that, but didn’t want to keep trying when he kept making everyone confused and one guy wince every time he opened his mouth. So… He’d just wait and see and count the cracks, try to find the voices he knew from the walls as he passed the other teams by until one blink into the next pulled him into shoes used so long their backs were split weave and cracked plastic and worn-flat soles in his head. And when he glanced up again, and over, he stalled out mid-step into stopping, staring, wide-eyed and wondering.

Wings.

He’d seen that hunched-back shadow shape in the windows, hadn’t lived there long enough to see who it was or understand the silhouette, but she had wings and it couldn’t be a trick of the light. Could it? Lucas glanced between her and the Intake House they’d all walked out of, too close to trust but not close enough for the details of wind-ruffled feathers and scruffy shoes. She wasn’t the first visible Hyperhuman Lucas had ever encountered, but she was the first one standing so close and obvious and real. She was the first one not just in his head. Couldn’t find the straps or wire to make them fake, but he thought they were pretty and bright and if he put his hand out it’d just pass through like light off the window, like the glass bubbles on the playground.

But the feathers were soft… and her wings were warm…

…and it all happened so fast.

She’d been cautious of the steps being taken behind her, those students making their way to their meeting point. There were so many that Haven had been neglectful of who was behind her and if any feet stopped she assumed that it was another one of her teammates finally finding their place. So wary of those within eyesight that she didn’t notice one of them halted so close to her, until she felt what she could only consider a direct attack against her person.

A palm against her wing. Fingers interloping with feathers, digits against her integument, and a sudden rush of adrenaline. The world around her blurred as her mind traveled back to the last memory of another’s touch against her vanes. Large hands. Rough hands. A shock of fear and rage bristled the feathers on her wings and set the muscles in her body rigid. She acted out of instinct, a flash of red in her vision, each fibre in her body read to defend.

Her right arm and fist rose beside her head just as she jerked her wing out of reach, and as her body turned towards her assaulter she caught the briefest glimpse of who would dare to touch her. A scrappy young boy, his hair as wild as her heart, and a look of awe on his face where his hand now grasped at air.

Defend.

Her blow landed at the center, cracking bone, bursting capillaries, enough force to knock him on his ass and leave him hurting. The blood would stop, but the broken nose would be a reminder for him. It would be a warning for the others. And if that didn’t get the point across, the words she uttered in his direction would.

“Don’t ever touch my wings again.”

They were real.

Even more than things shaped and glued together into stiff parody, they were wings. Real wings. And they moved. Away, where he didn’t try to follow, thoughts still stalled on sensation he couldn’t deny until his head flew back and he flailed, off balance, blinking tears from his eyes and seeing a blurry, tall figure standing over him as surprise turned into shock. Swallowed blood. “Wha—” What happened?

Grass bent under his hand as he pushed himself up, the other hovered tentatively behind lights flaring in his eyes, over the sharp sting he couldn’t breathe through as he processed his own weight on his chest and the warmth curling beneath fast breaths as he took in that raised fist. “Okay. Ow…” She’d hit him. His face hurt. An ache already blooming through bone. She’d hit him hard. He’d fallen onto his bag… So that’s how she got so tall.

For a long moment, boy stared up at girl, frozen in the realisation of the source of his pain, half-sprawled beside an odd array of paper clips and pennies and one little stegosaurus plush fallen from his pocket, the whole world mysteriously quiet but for a vague ringing in his ears. Then it all came rolling back like the rain, heavy, thick, and warm spreading through the weave of his shirt with the words everything echoed. Don’t you ever think—Never—Don’t ever—again—don’t touch me—my wings—don’t. ever. never. you better—touch my wings—again.

“Wings… Okay…” His dazed expression drifted slowly down as the blood dripped from his chin, and he stared at the darker patches on the already dark shirt, taking his time to understand that he was bleeding as hands suddenly thrust into view with a wadded-up scarf.

“Oh fuck, you got him good, huh? Hey, Lucas, buddy, still with us, yeah? All right… Shit. What happened? Are you okay?” A small girl with a round face and a messy bun peered up at Haven from where she crouched beside Lucas, frowning at the blood but addressing her concern just as much towards the stranger with wings. She hadn’t had a clear view of anything, but she was pretty sure the answer was no.

Feathers were still ruffled and shaken, still twitching with energy as Haven looked down upon the bloodied face of who had touched her. She was still too angry to have sympathy for the muddy brown eyes that stared up at her in shock. Her eyes darted towards the belongings that had been scattered in his fall. The small dino plush caught her eye, causing the first drop of guilt to fall from the storm within her. Yet it seemed like he got the point behind his pain.

Good.

Another joined them, a girl she didn’t recognize, and she then searched those around her for their reactions to the scene. All surprised, some amused, and some appalled. They’d gotten the message too, surely.

But they were all staring at her. Her composure had completely shattered in front of them. She was no longer underestimated. Now she was that wild thing at her core, a force to be reckoned with. They were watching her as she stood there flexing her hands at her sides, trying to push the horrible memory from her mind. She needed privacy. She needed a breather to calm her nerves and raised remiges. There was only one thing that could provide that for her.

So, without a word or even another glance, Haven turned on her heel with a huff. She drew her wings close to her, in case anyone else had any thought to touch them as well, and pushed through the group of students until she reached a clearing. There she jumped into the air with a mighty push of her legs. Her wings beat powerful strokes against the air around her, whipping up loose ground beneath her, and she rose into the sky until the students were the size of ants. Small, grounded beings that couldn’t watch her as she trembled with the adrenaline still coursing through her.




Location: ARC Center - PRCU
Dance Monkey #4.065: Hawkward Memory
Interaction(s): Rory @Webboysurf, Lucas @Nemaisare
Previously: Those Eyes & With The Lights Down Low


The first sip of rich spice hit her taste buds and burned her throat, and Haven felt her shoulders truly loosen for the first time since the school year began. The sweetness of the sugar cube muddled within could be compared to the relief that she felt as her mind turned its focus from the taste of bitters and worry towards a blissfully unaware state of mind.

The citrus note on the rim lingered for only a moment, like a fleeting reminder that this feeling would also pass. Just as easily as her tongue passed over her lips and cleaned the orange taste from them.

Her eyes lifted from the dark contents of her glass to watch as her date also tasted the garnish on his lips. His steel blue eyes scanned the crowd below them as they stood against the railing. Searching for anything amiss, anything that could derail their perfect night. She was grateful for his watchful eyes, even if a small part of her still mourned his peace of mind and wished he could also enjoy this peaceful ignorance that tonight’s drinks had afforded her.

Her hand reached for his bicep and she squeezed the firm muscle beneath the soft fabric of his blazer. Calling him back to her, away from his observant pass over the people down below who had not revealed any ill intention so far, if they had any. The worst had been seen with Chad Patterson, but she did wonder if he had been watching the scarlet lines that danced within the crowd. It was a side of Amma that none had expected, but Haven admired and felt inspired to follow.

They really only had a few sips left before the thrum of the music would call them to join their raven haired teammate.

“Wanna make one more pass at the buffet table?” She asked as he turned those watchful eyes onto hers.

She hadn’t forgotten the half-eaten plate of food they’d left behind. While she had no regrets for taking Rory’s hand earlier, she knew that it wasn’t wise to continue on an empty stomach. The calories from the drinks and earlier plate would be enough to return to the dance floor, but she wanted all of the energy she could get for what was to come afterwards, too.

The pair held hands once more as they turned from their perch on the lofted bar space. They took their time moving towards the buffet tables, sharing their opinion on the cocktail Haven had chosen for them. It was certainly an upgrade from the straight bourbon O’Neil had poured for Rory a few days earlier, and to Haven it was a simple yet tasty order for the nights she wasn’t craving something sweet.

They forgoed the plate this time as they joined the line for finger foods. Like earlier, the pair compared their taste in foods as they looked over the options on the table. Sipping on their smooth, twin drinks between bites. The warmth of the liquor and conversation grew as they filled their bellies.

Her drink was almost empty by the time they reached an equally full tray of quiches. The music from the dance floor seemed to beat in time with their pulses, a call to join the bodies and red scarlet arcs among them. She picked up the two remaining bites, one to Rory and one for herself, and claimed that the small entree was the-

“Last bite, and then I’ll show you my favorite way to dance.”

…

Stomach grumbling like plumbing older than he was, Lucas waded between islands of settled weight supporting hands and elbows and vases so much heavier than their decorations, plates and glasses set down, picked up and swept along in the bubbling rush of colours and skin that swirled around the tables where he and the others had been sitting, enjoying their view of the dance floor. It was only now that he was reminded how many people wore heels with their pressure point support when dressing up meant standing tall and he marvelled at all the pairs of two by two and wondered how many shoulders and hands must be brushing past each other tonight. A night for letting loose…

Having fun…

He grinned down at the sheet of pictures in his hand as he walked, soaking up the atmosphere and enjoying again the subtle squint of Manny’s eyes getting tighter until he was looking away in the last picture, smirking though, at the sequence of events that they all should have predicted as it went from stupid grins to silly faces and antics bursting beyond the confined space of the booth until he and Cleo were tracing angles that couldn’t be called sitting and each had a hand over their mouth stifling the sounds if not the enthusiasm. After the hum and press of transport from within the machine to without, that was the first sound he heard, the first touch he felt. Immanuel calmly gathering the evidence to hand it back to him while Cleo muffled her giggles.

It had been lying on the table so it wouldn’t just be pictures when he hung it on the wall, but their own voices came piecemeal and quiet as they’d signed more than talked. Still, he knew the song Cleo’d liked best so far, with her finger lightly tapping the beat before she’d whirled off to the dance floor, knew Manny had enjoyed his drink. He’d taken the sheet with him so he could remember what they’d asked for on his food run but wasn’t in any rush to hurry back as he tucked it away in his sporran and glanced up. Didn’t need to look for the plates when feet stalled at both ends, just picked the nearest side and started circling.

Everything smelled good and looked even better. Finger food was his favourite, and Lucas took his time perusing his options, both sweet and savoury. As he walked, he tapped his finger on the table’s edge, counting the number of times the plates had been emptied and replaced. A second finger joining in when he saw something particularly tantalising. Second go round and he picked up a plate, not really paying any mind to the people who’d already done their browsing as they swooped past, in and out, plates already in hand, choices made like it was just that easy.
What’re you wanting an eclairs aren’t all that much isn’t even devilled eggs! “Ha, yeah.” He’d been surprised about those, too. Too much effort for one bite… But he’d take them if they were being offered. Do those even go t— “Everything goes with chocolate, just save room for later, huh?” He’d take them, but he preferred the quiche tarts, with their bacon and cheese and vivid green garnish. There’d only been two when he’d gone around, so he’d meant to hurry back to them after grabbing a plate and the nearest of Cleo and Manny’s requests but the chocolate cigars had distracted him, again, and when he turned back towards the quiche with an amused smirk for the fancy chocolate rolls now carefully balancing on his plate, he had to stop too fast and almost lost one.

“Ah, no! Sorry, wings.” Eyes widening as he registered feathers inches away from his plate—pretty brown feathers gilded on their edges—and finally took in the world around the food. Of course, Wings! are like that. And they were very close.

Lucas stepped back, surprised recoiling bringing his hands close before it turned into a frown. Too close, too fast, too surprised to think, but… She was in front of the quiche.

His disappointment only grew as the winged woman turned herself around to see who was speaking to her.

Haven hadn’t recognized the voice, but the nickname, or rather the word he used to describe her when he apologized, caught her attention the most. Her feathers rustled as she adjusted them at her back, recalling the many who also called her wings in her freshman year as she turned to face him. Albeit a bit sluggish, her mind recognized the mop of brown hair on his head before she saw the even richer brown eyes that sat below it.

“Lucas,” She began as his name was called to her tongue, “It’s alright.” She cleared her throat in an attempt to overcome the awkwardness that came with facing someone she’d had such a terrible first impression with. He certainly hadn’t forgotten it. She could tell by the way he moved away from her. She wondered if their last encounter with each other was why those muddy eyes looked so disappointed, as she lowered the half-eaten, last quiche from her lips.

Then, those eyes followed her hand and his shoulders drooped. “Yeah, Lucas, alright, but…” He leaned exaggeratedly farther than was necessary to discover he couldn’t see around her to the plate on the table. “Last bite isn’t really alright, is it?” Still frowning as he straightened, it took him a moment more before he blinked, surprise raising his eyebrows as he realised she’d remembered him. “Wait, Lucas, yeah? That’s me, but you’re not wings… Sorry, I lost my chance to pick a favourite about you Dove—Dove?” His hand bounced, finger raised as he found a name to call her, not wanting to be that guy who forgot, but… he had… “Is it Dove?”

Her eyes had tracked Lucas’s expressions like a hawk over the last minute. First assuming he was leaning around to see her wings again, then guessing he was trying to fill the last hole on his near-capacity plate, and finally watching as surprise lit his features and replaced the upset frown he displayed in her presence. While his emotions were clearly expressed through every facial muscle and timbre in his voice, the way he spoke to them seemed distracted and disorganized to her. As if his mind was elsewhere and not at the same time. He didn’t get a chance to pick a favorite?

“I'd recommend sticking with Haven, man.” Rory felt his cheeks grow a little hot as he moved a free hand up around Haven’s waist. His eyes locked on to one of the few faces he wasn't particularly familiar with in their class. He gave Haven’s side a slight squeeze of comfort as he remained locked in. “And you can call me Rory. Not Ro, that's someone else.” His tone was flat, neither inviting nor openly aggressive. He didn't offer a hand for a more formal greeting, rooting himself to Haven’s side. His eyes darted to his partner, sensing some tension.

“Rory?” Lucas’ gaze had jerked from the girl and her wings to the guy he’d… barely noticed until then, the faint start it gave him clearly visible when he first heard him talking, but he grinned back, unruffled by the stare as he took in a few of the details he’d missed before. How close they were standing and the prolonged warmth of no space between. “Right. Rory. Rory, Rora and Ro. Huh?” His nodding along to the cadence of similar sounds paused as he caught the difference and counted on his fingers. Was that two people or three? Did it matter right now? He shook the confusion away and grinned again, coming back strong. “And Haven! Cool, okay, sorry. I forgot.” Her name, admittedly, hadn’t been as memorable as the rest of her introduction… He wasn’t even sure if he’d known it, just that if she knew his, he ought to know hers, right?

Rory’s words immediately drew her attention over her wing. She felt his touch on her waist just as she noticed the redness in his cheeks. His tone… she hadn’t heard him act this way in a long time. Was it jealousy, because of the name Lucas had chosen for her, or was it his protective side that suddenly made him aloof? His comforting gesture wasn’t lost in her confusion, and she offered her boyfriend a reassuring smile before she turned her head back around as Lucas finished his continuous rambling.

“Dove is what Rory calls me, and sometimes a friend does too.” She explained, suddenly not so uncomfortable now that she knew Lucas had forgotten her name. It was a sign that their first encounter may not have been as memorable for him as it was for her. Although, she wasn’t sure how Lucas would have known the sweet nickname Rory had given her in the first place. Maybe that was why her dark haired date had reacted like that? Her question came blurting out before she could even finish the thought. “How did you know that?”

“I know that, yeah. He does it a lot.” Now that he’d heard Rory’s voice, Lucas didn’t need to be told the source of the nickname he’d mistakenly pulled from the weave they were wearing. Though in extricating his own wandering thoughts now he’d learned both their names, he’d missed the question and continued, for a moment, on his own happy tangent before he noticed. “It’s kinda cute, right? Oh, wait, how—? Uhhh… I know that cuz he does. Say it… a lot…… I caught it off your shoul…. His shoulders.”

Her blink was the only sign she’d heard him as Haven began to question if one more drink had been one too many. She looked between those brown eyes once, turned her head to look up at Rory for an answer, and then shoved the rest of the quiche into her mouth as she decided that she should finish it. Hopefully it would soak up the liquor for her, and then help her understand what the taller brunette was saying. She looked back to Lucas as she chewed, a subtle line forming between her brows as she replayed his rambling in her mind and tried to decipher what it meant.

Rory's own brow was knit together as he looked Lucas over. He didn't seem particularly dangerous, though neither did the Janitor responsible for nearly killing his closest friends. As Rory took in Lucas’ words, his first immediate thought was that this man had been watching them. He had only chosen Dove recently, and even then didn't use it incredibly often. But there was something about the way he spoke that dug up old memories. It recalled a childhood where privacy was nearly non-existent. It didn't make it any less frustrating as an adult, but he knew full well control wasn't always entirely possible for some. “You can speak to shoulders?” He gave Haven's side a slight squeeze of reassurance again, but let the tension seep out of his traps.

“What? Shoulders? No.” Lucas looked back at them with something of the same confusion, seeing eyebrows drawing down and expressions carefully closed, now distracted enough he didn’t even feel the least bit disappointed seeing Haven finishing off her quiche. He did feel his thoughts unravelling as he gathered them out of the woodwork and the floor and too many passing fancies though, face screwing up as he tried to fix the disconnect. “Shoulders aren’t… uhhh… Hold that thought. Okay, it’s not… off the shoulder like that’ll spill everything. It’s the shirt. Your shirt. Okay?” It always felt like he made less sense when he tried, instead of more… “I can’t hear you in here. And here. And here.” He pointed at Rory’s shirt and Haven’s dress and plucked at his own jacket briefly before another voice gave him exactly the wording he wanted and was back to grinning, picking up one of those chocolate cigars and brandishing it proudly. “It’s like—ha! It’s my thing. Yeah?”

Finally a question she hadn’t asked herself, and it made sense to ask it. Haven found further relief in Rory’s second palming of her side. Her body drifted subconsciously closer to him until she was nearly leaning into him. She swallowed the last bit of quiche as Rory’s question, paired with the disordered answer Lucas was giving, began to slowly piece itself together. Speak to shoulders… but not the shoulders… the shirt? Rory’s shirt, my dress, his jacket… it’s his thing? Oh!

“You can hear what we’ve said to each other by our clothes?” Her tone still suggested she didn’t fully understand it, but then again she’d met so many people on the island whose abilities were difficult to describe in one sentence. She did finally understand why the brunette seemed so scattered. She couldn’t imagine what it was like to be in a room full of clothes and words. Her mind ran over the things that she and Rory had said throughout their date, what Lucas might hear from their glamorous wardrobe, and her cheeks suddenly turned pink. The warmth of her date’s hand on her side suddenly felt even warmer. “You-” She cut herself off before she drew attention to it. Better to distract him from what their clothes may or may not have whispered to him. “Do you hear your own?”

Satisfied with his answer, Lucas took a bite of the chocolate cigar and raised his brows, pleasantly surprised as he nodded at Haven’s clarification. He’d thought they were just a gimmick. He’d thought wrong. “Yeah… That’s good. Want one?” He offered his plate despite their position right next to the buffet table, not really thinking about it. “Everything’s on repeat it aalllllll the time. I say some stupid stuff. It’s a full plate… but mine’s not.” Not nearly full enough, and there really wasn’t any quiche left… “What’s your favourite?” His eye twitched as he received several answers without either of them moving their mouths and a reminder that that wasn’t a good question around food.

Haven’s brows rose a fraction as she watched Lucas take a bite from what looked like a cigar. They then fell immediately after as she realized it was something edible. She’d never had a snack that looked like that before, so as the plate was offered to her she was tempted to take one of them from it. Considering who she was taking it from she chose to take the last, long sip of her drink instead. Now that his words finally made sense to her, or at least she understood most of them, she found her mind occupied with her first interaction with the strange man in front of her. Her wings shifted behind her thanks to the memory, drawing her feathers closer to her back. She’d probably be up late wondering how his ability may have contributed to what she would call an unfortunate first impression. At the very least she found comfort in how friendly Lucas was being towards her, despite it.

Rory raised an eyebrow as he looked between the two, finally taking the time to finish his quiche. He clocked the shift in Haven's wings, a somewhat familiar sign. But given the atmosphere, it seemed she wasn't bristling with anger or fear for the present moment. As he finished chewing, Rory removed his hand from Haven's waist to brush any excess crumbs off his suit jacket. “Well… I don't really know what we just ate. It was good, though. Don't know if it's a favorite…” He looked towards Lucas, still a little weary of him as he cleared his throat. “Sorry, I don't think I caught your name.”

“Yeah…” They had looked good… Pity there weren’t any more. He’d try again later, if he remembered. Or maybe the other table had some… Glancing that way, unable to see any of what he was looking for from so far away but intent on the distance, all the same, he was taking another, more ponderous, bite of the chocolate stick when the cleared throat drew him back to the moment, and the word “name”. His gaze wandered back before the rest of his head turned, slow and steady, though he answered without thinking it through. “Lucas. It’s Lucas, okay?” And paused to make sure that actually was the question before setting the rest of the chocolate cigar down and held out his hand to Rory. “Right? Yeah. I’m Lucas.”

His enthusiasm for introductions never failing, he carried on blithely, rather pleased with the last few minutes, even if he might have lost his chance at quiche tarts. “No punch for me, thanks. Ha! I like this one better.” Rubbing at his nose briefly as he considered what he remembered of their last meeting and this one, Lucas couldn’t help the crooked twist to his lips as he offered a smaller smile for his wrongs. “Sorry. I said hi wrong. I like your wings… And your tie.” Pretty browns and gold-striped green. Both were easy on the eyes, though it hadn’t escaped his notice entirely that the bowtie and the dress were a close match in shade. Cleo would have liked that, Gladys, too, probably… The wings, of course, were also that extra bit more noticeable, hard to miss, even if he had. “Can you fly?” He couldn’t remember if he’d already asked.

Her attention had been called back to reality the moment the brunette made a joke at his own expense. Her eyes flared, muscles going taut and poised as she prepared to defend herself again, and then it clicked for her that he didn’t remember her “handshake” as something aggressive and untamed. In fact, it seemed like he remembered it fondly. It didn’t make any sense to her, like most of this interaction, and yet the relief was instant. Her extra feathery limbs relaxed once more, stiff muscles melting as his apologetic smile brought a sheepish grin to her cheeks. Even a dimple joined the party.

“Yes, I can…. And I’m glad that shiner didn’t stick.”

Rory had taken the hand as an invitation, giving the stranger a firm handshake. He didn't catch on to the initial joke, giving a small exhale that nearly resembled a laugh. But he felt a small shift in tension from his right, and was somehow left more baffled on how this now was a point of contention. For a moment, he wondered if Haven was really jealous from just a handshake. But as she softened and spoke, he still was left even more confused. Was a shiner something different from where Haven came from? He had always thought it was-

“Wait, have you two fought before?” Rory's eyes focused in on Haven, but he had not let up the handshake. In fact, his grip tightened slightly as he searched for understanding in his partner’s face.

He’d taken his hand, that was good. Though as new confusion turned into a firmer grip and a conclusion he hadn’t expected—though perhaps he should have—Lucas’ eyes widened and he glanced down at their hands. It didn’t seem so friendly anymore. “Fought? Fight?! No! Not, just… Uhh… It just hurt my face.”

Haven should have been dizzy from the back and forth of turning her head. She looked to Rory with the explanation ready on her lips first, wondering how he’d take knowing the reason why she’d hit Lucas in the first place. Then as Lucas beat her to speaking she turned to see the worried expression on his face. His pointed look downwards drew her own gaze to the men’s uncomfortably long handshake. As she finally turned her head back to her date she felt his scrutinizing gaze on herself instead. It was both alarming and incredibly flattering to see him acting this way for her. The mixed feelings brought an instant flush to her cheeks as she looked between his blue eyes for the words that would calm her protector down.

“He, uh… felt my feathers. Kinda learned the hard way that he should look and not touch.” She cringed as she remembered Lucas’s shocked expression that day. Her hand slowly came to rest on Rory’s forearm, hoping he would get the hint to let go of the poor brunette. “It’s been forgiven.”

Seeing Haven and Lucas look down to his hand, Rory’s gaze followed. It took a moment for him to process the words, the gestures, and the feeling in his hand. When he finally registered everything, he released Lucas from his grip. “Right, sorry.” He opened his mouth as if to speak further, but closed it when no more words came. He lowered his hand into his pocket, returning Haven's slightly worried gaze. He didn't like that he didn't fall far from the tree, and he did not like the looks coming his way.

“I'm going to hit the head.” The statement was quick, and Rory figured that was enough of an excuse to slip away for a moment. He gave Haven's hand a slight squeeze, motioning towards Lucas and the table of food. He needed a moment to himself.

Forgiven?

Lucas blinked at this news. He blinked again when his hand was freed and his new friend decided to—hit your head? It’s her head. Give him head. Let’s head. Who’s dead? Hit the head. “Oh… Uhhh…” Head tilting as he looked between Rory, Haven, his plate—which remained exactly as full as the last time he’d looked—and the table, he wasn’t immediately sure if anything was actually wrong. The music was still loud, the crowd still moved around them, and he couldn’t find anything over the last few minutes that sounded worse than usual when he heard it again. But he’d been wrong about that before… Still, he wasn’t going to stop someone who needed to use the bathroom. So, he just watched him walk away, expression bemused, frowning faintly when he finally glanced back at Haven. She seemed as uncertain as he did…

“I called it wrong about you…” Looking rather sheepish as he rubbed at the back of his neck, Lucas grimaced before continuing, slow and careful. “Stay back off the fence, uhh, stayed back so you wouldn’t be mad… And then I forgot. Sorry. Did I say sorry? Thanks. Okay? Uhh, it alright if he’s stretched tight?” He didn’t bother trying for long, the effort too troublesome to keep up when he could look for her later and explain more easily outside, now he’d remembered and knew she wasn’t still upset about it. Apologies, however, shouldn’t be delayed, and he really couldn’t remember if he already had, but once he’d managed that, Lucas looked back the way Rory had left, frowning again as he asked his question. His shoulders had definitely been tense, his muscles stiff as he moved, but he didn’t know if it was discomfort or something else.

It was an effort for her to shift her focus back to Lucas. Her concerned gaze still lingered on the spot where Rory had blended into the other attendees. Yet as Haven’s eyes returned to Lucas’s grimace, his second apology of the night brought a small smile that lit her expression once more. The phrase he used was confusing, of course, but she figured out the meaning behind it quickly. It was sweet of the brunette to make sure his apology was clear. Even though she wasn’t sure how to feel about how he’d stayed clear of her all these years. It gave her the chance to grow into the woman she was today on her own time, but she did wonder if hearing his apology sooner would have sped the process up just a bit. The thought was fleeting. She dismissed it on the notion that the past was the past and there was no way of knowing, and decided to focus on the last words he said.

His last phrase didn’t make any sense at all to her, so she made a guess that the “he” was Rory, and being stretched tight must mean something about how awkwardly her boyfriend departed. There wasn’t really another way that made sense. “He’s a bit hard on himself, so he might feel bad for scaring you like that.” She admitted freely. “I’ll cheer him up in a little, so don’t worry.” Her smile grew as she thought about cheering him up, and then she cleared her throat as she realized where her mind was going.

“I’m… sorry that you had to avoid me for so long.” She began softly, her eyes glancing at the empty place on his plate for a moment. “I’m still touchy about my wings, especially recently, but I hope you feel like you don’t have to do that anymore.” Her hand extended forwards without much thought behind it, like a tan dove of peace, as she smiled at him once more. “Friends?”

“Happy’s good. All right.” He wouldn’t worry about Rory then. Wouldn’t worry about any of this moment anymore now he’d had his say. Forgive and forget was easy enough when everything slipped through the cracks and he shook his head quickly as she offered an apology of her own, catching just enough to deny the necessity. “S’okay, all right, it was off the top of my head for a while. I’m good.” And they both had better things to think about then past mistakes, he was just happy to know she wasn’t still mad or bothered by it, having had enough time to figure out where he’d gone wrong, and when she offered her hand next with a one-word question, it took him a breath, then a blink, but his smile grew fast and eager.

Wasn’t any more hesitation in him when he took her hand, just a ready enthusiasm. “I like friends.”

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Please stop crying.

The thought drifted through the girl’s mind, sluggish and burdensome, as she lay flat on her back, eyes locked on the ceiling. The air felt suffocating, pressing down on her chest, but not in a way that led to panic—more like a slow, constant load she couldn’t quite shake off.

Another restless night.

She could hear sniffling from across the room, the soft sound of crying filling the almost empty space, broken only by the hum of the air conditioner.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she hoped that if she willed herself hard enough, maybe the sounds would fade away. Maybe the world would stop feeling so hollow. But the more she tried to block it out, the clearer it became, like the small gasps and hitching breaths were growing louder with the continued stillness instead of against it.

Sierra wasn’t sure how long it had been, but it felt like hours since Harper had started.

Her chest tightened. Every soft sniffle from the other bed chipped away at the emotional walls the girl had been carefully constructing since…well, everything went to shit. She’d told herself she needed to be strong, composed. Calm—that’s what Harper needed now. Not someone falling apart right beside her.

But the truth was, it was hard—harder than the girl wanted to admit.

She rolled over, pressing her face into the pillow as if that would muffle the sounds, smother the guilt. But Harper’s sobs crawled around her, wrapping Sierra in a suffocating sense of helplessness. It wasn’t the loud, desperate wailing she had half-expected, no—it was worse. The soft sniffles, the kind of crying that crept into your bones, making everything feel colder.

Just stop crying already, she thought again, the plea sounding weaker, almost cruel now.

But Harper didn’t stop. And Sierra knew, deep down, that she wouldn’t. Not tonight.

With a shaky breath, she pushed herself up, sitting on the edge of her bed, her feet dangling over the floor as she stared at the shadowed walls. The dim light from outside cast ghostly shapes around the room, but none of it felt real—not compared to Harper’s cries pulling her back to reality every time, tugging her out of her own head.

Before she could stop herself, her feet hit the cold wooden floor, and without thinking much more, Sierra padded softly over to Harper’s bed. Her sister was curled up, facing away, her small frame shaking with each little sob. The girl watched for a moment, her heart full as she took in the slight rise and fall of Harper’s shoulders, the way her sister’s body tensed like she was trying to hold it all in but couldn’t. The sounds weren’t violent, not raw, just soft—too soft, too restrained, and that made it feel all the more painful.

Sierra hesitated, her hand hovering over Harper briefly before finally resting it gently on her sister’s shoulder. Her body flinched at the touch, just a tiny jerk, but she didn’t pull away, didn’t retreat into herself. The light brunette swallowed the tight lump in her throat. Slowly, almost cautiously, she climbed into the bed beside her sister, pulling the covers over them both as she wrapped her arms around Harper’s trembling body.

Harper didn’t say a word, didn’t even acknowledge her, but she didn’t resist either. She let Sierra pull her close, let herself be held, and after a few moments, buried her face into Sierra’s chest. The low sobs didn’t stop, but they softened, the muffled sound filling the space between them as Sierra held on, stroking Harper’s hair in slow, gentle motions. Her own breathing felt shaky, uneven, but she tried to keep it steady, knowing Harper needed this—needed her.

“We’ll always have each other,” Sierra whispered, all she could think of in the moment. “No matter what else happens.”

Harper didn’t respond. But her presence, the warmth of her against Sierra’s chest, said enough.

Standing on the balcony, the last of the fading sun casted an orange glow over her face.

The warmth barely registered.

She brought the cigarette to her lips, feeling the paper crinkle softly between her fingers as it smouldered, burning down slower than she expected. Inhaling deeply, the acrid taste filled her lungs, a sharpness she welcomed against the dull ache in her chest. The faint sounds of the base—the hum of engines, probably a convoy passing by, and the distant chatter of soldiers—barely reached her. Out here, none of it really mattered.

Sierra exhaled, watching the smoke twist and curl into the cool evening air, vanishing into the dusky light. Her gaze drifted out to the horizon, where the shadows of the pine trees stretched endlessly. For a moment, her eyes remained on those dark shapes, letting her mind wander, but all she found was quiet—too much quiet.

How did it come to this?

Her fingers tightened around the cigarette as she took another drag.

I don't even like smoking.

It wasn't something she ever thought she'd do, not really. But grief had a funny way of unravelling you, pushing you into places you didn't recognize—into habits that weren't yours. The numbness that came with each drag felt like a strange relief somehow. She leaned her elbows on the cold metal railing, feeling the bite of it seep through her olive green jacket

The door behind her creaked open, snapping Sierra out of the trance. The soft click of the latch, the weight of footsteps behind her—familiar, heavy. Her uncle’s voice cut through the haze, gruff and surprised.

“Didn’t know you smoked.”

Sierra didn't turn to face him. She kept her eyes forward, the horizon blurring as her mind drifted. The cigarette hung between her fingers, symbolizing something she didn't quite want to claim but couldn't let go of.

“Started recently,” she muttered, her voice flat, almost bored. There was a dark humour buried in her words, but even that felt faraway. She flicked the ash from the cigarette, watching it float like tiny embers against the darkening sky.

She could feel his eyes on her, the way he was studying her from the doorway, trying to piece her together. He wasn't used to seeing her like this—hell, she wasn't used to it either. But here she was, standing on a balcony, smoking like someone she didn't know. She could sense that he wanted to say something about it, ask something, but Sierra wasn't sure if she wanted to hear it.

“I'm fine,” she said, preemptively cutting off any question he might have asked, her voice sharper than intended. She hated how false it sounded, even to her own ears. The truth was, she wasn't fine—hadn't been since….But admitting that felt like too much, so she let the lie hang in the air, like the smoke between them.

Her uncle stepped closer, his boots scraping softly against the concrete. “Sierra,” he started, voice softer now, with that careful tone people use when they know you're barely holding on. “It's okay to not be fine. Especially now.” He didn't say it directly, but she knew what he meant.

Sierra's jaw clenched, the cigarette burning down to its final inch between her fingers. She flicked the butt into the distance, watching it disappear into the encroaching darkness below, her gaze following it until she couldn't see it anymore.

“I know,” she said after a beat of silence. She leaned a little more heavily on the railing, trying to find her balance.

Then, sighing, her breath shaky.

“I don't know how to do this. I don’t know what I’m doing or what I’m supposed to do….”

The admission slipped out before she could stop it, and the vulnerability in her voice startled her. She hadn't meant to let that crack show. Not to him, not to anyone. But it was too late to take it back now.

Her uncle moved closer, resting a hand on her shoulder, a gentle but firm presence at her side. “You'll figure it out,” he said kindly. “And you won’t be alone. Barbara and I are…here to do whatever we can for you and Harper. They… would have wanted that.”

But that was just it. Sierra knew she did have to do it alone—at least most of it.

No one else could be what Harper needed right now.

No one else could be the strong one.

It had to be her.

It was always her.

Sierra Baxter
Fort Bragg, NC
October 20, 2020

Admissions Office
Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT)
77 Massachusetts Ave
Cambridge, MA 02139

Dear Admissions Office,

I hope this letter finds you well. My name is Sierra Baxter, and I was recently accepted into MIT's Bachelor of Science in Bioengineering program for the upcoming academic year. I’m writing to formally request a deferral of my enrollment for one year due to unforeseen personal circumstances.

Earlier this month, my family suffered an unimaginable loss with the passing of both of my parents. In the wake of this tragedy, I now find myself in a position where I must focus on supporting my younger sister, Harper, as she adjusts to these sudden and devastating changes. As much as I value the opportunity to study at MIT and pursue my passion for bioengineering, I must prioritize my family’s needs during this difficult time.

With that in mind, I am requesting to delay my studies until the fall of 2021. This would give me the time I need to ensure my sister is properly cared for while also allowing me to fully process and heal from this loss, so that I may continue my education with the focus and dedication MIT deserves.

I deeply appreciate your understanding and consideration of my request. I look forward to joining the Bioengineering program next year when I am in a better position to engage with the challenging and rewarding experience I know that awaits me at MIT.

Sincerely,

Sierra Baxter

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Location: Strigidae Dorms - Pacific Royal Campus
Dance Monkey #4.066: Smoke and Mirrors
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Interaction(s): N/A
Previously: Something's Gotta Give


The door to Harper’s dorm room clicked shut with a small but distinct sound that reverberated through the stillness of the space. Sierra stood just inside the threshold, her fingers staying on the cold metal of the doorknob longer than necessary, feeling the tremor in her hand. From beyond the walls, the faint thrum of music floated in—a reminder that life was moving forward, students preparing for the dance still as if the late hour didn’t matter.

But here, inside this room, time felt suspended. Trapped, almost.

Looking over, she couldn’t help but notice the neatly made bed, its corners tucked so precisely that they could probably cut. Even after all this time, Harper seemed to have held onto that rigid discipline of hers, as if letting go would somehow unravel her entirely. Sierra’s gaze swept over the desk, each item arranged in a way that almost felt obsessive. But her eyes snagged on one tiny detail—the coiled laptop cord, unplugged and lying like a snake ready to strike. It was the one imperfection in an otherwise immaculate space, and it made Sierra’s fingers twitch with the temptation to plug it in, though she resisted. She'd already gone through it earlier, digging through files with a skill that had become second nature, covering her tracks just as effortlessly.

The room felt suffocating now, with its forced order and rigid control. Sierra took a few steps forward, her movements tentative, as if she were a guest in her sister's life. Her eyes wandered over Harper’s belongings, cataloging each item in its assigned place. Despite the differences in their personalities, the redhead saw fragments of herself in Harper—pieces of who she used to be, before everything shifted. It was as though their father’s ghost was woven into every detail of their lives, his influence lingering long after he was gone. They’d both absorbed the lessons of discipline and self-reliance, even if Harper showed it now in a way that made her seem more rigid, more distant.

Sierra exhaled slowly.

For all the order in this room, it felt like a prison of Harper’s own making, one she had built brick by brick. Moving toward the window, she pulled back the curtains, letting the cold evening light flood the room. She needed air—needed to escape, though she wasn’t sure what exactly she was running from. Her reflection in the glass startled her, the sharp lines of her face a mirror of the hardness she had carried for too long, an armour she rarely removed.

A flicker of guilt passed through her. Harper had always tried to be strong, but it was a mask, wasn’t it? Beneath the surface—beneath the perfectly made bed and the spotless desk—Harper was unravelling, maybe more than Sierra ever realized. How much of this had she missed, too wrapped up in her own bitterness and detachment? The walls Harper had built around herself seemed impenetrable, but Sierra’s own walls were stronger. And wasn’t that the irony—two sisters, both locked in their own emotional fortresses, neither able to break through?

She looked away, her eyes landing on the framed photo sitting on Harper’s nightstand. The glass was cracked, a jagged line running through the center, splitting the image almost perfectly in two. Sierra hadn’t noticed it before, but now the imperfection seemed to leap out at her, impossible to ignore. In the picture, Harper stood with her team, her expression as aloof as her posture was rigid. The others smiled, their arms slung around one another in camaraderie, but Harper stood apart, hands at her sides, as though she was merely tolerating the moment. It wasn’t just stand-offishness—Harper looked like she didn’t belong.

The image gnawed at Sierra. She could remember Harper, even in high school, managing to carve out her place, awkward and worrying though it sometimes was. She’d never been the social type, but she had always found a way to make room for herself, or at least she had pretended to. But in this photo, the brunette seemed disconnected, as if the walls she’d built had sealed her off from everyone else. Maybe it was because she hadn’t made close friends yet. Or maybe, Sierra thought with a pang, Harper didn’t even know how to try anymore.

Sierra’s gaze drifted over the faces in the picture again before settling back on Harper. The thought crept into her mind unbidden: How much of this is my fault? Had she inadvertently trained Harper to shut people out, to be strong in a way that meant never relying on others? It wasn’t intentional, but in those times after their loss, Sierra had modelled self-sufficiency. Their father had drilled it into them both after all—the importance of standing on their own, of not needing anyone to pick them up when they fell. But looking at Harper now, even through the frame of a fractured photo, Sierra couldn’t help but feel the full load of that legacy.

And then, her thoughts turned to Haven.

She hadn't meant to think of Haven, but there she was, apparently somewhere in the back of her mind like an unanswered question. Those wings, a gift or curse, depending on how you looked at it, had made her think of their father before, she realized that now.

“At least here she is accepted for all of who she is. She doesn’t have to hide anything from us.”

Sierra’s fingers twitched.

That’s what you think.

She turned away from the window, moving toward the closet. She knew what she was looking for before her hand even reached the knob. It had been Harper who first found it during their time together, an old relic of their father’s life that she’d had zero interest in exploring. Why bother to know more about the man she’d spent 18 years of her life with and had grown to feel nothing but indifference for? But now, standing in Harper’s room with the photo of her sister’s cool expression fresh in her mind, the redhead couldn’t shake the feeling that she had missed something important.

The closet door opened with a soft creak, revealing Harper’s neatly arranged clothes and belongings. Sierra’s eyes moved past the uniforms and sweaters, zeroing in on the box tucked away in the corner. It was the same box Harper had taken when she moved into the dorms, filled with notebooks, letters, and that damned journal. Sierra crouched, pulling the box toward her, her hands trembling as she lifted the lid. There it was—the worn leather cover, its pages yellowed and fragile with age. For a moment, she hesitated, uncertainty constricting her chest.

But she opened it anyway.


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The air outside was crisp, a light breeze rustling through the trees lining the street. Harper’s hand clutched to her father’s, her fingers curling around his with a desperate need for reassurance as they walked along the narrow sidewalk. Her sister, taller now at fourteen, strode just ahead with a box of some of their old toys in her hands, her steps confident and unhurried. Harper’s eyes strayed from her to look down at the stuffed rabbit in her other hand, its worn fur a comforting presence, even as her teeth met her lips to stop them from quivering. The rabbit’s mismatched button eyes seemed to stare back at her, judging her with an impossible-to-say question, for how could it say anything at all?

Still, was it disappointment she saw in those button eyes, or was it just her overly active and anxious mind playing tricks on her?

Harper squeezed the rabbit a little tighter, her thumb tracing the worn spot on its ear where the stitching had started to come undone. Her father had promised to fix it, but they had never gotten around to it, always too busy with one thing or another. Maybe after today, after they dropped off their toys at the orphanage, they’d sit at the table together, and he would pull out his little sewing kit, the one with the tiny scissors and colourful threads. She tried to grasp onto that thought like her world depended on it, imagining the comforting scene, but it slipped through her fingers like sand, leaving her feeling more adrift than before.

She had to give it up. She had to grow up.

“We’re doin’ somethin’ important today, girls,” her father had said earlier that morning, his voice warm and certain. “It’s good to give back, to share what we have with those who need it more.”

Harper wasn’t entirely sure how giving away their old toys was supposed to make her feel better. The rabbit was the only thing she hadn’t been asked to put in the box, a small mercy she’d clung to initially. She glanced at Sierra again, her older sister’s back straight as if she was already carrying the full load of knowing things Harper didn’t. Sierra never seemed nervous, her steps were always confident and sure. She didn’t have a rabbit she clung to for comfort. She didn’t need one.

As they approached the large brick building ahead, Harper felt her breath catch in her throat, a lump forming that she couldn’t swallow down. The orphanage loomed over them, its ivy-covered walls and tall windows seeming to stare back at her just as much as her rabbit had. She slowed her steps, hesitant, her feet dragging as if they were suddenly too heavy to lift. The building felt imposing, almost alive, with its dark bricks and creeping ivy, each window a pair of eyes watching her every move.

Her father gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “It’s okay, Harper,” he said softly. “We’re just here to help.”

Harper nodded, but her lips stayed pressed together. She wasn’t sure what she was feeling—confusion, inquisitiveness, or something else entirely. The building didn’t seem like a place that needed help. It was... peaceful, in a way that made her feel small.

Sierra stopped just ahead at the steps leading to the orphanage door, shifting the box in her hands. “Are we gonna meet the kids?” she asked.

Their father paused, glancing down at Sierra before answering. “Maybe not today,” he said, a bit more gently now. “This is just about givin’ them somethin’ to enjoy. The toys will do the talkin’.”

But Harper couldn’t stop wondering about the children who lived there. What were they like? Did they have toys of their own, or were their lives all empty spaces, like the box Sierra was holding? She clutched her rabbit tighter. Would she have ended up in a place like this if things had been different? If they didn’t have each other, would she be one of the faces peering out from behind those ivy-covered walls?

As her father knocked on the door, Harper couldn’t help but take a step back. They weren’t here to get rid of her, were they?

As if sensing her worry, Sierra turned to her then, a mean look on her face.

“Better be careful, Harps,” she taunted, her voice just low enough for their father not to hear. “They might decide to keep you here, trade you for some new toys.”

Harper's heart stuttered at the words. Her wide eyes darted back toward the looming building, as if it might suddenly swallow her whole. She knew Sierra was just teasing—didn’t she? But the fear crept up on her anyway, crawling its way into her chest, making it hard to breathe.

She clutched the rabbit so tight it almost hurt, its worn fur a tiny comfort against the rising tide of panic. “No, they wouldn’t…” she whispered, her voice trembling as she tried to convince herself more than Sierra.

Sierra shrugged, her smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You never know. Guess we'll find out, huh?”

Their father glanced over his shoulder, catching the tail end of their exchange. “Everything alright back there?” he asked, his brow furrowed just a little.

Harper opened her mouth to say something—anything—but the words stuck, frozen somewhere between her throat and her mind. Sierra rolled her eyes, stepping up to the door as it opened with a creak.

“Yeah, Dad,” she said easily, her teasing tone gone. “We're good.”

The matron greeted them with a smile, and Sierra handed over the box of toys, her confidence back in full swing. Meanwhile, Harper stayed close to her father’s side, still holding her rabbit like it was her lifeline. Then, with some timidity, she placed the toy on top of the box, not missing the encouraging smile sent her way by her father.

Goodbye…Mr. Stuffers.

“Thank you so much,” the woman said kindly, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she glanced down at Harper with an understanding smile. “The children will love these.” Her voice was warm, like a blanket on a cold day, but it did little to soothe Harper’s nerves.

Harper didn’t smile back. Her eyes focused instead on the doorway, on the dark hallway that stretched behind the woman specifically. She half-expected to see a child peek out from one of the rooms, watching them with the same curiosity that Harper felt. But there was no one. Only the empty silence of the orphanage.

“Of course,” their father said then. “It’s our pleasure to help.”

The woman stepped aside, motioning for them to enter the building if they wished. Sierra strode in first, her head held high like she belonged there. Harper hesitated, her feet glued to the spot. She looked up at her father, unsure whether she wanted to go inside at all.

He smiled down at her, squeezing her hand. “Come on, Harper. Just for a minute.”

Reluctantly, she let him guide her forward, stepping over the threshold and into the orphanage. The air inside was cool and still, the kind of silence that felt like it had been undisturbed for too long. Harper’s eyes darted around, taking in the old wooden floors and the faded wallpaper. Everything felt... tired, like the building itself had stories to tell but no one had been listening.

She glanced back at the hallway again, and that’s when she saw it—a figure, just for a second, sitting by the far window at the end of the hall. It was a girl, her back turned to them. She couldn’t have been much older than Harper herself, her posture slumped, as if the weight of the world rested on her small shoulders.

Harper blinked, and the figure was gone.

“Who was that?” she whispered, tugging on her father’s sleeve.

He followed her gaze but saw nothing. “Who, honey?” he asked, his brows furrowing somewhat.

“The girl,” Harper insisted. “I saw her... by the window. She was…staring at me.” Like she’d recognized me, she added in her head but did not voice aloud. She’d rather not be made fun of again by her sister for overthinking things.

Their father exchanged a glance with the woman, who smiled kindly.“Oh, there are a few children here,” she said. “They keep to themselves sometimes, but I’m sure they’ll enjoy the toys once we give them out.”

He nodded, his eyes briefly scanning the hallway again, though he remained focused on the woman. “Would you mind if I spoke to you privately for a moment? Just a few questions.”

The woman’s smile faltered a bit but quickly returned as she gave a knowing nod. “Of course. Just over here.”

As they stepped aside, Harper watched them curiously. She couldn’t make out what they were saying, their voices dipping into hushed tones, and the distance between them felt like a chasm. Still, the way they spoke—it didn’t feel like the easy, polite talk that usually followed a simple donation. There was something else. Something important.

But whatever it was, it was just out of her reach. She needed to be closer.

Sierra, clearly uninterested in their father’s conversation, stepped toward the stack of books piled in a dusty corner of the room. “Look at these,” she said, rifling through the old, worn spines. “Bet no one's touched these in ages.”

Harper glanced once more at their father before reluctantly following her sister. “What do you think they’re talkin’ about?”

“Who cares?”Sierra shrugged, picking up a faded, dog-eared copy of The Secret Garden. “Dad’s probably just doin’ his military thing again. Makin’ sure everything’s in order.”

“Do you think...” Harper began, crouching beside her sister, “...there’s something we’re not supposed to know?”

Sierra snorted, keeping up her air of indifference. “Probably. Adults are always keepin’ stuff from us. But whatever, it’s not our problem.”

Harper frowned. Sierra always acted like she didn’t care, but Harper wasn’t so sure. She picked up another book from the stack, its cover barely hanging on by a thread. “I dunno... maybe they’re talkin'-” Harper stopped, shaking her head. “talking about the donation,” she mused, her voice just loud enough for Sierra to hear.

“Maybe.” Sierra’s brow arched but she did not comment, tossing the worn copy of The Secret Garden back onto the pile and wandering to another shelf. “But I’m tellin’ you, it’s not our business. We should just let it go.”

But Harper couldn’t let it go. She stood, pretending to be engrossed in the same book as she drifted a few steps closer to where their father stood with the woman. She made sure to keep her gaze down mostly, flipping through the brittle pages, her ears straining to catch their conversation. She could only catch and understand fragments of their conversation—words like "placement" and "timeframe," but nothing that made sense to her young mind.

At least until their final exchange.

“Not here anymore. She’s been placed elsewhere.” the woman said quietly with the same warm smile on her face-too warm, Harper thought when she risked a look. There was something off about it, though she couldn’t quite figure out what. “I for one would recommend any of our other girls. This one is quite…strange. Different.”

Harper’s fingers stilled over the page, the crinkling sound of the paper beneath her hand barely audible compared to the sudden thudding in her chest. Her eyes darted toward her father and the woman, trying to piece together what the woman meant by “different.”

When her father finally spoke, his voice was quieter, more controlled, like he was holding something back. Harper knew her father well enough to recognize the tightness in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched slightly when he wasn’t satisfied with an answer. He didn’t seem to push further, though. Instead, he glanced back at her and Sierra, his expression softening as he seemed to consider something for a moment.

“No need, I think,” he said, voice clipped. “Thank you.”

Harper watched her father exchange a final nod with the woman. The conversation had taken a turn, one she wasn’t prepared for. Who was ‘she’? And why did the woman call her ‘strange’? Her father’s reaction, though composed, told her there was more going on than she probably knew.

Sierra, completely oblivious to the shift, was still wandering down the aisle, picking up another book and dusting it off lazily. “C’mon, Harps, let’s go,” she called, barely glancing back.

But Harper couldn’t move. Her mind whirred, and for a split second, she considered asking her father directly—right then and there. Yet, the look on his face stopped her. He wasn’t just unsatisfied. He was troubled. And if he wasn’t going to press the woman for more answers, that meant she wasn’t supposed to know.

There was one thing that she wanted to clarify, however. Only because it had hit a bit too close to home for her. So, when he eventually walked back to her and Sierra, she asked her question as casually as possible.

“That girl…is she different, like you?”

Her father blinked, his eyes narrowing for a fraction of a second. The tension in his jaw returned briefly before he smoothed it over, covering it with his practiced neutral expression. Without a word at first, he crouched down to her level, his hand coming to rest gently on her shoulders.

“Harper,” he said quietly, his voice careful, with an undercurrent of warning, “sometimes people use words they don’t understand. And sometimes it’s better to leave certain questions alone. Understand?”

She didn’t. Not fully. But the girl knew that she wouldn’t be able to get anything out of her father about it.

Not here.

Not now.

Maybe not ever.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Location: The Augmented Reality Center - Pacific Royal Campus
Dance Monkey #4.067: A Cat and Bird Game
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Interaction(s): Haven @Skai
Previously: Smoke and Mirrors


Sierra leaned against the mezzanine railing, the polished metal cold beneath her fingertips as her gaze swept over the crowd below. The soft hum of conversation and bursts of laughter filled the room, mingling with the clatter of glasses and the occasional chime of silverware. From up here, the party appeared almost serene, as if the earlier fight hadn't occurred at all to disrupt it momentarily. Yet, none of that truly held her attention. Her thoughts were miles away, accompanied by a sense of annoyance and curiosity that spun beneath the calm mask she always wore so well.

Dressed in a sleek black jumpsuit that clung to her frame, accentuating her posture, Sierra exuded poise (or her definition of it anyway). The combat boots on her feet, though understated, definitely told a different story. She absently swirled her drink, the gentle clink of ice against the glass matching the rhythm of her heartbeat. The familiar motions helped anchor her, though her mind was far from still. Something gnawed at her—a flicker of annoyance, sharpened by the knowledge that once again, Harper had kept her in the dark. The ends of Sierra’s patience frayed ever so slightly, though outwardly, her demeanour remained composed, cool as the ice in her glass. She had mastered the art of control long ago, more out of necessity than any real desire for calm. Her world simply didn’t allow anything less.

Taking a sip of her drink, she allowed the liquid to slide down her throat, offering a brief moment of distraction.

It didn’t last.

Harper had always hidden things, secrets that Sierra was left to uncover on her own. As if she hadn’t already spent years piecing together the shattered fragments of their lives, Harper continued to withhold, pushing her farther away with every lie of omission. A bitter smile tugged at the corners of Sierra’s mouth, a wry acknowledgment of the endless cycle they found themselves in, the taste of resentment lingering like the drink on her tongue.

Where are you?

And then, as if pulled by an unseen string, her gaze settled on Haven, weaving through the party near the buffet.

Sierra exhaled softly.

“I know you can hear me, Haven,” she murmured under breath, her voice low and almost teasing. “Let’s talk for a bit, hmm?”

The winged woman certainly heard her. Sierra’s words reached through the music, phantom knuckles dragging themselves down the base of her neck and to her wings where the muscles that granted her flight tensed. Her feet slowed to a stop, turning from the direction she’d been going toward the source of the voice. Her gaze lifted from the crowd, up to the point that low tone originated from, and stopped on the blood-red hair and piercing eyes above her.

Haven’s chin lifted, her lips a flat line against her otherwise bored expression. Why should she even bother to answer? She was having such a good time with Rory, and she was excited to get back to him and continue their date. It would only get better as the night went on. She knew that answering Sierra’s summon would only spoil the fun.

What if it’s Harper?

Her eyes glanced at the people around the redhead. The friend was only here to visit her brunette teammate anyway. So where was she? Her gaze returned to Sierra’s expression, noting the irritation laid bare on those ivory features, and decided that one quick conversation with her was worth it for Harper’s sake. So, her feet reluctantly began to move again. She figured that she’d had enough drinks to keep herself from swinging, anyway. Perhaps she’d even have some fun with it, this time.

One more moment with Harper’s friend, and then she’d be back in Rory’s arms without a care in the world.
She ascended the steps slowly, taking measured breaths as she willed her composure together. At the top, she shifted her wings behind her back to really rub them into Sierra’s face. She didn’t bother to see the reaction. Instead, she looked into the crowd below for Rory as she followed the railing towards the redhead. She only spoke when she was close enough for Sierra to hear, her tone casual despite her tense posture.

“I can’t say I expected you to be here.”

Sierra's eyes swept over Haven as she approached, her gaze narrowing a little as those wings shifted with deliberate flair. It was a small movement, but one that felt too intentional for Sierra’s liking—a quiet show of power. Another flicker of annoyance danced beneath her skin, but she swallowed it down, refusing to let it bubble to the surface. Control was her game, after all; she wouldn’t let an insignificant ruffle from Haven crack her self-control. Instead, she allowed a slow smile to stretch across her lips.

“Well, I’m just full of surprises, that’s all,” Sierra replied, the soft edges of her southern drawl wrapping around the words like silk. There was something almost lazy in her tone, a natural charm that mirrored Haven’s own laid-back demeanour, but there was also an underlying sharpness—a warning, maybe. Straightening from the railing, her body language remained deceptively relaxed, but her eyes were as keen as ever, locking onto Haven with precision. The noise of the party faded into a distant hum, barely registering as her attention zeroed in on the girl before her.

She lifted her glass again, taking a deliberate sip, letting the liquid stay on her tongue before she lowered it with a soft clink onto the railing. Her smile, once polite, twisted into something more cunning as she tapped her chin thoughtfully, considering her next move.

“You know,” Sierra started, her voice low, tinged with dry amusement, “Harper’s always been good at keeping things from people, but this—” She waved a hand in a loose gesture, as if indicating the air between them, or the uncovered truth that hovered there. “Well, this one is a bit more complicated, wouldn’t you say?”

Haven had seen each shift in personality from her peripherals. That second smile seemed more her true nature. It was perfectly punchable. She only turned her head when the gesture began, her eyes tracking the movement of Sierra’s hand before connecting with that piercing gaze once more. She could see the playful glint in those eyes. As if she assumed Haven didn’t already know the meaning behind it.

She was talking about the real nature of the relationship with Harper. Haven had picked up on the secrecy by the way the two women interacted. Harper had defended her, after the woman had been cruel. Of course, there was more to it.

“Whatever is between you and Harper, she made it clear it’s none of my business. I figured you weren’t just old friends anyways.” She began with a light shrug of her shoulders. It was her best attempt to respect Harper’s deliberate lie, though she had to admit that she was curious. Whether she pried into it further or left it in the air, she had a feeling that Sierra was going to tell her either way. “I was hoping for some fun banter like earlier, not some guessing game.”

“I’m in a good mood, so let’s have fun with it.” The smile she presented was absolutely saccharine as she tilted her head.

Sierra raised a brow at Haven's response, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. Of course, Haven would play it cool—it was a common thread among those Harper kept close. Her sister had always gravitated toward people who knew how to deflect, how to keep their cards tucked neatly against their chest. But Sierra wasn’t so easily fooled. She saw through the light shrug, the practiced saccharine smile. It was all part of the act. Still, a part of her was intrigued—curious to see just how far Haven would go to protect Harper’s secrets, even when her interest was clearly piqued. Harper’s loyalty ran deep, but so did Sierra's understanding of their little sisterhood of silence.

She took another sip of her drink, letting the moment stretch as she considered her next move. Haven thought she could play it off like this was a game. Fun, she said. Sierra could oblige, even lean into it. She had no problem playing along if that’s where Haven wanted to take it. But the thing about games was that someone always lost, and Sierra had a feeling Haven was more invested in this than she let on. Her thoughts ticked forward, sharp and calculated, as she decided how best to unravel the calm Haven wore like armour.

“You’re right,” Sierra began, her voice carrying an easy indifference. “Whatever's between Harper and me, it’s not really your business.”

“But here’s the thing,” she added, a modest tilt to her head. “Harper’s little habit of keeping things to herself tends to blow up in people’s faces. I’m sure you’ve already noticed.” Her words were simple, conversational, but beneath the surface was a barb, an intended prod at the fragile cracks Sierra knew existed in Haven's perception of Harper.

Sierra leaned in just enough to narrow the distance between them, her gaze locking onto Haven’s with a quiet intensity. There was no malice in her movements but the slow, predatory glint in her eyes. “So maybe,” Sierra mused, “it’s not about old friends or even what you think you know about Harper and me. Maybe it’s just about what you’re willing to let go.” A genuine smile curled at the corners of Sierra’s lips, but it wasn’t warm. It was the smile of someone who knew exactly what she was doing. The game was in play now, and she was eager to see if Haven would rise to the challenge or crack under the pressure.

Haven’s light brows twitched together for a moment. This was the first lie she recognized in Harper, besides the smaller and more personal slights in her friend's demeanour. Those had never bothered her before. By saying that about Harper, Sierra seemed to reveal another piece of the puzzle that was still missing many parts.

“I don’t have much to hold onto, these days. You’re going to have to be a bit more specific about your meaning.” She cooed. The distance closing between them had her even more on alert. Her right hand casually hung by her thigh, but it was far from relaxed. She drew attention from it by resting her left on her hip, shifting her weight to one side.

“I’ll admit I’m curious, but I trust that Harper has her reasons. For example, she probably kept you a secret because of your everlasting charm.” Her tone dripped with sarcasm.

The jab was blatant, and Sierra couldn’t help but chuckle softly, the sound dripping with amusement and condescension. There was something deeply satisfying about watching someone walk right into her game, and Haven’s sarcasm only pushed Sierra further. Words had always been Sierra’s weapon of choice, and Haven had just given her the perfect opportunity to wield them. Her pulse didn’t quicken like most people's would in a confrontation—she was too seasoned for that.

No, this wasn’t some wild exchange of insults; this was a controlled dismantling, and Haven, like all the others, had no idea what she was up against.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Sierra cooed back, voice dripping with saccharine sweetness, “if you think this is about charm, you really are in for quite the surprise.” She leaned in just enough to close the distance between them, savouring the way Haven instinctively tensed. The din of the crowd buzzed around them, ignorant of the tension that crackled in the air between the two. Sierra let it all fade into the background; distractions meant nothing to her when she had her target in sight. The people, the music, even the atmosphere—none of it mattered.

“You see, the secrets she’s keeping from you?” Sierra’s voice dipped lower, a quiet thread meant only for Haven’s ears. “They’re not just hers. Some of them… well, they’re mine too.” She let the silence stretch between them, her eyes softening with a mock concern that didn’t fool anyone. Pausing, she tilted her head, as if she cared whether or not Haven could handle what was coming. The next words slipped out like a soft blade, so smooth they almost didn’t register.

“And they just so happen to involve you.”

It was a baited hook that she knew Haven wouldn’t be able to resist. But Sierra wasn’t about to drop the bombshell here, in the middle of a bustling room where anyone could overhear. Oh no, this revelation deserved privacy.

And she was going to make sure Haven asked for it herself.

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Hidden 2 mos ago → 2 mos ago Post by Skai
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Skai Bean Queen

Member Seen 0-24 hrs ago
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Location: The Augmented Reality Center - Pacific Royal Campus
Dance Monkey #4.068: The Catbird Seat
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Interaction(s): Sierra @Qia
Previously: A Cat and Bird Game


Her lesser coverts began to ruffle as Sierra continued to invade her space, but she wasn’t the type to back down. That sickly sweet Southern drawl made her ears burn with irritation, and yet she maintained a flat expression. She looked over Sierra’s own expression and she didn’t like what she saw, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. What frustrated her more than her feathers revealing her true feelings was the fact that nothing Sierra said was making sense. This was no longer the taunts and insults Haven had expected from the redhead, but a game in which she felt trapped.

Almost like she was back in the home again. The older girls always found it funny to confuse the little ones. She used to unknowingly play into their games too, and she never won until she found her backbone.

She shouldn’t be playing into this anyways. How could what was between Harper and this friend have anything to do with herself? What would Harper possibly have to lie to Haven for? Why did this friend think it would be fun sport to spill the secret herself?

She didn’t like word games, anyways.

“What are you getting at, Sierra?” She snapped suddenly. It was better to cut straight to the point. “You’re wasting my time.”

Sierra’s lips curled into a knowing smirk, the gleam in her eyes betraying how much she had expected Haven’s reaction. Everything was playing out exactly how she wanted, like an intricate game where she was always several steps ahead. Haven, feathers metaphorically—and perhaps soon literally—ruffled, was inching closer to the trap Sierra had so delicately set.

“Am I?” the redhead tilted her head, feigning innocence, though her voice carried an undercurrent of smug satisfaction. “Wasting your time, huh? Funny, that's what people usually say before they find out the truth. You’ll care, Haven. Probably more than you’d like to admit.”

“But I’m not here for a public spectacle,” Sierra added, her gaze sweeping the room as if to remind Haven of their audience. The wings, twitching ever so slightly, were like a beacon, drawing more attention than either of them needed right now. Folding her arms across her chest, Sierra leaned back to finally give the other some breathing room. “Tell you what—let’s take this somewhere private. You’ve got questions, I’m sure. I’ve got answers. No games. Just you and me.”

Haven huffed an incredulous breath through her nose in response and turned her head to look into the crowd below. She couldn’t give a single feather what the students nearby would think of their tense conversation. She also couldn’t stand the thought of being alone in a room with this woman. How tempting it would be to wipe that smug look off of her face with no one there to misunderstand her intentions behind it. Sierra, on the other hand, would probably call it a reason for her kind to stay away from her. No, she shouldn’t hit the redhead, no matter how much she wanted to.

Her eyes moved over the crowd, searching for Rory among them but finding no sign of him. If he’d been asking for her down below, she hadn’t heard his voice among the music and chatter with her attention so focused on Sierra. She should look for him. Maybe ask Harper what Sierra was up to instead…

Would Harper really tell her, or would she lie again? She had to admit that Sierra’s words were getting to her. That her absolute trust in Harper’s decisions had started to crack the moment she let her friend act so cruelly. Was it worth breaking Harper’s trust by going along with this? If she learned the truth, whatever it could be, would their friendship recover?

The edges of her lips curved into a small frown as she made her decision. She looked over the centre one more time, once more to find her boyfriend, and when she didn’t see him she thought of the perfect place for Sierra to make her final move. Her gaze was firm as she looked back at those waiting eyes, her shoulders tense as she straightened them. “I’ll move somewhere private with you, but we aren’t leaving the ARC. I’m on a date, after all.”

A date she wanted to get back to as soon as possible.

With that said, Haven drew her wings in closely to her back and moved past Sierra. She strode with purpose, half a mind to leave the redhead behind and fade into the crowd below. If Sierra didn’t keep up, she wouldn’t care. Her gaze continued to search for Rory among the crowd below as she began to descend the stairs. She could only hope that he would forgive her for being gone from him for so long.

So predictable, Sierra thought, trailing behind at a measured pace. She was content to let Haven lead, her eyes following the brunette’s every movement. Sierra wasn’t in a rush, savouring the anticipation like a cat toying with its prey. She’d already set the stage. Now, all that was left was to see how far Haven was willing to go before the inevitable truth dropped.

As they wove through the crowd, the redhead’s gaze flicked briefly over the faceless bodies surrounding them, dismissing each one in turn. None of these people mattered, and Sierra wouldn’t waste energy committing their features to memory. They were just background noise to her, a forgettable blur of irrelevant distractions. Haven, though—Haven had her full attention. She was the only person in this room worth Sierra’s time, as far as she was concerned.

The adjacent lounge they walked to was dimly lit, cozy but deserted. Sierra followed Haven through the doorway and let the door click shut behind them. The faint hum of the event outside still trickled in, but it was muffled, distant—almost irrelevant now. Her gaze swept over the room before landing squarely back on Haven.

“See? No one to interrupt now.” Sierra’s voice was velvet-smooth as she sauntered a few steps deeper into the room, her tone laced with a subtle challenge. “We can talk, just the two of us.” She stopped, leaning back against a sleek table in the corner, her arms folding across her chest once more as she gave Haven the space to speak first, but not before adding, “Of course, what I have to say might change a few things.”

The winged woman wasn’t sure if privacy was a great idea, really. There was no one here to keep Haven from losing her composure. No one would hold her back if she saw red flash across her vision, a red as bright as Sierra’s hair. She’d been reminded of that wild rage too many times over the last few weeks. The kind that truly surpassed logic and followed only what her heart desired.

She stood rigid in the room, across from a social predator, wary of how she was going to start this talk. Her remiges had already relaxed, yet she was sure it wouldn’t last long. Not with the way those piercing brown eyes held all of their focus on her. It dawned on her then, standing alone with this stranger, that it seemed like she was the only reason Sierra had come to the dance in the first place.

“Whatever involves me in your history must really be ruffling your feathers.” She began slowly, regarding Sierra with a curious expression now. “I can’t say I recognize you, if we’ve met before today. Though your hair isn’t natural, so maybe that’s what is throwing me off.”

“Have we met before?”

Sierra let out a low, humourless chuckle at Haven's words, the sound filling the quiet space between them. “Met before?” she repeated, her voice lilting with mock surprise. She watched Haven closely without saying more, the silence between them thickening like a dense fog. She didn’t rush, didn’t feel the need to. Instead, she let the quiet stretch, her eyes never leaving the winged woman’s face. There was something almost intoxicating about this kind of power, this level of command over a situation. She knew exactly where this conversation was going, but Haven was still in the dark, and that made it all the more satisfying.

Slowly, purposefully, Sierra pushed herself away from the table and began to take a leisurely stroll around the room, her boots clicking against the floor. She let her fingers graze the back of a nearby chair, her movements fluid, almost lazy, as though she had all the time in the world. There was no hurry here. “You know,” she said, her tone almost conversational, “I could see why you might be confused. After all, you wouldn’t have any reason to connect the dots, would you?”

She shrugged, a nonchalant gesture that was as much for her own amusement as it was for Haven’s growing unease. “I mean, Harper’s been good at keeping things close to the chest, hasn’t she?” she continued, her voice softening just a touch, like a slow flame licking at the edges of paper before it catches fire. “She’s always been the type to bury things when they get too messy. And family… well, family can get very messy.” Sierra came to a stop, her stance relaxed, though her expression shifted into that same mock concern she’d worn before, a carefully constructed mask of empathy.

“Oh, but wait…you never really had that, did you? Being stuck in that sad, sad orphanage of yours….”

She’d been watching Sierra with a stare that was both irritated and cautious, but now it transformed entirely. Her face fell, brows lowering as her eyes glinted with the burning anger she felt in her stomach. Her normally bright disposition now something else entirely.

“Now you’ve really killed my mood.” She uttered in a low tone. Her wings shifted behind her back, not yet ruffled, but certainly growing tense. She could feel the effects of the alcohol wearing off, the dull ache returning to her healing joints. She’d definitely need another drink after this. She couldn’t piece the puzzle together, and it was obvious that Sierra knew the completed picture already. It was frustrating to realize that Sierra also knew Haven wasn’t even close to figuring it out. This was all in good fun for her, this power she held above Haven’s head like a toy that the younger woman couldn’t reach. It pissed Haven off.

“Who are you, really, to think you have the privilege of mocking my life? What’s made you so cruel?”

For a moment, Sierra just allowed the question to hang, enjoying the sight of Haven’s growing irritation, the way her wings tensed behind her like the manifestation of her fraying composure. It was like watching a bird trapped in a cage it didn’t even know existed. She kept her expression neutral, letting silence do its work before speaking again.

“You want to know what makes me cruel?” Sierra mused as she began to pace slowly around the room again. “Cruelty isn’t hard, you know- it comes naturally when you’ve seen how easily people fall apart under pressure. You push the right buttons, watch them crumble, and then you remind them of their place.” She tilted her head, as if contemplating something deeper. “It’s not personal. It’s just…fun.”

There was a beat of stillness before Sierra continued, her voice taking on a more serious tone now. “But this?” Her eyes locked onto Haven’s hazel ones, the playfulness completely evaporating from her face like a mask being pulled off. “Oh, Haven dear, this is personal.” She stopped pacing, turning to face the other fully now, her expression darker, devoid of the light banter she had used to toy with before. “I’m not mocking your life because really… what’s there to mock when it had no purpose to begin with?”

She took another step forward, this time closing the space between them, her boots reminiscent of death drums as they tapped on the floor. “For someone so bright, you’ve missed the most glaring truth of all.” She paused just before reaching Haven, her voice dropping with venom. “There’s a reason you were left behind. A reason why, despite everything- despite the affair- you were never part of the picture.” When the other’s lips parted, as if to protest, Sierra cut her off with a short laugh.

“Oh come on, Haven. Don’t tell me it hasn’t crossed your mind.” She leaned in just enough, the next word slow, each one punctuated with an intended beat. “If our dad-she paused for emphasis, letting that word sink in, watching as it hit Haven with a slap, “-really wanted you, don’t you think he would’ve taken you when he had the chance? Don’t you think he would have done more instead of leaving you to rot in that place?” Sierra sighed then, a long, drawn-out exhale, as if she’d been genuinely disappointed by her own child who would never quite live up to expectations.

“You weren’t wanted,” she said, barely above a whisper, her voice distant, as though she was speaking to some long-forgotten memory rather than the person standing in front of her. “Not then, and not now. Harper may have tried to keep you close, but even she couldn’t bring herself to tell you the truth. Because deep down, she knows what I do- you were a mistake.”

Every barb, vane, and pin feather adorned upon Haven’s back and wings bristled, the appendages stretching out beside her to appear larger and imposing. Her hands were curled into fists at her side, shaking with the effort of keeping still while her nails dug into the small marks left behind from the day before last. Each toned muscle in her arms was tense, poised and ready to act on her wildest impulses. She was hot with rage, aching with the hurt in her heart, and utterly speechless for the first time in her life.

The movement was swift. Her arm swung behind her head before those brown eyes could blink. Each fibre in her body willing her to let it loose, like an arrow knocked against a bow, and to find its target. She almost allowed the impulse to guide her fist, her face twisting into something hurt and angry.

But there was a spark in Sierra’s brown eyes that made her hesitate. The first genuine and human emotion that the redhead displayed all evening. It satiated something within her, that wild temperament finding the display of fear equivalent to drawing blood.

Her arm lowered slowly, letting the threat linger a moment longer, before it went slack at her side. Her fist remained, if only to provide a distraction from the utter defeat Haven felt in the moment. It felt like her heart had a tiny crack in it. She didn’t want to believe what Sierra told her, and yet the puzzle pieces finally connected. The completed piece laid as bare as the emotions on her face and feathers.

“Get. Out.” She bit out, her voice maintaining strength despite its quiet volume. Her eyes cast themselves to the side, the threat of tears pricking at her eyes. She never imagined that she’d cry over someone she’d never met. Of a man that was absent for all of her life, even in the womb. Perhaps it was the way Sierra broke the news to her. How it felt like Harper’s father, Sierra’s dad, their dad, her father… He’d known she existed, and he left her to be lost within the system when her mother couldn’t care for her.

She didn’t want to cry over a man like that. He didn’t deserve her tears.

Sierra flinched.

It wasn’t the raised fist or the looming threat of physical harm that rattled her, but rather the force of a memory so vivid that it shattered her self-control in an instant. The sight of Haven’s wings flaring, her clenched fist trembling with fury, dragged Sierra back to that day. The day her father had struck her. The slap hadn’t been just an act of anger; it was a jarring realization, a moment that split open her world and forced her to see a side of him she hadn't wanted to face.

Haven’s raised fist hovered between them, shaking slightly as the fire in her eyes blazed with hurt and disbelief. It mirrored the rage Sierra had once seen in herself, the raw fury she felt in the aftermath of her father’s betrayal.

But this time, Sierra wasn’t angry.

She wasn’t defiant.

She was afraid—afraid of the past she had so desperately buried and the storm of emotions coming back to the surface now. It was like staring into a mirror, but instead of her reflection, she saw a girl still burning with the same unanswered questions she’d once asked.

For a fleeting moment, Sierra’s hardened exterior cracked, and something vulnerable passed behind her eyes. She hadn’t expected this—hadn’t expected to feel so exposed, so shaken by the memory of her father’s hand striking her face. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she quickly stifled that weakness, steeling herself once more. She couldn’t allow herself to go back to that girl—the one who was powerless, broken, and desperate for answers. She had to be stronger, for Harper’s sake, for her own. There was no room for uncertainty anymore.

When Haven’s fist finally lowered, the air between them still hummed with tension, thick enough to choke on. Sierra exhaled softly, the small release of breath the only sign of her relief. Haven’s cold command to “Get. Out.” rang through the space like a final strike, but the redhead didn’t flinch this time. She had done what she came to do, planted the seeds of doubt, and shattered the fragile peace. As the weight of what she’d revealed settled into Haven’s mind, Sierra could see the cracks forming in the girl’s armour, mirroring her own years ago.

It was because of this understanding alone that she allowed herself one final moment of hesitation, her back turned to Haven now by the doorway. She almost said something—something to soften the blow or offer some kind of understanding—but no words came. She knew all too well that there was no comfort for this kind of wound.

The truth was out, and once exposed, it had to fester and heal on its own.

So, saying nothing, she walked out, leaving Haven with the shattered pieces of a truth neither of them had honestly been prepared for.

Haven didn’t breathe until the door clicked shut. She gasped for air, and swallowed against the lump in her throat. Her eyes searched the room, vision blurry at the edges by tears that had not yet fully formed. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for. Some reason why she’d allowed herself to be spoken to like that, maybe. Something that would settle the storm raging within her. Answers to the million questions that thundered in her mind.

Something to release her frustration into.

She brought her right fist to her chest and began to rub circles above her heart. A trick she’d been taught in therapy freshman year, but had forgotten until now. It was meant to calm her racing pulse, to soothe her soul, but she could only feel her breathing becoming heavy. The weight on her chest was not lifting. The action merely left a red bloom where she dug her knuckles in deeper.

Her frustration boiled over and she flung the closest table to her across the room. It knocked into the tables in its path, loud thuds filling the room where they fell to the ground. Discarded drinks shattered around them. Her palms stung as she flexed them at her sides. With furrowed brows she looked down at them and saw pinpricks of blood where her nails had reopened the crescent shaped wounds.

Fuck. Fuck this.

Life had never been fair for Haven Barnes. So why did this hurt so much?

Her hands rose to her face, pressing the heels of her palms to her temples as she closed her eyes and tried to take deep breaths. Her fingers carefully bent backwards to keep her palms from getting even the smallest amount of blood in her hair.

Her heart had been settled regarding her father a long time ago. She’d come to terms with the fact that he had never been there for her. That he didn’t want her in his life. She was okay with that.

But this… knowing he was aware of her situation. He’d known she was in that orphanage, and he never once thought to save her from it. It hurt knowing that the pain she endured there could have been prevented. That first year alone, the hunger, the fear, resorting to crime just for something to eat or a place to sleep and stay dry– it would have been completely different.

It all hurt so… fucking… much.

She didn’t want to feel this, right now. The night had been going so well. She deserved a night without feeling the weight of the world on her heart. She was wearing such a beautiful dress, and Amma and Aurora had done so well on her makeup and hair. Rory was out there waiting for her, probably worried sick by now, and he looked so handsome and charming. This was their first date, and here she was alone in a room having a crisis.

She should find Rory and explain. She should shove all of this down into her stomach, and try to forget she’d even heard it.

She couldn’t go out there like this, with her plumage the tallest it had been in years. Her fractured resolve on display for everyone to see. No, she needed them to rest before she left the room.

With nothing to clean the blood from her palms, she resorted to licking them before she got to work. A method she had used plenty of times before, when she lived as a rogue. She put her frustration into her wings. Slowing her breath to calm her heart and soothe her still tense muscles as she began to preen and force her feathers down.

While her emotions still fluttered wildly within her chest, she eventually managed to calm her body down. Her joints protested as she stretched her wings out behind her once more. Her expression turned sour for a moment. If she could fly later tonight, or even tomorrow morning, she could leave this weight behind for just a few, precious moments. She already would have been feeling better knowing that the freedom of flight was just hours away.

Yet she knew it would still be days before she could unburden herself from the ground again.
Carefully surveying her palms once more, all she could hope was that Rory wouldn’t notice them until later. She had decided that once she left this room, she wouldn’t speak of the painful truth revealed that night until they were alone together. Somewhere she’d be safe to pour her hurting heart out of her chest and let it lay open and raw between them. Rory would know what to do with it. He’d know how to help her handle it, and if he didn’t he would know just how to hold her to make her feel a little lighter.

She turned towards the door, towards the dance that continued on beyond it, and took a deep breath. The night could still go on. She could still have a great time, despite the crack in her heart. It had never held her back before.

She left the room as casually as she’d entered it, swiping a tall glass of champagne from a waiter as they passed. It was down her throat and bubbling in her stomach before she found her date in the crowd. Her heart had already begun to feel lighter as she found herself beside him.

“There you are, handsome.” She said with a smile that hardly reached her eyes. “Sorry if I scared you, being gone so long.”

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Hidden 2 mos ago Post by webboysurf
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webboysurf Live, Laugh, Love

Member Seen 14 hrs ago
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Location: The Augmented Reality Center - Pacific Royal Campus
Dance Monkey #4.069: I Care What You Think
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Interaction(s): Haven @Skai, Mary Tyler,
Previously: Hawkward Memory


The night air cut into his lungs in a way he didn’t anticipate. He only now realized just how hot it had been at the dance, surrounded by other people the entire night. He moved away from the entrance, giving a small nod to some congregated cliques of seniors either leaving or taking a break from the festivities. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his dress shirt, welcoming the cooling relief. His thoughts were a little muddled and hazy. He should have eaten more, but he was more than used to the sensation.

Rory rubbed his hand, feeling a deep discomfort at his actions. He didn’t understand the strange man, and still didn’t quite understand how he could hear clothes. A disorder usually wouldn’t manifest that vivid, and he was dating someone who was part bird: the hype-gene manifested in mysterious ways, it seemed. Rory lifted a hand to rub the bridge of his nose, silently mouthing off a few numbers. He did not want to spiral that night, and opted to keep himself grounded as best he could.

He slipped his hand into his pocket, pulling out his phone and immediately swiping through his contacts. Within seconds, he lifted the phone to his ear. After several agonizing rings, she picked up.

“Rory… aren’t you supposed to be at the dance? What’s wrong?”

Rory hesitated, desperately looking for any words to explain his situation or what he needed. Instead, all he could muster was a single word. “Date.”

Silence followed on the other line, before loud scratching and some static. He had gotten Mary’s attention. “Date? Hold on… you’re on a date at the dance?”

Rory shook his head. This wasn’t what he needed. “Yes, but-”

“Oh my god… wait, did you finally ask out Ka-”

“NO!” His response was a bit louder and more forceful than he expected. He couldn't bear to hear that name, especially not now. He immediately recoiled from his own voice, letting loose a flustered clarification. “No, no, it’s Haven. I’m on a date with Haven.”

The silence that followed was easily deciphered by Rory. He knew that Mary had put him on speaker, and was quickly scrolling through the photos he would often send of himself and Blackjack. She was trying to remember which one Haven was. “Is she… no, not the pilot… the girls with wings, right?”

“Yes, and-”

“She’s gorgeous.” This response elicited a small blush from the elder Tyler.

“I know, but that’s not-”

“How’d you guys-”

“I fucked up, Mare!” This outburst was not as loud and defensive as the last, but was filled with the same manic urgency.

“Already?” Her voice didn’t carry the same smugness that her twin would have given, and instead seemed more incredulous. “It’s been, what, an hour or so? What happened?”

Rory paused, taking a breath. “I… was a bit rude to someone she punched.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

“Hello?”

“I’m here. I’m just trying to figure out why that’s a problem.”

Rory shook his head, combing through the negative thoughts swirling in his head. But every time he opened his mouth, they felt ridiculous to say. It took him a few moments to gape out something intelligible. “He’s an awkward guy who talks to clothes. And it seemed like Haven put that behind her.”

“And what did you do that was rude?”

“I squeezed his hand.”

He could hear the deep breath on the other end of the phone before Mary spoke again. “Rory… you didn’t fuck up by squeezing that guy’s hand.”

“But-”

“You did fuck up by running away, not apologizing, and leaving your date alone so you could tattle on yourself to your sister.”

Rory was used to getting knocked on his ass. He had been steamrolled over by some of the strongest students at P.R.C.U. in a variety of sports. But Mary’s words always found a way to rip the wind from his lungs in a way no one else could. Before he could even try to muster up a defense, he heard the call end. She had hung up on him, and left him floundering for some form of external validation. Instead, he was left alone outside of the ARC. He slid his phone into his pocket, ran his hand through his hair, and walked back into the fray. He cut his way through whatever crowd remained near the entrance, where the sound wasn't quite as blaring as the dance floor. As he entered into the main hall, he turned his head around to try and find Haven. His heart sank a little as he didn't see her where he had left her. Maybe she had left-

“There you are, handsome. Sorry if I scared you, being gone so long.”

Rory's head whipped back to see Haven had slipped next to him. The smile on his face was immediate, but fell slightly as he observed her face. He felt that tightness form in his chest. He paused for a moment before he spoke, taking a deep breath. "No, no... I was just getting some fresh air... had a talk with my sister, and she really let me have it." His face contorted as he physically cringed at how dumb that had sounded, before shaking his head. He needed to focus, and the discomfort on Haven's face was a more pressing concern. "Sorry, did I miss something?"
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Hidden 2 mos ago → 2 mos ago Post by spicykvnt
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Location: Formal Homecoming - A.R.C., Pacific Royal Campus
Dance Monkey #4.070: Happiness is a butterfly
Interaction(s): --
Previously: Hors D’oeuvre & Cummerbund About It

Cleo had been enjoying herself in her confidence. A whisky sour had broken through any of the tiny feelings of nerves she had, and the air inside the A.R.C was thick with warmth, the kind that lulled her into a sense of belonging. A feeling that maybe this night could be hers. A couple breezed by, and her eyes were drawn to the corsage that they girl wore around her wrist. A lovely yellow colour that matched her dress. Cleo glanced at her own hands, her wrist was bare save for her bracelet and gloves.

She fidgeted with the piece of seaglass at the centre of the bracelet, from it, that feeling again from earlier - the scent of books - fleeting, but real.

Soon enough, the music snapped her from the curiosity, from lingering on a thought too long. The infectious rhythm refused her denial of the centre of the room, it was her dancing that was enough to light a flame. Joy spread out like roots until there was no room for anything else. Music was magic. She knew that. She had always known that.

She danced alone tonight, the fancier-than-her dress cloaked her in the outfit of a creature alien to her. Gloves brushed the fabric and occasionally brushed against someone near her; the slight sensation of their happiness absorbed through the velvet and worked its way under her skin. Two songs had passed and she had spun herself dizzy, the world tilting in that way it does when you're on the edge of something big, something dangerous.

The room was hers, for a moment. The throb of the music, the lights, people and people and people moving around her. All of it blending into a blurry haze of sensation.

But there had been something else, hadn’t there? Something small, at first, but sharp. A glance here, a flicker of jealousy there, tiny cracks that zig zagged through the crowds. Unnoticed by most, but inevitable. Even Cleo hadn’t seen it coming. She had been too caught up in her own bubble, too drunk on the freedom of it all.

Love Shack—a song she herself had requested with an enthusiastic grin; the DJ met her with an eye roll and an apathetic shrug, but played it anyway. The new-wave beat lifted her spirits high, filling the room with energy. The lyrics were catchy and demanded to be sang out. Laughter bubbled up around her, a ripple of joy those who were dancing had created. She’d seen it in their eyes, felt it in the way the room shifted toward her, the energy electric and bright. But then, from a darkened corner, something else had crept in.

A girl sat alone, her pink dress a bright, garish thing against the shadows and yet still so unseen. Cleo hadn’t noticed her at first, hadn’t felt the cold weight of her loneliness. But now, as she spun, her head tilted back, she felt it. Like a wave, slow but inevitable, crashing against her. The girl's longing, her jealousy, pooled across the floor, winding its way between the dancers, invisible but present, a riptide drawing Cleo in.

She tried to push it away and to shake it off with another twirl, another laugh. But it clung to her, sticky and dark. The girl’s sadness wove through her, holding cold fingers around her throat. The feeling wasn’t hers, she knew that. It didn’t belong to her. But it felt real all the same. It was unexpected, this wasn’t… She didn’t think… This was unexpected…

It’s not mine?

As the tin roof rusted, an unseen weight tugged at the edges of her joy, unraveling it thread by thread... Picking at the stitches to reveal the overwhelming nothingness of it all. The nothingness that also just happened to feel like being punched in the stomach. Her feet faltered and movements slowed, the music turning distant and hollow in her ears, people laughed and smiled on, but the once bright room now felt too close, too crowded. The lights blurred, faces smearing together in a sickening whirl of color and sound.

The walls moved inwards.

Who would want to take a heart-reader to a dance? The thought stabbed through her, vicious and cruel, her own voice echoing inside her head. You’re just a weird accent. You’re too much. Always too much, and yet never enough.

”I don’t think you’re too much.”
Quiet, quiet words spoken from a quiet smile near a campfire, followed by yet more quiet.

The space began to move - press in on her like a weight. Crushing against her chest and it forced her breath to be caught in her throat and the sensation kept going and going and holding and holding firmly and oppressively until she was running, running, running out of air into a panic… BREATHE. Her chest tightened. Her heartbeat was loud. Fast, too fast.

She stumbled out of the A.R.C as carefully as she could. Her shoes suddenly felt heavier, each step forward like the experience of trying to escape a nightmare. It was the cold night air biting at her skin, sharp and clean that pushed the worst of it away and helped her break free faster until she found herself on the outskirts of the evening's events. She brought herself down to sitting on the steps, too quick to really be careful with the fabric of her delicate dress. She let it spread around her as she tilted her head to look up at the clear sky that stretched out forever, dark and vast.

Her breath misted in the cold dark, the music now a dull thrum behind her, distant and insignificant. The weight of everyone else’s emotions slid off her water, but the girl's sadness stayed. It had sunk too deep, and had rooted itself in her too well.

Cleo continued to stare, her mind blank, empty, waiting for something—anything—to pull her back. But nothing came. Just the quiet. Just the cold. Just the stillness of the night pressing in around her. Only the quiet, and only the truth accompanied her, side by side.

She'd been telling herself it didn't matter, for weeks now. That this was just a dance. But those moments—the tiny, delicate snippets from the other girls that mixed with the wave—their feeling of being wanted, of being special… Cleo had wanted it too. She wanted it, even though she'd never admit it aloud. It wasn’t just the Pink Lady, was it?



The scent of firewood again, just like before. The sound of a page turning in a book.


It couldn’t have just been the girl’s loneliness, could it? It was a reflection, a shadow of something she had been holding herself. The other girls shined under the lights in a way that Cleo didn’t. They belonged to someone and were desired by another. It was easier to pretend she didn't care, but the Pink Lady’s sadness had stripped away her mask, exposing a yearning Cleo had buried deep, the kind of need that felt dangerous to admit. That felt silly to admit.

This dance, this night—she’d wanted to be seen. Wanted to be held in that same light, if only for a moment. But no one had asked.

Minutes passed. She leaned forward, drawing her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them and resting her chin there. Someone had wanted to. Cleo thought finally, or perhaps that was just a wish she had for someone who was now gone. Someone who had seen her beyond the insecurities she hid. Or had he always been the one who saw them, and didn’t quite mind? His smile came to mind and she closed her eyes, ”you’re not too much,” he said, eyes locking to hers - the memory suddenly clear and vivid. He returned to his book on the beach as the others of Team Eclipse carried about their activities, and Cleo returned to the present - feeling seen.

She blinked, slowly, and turned to glance back at the A.R.C. Her heart-reading spirit stirred, and without thinking, she stood. She knew where she was going as she drew back inside, she wasn’t sure why, perhaps it was the pull of that loneliness, the weight of the girl’s sadness that she couldn’t shake.

She saw the Pink Lady still sitting alone, the bright pink of her dress betrayed how shy and quiet she was. The loudness of the music couldn’t erase her loneliness, and it couldn’t bury Cleo’s either. Her sadness remained palpable, but Cleo still waded through it, pushing past the weight of it, her own brightness flickering in her chest, weak but steady.

Her hand hovered for a moment, uncertain. But then, she extended it, her smile fragile yet steady, meeting the woman's eyes.

“May I have this dance?”


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Hidden 2 mos ago → 1 mo ago Post by Roman
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Roman Grumpy Toad / King of Dirt

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Location: Augmented Reality Center - P.R.C.U. Campus
Dance Monkey #4.071: And I'm Watching All The Stars Burn Out
Interaction(s): Alyssa, @Lord Wraith // Banjo, @Hound55

Lucille Calder cut a drastic figure among the student body.

Her dress was...bold. Backless, the bodice covering her chest but otherwise delivering bare shoulders and sides, and below the waist it split in two before stretching to the floor, a double-slit effect that drew attention to her toned legs. Her hair, no longer than her jawline, was still pushed back, but rather than the hasty and practical slick she usually sported, this was more elegant and considered, strands of silvered hair artfully woven and set into a braided crown as the rest fell away. And then her makeup; Luce had always been pale, and she'd chosen a powdered foundation that only accentuated this, paired with a matte-black that swept across her eyes and brow in strong, sharp lines, ending in vicious points. All in all, the combined effect gave her already-severe face an almost regal but predatory quality, and as she scanned the faces of her peers, many freshmen - and some sophomores, too - cowed beneath her intense gaze.

The point of the dress was almost a challenge in and of itself; many were aware of Luce's abilities, but most assumed it was a neat and tidy healing process - her staunch refusal to attend the university's infirmary was well known within her (admittedly limited) social circle. Those assumptions were plainly wrong, though; there was nothing 'neat' nor 'tidy' about Luce's power, and every injury mitigated still left its appropriate scars. Luce still bore those from her awakening, the very first time she had cheated death, and over the years she had collected several more, her skin criss-crossed with burns and lashes and bite-marks from her gap-year encounters aside Alyssa. Her usual attire hid these - long sleeves and practical trousers tucked into boots - but tonight's dress was specifically chosen to show these off, force them out into the open and prevent either Luce or her peers from hiding from them.

She lingered on the fringes of the thrumming crowd, sipping her martini, feeling...small. Despite the meaning behind the choice of dress, Luce felt old anxieties bubbling within her, and the scars meant to be worn as armour instead only made her feel exposed and vulnerable. Alyssa, her usual buffer in troubling scenarios, was amidst the shifting bodies at Luce's own encouragement, and her roommates had similarly dispersed to find closer friends or hopeful romantic connections. Even Eden, her bubbly blond teammate unusually forgiving of Luce's anti-social tendencies, and perhaps the closest thing Luce had to a true friend on the team beyond Alyssa, had disappeared to mingle.

A shock of red hair suddenly appeared from the throng, and beelined for Luce. She finished the rest of her martini as Alyssa approached.
"Lucille Calder, are you avoiding having fun?" She teased, a wry smile playing on her lips.
"I'm having my own perfectly acceptable kind of fun, 'Lyssa." Luce replied, her face as stoic as usual.
"How is it your kind of fun so often involves standing away from everybody else, not doing anything?"
Luce cut Alyssa one of her trademark withering looks, a glare that had long since lost any power over her friend, if indeed it ever held any to begin with. Alyssa had an incorrigible and pragmatic positivity to her that even Luce's brand of cynicism could not stymie.
"Look, I know you don't get on with everybody in Firebird, but you're not restricted to them. What about your old teammates in Blackjack?"

Luce surveyed the hall again; it was true, Luce struggled with many of her teammates (it was only Alyssa and Eden she could honestly say she enjoyed the company of), and most of Firebird were scattered across the gala anyway. Even now she spotted Cass sauntering along the dancefloor and felt the usual pang of irritation at his smug, caustic persona. Her old team, though? Even before the gap year, she had moved away deliberately from Team 21, and by the time they she and Alyssa had returned to PRCU...

"There's more of Blackjack that are strangers to me now than aren't." Luce said, and it was true; with Calliope off-island and Katja a shadow around campus, she was one of only three remaining of Blackjack's original roster from when she'd first enrolled at the academy. She spotted Rory in the crowd, sharing a dance with his new beau, but when she looked at her empty glass, and then over to the bar, thinking of a refill, she saw a familiar head of messy blond hair. Or it would usually be messy, anyway; even from here she could see it had been impressively tamed.

"Fine. I need a few more drinks if I'm to spend my entire evening here." She said, relinquishing beneath Alyssa's urging eyes. The girls had known each other the better part of five years; it was perhaps the singular reason Alyssa could so easily goad Luce into going against her insular nature, for better and for worse. Either way, Luce pushed herself off the wall and gently patted Alyssa's shoulder - the closest she got to an affectionate gesture - before weaving her way through the crowd towards the bar.

She didn't need to say a word to order; she was a memorable face, and the bartender merely gestured to her empty martini glass as she set it on the surface. A nod was given and the empty glass was whisked away, soon to be replaced by one new and freshly-filled. She sipped cautiously, ensuring the refill was of satisfactory quality, before spinning and leaning against the bar with one elbow, facing perhaps the only old teammate with which she shared some camaraderie.
"I'm sorry Calliope couldn't be here this evening." She opened with, proffering uncommon sympathies to her ex-comrade; but beyond platitudes, she wasn't quite sure how to navigate conversation. "Blackjack's had a rough start to the year so far, huh?"

"We're livin' through it." He raised the juice to his lips again. "You, more than anyone, know all about that, eh..?"
Similarly, the things she'd seen, the places she'd been. Banjo certainly didn't view himself as anything less than 'well travelled', but the tales Luce doubtless had to tell were certainly beyond his ability to relate. Ever since her 'hiatus', at least.

"She'd have been proud." He determined, a single nod from a tight jaw. Placing the empty glass on the bar and gesturing to the night's interim junior barkeep for another. "Course you tell Gil or Baxter I said that... I'll deny every word." His teeth flashed a sizable grin whilst he struggled to hold his form, avoiding making eye contact with his old teammate knowing it would cause him to break out a laugh.
"How 'bout you? How are you holdin' up? Since we both know bein' upright, on two feet isn't much of a gauge in your case. Takin' care of yourself?"

"I can't say your celebrity friend is in a fit state to talk to anybody tonight," she replied, tilting her glass slightly in the C-lister's direction; he was standing at the precipice between buffet and dance floor, nibbling away while tipping back a cocktail from a highball glass. Luce watched him polish off the drink and move on to a beer bottle. "And Baxter...I don't like being looked at at the best of times." She looked to Banjo, who looked pointedly up and down at her dress and wiggled his eyebrows in that particular way he had. "Tonight notwithstanding."

She took a step closer to sit by Banjo on the stool next to him.
"Alyssa keeps me steady. The time we spent away was...changing. But being back; it can feel like we never left in the first place. Everything keeps ticking on."
She sighed. Returning to the academy had been a contentious decision between her and Alyssa; Luce could have cut ties like shedding a limb and never looked back, even to her own detriment. Especially to her own detriment. Alyssa was more optimistic, more faithful than Luce.

Ultimately, she realized she could leave PRCU behind, but never Alyssa; so with her friend's heart set on coming back, Luce had relented and returned beside her.
"I'm grateful the greenhouse is still here, at least." She concluded quietly, almost wistful; all of Firebird and many more of the general student body were well aware of the long hours Luce spent among her flowers and vegetables at the campus' allotments.

There was an awkward pause, and Luce realized this was the moment she was supposed to reciprocate.
"And you? I heard you were put up in the infirmary again." She said, halting and worrying she sounded insincere. She noted Banjo's soggy attire. "And isn't it a bit early in the night to be aggravating? Even for you. Old habits die hard?"

"Some things are evergreen, Luce. Both for your garden, and for stirrin' the pot." He grinned. He thought of Zimmerman cleaning his clothes downstairs in a bathroom somewhere, no doubt in a state of panic. "And some pots deserve it more than others."

He turned and ordered another juice again. He could finish one last one quick before he went and helped come down his frantic roommate.
"Your greenhouse is in good hands, anyway. It's bein' looked after by--" He hesitated and thought. He knew this. Someone had mentioned they'd taken it on. Where was it? This wasn't right...that rolling fog had just come and covered everything. "It's in good hands." No. It was gone. No matter. Surely, Luce'd be happy enough with just that.

Luce frowned as Banjo's face first went blank, then went searching, eyes darting up as he rummaged through his own mind for a name that obviously escaped him. It wasn't like Banjo, she realized; he was a sharp individual, much as she'd hesitate to admit it to him. Was Calliope's absence harder on him that he was prepared to show? Or was there something else looming over him, sanding the edges off that quick wit?

"I've been dropping by. When I have time. Whoever's looking after the flowers is over-watering." She said, unsure how to address his lapse or if she even should. Banjo was perhaps the only soft spot she'd had when she'd enrolled and been tossed into Team 21 a little over five years ago; but it had been a long time since then, and she couldn't say that either of them were the same person anymore.

Hesitantly, she reached across, gently putting her scarred hand on Banjo's tanned skin.
"I don't typically know how to approach this. Alyssa's better at the emotion. I'm more...pragmatic. But...if you need an outside observer. Or someone who knows a bit of...historical context."
She removed her hand, quickly returning to her martini and taking a long pull, draining the glass dry.
"I'm not a very good friend. But that doesn't mean I wouldn't like to try."

"Killin' em with kindness, at least. If they're gettin' overwatered." He said through a creased line of a smile.
"It's alright, I've never been much for receivin' emotional support either. So you're doin' fine. Wish I could cut loose and do some appropriate damage to the bar, but... terrible bloody timing, this." He slapped his leg again. The fog was there already, but there was no buzz with it.

“Well, when you’re cleared by the white-coats, we can give it a good go.” Luce offered, adding a good attempt at a smile to help the light and uncharacteristic joking land.
“That is, of course, if there’s anything left after your teammate is done with it.” She continued, pointing carefully toward Gil who was leaving a trail of empty bottles and glasses in his wake. “Is he...okay? Or is this normal for the English?”

"Well, now there's someone in more need of concern than yours truly..." His attention finally drawn to Gil, even after he'd mentioned him.

The fog. Everything was like cutting through treacle. How'd he miss that before? And he'd forgotten all about his concern for Raw earlier as well, until it all boiled over. He had enough wherewithal to pick through that scumbag Chad's intent, but then...
Fortunately other hands were on deck there already, but this wasn't-- Things don't normally-- He should... Wait-- he'd said he'd go check on Zimmerman. How long ago was that?

"I've long given up tryin' to understand the inner workin's of the common garden variety Pommy bastard, and even its celebrity variants..." He replied with a dry drawl. A wide grin crossing his face, but his eyes seeming almost vacant. Things were happening around him, and right under his nose, and he wasn't picking up on any of it. He was free to just... be. It normally took him a six-pack before he hit that kind of pleasant haze.

But when he did that he could sharpen up in an instant if he had to.
"Hopefully get to catch up with you again later, but I've gotta go help someone out. Said I would a bit ago and... can't remember how long ago that was now."

He got to his feet and started on his hobbled journey downstairs to the bathroom, parting the assembled crowd waiting for the bar and gingerly limping past Haven, skirting carefully around her wings as she spoke to some redheaded bird who missed the memo on the dress theme.

Banjo grabbed the handrail and descended the staircase at the sluggish pace of one step at a time. He snatched some kind of finger-food item off a tray, and told himself that it was salmon, and that it fit his enforced diet. Limping onwards, he finally found himself staring at the pitiful sight of Gil, paralysed, stuffing his face as he stared ahead at their newest teammate on the dancefloor.

Banjo sighed, looking up at the sky, before limping on towards his teammate, not breaking stride anymore than the hitch already had.
"You're not gonna like this, but remember it's me. And I'm equally likely to dack you in front of everybody, as I am t'give you the boot in the arse you so sorely bloody need. So be thankful I'm goin' with this route."

Banjo snatched the plate out of Gil's hand and drank the remaining contents of his glass, before turning the former movie star to the floor and prodding him in the seat of his pants with the same sole of his left foot that could barely push the boat off the wharf earlier, nudging him onto the dancefloor and into the path of the raven-haired woman who'd been the star of his own limited third person performance playing out before his gaze from the side.

And then he saw the look on Katja's face to the side.
Ah Hell's Bloody Bells... One fire at a time.
Banjo limped on and threw his shoulder into the mens' room door.

Luce had simply nodded and turned to order another drink - something sweeter this time, the dryness of the vermouth lingering behind her teeth. She sipped a rum and coke as she watched Banjo limp away, maneuvering his way carefully across the hall, navigating around and through his own teammates with an ease Luce envied. She considered, perhaps, that she did not have a monopoly on being cagey and withholding; she wondered if the frustration she felt now, at being locked out of being able to properly support a friend, was an emotion her closest friends were intimately familiar with.

She stood straight, gauging her own steadiness, rolling her neck and deciding exactly how tipsy she was, and whether than was enough to try being affectionate, potentially even romantic. Target unclear, to be sure, but uncertainty hadn't stopped Luce in the face of beasts and savages. She couldn't imagine the alcohol-infused student body could be that much worse.

Then again, thinking of recent events, the claws of a wendigo had a far more straightforward response than the intricacies of social politics.
It was times like these that Luce almost missed being out on the hunt.
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Hidden 2 mos ago Post by Roman
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Roman Grumpy Toad / King of Dirt

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G I L G A L A H A D // A M M A C A H O R S
G I L G A L A H A D // A M M A C A H O R S

Location: Augmented Reality Center - P.R.C.U. Campus
Dance Monkey #4.072: Harpe
Interaction(s): Amma, @Rockette



Gil was drinking and eating, eating and drinking, truly showcasing the great British past-time of binge-boozing, all while watching Amma on the dancefloor with a mix of mourning and yearning. He barely registered Banjo’s appearance before him until the Aussie’s accent broke through the noise; Gil’s attention snapped to him fiercely, as in the same moment Banjo snatched away his food and drink, swallowing both in equal measure just to definitively deny it to Gil. He opened his mouth to protest, but Banjo was quicker than Gil’s alcohol-soaked brain.

"You're not gonna like this, but remember it's me. And I'm equally likely to dack you in front of everybody as I am to give you the boot in the arse you so sorely bloody need. So be thankful I'm goin' with this route."

And with that, Banjo’s bad leg was on Gil’s good backside and giving him a swift and measured kick away from the booze and onto the dancefloor, carefully-aimed to put him right in the path of the woman he’d been watching most of the evening.

The tempo of the music dipped almost on cue; the DJ cutting away the pounding tunes, shifting to a slower, more intimate soundtrack. Unconsciously, Gil found himself drawn to Amma’s nearby form, and if she had any reservations she kept them to herself. The two were quickly entwined, one of Gil’s hands on the small of Amma’s back and the other gently lacing fingers together with her as he lead them in a simple but elegant swaying movement, old muscle memory coming back as he carefully guided their feet one way, then the other, then back again.

She was only slightly out of breath when they met, her previous display of power slowly dispersing as delicate waves of scarlet through her palms traveled down her arms and waist, hissing into tendrils that fled onto the dancefloor the moment his touch settled on her spine. Amma observed other couples, the movements in some awkward and others fluid, and had realized that such a mundane and simplistic motion held reservations through so many as pairs came and went on the intimate plucking of string instruments and quaint melodies. Her opposite hand settled over his shoulder with a flutter, allowing Gil to lead them (she had never formally danced before, but he led her with a finesse that bespoke of experience). With the quiet that fell upon them, Amma permitted herself a reprieve to study the man who so effortlessly drew her attention through the crowd, a sort of helpless and immediate draw that was sired on an unconscious level that levied her usual hesitations.

Here, and even before when he flitted on the edges of the dancefloor, watching her, Gil beheld a dour expression, content to ply and drown himself in food and drink, his movements elegant but weighted with an emotion Amma couldn’t place, for it was her sincerity often muddied by a surge of hopelessness felt and undone, and credit it to her lightness of foot at the glitz and glam that adorned her surroundings, or perhaps to her powers still coiling betwixt flesh and bone. Still, she made a subtle gesture with her hair tossed back to expose gilded shoulders as he guided them to and fro.

“You seem awfully moody for someone who helped pull all this off.” Not quite a whisper, but just an octave higher, her accent threaded through her playful words offered by a slight cant of her head.

Gil was too drunk to be anything but surly, even as he shivered skin-to-skin with Amma and swam in great gulping breaths of her perfume.
“A fake sheen over a fake recreation of a fake life. Of my fake life. I’m thrilled.”

“Oh yes, the scowl is most becoming.” Amma quipped back and leaned in just so, close but yet far, vague in her words as she often was, with lazy spools of warmth coiling through her limbs as she drew her index finger across his shoulder, a delicate dance of her gestures against the purple threads of his suit jacket. “Must be all of that acting you do.”

“Did.” Gil said, off-handedly, and Amma raised but a single eyebrow. “I quit. Don’t know what I’m going to do after the academy but…it’s not going to be that anymore.”

“Just like that, huh.” She responded immediately, her accent slipping off into a whisper, a touch of understanding, to face the uncertainty of what came after. Amma couldn't even begin to comprehend that shadow of a thought that came and went. For her, the concept of a future was a bleak promise of destructive retribution.

“Is that the reason for your sullen face then?”

“Just like that.” Gil said, almost wistful. The faintest trace of a smile flashed across his lips. “I suppose I’m just…ready to put all this behind me. Permanently. This ‘theme’ was thought up by a very much mask-on Gil. I know it’s only been a week, but he feels like a lifetime away.”

Amma went quiet at that, her eyes dropping at the flutter of her lashes, lulled by the music that guided their swaying, a whirl of thoughts ringing between her ears before she said: “I… sort of get that. In that, things feel a lifetime away.” She rolled her lips together, teeth against her pout, before a smile broke across there, a darling glimmer that fought against the eclipsing mask she, too, wore as the ill-sought harbinger. “To cast away the role made for you by you. I suppose that makes you free.” A word foreign to her likeness that caused a slight flex through her arms, her fingers laced together with his own tightening just a fraction, squeezing slightly before she relaxed.

“Free, ha!” Gil broke a true smile now, and the hand on Amma’s back moved to wrap around her waist and pull her closer still. “Yes, that’s right. Free to cock up my life all on my own.”
They swayed softly, Gil no longer able to maintain his misery in the face of Amma’s gentle words and tender gestures.
“You look beautiful this evening, by the way.”

“Mm, so you did notice behind all that doom and gloom.” Amma lanced back swiftly, unable to deny the flush that flamed through her figure, weighted as coals ignited in every movement made and felt. “You clean up well,” she mused aloud, her palm against his shoulder feathering up to his neck, the pulse beneath her gestures leaping at her touch.

“I'm glad you found me when you did; I've had to turn down quite a few people this evening. Something in the air has them feeling brave.” She laughed, something of a teasing flair, a dance not only in their bodies so close with naught a fragment of space betwixt them but a soft challenge in the gaze that found his eyes and held there.

“I’m sullen, not blind.” Gil teased back. “Had I known you were saving a space, though…well, I probably wouldn’t have needed Banjo’s ‘encouragement’ to dance.”
They held each other's eyes for a few long moments as the music swelled around them.
“Saving anything else for me?”

“Actually…” She breathed, distracted at the moment, her nails delicately plucking at the small arrangement of flowers still pinned to her dress. White petals now lay with remnants of glittering red fragments, such a superficial adornment that she held in her inked hand before she pinned it to the lapel of his purple jacket. Her head canted to one side as she studied the placement as she had seen done on others.

“A custom, I guess- as was explained to me by the girls.”

Gil watched as Amma’s intricately-woven fingers delicately pinned the boutonnière to his lapel; he silently cursed himself for leaving behind the corsage Aurora had thoughtfully sent to Lorcán’s dorm room. He had been too wrapped up in himself to consider it might have made an intimate gesture for Amma.
“Stupid…I didn’t think about it. Aurora even had some sent over, but I was more worried about getting blotto. But thank you…it’s gorgeous.”

He held his hand over the pinned flower for a few moments and then proffered his other face-up to Amma; suddenly, with a slight shimmering haze, a copy appeared cradled in his open hand. Carefully, he plucked it from his palm with two fingers and affixed it to her dress, mirroring the positioning as close he could.
“Hand-crafted with my very own hazies. Hopefully better than nothing.”

Amma was silent in the intimate exchange, the performance of his powers so streamlined compared to her own as he pinned an exact copy to her dress, watching the careful gestures, the two of them standing still in a swaying crowd. She had not considered nor expected to receive such a sentiment, despite what had been mentioned in the purposes of corsages and boutonnières; a faint shimmer hovered there, the perfect replica more symbolic than she realized. Her fingers came up to trace over the white petals and line of her dress, the fabric cool against her touch before she reached forward to curl her fingers against his jaw, soft and delicate, nearly unfelt before Amma leaned up to ghost her lips against his cheek in a kiss that spun into a whisper against his skin.

“Thank you, Gil.”

The hand that stilled over her collarbone where it had pinned the flower moved easily, smoothly upwards across her neck, thumb tracing her clavicle and the veins beneath her pale skin before resting on her chin and gently tilting her face towards his. When their lips met, he pulled her in tightly. Something like a spark emanated: a crackle of red across the outline of their shared figure, shadowed and crimson lightning that converged on the replicated flower.

The way her powers bloomed and swelled elicited a gasp that hung somewhere in her throat, reminiscent of a stuttered breath as electric coils snapped and dragged over her arms, posturing in the lingering remains of black and silver that feathered from her grasp as Amma slid her hands up and over his shoulders and pulled Gil even tighter against her. She felt the siring of warmth at her front, faint lines that pulsated over and over, in tandem with her heart that bound the two of them in the fated tendrils of red and something within that melded entirely with his own, a shared breath as she drew back, eyes aglow and lost and hazed before she kissed him again with renewed intensity.

A colliding manifest of wrath, sorrow, and loss, a melding of two halves wrapt in desire, she felt and tasted the bitterness of uncertainty, the lines of fate swollen with the want and need of connection and purpose. A heaviness that shifted there through their kiss. It melded and coiled with the vibrations felt through the world as Amma relinquished pieces of herself that no one had ever known- a singular construct that yawned as a bridge between a unified soul.

In that kiss Gil felt a presence unlike any experienced before, a mix of self and other, simultaneously alien and instinctual. Wrath, not his but powerful and consuming, was an ever-present specter, but in this moment it was tempered with grief - and then all scurried regardless to dark corners to be replaced by exploding passion and excitement and desire, a fever that burst and bloomed like firework flower-heads in their bellies. This was a mingling deeper than the heat of their breaths, and lips against partner, and hands pulling skin and cloth taut into one another; emotions and scattered thoughts were interwoven and shared, randomly selected and extricated effortlessly from closely-guarded cages. It was frightening, exhilarating, intoxicating. Gil broke away, searching in Amma’s eyes for a hint of what he’d felt, confirmation she’d experienced the same.

Shared breath heated and fanned and plumed between lips and lungs and teeth, heavy and intoxicated by more than just spirits and wine, shored with obsidian and crimson lightning that struck and writhed and finally withered away into a spectacle of ribbon-like silver that reflected back in half-lidded eyes of blue that searched and carved a path through steel and heat and desire. Amma inhaled sharp and quick- words that floundered and failed and retreated from tender lips as she shuddered from the remnants of powers still quaking through her frame before it pooled low into her belly as an abyss of hunger that could barely be sated, an overwhelming swell of connection that anchored her to Gil in more ways than one, a now intertwined surge of knowing him as he was, as he had been, and what he could be through hazy shadows. Amma leaned in, foreheads touching, a familiar gesture known to them as the only answer he needed that she had felt the same.

As the music changed and the pace quickened the words petered out and all that was left was hasted, passionate movement as Amma and Gil separated and began to truly dance in earnest. The crowd around them melted away into a blur of faces and cloth and all Gil could feel was the hard wood beaten rhythmically beneath his shoes and the warmth of Amma’s body close by, weaving out her own pulsing pattern. The music alchemized with the alcohol in Gil’s belly and synthesized some manner of elixir, that spread throughout him and swept him away from his surroundings; forced out of his own head and only able to focus on his body and the rhythm pounding through, the weight of his misery lifted until all he was doing was dancing.

Her earlier performance had been a summons, a deliberate show of power and ability that aligned eyes upon her figure undone through the carefully laid intentions in her smiling graces. Amma now danced with a carefree flare, lightened in the moment and yet weighted by that fluttering connection betwixt them. The silken line of her skirts fell around her legs with every twirl, the thrum of music measured out in every sway and then left abandoned when it swept up and over in a thrumming beat with every other snap of her heels. She brought herself closer to Gil and then she would sway back, almost playful in the breadth she would allow with roaming hands that fell over his shoulders, some instances where she would perch on his chest and lean in so close that tendrils of midnight hair would brush against him. Amma’s smile was one of a veil being lifted, a shedding of a mask of sorts that glistened gold, encouraged by the wine that she still tasted on her tongue, the taste of him in every breath she took, and the commanding presence she afforded as everyone and everything fell away into blissful nothings of red and black.
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Hidden 2 mos ago → 2 mos ago Post by Hound55
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Hound55 Create-A-Hero RPG GM, Blue Bringer of BWAHAHA!

Member Seen 1 hr ago
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Location: The A.R.C., Dundas Islands, Pacific Ocean - Present
Dance Monkey #4.073: High (trouserleg) Fashion
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Interaction(s): NPCs
Previously: Hors D’oeuvre & Cummerbund About It


Banjo burst through the toilet door only for everyone to turn and stare at him.

"Bloody Hell... Didn't mean to make that kind of entrance. 'Scuse I, gents."

Two seniors finished washing their hands and shook their heads at him, as if Banjo possessed any capacity for shame, as they brushed passed him for the exit.

The Australian saw a familiar large figure standing outside of one cubicle, his head leaning against the solid partition between two, and gestured with a point and his brow raised. Big Steve nodded in reply.

"Ya comin' out of there tonight?"

"Wh-- wh-- Is that you, Banjo? Wh-- why would I come out?"

Banjo proceeded to push the other cubicle doors open, just to check they were alone.

"It is... in fact--" He pushed the last cubicle door on the other side of Big Steve open, and gestured to the exit with his thumb. Before holding out an open palm and mouthing 'Gimme five minutes'. "--in fact it's only me. Just you and me. So what's the hold up? You're expected out there."

"Ex-- expected?"

"Yeah, I told her I'd clean ya up, and have ya back out there. So what's the hold up?"

The lock on the door twisted to a green 'Vacant'.

"Hold up, ya haven't dropped ya guts in there, have ya?"

"No I-- I wasn't going."

Slowly the door opened, revealing Alex Zimmerman in his brown stained sky blue suit, palms out gesturing to the state of his clothes.

"Alright, so you're all done. Good. Let's get out there."

"What--? What are you talking about, man?! I can't go out there like this!"

"Sure you can. Jerk spilled the drinks you were carrying for her and her friends all over you. We all saw it. It's fine. She knows what happened. HE'S the arsehole. You're fine."

Alex shook his head, scoffing at his comments.

"You don't get it, man..."

"You're right, I don't. C'mon."

"I can't-- just--"

He turned his head to one side and kept from making eye contact.

"I'm not like you. I can't just go out there like this. You could fall in a pool and just strut through the quad soaking wet like it's no big deal. I can't DO that."

"Sure you can. Everyone saw how it happened. This wasn't you being clumsy. This was that guy bein' a prick."

Banjo looked at the smaller young man, tongue stuffed deep in his cheek. This was taking too damn long.

He popped his collar and swiftly took his bow tie off.

"What?"

He began unzipping his pants.

"Shut up. Big guy's only watching the door for five minutes. Get your pants off. Bow tie too."

"What are you doing?"

He started waving his pants through the electric hand blow dryer.

"You're taking ya bloody time, so I might as well dry out the vodka for you..."

"I--oh-- okay..."

"Get out the bloody stall. Try not to get some gross prick's piss on 'em as well as the whole bar..."

The pair swapped trousers.

"Whaddaya parents shop at GAP Kids or somethin'? Whaddaya call this?" He pulled the pants up, which held at a tight half mast.

He pulled the belt out of the sky blue pants.

"Pretty sure you're gonna need this for them..."

"Thanks... thanks, man."

"Shut up. Don't give me a chance to think about the stupid things I do." He handed over the black tuxedo jacket.

Zimmerman looked down at his new black pants, which were spotless, with a broad grin on his face. They hung under his shoe heel, but after folding the cuffs back up a few times looked fine.

"That's-- that's great! You said she's waiting..?"

"Hold up..."

"What?"

"Bow tie."

Zimmerman pointed at him. "Yes!" He popped his collar, buttoned the top button and... stood dumbfounded, holding the black thing.

"You don't remember what I did at all, do ya?"

"...nnnno. No, I don't."

Banjo tied the black bow tie on the smaller man in the large tuxedo. Then stepped back to judge the balance of the two sides.

Alex threw two thumbs ups and yanked through door in exit, in a hurry to go see Cleo.

Banjo looked down at himself and the ridiculous state of his legs and socks. "Now what the bloody Hell am I supposed to do with this?"



Banjo stepped out of the bathroom holding the sky blue suit jacket over his shoulder with one hand, his top button undone and no tie. His socks stuffed somewhere in the depths of his pockets.

"Tight slim cutoffs are in season anyway, eh? I rolled him for more fashionable pants."

"..."

"Wha--"

"I didn't say anything." Big Steve replied.

"Bloody oath."
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Hidden 2 mos ago Post by Rockette
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Rockette 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

Member Seen 0-24 hrs ago
Location: The Augmented Reality Center - Pacific Royal Collegiate & University, Dundas Island
Dance Monkey #4.074: taste of blood.
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Interaction(s): gil. - @Roman
Previously: dance macabre & harpe.

She still feels him within as a correlating spark that shudders as a flame touched by the wind, fanned to heights of euphoric ascension with every breath she takes as they dance. Those same electrifying swathes of energy plummet low on her figure, a dame wreathed in crimson shadows with darling touches of silver that expand and contract on the rush of her emotions. The world as it was could only marvel at the encompassing energy of self that rushed through every coil of nerve, blood, and rigid bone, every breath that rose and fell, and skin that glistened in a gilded sheen with sweat that sweetened every taut muscle exposed by black silk. She felt the vibrations of music down to her toes, heels that snapped and dragged and slid as Amma danced; Gil was a wreathed red shadow in her path, a half-in and half-out figure that she tasted still, tongue dragged over lips and teeth and bitten through her smile all instinctual and primal and edged in bliss that coated her lashes with every flutter. She was alluring, a being of enchantment, a twirling phantom of black and gold, where something bloomed liken to a flower in the sun, a bright yellow hue that sheered through her, a core of red, of white petals, of something that anchored into the void and slid through the cracks of an obsidian wall and fixated on the glimmers of hope that shined through the dark.

The music spiraled into another song, a beat that she harmonized with, a strum of an instrument not often seen that vibrated and droned and dragged through the crowd as a more sensuous conductor. A suspension of the unknown, the in-between, no lyrics to synchronize with the melody that inspired some to linger and others to depart, a crescendo that never came but lingered on the precipice of a drum and a snapped snare. It came in a unification of three, a sacred marker of life and reality that filtered in and out, the beginning, middle, and end, the many faces of a woman, man, and time eternal.

One - a hand snaked forth, pulled her in, a dip of her body into the darkness below.

Two - pulled heavy, tight, flush, and wed against a muscled frame.

Three - a whisper in her ear, a heated breath that trilled and laughed and uttered:

Tiamat.

She froze.

The name slithered betwixt the cage left ajar on ivory hinges, a fluttering heart therein that seized at the mutter of her other self that wailed and cried, that raged and scoured the world as a chained beast. The fragments of writhing power and connection swelled in warning, a claw mark of dread down every link in her spine gone rigid. She flinched, the power of names tethered and bound through her blood, hooks that dug deep and valid and manipulated those of life and death, a manifest that thrummed and beat at a mutilated core of uncertainty that now tasted resentment and fear.

Tiamat. Tiamat. Tiamat.

More whispers skittered as light chased shadows through her mind, rats in the pit of despair that chittered and fed on the dregs of phosphorescent malice left forgotten on a tiled floor sopped to the foundations with death. A netherworld, inked into her, scarred, left for ruin and damnation, and a name that marked her throat, her soul, her very meaning of identity taken and then sputtered out into a moniker that was everything, anything and all.

Amma stilled, her hands shook, and a whispering voice purred through her lobe sickly sweet:

– you are Tiamat. Chaos. Life. Death. Creation. We have so much work to do– you and me.
– the final piece I have been searching for. Perfection –

– yes, there it is. That’s it!

This is your role, your purpose – a weapon. An End. 'And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.'

Memories suddenly unlocked, twisted with rusted keys, crimson dust, and edges through a shattered door that hissed and sputtered, droning pipes and the ocean that churned yonder slivers of glass that called out to her – the hand in the dark, the hand that held onto her own and the eyes that bespoke of betrayal as she cruelly twisted as a knife in the dark, a mere child.

Let’s put it to the test, shall we?
I want you to kill –

He’s coming, mon petit – he is coming. He’s coming for you; you have to run!

It lasts only seconds, a flash of a warning, a voice that haunted her waking world that stood before her shrouded in white, and then –

You need only speak the words.

Say it. Sayit. Sayit. Say. It.

NO.

Amma collides with Gil on a misstep- trembles, gasps, an intake of breath that comes away wet and thick, suffocating from the cumbersome reveal of fragmented voices that collide as the wrath of a would-be god. She attempts to anchor herself with the scarlet thread that shimmered from the white petals pinned to her dress; the music finally dissipates on a cord plucked like her sensitive nerves quivering with a violent tempo. Every quake through her body is a feral sensation of flight or fight. She reigns everything in and down and feeds it to the void that stares back with glaring blue eyes and a roar that is here and then not, shattering as an esoteric drone of alienated fears betwixt her ears as she breathes. He holds her, and there she remains, refusing to acknowledge the voices in her head.

And just as they are there, they are soon gone, whispering away into nothing. The music returns, and Amma blinks back that unshed fear that had her body in a vice, slipping away as sand through the surf, as water that ebbed and flowed, guided under the moon. It fell away into nothing, the blissful euphoria returning, reclaiming hold over her reasoning of self, and when Gil asked if she was all right- if anything was wrong- Amma just slowly shook her head and said:

"It's nothing."
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Hidden 2 mos ago Post by Lord Wraith
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Lord Wraith Actually Three Otters in a Trenchcoat

Member Seen 24 min ago
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Location: The Augmented Reality Center - Pacific Royal Collegiate & University, Dundas Island
Dance Monkey #4.075: Nails for Breakfast, Tacks for Snacks
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Interaction(s): @Qia - Harper Baxter
Previously: Look What You Made Me Do

Watching Chad go, Cass let out a defiant snort, loosening his tie before rolling the sleeves of his shirt and popping the top button open. His blood was still boiling despite the triumphant exterior. He had been hoping for more of a fight out of Chad, in fact he’d been hoping for more of a fight in general tonight. Twice he had picked a fight and twice the results had been less than what he was hoping for.

In a blink, Lorcán and Aurora disappeared and a sad smile crossed Cassander’s face. There was no doubt in his mind that whenever the pair returned, something would have changed between them and while he was happy for his cousin and his new friend, he could help but feel a stifling longing rising up from within him.

Taking a deep breath, he tried to recenter himself just as his therapist had suggested countless times, but all Cassander felt like doing in that morning was ditching this whole over-celebrated event and going a couple rounds with the punching bag across campus. His pulse was racing, blood pumping, he was fired up and ready to go.

A hand suddenly wrapped around his arm from behind him, a firm pull catching him off guard and memories suddenly came flying back. Hands caressing him from behind, powerless to fight back, fearing the sharp sting of a belt. Voices all around, whispering as Cassander was taken away to protect the younger kids, he blinked back tears, a lump in his throat and then suddenly Cass was back at the dance and all he felt was blind rage.

Already in fight mode, Cass grit his teeth, his stance widening as Harper’s grip was immediately met with resilience. The hair on the back of Cassander’s neck shot up on its end while his hands crackled with explosive energy. His arm quickly and roughly jerked itself free of her grip, before the larger young man spun around on his heels, hands balled into fists looking for a second fight.

The second he saw Harper’s face, Cassander faltered, his hands releasing their tension while he quelled the explosives in his palms, reabsorbing the energy, painfully defusing his own attacks. He straightened his posture as his eyes went to his jacket in her arms before he quickly took it from the petite brunette.

“Don’t ever do that again.” He snapped, “Just-” The words were caught in his throat as he looked Harper over. She was gorgeous in her outfit, but she had unknowingly hit a trigger and the words to tell her such just weren’t going to come.

“I think I need some air,” Cass’ voice cracked slightly, his eyes looking for the exit before a thunderclap outside caught his attention. Another sounded and then another. His mind was suddenly caught in another memory, one more recent, only five years ago as Cassander saw lightning explode on the Southern Plateau and his hand wandered to the now throbbing scar tissue situated just above his heart.

A thud on the roof of the A.R.C. consolidated his worst fears.
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Hidden 2 mos ago Post by Lord Wraith
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Lord Wraith Actually Three Otters in a Trenchcoat

Member Seen 24 min ago
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Location: The Augmented Reality Center - Pacific Royal Collegiate & University, Dundas Island
Dance Monkey #4.076: Chernobog
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Interaction(s): None
Previously: Dance, Dance

Leathery wings beat against the night sky, their span stretching easily while over the width of four grown men. Muscles rippled through the vein-covered membrane that was stretched over painfully grown bone and sinew. Frigid breath exhaled sharply from flared nostrils beneath a horned brow. Each flap of its powerful wings was like a thunderclap above the cold night sky above the Pacific Ocean.

Circling the island below, the louds and music of the emitting from the A.R.C. drew its attention before it plunged towards the ground below. Drones rose through the air to meet the large object, detecting the HZEs and isolating the creature as a threat but the countermeasures failed to stop the gargoyle as its arctic breath stopped the drones in their path, dropping the frozen devices towards the ground, harbingers of panic and fear preceding the collision of the creature with the roof of the A.R.C.

A dull thud echoed above the music inside as it landed. The structure shook under the weight of the towering creature. A chilling roar echoed through the night sky sending some scurrying for their dorms while others sought shelter in the nearest open building.

Dropping down to all fours, the gargoyle tucked its wings against its back before sharp claws dug into the steel exterior of the A.R.C. as it moved about. The punctures echoed and metal hissed in brief resistance before suddenly silence fell over the Senior Formal.

But it didn’t last.

Screams filled the dancefloor and students ran for the nearest exits only to be frozen solid as a barrier of ice appeared. Shrapnel rained from above before the creature gracefully plummeted into the center of the dance. The projected theme glitch and faded in places where circuitry was cleaved apart. As the creature fell, its wings extended enough to catch the brunt of the forceful impact. Red eyes peered through the terrified crowd, a guttural growl filling its throat as it looked from one student to the next before fixing its glare on Haven before its head slowly trailed to Amma.

“Hello, mothers.”

The words hung in the air for the briefest of moments as the present members of Blackjack were forced to take in the carnage. Fleeing students frozen in ice, the roof of the A.R.C. now possessing a skylight, and a ten foot tall creature with near impenetrable skin, horns, claws and wings stood in the center of the room, its eyes ravenously fixed on two of their own.

“I’m afraid, I need you both to come with me.” The creature uttered again, its speech fair from mindless, composed, prime, even proper if not downright posh. “The father is expecting you both,” It looked around at those who stood ready for a fight.

“I’d be happy to dispatch any interlopers who dare challenge the Chernobog.”

“Dispatch this!” Cassander suddenly roared over the crowd, his fist crackling with energy as he landed a blow on the unflinching creature. The explosion emitted a blinding blast but when it cleared, the group was greeted by the sight of the Chernobog unhindered, simply holding Cassander by the throat.

“I am saddened by you,” The gargoyle replied, slowly beginning to squeeze before suddenly finding its vice-like grip being resisted, an opposing force pushing its hand open.

“Let him go.” Torres ordered, appearing suddenly as she approached the creature with authority and intent, “I know Daedalus sent you, and I know this isn’t you, you can resist him, search yourself, the person you used to be is still there.”

Cassander was suddenly dropped to the ground, quickly scrambling backwards while Torres continued to negotiate with the towering creature. Its upper lip curled in disgust before an uttered reply came from beneath gritted, pointed teeth.

“They are dead, there is only the Chernobog.” Without warning, its clawed hand backhanded Torres across the chest. A crimson arc splattered those nearby as she fell back to the ground, sliding across the glitching floor before coming to a rest. Blood poured freely from the woman’s lower ribcage and abdomen where claw marks had easily cleaved skin clean from his bone.

“Mothers, come.” The creature commanded again, “Before I have to embarrass anymore of your… friends.” A mist of frigid air erupted from its nostrils as it snorted in defiance, its eyes resting firmly on Rory before it offered a large hand towards the pair of young women.

“I’m getting impatient.”
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Hidden 2 mos ago Post by webboysurf
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webboysurf Live, Laugh, Love

Member Seen 14 hrs ago
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Location: The Augmented Reality Center - Pacific Royal Campus
Dance Monkey #4.077: Aren't you supposed to burn if you're a star?
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Interaction(s): Haven @Skai, Lorcán @Lord Wraith, Amma @Rockette, Gil @Roman
Previously: I Care What You Think


The second there was a loud thud on the ceiling of the ARC, every ounce of anxiety in Rory’s chest came flushing out of his awkward form. It was replaced by a sheer, animalistic urge to survive. He ripped off his suit jacket, tossing it to the side as the large stone beast cut through the roof. His eyes turned to Haven, whom he quickly stood in front of and tried to shield from loose debris raining down. He felt small cuts and tears form through his shirt, and that familiar sting of pain that came from small wounds. When he turned his gaze back to the beast, the words sent him reeling in confusion. The last he knew, Haven didn’t have a kid. And if she did… he did not want to know who the father of that monstrosity could be.

Cass’s short lived attempt at heroics sent Rory’s mind spinning. That took out his first choice of power. His eyes turned up towards the hole in the ceiling. He looked back to Haven, ready to bark an order, before his eyes settled on her wings. She was still recovering. Flight wasn’t an option for her.

Shit.

Rory scanned his friends in the crowd, able to piece them from the scared students with ease. Blackjack had been through enough in the past few weeks, he couldn’t be the only one to expect something like this. If it were daytime, Banjo’s skill set would be ideal. Sight probably wasn’t going to do much for him. Density probably wouldn’t do much for him here. Teleportation could get Haven out, but fire probably wouldn’t-

Wait, where the fuck did they go?

Rory reached into his pocket, quickly opening his phone and hitting the phone app, managing to quickly call Lorcan and putting him on speaker before tossing the phone on the ground at Haven's feet. With any luck, he’d answer the phone. If not, it was a good thing improvising was Rory’s specialty. It only took a moment longer for Rory’s eyes to lock on to a certain force of destruction. He let out a small exhale, an inkling of a plan beginning to form in his head.

Rory turned his head back to Haven, his expression grave. “When you’ve got an opening, I need you to run.” He held himself back from embracing her: he had to act. This wasn't goodbye.

He turned towards Amma and Gil, and strode through the chaos towards them, giving the Tolkien-esque monster a wide berth. He was used to running through knotted paths in the forest paths on the island, and years of running and tripping made this a breeze. A rather cold breeze. The second he was within earshot of the former actor and resident enigma, Rory lowered his tone. “Alright… got any pointers, Addams family?” He lifted his hands, placing one onto each of their shoulders. “It’s not quite a dragon, but I think this is as close as we'll get.”

Beneath his touch, Amma immediately flinched, eyes panned wide and wild and feral, pain smeared through her expression with minor lacerations donned over her bare shoulders and dotted over one of her arms. She nearly snagged her fingers around his wrist, a warning curling against the ridge of teeth bared in an alarming grimace; for Rory to approach her only addressed the severity of the situation. He, who perhaps above all, did not trust her in the least, bore her marks, faint scars that even now she acknowledged with only a smidgen of guilt to prevent her gestures from prying his palm away from her skin.

“Yeah, get Haven out of here.” She stressed, taking a step back. Her eyes fled over and into the distance where Torres lay, a shattering of loss compounded by the trembling wrought through her fingers, burdened by small wreaths of red that sputtered and fell, likened to drops of blood. Amma searched through Gil’s gaze, held there, words unspoken woven between, an unknown flicker that plummeted through her eyes, something she had never known before, something that could not be placed.

Worry and fear. Concern dotted her lashes and the crease of her brow before she touched her forehead to his briefly and offered her attention back to Rory; a conviction blossomed there and wound through her annunciation with only a slight quiver in her voice to be found.

“That thing can’t take her, you know that, I know that. I’ll be fine. Get her out, get them out.” She flung out her arm, gesturing abroad, breath fogging white past her lips from the frigid cold that suddenly enveloped them.

A flicker of understanding flashed over Rory's face as he observed Amma and Gil, only to give way to a slight frown. He looked about the A.R.C., shaking his head. “I'd love to just grab Dove and duck out, but that didn't work for everyone else, did it?” Rory held on to Gil's shoulder tighter, turning his direction to the former star. His eyes were pleading, but his voice was steady. “No offense, Gil, but most of our heavy hitters are off-island, MIA, or can't be trusted.” He paused for only a moment, realizing the slip up in his words too late to retract them. But he just gripped Gil’s shoulder tighter and refocused, trying desperately to ignore the shake in his hands from the cold. “We don’t have time to wait for Jim and HELP. We need heat, and we need Haven out… with or without Lor and Ror. I’m sure the others are thinking the same thing.”

Rory turned his attention back to Amma, his voice betraying his strong words. “We don't do sacrifice plays here, Am, and I wasn't asking for advice on getting everyone out.” Rory took a breath, the creeping dread of the scene sinking in. The injured forms of Torres and Cass sent a shock down his spine. He glanced towards Haven, and his expression hardened with determination. When his eyes shifted back, any lingering doubts he had were gone. “I was asking for tips on being the dragon.” Even he had gotten the hint that Amma wasn’t the type for a reassuring hug or pat on the back. At this distance, he was close enough to get what he needed. It didn’t stop him from lifting a fist up and gently tapping her on the shoulder.

This time, she did lash out, hand turned in and manacled around his wrist, held tight with a tremor that shook up her entire arm.

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” Amma warned, voice turned low and writhing, a warning, a curse, a spell of the damned as she shook her head and tried to keep him from those energy particles that constantly fell to her influence and scoured through the world on the conceptual ties of the unknown. She knew the nature of his powers, and she felt the pull that seized her shoulder; the shuddering HZEs felt within and without suddenly rose as tides of crimson particles that amalgamated through her body, down the slender lines of her frame and sluiced betwixt flesh and bone. Silver and red wove as an intricate pattern, a coil of ebony that threaded through the center and poised there as a serpent ready to maim. The creature, monster, a manifestation akin to what lurked within the void – something Made. Something of the in-between. A growl of impatience sundered, a deeply seeded warning, a predator before prey that threatened to strike, and Amma regarded the Chernobog, those claws, and the hand proffered and said:

“It’s not a sacrifice. It won’t kill me.” She shook with adrenaline or fear; she knew naught which. “It’s here for me – for her – and –” Amma wavered, lashes lifted high and wide and eyes bright and shining where coils of red slid and snapped, a ring of hellfire within that burned. She looked at Haven, Harper, and even Banjo. She met Gil’s eyes for a long second. She looked unto Blackjack, noted those there and those not, and met Rory’s glare once again.

He had already made up his mind.

“It’ll hurt. It’ll be a pain you’ve never known: rage, hate, everything that is and could be and ever was. It’s death and destruction, to make something into nothing, to tear apart from within or to decay and rot.” From her palm, crackling energy sputtered and groaned, an esoteric resonation that cleaved through the world and surrounded the two of them in swathes of crimson tendrils, ribbons of black and silver that came up and over as the reaper stood there, a smile of bone and blood, blackened smiles shorn over a heart that wept– wrapped in chains.

“And whatever you do, don’t look into the void.”



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Hidden 2 mos ago → 2 mos ago Post by Lord Wraith
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Lord Wraith Actually Three Otters in a Trenchcoat

Member Seen 24 min ago
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Location: The Augmented Reality Center - Pacific Royal Collegiate & University, Dundas Island
Dance Monkey #4.078: Hysteria
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Interaction(s): Amma Cahors - @Rockette, Haven Barnes - @Skai, Rory Tyler - @Webboysurf
Previously: Chernobog

“There will be no running.” The Chernobog interrupted loudly, its keen ears. “And there will be none of this.” Its nostrils suddenly flared, a gout of icy breath directed towards Rory, encasing his legs where he stood before the towering creature’s keen eyes darted from Haven to Amma and back to Haven.

“If you run, I will break both your wings and your legs.” He cautioned, a powerful flap of his own wings emitting a shockwave that pushed everyone back save for Rory who was frozen in place.

“Like this.”

For someone so large, it was terrifying how fast the Chernobog closed the gap between himself and Rory. A sickening ‘CRACK’ echoed throughout the A.R.C. whilst Rory crumbled to the ground, chunks of shattered ice around his body while the sight of his own femur greeted the young man.

The creature’s prehensile tail lashed out, cracking like a whip before halving the still ringing phone beneath Haven. Its attention now turned to Amma before it began to speak again.

“You think her to be your ally?” The Chernobog asked, motioning its horns towards Amma. “Perhaps the woman you knew here is, but Tiamat is not.” His stoic face slightly turned into a smile.

“She who bore us all, Ummu-Hubur,” The Chernobog hissed watching Amma like a predator stalks its prey.

Ummu-Hubur,
Ummu-Hubur,
Ummu Hubur,


The beast of a man continued to chant before suddenly resuming speech.

“By day I can not rest, by night I can not lie down in peace. Let there be lamentation until I can lie down again.”

His voice suddenly changed, almost monotone and robotic before ordering.

“Tiamat, you have a mission to resume.” His eyes darted towards a redheaded woman atop the balcony before returning to Haven.

“And you’re coming with me, Dove.”
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Hidden 2 mos ago → 2 mos ago Post by Roman
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Roman Grumpy Toad / King of Dirt

Member Seen 1 hr ago
G I L E M O R Y G A L A H A D
G I L E M O R Y G A L A H A D

Location: Augmented Reality Center - P.R.C.U. Campus
Dance Monkey #4.079: Heads Will Roll
Interaction(s): N/A

Gil froze up as the monster broke through the ARC ceiling and quickly began to decimate the scene. Why did this keep happening? Why were they continually targeted over and over and over again? Who the fuck was Daedalus, and why couldn't he just fucking die and stay dead?!

It was all a blur, events happening in such quick succession Gil could barely keep track. Cassander flew in first, unleashing a blast that had Gil covering his eyes and being blinded by pure white regardless; yet when the haze cleared and vision returned, the beast stood as if assaulted by nothing more than a light breeze, Cass hanging helpless and impotent by the throat in the clutches of one of its powerful claws. Gil could only stare, transfixed, convinced he was watching an execution unfold before him - a strange morbid tension stilling the air, like the collective held breath of the crowd in the seconds preceding the dropping of the noose - before Torres broke the spell, her strong voice and will pushing through the screams to rescue Cassander at her own sacrifice. She sailed through the air, discarded by the beast as easily as balled-up paper; the blood that burst forth from the initial blow stained students and floor alike, while more seeped from her crumpled form against the wall, pooling around her.

Rory appeared behind them, his face full of intensity and mettle that Gil hadn't seen in him before; this was a Rory far-flung from the usual thoughtful-and-slightly-thick - this Rory was a leader, a man to stand behind, a man to honor and be honored by through the heeding of his words. And his words came, laced thick with gravitas that seized Gil's attention and brought him headlong into the very real threat that loomed over them. The plan was so profoundly brilliant in its simplicity - Rory unleashing Amma's wrath so that Amma herself didn't have to - that for a brief, blissful window, Gil thought they might have a chance.

And then there was wind, and ice, and the beast was upon them and Rory was screaming on the floor clutching his leg. It was all happening again, just like the trials, and they seemed even more powerless to stop it this time.

From there the only thing Gil's mind could focus on was doing absolutely anything he could to ensure the towering creature didn't get within an inch of Amma. A strange little voice in the back of his head told him that this was so much more straightforward than the trials, his path of action so much clearer; defending Amma was all he had now. He could still feel wisps of her within him from their shared kiss, a connection there forged deeper than anything he'd ever experienced in his life. He knew aspects of her he didn't even know about himself, secrets she had no reason to tell that were unjustly plucked and placed in Gil's core all the same. He stepped forward and threw his arm across her, not a single inkling of an idea of what he'd do against this monster forming in his head but every atom screaming it doesn't matter; he had to buy her even just a scant few seconds.

"No one is coming with you." He said, stepping into the space between the beast and the rest of the students, his voice shaky and uncertain but carrying strength of conviction all the same. He clenched his fists to still his hands and cool his head, preparing himself for a difficult death.
2"Her name isn't Tiamat."
3"And it's not Ummu-Hubur."

Gils one through three glared defiantly with three pairs of eyes and one common purpose. Gil stood flanked by himself, suddenly summoning a deep truth even he wasn't quite sure how he knew, but was grateful for nonetheless.
1"It's Ammaranthe. And she's exactly where she belongs."
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Hidden 2 mos ago Post by Skai
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Skai Bean Queen

Member Seen 0-24 hrs ago


Location: Senior Dance, ARC Center - PRCU
Dance Monkey: #4.080 A Cuckoo in the Nest
Interaction(s): Rory, @webboysurf, That Thing is Not My Son, @Lord Wraith
Previously: The Catbird Seat

"No, no... I was just getting some fresh air... had a talk with my sister, and she really let me have it."


Sister.

Her smile faltered, corners of her lips twitching as she forced it back onto her face before he could see it had happened.

"Sorry, did I miss something?"

She couldn't answer him as her mind whirled.

Harper’s my sister-
Her dad had an affair with my mom. He didn’t want me.
I was a mistake.

He knew I was in the system. Knew I was in the home, didn’t want me, left me there, I was so alone.

Harper’s my sister-
Her parents died. My father is dead, and
I don’t even know where my mom is-

Did she ever want me back?
Would she want me now? She loved me, right?

Harper's my sister.
Does she want me?


All of it threatened to pour out of her throat like vomit.

Her lips parted, taking a breath before she would attempt to gloss over the last twenty minutes, but the sound of something heavy hitting the roof of the ARC Centre drew her attention up.

”Rory-”

She was interrupted by the roar that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand tall. An instinct within her triggered, telling her that whatever made that kind of sound was a predator.

Screeching metal filled her ears a moment later, it’s whine causing instant discomfort to her sensitive drums. She cringed and pressed her hands to her ears as her wings twitched behind her. Desperate to reach for him, to run, to hide, but helpless until the last tear in the metal was made and silence fell over the dance.

Her heart beat in her chest like the thumping of a ruffed grouse’s wings. Building in pace as the roof fell into the centre and she caught a brief glimpse of the monster that crouched above until Rory blocked her view. Her body tucked into his embrace, grateful that he sacrificed his own protection for hers, every muscle of their bodies tense as they expected to be crushed beneath the debris. She buried her face into his suit jacket until the sound of falling metal stopped.

When the chaos ended, her head turned to peek out of Rory’s embrace, desperate to see what threat had come to their little island. The monster was huge. She’d never seen anything like it. Her eyes tracked it’s movements as it dropped itself down, down, until its large wings- they were so strong, they made her feathery limbs appear weak- caught the weight of its body and allowed it to land on the dance floor with little damage considering how far it had fallen inside. She couldn’t stop staring at it as it towered above them, growling at them in warning, its red eyes searching the crowd.

Until those eyes locked with hers and she felt her heart stop. Her hands dug into Rory’s dress shirt, eyes wide like a doe caught in headlights, and her breath hitching in her throat. Her wings tucked in tighter to her back as fear crawled up her spine. She wanted to shrink away from those eyes and hope they never looked her away again. Why was it looking at her like that? What did it want?

Her pulse returned, fast and intense, when it dragged its gaze away and she found herself taking a shaky breath as she tried to fight against the panic. She followed its gaze, and when it stopped once more she felt her stomach turn as the creature looked upon the pale skin adorned in ink and scars and raven hair that belonged to none other than Amma Cahors.

There was only one reason the two were connected. Only one person that could have made a monster like this, with its imposing figure and icy breath.

“Hello, mothers.”

No.

”The father is expecting you both.”

She felt like her heart was going to burst from her chest.

Her fear only grew as she watched Cassander Charon fail to land a blow to it. Her mind reeling as Torres stepped in to save him, body flinching with the name the Foundation rep uttered.

Daedalus.

They are dead. They aredead. Theyaredeadtheyaredeadthey’redead.

Her body began to tremble as she stared in blank terror at the gashes left along Torres’s abdomen.

He was back for her. She could see the twisted smile on his face now. Daedalus had sent his newest creation to steal them back. And it was addressing her again, the monster's threat curdling her blood as its eyes rested on the man she clung to. The man that was looking at her now, at her aching wings, her only option of escape hindered by the damage done to them.

As if she could fly faster than the monster could...

She could see the cogs turning behind those sky blue eyes, but all she could do was stare back at him with nothing but panic behind her own. Staring at him as he searched the crowd for someone, as he pulled his phone from his pocket and dropped it on the ground by her feet. He slipped from her touch easily, and before she knew it he was walking away from her. Her feet wouldn’t move no matter how desperately she wanted to follow him.

There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. All of the exits were blocked, frozen in a wall of ice. Students suspended within it, and she wasn’t even sure if they were alive. Could they breathe? Was she breathing?

She wasn’t. She couldn’t take a breath. The weight on her chest was crushing her lungs. She choked as the monster froze Rory’s legs in place, flinching as the monster threatened her wings. Finally she found the will to take a step forwards, to get to Rory, only to be pushed backwards by the wind those powerful wings created.

Her own wings spread open to beat against the wind, managing to stay on her feet while many others were knocked onto the ground. She needed to get to Rory before –

“Like this.”

Her heart leapt into her throat, panic bubbling its way out into a horrified scream as the monster lunged for him.
“NO!”

The crack shattered her heart, left her knees weak so that when she lurched forwards all she managed was to collapse onto them. Her wings flared behind her as she caught herself, her plumage standing tall for the second time that night but she didn’t even feel it. The arm that didn’t catch her fall reached for her chest, clawing at the place where her broken heart felt suffering and despair consuming it whole. Tears blurred her vision, building on her gold and green irises until they spilled over onto her cheeks and down to her chin. Her wails joined his pained screaming as she saw Rory then. The bloodied white bone jutted out of his thighs like a fallen tree. Her wings went limp behind her as she began to sob as he succumbed to shock and laid limp on the glitching floor.

“Ror-y?” Her voice cracked as she called for him. “Rory!”

The monster’s grey tail smashed the phone in front of her, but she hardly registered it. Her entire being was focused on the broken body of her best friend. Her ears listened for his shallow breath, eyes tracking the movements of his chest to make sure she was hearing it right. A shuddered breath escaped her when she confirmed that he was still alive. Her relief was felt only momentarily, lasting one precious second before she heard the gargoyle call her by her favorite name.

The name Rory had given her out of love.

Her face twisted into an anguished grimace before she looked up at the monster once more. Puffy and red-rimmed eyes beheld the terror she felt looking into his eyes, but within the gold and green there blazed a hatred for it. A hatred for the man that made it and sent it here to cause this pain. Who had stolen her from beside her lover and took her blood. The blood that likely gave this creature its wings.

Though that hate was not enough to keep her from uttering her next, defeated words...

"No one is coming with you."

The words left her lips in a whoosh of air instead.

Her eyes flitted to the Gils now where they stood between the monster and Amma. Her best friend still broken and unconscious behind them. She wanted to feel brave with him, to gather the courage to also stand against the monster, to fight for their freedom, but… All she felt was fear for what the monster might do to him for speaking up.

There was still one other who had a chance against it. Another whose partner had also put himself in harm's way to keep her safe.

“Amma… Ammaranthe!”

She pleaded, hoping that the French woman’s true name would wake her from the strange state she was in.

“Please.”
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