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Hidden 11 days ago Post by Melissa
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Melissa Melly Bean the Jelly Bean

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| Vancouver, British Columbia - A Few Weeks from Now
“Hey, Dream Girl, how’s your day going?”

Aurora’s eyes instantly went wide as she beheld the sorry state that Lorcán was in, his eye practically swollen shut underneath the now dripping ice pack held over it. She didn’t hesitate to drop her tray on an empty table and rush over, her expression shifting from surprise to concern as she reached for his face, fingers hovering just above the skin starting to bruise.

“Oh my god,” She looked over her shoulder at one of her coworkers behind the counter, a sweet older woman with hair the color of moonlight. “Deb, can you get some ice for this, please? There should be some plastic bags in the back.” The redhead sat down at the barstool next to her boyfriend and inspected him for any other bumps or bruises- it may have been busy, but her tables could wait.

“What the hell happened?”

Behind Lorcán the drone of a TV echoed through the diner.

“... the wreckage of a civilian craft was discovered today along with the bodies of several identified Hyperhumans. The Coast Guard is working alongside the RCMP to account for the bodies and the wreckage. At this time, foul play is suspected and police are pursuing leads into a motivated hate crime.”

Lorcán turned his attention back to Aurora who was waiting on bated breath for a reply.

“Oh, just the usual.” He smiled, trying to hide the wince caused by the movement of his face muscles. “Just someone thought I was a Hype and didn’t take no for an answer.” Lorcán rubbed his eyes, dropping his voice before whispering to Aurora.

“Though I’d kill to be able to take these contacts out.” He smiled as he sat back up, rubbing his faux baby blues again.

“I think when I didn’t fight back, he’s satisfied for now, but I’m going to have to be careful…” His voice trailed off as his eyes suddenly widened at the television screen.

“... are alive today thanks to the heroics of one local firefighter…”

Lorcán’s cheeks went beet-red as all eyes in the diner were first drawn to the television set and then to the pair at the counter. He rubbed the back of his head sheepishly, downplaying the applause before weakly smiling at Aurora.

“Really careful.”

The redhead sighed.

“I wouldn’t exactly call running into a burning building being careful, Lor,” She said under her breath, knowing that they still held the attention of those around them.

“Here you go, honey.” Deb reappeared from the back with the makeshift ice pack wrapped in a paper towel and passed it over the counter, “I’ll cover your tables, give you two a few minutes,” She offered a warm smile on her aging face, “Seems you’ve got quite the hero on your hands.”

Aurora’s eyes shifted back to her boyfriend, and her face softened as she met his gaze.

“Sure do,” She concurred, a small half smile pulling her lips upwards and a warmth blooming in her chest. “Thanks, Deb.” As the older woman walked away to take care of her section, Aurora took the ice pack and held it up to Lorcán’s swollen eye gingerly, not wanting to cause him any additional discomfort.

“Look, it goes without saying that I’m proud of you, you saved those people,” She began to tell him, her tone genuine, “But you can’t be so reckless like that, next time you might not be as lucky.” Aurora leaned in closer, her voice dropping into a whisper, “And I’m not just talking about keeping a low profile, I don’t know how you did that without going into Hype-Psy, it’s dangerous.” She lifted the ice pack for a moment, examining the injury, wincing at how painful it looked.

“Who did this to you? Someone at the station?”

“It was more passive anyways,” Lorcán replied dismissively, opting to negate mentioning his earlier bloody nose. He gave Aurora enough reasons to worry, she shouldn’t have to worry about hyperpsychosis on top of it all.

“And yeah, just a guy from the station. Nothing to worry about, just typical guys being guys. Probably was some more hazing.” He continued to downplay. He knew Aurora, he knew she’d want to give Miller an earful. There was something about Miller’s tattoo that still didn’t sit right with him, he needed to check with his Dad, maybe it was something he had told Lorcán about previously.

“I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve had to stop those dudes from taking a razor to my hair.” He laughed, pressing the paper towel-wrapped ice to his face and discarding his old one.

“Just the reality of this new life.” He stated before looking down at his phone. The chances of Gil actually reaching out at this point felt slim, Gil had been on a warpath his last night at P.R.C.U. and while Lorcán earnestly wanted to help, he could only imagine that if it was Aurora in Amma’s position, he’d charge in headfirst by himself too.

“He’ll call,” Lorcán said more to himself than towards Aurora before placing his phone face down on the counter.

“I’m famished, have you had a meal yet today?”

Aurora frowned. Lorcán’s words still incited worry even though he was attempting to do the opposite. She’d been to the station once or twice since he started working there and had met a few of the guys - they seemed welcoming and kind, not the type to pick a fight for fun - so her hunch told her that this was more than just a standard initiation ritual. But she didn’t want to come off as overbearing, so she simply nodded and bit her tongue, choosing not to push the issue further. Her sapphire eyes watched as her boyfriend checked his phone, again, a tic that had become frequent over the last few weeks.

“Give him time, Lor,” She reassured, knowing who he was referring to without him needing to explain. The redhead sincerely hoped Gil would reach out, but part of her wondered if he ever would.

“I had a little snack earlier, so I’m not that hungry.” Aurora replied, “But I’ll ask James to make you something, what do you want?” She inclined her head towards the kitchen, where the fry cook worked diligently on the orders that continued to come in.

“Burger, fries, orange soda,” Lorcán beamed, rhyming off his usual while James echoed the words from behind the counter, the fry cook having heard Aurora ask.

“And no-”

“Mustard, I know,” James smiled, “Good burgers don’t need mustard.”

“So he can be taught,” Lorcán wiggled his eyebrows at Aurora while James rolled his eyes.

“Careful, or you’ll be cooking your own food!” James shouted back as Lorcán flashed a wry smile.

“Have you heard from any of Blac-, uh, our friends lately?” Lorcán asked Aurora before shoving his phone back in his pocket to avoid checking it again.

The redhead couldn’t help but laugh to herself at the exchange, but upon hearing his next question, her expression fell once more. She shook her head.

“No,” Aurora replied, pulling out her own phone to find no new notifications since she started her shift. Her lock screen image was her and Lorcán, but when she swiped up, the image changed to one of her and Harper, taken at the end of the previous year. “I’ve sent a few texts but… haven’t heard anything back.”

“Guess everyone really did move on then,” Lorcán replied, doing his best to control his facial expressions. He felt a little defeated after spending so many years with the others that none of them had reached out or even replied. It made Lorcán wonder if perhaps he hadn’t been as good of a friend as he could have been.

Maybe he should have been more supportive of Haven and Rory, maybe he should have tried to encourage Cass more with Harper. He knew he had drawn the line in the sand with Katja, but they all had. There was no trusting her after the truth had come out. Calliope was dead, Amma was also dead and Gil was off who knows where. Lorcán had never taken the opportunity to get to know Cleo, Lucas or Manny.

And that was everyone that he could think of.

Part of him had considered reaching out to Ryan, seeing where she ended up. But he honestly could see her using her connections to Priest Jr. to land a teaching gig with the Foundation. Ryan always had a way of landing on her feet, probably the only positive trait passed along by her father.

He barely registered his food being placed in front of him. His hand brushed against the cold glass before he took a long solemn sip.

“Eh, probably better that they can focus on the Foundation I guess.” He muttered before taking a bite of his burger. His usual zeal for food seemed absent as he slowly chewed the mouthful of meat and bun.

Aurora placed her hand on Lorcán’s shoulder comfortingly, seeing how visibly disappointed he was about how things had ended up. They both were. There were times throughout her years at P.R.C.U. that she definitely took their group for granted, rolled her eyes at their antics, but now, she wished for just one more chaotic adventure with her friends.

Rising to her feet, she looked down at Lorcán lovingly before pressing a kiss to his head.

“I should get back to work,” The redhead found Deb across the diner and waved, signaling she’d take over her tables again. “I’ll be done in an hour or so, I don’t have to close tonight.” She reached into her pocket and grabbed her pad of paper and pen.

“Stay and eat though, then we’ll go home, okay?”

“Sounds good, Dream Girl,” Lorcán smiled, “I’ll be right here.”

His mind, on the other hand, was anywhere but.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Location: Crestwood Hollow - New Hampshire
Human #5.027: Starting Over
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Interaction(s): Lorcán @Lord Wraith
Previously: Burning Down

| Present Day
The cab from Portsmouth felt unusually long as Lorcán and Aurora watched the foreign yet somehow familiar Eastern Coastline fly by as the car made its way into Crestwood Hollow. The flight from Vancouver to Portsmouth had gone smoothly. Lorcán had opted to put on costume contact lenses to disguise his eyes, while the pair had managed to go undetected as Hyperhumans and avoid any incidents.

He couldn’t abide the thought of being forced to wear a dampener let alone an inhibitor. Though his wandering mind suddenly likened it to a chastity belt, a shiver travelled Lorcán’s spine as he realized there were Hyperhumans out there that probably used the devices for their indulgences.

As the cab entered the Orlaith Valley, Lorcán felt like he was coming home. He had been to Crestwood Hollow more times than anywhere else on the mainland, and the smell of the orchards in fall was one of his favourite scents. The dense forests of oak and maple beyond the valley were turning colour and decorated the horizon in beautiful hues of orange, red and yellow.

Crestwood Hollow was divided across its North and South into two sections by train tracks, the Beau to the North, the rough side of the city while the Southern half was known as the Belle. His father had grown up in the Beau but his Aunt lived in the Belle while the infamous Mather Memorial basically straddled the line allowing for a mingling of students from all over the city.

It’s how a Roth had fallen for a Bordeaux.

As the cab came to a stop, Lorcán held the door for Aurora, helping her out before moving to the trunk to fetch the luggage while Aurora took care of paying the driver. His parents had entrusted their funds with Aurora as opposed to Lorcán for entirely justified reasons.

Standing in front of the house of his Aunt and Uncle, Lorcán flashed a smile at Aurora.

“Ready to see where Cass and Ripley grew up?”

The redhead had been quiet for most of the cab ride, in fact, for the majority of their journey she’d been wrapped in her own thoughts, lost in a steady churn of feelings she didn’t know how to voice. Starting in Vancouver had been one thing- she’d been a handful of times throughout her years and it felt familiar enough- but traveling across the country to a town she’d never step foot in was entirely another. Each mile that took them further from P.R.C.U. left her feeling untethered, like she was leaving something behind.

It was only when they reached the Orlaith Valley, the dense clusters of trees with their changing leaves pressing close to the winding roads, that she felt the faintest glimmer of something other than grief. She’d never seen a fall like this before, the reds and oranges were so vibrant they almost looked unreal. On the Island the seasons shifted more subtly, a quiet transition from warm to cool, but here, fall was loud and brilliant, blazing with colors that seemed to set the landscape on fire.

Aurora took a deep breath as she got out of the car, her eyes sweeping over the three-story home that lay before them, painted a light blue-toned grey with white trim. The house exuded character, the front porch scattered with autumn leaves that had drifted down from the towering oak in the front yard.

“Yeah,” She nodded, still taking it all in, “Ready.”

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

| The Black Forest, Germany - Several Weeks from Now
The room was lit only by the warm hues of the flickering candlelight.

A fragrant incense burned in the corner, masking the smell of freshly spilled blood. The source of the blood sat on a simple wooden stool whilst drawing a thread made by binding together five long hairs from atop her head. The veiled maiden then took the hair and slowly tied it around a thin needle that had been painstakingly carved from the bones of her pre-deceased predecessors.

Copper hair spilled over the shoulders of the younger woman sitting directly across from the one carrying out a sacred and ancient duty. From beside Aurora, Lorcán gently squeezed the redhead’s right hand reassuringly, as the pair watched the woman drag the newly woven thread through the untainted crimson ichor.

“Breathe, this next part will hurt.” She instructed and Lorcán squeezed a little harder as the needle penetrated the first few layers of Aurora’s palm.

Aurora inhaled deeply as directed, trying to remain calm, but her exhale quickly turned into a loud shriek.

The pain was sharp and intense, unlike anything she had ever felt before, and her grip on her boyfriend’s hand became crushing as the maiden navigated the needle through her skin, each movement hurting more than the last.

“Ow, ow!” She exclaimed, sapphire eyes watering as the agonizing sensation radiated from her palm up her arm.

“I will finish sooner if you remain still.” The veiled woman stated as Lorcán did his best to steady Aurora, his other hand balling into a fist at his girlfriend’s pain. He hated that she had to be subjected to this, but if Ellara was right, without this ward their souls would be ripped to shreds.

“Is there no way to like, numb the pain?” Lorcán pleaded.

“No, the pain is part of the Path.”

The redhead took a shuddering breath, nodding before clamping her eyes tightly shut as tears trailed down her cheeks. It was excruciating, the stabbing evolving into something that felt akin to burning, but she knew it was necessary if they were to continue on their journey. Another breath, and she directed all her focus to cease the trembling in her hand and arm, trying to remain still as instructed.

She bit down on the inside of her cheek as the veiled woman continued, a metallic taste coating her tongue as she attempted to quiet her whimpers of pain.

Withdrawing the needle with the last pass, Lorcán’s eyes widened as he watched the rune begin to glow. He had just experienced it himself, he knew the next part was going to be the worst for Aurora and he wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight, feeling the heat shoot through her body.

But not even Lorcán’s strong embrace could comfort her as the burning sensation overtook. Aurora leaned into him, burying her head into the crook of his neck and cried, desperate for any relief from this torment. Her body felt ablaze, like it was being set on fire from the inside.

And then as quickly as the pain had come on, it disappeared.

Breathing heavily and a sheen of sweat dotting her brow, Aurora cautiously sat upright and gazed down at her hand, at the coal-black symbol that now covered the fair skin of her palm. Swallowing, she looked between the veiled maiden and Lorcán, a few final stray tears slipping down her face.

“Is that the last of you now?”

“Yes,” Came Ellara’s reply as Gil waited anxiously nearby for the ritual to be completed, “Just the three of them, thank you again, Sister.”

“This is the Path I walk.”
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Hidden 10 days ago Post by Skai
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Skai Bean Queen

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_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Location: An Empty School - Dundas Island
Human #5.028: Birds in Their Little Nests Agree
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Interaction(s): Harper @Qia
Previously: In No Man’s Land & A Rotten Egg


Final Night on Dundas Island

The two women bound by unfortunate fate slowly made their way from the beach to what once had been their shared house’s dorm. The silence that fell between them was heavy with the weight of the final words passed between the Blackjack team. Burdened even more by the continued string of unspoken words that tethered them together.

The only sound that carried them through the abandoned campus was the wind blown in from the Pacific. It ruffled their hair, and would have ruffled feathers if the wings were still attached.

Sisters.

The only similarity between them was their eyes, the shapes of their cheeks, nose, and jaw. The genetics given to them by their father.

Haven was a spirited thing, led by her heart and not her mind. She’d worn it on her sleeve despite its flaws and vulnerabilities. Years ago she’d learned how to keep it hidden, protected, and reticent. It had been necessary to keep her heart in one piece; to keep her strong and resilient. She’d hidden it away until she found solitude in abandoned cabins, in the mountains, and eventually she found a place that accepted her for the wings and heart she carried. She bore it proudly, then. Unafraid of showing the passions and heartaches that laid within. Vowing to never hide her heart again.

Now… her heart felt fractured and fragile. Much like a baby bird’s egg that had fallen out of the nest right before it hatched. Vulnerable to the world that waited just across the water behind them. It had been torn asunder the night of the dance.

Her tired eyes drifted over to her sister as she worried for the state of Harper’s heart. The brunette had always kept it so expertly hidden, but surely it hurt too? She was sure that it was still vulnerable despite the walls Harper had erected around it. Would the path that Harper had chosen for tomorrow take her somewhere it would be safe?

“Harps,” she spoke, her voice almost a whisper against the quiet of the night. “Where… are you going, tomorrow?”

Why don’t I know? Why hasn’t she seen me since I woke up? She wondered, although she didn’t dare ask the questions aloud. Her arms wrapped around her chest as if to soothe the heartache of it.

Harper didn’t flinch at Haven’s question, though her pace slowed almost imperceptibly, each step suddenly feeling heavier than the last. She could feel Haven’s gaze on her, searching for something Harper wasn’t sure she could give. Her sister—her little sister—didn’t need to speak again for Harper to understand the meaning behind her words.

It was concern, worry, and something deeper, maybe even hurt, as palpable as the salt clinging to her skin from the ocean breeze.

She swallowed hard, her throat tightening as the response she knew Haven wanted sat at the back of her mouth, stubbornly refusing to come out.

Why can’t I tell her?


Maybe it was because she hadn’t fully faced it herself, hadn’t let the reality of her decision settle into her bones. How could she explain it to Haven when she hadn’t even come to terms with it herself? The future loomed large, an indefinite shadow that stretched endlessly ahead of them, and Harper didn’t have the answers. Not for herself, and certainly not for Haven.

Her hands curled into tight fists at her sides, the tension creeping up her arms and landing on her shoulders, making her movements feel stiff and unnatural. The act of gathering her thoughts seemed impossible, like trying to catch smoke with bare hands. I’m not good at this, Harper thought bitterly. Expressing what she felt had never come easily to her. It was easier to build walls, to keep everything locked behind layers of stoic composure. But Haven had already lost so much—her wings, her sense of safety, her confidence in the world they once thought they understood. Could Harper really add to that burden by laying her own uncertainty at her sister’s feet?

No. No, she couldn’t.

The brunette cleared her throat, still avoiding the question for a moment longer, feeling the pressure building. And then finally….

“The Foundation,” Harper said, the words feeling clinical, detached. “Decided on it just then, actually.” She had made up her mind. Right there, on the beach, amidst the chaos and bitterness of everything that had transpired with the team. It wasn’t a decision she’d made lightly, but it was one she’d made nonetheless.

The soft sound of Haven’s sneakers against the ground halted for a brief moment, but continued nonetheless. It wasn’t a surprise that most of Blackjack had chosen the same thing. There was nowhere for them to go that would take them in so willingly. Nowhere in the world that guaranteed any semblance of safety.

Haven, on the other hand, wasn’t sure if she could follow her sister and friends there even if she wanted to. What little she’d heard about the school from Alyssa made it obvious that she wouldn’t be truly welcomed within those sterile, white halls. What horrible things she’d heard of Amma’s history there, and her own terrifying experience with the man who had inflicted such cruelty onto the raven-haired woman, made the very mention of attending the school set the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck straight.

She was afraid of how she would live once she left Dundas Island, but she was even more afraid of what might become of her if she chose The Foundation over the uncertainties of the human world.

How could they accept a sub-class that didn’t even possess the trait that made them one? What would they think of the nubs on her back that had once been beautiful, graceful wings?

Did Daedalus still haunt the deepest levels within the ocean?


She bit her lip as another coastal breeze filled the silence between them. If she wasn’t so worn down, so tired and lost to grief, she would have started an argument. She would have mentioned the reasons why she hadn’t chosen to go. She would have argued that it was just as safe as the mainland, no matter what the recruiters had told them throughout the last week. She would have asked Harper to come with her and Rory, instead.

The tone of Harper’s voice suggested that it wasn’t something to argue, anyways. The words were final. They were objective. Harper was going to The Foundation whether Haven liked it or not.

“Do you think we’ll be able to keep in touch?” The question was hesitant. An implication lingering in the wake of her words that Haven wondered if Harper even wanted to keep her close despite the distance that would be between them.

The idea of keeping in touch seemed fairly simple on the surface—like something they should want, something sisters would want. It was something Harper might have genuinely liked. But the reality felt different, messier. She had always been good at compartmentalizing, at tucking away the parts of her life that didn’t fit the narrative she wanted to keep safe. Everything had its place: her memories, her ambitions, even her regrets. But Haven? Haven didn’t fit into one of those neat, labelled boxes. There was no tidy corner where she could be stored, safely out of reach, yet always close enough to remember.

The truth was, Harper didn’t know if they’d stay in touch. She wanted to say yes, that they’d talk regularly, that the distance wouldn’t matter, but that wasn’t entirely up to her. The Foundation might have its own rules—its own ways of severing connections with the outside world. She imagined faceless administrators cutting off all outside communication, forcing her into isolation once she stepped foot inside. For all she knew, they might not let her communicate with Haven at all. That doubt hung over her like a dark cloud, making the thought of saying anything more than “I’ll try” feel like a lie. What if her words became another empty promise, something she couldn’t keep?

I don't want to be alone.

And as before Harper didn’t voice this thought. Couldn’t.


“I’d like that.” She couldn’t give Haven anything more solid. Still, it had to be enough for now.

The answer was indeed enough for Haven. It eased the ache of uncertainty in her chest, just enough that she felt a touch of warmth blossom in her chest. She felt wanted. Even if they didn’t truly feel like sisters, they would still remain friends.

They walked in quiet for a few minutes, Haven only speaking up again to notify Harper that they were nearing the dorm. Harper nodded in turn then let out a small, awkward laugh.

“I haven’t forgotten about it, by the way,” she said, “The sketch.” She scratched the bottom of her chin, feeling a pang of embarrassment creep in. “Although…” She hesitated, a sheepish smile forming on her lips as she felt the irony of the situation hit her. “I hadn’t taken into account the whole not seeing thing.”

Haven had been caught off guard by the sudden outburst, but as she saw the small smile creep onto Harper’s features she felt herself relax. She was relieved to see Harper express some kind of positive emotion after what they’d been through. After what they’d both lost.

“I can look for it, if you remember where the sketchbook is.” She offered, although she didn’t want to just take it from Harper so easily. “I didn’t forget it, but… I know his drawings must mean a lot to you. I’d understand if you wanted to keep it.”

Haven hadn’t known him, after all. What good would it do for her to hold onto a piece of a ghost? Would it ease any of the sorrow that surfaced with the thought of him?

Harper felt a twinge of reluctance. The plan had always been simple—give Haven one drawing, just a singular piece of their shared history. Something small but meaningful. A moment captured in their father’s careful lines, a memory preserved in ink. The image of Haven, her laughter frozen in time, had seemed like the perfect gift when they were in the infirmary. Back then, it had felt right. It had made sense.

But now, walking side by side with Haven in the quiet stillness, Harper wasn’t so sure anymore. The one drawing felt too small, too insignificant for everything they had endured. After all they had lost and all the questions yet to be answered, Haven deserved more than a single memory—more than a brief snapshot of what once was. She deserved something real, something that carried the weight of their father, of their connection, of the past they had both been trying to make sense of in their own ways.

Harper’s fingers twitched slightly, the hesitation creeping up her spine. The sketchpad had been a part of her life for as long as she could remember, a physical tether to her father and everything he represented. It was more than just a collection of drawings; it was her connection to the man she had lost, a reminder of the life that had slipped through her fingers the day he was gone. The lines, the smudges of graphite, the detailed care in every stroke—it was like holding a piece of him. Yet, as she walked beside Haven now, Harper sincerely wondered if she needed it anymore.

Maybe it was time to let go.

“I think…the last time I looked at it, I’d tossed it into my closet,” Harper admitted. It felt strange, saying it out loud, as though her words were cementing the decision before she was fully ready. Her hand slipped into her pocket, fingers brushing against the cool metal of her keys. There was an unexpected sense of finality in the motion as she pulled them out, letting them dangle from her hand before extending them toward Haven.

“It…wasn’t helping anymore.”

Haven’s gaze lingered on the keys for a moment before she took them from Harper’s grasp. She fiddled with them between her fingers, beginning to understand what Harper was implying but afraid to fully accept it until it was spoken.

“Let me help you inside.” She murmured, and the two began to ascend the stairs to the Strigidae dorms for the last time. She kept a wary eye on her sister. Always standing within reach should Harper need help finding her footing. Yet she knew Harper could do it on her own. She knew the determination and strength that Harper possessed would get her over any obstacle.

It was something she had grown to envy over the last month.

The two reached Harper’s room and Haven slipped the key into the lock. She held the door open just long enough for Harper to find her way inside before shutting it behind her. As she turned to the room, she allowed herself a moment to take a breath before moving over to Harper’s closet.

“It’s strange how quiet the dorms are tonight.” She said absentmindedly as she opened the closet door. She glanced over the inside before beginning her search. “What color was the cover of the sketchbook?”

Harper’s lips curved into a faint smile at Haven’s question, though the ache in her chest made it bittersweet. She could picture the sketchbook perfectly in her mind, every worn edge and faded spot on the leather cover that had softened and grayed over the years. Each time her fingers had traced its frayed edges, she’d felt a little closer to her father, as if his hands had left a mark on the pages that only she could sense. That book was more than paper and ink; it was history, memories pressed between its worn covers like flowers kept for their beauty long after their time had passed.

“Black,” she murmured, her voice carrying a note of nostalgia she hadn’t intended. “Well, black-ish now, I guess.” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “More gray, with all the wear.”

Sorting through the various possessions Harper had not chosen to pack, Haven fell silent as she felt a mix of eagerness and apprehension about finding their father’s keepsake. An internal storm thundering suddenly as she skimmed the worn edges of a leather sketchbook. Her fingers withdrew, gnawing on her bottom lip as she came face to face with something he’d left behind. What laid inside would make it real. It would justify the pain within, as much as it would make it worse.

Slowly, her fingers wrapped around the spine. She drew it out of the closet, holding it like something precious as she turned to walk over to Harper’s bed. “I think I found it.” She murmured as she laid the leather onto Harper’s comforter. Her eyes traced the fraying edges of it, noting the most worn places where it had been held countless times.

She ran her hand over the texture of the cover, took a deep breath, and opened to the first page.

The sketches were beautiful. Little moments in time that their father had decided to capture in his point of view. Each sketch was a little different than the last, with little details that expressed how he must have felt drawing them. It was just like how Harper had described him, really. A family man, kind, caring, loving, but some of the images showed how he felt at his core. How he was also complicated. Sometimes his art was rigid and textured, and other times his art flowed so smoothly that it was hard to tell when one stroke of his pencil ended and the other began. Each sketch was marked by his signature in various scribbles and flicks of the wrist.

“You know… I found myself wondering what it could have been like if he took me in.” Her voice was gentle, almost lost to her thoughts as she shared this piece of her with Harper. She hadn’t told Rory yet, how she’d laid awake at night thinking of the home that the two sisters could have shared. She turned to the next page, and found herself looking at a view of a perfect country house. Two little girls playing in the grass before their home.

The thought of her father taking Haven in had always hovered at the edges of Harper’s mind since she’d learned the truth about her family. It was one of those silent, wistful dreams she’d carried without really admitting it to herself, let alone saying it out loud. Now, hearing Haven voice that same wish stirred something raw and unguarded within her, as though a carefully hidden part of herself was suddenly laid bare. A life where they’d grown up together under her father’s care, both safe, both basking in his warmth and guidance—it was a fantasy she’d held close, never quite willing to confront it fully until now.

“I used to think about that too,” she confessed, a faint smile finding its way to her lips. She glanced at Haven, genuine affection softening her expression. “You know, if you’d been with us, you might’ve gotten roped into our little weekend ‘missions.’” An easy laugh escaped her as the memory surfaced, more vivid than she’d expected. “Dad had this idea that we should always have an adventure planned—something ridiculous and barely thought out. One time, he decided we’d build a treehouse in a single afternoon to go with the swing already there. No plan, no blueprint. Just us, a few planks of wood, and way too much optimism.”

She shook her head, finding comfort in the absurdity of the memory. “We spent hours hammering and balancing wood, arguing over who got to design which part. I insisted on painting it, of course,” she added, her smile widening, “and somehow managed to get more paint on myself than on the boards.” Her voice softened as she looked back on it all, her expression distant but affectionate. “We never actually finished it. I think there’s still a lopsided mess of wood somewhere out there if the wind hasn’t blown it down by now.”

Harper looked at Haven, the tenderness in her expression no longer hidden. “You would’ve fit right in,” she said softly. The story was just one among countless others her father had immortalized in his sketchbook, but it captured so much more—a piece of a life that could have been, a glimpse of the family they both might have known if circumstances had allowed it. At that moment, Harper realized that Haven truly deserved more than just one isolated memory. She deserved the whole story, with all its messy, beautiful details, and its jagged fragments of a life shaped by their father’s steady hand and kind heart.

Harper took a breath.

“Which is why…” She hesitated, feeling the gravity of her next words. “I think you should have the whole thing. To find your place in those memories when you’re ready to.”

The smile that grew on Haven’s face as she listened was wistful, but it was a smile nonetheless. Silent tears framed her cheeks as she looked in Harper’s direction. “That sounds nice.” She began, trying her best not to let her sister know that she was crying. Until the ache in her chest became unbearable. “I’m gonna miss you, Harps… You’ve always been just a set of stairs away.”

She wiped at her tears with the sleeve of Rory’s hoodie, one quiet sniffle giving them away. Harper would be an entire country away by tomorrow. She wasn’t even sure when she’d be able to call her, if she could even reach her beneath the ocean. There were so many uncertainties ahead of them both. Ahead of everyone in their little-found family.

As Haven’s muffled sniffle drifted into the silence, Harper felt a strange warmth stir—a softness, almost like the glow of remembered light. It wasn’t something she saw exactly, but rather something she felt echoing in her mind, like the memory of sunlight through closed eyes. It was there and gone in a heartbeat, dissolving into the stillness between them.

She tucked the feeling away without much thought, telling herself it was just the sense of her sister close by, the familiar comfort of a moment she wished could stretch on forever.

“Yeah…I’ll miss you too.” Harper paused, her hand pressing gently against her own heart.

“But you’ll always be right here, no matter where I end up, Little Dove.”




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Hidden 9 days ago 9 days ago Post by Rockette
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Rockette 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

Member Seen 0-24 hrs ago

Location: The Foundation Institute - Atlantic Ocean
Human #5.029: for no tomorrow.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Interaction(s): &.
Previously: the children of sorrow.

She had tried to brave-face the branding; she did.

Stephen had battled at her side to step before her, to be the first, he stressed, held back by officials donned in resilient armor-like clothing as soon as they noticed him. Psionic waves of pinkish anger dashed across his accosted limbs as Scylla was thrust forward, hand out and inserted with little ceremony and tears to map through the freckles speckled over cheeks flushed with pain and pinched tight. It had been instantaneous, but no less damning, the variated lines of thickness and numbers spelled across her skin, a peculiar glow nestled below and held up to the light to gauge efficiency before she was herded along, Stephen calling for her through a sea of haunting white cloth.

This was nothing compared to P.R.C.U: no splotches of color, regaled beasts, or charmingly sculpted castle-like exteriors. It was all fine lines and rigid composure, spartan, military. Imprisonment, frigid, nary a source of warmth, and all submitted under aseptic bright light. Forged into a line of procession, Scylla was nearly bowled over by the urgency spun through them, a myriad of famished gazes raking through her pale hair, meeting her green eyes and wide-drawn expressions with sneers and appetence she could feel coursing through every link of nerve that fired away betwixt her ears as warning signals. Eyes of a grey so dark they glimmered as onyx stones beheld her, he pointedly looked down, gesturing off-handedly nearly, so nonchalantly that she paused as if to regard him before she saw it: the banner of Amma Cahors – Tiamat, as it displayed. Emblazoned in such a fashion that Scylla was taken back for the woman so proudly presented was nothing like the woman she saw on the dancefloor, nor the one she encountered daily so consumed by her bitter rage and sorrow. She hardly had time to discern it properly before a familiar hand clasped her own, fingers woven to lift her now branded wrist to amber eyes slightly brightened with worry.

“I’m sorry, I tried-” Concern creased his brow, soft hands to wipe away her lingering tears as he cursed them all.

“There was nothing to be done, Steph.” She carefully inspected his own in a whisper, delicate nails tracing around the ten-digit number before she ghosted her lips against it, her attempt in branding to dispel the pain before she dropped their intertwined hands to follow the rest of their remaining peers. Those onyx eyes still tracked her; she could feel as much, a hunger purring through the space of the commons, a voice that teased and plucked against the trembling fringes of her mind that uttered:

You know the dragon too, huh?

Scylla ducked her head and shored up the walls within, fortified with the similar violet hues that Stephen commanded. She locked onto those shields with electric barbs to lance against the voice festering there, the only sign now a ghost of laughter that coiled its way down her spine, gone taut and strained.

“Are you okay?” Stephen uttered, pulling her close, barely noticing the banners suspended above them, eyes only for her as she nodded slowly, her opposite gesture coming up to her throat, their necklaces handed over reluctantly when they received their new clothes. She felt incomplete without it, her only solace and remembrance of Raindance and all that was left behind. He noticed, for of course he did, and whispered that he’d get them back for her. Even in The Foundation, there would always be Raindance, and nothing could change that otherwise.

Though she appreciated his sentiments and let him know such with a grateful smile, Scylla could not dismiss the doubt that bunched just underneath her skin, for then they were so rudely torn apart, thrust across opposite sides of a long hallway, his anguished face the last thing she saw before the door was shut with such a drone of finality that immediate panic fled through her limbs. Her breath came in harsh and quick, near pants that faltered from her trembling lips as sudden darkness descended and enveloped her in its gloom. Scylla floundered, the confining space triggering a near-hyperventilated flutter of her lungs that quivered with every inhale, not enough breath to expand- not enough space even to move. She remembers then the tiny confessions of a raven-haired woman, the same one so regaled onto a banner, raised for all of them to see. A woman celebrated in a place that was devoid of any sort of hope—a woman who cursed their very mention.

I don’t like the dark, she once heard her say. A rare occurrence in House Gulo where Amma would linger in the common area, eyes cast off into shadow and lashes panned down low, lost somewhere in a toiling memory. Once, Scylla had braved to inquire why.

The answer given shook her then just as it shook her now, down to the very marrow, arms curled around her middle to stifle the clamoring frenzy of her sudden fears.

Because that is where they made me.
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Hidden 7 days ago Post by webboysurf
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webboysurf Live, Laugh, Love

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Location: Canis Dormitory - Dundas Island
Human #5.030: Scary Love

Interaction(s): Haven, Girlfriend @Skai
Previously: Birds in Their Little Nests Agree & Nobody Likes You


All her tears had dried by the time Haven entered Rory’s room for the final time. As she slowly shut the door behind her she took the time to look over the room. It was littered with things neither could carry, and missing most of what they both cherished. All of his pictures had been taken down and packed away. The clothes he couldn’t make room for still sat in his hamper or on the floor of his open closet. Some of her own were mixed in with it. His father’s suitcase, of course, sat on his desk ready for transport.

She stood holding her favorite Jansport by the strap. A newer pair of sneakers were stuffed deep inside, surrounded by the clothes she considered practical for their journey ahead. Bathroom essentials, two pairs of pants, a few basic tops, layers for warmth, and her favorite tee’s she’d taken from the abandoned cabins she once called home. She held a coat in her other hand, with a pair of boots dangling by their strings. The worn sneakers on her feet would be left behind with the rest.

The backpack was stuffed full, and yet she’d still made space for her father’s sketchbook. Any photos she had of her time on the island had been carefully tucked between the first sketch and the cover. It had been hard to look at the team photos when she packed them. Rory had told her of his suspicions by that time, and while she believed him she still found it hard to comprehend.

Each photo with Katja made the ache in her chest worsen, and yet she still kept each one of them.

“Do you need help packing anything else?” She asked softly, although she knew he didn’t need it. The words were empty, more like a verbal olive branch before she said what was really on her mind.

Rory had planted himself near the window, which had remained locked since the incident with Haven. The scattered mess was a reminder of his years spent on the island. Equipment he had never returned, borrowed and purchased clothing that he had worn ragged over the years. On his desk rested his old high school letterman jacket, which he had managed to snag out from beneath a pile of old hoodies in the little closet space he had. But what he needed remained secured in his suitcase and in a duffel stuffed underneath the bed. He turned his tired gaze towards his partner and shook his head.

”Can’t use most of this stuff anymore. It made packing easier.” His voice shook, as if it were hollowed out and reverberated an exhaustion that had been building. There was something about the air between them that he could tell was wrong, and he could hazard a guess as to what it was. But putting a name to it and ushering it out was too much for him. If a storm was coming, it would come.

Haven could only nod in response. While she’d never needed anything to take flight but her sneakers, she could only imagine what it felt like for Rory to even look at his Hyperball equipment now. Although she wasn’t sure if she understood exactly how he was feeling after his outburst on the beach.

She walked over to the bed to rest her Jansport and boots at the foot of it, in the place she’d placed it’s empty form not too long ago. Her coat was laid over the end of the bed. She slipped off her worn sneakers and tucked them close together, before turning to face him.

“Rory,” she began, hesitant about what she would say to him for the first time in their short relationship. “What happened earlier… Are you alright?”

Rory’s expression darkened for a moment. He moved his hands into his lap from their positions on the armrests. ”They needed to know.” He refused to look Haven in the eyes as he continued to stare out the window, wringing his hands. His voice was more firm this time. ”I’m fine.”

“I know you’re not fine.” She rebutted, her back muscles tensing with a mixture of frustration and worry. Maybe she didn’t have the energy to argue with Harper, but she wasn’t about to let Rory lie to her. Not when she could see how much he was hurting.

“I know it hurts you more than the rest of us. Of course it does. You were best friends.”

”Were we?” There was a sudden and almost desperate fervor In that question. He finally turned his head towards Haven, his eyes still red and puffy from earlier. ”Or was I just a mission for her?” He shook his head, the remnants of the rage he felt earlier that day beginning to boil in his chest. ”She was never one of us.”

“She was in the beginning, Rory.” Haven kept her tone soft. Her sympathy for his heartache was keeping her own anger at bay, for now. “She was broken when she came here, like most of us were. If her life before was anything like what you told me she went through in the trial… I don’t think she had any reason to doubt the sweet lies Hyperion whispered to us.”

She thought of the way Katja’s anger had dissipated the moment those blue eyes met her own. How her heart had cracked just a little more as she recognized sympathy in her expression. It hurt that Katja had lied to them for so long, and yet it was worse that Katja still cared for them after all this time.

“I’m not trying to justify what she’s done. I don’t want to forgive her for it.” Her tone was bitter and heartbroken as she spoke, but her eyes soon fell to the floor as she gathered the courage to speak her mind.

When she finally lifted her eyes to meet his sky blues, her tone was firm despite the concern in her eyes. “I don’t think she deserved what you said to her, though. It was cruel. You weren’t acting like yourself, Rory.”

“Please tell me you didn’t mean it.”

”What if I did?” It was less of a question and more of a statement as his tone and expression hardened. His eyes lacked the usual light and spark, instead dull orbs that seemed to look past Haven.

”I don't care if she was lied to, Haven. She betrayed us. She trusted terrorists who attacked us, and she would have never come clean about it. You and Harper can defend her all you want, but she is not your friend.” Rory’s hands gripped each other tightly in his lap, a pained sneer forming on his lips. ”She was the monster, not Amma.”

“I’m not defending her.” The words came out a bit faster than she intended. She didn’t know if they were right, but she at least didn’t mean to be defending someone who had betrayed them this way.

“Amma was never a monster, either. Tiamat was the monster underneath. The Foundation created that part of her. Dae-... he made her that.”

Her stress was returning in the way her hands began to shake at her sides. Again, this was a side to Rory that she had never seen before. A side that she knew came from the pain he held within himself. A pain that she wasn’t sure she could comfort.

“Katja meant it, when she said that she never intended to hurt us. When she said that she didn’t know about the trial.” She continued as the frustration of it began to simmer in her stomach. “It’s all so fucked up.”

”Kruger's friends nearly killed you, Haven.” His tone seemed desperate and pleading, underneath the pure disdain with which he spoke Katja's name. ”She should have known. After what Hyperion did, after everything… she's not an idiot. She just didn't care.” Rory turned his gaze away from Haven, looking out the window as if he would catch a glimpse of the person they talked about.

”If she was sorry, she would have confessed after the Trial. But no… she continued to lie to us and pretend like she had nothing to do with them. And now she says exactly what you wanted to hear, and you're willing to believe her?” Rory looked back towards Haven, an anger in his eyes that dissipated the second he saw her shaking hands. His brow stitched together in a mixture of confusion and concern. His tone grew limp. ”I… don't believe her, Haven. And even if I did, I will never trust her again.”

Haven exhaled as she saw the anger leave his eyes. Relief and heartache consumed her as he seemed to become less hostile about it all, just because of her. She tucked her hands into the pocket of his hoodie to hide them.

“I just… I can’t believe she lied for so long. She did care for us, in some twisted way.”

”She had a funny way of showing it.” There was no smile or jest in Rory’s words, and it stung with the faintest remnant of anger. But he took a moment to breathe, letting out his anger. His voice was calm and resolute. ”I stand by what I said to her, Haven. She needed to hear it.”

“I think what you were feeling at that moment was right, Rory. I really do. I’m angry, and I’m also just heartbroken.” She wrung her hands together where they were hidden from view now and watched him through her lashes. It was hard to say it directly to his face, and yet she gathered the courage to tilt her chin up and meet his gaze. “But I can’t stand by how you said it.”

“I hope that’s okay with you.”

Rory's face screwed in temporary discomfort. He opened his mouth to respond, before biting his lip to stop himself. He turned his gaze away, taking the moment to recenter his thoughts. This only amplified his disappointment. ”I would have stood by you punching the shoulders kid. Or going after Torres.” He looked back towards Haven, confusion knitting his brows. ”But Katja… she lied to us for years. Stood by an actual terrorist that actually hurt people like us. Said nothing and didn't help find the others who nearly killed you, and you can't stand calling her out?”

The fire was lit behind his eyes as he lifted a hand to roll his wheels, slowly spinning himself to fully face Haven. ”Was I supposed to say please and thank you when she stabbed us in the back, or ask her to do it again? Or should I just stay quiet and see which one of us she helps kill next?” Rory's nostrils flared in indignation, and his cheeks burned with a rage that refused to continue eating away inside. His eyes refused to get the memo, still bearing the sad pain he had since the dance.

Haven’s cheeks turned pink to match his, in the way that they always did, but this time it was a result of her frustration. Her own brows had furrowed in response to his accusations, and his last words had sent a shiver up her spine that made the muscles on her back ache. Another muscle in her neck ticked as she quickly rebutted.

“That’s not what I mean, Rory.” Her voice was louder this time, laced with hurt that he’d even assumed that she didn’t want Katja to know how much pain she had caused. “I was ready to back you up if nobody believed you, and if Katja denied it, I was going to be the one to call her out next.”

“But you said that no one loved her, and then you used Amma against her like she hadn’t just been dragged into hell with that thing. Katja was clearly torn up about Amma, and you twisted the knife. You cut deeper than you needed to, Rory. I don’t know if it’s because of how you’re hurting, or if you’re still hung up about how you used to feel about her, but I know you didn’t get any pleasure out of it. Even if you smiled when you said it.”

She shook her head as she took a breath.

“It wasn’t you, Rory.”

Rory nodded, running his tongue along the inside of his cheek as he took in Haven’s words. Her frustration was finally clicking into place in his head. His eyes shifted down towards the ground for a moment, before he simply shook his head. ”Being me hasn’t done us much good, has it?” He let the words settle for a moment before he looked up again. Tears formed in the corner of his eyes, as his voice grew borderline desperate. ”Didn’t help you, didn’t help the team, and it didn’t help Amma either. Being me got me in this fucking chair!” His eyes shifted to his seat, and he slammed a fist onto his arm rest, wincing slightly from the pain of it.

But that only wound Rory up more.

”I didn’t enjoy it, but at least I hurt her, Haven. Not because I liked her, not because she was our friend, but because she hurt us! I couldn’t hurt Hyperion, I couldn’t hurt the monster, but I knew how to hurt her.” The tears flowed freely at this point, his fists clenched so tightly blood laced his fingernails. ”We’ve lost everything without even a chance to fight back. So I hit her where I could, where it would hurt, where she would feel for even a second what I do because we can’t even touch the others. And we never will.” His voice had crescendoed into a booming shriek, that was almost immediately snuffed out by a sudden exhale of tension as Rory was hunched forward, almost doubled over.

His voice grew quiet, as if he had used up what little energy he had left on the tirade. He still refused to look at Haven, barely able to see the ground as what few tears he had left clouded his sight. ”I needed to do something. Anything.”

He heard a few soft steps, and then suddenly Haven was kneeling before him. Through his blurred vision he could see her hands reaching for his. They carefully peeled back his fingers where his nails had dug into his palm, and slid themselves into his open gestures to press against the self-inflicted wounds.

“Being you brought us together.” She began, her voice shaking with sorrow. “Being you got me through all of this. I don’t know how I could have survived it alone.”

“You’re all I have left, Rory. You’re all I want.” She squeezed his hands as she looked over his defeated expression. “It was all out of our hands from the start, and I’m just… I’m so glad you’re still here.”

A few of her own tears slid down her cheeks.

“Tell me what I can do to help you through this. You’re not alone. We’ll get through this together.”

Rory squeezed Haven's hands back, and his shoulders sagged with exhaustion. What little anger had seeped out of him, leaving just the shell. He shook his head. ”I don't know, Dove. I don't know.” He lifted his head to look about the room and the assorted mess.

”For now, I just need help getting to bed. We've got a long day ahead of us.”

Haven took a breath as if she had more to say, but her eyes fell to their intertwined hands and she just nodded in response. Slowly, she rose to stand and wiped off her face with the back of her sleeve. Her hands then tucked her stray hairs behind her ears as she moved around to the back of his wheelchair.

She pushed him over to the side of the bed, beginning their nighttime routine they’d only had a few nights to act out. Except this time there were no little jokes to make light of their situation. Haven knelt down to remove his shoes, placing them in front of where his duffel was tucked under the bed. She stood again and moved to his side, placing a single kiss against his temple as she waited for his arm to sling across her shoulders. Her own arm slid around his back, and then the other under his knees.

She lifted him out of the chair with ease. The center of her back ached with the movement, but it had become a normal pain over the last week. A bearable pain. She didn’t mention it as she rested him on the bed. As she released her hold on him, her arms moved then to carefully position his legs with a pillow underneath his knees.

“Is that comfortable? Do you want your shirt off?” She asked, moving up to his torso where she adjusted his pillow under his head although she knew he could do it himself.

He always felt so useless at this part. The tenderness with which Haven always helped him was the only thing that kept him from losing his mind. But he still needed to do what he could. He sat himself upright in bed. ”Can you please shove this in my bag?” He lifted his arms to his back and yanked his shirt up over his head, before holding it out towards Haven. His exhausted face tried to contort itself into the facsimile of a pleading smile.

Haven nodded as she took his shirt from him, eyes lingering on his for a second before she knelt down to fold his shirt into his duffel. She took a breath as she stood, preparing herself for her own display of what she’d been left with following the dance. Slowly, she pulled his hoodie off of her back to reveal the tank top she’d been wearing underneath. She faced him for as long as she could as she folded it over her arm, and only turned her back to him to take it and her coat to a chair nearby.

What remained of her wings twitched as she moved, while normally her wings would have shifted behind her. The pin feathers that covered the healed skin were growing faster than she expected. The openings at the top of the pins already revealed soft, downy feathers that made the nubs look like freshly hatched chicks. They were still itchy, but as her arm bent behind her back to scratch at them she just couldn’t find the right angle. She huffed and swallowed down the frustration of it before turning back to the bed.

Soon she had crawled over Rory to take her place next to him. She sat upright for a moment to tie her hair back, and then toss her dirty socks into the hamper across the room. As she laid down, she still found it strange how large the bed felt now. She no longer needed to cling to Rory’s side to give her wings space. After their argument, their first fight, she left a bit of that extra space between them as she turned to lay on her stomach to give them some breathing room. With her head on the pillow, she finally looked across at Rory’s head where it laid on his pillow.

“Do you think you’ll sleep soon?” She wasn’t sure when she’d fall asleep, herself.

Rory had watched Haven undress, watching her movements carefully. As she revealed her back, he felt another wave of pain and regret. She was healing better than expected… but the grim reminder of what she lost made his tirade feel immature. He watched her try to stretch near her wings, before she gave up. He instinctively reached down below himself to lift himself up, before a small shot of pain in his right leg reminded him of his own situation.

He scooted himself over slightly as Haven went to lie down, staring up at the ceiling with a hand over his stomach. The distance between them felt deeply uncomfortable. Her question cut through the air between them. Rory shook his head, turning over to look at Haven. ”I doubt it.” He paused for a moment, before he took a breath. The movement was quick, and punctuated with a small grunt of discomfort, as he lifted himself up onto his side. ”Do you need help with those?” He motioned towards the nubs on Haven's back with his free hand, as one arm kept him propped up on his side.

Haven’s brows rose with hesitation, unsure how she would feel about another’s touch on such a sensitive spot, before she thought of the relief it would bring and nodded. With a sigh, she shifted herself closer to him. The kind gesture closing the distance that their fight had created.

“Can you just… scratch between the feathers? Gently, please.” Her voice was soft, carrying a tone of apprehension that came with letting anyone near her back like this. She hoped he wouldn’t be hurt by it.

Rory gave a small nod, lifting a hand up and placing it on Haven’s back. He slowly rubbed the area near her joints first, his fingers massaging her skin in an effort to help her relax. He then hesitantly moved his hand to the closest one, hesitating the moment his finger glanced feather. His brow was knit together as he focused on being slow and gentle, his fingers softly scratching at her direction. ”Like this?”

She’d melted like butter the moment he massaged her aching muscles. Her eyes fluttered before they closed, and she allowed herself to relax under his care. Even as his fingers neared the center, the only thought she had was that she wished she’d asked for this sooner. A bitter pang of regret made her breath catch in her throat before his fingers began to move between her pins. It was bittersweet relief.

This moment should have been the first time he touched her wings.

“That’s perfect.” She murmured, a hint of her sorrow in her tone. “It might even put me to sleep.”

Rory nodded, moving his hand to the farther set. ”Then get some rest, Dove.” He continued with the small, gentle movements, doing what he could to soothe his partner. He lost the hesitation in his touch, growing more comfortable the more Haven relaxed.

His confident ministrations soothed her discomfort far faster than either expected. Her breathing soon became slow, deep pulls of air into her lungs. Her mind went quiet, focused solely on the feeling of his fingers.

“Thank you.” She managed to slur out as her exhaustion began to settle into her bones. She gave him one last, sleepy blink his way as a smile crept onto her lips, before her eyes closed again and she was lost to sleep.

Rory continued to gently massage Haven's back until he was certain she had drifted to sleep. He looked at her face for a moment, his own exhaustion wearing on his face. But he leaned forward, brushing his lips against Haven's cheek as he extended himself as over. As his head was near hers, and the swarm of feelings that bloomed inside his chest ceased their fighting, he whispered softly to her. His words were tender, clear, and deliberate. They felt natural as she rested near him.

”I love you, Haven.”

Rory turned away, repositioning himself onto his back to stare at the ceiling. His cheeks burned, and his head swam with the day's events.

Sleep would not come for him that night.
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Hidden 7 days ago Post by Festive
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Festive "Aut Inveniam Viam Aut Faciam"

Member Seen 24 min ago


Location: The Beach - Dundas Islands, Pacific Ocean
Dance Monkey #5.031: Third Contact

Interaction(s): Lucas Bray @Nemaisare, and Cleo Boyd @spicykvnt
Previously: Home

The Final Night Upon The Island


Manny’s answer made Lucas grin, and he waved in absentminded farewell to their fireside company before they both followed after Cleo. If there’d ever been a time to offer each other support, now was it. Now was always it, but this was definitely one of the more emphatic nows, when words didn’t come easy but feeling alone came too easy. Didn’t want that for anyone, but he didn’t know how to help anyone else. Still, his concern was short-lived as they waded through soft sand and away from the other flickering fires, his eyes lighting up as he crouched to gather a few shells and smirked to himself at the reflective pieces he’d found. “Ha, missing more than one, right? Yeah, I like that, okay…”

He stood up fast, hurrying to catch up with his taller friend and rolling the smooth pieces between his fingers until they caught sight of Cleo, paused by a picnic table and trying to pull herself back together. Far enough away no one else could bother her, but easy enough to find if anyone went looking like they were. He grinned, waving. “Sorry, okay, sorry… Cleo. Hey! Cleo!” Warning given maybe a little too close to the shout he was warning Manny about, Lucas kept waving until Cleo looked their way, then he hauled him forward until they were close enough to talk quieter, alternating between frowning concern and twitching lips excitement, not sure if he’d thought of a good idea or a bad one or how she was managing.

Cleo sat at the table, the darkness folding over her like a thick shroud. The distant glow of a campfire illuminating her with its thin light, barely touching her face. Her foot bounced up and down rapidly against the sand, and she stared at her hands - what little she could make out of them and the outline of her fingers. She moved them individually, precise movements that formed small colours between her palms. Vague and quickly disappearing shimmers that fizzled and fell away into the dark night and away from her.

She gnawed at her lip, feeling Rory's visceral anger still haunt and linger like a phantom. Gil's grief still flowing under her skin. The weight of Blackjack pressed into her consciousness, a black river pulling her under, where all their fears and emotions floated like souls drifting along the Styx, ferrying to nowhere.

"I'm sorry,” she spoke out as Lucas and Manny approached. Her shoulders curled inwards. "It all came over me, out from my tongue.” Cleo twitched and shuddered, placing her failing hands against the side of her head. "I'll be okay... It just... Just needs to leave,” she muttered, blinking through the sharp throb of pain pulsing behind her eyes. "Too much,” she said, a strained chuckle escaping her lips.

”It’s fine… Yeah, you both are fine. I get it, It’s all been too much. This week’s been too much, this night’s been too much. There ain’t been no place on this island without a sob, not a second without a sniffle. And Blackjack, God knows what they’ve been through. So loud, so full of anger.” For naught but a moment he shuddered at their voices, the soft and unsteady chants likened to shouts upon the darkened nightly expanse as the words crossed the bounds of his ears. Splintered fragments of despondent whispers uttered with tones laced with malice slipped sparse lapses in his concentration. Words that marked a betrayal of the good days. An exsanguination of the crimson blood of love of the carcass of memories passed upon the land in which such times were forged.

“Hi. Carrying all that stuff’s heavy, huh? That’s okay. We’re opening doors, all right? You said you’re going—and I’m going with you—but they didn’t say now or never, did they? Just now or not our problem. . . . Can we find more homes to miss before we go?”

As he reached the source of his excitement, finally blurting out the question after a moment’s deep breath hesitation, Lucas held out his hand, showing off the new sea glass he’d found that had given him the notion. They were all missing people, and if they had to leave, why not find a few of them, at the very least, before taking the Foundation up on their offer of a place to stay?

Immanuel’s eyes lingered on the likes of sea glass grouped together within Lucas’ hand. A group. A mass of stones so tightly knit upon the bounds of his skin. Each stone, a testament to life, formed under the pressure of the ocean and tossed beneath its waves. Crashed, cracked, and parts torn asunder against rocks and stones laden throughout its undeterminable path. But their paths led them to one place, smoothed upon the sand and standing upon the beach. His hand brushed against the sea glass tied on his own wrist. The intricacies and memories embedded within the accessory were but one of the final remembrances of his own group. Their own group. Breaking away from the sight of the stones within his palm he looked upon Lucas’ wrist, then upon Cleo’s own. Memories. Their home. Was it coming to an end?

"Hi…” Cleo answered, forcing a small smile in their direction finally. “I think my… My walls are a bit crumbled since..." she said as one hand moved to grip her leg to stop it from shaking underneath the table. "It'll just be a moment,” she said, half looking in their direction, catching the glow of Lucas’ piece of seaglass. “N-new homes?” she asked, blinking again.

“Yeah. New spaces, familiar faces… All right? And no screaming.” He hoped. Lucas’ enthusiasm dimmed quickly in the face of confusion, but he didn’t let it go, just left it out to stop skipping steps. He hadn’t explained his idea yet, had he? And he nodded slow, slipping around the table so Manny’s steadier head was closer to her as he heard her words again, second-time around less blurred by his own excitement. Walls falling down… “Walls sit heavy and it hurts when they fall, okay? It’s bad when you don’t know what’s in them. Cracks only get bigger if you put more weight on top. But Manny has walls he knows, and you have walls you know and I have walls, too.” He paused for a moment before setting the bits of smoothed glass down on the table. “Daisy and Violet, Steve, Amir, Gladys… All of them.” He gestured expansively. “They have walls too, right? Their homes. And they aren’t here and… I like that now… but I want to see them again. And I… I don’t want to go home by myself.”

Cleo turned to look at Lucas in the dark, “A-Amir.” Quietly, quickly she spoke, saying nothing else, looking then to Manny.

Immanuel slid his body upon the surface of the bench as Lucas moved away from his side. For there were but few moments his ears didn’t perceive it all, he listened as Cleo’s words fell from her mouth. An utterance that with the ears he possessed he could tell was low, defeated in her tone. They’ve all bore loads, loads which were laid upon their shoulders and were saddled upon their backs. People who carry a crushing weight that splintered their bones and strained the muscles that held it, a load that couldn’t be described. How could one describe all the sounds the world creates? How could one describe seeing the past like the present in but every object they touch? How could one describe feeling the brunt force of the emotions of others? As the weight grows the cracks form. A wall is only made bear to so much. ”That… It would be nice. We could use a break, we deserve a break. From all the angst, the sadness. I miss them all. Glady’s little crafts, Whitney’s snarky attitude, Steve being Steve.”

His fingers traced the cracks in the picnic table, forged beneath the weathering of nature, a natural stress. They all had cracks, ones so deep they forgot the cracks had even formed. When a wall comes down, the only thing left to do is to rebuild from the rubble. Rome wasn’t rebuilt in a day, and certainly not alone. ”I think we should do it. Go out. See our friends again. Hell, I’d say those people are like family. Y’all are like family. Before we go to the Foundation, let's make the most of it.”

All the empath between them could do for the moment was nod. Their names spelled colours in her mind that formed in plumes against the shadows that circled, swam, and floated. Whitney’s snarky attitude was a burst of bright pink, the taste of raspberries lingered around it too. “I'd like to see Whit,” Cleo said, her tone softening the sharp edges down now. “As many as we can visit.”

She released the grip from her own clothing now, placing her hands gently on the table surface. “Chaney always has the best jokes… Ezra the best music.”

From their faces, grown more thoughtful the more words he said, Lucas’ gaze shifted back to the glass and then to their hands. Cleo’s still, finding their place, settling down, and Manny’s moving steady and slow, like a shiver down his spine, tracing old, worn wood, but it was warm instead of cold and they weren’t saying no… He grinned. ”Okay! Who’s first? Darla’s BC, right?” She was probably the closest.




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Hidden 6 days ago 6 days ago Post by Rockette
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Rockette 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

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There was no warmth to shield her in the death of night awoken, no soft breath to soothe the netherworld of her waking fears.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Location: Unknown.
Human #5.032: limbo.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Interaction(s):&
Previously: the essence.

She plummets as a wisp lost and flickering as fragmented red slivers spindle away from her still body as she falls through the world beholden to her whims. Through a world of worlds, likened to shards of glass –a mirror– before Amma draws in a ragged breath, lungs inflating with smog, her body suspended onto throes of descension as blackened clouds finally part. Below, a churning pit of despair awaits with a writhing mass of limbs, coiling palms, talon-forged gestures poised to embrace, and her name a fractured, guttural roar rapt with appetence. Her impact is jarring, a quake felt through the confines of the universal plane of hell unknown, a swelling influence and realm of finality that has long awaited her arrival and salivates with her potential lain there in a tugging, pulling, pushing amalgamation of grappling figures. Her fingers clasp over her heart, nails against a pulsating scar, palms caressed against white petals that represent a delicate touch of purity against the forsaken realm– symbolism wrought through its make that she protects with what strength she has left.

Down the lines of her figure, Amma can feel every drag and pull, every penetrating curve that scrapes against her flesh, down the planes of her back where abstract lines bleed away from her spine, flayed open anew with her awakening sobs. Gasps and gritted teeth awash in red sunk deep into the pout of her lip as she lashes out with a shaking hand, desperately perched on the precipice of the void above and below, but they continue to haul and yank her down and down and down–where no light can reach you, where no one can hear you scream. Talons carve against her neck, caressing up the line of her jaw, writhing against her face, fingers shoved betwixt her lips on a scream of defiance that she chokes around, sputtering against the assault as more limbs weave through her mass of hair and pull, she feels sharp pricks at the corner of her eyes, needles that nearly sink deep beyond her lashes peeled wide in horror. Agony alchemizes into adrenaline, her body convulsing with every groping palm that shreds away at silk and chiffon tangled around her trembling legs; another roar belches out her name in a gurgling call, and something wet and horrid slithers its way up her back, crushes against her spine bowed and taut, threatening to snap. And then Amma sees it, a great serpent with her eyes staring back into the depths of fractured remains, coiling around her body. A forked tongue lashes away at her scars, flickering with the taste of her life spooling away, pieces of a soul broken beyond recognition, writhing hisses that compile as a voice of both feminine and non, a whisper that pings with familiarity as it damns her to the awaiting abyss.

We’ve been waiting for you.

And there she lands with such an impact, shoved deep down into the awaiting black so suddenly, that there is no sound to erupt from lips peeled wide, just an echoing thud that booms away into the darkness, mouth wrenched open and ringed in hellacious marks of malice. Her bones sopped in crimson shadows awash with hate, tongue gnashed against her teeth from the intensity of pain that overwhelms every reasonable thought of humanity. She slowly rolls to her side, the simple motion boiling white-hot through marrow, her body curling inward against the onslaught of agony to preserve what shards of herself remained. An echo of a gasping cry rent deep from within, punching through her shuddering ribs and plummeting stomach; she convulsed, plum-red liquid spewing from her lips, a mingling of blood and saliva and tears as she heaved once more, clawing desperately against the damp ground on which she prostrated on. Bitter cold burrowed underneath blackened fingers, drenched muck squelching betwixt her trembling hands as she raked her palms through the dark, hopeless and reaching in vain for a semblance of self and control that evaded her. A silver globe lurked above, a mocking radiance of white light that fell upon her in pale wreaths of deadened life, for as above and so below, Amma Cahors had finally reached the final pit of her hell.

Who knew dying would be so painful?

Soft light and trilling laughter, followed by pain-fused rasps, shunted from her swollen lips, blemishes immediately darkening and blooming with hues of violet from the stinging purchase of talons and hands. The writhing limbs suddenly disappeared as she looked up, beholden to the sphere looming on high with whips of inverted light coiling through the darkness, but they never fell upon her; instead, they stayed above with a soft glow marking where she lay with nothing but inky shadows to comfort her in this yawning well of despair. A quiet ringing fluttered betwixt her ears, the silence deafening yonder her agonizing gasps and rasping breaths, her throat gone bloodied and raw. Disjointed images filtered through the haze of torment as obscured faces, pleading eyes, and frailty scoured through her trembling hand with biting nails fixated on her wrist. The epicenter of ruin and despair founded on the utterance of a name, every syllable pulsating with frigid hate, the sin of wrath that forged the weapon that was she to destroy all she touched and kill all that stood in her way. The sound of her blood roared through her ears, her pulse hammering so loudly that she could feel it through every juncture of her body where she lay, languishing, deteriorating rapidly as she struggled to breathe, every pull of her lungs protesting against the sudden weight in her chest.

Amma had never feared death before; as a child broken and sundered, she had yearned for it, begged for it. She had treated with the reaper of her nightmares time and time again to relinquish her spirit to a final resting place. Thus, here she was, finally lent to the deepest ditch of an afterlife, but why fresh tears welled and fell, she could not explain. Hot and heavy, her vision blurred, and her lashes fluttered with the silent tracks carved over her temples with relentless sorrow wracking through her battered body.

Her very empty body.

Where an oozing and chaotic influence often swelled around her figure, there was a keen shift of mundane delicacy, the eternal reap of scarlet twine and silver ribbons gone with the blackened rot that usually cantered after her likeness. There was absolutely nothing: no magnetic pull of the world at her constant ebb and flow, no sparks of red to dance through her quaking limbs, and no silver light to swirl upon her eyes with every sluggish drop of her lashes. To be so frail, to be so mortal, was such a reckoning that she could only laugh once again; to be deserted of her powers in death was both a blessing and a curse. To be of the lost and forsaken meant to be free of that which she silently abhorred and feared, an admission she had never spoken of to anyone. Was this fated circumstance or some predetermined notion of life to remove the shackles and burdens of destiny at peace in the chasm of loneliness endured?

Suppose this was the final price she was to pay, she thought, her mind listing to the side of complacency and acceptance, her body weakened, and her heart suppressed beneath the weight of her past. Suppose this was the final curtain call. Her laughter continued there and spiraled into the leagues of mania over the role she had to play, the design of life so cruelly adhered to two letters, and the choice of love.

It came down to a straightforward admission amid her demented exuberance: she did not want to die alone. Not in the dark in which she feared most of all.

You’re already dead, a voice uttered.
You died a long, long time ago.

Oh, she giggled, plum-red lips stained and bruised and bloodied. That’s right.

Amma was dead—the shell of a girl who never lived. Tiamat was dead—the manifestation of pain and wrath for all the wrong the world had done. Revenge woefully bound through each epitaph.

Ammaranthe was dead—the beloved who only ever wanted a place to call home. A child damned, a child lorn and lost and subjugated under the might of self never felt.

And so, who was then that lay there, body broken and battered, heart split open and bleeding torrents of despair and sorrow? Who was it then that lifted a trembling hand to curl over the white flowers pinned to a torn and ruined dress? Who was it then that continued to weep silently, tears unchecked as exhaustion pulled at her relentlessly? Who was it that lent herself to the departed realm and fought to keep her eyes open against the obsidian fog that blanketed her?

No one, just a dead monster, the dragon finally slain, she thought, returning to curl in on herself, body shivering from the sudden and damp cold, scraps and tattered remains of silken skirts draped over her bruising legs. Those crystalline blue eyes finally closed against the shadows, now a decrepit hue of swollen thunderheads dreaded and faded with lingering storms. The ringing in her head gradually tapered off on quieted groans and chittering whispers that repeated her names. One final thought came to her in those moments of absolution, followed by the vague scent of clove smoke, the fogged and hazed memory of an arm thrown across her, and then shredded bodies with shattered limbs, tawny feathers, and blood and death, her hand clasped around a frail throat. Her screams echoing off in the distant dark, causing her to flinch and curl tighter into herself. Her eyes briefly opened on the whisper of red that fled away into the black edges of her tomb, plucked straight from her chest, from the weakening heart within—a string of fate and a trembling hand that tried to grasp hold of it in vain and fell. And did not move again.

Her name isn't Tiamat.
And it's not Ummu-Hubur.
It's Ammaranthe. And she's exactly where she belongs.

Yes, she thought, her mind gradually quieting, hand outstretched, pale, bruised, and cold.
Her eyes fell shut once more.
At least now I can’t hurt anyone ever again.
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Hidden 6 days ago Post by Hound55
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Hound55 Create-A-Hero RPG GM, Blue Bringer of BWAHAHA!

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The silence was so deep it had its own personality.

Sullen and cold, depressive and obstinate. An unyielding, intimidating silence that stared into each of them and dared them to break it.

Big Steve was stretched across a lounge. Banjo was staring at a door with a furrowed brow from a chair, as he had been for a few minutes. Alex was watching him nervously from another chair.

The fourth bedroom.

Banjo was trying to play out a conversation in his head.

But how can you plan out a conversation with someone you haven't spoken to in years?

And it's not like it had been much of a fruitful dialogue at that, on that occasion.

The answer was he couldn't. No matter how much thought he put in, he had no idea what direction this was going to go. He was going in blind, which wasn't something he liked, but there was nothing he could do to change that at this point.

With a sigh, he got to his feet.

"I wouldn't..."

"All things bein' equal, I wouldn't either."

"Should you really..?"

"What's the alternative? Someone's gotta. It's not fair otherwise."

All four in the dormitory were headed for the Foundation. In Alex’s case, after many excited conversations with his family. Thrilled to go to the home of the Force.

Banjo and Big Steve were far more conflicted, and remained reticent to not bring their exuberant roommate down. Banjo had his experience from the Trials and what he'd heard from people who attended, and Big Steve was just generally more skeptical by his very nature. If they were at all right, he’d find out soon enough anyway.

"What'd you say her name was again?" He asked Zimmerman as he put his hand on her door handle. It was fittingly cold.

"Shanna. Shoshanna Tannin. But I don't know that you should..."

Banjo turned the handle and cringed as the door swung open, giving an uneasy toothy grin. Red light escaped the room, and he stepped inside, closing the door behind him.


________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Location: Strigidae Dorms, P.R.C.U - Previously
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Interaction(s): Harper Baxter (@Qia), NPC roommates


Harper walked just outside the main dormitory hall, her hands clenched tight at her sides. The campus lay silent, the unnerving hush amplified by the school’s looming closure. In truth, the quiet came as no surprise; most students had already packed up or left, leaving the grounds nearly deserted. Still, the emptiness gnawed at her, underscoring the sense of finality she hadn’t wanted to face.

“We’re almost there,” her guide murmured, their tone gentle but distant, as though they, too, felt the awkwardness of this moment. Harper nodded, managing only a stiff acknowledgment. Her thoughts were still tangled from her last moments with Haven, and she didn’t have the energy to form words of gratitude for someone she barely knew. She hadn’t planned for any of this—not the argument, not the fallout, not the heartfelt goodbye that felt like a final one.

And definitely not this uncomfortable visit to Banjo’s.

The cool metal of Banjo’s door handle met her fingers as they came to a stop, her knuckles whitening as she hesitated. The fabric over her eyes may have hidden her blindness from others, but it couldn’t conceal the vulnerability she felt. Standing here, on the threshold of someone’s personal space, felt like stepping off a cliff without knowing what was below. Harper waited, hoping for some unseen signal to propel her forward, something to tell her this wasn’t a mistake. The signal came in the form of her guide clearing their throat, the sound more of a polite nudge than anything else. “Here we are,” they said, their voice low, as though the quiet had seeped into their words too.

“Thanks,” Harper whispered, barely above a breath, her voice betraying the uncertainty she fought to keep down. She heard their footsteps retreat down the hall, fading into the distance until the oppressive silence swallowed them whole. Alone again.

For a moment, she just stood there, her hand still resting on the door handle, frozen. The weight of the past few days—no, the past few hours—hung heavy over her, and it seemed to press harder the longer she stayed in place. She hadn’t been to Banjo’s place before, hadn’t even really spoken to him outside of team-related matters. Now she was here, asking for his help, and the strangeness of it all tugged at her, making her second-guess everything.

The thought of turning around flared briefly, the urge to retreat to her room, shut the door, and lock herself away almost overpowering. But there was no safety net waiting for her this time. She’d already said what she’d needed to say to Haven, and Aurora… Harper didn’t want to think about Aurora’s disappointment right now.

And, worst of all, there was Katja.

As she’d listened to Katja’s words, Harper had felt a pang of sympathy she wasn’t sure she wanted to acknowledge. Katja’s confession was raw, each word tinged with bitterness, a taste Harper knew all too well from her own moments after the trials. The anger, the shame, the crushing sense of responsibility for her team’s suffering… it all felt painfully familiar, wounds that were still healing on her own heart. But what had struck Harper most wasn’t just the hurt in Katja’s voice; it was the way so many seemed ready to cast her as the scapegoat for every downfall, from PRCU’s closing to the chaos at the dance. Deep down, Harper agreed with Katja on one thing: she shouldn’t have to carry the burden of blame for every broken piece of their world.

And yet, another truth lingered there, and Harper couldn’t shake it. Katja might not deserve all the blame, but her choices hadn’t been without cost. They’d left their own scars on the team, ones that didn’t fade easily. Harper struggled to reconcile the good intentions Katja had spoken of with the reality of her actions, the unintended damage that had rippled through each of them in ways they were still coming to grips with. Katja’s remorse seemed genuine, but Harper found herself wondering if Katja truly grasped the depth of what her silence had cost them all, how it had chipped away at their trust, making it that much harder to feel safe around each other.

Swallowing hard, Harper raised her fist and knocked softly on the door, her pulse quickening in the seconds that stretched out unbearably. The pause after felt endless, as if time itself had slowed just to mock her. Finally, the door creaked open, and though Harper couldn’t see Banjo standing there, she could feel his presence. The air between them coagulated with an awkward tension that made her skin prickle. Or maybe that was just her—projecting her unease onto him. She swallowed again, the words catching in her throat before she forced them out.

“You… offered to help,” she said, the words slipping out almost reluctantly. “So… I’m here…for help.”

“Uhh… He’s busy with…”

An interior bedroom door opened and Banjo stepped out along with a flare of escaping red light, he tilted his head with wide eyes, and sighed deeply at the difficulty of what he’d just endured, before raising his head and seeing who Zimmerman was addressing at their front door.

“Yeah… Yeah, I did at that. Guess let’s get this show on the road, eh?” He first addressed their guest at the entrance.

He walked past the large man who lay prostrate on the couch, occasionally turning pages on a comic that was spread across the floor.

“Yeah, don’t– ever– go in there…”

“I told you…” The larger man mumbled, not looking up from the floor’s reading material.

“Still needed doin’...”

Zimmerman pointed to Harper standing at the door, as if he hadn’t already noticed, as he crossed the living quarters and brushed past her on the way out the door.

“Y’know ya didn’t have to knock. Could have just yelled out in the hallway or elevator for us.” He said, turning back and realizing that Harper still hadn’t moved on from the door. “Ya comin’ or do I have to carry ya?”

“Um…no thanks,” Harper replied, cringing slightly at the thought. She took a cautious step away from Banjo’s door, then another, each movement hesitant as she aligned herself to the direction of his voice. Her fingers brushed against the fabric covering her eyes, adjusting it almost compulsively, as though the motion might steady her nerves. The silence around them felt thick, amplifying every sound—the shuffle of their footsteps, the faint rustle of clothing—each small noise becoming magnified in the emptiness of the hall. She opened her mouth to say something, hesitated, then closed it again.

After a few more paces, she finally managed, “Your…roommates seemed like a lively bunch.” Harper felt the clumsiness in her words almost immediately. She cleared her throat, trying to shake off the self-consciousness that clung to her. “I, uh, didn’t expect you’d have to wrangle a whole crew just to make sure I don’t walk into a wall.”

There was a pause, and Harper felt her face grow warm. She realized too late that her attempt at humour might have sounded more like self-deprecation, a clumsy attempt to downplay her own discomfort.

“Bundle of nerves in that place right now. The one who opened the door’s a comics nut and he’s thrilled to be goin’ to the Foundation, because of the Force. The other you saw, is… a lot more wary but doesn’t have a whole lot of choice… and the– well... A whole lot of raw nerves goin’ round at the moment.”

He waited for her to catch up.

“Prob’ly not much different from everyone in general at the moment, anyhow, I guess. Nervous people makin’ big decisions earlier than they’d have liked.”

His own thoughts on the matter were irrelevant to polite conversation, to whatever extent he was capable of making polite conversation.

He had no idea of Harper’s plans and thoughts on the matter at hand, and cared even less. An offer extended both out of guilt and for the projection of guilt - as teammates drilled down on Katja, and one another, where he would be the one willing to extend help.

He was actually surprised the offer was being accepted in the first place. Especially considering it was put forward to Baxter of all people. But now that it was, he wasn’t going to have his bluff called. She was probably just relishing in the opportunity to bark orders, boss him around and tell him whatever he’s doing is wrong, he figured, remembering the force of nature hyperconfident life guard who brought her own bullhorn to proceedings.

Harper let out a small, shaky laugh, feeling the weight of her own present and past decisions settle more heavily on her shoulders with each step. Choosing to become a diagnostic radiologist had felt like a solid path forward-a decision she’d made long before arriving here. It had been a way to stay in control, to make sense of the strange illness that had plagued her in childhood. She’d always assumed it was behind her since the manifestation of her abilities, a thing of the past never to haunt her again. But now….

She glanced in Banjo’s direction, suddenly grateful that he didn’t pry, didn’t push her to explain herself. Somehow, that made walking beside him easier. It helped to make the moment feel less strange, less loaded. And for the first time since the dance, she felt as if she could lean on someone who wasn’t her family, even if- or especially since- that someone was a near stranger.

It reminded her of Calliope.


“You know…” Harper began, then paused, the words catching unexpectedly in her throat. She wasn’t why she’d started or where she’d planned to go with it. But Calliope’s name hovered just behind her lips, a bit of doubt holding it back. Still, that tug, the need to say something was there. Anything to release a bit of what had been building up inside.

“The thing I wanted to say before the whole…thing with Katja was that…you guys kind of became my family. My home. And I think as long as a person has that, they will be ok.” Her voice wavered again upon realizing how much she wanted that to be true- for herself, for her team, for everyone who’d been hurt by recent events. “ I went to her too, sort of like this. Just…not really knowing why, but needing to feel like things made sense. Or that they’d make sense again eventually.” She trailed off, her eyes lowering despite not being able to guide her as they always had either way.

“So, when I say I appreciate this…I mean it.

He felt the rage slowly fill him once again. The anger for himself he’d had since the Trials, and he realised just how easy it would have been to just pour it all over her. A person he had little time, nor energy for, and sighed deeply as he grabbed her door handle.

“She cried for him, you know? Her lover, her last breath, barely a whimper by the end as Father took the last of her life,”


“I went without family for two decades. It took five years for someone to talk me into seeing any kind of benefit to it.”

“And it came from someone who’s own experiences of family, frankly sounded like a bloody nightmare.”

“Didn’t need it then. Don’t need it now.”

He wasn’t her. Never was. For better or worse.

“And if you keep sentiment like that to y’self, I won't be obligated to ignore it. Now c’mon. We got somethin’ to do.”

After all, he had little doubt if roles were reversed, she’d have been looking to put Daedalus in a grave.

He couldn’t do that, for better or worse.
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Hidden 6 days ago 6 days ago Post by Qia
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Qia A Little Weasel

Member Seen 0-24 hrs ago

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Location: Strigidae Dorm - Dundas Islands, Pacific Ocean
Human #5.034: Nothing Left to Burn
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Interaction(s): Banjo-@Hound55
Previously: Birds in Their Little Nests Agree & Do You See What I See?


As he spoke about family with such detached finality, Harper felt a pang of envy, even a touch of guilt. Here was someone who’d lived without it, without the grounding comfort she’d always felt bound to, and yet…he was here, offering his help as though family were just another distant concept, something unnecessary. There was a resilience in Banjo, a way he navigated his life without needing anyone to fall back on. Harper bit her lip, nodding quietly, more to herself than to him, wondering if she could lean on that same strength again. One built on solitude rather than the tangled safety net of sentimental connections she always felt around her since coming here.

She ran her fingers along the wall, letting the solid feel of it ground her as she drifted back into the present, back to her list of what still needed packing. “Right…we should be close now anyway,” she murmured, mentally sorting through what's left. “There’s just a couple of things- a few clothes, books…and, um…my sketchpad.” Her tone faltered slightly, though she tried to brush past it as she thought of the sketchpad’s last whereabouts…whatever it was. She couldn’t even remember when she’d last opened the damn thing.

And, honestly, did it matter? Those sketches, those fragments of herself she’d scribbled down in private moments, were practically pieces of a puzzle she no longer needed to assemble. Too much had changed.

“But that can stay behind.”

It was already in his hands.

“So this is you, huh?”

He’d flicked to a page with the girl kneeling before the gentle shoreline, the telltale sound of his fingers turning pages, making it clear to Harper that he’d already found it.

“Or how you see y’self, at least…”

Harper’s jaw tightened as she heard the faint rustle of pages turning in Banjo’s hands.“But that can stay behind.”...she had barely gotten the words out, and there he was, flipping through her sketches as if he had every right. A prick of irritation rose within her, and she imagined for a moment that if she could still see, she’d have been levelling her most withering glare at him (and still did through her blindfold). In her head, she bit out his nickname Dung Beetle, with a satisfying sting, before stepping into her room through the open door.

She heard his low muttering as he continued tumbling through her sketchpad, each comment a casual appraisal of something that felt far too personal to have laid bare.

“Etched eyes. Lookin’ forward to the light. Shadows at your back. Rocks on the distant horizon, meanin’ what, either the solid foundation you saw yourself as havin’, or the trials and tribulations you saw yourself as havin’ gone through in the past? Maybe both. Somethin’ like that, yeah. ‘S good. I mean, it would be good, yeah? Ya powers and all.”

“Better’n I could do. Never spent much time on art and such. Found other things to do with my time.”

He chuckled to himself remembering a time he had stuffed three roast chickens in the kiln at one of his schools, for the art teacher to discover later.

Harper’s fingers clenched at her sides as she mentally traced the sketch he must have been looking at- the one she’d done before the start of the semester on the beach. It had been one of those rare moments when the world had felt bigger, her place in it smaller, a fleeting feeling she’s tried to capture on paper.

“Huh… you draw nature stuff, too?” He uttered flicking through more pages and coming across a large, detailed drawing of a beetle. Before moving his hand and revealing the name written at the bottom.

“Huh.” He chuckled to himself. “Ya know what? Fair…”

Harper’s lips almost twitched at the mental image, knowing for sure which sketch he’d come across then. But the humour faded quickly as his words about her powers caught in her mind like a burr.

“For the record,” she said, the edge in her voice unmissable, “my powers didn’t make me good at this.” She took a breath, gearing up to make a slow push against the assumptions he seemed all too quick to make. “I’d put in hours-months- just to get the lines right, to understand how to blend light and shadow and make it look good, as if they belonged together. Maybe my vision helps with the details, but the skill? That was mine to build.”

Without waiting for a reply, she continued. “Archery’s different, though. That came naturally, like I’d known it all along. But art…” Her hand drifted to her side, as if tracing the memory of her father guiding her on how to hold a pencil for the first time. “Art was something I had to work at, piece by piece.”

His brows raised in curiosity over her response.

It was different for him. His powers were too entwined a part of him, and himself. He couldn’t think of one aspect of him, one thing he did well, that wasn’t impacted by his own powers. From anything physical, right through to the mental. It was all part of one big HZE-infused hyper-package.

So many things just, sort of came effortlessly to him. All of which he could attribute to them.

He’d never considered that someone could take offense to them being some kind of external advantage, to take offense for how they benefited them.

He’d had to go without actively ‘juicing’ for a while after the Trials, but if the flow was cut off entirely tomorrow, what would he be? Who would he be?

He’d have a great, almost encyclopaedic knowledge of the law in three countries, and numerous states and provinces, but even that had been learned not just due to his own curiosity, but from his own advanced ability to think and absorb the information because of his powers.

He put the book down on a table with more care than appeared to have been shown to it before, where it had been thrown in the bottom of a closet.

“So you said clothes, right? I’m stickin’ to everythin’ worn over the top, if you don’t mind. Sparky McGee would punch himself through time and space to get at me if he thought I touched your derps, dacks and under-stuff.”

His focus swung back to the task at hand.

“Pick a colour for the bottom, and if we keep it to the spectrum you should at least have some sense of what you’re holdin’ if you don’t get help at the other end of wherever you’re goin’. Do you get what I’m sayin’. Like red at the bottom, purple at the top, and sort by type?”

Harper’s brow furrowed, her mind skimming through images of people she knew that the nickname could match, before landing on a disturbing realization: Cass. That’s who he must be referring to. Swallowing hard, she numbly nodded her head at his suggestion before tugging what felt like a shirt from a pile, feeling the soft fabric in her hands which offered little comfort. No matter how she tried to focus on the packing, her thoughts drifted back to him.

They hadn’t even talked since that night.

She’d replayed that part of the night more times than she cared to admit this week despite everything else, her thoughts a muddle of regret and something sharper-hurt. She hadn’t meant to trigger him; that much was clear. But even as she acknowledged her own misstep, a twinge of resentment stirred. He’d spent that night mainly looking out for Aurora who, as far as she knew, hadn’t needed anyone until much later. He hadn’t even responded to her text.

The brunette exhaled, realizing just how deeply his silence had gotten under her skin. But as much as she’d cared, as much as she’d simply desired to just enjoy the stupid event with him, it was clear now that she hadn’t been the villain of that moment. She couldn’t, wouldn’t have been able to take on the load of his past or make sense of emotions he hadn’t invited her into. It wasn’t her job to heal him, just as it wasn’t her responsibility to anticipate every emotional landmine.

Cass had his own battles to face, battles he hadn’t even asked her to fight. And maybe-just maybe- she was finally learning that they weren’t hers to win or lose either.

As they worked, the room grew quieter, the sounds of rustling clothes and dull thuds of items settling into her duffel becoming a muted backdrop. Harper’s energy had waned with each pass of her hands over clothes, books, and keepsakes, her movements slowing to a rhythm both repetitive and draining. Time seemed to blur, stretching into an unbroken sequence as her belongings gradually took shape into something organized. And yet, her thoughts kept circling back to the sketchbook—the one Banjo had flipped through, the one that now seemed to embody everything she was trying to leave behind.

He had been right about one thing: she had been through more than she’d ever been able to fully comprehend. And maybe she was finally beginning to understand that letting go was part of healing just as much as dealing with the anger that came so naturally with it, no matter how daunting it felt.

She stopped mid-fold, fingers remaining on the soft fabric of a sweater, feeling its worn threads under her touch. Banjo had already shifted to the other side of the room by then, sorting through the last bit of the books she’d wanted to keep. The space he gave her had, strangely enough, made her come to another realization: she didn’t want it anymore. The constant reminder of the girl who had found it easier to deal with everything bad that had been thrown at her by distancing herself. She didn’t want to be angry, or alone, anymore.

“Hey Banjo…?” Harper’s voice was more subdued than she expected, though it still managed to cut through the lull as she turned to face him. “Would you… burn it for me? The sketchbook?” She fidgeted with the sweater in her hands, teeth almost meeting her lips before she stopped them.

“I just…need it gone.”

He looked back at the tabletop with its scattered array of catalogues - neatness was one of the first victims when the hyperhuman sanctuary’s demise was made public - and the sketchbook that rested atop them all.

He went to the kitchen and pulled the rubbish bin out. He swept the paper off the table and doused it with lighter fluid, before setting it ablaze.

There was no argument. He made no effort to talk her out of it, and she was almost surprised when the scent of burning paper hit her nose. Just as he was shocked she’d been so eager to take him up on his blurted offer, she held no small amount of surprise at how there was no quibble nor quarrel over her own spontaneous request. But perhaps, like it had been with Calliope, there was more to her teammate than Harper had ever seen.

“…Turns out he’s actually super considerate and sweet and cares about me without expecting me to be perfect.”


She felt Calliope’s presence then, a memory as fragile and fading as the last embers of the fire. His willingness to let her burn this part of herself without asking why or whether she’d regret it hit her in a way she hadn’t expected.

The guy was still an utter menace to those around him, a living breathing disaster zone. Still, it was a comfort to not have to explain herself to anyone for once.

As he stood there, watching the bin aflame, Banjo remembered his first week in this place. The action which got him removed from the University Library and re-placed in the Collegiate Library for his community contribution.

He’d heard it had been Katja who had to deal with the aftermath then. Heard her complaining and threatening harm to whoever caused it at the time. He was pretty sure she’d never found out who.

“I’m gonna take that bin with me, if ya don’t mind, when it's done. I reckon I know just what to do with it.”

He walked over and lifted the duffel, testing its weight.

He furrowed his brow as he picked it up and put it down. It wasn’t too heavy for him, but he wasn’t the one who was going to have to–

“Are you sure Raw’s gonna be able to jump you wherever you’re all goin’ with all of this?”

She’d assumed too soon.

For all the comforting quiet, the unspoken agreement to let things lie, Banjo had a way of surprising her just when she thought she had him somewhat figured out. She tilted her head slightly, half-irritated and half-amused. It wasn’t the kind of question she’d expected from him, not when she’d thought he was just here to help her pack and not question her travel logistics.

A dry smile crept onto her face as she replied. “I’m more than certain that Raw can handle anything I throw at her.” The humour in her voice was real, if a bit muted, and she almost wished that it was the end of it. That she could keep up her light-hearted front. But Harper’s smile slowly faded as she added, “It’s not like she’ll be doing it alone. Except…well, she won’t have me.”

“Wait, so you’re goin’ with Haven and Tyler?” He scratched the back of his head. He wasn’t sure about that. As horrible as it was to think about, he’d quietly thought to himself of the silver linings that would be in Haven going underground without her wings, as much as they meant to her. But a three person party with a wheelchair was more conspicuous to be on the run.

Harper felt her shoulders tense. Why was he pushing so hard? Why did he even care? She considered deflecting entirely at that point, keeping up the pretense of a simple departure with whomever else wasn’t going to the Institute.

“Haven and Rory don’t need the extra burden. I’m also sure they have their own plans,” she replied curtly.

”Well, if– wait… are you out of your fuckin’ mind?!” As the cogs clicked into place.

She let out a short, dry laugh. “I don’t exactly have a line of people volunteering to carry me off to paradise.” She naturally rolled her eyes behind the fabric over them.

“I just gave you TWO! With no thought on my part! Shit, the Roths would probably take ME in if they thought I really had no place else to go, and would hate every minute of it! But they’d still probably do it. Because they’re good people.” None of this made sense to him.

“Sure, they might take me in, but they’d have to deal with a lot more than they bargained for. With you they would know what to expect. But with me…I’d just be an additional responsibility.” Harper grimaced at her choice of words, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear as a distraction. “I know there are probably other options, Banjo, but they’re just…not the right ones. Not when I’m like this.

EXACTLY when you’re like this! ‘When you’re like this’, you mean… umm… when you can’t see shit comin’?” He paused for rhetorical effect.

He had enough shit to worry about over there already. Daedalus. Roommates. Katja. Rollerskatin’ Chlo– Cleo. The Natural Hellscape the place was already bound to be just from what he’d heard. Now this.

Harper let out a frustrated groan. Banjo’s persistence, though well-intentioned, felt like fingers prying open a door she’d preferred to keep locked. “You don’t get it.”

“Y’r right. I don’t get it.” He gestured with his palms out.

“I lost every reason I had to actually run. Everything. At this point, it would pretty much be selfish of me to do anythin’ different, than try and put a clock on this guy and get him before he can get Haven and anyone else he has his eye on. I ran. Most of my life. It’s not easy to do, even if you’re good at it. Haven hasn’t had to in a while, and others - like Rory - have no experience in doin’ it at all. I don’t know how long they can keep it up when he’s still out there.”

“What I’M doin’ is crazy. I didn’t need Rory to tell me that, but if he can see it, I don’t know how he thought I’D have missed it. But it needs doin’, and it's not like I have any good reason to not be doin’ it.”

“And you think I don’t have a good reason?” Harper retorted immediately. “I have to go to the Foundation. I know the risk I’m taking in doing so, trust me. But my vision will come back. It always has.” The last few words left her mouth with a conviction she did not feel all the way through but had to say nonetheless. Otherwise, they would be here all night. And Harper would prefer to get as much rest as possible before her big day tomorrow.

He picked up the bin and scooped something off the table. ”Well, all things bein’ equal, between your art and your bloody archery, I’d prefer it be your shootin’ that was less dependent on your powers given the current circumstances…”

”I guess, I’ll see you tomorrow. Hopefully by then you’ve come to your bloody senses, whether one-a them’s your vision or not. G’night.”

He pulled the door closed behind him.

Harper listened to the sound of his footsteps fading down the hall before eventually walking over and closing her door with a heavy sigh.

Come to her senses? Maybe.

But for now, this was a choice she’d made alone, one that felt right, even if it didn’t make sense to anyone else.




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Hidden 6 days ago Post by Lord Wraith
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Lord Wraith Actually Three Otters in a Trenchcoat

Member Seen 5 hrs ago


________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Location: Melville Island - Dundas Islands, Pacific Ocean
Human #5.035: Knights of Cydonia
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Interaction(s): None
Previously: Madness

“You wanted to meet?”

Maya stood barely illuminated by the moon above the trees, tablet in hand as she turned to the source of the voice. She brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, before flashing a shy smile at the man before her. His brassy baritone voice was recognizable anywhere, even without his trademark armoured suit.

Tight silver curls stood out starkly contrasted against the darker hues of his complexion as James Robert King towered over Maya Eve Almassian.

“We could have chosen a better location, perhaps one with more visibility.” James stated as Maya sheepishly smiled back.

“Sorry, Steel Shell, Sir, I just know how those H.E.L.P. types are about their technology.”

“There really isn’t a H.E.L.P. to be concerned with is there?” James replied with dry amusement, “It’s more the government we have to contend with.”

“What do you make of H.E.L.P. using anti-Hype technology though?”

“Frankly, it should be destroyed before it can be used against any of us.” The older man motioned for Maya to follow him. “My abilities allowed me to build a suit that augments my physical state to rival that of my teammates. I don’t employ weapons that make anyone less than what they are. Nothing sporting about that.”

“I thought all was fair in love and in war?” Maya retorted while looking down at her tablet.

“Last I checked, we were neither in love nor in war.” James replied before spinning around on Maya and ripping the tablet from her hands. His eyes widened at the correspondence he read on the screen before words seethed through his teeth.

“You treacherous witch.” He waved the tablet in Maya’s face, “Who are you corresponding with? I am not a bargaining chip to be bought nor sold!” Indignation and rage were laden in his tone as he took a step towards Maya.

“You will not touch me,” Maya replied defiantly, “You have no idea what’s coming, first they’ll take you so-called heroes and show the world you bleed, then they’re coming for all these insolent brats you’ve conveniently gathered together in one easy target.”

“Your ignorance blinds you, you’re as Hyperhuman as I,” James retorted, “They’ll come for you all the sa-” His words were cut short as a bolt flew from the darkness, burying itself in his chest. James dropped to one knee, reaching to his belt only to stop as the bolt suddenly expanded before spinning and burying itself deeper.

His anguished cry fell upon deaf ears as the armoured pair stepped into the limited light. Maya felt her stomach turn as her eyes were drawn to the glowing lights on both sets of pauldrons. Waves of nausea washing over her as the power inhibitors built into the suits nullified both her and James’ abilities.

“My debt is paid, I have delivered as promised.” Maya stood tall, doing her best to appear fearless in the presence of the pair of knights. The one holding the crossbow turned his helm’s visor towards her and nodded slowly. She turned to leave before the other raised his hand and stopped her.

“But your allegiance is so easily bought,” The filtered voice stated, “Was it not merely weeks ago you sold students to the one known as Daedalus?”

“I-” Maya stammered, “That was different.”

“It led to the creation of that beast, Hyperhumans are already an affront to what is pure, and your actions directly led to further monstrosities. You are not to be trusted.”

“No, I am loyal to you, I can bring you more like him, please I-”

Her words hung in the air, only seemingly dissipating as her head hit the ground with a dull thud before her body crumpled alongside it. The steady hum of the glowing blade danced until the moon’s pale light before the two knights turned back to the former Steel Shell.

“Get. It. Over. With.” He growled as the one holding the sword raised the blade above his head.

“As you wish.”

His head rolled along the ground, coming to a stop beside Maya’s before the pair looked to one another and then towards the abandoned compound left behind by H.E.L.P.

“Secure the weapons, the Grand Master’s plans will surely be accelerated by this quantity.”

“Help me..” A faint voice suddenly interrupted the pair as they looked between the two deceased bodies before locating the source in the bush surrounding them. Branches snapped and leaves crunched before the frame of a young girl came into view. She looked up at them with weary eyes before they glowed red. Salvia began to drip from her mouth, her jaw unhinging as her yellowed teeth gave way to a maw full of long, piercing fangs.

“Delicious.”

And then she pounced.
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Hidden 5 days ago Post by Melissa
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Melissa Melly Bean the Jelly Bean

Member Seen 0-24 hrs ago

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Location: Crestwood Hollow - New Hampshire
Human #5.036: I Can't Handle Change
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Interaction(s): Lorcán @Lord Wraith
Previously: Starting Over

Before either Aurora or Lorcán had the opportunity to open the door to the Jones’ house, it flew open to reveal Ripley’s wide smile. Completely ignoring her cousin, Ripley flew down the front steps, practically launching herself from the last one before tackling Aurora with a hug.

The redhead barely had time to brace herself as the brunette barreled into her, small, slender arms latching around her waist as though they’d been separated for years rather than just a few days. Aurora stumbled back a step, letting out a soft laugh, and gave the younger girl a gentle squeeze. Ripley’s joy was infectious, and she couldn’t help but smile, but inside, she felt as if she were teetering on the edge of being completely overwhelmed.

“Whoa, you really missed me, huh?” Aurora said, trying to inject her voice with a lightheartedness she didn’t quite feel. She looked into Ripley’s bright eyes, forcing herself to focus on the younger girl’s excitement. “And here I thought you’d be happier to see your cousin, I didn’t think I’d get such a warm welcome.”

“Who him?” Ripley teased, “Eh, he’s old news and a boy, ew gross.” She continued while guiding Aurora inside and towards the stairs. “You’re going to be staying in my room, I’ve got it all set up for you. We can stay up late swapping girly stories and in the morning, I’m making waffles.”

“Do I get waffles?” Lorcán asked from behind the pair while he carried their bags inside.

“Uh, no, I’ve seen the way you put away food. You’re fending for yourself.” Ripley called before she and Aurora were stopped by a lean woman, once golden hair spilling over her shoulders as it cascaded between gold, silver and platinum white.

“You must be Aurora, between Ripley and Tori, I feel like I already know you,” Alexis said with a smile as she initiated a hug with the copper-headed girl. “I’m Ripley’s Mom, Lorcán’s Aunt, Alexis, and this scruffy fellow is my husband, Calvin,” She added, gesturing towards a more rugged-looking man, his longer dark hair flecked with silver that was more predominate in the rough beard that covered his lower face.

“Glad to have you both here, please make yourselves at home. Mi casa es su casa. If there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to ask. Pizza okay with both of you for dinner?” Calvin asked, looking from the eagerly nodding Lorcán back to Aurora.

Aurora let her eyes wander as Ripley pulled her along, taking in the new, unfamiliar setting that was the Jones household. From a first glance, their home was warm and inviting, lived in, with well worn couches adorned with colorful cushions and soft throws. There was an abundance of natural light from the large windows, and many plants sat in the sunny spots around the living room. It felt similar to the Roth’s home in the Alumni Village, had the same feel, which should have settled something within her. But she still felt uneasy, all the emotions she’d been mulling over the entirety of their journey bubbling to the surface.

Even Alexis’ embrace felt familiar and comforting, the kind older woman welcoming her quite literally with open arms, Calvin too greeting her with compassion. And yet, the redhead found herself mustering a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, nodding in response to the latter’s question.

“Yeah, pizza’s great.” Aurora replied, eyes darting between all the people looking at her, feeling her heartbeat pick up, “I- uh,” She looked back towards the front door, which still sat open, the cool Autumn breeze calling to her, “I’m just going to take a second, get a bit of fresh air,”

She glanced at Lorcán apologetically before slipping her hand from Ripley’s grasp, quickly turning on her heel and stepping out onto the porch, inhaling and exhaling deeply as she leaned against the banister to ground herself.

“Where’s Cass?” Lorcán asked, giving Aurora space as he watched his girlfriend go by before turning to see the inquisitive faces of his extended family. When he was met with silence, Lorcán raised an eyebrow before moving to head to Cass’ room only to be stopped by Calvin before Ripley interjected.

“Like, I know you’re new to this whole boyfriend thing, Leo,” She monotoned, “But uh, when you’re girl leaves, you’re supposed to go after her,”

“Oh, it’s ‘Rora, she does that all the time.” Lorcán protested before Calvin gently turned him around.

“I think she might be a little more overwhelmed than usual, I know your dad is used to only raising you, but I have a bit more insight here.” He smiled, “Go, listen. Don’t try to solve anything, just let her talk to you.”

“COM-MUN-I-CATE!”

“Ripley, that’s enough,” Alexis interjected as Ripley stuck out her bottom lip.

“But, Mom!”

“Enough, go upstairs, I’m sure Aurora will join you shortly.” Lorcán heard his Aunt add before he stepped outside and leaned against the railing beside Aurora. October in Crestwood Hollow had always been a favourite time to visit. Due to the town’s connection to Witch Trials, they had a tendency to go all out for Hallowe’en. But at the moment it was more of a distraction than anything.

He bowed his head, mustering the words to initiate before finally speaking.

“It’s a lot, Lady Dude, I can’t begin to like imagine what you’re feeling right now.” He began to say, “Crestwood Hollow is safe, probably one of the safest places for Hyperhumans on the entire East Coast. It’s not without its vocal minorities, but it is safe.” He repeated, almost like a recited mantra at this point before stopping himself and allowing the words to hang in the air.

Aurora could see Lorcán approach in her periphery, but didn’t immediately turn to face him, her gaze unfocused but directed towards the houses on the other side of the street. The trees that lined the sidewalk danced in the wind, their leaves rustling and falling to the ground peacefully.

Peaceful. Crestwood Hollow seemed peaceful. If the rug hadn’t been pulled out from under them so rapidly she imagined that she and Lorcán could have visited under better circumstances; planned a little getaway for just the two of them, a break from classes, from the stresses of senior year. But this escape was the more literal sense of the word instead of the romanticized variety.

“You know that was only my second time on a plane, right?” The redhead broke the silence, finally shifting her sapphire eyes to look at her boyfriend. “The first was when I flew from Arizona to Vancouver as a kid to get to Dundas,” She explained, “And when we hit turbulence I was convinced we were going down, so when we landed, I was happy that I’d never have to go on a plane again.”

“Because I never thought I’d leave, genuinely,” Aurora stated in earnest, before sighing.

“I have no doubt that Crestwood Hollow is safe. It seems so lovely here and I can’t express how thankful I am that your Aunt and Uncle are hosting us,” Her gaze shifted back to the front yard and the pavement. “But this is just a lot of change to wrap my head around, Lor. I’m trying my best, but it’s hard.”

Lorcán nodded whilst listening, trying his best to empathize. But it was an unspoken sentiment that they both knew he couldn’t. How could the Prince of P.R.C.U. possibly empathize with a girl who didn’t even know if her own mother was still alive out there? Lorcán never had to want for anything, he was an heir apparent to everything his parents had helped Jonas build.

Even with all that stripped away, he still had two loving parents and a place to call home. Aurora on the other hand was trying to move upstream without a paddle. She had to feel like she was moments away from drowning.

“No matter how hard it gets, I’ll always be right here.” Lorcán offered, finally breaking the silence as he put his hand on hers and intertwined their fingers. “Whatever you’re facing, we’re facing now. I’m with you until the end of the line,” He smiled, scooting closer and wrapping an arm around her before softly kissing her forehead.

Aurora leaned into Lorcán, resting her head on his shoulder and inhaling the citrus and smoke scent of him. It was a foreign feeling, being adrift in this way, but she just needed to continue reminding herself that she could plant roots wherever he was, he was the only constant she needed in this ever changing landscape. Her gaze lifted to look at him again.

“I love you,” She stated, a small smile appearing on her face as the words flowed freely from her lips. It still was taking some getting used to, but it sounded better each and every time she said it. “Sorry to ruin the welcome party.” The redhead shook her head, “I didn’t anticipate how ecstatic Ripley would be to see us,” She nudged him, a small laugh akin to a breath escaping her.

“Well, me.

“I love you too,” Lorcán replied, softly kissing her forehead again. “Ripley sees you as the sister she’s always wanted, she can come off a little strong, but like she means well.” It was a tender moment, but his stomach had other ideas as it loudly growled, interrupting their conversation.

He looked down at his stomach, smiling sheepishly before offering a small apologetic shrug.

“Calvin did have to like go and mention pizza.”
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Hidden 5 days ago 15 hrs ago Post by Qia
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Qia A Little Weasel

Member Seen 0-24 hrs ago

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Location: The Foundation Institute - Atlantic Ocean
Human #5.037: In the Absence of Light
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Interaction(s): N/A
Previously: Nothing Left to Burn


The sharp tang of bleach and saltwater hit her lungs as Harper drew a deep breath, the scent acrid and abrasive. It clung to her senses with a foreign intensity, a stark contrast to the natural, wild fragrances she’d left behind at Pacific Royal. For a fleeting moment, she let her eyes drift closed, surrendering to memory. She imagined the earthy pine along the forest trails she’d jogged each morning, the saltiness of the sea breeze wrapping around her, even the cool, dewy scent of the grass on her favorite training field, real or simulated. The echoes of laughter, teasing voices, familiar footsteps—her friends seemed close, just out of reach, as if a mere turn could bring them into focus.

Oh, how much she missed her illusions sometimes, however well they’d fooled her.


Harper’s steps were careful, each movement measured as she followed the sound of shuffling feet around her. The rhythmic sway of the docking pod beneath her made her tighten her grip around the strap of her bag, her knuckles going pale as she forced herself to stay steady. Without her sight, every small movement felt magnified, as though her senses were stretching to fill the gaps, her instincts doing their best to make up for the darkness. Every nerve in her body was attuned to the faintest details she could catch, every beat of her heart amplified as she tried to decipher this sterile, unfamiliar place.

Gone were the soft echoes of life from the island—the gentle rustling of leaves, the occasional birdsong, the subtle hum of distant voices. Here, the Foundation's atmosphere was stifling in its silence, void of warmth, as though the air itself had been scrubbed down, sanitized of anything comforting. Function over form, she thought, a bitter edge to her thoughts. There was nothing human about this place—just a cold, clinical efficiency that seemed to demand compliance. Every trace of familiarity had been stripped away, leaving only the barest, most utilitarian shapes, devoid of comfort or identity.

“Here.” The clipped voice startled her from her left, and she turned instinctively toward it. A pair of scrubs was thrust into her hands, the rough, unyielding fabric pressing against her fingers like sandpaper. She ran her thumb over the coarse material, taking in the way it felt devoid of anything personal, anything welcoming. The subdued, angry murmurs of those around her hinted that she wasn’t alone in her distaste. She clutched the scrubs to her chest, feeling their almost mechanical practicality—a discomfort radiating from every fibre, alien and cold. She hadn’t even taken a step inside, and already, the weight of this place had settled over her.

The faint rustling of clothes and reluctant shuffling filled the pod as others began to change into the assigned uniforms, the sounds subdued yet charged with quiet frustration. The tension around her was palpable, simmering in the tight clench of her jaw, a silent battle she fought to control. Harper forced herself to clamp down on her own rising discontent, pressing it beneath the layers of discipline that had kept her steady through everything up until now. But even that carefully built resolve felt frayed, like it was stretched too thin to contain the irritation bubbling up inside her.

Just like the Trials, she thought, a bitter taste in her mouth as her head conjured the image of the endless, unreachable expanse of ocean outside cracking glass. She could feel it here just as she’d done in there—the water surrounding them like a cage. There was no land, no escape route, only this strange, phlegmatic place surrounded by miles of open sea.

A nearby student gave a disbelieving sigh. Harper could hear the reluctant rustling as another student began changing, submitting to the Foundation’s demands with a resignation that mirrored her own. Her hands trembled slightly as she held the scrubs, the rough fabric biting into her skin. A sharp reprimand from an attendant snapped her out of her anxious thoughts, forcing her back to the present. She fumbled with her jacket, slipping her arms free and folding it with deliberate care. What should have been a simple task—changing her clothes—felt like a drawn-out test of patience, every movement dragging against the strain.

Finally, she tugged the stiff, white scrubs over her own clothes, shivering as the cold, unyielding fabric settled against her skin. It felt foreign, like she was donning a stranger’s identity to fit into this rigid, new world. When she’d gotten rid of her sketchbook back on the island with Banjo, it had been her choice—a conscious act of letting go. But here, it felt forced, like they were robbing her of everything established in her personhood, leaving only the emptiness of the Foundation in its place.

A faint metallic clink shifted her attention to what was likely a bin where students were dropping their belongings for inspection. She reached for the strap of her duffel, fingers brushing over it as she hesitated, unwilling to let go of the few items she had left. Inspection, she thought bitterly. As if they’re searching for something they don’t want us to keep. The thought gnawed at her, making her wonder what exactly they were trying to strip away. What more could they possibly take?

Harper edged forward after reluctantly giving over her things, each step punctuated by the shuffling of nervous students around her. Her fingers brushed along the row of bodies in front of her, her movements cautious, every fibre in her body attuned to the sounds and stifled breaths surrounding her. The low, buzzing murmur of discontent grew louder around her, laced with notes of fear and frustration. Yet for every voice that rose even slightly in protest, there was a quick, sharp reprimand, emphasizing just how pointless defiance was in this place. The Foundation didn’t need to demand obedience; the sterile silence and stiff uniforms did that well enough on their own.

“Please place your left wrist in the hole to your left, underside facing up.”

She could barely see, but the terror in the voice ahead of her, the raw scream that cut through the stillness then, left no ambiguity. The sound clawed through the room, breaking open the tense silence with a visceral crack. Harper’s heartbeat quickened, hammering against her ribs as the smell of burnt flesh filled her senses, thick and stifling. She caught herself clutching her own wrist, her fingers pressing into the delicate skin, as though anchoring herself, as if she could preserve her own sense of self in the face of whatever waited for her.

How much more could they possibly take?

The answer: As much as they could. Nothing less than their sense of humanity.

Another scream came, guttural and defiant, followed by the choked sobs of those around her. Harper’s resolve wavered, but eventually, she found herself at the front, facing the slot where others had braced their hands.

The voice barked, "Next!" sharp and close. Before Harper could fully steel herself, a rough hand clamped around her wrist, yanking her forward with a force that left no room for hesitation. Her arm was wrenched into place beneath the machine, a clamp locking down on her wrist with a cold, metallic snap that sent a shiver through her.

Trapped, sightless, she braced herself, though she knew nothing could prepare her for what was coming.

A high-pitched hum began to build, vibrating through the machine, through the metal around her wrist, and finally into her bones. It climbed with a relentless rhythm, a pulse that seemed to echo her own racing heart, drawing the moment out until her muscles tightened, every nerve stretched to its breaking point. Her fingers twitched involuntarily, instinct urging her to pull away, but the clamp held fast. There was no escape—only the inevitable, looming like a wave about to crash.

Then, in a flash, the searing pain hit. White-hot agony tore through her wrist, as if her very skin were being peeled away by fire. Her body jerked instinctively, a strangled gasp forcing its way out as she fought not to cry out. The stench of her own flesh burning filled her nostrils, thick and nauseating, coating her senses in a sickening layer of raw reality. Her eyes stung beneath the blindfold, the heat and pain merging into one unbearable force that clawed at her resolve.

Every instinct screamed for her to pull away, to tear her arm free from the inferno. But she held on, her fingers curling into fists, nails digging into her palms, grounding herself through the pain. She forced herself to stay still, breathing through the tremors that wracked her body, letting the fire scar her wrist without letting it scar her spirit.

When the clamp finally released, her arm fell limp to her side, the fresh brand still burning against her skin. She staggered, cradling her wrist, fingertips brushing over the swollen, raised edges.

Another scar, another tally mark in a long line of painful memories, but this one felt different somehow—etched with the intent to strip away more than just her sense of safety. To erase every piece of her, leaving only a cog in the relentless machine of the Foundation.

As Harper stepped forward, cradling her burned wrist, the faint murmurs of other students drifted around her, one word catching her ear:

“Tiamat.”

The sound of it drove deeper than the burn in her wrist, freezing her in place. Her breath hitched, and for a moment, the bustling world around her fell away, leaving only that name reverberating inside her.

Amma.

Amma, fierce and powerful, was emblazoned on the unseen banner above her like a goddess chiselled from stone, forever fixed in allegiance to this hollow, impenetrable place. Except she wasn’t simply Amma here; she was Tiamat, a phantom moulded by the Foundation into a weaponized icon, an ideal they all would be forced to face. The girl who’d once felt real—her laugh, her defiance—had been crystallized, twisted, and placed out of reach.

It struck her then, the brutal truth of this place: the Foundation didn’t just claim bodies; it reshaped them, carved away their humanity until only the pieces it could use remained. They weren’t here to build heroes or nurture skills. No, they were here to create symbols—loyal soldiers, faceless and bound to the system, drained of everything that made them whole.

“Keep it moving!” The harsh voice from behind jarred her back to the present, prodding the line forward.

She moved as instructed, footsteps tentative as she felt herself guided down the hall, then nudged into a small, barren cell. The metal door clanged shut behind her with a finality that seemed to swallow every sound, enclosing her in an almost oppressive stillness. Moments later, the flicker of light overhead vanished, plunging the space into darkness so complete she could feel it, as if the walls around her themselves had vanished. Harper stood still…

and then, slowly, she lowered herself to the ground, wrapping her arms around her knees in a makeshift shield against the nothingness.

As she sat alone, her fingers drifted to the brand on her wrist, tracing its jagged edges, each brush of her touch reigniting the sting. She forced herself to believe that, like every other wound she had endured, this too would heal in time. Even if the scar never truly faded, she reassured herself, the pain would lessen, retreating into the background of countless other marks she carried. This would become just another among many—etched on her skin, perhaps, but unable to define her.

And yet…


even as she told herself this, the blackness around her felt smothering, as though it was consuming her whole. She fought to push the thought away, repeating to herself that the brand wouldn’t change who she was, that this place would not reshape her soul. But then another fear crept in, a quieter, more insidious thought: What if she was meant to stay this way? Hidden from herself, from others, trapped in perpetual darkness, like a blade waiting for its wielder. That was what they wanted, wasn’t it? To strip her of everything—her identity, her strength, her sense of self—until she was no more than an obedient shadow. A thing with no direction.

Harper’s fingers drifted up to the fabric covering her eyes, resting there briefly as if deciding. She had chosen this darkness before, a barrier between her and the rest of the world, a way to control the flow of light and sight. But now… something inside her rebelled against it. In one swift movement, she slipped her fingers beneath the blindfold and tugged it down, letting it rest in her lap and exposing her face to the emptiness around her.

For a moment, there was nothing. Only the same void pressing down on her, lifeless and unwavering. But just as she was ready to dismiss the flutter in her chest as some trick of exhaustion, there it was—a weak glimmer, something she felt almost as much as she saw. It hovered at the limits of perception, like the memory of a spark or the warmth of sunlight straining through layers of deep, choking smoke. Her heart rate seemed to slow, each beat stretching out longer than the one before, as if the very fabric of time had softened around her, creating a fragile pause.

She blinked, a slow, deliberate motion that felt suspended in air, and in that heartbeat, every sensation intensified. The dull ache in her wrist throbbed with startling clarity, the fabric in her lap coarse beneath her fingertips. But just as quickly as it had come, the sensation faded, leaving only a soft pulse lingering in her chest, a hint of something almost too intangible to name.


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Hidden 1 day ago 1 day ago Post by Roman
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Roman Grumpy Toad / King of Dirt

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I feel I must take a moment to pause and reflect on the journey that has brought me to this precipice, even as that same odyssey moves to tip me tumbling wholly over the edge. But for a shared dance and the eager passion of a kiss, I might have gone on in ignorance of things I am still not sure I truly want to know; but the knowing is now done, and there is no return from that horizon. The small mercy granted is that I have not been thrust alone into this knowing - though even that may be more of circumstance than design. I made a promise, but in truth, one I never intended to keep; I would throw myself headlong into this new truth without ever concerning another; I would seek this path alone, and find both its and my end alone as well. But it has not been left up to me - whether I am grateful or not I cannot say, but the terms of the journey were set and I had come too far, spent too much, to refuse them.

Tomorrow evening we will have departed this earth entirely, for planes that only a few weeks ago would have earned my derision for the suggestion of their existence. I am braving new frontiers; but, I believe - and I must believe - that I am braving them in the name of new frontiers of a different kind. I must keep my focus on that dance and that kiss, not allow myself to lose sight of the why, when faced with the what and the how. There are worse things to lose than an arm; worse things to run out of than money. I look to my erstwhile companions and at times do not recognise them anymore; I wonder if they feel the same about me. Mirrors remain difficult, and I still dare not broach my powers. I wonder if they have had more success in realigning the imagined self with the extant.

I do not think about the preparation for the doom, I do not think about getting drunk to dull the senses, I do not think about the returning nightmares, or waking up sweating and afraid, or writhing in phantom pain, ever-crushing ever-freezing. I do not think about the animals howling and how it sounds so much like the death throes of my peers. I do not think about praying to anything that might hear me. I do not think about how I will likely die before I ever see her again. I do not. I don’t. I don’t.

If someone finds this before I retrieve it, I am lost, and I won’t be found. My name was Gil Emory Galahad, has-been star of the silver screen. Please notify my parents.

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: P.R.C.U. Campus - Administrative Building
Human #5.038 A Lead

Interaction(s): N/A

| P.R.C.U. Campus - The Academy's Final Day

"Miranda!"

Gil roamed the upper corridors of the administrative building, roughly pushing doors open with his remaining hand as he pressed his stub to his belly. He hobbled along, casting a strange hunched shape along the hallways with stiff joints and aching muscles, the wine-induced haze lifting from his eyes and leaving behind an exhausted malaise. Any patience was simply gone.

He passed scarce faculty - for the most part, only the last lingering ex-students were still on the island, and the few remaining professors and staff busied themselves with gathering what resource they could. Academic papers, scholarly certifications, letters of recommendation; if it had the potential to prove useful in the coming search for gainful employment, it was snatched, folded, filed away into briefcases and bags and jacket pockets. If they weren't the "Miranda!" being called for they simply did not care, nor had the time, to find out what was needed.

The sharp, distinct features of Miranda Rivers appeared before him as she stepped into the corridor from the depths of her office. She took a second to recognize his beaten form, but when she did, her expression settled into one of deep weariness.
"Mr. Galahad. The days of the academy may have come to a close, but I'd still ask you to show respect for this institution."
Gil waved his hand dismissively, pushing Miranda's frown further down her brow.
"I need your help." He said, brusque and clipped.
"With the closure of P.R.C.U., my duties have ceased alongside it. Good day, Gil."

Miranda turned to re-enter her office and resume clearing out the last of her personal effects; she was stopped short by Gil's hand wrapping firmly around her arm. Her head whipped around, face full of fury, but her expression immediately softened when she saw the sheer bone-tired sorrow in his features. She recognized this desperation; she'd seen it in Jim over the last few weeks, as the tragedies had piled up and he'd futiley tried to save the university from its inevitable demise. It was the kind of desperation that would undo a man, right up until it left him a carcass, spent and empty.

"Maybe if you ask nicely." She said, finally relenting as Gil released his grip.

"Please."



I cancelled rent on the apartment in LA; something I should have done sooner, but I was preoccupied. I think a part of me believed - wanted to believe - that I'd return there. Put the last eighteen months behind me, soak in the smog-sun and sheen again. Sit on that couch facing the window and stare at the sunset while I wait for Arthur to call me. I feel so far from that person I can barely remember he existed at all - like I've wiped the slate clean, started over. Reborn.

Miranda did what she could, and admittedly, while small, it was enough. I knew then that I'd need every pound I could scrape together - and that lead me to the flat. Cutting out unnecessary expense. I'm to go back to England for the foreseeable, back home, if such a thing still remains for me. I am eager to see my parents; to return to some sense of nostalgic normality; to see Bristol and the coastline, Wales just a stone's throw across the water; but I am faced with growing trepidation, anxiety pushing in at the corners. They know so little - how do I walk through the doors as I am now? I've thrown away my career, I've abandoned my abilities - I am returning to them as literally less of the man who left. How do I bring these tragedies back to them?

Handwriting is still slow and difficult and messy. Sometimes I can barely read what I've written. There are so many things you take for granted. But this diary is helping, forcing practice. And it does me good to record, to ruminate - its own kind of meditation. When the doubt creeps in, when the disquiet threatens to overwhelm - it's good to have an account, a chronicle. Something that reorients me and provides direction. The journal helps.

That and the ring.




Gil leaned against the wall in what had been, until a few mere days ago, the chancellor's office. Now, it was an unattended mess, boxes and files strewn across the room and furniture haphazardly moved, removed, stored - someone had moved something from somewhere else and decided here was out-the-way enough for their needs, multiplied ten times over as PRCU closed out its final days. Miranda busied herself with reams of paper, pulling files and folders from drawers and cabinets, shuffling through pages and discarding some while neatly stacking others in a rapidly-filling box. Gil didn't know what she was looking for, or how she was determining what was important enough to keep versus what was tossable garbage. He didn't really care, either.

Miranda slowed down before finally taking a seat and looking to Gil; she gestured to the chair across the desk, inviting him to join her, but he remained defiantly standing. Miranda shook her head in a near-imperceptible micro-movement, before leaning back in her chair.
"So, what can I help you with? Resources are...limited. I don't know what you're hoping for, but I'll try my best."
Gil pushed himself off the wall with his good hand and took a couple steps toward the desk.
"I'm looking for another student. Ex-student. Alyssa Townsend. I've asked around, but seems she's already disappeared off-island. I need to find her."
"And you think I can help you...how?"
"Everyone else is gone or..." Gil trailed off. "Everyone else is gone. And with Jim's arrest, you're de facto 'in charge'. Plus, y'know...you're psychic."

Miranda sighed.
"There's nothing left to be 'in charge' of, anymore. And I'm not a walking GPS tracker, my telepathy doesn't work like that. It works like..."

Gil felt fingertips across the surface of his mind, prodding and poking, like leaving small dents in stretched-out clingfilm. Looking for give, for a way in; gentle and non-invasive, or as much as reading somebody's mind could be. He almost didn't think about it, and all of a sudden Miranda tenderly slipped through the barrier, fully enmeshing herself among Gil's thoughts as she nestled into his psyche.

Pain and fear; a cavalcade of doubts and anxieties. The biggest presence in Gil's mind was still Gil himself, but this was a far cry from the narcissism Miranda had felt in the man over a year ago, when they'd been introduced through a representative from W.H.A.T. Instead of a psyche revolving around himself, this was more...revulsion. A sea of Gils, every variant and iteration that had been, that was, that ever possibly could be, and every single one wearing expressions twisted by anger, disgust, terror, and in the midst, a singular Gil, robbed of an arm, frantically pushing and scraping through the crush, fleeing something that pressed against all sides. Stabs of agony flitted through Gil's mind intermittently, and Miranda's by proxy, from an arm no longer there.
But through it all, something burned painlessly with an intense heat that seared away all anguish, leaving only a serene calm. Everything in Gil desperately sought this peace, fought for it with all he had. Just out of sight...Miranda couldn't confirm, couldn't see it...

"Stay out." Gil said, hard and forceful, and Miranda was back in the office, sat across from him. Her mouth was dry, and she cleared her throat, putting her hands in her lap to hide the shake that had crept in. There was a long moment of silence.

"Anything. Any kind of lead. An address, a number, next of kin. Please."
"P.R.C.U. doesn't exist anymore; H.E.L.P. and H.I.T. can't safety net me on this. The governments of the world are watching us, and they're looking for a reason to put me number one for Interpol. I was lucky not to be escorted away right alongside Jim..." Miranda trailed off. Former spy, crisis negotiation agent, actual psychic mind-reader. Yes, there were a lot of officials looking for even the smallest excuse to lock her in a box and throw away the key. But the desperation in Gil's eyes rang true with her, reminded her of why the institution had been founded in the first place, as a safe haven for Hypes to help each live full, fulfilling lives, unafraid of what they are, or what the world might think of them. Coupled with the warm serenity she'd felt him fighting for...

One last gesture. Then she was cutting herself loose.

"I can't just hand you sensitive information like that. The last thing I need is being brought down by GDPR, of all things. I probably also can't tell you that we hold it in the servers, which are due to be purged remotely at midnight, or that they're in the basement, or that anyone who cares to watch them will have left the island by eight'o'clock."

Gil stood, nodding in understanding. Miranda smiled, her lips thin. It wasn't much, but it was the best she could do. She proffered her left hand to shake, and Gil took it.
"Now, I really need to finish gathering everything. I can be so forgetful. Quite often I forget to lock my office window on the first floor. Woe betide the day someone finds the spare Staff I.D. I keep in the top left drawer of my desk."
"Thank you, Miranda." Gil said, turning to leave.

"For what?" Miranda said, going back to the files and folders. "I couldn't help you. I just hope you find what you're looking for some other way."
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Hidden 17 hrs ago 15 hrs ago Post by Lord Wraith
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Lord Wraith Actually Three Otters in a Trenchcoat

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| 1984
The sound of the heavy door creaking open alerted Aiden Roth to the fact he was no longer alone. It had been several hours since he had been put in the dark room, hauled out of class in front of his peers and subjected to handcuffs before being escorted down what had felt like the endless halls of Mather Memorial High School. A musky cheap cologne filled the teen’s nostrils as the squeak of leather followed by the tap of a hard sole moved past him.

A sharp, mechanical click was followed by a disturbingly audible electrical buzz as Aiden was suddenly forced to close his eyes by a blinding light pointed directly on his face. Blinking slowly as they adjusted to the brighter luminance, he was hit with a new smell. The enticing aroma of a freshly lit cigarette wafted towards his nose from across the table before it mixed with the odour of the stale ash tray in the middle of the beat-up table. As the detective across from him took another drag, Aiden could feel the familiar itch of the nicotine monkey beginning to squawk. It had been… actually he had no idea how long it had been since his last cigarette, but he knew he was overdue for a long drag.

Closing and opening his eyes a few more times in a futile effort to further adjust to the bright light,, the teenager peered past the overhead lamp, jealously watching the other man take another drag from the dart before his baritone voice filled the room.

“Aiden Buchanan Roth, quite the rap sheet you have for someone so young. Vandalism, petty theft, numerous counts of hooky, oooh grand theft auto,” The officer paused as Aiden simply gave an apathetic shrug and a smirk in response.

“I’d lose the cocky attitude, son. Do you know why we’ve dragged you in here? The Crestwood Police Department has good reason to believe you were involved in the murder of Vanessa Bordeaux.” The officer snapped before slamming a folder down on the table. Aiden could only imagine it must hold the ‘damning’ evidence within it.

“Do you want to tell me again where you were the night of October 18th? And this time, how about we tell the truth.” The suited man asked, prompting an eye roll from the teenager.

“First off, Brody, for you,it’s just ‘Roth’,” Aiden retorted, watching the officer's hands curl into a ball. RJ had been hit enough in his life that another strike wouldn’t be the end of the world, and in fact it might even get him out of here faster. “Secondly, I didn’t fuckin-”

“Language.”

“I didn’t fuckin’ kill Vanessa.” Aiden smirked as he continued, “You want to know where I was the night of October 18th? That’s easy, same place anyone else was; the twins’ party. If I’m a suspect, so is the entire senior class.”

“Your father runs with the Sons of Salem doesn’t he?” The detective asked, lighting a new cigarette.

“You tell me,” Aiden responded with a measured tone, “I don’t know my father,”

“Apple never falls too far from the tree. Doesn’t it bother you that he never wanted you? Might lead to rage issues, especially in relationships.” The detective fished. “Vanessa Bordeaux. Prettiest girl in school, popular too. Bet she has a lot more admirers than just you. Better ones too. Like you said, it was a big party.” He took a longer, exaggerated drag below blowing the smoke towards Aiden. “Hell, I’d chase after her too.”

“Dude, she only just turned seventeen.” The teen retorted while making a disgusted face towards the officer.

“No what I meant, smartass.” The officer replied angrily. “Forget it, tell me more about the night of the 18th, what time did you arrive at the party?”

Taking a deep breath before letting out a small sigh of frustration, Aiden began to reluctantly speak.

“It was around nine at night by the time Minnie and I arrived at…”
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Location: Crestwood Hollow - New Hampshire
Human #5.039: Freezing
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Interaction(s): None
Previously: Island on Fire

| A Week From Now
“...the Bordeaux Estate?”

Lorcán stood in disbelief at the house in front of him that dwarfed the Administrative Building back on Dundas Island. A wall ran the outside perimeter, splotches of newer paint covering obvious graffiti from a time when the ‘hype’-hunt blamed all the Hyperhumans in the town on Vanessa following her murder and had strived to drive the remaining members of the Bordeaux family out of Crestwood Hollow.

Still, the Estate and the family endured, with Viktor and his wife; Sarina or ‘Sally’ as she was more commonly referred to, collecting the majority of their weather from the Bordeaux Orchard and Vineyard that was situated behind the Estate and stretched into the fertile Orlaith Valley.

“I guess we just hit the intercom?” Lorcán suggested approaching the gate while Cass sized up the perimeter wall.

“Could always jump it and knock on the front door.” He replied dryly before watching as Lorcán took a hold of the wall. Realizing his sarcasm had been missed, he moved quickly to pull his young cousin off the wall before giving him a light cuff to the back of the head.

“Just hit the intercom button.”

Lorcán offered a sheepish smile before approaching the small black box and holding down the red button. Above them, a blinking light appeared on the camera as Lorcán took a step back and eagerly waved while Cass did his best to look unassociated with the long-haired surfer.

“What have I done to deserve a Roth darkening my doorstop?” The irritated voice asked from the otherside of the intercom.

“Uh, well we’re here to ask about Mather Memorial,” Lorcán stated, “Specifically the deed?”

A long sigh could be heard from the otherside of the intercom before an electronic buzz echoed. The gate slowly swung open before the intercom crackled to life again.

“Come in.”
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

| Several Weeks From Now
Lorcán clenched his side, grimacing at the long shallow cut that had managed to penetrate his borrowed armour. In the fray, he had been separated from the others, their party attacked. Lorcán had managed to fend for himself, but he was hopelessly lost now.

They had come here, to this accursed place to save Amma, to rescue her. But now he was in need of rescuing and more than ever, he was worried about Aurora. What if those things had gotten her? If Ellara could be caught off guard here, then were any of them truly safe?

The crimson light of the eternal hunter’s moon bathed everything in a sanguine glow. He looked at the damp glove, the dark ichor that stained it was his own blood. He wasn’t used to seeing it, not like this. A warm wind whistled down his spine sending every hair on his body on edge, the scent of his own blood wafting past his nose and sending this damned place into a hungered frenzy.

Lorcán may as well have just rung the feeding bell.

The underbrush shocked, the trampling of leaves accented by snapping twigs as something moved towards him. Lorcán gripped the gun firmly between his hands, leveling it before it was quickly dashed out of his hands.

The familiar odour of death filled his nostrils, threatening to gag him as the corpse-like creature came towards him. A vorpal sword from his hip arched in front of him, as Lorcán reacted on pure instinct, the iridescent blade went snicker-snack before Lorcán pulled it back. Then one and two, followed by through and through and the beast toppled like a sack.

Scrambling for the fallen firearm, Lorcán heard the Wendigo rise again. The scream the creature made threatened to turn the blood in his veins to ice. His hand trembled, fear forced upon him by his foe. His hand began to loosen, despite Lorcán inwardly protested, his body surrendering to its seemingly inevitable fate.

Then in a blur of black and white the beast was driven back.

From the brush, Rothschild struck, led to Lorcán by a fiery ball of light. The brilliant glow cut through the darkness, pushing back the vermillion lunar glow. The border collie struck, its form malleable and morphing as it became humanoid. Saliva dripped from his angry maw, before teeth dug into the Wendigo’s neck and piercing claws penetrated its ribs. Innards spilled atop the native flora as Rothschild’s lupine form ripped the Wendigo apart, and pushed it further into the darkness before the screams and growls were replaced by a deafening silence.

A cold sweat clung to the back of Lorcán’s neck before his knees suddenly buckled. Catching himself, he slowly moved backwards as Rothschild happily trotted out of the underbrush.

Pausing, he sat in front of Lorcán before speaking.

“Boy are you lucky I showed up.” Rothschild laughed as Lorcán stared back at the dog, “Good thing your guardian sister called me.”

Lorcán’s eyes widened as the dog continued to speak, the word sister barely registering before his eyes were drawn upwards, the brush parting before another spoke.

“Come, brother,” A female voice emitted from the orange ball of light as he returned, hovering between the boy and his familiar.

“There will be more if we linger.”
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

| 2006
“You’re having twins.”

Aiden gasped with surprise before squeezing Tori’s hand as he leaned over and kissed her belly. His heart felt like it would jump out of his throat at any second, the overwhelming happiness caused tears to well up in the corners of his eyes as he turned, beaming towards his wife.

“Oh no you don’t,” She cautioned, her voice cracking as she tried to disguise it with a laugh, “If you cry, then I’m going to sob, don’t you do that to me, Roth!”

“I’m just so happy, Tori,” Aiden replied, leaning in as the couple shared a quick, tender kiss, “Can you tell us the sex?” He asked, looking to Tori, who nodded her agreement before the doctor continued.

“Now, this is never a hundred percent accurate, and the little ones have to cooperate,” The doctor warned before continuing the ultrasound, “But it looks like you have a daughter…” His voice trailed off as he tried to find the other twin.

“And… another…” He paused, quickly correcting himself, “No, I apologize, you have a daughter and a son.”

“Fraternal twins,” Tori exclaimed as Aiden’s eyes widened happily, a wry smile crossing his face before Tori shot him a look.

“Don’t you say it, Roth.”

“C’mon,” Aiden pleaded, “How can we have fraternal twins and not name them Luke and Leia?”

“Because last I checked, I didn’t take the name ‘Skywalker’ when I married you.”

“Then we’ll name him ‘Kenneth’ after your maiden name.” Aiden offered, “And name her ‘Kendall’.”

“Those are both terrible,” Tori laughed, “Thankfully we have time to think of some actual good name, personally I’ve always liked Gaelic names like yours.”

“I’m not opposed.” Aiden smiled as he helped Tori to his feet, “We could even-”

“We’re not giving him the middle name ‘Buchanan’.”
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