Hidden 20 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.

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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.”

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| 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 19 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
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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 18 days ago 18 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 16 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 16 days ago Post by Festive
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Festive Homo Ex Imagine Dei Partus Est

Member Seen 8 hrs 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 15 days ago 15 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 15 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 15 days ago 15 days ago Post by Qia
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Qia A Little Weasel

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_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
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 15 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 14 days ago Post by Melissa
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Melissa Melly Bean the Jelly Bean

Member Seen 1 day 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 14 days ago 10 days 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 11 days ago 10 days 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 10 days ago 10 days 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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Hidden 8 days ago 8 days ago Post by Rockette
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Rockette 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

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


Wake up!

“What?”

“Your father, he’s coming, don’t you remember?” A sweet voice chastised, delicate intonations of French slightly dampened under English practice. It plucked at the fringes of her mind where a filtering haze had blanketed her in fog, ministrations stilling as she lowered dainty hands from her mane of hair and beheld their smooth gestures- she had scars here, once, ones harshly shadowed under swirls of black ink.

Right?

“Ammaranthe?” Her gaze flashed and snapped up through oblique lashes, a shadow cast in memorial of a name unspoken and unknown but felt through the leagues of unbidden tremors as she beheld her mother before her, garbed in a cream sweater that offset the warm undertone of her skin and hair tucked and braided with delicate curls against the high set of her flushed cheeks.

She looked so motherly. Maternal. And yet… Misplaced.

Charlotte Cahors was always different, spoken as an oddity on the island, with hair spun of midnight likeness, bright blue eyes, and donned in precious jewels that glimmered with peculiar lights therein of rough cut crystals and gems. A relatively young mother but endearing nonetheless to the residents and locale with brief excursions onto campus. She tended to the greenhouse occasionally, plots of roses tended to by her delicate hands, beset with allium with their dainty white petals, sea holly, and yarrow nestled beside. Other plots of marigolds and wormwood and then draping scarlet blooms of amaranth– the everlasting, the immortal meaning concealed behind the conceptual eternalism of love-lies-bleeding.

Jonas… He brought them here. A letter sent to her mother after the cathedral in Rouen was set ablaze, a series of mysterious fires devoid of pattern or reason through France, just rumored vandalism and theft to shadowed misdeeds of a darkened past.

Her father… A fuzzy profile, dark hair, dark eyes, a perpetual stain marring the impression that came and went with a stuttering sigh. She couldn’t remember. Even the kitchen where she stood wavered in and out of familiarity as if a painting illustrated in all the wrong colors, mutilated shadows, and shades of peculiar hues that fluttered as moth wings at the edge of her vision. She studied the cabinetry, the marble countertops, the lines marking through the tiles at her feet; it was all relatively quaint and mundane trimmings, all the comforts of a home that fell askew through her fanning lashes as she glanced back to her mother. Comforting hands brushed against her brow, the gesture so consoling that it set her back with immediate tension willing away through her arms as subtle contingents fell into place.

She had only ever wanted to go home.
A place to call her own.
This was her home.

“You’ve been so out of it lately. It’s your Senior year très cher, attention à la dentelle.”

“A lot has happened, been happening. The Trials-”Amma cut off, paused, and continued. “The dance, too. I just can’t…” She laughed.

Remember.

“I know there are numerous expectations with H.E.A.T and all,” Charlotte sympathized, stepping back to address the potted plants set aside, tiny buds decorating lax branches tied off in pale ribbons of blue. “Your father thought it best to return to help with the training. There has been unsettling news and developments on the mainland.” She busied herself next with an arrangement, binding sunset lilies together with green twine.

“I’m heading to the school today; I promised Luce I’d help her with the hydrangeas. The loveliest redhead has been coming by, a sweet girl, though incredibly sad. You’re welcome to join me, as always. ”

Voices muttered at the back of her mind, pulling together memories done in an overcast haze.

“Maybe next time, I know, I think, I’m waiting on someone…”

Charlotte hummed quietly, a telltale smile curling over her face with a flicker of knowing in her bright eyes. She moved carefully to gather her arrangements, and a peculiar ring on her finger flickered red in the sunlight with twisted bronze and gold, capturing her attention with the way it gleamed with a hidden flame. It struck Amma with a sensation of loss, of knowing, but she could not place the furor as her mother glanced a kiss upon her cheek and whispered:

“Just don’t let him singe the curtains again. There are only so many times I can replace them; your father has begun to notice.”

“It’s supposed to be unseasonably warm today, ma chérie. I’ll see you later.”

Voices carried on yonder outside, followed quickly by light laughter and a deepened voice that thrummed at a hidden string of yearning. She twisted threads of black around her finger, the charms adorned through her locks with red and silver twinkling on the suspended breath she withheld. She was beholden to the immediate influence that slunk and flitted to her across the threshold, melding entirely with her own in playful flutters of flame.

A towering figure loomed in the doorway, clothed in black, a wealth of sweltering heat tangibly felt from every corded muscle and lit through eyes marveling in resplendence. Golden hues that sparked as fireworks through the gloom of shadows, an unraveling of strength undiluted through shades of vermillion, bisected onto one side with a vicious scar. Despite all manners of severity and impression, a smile still fell with the filtering sunlight of dawn, a darling embellishment of adoration that softened rigid expressions as soon as they marked her given profile.

A crack in the door, shadowed moonlight, slivers of darkness, and a voice that says –


“Hey, Heartbreaker.”

Oh, I remember now…

“My hero,” she rejoined with a feigned swoon, inspiring a darling, belle voice that twittered between them, heightened into a peel of laughter as arms banded around her waist and lifted her, pulled her in tight where immediate warmth bloomed and fled through the entire room on risen waves of heat that glistened over her pale skin. Amma immediately draped her arms over those broad shoulders as he balanced her on the counter, hardly mindful of what remained there, clattering dishes shoved aside immediately for braced palms. Their heights matched as he leaned in just that much closer to decipher the smoldering glimmer in those eternal eyes of blue that swelled like waves against a shoreline.

“I told him, one more touch and he would be-”

“Burned,” Amma finished on a purring trill, tongue against her pout and muttered against his chin; he smirked, a harsh grin that chiseled through and was punctuated with his teeth that snapped close to her mouth.

“I may like to watch you flirt with others, but when they go to touch what is mine…” Hot breath blew over the perch of her lips, every spindling cord of vermillion and scarlet alighted through their shared gaze as she leaned back, palms on his shoulders and spine curved, pushing herself nearly off the counter to hook her thighs on the arch of his hips pressed close.

“And what about these mundane warriors trying to invade the island? They’re determined to end us. They almost succeeded last time.”

“I’ll burn them all too. Send them away to the bottom of the ocean where The Foundation lies, where Daedalus rots. Raze everyone to the ground that dares to threaten you.” He swore with fingers purchased on the revealing span of skin above her waist. She shook, lips parted around the gasp that spun up from her belly, and whispered:

“You can’t just raze everyone. Everything.She breathed.

“Maybe, but I can certainly try.”

Whatever response was to be had immediately became stolen, sweet breath and fire lancing through their intertwined cores, lips met on harsh gasps and mewling whimpers with an urgency eternally felt and nourished on shared breath through heaving lungs. Calloused palms scorched over pallid thighs that cinched tight against quivering muscles, near bruising force lifting her up with her ankles suddenly crossed at his back. Fire, hot and heavy and ravenous, suddenly burned through her clothes and wreathed through her hair, singeing away threads of black and Canis red; tiny sparks of silver ignited there, too, dancing through the crystalline light of her eyes as she gazed into his –

Strange, she thought; she could’ve sworn her lover’s eyes were –

– blue.


Freedom and bitter uncertainty, blooming passion and hazy arousal, bidden under shadows of resentment, to know him as he was, as he could be, had been, and would ever be. White flowers and crimson sparks converging into one singular construct of a bridge betwixt two souls and the name that floated there–


“Lorcàn?” She inquired, but his heated pants fell against the line of her pale neck, no answer to proffer as she shuddered with open-mouthed kisses descending to devour her rapid pulse. Her gaze dropped to the mirror hung on the opposite wall draped in curling vines of ivy, her body suddenly aglow with scarlet coils as every ounce of power spiraled into a manifest of crackling streaks and ribbons as she looked upon the reflection of…

… herself lying in the dark, bloodied, bruised, and broken. A void of nothingness, a void of death that reigned as truth, even with Lorcán’s voracious appetite against the slick lines of her lithe frame, his clothing burning away on her cries as he pulled her against his flushed body, wed their flesh as one, sensational whorls of red now fled down the muscled lines of his back where faded marks fell under the purchase of her scarlet nails. She met the eyes of her despairing reflection who met her gaze with one of sorrow and immense pain, her expression stricken as those eyes flashed –

Soft dawning filters over resting bodies, lingering caresses with wandering hands, and whispered promises against heated lips.


– they were as one as she had been once upon a time as a reign of true self unknown and sought, realization alighting there as barriers and veils thinned and meshed, as fibers of dawning acknowledgment collided through the mirror of mirrors, of the very fabrics of this world and the next. With outstretched hands, scarred palms of muddled lines of heart, fate, and love–reaching in powerless claims for threads of scarlet that fled onto the vestiges of time eternal through the fabrics of severed realities.

Within and without.

It's time to wake up, my dearest.
He's coming.

Wake up!

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Location: Unknown.
Human #5.040: éternité.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Interaction(s):&
Previously: limbo.

She awoke on a painful rasp, near screams lodged somewhere within, unable to escape, with her spine bowing up with the severity of her lungs inflating with the sudden surge of breath.

There was frigid agony through her entire body, bunched tight and rigid as if frozen entirely in place. Severe cramps and muscles locked tight, everything refusing to budge as if she had been laying, twisted, curled, for so many hours without movement. As if dead and suddenly bequeathed with new life, the cruel endeavor of mortality shorn through her hellacious existence. It was a marvel to move her arms, her legs following in sluggish pursuit, her heart pumping lazily as she fought to breathe without pain. Intense bruises with deeply seeded shades of violet curiously faded into bisque edges that covered her in horrid, jaundiced splotches. The inverted light offered just enough for her to catalog such blemishes, her mind gone hazed and fogged, shadowed as she attempted to piece together her dream.

A dream of dreams that had felt so real.

Amma braced her palms beneath her, feeling the cold muck that had dried, chipping away from her skin, flaking as her breath plumed white in front of her, and heaved herself up, arms trembling with the effort. Pieces of her hair fell forward, clumped together, tangled, thick waves congealed with whatever remained of this pit with streaks of color too dark to be anything else but blood. Hers, though, or something else? It took momentous strength to lift her head, the nape of her neck burning with an awareness of something unnamed as she attempted to study the shadows pulsating around her, undulating waves of black that shifted with delicate spots of light heralded from above with every movement she made. There were more chittering whispers through the gloom, some that fell over one another and others that she could make out clearly with the utterance of her name. It interchanged through each, somehow more guttural as it curled over certain syllables and enunciations of her many callings, more noticeable in hissing words on the finality of Ammaranthe.

She was still aware; perhaps that meant something.

Every so often, between those colliding whispers, she heard the plop and drag of something other, something that, too, carved through the thick mud, blanketed in darkness so thick she couldn’t decipher where it came from even with the soft light above. It echoed around her, never seen, but drawing closer, something cumbersome made through the final ditch of hell that contained her. Or, something that lived here and thrived in the shadows, awaiting her arrival, as confessed by the demented serpent that beheld her very eyes. Amma slowly pushed herself to sit upright, her legs refusing to obey and curiously numb. The effort it took was dragging into precious minutes as the whispering words and dragging noises suddenly stopped. The echoing silence immediately sounded off into a keenly felt and heard ringing that fell betwixt her ears, causing her to remain still; she felt as if prey, and whatever else remained here, was hunting her. Suppose it was a loathed beast, an abomination, purposed to feast upon her for eternity, for all the wrong she had committed, for all the wrong she had yet to do and had been created and meant for. Perhaps it was the gargoyle, still half-mad and half-crazed to finish her, as it had foreseen to drag her into the void with it and now despaired over the ruination of hell sought after.

Or, even still, perchance it was the creature she glimpsed in the Trials, the clink of chains and hated scarlet breath, of the looming shadow it cast and the figure nestled within its claws that had dragged her down and down again into that dreaded room. The roaring despair that summoned her nightmares and the wrath of her waking world, the embodiment of vengeance, omnipotence, and purpose, the woefully betrayed left to rot in the depths below. To what still thrived within her soul of souls, bound eternally to the cage of bone and ashen crowns impaled over a sorrowful brow. The fissures of lament swelled and brewed with the encroaching darkness, and Amma glimpsed within herself to reign over that vessel of hate. She had been lost to the dark for so long and had lent herself to the vestiges of night eternal and shadowed relics of abandonment. Hope was fleeting; hope was a lie.

And none would be found here.

The dragging sounds renewed, heaving ever closer, carved through the muck, plopped, swelled, and rolled. She shuddered and looked over her shoulder where awareness bloomed and rose, cresting over her curved shoulders that fell inward, but then she heard it coming left, then right, her head on a swivel as she tried to track its movements. A quaking drone began through the void of nothingness, an esoteric and eldritch resonation that sounded and shook through the chasm now carrying the languishing wails of the damned. They were moans and screams that sounded like her own, a shimmering veil pulled thin and translucent as she looked yonder and saw herself many times over: tormented, tortured, dead, beloved, forlorn, lost, and nevermore.

“Shut up.” Amma hissed, voice roughly strung over bloodied remains, throat convulsing with the effort. She felt aged somehow, different, wizened by the pain endured as she dug blackened fingers into the mud and hauled herself forward, away from where she assumed the dragging continued to slink and close in on her. The glowing sphere above did not move with her this time. Still, the inverted ribbons of light continued to blaze and descend, casting demented shadows and mocking radiance as she heaved, panted, and fought to quiet her movements as the dragging grew louder. And louder. Puncautated by rasping metal and now warbling snarls. It was taunting her now, loosey unleashing waves of sound as she continued to drag and pull herself through the gloom; she would not make it easy. For if damned to this pit, Amma would not go without a fight. She had lain for however long, and it had not set upon her, for whatever reason, it deemed her unworthy of pursuit until now, and so be it, she thought. Let it give chase. Vague and rusted hinges creaked and moved, keys turning to unlock more of her memories spurred by the image of her mother before her as home. The mirror of mirrors of one garbed in a white gown, veiled and bloodied and weeping, and the other smiling, arms encased in ruby roses and glistening ivy, a crown of thorns and one of bone.

If you find yourself lost in the chasm
For whatever reason, you got there
Follow the lights, for they will guide
You out. Some things lost are left
As guides, some come to others
As familiars. And some that appear
As spheres of light eternally lost
Death is only the beginning, mon cœur

I just pray you never have to see it
As I have.

A wailing screech sounded, and she recognized it then and there as an echo of hunger that she had heard before, one that had claimed the ruined soul of another—a sound of death. In the shadowed moonlight during the haunting hour, where Amma Cahors had saved Lorcán Roth and admitted to the encompassing heart of her humanity, it called to her with fiendish whorls of rot that spread through the ground; she could feel it encroaching rapidly as she dragged and heaved and pulled, feeling her nails crack and bend and splinter. It demanded what ragged remains there were of her soul, her heart, her spirit malformed and tantalizing in the desperation that compounded it. Darkness finally descended as she came away from the ring of inverted light, allowing the blanket of the unknown to envelop her as she struggled to breathe through the cold that speared through her lungs, an ache found there as ice stabbed through her very marrow. Amma curled her palm against her chest, feeling every rung of her ribs as she fought to contain her harsh, panting breaths. Why fight, she thought despairingly, why struggle through this eternal pit? She was lost, thrown, and tossed into the dark once again, where she had been molded and formed as a forsaken child of power undone. Where years had bled away into nothing, and time become unknowing and cruel. Why? There was nothing and no one; she was lost once again, and there would be no hand to reach through to provide her solace. There would be no hand to flit across crisp bed sheets to enmesh with her own.

Yet still, she fought, her legs finally complying as she shoved and pulled herself into the dark, her muscles screaming as she stood to her full height, her dress heels lost and forgotten, her soles cracked and bloodied as muck sopped and yanked at her ankles. Amma nearly fell as she began to move, a heightened sense of adrenaline fueling her blood. She looked through the dark and saw the figure dragging through the shadows, hunting after her sorrows and taunting her anguish. Somehow, she knew it and yet did not, but the yellow eyes that fell upon her promised nothing but eternal pain, and when a viperish maw split open and wailed, Amma ran.

If this was her eternal hell, then she had to navigate it on her own, for even if there was no redemption in sight and she was forever lost to purgatory, she would not let the farthest depths of hell forget her name just as the world had been beholden to her power elsewhere. Through a mirror of mirrors, she had seen herself lost to the wiles of love and lust, as she had seen once before through a glimpse of screens onto another life. Somewhere, she as herself had been and never was; she had been happy and wanted, beloved, a sacred term felt through a heart seen and known.

Amma fell once, twice, and screamed on the impact of both palms and knees as another keening wail of appetence peeled through the void and fled through her bones. Still, it only spurred her on, even as she half dragged herself through the cold, black, swampish remains and fled further into the abyss, knowing not what awaited her. Somewhere in the pitch of black before her, she glimpsed a singular thread of crimson unspooling through shadow, leading to nowhere as a glimmering coil of scarlet and then a delicate sphere of orange that tailed after it, pulsating as a heart would, rapid and fleeting.

Keep running!
They’re coming for you.
Just a little more!

“Who?!” Amma cried, pain heralding through her limbs as she struggled to keep moving, falling once again and unable to catch her fall, the impact splitting her lip and tongue as she bit down. A soft scream feathered from her throat as blood filled her mouth, coppery and warm. Why was death so painful? Why could she not just languish for eternity and lament over life and love lost?

Because this is only the beginning, we still have so much more to do.
“Shut the fuck up!”

That damned voice that haunted her every day and every night that now followed her unto death and continued to taunt her with both truth and lies. Amma screamed, blood trickling freely over the pout of her lip as she pushed off from the ground and ran after that fleeting tendril of red, after that orange light that had slowly begun to fade with that delicate chime of a young girl blooming through her heart to lead her yonder into the dark. Another splitting screech sounded, now more than one, fueled by the scent of her blood as deep chuffing sounds erupted through the shadows and frenzied themselves on the potential of her downfall as she fled. The fated string suddenly spun off to the left, and Amma chased after it with all that remained of her strength. But then it suddenly winked out, but she would not be undone as she clamored after it, fingers arched, splayed, clawing through the void as one of the pursuing creatures leaped. Horrid, white-hot agony lanced down her leg suddenly, and she cried, the putrid scent of decay surrounding her in a fog of rot. It was death once more coming to drag her away, but Amma kicked out, screaming as needles punctured into her thigh, bleeding over ink and scars and piercing deep beyond flesh and into muscle. She had endured endless torture under the hands of another; this was nothing compared to the thousand upon a thousand needles Amma had been subjected to in the true pit of despair. She tore her nails through taut flesh, sinew, and blood and bone giving way beneath her assault as she pulled her leg free; she did not dare look upon her mangled limb and limped away as the creature screeched after her, renewed in its hunt as it stalked after her flailing retreat.

She did not dare stop even as she fell once more, dragging herself through the muck again, a ridge of bone clamping down upon the pout of her split lip, her screams of pain clawing through her throat before plummeting into the depths of her heart where they festered. She did not dare…

… hope.

Hope to make it out.

She saw the orange light flicker and dip into a crevice in the dark where a small crack formed and swelled with crimson light, beckoning her, calling for her in a sweet voice. Amma lunged for it and met hard glass and rock that chipped away under her palms as she clawed through it, wedging herself through the hole and further into the unknown darkness. The compressing walls shuddered and quaked around her as the dreaded creatures lost sight and smell of her, howling and wailing with their prey suddenly taken from them. She could feel her body growing slick and heavy, cumbersome as exhaustion pulled away at her with blood loss, her leg flaring madly with pain. She dared not stop, though, and pulled her body through, crawling on her belly, sharp edges of stone burrowing deep into her sides as she gasped, fighting for breath and against the claustrophobia that fell in and threatened to crush her along with her eternal fear of the dark.

But there, she finally saw a glimmer of red, more than that fated string, an all-encompassing herald of light that shone upon her and compelled her forward. Amma nearly wept as it became easier to move, rising to her hands and knees as the hole expanded and allowing more room, but the more she crawled and ventured, the slower she moved as a sliver in the obsidian rock yawned ahead, permitting her to stand finally. On shaking, bleeding legs, Amma stood, lost somewhere in the face of a cliff that howled with a demented tune, a song of loss and forlorn life as she looked yonder to crashing waves, a sea suspended into turmoil and donned a shade of dark crimson. She looked down; massive spires of rock were held below, familiar and yet jagged as if the fangs of a fossilized beast were carved into the sediment as a yawning maw. Everything was beholden to a sanguine hue, and Amma trembled as she looked up and beheld the scarlet moon above her, her mother’s voice whispering through her mind.

Just remember, mon cœur, should you ever see a red moon…
...Run far, far away.
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Hidden 7 days ago Post by Skai
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Skai Bean Queen

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It's Haven, Harps
Do you have service there?
Call me if you can

- Delivered 9:02am

Rora, it’s Haven
We're ok. Found a place to stay that looks peaceful
How's Crestwood? Have you heard from the others?
Send Lor's number for Rory

- Delivered 9:08am




Location: Small Town - Canada
Human: #5.041 A Place to Nest

Interaction(s): Rory @Webboysurf
Previously: Scary Love


The sound of rock and detritus crunched under the tires of an old Ford as it slowly made its way through the forest. Bright hues of yellow stood out where aspens stood tall and proud. Sprinkled between them sat dark green pines that were just now beginning to drop their brown needles. It was a four minute drive from the edges of town to reach their destination, and conversation was sparse between the occupants within.

Haven sat passenger side with her head tilted just out of the open window, her green and golds soaking in the land that surrounded them. Rory next to her, nearly squished between herself and the driver on the truck’s bench seat. She’d been quiet the entire ride. Uncomfortable where she sat with her back against the seat like any normal person would. Her mind had become strangely quiet the moment they traded pavement for gravel.

The man driving owned the land they drove through. He was a tall, gangly sort that dressed in flannel, jeans, and steel toed boots, and went by his last name, Miller. His skin was weathered and wrinkled with time, hands calloused from years of hard work, but he still had a quiet liveliness to him that kept him active. He wasn’t kind, or rude, but straightforward and honest. The kind of man that didn’t ask questions, and didn’t want any questions sent his way in turn. Still, he seemed to have a sense about him that would let him know when he was being fibbed to.

His and Rory’s conversation was simple. Mostly just Rory nodding along with whatever Miller decided to impart upon them. Facts about the land. The places they could find a creek running through the property, favorite spots where Miller had shot doe, bucks, rabbits, and even a moose. Tips about how it gets there in the winter, which would be upon them within a month. How they’d have enough wood to last it in the shed out back as long as they kept the fire going steady, but next year they’d need to chop the wood in the summer to replace it.

If they were still there by next winter.

“This property has been in my family for generations. Lots of memories in the place. It was my huntin’ cabin for a while, before my eyes went bad.” He’d told them yesterday when he showed them the quaint cabin. “It has good bones, and the water heater’s got a couple more good years on it. Just needs a good clean through and it’ll make a good home for a young couple like yourselves.”

The couple had felt their cheeks blush at that statement. They’d been honest when they met him, without giving away the full story of course. They were a young couple looking for a fresh start. Somewhere peaceful, where they could heal from an accident that left Rory in his wheelchair. No mention of a school for gifted people, no trials or mad scientists that left them weary souls, and no monster that broke both of their bodies.

No wings. No powers. No hypegene whatsoever.

Just two people looking to start a new life together.

They’d found Miller’s ad in a local newspaper. It was sitting right on the table they’d taken a seat at, settled in a cozy corner of a small diner where they chose to have brunch the day before. They were meant to eat, stretch their legs and arms, and take the next bus headed east by lunchtime. They’d stayed in the small town’s motel the night before.

After an hour of filling their bellies, sipping on coffee and OJ throughout, and discussing what it would mean to settle down so soon, their decision to look into it was made. They gave the man a call and met him that afternoon.

As the pair laid in bed later that evening, Rory massaging the tenderness out of her aching back, they considered their options. It was both troubling and a relief to settle down so soon. How far from Dundas Island was far enough? Was it wiser to go closer to The Foundation, or stay somewhere in between both?

They’d been traveling for days. Long hours were spent cramped on a bus with no wheelchair accessibility. Haven had to ask for help each time; no normal woman could carry a man like Rory onto the bus herself. They’d heard enough about the hype-hate spreading across Canada to keep their wits about them. If they decided to move on it would be more grumbling bus drivers that had to help load them on, and more money spent on tickets and motel rooms.

Would it be smarter to stay in a city? Where they could get lost in the crowds, where there might be more sympathy for hyperhumans. Then again, it would be harder to hide Haven’s peculiarity. They weren’t sure they could afford a place that would allow them privacy. Haven would have to keep her back covered at all times. She’d already started to wrap the nubs down like she’d done years ago, and the pain of it was all too familiar.

So they decided to take a chance on the small town.

It hadn’t felt like a happy decision. The kind where the young couple is filled with excitement about their first place together. Haven and Rory didn’t have that kind of luxury. It didn’t feel like they were making a wrong choice, either. In the end they agreed that it was a safe decision to make. Well, about as safe as it could be for the couple. Haven hadn’t felt safe in her skin since she’d been kidnapped, and Rory seemed to feel the same way for her. The only thing he had to worry about himself was that he’d been on H.E.L.P.’s watchlist. Which, considering H.E.L.P. was on a lifeline at this point, didn’t seem like much to worry about.

Choosing the cabin would mean a solid roof above their heads. A place to unpack their things and settle into. The solitude of it, being out of the town limits, would be a place for them to truly be themselves in a world that despised hypes. A place where Haven could show the feathering nubs on her back without peering eyes. A place where they continue to kindle their love, through the good and the bad feelings that came with the pains of what they went through. It was a chance to heal their bodies and souls together. A place that they could call home.

It wouldn’t be the first time Haven had lived in a cabin in the woods, anyways. Driving through the forest now, it felt like she was returning to how her life had been before PRCU. A homecoming. As if this was the life meant for her all along. The quiet of the forest around them seemed to settle in her bones already.

As the truck rolled to a stop, Haven looked over the cabin. It was simple in appearance, built of dark wooded logs. The front was adorned by two windows, their trims painted a dark green that matched the paint of the door at the center of the structure. Two windows provided more natural light inside on each side of the house. The back wall only had a window for the bathroom.

A covered porch extended five feet from the front door with a single log railing surrounding it supported by four banisters. Three stairs sat at the center of the porch to take you right towards the door. On the right side there sat two wood chairs, and on the left there was a bench made of the same tree. The entire structure seemed to have been handmade many years ago.

A chimney, made out of the same stone used for the foundation, poked out of the slanted roof above the left side of the door. Its chimney cap had also been painted the same dark green to match the accents, and black stains licked the sides of it where the smoke had filtered through it. It provided heat for the inside, which was simply one large room with a bathroom walled off in the corner.

It had character, it had history, and Haven was beginning to feel like it would become a true home for them in no time at all.

A warm feeling bloomed in her chest as she opened the passenger side door and set her boots onto the gravel. Her soft smile that grew with it aimed inside the truck at Rory, before she turned to get his wheelchair out of the bed of the truck. He’d scooted to the edge of the seat by the time she returned. She nearly called for Miller to help, but he was already stubbornly easing himself from the seat before she could. So Haven feigned a breathy grunt as she helped him into the chair, and shook her head as she turned back to the bed.

Miller was already there to help grab their bags, which Haven gratefully took from him as he handed them to her. Her eyes turned back to the forest while she made her way to the porch. The wilderness was already calling to her. She could hear it in the wind as it rustled the leaves, and in the branches as they creaked back and forth. The chilly caress of the wind against her skin, and the fresh air in her lungs, already made her feel at ease. She wanted to take a long walk among the trees, explore the property, maybe find that creek Miller mentioned, and immerse herself in the forest. She wanted to get lost in the yellows and greens and browns.

I bet it looks beautiful from above.

Her attention was brought back to the present as she reached the porch. She set their bags down on the top step. Her lucky Jansport looked like it had been there its entire life. She turned to stand next to Rory where he’d stopped his wheelchair. He was already handing the cash for their first month's rent over. Haven looked at the small stack and couldn’t help but feel a small pang of guilt. Her money had run out the first day. Rory’s money, on the other hand, had continued to provide for their journey. He was using the money left to him by his parents. He had no trouble using it for them, and Haven was grateful for it, but she still couldn’t sit back for long. She’d already been looking for help wanted signs as they drove through town today.

Miller offered the keys to the cabin and shed on one metal keyloop in exchange for the cash, and the two men shook hands to seal the agreement. The cabin was theirs, for now, and for a pretty good deal too. Haven offered a grateful smile towards the older man, who gave her a brief smile in return before adjusting the worn ballcap on his head.

“Well, I’ll let you two settle in. Call if you got any questions. I’ll stay out of your business otherwise.” He’d already turned for his truck where he’d left it running. He reached the door to give them and the place one last look over before climbing inside. Soon he was turning around in the driveway, and the sound of tires crunching on gravel disappeared down the road along with him.

Haven patiently waited until even her ears could hardly hear it, and then turned to Rory with a smile on her face. Wordlessly she held her hand out for the keys, which were placed in her hand with a similar smile from her partner. She grinned then, and grabbed their bags as she took the few steps to get onto the porch. The floorboards creaked under her boots as she crossed it. She inspected the keys as she stood in front of the door, trying to remember which went to the cabin and which went to the shed, before she stuck one in and heard the clicks of it sliding into perfect place.

It swung open wide as she turned the knob and pushed, revealing the sparsely furnished interior. Light filtered into the room from the windows. A thin layer of dust rested on the floor and furniture, and she could see the places they’d unsettled it as they looked inside the day before. A small kitchen sat to the left of the room. It had a window above the sink that looked out into the open forest. A cabinet sat under the sink, connected to the cabinet under an open countertop that sat between the sink and a stovetop oven, which was placed next to an equally old fridge nestled into the corner. Shelves lined the wall between the window and fridge, already full of plates, cups, and bowls. The cabin had a backdoor in the kitchen area as well, covered by a portico that looked exactly like the front porch. Walking out of it would point them in the direction of a small shed nestled between the trees behind the cabin.

A four person wood table sat between the kitchen and the living area, which also sat in front of the stone fireplace. The living area to the right had the bathroom tucked into the back left corner. The living area itself was really just a log bed and a single rocking chair, which sat beside the door. To Haven, it was all they really needed to live happily.

She set their bags down in front of the rocking chair. The door beside her still hung wide open. Her mind was already focused on the task of getting Rory onto the porch as she turned round, but it quieted in subtle shock the moment she faced him.

There he stood on the top of the steps with one hand on the banister. Tall, dark, and handsome. With a little strain in the way he flexed his jaw and furrowed his brows. It wasn't the first time he stood since the dance, but to have walked up three steps to get there without her help was an incredible feat for him. Her heart swelled within her chest as she looked him over, and she smiled wide as he finally looked her way.

She swiftly crossed the porch to plant a kiss on his lips. Her hands steadied him by the shoulders so that he wouldn't topple backwards. It was passionate, but quick. Enough to let him know how she felt without words. She wasn't sure how much longer he could hold it alone.

When she pulled away, she stepped to his right and slid herself under his arm to support his weight for him. Her left arm wrapped around his torso to hold him upright as he let go of the banister. She could already see his legs beginning to shake, but she held firm as she looked up at him from under the crook of his arm. Her pride shined in her eyes as she spoke softly.

“Let’s walk inside together.”
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Hidden 7 days ago Post by Hound55
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Hound55 Create-A-Hero RPG GM, Blue Bringer of BWAHAHA!

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He snored with his eyes open.

"Hey! Hey! You're not asleep, asshole! I know you heard me!"

Banjo snored louder, the sides of his mouth curled into a broad smile.

"I said 'Put your goddamn seat up!' I know you're awake!"

He made eye contact with the flight attendant, and raised his eyebrows and gestured 'two' mouthing the word and raising his fingers for two of the small bottles of Jack Daniels from her cart. Before returning to snore.

"Hey! I saw that! Put your seat up!"

Banjo curled up and snored, whilst the back of his seat was repeatedly kicked until it did actually rock him to sleep.

The smile never left his face.

It would be the last smile which would be there for quite some time.


________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Location: The Foundation and Various En Route - Present
Human #5.042: Midnight Man
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Interaction(s): Former P.R.C.U transfers to The Foundation
Previously: Do You See What I See? / Nothing Left to Burn



The ocean-forced isolation was intense, and was experienced immediately.

As he stepped forward to feel the sea mist hitting him in the face, his first thoughts went to whether bringing the horse here was the humane thing after all.

He'd worn a black band T-shirt repping 'The Vines' and their 'Highly Evolved' album. When the bundle of white scrubs were thrust into his chest, he grimaced. The people doing so offered no conversation. No conversation, they were presumably trained, would lend itself to less argument. Silent arms pointed the way to where they were to progress.

The silence they had been instilled with was a brittle one, however.

Silent until they were very much not. Outbursts were met with quick reprisal.

The exact kind of situation which would normally see Banjo shattered upon the rocks.

But he NEEDED to get in here.

In over twenty years he hadn't needed anyone or anything. But justice didn't exist outside of these walls, and right now that was all he had left.

Justice, a pony, a footlocker full of two decades worth of accumulated shit and a rage which could burn him from the inside out, if permitted.

Zimmerman seemed perplexed by the scrubs, but shrugged and pushed onwards. Assuming it was part of the initial boarding and orientation process, perhaps they took quarantine seriously. These were people isolated from much of the world, maybe they lacked the same immunities to land-borne disease?

They dressed without conflict, Banjo made a mental point of the sterile decor much akin to what he'd seen projected in the Trials.

They loathed the Houses. The Teams.

Was this because they truly believed in individuality? Or was it just more easy to bend and mold a person alone, than when they seek the security of the pack? The strength of collaborative effort?

Now, more than ever, he felt he played his situation with Katja right.

He couldn't see her anywhere, but he hoped she hadn't done anything... well, anything he would do... when going through this 'introduction' herself.

He could think of little more valuable than numbers right now, and began to wonder if the isolation and reputation he'd been more than willing to lean into at P.R.C.U wouldn't bite him in the arse NOW when he might need to be able to find people to trust and depend on, and have those people feel for half a second they could actually trust and depend on him.

Crazy. A joker. A joke.

“When you have changed, please deposit your personal belongings to the right for inspection. Everything that passes inspection will be returned to your assigned room. When you have completed this, please line up for your student identification.”

After a half a second's hesitation he deposited the contents of his pockets where directed.

I just got this bloody phone...

It mattered not. He NEEDED to get in, after all. It raised his blood, but he wasn't going to have it be a sticking point.

“Please place your left wrist in the hole to your left, underside facing up.” He heard the attendant utter, further ahead in the queue.

“Next.” The delivery flat as a tack.

All within the line took their turns, having pain inflicted upon them, grabbing the hand at the wrist on the way out. Next. Ahead of him in the line, he spotted it.

A barcode. Burnt into the flesh.

The person ahead of him stepped forward with no small amount of anxiety, she tried to resist and her arm was thrust within.

“Next.”

"Alright, hold up... Are we talkin' a brand here, or some kind of laser? I'm not resistin'--"

His arm was grabbed and stuffed in the hole. He made no effort to struggle. "--I'm not resistin'. I'm just askin' cos I don't want my powers to trigger on instinct and make ya have ta-- Hnng!"

The laser started burning his skin.

"Do it twice... Never mind. Laser, eh?" He stuffed his tongue deep in his cheek, and screwfaced.

The boy who was burned repeatedly by the sadistic teacher of his youth wouldn't permit him to make anymore disruption than the initial surprise of when the laser hit his flesh. It took a concerted effort to not juice and absorb all the heat of an implement like a cigar, cigarette or branding iron, but the concentrated heat of the laser seemd more than he would have been able to take on even if he was ready.

This was just another burn. Another power-hungry teacher. Another sadist. The role bred a will to power, why would Banjo ever be surprised?

It burnt. More than the cigarettes. More than the cigar. But he refused to let it be anything more than just another burn.

“Next.”

He wouldn't grab his wrist. He wouldn't whimper. He turned his hand to check the print and the ten digit number they'd denoted him with and then a horrible thought drifted across his mind.

I'm gonna have to do this all bloody over again, when juicin' makes the scar tissue fade, aren't I?

The burning took a nagging tone, ever antagonising the front of his mind. Reminding him of its existence, the way pain only could. But refusing to dwell he stepped forward into the common space, somewhere behind him his roommates were being processed, but his attention needed to be here now.

His eyes scanned the upper deck and the faces of Foundation regulars who were curious about what the newcomers from P.R.C.U had to offer and it took Banjo's complete attention. He kept scanning the faces, committing them to memory.

If Daedalus had no knowledge of where Haven was going, and was still somewhere within the Foundation, wouldn't he take an interest in every dropoff of new students in case she numbered amongst them?

If that was the case, would he be amongst them?

He considered it unlikely... but not necessarily someone who might work for him.

The thread which would lead back to the man.

His face held no humour, no mirth. Eyes that looked like they could burn a barcode into a man, scoured those raised in assembly. More than a few directed their attention elsewhere, either finding him disconcerting or not fit for purpose.

"Whoa... That's them!"

The voice came from behind him. Zimmerman had presumably finished being processed, and was distracted enough by some large banners featuring the pride of the Foundation, that he'd forgotten all about whatever pain he'd just endured.

"I-- uh--- probably should have warned you about that. The comics used to use like these communicards that the Force had to confirm their ID and stuff, but I mean... they're comics. I'd read that wasn't what they go with in a letters section, but-- well-- yeah. Sorry."

If Zimmerman was in anyway disturbed by the reality which surrounded them, it didn't show at all on his face.

Banjo wasn't sure if that was something to be comforted by, or very much not.

Banjo looked back up to the upper deck after the brief distraction and saw some faces missing. He furrowed his brow and tried to figure out who had left. Had Daedalus' man not seen who they were looking for and gone to pass the message on that Haven wasn't in this load of students either? Or had he gone to tell him about the presence of another? Or was it just coincidental... an irrelevancy.

“Keep it moving!” The yell came from behind them, another attendant directing them out of the common space.

“You’re to report to temporary holding.” He ordered, “Solitary until evaluations are complete. When the door opens, you’re free to report to your quarters.”

Solitary... I could do solitary standing on my head. Doin' me a favour, takin' me away from these other jokers and givin' me time to think about everythin'.

The path ahead gave way to a hallway with a series of doors on either side.

Only about a metre between the centre of each door.

Something about this... didn't seem right, Banjo realised.

The mathematics, unless some're deeper and then wind around... with different antechambers. There's not enough--

A door was opened and he was directed inside.

Oh you miserable bloody arsewipes...

The boy in the box entered, and turned and sat on the bench in his metre squared recession. To call it a room would have been to do these Foundation fucks a service they had not earned.

Seconds later the lights went out. Terror and darkness enveloped the boy in the box.

It had been twenty years. He couldn't hush his breathing anymore, as the darkness swept through, poured in like a torrent.

His voice made an ugly wheezing noise, that sounded like it was coming from outside of him.

"Banjo-- Banjo, are you OK?" Came a voice ever in need of being helpful.

But it was imagined, wasn't it? It had to be. This was soundproofed. And if he knew anything in this world he knew that the darkness lied.

The darkness lied and it had a cruel laugh. It had horns.

It just wanted to see his weakness. To find it so it could mock and exploit it.

He--he couldn't breathe! The darkness was too thick! Like treacle, it oozed. It wasn't breathable! It was--

He pressed himself up against the sides of the box and wheezed.

Fuck! You! You Fuckin' Fucks!

His breath scraped and rasped as he wheezed. Trying to kill him?

The darkness held cruel mirth and would devour--

No.

His breathing didn't sharpen or clear, but his mind came back into focus.

THIS darkness doesn't have a presence.

He wheezed, but he'd live.

THIS darkness doesn't have horns.

He'd hate it, but he needed it. He needed what it would get him.

THIS darkness wasn't lying. Wasn't looking to mock and break him.

With teeth gritted, the boy in the box beared down.

Banjo didn't peek. He threw himself to the darkness. He ran the faces in the upper deck and tried to remmeber who was missing the second time.

Trying to draw clarity of thought from a moment of distraction, or distraction from a moment clear of thought.

All the while Banjo worked, trying to keep one thought from worming its way into his skull.

...that they never said how long this evaluation would take.
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Hidden 7 days ago Post by Lord Wraith
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Lord Wraith Actually Three Otters in a Trenchcoat

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________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Location: The Foundation Institute - Atlantic Ocean
Human #5.043: Unnatural Selection
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Interaction(s): None
Previously: Madness

An indeterminate amount of time passed that could have been anywhere from hours to days before the doors to the cells finally opened. Pungent smells erupted into the narrow hallway of soiled clothing, vomit and other bodily excretions. The white uniforms did nothing to hide the shame of those who hadn’t been able to hold out and a hose was dragged up and down the hallway before the students were stripped and sprayed down.

Those who had endured the time in the chamber with no incidents were handed a new set of clothing and permitted to use the facilities to change. Of the students from Pacific Royal, those who endured were primarily upperclassmen, the younger students having suffered the humiliation and degradation. The white uniforms were taken away from those who had been sprayed down by the hose, and in their place, they were given tan-coloured clothing. Those who had permitted temporary leave instead were given new black uniforms that were far more flattering. While the previous outfits and even the tan-coloured ones were more akin to scrubs, the black uniforms aligned more with those worn by the students who had leered at them prior to their solitary.

These black uniforms proudly bore a ‘Φ’ atop the right breast, while the tan uniforms were denoted with a ‘Δ’ on the left bicep. The groups were segregated into two lines, attendants walking between the students and aligned them into two single file lines.

Marched through another series of maze-like hallways, they exited one pod, walking over the temporary connection point as it bounced above the waves before entering into another series of connected pods and emerging into a large dining hall amidst welcoming cheers.

Or more aptly, welcoming jeers as the existing student body recognized the arrival of tonight’s entertainment.

Like sharks circling, the students recognized fresh blood in the water. The pounding of silverware against tables echoed around the former Pacific Royal students as they were marched to a series of elevated tables, placed at the head of the room. Those who had the privilege of being adorned in the black uniforms were given the highest seats, overlooking the tan-adorned students who were seated in cascading rows beneath them.

Every eye in the room was on the new students and the doors to the kitchen were suddenly flung open overwhelming the otherwise sterile room with enticing aromas of freshly prepared food.

Their attention was suddenly diverted as the main doors at the opposite end were opened by the attendants and a lone figure entered. A mane of silver hair perfectly matched the well groomed beard that shaped his jaw line into a fine point as piercing eyes studied every student in the room. He was dressed in a fine three piece suit, leaning heavily on a cane while taking his deliberate steps forward. Despite the implied frailty, fear fell over the room at the sight of Dr. William Montgomery.

He came to a stop in the center of the room, shifting his weight before tucking his cane under his arm and lifting his hands. His palms came together, the echo of his clap reverberating through the room before the other students followed his lead as he applauded towards the Pacific Royal transfers.

“Welcome to our humble abode,” Montgomery called, his eyes moving from one transfer to the next until he had personally laid eyes on each and every new student.

“I understand, it’s not quite the lavish lifestyle you’ve all grown comfortable with.” He smiled towards those adorned in the black uniforms, his eyes only just glancing over the rest.

“My name is Dr. William Montgomery,” He introduced himself, “I am the ‘Mind’ behind the Foundation Institute, its curriculum and the strategic advancements of the Foundation. Unlike what you’re used to, I’m sure you’d consider my methods to be cold, cruel even, but I’m afraid they get results and they get results quickly. Mr. Nakamura himself has personally approved each and every one of my methods.”

“Those of you currently bearing your ‘Phi’ proudly are off to a great start and are on the path towards becoming a ‘Force’ to be reckoned with.” He smiled again towards the students in black, “The rest of you, have a lot more to overcome.” Montgomery added, addressing those in Tan before turning to the room.

“That said, we have newcomers and that calls for a feast!” He shouted as the banging of silver resumed until Montgomery waved his hand, immediately stilling the noise.

“Due in part to a generous donation from the incoming P.R.C.U. students, our chefs were able to prepare you a delicious and fresh meal. A completely authentic Polpette di Cavallo con Salmoriglio.”

Plates of noodles topped with tantalizing meatballs were brought forth and placed in front of every student while fizzling flutes of sparkling juice selected to be paired with the meal were sat down alongside the dish.

“Naturally, it is up to our esteemed guests of honour to have the first taste after which the rest of you can eat.” Montgomery stated, lifting a flute of sparkling juice from a nearby waiter before turning to the Pacific Royal students. “I do hope that the food is prepared to your liking, it would be a shame to cast a cloud over such a momentous occasion. The Foundation and Pacific Royal, finally together.”

“But first, a toast to new beginnings.” He raised his glass, waiting for the room to follow suit before tipping it back to his lips.

“Now, then, you all must be starving,” Montgomery smiled, “Please, enjoy and let the rest of us know if our chefs prepared an adequate meal.”
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Hidden 7 days ago 7 days ago Post by Qia
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Qia A Little Weasel

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_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Location: Strigidae Dorm - P.R.C.U.
Human #5.044: The Prodigal Daughter
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Interaction(s): N/A
Previously: In the Absence of Light


Her aunt’s voice filled the small, still space of her soon-to-be former dorm room, wrapping around her with a warmth that seeped into corners of Harper’s mind she hadn’t realized, until now, had felt so empty. The faint sounds in the background—the soft clinks and quiet shuffling—painted an image of Barbara moving through the living room, perhaps dusting off the coffee table where Harper used to sit, scribbling out math problems or scribbling lines of history notes. Each sound brought a flood of memories crashing back, carrying her to when she was just a fourteen year old girl.

That house had practically gathered her up, catching each piece of her fragile, broken self, and had pieced her together when she’d felt like little more than shards and edges.

“Now, I’ve gone and set up the spare room for you already,” her aunt Barbara continued, her voice bright with a familiar energy Harper had grown up hearing. “Pulled out that old quilt from the closet and even got John to replace the blinds. He says he wants it ‘just right’ for when you get here. Thought he’d fall off the ladder, the old fool.” Her aunt’s chuckle rippled through the phone, filling the silence with an ease that felt like home itself.

The scene she described played out in Harper’s mind with a vividness that surprised her. She could see it as clearly as if she were standing in that spare room right now, with the quilt her aunt had stitched together, blinds pulled down to shade her from the bright Southern sun.

A space that felt suspended in time, waiting just for her.

Her lips curved into a faint smile, almost without permission, as her thumb traced slow, absent-minded circles over her phone screen. For a moment, it was so easy to let herself sink into that vision, to imagine walking into that familiar warmth, where nothing seemed to ask more of her than just being there.

But then, like a shadow cast over that warm picture, a different voice sounded in the back of her mind, interrupting the comforting illusion of choice.

Her own voice. Mocking her.

“I don’t exactly have a line of people volunteering to carry me off to paradise.”

She’d tossed those words out with a casual bitterness, half-joking, a thin shield thrown up in front of Banjo’s well-meaning questions. But now, as she felt her aunt’s steady, unconditional love radiating through every word, the truth in her own remark stung. Her old home was still there, waiting for her—a place she could return to and, in some ways, lose herself in. Just slip back into the ease of it, the comfort of not having to reach, to strain.

And for a moment, she was tempted, almost ready to let herself fall into that safety, that simplicity. But the tug of it felt wrong, didn’t it?

Just because it was safe, just because it would be easy, didn’t make it the right path for her.


Even if her vision came back, Harper would still be, in more ways than one, blind.

“And your uncle’s been fussin’ about what to do with that old dresser of yours,” her aunt went on, her voice dipping into a softer, more reflective tone. “He keeps sayin’ it’s too small for someone ‘bout to start life proper. Thinks you need somethin’ with more drawers, more space. Said maybe he’ll get you one of those tall ones, sturdy as a rock.”

Her aunt’s words held more than a casual suggestion about a new piece of furniture.

They were laced with an invitation, a silent hope that reached beyond the phone, like a hand extended in the dark.

“Come home…”

“Settle back in.”


“Let the pieces you left here find their way back to you.”


And, most of all,

stay a while longer this time.



Harper didn’t answer immediately.

“Harper Rae?”her aunt’s voice floated through the phone again. “You still there, sweetheart?”

The sound of that name, one she hadn’t heard in so long, pulled her back to the present.

Harper blinked.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here,” she replied, her tone softer than she intended. “But…you guys really didn’t have to go through all that trouble.”

Her aunt’s laugh brushed off Harper’s protest as if it were the silliest thing she’d ever heard.

“Trouble? Now, don’t you start on that,” she replied. “You know we’ve got nothing but time and love to give—especially for you, dear.”

It was the kind of love that didn’t ask for anything in return. No strings attached, no hidden expectations.

Just…there.

Harper had once marveled at it, that feeling of belonging given so freely, unconditionally, even though her aunt and uncle weren’t bound to her by blood. They’d taken her in, made her feel whole, like she was enough, just as she was.

But maybe that was why, when she’d turned eighteen, she’d felt the pull to leave. The need to forge her own path without those considerate hands always ready to catch her if she stumbled.

“Besides,” her aunt chimed in, “the room needed a little sprucing up anyway. Just imagine, you’ll have everything right there waiting—everything just like it used to be, almost.”

“Yeah…that sounds nice.” The words slipped out with a warmth Harper couldn’t quite hide, a small confession wrapped in nostalgia. She could almost feel the weight of the old quilt her aunt had mentioned, smell the faint scent of coffee lingering in the kitchen. It was the kind of safety she’d once taken for granted, a memory she could sink into if only she allowed herself to fall back into that comfort.

She took a slow, steadying breath, the kind that kept her from saying too much too quickly.

“Actually… there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Oh?” Her aunt’s voice came through with a subtle strain wrapped in maternal worry—and maybe even a hint of disappointment. It was as if Barbara already knew, sensing the direction of this conversation before Harper had even finished speaking.

They’d been down this road before, after all.

“I… I’ve been thinking,” Harper continued, letting the words come slowly, carefully, as if shaping them out loud would make her conviction clearer, more real. “About what I need right now. And as much as I want to come back… I think I need to try something else first.”

A pause stretched like a wall between them until a sigh from the other end filled it.

“Oh… well, I can’t say I’m not a little disappointed,” Barbara admitted, her tone gentle but laced with an unmistakable resignation. “What changed your mind?”

“I’m… sorry. I know it probably doesn’t make much sense, and I wish I could just—" Harper stopped, feeling the urge to retreat, to pull back and tell her aunt what she wanted to hear.

But no, that wasn’t fair—to either of them.

“I wish I could just… let myself come back. But there’s this part of me that feels like… like I’ll never really grow if I don’t do this.”

Barbara’s silence filled the line once again, and when she finally spoke her voice seemed to hold the kind of patience that came from a life of nurturing spaces for others to grow.

“You know,” Barbara began gently, “when you left years ago…well, I told John that was just you wanting to find your own way. And it wasn’t easy to see you go, but deep down, I knew it was what you needed.” Her tone softened further, like she was peeling back a layer of herself she hadn’t before. “Maybe it’s selfish of me, but having you here, with Sierra off doing her own thing… well, it made this old house feel a little more like family. Gave us something to hold on to, I guess. To work towards.”

Harper’s grip tightened on the phone, her throat tightening, too, at the quiet way Barbara’s words reached out to her. It was so subtle, the way her aunt hinted at things Harper knew they’d never really discussed about that quiet living room she was probably sitting in now.

A place that had seen so many years pass in the hopes that someone might come in and fill it with laughter, with footsteps, with family.

She knew, without needing to ask, that her aunt hadn’t filled those rooms just for her sister and her. She’d done it to fill her own life, too, finding a family where she could.

“But I want you to know,” Barbara continued, “that whatever it is you’re after, whatever it is you need to do… I’ll be here, Harper. You go and find your way. Just… make sure you come back when you’re ready.”

The depth of her aunt’s words washed over her, filling her with a kind of understanding that left her momentarily speechless. It wasn’t just permission to go; it was a promise. A promise that no matter how far she strayed or how long she took, there would always be a place for her—a home—waiting, whenever she was ready to return.

Pacific Royal had once been that place for her until now. Through all the challenges, her team had been her tether, a second family that gave her a sense of belonging she’d never known she needed. With the university closing and her friends scattered, that foundation had felt as though it had crumbled beneath her feet, leaving her adrift in a world that now seemed fragmented and uncertain.

But maybe Harper had been wrong.

Home wasn’t bound to walls or floors or even the people who moved through them; it was something deeper, something that could exist in more than one place at a time.

It was the steady presence of a hand reaching out, the quiet understanding that no matter where she went or how far she strayed, there’d always be a place to return to.

Whether it was in her aunt’s house,

whether it was in the fading echoes of this school,

or whether it was in the connections she’d fought so hard to build.

It didn’t matter.



Barbara let out a soft sigh on the other end, a sound woven with relief but tinged with an unmistakable thread of unspoken questions that Harper could feel more than hear.

“Now, I know you’ve got your own path to follow, being an adult and all,” she began carefully, her tone gentle but probing. “But…where exactly are you headed, sweetheart?”

Harper had anticipated this moment, had rehearsed her answer more times than she’d admit before calling.

But now, with her aunt’s voice carrying a weight that reached across the miles, her practiced words felt as fragile as glass. Speaking them aloud now, she felt a mix of resolution and vulnerability, as though each syllable she spoke etched her chosen path more firmly into place.

“I’m going to the Foundation,” Harper replied, “It’s…another school for people like me.”

Saying it out loud felt both bold and strange.

Silence hung on the line, her aunt’s quiet processing almost palpable through the phone. In her mind’s eye, Harper could picture the soft crease of Barbara’s brow, her expression thoughtful, weighing this new revelation about the life her adopted daughter had chosen.

“All right, honey,” Barbara replied at last, her tone a careful blend of pride and the quiet worry she didn’t attempt to mask. “I trust you know what you’re doing. I’ll admit, I don’t know much about this place you’re headed to, but if you believe this is what you need…then I believe in you, too. Just promise me you’ll take care of yourself, all right?”

“I will,” Harper promised, the words feeling like a vow rather than a simple answer. Realizing then how much she needed this—this moment, this blessing that felt like a tether to home—she added, “And…I’ll come back. When I’m ready. I…”

Her voice trailed off. Unsaid but understood.

I promise


“Just don’t be a stranger, Harper Rae,” her aunt murmured, her words filled with tenderness, as if sensing the unspoken depths of Harper’s intentions. “We’ll always be here when you are.”

Before Harper could respond, a light knock echoed from the door, and she instinctively turned her head toward the sound despite the blindfold that veiled her eyes.

“My friend’s here to walk with me to the ferry,” she said softly, the words both an end and a beginning.

“Alright then, honey,” her aunt replied, “Take care of yourself, you hear? And remember—don’t stay gone too long.”

“Will do,” Harper replied, a faint smile pulling at her lips. She held the phone to her ear a moment longer, absorbing her aunt’s presence one last time, before letting the phone slip from her ear and ending the call. With a steadying breath, she moved to answer the door, a hesitant smile forming as she opened it.

“Hey, Hayv,” she greeted, a touch of warmth and melancholy in her voice. “Big day…”


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Hidden 2 days ago 2 days ago Post by Hound55
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Hound55 Create-A-Hero RPG GM, Blue Bringer of BWAHAHA!

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________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Location: Alumni Village Port - And Surrounding Waters
Human #5.045: I'm On A Boat
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Interaction(s): NPCs - Hyperhuman Residents of the Alumni Village
Previously: Not Applicable


Wingtips clacked along the pier. His cheery visage swept down to admire his most recent big purchase.

The newly painted 'Thorpedo' punctuated by a green and gold surf lifesavers hat adorned a pristine hull, scrubbed clean and ready for a new launch. A new day. A new life.

He swept onto the deck, with a singular bounce off the gangplank.

Harold Holt. Captain of the Thorpedo. Hyperhuman power undisclosed.

He bounced past a figure with deep rouge skin, who was ironically turning a metaphorical shade of green already, before the launch had even begun. The Captain had attempted to optimistically assure him he'd find his level and the nausea would leave soon enough.

"Mornin' Jase. Still feelin' rough 'round the edges, mate? Get y'self to sickbay, when you get the chance. I made a run and stocked up on seasickness tablets, after the last chat. They scrubbed the muck right off of the deck too. Never-you-mind- mate. It's a boat, stuff mops right on out. Nobody thinks less of ya, and the Hell with any who would."

The red figure turned back and tried to respond, only for the bubbles to rise, and he quickly shut his mouth and clung tighter to the ladder he was attempting to steady himself on with complete futility.

Jason McGee. Regular passenger pending responsibilities. Proprioception (absolute knowledge of self-movement, force and location, generally leading to perfect balance on dry land... he is not on dry land). Also... red skin.

The Captain stepped on by and passed through a hatch to the interior, advancing further through his vessel.

"Celeste, what did the inventory wind up workin' out to?"

A woman in crisp, but non-uniform dress answered in the clipped dialogue of a chef reporting with other things on her mind.

"Per head. Eighteen days of three meals a day. Additional omnipresent 'snack' foods for turnover throughout. Ration from sixteen days and we should be able to stretch food three weeks, unless you have a hyperhuman here with particularly special nutritional needs or demands that you haven't told me about. I'd recommend re-stock between day fourteen and sixteen."

"Two weeks. Should be able to get 'er well clear of here by two weeks. That or I'll throw a rod over the side to bolster it, eh?"

Celeste didn't see the humour in this comment, and had already gone on to more pressing matters. Settling in to a welcome job of high responsibility.

Celeste Boucher. Head Chef (only chef...) of the Thorpedo. Hyperhuman power: Ulfactory and Gustatory Hypersensitivity.

The man in the dishevelled suit continued walking through his boat, cutting through the dining room, where a girl who looked somewhat out of the ordinary in as crisp a dress as she was currently wearing. She was slowly working her way around the room polishing and replacing crockery and cutlery where it would be deemed necessary by her regimental co-worker.

"All good, Lil'? Celeste not givin' ya too hard a time?"

The girl stopped and smiled at the older man. Raising a hand to wave. Around her wrist, a swirl of ink whirled and crawled onto her palm, showing a 'thumbs up' tattoo upon her bare palm to the Captain.

"Good to hear... but ya know ya could've just given an actual thumbs up, right? Now ya just showin' off."

The girl laughed soundlessly and both continued on their tasks.

Lilly Marks. 'Thorpedo' Wait staff. Mute. Hyperhuman power: Skin Art Projection.

The Captain stepped out of the hatch to the dining room back to the open air.

"V, how we lookin'? Good for a launch this arvo?"

From above, two women peered down at him with contrasting expressions to his presence.



He seemed somewhat taken aback by the exuberance of the first. Before the second gave a more verbose answer, yet with less weight of word.

"No less suitable than if you asked me at any other time... Clear skies are waiting whenever you're ready. And if you want cloud cover on our tail, I can manage that too."

"Bloody rippa. Uhh-- good... seein' you too. Suze."

He ducked his head back underneath in a hurry, and the more energetic woman hid her face in her hands.

"Smooth." The flat utterance of the more caustic of the pair.

Viola Figueroa. Sickbay Attendant - in lieu of nurse. Hyperhuman Power: Weather Manipulation.

Susan 'Suze' Scrivener. Early Shift Dishwasher. Hyperhuman Power: Spoken Word Manifestation.

He continued on through the boat, passing a table of four men playing cards and laughing.

"All good, lads? None-ya have anythin' ya need to be doin'?"

One of them spoke up, in a garbled Irish brogue, before slapping down a winning hand, to the groans of the others.

"Wouldn'e say that. But asked 'round, everythin' seemed taken care of. Need anytin' doe, feel free to ask. 'Specially Dougie. Probably be eager to stop losin' his dosh at this point."

Ste Aisling. Night Shift Dishwasher. Hyperhuman Power Undisclosed.

Dougie Simmons. Ship's Liaison / Radio Officer. Hyperhuman Power: Can understand any spoken language (even the thick accent of Ste Aisling...) even if he lacks the capacity to speak it himself.

Elijah Parks. Late Hours Crew. Hyperhuman Power Undisclosed.

Timothy Adams. Late Hours Crew. Hyperhuman Power: Levitation, not to be confused with 'flight'. JUST levitation. His skin is an instantly recognisable sky blue.

He left the quartet to their pre-launch redistribution of wealth, and pushed on again.

He opened the hatch to the helm and a man covered in cuticle filament made efforts to scramble to stand to attention, whilst a weathered woman remained head down over an assorted series of digital mapping screens.

"Nah, mate. It's not that kind of tub."

Earl Fisher. Secondary Helmsman (owns a fishing boat). Hyperhuman Power: Covered in cuticle filament - nails or scales.

"Charlie, how we lookin'? Got it figured?"

Charlie Millett. Navigator. Hyperhuman Power: Electromagnetoreception.

"So long as it's the Pacific, mapping's good to go. And unless this tub's a secret spaceship, there's not a place you can put it, that I'm not gonna know where we are."

"Oi... Steady on. I can call 'er a tub. Let's not go gettin' too comfortable."

Earl looked at the woman out of the corner of his eye, uncertain of what to make of things.

"What? Not gonna stand at attention now when the Captain's on the bridge?"

Earl's discomfort became even more palpable. The fisherman rested his hands on the helm, if only to do something with them.

"I'm takin' the piss." The Captain finally broke, with a broad cheeky grin.

"What..?" Earl uttered.

"He's joking." Charlie replied, not looking up from mapping. "Relax.

The hatch was already open and he was gone. Earl gave a sigh of relief. Charlie shook her head.

He walked back along the starboard deck to the stern, passing three figures looking out to sea.

"Ready and eager, eh? Rafe, Kath', Zara?"

A transparent figure turned back in surprise, before realising who had addressed them.

"Oh, yes, Captain. Present for duties, sir."

Rafe LeBlanc. Day Crew. Hyperhuman Power: Transparent flesh."

"Calm down, Rafe, I can see your heart's goin' a mile a minute. You're not going to... put on a shirt or anything?" The Australian asked.

"Ah, no sir. I know how it looks--" The polite young hyperhuman started before being interrupted.

"We can all see how EVERYTHIN' looks..."

"--But, even with the transparent flesh, I'm not susceptible to sunburn. And I'm, well, pretty comfortable with my body at this point." He explained.

"Well, ok. But if I see a burp or fart brewin' in there I'll give you a heads up, so you can keep on top of it..."

"That would be appreciated, sir."

The Captain shook his head and moved on from the earnest young man.

"How 'bout you two? Kath', Zara, all good? Any questions?"

"Yes, how can you tell the uhh-- what is it? Port from the starboard? Which side are we on?" One of the two women spoke up.

Kathleen Burns. Day Crew. Hyperhuman Power: Undisclosed.

"Okay, well, are we still moored?"

"Yes."

"And can you still see the wharf out there? The port?"

She turned back and looked at the clear water.

"It's that easy?"

"It is when we're moored on the port side."

"Wait, so... We don't have to moor on that side?"

"No. It's a modern cruise vessel. Can moor either side."

"Then why would you explain it like that..?"

"Cos..." He pointed out to the water. "Starboard side."

The other woman broke into the conversation, until now she had been deep in thought, looking out across the water. Some thought or another. A common occurrence. After finally putting down roots on this island, she still struggled the idea that now she would once again sea other places beyond its shores.

She had long made her peace with the notion that her days of adventure and world-wandering ways.

"In his defence, he never said that was the reason why. He merely gave unconnected information which may lead you to remembering that this side of the boat is starboard."

Zara Catrell. Day Crew. Hyperhuman Powers: Undisclosed.

"Yeah. That. See in old timey boats, before a central rudder system, they used to have a guy working the tiller with a massive stearboard which would jut out on the right side. When ships would moor, they'd do it on the other side so the stearboard doesn't get all banged up and congested. So it's sort of the reason, but not on this occasion."

Kathleen looked more confused than ever and just shook her head and walked away.

"Hey... I tried." He shrugged. Then turned to address the remaining woman. "Thanks, anyway."

"Don't mention it. I know a bit about unconnected information and seemingly unrelated barely tangential thinking."

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess you do."

Not only was her career gone, not that she hadn't been clinging by her fingernails for some time now, but the prospective island home that she'd worked for all of these years was behind her as well now.

Zara once again looked forward - well, starboard - to the seemingly boundless open ocean ahead. Always moving, even when it was time to stop.

"You have more to check on as well..."

"That I do." The Captain adding a simple nod, and opened a hatch and climbed down an interior ladder to the engine room.

The change in aesthetic was swift. Dark, dank and with no time for setting an inviting mood, he advanced to where he could hear murmuring and the sound of metal on metal ahead.

"How're we lookin', Vincenzo, ya little master? Redundancies all good?"

A face looked up from re-tightening screws after having cleaned a spare engine block.

"Harry, please. There was only one Master, the ultimate renaissance man of the Renaissance. You do him disservice."

"Well, I sure don't want to bloody do that. How are the engines lookin' though?"

Vincenzo Angellotti. First Mate. Hyperhuman Power: Instant Mastery of Any Tool, Vehicle, Weapon or Instrument.

"The engines in place, the redundancies and working in pristine condition. Bellisimo! These, the regular engines, just been cleaned, and are awaiting final visual testing, replacement and a test."

A young woman working on the other side of the engine block held out a hand. Five eyes suddenly formed on her fingertips, and were used to scan the harder to get to locations, underneath and behind, in the darker shade of the engine block.

"Visual check comes up fine, Vincenzo... oh, and Captain. We should be good to change them back now, if needed."

Natasha 'Tash' Stone. Part-time Engineering Officer and Assistant to Vincenzo. Hyperhuman Power: Variable Cell Matter

"First, we will lunch. Then the engines this afternoon. Molto rapido. Should be ready for castoff early evening, Captain Harry.

He scratched his chin and the facial hair that resided there.

"That is pretty quick. Good work, you two. Yeah. I'd say you both earned smoko. Get it intaya."

His heels clicked crisply back towards the ladder, where he climbed up and out of the hatch once more.

"Early evenin' castoff. That'll do."

Stepping out of the hatch he crossed to the portside and heard her before he saw her.

"Yoo-hooooooo! Captain?! I'm ready for our boarding party!"

Margot Saunders. Passenger with no Additional Duties. Hyperhuman Power: Physical Rejuvenation / Agelessness

He looked out to the pier and saw Margot Saunders standing on the wharf complete with extravagent dress, wide brimmed hat and full length gloves.

And more than a half a dozen suitcases.

"How the bloody Hell'd she get all of that here..." He muttered to himself in astonishment.

"Yep, we'll get you on board lickety-spli--"

Then what he saw, chilled him to his bones. A sight he never thought he would expect to see.

A mob. He'd heard of bigotry against hyperhumans, he'd encountered it in rare pockets and on the rare occasions he'd endeavoured a trip to the mainland by ferry, and when he'd first arrived here with the boy.

But the recent news had emboldened them. They'd been waiting for a chance to move on those that had been scapegoated and maligned for so many years. A pestilence now within grasp.

The Captain ran down the gangplank and attempted to usher Margot aboard the boat, but she wouldn't move on without her luggage.

He began to throw cases up and onto the deck from far beneath and grabbed the last two, before tloosing the rope at the stern, and with one arm mustering her onwards and up the board.

"CAST OFF! EARL! BLOODY CAST OFF! VEEEEEEEEE! COVER! NOW!"


Having boarded Margot in a hurry, he quickly raised the gangplank, and with long strides ran towards the helm. Engines could be heard to re-start, but could take time.

"CAST OF THE FORE ROPES! WE'RE GOING! NOW!"


People scurried to attention to quickly cast off, as per their Captain's orders.

He managed to get to the wheelhouse, moved Earl on and fired up the ship's thrusters and powered up the engines higher still. They'd not realised the reason for the sense of urgency in his voice.

With the manuevering thrusters in effect, the boat separated itself from the dock, as the mob came ever closer. He heard some kind of glass object shatter against the hull. He hollered out the starboard side, away from the mob.

"VEEEEEE! THAT CLOUD COVER! ANY BLOODY TIME NOW!"


Soon thick rolling fog descended all around the portside of the boat, mostly between the mob and the boat. Obscuring his view somewhat on that side, but he had no intention in going that way at all. Getting clear of other moored vessels, he opened up the engines in full and powered down the manueverability thrusters. More objects had cluttered against their hull, but fewer now. With the fog, they were now throwing blind. He began to feel safer, and his breathing and muscles less tense.

Then the shot rang out.

"Sweetbabyjesusonajetski!" The three in the wheelhouse ducked on instinct, even though they were in the safest place possible.

After a few seconds, pulling away, the Australian turned to Earl and commanded him to take the wheel and keep the current bearing; Away from the fog of the port and out to open waters.

He had to check the ship for damage.

First he went to the aft where he saw a shocked Kathleen still standing by the aft ropes.

"It-- it was a molotov cocktail." She was shell-shocked from the ordeal. "It didn't catch, but-- it was right by where I was pulling the lines up."

"It's alright, Kath'. Like you said. It didn't catch. Just gave 'er a helluva bloody christening, eh? All things bein' equal, probably would've just been better with the customary champagne bottle, eh?"

He stepped away before calling back.

"If you need, check in with Vee down in sickbay, once she's done with the cloud cover."

He didn't know what exactly that would accomplish, his ship lacked an established nurse and there was only one on board with any kind of medical training for emergency situations, and he had no intention of giving her that kind of responsibility on this boat. But if nothing else, it'd keep Kathleen from being alone, which was probably not a bad thing at this point.

He kept moving towards the stern. He saw it before he heard it.



He doubled his pace along the port-side deck. A scream came next.

By the time he got there, there was little to be done.

Quinn Spence. The Corpse on the Stern Deck. Formerly Service-time Kitchen Hand. Hyperhuman Power: Radiation Immunity.

He had no idea what to expect. But it wasn't this.

He dropped to his hands and knees to check for a pulse.

"No need. Too late for that. Through-and-through. Right temple to left cheek." A crisp, clear voice came.

The captain rocked back and ran a hand through his hair. He turned and looked to where the voice had come from.

"You're going to need to hold an investigation." She said. Almost resigned to the fate, events would undoutedly bestow upon here.

"Investigation? It was a mob of regular humans. Stormed the island. Came after the boat. Kath' said they threw a molotov cocktail at the bow."

Zara Catrell explained her reasoning. The former H.E.L.P investigator seemingly doomed to spend her retirement back on the job.

"The mob was about thirty metres clear. Thick cloud cover. The shot was a through-and-through from right temple down through left cheek. Elevated. The pier is not from an elevated position."

"A ricochet. A lucky shot. They weren't shooting at anyone in particular." He argued. "Just angry people lashing out hoping to hit anything."

Zara sighed.

"Which would be far less likely to hit anyone or Quinn in this case, than an intended shooter aboard the ship."

A small group of people by now had gathered around the body on the stern deck.

"I don't know. I think I'd feel far better if we at least had an investigation, so we could know we DIDN'T have a potential murderer anywhere onboard amongst us." Rafe said. His stomach bubbled and churned at the sight of the body.

"I mean... we're lucky enough that we HAVE an investigator here in the first place. It kind of doesn't make sense to not have her look into it, Harry. If only just to clear everyone."

But the Captain wasn't so sure.

"The last thing we need, though, is a bunch of baseless bloody accusations going on. And everyone turnin' against each other, though. That seems like a recipe for disaster... and we've been simmerin' up a big bowl of disaster for quite some time now on the mainland, let alone bringin' it out in my boat."

Zara nodded. Taking on his concerns. "Maintain discretion. Priority. Fair. I could conduct interviews in my own quarters. Is there anywhere clean where the body could be inspected?"

"Aww, Hells bloody bells, you're not lookin' to carve up a cadaver in my bleedin' sickbay, are ya?"

Zara gave a solitary grim chuckle.

"No, no. Nothing like that. I'm not trained in how to perform an autopsy. And we're unlikely to get ashore in any kind of meaningful time, where one could be performed by anybody who is. So probably, little more than bullet retrieval..."

"Bullet retrieval? What could you learn from that?"

"Easy way to find out." Came the flat reply.

"That is, of course, if you're not still afraid of allowing an investigation?"
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Hidden 1 day ago 1 day 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 #5.046: and for no today.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Interaction(s): &.
Previously: for no tomorrow.

Scylla stood trembling, naked and wet, with tears streaming down her face from green eyes peeled wide—afraid and ashamed. Within her curled palms, she clutched at tan cloth, nails bitterly snatching against the fabric, feeling the ply scratch and irritate her drenched skin. It was a test (because, of course, it was!); it was all a test, from the branding to those who faced it without flinching, fear, or reservations of self to those who shuddered, cried, and hesitated. To be forced into quarantine and to endure the endless dark with eternal silence that rang and pulsated with sobs and whispers, intermingling with quieted screams of those that fractured in the thick shadows. The banging, the pounding of fists into shattered whispers that pleaded. Had it been hours or days, only minutes perhaps since doors had been shut?

How did they endure it? How did she survive it? If she had been molded and crafted in the black of unknown uncertainty, then what was to become of them? What shred of humanity was to be left when she had to crouch in the corner, barely able to bend her legs, and palmed her hand against her quivering lips with mortification coloring her face in crimson splotches as she struggled to relieve herself from suffocating fear. Humiliation settled further in her bones, stripped unceremoniously, arms banded over her breasts, body hunched to conceal the lines of her body from the rush of water targeted at the most sensitive positions of her skin. From across the sterile hall, Stephen called for her, face flush with rage, pinkish-hued arcs igniting across his trembling limbs, and violet wrath wreathed through his eyes, black cloth shoved finally into his hands, displaying such accumulation of power before more armed officials pushed him into the line of others too bequeathed with black.

Whatever this was, Scylla knew she had ultimately failed.

She wept still, but her brow sundered harshly over her eyes, mute glimmers of her shame captured on quivering lashes that bespoke of a silent rage. Her frame was on display as she stood before a reflective surface that illustrated her utterly drenched figure before she pulled her arms through the tan fabric and spilled into ill-fitting trousers that hung awkwardly on her hips and shoulders, a uniform sort of medical scrub that ballooned in peculiar cuts and haphazard stitching that irritated her joints as she was herded into another procession. Lambs, she thought, as Amma herself had once uttered in cruel whispers that whipped through her mind and compelled her to stare down at her feet and the linoleum below that was hued yellow and brown and green from their accumulated miseries and indignities. To be nearly forced to trudge through it was another notch onto the demented and harsh intention to assault their ignominy– to be faced with the injustice they saw as a curtailing to luxuries they once possessed.

Scylla’s nails sliced stinging figures into her palms.

You chose this, a voice slunk across her mind, fixated on the corners of her consciousness, and brewed there, just as everyone who has ever walked through these halls.

You chose this.
Just as she did.

The pounding of fists and clanking of silverware immediately pulled Scylla from her thoughts, her uniform damp still in some areas, her white-blonde hair tangled in its braid down her back; she felt bruised and exhausted, unable to dispel the weight that had settled through her body. Crude remarks lanced down her spine, cackling laughter that heightened her sensitivity and anger; they were to be treated as lesser, little more than fodder, shuffled into place and fitted as bait for their peers who did not hesitate to haze their inauguration. Such an initiation found Scylla staring up at Stephen, who was seated high above her, fitted in a uniform that was far more flattering to him, the black of his hair and the black of the threads that conformed to his muscled frame blending him into the backdrop of other students that seated themselves in formality—a ceremony, she thought, similar in some ways they had been inducted through P.R.C.U with the ochre emblem of House Gulo. No wolverine proudly stood before a shield here, just monochromatic refinement shorn under the distilled quiet of their shared gaze, separated with her as the fallen and he as the risen.

She feels almost betrayed. Stephen would’ve fought to be at her side. Instead, he seated himself and looked away.

Perhaps the following procession, she told herself, captured his attention and stole it away from her. It is a placating story she convinces herself of, trembling in the wrought accumulation of shame, regret, and anger, bisected by the quakes of fear that continuously rob her of warmth no matter how hard she might rub her palms together or over her shaking arms. Everything fell into the background, muddled together into a swarm of blackened words and tan-hued lashes of regret, all crushed under the suffocating weight of their new reality and acceptance of the fate revealed in the mocking praises of Dr. William Montgomery himself, false platitudes to the degradation of their individuality. To be mindless faces in swarms of black and white, greyed shadows on the canvas of power.

The rest of you, have a lot more to overcome.

Mindlessly, almost robotic and instinctual, Scylla twirls her fork through the noodles, catching pieces of meat that crumble under the pressure of her utensils, slicing through the meatballs to spear on the tines before she takes a bite. She did not participate in the toast, eyeing the flute of sparkling liquid, chewing thoroughly, and savoring the flavors that settled over her tongue. Near famished, she attempted to place the texture of the meat, the lemon sauce settled against her teeth that she ran her finger against, oil-drenched noodles, the lingering taste of garlic that accentuated the dish with garnishments of some green herb she could not place.

It’s on her third bite, and finally, a sip of juice to wash some of it down, that she noticed some are purposely not eating and staring mindlessly down at their plated food with abject horror and disdain. Others had pushed their plates to the side whilst their companions ate still; Scylla glanced up, finding Stephen eating almost as mindlessly as she had been, his amber gaze meeting her own with a glimpse of yearning that caused her to look away this time. The person to her right was one of those refusing to eat, and she couldn’t help but ponder if this, too, was some degree of a test, another level to gauge their reception to food and drink, to be easily appeased after hours and hours locked within a room no better than a cell.

“It’s horse meat.” They whispered, finally, almost indiscernible above the clamor of conversation that spiraled from those dressed in black. Scylla blanched. “What?”

“It’s horse meat,” they emphasized, raising their voices a few increments higher, silencing those chattering amongst themselves. Forks and knives halted and scraped against China as a result.

“So?” Another launched back after a momentary silence, resuming their meal with enthusiasm. Scylla did not follow suit, unable to decide between repulsion and intrigue. The flute in her grasp trembled under the pressure of her fingers pinched around the crystal stem. Her eyes studied the remainder of the meat and noodles, the citrus aroma continuing to spiral up to tempt her hunger despite the truth of its recipe.

“Where do you think they got the meat for it? ‘Due in part to a generous donation from the incoming P.R.C.U’? They mocked.

“I don’t exactly expect them to keep horses out in the middle of the fucking ocean.”

Just one horse. A familiar voice clarified, tinged in humor, laced with luring notations where onyx eyes flashed in her mind, his voice carrying on unhurried and unbothered as it sluiced through membrane and nerves and settled as a blanketing barb of shadow.

One of the students thought of trying to bring their precious pony.

The final night on the beach, there had been such a pony tied further down the coast to a post, one she had paused to admire and pet, velvet smooth nose to push into her palm, course-haired lips to brush against her fingers before Stephen tugged her away to where Raindance waited.


Scylla turned, heaved, and fought to contain the bile that suddenly burned through her throat; saliva pooled in her mouth and spread past her lips that she gated her hand against. She breathed through her nose, body bowed up with another retch that tore through her stomach and swallowed, churned sickness coiling down to the pit of her insides that burned as acid against the back of her teeth and brought fresh tears to her eyes that welled and fell. If she lost her composure here for the second time, she would not be surprised if they dragged them back to those cells to hose them down again as animals, no more than dogs leashed and sprayed and to be caged away on their festering temperaments.

From above, Stephen watched her, his own plate half-eaten and flute drained to smother the disgust he felt at having actually enjoyed the meal despite knowing what it consisted of. He could see how it tormented her, and there was nothing that could be done, a divide formed in the garb of black and tan that pried them apart. He swore to find a way back to her side, but eyes fell onto them and watched and observed, indeed a test of sorts to further nurture the separation of their peers from the ‘Force’ and the lesser that, from this seating arrangement, forced them to look down upon them. In his hand, the stem snapped and arced with violet and pink, and he merely dusted off the shards, earning a low whistle from above. He could do little in the means of acknowledgment as he witnessed Scylla continue to eat, with more strength than necessary, her fork beheld so stiffly as she speared into the mess of sauce, noodles, and meat and ate great mouthfuls around the tears that bedeviled her expression as she quite literally forced herself to eat.

She gagged, the texture settled on her tongue repulsive, but she swallowed nonetheless and gasped around the finality of this derangement and tossed back the sparkling juice with little ceremony and wiped her shaking hand against her lips. Another heave worked through her stomach, gone cramped and pained, but she bit down against the burning sensation that clamored up her throat. Scylla swallowed back saliva and bile and trembled with the tremendous effort to contain what little composure remained. Be it a test of will, fortitude, and compliance, she cared little for it and glared up at those all donned in leagues of black, ignoring the laughter and the conspiring whispers that cloaked her– for whatever it was, Scylla would pass it, she would.

If she could do it, then so could they.

Right?
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