Hidden 2 mos ago 1 mo ago Post by Hound55
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Hound55 Create-A-Hero RPG GM, Blue Bringer of BWAHAHA!

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Zara rounded the table, she felt the fine ridges in the underside, the laminate on the top. Familiarising herself completely with where they all would sit. What they would each in turn feel and experience as she asked her questions. Probed their motives and whereabouts.

The subjects.

It had been a while since she'd done anything like this. Since she'd been allowed to.

H.E.L.P had sidelined her quite a while ago, even before the pressure on the organization ramped up. The lack of faith-- no. The lack of trust was a sleight she had found more than difficult. It was one thing from the humans, their fear of the different was a defining trait. To be expected. But her own people? This was something beyond.

"So, you want coffee? Tea? Somethin' stronger, whilst you play the disaffected detective?"

Zara smirked, her neck straightened, recognising the voice before seeing its source as her back was still to the door. The Australian Captain.

"Or do you still not trust me and view me as a suspect in this whole infernal bloody investigation?"

Turning her head to the side, she scanned his face from profile for his reaction as she told him. "You were never a real suspect. Running around the whole ship in full sight of everyone, desperately trying to pull away from shore. Killing someone at that time would have taken a level of sleight of hand that nobody would reasonably believe you to be capable of."

"But suggesting it got you exactly what you bloody wanted, didn't it?" He spat in disgust. "So quick, clean and quiet. With your ego trip. Whatever last grab at glory you call this."

He was enraged, but she could tell she'd just confirmed suspicions he already had. She briefly wondered what could have tipped her hand before it immediately came to light.

"So how'd 'bullet retrieval' go on a through-and-through, anyway?"

Ah. There it was. If anything, she should have been surprised more didn't pick up on it, although they were probably distracted by the situation. For most, a murder isn't an everyday thing.

"Judging by wound diameter, I suspect we're looking for a .38 special or 9mm round."

Zara walked back around the table towards the side that she would actually be sitting in. Facing the entrance. Back to the wall, as she was accustomed to.

He sneered, unimpressed by her deflection and choice in ignoring his point.

She expanded further.

"A .38 special or a 9mm round would mean a revolver or pistol of some kind. Can you picture many humans going Hype-hunting with a handgun and firing off blindly at distance into fog? What do you think they'd expect to hit?"

"Probably some poor bastard on stern deck about Quinn Spence's size..." The Captain muttered as he walked away.

Zara poured a glass of water for her side of the table and sat and waited for the first person she'd requested to arrive.


________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Location: Alumni Village Port - And Surrounding Waters
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Interaction(s): NPCs - Hyperhuman Residents of the Alumni Village
Previously: I'm On A Boat


Lilly Marks
Celeste Boucher


She entered with an unwillingness to talk, even beyond her capacity to do so.

Lilly Marks slapped a notepad and pen down on the table top and rocked back in her chair, irritated by the whole process.

Zara maintained the silence, which seemed to irritate the woman opposite even further. Ink drew from her shoulders and swirled, until forming a clear, yet cursive 'What?' across her own forehead.

She didn't seem particularly impressed by this entire endeavour, and Zara's investigation had split the crewmembers. Not the least because of--

"The Captain asked that should I need to speak to you, I speak to you and Ms Boucher first, to not keep you from other duties. He doesn't much care for the fact this investigation is taking place, and what he views as the possible negative effects it could have on the people on this ship. I take it you feel this time could be better spent getting back to those duties as well?"

The ink on her forehead swirled and took the form of a picture of a brain. Before the word 'Smart' appeared underneath it.

Zara exhaled sharply, the sides of her mouth curling slightly at the sullen visual response.

"You like the Captain, don't you?"

Lilly's brow dropped slightly, not liking where the insinuation was going with the much older man.

She picked up the pen and started to scrawl, her handwriting much less aesthetically pleasing than the writing she could produce with her own ink and flesh. Zara sipped at the glass of water, just for something to do whilst she wrote her response.

She slapped the pen back down sharply, tore off the page and turned it, sliding the note paper to the former H.E.L.P investigator.

He's a good man. After all, he's the reason most of us have anywhere to go now at all. He seems to genuinely care.

Zara read the note and then looked at the woman seated across from her. Taking in her body language.

Lilly gave her something else to read. The ink on her forehead swirled again before spelling out. 'Probably including you.'

Empty speculation, but Zara's takeaway was different from Lilly's intent.

Deflection.

'He's funny.'

"And how did you know Quinn Spence?"

More scrawling on the notepad.

I don't really. Got introduced because he was going to be working in the kitchen. We haven't really had service yet though, so never even worked with him yet. Our prep work has been different and separate. Chef would know him better.

"Chef being Celeste Boucher?"

The ink once again swirled on her forehead to once again show the brain. This time throbbing. 'Genius' formed beneath it in pristine formal cursive.

The Chef was next. The Captain eager to let the kitchen staff be allowed to get back to work.

"Chef Boucher. What's your opinion of her?"

The question seemed to amuse Lilly. Rapid scraewling, as the smirk broadened across her face.

I think if she was the one who turned up dead, you'd have a lot more questions for me. As well as anyone who ever had to work with her and knows her personality.

Slap. Turn. Push.

Zara read the note and smirked herself.

"You mean 'personally'."

The ink on her forehead swirled and took the form of emboldened all caps 'NO.' as Lilly shook her head twice with her lips pursed. She knew exactly what she meant to say.

"Look. You were in the dining room at the time. Witnesses place you there as well during the entire incident. Main reason I wanted to speak with you first was to get whatever early impression of the victim I could, from someone who could be comfortably written off as a suspect and get your interview out of the way. Captain's orders."

Lilly shrugged, and pointed her thumb to the exit with her brow raised. The body language clear. 'So I can go?'

"Of course. You didn't do this. We both know that..."

Lilly got to her feet and made for the door.

"...of course, the question is, would you lie to cover for someone else? The Captain?"

The young mute woman stopped in her tracks and turned her face to profile. She scratched her cheek, and ink swirled around her wrist, before illustrating a perfect middle finger on the back of her hand. Less than subtle.

But then so had Zara's statement been. And needlessly provocative, by design.

If they were going to create a schism over this, become adversarial, the least Zara could do is use it to her advantage. She felt little for her fellow crew, and so would be completely unapologetic for her methods. Her investigation was still very much in its infancy, so much so she'd not even had to employ her 'special skills' yet. Nothing but the psychological training at this point.

It remained a little frustrating that she had little knowledge of the victim at this point.

Quinn Spence. Five feet eleven inches. One hundred and sixty pounds. Hyperhuman power: An immunity to radiation. Tasked with working in the kitchen, under the next subject - Celeste Boucher. Known associates: At this point none.

Frustratingly bare knowledge base.

Sure, there were things she could extrapolate from the body, but character witnesses add far more 'flavour'. Motivations and goals, personality traits, before you even get to potential background knowledge which may lead to motive for the killer.

Condensation had formed on the outside of her glass of water.

Just the first thing at this table she expected to see sweat.

Celeste Boucher stood formally at the door, awaiting acknowledgement and permission to take her seat opposite.

"Take a seat." Zara permitted.

"Would you prefer 'Chef' or 'Ms Boucher'?"

Even seated, Celeste Boucher seemed less than relaxed in nature. Completely unperturbed by the questions which may come, but more a preparedness to snap to attention. Like the very act of being stationary was itself disagreeable to her very nature.

"'Chef' in the kitchen. As for here, I leave it to your discretion." She replied simply.

"Do you feel you have anything of value to add to this investigation, Chef Boucher?"

"Yes."

"And what's that?"

"I did not do this, and, whilst I can't vouch for her on a great many other things, Lilly Marks did not do this either."

Zara dwelled on the Chef's phrasing for a moment. Tenting her fingers momentarily, she re-phrased the unasked question for the surrendered statement.

"So you are saying that this wasn't any of the kitchen staff?"

"I didn't say that. I said that I know that I didn't do this, and I can also account for the whereabouts of Lilly Marks. As for the other kitchen staff - the dishwashers - I'd granted them their leave, along with Quinn since it was general prep and there was no service at hand. We weren't anticipating an early cast-off."

Zara nodded, as if confirming a suspicion.

"An interesting choice of words regarding Lilly Marks, as well. What's your impression of her?"

The Chef considered what she was being asked, and the context her opinion had been requested in. She clearly didn't think particularly highly of her, but...

"She didn't do this. And this is meant to be an investigation looking into who did. So my thoughts on her are irrelevant."

Zara smirked at the backpedalling. Very willing to speak ill of her, until called to direct question.

"And those thoughts would be?"

"She floats. She's content to be far less than what she's capable of being. I can't respect a person without a work ethic. Especially someone who is so capable of more. A person without any sense of drive or ambition. It may win her friends, but it does not impress me."

As if sensing Zara's categorizing her statement, Celeste continued.

"...Like I said, irrelevant to the matter at hand. Speaks nothing to who killed Quinn Spence."

Zara took a sip of water and considered her statements. If nothing else, this subject seemed honest and direct.

"And if you asked her of me, I don't doubt that her response would be that I'm a cold, hard bitch."

And very willing to surrender statements to character. Especially when left with uncomfortable silence. Possibly due to seeing herself as a social 'outsider'. Eager to get her own views seen and heard.

"And you spoke of the dishwashers earlier, they also had been granted free time. What's your impression of them, and are you aware of how they got along with Quinn?"

Celeste seemed to give the question some thought. Her hand raised to her chin and her eyes lowered, as she tried to search for anything of interest pertaining to the people who were to be working in the kitchen.

"As far as I'm aware, they'd both only just met in the last few days. Ste, the Irishman. He's another floater like Lilly Marks. Made worse by the fact that he's loud. But the other girl, Suze. She tries, and she's eager to please, she's just a little... flighty. Prone to making mistakes. At the biggest moments too. But both had only just met him. We still hadn't had a service yet, for them to really interact a lot either, and as far as I know, neither of them really 'hang out' with Quinn either."

Zara made a mental note of the Chef's impression of her workers and considered what else this subject could possibly have to offer.

She'd been boxed in to speaking to the kitchen staff first, the Captain eager to provide early access so they could return to their duties with minimal disruption. Now that they were out to sea, preparation and food services would be more regular and their workload more intense. It wasn't an ideal way to run an investigation, the likelihood of solving a homicide drops to half after the first forty eight hours, and usually an investigation builds its own natural organic momentum. These early forced sessions of questioning broke that organic momentum, but they also gave important background, in a situation she admittedly knew too little about.

And most homicide investigations don't see all major players trapped in a singular location for presumably well over those first forty eight hours.

Whoever it was, the killer had nowhere to run to.

...but that could also lead to more desperation. And in turn, potential future victims.

The uncomfortable silence was whittling away at Chef Boucher's 'cold hard bitch' exterior, but she was clearly uncertain of what more she could add to break the silence.

"The Irishman will be working nights. Suze in the mornings. Actually..."

She'd finally found something else she could offer.

"Ste was quite insistent that he be working the night shifts. Which is quite irregular in the service industry. Most would prefer to work the earlier shift, get their work done, and have their nights to themselves. Especially a..."

Celeste Boucher hesitated to choose her words carefully.

"Especially someone with Ste's work ethic and personality type."

Insistent. Zara considered. Insistent on having the time available which aligns with time of death.

"That should be all we need, Chef Boucher. I'd like to thank you for your co-operation with our investigation." Again, Zara chose her words carefully.

"Well, hopefully you get to the bottom of whoever murdered poor Quinn.

Zara nodded solemnly in return. Her eyes not meeting the Chef's as if to consider the loss of the poor hyperhuman at the center of the investigation.

No closer yet. But with the formative background information from a few subjects who could not have committed the act, she was prepared for the investigation to roll downhill and find its own momentum now. With more flexibility to call people for questioning to come.
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Hidden 1 mo ago Post by Lord Wraith
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Lord Wraith Actually Three Otters in a Trenchcoat

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The Path is narrow and difficult for only few will ever walk it. Enemies lie in wait on all sides, hellions and Magni alike, lurking to down the Sparrows as Samael’s soldiers continue their war, working in the dark to bring forth the light. The Path is the name given to the mission bore by the Jäger, the Hexensbane, and it is their sworn purpose to protect Midyeden from the threats of the Deceiver and his Hellions of Ünterland.

Hellions enter Midyeden through Conjunctions, an event when Ünterland and Midyeden, the Mundane, are briefly connected, bypassing the prison dimension known as Limbo. Limbo, or Purgatory, exists not as a plane between life and death but rather as a bridge between the worlds of the Mundane and Ünterland. A hostile plane, host to lost souls and the Hellions that feed upon them, Limbo is known as the realm of the damned. Originally a plane of traversal between realms, Limbo was transformed into a prison during the war between the Jäger and the Hexenbrut.

Due to the meddling of the Hexensbane, Limbo exists as a barrier, not only to keep Hellions and the Magni native to Ünterland from crossing over but also to keep the Mundane from entering. As such, it exists as an aid to Samael’s definition of the natural order, an attempt to maintain a balance between the Mundane and Ünterland. When a Magni crosses over from Ünterland to the world of the Mundane, Limbo often attempts to strip them of their extra seele or soul.

Despite acting as a prison for all manner of Hellions, Limbo is not impenetrable and at times Limbo opens, allowing passage where Hellions can escape to either realm. Other times Limbo causes the two realms to overlap and merge, creating a Conjunction which allows for travel and a temporary merger of the two planes.

The living can not remain in Limbo for an extended period, and those that do find their bodies rapidly aging before turning to decay. For this reason, it is understood that Limbo exists outside the normal passage of time making it particularly useful to Jäger who are walking the Path. With experience, one can use Limbo to cross the world in an instant or even defy the natural flow of time.

Sworn to walk the Path, the Jäger live disconnected and nomadic lives often free of attachments and entanglements. While imbued with numerous gifts from Samael, scattered and isolated, they were a target. Thus, the Venari Council was born, truthseekers with power and influence who could offer protection and aid to the Jäger. Men and women of influence who could have charges dismissed and offer housing, food and even comfort to the weary, road-worn souls.

Further still, Samael offered help in the form of his Chosen, virgin maidens elected for their untainted blood to be used to further infuse power and protection upon his Sparrows. Jäger are marked by Samael's Chosen. Their virgin blood inscribed on the Sparrows’ skin in the form of a protection rune through ritual skin stitching that imparts upon the Sparrow safe passage through Limbo.

The problem with power and authority is that it needlessly corrupts and so too it was that the Venari Council slowly began to distance itself from the Path and instead employ the Jäger to protect their fleeting power.

When the Jäger wouldn’t comply, they too were hunted to near extinction. An Inquisition was led and they were seen as no more than witches of another flavour. Like those they had banished, the Jäger were forced to take refuge in Ünterland.

Displeased with the actions of the Council, Samael returned from the void and ventured to Midyeden, the Angel of Death lashing out and so the Venari Council was decimated, free to rebuild as Jäger who had evaded capture ascended to the seats that had once been held over them.

There once was a woman who lived a life so strange it had to be true.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Location: Seattle, WA - United States of America
Human #5.068: The Hunter
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Interaction(s): None
Previously: Unnatural Selection

| Several Years Ago
The motorcycle weaved in and out of traffic as Ellara’s hair blew loosely in the wind. Revving the engine beneath her, the bike protested ever so slightly before launching forward, the front tire lifting up from the ground before roughly slamming back down just in time for Ellara to guide the agile vehicle around the rear bumper of a large sedan.

Her head was a mess, images of a different time, a different person’s memories flashed across her mind as her thoughts returned to the murder by her workplace. Why was this hanging over her, why should she care about a random murder in the street? Ellara knew deep down that it was likely only because it was so close to her place of work, but part of her couldn’t help but feel there was something more. Some sort of unspoken connection, and she couldn’t be the only one who thought so either.

The people in the bar, what had they asked her? Something in another language, they had accused her of being something, something that had triggered a memory.
You’re a Jäger.

The words echoed around in Ellara’s head as she bit down on her lip, revving the engine of the bike hard, a steady whine echoing over the street as she rode the middle line. What did it mean, why did that word keep repeating itself. A woman’s face appeared before her, suddenly twisting as the skin turned a pale green, the eyes disappearing into her empty sockets as a voice like wind rattling dry bones echoed through Ellara’s skill.

Jäger

The apparition’s voice haunted Ellara as she merged into a new lane, coming around the left side of the the lined up traffic ahead of her. The bike fought against the road below as Ellara moved over the rumble strip before gripping into the shoulder as Ellara’s own mind tossed around the foreign word.

Jäger

Her mother’s voice echoed her own as the word began to take on a certain familiarity. Echoes of her parents talking, her Aunt and even her Uncle’s voice began to float through Ellara’s head as tears welled up in the corners of her eyes, the sudden sadness invoking first feelings of regret, then pain, and finally anger. Maxing out the throttle, Ellara jumped back into the lane as she guided the motorcycle onto the next exit ramp. Lost in her thoughts, Ellara failed to notice the whine of another motorcycle behind her as the woman from the bar filled her head again.

German for hunter, but a special type.

The woman had been cryptic and intentionally so. The primary question had to ask was why? Secrecy had plagued her entire life, her father had refused to reveal the cause of her mother’s death, his reasons for leaving Ellara in the care of her Aunt. Her Aunt had refused to comment on the matter as well and Ellara’s Uncle had pulled away from her after her Aunt, like her mother, died under mysterious circumstances.

Only we can see the darkness in people, the monsters that hide within.

Ellara couldn’t help but find it maddening as the memories came and went, abstract phrases and words lacking context taunted her like riddles that were never meant to be solved. Pulling under the bridge, Ellara guided her bike towards the tier, the glint of a headlight in her rearview mirror finally catching her eye as she was ripped from the past and placed back firmly in the present as the other rider began to gain on her.
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Hidden 1 mo ago 1 mo ago Post by Skai
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Skai Bean Queen

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Location: Home - Debolt, Alberta, Canada
Human: #5.069 I’d Love You Without Any Wings Attached

Interaction(s): N/A
Previously: Growing Vanes


The crackling of fire in the hearth was gentle as it reached Haven’s ears. Daylight warmed her bare skin where she laid across the bed. Her head rested flat against the mattress. Rory’s firm chest had been replaced by the cotton sheets beneath her.

Sleep had fallen onto her like a heavy blanket last night. No nightmare touched her in her peaceful sleep. If she’d had any dreams, she couldn’t recall them. Her mind felt rested and at ease; her body languid and loose throughout. A stark contrast to the usual tension she held in her shoulders and back since coming to the cabin. She hadn’t even felt Rory leave the bed, she realized, as her hand splayed open to search for him beside her.

Her eyes opened slowly, blinking once as they adjusted to the bright light streaming through the window. Outside the sun shone down through the yellow and green treetops. The forest wall was brightly illuminated by the afternoon light, save for the few shadows the branches and leaves cast on the ground beneath them. She’d slept longer than she expected to. As if her body was catching up on weeks of interrupted sleep, exhausting days of travel, and an eventful night of growth and rekindled passion.

The sound of wheels rolling over wood caught her attention then, soon followed by the soft clinking of silverware in the sink. It brought a smile to her face to hear Rory moving within the cabin. It grew wider as she remembered the feel of him last night, and the words that they’d shared with each other before she had closed her eyes.

Had he heard her say them? Did the admission carry him into the same blissful rest that had come over her?

Haven roused from her position on the bed to go to him, to remind him of those words. Only for her muscles to ache and protest the movement in a reminder of the display of her hype gene so many hours ago. She groaned softly as she sat upright. Her legs shifted to hang off the side of the bed. Before she even dared to stand, her hands moved to rub at her sore shoulders and back. The muscles there had taken the brunt of the development. In an effort to test the pain, she stretched out her arms and wings beside her. Her eyes fell shut as she felt the shifting of her muscles beneath the integument. Her small wings weighed heavily on her back; their muscles fully developed for their size but not yet trained to hold themselves up naturally. She’d have to work on honing them like she’d done many years ago. Which, she could only hope, would be a lot easier this time. Her feathered limbs returned to lazily rest at her back as she ran her fingers through her messy hair.

She’d gotten enough sleep to rest her mind, but it seemed like her body needed more time to recover. The thought sparked the usual million questions within her mind. Questions that wanted to ruin the happiness of last night and the quiet of this morning. Questions that would make the tension return in her shoulders.

Rory called her over for lunch, then, having noticed she was awake. His voice easily calmed her mind. She stood from the bed, moving to pull on a clean shirt and underwear, and was surprised to find that the dirt was gone from the floors already. She looked Rory’s way, and her smile returned as her heart warmed. Her worries faded into the back of her mind. The ache in her muscles dulled with each step she took to get to him. Her gaze turned to two plates he set on the table, each of them adorned with a sandwich and a pile of chips. A pang of hunger hit her in her stomach like a fist and her stomach growled in response.

A sheepish grin formed on her lips as Haven looked back to Rory, which seemed to be contagious as he gave her a goofy grin in return. The sight distracted her from her hunger, easily. She leaned down to greet him with a gentle kiss upon his lips. Her hands lifted to rest on his broad shoulders, and she soon felt his fingers graze her hips. The sensation that spread across her skin had her kissing him deeper. His hand firmly took hold of her hip now as the other moved to push her hair back from her face, gently pushing it to the back of her neck where he pulled her further into the kiss. She moved closer to him on instinct. Her hands squeezed his shoulders as she lifted one knee and rested it beside his leg. All thoughts consumed by his touch, by the need to get closer to him as she felt a different type of hunger take hold of her.

Her stomach growled louder, as if it was annoyed by the delay.

Their kiss was broken by soft laughter, the two lovers taking a deep breath as they reigned in their desires to focus on the meal. Rory positioned his wheelchair at the head of the table while Haven took the seat catty-corner to him. She wasted no time pulling the plate closer to her. Her fingers took the soft bread into hand and she tried her best to eat it slowly.

It was a simple sandwich, with mayo, a slice of cheese, and two slices of sweet ham placed between white bread. Somehow, to Haven’s current appetite, it tasted like heaven on her tongue. She had always thought that sandwiches taste better when someone else made them for her, anyways. So she happily ate it, and took her time eating the chips as Rory finished his lunch.

She thanked Rory for lunch by crawling into his lap.

Haven brought in more wood for the fire as Rory cleaned up the mess from lunch. Rory finished before her, of course, because she’d gotten distracted by the beauty of the fall colors outside. The forest seemed to call to her now, more than it ever had before. She brought in more than wood, having gathered a few lingering blooms among the aspens and pines. She cut them small, and placed them in the tallest glass with a bit of water at the bottom. One particular flower stood taller than the rest, resembling a paintbrush that reminded her of her sister.

Harper.

She wondered if anyone had answered her texts yet as she sat at the table, admiring the flowers she’d brought in. If they truly didn’t have service at the cabin, she’d have to wait until she went into town to find out. Aurora surely would have texted back by now, but Harper? She wasn’t even sure if there was a cell signal beneath the waters of the Atlantic. How could she know that Harper was safe there? That anyone that had chosen to go to The Foundation were welcomed with open arms?

Rory’s touch on her shoulder brought her back to the present. As if he’d seen the way her face fell and thought to pull her out of the darkness of them. She turned to him, offering a small smile, before she distracted herself from what had been bothering her by suggesting they tackle the laundry. Thankfully, he accepted the deflection.

Hand-washing laundry wasn’t new to Haven. She may not have done it right when she lived on her own, but she never let her clothes get entirely filthy. For Rory, though, it was a new experience. Haven sat on the edge of the tub as it filled, smiling at her partner where he placed himself in the same spot as last night. Each of them thinking of what they’d done together in the bath the night before, and trying their best to focus on the chore instead of the temptation to recreate it. She started scrubbing with him, sharing the story of the first time she’d washed her own clothes in a cabin similar to this one. Once they’d gotten through enough clothes, Haven carried the damp fabric out to the hearth where she hung them on the chairs and laid them on the table to dry by the heat of the fire. In between trips she’d linger to place a kiss on Rory’s forehead, or his lips, or allow their hands to wander across each other as the tension between them grew.

By the time they finished, the sun was setting. Haven made grilled cheese sandwiches for dinner. One of her specialties, she explained to him. It had always been a cheap and easy meal to make, for both her mother and herself when she was younger. The two ate together by the fire. She’d pulled the rocking chair over to face him, with her feet resting on the space between his legs as the two enjoyed the cheesy meal.

Haven cleaned the dishes while Rory ran another round of hot water for their bath. They repeated the routine of last night, the two of them undressing each other with tender kisses and wandering hands. As Haven lowered herself into the tub once more, she was gently surprised by Rory’s hands against the skin of her back and not her feathers. He massaged the sore muscles with firm ministrations that had Haven melting into the water. Soon his hands were replaced by a soapy washcloth, as he washed away the day’s sweat for her. She turned around when he finished. Her hand took the cloth from his and she set to treating him to the same luxury he’d afforded her.

They managed to make it to the bed before the tension broke between them. The lovers exchanged those three wonderful words many, many times, before their shared exhaustion pulled them under.
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Hidden 1 mo ago Post by Melissa
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Melissa Melly Bean the Jelly Bean

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__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Location: Vampire's Home - Ünterland
Human #5.070: Shot In the Dark
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Interaction(s): N/A
Previously: vampire

Aurora didn’t know how much time had passed since she’d been trapped in the living room of the vampire’s home, let alone how long ago she had arrived in Ünterland.

He did not return to speak with her as he so claimed he would, so she’d spent a while memorizing the ornate setting, from dusty rug to dark ceiling, and noticeably absent was any kind of clock. The sprawling view from the window was no aid to her either in telling time, the crimson moon solely remaining static in the sky and not once dipping close enough to kiss the horizon. She’d briefly fallen asleep on the chair in the corner beside the fireplace, her body noticeably stiff when she’d woken up, but what had felt like minutes to her could have indeed been hours.

It wasn’t for lack of trying that she remained in that room. The redhead had attempted to find a way out as soon as she had been left alone, however the door was locked from the outside and the windows were bolted shut. As far as she could tell, she was stuck until he decided to acknowledge her presence once more.

Her only saving grace to help the time go by was a bookcase, each shelf filled to the brim, that was propped up against one of the tall walls. It was a collection of books that had definitely been curated over many years, some newer, but mostly older looking. She’d spent some time flipping through the pages of one large encyclopedia-like text, hoping to gain some knowledge or history of Ünterland, but it told her nothing of this place and the people in it.

Returning to the bookshelf with the intent of picking up another dusty spine to parcel through, Aurora scanned the titles for anything else that would pique her interest. While some of the books were in English, there were many in languages she couldn’t decipher - pairings of letters that she wasn’t able to sound out or glyphs and symbols that were foreign to her.

But an orange colored novel caught her gaze, the ember hue reminiscent of Lorcán’s eyes, and her furrowed brow softened. They’d been split up back in the forest, ambushed and sent reeling, and she didn’t have even the slightest of clues as to where he was. Now, not only was she searching for their raven haired teammate in this strange land, but she also yearned to be reunited with her lover, neither of which she could do until she escaped this house.

As she removed the book from the row, a chilling breeze danced along her fair skin, faint, but unmistakably present. Puzzled, she reached her opposite hand up towards the space left between the spines, the air growing colder and stronger as her palm extended further towards the back of the bookshelf. Sure enough, deft fingers ran along the wooden plane and found the source of air, a small gap in the structure that was large enough for her to reach through. Where her hand should have met the wall, the one she initially believed to be behind the bookcase, instead there was only emptiness.

Could it be?

Aurora let the book in her grasp fall to the floor with a thud as she quickly moved to the side of the shelf, pressing her back flush against the wood. Using her legs and feet to propel herself backwards, she poured her strength into pushing the bookcase aside, revealing what she’d desperately hoped was there.

A concrete set of spiral stairs that led down, down into what lay beneath the ancient house. An exit, or the closest thing she’d find to one.

She peered around the bend cautiously, attempting to discern what she was about to descend into, but darkness filled the void below, meaning it’d have to be a journey sight unseen. Her weapons had been confiscated, so she’d be utterly defenseless upon her departure, causing more unease. The redhead hesitated to take the first step, looking back one last time towards the heavy double doors that remained locked and held her captive. She was afraid that the vampire would have heard her moving furniture and barged in to catch her fleeing, and yet, all she heard was silence.

If Aurora was going to have a fighting chance at finding Lorcán, she had to go, and it had to be now.

Taking a deep breath, she put one foot in front of the other, nimbly descending into the dark chasm. The light from above quickly faded as she disappeared, and the lower she traveled, the more frigid it became, nearly bone-chilling. Her eyes slowly began to adjust, making out the stone walls surrounding her. Ivy and moss poked between the cracks.

Her feet met solid ground upon reaching the base of the stairwell and she paused before proceeding, straining to listen for any sign of life. The silence that surrounded her was eerie, punctuated only by the distant drip of water and the whistling of a wind that rustled her copper locks. The air felt damp, and the scent of earth and decay grew stronger as she began to walk forward through the narrow passageway.

Minutes passed, and from what she could tell, this seemed like one in a network of tunnels. It was a labyrinth of twists and turns that led somewhere, with diverging paths splitting off from the direction in which she walked. Which points they were meant to connect with, she had no way of knowing, but it meant that this was her best chance of making some headway in her pursuit. A flicker of hope ignited at the notion of being one step closer, but it was instantly dashed as a low, guttural moan filled the air and made her blood run cold.

She wasn’t alone.

Up ahead, a figure crouched against the stone wall made their presence known, emitting another full-throated groan that Aurora felt in the pits of her stomach. From her vantage point, it was too dark to tell who, or more like what exactly they were, but their movements were sluggish as they clambered to their feet and began to approach. Her breath quickened as she evaluated her options, calculating her risk of running back in the direction in which she came and seeking out a different path, or running towards and around the threat to continue her journey.

The figure, a man, or what remained thereof, emerged from the shadows, vacant eyes glowing with malevolent hunger and devoid of any humanity. His flesh hung in ragged rotting patches from his skeletal frame, a sickly, greenish gray hue that was almost translucent, revealing veins of dark coagulated blood beneath. His mouth hung open, lips peeled back to reveal the few jagged yellowed teeth that hadn’t already fallen out, and his shuffling gait was uneven, with one leg dragging slightly behind as he advanced, lurching towards her clumsily, but forcefully. A dead man walking, a living corpse.

Aurora’s heart pounded, but she clenched her fists, refusing to freeze and let her fear overtake her. Dodging his first attack as he lunged, she narrowly avoided his gnarled grasp, and met him with a swift kick to his midsection. Her boot sank into his decayed flesh with a nauseating squelch and he staggered back, but regained his footing and mindlessly drew closer again, moaning in pain. Grabbing a loose rock from the tunnel floor, she swung it with all her strength and smashed it into his skull, the impact cracking his head to the side, but it wasn’t enough to slow him, his insatiable hunger driving him forward.

He closed the distance and swiped at her, sending the redhead stumbling backwards and into the stone wall, hard. She winced from the impact and just as he reached towards her once more, pressing his advantage, a blur of motion intercepted.

The vampire appeared between them, his speed wholly inhuman as his hand shot out, gripping the man by his throat. He convulsed, his decayed limbs flailing in desperation, but the vampire’s grip was unrelenting. With a low snarl, her captor made quick work of dispatching the barely undead, the sickening crunch of bone echoing through the tunnel as he snapped his neck. His body went limp, hanging lifeless in his grasp before he tossed him aside with a dismissive flip of his wrist.

The redhead, breathing in gasps and eyes wide, tried to take a step back to distance herself, but was met with the unforgiving stone wall. She already knew how dangerous the vampire really was, she’d come to that conclusion back in the forest whilst he chased her down, but the ease in which he just killed only confirmed her assumptions. And now, he was looking at her with the same unmistakable fury blazing in his eyes.

“You insolent woman.”

Before she could react, he reached down and hauled her over his shoulder as if she weighed nothing and without another word began walking back in the direction of his home. Aurora thrashed and kicked as he carried her, her fists pounding against his back, but his hold was firm as they retraced her prior steps through the tunnel.

“Put me down!” Her voice echoed off the stone walls in the confined space, but her protests fell on deaf ears. The vampire didn’t slow, didn’t waver, his pace remaining steady and deliberate. A simmering heat rose in her chest, an anger akin to his own, his silence only further fueling her frustration. The way he was treating her made her feel weak, damsel-like, even, as if she didn’t just single handedly escape from his home, finding her way into the labyrinth beneath it.

Emerging from the darkness, he brought her up the spiral stairs and strode back into the living room, finally setting her down on the couch in a controlled, yet forceful motion. Aurora instantly shot back up to her feet, icy blue glare and all, as she went toe to toe with him.

"Do you have any regard? Or are you truly just that ignorant." He asked, his voice sharp as he looked down at her in disapproval. "You don’t understand what lurks outside of these walls. Another second, and you would have been torn apart." Aurora crossed her arms, her jaw tight and brows knit. It felt as though he was reprimanding her like a child.

“Well I’m certainly not going to just sit here and wait until you decide to let me go.” She retorted defiantly, the little patience she had wearing thin. She could have sworn she’d seen a sparkle of amusement in his obsidian eyes at her reaction, but it quickly vanished as his rage took over once more.

“I already told you, you’re safer here than you were out there.”

“And I already told you that I need to find my friends,” The redhead snapped back, “Amma is out there somewhere, alone. She has been for weeks-”

“Weeks?” The vampire scoffed, “If she’s been here for that long, fair one, the only thing you'll be finding is her corpse.” But Aurora didn’t falter at his words, didn’t even acknowledge what could have very well been fact, continuing her tirade.

“-and it’s my fault that she’s here in the first place. It wouldn’t have happened if we were there to stop it, so I need to make this right. I need to find her, and I need to find Lorcán.”

She realized her misstep immediately, her anger having fueled her too far, and with clenched fists she dug her nails into her palms. The vampire’s expression shifted, his eyes narrowing at the mention of a new name, one he hadn’t heard before. He stepped closer, his towering presence casting a shadow over her.

"Lorcán," He repeated, his tone dangerously calm all of a sudden. "Your lover, I presume."

She hadn’t meant to let his name slip, but now that it had, there was no use in hiding it. The redhead nodded silently, her emotions softening against her better judgement.

“He and I came here with our friend Gil to find Amma. We were attacked in the forest and got separated.” Resigning to her fate, defeated, she sat down on the couch. “You know the rest of the story.”

The vampire’s eyes remained fixed on her, his expression unreadable. They stayed like that for a few long moments, the silence stretching between them and the previous tension and anger subduing slightly.

“You’re reckless to have come here of your own free will,” He finally said, his voice cold but measured. “This place is not for the mundane, it’s practically a death sentence.”

“We didn’t have much of a choice,” Aurora lifted her head, voice steady but lacking the same fiery conviction as before, “Amma was sent here and we couldn’t just leave her.” The vampire shook his head, almost in disbelief, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“Absolutely foolish,” He criticized under his breath, “You’re naïve to think you could show up without consequence, with no understanding of the danger you’ve put yourselves in.”

“Then help me.” The redhead blurted, knowing she had nothing else to lose. Her tone was determined, laced with an undertone of desperation. “Help me find my friends.”

“Help you?” His voice dripped in skepticism, and the laugh he emitted mocked the seriousness of her request, “Exactly why would I do that?”

The redhead stood once more, meeting his gaze with no hesitation and a newfound purpose.

“Because I have no other options.”

“And you think I should care? Take pity on you? That I should risk myself for the sake of your attempt to save your friends?” He scoffed again, “Not only that, but are you really willing to trust someone like me?”

“I’m not asking you to care, and as for trusting you, I don’t have another choice, do I. Hell, I don’t even know your name.” Aurora squared her shoulders, standing tall and refusing to back down. “If I stay here, I’ll never find them, and if I go alone- according to you- I’ll likely die. You say I don’t understand the threats of this place- if you know it as well as you claim, then you can help me navigate it.” She shot his previous words back at him as ammunition to fuel the fire and build her case.

The vampire stood eerily still, studying her with an intensity that made the air between them feel heavy. His gaze traveled over her, taking in the defiant tilt of her chin, the fierce determination burning in her eyes, and the steady rise and fall of her chest as she forced herself to remain composed. It was almost as if he were testing her resolve, searching for any weakness. Finally, he exhaled and spoke.

“Very well. I’ll help you.” He answered, “But you will follow my lead, and you will listen to me. Otherwise, you’re on your own.”

Aurora nodded and opened her mouth to reply, but he held up a hand, stopping her before she could speak.

“And know this. If you falter, it’s your life on the line, not mine. I won’t save you again.”

His words were harsh, but she swallowed her apprehension and fear, holding his gaze.

“I understand.”

“Good,” He stated, clipped, “Give me time to get some things in order. We’ll leave shortly.” The vampire turned to walk away, “And you can call me Cassius,” He added in response to her earlier query, before gesturing to the gap in the wall where the staircase descended into the tunnels below, “Put the bookshelf back where it was.” He paused, his eyes meeting hers with a flicker of something she couldn’t discern.

“It appears I underestimated you.”

It was the closest thing to a compliment she expected from him. She didn’t miss a beat with her response.

“You wouldn’t be the first.”
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Hidden 1 mo ago Post by CaliforniaState
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CaliforniaState Biologist

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ELM
ELM

Location: The Foundation Institute - Atlantic Ocean
Human #5.071: Banquet
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Interaction(s): N/A
Previously: N/A


The sun had barely peaked over the horizon when Elmira had already been awake for hours. It wasn’t by choice really, her family had instilled this oppressive notion that the day started the moment birds rehearsed their orchestral performance and crepuscular animals were ambling to start their day. All it really did was leave her in a strange liminal space where she waited for the world to greet her with its warmth and radiance. Once a special place for her to hold in her heart with her parents was now a cold and poignant period in which she was alone and in a silent world all to herself.

It took her years of bartering with the faculty and her counselors at The Foundation to allow her a room to herself, devoid of any unwanted roommates or mountains of clutter whether well kept or an utter pigsty. Not only a room to herself, but one big enough to house windows large enough to allow ample sunlight to shimmer and bathe her flowers in warmth to grow. That was the other thing, space. What wasn’t decorated in gothic academia, natural science affections (posters, books, skulls, hides, feathers, past fish immortalized in resin, isopod tanks), and clothes lay strewn were her plants. Massive montesera, hanging golden pothos and hedera lily, vicious spider and snake plants, variations of orchids and lilies all lined shelves, stood from the floor, or hung from the ceilings off macrame hangers she made herself.

The juxtaposition of grey scale in her closet and verdant green living in her room gave off opposing vibes that would overwhelm a visitor surely, if she had any to invite. Through the massive jungle, bushwhacking past evergreen, Elmira could be seen perched on a stool almost perfectly still. Her back was slouched and hunched over, her posture rapidly declining with age and devotion to her hobby. Over her shoulder you could see the sprouting of a bonsai plant that had been pristinely cared for over years. Facing it would be Elm, with a pair of magnifying glasses equipped with a light, shining down on the branches of the tree with her eyes 40x the size bearing down on the overgrown stems. Like a surgeon performing open heart surgery, Elm raised her still hand to fix the blade of her pruning shears around the base of the branch. Just still enough to not sheer too much nor too little. Air swirled into her nose before she slowly expelled it and with it closed the shears.

Perfect, she would be able to benefit from the beauty and harmony the tree radiated that was otherwise devoid on this campus.

Removing her glasses and shutting off the light, her room was starting to illuminate, chasing the long shadows away and bringing in the light of a new day. A boring day she had hoped, that was until she checked her calendar for the day. It was mostly due dates on things past due or extensions she had asked for because she couldn’t be assed to do anything more that was required of her. Yet, quite counterintuitive for her plan to get out of The Foundation as fast as possible.

“Shit, I forgot today is the day we get transfers” sighing unpleasantly.

Elm knew from experience how daunting and dehumanizing the process could be with their archaic fealty to hazing as if this was some fraternity or sorority seeped in the days of yore. She could protest all she wanted, but it was something mandatory for the student boy. Who knows, perhaps she could find some way to lessen the load for those who couldn’t bear the humiliation.

Elm watered her plants which in all seriousness takes her about half an hour to accomplish, what with climbing stools or batting away leaves so she could find the smaller potted plants. She ate her breakfast which consisted of black coffee and a cigarette, wishing she was given the ability to photosynthesize rather than have to constantly feed herself ’real’ nutrients. Threw on her outfit of blacks and greys and did her make up, ensuring her eyes popped out the most as they usually did. Organizing her books and papers she wished her greenhouse children a farewell, closing the door behind her.

She sat on the steps of the main entrance just before the security gates. A line of fresh faces littered the area, that reminded her that some were even from the prestigious P.R.C.U. A school she didn’t get a chance to attend as there was no voice or choice given to her in the wallows of foster care. The metal clang of her zippo flying open to light her cigarette and shutting probably earned her a few looks of disapproval as this was not a designated smoking area, she could care less however.

Seeing child after child buckle and seethe in pain and anguish over the branding of a barcode into their skin made her body crawl. Searing pain rose to the surface of her wrist as she quickly went to rub it realizing it was nothing but her mind giving way to nostalgia and trauma. Most kids got an ID card or just had their name, here they marked you like livestock and there was no way to rid yourself of the phantom pain nor the tracker that lay dormant under layers of skin. Elm looked down at her as her other hand clutched it from the underside. It looked normal, there was no damage, no permanent scar and nothing to indicate she had ever been branded or had a serial number that denoted her entire history at this school.

“Fuck this” she said, jerking her body up and aiming to speed off into some library or walkway. That was until she saw a girl who didn’t collapse or cry out, lost in her own mind before being prompted to move on. It was almost sad to see how distraught and lost she was. Even more confounding when her gaze fixated on one of the banners overhead.

“What is she staring at?” taking a few steps forward to peer up onto the banner. Tiamat. She must have been one of the P.R.C.U transfers that everyone was gung-ho to eat alive. The thought of reaching out a hand and warning her of the perils that lie ahead prodded her mind, but she batted them away and with a quiver in her lip turned to recede back inside to attend her classes physically.

It wasn’t until later when the decadence of the welcoming dinner was at hand did Elm’s stomach truly turn in revulsion. She thought back to the night she was fresh from solitary confinement. One of the lucky ones to keep her scrubs clean of any excrement or stains. Nor did she have any stains on her mind as foster care and the isolation in her head she retreated to from time to time helped mitigate any inflammatory psychosis. It was just enough to get her bye and leave people bored of her from not reaping what they had wrought. She wouldn’t give them an inch so they didn’t give her a mile.

She dressed as formally as possible, which just meant a nice black dress with floral mesh at the nape of her neck, the cuffs of her wrists and the bottom of her legs. She sat through Professor Montogomery’s egotistical speech and caught vomit in her throat seeing the hierarchical markings that were Greek letters and black and beige jumpsuits. The extreme alienation in clothes and marking wasn’t enough, dinner was only a hair's breadth away. They moved onward to tables with the finest cutlery one would imagine, a banquet that looked as appetizing and elegant as if they were English royalty in the days of monarchs and hegemonies. The name of the insidious dish immediately translated in her brain, there had to be some extra play in why they served it. Normally they would be unphased by such a traditional dish from Italy, but this was no ordinary dinner for no ordinary guests.

Again Elm took note of the girl who was too famished to realize what the dish was, until she heard another possible P.R.C.U student speak up on its contents before spitting out her food and looking quite solemn. Quickly diminished by the enigmatic crowd of mockery and the continued shuffle and clacking of silverware. That was quickly disrupted again by what she could only assume was a giant of an Australian man joking of a horse playing cricket. His outburst would earn him the same fate she was resigned to for her rejection of it all.

Elm pushed around her meatballs, hardly touching them or the past considering she was vegetarian and the school did little in the way of accommodating dietary restrictions. Her nostrils were singed with a putrid odor first with the retching hot on the boots. Elmira scowled before anticipating one of her peers getting too drunk on the flutes of celebration. Instead she caught the gaze of the brunette who had been gripping the table with all her might, aiming to take a chunk of wood with her. A thought entered her mind to sprout some flowers from under the table to do away with the puke and sprout some sweet smelling flower to mask the smell, but she knew working hands would emerge and clean it up and disappear just as fast as they appeared.

“Huh…guess horse meat is something you learn to love. Who would’ve thought?”

She snickered at that one, unintentionally breaking the dead silence, before clearing her throat and taking a sip from her glass.
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Hidden 1 mo ago 1 mo ago Post by Lord Wraith
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Lord Wraith Actually Three Otters in a Trenchcoat

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________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Location: Ünterland
Human #5.072: Sister Golden Hair
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Interaction(s): None
Previously: Freezing

| Several Weeks From Now
“There will be more if we linger.”

Silence hung over the forest for but a moment as Lorcán tried to calm his racing mind. His heart pounded against his ribs like a thundering bass note. So much had happened in such a short time. They had travelled through the portal, the cut in reality Ellara had made with a knife she referred to as a fragment of Samael’s Scythe.

They had definitely been words that left her mouth, but they were words that bore no meaning to the island-raised young man.

Through the portal they had been drawn into Limbo, a place Lorcán understood to be a prison, a plane between life and death used for torment and suffering. Limbo had threatened to pull him apart, only to spit him out in this cursed place.

Ünterland.

It didn’t seem to take long for everything to go astray as they were immediately separated from Gil. Then the group was attacked before they could reach the village. The village whose tantalizing aromas bore a constant reminder that Lorcán hadn’t eaten since arriving. And now, he was staring at a ball of light that was introduced as his sibling.

His Guardian Sister?

So many questions clouded his mind as he studied the ball of light that radiated the same hues as his own eyes did, or at least as they did on Earth, or wherever home was. Here he was weakened, it was cold and everything felt heavier.

Was this what it meant to be normal?

“They’re getting closer with every second we hesitate, their stench taints the wind.”

Rothschild interrupted Lorcán’s thoughts as he continued to stare at the talking dog and the orb of light. Somehow, it was less surreal when Rothschild was simply the ‘Hyperdog’ on campus. The underbrush quivered and shook when suddenly another horror burst free. A growl escaped from Rothschild’s snapping jaws as the creature suddenly shed its guise. Curling tendrils of shadow spewed towards the ground as wraith-like claws met the attacker with no resistance as it cleaved through flesh, muscle and bone with no effort.

A retaliation from the wendigo passed harmlessly through the phantom form as the shadowy familiar savoured the lesser Hellion’s struggle. Flames of indigo and violet spilled out of both its eyes and mouth eliciting an unnerving cry of anguish from the creature as it vanished into nothing but fleeting ash, carried away on the familiar winds of Ünterland.

“Come, Moonchild,” Rothschild stated, transforming back into the familiar black and white dog that Lorcán thought he knew.

“What are you?”

“I am Ciar of the Stygian Veil, though you may continue to refer to me as Rothschild, others here refer to me as Kieran Cahorsbrut, a name I respect in reverence of my former master.” Ciar answered before raising his snout to point towards the orb of light hovering around Lorcán.

“This is your sister, Bridget, she remembers you well.”

“Little brother,” Bridget teased, her urgent tone softening as she tried to empathize with her brother’s confusion. “Look how grown you are. Almost a man”

“I don’t have a sister.” Lorcán argued softly, reaching towards his weapons as he tried to put several paces between himself, Ciar and Bridget.

“Not a living one.” Ciar replied softly as Bridget glowed in agreement.

“We shared the womb, but the Mundane world was not for me, before I could draw my first breath of look upon our mother I found myself here.” The orb of light suddenly grew, projecting itself into a humanoid shape as Lorcán found himself looking into a set of familiar eyes. He could see his mother’s eyes looking back at him, backed with his father’s fierceness. Long hair spilled down past her shoulders, ending above the waist while she stood only an inch shorter than Lorcán himself. Their nose was the same, though Bridget had her mother’s mouth where Lorcán’s was firmly from Aiden. Ears were the same too.

The twins studied each other, the urgency of the moment lost in the awe as their hands met, palm against palm. For the first time since he stepped foot in Ünterland, Lorcán felt a familiar warmth pulse through his body. Suddenly the world around him felt alive, reaching out through Bridget, Lorcán felt…

Something.

A force, not unlike the Hazies above, but far more raw, far more powerful. Pure, undiluted.

“You can feel the Vis.” Bridget replied with awe as Lorcán opened his eyes to look at his sister again. She pulled her hand back and just as suddenly as he felt the world come alive, it was ripped away and it was like drowning underwater again. Senses deadened, unable to reach out, struggling and sinking.

“I shouldn’t have let you do that, they’ll kill you for that.” Bridget muttered, retreating back into the form of an orb of light. The sky above Lorcán suddenly illuminated like a beacon calling forth and Bridget fled into the forest.

“We have to move.” Ciar urged, “The Vǣrloga will be hunting us now.”

“Nobody is making any sense.” Lorcán called, giving chase after the pair. He looked back over his shoulder, towards the direction he had come from. It worried him that no one had come looking for him during all this time.

Hopefully Aurora was safe with Ellara.
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Hidden 1 mo ago Post by Rockette
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Rockette 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

Member Seen 0-24 hrs ago

Location: Ünterland.
Human #5.073: the daughters.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Interaction(s):&
Previously: in deliverance.

I see her in you.

Mother, maker, keeper. A remarkable thing that all children clung to– that all children were cast from, all of their mothers sown deep into this timeline as woeful beings struggling to contain hope for their wayward spawn.

Betrayer. She thinks and gazes towards the hearth.

Better yet she be born into a house aflame, to know the world as an eternal conflagration and her lungs filled with smoke. Better yet that she be given to the fire, to know only pain, for when was her life ever not set ablaze; to simmer as embers, coals, to bide time and patience until it was struck anew to rise as a beast of magmatic wrath?

And this woman, who claimed kinship to her, beheld those trembling gestures that dug nails into the damp wood and bled, nails splintered with the force of her disbelief: the convenience, the timing, the place. To be brought here, in this realm of unknown hell that tormented her dreams and warped them into the nightmarish reflections of other-selves and could-be’s that left her barren in all manners of heart and soul. Had she her powers, Amma would’ve tasted the ashen sorrows of hidden lies and truths, the viperish maw that would sluice through her pores and fixate on the lingering emotes of the world that subjugated to her vengeance, the pooling of hate on her wicked tongue stricken with the need to lash out and tear everything asunder. Water-spiked lashes drift closed on a withering sigh; the silence stretches on into a drone of flame and stuttering breath.

She thinks of the only other families she knew of to compare this revelation to, the name of Roth so well known on the island and deeply ingrained into the foundations of the school, even interwoven upon the seas of the Atlantic with their renown spoken into the waves. She cannot help but equate the disparity of her ancestral claims to the near royalty of such a lineage. The prince, she inwardly shudders, so blessedly charmed with life and home, whereas the name Cahors is a specter, a remnant of time fleeting and sorrows eternal. It is a shroud, an eclipse, a lament of death, destiny, and fate as she knows it to be. The name Baxter so delicately aligned with their downfall, the whispers once uttered by Sierra and the sister she both loved and hated and needed all the same. She sees Harper's pleading face in her mind and those eyes that saw everything they could not. Her Grandmother stands there so readily and maternally, a glimpse that fractures through her porcelain reserves to be faced with her kin and knowing such to be true. It does something to Amma as she remains there, still and silent, and dares this woman, dares herself, to deny such convenient dominations. To be brought here to this world so violently, accosted, thrown into the chasm of the dark that surfaced her latent fear of it, to be brought here, rested, and healed. It remains like some grandiose tale of fortune, a written prophecy of the forsaken child placated with familial contingencies; little did this woman know that she harbored a monster in her home. If her Grandmother knew of her sins, would she carelessly absolve them and bless her whole?

Amma had to speculate if she actually wore her mother’s face– if she was easily deciphered through Charlotte’s likeness. Her memory often remained shadowed in a veil of white, difficult to discern, clothed as if a maiden that wept over her misdeeds for the life she had given away. Even her dreams were haphazardly assembled to present that woman of pale skin and blue eyes, midnight hair likened to her own and donned in the mother's warmth yet so dissociated from what Amma thought she knew of the grace of god. She could not help but reflect on when another had looked at her as if a ghost, as an embodiment of someone else, and now she wondered, what had he seen? Who? Was her visage such a haunting shadow of the woman she thought she knew?

A mirror of mirrors reveals the truths of this world but conveniently conceals the lies of life in its embedded reflections, which bear all manner of self and other in this world and the next.

In the shadows of her mind's eyes lies a vacant spot on a hospital wall, ceramic remains, and the lingering confession of weakness to never face oneself again. Not for a while. Perhaps not ever. The bitter fear and self-hatred that lingered as stale and still coffee would in a perpetual ring of spiraling madness. Would she, too, be cursed, unable to face herself ever again and not see what they all saw? To witness the face of the one who had betrayed her more than anyone ever had? The raven-haired transfer written as an enigma, the paradox of who and what she was.

The water has now gone lukewarm and clouded with blackened swirls of detritus, and Amma finally wills herself to look up and lock eyes with her– her grandmother. Her pale hands wring together, and when she steps forward, taking that gaze as acceptance, something inside her swells and snaps and pierces through the rungs of bone that cage a grieving heart.

“Don’t.” She bites, teeth snapped against her tongue, lips paling in violet bruises, a split of flesh that peels against the constraints of a wound that begins to weep, blood washes against her hated mouth anointed as the kiss of death. “Don’t touch me.”

Kylmie looks almost perplexed, a shade of hurt crossing over her features, and Amma immediately loathes how the scrunch of her brows and the purse of her lips remind her of a shadowed face in the darkest corners of her mind. A dark, depraved voice slithers against her lobe and breathes aloud: how much would she look like Mother Dearest if she plucked those blue eyes from her head? She almost trembles from her cruelty envisioned, but would it entirely be out of character from what she knew of herself? What she could remember from sins gone past.

Since when did she care?

“I only want to look at your wounds.”

“Oh,” Amma deflates, a weariness threaded through every pulsating vein. She merely lifts her hand, fingers bruised and marred, and ignores the silvery line of scars that flicker in the hazed light of the fire; how many has she gained anew over the last few months? Did it matter anymore? Would she be fated to walk eternally donned in these laces of hate? Water splashes over the basin as she stands, wet strands of her hair sobbed and wed to her figure, like tentacles of darkness warped against the black lines raised against her skin. She gestures down to her thigh, the bandage now a shade darker.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Are you always this…”

“Defensive.” Dain lists, curiously tacking down his raised fingers. “Abrasive.”

“Difficult.”

Amma could entertain the banter; a quip danced along the edges of carmine-washed teeth, copper wetted against the fullness of her mouth as she merely glared through the casted shadow of her lashes and willed her stare to answer for her.

“Dain.” Kylmie snaps and hands Amma a thick wrap of grey cotton to conceal herself, which she lazily pulls from her familiar hands; she stares at those sapphire jewels adorned on her fingers and remembers a curious red jewel her mother possessed once. She deliberately wraps the material around her body with a feigned slowness and snaps the wet whips of her hair down her back before stepping out from the basin and settling back onto the blanket of furs. Dain growls but looks away, muscles and scars thick and taut, bunched under tan skin that gleams golden under the bathing of firelight before he snarls. It rips through the space that strikes at her bravado. She shivered from the fury she felt.

“You certainly have her eyes,” Kylmie muses offhandedly while kneeling beside her, and something in Amma crumbles beneath those words.

“Don’t do that. Don’t compare me to her.” She drags heavy pieces of her hair over her shoulder. “The woman you’re talking about…”

“I don’t know her.”

Silence resumes, and Amma pulls her fingers through her hair, knots snagging against every tug as she merely yanks through them, wetted pieces of black coming away through her fists, sharp pricks against her scalp that detonate the ringing betwixt her ears, the pain at least cements her to the now with the lingering fog of her nightmare gradually fading away. Though Kylmie doesn’t say anything, she can feel every flinch at the quiet brutality she displays and silently moves to unwrap Amma’s thigh, exposing blackened lines and finely pin-holed wounds of jagged teeth, but also the peculiar scarring that lay beneath and the thick lines of ink beside them. Beautiful, strange, and macabre.

“What happened to you?”

Had anyone ever asked her so blatantly before? There had been rumors and traded stories of things The Foundation had done to her over the years. Ghosts that bore an unknown face and name until they came for her once again. Speculated whispers tossed out over the sea carelessly abandoned, all confirmed during the trials when the simulation had cruelly displayed bits and pieces of truth and lies and spoken her name into the wavering spirit of her dread.

I know that what they did to you - the ghastly, abyssal things they must have done to you, to bring forth what you are now.

It’s a delicate inquiry, spoken carefully, almost in a whisper. Still, she hears it all the same as if a shout into the void of her past, every annunciation ricocheted off the rungs of her bones that splinter with every breath she takes. Amma goes entirely too still. And with her stillness comes the eerily silent reaper of her pain, the ache in her muscles, the fissures in the flesh of her scarred palms and battered feet, the weight of everything endured and lost and forgotten that manifests as more than just the paled crown that bleeds over her brow. She could have meant the markings on her skin, the tattoos she wore as a shield against the hated fragments of her past, to gain ownership of her body once more that had been plied apart over and over again, the violation of her sanctity of heart and the touches of chaos she bore through her trembling hands. She had said yes. The scars she had gritted her teeth against every time needles had graced the silver membrane of her malcontent, the burden she had to bear, the decimation of self. She had said yes.

Kylmie could have meant her time spent within this Limbo they spoke of; she could have meant anything really as she delicately worked and redressed her wounded leg with a cooling salve, a gentleness that she had never known, or perhaps forgotten, mesmerizing as she looked down and then back towards the hearth that swelled and burned.

“Crushed chrysanthemums,” she said, merely to fill the silence. “It’ll help fight back the lingering toxins. You’ll be just fine in a manner of days.”

“Days. Weeks.” It was slowly settling in, like a stone plunked into the recesses of her heart. “I’m stuck here, aren’t I?” It was a simple whisper, dragged over shards of glass, her throat convulsing with thirst and weariness.

“There are… ways to cross realms. But we no longer possess them. She was the last ever to cross over.”

“My mother.” Amma clarified and pulled through her hair again and again.

“Yes. The council forbade us from using that power, but not before she crawled through a conjunction to seek out Midyeden. She always claimed to see things, feel them, and whatever was happening in your world was fated to spill into our own.”

“But…”


“She never came back, and we never heard from her again. The dragon woke up right before she left, and she claimed she’d find a way to send it back wherever it came from. It came, fed, gorged, and slaughtered before it went back to sleep on the neighboring island. She sought answers, answers we would be constantly denied here. Some still remember what happened long ago, and some still whisper our old name.”

Kylmie raised her hand, almost as if she intended to touch Amma’s shoulder, but she quickly lowered it and asked instead: “Do you know what happened to her? Did she ever talk about her home? Did she- is she…?”

“I don’t know,” Amma confessed in a whisper, flinching instinctively at the mention of home. The rapid-fire questions that rang hollow with her Grandmother’s concerns, the sort of affections she envied at that moment, because when had anyone ever thought the same about her? “Bits and pieces come and go; it’s all jagged shards and a ringing that won’t stop.”

Dain stalked closer along the edges of the wall, hearing her uttered whispers and the lulling draw of her voice, the accent that fell off the edge of her words as she spoke.

“I can’t remember many things; I can’t even remember her face. But I hear her voice sometimes, in the dark, and it speaks about a red moon and a Tree of Life. Sometimes, I hear another voice, a roar, a screech, a wail. Something that taunts me constantly, reminding me of what I’ve done. What she did.”

“What-”

“She gave me away.” Amma stares into the fire, the flames that she can feel burrowing deep into her pores, lancing away through her veins and marrow, boiling within and without; hidden within the depths of this contained malice lies the maw of her personal hell that roars, so loudly, so keenly, it vibrates against the heaving cage of her ribs, threatened to rend her asunder as her powers would, and she welcomed the distraction of the panic and pain as she said:

“She keeps telling me to run away. She keeps telling me she’s sorry. She keeps crying, and she won’t stop. She looks out over the sea and says his name, but I can never hear her. She weeps and screams and begs for something, but I can’t remember what it was, what it is. She tells me she’s sorry. She still gave me away to them.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorrysorrysorrysorry.” Her heart beats faster and faster; her heart pounds louder, over and over; it hammers at her ribs ruthlessly as she breathes unsteadily.

Forgive me, dove. They said you had to go; they said they could help you!

“But they didn’t help me– ”

“- They hurt me.”

Amma’s eyes flicker to where the flower remains, glittering with red shards, tiny fragments of who she was, of what she lost.

“I wanted to find her. I said yes. I wanted to find him. I said yes. I only wanted to go home. And here I am, in her home, trapped. Just when I thought maybe I could belong with them. I wanted to try.”

I said yes.

“I wanted the name they took away from me. The name she gave me. I just wanted to mean something to someone, and he promised me…”

Dain moves closer, and Kylmie only stares, unable to speak as Amma begins to shake. It starts as small tremors in her hands, her arms, her shoulders hunched inward, and her head bowed, pieces of her hair shaded over a quivering mouth as she grits her teeth and hisses with the weight of the life of lies that smother her in a choked shadow of dismay and anger. Her rage is a felt and thriving thing that pulsates with her broken heart, her soul shredded into ribbons of wasted remains brutally picked clean and left for naught, the only thing in life that she knew to be her own, something she chose in the darkest pits of gleaming needles and ringing voids, the only thing she could claim as her only means of purpose. She begins to whisper, lost to the toils of her sorrows:

“My name is–”

An exploding wail is there to answer her, a screech that shatters through Ünterland with the powerful thunder of wings that pierce through the shaded clouds of black and red as the dragon begins its attack on the blackwood coven.
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Hidden 1 mo ago Post by Qia
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Qia A Little Weasel

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The bedroom was imbued with an understated serenity, the amber glow of a solitary lamp spilling across the walls in warm, honeyed strokes. Shadows pooled in the corners, deepening the room’s texture, while the muted whir of a fan harmonized with the soft rustling of scattered papers. She sat perched on the bed, her legs folded beneath her, surrounded by a chaotic mosaic of notes and schematics that blanketed the comforter like windblown leaves in autumn. Her dark hair, loosely tied, rebelled against its constraints; stray strands framed her face, unnoticed in her absorption. Meanwhile, the fabric of her well-worn pyjamas clung in familiar folds, drawn taut over the gentle arc of her pregnancy—a quiet, persistent testament to the burgeoning life she carried.

Yet, for all the comfort the room exuded, Anna’s attention was elsewhere, tethered to the labyrinth of her thoughts.

Her brow knit in concentration as her finger glided along the diagram of a meticulously designed glove, annotations crowding its margins with notes. Critical components leapt from the page—pressure-sensitive nodes embedded in the fingertips to monitor HZE flux, micro-actuators lining the wrist for optimal dexterity, and an intricate energy modulation array to temper volatile surges. Though the concept appeared straightforward, the execution demanded surgical precision, every component a delicate cog in a larger, interdependent mechanism. These gloves weren’t conceived as inhibitors, crude tools of suppression, but as instruments of harmony—designed to stabilize and refine abilities that threatened to spiral beyond the user's control.

Anna tapped the schematic’s edge with her pencil, her thoughts spiralling through the complexities. The adaptive feedback loop at the heart of her design demanded painstaking recalibration, a task rendered all the more arduous by the boundless variability of hyperhuman physiology. Each individual’s abilities, as singular as crystalline snowflakes, necessitated a mechanism both endlessly flexible and unerringly exact—a feat that often felt like trying to bottle the wind. The enormity of the challenge bore down on her, an invisible pressure that threatened to crush her resolve. It was as though she were tasked with carving perfection from shifting sands, the ground beneath her work constantly in flux. And yet, as insurmountable as it seemed, she couldn’t stop. Even with the looming reality of her body stretched to its limits, her pregnancy a constant reminder of how close she was to bringing a new life into the world, she pressed on.

Maybe a localized HZE modulation system…” she murmured to herself, jotting the thought into the margin of the page. Her solution, if it worked, would allow users to channel their abilities safely, minimizing risks like neural fatigue or system overload. It was a delicate balance—one that required a blend of cutting-edge engineering and deep knowledge of hyperhuman biology.

Now, if only I could just…” she murmured again, her voice tapering off as frustration drove her to shift a cluster of papers aside. Her hand halted when it connected with a wrinkled envelope concealed beneath the layers of her work. The elegant cursive script on its surface hinted at a meaningful intent, suggesting significance that had previously been shrouded in obscurity. She recognized that its true content lay buried in the depths of her unfinished tasks, silently beckoning her attention and embodying choices and challenges—requests—that required consideration.

Anna's attention remained fixed on the envelope for a moment, her hand gently resting on her abdomen. She bit her lower lip as she reflected on her situation, considering the numerous obligations that awaited her, both imposed by others and self-created. In her mind's eye, she envisioned her children’s future and grappled with the fear that they might inherit their father's struggles or instead find comfort in a more supportive setting. She recognized that life often presented injustices to individuals like herself, who possessed no extraordinary gifts. Yet, she realized it was likely even more challenging for people like James, whose uninvited abilities rendered him an outcast in the eyes of society.

A society that labelled them as different. A society that instilled fear towards them.

With a weary sigh, Anna eased back against the plush pillows, her eyes drifting shut in a rare moment of reprieve. The day’s weight lingered in her chest, but the soft creak of the bedroom door pulled her back to the present. She straightened instinctively, her hands pressing against the mattress as James stepped inside, balancing a plate in one hand and a glass of water in the other. The sight of him coaxed a quiet smile to her lips, the kind that felt like a small victory after an arduous battle.

Here ya go—peanut butter and pickle sandwich, just like ya ordered,” he said, setting the plate on the nightstand with a flourish. “Because nothin’ says ‘pregnancy craving’ like an absolute culinary abomination.

Anna's smile widened momentarily, her worries dissipating as if they had never been. “You say ‘abomination,’ but I say ‘delight.’ Don’t blame me, though—it’s your kid in here callin' the shots.

Fair enough, but it's your kid too,” James retorted lightly as he settled beside her on the bed, gesturing toward the scattered schematics. “And I coulda sworn we were supposed to have a date night tonight. Hmm.” He scratched his chin in mock contemplation, feigning ignorance. “Wonder what happened there.

Anna chuckled softly, her laugh easing some of the tension in the room. She gathered the disordered papers in her lap, carefully stacking them with the crumpled envelope on top. “Oh, you mean the date night where you spend the whole evenin’ tryin’ to distract me from thinkin’ about work?

Exactly that one,” James said, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. “You know, the one where I bring out my A-game—askin’ deep, meaningful questions like whether pickles even belong in the universe, let alone on a sandwich, and then challengin’ you to prove me wrong.

She snorted, shaking her head. “And here I thought I married a man with refined conversation skills.

Hey,” he feigned offence, “I’m a man of mystery. Besides, the whole point of a date night is to get away from all this work.” He paused, shaking his head in disbelief. “And I can’t believe that I’m the one that’s sayin’ this. Sierra’s off with Barbara tonight—a real babysitter, can you believe that?—and you’re still here, knee-deep in blueprints.

Anna rolled her eyes, but the warmth in her smile betrayed her affection. “Okay, point taken. But,” she said, plucking a schematic from the stack and holding it up like an ace in a card game,“This is the future, James. It’s not just work. It’s…” She trailed off, searching for the right words, her gaze falling to the crumpled envelope.

Noticing the shift in her demeanour, James set his teasing aside, his voice softening as he retrieved the plate from the nightstand. “It’s important. I know….” he finished for her.

Anna nodded, the weight of his understanding easing a fraction of the tension coiled within her. She accepted the plate, her so-called “abomination” remaining untouched for the moment. “I just…I can’t stop thinkin’ about how many people could benefit from this—how many lives could change if I get it right. But at the same time, all I can see are the gaps. All the things I don’t know yet… maybe things I’ll never figure out.

James tilted his head, his gaze carrying a warmth that cut through her doubt like sunlight through a fog. “You always do this,” he said softly. “You carry everything on your own shoulders like it’s your job to fix the world.

If I don’t, who will?” Anna challenged. “I’m tryin’ to create somethin’ that gives people a chance, here. It’s about makin’ sure people like you don’t have to struggle the way you did.

James’s expression softened further, a quiet understanding in his eyes as he reached out to place a hand gently on her abdomen.“And people like her,” he added, his voice barely above a whisper.

And people like her,” Anna repeated, the words carrying a weight that neither of them needed to explain. She finally picked up her sandwich, taking a bite before adding through a muffled chew, “If it’s a ‘her,’” pausing to swallow mid-sentence before finishing, “Of course.

It’s a her,” James said confidently, leaning back with an air of certainty, “I can feel it in my gut.

Your gut isn’t exactly a reliable metric, dear,” Anna teased. “Besides, what are you going to do if it’s a boy?

James grinned, leaning forward as if he had been waiting for this moment their entire married life. “ Easy. Name him J.J.

J.J.?” Anna raised a brow, skeptical.

James Junior,” he replied, his smugness palpable.

Anna groaned theatrically, though her laughter undercut her protest. “Over my dead body,” she shot back, shaking her head as their laughter mingled.

James chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender.“Alright, fine. What about a girl?

Anna hesitated, her playful smile fading into a pensive expression.“I don’t know yet,” she admitted, her thumb absentmindedly brushing the edge of the crumpled envelope. “ It has to feel… right. Somethin’ that fits her. Somethin’ like—” Her voice trailed off, her gaze fixed on the envelope’s worn surface as if it held the answer she was searching for.

The lighthearted air between them shifted, giving way to something deeper.

You know, I’ve been thinkin’ about something… about someone,” Anna began, her voice quieter now, tinged with a blend of empathy and urgency. “A woman wrote to me last month—a mother. She’s desperate. Her son’s just startin’ to show signs of his ability, and it’s… too much for him. She’s terrified he’ll hurt someone, James. He won’t even leave his room most days.

Her words quickened, spilling out as though she couldn’t contain the flood of emotion behind them. “And he’s not alone. There are so many kids like him. People thrown into situations they’re not ready for, scared outta their minds. You know what happens—a pyrokinetic doesn’t have to try to burn a room down when they’re panicked. It’s just… their body reacting. Adrenaline spikes, stress hormones take over, and they lose control. It’s not their fault, but they’re the ones who pay the price.

She picked up one of the diagrams, holding it between them as if it were a talisman. “But this—this could change that. It’s not like dampeners, shutting people’s abilities down. It’s about stabilization, giving them the tools to regulate their powers, to understand them. It could make training programs safer, help with rehabilitation, or just make daily life bearable for someone whose powers are unpredictable. Someone like…” She hesitated, her eyes meeting his.

Someone like you.

James regarded her with a steady attentiveness once she finished speaking, his hazel eyes—so much like the ones Harper would one day inherit—glinting with a blend of understanding and subtle admiration. “Darlin’,” he began, his voice laced with gentle humour, “just to remind you… you married a very, very simple man. All this—even just in theory? It’s pretty damn impressive. Maybe a 'lil ambitious, sure, but impressive all the same.

Anna laughed softly, the tension in her shoulders dissipating slightly.“Sorry… I guess I got carried away,” she admitted, her voice lighter now. Her lips quirked into a sheepish smile as her gaze dropped to her hands, her fingers twisting together in an unconscious display of nerves.

James leaned closer, his tone turning warm and earnest.“No need to apologize. You’ve got a big heart…. bigger than most. It’s one of the reasons I fell in love with you.

Her cheeks flushed a faint, rosy hue, and she shook her head, her humility tinged with gratitude. “I just… I just want kids to stay that way,” she said softly, her voice trembling slightly with emotion. “To still be kids.

Her gaze lowered, falling to her rounded abdomen, and her hand instinctively rested there, cradling the life growing within her. Her words hung in the air like a quiet wish, tender and profound.

Just a girl.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Location: The Foundation Institute - Atlantic Ocean
Human #5.074: What's in a Name
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Interaction(s): N/A
Previously: Sentio ergo sum


The restroom lay in a state of stasis, its silence punctuated only by the drone of the fluorescent lights overhead and the intermittent cadence of water droplets, a melancholic sound of some unseen spigot’s weary confession.

Drip

Harper braced herself against the porcelain basin in front of her, her quivering hands gripping its edge with an intensity that defied her diminished strength. It was not mere fatigue that weighed upon her however—it was the indelible sting of mortification, fresh and unrelenting, the infernal rush of blood that warmed her cheeks giving its presence away though her sightless gaze could not confirm what she knew to be true.

The scene in the dining hall replayed in her mind in excruciating detail. She felt again the knot tightening in her abdomen, the visceral betrayal of her frame as it faltered beneath the suffocating deluge of heightened perception. Every detail etched itself into her memory, refusing to blur or fade.

And then, the laughter—piercing, caustic, inescapable. It had erupted not from a single direction but from everywhere at once, encircling her in its dissonant chorus. Yet, as her mind replayed the moment now, subtle distinctions emerged. Not every sound had been laced with derision. Some of the chuckles had carried an unmistakable hesitance as if their originators wavered between discomfort and the instinct to respond to something they couldn’t comprehend. Perhaps their intent had not been malicious.

Perhaps it was worse. That they’d pitied her.
And what the fuck was she supposed to do with that?


Blindness. What should have been a reprieve from the unrelenting sharpness that had carved her identity into polarizing extremes, felt instead like retribution. It was no gift. It was no mercy. It was an admonition, a cautionary tether yanking her back toward some inevitable reckoning she hadn’t meant to bring about. But that wasn’t true, was it? She’d asked for it, practically begged for it.

Her grip on the sink slackened as her trembling hands rose to her face, the cool heels of her palms pressing against her eyes in a futile attempt to block out the unrelenting torrent of imagery.

The darkness behind her lids was no refuge, was it? For how could a punishment forged in the crucible of her own torment suddenly transform into a blessing?

When the nausea finally ebbed, when she no longer could feel the acidic burn of her throat, Harper turned the faucet’s knob, letting the cold stream spill over her hands. The sensation was bracing, but she cupped her palms and splashed the icy water onto her face anyway, the sting of it anchoring her, if only tenuously, to the present.

But what now?

She couldn’t remain here indefinitely, entombed in her own hesitation like some fragile thing. Hiding wasn’t her way—it never had been.

She was Harper Baxter, for fuck’s sake. The seeker of the unseen, the unspoken, and the imperceptible truths others were either too blind or too cowardly to confront.

When had she started believing that this unrelenting pursuit of clarity, the instinct to delve where others dared not to, was something to be ashamed of?

“Get it together,” she muttered under her breath as her fingers adjusted the blindfold resting over her eyes. “You’ve faced worse. You’ve overcome worse.” The fabric clung securely to her face, veiling her gaze and the strange, fleeting metallic sheen that had flickered across her eyes earlier. She didn’t know what it meant and wasn’t about to let herself dwell on it. This was neither the time nor the place to sit on yet another mystery.

A knock sounded at the door.

Ah, right. Harper had almost forgotten.

The unwelcome return of her self-proclaimed saviour and therapist.

Uh, hey…you’re not, like, drowning yourself in there, are you?” His voice broke through, muffled slightly by the sturdy barrier between them. “’Cause, I gotta say, there are probably better ways to go than in a bathroom. You know, assuming it’s not the pissing kind.

The humour, crass and unpolished, was delivered with a casualness that could only belong to him she realized then. Of all the people who could’ve followed her, it had to be him.

Her someone he used to know, if she could even call him that. She hadn’t asked his name, hadn’t wanted to know, and she still wasn’t sure if she cared to.

Harper moved toward the door, her fingers easily finding the handle, twisting it and pulling it open to reveal her uninvited confidant. As the door creaked open, her expression solidified into its trademark scowl—a mask as much as a message.

There was no preamble, no deference—just the one question that had been eating at her.

Why’d you do that?” Her voice was sharp, stripped of everything except raw curiosity. Why had he offered to take her here? Why had he stepped in when no one else had after she had publicly fallen apart?

She, of course, couldn’t discern the motion of his shoulders, but the tone of his reply carried the distinct air of a shrug—casual, indifferent, and pointed in its simplicity.

Guess I don’t like seeing people singled out or so distant from others which—by the way—is the second time I’ve noticed it with you.

The remark landed with a peculiar sting, catching Harper off guard.

So distant from others.
“Like, none of us even mattered.”


Without replying, she pushed past him, her movements brusque and automatic. She focused on blocking it all out—the images, the voice, everything. Her feet carried her forward, but soon she realized she had no idea where she was going. Nowhere, it seemed, was the only destination she had in mind.

A sigh escaped her lips, heavy and resigned, as she slowly turned back to face him.

Could you just… describe it for me?” she asked, her voice quieter now, tinged with an unexpected vulnerability. “Everything...

She couldn’t see it. She would at least remember it. She would hold onto it all.
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Hidden 1 mo ago 1 mo ago Post by Hound55
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Hound55 Create-A-Hero RPG GM, Blue Bringer of BWAHAHA!

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Banjo couldn't sleep.

Whilst his body had well and truly healed he still felt ghost pains from that night. He'd turn and twist trying to find a way to sleep which would ease the pressure on his ravaged body which didn't have a scar to bear.

The size of the bed did nothing to help, either.

He was used to single beds and cots and swags, and in this pampered preppy school everyone got their own huge bed. A bed that was far too soft, and he could lie well across without covering the area.

He'd piled clothes on it just to try and take space. Make it feel less sparse, open and bare. Some nights it was more effective than others.

Life since he'd left the infirmary was just as uncomfortable. His Community contribution at the Collegiate library saw him inundated with a swarm, a horde, of girls who'd gossip and seemingly double in number with every passing day. Something weird was going on. Had been ever since the incident.

Calliope was acting... irregularly... around him. Inconsistent with how she'd been speaking with him before that night. She'd said she had wanted to take time to get to know him, she seemed to try to avoid him at times, but then things would run hot and cold when they were actually together, noticeably hot in particular, and she wasn't backwards in making physical contact. But she'd said earlier she didn't want things to just be physical, or her using him for that or whatever.

His life seemed almost... split... between his time before and after the infirmary.

He needed someone to talk to about all of this, but he didn't really have anyone. Old mate Butler would probably just give him shit and be less than no help. Elle kind of dodged him a little since she did the good legwork of getting Calli back in touch after they'd tried to deny him visitors. Just the thought of a repeat performance from the Hyperhuman terrorist Hyperion had been more than enough to put the wind up her a bit. That day seemed to impact everyone else pretty heavily. Probably because they were still left in the thick of it whilst he was quickly ragdoll'd in seconds. Barely had the time to regret his words... as if that were a thing he would ever do in the first place. Ground was under him. Then it was WAAAAY under him. Then it was very quickly rushing towards him.

But with Elle creating distance he just realised he didn't really have anyone to talk to about it. Most people he knew, he just didn't really have that kind of relationship with to talk about this kind of stuff. His own inexperience and Calli's seemingly strange, inconsistent behaviour. Not that he was complaining about the hot and cold treatment, it just would have been nice to have some kind of understanding about what the Hell was going on. Not like he could talk to anybody else.

Least of all his roommates. Any discussion on this would, well, kind of just be seen as rubbing their faces in it.

But still, it left him confused and isolated... whilst ironically never being more popular. It probably wouldn't last, sure. He'd do something knuckleheaded eventually and things would return to the usual status quo eventually. Inevitably. But it didn't make things any less frustrating now.

He kicked the quilt off the bed with a deep sigh.

Drink. Get something to drink. Reset. Maybe then sleep will find you.

He staggered from the bed in his boxers, to the communal kitchen and the coffee machine.

He had one eye half squinted open from beneath the unnegotiable bramble which was his hair, as he scratched his chest and considered his options.

No coffee. That'd be dumb. Warm milk's too bland... He checked the chocolate powder in the shaker, and didn't give anyone else a second thought.

"That'll do..."

Not coffee. Not at this hour.

He upturned the shaker over a mug and holding it in place, he gave it a good shake until he felt he had enough powder.

Something rustled.

He straightened slightly, a perplexed expression penetrating the exhausted face. He froze. The chocolate powder was communal. For dusting. Not for what he was doing.

The noise had stopped though, whatever it was. Somewhere in the darkness. Not that Zimmerman would ever let him have it if he found what he was doing with the chocolate powder in the first place. Big Steve wouldn't want to wake everyone over it either. He'd just hear sullen bullshit and passive aggression in the morning, that was more his M.O. The instinct of getting caught just got to him in the moment. He yawned broadly and scratched his chest again, slowly feeling more secure.

He did hear something though.

Fuck it. Whatever it was wouldn't be important.

He hit the 'Hot Milk' button on the machine, with his mug in place to cover the pilfered powder. It started it's obnoxious cacophony as it performed its task.

Then he felt it.

A-- cat--? Its tail slowly entwining itself around his calf and lower leg. He straightened again in confusion.

'When did they get a cat?'

But that didn't make sense for more reasons than one.

For one thing cats are normally furry or fluffy.

He felt someone's gaze upon him in the darkness.

This is more-- scaly.

A feminine smirk from someone he'd never seen before, barely outlined from the dim light of the coffee machine. He caught a brief glimpse of a forked tongue flicking at the air. The corners of her mouth creased even wider.

"Oh shi--..."

Before his sleep deprived mind could finish the thought, he was off his feet. The strong tail dragging him to the one room in the dorm he'd never set foot in.


________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Location: The Foundation - Present
Human #5.075: Shoshanna Tannin
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Interaction(s): Former P.R.C.U transfers to The Foundation
Previously: Horses


"No." She said flatly.

"Well, that's somethin' I guess." He half-jogged at an awkward pace to keep up with her. "I mean, I'm not surprised they lumped you in the beige brigade as well, but I was worried they might make your life even--"

"No. I mean 'No. Stop talking to me.'" Shoshanna's scaly arms crossed her chest as she pushed on.

"You think they're watching us..?" Banjo quickly turned and looked around, trying to spot the surveillance.

"No, you idiot. I mean stop talking to me. I finally have a chance to start over and make a new first impression after you and that bitch played a prank on me and ruined my reputation at our last school."

"Prank? You think I pranked you - a person I had never met and never think, nor thought about - to try and commit sexual assault on me? Some prank." Lawyer Banjo flashed his head.

"Ssssssh!" She tried to silence him, unable to cover her natural lisp as she hushed him. She hoped the words wouldn't travel across the open ocean to find her here. "Sure. Is that why you bragged about it?"

"Bragged abou--?! I never told a damn soul."

"Then how'd it follow me around school for five years?"

"I. Don't. Know. Not from me. I'd just been tossed away like a used Kleenex in front of everybody into a hospital bed like it was nothing, you think I wanted people to know you were able to drag me into your bedroom and I wasn't able to do a damn thing about it?"

"Her then. Before she got expelled. She must have told everybody."

"Elle didn't get expelled. She stuck out the full four years. Course she stopped talking to me. Probably over this. Who could blame her? Believe me, she would have been just as embarrassed about the whole thing as we both were."

"That still doesn't explain why you keep trying to talk to me now."

"I told you... you've got to watch yourself here. They have... a different way of seeing hyperhumans like yourself. They see you as-- less than. 'Sub-species' is the term they use for it. Haven - girl on my team - has been on the receiving end of it. It went so far as one psychopath trying to--" He stopped. The thought was still too raw, after what happened to Calliope.

"They have some... different views about certain types of hyperhumans. Different types of views about a lot of things, by the looks..." He generalised.

"So? I'm supposed to think you care? You never cared enough to speak to me before."

"You shut yourself in your room or went out. And I didn't exactly blame you for doin' that. After everything, I kind of feel its best to respect your bloody privacy. And there's a difference between caring enough to be a friend to a person, and caring about their basic fundamental well-being and that they not be ravaged and have their shit harvested by some lunatic fringe nutbag. You'll notice I'm not asking about your day, am I?"

"That's exactly what you were asking me." She smirked back, skepticism still deeply imprinted on her face.

"From an angle of a person who doesn't want to see you get your shit harvested! 'Hey, have you come across anybody saying anything like 'Cor, check out the scales on that sub-species.'" He snapped back with no small amount of exasperation.

"Look... all I'm saying, is that if you notice anyone being particularly, I dunno, cruel over your-- whole-- deal. Or acting weird."

"Weird?" She levelled him with a look that suggested she was looking at such a person as they spoke.

"Ha. Ha. By our standards, 'weird'. Even if it's just you feel someone looking at you funny. I want to know about it."

Shoshanna snorted dismissively. Her tongue whipping out in a flash, before returning home, so quickly a bystander could scarcely tell it had happened in the first place, as she shook her head.

"What?"

"You just live such a charmed life, don't you? Do you have any idea how many people and how often I get 'looked at funny'? Even back in our old school?"

He went to reply, but it was clear she wasn't done with what she had to say yet.

"Even just studying I could feel eyes on me. Always. And after what happened with..." She sighed, and focused inwards, as if fighting off an outburst that could be a public spectacle. "After THAT it was all the time from everyone. And whispers. Always whispers. Could you imagine what it's like when you've waited so long to get into a place where you might finally be accepted for what you are. WHO you are. And then have that first impression trampled on, just to become a-- a FREAK in everyone's eyes again. Some monstrous thing that can't control herself? You both STOLE that from me."

"I. Did. Nothing. To you. I was as much a victim of what happened as I came to realise you were. Many would unfairly claim 'moreso'." He crisply fired back.

"You are just the worst--"

"--person you ever attempted to mate with against their will? Cheers. It's an Honour." He shot back, leer on his face.

Her quickened gasp, made it clear his instinctive response was a tactical error.

As she turned and ran down the hallway, he cursed at himself. "Stupid."

He'd just put more space in between himself and probably the most vulnerable target in this place. There was no way she'd trust him enough, if anything worth reporting did happen to come up and threaten her now.

No leads, few allies and his horse stirring up a tempest in his gut.

If he was honest with himself it was stirring more out of fresh guilt than ill-preparation or the origin of the meal.

He'd since formed the conclusion that on that night there were two victims. The nature of Shoshanna's hyperhuman powers and physiology went beyond skin deep. The 'reptilian brain' was more developed in her, the reptilian brain which was more susceptible to the natural urges that came from pheromone dispersal than the average person.

He found himself under direct physical threat - of sorts... - that night, but she had fallen victim to a situation beyond her own control as well.

He just hated that somehow she was attempting to blame him for it. There were enough things in this world that people COULD fairly blame him for, without concocting new ridiculous things that he wasn't responsible for. It triggered the persecution complex that drove his lawyer brain into overdrive.

Time was, Zimmerman would be able to get to work putting out his fires on this one. Quiet hushed conversation through her closed over door. But that was more complicated here and now. He was going to have to let time scab that wound and hope nothing befell her in the meantime.

She did raise a reasonable question about how it spread across the school so fast. He always just chalked it up to being such a small island, nothing stays hushed long. Some rumour snuck out of faculty somewhere into some student's ear and then it spread like wildfire. Perhaps the 'real reason' of Elodie Miller's departure. He'd never really given it much thought, because that rumour was a long forgotten one in the cacophony of gossip and scuttlebutt that surrounded him and his actions. He'd had five years of questionable behaviour which swirled those waters since then. Shoshanna had-- well, she'd always tried to keep quiet and to herself. So that one never left. And was the only thing many knew about her. It became a label, that forever stuck to her. However unfair as it may have been.

Regardless of how her actions did nothing to help people forget or move on from it, it still wasn't fair that she be viewed as little more beyond that. Her vulnerability to the pheromones he'd been unknowingly doused with making a victim of her as well.

The best indicator he had for spotting sentiments similar to those shared by Daedalus in this place was running from him and viewed him with a level of disdain that wouldn't soon be repaired.
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webboysurf Live, Laugh, Love

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________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Location: Home - Debolt, Alberta, Canada
Human #5.076: Hands on the Wheel
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
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“Shop is a block that way. Can’t miss it.”

The truck squealed to a stop, and the gearshift crunched into the correct position as Miller gave Rory a curt nod. He had been gracious enough and had the foresight to schedule the drive into town when the two had first moved in, as even the two lovebirds wouldn’t be able to subsist on deli meat, government cheese, and trail mix for very long. It wasn’t a very big village, a bit larger than the single road towns from a Western by technicality. Rory felt like he was on the set of a movie, rather than in any part of Canada he had ever known before this trip.

He’d pinch himself to wake himself from the dream, but the pain that radiated through his legs as he made the transition into the wheelchair was a fair substitute.

Haven’s kiss lingered on his cheek as she made her way towards the independent grocer they had parked in front of. His eyes followed her as she entered, his hoodie easily hiding the fresh signs of her healing. Miller began slowly walking up the sidewalk, with Rory following a few moments later. A few locals passed by, eyeing up Rory with a mix of curiosity and warm smiles. He knew it was only a matter of time before they began asking questions he didn’t know yet how to answer. But for now, they settled to give him distance.

A small bell announced Miller and Rory’s arrival in the cramped hardware store. The aisles were barely large enough for his wheelchair to roll down, and the collection of bits and tools were stored in bins and boxes of varying sizes and colors. A middle-aged man in an old painter’s jumpsuit looked up over the rim of his glasses towards the two from his stool behind the counter, his eyes naturally wandering over Rory’s figure. Faint jazz music drifted from an old radio hidden somewhere out of view. A fading patch over the man’s left breast read “Ashburn” in distinctive red lettering. Rory gave a quick look up to Miller, who approached the counter.

“Kid here is renting my hunting cabin for the time being, and was in the market for a beater. Told him I knew just the bastard.”

A small smile twitched the corner of the stranger’s lips as he turned to look back to Rory, standing up and coming around the corner with a hand outstretched. Rory took it, and muttered out a few words. “I’m Rory. Been travelling West. Looking to settle down for a bit.”

The stranger nodded, cracking his neck and running his tongue across his inner lip. Rory knew the man wanted to ask, but his melancholic expression seemed to repel it. “Well, you can call me Gus. Not often we get strangers in town who want to stay.” He turned his gaze back behind the counter, tilting his head back and forth as if weighing his options, before turning back with a grin. “Tell you what… the thing is rusting out back anyways. I’d let it go for a grand.”

Rory reached into his coat pocket, producing a small stack of brightly colored bills. “Cash ok?”

Gus raised an eyebrow towards Miller, who only shrugged in response. He looked back towards Rory. "You always keep cash like that on you?"

Rory hesitated, his hands frozen as the wheels in his head turned. Miller didn't seem to care, but the last thing he needed was for folks to start getting weary. So, he shook his head. "Well, uh... I kind of withdrew cash from my bank back home. Hard to go out of my way to a bank like this." He motioned towards his lower half, his words dripping with a hint of frustration. He continued counting out the payment, before holding it out in front of him.

Gus nodded, shrugging his shoulders. He lowered a hand to accept the bills. "Fair enough."

Rory breathed a slight sigh of relief. His eyes drifted, trying to drown out the uneasy feeling in his chest. Among the various tools and materials were various homemade items. Small abstract vases and hand-carved trinkets filled up what would be the few empty spaces in the shop. Near the door, resting in an old grated trash can, were a few canes. Rory instinctively pocketed his remaining cash and rolled his way over near the door, lifting one up to admire it. Gus looked up as he finished counting the payment, setting the money down on the counter and walking over. ”Made these myself… but most folks around here who need them already have one. Or are too stubborn to admit they need one.” Rory didn’t need to look up to notice the side-eye Gus had flashed towards his old pal. Miller rolled his eyes and scoffed, trying to make a point to stand up a little straighter than he had been. ”I’d be happy to let ya take whichever ones you like… but I do have a favor I’d like to ask of ya in exchange.”

Rory raised an eyebrow as he turned to face Gus, who was already holding out an old set of keys. ”What did you have in mind?”
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Hidden 19 days ago Post by Roman
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Roman Grumpy Toad / King of Dirt

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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: Ünterland
Human #5.077 To Be Again

Interaction(s): N/A


On and on they walked. Hornet fluttered behind Gil, her pride undercut by the gravity of Gil's conviction in their direction. The distant, ancient roars had faded but their echoes were no less unsettling for the rattling in their skulls; Hornet wished desperately to go somewhere, anywhere else than toward the source of that sound, but Gil would not be swayed, and she would not be rescued without Gil. So on and on they walked.

The scenery transformed ever-so-slowly around them, trudging through and out of the barren landscape Gil had awoken in into denser and denser clusters of petrified trees and crisp, browned vines sprawling across the ground. A grim reflection of forest, something he knew to be synonymous with life and verdancy perverted and brought low by the virile desolation of this horrid, aberrant realm. The sound of water, at first a far-off white-noise lullaby, grew and shifted and gained on them - how, Gil thought, there could ever be something as lively and natural as a lake or ocean in this wretched place, escaped him. As they crested the edge of the ossified treeline and came upon a cliff, he half-expected to see nothing more than sand lapping and tiding against the dark rock below - but no, there it was, an ocean as vast and encompassing as the wasteland they had left behind, stretching out endlessly beyond all visible horizon. What beasts lurked over that brink he dared not imagine, though he was sure they were seeking such a creature regardless. The ring hummed on his finger, urging him on. Whatever it was leading him to, it wasn't across the churning waters.

A squealing wail ran like ice through his core and he wheeled around; three pig-like beasts, twisted and deformed but made ever-more terrible for their passing resemblance to terrestrial fauna, bounded at them from out the thicket, fire in their eyes and foamy-mouthed. Hornet wasted no time; her wings beat and she lifted into the air, deftly avoiding the initial charge before darting away, drawing two of the beasts' attention with her nimble movements and a taunting screech of her own. Gil dived away from the cliff edge as the third and largest of the pack lunged toward him, claw and tusk seeking flesh in equal measure; he narrowly escaped being gouged, and quickly rolled to avoid being trampled as well as the creature pivoted and came at him again.

He was slow getting up - still unused to fielding his weight with only the one hand, the blade affixed to his stump unwieldy and not designed for hauling oneself out of the dirt. The beast was upon him far quicker than he'd have liked, and Gil swung wildly with the blade as he rolled away once more, cutting through fur and skin but only managing to enrage the monster further for the effort. On another pass, his hand caught the tusk that jutted up from its lower jaw and held firm, and he brought the other arm up across the snout - they locked together, Gil unable to let go lest he be subject to that terrible maw, and the beast unable to reach with the stubby pair of extra arms that tried to claw and snatch at Gil. His mind raced; how best to break this stalemate? The strength of the beast was ferocious, fueled by bestial instinct - his own was stunted, and fading besides. Slowly, carefully, he maneuvered his stumped arm and the knife attached, attempting to use the creature's own weight to spear it upon the blade.

The weight bore down and down on him until suddenly it was lifted entirely; the boar-thing squealed again before it was thrown through the air and impacted a tree trunk, the fossil-bark splintering and cracking beneath the blow. There was a wail, and then a wet, gurgling sound. Gil rolled over and hoisted himself up to see Hornet stood over the beast, her wings a-flutter and her chest heaving. Her taloned fingers dripped with that strange not-blood again, and he could see the throat of the thing had been rent asunder. Further into the trees, he could make out the lumpy, misshapen forms of two more dead boar-creatures.

Gil stood up. Hornet hissed quietly, scanning the forest for signs of more beasts, before determining the three had come alone and had died just the same. She turned back toward Gil, disdain clear on her face.
"How do you save-rescue that you have come here for, if you are dead?" She asked, impertinent and frustrated. "Slow. Weak. Ignorant how to wield-wave that sting. This one cannot protect you from everything. This one should not have to!"
Gil held his hand up, palm out to his companion, surrendering to her assault. There was no energy in him to argue.
"I wasn't supposed to end up alone - I came with others, we got separated. I don't know this place-"
"Then should not have come!" She spat back, brimming with anger. "This is not a place for weak-willed, soft-minded! You must be strong here. You must be vicious-violent. Else you will be food!"

Gil didn't say anything, letting Hornet breathe and calm herself. The wings on her back shuddered, a tell to her vexation. Finally, she sighed, and gestured on in the direction they'd been traveling.
"Go. Lead on. Hope this one is nimble-swift again."
Gil sputtered, beginning a retort, but Hornet's expression silenced him; he simply sighed in kind and did as instructed, already feeling the pull of the ring once more now the panic of the attack had subsided.

"I'm not used to defending myself alone." He finally said after many minutes of silent hiking. Hornet clicked and trilled in a peculiar mocking tone.
"What defending have you done? This one defends you for you. Once more, good fortune-luck this one found you."
"I mean, I know how to fight - self-defense, at least. Some minor weaponry training was mandatory at the university. I'm just not used to fighting alone. I'm used to making allies."
Hornet coughed out a low chuckle. "This one not first to keep you living, despite attempts, you mean?"
Gil rolled his eyes. "No- I mean, I make allies. Copies, of myself. I'm used to fighting as a team, because usually, I am my own team. But I can't in this place."

Hornet managed that peculiar curious expression again, her mandibles chattering.
"This one has never encountered such a thing. Not even in this place. What is the nature of this skill-talent?"
Gil took his turn to raise an eyebrow - Hornet had inferred she was not native to this realm, and had also mentioned an island on the mortal plane. To Gil, with Robert and Haven and countless others around the PRCU campus, it was plainly obvious what Hornet intrinsically had to be. Yet she seemed to be entirely oblivious to her own nature.
"I'm Hyper-human. Cloning's my thing. It took a while to understand it and a while longer to practice it, but I got pretty handy with it after I started working with WHAT, and PRCU helped me push it further. I can pop replicas out without thinking too hard these days. I just...don't like to..."
Gil stopped; he'd kept walking as he explained, but the footsteps beside him, light and stealthy as they were, had completely stopped. He turned. Several feet back, Hornet was stood stock-still, seemingly frozen mid-step. Not even her antenna twitched.
"Hornet?"

And then she started wailing.
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Hidden 19 days ago 19 days ago Post by Roman
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Roman Grumpy Toad / King of Dirt

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Location: Before
Human #5.078 To Have Been Once

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Vanessa's party was the other night. I thought it went pretty well but I definitely saw a couple kids barfing in the bushes and if I know Mr and Mrs Bordeaux they're not gonna be happy when they go out to water their roses. No way Van and Vik are wriggling out of that one. Who can you blame though - most of Mather Memorial was there, and their plus ones, and their plus ones' plus ones. That's Vanessa for you - Queen Bee. I sound bitter but I'm not really, she doesn't even do it intentionally - people have just always gravitated towards her. I gravitated towards her so I can't really complain. I think I'm just jealous. Ugly of me but again, who can you blame. The heart wants what it wants.

Anyway that's not what this was meant to be about. I'm not one for journaling usually but this isn't something I can talk to mom and dad about, or Van or Vik or Aiden or Autumn or Minnie or anyone, really. I'd just sound nuts, but I know something's going on, so I'm just going to write it all down. Exorcise my thoughts. And then I can read it back to myself and either I'll connect the missing pieces, or I really will decide I'm crazy and then I'll just need to wait out high school graduation before committing myself. It's a better 5-year plan that any other I've got at the moment anyway.

I'm getting side-tracked again. Look, diary, journal, blog - I'm writing this because bugs are acting weird. Which in itself is an odd thing to notice but I swear they want me to notice. Flies orbit my head and land on my fingers. Crickets leap from the grass onto my legs and stay there. Caterpillars actively drop themselves from trees onto my shoulders! I woke up yesterday morning and the spider in the corner of my room had spun a web across the ceiling and down the wall and was sat - stood? - on my bedpost, looking at me.

What really cinched it - what made me decide to record any of this - was today in the garden. There was a small line of ants crossing the patio by dad's greenhouse in the back corner - nothing unusual, for ants at least, they were carrying little pieces of twig and leaf and chopped up fruit and some of mom's cake from where the dog had gotten a piece out the back door. But then a few of them started depositing them by my feet. I wasn't doing anything, really, just sitting and watching them, but this tiny pile of debris grew and grew and then, and then, one of them came out from the hill and dropped a larvae in front of me. A fat wriggling white thing, writhing and squirming and baking in the sun on the patio tile. I felt bad for it - removed, abandoned, forcibly taken from underground and deserted by its supposed carer. It revolted me. I wanted it gone. I wanted it back in its colony.

And then a different ant - or maybe the same one - came back. Picked it up. Took it back underground.

I don't know what's happening to me.
Abelle D'Voire



The evening pulsed with heat and sound spilling out into the garden from the Bordeaux house. When Abelle regarded it from the patio bench it seemed like its own self-contained world, monolithic and enveloping her whole, but she also surmised that might be the bottle-and-a-half of rosé and the fact that literally everyone she knew bar her own parents was currently in or around said house.

Tonight was Vanessa Bordeaux's eighteenth birthday party, and her parents had finally capitulated and given her the full house in its entirety to host the social event of the semester, if not school year. It was also, of course, Viktor Bordeaux's eighteenth birthday party too, but while their parents had dutifully paid for the extra letters on the banners, Viktor himself would be the last person to remind you. It was just the way the twins were; Vanessa was magnetic, captivating, a social event horizon so to speak, and Viktor was happy to avoid the attention and just catch whatever reflected off her. It worked well as a combo, and to her credit, Vanessa had never let it go to her head. She was effectively the acme of popularity in the less-than-hallowed halls of Mather Memorial High, but she was never preachy or self-absorbed or aloof. Abelle had more than a sneaking suspicion that was quite why she was as well-regarded as she was.

Abelle herself was a close friend to both twins, but these days found she spent more time with Viktor than his fairer double, owing in no small part to Vanessa's steady beau being Abelle's romantic aspiration. Her heart ached equally for herself and for Vanessa, that she should be possessed of such a demonstrable infatuation for someone so intrinsically off-limits; even if the relationship imploded, honour and simple good-nature would not allow Abelle to pursue the object of her desires. Still though, she could sit and drink and watch longingly without offending anyone, and that's exactly what she did. Or exactly what she tried to do, anyway. She'd drank her last glass in the company of Viktor, who had spotted Abelle torturing herself in the garden from the second-floor bedroom balcony, and had descended to save her from herself.

"You shouldn't be sat here watching me mope, Vik. You should be out there enjoying your party." Abelle had finally said after a lapse in small talk that had coincided with Vanessa bopping her way out of the lounge's french doors onto the patio and then the grass lawn beyond, followed closely by Summer Carlyle, equally drunk, dutifully popping-and-locking into the night air in the shamelessly awkward way only managed by white girls, and behind them both, Vanessa's smitten boyfriend.
"You know as well as I do this was never my party, 'Belle." He replied, his face flush and plastered with a small but warm smile as the night air cooled them both. "Besides," he continued, sipping a beer and giving Abelle one of those deep and knowing looks that made her uncomfortable when held for long stretches, "you're not allowed to tell me how to enjoy my party. It's my birthday."

They broke into chuckles at that, the tension dispelled and Abelle grateful he'd spotted her and arrived to retrieve her from her self-imposed funk. She was right, after all - this was a night to enjoy, the last proper night of freedom before the new semester began at Mather Memorial; their final semester. Could she really think of no better way to spend it that drinking too much and mulling on 'what-if'?

She stood abruptly and threw back the dregs of her drink, swapping the attempted elegance of the stemmed glass for the convenience of the bottle as she held her other hand out to the seated Viktor and lifted him from the bench alongside her. Through the doorway into the lounge she spotted Autumn Miracle lingering near the stereo system, undoubtedly poring over the vinyl collection to find something she deemed more suitable; she must have found it, because she seized a case from the towering rack with a ferocious fervour and loaded the record onto the turntable. Thumping tunes began to echo out from the speakers and Abelle caught her eye, gesturing with one hand to push the volume even further while beckoning her out into the garden, Viktor just laughing and shaking his head behind her as she swayed and bounced on the spot, feeling the wine and music thrum through her in equal measure. Autumn skipped and pirouetted her way across the carpeted floor to the threshold of the doors, and when Abelle stepped forward to usher her out further, she suddenly fell - there was a moment's panic, but Abelle had caught her, or Autumn had caught herself upon Abelle, and either way, the dip was completed, a graceful and mischevious movement that set both girls to giggles as they joined Viktor back across the grass, dancing their way toward Summer, and the entwined Vanessa Bordeaux and Aiden Roth.

Vanessa saw them before Abelle had to seize her attention, something she was glad for; she was wine-drunk and tact was difficult. Instead of having to pry Vanessa and Aiden apart with jealous hands, Abelle was instead enveloped whole by Vanessa and the girls spun on momentum, the pair quickly growing dizzy as the fairy-lights strung up around the garden whirled in Abelle's peripheral and the music pushing from inside orbited her ears accordingly. Finally, carefully, the two steadied themselves, and Vanessa seized Abelle's face in both hands and planted a haphazard kiss atop her button-nose; Abelle smiled wistfully, hyper-aware of the blurry figure of Aiden stood behind them, gazing on. It was all she could do to muster a voice and croak out, "Happy birthday, Vanessa," and then the two broke apart, Vanessa pleading gratitude with her eyes, the music swelling to crescendo, and they were back to dancing.

The beat pushed through the crowd and enthralled all it encompassed to join; they twisted and bounced and writhed, teenagers picking off in pairs and trios for further drinks or private spaces or leaving entirely; many of the youth would descend on Crestwood Hollow proper tonight to patronize, or at least attempt to patronize, the clubs and bars and tucked-away drinking holes that dotted the city's more bohemian districts. For now, however, the music wound down, the beat slowing and track shifting to something more solemn and lulling, a lower-tempo rhythm that had many calling for a change. Such a change would not come; Autumn made sure of that. Instead, Vanessa sighed, a smile playing on her lips but the more sedated tune obviously not as pleasing to her current sensibilities.
"A good time to fetch a cocktail." She announced to her general surroundings, breaking from the pack that had formed around her and seizing Autumn by the wrist, commanding: "And a good time for you to pore over the records again!", with a smirk on her face and a glint in her eye. Autumn resisted, momentarily stone-faced - but ultimately relented, cracking a smirk of her own and allowing Vanessa to lead her back toward the house, as the birthday girl called back to Abelle over her shoulder.
"Look after Aiden for a moment! He'll only get lost if I let him wander."

Abelle nodded, half-listening, her inebriated smile faltering as she turned and came face-to-face with the now-alone object of her unwitting desires. She chuckled nervously, a high-pitched trill that tumbled over itself and out her lips, and made to move away - but the wine bottle in her hand had only gotten lighter as she'd danced and sipped and that alcohol hadn't burned off as fast as she might have liked. A misplaced leg caught on the other and she tripped over her own feet, tumbling toward the ground-

To be caught by Aiden, who raised her back up. Abelle felt her face erupt and told herself it was the drink and the cool night air and not the way his firm, strong hands felt lifting her. She laughed again.
"Ever-graceful, 'Belle." He said, not letting go. Abelle secretly hoped he never would.
"You know what they say," Abelle replied, one of her own hands gripping Aiden's tricep to steady herself and the other against his ribs because she didn't want to remove it. "Float like a butterfly..."
Aiden laughed his own laugh now, smooth and low.
"You couldn't sting if you wanted to, 'Belle. Not a single barb in your body."

There was a pause, and neither had let go of the other; Abelle realised Aiden was slowly leading a subtle sway to the continuing music, something indiscernible in his gaze.
"Don't tell Vanessa, but I actually prefer these slower songs. They feel more...earnest."
Abelle smiled, trying her very hardest to soak in the moment in its entirety for as long as she could.
"She likes them too. But it's not very...celebratory, is it?"
Aiden furrowed his brow, pretending to be deep in thought.
"Not today, perhaps. But one day, I think I'll get Vanessa dancing just like this, and she'll be as happy as she's ever been." He said finally, looking at Abelle, who looked back and raised an eyebrow as she burrowed her stare into his, rooting out his meaning. When she found it, both eyebrows shot up, and Aiden winked, lifting a finger to his lips in a surreptitious hush.
"The long haul, then."
"The long haul." Aiden answered, nodding. Half of Abelle's heart soared, while the other crumpled like a torn-out and discarded page.
"Well then, we'd best get you some practice. Because this-" she said, gesturing to their lethargic movements, employing her joy to mask her sorrow, "- is seriously poor."



Final semester started this week. It feels strange that only a few short months stand between me and graduation. It feels like I've been attending Mather Memorial my whole life - or maybe my life only really started at Mather's. Either way, I don't know that I'm ready for it to be over yet. Give it a few weeks of Mr. Cobb droning on in Econ class and I might change my mind, though.

Anyway. Even in its final hours MM still has surprises up its sleeve. A special class started this semester, they made a big announcement about it in the return-to-school assembly - new teacher and everything, some guy I've never seen before. Complete newcomer to Crestwood but apparently got some serious credentials behind him. Mr. Lehrer. Going to be teaching 'Social Conscience' to the graduating year. Had no idea what to expect but he laid it out pretty clearly in our first class, and it's a small class too by the way (I guess he can't teach the entire year in one go, gotta fill his weekly schedule somehow). It's all about how we think about our place in the world and the impact we have on it, and our potential too. I guess it's some kind of 'we're about to release you into the wild so we better make sure you're not gonna be an asshole out there' thing. Not that that's going to stop some people. Rita for one. Minnie has her moments too. Anyway. It'll be interesting, that's for sure. And Mr. Lehrer's...compelling. He's got that kind of 'sensible but firm authority figure' thing going on.

Oh, I'm still talking to bugs. 'Talking' might not be the right word, I'm not actually speaking to them, but I'll tell you right now they're listening. Simple stuff - 'come here', 'go away', 'move that', 'get food'. I just...think it, and they do it. Slowly, mind you, they're only bugs after all, but I've spooked myself a couple times with how many I can accrue accidentally. They're everywhere. What's that statistic about ants? 2.5 million for every human on Earth? I don't really want to test it. But it's there. Something's there. I can command bugs. I have no idea what to do with this information, but I'm 100% certain of it.

Unless my mom finds this, and then haha I'm just joking! It's a creative writing assignment. Please don't put me back in therapy.
Abelle D'Voire



The rain pattered against the white tarpaulin of the crime scene tent that had been erected in Mather Park. The clouds hung grey and heavy over the town as police and forensics went about their muted busywork, cordoning and cataloguing and photographing. Every so often a figure made anonymous by their white covering and face mask would enter the tent for a few minutes, solemn nods exchanged at the entrance as the fabric flap was lifted, and then reappear with a sealed, labelled, and carefully-held bag, far too small to hold anything one might consider 'intact'.

The crowd had been kept at a good distance from early on; Crestwood Hollow was no stranger to the gruesome and morbid but the city's PD knew even Crestwood's citizens had their limits. The Hanging Tree loomed like a lurid and foreboding voyeur over the scene, the fenced-off police line surrounding it as if a ritual circle. No magics would undo the grisly fate that had befallen the one scattered here. Members of the public loitered at the edge of the tape, stealing sideways glances at the police guards and each other, not sure what they were hoping to see but wanting to see something, in the way only the dark half of you wants to see. Something macabre and sensational; something to share in hushed whispers huddled in the break room, or around cubicle walls, or covered by the background noise of the bar. Rumour spread quickly; if you had something to add to it, it'd spread faster.

Abelle was in the crowd too, shivering slightly in the cold rain despite the throng around her. Aiden and Summer stood clustered with her, shoulder-to-shoulder; Aiden, tallest of the three, craned his head to try and see something, but wasn't having much luck. He stretched onto his tiptoes and angled his head to see over the crowd, but dropped back to his heels with a tut and a disappointed sigh.
"I can't see anything. Heavy police presence, though. Lots of forensics."
Abelle nodded, half-listening. Summer simply stood still, her brow furrowed by concern; she had always been the most empathic of Abelle's social circle.
"We should go. I don't know what we want to see, anyway. It's ghastly, all these people here. Can't we do something a bit happier?"
"I told Vanessa I'd meet her here yesterday, and I haven't seen her yet. If we just disappear she's not going to know where we've gone."
"We only go a couple places, Roth, she's not stupid. She'll find us."
Aiden huffed, this time from frustration. Abelle smiled thinly at Summer. Empathic, but still somehow tactless.
"Alright, let's give it a few more minutes. She must just be running late. It's not like she won't see the crowd when she gets here. But if I stay out in this rain much longer I'm gonna catch my dea-"

Abelle was interrupted by Aiden suddenly and roughly pushing himself past her; she caught a glimpse of his profile as he surged forward, his face ashen and twisted by some indescribable emotion. She stumbled, then looked quickly to catch Summer's shocked stare, before going after him.

He was jostling and elbowing through the crowd with a frightening speed and uncaring violence, and Abelle pursued with a sea of "sorry"s falling from her lips; it wasn't long before they broke through the front line and Aiden was being manhandled by police, kicking and clawing to try and escape their grasp and keep pushing on. Abelle rushed up behind, ready to apologize and console Aiden, her head knowing what had spurred this sudden outburst, her heart refusing to hear it.

And then she saw one of the forensic analysts carefully bagging a distinctive jumper that had been torn and shredded and stained with blood.
"Vanessa! Vanessa...where is she, where is she?! What have you DONE to her! That's- that's her jumper! That's her's what are you doing with it?! It's HER'S I gave it to her! I gave it to her for her...for her..."

Aiden crumpled, the outburst over, his legs giving way beneath him as the police gently helped him to the ground. Abelle just knelt behind him, a hand on his back, silently weeping.

- - -


Nestled in the rear of the crowd, deliberately and surreptitiously avoiding notice, stood two solemn, portentous men. They observed with an impartial and sombre regard, and when Aiden's cries rung out over the quiet, their jaws set and stony faces gained a new level of stoicism.
"It is as I feared. The girl who-"
Jonas cut him off. "Vanessa. Her name is Vanessa. You can at least afford her the grace of her name."
Yakob nodded, pausing to allow Jonas to collect himself.
"I am sorry, Jonas. Vanessa. We will all feel her loss. But we have to consider why she, specifically, was targeted. Can it be just mere coincidence?"
Jonas shook his head, short but firm. "I don't believe in coincidence, Yakob. We have to assume she was singled out. And I can't think of a reason other than the one we both have in mind."

There was a moment of quiet; the crowd began to disperse, the perverse curiosity banished by the tragedy of love lost unfolding in front of them. Jonas dipped his head, his face inscrutable.
"Jonas, my old comrade." Yakob said, his voice gentle, his hand soft on Jonas' shoulder. "You are not to blame. More than that, you are their best chance."
Jonas looked up at Yakob, meeting his gaze.
"I was just...thinking of better times."
"That have passed us by, or are yet to come?"
"Both, my friend." Jonas said, finally breaking his stony expression with a soft smile. "Both."



We're all exhausted, and scared, and keeping secrets. Three more have died since...three more. Every fresh corpse found is another person from Social Conscience. When the last one was announced I wasn't even...wasn't even shocked. I turned up to class and someone was missing and I knew, then, exactly what had happened, and I was just waiting for someone to tell me. I feel so...dry. Shucked out. Just a husk left, shuffling about out of sheer habit, not even able to cry for the dead.

There's a curfew in effect now, and an enforced buddy system, as if two frightened teenagers are any harder to kill than one. The state of the bodies...who-whatever is doing this isn't going to be deterred by having two victims for the price of one. As for secrets, yeah. Obviously the police are everywhere at school and they're talking to everyone, students and faculty alike, but they're not getting anywhere. I'm being questioned every other day at this point and I'm tired. Tired of answering the same questions, tired of dodging around the others, tired of pretending I don't know why we're being targeted.

Oh yeah, that was obvious once Aiden and I spilled to each other. Everyone's so on-edge, I just wanted even one fraction of a secret off my chest, so I told Aiden about my bugs. I thought he was going to throw me out, tell me to stop playing stupid games and telling stupid lies - he's been so angry since- since-

He's been angry. I think we all have.

But he didn't. He didn't even ask anything, he just nodded, accepted it wholly. And then he stood up and took me out to the garden and told me to 'watch this' and shot fucking lasers out of his eyes. So I guess he was holding onto a secret too. And then it all just made sense. Everyone else must have them too, and that's why us. That's why Jonas put the class together. That's the why of everything. But Jonas won't say anything - is he waiting for something? Waiting for us to figure it out ourselves, or die trying, picked off one by one? Or just waiting for us to die, full-stop?

I can't do it. If I sit in one more class full of kids pretending nothing's wrong, like we're not dying at the clip of a couple a week, like our bodies aren't being found in pieces scattered and half-buried in dank little corners of the city, torn apart into ragged chunks-
I'll just snap. I feel it already, bubbling away under the surface. Some other dark half of me. I'm not sure what she'd do. She might kill everyone. She might just kill herself. But she's...she's a danger. I've never felt a blackness like this in my life.

Either way, I can't do it anymore. I have to get out in front of it, whatever happens as a result. I've got to talk to Jonas, confront him with the truth. And then he can decide what to do with it.
Abelle D'Voire



To say the atmosphere up and down the halls and classrooms of Mather Memorial High School was languishing under the tension of the killings would be to do a disservice to those forging onward with hope and pragmatism held tightly to their hearts. Yes, the hubbub was quieter, the hallway-gossip muted, faces downcast and eyes pooling with a deep, mortal concern; yet people surprise you. None would have expected the banal routines of high school to continue under such conditions, but the youth of Crestwood Hollow displayed a resilience that inspired the faculty, and combined, it created pockets of the old normalities where staff and student alike could sit and talk and act like they were not constantly terrified of the serial killer that prowled the school's corridors and the unlit streets of the city beyond. Groups would cluster in the cafeteria, gymnasium, tutor rooms, and if you listened closely you would hear chatter unburdened by the doom that hung over them. You might even hear laughter. Joy will find its way through.

Aiden and Abelle did not cluster so freely. They were careful with their socialising, their chosen peers, and always, always, regarded adolescent and adult alike with the same shared skepticism and suspicion. There were only a handful of people they would talk truth to, and that truth was spoken only within the walls of Jonas' classroom, and even then only in careful whispers; Abelle felt conspiratorial as they talked around their given subject in double-speak and inferences and conjecture.

"Even quieter today than he was last week." Aiden said, keeping his voice low as he subtly nudged Abelle's elbow with his own and carefully gestured toward Jonas with the end of his pen. Abelle didn't move her head, but her eyes flicked sideways to catch Aiden's profile, then back down to the notebook on the desk in front of her; idle scribbles and scattered notations filled the pages.
"Aren't we all?" She replied, and not untruthfully; as their numbers dwindled, those in attendance had become steadily more subdued. Their erstwhile mentor was no exception. "Everyone's either grieving, or scared they're next, or both."
Aiden sighed quietly, and Abelle could tell he was frustrated with her diplomacy. She couldn't deny that suspicion lurked within this classroom, but she wasn't ready to give up hope completely. Not yet.
"I can't shake it. It's the most obvious choice. He said himself - he brought us together for a reason. He knew - even before we did."
"And he also told us why he brought us together."
"All that 'precipice of a brand new world' rhetoric?" Aiden scoffed. "Very noble. Very high-minded. Very convenient."

Abelle left it that at; while she wasn't able to refute Aiden's theory, she had come to admire Jonas quite intensely, excited for her abilities and what they meant, what they could mean for Abelle's place in the world at large. She wanted to believe his rhetoric - wanted to lead Humanity into a new generation. Queen Bee, she thought to herself, amused at her own pun. The rest of the class passed by uneventfully; Aiden kept his eye on their peers throughout, and as ever, ensured he was the last to leave when the bell eventually rung and Jonas dismissed them with an absent-minded wave of the hand. Abelle hung back too, clutching her notebook to her chest as she walked alongside Aiden. Those romantic feelings hadn't faded, but she still saw the grief etched in the lines of his face, and couldn't bring herself to cross those thresholds. It would be a betrayal thrice over: once to Vanessa's memory, cast aside in pursuit of infatuation; once to Aiden's honour, taken advantage of in his most vulnerable state; and once to Abelle's dignity, that she'd stoop to such low levels. No - it would not do. Instead, she would hold them tight, smother them out if she had to.

The two stepped in-sync through the halls of Mather Memorial, heading toward the main campus square. Social Conscience was their last class of the day, and now they were to hurry home before curfew. As per usual, both uniformed and plain-clothed police lingered on corners and near exits, present yet - so far - ineffective. Once outside, Aiden and Abelle similarly lingered. Abelle wanted to soak up as much of the late-Fall sunshine as she could before returning to what had begun to feel like house arrest. Aiden wanted to size up the students and teachers flowing through the doors and out into Crestwood Hollow.

Abelle watched him watch them with a careful eye. He was deliberately ignoring her in favour of his continued suspicions, but Abelle wasn't the type to let that dissuade her from speaking her mind.
"This man-hunt, Aiden - I understand. I support it, even. But you're being reckless. Whoever's doing this is smarter than a couple high-schoolers with a grudge."
"Criminals aren't complicated, Abelle. We just have to figure out what it is they're after. Why they're targeting us."
"Isn't it obvious? Jonas told us himself. The world isn't ready for people like us. Race, gender...humanity doesn't have a good track record with different. What's one more hate crime?"
Aiden rolled his eyes. It was the most straightforward answer, unquestionably - but they both knew it wasn't that simple.
"No-one knows, 'Belle. So either the killer needs to be playing the lottery instead of murdering kids, or there's a wider conspiracy we're trapped in the centre of."
"I just..." Abelle faltered, not sure how to say what she felt without giving too much away. She took his hand in both of hers, making an earnest plea. "I just want you to be careful. I don't want to wake up one morning and see your face on the front page, under another ghastly headline. I've had enough of those to last me a lifetime."

Aiden finally looked at her, meeting her gaze and recognizing the pain welling behind her eyes.
"I will be. I promise. But I can't stand by and do nothing. Besides," he answered, his eyes starting to glow a subtle red, "anyone sneaking up on me is learning a new meaning to the phrase 'getting an eyeful'."
Abelle nodded, chuckling at Aiden's terrible joke despite herself. She wiped her eyes before any tears could fall.
"I know - and I wouldn't ask you to. But the others probably had powers too, and look where that got them. Don't underestimate people." She said, raising an eyebrow as Aiden reached up to swipe at a tickle across his temple; the wasp there took off and deftly dodged the hand, before landing back on Aiden's cheek and crawling carefully towards his eye. He stiffened up as it stopped with one leg amidst his eyelashes.

"Not anyone."

- - -


Scorch marks marred the brickwork of the alleyway in Crestwood Hollow's Gothic Quarter. A terrified Summer clung to Viktor's shirt from behind him, her clothes torn and slashed; several superficial cuts criss-crossed her arms and torso, and blood matted her blonde hair together from a laceration that wrapped around onto her forehead from behind her ear. Summer was hysterical, shrieking and sobbing, out of immediate danger but no less traumatized for the experience; Viktor was multi-tasking, doing his best to soothe her while simultaneously attempting to defend Aiden as well. The killer that had been stalking the city saw the situation turning; while unpracticed, Aiden and Viktor were a powerful duo, and now she was out-numbered three-to-one. Viktor's hands glowed as Aiden's eyes lit up, and more scorched brick and concrete marked Autumn's retreat, blasts of energy ricocheting down the alleyway. Aiden moved to chase, anger taking hold and making of him an engine of wrath, but Viktor yelled after him, quickly breaking away from the trembling Summer momentarily to seize hold of Aiden's arm and forcibly restrain him from pursuing.

Aiden wheeled around, fury in his heart and on his tongue, and for a moment the two boys stared at each other hard, each pair of eyes glowing, a stand-off between friends; Viktor backed down first, dropping his head and turning back to Summer to calm her. Aiden's gaze lingered on his back, before he blinked away the latent energy.
"I could have had her. I could have ended all of this."
Viktor sighed, but didn't look away from Summer as he helped her to her feet, patching and wrapping her wounds as best he could with scraps from his torn-up shirt.
"Help me with Summer. She needs a hospital."
Aiden wasn't listening.
"I had her. She was right there. Why didn't you hit her? Why did you stop me?!"
Viktor still wasn't turning to look at Aiden, concerned with getting his support under Summer's arm. It was several blocks from here to the hospital, and they didn't have a phone to call an ambulance. Viktor's improvised plaid-shirt bandages weren't holding, blood seeping out in rivulets from beneath the bindings.
"Don't ignore me! You stopped me, and now Autumn's gotten away. She'll kill again - and it's your fault!"

Viktor finally looked at Aiden, his gaze furious and stormy, eyes glowing with energy. Aiden's began to glow in kind. There were a few long, tense moments, as the jovial rivalry that the pair had previously enjoyed in the school hallways now threatened to blossom into a true and potent animosity, both able to back up their posturing, neither able to swallow their pride.
Summer tried to take a step and her leg shuddered and gave way beneath her; she cried out and Aiden moved to catch her as Viktor buckled. They helped her back to her feet, and Aiden slung Summer's other arm around his shoulders as the two young men began to carry her toward medical attention.

"If I'd let you chase her, I'd have risked trading Summer's life for yours - and I can't accept that." Viktor's voice was even and measured, consideration behind his words. "Not one more, Roth. Not even Autumn herself."
He caught Aiden's eyes across Summer's back, and the conviction in Viktor's eyes steeled both men.
"There's been enough death."



She was in our class the whole time. Watching us. Perfectly studying our schedules. Of course it made us easy pickings; the curfew, the buddy system, the police focusing attention on the school - it made it all easier for her. No one would even blink at two students leaving campus in a hurry. I've never been so angry in my life. It frightens me. That lurking blackness feels all-encompassing and I don't know what I'll do if I see her again. There's a plan forming now, silently. Autumn can be rooted out; she's only got so many places to hide, and we know her habits, her haunts. Slowly but surely we will force her into the light and make her face retribution for what she's done.

I have been pushing the limits with my abilities. Bigger swarms, more complex commands, greater varieties of species at once. To override their instinct with my will - to make them ignore prey drive, pain, mating - it's more effort than I'd given it credit for. The mental strain of it all; I can feel them pushing back against me, a thousands-strong buzzing choir of dissent. Unruly children straining in every direction. And I have been feeling...peculiar, of late. More than just exhaustion and grief and anger - strange hot flushes, spasms of pain, lapsing headaches, spats of an itch beneath the skin. I've developed a rash, inconsistent, only small patches on an arm, my back, my calf. If it gets worse I will need to see a doctor, but I don't know if there's even the right kind of doctor out there for us anymore. Jonas may be the best we have.

I think I'm pushing myself too hard, but Aiden is right - we need to be prepared. We need to leverage every advantage against the enemy. We can't be caught off-guard again. We can't lose anyone else.
Abelle D'Voire



"There's nowhere left to go, Autumn."

Jonas took careful steps towards Autumn Miracle, who backed away in equal measure; spread apart from Jonas were the remaining students from his Social Conscience class, Autumn's would-be victims, and they began to slowly close in, forming a semi-circle around their quarry. They had chased her from a make-shift shelter she'd set up in an abandoned part of the docks, rooted out by Aiden and Minnie, the pair brash and confident and filled with fury.

Minnie closed in further, ready to take the hard route - eager for it, even. Aiden wasn’t far behind, his own face thunderous, and Abelle herself was quietly amassing a swarm the size of which she’d not attempted before.
“Fuck this negotiation shit, ‘teach,” came the headstrong bark from Minnie; her mutated beast snarled in kind, savagery egged on through the psychic connection to its maker by the feral anger that blossomed in Minnie. “She’s just a wild animal. Wild animals get put down.”
Autumn moved to combat Minnie’s threat, make good on her words, but an arm from Jonas silenced both girls, and the students still with him stopped in their tracks.
"It doesn't have to be this way. We can still end this peacefully. We can get you help."
Abelle studied Jonas and Autumn, looking for a sign, a plan, the next action from either that might determine how this was all going to play out. They danced on a knife’s edge; Jonas’ face, inscrutable and emotionless as ever, gave nothing away. Autumn's only flashed with outrage.
“Help?! I don’t need help! I just need to understand! If you can’t turn back what she did to me -”
“You know I can’t. You know it’s not that simple! Just- stop for a second, think about what you’ve done! What you’re doing. It doesn’t have to end like this! It can be different this time!”

Jonas’ words fell on deaf ears. Autumn was too far gone; always had been. Always would be. There was no turning away from the path she had set herself down now. Not ever.
“If you can’t undo what Vanessa did - then I have no choice. I’ll make my own meaning out of it. I’ll make it make sense!”
"The fuck's she talkin' about, Jonas?" Minnie asked, the rage in her voice tempered by mounting confusion. Autumn smiled a smug, vicious little smile that chilled Abelle to the bone.
"They don't know, 'teach'? You left out that little tidbit? A white lie of omission - spoonful of sugar to help them swallow your mission?"
"You don't have to do this, Autumn. We have resources. This can all go away."
"Coward! You're a damn coward, with your secrets and your stoicism and your preaching and your partner in the shadows. Fuck you." Autumn spat. She turned to the encircling students, addressing them now instead. "Jonas likes to sermonize about how we're born - our nature, our evolution, 'the great next step'! Nature has nothing to do with it. Only one of us was born like this, and she took away the one chance we had for normal lives, as normal people. Vanessa Bordeaux! What a wonder-child. The only actual born-and-bred Hyperhuman this city's ever known! And her mutation? Making. Other. Hyperhumans."

A stillness fell over the scene, each member of the group dissecting and internalising Autumn's words, spat out with vitriol and rage and unhinged sorrow behind them, the sheer passion wiping away any hope that she might just be lying. Abelle looked to Jonas; he held only the expression of grim defeat, of terrible secrets spilled.
"Vanessa robbed all of us of normal, happy lives. I just wanted to know why - how it worked, what she was, and in turn what she had made us. It's not my fault that all the important bits to look at were on her insides! Vanessa made me a freak? Fine! I'll make myself a GOD!"

"That's enough, Autumn."
Yakob Kowalski revealed himself, flanked by armed and uniformed agents bearing the emblazoned insignias of H.E.L.P. and readying themselves for an uncooperative arrest.
"You've made quite a mess of things. Help was available - it still is - but we are not afraid to detain you by force. Don't make this harder than it has to be."
Autumn's face, momentarily, showed a forlorn sense of betrayal before hardening again; at her sides, her palms began to flicker, pilot-lights catching in the breeze. Something she'd taken from one of their fallen classmates.
"You too, Yakob?" She sneered, surveying all those that stood against her now; the game was finally done, but no one here was under any illusion that Autumn was about to come quietly.
"You've done enough damage to the Hyperhuman cause. It's time to bring an end to your horror."

Autumn broke the stalemate first; she was fast, faster than they could react to - the small flames cradled in her palms burst into great gouts of flame as she pushed herself away from her pursuers, swathes of fire creating an effective barrier between hunters and quarry. Minnie was first into the fray, charging forward with her manufactured monster galloping in front at a frightening speed, pushing through the inferno without fear and creating a gap for the rest; Aiden and Viktor didn't hesitate, unleashing their energy blasts in Autumn's direction as she fled, great flashes of red and white painting the sky and scorching the ground where they ricocheted off concrete and tarmac. Yakob and Jonas simply shared a sorrowful look, before Yakob gestured to his agents, directing them to take down the target.

Autumn fled, bursts of fire left in her wake to try and stave off her pursuers. She lead them on a merry chase, winding through Crestwood Hollow's back streets, circuiting through alleyways and market roads; the HELP agents held fire, but Jonas' students were not so reserved - Abelle's swarm whirled through the air, buzzing violently about Autumn's face, stinging and biting; flames erupted around Autumn in intervals, cutting through swathes of insects, but Abelle didn't let up. Summon more, direct more - there were millions, billions in the city, and she'd have every single one on Autumn's head if she needed to. Minnie was astride her beast, the 6-legged, fang-mawed thing hastened toward their target - as they neared, Autumn would lash out with flame or strike with a blade, her reflexes fast and the knife sharper than it had any right to be, cutting far beyond where the edge tapered to an end. Aiden and Viktor found their mark with their blasts, but she was hardy, hardier than they could have imagined; her skin bruised and singed, but it did not break, and she used her forearms like shields. The combined might of all her kills - taken apart and studied and integrated, making Autumn something greater than the sum of her parts, the sum of the parts of others. She was formidable - but they had to believe she was not indestructible.

There was the tiniest of openings, and Abelle didn't hesitate to seize her opportunity to end it. Exhausted from the chase, shakes through her body, mentally drained from her abilities, Abelle summoned the last of her strength and darted through the flame; spiders and fleas and fire-ants and even scorpions rode upon her, unable to fly like her swarms of wasps and hornets and bees but commanded by her all the same - as she got close, those that could leap were compelled to do so, delivering their bites and venoms wherever they could find purchase. Others still waited, Abelle's arms crawling tapestries of carapaces and chitins, eager for the bridge to be closed. Distracted by a galloping blow from Minnie's monster, Autumn caught glancing hits from Aiden's lasers, and she whirled from the impact. Abelle caught her, seized her arms in her hands, and the creatures poured from Abelle onto Autumn.

Autumn cast her off immediately, easily, slashing with her knife as she did so and splitting Abelle's clothes and the skin beneath - but the damage was done, the command was made, and the combined venom of the bites and stings weighed heavily upon Autumn's system. Anaphylactic shock began to set in, and Autumn collapsed next to Abelle, their frames heaving in synchronized, agonized breaths. HELP closed in, pushing Abelle's classmates back, quickly rolling Autumn over and restraining her, removing the knife from her person. She was already fading into unconsciousness. It was finally over. Yakob hung back and provided soft-spoken commands to his agents as they contained the scene; some hauled Autumn off, bundling her into an armoured truck, while others dispersed the growing crowd. Police were arriving, and questions were being asked, and the fallout would haunt Crestwood Hollow and the students of Social Conscience forever - but Autumn's terror had been brought to a close.

Jonas pushed through the throng, Aiden close behind. He knelt beside Abelle, the girl fading in and out, hyperventilating and beginning to seize. An agent knelt opposite, administering first aid. Jonas took a moment to inspect her wounds; the cuts, while deep, were oddly devoid of the heavy hemorrhaging he'd expect from such laceration. As the agent wiped away blood and debris in order to disinfect and dress, he and Jonas caught sight of strange, chitinous growths beneath the skin, a dull yellow peeking out from below the cleaved flesh.
"Your name, agent?" Jonas asked, his voice a hasty whisper and his movements hurried as he helped finish dressing the wounds. Abelle gasped and choked beneath them, but she was only half-there at best. The words shared across her supine form were hazy in her ears.

The agent looked from Abelle to Jonas and back again, his eyes wide.
"What's your name?" Jonas barked, bringing attention back to him.
"O-O'Neil, sir. James O'Neil. J-Jim."
"Get her up, Jim. Get her up, and get her to Yakob's facility. Don't tell anyone what we saw."
"S-sir, I-"
"Now!" Jonas ordered, and there was no disobeying. Jim lifted Abelle bodily in his arms, hurrying her toward another truck. Yakob raised an eyebrow in Jonas' direction, but he merely held a careful arm out toward him. It would be explained later, when there was time, not amidst this chaos.



w h i t e white wals. coats.lihts. bandage. evverywere white. remmembeeer erly age. labs docters neeeeedles testsss. probed mesured monitred.
changing. think they are trying to stop the change but feel it. in my bones and bene ath my skull it wont stop. is me becoming what nessa made me. maybe, just watching . study-learn. maybe know it can’t be.ssttopped.

let outside som etime - feel wind on face. sun on what left skin. ssshhhhines off me now.prety yellow. shell hard-tough. back splits.growing ther too. head bulge-buds. changing. changing quite a lot. doct ors smile nice say kind-warm words but am muddled.not stupid. not dimm. tried potions pils needles. OUT of ideeaas. only pause-stal, no cure. no cure for true nnaattuurree.
they know.prepared. guards watch me. grip-seize guns tight as I walk by. see to south, acrossss sea, they are bui lding - building haven-home. not for me. not for me. this island finall prison.

it is marvelus and fritening. body transf ormd.something new and more. stronger faster tougher. ssensittive in new ways. but fading - I am fading. new day.less left. rreememmber family no faces. re emmember friend no names. less and less. becoming new me. want to remain. must remeemmber which me I want to be.
this one.
thiss one.
no other.

I will miss-mourn the girl I could have been.
A bE lle. ReM EmbR.



Aiden ran his hands through his hair as he stepped from the jet-boat onto the small jetty of Zayas Island. Across the short gap of sea, the growing campus stood proudly, recently christened as Pacific Royal Collegiate and University, or P.R.C.U. for short. A fledging academy, a sanctuary for Hyperhumans - Jonas and Yakob's true vision crystallised. It was the culmination of years of work, hundreds of people, and millions of dollars in resources. Aiden couldn't help but look on it with pride, his own small part contributed. It would be his home - perhaps the first one he wouldn't want to flee from. He was on the cusp of a new age, and eager to welcome it in.

The sea-salt stuck to his skin as they walked down the dock toward the white-concrete facility ahead of them, the only building on the isle. Aiden licked his lips clear as he and his escorting agent pushed through the front doors, giving way to a bright and airy lobby, the rear walls lined with doors leading further into the structure and elevators that went deeper underground. Aiden had yet to visit this deliberately-separated establishment, and he was struck by the clinically-white and sterile environ that this was entirely by HELP's design; this was, inherently and consciously, a place only for those who needed to be here. Aiden considered what it meant that it had taken until now for Jonas to accept his requests to see Abelle and invite him here - but the rumination was dispelled as his escort thrust a tablet and stylus toward him, a visitor's log demanding his name and signature. The agent's face betrayed nothing as Aiden signed away, and the nib had barely lifted from the screen before both were whipped away and Aiden was urged toward the back of the room, through a door and deeper into the belly of the facility.

The corridors beyond the initial antechamber were as aseptic as the entryway had been, everything a bright white. Rooms branched off and windows gave glimpses of lab equipment, research computers, server blocks, as well as break rooms, bunks, lockers; this was clearly a lived-in building, or at the very least, one where assignment meant long shifts; Aiden wondered if such an assignment was a privilege or punishment. Yakob was a strong and vocal proponent of hyperhuman research and technological advancement - perhaps this facility was what allowed him and HELP to live on the cutting-edge. There were distant sounds of activity, but Aiden found it almost eerie; the hallways he walked through and rooms he passed were sparsely-populated, if at all, the most frequent figures being posted armed guards at irregular intervals. This was contrary in nature to the inviting and open-access academy campus that he'd left behind on Dundas.

Finally, they rounded a corner and pushed through another set of doors and Aiden was greeted by a welcome familiar face. Jonas smiled his particular smile as he caught sight of Aiden, and nodded politely to his escort, who took the opportunity to pass custody over and then turn and disappear.
"Aiden," Jonas said, taking his guest's hand in both of his own to deliver a firm and amiable shake, "it's a pleasure to have you here. Welcome to Zayas Island. Just a stone's throw from Dundas, but I'm sure you can see why we've separated it out."
Aiden shook back, unconsciously returning Jonas' smile. "Quite the stronghold Yakob's built here. Some kind of emergency shelter?"
Jonas chuckled. "Not quite - we were lucky that when we purchased the land, Zayas already had a defunct coastal defence fort on it. Some reinforcement and a fresh coat of paint and we were ready to move in."
"Move in and do what?" Aiden asked, a pointed question as he kept the equipment and rooms they'd passed by in mind. Jonas laughed again, but this time it felt a little more forced.
"Always to-the-point, aren't you Roth? It'll serve you well. We do all sorts here - you're no stranger to Yakob's thirst for knowledge. All that literature HELP publishes about Hyperhumans doesn't come out of the ether, you know."

Aiden nodded, aware Jonas had ducked the specifics of the matter, but equally aware he wouldn't be coaxed into further elaboration. There was an awkward pause. Aiden was waiting to be told why he'd finally been let onto the island. Jonas slowly lead him into another room - well-equipped and comfortable, but smaller than other rec-rooms Aiden had seen. There was a small framed photo on the desk of a young woman at the doors of the Zayas facility, flanked by a smiling Yakob and an older, gruffer, stonier man, with a military beret and demeanour to match. This was someone's office. Probably the woman's.
"I feel like I rarely see you these days, Aiden - everyone is so busy, and there's a lot of paperwork to fill out. How are you finding Dundas? How are the others?"

Jonas gestured to the seat and Aiden dutifully sat down; he faltered at the question, though, feeling like he was being diverted, distracted. His guard was up.
"It's...it's good. It's a change, but we've been pitching in. Vik and Seb, they love the training centre - can hardly tear themselves away. Can't say it doesn't feel great getting the chance to really let loose with the powers, though. And when HELP can afford to spare some of the tech that's coming through campus - give it a few years, and that hall is going to be something else."
Jonas smiled, leaning back. "I'm glad the campus is giving you boys the opportunity to explore your true selves. Yakob and I - what we want, what we really want, is for everyone here to not have to limit themselves. Hold themselves back. To be as Hyperhuman as they really, actually are."
"We appreciate that, sir. You're doing a hell of a job. I think the academy really has the potential to be the sanctuary you've imagined. Hell, we're already thinking of the school's future."
"Oh?" Jonas asked, raising a curious eyebrow. "How so?"
"Well, Minnie and Rita have been scheming about how best to haze the newbies, if that's any indication. A Trial-By-Fire for the freshmen. That'll be a doozy if I know those two - but traditions like that, it's an important part of any long-lasting culture. Creating a sense of belonging. Unity, I guess." Aiden answered, Jonas nodding along with a warm fire in his eyes. "Summer's been working really close with Yakob on the logistics, how to get people here, where they'll stay, how the campus will run. Long-term organizational stuff, you know? And she and Emma have weighed in on the decorating, too - a woman's eye for taste and detail. Making it feel welcoming. Like home."

There was a pause; Jonas provided room for Aiden to continue, but Aiden couldn't say he was too interested in spending his time in this deliberately-secret facility simply praising Jonas' vision.
"If I can be frank with you, sir. We all miss Abelle. We're all worried about her. I can't believe you've finally let me over here just to avoid talking about her. God knows I asked enough. The university, the campus, everything we're building on Dundas - it's all wonderful, don't get me wrong. But it's not the same without her. She always had such a heart. I think we could all use that right now."
Jonas sighed, his smile slowly fading in the face of the inevitable conversation.
"I am sad to say, Mr. Roth - you are right. I think it's time you come with me."

Aiden felt a pang of concern shoot through him - Jonas' words were strange, his expression tinged with tragedy. But he stood and left the office quickly, leaving no space for challenge - Aiden had no choice but to jump up and follow fast behind. Jonas lead them to an elevator door, which dutifully opened at his approach, and he beckoned Aiden in as he pushed a button for a far deeper level than Aiden would have expected. As they stood silently in the descending cubicle, Jonas handed Aiden a small file, nudging him to peruse. Within were copious medical notes, observation logs, genetic markers - but unfailingly, every document was littered with redacted portions, some pages consisting more of blacked-out passages than legible text.
"Jonas..." Aiden finally said, looking up at his mentor. "What am I looking at?"
"Did you know," Jonas began, watching the numbers on the interior of the elevator above the door light and dim in descending order, "that Abelle very narrowly avoided stillbirth?"
The colour drained from Aiden's face. "She...she said she was an ill child. She never went into much detail."
Jonas nodded thoughtfully. "Indeed. Miss D'Voire's early life was one of unimaginable odds. Near-stillbirth, born premature and spending her first three months of life in the NICU. A rare genetic defect on a recessive gene from her father, you see. Neuro-degenerative. Prognosis was...poor. Doctors gave her four unimpeded years. Five at best. She lasted one before returning to intensive care."

The elevator stopped, and the doors opened in front of them with a soft chime. Jonas gestured Aiden forwards, down another sterile-white corridor; this time, though, the guards were noticeably more frequent, and Aiden could hear the murmur and bustle of activity echoing down the halls. Jonas continued his diatribe and Aiden followed him deeper into the underground bowels.
"Odds and chances, yet again. An experimental trial. Gene therapy. Genetically-altered genome tags from select species of insect, bearing properties that, when bound to the defective DNA, could override the degenerative process that would otherwise kill her." Jonas paused; Aiden looked to him. "Abelle was the only patient of the trial who survived. Odds. Chances. Who could have predicted - her parents, her doctors, Abelle herself - that a short decade later, she might move to Crestwood Hollow? Who could have predicted she might meet Vanessa? Who could have predicted what Vanessa's own genetics could do to Abelle's altered ones?"

They finally arrived at a door that held dark portent in its still form like nothing Aiden had ever felt before. Two guards flanked the entryway, their rifles held tight.
"We've come a long way with the Hyperhuman gene. Isolating it. Identifying it. Understanding it. Abelle should have been...better. She should have been faster, stronger, tougher, smarter. She should have lived longer, run further, leaped higher. She should have been 'human plus'. Everything you or I or the public masses are, but more. Instead, the hype-gene Vanessa instilled latched onto a different kind of genetic string."

Aiden felt sick. He didn't want to know what was behind that door, but the truth was inescapable.
"Aiden Roth...I invited you here today because you, more than anyone, deserve the truth. I won't lie; it's unpleasant. Horrifying, perhaps. It's like nothing we've ever seen - a completely unique variable of what we know about Hyperhumans, re-defining our understanding. But it's still so early, Aiden, you see? If governments, the public, anyone were to see the potential that Abelle represents - the movement would be over. We'd lose everything. We'd be the monsters they already fear us for. And I can't allow that."

Jonas sat on the floor opposite the door, his back against the wall. For the first time, Aiden saw...tiredness in him. An age and a deeper knowing than he should rightly have. A sadness down to his core, about something terribly wrong, that he was entirely powerless to fix. He gestured toward the door.
"I won't stop you. I brought you here to...to say goodbye."

Aiden did not spend much time in the room. He refused to recognize the figure inside as Abelle; any passing resemblance to his friend only highlighted the horror. He returned to the hallway ashen and silent and nauseous and weeping. Jonas was stood again, and Aiden barely even registered that Summer Carlyle had appeared beside him.
"I...I don't want to remember her like that. I want to remember her as my friend. As my comrade-in-arms. And until you find a cure - and you will find a cure - that's the memory I'll hold onto."

Jonas stepped toward him, embracing Aiden uncharacteristically in his arms; Aiden simply leaned into it, overtaken by the tragedy of the matter.
"I am so, so sorry, Aiden." Jonas said, through tears of his own. He stepped back, and Aiden found his arms had been restrained behind his back. He began to struggle, began to cry out - but the guards flanked him, two heavy paws on his shoulders as Summer moved forward, holding her hand out to Aiden's temple, her own sobs bubbling and hitching up freely from her throat.
"But I can't allow that either."
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Hidden 19 days ago Post by Hound55
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Hound55 Create-A-Hero RPG GM, Blue Bringer of BWAHAHA!

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Ste Aisling
He revelled in making her uncomfortable, that much was clear.

Or at least he tried to.

It took a lot to shake a former investigator of H.E.L.P. Particularly one who had seen the kinds of things Zara Catrell had seen over the years.

But he tried nonetheless. Singing that damned song, leaning into his thick brogue with the shanty.

The Irishman. Ste Aisling.

"There was ol' Mickey Coote who played hard on his flute,
When the ladies lined up for a set.
He was tootin' with skill for each sparklin' quadrille,
Though the dancers were fluthered and bent,
With his smart witty talk, he was cock of the walk,
And he rolled the dames under and over.
They all knew at a glance, when he took up his stance,
That he sailed in the Irish Rover."


He was onto about his third verse or so by now. Part of her wanted to see how long he'd continue this charade of nonchalance. But as the song seemed ever longer her patience had begun to wane.

"Nice. Rhymes. Are you going to keep on telling me how unbothered by all of this you are, or are we going to actually talk about what you know?"

He paused his song and rocked his neck back a second.

"What makes you so convinced a fella like me knows anythin', darl?"

She smirked. He was all front veneer and tough guy trimmings.

"You're very intent on having us belief you're a hard man, aren't you." There was no question in it.

"Am a well hard man." He corrected. "But still don't know nothin' 'bout this."

"Was playin' poker with the lads. Then I heard the Captain actin' the maggot as shit all went arseways."

Zara pulled her notepad.

"The lads being?"

"Dougie, Parkers and Tim. The three having committed the horrible crime of having money that was as yet not in my possession. So... poker."

"Not at all concerned with having to get back to work?"

"What work? We weren't meant to cast off yet. Wasn't nawt for me t'do. The others on late night crew and the radio. Again, nawt t'do til cast off."

Zara nodded as details began to check out. Except for...

"Fair enough. Except I'd heard that your poker game got put on hold after the Captain checked on you all, and asked you all if you could have been doing something."

"Bah! He was just doin' his rounds checkin' on everybody. You're makin it sound like we all scattered and dashed off with our winnin's. Some of the losers were just pleadin' poverty and trying t' get out of another hand, s'all. We were all still milling 'round and talkin'."

"And you heard the shot?"

"Heard a whole lot of effin' and blindin' as it all was goin' arseways. That much was true. But couldn't see nothin'. We were all playin' poker on the seaward side."

"Starboard?"

"Aye."

"Captain and the craziness was mainly on the port. Tryin' to cast off and get us movin'. Good job he did too, I hear. Quinn could've been all've us."

"Mmm." Zara murmured in a non-committed fashion, acknowledging the opinion.

Zara looked across at his hands. They were unblemished, uncalloused. A smirk crossed her face as she once again felt justified in her first take on Ste, all front and the perception of hardness. These weren't the hands of someone who'd seen the hard work in life. She remembered the Chef's opinion of him, and her statements regarding his efforts to get out of work and socialise. A picture of the man opposite was forming ever more clearly in her mind with every word that fell out of his mouth.

Something the Chef had said came to her mind, and she briefly looked up to check the time, before returning her sights to the subject.

He smiled at her. But it never met his eyes. Those eyes.

"There was Barney McGee from the banks of the Lee,
There was Hogan from County Tyrone,
There was Johnny McGurk who was scared stiff of work,
And a man from Westmeath called Malone,
There was Slugger O'Toole who was drunk as a mule,
And Fightin' Bill Treacy from Dover,
And your man, Mick MacCann, from the banks of the Bann
Was the skipper of the Irish Rover..."


"You quite like your song, don't you?"

His grin only broadened further and his head rocked at the neck, as if answering her were more effot than it was worth. No. More effort than she was worth.

"Tis a fair ditty, t'besure. Guessin' I just feel that when at sea it calls for a shanty. Eh?"

There was more going on here. She could see that much. He was guilty of something, if not this. His mannerisms were weary and tired, but it never met his eyes. Those penetrating eyes. If he wasn't getting enough sleep it wasn't affecting those eyes.

"If you've been a fan of it so far, somethin' tells me you'll love the next verse..."

His mouth opened and she caught a flash of a leer.

She'd enough experience in interrogations and interviewing subjects to know there was intended cruelty coming, and wasn't disappointed in her decision to harden herself as he once again broke into song.

"For a sailor its always a bother in life,
It's so lonesome by night and day,
That he longs for the shore and a pretty young whore
The leer flashed once more as he added emphasis.
Who will melt all his troubles away,
Oh the noise and the rout, swillin' poitin' and stout,
For him soon is done and over,
Of the love of a maid, he is never afraid,
An old salt from the Irish Rover..."


She wouldn't give him the pleasure of a reaction.

Deliberately, needlessly provocative. Looking for any control in a situation where he felt he had little to none. Grasping for any power in the situation he could find.

And in the absence of a reaction from Zara he laughed at himself, sensing nobody else would.

"Of course, what you're telling me... it's not entirely the whole truth is it?"

He snorted derisively, this was her reaction to the song, he was sure. Accusing him when she had nothing.

"Yeah, how'dya figure that, lass?"

"The Starboard side. Had a clear path to the stern. In fact, its the clearest path there. And the Port side, where the Captain was, wouldn't have had visibility of anything happening on that side, would he?"

The Irishman's brow furrowed into a scowl.

"True. But the three people I was playin' poker with and probably a half dozen people all in all would have, if I'd done what y'r claimin' I did. But you know that. It's just a baseless shot across the bow because you got your feelings hurt."

Zara hesitated to think of another question, before Ste's brogue filled the vacant air once more.

"...and I think one stray shot gettin' caught by an innocent fella is enough, without firin' off more. Or am I wrong?"

That one stung. And lengthened the pause in her response.

"What's the matter, dryshite, got nothin' else for me?"

This time she chuckled. Far enough away from the moment of real irritation. He kept leaning in further and further, practically making a parody of a charicature of himself.

Poke him once more. Hit his ego and his masculinity and see what rattles out.

"So, playing poker with three guys. The Chef doesn't seem to think much of you, but I guess that shouldn't be too much of a surprise. Don't suppose you keep much company with women. Can't imagine you--"

She didn't even finish the comment and he'd already leaned forward like he was stung by a hornet. Full of bluster and outrage.

"What're you gettin' at, you dozy dose?! Back ashore I was up ta ninety with the beours! Couldn't keep 'em off me, I couldn't. A man plays poker with the lads in a spare five and he's suddenly the Lonesome Loser. Trust me, I'll do alright for m'self. I'd be more worried about yourself. Can't imagine this'd get you anywhere, or is this how you meet all your blokes, eh? Prefer a captive audience. Well from this side of the table I'll tell ya you'd clean up better if you smiled once in a while."

"You do alright for yourself, huh? Lilly Marks or-- Suze Scrivener?" She quickly threw in the name of the next female subject, having the foresight that the Chef Celeste Boucher would unlikely be his type.

He gave a wider leer still, and even fired off a wink. "It's a long cruise, like."

Now THAT she bought. He might not have it in him to shoot someone, but at that moment he could absolutely see that he was exactly the kind of disgusting type who would take any advantage with a woman that he could get.

And maybe already had, or was.

He knew she had little desire to hear any more from him, comfortable in the knowledge he knew nothing about the case at hand. But Zara did make a mental note to ask the next subject, and perhaps a few more of the women on board about him. And Quinn as well. Mistaken identity and self-defense had become a possibility in her mind. Stranger things had happened.

His leer returned once more as he rocked back in thought as he finished his ditty.

We had sailed seven years when the measles broke out,
And the ship lost its way in the fog,
And that whale of a crew was reduced down to two,
Just myself and the Captain's old dog.
Then the ship struck a rock, oh Lord, what a shock,
The bulkhead was turned right over,
Turned nine times around and the poor old dog was drowned,
I'm the last of The Irish Rover..."



________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Location: Pacific Ocean
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Interaction(s): NPCs - Hyperhuman Residents of the Alumni Village


Suzanne Scrivener

A crooked little smile, she tucked her dress behind her knees as she sat opposite Zara.

She raised her eyes to the investigator opposite and tried to widen her smile with warmth, but it was clear that everything about proceedings was uncomfortable for her.

Suze Scrivener, Zara noted. She'd yet to hear a negative word about her amongst the ship's crew, and what little interaction she'd had with her herself, she'd shown herself to be affable, and if anything a little too eager to please.

Some might even consider it 'sweet'.

Zara wasn't one to think in such terms.

When you'd seen the kind of things that the H.E.L.P. Investigator had seen, read as many of the reports on what the worst in society had done. It wasn't on her scale of the spectrum of humanity. She thought more in terms of guilt. More in terms of what information she could pry, an what leverage to utilise to crack a subject open like a nut to reveal those kernels of enlightenment.

What Zara saw was a person primed for being knocked off balance. Open to intimidation. But was aware of what the affect in doing so early, when that action would likely to impact the actions of the crew as word of mouth travelled faster outside of these walls than her questioning could spread through the subjects at hand.

She'd prefer to be interviewing this one later, to counter that response. Or to re-call her. But with her being kitchen crew it had been made clear the Captain would want this handled earlier.

His interference in her interrogation was grating on her more with every subject, with every minute.

"No morning service, so I suppose this was the last best opportunity to catch you while you're well rested." Zara Catrell smiled, attempting to at least open the interview with some kind of levity.

Suze's smile, barely cracked open to show a hint of pearl, as she nodded, considering her response.

"Hardly relaxing though, considering events." The smile rapidly disappeared from her face, and Zara silently cursed herself for not making better use of the first swing, to draw more of a response. She'd likely be more guarded now.

So long away from her work, she was out of practice.

Suze again took her time, before she gave a solemn solitary "No..."

"Did you know Quinn at all?"

Another pause.

"I think we saw each other once or twice in the Alumni village. At Mrs Millett's shop, getting groceries. Just... friendly 'Hello's and waves, if anything. I knew him by sight, but not very much about him."

Zara could feel the weighty pauses, controlling the tempo of the interview, and didn't care for them at all. She was dictating tempo. To give herself time to formulate a lie if she had to? Perhaps. Or maybe not. Regardless, it didn't serve her well to allow it to continue.

She sped up her voice as she snapped back a follow-up question. Trying to elicit a speedier response from the social tension it would create.

"Were you aware what his hyperhuman power was?" It wasn't a question who's answer would give a lot of weight to anything, it's purpose more to manipulate the tempo than gain anything meaningful in response.

"No. I don't think so. Like I said, we never spoke much. And I never thought enough about him to ask anyone el--"



She re-gathered herself as the physical manifestation of her exclamatory comment exploded between the pair.

Zara's brow lowered at the response. It was so large it had almost forced her out of her chair, and stood in stark contrast to the temperament of the girl seated opposite.

"I'm so sorry, that's so terrible, you must think I'm awful, that I didn't really--"

"It's alright. It doesn't seem to be an uncommon situation for most I've spoken to already."

Maybe a bit more survivors guilt than most, though. Demonstrative?

Zara recalculated the motivation behind the pauses. Perhaps they weren't solely for this interview. She wrote a 'P' and a '?' as shorthand in her notebook, before continuing with her questions. She lacked complete control of her powers. And in her case that could mean a potential breach on secrecy. Could it be that she had she said something that was seen by the wrong person?

Zara knew better than to ask herself what possible darkness this unassuming girl in her dress, who was so quick with a disarming smile, could possibly behold. For an opressed people, darkness could be found in even the brightest appearing hyperhuman. Well masked by years of practice.

"A few people have said it was your response that first gave the indication that something was wrong at th time, and finding the body of Mister Spence. Could you tell me what you were doing when you found Quinn? Was there anybody else already there?"

She thought for a moment.

"Well... I think Jason was technically closer. He'd struggled to get himself to the shelter of the starboard side because, well, I think he pretty clearly didn't feel well. He'd turned a pretty nasty shade of pink, from his usually nice red hue. But I don't think he actually saw anything, I think he was just trying to get somewhere safe whilst not throwing up."

Zara considered this, and was about to make a note that she was the first on scene to discover the body, when she continued.

"...but, being the closest, doesn't mean I was the first. I just... was the first to say anything, and I was pretty shocked to find him like that."

"Yes. The Captain did say your-- comment-- was the first sign that he had that anything was wrong."

"Oh..." Suze said, turning a similar shade to Jason McGee from the other direction, before re-gathering herself, but with some sign of relief on her face.

Zara recognised what she was looking at and made a mental note if only to try and make use of it later. Still, she was a co-operating subject, and willing to provide what information she had at present.

Zara looked to keep momentum.

"So... what other crew members did you see there who would have discovered Quinn's body just before, or just at the same time as you had?"

Suze sobbed gently once more, at the reference to 'Quinn's body', and Zara cursed herself for being out of practice, and made a mental note to keep it more just objective and refer to it as 'the body' to prevent the bubbling over of feelings slowing her interview process.

"Well, you weren't far behind. And Vee and I had been talking. She was a bit behind because she was busy with the cloud cover. But there was Rafe, and young Tash, who helps Vincenzo. Oh, and one of the boys. I don't really know them very well."

Zara's brow furrowed at the cloud over this piece of information. She probed on clumsily.

"Do you know his name?" She said, more forcefully than was comfortable for the conversation.

Suze withdrew slightly. Not wanting to accuse anyone just by their presence alone. Especially just because she didn't know the person well. The Alumni Village was a small place, and most knew each other, but with people travelling in cliques it was not always the height of familiarity. One of the friends of Ste. Which meant it wasn't really someone she would make it her business to be around. They'd been playing some type of cards earlier, and the Irishman gave a leer that made her uncomfortable as she passed by with Viola, who very loudly put him in his place at the time. But Suze didn't like to be so provocative.

You never know how people could and would react.

"I'm sorry. I don't know his name."

Zara's watched Suze's face with deep scrutiny, and as HZEs swirled, her mind calculated and she had this mystery 'boy' down to one of two people.

She considered her next path as she wrote the assorted list of names down on her pad in rough shorthand.

She felt comfortable she'd given everything she 'would claim' she knew quite willingly. But she had a decision to make here. She could 'burn' the subject, probably risk her treatment souring the crew to her investigation - many of whom, didn't seem to particularly care for it in the first place either because of its prying nature on their own privacy, or due to following the Captain's sentiments like sheep. But it would give her an answer, one way or the other. And cement some of what she knew, and what she felt her powers had deduced to meaningful information.

It was barely a question. She wrestled her expression to a flat, neutral state, before hitting the girl between the eyes with what would take her off balance.

"So how long have you felt this way about the Captain?" She quickly fired, in a flat tone.



Zara immediately followed it up with another question.

"He'd be quite old for you. What would that be? Almost a fifteen... twenty year age difference. Does he know?"

Suze's face had fallen to shock. She was trying to gather herself, but kept getting peppered with a new hit every time.

"If the Captain wanted you to cover for him would you do it? Sorry. What exactly would the Captain have to have done in order for you to be willing to cover for him?"

Suze tried to take her time to regain her balance. "...I-- I didn't. ...I wouldn't."

Sensing it was the time to pivot to get what she was truly after, Zara swung the point of attack.

"So what did the boys do to 'make you forget'? Where di--"

Suze's facial response was quite mild. Not outrage. Not shock at a discovery coming to light. Zara scanned for every twitch, every involuntary tell, but the reaction wasn't the same as when she posed the question about the Captain.

"What? They didn't? As if I'd let--"

The pointed questions didn't seem to hold the same truth. Draw the same effect. aybe she'd regained control. Covered her motivations. More stress was called for tob e certain.

"Was it here on this ship, or at the back of Millett's shop where they cornered y--"

"That never happened, what are you--?"

"Did they threaten that they'd be back. That next time they would-- he would--"

Suze's face had twisted with baffled confusion. The whole interview had changed pace, and while at first she was nervous that she saw through one of her secrets, now it was just baseless wild swings at complete falsehoods. Whatever integrity her investigation held, and respect for process she may have once had was now a distant memory for this subject.

"Is this-- How you used to investigate people? You just make up stupid stuff that never happened and hope something sticks?"

Zara circled the two symbols she had drawn and pot a dot in the circle. Her confidence in that had grown, even if she had lost something else here in this room.

Nothing else mattered in the pursuit of the truth.

"I think I've got all I need."

"You've been very helpful, Miss Scrivener."

Just outside, a gull landed on the railing and peered into the interview room through one of the many portholes which provided light. The scavenger took two beats, and left of its own devices, unclear whether it was satisfied in getting whatever it cme for or not.

The Thorpedo surged ever onwards through mild chop.
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Hidden 14 days ago Post by Rockette
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Rockette 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

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She was gone.
Taken. Stolen. Robbed.
Gone. Gone. Gone.

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way!

He had sent that thing to get them back, to get her back; whole, pieces, limbs, and parts, it didn’t matter, he just needed them back. More blood, so close, so far, right there on the precipice of what he was searching for, what he yearned, what he deserved. Answers in the blood, answers in the flesh, sewed and plucked and wrought, answers in the membrane of self and the remains of the soul that wept. Answers in the sheering blue that promised nothing but death, and pain. He would see those eyes again, he would feel that power that rose as chaos and wrath, he would taste the anguish and fear, he’d tear those wings apart with his teeth. He would feel as if god and all-knowing again, no matter the cost- the price.

He would have everything.

Though the Chernobog was gone, never-there, taken, vanquished, it still had achieved something. And thus he stood in the middle of destruction and death, the bodies had been taken, and removed, but they hadn’t yet washed all the blood away and the air was ripe with the fear of those slain, there were fissures carved deep into metal and stone, the foundations nearly wrent apart. A wailing echo that lingers, the despair and lament of anguish he would taste and hear like siren songs that plucked at decayed heartstrings. Everything is muddled, torn, decrepit, and forsaken and he kneels in the crimson, worships it with hands that are not his own, where skin carefully rots and peels and shrivels- this body wouldn’t last much longer. He pools the water-washed hue of life through those hands of death and thinks: oh what did she see, what did it feel like when the name of names had been unleashed, the weapon, the product, the end of all made to be so. What did she feel, he pondered, and fisted through shorn feathers, those tawny hues so familiar, drenched and broken, those wings tossed aside so cruelly, hidden beneath drapes in muddied gold and red. He dragged them out and held them as if precious, but all the blood was congealed and dark and rotted, he needed it fresh.

And if he could not have one, he would instead have the other.

From behind, figures approach where steady beeps thrum, light a heartbeat, consistent and steady, flashing periodically in green, a sickly and toxic wash of color that shimmers over the rotted planes of skin worn precariously over a would-be corpse of a man. He smiles.

“Haven.”

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Location: The Foundation Institute - Atlantic Ocean
Human #5.079: No Survivors.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Interaction(s): banjo - @Hound55.
Previously: Unnatural Selection.

There are collective murmurs and mutterings of speculation, bodies quivering and rotating in seats, a sort of stoic reserve lain over some, anticipation seeded through others, fingers clutched and wrung and nerves still irritated and amplified by something that coils through the room, something malicious, something that poked and prodded and slunk through the bodies and invaded through pores and minds and hearts.

Scylla feels it first, Stephen second. Bulbous barbs of shadows tease through the membrane of addled minds distraught over the loss of some pony, before spearing through their collective thoughts, memories cataloged and leered through preciously and tossed aside in favor of hidden answers. The darkness of a room picked apart and shattered, a flashing ring of red with twisted bronze and golds, a first kiss under an uncertain moon of an uncertain future where a promise bloomed through heated lips and content sighs. Needles sunk and hooked, peeling their minds apart before Scylla’s own latent abilities rose, and with violet-pink waves of energy fortified behind them, they shoved those invading tendrils from their minds and stood, nostrils both darkened and bleeding carelessly, copper pooled over her lips where citrus and butter melded together through the final forced-indulgences of her meal. From above, onyx eyes flickered and rose, a figure of red hair standing close behind Stephen who held a once pristine napkin beneath his nose and met Scylla’s searching stare with a shaking hand. Her telepathic abilities (she could link her mind with others, transfer pieces of her subconscious on the waves of thought and emotion, feel and hear and think as they did and sheer through their minds) paled in comparison to what had just lanced through their heads, their hearts and souls connected on the amalgamation of powers, team Raindance having prided themselves on teamwork and blending their HZE’s seamlessly together.

Scylla traded amber for onyx and met those familiar eyes that began flickering around the room as if witnessing the malicious endeavor of whatever had pierced through her mind. A cold spear of dread still lingered between her ears as those around her shuddered and palmed their brows, mutually experiencing the same thing.

It was like static, too loud, too invasive, careless, or perhaps wanton of the damage that remained as it stalked through their minds, searching, seeking, peering through trauma endured and of love lost, the loss of home deeply rooted into some and the ambition of self easily identified in those desiring to fashion a name for themselves. It was hopelessness, vain, and yet tantalizing and those were delicately plucked and pulled aside for later, for when it would matter, for when it would be needed.

Some had left, another test, another failure, those that would remain and those that would not, taking the initiative to move rather than be left to wait. Through these shuffling thoughts, it speared harder, shuffled through those thoughts more carelessly, abandoning delicacy in favor of brutal efficiency to glimpse over particular suspicious natures and those that made meaningless claims to seek the truth. It ended with one man, deemed unstable, a sordid past coming forth to haunt and loom over the present and the shadows of an unachievable future. Talkative, garish, and gaudy and loud.

Scylla moved and stumbled, the pain came and went in nauseating waves as she drank to block out the receptors of her mind, wanting to drown and wash the lingering, festering touch of someone that had plied through her memories and left them scattered and distraught, disjointed and assaulted, left to the toils of perversion that pierced down into her heart at the thought of such power, such intent, that left her askew. She didn’t care whose glass she purchased and drained, she just wanted to make it all stop as figures descended to escort them elsewhere, presumably to their rooms, but more armored and armed officials clamored and came together, gesturing and surrounding a man she didn’t know, but recognized from that night on the beach when she had approached Blackjack with Amma’s ring.

“Andrew Olyphant,” one of them announces, clarifies, and Scylla feels warm hands clasp around her and drag her back, but not before she glimpses a collar, or perhaps cuffs of sorts that are immediately placed and locked and fastened around the young man garbed in tan like she is.

“I’m afraid that you’re a little too unstable,” William Montgomery states, having suddenly appeared, surrounded by more Foundation officials, creating an effective shield of bodies around him. “Further analysis through your rather hectic academic file and recent psych evals reveal some rather concerning factors that we need to… Process.”

“Everyone else is permitted to their rooms,” he announces and leans in close, a sort of pity laced through his voice, but the look in his eyes is anything but, no longer the welcoming patron of The Foundation, but instead the ever-evolving and critical Mind he was known for. “It’s solitary for you again, maybe we can help you, maybe your true potential hasn’t yet been realized.” He leans back, smiles, and says, “Either way, we thank you for your part in the donation, we made sure to put it to good use.”

Groups section off easily, black and tan uniforms a segregated line down the masses as more senior students depart, pointing, laughing, pinning some with eager grins and wandering eyes, all of them predatory, easily marking their targets. Montgomery has Banjo hauled away with little ceremony, but he’s not the only one, others too are taken hold and effectively escorted away, all bound and collared, like animals. Someone mutters about a blind girl, someone who briefly lost their composure, but Scylla is barely able to make some of their mutterings out into coherency from the bubble and fog through all the champagne she had imbibed. It effectively smothered out the audacious sensations through her lobe and with slow blinks, she glanced down at the bracketing hands still on her arms, black leather coming into view before she turned, glancing up into eyes so dark, they appeared to devour all light. They pin her into place before she moves, creating a vast distance before the crowd swarms and pulls her in, more tan-clothed bodies lined up haphazardously. A small smile forms, carving through a severe, pale face, a dark glimmer beholden to an unknown figure of red hair, like a fox, eclipsed in dark leather, a uniform devoid of any rank or housing, but just as imposing from accentuating cuts of hide.

Stephen is nowhere to be seen now, but the man continuing to stare her down gestures towards her upper lip where lingering blood has now flaked and dried, and Scylla wipes it away clumsily, the back of her hand coming away splotched in runny pink.

“Get plenty of rest,” Montgomery announces, hands clasped at his back, a line of guard and students now behind him, the true line formed now with the transfers gathered, and the body of the Foundation standing behind, all poised and refined, strength undulating through every poise of perfection they conform.

“Tomorrow your true trials begin.”

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


The room is dark and stale, sweltering heat pools through the blackened corners as the ocean continues to ebb and flow beyond the glass, what little light reaches within, Jim latches onto it preciously, for he doubts he will ever make it out of here. Alive, at least, his mind shrewdly torn apart, pain eternal as it pounds through his temples in time with his heart, critical and relentless, and made amplified by the bruising of his eye and the blood still awash through his mouth. He spits, and winces, every simple movement inspiring nothing but agony. Summer stands off into the corner, mute and vacant, eyes glazed over, suspended in the throes of something unknown as Yoshi Nakamura observes a wall inlaid with various screens, security footage, Jim figured, fed directly from every nook and cranny The Foundation possessed.

He currently kept watch on the students gathered, leaving space for Jim to watch as well though he tried not to, but try as he might, the concern he had for his students kept him glancing back and forth, more or less forced to witness it all unfold.

“All of this could end,” Nakamura casually stated, a calmness taking over, as one would dismissively converse about the weather. “If you tell me where the deed is.”

Jim refused to answer, with no quip or wit to spare, for every time he spoke, the pain began anew and his resolve was frayed and broken, chewed up and spent and left raw. Summer’s eyes slowly began to glow, arms twitching, an awareness that bespoke of unwarranted misery and power wrought through her stare as Yakamura turned, regarding Jim once again.

“The lives of your precious students could be spared,” he continued. “Though I’ve noticed some of your Blackjack is missing. What a shame,” he noted, and lifted his hand, palm up, counting them down. “Jonas’ heir. The next Daytripper.”

“The sub-class,” he scoffed. “The power mimic, or should I say Hyperion’s heir?”

“The washed-out celebrity. Could’ve used his face, though, Can’t buy publicity like that.”

Yakamura formed a fist, which he dropped shortly after. “And her, our Tiamat. Though we keep her banners up, to welcome her home. Once we get her back.”

At her mention, Summer twitched again, head canted down, eyes aglow still, hands poised and arched, trembling in their suspension, a mere puppet on strings.

“Where is the deed? My patience wears thin.”

Jim refused to answer, but he smiled, split lip pulled taut over his teeth, blood washed over his bite. Yakamura snapped his fingers as Summer approached from the corner, fingers hovering near his brow as tremors worked down Jim’s body. The pain was instant and hideous, his body bowed, threatening to break, to snap, as his screams filled the darkened space, Yakamura’s voice echoing through his shattered mind.

“Death it is then.”

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


It’s a quaint little cabin, tucked back into the woods where it would’ve been the perfect home, a quiet getaway from all the woes of the world and the hatred that spewed from it all. But a steady signal proclaimed otherwise and with a location now known and seen, it was only a matter of time. Shadowed figures loomed from afar, lost in the thicket, the forest hushed and blanketed at their arrival, suspended on the breath of fear as they stalked through the perimeter before scaling back, the signal wavered every so often through the range of trees, but they had it now.

And they only had to wait.
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Hidden 9 days ago 9 days ago Post by Skai
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Skai Bean Queen

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Location: Home - Debolt, Alberta, Canada
Human: #5.080 I Would Gladly Be The Icarus To Your Certainty

Interaction(s): Rory @Webboysurf
Previously: I’d Love You Without Any Wings Attached


Groceries jostled within two large paper bags that Haven held tightly to her chest as she stepped out of the grocer and into the crisp late autumn air outside. Her head turned in the direction of the shop Miller had taken Rory to, but there was no sign of her partner and their landlord along the near empty street. It was an odd feeling to be without Rory for this long. She didn’t feel unsafe, but she didn’t feel at ease either.

She turned towards the weathered bench that sat outside the store, her steps soft as she moved to set the week’s supply of food upon it. Her small, feathered limbs adjusted themselves against her back as she took the remaining space for herself. As she leaned back against the wood, she felt each bone in her wings press against her. Another reminder that they weren’t fully developed. That gravity claimed her feet against the pavement beneath her soles and the sky remained out of reach to her.

Haven turned her gaze to the clouds that swiftly drifted past and over the mountain that began at the town’s edge. She tried to guess the location of her and Rory’s little cabin along the mountain’s slope, mentally mapping the way back to their new home by the roads and not by what could have been an aerial view. The sound of an old engine humming greeted her ears just as she figured she’d found it. Her gaze turned down the street once more, and she laid eyes upon a truck with rust claiming it’s paint. Through its dirty windshield she saw Miller sitting in the passenger seat, but the familiar figure beside him made her heart leap in her chest.

The subtle, pained expression on his face was the only reason her smile did not reach her dimples as the truck pulled into the space in front of her. She gathered the groceries a little too quickly, standing to walk to the passenger side where Miller had opened the door.

“You found a truck for us.” She greeted the older man as she approached.

“I even spared ya’ll a few pennies for the state it’s in.” He grunted as he stepped onto the pavement. “It runs well enough to get you into town and back. Shouldn’t have to worry about maintenance until spring.”

Haven nodded, as if she knew anything about cars, and she glanced inside the cabin of the truck where Rory sat on a well-worn bucket seat similar to Miller’s. “Thank you, for helping us out like this. We should be out of your hair for a while now.”

“Just don’t be strangers, dear. I don’t have much to do nowadays, anyways.” He said, already making his way around the front of the truck as Haven turned her head back towards him. She watched as he took one last look over the wheels and rusted bumper before heading towards his better version of their newest possession.

Haven offered him a wave as he backed out of the lot, and then stepped into the space where the door opened into the cabin. An exhale left her lips as she set the paper bags onto the seat in front of her, then slid the bags into the center. Her eyes then lifted to look into those blues that turned towards her. She smiled softly, before she climbed into the truck and shut the chilly air out with the door beside her. “How did it go?”

Rory shrugged, shifting the car into gear and rotating his torso. He rested his right elbow on the seat, his left hand gripping the wheel as he slowly backed out of the parking spot. His brow was furrowed in concentration. “It's fine for the price. He didn't ask too many questions.”

The car rolled to a stop, and Rory seamlessly shifted the car back into first gear. His breath caught in the movement, his legs still feeling like jelly from minimal use. Pricks of pain shot up their length, while the car slowly began to roll through the small town. Gus stood out in front of his shop, giving the pair a small wave and smile as they passed. Rory sighed. “He asked for a favor, though. Gotta meet up with him Sunday.”

Haven’s focus remained on Rory’s discomfort even as she rolled her shoulders to appease her own. She had to glance out of the filmy rear window to get a look at the man who must have sold them their ride, having missed him when they first passed by.

“I wish the women in this town were the same way.” She mused as her head turned back to face him. “I met a few of our neighbors today. Seems our story holds up well among the housewives.”

“Is this favor… something simple? He didn’t ask you to go hunting, did he?”

A small smile flashed across Rory's face at the suggestion, though his eyes remained fixed on the road as they turned onto the road out of town. “I think he knew it would have been more trouble than it's worth.” He shifted the car as he sped up a bit down the country road to find their turnoff. “He just wants me to attend a meeting after the Sunday service. I figure it might help to know more locals.” Rory turned his gaze briefly towards Haven, a devilish grin spreading across his lips. “It's a big price to pay, given how I would prefer to spend that afternoon.”

He looked back towards the treeline, downshifting as he spotted their turn. Pavement gave way to gravel, and it became really apparent how bad the suspension was. Rory slowed the car to a stop, tilting his head slightly. “Haven… do you know how to drive?”

“Hmm?” Haven’s eyebrows rose.

Her mind was currently occupied, her teeth grazing her bottom lip while her eyes were busy moving over his toned arms. She blinked as the question registered, and immediately looked his way with a grin that told him she’d been caught thinking about just how she’d spend that afternoon with him.

“No, I…” The grin faded quickly as she cleared her throat and shifted herself so that she was angled towards him. Her hand rose from her lap to tuck her fly aways behind her left ear. “I’ve sat in the driver's seat a few times, and I know which is the gas and which is the brake, but I’ve never made the car move.”

“Ok… well, that's about half the battle… let's start with this.” Rory was surprisingly focused, lowering his hands to shift himself in the seat as far left as he could, beckoning Haven to slide over. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he eyed over the truck, his mind circling back to days he had nearly forgotten. He glossed over the profanity and condescension, trying to remember the bits that stuck and helped him.

“This is a manual, so there's two extra things to keep track of. The clutch is on the left here.” Rory's left foot tapped a pedal Haven was certainly unfamiliar with. “You'll need to press on this whenever you want to shift gears with this.” Rory's right hand rested on the gearshift, nestled up underneath the old radio on a small console of its own. “It takes some getting used to… but-” Rory's eyes drifted back towards Haven for a moment, words catching in his throat. He simply cleared it, waving a hand. “Let's swap. Road is empty out here, it's perfect for practice.”

Haven’s brows rose where she now sat beside Rory in the seat. She’d looked over the extra parts needed to drive the truck as he explained and couldn’t help but feel apprehensive. She didn’t even know why gears needed to shift to get the car in motion.

Still, she gave Rory a nod when he suggested they swap places. Her body shifted to push the grocery bags further into the passenger seat first so he would have more space in the middle. Without even considering getting out of the vehicle to come to the driver’s side door, Haven instead chose to lift her butt off of the seat to allow him space to take her spot. While he moved, she leaned herself backwards over his lap until she was sitting in the driver’s spot. Her legs then lifted over his to place themselves by the break and gas.

“So,” she began as her hands reached to run themselves over the steering wheel. She looked under the wheel as she tested her sneaker against each of the flat pedals at her feet. The engine revved as she put pressure on the gas pedal, which made her hands tense on the wheel like she’d expected the truck to lurch forward in response. When it didn’t, she released a breathy chuckle and looked his way as she placed her foot back on the flooring. “I’m guessing I can’t just hit the gas and go? Do I have to shift the gears first?”

Her right foot moved to tap the clutch, while her hand drifted to rest on the ball at the top of the metal stick she didn’t know the name for.

“No, that’s-” Rory caught himself before he chided her, and an amused grin spread as Haven looked at him with innocent confusion. “I’ll go over it again, just… take your foot off of the clutch.”



Late into the evening, Haven sat curled up in the rocking chair as Rory prepped the fire for the night. Outside, the branches of the trees swayed by the hands of the late autumn breeze blowing in. Her gaze drifted between the stars that poked through the leaves outside, the sight of Rory’s frame illuminated by the firelight, and the sketchbook that rested in her hands. She leafed through it carefully, like it was something ancient and precious. As if one wrong move would tear the page or smudge the art that her father had left behind.

If she hadn’t been in such a good mood after Rory successfully taught her how to make it up the driveway, she wouldn’t have reached for the reminder of heartache and loss. These pages held memories of a family she’d never had. A family that had been broken apart by tragedy. Still, the man that left it behind had poured so much emotion into each drawing. She could see the love he had for his children, for his wife, for the home they had shared. It was strange, though, to look upon the sketch of herself sitting outside of that orphanage. She couldn’t see what he’d been feeling when he put the lead to paper. Maybe she just didn’t want to.

She moved on from the page before it hurt to look any longer, continuing to turn through memories that she’d been fated to never experience.

Soon the pages came to rest on a new portrait. A folded piece of paper slipped out of the sketchbook and into her lap suddenly, but it was quickly forgotten as her eyes scanned every feature etched into the paper. Haven felt her heart stutter. The woman on the page was not a part of Harper’s family. It was a face both familiar and foreign to Haven, and it left her breathless.

This woman had bottle blonde hair. Her natural dirty blonde roots grew out of her skull like grass, as if she hadn’t been taking care of the color. Her face was slim, her cheeks slightly hollowed, and small dark patches rested under her weary eyes. Haven knew that the gray lead of her irises was meant to be a brown, the color of the bark on a sugar maple tree. The light that had shined within them, long ago, was not represented in the dull shading that surrounded a black pupil.

The woman on the page had known love, had given it freely to the one she considered precious, worked long hours and late nights to make ends meet, had overcome so much just to lose it all in one fleeting moment. She’d felt the loss of a loved one and the heartache of knowing that she had tried her best to keep them, and it hadn’t been enough.

She’d been Haven’s entire world. Her protector, her home, her joy, her teacher, her constant in a life that moved too fast, and the ground beneath her feet.

Her mother.

Haven traced a featherweight finger over the outline of her cheek. Memories flickered in her mind like candlelight of soft skin, the smell of hairspray and bleach, and a glimpse of dimples that framed a soft smile. Little things that Haven had clung to as her childhood faded from memory.

Her gaze dropped to the paper in her lap, then, and she felt her heart constrict.

Why did James Baxter have a sketch of her mother? Had he met with her after he’d decided not to bring Haven home? What did they talk about, reuniting so long after their affair had produced a daughter, and how did they feel when they both parted to become strangers again?

Haven let the sketchbook rest against her knees as her hands reached for the folded parchment. There was no name scrawled on the blank surface, no indication of what was hidden between the two ends. Curiosity urged her to open it but her heart wasn’t sure if she was ready to. Her thumb slid between the crease and rested there for a few heartbeats, before she gripped each side and smoothed it out in front of her.

She’d guessed it was a letter, had hoped it was from her mother, but the handwriting within it had the same scrawling loops and dashes of the signature that adorned a few of the sketches in the notebook in front of her.

Her heart sank in her chest because it wasn’t what she wanted it to be. It wasn’t from her.

It all but plummeted into her stomach as she read the words that James had left behind.

It was dated after Haven had run away from the girls home. A few years before the accident that would claim his life. Even if he wasn’t sure Haven would ever read it, James wanted someone to know her story. To understand the strange connection between James Baxter and Mary Barnes. How that connection had brought Haven into the world.

It wasn’t at all what Harper, even Sierra, guessed it to be.

Haven herself couldn’t even begin to comprehend it. The paper bent and crumpled between her hands. Tears pricked at the corner of her eyes, but frustration held them back like a dam to a reservoir at capacity. It felt like he was telling the truth, but none of it made any sense. None of it seemed fair.

But when did life ever seem fair to Haven Barnes?

The frustration melted into a sardonicism that had her shoving the note back into the sketchbook. She shut it in her lap, and quickly put it away before any more secrets could come spilling out from between its pages.

“Everything alright, Dove?” Rory’s voice approached her where she crouched by the bed.

The concern those sky blue eyes held as they glanced at the sketchbook’s hiding place instantly cracked Haven’s cynical mood. She stood from the bed to face him and attempted a smile, which held for about half of a second before it fell. With a soft sigh, she slumped onto the bed and held her hand out for him.

Rory rolled himself over to her without hesitation. Instead of taking her hand, though, he gently pulled her towards him and into his lap. Haven gratefully allowed it, even positioned herself so that most of her weight rested where it would hurt the least as her wings shifted against her to avoid the armrest. One of his hands cradled her head against his shoulder, while she felt the other wrap around her to gently caress her arm.

“It’s hard… looking through his things.” Her soft murmur was laced with disappointment.

His hand squeezed her arm gently, and she felt a kiss pressed against her forehead. Her eyelids, heavy with the mix of emotions that kept her from saying any more, soon lowered until she closed her eyes. His comforting touch said more than any words could have conveyed. Everything was right with the world when he held her like this.

She listened to the beating of his heart, slowed her breathing until hers matched its rhythm, and allowed it to lull her into peace. The crackling of the fire was the only sound besides the soft symphony of the forest outside.

Except when she finally took a breath and prepared to tell him what she’d learned, a chill ran up the length of her spine to ruffle her feathers as the world outside of the cabin fell eerily silent. Even the fire seemed to hold its breath. Nature itself understood that a predator lurked in the darkness outside.

Haven lifted her head from Rory’s shoulder to peer out of the windows. Her brows twitched, a line presenting itself between them.

Something was wrong.

The townsfolk, H.E.L.P., Hyperion’s Children, the monster, Daedalus … Whatever it could be, it didn’t belong in the forest.

“Rory… I don’t think we’re alone.”

Rory’s grip tightened on her like he wished that their moment of serenity could have lasted forever. The two shared a look, sky blues and golds and greens meeting to express the fears that they had hoped to never experience again. Haven dipped her chin once in a nod.

“Stick to the plan?” His expression shifted into the hardened man that Haven had only seen a few times in their relationship as he asked the question. This man would go to any length to keep the people he loved safe from harm. The first time she’d seen it had worried her, but now… This part of Rory gave her the courage to match it.

“Stick to the plan.”

Haven moved out of his lap with haste, and knelt down next to the bed once more. From underneath it she retrieved his duffle and her backpack. Both of them stuffed with only the essentials so that their weight wouldn’t affect their escape. She kept herself low to the ground as she moved to the front door, dumping the bags by the door as she grabbed their shoes.

Rory, on the other hand, rolled himself back over to the fireplace. He reached for the iron poker, like he had a week earlier, and then for the cane he’d bought off of Gus. By the time he’d done this, Haven was knelt at his feet and already reaching to secure his shoes onto them.

Her fingers moved efficiently, but the slight shake to her hands suggested that panic had already begun to creep into her mind.

“Good thing we haven’t stripped yet.”

Her joke was the only indication that her fear would not win tonight.

“Jacket and keys next, Haven.”

The command came across like a soft reminder.

Haven was grateful for it. She hastily secured her own sneakers onto her bare feet in response. She’d forgotten to grab them while she was by the door. The mistake was swiftly rectified, her trembling hands tucking the truck’s keys into his jacket pocket on her return. Rory was standing when she made it back to him, and the two looked into each other’s eyes as they both worked Rory’s arms into the outer layer.

“I love you, Rory Tyler.”

“I love you, Dove.”

No sooner had the words left his mouth, Haven was reaching for him, pulling him as close as she could get him, and Rory did the same. Their kiss was passionate, desperate, longing, as if they weren’t sure they would ever get to have a moment like this again. Neither of them wanted to let go, to risk the separation from the other. Haven wished they had more time. They could have been happy here, until the end of their days.

When they finally broke the kiss, Rory held her close for one more moment as they both caught their breath.

“Promise me you’ll run if it’s him.”

Haven looked up at him, her expression shifting to express her refusal, but Rory cut her off.

“I’m not asking, Dove.” His stern tone was contrasted by the gentle way his hand caressed her cheek.

Her eyes flitted between his, desperate to refuse him again, but the pleading look in his eyes convinced her otherwise. She nodded, even if she wasn’t sure she’d ever truly be capable of leaving him behind. She’d claw her way back to him if they were ever separated again.

The two kissed once more, soft and rushed, before Rory grabbed the cane from the table and took up a position by the front door. Haven reached for the iron poker on the table before she took her place by the only other entrance to the cabin.

Her clammy hands tightened their grip on the iron. Her heartbeat was steadily rising, along with her temperature. She could only pray that another growth spurt would wait until tomorrow. That she could get a grip on herself long enough to survive until then.

The couple shared one last look as they waited for the thing that lurked outside to make its move.

This time they weren’t going quietly.

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Hidden 8 days ago Post by Melissa
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Melissa Melly Bean the Jelly Bean

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Location: Vampire's Home → Tavern - Ünterland
Human #5.081: In The Woods Somewhere
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Interaction(s): N/A
Previously: Shot In the Dark

Cassius kept his word.

Not long after vanishing into the shadows, he returned, a midnight-colored cloak draped over his arm and a dagger held firmly in his hand - one of Aurora’s weapons that he had confiscated.

“We’re going into town. You’ll need these.” He offered her the garment first and the redhead reached out, her fingers brushing against the heavy fabric. The exterior was a thick wool, meant to keep out the cold, while the inner lining was softer linen, warm against her skin. She wrapped it around her shoulders, fastening the clasp at her neck before pulling the hood up to conceal her copper hair.

Cassius hesitated, second thoughts no doubt running through his mind, before extending the hilt of the dagger toward her, the sharp blade pointed at his midsection. His expression was unreadable, but the silent warning in his eyes that accompanied his motions was unmistakable. Aurora’s delicate fingers grazed his as she reclaimed the blade, and without a word she quickly sheathed it at her thigh, nodding in quiet acknowledgment of the unspoken rules. She knew better than to ask about the location of her sword.

“Stay close to me,” He ordered. “Don’t draw attention to yourself and don’t speak to anyone.”

“Got it.”

She followed him out of the dimly lit room, stepping into the rest of his home which she had yet to see. The corridor was narrow, the walls lined with dark paneling that gleamed under the flickering candlelight of sconces that were hung every few feet. Her boots made little sound against the polished hardwood as she trailed behind Cassius, her gaze drinking in the details - everything here was old yet meticulously maintained, untouched by dust or time.

At the end of the hall, he pushed open a heavy wooden door, the hinges creaking in protest and a gust of cool air swept inside. They stepped out of the house and into a secluded courtyard, the stone walls draped in twisting vines whose shadows stretched against the ancient brickwork like skeletal fingers. The vampire led the way to a wrought-iron gate that separated his estate from the rest of the town and Aurora followed, tightening the cloak around herself against the chill in the air. She was careful to keep pace without making it obvious that she had to work to match his long strides.

The streets were quiet at this hour, the town bathed in crimson moonlight and the soft glow of distant lanterns. They took the back roads, Cassius moving like a specter, his sharp gaze sweeping over their surroundings. More than once, he paused, his head tilting slightly as though listening for something beyond her range of hearing. The redhead held her breath each time, fingers instinctively drifting toward her dagger, but after a few moments he would continue on, and she would exhale quietly, unsure whether to feel relieved or more on edge.

As they wove through the narrow streets, Aurora felt the weight of unseen glances upon them. No one dared to stare outright, but she sensed the flickers of curiosity, the subtle shifts of movement in the shadows. Cassius carried himself with an air of quiet authority that discouraged attention, but Aurora… she was something unfamiliar here, something that didn’t quite belong. Every step felt like a risk and the threat of exposure pressed against her ribs.

Stay close, don’t draw attention, don’t speak to anyone.

Finally, he paused in front of a decrepit structure, its wooden frame weathered by time and neglect. A sign hung crookedly above the entrance, the name of the tavern barely legible beneath layers upon layers of grime. Light seeped through the cracks in the shutters, casting thin, ghostly beams onto the cobblestone street. Cassius looked back at Aurora and inclined his head towards the establishment, indicating that this would be their destination.

The door groaned as he pulled it open and warm, stale air spilled out, smelling of damp wood and spiced liquor. Aurora allowed Cassius to usher her inside, immediately aware of the dozen pairs of eyes that shifted toward them. Conversations quieted just slightly, only to resume a moment later, though she could still feel lingering unease in the glances thrown her way.

Her companion moved with the confidence of someone who had done this before - someone who knew exactly who he was here to see. She followed, keeping her head low and resisting the urge to look around, and they quickly reached the back corner of the tavern where a lone figure lounged at a table, boots propped up on the chair across from him. The man’s dark clothing melted into the dimness, but his silver grey eyes gleamed in the flickering light as he took in their arrival. His posture was deceptively relaxed, one arm draped over the back of the seat while the other toyed with the rim of a half-full glass of amber liquid.

“Cassius, what an… unexpected surprise. You rarely frequent these parts,” He mused, voice smooth and words clearly calculated. His gaze slid to Aurora and a slow, devious smile curled at his lips, revealing sharp, glistening fangs.

Another vampire.


“And who might this lovely creature be?” He flicked a glance back at Cassius, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Have you finally learned to play well with others?”

“No one you need to concern yourself with,” Cassius stepped forward slightly, his posture tense and his flat tone carrying a warning. “She’s with me.” The other vampire chuckled, utterly unbothered.

“Always so serious, Cassius. But very well.” The shifting candlelight cast long shadows across his face as he gestured to the set of worn seats across from him. “Sit.”

Cassius’s jaw tightened, and yet he said nothing in response. Reaching around Aurora, he pulled out one of the chairs from the table and motioned for her to take a seat before following suit, settling in beside her. The vampire studied them both, tapping a single finger against the side of his glass.

“I assume you didn’t come here for pleasantries.”

“What have you seen recently, Gideon?” Cassius wasted no time, his tone clipped, and the vampire - Gideon - arched his brow.

“You’ll have to be more specific. I see many things.”

“Yes, we all know you’re the Jarl’s favorite watchdog…” Cassius exhaled sharply, his patience thinning and disdain coating the obvious jab, but steadied his tone. “I’m asking about anything unusual.”

Gideon pursed his lips, considering the inquiry.

“Well, let’s see,” His thumb and index finger came to rest on his chin as he feigned inquisitive thought. “The vendors at the market have been restless. Some of their rarer wares have gone missing as of recent - expensive, irreplaceable things. And the apothecary?” He let out a soft, amused sound akin to a scoff. “Let’s just say he’s not been himself lately. Swears someone’s been tampering with his stock, and whatever it is has had him paranoid ever since.”

“There was also the man who came through last week,” Gideon continued, leaning in towards the pair, “Tall. Scarred. Wore the look of a hunter, though he tried to hide it. He was asking questions about strangers.” His gaze drifted toward Aurora, seeming to watch her carefully for a reaction. “About people who didn’t belong.”

The redhead’s grip tightened in her lap but her facial expression remained soft, stoic. Nervously, she spun her ring on her thin finger, the etched licks of flames dancing as she turned the golden metal band round.

“Which reminds me of something else - one from my coven found themselves in the forest hunting, and he saw something rather curious,” Gideon murmured, his previous theatrics dimming as he divulged the intel. “He came across a pack of wolves. But one among them didn’t belong. A young woman.”

Aurora’s breath caught in her throat.

“She was disheveled, but nonetheless still devastating. Covered in tattoos and markings. Hair as black as ebony,” He raised a brow at Aurora, “Striking blue eyes.”

A flood of emotions hit the redhead all at once - relief, disbelief, and hope so sharp it was painful.

“Amma,” She breathed, the name tumbling from her lips before she could stop herself. If he was being truthful, Amma was here, she was alive. Their journey had not been in vain.

“Ah, so she does speak.” Gideon’s smirk deepened and he leaned back, pleased with himself. “Tell me, dear, who is she and why is she so important to you?”

Aurora ignored him and his question, pulse thudding in her ears, and looked to Cassius with panic in her eyes. He cut in before Gideon could gloat or pry further.

“Where. Where were they seen?”

“It wouldn’t help you much, the wolves move fast. By now? Who knows.” He shrugged with a sigh, eyes still set upon the redhead, “But she was in the forest, that much is certain. And, if I were to wager… she’s not the only one you need to be watching for.” Gideon took a long sip of his drink, knowing that Aurora was hanging on his every word before finally looking at Cassius. “The pack was traveling east, towards the Blackwood.”

The redhead’s companion cursed under his breath and silence settled between them for a beat before he pushed back his chair, standing abruptly.

“We’re done here.” Cassius looked down at Aurora and she got the hint, quickly rising to her feet. Across the table, Gideon raised his glass in a mock toast, his smirk lingering.

“A pleasure, as always, Cassius. I’ll be sure to send the Jarl your regards.”

Cassius didn’t acknowledge the remark, already turning toward the door and the redhead followed, weaving through the tables and patrons alike to catch up to him. She could feel Gideon’s gaze still pinned on her, burning a hole into her back, but she did not falter as they made their hasty departure. They stepped past the threshold, and only then did she allow herself to breathe as they emerged onto the uneven cobblestone street, the sounds of the tavern fading behind them

“Alright,” She muttered, casting a glance over her shoulder to ensure the door had creaked shut and that they were alone again. “What’s so bad about the Blackwood?”

The vampire didn’t reply. Instead, he adjusted the collar of his jacket and picked a piece of lint off of the lapel before walking with purpose towards the distant treeline, leaving Aurora’s question hanging. Refusing to be ignored, she ran ahead of him and planted herself in his path, stopping him in his tracks and glancing up expectantly for an answer.

“Well?”

Cassius exhaled heavily.

“The Blackwood isn’t just part of the forest. It’s old - older than the town, older than most things in these parts. And it has always belonged to them.” The redhead raised an eyebrow quizzically.

“Them?”

“The witches.”

“Witches,” Aurora’s gaze narrowed. Sure, she’d heard stories and folklore, but she’d never personally encountered a witch. Then again, she’d never encountered a vampire either before Cassius. “And what’s so bad about the witches?” He let out a low, humorless chuckle, shaking his head.

“You ask that as if witches are nothing more than old women whispering over cauldrons.” He replied, and Aurora crossed her arms.

“I mean, are they?” She studied his face, searching for any trace of mirth, but found none as he shook his head in response. “Alright, so what makes them so dangerous?”

“They don’t follow the same rules as the rest of us,” Cassius said, starting forward again and this time, Aurora fell into step beside him instead of blocking his path. “They’re unpredictable, and they don’t take kindly to trespassers.”

“I’m sensing a common theme here,” She muttered under her breath and Cassius shot her a look, but it didn’t deter her as she continued her train of thought. “Why do I get the feeling it’s not just outsiders they hate - but you in particular?”

“Let’s just say we have history. And they aren’t exactly fans of mine.” He revealed, and Aurora’s curiosity was instantly piqued.

“What did you do?”

“Something they don’t forgive.”

Before she had the chance to press further, a sound split through the darkness - something between a screech and a roar, so unnatural it made the air itself seem to vibrate.

“What was that?” Aurora asked, her voice barely more than a breath, eyes wide. Cassius had stilled beside her too, going tense as his sharp gaze scanned the darkened sky towards the awaiting forest.

“Nothing good.”
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Hidden 8 days ago Post by Lord Wraith
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Lord Wraith Actually Three Otters in a Trenchcoat

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Location: Debolt - Alberta, Canada
Human #5.082: Bat Out of Hell
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Interaction(s): None
Previously: No Survivors

In mythology, Daedalus had been responsible for the creation of the labyrinth, a maze located beneath Crete at the behest of King Minos. In much the same way, the now infamous Daedalus had constructed the Foundation beneath the Atlantic and its constantly rearranging pods. Students disappeared into his labyrinth often, only to reappear on the same blood-stained metal table where both Tiamat and the Chernobog had been birthed.

But Tiamat and the Chernobog were far from Daedalus’ only pets. Perhaps his greatest, true testaments to his madness, but soon he’d have the means for further greatness. The shadowed figures loomed from the tree branches, reptilian-like eyes blinking towards the distant cottage while their optical implants highlighted the target’s location.

A paralytic agent dripped from the mouth of the first, a long prehensile tongue wagging nearly the length of his bent over torso. Powerful legs coiled beneath him as he stood ready to pounce. Beside the frog-like Hyperhuman, hung another who, when they flexed, produced needle-like quills, each tipped in a poison sure to render the target unconscious.

Hanging silently above the other two, a mop of ebony hair hung at the mercy of gravity as its owner swung silently in the breeze hanging from a tensile silk strand. Eight eerie red eyes stared out through the dark of dusk. Fangs salivated hungrily at the thought of the hunt. She took pleasure at the thought of feeling the girl’s neck between her jaws. Tiny paralytic hairs eagerly stood on end as a swell of revenge surged in her chest. The girl barely remembered her name, but she remembered hers.

She lowered herself to a nearby branch, Arachne’s four arms taking a hold of it, before her four legs took a hold of the trunk and allowed her to effortlessly continue defying gravity while the three twisted figures listened, watched and waited for the sun to fully set.

“She knows.” Arachne’s eyes stared directly back towards where the girl had looked between the trees. Her tongue clicked excitedly, attempting to taste the pheromones of fear. A shiver of pleasure rolled down her spine, sending her eyes rolling into the back of her head before a moan escaped between fangs and lips.

“Then ve may asss vell move.” A fourth figure added, landing beside Arachne. Large leathery wings made up the majority of his body, while pointed ears cast a long shadow towards the ground. It spoke in a hushed whisper, the powerful sonics in its lungs capable of shattering an eardrum with even the slightest elevated tone.

“Camazotz.” The quilled Dahsáni smiled at their bat-like alley.

“Dahsáni, Kek, Arachne,” Camazotz hissed in a hushed tone. “I can hear them moving inssside.”

“Then we keep them there.” Arachne smirked, all eight of her eyes lighting up with cruel mirth, “And lover,” She cooed at Camazotz, “You can drink, but no draining.”

Camazotz flashed a fanged grin, his own mouth dripping with a paralytic saliva before a flap of his wings took him into the air where he suddenly burst into a cloud of bats, scattering across the horizon.

A terrible screech howled across the night sky like an air raid siren out of hell. Kek was the next to move, as the frogman leapt to the next tree, before Dahsáni scurried for the ground while Arachne shot forth a thread towards the cabin below.

Daedalus only instructed to bring them back alive.

He never said fully intact.
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Hidden 8 days ago Post by Lord Wraith
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Lord Wraith Actually Three Otters in a Trenchcoat

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________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Location: Ünterland
Human #5.083: Help Is On The Way
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Interaction(s): None
Previously: ]Sister Golden Hair

Lorcán pursued after Rothschild and Bridget, a million questions on the tip of his tongue, but at the pace they were moving, he had neither the time nor the breath to ask them. The terrain in Ünterland was rough, and perilous. Thorns seemingly plagued most of the plants and were it not for the armour that Ellara had insisted he wear, his shins likely would have been cut to pieces.

“I smell the Jäger.” Rothschild, or rather Ciar, suddenly interjected, breaking Lorcán’s constant stream of thoughts. “Come, child, you’ve spent enough time among the dead. We should seek to reunite you with the others and your lover.”

“What about Bridget?” Lorcán managed to ask between breaths.

“I am a soul without a body,” Bridget glowed, “I can not leave this plane, but I will ensure you are able to return to our parents. Those who have been ravaged by Limbo cannot leave, only those who are whole can seek passage back to Midyeden.”

“Ravaged by Limbo?”

Ciar smiled sadly.

“I wish I could have warned you in advance, your mission here is in vain. Amma won’t be able to pass through the veil now that Limbo has taken the mortal part of her soul. She’s a part of Ünterland now. You best return before that-,” He motioned towards the run on Lorcán’s hand.

“-Before the sacred mark is rendered useless and damns you to this plane too.”

Lorcán looked between the pair, fear and panic creeping in through the back of his mind.

“Then we’ve risked everyone’s lives for nothing? There’s no way for Amma to return even if we find her?”

“Not at a price you’re willing to pay.” Ciar muttered apologetically.

“What about Bridget?” Lorcán asked.

“I would be neither me nor her, a merger of two einseelen is unheard of.” Bridget replied, “The results would be unpredictable, but I can be sure we would not longer be who either of us were. I wouldn’t be your sister, nor would she be her mother’s daughter. Were she Magni and not Hyperhuman, there’s no telling what she would have become through Limbo, but her einseelen keeps her human here. But I can’t save her.”

“This can’t be for nothing, Gil, he-” Lorcán took a seat, hanging his head in defeat. “Gil won’t be able to handle any more loss. And if anything’s happened to Aurora here, a mission for nothing,” Lorcán looked at the mark on his hand. “If anything happened to Aurora then I may as well destroy this mark now because I’m not leaving her here.”

“Your guiding light still lives.” Ciar replied. “I can smell her mortal soul on the wind, but she’s not safe.” He added, “She’s not with your Jäger.”

“No.” Bridget suddenly glowed. “She’s chosen her company poorly.”

Their words were enough to steel Lorcán’s resolve again, smelting his motivation as he leapt to his feet and looked at the essence of his sister.

“When we touched earlier, I felt my powers. How is that possible?”

“The truth behind your abilities, all of your abilities,” Bridget added, her glow expanding to indicate all Hyperhumans, “Is rooted in Ünterland and the arcane flow that originates from here. As a seele, I am pure Vis, the rawest form of the true source of your abilities. When you touched me, you connected to the Vis, restoring your abilities briefly.”

“Can you merge with me?” Lorcán asked, “Can you lend me that power?”

“For Aurora? For my sist-” Bridget paused as Ciar looked warily between the twins.

“But the Vǣrloga-” Ciar interjected before he was cut-off.

“Absolutely.”
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Hidden 8 days ago 4 days ago Post by Skai
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Skai Bean Queen

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Location: Home - Debolt, Alberta, Canada
Human: #5.084 Fight or Flight!?

Interaction(s): Rory @Webboysurf, Daedalus’s Children
Previously: I’d Gladly Be The Icarus To Your Certainty


A screech erupted out of the silence of the forest, horrific and grinding against Haven’s eardrums, and it took all of her will not to lose herself to the sheer terror that ignited within her.

Her head whipped towards Rory, eyes wide as adrenaline began to course through her veins. They caught sight of movement outside of the front windows and she tracked it, eyes flitting to catch sight of what had come for them.

She could hear the sounds of four limbs pounding closer to the front porch. The figure she caught outside the kitchen window lunged for the banister from the treeline. Eight distinct thumps sounded on the roof to the left. When she looked towards the windows by the front door, towards the roofline, four sets of fingers grasped the edge as black hair hung between them.

They were outnumbered, and worst of all…

They were outmatched.

“Three at the front, and whatever the hell screamed above us!” She shouted to Rory.

Her feet were moving before she could see the face of what owned the four limbs, racing over to join Rory. The front door was already being assaulted by the one who had run on four legs to get there. Haven threw her back against it, ruffled feathers pressed and pinched between the wood and her skin, hoping to keep the one pounding against the door at bay while they fought the other two.

“I’m so sorry.” She managed to choke the words out, her eyes filled with the fear and utter guilt now overwhelming her. Daedalus had come for her, had sent his creations after them, it was all her fault, and she didn’t run. She would stay by Rory’s side until the bitter end.

She grabbed the cane from Rory’s hands and swapped it with the iron poker, knowing it would give him the best luck against these new monsters.

Scratching noises could be heard all around them as Haven whispered. “Run for the truck if you get a chance.”

It was then that bats suddenly erupted within the cabin, crawling out of each and every nook or crack in the cabin’s foundation. Some flew in through the chimney, passing through the flames easily, while some came from the flooring. They made a pass around the room before colliding in front of the backdoor, merging into one conglomerate of flesh until a large man, more bat than human, stood with his leathery wings raised beside him.

Wings like the Chernobog.

He took a shuddering breath and when he screamed sonic pulses emitted through the cabin. They shattered the windows in a flurry of glass, and left the couple’s ears ringing in their wake.

Haven lifted her head from where she’d cringed into herself when he finished. She removed her hands from her ears, disoriented and panicked, and she heard the muffled sound of eight legs dropping into the cabin to her right. Her head turned towards the sound, wondering what else had come for them, and she flinched at the sight of the woman before her.

To Rory’s left, four muffled thumps sounded as a greenish man landed inside on his hands and feet. A shorter man with spikes growing from his skin shortly crawled in after him.

Haven felt like her heart was going to burst out of her chest as her hands tightened around Rory’s cane.
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Hidden 8 days ago Post by Qia
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Qia A Little Weasel

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Her would-be saviour—self-proclaimed therapist, reluctant escort, and whatever else he fancied himself to be—drifted a half-step ahead of her. He wasn’t guiding so much as hovering, caught in his own idiosyncratic orbit, close enough to be followed but never imposing. There was an absence of urgency in his stride, like someone wandering through an exhibit rather than escorting the temporarily sightless. Harper had the distinct impression that he would not lunge to catch her if she were to stumble. No, he would watch—head cocked, brow lifted in idle curiosity as if cataloging a rare phenomenon for some kind of obscure research paper.

The blind girl and the boy with opaque motives. That was the tale her mind wove in the absence of sight, filling the darkness with imagined subtext. Cynicism, perhaps, or just good sense? Harper hadn’t yet decided.

You gonna hold up your end of the deal, or was that just an empty promise?” she asked, her voice unruffled.

A breath-half a scoff, half a chuckle. “Oh right. Describe everything. Forgot. Though…I don’t really remember making any promises, to be fair.

It did not escape her notice that he hadn’t asked why she wanted him to describe things. No trite reassurances, no patronizing sympathy, no limp attempt at comfort. Just a beat of silence, stretching thin before he exhaled and spoke again.

Alright sooo,” he began, “We’re in a long hallway.

Nothing more. A pause. The kind that suggested he believed this alone should suffice.

Harper released a slow breath through her nose. “Incredible. Truly. Your observational prowess knows no bounds,” she deadpanned, doing her best to ignore the near-imperceptible sway as they moved. The temporary bridges between the pods gave the barest amount underfoot, flexing with their steps in a way that sent a small sense of disquiet curling through her ribs. It was an unsettling thing—to walk and feel the ground shift beneath her, pliant where it ought to be rigid. It felt… untrustworthy as if the floor might betray her at any moment, splintering apart to deliver her into the waiting maw of the sea below.

She hated it.

Her human GPS, perceptive as ever in the ways that mattered least, must have noticed the minuscule tell—the subtle twitch of her fingers, the fractional hesitation in her gait. His voice dipped, laced with an unmistakable smirk.

Oh, not a fan of the floating walkways, are we?

He said it lightly, like a joke, but there was something knowing in the way he let the words settle between them— a silent dare to acknowledge her discomfort aloud.

Harper refused to indulge him. Instead, she lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and replied, cool as stone, “They’re fine.

But the way her fingers curled at her sides betrayed her.

They passed into another section of the structure, and the shift in sound was noticeable even to her. A more open space. The walls weren’t quite so narrow here—sound travelled, stretching farther before it landed.

Now we’re heading into the main pod. Bigger space, more movement. Feels like a shift, right?

Harper nodded once.

You’d probably see a lot of people ahead if you could—clustered, waiting. It’s… kind of like a bottleneck effect.

Which means… we’re almost back, right?” Harper asked, suddenly coming to a stop.

Her annoyingly observant guide slowed too, though not immediately.

Almost,” he confirmed. “Just past this crowd.

Harper exhaled through her nose, a breath that was neither relief nor irritation, just a controlled relinquishing of tension. Like an archer letting the bowstring slacken, but never lowering the arrow. Attention and scrutiny had a gravity of their own. They slithered, coiled, and insinuated themselves into spaces where words hadn’t been spoken, where questions had not yet been asked. They were not unlike living things, forces that found their way into every corner, every silence.

They were a different kind of sight. A darker kind. A knowing that bypassed the eyes entirely.

They’re watching, aren’t they?

He let out a hum, neither confirming nor denying. But that, in itself, was an answer.

Harper stepped back. Then again. Just enough to shift herself out of the invisible crosshairs. It wasn’t a retreat. Not really. Just…. a recalibration.

And of course, the insufferable bastard noticed. Because of course, he did.

Didn’t take you for the type to flinch.

Harper’s jaw clenched. “I don’t.

Oh sure,” Annoyance Incarnate murmured. “You just strategically repositioned.

Her arms folded across her chest, a sharp retort primed and ready, but she swallowed it down. She didn’t owe him an explanation. Didn’t owe him a damn thing.

I just…I just don’t like the attention, okay?” The words came clipped, but the truth beneath them ran deeper. She never had.

Her unwelcome escort tilted his head—probably, she couldn't see, but she could feel the weight of his regard shift.

Coulda fooled me with that dress you wore at the dance.

Harper stiffened.

You looked beautiful… if that even has to be said.

Her heart skipped—once, betraying her—before she crushed the reaction under sheer will. Fucking hell. That wasn’t what she’d expected him to say at all .

Yeah? Shame I didn’t get to enjoy it for long,” she managed, her voice level despite the residual static buzzing in her chest.

Her therapist-clearly-against-his-will cleared his throat. “Not exactly an occasion for any of us to remember, that’s for sure. A lot of people didn’t make it out….” He let the silence stretch, a deliberate pause that left space for her to step into if she wanted to. When she didn’t, he continued, “I’m guessing your eyes being this way has something to do with that?

It wasn’t the cautious, sidestepping curiosity of someone afraid to offend. Wasn’t laced with empty sympathy or the honeyed reassurances people liked to spoon-feed the wounded. No, his voice carried something different. A blunt, unvarnished truth: he had already put the pieces together.

It’s not that hard to figure out. You walked into that dance fine. No blindfold, no hand on anyone’s arm. Now you can’t even tell me what colour the damn walls are.

Her jaw flexed.

Most people didn’t ask,” The words came almost absentminded as if she were stating a simple fact. Because that’s what it was.

Most people had either assumed, avoided, or—her personal favourite—tried to comfort her with empty reassurances about overcoming it. As if this was some passing affliction, a temporary inconvenience rather than a consequence she had earned. As if she hadn’t deserved it.

Well, I’m not most people, and most people suck anyway.

She should have scoffed. Should have rolled her useless eyes and told him to shut up, to stop pretending like he could read her, like he could take one look and map out the tangled wreckage inside her head.

But she didn’t.

Because, if she was honest-

She wanted to talk about it.

Just a little. Just enough to release the pressure.

So, instead of telling him to back off, she said, “I saw too much.

Ironic,” he murmured.

Harper huffed. “Tell me about it.

She lifted her chin slightly, fingers curling at her sides as if the motion alone could make the words less real, less true. But they weren’t.

I think—I don’t know. Something about that night, the way it all went down. My sight started...glitching before it even happened. Before the attack. And then, when it got bad, when Haven—

She stopped. Swallowed. Shook her head.

Doesn’t matter.

But that was a lie, and she knew it.

The truth clung to her, thick as smoke in her lungs, poisoning every breath. She could still hear it. Could still see it—despite the darkness, despite the blindness, despite everything. The splintering crack of bones crushed under weight. The wet, gurgling choke of a life ending too soon. The way her world hadn’t just broken that night—it had ruptured, split open at the seams, and left her stranded in the wreckage.

Calliope should have been saved, just like Haven had been.

Haven should have never lost her wings.

And Emily—Emily hadn't deserved to go that way. None of them had.

But she had seen it all.

And now, she saw nothing.

...

Silence.

Not the kind that festered with discomfort, nor the brittle, stilted quiet of a conversation left dangling, but the sort that simply was—a silence that did not demand, did not pry, did not insist upon itself. It sat between them like a held breath, like a space carved into existence for the sake of being, waiting only to be acknowledged.

Harper exhaled, pressing her thumb into the palm of her opposite hand. She hated that she’d said as much as she had. Hated even more that some part of her had wanted to. Just like she had with Calliope and, to a degree, Banjo.

And yet, her self-appointed guide—for once—did not rush to fill the space with some careless quip, some half-amused, half-infuriating remark meant to worm its way past her defences. He didn’t pick at the wound she had unknowingly bared. He simply stood there, waiting, as though he understood that this moment did not belong to him.

I had a friend once,” he confessed after some time had passed. “The one I told you about before—the one you remind me of. Anabel.

He hesitated—not in uncertainty, but in consideration, as though the words had been waiting for their turn to be spoken, sitting too long on his tongue. “Different situation, but… she was struggling. Stuck in something she couldn’t shake. I helped her.” A beat. “Or, I like to think I did.

Harper’s brow furrowed. A prickle of curiosity stirred in the back of her mind, though she wasn’t sure she wanted to examine it.

And did she agree?

A faint chuckle. “Depends on the day, I guess. It was hard for us to really talk about it back then before…before she left to come here.

The way he said it, not so much what he said, made something coil in Harper’s stomach. There was meaning buried there, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to dig for it. Instead, she shifted, rolling the weight off her heels. “So, what? You offering to help me now?” she asked. Her voice was neutral, uninflected, as though the question meant nothing. As though his answer wouldn’t matter.

Would you take it if I was?

The question hit harder than it should have.

Harper hesitated.

She didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to entertain the possibility of trusting someone she barely knew—someone whose name she didn’t even know. And yet, there was something about the way he asked. No expectation, no demand. Just an offer left on the table, waiting.

And then, almost grudgingly, she admitted, “I don’t know.

Another pause. Another moment of calculation she couldn’t see, but could sense.

Then, a step closer. A movement that was both confident and careful.

Then trust me, anyway,” he said as if it were the simplest thing in the world. As if trust was something easily given. Especially by her.

Besides, by all logic, she should have honestly said no.

The second he reached for her—the second she felt the heat of his proximity—she should have stepped back, should have stiffened, should have done something.

But she didn't.

Instead, Harper stood, breath drawn tight in her chest, as his fingers brushed against the fabric of her blindfold.

A silent question. A boundary tested, but not yet crossed.

And then, with aching slowness, he lifted it.

The absence of the cloth was immediate, an almost tangible shift in sensation. Cold air kissed the skin beneath her eyes, the lingering warmth of his touch trailing in its wake like an unspoken claim. She felt exposed, bared in a way she hadn't anticipated as if he'd stripped away more than fabric—stripped away the veil she had willingly tied around herself, the one that let her pretend for even a moment that she wasn’t this broken thing in need of fixing.

Her breath caught as his hands didn’t move away.

He didn’t step back. Didn’t drop the blindfold or leave her to the open air of uncertainty. No—he was still there, hands hovering inches from her face before he let them shift, let them settle against her, palms feather-light as they cupped her eyes.

Trust me,” he murmured again, the words slipping past his lips, close enough to stir the air against her skin, close enough to be felt rather than merely heard.

And somehow, against all reason—against the instinct that should have screamed at her to pull away—she didn’t.

She let him hold her like this.

She let him take something from her that she hadn't even realized she was still clinging to.

Control.

His thumbs brushed along the edges of her cheekbones, a ghost of a touch, like he was memorizing this moment and tracing over something he wanted to commit to memory. Not possessive. Not intrusive. Just... reverent.

And then, softer now, an offering—

It's Alexander, by the way. My name.” he said.

Harper barely breathed.

Her fingers twitched at her sides, a moment of hesitation that wasn’t quite a reluctance or surrender.

Harper,” she eventually whispered. Her own name felt foreign on her tongue, like something she hadn’t owned in a long time.

Harper Baxter.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Location: The Foundation Institute - Atlantic Ocean
Human #5.085: In the Dark, I Name You
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Interaction(s): Alexander (NPC)
Previously: What's in a Name


The return to the dining hall felt different.

Not because of the space itself—its vaulted ceiling stretching high above, its white floors gleaming under artificial light, or the soft percussion of silverware tapping against porcelain—but because she felt different. Something had shifted, subtle but undeniable, like the rearrangement of furniture in a familiar room. The layout remained the same, yet everything was slightly off. There was no neat way to articulate it, no precise way to pin the change down. And maybe that was for the best. Because right now, her only goal was to get through the next few minutes without inviting scrutiny.

Alexander walked beside her, though he hadn’t said much since their exchange outside. Then again, what more could he possibly say? There was an understanding between them now, however reluctant it was. She could feel it in the way he matched her pace without effort, never straying too far, never staying too close. He didn’t reach for her arm, didn’t treat her like something delicate. And that was… something.

Still, Harper kept the blindfold on.

The fabric was light against her skin, familiar in a way that felt like armour. She could have taken it off, but something held her back. Maybe it was habit. Maybe it was something else. Either way, she wasn’t ready to answer questions she didn’t have the answers for and, if she were being honest, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

All that mattered was that she could see again. And that was the strangest part of all.

They crossed the threshold into the dining hall, stepping into the living, breathing hum of conversation. It ebbed and swelled like a tide, words spilling over one another in a ceaseless current of casual chatter. Harper could feel the glances cast in their direction—some fleeting, others lingering just a fraction too long. She ignored them, keeping her posture fluid and and controlled. She blended in, unremarkable among the sea of black uniforms—just another body moving through the routine of her current existence.

But something was suddenly wrong.

A prickle ran up the back of her neck—an instinct, elusive but insistent, like the feeling of being watched. It wasn’t paranoia. No, this was something else. Something that felt like the methodical persistence of fingers trailing over the surface of her mind.

Then it struck.

Not like a blow. Not like a force she could push back against. It was subtler than that. More insidious.

A sharp, unnatural static lanced through her mind—something reaching, prodding, scraping at the edges of her thoughts. It didn’t slip in gently; it clawed, hungry and impatient, searching for something to grasp. But instead of pulling anything coherent, it skidded against nothingness, like fingernails dragging across a locked door.

The pressure intensified, burrowing deeper, needling through her subconscious.

But there was simply nothing to find.

Just a blank space where memories should have been. A hollow void where recollections should have surfaced like silt stirred from the depths of a riverbed.

Harper’s breath hitched, her pulse stuttering in her throat. For the briefest of moments—no more than a blink of thought—an image flickered at the fringes of her consciousness. It was fractured and disjointed, like a reflection scattered across the shards of a shattered mirror. A door, barely discernible in the recesses of her mind. Shut. Locked. And something standing before it—featureless, formless, watching.

The pressure wavered, probing once more, insistent.

Then—

No.


The single syllable vibrated with a force that cracked through her mind like a faultline splitting stone. It was neither loud nor pleading, but it carried within it a finality that hummed with devastation.

The moment it was spoken, the pressure buckled. The force that had slithered through Harper’s thoughts, seeking, pulling, was pushed back—not with rage or violence, but with a refusal that rippled outward like an event horizon swallowing light.

And just like that, the presence was gone.

Harper swayed. Not much, just a fraction of movement, but enough that her balance wavered before she caught herself, straightening, forcing her breath into a steady rhythm. In. Out. Move. Keep walking, keep breathing, keep existing like nothing had just tried to reach into her head and pry something loose.

Next to her, Alexander’s presence remained moored, but she could feel his attention shift, his awareness attuned in a way that suggested he had noticed. Of course, he had.

What was that?” she murmured under her breath, rubbing at her head.

She didn’t really expect an answer. But Alexander, to his credit, didn’t pretend not to understand what she meant.

Not sure,” he admitted, voice just as low. “But you felt it too, huh?

Harper swallowed. “Yeah.

He hummed, thoughtful. “You alright?

A simple question. But one she couldn’t bring herself to answer because she herself wasn’t so sure.

Still, before she could decide how to respond, the murmurs around them shifted. Harper followed the direction of the unease, risking a look under her blindfold. Her attention narrowed in on a group of Foundation officials clustered at the center of the room, their stances rigid with practiced authority. And in the middle of them—

Banjo.

Montgomery stepped forward, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable save for the glint of something Harper would have missed before in his gaze, given her sightlessness.

Coldness. Ruthlessness.

But now, looking at him properly, she hesitated.

It wasn’t that he suddenly appeared less cruel—if anything, the scrutiny of her newly restored vision made his presence all the more unbearable. His posture, the carefully neutral mask he wore as he addressed the room—it was the same. The same as she’d imagined before.

And yet, seeing him now, really seeing him, Harper found herself more unsettled than she had anticipated.

She had studied him before coming here—not out of curiosity, but because it had been necessary. PRCU’s faculty spoke of him with reluctant acknowledgment, as though uttering his name too often might summon him into existence. They dissected his philosophies like an academic plague, something that could be discussed and debated but never entirely dismissed. Eccentric, some had called him, his rejection of Lehrer’s classification system veering into the realm of the theoretical. Obsessive, others had warned—not about power itself, but about its architecture, the invisible scaffolding that determined who deserved to hold it. A radical who had abandoned conventional Hyperhuman education in favour of a doctrine entirely of his own making—one that didn’t simply categorize ability, but dictated worth. That was the man standing before her.

Harper was used to powerful men. She knew what leadership looked like, what arrogance looked like, what control—true, earned control—felt like when it filled a room. But Montgomery was different. He didn’t wear his authority the way other men did. It didn’t settle over him like something claimed through experience or sheer force of will. It clung to him like something manufactured. Not the result of strength, but of careful design.

She realized there was an art to it. His gaze swept the room, landing exactly where it needed to—long enough to impose but never long enough to invite challenge. His hands remained clasped behind his back, shoulders square, a picture of composed indifference. Even his voice, when he finally spoke, had just the exact right tone to leave an impression without revealing anything of substance.

This wasn’t just a man who wielded power. This was a man who had decided exactly how he wanted to be seen.

And that was what disturbed her the most.

Poor guy…wonder what they’re gonna do with him,” Alexander muttered beside her.

Harper barely registered the words at first, still caught up in her analysis of what Montgomery was, still unravelling the intricacies of a man who had built himself into an already powerful institution. But then the words settled, took shape, and anchored her back into the present.

Banjo.

A teammate.

That was all he was, wasn’t he?

Her fingers curled slightly at her sides as she exhaled, forcing her attention back to the unfolding scene. The officials had closed in around him now, a wall of dark uniforms severing him from the rest of the room. He was no longer part of the dining hall, no longer part of them—just a speck swallowed whole by something larger. She couldn’t see his face anymore. Couldn’t hear whatever clipped words were being exchanged. Whatever was happening, it was no longer meant for them to witness.

It wasn’t her concern either way.

They weren’t friends.

She told herself that. Reminded herself of that.

They had never been close. Hell, they had barely spoken outside of team matters. She could count on one hand the number of times he’d even used her first name—if he ever had. He always called her Baxter. Always with that same insufferable, flippant ease, like her name wasn’t worth the extra syllables. Like she was just another body in the room, just another moving part in the machine of their team to contend with. Probably, to him, one of the more annoying ones.

And yet—

A furrow formed between her brows.

Something about that thought felt incomplete. Not wrong, exactly, but… hollow. Like a space where something else should have been. Like looking at a picture that should have been clear, only to find it slightly blurred with small details stripped away.

…Yeah,” she murmured finally, though she wasn’t entirely sure what she was agreeing to.

Alexander made a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat. They kept moving, the momentum of their group pulling them forward.

But even with the blindfold back in place, even as their group was steadily ushered toward their rooms, Harper didn’t look away from Banjo.

She just didn’t know why.
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