Kronshi
Estylwen
OwO
Sky Blue
Remram
Half Pint
hanzo
Marik
Izurich
IC
The night felt wrong.
@OwO
Rain.
The default weather of Bluegate suffused the night of the city in a white glimmer throughout. From its darkest alleys to its highest towers, there was a persistent gentle glow reflected by the myriad streetlamps and electronic billboards. So natural was the falling rain that well-near a quarter of the populace went without umbrella in the streets, content to let the rain drip upon their bare heads. A simple shake once inside did all one needed.
Within the confines of an unlit safehouse, upon the fourth floor, Tsune Kataoka -Macaron- looked out upon the dancing tiny flecks of light that bounced upon black asphalt. The power wasn't out, but the money was -such frivolous things as keeping the house lit were luxuries that could be ignored. In the background, a boiling pot bubbled. One man manned the stove in a wrinkled business suit that, at one time in the past, was pristine. A scrunched, unamused look covered his face as he stared into the then-empty pot of water. Even at a time deep into the night as this, he still wore his sunglasses, albeit raised up onto his head.
Hideji Kataoka could have been out on the grind, but instead was here, once again, caring for a girl whom his superiors deemed a waste of time. But he couldn't be elsewhere -his conscious could only convince him so many times. The nearing-middle-age Kataoka goon was once a staunch friend of Macaron's own late mother, and on her deathbed pleaded with the bleeding heart to keep her safe. Such wishes went unrealized until everything went to shit regardless. Hideji was bound by red tape, as much as he wanted to give little Macaron a chance. Even today he remained distant and unsure. Having arrived late to the mission, so to say, now that Macaron was an adult Hideji was a cautious sort around the young woman. He could rarely maintain eye contact with her, despite persisting as a grizzled street soldier that regularly punched guts for owed money.
And here he was, serving as the small guarantee that Macaron wouldn't be kicked out of the safehouse if other Kataoka's showed up. Here he was, preparing to make some crap premade macaroni for the night. Here he was, with a folded piece of paper in his jacket, debating if the suspicious letter addressed to his flimsily-charged protectee should actually reach her eyes. What was he, her father? Hideji, in his trance looking into the boiling water, absently scoffed to himself, breaking a long silence in the safehouse.
"Kid, you've got something addressed to you," Hideji opened up, "It ain't spelled, I checked." In the years following the Kataoka massacre, there had been a non-stop circulation of plots and ploys to shift power about the squabbling scraps of the family that remained. For all over her irrelevance, there always remained the chance that Macaron would be next on someone's list. It wouldn't be the first time a Kataoka died to paper. Hideji dumped the dried macaroni into the boiling water and dutifully stirred to keep them from sticking.
"Didn't read it. No name. Want it?" He left the mystery to her decision. Something tugged at his heart to offer some semblance of control to the girl.
@ERode
Closed.
Amaya gripped the handle to a safehouse and wrestled with it once more, just to be sure it was locked and not simply poorly settled in the frame. Rain cascaded off the side of corrugated metal overhanging the entrance, practically deafening. She could opt to get inside via magical means, but risked the potential that someone was inside and really really wanted their solitude this night. It was highly unusual for safehouses to be outright locked. Owners sometimes decided the property was better used as a public rental, forever damning someone in the Dark Sphere to finding some other favorite spot. Other times it was someone especially anti-social and ungenerous. Given the placement of this particular safehouse squarely in an industrial park, Amaya could only presume the latter.
Before she could decide to turn away or take her chances, the sound of jingling keys caught her ears. A sordid, despondent man approached the entrance with a key pinched between his fingers. The way in which he walked up the door -and to Amaya- spoke to someone wholly devoid of fear or worry. Amaya could have been invisible, for all his expression indicated. And still, he addressed her.
"Evening, miss," he said with a tired, distant voice. The man was well into his fifties, poorly shaved, dirtily dressed, and soaked in rain without an umbrella. A ragged coat sheltered his hunched back and shoulders. He stepped right up to the door, and began to unlock it. Unusual. She'd never seen this man before, though it was admittedly unusual to see safehouse owners ever. Most wanted nothing to do with the property until money could be made.
"I've seen you coming here before. Sorry that it was locked," the man said. He opened the door, and with his unmoving, silent posture, gestured for her to enter. He followed inside and shut the door. The interior was shabby, but in the sense that it wasn't truly meant for living in, and yet had work done to it to try and alleviate that feeling. A larger-than-small warehouse had been converted into what amounted to a lounge, complete with a tilted billiards table and dart board missing two or three darts from the original set. A tiny, two-seat bar hugged the entrance wall. There was only one time in Amaya's life that there being two seats mattered.
The dismal man shuffled over to an empty chair, and pulled items out of his coat and place them upon a coffee table. A shredded wallet. An aging but indestructible phone. A pile of loose charms on chains and strings.
"I won't be here the whole night. It's all yours. Tired? Smoke?" the man croaked. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and deftly slipped one into his lips before lighting it with an ember-tipped finger.
@Estylwen
Something was wrong.
Within the ancestral estate of House Asher, Reina was seated at the head of an oblong table along with twelve other notable faces. The heads of the House ruminated in silence for a full half minute, their expressions a mixture of dour confidence and gloomy worry. A pair of servants, one beside Reina and another at the doors to the meeting room, waited as sentinels to the noble gathering. All throughout the day, a creeping feeling of dread had pervaded the minds of House Asher's most adept. For some in the room then, it was a feeling they did not share, for not all of those in power were truly capable. Nevertheless, their seats were theirs', much to the disappointment of their more skilled peers.
The dread came via the Labyrinth; something was amiss in the regions of meta-space that House Asher presided over, like a threat to claims of land guaranteed only by the standing of a banner. It felt as though the banner was tilting, or a great ominous wind battered at its fabric. To some, it felt as though an army was manifesting on the horizon. All of this was a preturnatural sense, one that could not be truly explained to those who did not already understand what exploring the Labyrinth meant in spirit.
"...But it is not House Baskerville, that much is certain," said Victain Asher, breaking the dark silence.
"That only makes this more sinister," replied Leonus Asher, his chin cupped upon entwined fingers, "For who else?"
"There is no spell known within or without that could achieve something like this," chimed Erina Asher, who spoke in self-sure proclamation.
"You cannot claim that," Victain retorted.
With such an unprecedented feeling, and without the requisite arcane knowledge to parse it all, House Asher was left with this predicament: where does one even start in such a situation? How does one begin to assess such an esoteric state? Even for those who exalt Obscurity, they were left with an opaque wall of mystery.
A man of raven hair and lidded, almost saddening eyes spoke then -Cygni Asher. "The answer surely lies within the Labyrinth. And if it is a veil upon our property within, then it is assuredly also within Yusei's domain. He will be aware, and far more prepared to understand this." Cygni cast a long sideways glance across the table to Reina.
"Our head, then, seems the best path forward. You can speak with Yusei, Chosen, foremost of all of us," he said.
"But it will require a Dungeon," Victain said, "You can all feel it too -the cloudedness, even you, Cygni."
The raven nodded. "We can pool our efforts into this, it is critical," Cygni said in a monotonous tone, "And ensure the door remains open and clear. What say you, Reina?"
The heads of the House all turned to Reina. She could feel the implications Cygni levied upon her -this was not simply the only way to solve the issue.
It was a challenge.
@Remram
Blurriness taunted him.
In Mathias' hand was a shakily-snapped photograph. Despite any misgivings by others in the DSC, Mathias knew who it was. It was unmistakable.
The Mist.
It was the first sighting in years. For all his efforts, the next time he appeared was wholly detached and unrelated to any missions, any searches, and investigations, any anything that the Dark Sphere Command was involved in lately. The photograph practically grinned at him.
You thought you were any closer to me? it whispered.
The photograph depicted a man in untouched white, clean-kept and well-groomed despite the carnage that surrounded. Mathias had learned early on that this was The Mist's MO: unfettered violence administered with impossible precision and care. The location was a penthouse on the northern end of Bluegate three days prior, once owned and occupied by a known independent mage of middling report. The photographer was similarly mulched, but their evidence was clearly intact. It was almost undoubtedly purposeful. Despite the new lead, it was on the backburner.
"Mathias, are you listening?" crooned a woman's voice. Hovering over the man was a blonde, braided woman carrying a clipboard and papers. The electric hum of the DSC warehouse returned to Mathias' senses. "The crew is waiting for you," she said. Nina Carol was Bluegate Squad 3's radio operator, though the term 'radio' was used if only for familiarity. In reality, the communication was wholly arcane, but Nina nevertheless performed the duties of a monitor and mission director all the same.
Mathias was about to delve into such a mission, one disappointingly unrelated to The Mist. Across the warehouse, in another room, magic-touched machines whirred away, scribbling waveforms upon an unrolling sheet of parchment not unlike a seismograph listening to the rumblings of the earth. For two days, the sensor was picking up on a growing thunder within the Dark City, and it was now their task to deliver a host of machines into the side-realm in hopes of uncovering some deeper meaning to this disturbance in the collective conscious.
A team of four awaited him in the briefing room.
@Kronshi
There was no way.
Ozymandias would have experienced it before, but this time around his assessment was certain. The dismantling of a door within the Dark City was something Ozy had done before, and even granting that the one before him now was of a peculiarly different sort of essence, the fourteen hours he had spent revealed everything he needed to know about it. So he thought...
The composition, the origin, the shape within the subconscious that had guided its creation, where in Realspace it most corresponded to (the answer was that it reflected no less than five specific doors within a specific Bluegate mall), and the rules that specifically guided its being locked. He had eliminated three of the four esoteric makeups that prevented the otherwise functional door from "opening" already, and the fourth should have just been removed as well, and yet...
There was phenomenon in Realspace, wherein on exceptionally rare occasions computerized electronics could experience unpredictable glitches due to the one-in-a-billion chance that a cosmic ray happened to knock out the exact right spot on a circuit. The struggle with this door felt almost the same. No less than ten times now had he calculated the exact right way to reverse the complex and yet meaningless final lock on the door, and each time it almost seemed as if the effect was being reversed by wayward signals, or his own magical input interfered with.
The door itself was innocuous, as were most portals within the Dark City. But unlike most others, this one had one important feature:
It was permanent.
Every night, the Dark City was different. When looked at for the forest it was the same as always, but if you scrutinized the trees one would find misplacement, shifting, and inconsistency. This door was different, which tended to mean that someone had purposefully placed it, or otherwise entrenched its existence. Finding such a structure would normally have been pure chance, but for Ozymandias, it was purposeful.
A letter arrived to him nights before, unmarked, detailing the location of something only he could "understand". In all of the oddities that tended to come with anonymous writings in the Dark Sphere, Ozy picked out a subtlety within the tone and the mannerisms of the text -an echo of his father. It was assuredly not his father speaking through the letter, as the man was not subtle in the slightest, but something within it sparked memories of him nevertheless. A coded message? A secret confidant?
What lay behind the door?
The night felt ominous, and at Ozymandias' back there was a looming feeling of being watched or simply known. He was so close. A horrible noise howled in the distance of the Dark City's streets, and Ozymandias was then stricken by the sound of a child's genuine laughter within the skeleton of the building he stood within.
Whatever was happening that night, was the discovery behind this door worth seeing it to the end?