Atrophy

Recollections: Primal Sinister

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Interactions: “Vin”@Fernstone & Malik @NoriWasHere
South Side, The Circle, David Smith’s House

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A spark of panic ignited within Paloma as Malik commented on the unnaturalness of the crowd of rubberneckers appearing. She gave him a rapid bat of the lashes as if she were shocked by his cult leader comment combined with her best innocent little “who, me?” smile, which probably would have done little more than fuel his suspicions if he wasn’t pulled away by the person on the other end of the phone line picking up. Paloma held her breath as she tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear so she could as nonchalantly as possible cup her hand behind her ear to try and pick up the voice on the other line. She leaned in closer to Malik, suddenly snapping back into place as he ended the phone call in mere seconds, hands drifting down to clasp together behind her back, glancing over her other shoulder back to the sound of the scrape going on inside, her curiosity mostly unsated.

“If you don’t mind, we’d like you to stick around. We need to figure out what happened and all, and you got a really good look at the monster,” said Malik.

“Hm?” Paloma looked back to him, acting as if she had forgotten he was even there, that little smile returning to her face. At the very least she had gotten a handful of names: Vin the tiger, Caleb the guy missing half a head. ”Oh, yeah.”

Paloma fell in step behind Malik and followed him across the street. She was hit with a momentary urge to flee, between the tiger getting a whiff of the Samaritan and Malik’s intuition towards her crowd control. Perhaps Gideon’s men were interested in something other than a statement. Paloma’s jaw tightened as she wrung her hands in worry. Still, she had to stay. Paloma had yet to get what she had gotten herself wrapped up in this whole mess for in the first place. Plus, one of them had gotten himself killed because of her. That sacrifice more than earned them the benefit of the doubt. A look of distress crossed Paloma’s face as that choice of a word bounced around in her mind–sacrifice. No, it wasn’t like that. It had been an accident, except an accident implied there was no one at fault.

A mistake, then. The man clearly had magic. The Samaritan hadn’t been the one to make him act. It had just been a mistake.

“Hey, Malik,” said Paloma, reaching out to tug on Malik’s sleeve. Her head was hung and she had even gone so far as to slip her gum up into her cheek like a chipmunk saving an acorn for later so she wasn’t snapping and popping throughout her whole apology. “I’m really, really sorry about what happened to Caleb. It’s my fault, isn’t it? If I had listened to y’all and minded my own business, he wouldn’t have had to…”

She gave a staggered sniffle. It had been a mistake. Caleb’s mistake. Paloma didn’t know why he’d stepped in the way. Perhaps it was overconfidence in his own ability. Perhaps it was an ingrained chauvinism masquerading as chivalry. Whatever it was, it had been his choice, so why should she have to shoulder any of the burden? Paloma gripped the sleeve of Malik’s jacket, twisting it as her breathing grew ragged. Her cheeks would’ve been crimson with frustration if they weren’t already painted red in his blood. Her mistake. His mistake. Her mistake. His mistake. She didn’t want to think about this anymore.

“...I’m sorry. Thank you for getting me out of there.”

”Malik! When the fuck is a doc gettin’ here?!”

Paloma looked up, her eyes dry, as Malik was freed of her tightening grip. Vin staggered out of the door to David Smith’s house but collapsed before making it out of the frame, the orange fur and black stripes replaced by bruised skin and bloody slashes. Paloma bolted across the street without a second thought, her breakneck pace only slowing as she got close enough to see the severity of the injuries as her eyes widened and a hand went up to cover her gasp. Vin’s leg was little more than a bloody bit of bad butchery and her arm was like a gnarly voodoo doll pricked with bone shards instead of needles. Paloma quickly tore off her jacket and her bloodied button up sweater as she dropped down to her knees beside Vin.

“I-I work in a hospital. You’re going to be okay, Vin. Okay? You’re going to be okay,” said Paloma, her face very clearly say that they were fucked. Paloma gave the sweater a few rough folds until it was a square that was slightly larger than the still bleeding cuts on Vin’s side. It was unsanitary as hell, but Vin didn’t look like they had time for her to go find a fresh cloth. A tourniquet would be required for the leg. Paloma snapped off her long gloves and tied the ends together to form a long piece of cloth, setting the makeshift rope in her lap before picking the sweater back up. She held it out to Vin, the reddish-purple scars from where Nyrah’s acid had burnt her clear on her arms as she explained to them her plan.

“Okay, so you just need to hold this against your side and put enough pressure on it to stop the bleeding. Meanwhile, we’ll use this as a tourniquet to stop your leg from bleeding. Oh, except your arm’s, um, don’t worry, you’re gonna be okay. Malik can hold this, then we can tourniquet your leg, oh, and we’ll need something for you to bite on. Don’t want you to lose your tongue, right? Need that for grooming as well as other fun things, right Ms. Kitty?” said Paloma with a forced laugh and a teasing wink, her face immediately sinking as she realized this wouldn’t work. She was just a fucking janitor, what did she know about first aid? Vin was held together by nothing more than grit and a few bits of meat. Moving her would probably just get her killed. Paloma grimaced as she realized the one way to save Vin. She shook her head and dropped the bedside manners in favor of the actual truth.

“Actually, you’re not going to be okay,” said Paloma, her voice low as she made eye contact with Vin and didn’t break it. She placed her hand on Vin’s uninjured knee and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “You have two options.” She held up one scarred finger. “You can tell me what you want me to tell your family.” She held up a second finger. “Or you can trust me. We can save you.”

“Let him in.”

Paloma didn’t move. She didn’t blink. There was no spark in her eyes or pop of magic around her. Yet Vin would feel the sudden absence of the faint tingle of Paloma’s Sweetheart aura, likely unnoticed until it was gone due to the pain, as she hit Vin with the Bystander Effect. It would be like a jackhammer hitting against Vin’s Emotional Field, trying to punch through their forehead to perform a rough lobotomy. Vin would get the sense immediately that if they dropped their field they would be completely catatonic–they would not bleed out so they would survive, but their release would be fully in the hands of the annoying little busy body who had butted into their business. In that moment, Paloma opened herself up to harm as her defensive aura was suppressed by the Samaritan.

Paloma smiled, hoping that Vin would do the right thing. They didn’t need another Caleb moment. Then the smile dropped as her mouth hung open, her eyes widening in horrific realization. Shaking, Paloma slowly withdrew her hand from their knee. She no longer cared if Vin let her hit them with the Bystander Effect or if they bleed out right here in front of Paloma. Her scarred hands clamped over her mouth to prevent the scream as a single tear streaked down her blood stained cheek. For a second, fear gripped Paloma so strongly that she no longer even cared about her promise. There was only one thing in the world she wanted right now, and that was for this person in front of her to actually be Vin.

Recollections: Primal Sinister

(Don't fear gang even as a GM Ghost still won't post)

Recollections: Primal Sinister

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Interactions: R-Rated Tigger @Fernstone Davidganger & Malik @NoriWasHere
South Side, The Circle, David Smith’s House

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Paloma tilted her head and cocked an eyebrow in surprise as the creature that had been valiantly and pathetically trying to murder her started to plead with her instead. She was even more surprised to see a streamer of golden light thread around the face flap of David Smith, the Samaritan apparently buying right away that the creature was in desperate need of some help. It gave her a pause as the taunting smile fell from her face, replaced by a look of concentration as some rusted gears started churning.

Paloma never fancied herself as having a particularly high intelligence. She had been a below average student who went to an abysmal school. One of the highlights of her job was that she could completely shut her brain off and still do it. Still, she liked to think that growing up most of her life in South Cloverfield helped boost her wisdom score up a pip or two. After all, she had made it nearly three decades as close to unscatched as anyone could be who lived in one of the more dangerous neighborhoods in the area without the Samaritan by her side and while, yes, technically she had achieved this by largely being an indoor kid, she had still done it.

So, when the doppelganger started its “I’m actually a nice guy” routine Paloma could see the string attached to the bait. It also helped having the body of what remained of Caleb oozing out dark blood in her periphery, as well as the fuzzy shape of Vin moving in to strike the doppelganger from behind. Paloma flinched reflexively as the tiger bit down on a limb of the creature but kept one eye open. It was funny, seeing blood and viscera did almost nothing to her but an act of violence still shook her. The numbness of being in the medical industry, even in a role as small as her own. She was used to witnessing the aftermath.

The tiger must’ve overheard her; they offered to help lead an interrogation before being sent crashing through a wall alongside the doppelganger. Now there was a small conundrum. Technically, as long as she found out her information she was fine, and right now the tiger looked to be getting its ass kicked. She could play along with the doppelganger, knowing that whatever game it was trying to use on her that she still held the trump card. But Paloma had already been vaguely responsible for one death and the tiger had protected her. There was a budding kinship right there. How could she possibly hinder someone so sweet that they would protect a total stranger?

“Please, please girl, make her stop. I think I can fight this. I can come back,” cried the creature in David’s voice, reaching out to Paloma with its hand.

“Just an I think? Mm, not very promising,” said Paloma, crossing her arms and turning up her chin.

She had already made up her mind, but perhaps if the doppelganger kept trying to play its mind games it would allow for Vin to sink in a few good blows. Her eyes widened as Vin called out about it being an Apparition, the retort of I know dying on her lips as they revealed that they were somehow aware of the Samaritan. She looked towards Malik, who was beckoning to her to follow him out the exit, and nodded. The man was right. She would only just get in the way. The body of Caleb proved that. She turned to follow Malik out the door, pausing to look back at the vicious fighting just enough to say to Vin, “Try not to kill it.”

Paloma stepped outside and was immediately assaulted by a choir of voices from maybe a dozen or so people who had been within earshot when she had screamed. “Are you okay?” “You’re hurt!” “Let me call you an ambulance.” “Here, let me give you my coat.” “Do you need help in there?” “What happened?” Some in the crowd just stared and gawked, while others began to come closer to the house. Paloma gave Malik a side eye, hoping that he wouldn’t realize that they were only addressing her.

Malik, assuming he had an Emotional Field, would feel nothing more than a brief itch on his skin as she activated her Good Influence aura, but he would see the crowd of Blind onlookers stop as one as Paloma held their rapt attention. Without saying a word, Paloma sent a vibe through the crowd that it was dangerous here and that they should swiftly and carefully go somewhere safe. As one the crowd would turn and leave the scene in a hurry without any further questioning. Paloma turned to Malik, gum nearing falling out of her mouth as she gawked at him with faked confusion.

“That was weird. Sorry that your friend got…” Paloma voice, which had been solemn, sparked with curiosity as she noticed that Malik was on the phone. “Who ya calling?”

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 [Cancelled]

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Interactions: Artifact Group, Skele-King @Estylwen
Elysium Island (Team Artifact)

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She was cowering.

At first, Sloane had been tactically staying out of the way. With the monster interrupting her request for the sword and serving as a future excuse for Britney’s failure to cooperate she was, essentially, dead weight in a fight. It was better to just keep herself small with a back to the wall instead of finding herself out of position, potentially tripping up one of the many others they had brought along exclusively for such an occasion. When their cover was blown with the arrival of the mage and his skeleton friend, the hall illuminated by green flame and flashing red lights, Sloane had moved to act now that magic was back in the arsenal. However, the closeness of the quarters and the speed at which Cyrus and Alexander danced around one another meant trying to sink the edge of her hexed knife between the eyes of the mobster could very well plant it in the spine of the chainsaw artist instead.

Sticking to the sideline, Sloane turned her body to shield a casting of one of her spells, the blue light blocked by her coat as the knife in her hand began to spiral and twist. Just as the cast was about to complete a waft of something repugnant hit Sloane like an eighteen wheeler hauling cow shit on a July day. Her eyes shifted down the hall and caught sight of the source through the flashing of alarm lights and black lightning. It was a nightmarish scene from hell that evoked the tortured images of a dark renaissance painting as Luca gave the bound and gurgling monster the roughest and deadliest old fashioned imaginable. Sloane balked and covered her mouth. Her concentration didn’t just break; her grasp on reality snapped as she was shunted back to a field of pink mist, limp limbs, and decayed flesh.

For a second, she thought about painting and smiled before swallowing a surge of bile that brought her back to the burning hall. Down on her knees now Sloane was, in fact, cowering as Britney had observed, although not in fear of their assailants. She shifted the bag on her shoulder to make sure that it was still there, the Brass Needle close at hand. Sloane looked up as Britney called her out, her eyes wide and terrified like an animal backed into a corner. If not for the mask on Sloane’s face or the chaoticness of the encounter Britney would’ve seen the typically unflappable woman break as her mouth snarled and every stress line darkened and creased in a look of unbridled hatred. This is all your fault, screamed Sloane in her head, fist punching the ground as she pushed herself up to her feet. With shoulders hunched and coat rippling from the twister, there was a flash of blue light as Sloane whipped the spiraled knife through the air, an angry, inhuman yowl like a cat whose tail had been stepped on escaping from her throat as it was released.

At first the knife appeared to be aimed at Britney until the blade sharply turned ninety degrees and flew straight up to the ceiling, Sloane standing with her Channeler thrust up towards the sky while shielding her eyes from the freezing winds with her other hand. A carefully palmed needle was also held in this hand for the worst case scenario, protected from view except for a quick flash of the tip as Sloane shifted her body and took a step back. Her Channeler hand shook, blue and orange wisps of flames circling the card, as she tried to keep the Possessed knife aloft as the twister closed in on it. Unnoticeable to anyone other than the Undead King was the absolute majesty of the knife as the Object of Obsession spell was narrowed to only draw the undead’s attention. Sloane didn’t need it to go after the blade. She only wanted to distract it for just long enough, hoping that temporary glance away would be just what they needed to have Britney’s stake impale the King.

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Interactions: TeamAggro, Amara @Blizz Lila@NoriWasHere Liz@Skai
Elysium Island (Team Aggro)

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This is the end, beautiful friend. This is the end. My only friend, the end…

Sully always had a feeling this was how he was going to go out: forgetting the lyrics to a song by the Doors. The intense pain that shook through his body like a thousand squirts of lime and a thousand grains of salt shoved into a thousand tiny paper cuts was nothing compared to the mental pain of knowing the melody of a song but not the words. His finger still scratched at the ground, his mind forgetting what he was even going for, as it went c’mon, c’mon, c’mon, c’mon and a ghost appeared. He felt something press into his hands. A microphone, right? They called him Cupbearer, which wasn’t right. He was Jim Morrison, dying on the stage after snorting a line of cocaine from all the way from stage left to exit pursued by bear. He felt the mic get pushed into his face. Right, he had to perform.

“C’mon baby…light my…fire…”

Nah, man, no way. Not happening. He was too fat, sad, and drunk to go through the song and dance. Time to turn his back on the audience, close the curtains, maybe go see Paris. He always liked the French. He thought they got a bad wrap. Sully pulled his charred lips away from the cup. Even if the French excursion didn’t work out he’d had a full life. He’d done some things and seen some stuff. It had been a pretty good twenty-seven years in the states. Now he’d just go away, and hey, maybe he’d start up a new trend for his fellow artists. Only, wait, his math wasn’t adding up. What year was it? He couldn’t really remember, but he could see a cake and he could see the candles, a big two and a big eight. Wait, wait, wait, no, that can’t be right. He missed the club by a year?

Then he heard it.

"Sully! Buddy!? You gotta drink!"

Leon dispelled the illusion that he was some big rockstar. Sully didn’t even like the Doors. The lyrics were all nonsense, a jumble up word salad presented as poetic genius when it was really just drunken ramblings. Plus, what kind of fucking rock band didn’t have a bass player? Sully heard Drake yell out RIDE THE LIGHTNING, sending a spark of life from the burnt crispy bits of his eardrums all the way down to the charred piggies of his toes. Metallica, now that was a real band. Blackened, Sully’s fingers tightened on the Chalice. The chalice became full of healing fuel. He wasn’t just the Cupbearer; he was the one, the Chosen One. There was a ringing in his ear, and while Sully didn’t know for whom the bell tolls, he knew it wasn’t for him. Sad but true, if not for the sound of his boys around him he probably wouldn’t even have bothered to drink. Even if he really knew he wasn’t special, if he wasn’t the actual Chosen One, if it was just dumb luck that he got the cup, Sully still had to stick around for his homies–nothing else matters.

He puckered up his lips, ready to drink the whiskey in the jar, and coughed violently as the Amara phantom plopped a fingerful of green goop between his lips like he was a baby. Surprised, Sully opened his eyes as the healthy greens sent life through his system. He spat the finger out and pushed the Chalice up to his lips, drinking deep. The ash fell off of his body like a phoenix reborn, the burns rapidly healing across Sully’s body as he took hold of Leon’s enablement and fully embraced it, shedding a few manly tears in the process. Sully came up for air after what felt like an eternity, gasping loudly in satisfaction as he yelled…

"... I live, bitches!"

He grabbed the phantom’s arm in a meaty Predator handshake and pulled himself up to his feet, “You were always my favorite Amara. Save the goop for yourself, bro. I got a cup.”

And there were people who needed him. Chalice to his mouth and chugging in case he caught any strays, Sully took off in a low run towards Lila and Liz. It was weird. Obviously, the healing of the Chalice neutralized the heat of the burns, but Sully didn’t remember it being this cold out. Unaware to the healed man, but quite obvious to anyone who looked his way, the Chalice had just healed Sully’s wounds…and only his wounds. The nuclear light of the Phantombane bomb reflected off of Sully’s shiny, bald head and illuminated his large, hairless, kind of doughy body, the fire of the dragon removing any needs of imagination for what Sully had going on under his get up.

Sully, still blissfully unaware that he was no longer a bear but rather as bare as the day he was born, ducked gunfire and magical bullshit as he reached Lila and Liz unharmed. He needlessly dove towards them, a failed shoulder roll morphing into a sideways log roll, covering himself up with a thin layer of ash and mud. Sully got up to his feet with surprisingly nimbleness. The two of them looked to be in rough shape, with wounds splattered across their bodies. If he had his pistols he could blast them both at the same time, but right now he’d just have to improvise.

“Never fear, the juice man is here! Lila! Cuz! Baby bird!” said Sully, looking like an absolute nightmare in his mudman form. Sully began to splash the healing elixir of the Chalice in their direction like he was a priest blessing them with holy water, hoping that with the sheer volume some of it would get in their mouths and heal up their wounds.

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 [Cancelled]

Just for clarification sake, there is the Doomsday Ken/Drake spell and the Phantombane Spirit Bomb Aryin/Stormy spell happening. It reads like the Dragon smacked the Doomsday spell but was called Spirit Bomb instead. @Blizz@Estylwen

Or maybe I just can't read.

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 [Cancelled]

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Interactions: Lila@NoriWasHere Liz@Skai Fire @Estylwen
Elysium Island (Team Aggro)

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Lila’s shout for Sully cut through the battlefield and interrupted his jeers of, “Hey hey, you you!” He snapped his head in the direction of his little bird buddy, his mouth forming a wide-O as he saw her ruffled feathers matted with wet blood and fresh bullet holes. Then, catching the rest of what Lila said, Sully realized that the injured figure the corvid was carrying wasn’t an oversized and overcooked skunk but Lyss’s cousin. He felt a wave of sympathy for the badly sunburned woman. His pale, Irish family had sought out St. Portwell because of the opportunities it proved, with the biggest opportunity being that it was almost always overcast so they never had to worry about the sun immediately killing them. Lyss’s cousin must’ve been a local, the fright of seeing actual sunlight for the first time turning some of her hair white.

“Don’t worry, cuz! I got you both!” shouted Sully, glancing off to the treeline in case that jumpy bastard came back to snatch up his glory.

There was still some distance between Sully and the two wounded. Fortunately, he’d come packed just for such a thing. Sully picked up the SoakEm Mk V super soaker from where he’d dropped it on the ground and began pumping the cylinder as a battery-operated motor and lights started to flair up, a high-pitched whirring sound cutting through the actual gunfire peppering the barrier next to him. Sully shouldered the SoakEm Mk V and closed one eye, releasing his breath as he centered Lila and Liz in his sights. A shout to take cover from Ruby drew his eye up to the sky as he cursed and dove back behind the barrier, dirt peppering him as he landed roughly and tweaked his knee. Sully sucked in a pained breath as he grabbed at his leg and rolled onto his side, fumbling with his hand for the Chalice and took a sip. He felt something in the joint pop back in place as he wiped his lips dry.

Okay, round two. Nothing to come from the sky to stop him from hea-oly fucking shit!

“DRAGON!” yelled Sully, pointing at the portal that had just ripped open over the mansion.

The last thing anybody would see before the man disappeared behind a wave of fire and smoke was Sully coming up to one knee, tilting his head back, and lifting the Chalice up to his mouth. The flames tore across the ground as smoke filled the skies. It blackened the earth, vaporized the trees, and glassed the sand. Feasibly no man should have survived the blast of dragonfire, Emotional Fields be damned. However, in that moment Sully achieved his apotheosis, truly becoming the avatar of Broseidon, channeling the pure power of the popped collar and amplified by the feeling of having a true bro at his back in the form of Stormy’s shield that actually took the brunt of the attack.

Sully chugged from the Chalice hard and fast as the waves of flames licked around the shield. His cowboy hat was ripped from his head by the blast and sucked forward into the inferno, incinerating in an instant alongside the SoakEm Mk V, whose hard plastic shell and sick decaling turned out to surprisingly not be dragonproof. The smell of smoke and burning hair filled his nose along with what little air he could breathe in that didn’t become fuel for the fire. Sully smelled another strangely sweet aroma, like a pig roasting on a spit over an open flame, unaware that it was the smell of his skin being cracked and cooked by the heat, the Chalice out healing the burns, the elixir running down his cheeks and dripping down his neck as if he were basting himself.

Sully kept chugging until the metal of the Chalice became too hot to handle. The cup dropped from his hand. With the elixir no longer continuously healing him, the wave of the most insane pain he had ever experienced from the intensity of the heat was quick to get the best of Sully. He crumpled to the ground as the wave of fire cleared. His skin was like a burnt pie crust, incredibly dry, cracked, and oozing some kind of juice, with a nightmarish pattern of plastic and fabrics fused to his body from where his clothing and gear had melted from the heat. The world around him was nothing but ash. He convulsed as the red hot Chalice rapidly returned to its neutral silver, his eyes twitching, throat groaning, his hand just an inch away from salvation.

His eyes closed, he fell silent, and the convulsions stopped.

Then with an almost feral, Leon-like howl he opened his eyes. Sully pushed through the nuclear level of pain as he stretched his right hand towards the Chalice. Just an inch. He could make it just an inch. A centimeter. A millimeter. A couple of atoms. His burnt fingers felt the inexplicably cool metal of the Chalice, his lips cracking in a skeletal smile that became a terrified gasp as he nudged the Chalice ever so slightly. His eyes widened in horror as the goblet slowly rolled forward. An inhuman cry that was more like the moan of a zombie escaped from Sully’s throat as his fingers limply scratched at the ground, his strength rapidly fading, the Chalice just out of reach.

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 [Cancelled]

presenting a villain too non-canonical for the main RP

@Mixtape Ghost N

Damn bruh

Recollections: Primal Sinister

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Interactions: One Protective Putty Tat@Fernstone Gideon's Guys Guy & DoppelDave@NoriWasHere
South Side, The Circle, David Smith’s House

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“Hey, seriously?” said Paloma as Vin blocked her from entering her house. Under her breath she quietly whined, “Sam, please, they’re hurting me.”

The Samaritan called her lie as Vin continued to trap Paloma in place. Unable to sneer at the ghost inside of her, she turned to shoot Vin the nasty look instead and got a faceful of tiger armpit. Paloma made a gagging noise as she squirmed uncomfortably between the threshold of the doorway and the weirdly ripped weretiger, her ineffective wrestling stopping as she heard It roar. Her body stiffened as snow dripped off the roof and snuck down the back of her shoe. She couldn’t see what was going on but the noise painted a visual image almost as bad as the real thing. Paloma’s hand shot out and grabbed hold of Vin’s fur, squeezing tightly as the snapping of bones and the rasp of inhuman laughter echoed from inside the house.

“Ahhhh the sweet naivety of a newborn. Tell me, apparition, have you experienced the death of a host yet?”

“What?” said Paloma, blinking in confusion, her breath fogging as the temperature dropped. She felt something strong seize her around the waist and jerk, lifting her up off her feet with a frightful ease as she started to fall. “What!?”

The anticipated impact wasn’t as painful as she had expected it to be as she was cushioned by the tiger. Paloma let out a tiny, panicked yelp as Vin rolled on top of her and protected her with their body, feeling the cupcake flatten in the box beneath her. She heard something punch loudly through plaster and vinyl, bits of dust and drywall sprinkling on the wooden floor of the entranceway and mixing with flecks of snow that had been tracked in from the outside. Her eyes widened as she caught sight of the twisted spear made of bone and muscle retract back through the hole in the wall, drops of blood from where it had cut across the back of the weretiger staining her sweater. Paloma’s breathing halted, the stammering words about how the tiger didn't have to do that dying in her throat as she felt Vin’s own breath hot on her ears, whispering for her to stay down unless there was an opening to get out.

It was a smart idea that she just couldn’t follow. Perhaps if she had seen David Smith get consumed by the doppelganger she would’ve happily hightailed it out of there, but she hadn’t. If he was unconscious maybe the Samaritan’s Messiah Complex wouldn’t have picked him up. He could be bleeding out. She could help him still, lock him away with the Bystander Effect for long enough until paramedics had arrived or she could at the very least get a chance to ask a few questions before he passed. She couldn’t just simply ignore this. She felt a painful heat radiate across her forearms as she shifted up to her hands and knees and, against the wise words of the tiger, crawled into the house instead of away. She peaked her head around the corner of the room that Vin had rushed into, hoping to see David Smith still breathing.

Oh what a fucking horrible idea that turned out to be.

This whole Paranormals being real thing was still relatively new to Paloma. A dragon attack she had barely got to witness. A few conversations with an annoyingly smug mage. Some ghosts lingering around the hospital. A handful of passing encounters with people who shrugged off her aura. A brief and toxic romance with a vampire she had mistaken for a hot goth who called her out for being a bloodtease. That week she was haunted by a killer doll before it gave up. Whatever that mold thing was. Etcetera. Most of the encounters were always strange, sometimes dangerous, and often tiresome. However, none of them had been as viscerally disturbing as whatever was going on with the anatomy of this doppelganger, triggering every animalistic instinct in her body to fuck right off as she jumped to feet before flooding her engines with so much adrenaline that she couldn't move.

An involuntary scream erupted from Paloma’s throat as she witnessed the dangling face flap of a middle aged man being sliced nearly clean off by a swipe of the tiger’s claws, the flesh twisting and spinning as it hung on by a thread of sinew like a babytooth that just refused to fall out, the mouth still smiling in her direction. Paloma had not been bluffing when she had warned Gideon’s men earlier: she was an extremely loud screamer. The banshee-like screech snapped the attention of the doppelganger back to its prey, giving Vin what briefly looked like the upperhand as they swiped its legs out from underneath them. However, a choir of snaps erupted through the house like a beatnik applause as the doppelganger's legs contorted and twisted into arms, its body inverting as it rolled through, snatched Vin by the scruff, and launched them over the chair covered in loose ropes and empty clothing. It turned towards Paloma, its chest cavity snapping open as another roar bellowed out and shook the foundation, its left arm splitting and spiraling to form another lance.

“What the hell are you doing, lady!?”

Paloma felt a hand grab her shoulder and pull her back as Caleb moved in front of her, an ice shield interposed between Paloma and the doppelganger. Her legs buckled as she stumbled and fell back on her rear, looking up in horror as the doppelganger’s spear shattered through the shield and sprayed a streak of hot blood across her face as it pierced through Caleb’s shoulder. Paloma raised a shaking hand, ready to hit Caleb with the Bystander Effect, and froze, arrested by her own desires for self-preservation. The selfishness didn't stop another scream from being ripped from her throat and accompanied by a backtrack of gunfire as Caleb was yanked forward by the spear, the toothy maw of the doppelganger cutting the man’s own howl short as it snapped down on his shoulder and the upper portion of his head, crunching through hard bone before squishing on soft lobe.

Effortlessly, the doppelganger chucked what remained of Caleb’s corpse at Malik and began stalking towards his prey. Paloma began to backpedal on the ground, dragging herself through wet debris, her heart beating in her throat. The twisted spear punched a line in the floor of where she had been as if the doppelganger was playing with its food. She felt her fingers scrape against a wall as she ran out of room. Dead end. Game over. The doppelganger loomed over her, bits of Caleb still hanging from its fangs as it pulled back its spear arm. Paloma instinctively curled up into a ball and threw her hands over her face with a cry, then—

Wham!

Wham!

Wham!

The hands dropped from Paloma’s face as she felt the spear breeze past her three times, piercing through the corner behind her. She watched again and again as the arm, directed for her head, twisted and slammed against the wall as it drew near her. The wavering fear in her eyes solidified into hard steel as she wiped her cheek. Hand still trembling, Paloma reached up, grabbed one of the holes, and pulled herself up to her feet. Again and again the doppelganger attacked the wall around Paloma, creating an almost cartoonish outline of her body in the drywall. She gritted her teeth, eyes watering at the stench coming from its maw, and then smiled wickedly, her lips cracking from the cold as the grinned stretched across her face almost ear to ear.

“I think I know what you are,” said Paloma in a soft, almost melodic whisper, scoffing as another attack missed her by a couple of inches. “You inherit their memories, right?” She coughed as a bit of drywall got in her mouth as it hit the wall again. “I'll take that as a yes. I just have a few questions for what remains of Mr. Smith. Then I’ll be gone. Poof!” A larger chunk of plaster fell out of the wall and hit Paloma roughly on the shoulder, almost pulling the inner Southsider out of her as she hissed and grabbed her shoulder, shifting ever so slightly to avoid anything else coming down on her.

“Jesus Christ, are you stupid?" whispered Paloma with a seething growl, turning her head as another stab splintered the wall next to her. "Give up on it already.”

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 [Cancelled]

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Interactions: Anya // Clancy, Britney, & Artifact Group @Fernstone@Zombiedude101 @Mixtape Ghost N @Blizz@Estylwen
Elysium Island (Team Artifact)

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Sloane maintained a face of neutrality as Britney did the right thing and passed her the radio. If being on what essentially felt like a suicide mission wasn’t nervewrecking enough, having to potentially spend her final day on this earth with someone like Britney who was so petty she could barely even acknowledge Sloane spiked her anxiety. She held the radio up to her lips, masking the vicious sneer that she involuntarily threw Britney’s way as the woman turned her back on Sloane. She took a second to collect herself and then pressed the button on the radio to respond to Anya, drifting to the back of the group as they followed after Clancy and Autumn.

“Not far enough. Who jumped the…” Sloane made a pained expression as a sunbeam came crashing from the sky and rocked the island as it struck the distant mansion. How their collaborators had managed to completely botch a plan that was so uncomplicated it could fit on half of a post-it note was besides Sloane. “We’re on the move.”

Sloane shuffled past the zombies that Clancy had dispatched, the undead sparking unhappy memories about the fiasco at Kari’s house. She found herself surprisingly grateful that Clancy had come along with their crew, even if his nearly luminescent yellow James Roberts Rectangularslacks ski mask made him pop out through the foliage. If anyone should be made to tango with the Starving Dog, there was no better candidate than the seemingly unkillable kid. She gave Autumn a side-eye as she chastised Clancy for splintering off to finish a few undead, slowly sidling up to him as Autumn moved out of earshot.

“Personally, I’d feel more comfortable knowing there were less ghouls to potentially block our only known exit,” said Sloane quietly to Clancy as Autumn revealed the side entrance. Before dipping through the secret door, Sloane pulled out the radio and informed Anya, “We’re heading in so we’re going silent.”

Sloane muted the radio. With the Eye highlighting the auras of the other teams, there were other means of telling if things went south for the alliance. She knew Anya was smart enough not to message them first in case the noise alerted any of the guards still remaining in the compound, but Sloane fully anticipated one of the other teams flicking to the wrong channel and accidentally blowing their cover. Sloane quietly closed the door behind them once everyone had entered the small corridor, hoping to make it less obvious to any patrols that had been ignoring the fighting that a group had slipped inside. She ducked into cover behind the others, patiently awaited her turn, and slinked past the camera with ease to join the others in the safety of the shadows.

The sealed gate, with whatever additions the Elite had added to it since Greenwood’s failed excursion last time, would be up next as the group continued to follow Autumn down the web of corridors. Ruby had implied that there would be some kind of nasty creatures guarding the gate as well as the halls beyond it. She pulled her Hexmarked knife out of her coat pocket, frowning as her finger brushed her channeler. The knife wasn’t useless without magic, but it would be nice if they were forced into a fight to have something with a little more substance.

Sloane’s eyes fell on the silhouette of the Noble Vow carried by Britney as her face, hidden by shadow, soured. As long as the Eye of Ankhara was up Britney wouldn’t be able to harness the power of the blade without pinging their location to the whole island. Sloane, meanwhile, had been training in anticipation of Ashley finally breaking and handing over the Apparition Killer to somebody who could make use of it. Plus, Sloane doubted that the Noble Vow would even accept Britney as a host. For the second time that evening Britney would feel a tap on her shoulder.

“You don’t actually know how to really use that, do you?” said Sloane with a hushed voice to not alert anything that might be around the corner as her hand reached out and flicked the hilt of the Noble Vow. “I’m trained. Could keep us from blowing our cover if a conflict arises. Actually protect the group.”

Once again, Sloane held out her hand expectantly, not budging as a shush came from Autumn up ahead in an attempt to slice through the bubbling tension. The corridor ended in a T-section up ahead. Autumn tiptoed to the edge of the hall, pressed her back against the wall, and leaned out just enough to get a glance of what was around the corner. The sealed security gate, a pair of metallic doors accented with yellow caution paint, an intercom, and a small screen that might be a kind of badge scanner was to the right. If there were any kind of magical traps or triggers then they were impossible to see with the naked eye. However, the most concerning thing wasn't the sealed gate at the right side of the T-section, but the padding of footfalls coming from around the corner down the left side. Autumn ducked her head back as, rounding the corner, was a giant quadrupedal reptile that loudly gurgled as it took every step - which was heavy.

The creature poked its head around, and for a moment, it was completely silent as both parties stared at each other, before it loudly screeched and charged forward.

With its dick out.

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1 [Cancelled]

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Interactions: Who is the Heal Stealing SOB? @Blizz Team Aggro
Elysium Island (Team Aggro)

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Sully cracked his knuckles as the squad was teleported onto Elysium Island. He had given more preparation for this one moment right here than anything in his life, like, upwards to two and a half hours of planning. Sully righted his cowboy hat, cleared his throat, and…he needed a quick refresher. He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and reread through the spiel, mumbling under his breath as the other teams grouped up and marched off. He tucked the paper away. Right. Now was his time to shine. Sully cleared his throat, pointed a finger in the air, and—“Alright, no speech,” said Ruby. A little croak eked out of Sully’s throat as his finger fell limp, Ruby inadvertently clamping down on the rousing speech he had prepared for the troops, his shoulders dropping as he deflated. He had transcribed that whole speech off of Youtube. It had taken multiple rewatches. All of his data, wasted.

And then machine guns started popping, shit started exploding, and he ducked for cover.

Little bits of mansion rained down on his back like the fragments of artillery shells as the high pitched ringing in Sully’s ears began to balance out. He blinked rapidly, the blindness from Jess calling down the fucking sun to nuke the mansion slowly fading away and revealing the destruction before them, spots of colorful lights still dancing in his vision as his stomach dropped. Sully had heard about Greenwood’s past run-in with the haters around St. Portwell since joining them, but his experiences with them had mostly been kicking it around a campfire, getting stoned, and listening to bad music from the nineties. Even in his one actual altercation with Greenwood at his back Sully had been too busy getting his ass kicked to ever really pay attention to how they operated, but he’d always assumed it was a little more…plucky, lighthearted hijinxs.

Like, even with Das Sonnerad he’d been under the idea that, with the exception of James defending himself against a neonazi prick, 8th Street had done the wetwork while Greenwood had been going around putting bananas in tailpipes and little sleeping nazi hands in glasses of warm water. Sully blinked away the stars, thinking that the mostly destroyed mansion would suddenly be rebuilt as he stopped imagining things. He wiped his eyes. Nope, still fucked. His breath quickened. Okay, okay, okay, so Jess had just orbital striked a building full of rich people eating cocktail shrimp and playing hide the sausage. Cool, cool, cool, okay, they were probably all bad and working with neonazis and child soldier mafias and there definitely wasn’t, like, a single, innocent cleaning lady or cook in the bunch. Sully gave a sniffled grunt as he stifled the urge to cry.

“Whaddafuckkkk, whaddafuckkkkkk…” hissed Sully. What the fuck was he doing here? He was just some dumbass with a sippy cup. He couldn’t drop nukes. "Come on, Aggro! You bastards wanna live forever?" Yeah, Leon, man, actually that sounded great! Sully watched as Kenshiro and Drake did some supercombo and dusted a whole buncha zombies. Sully couldn’t do that shit, man! He could toss water on somebody’s crotch and make it look like they pissed themselves, maybe splash a little lava around and oh great there’s a fucking lava giant so he’s even useless there COME ON, MAN! WHADDAFUCK!!

"Sully! Olivia! Somebody! Bring your asses over here!"

Hearing his name pulled Sully out of his shock, his head whipping over towards Ruby’s voice to see that Jess was half-cooked. HIs brain chalked up its hands, grabbed ahold of the still rings, and did a couple of backflips to draw up the conclusion that, nah, Greenwood weren’t actually way too extreme for him after all and that the mansion was just a monster closet full of zombies, primordials, and Wish dot com mobsters. Jess was his friend, she needed help, and only Sully could help her. Well, only Sully or Olivia. Nobody else. Well, one of the Amara clones probably knew first aid. So only Sully, Olivia, Amara clone, plus maybe Ken had a weird frog that could also heal. Okay, so only Sully, Olivia, Amara clone with a medkit, anime frog, oh, and Leon had some goop too, so really, it was only Sully, Olvia, Medkit Amara, Nurse Frog, Leon’s Hot Mom’s Goop, and that was it.

That was all that could save Jess.

Nothing else.

Not one more thing.

Sully grabbed the Soakem Mk V , rolled onto his back, and started pumping hard, building up the pressure needed to deliver the perfect sniper blast of heal juice straight to Jess. He rolled back onto his stomach, tucked the massive super soaker around one of Stormy’s barriers, and steadied his aim. Locked in. He squeezed the trigger and a fart of air came out. Sully cursed, realizing the elixir had disappeared, and rolled back over. In one sloppy motion that got his shirt drenched with elixir he filled the chamber back up with the Chalice, pressed in the plastic stopper, rolled over once again, and—

“Oh come the fuck on!” bellowed Sully.

He punched Stormy’s barrier as some nerd in—what was that, a bunny mask or some shit?—jumped out of nowhere, chucked a healing stick into Jess, and then jumped back into nowhere after firing off a bunch of sick shots from a bow and arrow. Utterly defeated, was about to roll behind his barrier as a cobwebbed covered light bulb flicked on in his head. If video games had taught him one thing, it was that the undead were allergic to health potions. Shifting up to a knee, Sully unleashed a streaming, high powered torrent of elixir over the killing fields, letting out a feral yell as zombie after zombie after zombie got a little wet. The yell died off into a whimper as Sully, utterly defeated, rolled back behind his barrier. Was he just cursed to wait for someone to almost die before being useful?

No! He had one more hidden technique! Clapping his hands loudly, Sully started up a cheer for his boy. Nothing made another man push harder than the fighting spirit given to him by a pack of cheerleaders rooting him on and, well, with all of Sycamore’s cheerleaders dead or missing in action it fell on Sully to carry on the legacy of the pom pom.

“L! E! Ooooooouhh,” Sully realized they were wearing masks for a reason. He pivoted with a clap clap, stick ducked safely behind his barrier as he cheered. “F! F-U! Eff who!? Zombie nazis! F! F-U! Eff who!? Magma bitches! F! F-U! Eff who…”

And so on until, hopefully, someone got shot or third-degree lava burns, utterly unaware that in all of the chaos someone already needed him, a small path cut clear between Sully and Liz by Jasper's painted automaton.