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Location: Northern Cove - Dundas Islands, Pacific Ocean
First Class #2.36a: Every Decision Hurts

Interaction(s): None
Previously: When Democracy is Totalitarian

Jonas spoke, and it mostly came out as garbled speech to Trace. They didn’t care. Offer your condolences, offer your sadness, and offer your support—in the end, what had you done to help any of them? It all hurt, and it all felt branded onto their skin, along with some new lacerations. Trace tried not to look at Haleigh, Luce, or the like. Yet, they also thought of Katja. Warm, strong Katja went out of her way to make them feel normal and loved. Heat welled up in their chest at that thought. And for some reason, they thought about Rory. He was sweet. He was calm. He was the moral compass of the group despite probably not knowing what compasses were or how they worked. But then there was Banjo, and that was a confusing mixture of emotions that Trace didn’t care to unpack. They still didn’t like him, but they felt that if he was left to his own devices, he’d “Mac and Me” into the ocean without much hesitation. He really needed to learn to shut up.

Yet, what haunted Trace the most wasn’t the moment that Cass’s lost the light in his eyes as his soul fluttered off to another plane of existence, but instead the vitriol that the remaining members looked at them with. Trace didn’t want to diminish Cass’s sacrifice, but they didn’t feel good in the skin they wore around those people. The old saying that went something like, “conflict makes you stronger and complacency makes you weaker,” didn’t consider when that conflict bore down on your mental health. Trace could get their mission done without them, but they would lose a few resources that would be helpful. It was a hard decision, and everything about it felt like someone had lanced fishing hooks behind their eyes and pulled.

The crowd around Trace ate at them like ants tearing off pieces of bread and hauling them away. They’d received their invitations, they’d received their armbands, and they stood in line with their fellow teammates. A long sigh left their lips as they fiddled with the papers, they were becoming hot and sticky underneath the unbearable sun. Trace had their black umbrella tucked underneath their arm as they were submerged so far into thought that the idea of holding a single item that wasn’t their future was exasperating.

That’s when the countdown began. Anxiety ripped at the hooks, and it felt like action would calm it down. “One” was announced, and Trace stood there and glanced at the Blackjack team around them. It was hard to want to leave. Cass’s face was somewhere behind their eyes, sharing his story around the campfire. Trace hadn’t paid him much attention, but that didn’t mean that they had forgotten him so easily. Yet, whatever they did, didn’t mean that his memory would evaporate. It was still warm there. And they feared if enough fear and anger were applied to it, it’d turn cold and distant. Trace wouldn’t want to return to it.

So, Trace stepped forward, not looking back as they did so. In their right hand was Team Firebird, and in their left was Team Eclipse. They could do this without all the hate. Maybe distancing themselves from the overwhelming negativity would help them achieve what they believed to be their raison d'etre.




Location: Pacific Royal Collegiate & University - Southern Plateau, Dundas Island
First Class: # 2.36b: Show Them That Song and Dance

Interaction(s): Yuri @Wei Wuxian
Previously: Press 'F' to Pay Respects

Coop angled his chin down towards his neck as he wondered what the hell he was doing here. It was an unflattering face, but it was one that he made when he didn’t want any attention brought onto him. He then searched around for the cameras, trying to find them amidst all the pomp and circumstance. Were they all being “Truman Show”ed? This didn’t feel real. It felt overly staged, and he glanced down for a marker. There was no taped ‘x’ on the ground alerting him to that. When he was handed his envelope with the houses and armband, they felt like props. Yet, his eyes focused on the Blackjack logo. It’d been the one that Calliope was wearing.

That’d been a nice moment of reprieve from all this nonsense and horror. Something that wasn’t so overwhelming. Yet, that entire group seemed like a few sticks of dynamite short of an explosion. Just from the moment that he’d spent standing by them, he’d bristled. His mother always remarked that he was a bit of an empath, and he didn’t know how he felt about that. But at that moment, he’d agree. He could feel every coal in that group being stoked like someone was drunk with a fire poker. But Calliope had been a fresh, cool wave. Someone to remind him that he wasn’t alone in all this “military school for super kids” malarkey.

When the countdown began, Coop quickly shifted his armbands around and stuck his invitations in his pocket. He hadn’t even had the time to glance at them. Honestly, it’d probably just boil down to what he thought was the coolest animal out of the three. What color would accent his eyes and hair the best? He could then work backward with house loyalty. It was easy to be a house cheerleader when the outfit looked snappy.

He stepped forward when the number counted down. In his right hand was Team Blackjack, and in his left was Team Firebird. He wasn’t about to try it with yet a third team he knew nothing about. “No offense guys,” he quickly said over his shoulder. “It’s just one of my friends is over there, and I just need some normalcy in this banana-coo-coo-insanity. I’m sure you get me.” He winked at Yuri. “Stay sexy.”

I'm a sucker for these types of RPs. I think it's too many years of watching everything on the CW when I was younger. Anyway, I'll throw this CS up for consideration. I will admit, I wanted to try something a little different with this character. I totally understand if it doesn't fit the vibe of the RP. I'm fine with changing whatever needs to be changed, or packing away the idea, entirely. I was trying to think of something different that still stayed with the main setup and themes of the game. I also left some things intentionally vague to be filled out by the GMs and the other players. Cohesiveness ftw.

Color me super intrigued by this premise! Thought I would slide this in. I hope everything is alright within it. Tried to do something different. Let me know if I need to change anything or if it doesn't work. I'd understand. It's weird.


Location: Northern Cove - Dundas Islands, Pacific Ocean
First Class #2.22: When Democracy is Totalitarian

Interaction(s): Blackjack Team; Specifically: Haleigh @Kuro, Luce @Roman, Rory @webboysurf, and Makenna @Tackytaff
Previously: *EXTERNAL SCREAMING*

They were all like bees, gathering, buzzing, becoming louder and more threatening with each escalation. A hive mind of anger and violence. They took a step away from the building vitriol. Their eyes caught on each figure as they spoke, each taking the easy way out with their hurt. They pushed their ultimatums on them and Rory with the ease of someone shoving their rubbish into a bin. It was easy to paint any enemy’s face on a friend when the enemy was so far away and so overwhelming.

Trace glanced at Rory. They grabbed his forearm as a bit of a brace to the slander that was spoken to them. The buzzing became louder. The hivemind agreed and agreed and agreed. Dissent was frowned upon—democracy was dead.

“You bloody lot act like we all didn’t lose somethin’ in all that. Don’t spit philosophy at me. I didn’t grow up rich and white. I know what fuckin’ strugglin’ is about.” Usually, they’d follow such a sentiment with humor, but it’d bled out of them like the color of their skin. “I’m just sayin’ meetin’ blood with blood is what Hyperion would want. You got to be smartah than that. Good to know the lot of you are moronic wankers.”

They spit on the ground. “Bloody fuckin’ Americans fixin’ all their problems with violence.” They released Rory’s arm. “It’s a sad fuckin’ day when I agree with Makenna and Rory here. But here I am.” They paused. “No, fuck you all, I’m not here. Not anymore. Not with the lot of you.”

They turned on their heels and left, Luce and Haleigh having left just prior to that. Honestly, the group could take what Trace said any way they wanted. They didn’t act like they wanted to hear what Trace had to say. If they weren’t ready to immediately die against Hyperion, then they were a coward that sided with the monstrosity. That wasn’t how that worked. Trace wanted to fight back but wanted to participate in their own little battle. One that they wouldn’t immediately perish during.

Trace hadn’t been paying attention when they stormed off. They’d just picked a direction and stomped into it. They were happy to be away from the buzzing. Lo and behold they were at the fountain. It’d be a nice place to sit, and the shade hit it just right. But the figures that eerily appeared within the waters were like ghosts. Trace was tired of ghosts. They were also tired of walking. So, they sat down, one hand holding the flower while the other tugged at the collar of the jacket. “I’m not a coward. I’m just not ready to die havin’ accomplished nothin’. We’re too bloody fuckin’ young for that. Cass was too young.”

Coop woke up to darkness, and that darkness was wet. He pulled himself up, his head throbbed, his arms ached, and his eyes felt like they were filled with needles. He placed his hand on his brow to try to shield his vision from the water and winced as pain rocketed through his temple and down his spine. He touched his head some more, unsure what was going on, but the pain forced his fingers to stop probing. The weird indentation in his skin, along with slugs crawling along his head, was enough to know that something was wrong. Wait. His hand shot up to grab the slugs off of his face only to yelp in pain. It was his hair. He'd yanked on his hair. His very wet hair. A few breaths later, he tried to swat the water away from his face again. Nothing seemed to help, and it was too dark to tell where it came from.

A discordant thrum of voices and screams graced his ears but they pelted off of the sides and tumbled away from him. He tried to grab at the words, but they were too slippery. His fingers ended up in the mud underneath them. He became aware of how wet his pants were. He hoped he was in a puddle. Slowly he stood, wobbling all the while. His body seemed heavier on one side which sent him careening into a tree. Another violent knock rocked his system. It was enough pain to cut through the muted confusion. He pushed himself fully erect and looked around. There were figures around. None of their faces looked familiar. Wait. Was that Julia? Where was he? LA wasn’t known to have these rainstorms. He approached her, placing his hand on her shoulder. His hand was wet, but it was a different wet than her shoulder. She whipped around and looked at him. Words left her lips, and her face wasn’t that of Julia’s anymore. Then there was screaming. People’s attention turned towards something else.

Coop said something. What was it? He didn’t know. But it was enough for him to inhale some of the wet. It was salty and tangy. He smacked his lips, trying to figure it out. It wasn't viscous enough to be BBQ sauce. He rubbed his hand over his lips, but wherever the water was coming from washed the sauce away from his hand in an instant. Coop needed to find whoever was doing this and make them stop.

He stumbled forward, bumping into what felt like people. Yet, they didn’t really react to it. To be fair, there was a lot of bumping. A flash of light and he jerked away from it. It hurt so much. The insides of his brain felt as if they’d been forcefully restarted. He took a step forward, his foot caught on a rock, and he tumbled to the ground. He actually tumbled for a while until he found someone else on the ground, he reached out towards them—needing help getting up. Yet, when he grabbed the hand in front of him, it slid forward without any weight. That’s when Coop realized it wasn’t attached to anyone or anything. The sawed-off end looked like pulled pork. Was that why he was covered in barbeque sauce? Yet, the more he looked at it, the more he realized it was an arm—someone had lost an arm. It’d been removed from their body. And the barbeque sauce was blood. Not only the arm's blood but maybe his blood too? He immediately threw up.


Location: Pacific Royal Collegiate & University - Southern Plateau, Dundas Island
First Class: # 2.11: Press 'F' to Pay Respects

Interaction(s): Calliope @PatientBean
Previously: Welcome to Boundary Town, Pop. 0

Coop was told by—someone—that he’d taken a nasty hit to the head and had gotten a concussion. In all the insanity, the others didn’t notice. The girl he accidentally called Julia had found him shortly after he’d wandered away. He'd passed out in his own puke. He was very lucky to be alive with minimal swelling. There was a nasty laceration across his temple, but it was healing quickly enough. Apparently, it’d been caused by his proximity to the top of a tent being ripped off. One of the supports had caught him in the head, and the sheer force of it knocked him unconscious. He was asked what he was doing outside his tent at that time, but Coop didn’t remember. Maybe he was heading to the bathroom. That wasn’t such a stretch?

His stay at the infirmary wasn’t long, especially not as long as one of the other students. Someone that had been tossed into the air by the figure called Hyperion. The one that caused this entire mess. Coop had heard that name. It was a boogeyman that was used by all sides of the media to stoke the flames of the hyper-human and human conflict. Hey. Just because he enjoyed the more lucrative side of social media, didn’t mean that he ignored any and all news. If anything, he had his ear closer to the pulse of it all. Yet, it all paled in comparison to learning that one of the other students passed away. Coop didn’t know him, not that that mattered. Coop barely knew the other students on the Firebird team.

He hung off to the side of the funeral, using the attention that was elsewhere to type out a quick tweet. “Still camping in Canada, and it’s gorgeous here. You know their beaches are colder than Cali’s?” Followed by, “Saw a Viking funeral today. The guy who died was apparently a hero. Don’t worry, fam, he passed in his sleep at a super old age.” Coop wasn’t there to compromise the school, but he couldn’t not talk about the on-fire corpse that had sailed off into the water. It was cool as shit. He’d wanted to end it with a selfie, but he still had butterfly bandages keeping the cut on his head together, along with mottled yellows, greens, and purples across that side of his face from the impact. Coop was smart enough to know that would alert someone.

He made his way back to the campus, not really wanting to linger by the shore. The smoke would probably make its way over there quickly enough, and he didn't really want to inhale “person smoke.” He spotted a small gathering of people to the side, a girl in a wheelchair, a walking/talking statue, and one handsome-looking bro. His eyes then focused past them to someone that looked familiar—very familiar. It wasn’t Julia. No. That’d been the concussion talking. It was Calliope de Leon. Her dad knew his dad, and they’d unfortunately been crammed next to each other on more than one occasion at the kid’s table. It’d been a few years since he’d seen her, and damn—she’d gotten hot. Coop’s forehead winged in pain. Right. Right. Everyone was grieving. No time to admire an old friend. But… it was a fine time to say, “hello.” If he remembered correctly, her being here would have definitely pissed off her dad. They had that in common—at least.

“Calli!” Coop yelled and held up an arm. He jogged over to her, each time his heel collided with the ground, he could feel it in his temple. It hurt, but it was negligible. “Calliope de’Leon, what the hell are you doing here?” As he reached her proximity, he held his arms out like he was ready to hug her, but he didn’t want to do so without her consent on the matter. It was a weird time for everyone. Previously agreed-upon social cues were up in the air. And maybe Coop was a little tactless, but he wasn't without his charm.

Trace couldn’t get any sleep. Their fingers felt prickly underneath their skin. They balled them up to try to get rid of the feeling only for their grip to feel loose and quivering. Speaking with Katja had settled them a bit, but the barbs of conversation, feelings, and experience still stung. They would for a while. Like those animals that secreted anticoagulants into your bloodstream to make you bleed more. It did little to affect humans considering their size, but the blood was more pronounced, and the festering was more prominent.

They’d managed to sink a little below the surface of sleep, but far before the dreams could take hold. A gunshot awoke them. They paused, their breath catching in their lungs. Had they heard that correctly? Or was it the beginning of a dream? They laid still for a while, trying to see if another one would peel off. It did. That’s when they shot up, pulling the blanket off their body. What were they going to do? They weren’t bulletproof. Still, Trace couldn’t back down, it wasn’t within their nature. Their fight or flight always screamed FIGHT. The world had treated them like shit enough.

The top of the ten peeled off like a tin can. “Fuck!” Trace yelled out. Yet, before they could gather their wits, all of it was pulled out from underneath them. Rain fell on their head, wet and warm like blood. Hadn’t Bill made a shield before all of this? The crackling of the storm around them painted several figures. One was missing an arm, and the others were in distress if not dead. Stupid thoughts flew into their head. They needed to tell Calliope thanks. They needed to apologize to Banjo. They needed to tell Ted that his kebabs were alright. They needed to hug Haleigh and Luce, and tell Rory that he was actually smart. So, they ran towards the commotion.

It was an idiot move, actually. As they became fenced in by a hooded figure that seemed to have multiplied themselves to form a barrier of sorts. That didn’t make sense. Who would be attacking them but humans? Normal-ass humans that hated them for being different? Trace pulled away from the figures, their brain a discordant firing off of thoughts. That’s when the figure focused on them, and they realized who it was—Hyperion.

Beautiful. That word snapped all those thoughts quiet. It sliced their adrenaline in half. Their fingers stopped quivering but instead flexed outward. Like a Hindi god Their mother had been a practicing Hindu. Their family kept her shrine in the quiet corner of the living room, where the morning light shown in to break up the gray of the night. The light always danced off the golden statues and offerings. Ganesha was the prominent one they worshipped because that is what her mother’s family wanted. But their mother had, on occasion, taken it upon herself to place a red hibiscus down for Kali at night. There was a recording of their mother once explaining Kali to Thomas, “Goddess Kali reminds us that good can come out of bad situations. By praying to Her, you can achieve your dreams and aspirations. Where there is sorrow, she brings joy, where there is fear, she dances in courage. She dispels darkness from our lives and exalts the Earth with her transient external elements.”

“Look, we’re not calling our daughter, Kali,” Thomas had said. “We don’t need another force of destruction in this house.”

Amid the night and the rain, it felt almost prophetic that the strange man would say that. Trace stared down at their pale hands. Kali was the color of darkness, a pure multitude into which the infinite was born and then dissolved back into. What were they?

That thought disappeared when Banjo’s voice erupted outward. Trace tried to move towards him, but the knot of students was too thick to make much progress through. The idiot was going to get himself hurt—or worse—dead. Then he was in the air. “No,” they half-yelled-half-whispered. Their throat felt like a trickle of lemon juice made its way over the destroyed flesh of their windpipe. Another outburst and they barely had enough time to react before a flash of blood and Cass was—no—Cass was also just hurt. He wasn’t dead. Just like… Banjo would just land safely. They’d be fine. They’d all be fine.

Trace focused on that as people started volunteering themselves to come with the hooded man. Among them was one of the other hyper-humans that had been called out by the hooded man. There was no time to process that, though, they bolted towards Cass—but he was very much dead.



Location: Northern Cove - Dundas Islands, Pacific Ocean
First Class #2.06: *EXTERNAL SCREAMING*

Interaction(s): Haleigh @Kuro
Previously: *INTERNAL SCREAMING*

Trace never really cried. It wasn’t that they were emotionally broken or anything, but they did a good job of compartmentalizing their feelings. Putting them into tight little boxes and putting those boxes on shelves. They’d open the boxes on occasion when they wanted to make sure there was still emotion there, but they didn’t wallow in it. They’d just close it back up and put it on the shelf. They made one box, then another, and another, but they couldn’t put all their feelings away about that night. They were all just too complicated.

So, they left one box open, and they poured it out at the funeral. The funeral they thought would have been Banjo’s, but he wasn’t dead. Though, he was dancing close to it. It was a funeral for Cass. Someone that Trace had agreed with more than once but had written off when he’d turned Katja down. They’d fully planned to go off on him for making her feel “less than.” They’d even sorted out the speech and everything. What had it said? They didn’t remember. Something something fuckboy, probably. They hadn’t said anything at the funeral. It was—impossible—to put in enough words that felt like they’d done any justice to Cass’s memory. His family was there, and Trace was just a background character in his story. A background character that still cried.

They slid their hand over their cheek to catch the tears, half expecting to rub the errant, clear liquid on their jacket. But their tears were black. Like a less-viscous ink that pooled in their hand and wormed its way into the wrinkles of their palm. Their blood was a corpse-blue and their tears were an ichor-black. It was sad. They’d bled before they’d cried. What else about them was alien?

Trace pulled the jacket tighter to their body. Amidst all the sadness, they couldn’t help but feel the chill of what had been said to them that night. One week had come and gone, and they still lay awake at night thinking about it. A part of them wondered if they, too, had volunteered to join Hyperion and “ascended,” what would have happened? Where would they be? How would they feel? Would it still all hurt? They’d been offered reverence. And they didn’t run towards it. They ran towards people they’d known, who had shared a story and meal with them. Maybe that meant they were good people. Maybe that meant they would always run towards what was comfortable instead of what was new. This stupid school, its stupid classes, its stupid houses, and its stupid hierarchal system all felt frivolous compared to what had happened.

It was then that they became aware of the red hibiscus in their coat pocket. They’d intended to put it on Cass’s corpse as an offering, but they kept it to themselves. As they walked back to the house after the funeral, their stark white hair tried to whip around their head but had been braided back with thick black silk. They'd painted their lips in black and given their eyelids and cheeks some pink. They held the flower in their hand. They rolled the thick, round stem between their two fingers. The once-crushed petals seemingly come back to life.

They hadn’t really been paying attention but noticed that Haleigh had come up beside them. Trace turned to her as she vowed vengeance. Their lips were a thin line. For once, they didn’t spurt out vitriol or cruelty. They were just closed. Honestly, they didn’t think that Haleigh chose them on purpose. Surely anyone with the Blackjack armband would feel that way.

Vengeance felt petty. It felt small compared to what they needed to do. Violence only begot more violence until the whole world was on fire. There was something deeper than the need for retaliation. It was understanding. Trace finally understood what hadn’t felt right about this situation. That there’d been a strong push that everything here was monochromatically normal. It wasn’t. Everyone had secrets, and no one was being transparent. Why were they all so bloody, fucking angry at each other? And why were the students here forced to be dragged into their petty little squabbles? Sure, Hyperion wanted hyper-human supremacy, and PRCU just wanted a safe place to train hyper-humans. On that fundamental level, they were not the same, but it seemed more personal—too personal.

“Innit what Hyperion would want? Get angry? So, he can spout more stupidity about bein’ superior while we flop around like fish? Nah, I’m good. I ain’ bathin’ in blood for Cass. You can, though. You got the power to.” They held the hibiscus out to Haleigh. “Aren’t you more interested to find out why us? Why Tad? How did they know we were goin’ to be out in the middle of nowhere? This place has its secrets, too, and I’m not happy playin’ that they’re innocent in this, either.”


Location: The Minotaur/Trial Campground - Southern Plateau, Dundas Island
The Homecoming Trials #1.112a: *INTERNAL SCREAMING*

Interaction(s): Katja @Zoldyck
Previously: Uncomfortable Non-Silence

Trace had thought they’d escaped during the midst of a conversation with enough stealth that they wouldn’t be bothered by anyone. They didn’t want company. If that was the case, they would have made a scene. Instead, they thought they’d performed a somewhat low-stakes exit. Instead, the crunch of feet was audible in the ill-feeling silence of the forest. They turned their face towards the entrance. What mediocre light there was became shadowed by a figure. Trace narrowed their eyes. They had no idea who could have come to speak to them. Part of them half-expected it to be Banjo with chiding remarks, Rory with painful optimism, or Katja coming to bed herself. Instead, it was Calliope. She quickly stated how she felt before leaving, not allowing Trace to reciprocate.

“What the bloody, fuckin’ hell,” they remarked to themselves. They pulled themselves up and wrapped their arms around their knees and pulled their legs into them. They didn’t know what to make of that. Honestly, they’d only opened up because it would have been weird to just sit there in silence. Blackjack was their team, after all, and it only made sense to have some semblance of familiarity with one another. Even if by the end of it Trace was 100% sure they all needed therapy. Still, the sentiment wasn’t unappreciated, it was just unwanted. And Trace knew damn well that their power wasn’t cool. It was horrifying. But they figured it could be useful, and from the looks of it, they had better control of it than others did of theirs. It’d help that six arms weren’t going to destroy a 3-block radius.

Trace rolled back, still wrapping their arms around their legs. They looked like a beached turtle before extending their arms and legs out fully. It was about that time that another figure graced the doorway. “Seriously, you wankers, I didn’ stroll into my tent for a pity party. I came so I could fart in bloody peace. Let me fuckin’ do it.” It was then that Katja asked if she could enter.

“Oh sure, Kat.” They remarked. “I mean it’s your tent, too. And I was—uh—kiddin’ about the fartin’ bit. It’s just that Calliope came by here earlier and was like ‘oi, don’t pout you’re actually cool.’ Which is a lie if I evah heard one.” Trace stammered out those bits, realizing that they were probably talking over any point that Katja wanted to make. They didn’t like this. Too many people giving a shit about them feeling like shit.




Location: Team 78 Campsite - Southern Plateau, Dundas Island
The Homecoming Trials: # 1.112b: Welcome to Boundary Town, Pop. 0

Interaction(s): Harlowe @PatientBean, Yuri @Wei Wuxian, Tista @earthtogab
Previously: Weirder Things HAVE Happened in LA, but...

“Cool, because I still need a tent buddy, and I’m thinking I better choose fast before I end up with bee girl. I’m not sure where I put my EPI pen. Which is on me—not her.” Coop always gave out too much information about himself. It was his modus operandi. Honestly, it was probably from his years of broadcasting his entire life on the internet. You get to a point where the only words you filter out are bad ones and ones that can date your content.

As Harlowe asked what they were all here for, Coop shrugged. Yuri seemed to have a rather positive idea. And, honestly, Coop didn’t want to harsh that vibe, but he had a bit of a more pessimistic view. Of course, with the wind rustling his hair and the mention that the other man had the power to control the weather and cause storms—he probably had a chiller experience before now. “Oh. This isn’t ‘Your parents are embarrassed by you, but they want to seem like they are caring about you by dumping you off at this place,’ boarding school? Wow. I got the wrong impression. Maybe I read a different pamphlet that you guys did.” He made a face. “Yikes.”

One could say that it hurt Coop to be negative when everyone else was seeming to have a more positive experience. Another girl announced herself to the group and seemed excited to share this entire excursion together. Right, maybe this was a better time for other people. For Coop, it was like flipping a pancake and it landing half on the skillet. The other side was perfect, but now this was a deformed mess. No matter how hard you try to scrape the pancake back onto the skillet it’s malformed. The pan’s burning. The spatula is disgusting. And your mother is yelling at you in Italian and asking you why you didn’t get the chef to cook for you. Eh. Maybe that experience was isolated to Coop. His lips twisted into a bemused frown.

Yuri announced their powers to the cheerful girl, Tista, and then turned his attention back to Coop with the subtly of a brick to the face. What was up with everyone here? Was one of the requirements that they be horney—constantly. Had that also been in this pamphlet he didn’t read?

“I’m flattered, really.” He placed a hand on his chest, as his caramel-hued hair rustled on his head before settling back down in a mussed-up wave. He looked more handsome if that was possible. “But I’m, unfortunately, straight. Who knows, maybe in the future I won’t be. Gender and sexuality are as fluid as—uh—water, and I’m totally an ally. But sadly, very straight.”

It was not the smoothest of segues, especially considering, but he turned to Harlowe. “Would you like to bunk up? You’re like the only person that I’ve met that hasn’t hit on me. Again—flattered—but not what I’m looking for if I’m to get a good night’s rest.” He awkwardly chuckled and ran a hand through his hair, raking it away from his sunkissed face and sparkling eyes. Yeah, yeah—Coop knew what he was doing, but it was hard to turn off. He was half expecting to turn around and see someone filming him. No such luck, though, this was just natural awkwardness—not manufactured by a script. He wished it was. So, he could leave.


Location: The Minotaur/Trial Campground - Southern Plateau, Dundas Island
The Homecoming Trials #1.102a: Uncomfortable Non-Silence

Interaction(s): No One
Previously: Cum Bye Yah

If daggers could manifest and volley from Trace’s eyes, they would have at Trevor’s joke. This moment had turned weirdly somber, and they didn’t really like the feel of it. Like their skin was wet and sticky in a way that wasn’t natural—almost as if they wanted to take it off to feel normal again. They narrowed their eyes and was about to say something when Haleigh spoke up. The wheel of depression kept turning like a watermill filled with children’s bones.

Maybe Trace was feeling a bit better about their situation considering what a lot of them said. No one got their powers and just—blossomed. Some traumatic shit got piled on top of it right afterward. Katja lost her parents, Haleigh couldn’t walk, Calliope became her father’s #1 enemy, Rory still lived in blissful ignorance, and Luce’s power seemed brutal in the real shit way. Trace wallowed on top of their campfire seat of one perfectly placed downed tree before they started to be more transparent about what had happened to them. Those horrible instances. Not once, but twice when they’d lost control of their powers. The first time had been purely accidental, but the second had been filled with something more—cruel. That was the time that Makenna opened her mouth spouting off how awesome she was, and that her life was a breeze. Trace glowered. Absolutely looked as if they’d been punched in the throat and asked to enjoy it. “Fuck this,” they grumbled under their breath and left the trauma-dump-circle-jerk.

They silently peeled away as Banjo and Inigo were chatting. They didn’t catch the end of that conversation, but it probably ended in more, “friendship is magic!” bullshit. Honestly, they were disappointed in themselves for feeling that vulnerable for even a second. They glanced back to catch Banjo loudly proclaiming something and warming up to Inigo and felt an odd pang in their heart. Maybe they shouldn’t have left just yet, or maybe they were disappointed in the fact he even dropped the loner act in lieu of making friends.

Trace turned back around and made their way to their stupidly extravagant tent. They sighed as they stared at it. Why did they feel the urge to be the loner? It’s not that other people didn’t get them. There seemed to be people from all walks of life there, and some of them were bleaker than them. At least Trace still had their dad and brothers, to a lesser extent, and a place to call home. Some people didn’t even have that. No, it wasn’t because they thought they were better than everyone else, or that their shit didn’t stink—quite the opposite, it was more like their shit was filled to the brim with razor blades, but there were people whose shit oozed cancerous acid. At the end of the day, Trace couldn’t say why that all annoyed them. Maybe they needed better meds. Or maybe they felt like even more of a joke after showing their powers off.

They pried their shoes off and placed them right outside of the tent opening as they crawled in. They flopped onto their sleeping apparatus with the indigency of a twelve-year-old told to go to bed. Maybe, they were upset that their story was not unique, their power was not stronger than anyone’s, their situation was neither the best nor the worst, and they didn’t even have the creepiest ability. They shuddered at remembering Trevor’s ground hand. In this pool of teenagers and young adults, they were mediocre. And maybe that is what hurt the most. The knowledge that they failed at even being the meanest person out there when Makenna opened her dumb, privileged mouth. They were… tepid biscuits and lukewarm tea. There was nothing amazing about Trace, and that hurt.




Location: Team 78 Campsite - Southern Plateau, Dundas Island
The Homecoming Trials: # 1.102b: Weirder Things HAVE Happened in LA, but...

Interaction(s): The Sierra that Spits @JunkMail, Harlowe @PatientBean, Yuri @Wei Wuxian, Kisha [NPC]
Previously: Don't Stop Bee-Lieving

Coop was used to confident people. He’d grown up in his family, filled to the brim with members that didn’t know what the words “inside voice” meant. His mother introduced herself to everyone, and his father was always looking for future clients. Yet, he was thrown off when the girl—Sierra—leaned in close and took a bit of his pizza. She remarked on his eyes, and he almost reached up to touch them as if he could tell what they looked like with his fingers. He tried to back up, but the heel of his shoe tapped a risen root. So, he stayed in place.

He was used to girls hitting on him, but he wasn’t used to this level of bravery. She fired off some more questions before leaning against the pizza napkin tree and giving the smuggest look he’d seen outside of a courtroom. Man. His heart pounded in his chest, and maybe it hurt a little bit? Was he having a heart attack? That would honestly track. Instead, he was reminded of the wetness in his hand. That’s right she spit in it. Had he forgotten? Several things had compounded at once. His brain was quickly trying to find the right file for each of them to go in.

“I’m a content creator, and I got here by plane,” he said, swiftly. He then rammed the rest of his pizza in his mouth and quickly tried to chew through it. Ouhr nurh, I need tou find soume naphkins. Need anythin’? he asked, while his cheeks looked akin to a chipmunk. He didn’t really wait to listen if she responded. The question was to seem polite, but it was infinitely more rude that he beat it out of there right afterward.

Honestly, between the grease, leaves, and spit—he really needed a napkin. Unfortunately, he found one almost immediately. So, he shuffled towards the girl that was holding the world’s loudest Bluetooth speaker—somewhere—and placed the napkins down. He acted as if there was where he found them. A look of faux surprise on his face as he did. He then looked at Sierra and cupped his ear in his hand as if this was really the thing that was stopping him from returning to her. The girl who was holding her phone was a looker. The two next to her were less remarkable. But Coop wasn’t into men, and the other one looked as if she was trouble. As much trouble as Sierra? Probably not, but at this moment in time he just wanted not to be spit on. He managed to wrestle too much pizza down his throat and started coughing as his airway was bothered by this entire production. He coughed a few more times, holding his finger up as if anyone cared. He lifted himself up about that time, red-faced and eyes wet.

“I’m Coop!” he half-yelled as the music had dwindled down but not entirely disappeared. “I know you didn’t ask, but I figured as I am over here now—it’d be weird not to introduce myself.” He coughed.“Sorry, pizza down the wrong pipe.”

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