Roman

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

G I L E M O R Y G A L A H A D
G I L E M O R Y G A L A H A D

_{Location: Ünterland}

Human #5.062 It's Coming Closer

---

_{Interaction(s): N/A}

The mismatched pair trudged on for what felt like miles. Their surroundings were static; a dusty, dead landscape, only made ever-more uncanny by its passing resemblance to Gil's known reality. Every so often they'd pass by the crumbling ruin of something that used to be a building, co-opted for temporary shelter by some far-gone unknown, and Gil's insect companion would chitter quietly and seem to taste the air. Sometimes, she'd carry on at their steady pace; others, she'd hurry along, her wings flittering as she skipped forward at a clip, and Gil would scramble into a jog to catch up as they evaded whatever it was she fled from. Rarer was when she'd pause entirely, draw herself up to full height, splay her wings out full-width, and her clicking would escalate into an haunting screech, claws bared and mandibles quivering from the ferocity. Whatever it was her threat display was warding off never showed itself. Gil wasn't sure if that made him feel more or less safe.

He didn't often get the chance to study her; she held behind, bringing up the rear, ever-following. Were it not for her soft chitters, Gil might have forgotten she was there entirely. They did not speak; if Gil turned to look at her, her gaze shifted away, even if mere moments ago he had felt her eyes burning on his back. She was fearsome to look at, no doubt, and the hybrid biology of her form frightened Gil even beyond what he'd witnessed at PRCU - the conjured images of Haven and even the late Robert were still far more intrinsically human than his escort appeared to be in her form and mannerisms, and even her speech patterns were scattered, and suggested a difficulty with conversation that a native speaker of any earthly language would not possess.

All the while, the moon gleamed a brilliant and unnerving ruby above them, fixed in the sky as if hung upon a singular, immovable point. When Gil finally felt there was no more walking left in him to be done, his apparent guard seemed to sense it before he did; with a low-drone beating of wings, she scooped him up effortlessly with a firm grip hooked beneath his shoulders before carrying them both above the ossified treetops. She set down atop a strange stone tower, deteriorating but still intact. There were even ashen remnants of a long-dead fire against the parapet, an uneasy reminder that they were not alone. Gil sat down, leaning against the stone, rubbing his legs with his hand in an effort to soothe the ache.
"No fire," instructed his companion, "no beacon-light," and then as quick as she had flitted them up, she disappeared again, back down into the gloom; Gil suppressed the thought that perhaps she wouldn't come back, and he was stranded atop this ruin until he built the courage to attempt descent down its cragged and crumbling walls.

There was a sudden inhuman screech in the darkness, and Gil was glad to not be able to see its source, that cut out as sharply as it had begun. Long seconds passed, and then Gil could make out the droning buzz again, and she reappeared, fresh kill clutched between bloodied claws. He couldn't quite understand from the shape of it what it had been before she had set upon it; all the same, she began to tear into its side, jagged teeth ripping at flesh while the mandibles clicked and gnawed and passed snips of meat into her waiting maw. Deftly, one of her talon-tipped fingers ripped a neat seam around the ball joint of...some manner of limb, before tearing the appendage from the carcass entirely and proffering it to Gil. He did not take it.

"Eat. Time flows strange. Find yourself becoming hungry quick-soon." She said, bouncing her outstretched hand for emphasis, and Gil couldn't protest; it felt like probably only a few hours since he'd arrived in this bizarre place, but his stomach had begun the early pains of hunger all the same. He took the joint hesitantly, and inspected the meat. It was slick, but oddly blood-less, with a deep gray colour and a scent like dirt and clay. He decided to close his eyes before he sunk his teeth into the cold flesh.

It was...entirely neutral. Eating it cold was unpleasant, make no mistake, but there was no rancid taste or soured flavour like he expected from a creature that inhabited a place so fundamentally dead; he was hit with a potent aroma of soil in the back of his nose, but as he chewed only an earthy, aromatic palate spread throughout his mouth. Not wanting to explore the nuance, he quickly swallowed, and it was only then that the slickness of the beast made itself known - some sickly, all-encompassing oily substance, that coated his tongue and teeth and hit him with bitterness all the way in the back of his throat before sliding down his gullet with a revolting icy greasiness. Without warning Gil cast the meat aside and scrambled for the edge of the tower. He hung his head over the side of the stones and opened his stomach out onto the ground below.

The bug-girl clicked irritably, watching him closely with those large, beaded black eyes as Gil slumped back down, back against the parapet. He did not try another bite.
"You are weak-pathetic thing. Cannot eat. Half-limbed. This one wonders how you came-arrived here."
Gil glared back, gaze defiant and unwavering. He didn't respond, only holding up his rune-scarred hand in reply. She made that clicking laugh again, clearly amused by his recalcitrant mood.
"This one wonders how you carve-cut one hand without the other."

Gil sighed and let his shoulders go slack, defeated.
"I wasn't supposed to arrive alone. I came with others...but we got separated, somehow."
"Many things...crooked, about this place. This one thinks, that when things here go as planned, that is most odd-strange thing of all."
Gil couldn't help his own chuckle bubbling up from his gut at that. She tossed what was left of the carcass over the edge; her mandibles dripped with an oily sheen from the meat. She looked at him for a long time, and there was an air of awkwardness about her that seemed very, very human, like she was trying to build the courage to do something that made her deeply uncomfortable.
"What is your..." she paused, shuffling, her mandibles clicking softly. She even averted her eyes. Gil found it all strangely endearing. "What is your name?"

Gil blinked.
"Gil."
"Gil."
"Yours?"

She paused again, and this time it wasn't awkwardness - it was profound rumination, giving way to a great sadness.
"This one has forgotten. Truth-name long-lost."
Her voice was small and ashamed.
"What would you like me to call you?"

She thought once more, before finally returning her gaze to Gil's.
"This one believes...on island...this one was labeled-termed Hornet. It will do."

---

It had taken Gil perhaps the better part of nearly two months to get to where he was now, but finally - with assistance from the Townsend patriarch - he was within reach of his goal. Alyssa's father had been the lynchpin, the final domino to fall, in Gil's global tour in search of the disappeared redhead; Gil had been quickly put in contact with the object of his quest and they had finally met just a few nights previous, finally able to discuss what had happened at the fateful night of the dance, finally able to put answers to questions that had otherwise burnt holes straight through Gil. Luce had remained steadfastly non-expressive the entire evening, sipping back-to-back lagers with nary a twitch of the eyebrow. Alyssa had seemed contrite, almost guilty, though in truth Gil couldn't find it in him to actually blame her. Instead, he just wanted to know what had actually happened, and how best to return Amma unharmed. Alyssa was happy to oblige.

A few empty pints later had Gil sufficiently drunk to assuage the growing existential dread from Alyssa's rabbit-hole explanation, tangents on tangents winding the conversation around Gil's mind until he finally decided to stop thinking, start drinking, and just accept everything he was being told at face value with no incredulity or skepticism or rolled eyes. When Alyssa had finally finished, Gil asked how he could get into Ünterland to rescue Amma. At that, Alyssa had shifted uncomfortably, concern and something approaching fear crossing her face.

It was Luce who said:
"You need to meet Ellara."

And then the arrangements were made.

---

Gil startled awake to a distant but powerful screeching and roaring. It was pure dread distilled into sound, shaking through him and leaving terror behind in the pit of his stomach. Frantic, he scrabbled to his feet, the movements clumsy and ill-practiced, made on half-asleep legs and without the support of his missing arm. His head snapped around but saw nothing, and as the roar faded it was once again only him and Hornet atop the tower, still bathed in the eerie glow of the crimson moon.

“Far-distant. Not to worry us, for now.” Hornet said, returning to her perch atop the parapet. She, too, was shaken, but her careful movements and bullish posture hid her fear. Gil understood she was prideful, and had adequate reason to be; but not for the first time, he remembered she was not native to this place either. “Still - this one has not heard beast such as that before. Tread light-careful.”
“How long was I out?” Gil said, pushing off the last of sleep’s lingering touch and looking over the edge of the tower. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for.
“Question silly-stupid. Time different meaning here. Not as this one remembers from island. You will come to learn-know.”
Gil rolled his eyes. He could see the remnants of his vomit splashed down the side of the tower and the stone was still slick and shiny in the moonlight. Can’t have been that long.
“We should get moving. We can’t waste any more t-”
He stopped, looking at Hornet. How was she managing a smirk, without lips to speak of? Mandibles couldn’t smirk, in as far as he knew. Yet, still, she was effectively and amusedly patronizing him nonetheless.
“We should get moving.”
“As you wish-want. This one anxious to be out-free too.”

She stood to her full height and her wings wafted lazily for a few moments before beginning to beat in earnest, and quickly they were a blur, lifting her effortlessly off the floor. She swooped quickly behind Gil and hooked him under the arms once again, and then they were off the tower and moving with a fierce purpose back toward the ground proper; Gil marvelled at the subtle strength of his companion, how she lifted them both through the air without exertion or complaint. How much did she weigh, he wondered? How thick was her chitinous shell, and were there muscles beneath or some other biological mechanism? He recalled early school biology lessons, factoids about insect hydraulics. Despite her exterior, Gil observed more often than not the human in Hornet - who had she been before all of this? Had there been a before?

“Hornet-” he asked, speaking aloud over the drone of her wings, “you talk about an island. About wanting rescue. Which island do you mean? Where did you come from?”
The question hung in the air. Gil wasn’t sure she’d heard him, and was poised to either repeat or discard his question, when she suddenly clicked her mandibles and opened her mouth to reply.

The answer never came; at first, Gil thought it had been her screech, her roar, that he had unearthed some ungodly pain or anger within her - but suddenly they were crashing to the ground, rolling and tumbling, and the roar was still going. It reverberated all around them and rattled Gil’s bones, at once both distant and all-encompassing. A deep, primal fear burst up within him, and as he pulled himself to his feet once again, he could see Hornet writhing in the dust and dirt, her antenna twisting, hands pushed fast against the small holes on either side of her head that were once ears. She was shrieking in pain and terror herself, but the noise was paled and muted against the sheer power of the roar that surrounded them. It clattered through Gil to the back of his teeth and up his spine, and the longer it lasted the more Gil felt a pressure simultaneously closing in around him and building up within him. It all pushed toward a crescendo, a climax, a denouement that he was sure would pop him like a blister and burst his insides against the dirt.

There was a sharp heat against Gil's leg that he could barely register above the undulating roar. Instinctively, his hand swatted and groped at the pain-point, pushed into his pocket and found the source: the ring given to him on the beach, all those weeks ago. It was vibrating, subtle but intense, and it seemed to throb and glow with an imperceptible aura but for a low pulsing shockwave around it. Gil looked closer. The centred ruby seemed as if something swirled and writhed within it. Gil had a clear feeling that it was looking back.

Against his better judgement, he was suddenly compelled to slip the ring over the middle finger on his remaining hand, a dextrous but no-less-awkward movement. All at once, the roar ceased, and Gil stood up. Hornet's shrieks petered out, and she shuddered against the ground, breathing heavily.

Gil raised his arm, pointing with a preternatural assurity to some invisible destination. Hornet slowly drew herself to all fours, and then to her knees, her antenna still twitching and her hands trembling. She looked to Gil, then followed his gesture with her gaze into the deep, black unknown.
"We must go that way."
She was afraid; but she didn't argue.

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

<Snipped quote by Bounce>
We've tried to run a Indie Comics game (and thats far more focused than such a idea) a few times and we always end up with these issues, I agree. The only one who really feels inspired is whoever gobbles up the TMNT or Hellboy, I find.

@mickilennial

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

I feel like I am piecing together a jigsaw puzzle.

You always start with the edges, don't you? Or at least that's what they say, what the general recommendation is. Find a corner piece, build out the frame from there, then slowly start filling in the middle towards the centre. Works great for a pretty picture. Little different when you're rebuilding a person.

Still, I didn't have anywhere better to start, so edges it was. Round out the general shape. Let people see a frame of what I should be, something they can identify as a person, even structurally fragile as it is. But that leaves the middle, doesn't it? And then you're just rifling through the box, a tile in one hand, selected for no better reason than proximity, running your other through piles of cut cardboard hoping that by the sheer grace of God you'd scoop a matching piece. And then you'd get to repeat the process. Sometimes, you might build a little island, a small collection of connecting tiles, but you wouldn't know where it goes, how it connects to everything else - so it just floats in the middle, waiting for context, purpose. Meaningless without either.

Anyway. You see where I'm going with this. All edges, no middle. Nothing meaty, nothing confirmed. Trying to piece myself back together after the last few months and coming up empty. Moving forward with single-minded determination, but no plan for what to do when I get to the other side. If I get to the other side. Who am I now? I was an actor, but it was all I was, and it ate up anyone else I could have been - and now I've killed it, but too late to extricate anything from its corpse. So, what, I've replaced it with a girl? The girl, potentially, but is that emotion talking, or desperation for a sense of purpose? Either way, building myself around another person is a poor substitute. Wasn't that the whole problem in the first place? Too deep into acting that there wasn't a 'me' in there, and in my efforts to find that long-lost self, I've just put another person there instead. It's not fair, on me or her. I deserve to be able to know myself, to be my own person, to understand what I want and my potential. She deserves to not bear the burden of another person on her back, with all the baggage and obligation and responsibility that brings.

But right now, what else do I have?

G I L E M O R Y G A L A H A D
G I L E M O R Y G A L A H A D

_{Location: England, California, Somewhere Else Entirely}

Human #5.057 Where Am I Now?

---

_{Interaction(s): N/A}

When Rosemarie opened the door to her son, the first thing she looked at were his eyes; those baby blues, once lightning-bright and sharp, were now just weary and dulled, and her heart broke. When she saw the stump of his arm, she pulled him into a tight embrace, and began to weep.

Several hours later, Gil sat across from his parents, the three of them huddled close with wine and a fire roaring to their side, both working in tandem to push heat into Gil's bones. The journey home had been mostly inconsequential; his un-tended hair and beard were a long way from his image in the public eye, and the amputation dissuaded anyone who'd double-took. The flight was smooth, the train was quick. It felt surreal to be back here, his childhood home, an only child and his parents. There were red-carpet photos framed and hung on the wall, a much younger and happier (or was he?) Gil beaming out from beneath the glass. He'd noticed a couple of Artie's business cards on the hallway cabinet as he'd come in, and had taken the opportunity to surreptitiously pocket them to be discarded later. One conversation at a time, he thought.

His mother's eyes were watery and bloodshot, supping her wine out of what felt like...politeness? Like this evening really was nothing more than a small family sharing a bottle to welcome their beloved son home. Her sips were small and infrequent and there was still a subtle shake to her hands as she raised the glass to her lips, emotions still frayed, nerves still raw. His father was stone-faced, but whatever stoicism he tried to muster was betrayed by his sunken gaze and heavy hand wrapped around his wife's; the deep pain he felt was clear, to see his only son maimed and beaten and halfway-dismembered. He'd drunk his first glass quicker than any of them, but had declined a second.

The explanation had been broad-strokes and filled with half-truths. Gil elected to leave out the Foundation's involvement, the sabotaged Trial, the entire abduction and existence of Daedalus; these were things he need not burden his parents with, lest they fear ever letting Gil out of their sight again - he knew already that his plans to leave would wound them further than his return already had. Why magnify that pain needlessly? No. Instead, he wove tales of another attack, lingering followers of Hyperion making a final stand, the academy being valiantly defended by staff and students alike but not without collateral; PRCU electing to close their doors until they could once again guarantee safe harbour for those they were founded to protect; the Foundation graciously accepting any who wished to transfer. It was a far more optimistic telling of what he'd truly experienced these past few short months, and artfully constructed of select bits of truths. Gil himself - he was seeking another, a girl (to which his mother had, despite herself, perked up at the mention of), who had gone missing in the calamity, unaccounted for.

Which lead back neatly as to why he had returned home at all - England was a long way from the west coast of Canada, and in coming back to these shores he'd achieved little else than trading one small island for another. The truth of the matter was difficult to understand and harder to explain, so Gil elected to lie by omission: the girl he was looking for was last seen in the company of another (in a roundabout sort of way, Gil reasoned to himself), and that girl had a father who was a partner in the very same law firm that Andrew Galahad worked accountancy for - the best lead Gil had gotten from his after-hours excursion into the ex-academy's basement and his sub-par computer literacy. So it was with wringing hands and a heart heavier than he had ever known that he came to his father, to ask him to give up information that could cost the Galahads what remained of their livelihood.

Andrew saw in Gil's eyes the same spark that had driven him, many years ago, to throw himself full-bodied at Rosemarie, and he couldn't find it in him to be a good accountant over being a good dad. Gil got an address; Andrew got away with it; and a few days later, with more tears from Rose, Gil was back on a plane bound for California.

---

^{| A few weeks from now.}
All twisted. Cracked reflection, a splintered spider-web landscape, an imitation of known reality built by someone who looked at the world crooked and didn't quite understand how a straight line was supposed to go anyway, or how it was supposed to connect to another. It gave Gil a headache to look at, like he was concentrating too hard on one of those magic-eye pictures, convinced that if he unfocused his eyes just right, squinted the perfect amount, it might all sync up and make sense. A fool's gambit, perhaps, but no one could say Gil's recent behaviour was anything approaching sensible.

He was woozy from the fall. Had he fallen? It had certainly felt so; his remaining hand throbbed and for a moment a deep fear seized him in his bones, until he risked a glance and realized it wasn't broken, battered, maimed beyond redemption - it was just sore from the scarring he'd undertaken to get here in the first place. With considerable effort, he rolled over onto his back, cradling his aching hand against his chest.

The sky was wrong. A swirling maelstrom on the horizon, shrouded in darkness and everything bathed in a deeply unsettling crimson, beaming down from a moon too large and too full and far, far too red.
_{^{“The moon in Ünterland is always red.”}}
Alyssa echoed in his ears and he whipped his head around from his supine position, but the redhead was nowhere to be seen. Of course not - she'd not joined them, stayed behind with Luce, the pair of them posted at the ritual site. Luce had no choice - the scarring required to get in wouldn't last long enough under her hype-gene to guarantee a way back out - and Alyssa, well, maybe she couldn't bear to leave Luce, maybe she was simply doing as instructed. Either way, she wasn't here, but her words - what little Gil understood, anyway - resonated within him still.

For that matter, no one else was here either. They entered four-strong, but Gil was distinctly alone, and as the realization settled upon him he was struck by a pervasive dread that he could not shake. This was the most uncharted of territories, land that couldn't even be relied upon to remain consistent or play by the rules of Gil's understood reality. Alone here, he knew, meant death, and he might not even see it coming. He might not even feel it as it happened. As far as he knew, he could put a foot wrong, and simply cease to be. Carefully - slowly - every movement calculated and assessed and then made cautiously - he rose to a knelt position, trying to make some sense of his immediate surroundings and seize hold of some bearings.

And then he heard the chittering.

---

Dad came through. I don't know when I became miserable or cynical enough to doubt even my own father, but for a day or two there I did. I hadn't even recognized it in myself, but the relief - the elation - when he handed me an address made me realize I'd not had faith in him to begin with. How have I fallen this low, that I treat my own parents with skepticism and distrust?

I'm in California now, in Santa Ana. It feels ironic - once again I'm a stone's throw from L.A. and Hollywood, yet giving it all up is what spurred me on this quest in the first place. I left Los Angeles for Dundas Island - then gave up on my apartment to go back to England, and what was my next step? Straight back to California. Preordained almost. It'd be funny if it wasn't so irritating.

All I need now is an excuse to get into Alyssa's estate - estate, by the way, I never would have expected roots like this from such a humble girl - and then I can just talk to her, get her to send me wherever she sent Amma. Use another stone or cast another spell or whatever the hell it is she and that blonde girl get up to, and then I can find her and be done with this whole mess. Put the academy behind us, flee to some corner of the world that the Foundation or Daedalus will never find, and just live in peace. Or I just free her, and let her carry on after her revenge. If that's the case, I'll go home again, catch up on the years in England I missed, forget about Gil Galahad and just be no one instead. Mum would be happy to have the company again, at least.

---

Thick fog, rocky debris, dead foliage and petrified trees did much to obscure whatever clicked in the distance.

Gil had been walking for...he didn't know. No way to keep track here, the sanguine celestial body that hung above him never moved, his watch was cracked from where he'd fallen (he still wasn't sure that he had, but the timepiece was broken either way), and they'd left behind their phones. There was no sign of Ellara, Lorcán, or Aurora; Gil just hoped they'd landed together, so at least someone would be able to find Amma and rescue her. Gil was resigned to his end. A small, awful part of him welcomed it.

The clicks moved from one side to the other, and Gil paused. He wasn't sure how it had crossed over from his right to his left, but it had, and yet he'd seen nothing ahead, nor heard nothing behind. But he was absolutely being followed, observed; the clicking was regular, rhythmic, keeping pace and never drifting closer or farther. Frustrated, exhausted, scared, he leaned against a tree, and looked up at the blood moon again. The soft red glow bathed everything in unearthly light, and details were easily lost in the dark. He'd strain his eyes before he caught a glimpse of his stalker, and he could only assume that if it had meant to kill him, it would have done so already. He took a long, measured breath, steadying his nerve.

"Come out." He announced in the direction of the soft clicks, receiving only a few rapid-pace chits in return. Gil pushed himself off the tree and pointed. "Show yourself. I know you're there."

"This one wants you to know she is here."

The blood in Gil's veins ran ice-cold.

"Come out!" He demanded, doing his utmost to sound brave. The mounted blade Ellara had insisted he wore on his stubbed arm felt inconsequential. "Or I shall force you out."

"Tck-tck-tck-tck-tck..." the chattering response sounded like rattling laughter. "You are...brave, for one so weak, wounded. Would have been killed-slain many times over, were this one not watching..."

There was a long pause; Gil wasn't sure whether to parse the statement as a threat, or if he was simply being condescended to by his invisible prowler.
"So you're protecting me, is that it? Or just guarding your next meal?

The chittering moved softly, circling in on Gil, and he did his best to follow it.
"You are scrawny meat. Would not sate this one's belly-hunger. No, you came here looking-searching. To rescue someone. Noble... foolish."
"I've been called worse." Gil said, the chittering getting ever-closer, but its source still unseen.
"Tck-tck-tck-tck-tck...yes, this one believes you. This one would help."

There was the faintest outline of something...humanoid. The fog parted around a feminine shape, but something wasn't quite right; the carmine light of the moon glittered off of iridescent wings, and Gil realized that while this figure had been human at some point, that must have been a very long time ago. She came further and further into view, and Gil studied her with a morbid curiosity.

Large black eyes sat beneath a pair of twitching antenna that sprung from the bridge of a human nose, and dominated the face that proceeded to split open at the jaw into paired mandibles, clicking and chattering over a maw of molars and canines and a tongue. Shapely curves were encased beneath a mottled-gray carapace that slotted and parted neatly at the joints, intersecting tidily without giving up an inch of vulnerability across the entire exo-skeleton. Hands and feet ended in chitinous claws rather than the keratin nails Gil possessed, but there was dexterity there that belied the vicious points. And of course, those glittering, translucent wings, bursting elegantly from slits in her back, paper-thin and segmented like stained glass, flickering and twitching in the scarlet moonlight. She was magnificent and terrifying and alien and human all at once; Gil was petrified as she approached, cautious, wary, but deliberately presenting herself as decidedly not a threat.
"W...why?"

Her mouth curled into an awkward smile, the mandibles pulling back to show lips and teeth and gums.
"This one wants-needs rescue too."

---

She's not there. Her father knew I was coming, though - I dared not ask how. Undoubtedly he knows about my dad's help, but it does neither me nor him any favours to admit it aloud, so it will remain unspoken.

I asked him where I could find Alyssa, but he just deflected. Said she wasn't anywhere she could be found, whatever that means, but asked why I was looking for her. A fair question - looking out for his daughter. But I don't know what overcame me. I told him everything. The whole of it, nothing omitted, nothing undersold. The straight truth, from the start of the semester up to the Chernobog attack. And he just...listened. No disbelief, no incredulity, not even a single question. He just sat there, and I spoke, and he believed me. And then he told me where to start looking - where to start looking properly, he said.

What the fuck is a Jäger?

Roman's Scrapbin

Salary growth
Learning and development
Career pathway
Process and tools
Work life balance, workload, support framework
OKRs and performance metrics

Roman's Scrapbin

Jigsaw metaphor diary entry, completing edges first, hollow middle etc

Lyrics to Closer (KoL NOT NIN) use as basis for ongoing search

End with flash forward to arriving in unterland separated from others and encountering…someone else

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

I feel I must take a moment to pause and reflect on the journey that has brought me to this precipice, even as that same odyssey moves to tip me tumbling wholly over the edge. But for a shared dance and the eager passion of a kiss, I might have gone on in ignorance of things I am still not sure I truly want to know; but the knowing is now done, and there is no return from that horizon. The small mercy granted is that I have not been thrust alone into this knowing - though even that may be more of circumstance than design. I made a promise, but in truth, one I never intended to keep; I would throw myself headlong into this new truth without ever concerning another; I would seek this path alone, and find both its and my end alone as well. But it has not been left up to me - whether I am grateful or not I cannot say, but the terms of the journey were set and I had come too far, spent too much, to refuse them.

Tomorrow evening we will have departed this earth entirely, for planes that only a few weeks ago would have earned my derision for the suggestion of their existence. I am braving new frontiers; but, I believe - and I must believe - that I am braving them in the name of new frontiers of a different kind. I must keep my focus on that dance and that kiss, not allow myself to lose sight of the why, when faced with the what and the how. There are worse things to lose than an arm; worse things to run out of than money. I look to my erstwhile companions and at times do not recognise them anymore; I wonder if they feel the same about me. Mirrors remain difficult, and I still dare not broach my powers. I wonder if they have had more success in realigning the imagined self with the extant.

I do not think about the preparation for the doom, I do not think about getting drunk to dull the senses, I do not think about the returning nightmares, or waking up sweating and afraid, or writhing in phantom pain, ever-crushing ever-freezing. I do not think about the animals howling and how it sounds so much like the death throes of my peers. I do not think about praying to anything that might hear me. I do not think about how I will likely die before I ever see her again. I do not. I don’t. I don’t.

If someone finds this before I retrieve it, I am lost, and I won’t be found. My name was Gil Emory Galahad, has-been star of the silver screen. Please notify my parents.

G I L E M O R Y G A L A H A D
G I L E M O R Y G A L A H A D

_{Location: P.R.C.U. Campus - Administrative Building}

Human #5.038 A Lead

---

_{Interaction(s): N/A}

^{| P.R.C.U. Campus - The Academy's Final Day}

"Miranda!"

Gil roamed the upper corridors of the administrative building, roughly pushing doors open with his remaining hand as he pressed his stub to his belly. He hobbled along, casting a strange hunched shape along the hallways with stiff joints and aching muscles, the wine-induced haze lifting from his eyes and leaving behind an exhausted malaise. Any patience was simply gone.

He passed scarce faculty - for the most part, only the last lingering ex-students were still on the island, and the few remaining professors and staff busied themselves with gathering what resource they could. Academic papers, scholarly certifications, letters of recommendation; if it had the potential to prove useful in the coming search for gainful employment, it was snatched, folded, filed away into briefcases and bags and jacket pockets. If they weren't the "Miranda!" being called for they simply did not care, nor had the time, to find out what was needed.

The sharp, distinct features of Miranda Rivers appeared before him as she stepped into the corridor from the depths of her office. She took a second to recognize his beaten form, but when she did, her expression settled into one of deep weariness.
"Mr. Galahad. The days of the academy may have come to a close, but I'd still ask you to show respect for this institution."
Gil waved his hand dismissively, pushing Miranda's frown further down her brow.
"I need your help." He said, brusque and clipped.
"With the closure of P.R.C.U., my duties have ceased alongside it. Good day, Gil."

Miranda turned to re-enter her office and resume clearing out the last of her personal effects; she was stopped short by Gil's hand wrapping firmly around her arm. Her head whipped around, face full of fury, but her expression immediately softened when she saw the sheer bone-tired sorrow in his features. She recognized this desperation; she'd seen it in Jim over the last few weeks, as the tragedies had piled up and he'd futiley tried to save the university from its inevitable demise. It was the kind of desperation that would undo a man, right up until it left him a carcass, spent and empty.

"Maybe if you ask nicely." She said, finally relenting as Gil released his grip.

"Please."

---

I cancelled rent on the apartment in LA; something I should have done sooner, but I was preoccupied. I think a part of me believed - wanted to believe - that I'd return there. Put the last eighteen months behind me, soak in the smog-sun and sheen again. Sit on that couch facing the window and stare at the sunset while I wait for Arthur to call me. I feel so far from that person I can barely remember he existed at all - like I've wiped the slate clean, started over. Reborn.

Miranda did what she could, and admittedly, while small, it was enough. I knew then that I'd need every pound I could scrape together - and that lead me to the flat. Cutting out unnecessary expense. I'm to go back to England for the foreseeable, back home, if such a thing still remains for me. I am eager to see my parents; to return to some sense of nostalgic normality; to see Bristol and the coastline, Wales just a stone's throw across the water; but I am faced with growing trepidation, anxiety pushing in at the corners. They know so little - how do I walk through the doors as I am now? I've thrown away my career, I've abandoned my abilities - I am returning to them as literally less of the man who left. How do I bring these tragedies back to them?

Handwriting is still slow and difficult and messy. Sometimes I can barely read what I've written. There are so many things you take for granted. But this diary is helping, forcing practice. And it does me good to record, to ruminate - its own kind of meditation. When the doubt creeps in, when the disquiet threatens to overwhelm - it's good to have an account, a chronicle. Something that reorients me and provides direction. The journal helps.

That and the ring.

---

Gil leaned against the wall in what had been, until a few mere days ago, the chancellor's office. Now, it was an unattended mess, boxes and files strewn across the room and furniture haphazardly moved, removed, stored - someone had moved something from somewhere else and decided here was out-the-way enough for their needs, multiplied ten times over as PRCU closed out its final days. Miranda busied herself with reams of paper, pulling files and folders from drawers and cabinets, shuffling through pages and discarding some while neatly stacking others in a rapidly-filling box. Gil didn't know what she was looking for, or how she was determining what was important enough to keep versus what was tossable garbage. He didn't really care, either.

Miranda slowed down before finally taking a seat and looking to Gil; she gestured to the chair across the desk, inviting him to join her, but he remained defiantly standing. Miranda shook her head in a near-imperceptible micro-movement, before leaning back in her chair.
"So, what can I help you with? Resources are...limited. I don't know what you're hoping for, but I'll try my best."
Gil pushed himself off the wall with his good hand and took a couple steps toward the desk.
"I'm looking for another student. Ex-student. Alyssa Townsend. I've asked around, but seems she's already disappeared off-island. I need to find her."
"And you think I can help you...how?"
"Everyone else is gone or..." Gil trailed off. "Everyone else is gone. And with Jim's arrest, you're de facto 'in charge'. Plus, y'know...you're psychic."

Miranda sighed.
"There's nothing left to be 'in charge' of, anymore. And I'm not a walking GPS tracker, my telepathy doesn't work like that. It works like..."

Gil felt fingertips across the surface of his mind, prodding and poking, like leaving small dents in stretched-out clingfilm. Looking for give, for a way in; gentle and non-invasive, or as much as reading somebody's mind could be. He almost didn't think about it, and all of a sudden Miranda tenderly slipped through the barrier, fully enmeshing herself among Gil's thoughts as she nestled into his psyche.

_{^{Pain and fear; a cavalcade of doubts and anxieties. The biggest presence in Gil's mind was still Gil himself, but this was a far cry from the narcissism Miranda had felt in the man over a year ago, when they'd been introduced through a representative from W.H.A.T. Instead of a psyche revolving around himself, this was more...revulsion. A sea of Gils, every variant and iteration that had been, that was, that ever possibly could be, and every single one wearing expressions twisted by anger, disgust, terror, and in the midst, a singular Gil, robbed of an arm, frantically pushing and scraping through the crush, fleeing something that pressed against all sides. Stabs of agony flitted through Gil's mind intermittently, and Miranda's by proxy, from an arm no longer there.
But through it all, something burned painlessly with an intense heat that seared away all anguish, leaving only a serene calm. Everything in Gil desperately sought this peace, fought for it with all he had. Just out of sight...Miranda couldn't confirm, couldn't see it...}}

"Stay out." Gil said, hard and forceful, and Miranda was back in the office, sat across from him. Her mouth was dry, and she cleared her throat, putting her hands in her lap to hide the shake that had crept in. There was a long moment of silence.

"Anything. Any kind of lead. An address, a number, next of kin. Please."
"P.R.C.U. doesn't exist anymore; H.E.L.P. and H.I.T. can't safety net me on this. The governments of the world are watching us, and they're looking for a reason to put me number one for Interpol. I was lucky not to be escorted away right alongside Jim..." Miranda trailed off. Former spy, crisis negotiation agent, actual psychic mind-reader. Yes, there were a lot of officials looking for even the smallest excuse to lock her in a box and throw away the key. But the desperation in Gil's eyes rang true with her, reminded her of why the institution had been founded in the first place, as a safe haven for Hypes to help each live full, fulfilling lives, unafraid of what they are, or what the world might think of them. Coupled with the warm serenity she'd felt him fighting for...

One last gesture. Then she was cutting herself loose.

"I can't just hand you sensitive information like that. The last thing I need is being brought down by GDPR, of all things. I probably also can't tell you that we hold it in the servers, which are due to be purged remotely at midnight, or that they're in the basement, or that anyone who cares to watch them will have left the island by eight'o'clock."

Gil stood, nodding in understanding. Miranda smiled, her lips thin. It wasn't much, but it was the best she could do. She proffered her left hand to shake, and Gil took it.
"Now, I really need to finish gathering everything. I can be so forgetful. Quite often I forget to lock my office window on the first floor. Woe betide the day someone finds the spare Staff I.D. I keep in the top left drawer of my desk."
"Thank you, Miranda." Gil said, turning to leave.

"For what?" Miranda said, going back to the files and folders. "I couldn't help you. I just hope you find what you're looking for some other way."

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

L U C I L L E C A L D E R
L U C I L L E C A L D E R

_{Location: Northern Forest - Dundas Island}

Human #5.022: Search the sky for a while

---

_{Interaction(s): Alyssa, @Lord Wraith}

Alyssa had always been sensitive about Luce's heart.

Luce took pains to remind her it was no more or less vulnerable than any other organ, and even that it had, in fact, been the very first piece of Luce supplanted by her abilities, skewered in a very different forest a very long time ago. After Alyssa had banished the Chernobog - and one of their peers with it - the very first thing she'd done was rush to Luce, taking her injured body into her subtly strong arms and carrying her bodily from the ARC to receive medical attention Luce neither wanted nor needed, even despite Luce being very much able to leave the ruined hall under her own steam. Still, Luce couldn't say she was ungrateful or unmoved by Alyssa's continued, consistent affection and care over her, despite the obvious redundancies in such concern. It was just another example of the bond forged between the girls, a bond so heavily appreciated and needed in the wake of the attack. PRCU was closing and the island returning to the purview of national government and bureaucracy; when that news had landed, it had been Luce's turn to take her friend in her arms.

Now, though, Luce poked around the foliage and debris of the northern forest, and if it weren't for the fresh scar trailing diagonally down from the side of her throat down to below her heart, you might not know anything had happened at all. It was the last few days they had on the island before they'd be officially trespassing; while others spent their time finishing packing, or commiserating with their friends, or securing transport to whichever corner of the earth they were now forced to return to, Luce was following a trail, chasing a scent that faded further every second. It had been recent, a couple weeks at most, but as ever, magic didn't like to play by the rules. Sometimes even its own.

She swept some dead leaves and snapped twigs aside with the toe of her boot, carefully inspecting the ground. The forest was still around her; that's how she'd known she was in the right place to begin with, the trail leading her into a dead zone of activity and noise. It had been almost a toggle - crossed some invisible threshold, and the sounds of birds and rustling in the brush had fallen away in a near-instant, replaced only with wind through the trees. Sometimes, the breeze would carry an eerie, almost imperceptible whistle with it, and Luce would raise her head sharply and listen, only for the silence to return. She consciously suppressed the feeling of fear that crept up her spine and whispered in the back of her mind. The fear was how it started. The fear was what they wanted.

She edged forward, shuffling more foliage from before her and continuing her inspection. The scorch marks had to be around here somewhere, and from there she could follow the echoes back to the entryway. Wendigos didn't just happen; they arrived, which meant they had to come through from where they should be to where they shouldn't. Beasts weren't clever enough not to make a mess of it; rips like those were rarely ever just one-way.

“The moon in Ünterland is always red,” Alyssa began, appearing behind Luce as as she watched her friend look around the scene where the pair had fought the Wendigo. “A blood moon in Midyeden signals a Conjunction between the two planes.” Her eyes were elsewhere as she spoke, as though reciting her words from a long-forgotten verse. “The next lunar eclipse is not until New Year’s Eve. But there is another time that Limbo opens this time of year.” She continued, looking to the mid-September sky.

“The Hunter’s Moon.” Alyssa whispered. “When the harvest is ready, the Hunter’s Moon rises.” She paused, her eyes returning to Luce, finally focusing on her friend with a small smirk tugging at her lips. “Lucille Calder, I know you're not looking for a rogue conjunction point by yourself, especially without proper warding. Because that would be idiotic.” She teased, lightly. “Limbo would tear you apart, and whatever did land in Ünterland would be little more than a shell. What protects us here, abandons us there. The Council tolerates our help due to the dwindling number of Jäger left, but they still withhold much from us.”

“They withhold too much.” Luce said, not looking up from the forest floor as she continued to search. “They are happy to send us slaying, but unwilling to properly equip us to do so. Were it not for Ellara or your family, we’d have been slain ourselves long ago, and I think the Council would be all the gladder for it.” She looked over her shoulder, casting a conspiratorial eye. “Are you here to preach, or to help?”

“Help?” Alyssa asked in a confused tone. “Help with what? The Wendigo’s Conjunction will have been long gone by now; scars may remain, but they will be inert. The effects that Ünterland had on this forest mere weeks ago have already begun to dissipate. Without another Sheol stone, we can’t get into Limbo, and again, Lucille Calder, you do not possess the proper warding.”

Alyssa raised her left palm towards the other girl, displaying the rune that was tattooed there. Beneath her wrist was another marking, a number and small barcode etched into her wrist by a painful memory and a place she’d rather not return.
“With P.R.C.U. gone, the Council is all I have. I will not return to the Foundation Institute.” Alyssa stated defiantly. “You are therefore stuck with me and procedure. We should ask the Chosen to imbue their blood onto another stone.”

Luce sighed, frustrated but defeated. Alyssa was right; whatever hole the Wendigo had torn its way through had long since healed, if not been outright repaired; Ellara wasn’t one to be so careless and Luce couldn’t be sure fixing the Conjunction hadn’t been half the reason she’d even come to the island at all. She certainly hadn’t spent much time with Lorcán. Luce stood up, stretching out her knees and spine.

_{“Don’t take me for granted.”} Luce said quietly, before she turned to face Alyssa. “Stuck with you, I’ll give you that. I don’t care much for ‘procedure’, though. If procedure meant anything, we’d have been properly sworn in before we ever needed to return here. And now, it feels like we’re just back where we were post-Hyperion. Except…minus another safety net.”

She walked toward Alyssa, gesturing forth to lead them out the way she’d come in, her search an ultimately fruitless endeavor; it was just busywork to occupy Luce’s mind, more than something that might actually produce results. She just needed to feel like she was doing something, rather than submitting to the blackness that lurked ever-so-close behind her, forever nipping at her heels since the day she'd walked out of the woods, and her brothers hadn't.
“Alright. Let’s get out of here. But the Council isn't just going to give us a couple fresh stones because we asked nicely. Especially not for Hype drama. Maybe El can still bend some sympathetic ears without them needing to know about it.”

“Then we best be moving on. Ellara Van Abrams has returned to the Black Forest.”

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

There was no moonlight confidant to weave nightmares into soft slumber this time.

---

G I L E M O R Y G A L A H A D
G I L E M O R Y G A L A H A D

_{Location: The Beach - Dundas Island}

Human #5.011 Sinking, Burning

---

_{Interaction(s): Lorcán, @Lord Wraith}

Gil wasn't sure how he'd ended up here, on the beach, eerily reminiscent of but a few short weeks ago before everything had gotten fucked up. All he was sure of was the heat of the fire, the grittiness of the sand beneath his legs, and the feeling of the glass bottle in his remaining hand.

Ha, the left hand. The hand left. His right was a stump. Between crushing, laceration, and acute frostbite, it'd been shorn off by medical decree halfway up his forearm. No more watches! Gloves half price! And dressing himself was tricky now. H.E.L.P. had been none, but he'd been assured a prosthetic and further physical therapy to support it could be secured when he was back continent-side, provided his insurance was up to date. Provided his insurance was retained. With current hyperhuman sentiment reaching lows even beyond the wake of the Hyperion incident, there were those rallying and lobbying for further stripping away. He lifted the wine bottle to his lips with his left hand, the movement awkward and unfamiliar with his non-dominant arm, and pulled deeply of an earthy and spiced red.

He sat in sullen silence, physically present but mentally drifting. The options had been laid before them by the academy faculty, or at least what was left of it - Foundation or Fend For Yourself. Foundation or Figure It Out. Foundation or Fuck Off. Well, Gil would Fuck Off then. Having resigned only a few days ago - gods, another lifetime, how many had he lived through now in the last handful of short weeks? - he had no need for an 'acting degree' anymore, the value of such a 'degree' from either P.R.C.U. or the Foundation a dubious proposition at best regardless. What was left for him now? The others talked of 'moving on', of forging new futures and new lives for themselves. Lorcán and his picture-perfect engaged-to-be-engaged beau, the pair of them set apart from Blackjack by virtue of their absence of consequence, itself fuelled by their own absence at the dance, mentioned his safety net in Crestwood Hollow. Gods, just the name of the town ripped through Gil like a fresh spear, another reminder of a previous life long since torn away through both his own will and the forces of others acting upon him.

Gil himself had no real plan beyond finishing this bottle and starting another. There was the apartment in LA, rent quietly ticking over, and he supposed he'd return there to drink himself into oblivion or run out of money. Or run out of money by drinking himself into oblivion. And then he'd probably go back to England, back to mother and father. He'd probably end up an accountant like his dad. Bored out of his skull and mourning.

Katja was the only real surprise of the evening; Gil wasn't sure where she'd gone but she had been gone, and he'd considered her gone for good, possessed of the good sense to get away from the island before it became the inevitable death sentence, like it had become for so many others. He didn't look at her. Couldn't. Couldn't think about what she might have been able to do against the beast. Couldn't think about what had been done and lost in her place. Why had it been left to Cass the foolhardy, Torres the misguided, Rory the inept, Gil the inadequate? Instead of standing together as a team they'd each charged in alone, reckless and irresponsible, and they'd lost limbs and lives and entire persons as a result. Harper talked about 'Home', although Gil had no fucking idea what that concept was meant to stand for now, because it certainly didn't mean 'belonging' or 'safety' to him anymore, while Cleo - one of the few remnants of Eclipse, now among them as they sat not as teammates but survivors - and Banjo talked about the Foundation. He wasn't going to protest. If they, or anyone else, wanted to delude themselves into thinking that place would be any safer, go right ahead. Gil wasn't even convinced they weren't directly behind everything that had happened; their presence had been unwelcome and vaguely sinister from the start of the year, and now it seemed with PRCU's closure and seizure, the Alexandria Foundation stood poised to become the foremost - and indeed, only - authority on Hyperhumans across the globe. Even with Torres' untimely death, he couldn't imagine the upper leaders of the organisation to be unhappy with that outcome.

It was only when another pair arrived, both strangers to Gil, and mentioned Amma that he looked up. She held an ivory head of hair, and he held her hand with a fierce tenderness.

When she stepped forward to give him the ring, he initially, instinctively, raised his stump towards her; he faltered, awkward and inwardly cursing, before releasing the bottle and pushing his left hand out instead. She dropped a small ring into his waiting palm, and despite its small size it imparted a devastating weight upon him.

mend instead of sunder

Gil stood up suddenly, his own immediate fury surprising himself and overriding any feeling of drunkenness. Amma was all he had left. The only real connection left. What they'd shared at the dance...what he'd felt as they kissed...

He turned from the fire without a word, putting the shoreline behind him as he began to head back towards what remained of the PRCU ‘campus’.

Releasing his grip on Aurora, Lorcán’s eyes darted to Gil and he immediately gave chase.
“Dude, Gil!” Lorcán called as the pair rapidly departed earshot of the others. “Wait up! Where are you going?” He asked, desperately trying to get his friend’s attention, before finally taking hold of Gil’s right arm - right above where the rest of it used to be.

Gil reacted viscerally, yanking his stubbed arm from Lorcán’s heated grip with a violence unlike him; he whirled around, eyes ablaze. He pointed his stump in Lorcán’s face, accusatory, unavoidable.
“I’m going to find Alyssa. She sent that thing away, and condemned Amma to whatever Hell with it. She’s going to tell me what she did, and then she’s going to send me there too. Or I’ll find my own way. Or I’ll die trying. Or all damn three!”

He stepped back from Lorcán, disdain creeping in at the edges of his voice and corners of his mouth. “You leave with your bride-to-be. Crestwood Hollow’s supposed to be lovely this time of year. The rest of us didn’t make it out quite so tidily.”

Lorcán’s brow furled, the ambient temperature rising between the two. Something had changed in Gil; he had noticed it before the dance in the wake of the Trials, but now, the person who stood before him was a shell of the man that Lorcán had thought he knew. A broken soul, desperate for answers and resolutions.

“Like I knew what was going to happen that dance. You think I wanted to miss the fight, to be absent while friends were injured and others died? Had I known what was coming, I would have been there, and I would have made sure you weren’t.” Lorcán explained, minding his tone though an edge was still there. He was tired, his emotions were raw, and he was already blaming himself. One of Blackjack’s powerhouses - perhaps next to Amma herself - and the natural enemy of ice. Lorcán was more than aware that his presence could have tipped the tides in their favour.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there Gil; I’m sorry about your injuries; but if you’ve got a plan, let me help. Anything you need from me, it’s yours. But don’t storm the gates of Hell alone, because I...” He paused, gesturing back to the team. “We can’t lose anymore of our own, and you’re one of us now, whether you like it or not.”

“Now? I’m one of the team, now?” Gil scoffed. “Not when I joined Blackjack a year ago? Not when the Foundation came in to undermine the academy? Not when the Trials were sabotaged and we nearly died? But since I’ve watched half the senior year get slaughtered, Amma get dragged off the face of the earth, and lost my arm, now I’m ‘one of us’? Well, I didn’t know there were such prestigious entry requirements. Next time I’ll make sure my application gets lost in the mail.”

He breathed deep. He was drunk, and that wasn’t helping, but the simmering anger it fed off was very real.
“Do what you want, Lorcán. I can’t blame you for wanting to put everything that’s happened on this fucking island far behind you. Move to the other side of the continent, pretend it never existed in the first place. Find a job. Buy a ring. Settle down and raise a bunch of ginger hype kids. I wish it was that easy. Fuck, a couple of weeks ago it was that easy! Coast out the year, lay a few birds, sign some fucking yearbooks! Then a quick flight back to LA and my career was back on track. Now everything’s fucked. Robbed of its meaning. Amma…I don’t know how we connected but we did, christ I’ve never felt anything like it. I’ll do anything to feel it again. I’d die, if I can feel it again. So follow me if you want; but you said it yourself. We can’t lose anymore of our own.”

He stopped. His eyes were red and watery, but he refused to let a single tear fall. He just stared defiantly back at Lorcán, arms at his sides. The wine bottle hung loosely in his fingers, last remnants sloshing inside.

“You know that’s not what I meant.” Lorcán replied in a defeated tone, “I just…” He paused, his lower lip quivering slightly in the darkness.

“I had an unconventional friendship with Amma, but she was someone I called a friend.” He began. “If it wasn’t for Amma, like, I wouldn’t be standing here today, and it kills me I wasn’t there to return the favour. So yeah, I’d get it if you totally hated me, I’d get it if you never wanted to see me or this place ever again, but I owe her. I owe her more than anyone. If there’s a chance she’s alive, we- no, I need to see this out.”

Lorcán looked at his feet, sheepishly dragging his flip-flop clad feet through the loose sand.
“You’re one of my closest friends, Gil. I can’t begin to understand what you’re feeling, but I don’t want to lose you too.”

Gil moved to cock his head and put his hands on his hips, only to stumble when his right hand didn’t meet his pelvis - just the space where it used to be. He rubbed his eyes with his left instead, unconsciously holding his stub behind his back, out of sight.
“Then…I’ll call you. When I’ve found Alyssa, and she shows me how to go after Amma, I’ll call you. And then you can decide whether you really want to follow me or not.”
He tucked the wine under his armpit and held out his left arm, proffering his remaining hand to shake in agreement.

Lorcán extended a hand to complete the gesture, instinctually putting forth his right before doing a quick shuffle to his left. It was awkward and felt unintuitive to shake with his left, but they sealed the deal. The darkness hid the slight relief that appeared on Lorcán’s face after Gil agreed, and he hoped that meant the pair would stay in contact, and their friendship would persist.

Some of Gil’s words lingered in Lorcán’s head as he turned to walk back to the campfire, giving his friend one last look before he did.

Find a job. Buy a ring.

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

---

Jasper and Marty stood on the observation side of the observation window as Jubilee sat in bed and sipped on a blood pack through the de-needled IV tube. To an outside observer, the whole situation was a farcical sight. The pair were in spare scrubs, their suits taken, first for trace evidence, and then for laundering, covered in blood from desperately trying to restrain a frenzied Jubilee as they were, and now they were in a near-daze watching the teenage girl sucking viscous red liquid through plastic piping that stretched and corkscrewed and looped on itself like a silly straw, with no small amount of enthusiasm. She looked like a kid with a capri-sun. The arm that held the blood pack had a thick leather strap wrapped and bolted around the forearm, which in turn was secured to a chain that trailed to the floor. The chain rattled as Jubilee shifted around, squeezing corners of the pack to pull the last of her dinner out.

Jasper turned away, walking across the small room away from the window to sit in a fold-out chair that had been put against the wall. Marty turned around and leaned against the wall. The men looked at each other in silence for a long while, before Jasper just rubbed his eyes. He should have been in bed six hours ago - or at least half-asleep on the couch in front of the television, a drained glass of whiskey threatening to tumble out of his slack hand.
"Are you sure that's okay?" Marty asked, turning his head to glance at Jubilee again in his periphery before looking back to Jasper. Jasper just looked back with a nonplussed expression.
"What?"
"The blood pack. Are you sure that's okay? It's meant to be a donation."
"Oh it's being donated alright." Jasper said, pushing his head back and leaning it against the wall behind him, closing his eyes in search of a brief respite.
"I mean, is it safe?"

Jasper frowned, and lifted his head again to look at Marty with a furrowed brow.
"It's a blood pack. No one's getting hurt. You'd prefer the alternative?"
Marty shook his head, going slightly pale as he thought about that orderly's torn-apart corpse again. He looked back through the window as Jubilee balled up the empty blood pack and wrapped it in its own tubing before tossing it across the room into the bin. It fell in with a smooth entry and the girl gave herself a short subtle fist-pump for the shot.
"Aren't we encouraging it, though? Shouldn't we lock her up? Put her in a cell?"
"Christ, Marty, she's just a kid."
"She's a vampire!" Marty said, wheeling around to look Jasper in the eye.
"Well I don't have a fucking protocol leaflet on VAMPIRES, Marty, do you?!"

Jasper was stood up, his face reddened and voice raised, the distance between him and the junior agent swiftly covered. Sitwell was a tall man, and he loomed over Marty, who cowed beneath him.
"No, sir. Sorry." He answered. His voice sounded small. Behind them, Jubilee listened through the glass. Jasper could see her ears twitching. It apparently didn't matter that the observation room was supposed to be sound-proofed.
"No. I didn't think so." Jasper said, his voice returned to its usual measured, even tone. He stepped back. They were dealing with a complete unknown, but he had to remain in control; Marty's concerns were but a small example of a greater evil that Jasper knew lurked within SHIELD. He'd already personally destroyed of all pending biological samples from the girl.

He walked to the door, leaving Marty behind.
"I need to talk to Nick. Until then, you do nothing. You say nothing. Your only job is to make sure she's looked after, and looked after well. Whatever you think - whatever you feel - she's still just a girl, and she still needs our help. And that's a damn order."