TruthHurts22

Kept In Mind (Mind-Bending, Brain-Exploring, Psychic Action!)

Sweet, this feels like enough people to justify making a proper thread. I'll get to writing it soon enough, but in the meantime, I made a small Discord for all your prospective players to join: discord.gg/F9rsMXfV Not much in it yet but it's a place to gather, discuss, and get easier access to my mind about things!

Kept In Mind (Mind-Bending, Brain-Exploring, Psychic Action!)

Interest expressed... but you already knew that... didn't you? You were in my mind!

@artexercise

Don't go blabbing about that! Reading people's minds for ideas is probably plagiarism :p

Thanks for the interest, you two!

Kept In Mind (Mind-Bending, Brain-Exploring, Psychic Action!)

Psychic powers exist. And they're terrifying.

Like with any powerful tool, accidents happen, and malicious people can do much worse. Your brain could be rewritten, the floor could catch fire right where you stood, or you'd suddenly find yourself fifty miles due north! The fact that anything could happen in the blink of an eye, and it was impossible to see coming, meant that the world of psychicstry was a dangerous one.

In an effort to combat the nebulous powder keg that was psy-crime, the Extrasensory Securement & Protection (ESP) Agency was formed, which picks up the slack the rest of the world's governments leave behind - they might be able to identify and watch over those who have psychic powers, but they can't realistically stop anything bad from happening. The ESP does that and more, from psychic clean-up to extrasensory protection.

People are complicated, though. The most dangerous psychics are the ones that fall through the cracks. The ones that can't overcome the problems in their own head. When an insecure mind gains phenomenal powers, there's no telling what could happen. So there's another, much more secretive facet to the ESP: projecting into a person's psyche and manipulating it from within. These operations are rare, however, as precious few psychics are truly able to do so.

Luckily, you're one of those psychics!

Unluckily, that fact just got you in a heap of trouble with the ESP.

Something big is happening, though, and your detainment might have come at the best possible time, both for them and for you. You new skills will be put to good use, for the greater good of course, and you might just learn how to use 'em right while you're at it.

It doesn't matter who you are, where you came from, or what you can't do. With the ESP, everyone will be...



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Hi there, thanks for clickin' the Interest Check! Inspired by Mob Psycho 100 and Psychonauts, Kept In Mind is a roleplay about psychics, people that can do crazy things using only the power of their mind, and how that actually might be a scary world to live in! It's also about a clandestine taskforce, exploring mental worlds made manifest, power and how to wield it, empathy towards others, and some really cool stuff happening.

I'll go into further details on how things work should this get off the ground, so for now, I'll put in the important elements down below.

• Psychic Powers, the Common and the Unique: Telekinesis, pyrokinesis, all the kinesises,telepathy, teleportation, clairvoyance - things psychics do. To keep things interesting, though, characters will have a Psychic Specialty (Pspecialty?). The Pspecialty can be anything, ranging from being able to do a certain class of common psychic activity really well to being able to create mental constructs, control and commune with machinery, or reshape the very structure of metal! Of course, you can't have strengths without weaknesses, so your characters will also have a Weak Link, a facet of their powers that they truly struggle with. With time, they may improve where they lack, or branch out their reach of the psychic realm.

• Pscoping, Mental Exploration and Archetypal Projection: A big part of this roleplay will be entering the minds of other characters, exploring a strange manifestation of their psyche for one purpose or another. Everyone's mind is different, so each 'Pscope' will vary from the rest, but it's not something to be done lightly; while you're in there, your actions can affect the mental state of who you're inside. Personality is important for psychics, so entering a person's mind means you need to project an Archetype in there, a simplified version of yourself - someone can't handle another person's entire consciousness in their head, after all. Doing so is a very rare talent for psychics, something that isn't able to be learned, so having this skill makes you quite the important figure.

• Structure & Player Choice: This roleplay will be structured in two ways: in Arcs and in Chapters. Arcs will be big long, well, arcs, concerning a long-term goal, a plan, or a major event occurring throughout. Arcs are made up in Chapters, detailing individual, short-term goals either furthering or connected to the ongoing Arc. So that this doesn't feel like you guys going from point A to point B, just along for the ride, you, as players, will be able to control the direction a Chapter takes! Basically, each Chapter will have a planned 'ending', a plot-critical mind to explore or some big task to do. How you get to that point will largely be up to you - you'll get to decide whose minds to enter, how you go about your time, and so on. Adding to that, your actions will have consequences - if you screw up, do the wrong thing, or just plain decide to go against better judgement, that will affect the story moving forward.

Like I said, everyone will be laid out in more, better detail, should I get enough of a following to make a thread for this. I'll also answer questions anyone might have, or if you have suggestions for anything involved, I'll be happy to hear 'em! Check your Interest at the door, and thanks again for reading!

Persona - Soldiers of Fortune

Vincent Cawler

Lying on the floor throughout the back-and-forth between the other 'intruders' and Pondwater, Vincent had trouble getting his bearings, or even getting up. On top of the guards' incredible strength, they were brutal; just by shifting on the ground he could tell that he had at least two broken ribs and muscles too bruised to pull himself to his feet. For all intents and purposes he was down for the count. The conversation passed him by as he focused on recuperating, his head swimming in pain, dazed and confused.

Then monsters happened.

There wasn't a better way to describe it, at least for Vincent. One moment there were the guards, big and dark like living shadows pulled from the walls, and the next there were beasts, magnificent and terrifying in their form. It helped center Vincent's thoughts, at least. The shock and fear pushed through the pain-induced haze, snapping awareness back into him. But the surge of energy didn't help that much, since, well, he was still beaten half to death. He struggled to get back on his feet, slipping at the simple task of pushing off the ground as the rest started to run. His only hope was that these animal-looking monsters had the instincts to chase after prey instead of going for easy pickings.

To his surprise, though, Vincent wasn't abandoned to fend for himself. Not entirely, at least. One of the group, a punk-rock looking kid, stooped down and hoisted Vincent up onto his shoulders, to the best of his ability anyway. Their difference in height made it hard, Vincent's tall stature throwing Dakota off balance, but he sure as hell tried. Vincent's mind drifted again; so long kept to himself, sheltered away and never given a second thought. This one simple act of kindness, selflessness... connected to something, somewhere, deep in his heart.

As the two "ran" towards the entrance again, Vincent managed to sway himself onto his feet, the movement and adrenaline helping to mask the pain of it. The amalgamated cranes - the Shaxes, if Vincent heard Pondwater right - flocked to the gate, blocking their path. A thought crossed Vincent's mind, making him almost roll his eyes. Sure, he'd already hurled himself into a possible threat before, but now the 'possible' had turned into 'very much a'. But, again, something tugged at his brain. He wasn't just doing it for his own life, this time. Someone else had helped him. So, he had to help back.

Pushing himself off from Dakota, freeing the younger guy from his weight, Vincent leaned into the momentum of their wobbly stagger of an escape and charged at one of the Shaxes. It was a fight stacked against him, and when that happens, because it usually did happen, you fought dirty. A quick jab at the bird's red eye, two fingers out to really make it sting and, in the ensuing startle, toppling the thing off balance. He turned back to Dakota, Barney, and the others for a quick enough moment to shout.

"Run!"

Not that anyone needed the encouragement.

Persona - Soldiers of Fortune

Vincent Cawler

The first moments of a chase were the most critical.

There's the obvious reason, that if you were caught right at the start then it isn't much of a chase, but there's more to it than people think. How hard do you sprint? It needs to be enough to make a gap behind you but not so much that you'll run out of energy quickly. What's the right stride? You need to adapt your foot placement on the fly, so you don't trip over yourself or slip against the terrain. Your route was important too of course, needing to understand the right time to duck, weave, turn a corner, or keep straight. All of this under the pressure of being pursued, usually by someone who doesn't have your best interests in mind. It was the sort of thing you understood only with experience. An art, not a science.

It didn't matter if your pursuer was human, bear, or super-strong prison guard, once the flow of running was ingrained into your head it really helped. And Vincent sure did know about running.

Flecks of concrete from the guard's swing flew like shrapnel, cutting into his calves. Vincent grit his teeth but didn't let himself falter. If anything it spurred him even further. When he neared the prison gates, Vincent though he had a chance. Until one of the guard's batons clipped him on the arm. Pain shot up, down, all throughout his arm like the very nerves caught fire, and he let out an instinctual scream, but it hardly slowed him down. Vincent just clasped his hand over his bicep and kept running.

He made it a decent distance before he petered out to a stand. It wasn't the pain, or the exhaustion, that made him stop. It was the prison itself. Vincent's eyes gazed over it all, the throngs of chained prisoners marching by the dozens, getting into their desks and having tubes stuck onto their helmets. It was like the situation finally stuck in Vincent's mind, pushed away the dust and cobwebs and overridden his Flight-or-Fight. The pain and the sounds and the smells, it was all too real. It couldn't have been anything but.

Which meant that the two guards catching up to him weren't Barclay police, a thought that actually relieved Vincent. Who or whatever they were, he wouldn't be simply arrested. Being beaten, enslaved, possibly even killed was more preferable to Vincent than ordinary jailtime.

...

The two guards soon returned to the others who fell into this strange world, Vincent carried between them, all limp and ragged, before he was unceremoniously dumped somewhere between the others and the Pondwater lookalike. His limbs were covered in welts and bruises, his face swollen and his lips split. He was still breathing, at least. Vincent didn't try to stand back up, only lifting his head to hack up a small loogie of blood before collapsing again. Now that his fate was purely his own to worry about, his will to fight was gone.

Persona - Soldiers of Fortune

Vincent Cawler

As he stood up from his near-fetal position, still holding the back of his head, Vincent watched as the students all dealt with the situation in their own unique ways. Most of them freaked out, obviously. One thought it was a dream and that jumping in the tar-like oceans around them was the best idea. Idiot. The fall wouldn't have hurt if it was a dream. Another of them couldn't handle the stress and practically crumpled onto the concrete, blubbering like a kid. Vincent sneered before turning his gaze around. The apocalyptic landscape, the roiling waters, the massive and bizarrely-shaped prison, none of it concerned Vincent. His spirit, maybe, was too sanded down to react to such outrageous circumstances.

He stared down, grinding his toes into the ground and kicking up dust, watching the pink particles pulse and splash around. It wasn't a hallucination, at least, Vincent wasn't creative enough to conjure up something so vivid, so specific. Drugs? Looking around at the rest of them again, Vincent was sure it couldn't be that either. He was sure he hadn't ingested anything these kids also did. The only connection between them was the cracks. Maybe that was it? Cracks in the ground... a gas leak?

Before he could ponder any more, the prison guards approached, waving their batons and barking orders as prison guards are wont to do. Their appearance brought out the only tangible reaction from Vincent. His eyes widened, his shoulders tensed, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Whatever explanation there was to what was happening, cops were still cops, no matter what his addled mind saw them as. Being arrested right now would be a death-sentence either way it went - if he surrendered and his connection was traced back to Orland, he'd be dead in his cell by the end of the day. If he came out of things without suspicion, one of the officers working for the man would bring the news to Orland, and Vincent would be executed for slipping up so bad.

Acting on pure survival instinct, Vincent didn't even pretend to follow the orders to march. He slammed into the nearest guard like a linebacker, toppling the shadowy figure over and into some of his compatriots, capitalizing on the surprise by sprint as fast as his legs could take him through the gap he made. The only way to go was into the prison itself, but running free from the guards gave him much better odds.

Persona - Soldiers of Fortune

Vincent Cawler

Now o'clock

More people started showing up on the dock, a few too many for Vincent's liking. If the group got too big then it'd become more eye-catching, and he came here to lie low. Or that's what he told himself, at least. Some instinct tugged at the back of his mind, something that pushed him to follow the formed cracks this way. Was it curiosity? It might've been a concussion. Or he could be going crazy. Though that whole idea fell flat once all the kids around Vincent started talking about the same cracks. Vincent didn't join in the conversation, but he did listen. Seemed like a lot of them were having a rough a day as he was... well, as rough as could be when you're not in his line of work.

Vincent kept his head back, staring up at the gazebo's roof. One of the mysterious cracks started to snake its way up a support beam, stretching to a stop right over him. He watched it, entranced, even as the ground began to shake. So while the rest of them got to their feet and tried to deal with the situation, when Vincent fell, he did it face-up.

---

It wasn't a graceful landing.

Vincent hit hard, cracking his head against the pavement, his elbows, and his ass - you'd be surprised how much it hurt there. He let out a sharp yell, leaning up and cradling the back of his head in his hands. Looking around at the warped landscape and the ominous prison-like building they ended up, Vincent almost though that he was hallucinating it all, that the shock to the head so many times knocked something loose. But, again, the others reacting the same way proved him wrong.

"Ghnnhn," Vincent groaned, his voice, now being properly used, being very deep for a man so stretched out. "What the fuck... happened?"

Persona - Soldiers of Fortune

Vincent Cawler - The Tower

Humanity

• Name: Vincent Cawler

• Age: 30

• Arcana: The Tower

• Appearance: Despite it all, Vincent still manages to be an imposing figure. At exactly 6-and-a-half feet tall, Vincent's kept himself in decent shape. Sinewy muscles trail over his body like that of a swimmer's, enough to be noticed but not look like a mountain of a man. Less can be praised about the other parts of Vincent; his face is narrow, eyes close together, thick eyebrows, and the pale complexion of someone who doesn't leave the house much.

As for the hair, it's a mangy dark mane, only barely kept in place as a short bun sitting at the nape of his neck. Poorly shaved stubble graces his chin, exemplifying Vincent's scraggliness and lack of care for himself. To wrap it all together, the man tends to dress very plainly - a simple flat-colored suit when he's on the job (unbuttoned and without a tie), and when he's not, turtleneck sweaters, loose graphic tees... really whatever he ends up finding in his dresser drawers.

But the most noteworthy part of Vincent would have to be all of his scars. From a nose that's been broken enough times to look folded over to knuckles calloused from repeated use and a jagged gash still perfectly visible across his neck, Vincent looks as if the world itself took a crowbar to him. And that's only what can be seen at a glance. Beneath his crappy clothes there's any number of old wounds crisscrossing his body, like a map etched into his skin.

• Personality: There are two sides to Vincent Cawler - what he is, and what he used to be.

Let's start beneath the surface; the core of Vincent Cawler remains the same as it was a decade ago. A cocky man, arrogant of his own abilities which in turn makes him aggressive to anyone that doubts him. Prone to bursts of anger and hostility, driven by an innate desire to deal with issues using his own two hands. Vincent can be overbearing, selfish, hot-tempered... but he's loyal. If you manage to get in his good graces, you'll find him to be a great friend, someone who would always be in your corner. Just, in his own ways.

That's all a far cry to the Vincent of today, though. The once-boisterous teen has become a shadow of himself. His arrogance has turned into subservience. He rarely does anything of his own volition anymore, only moving when told to move, acting how he's told to act. Any time he's not following orders he only exists, taking care of the bare essentials. Vincent doesn't even speak most of the time, now. He's too worn down to say anything, not even when he's alone. The only part of Vincent that has an ounce of uniqueness is how he conducts himself, his motions quick and efficient and exceptionally brutal - the peek behind the curtain at the anger inside.

His old self, his real self is still with him, however much he seems like someone else's puppet. It's simply been buried deep, deep down, and Vincent has no fight to go digging for it again.

• Bio: All throughout Vincent's childhood, he was belittled, told off by his supremely strict parents for every little thing he did. Instead of caving into the pressure by becoming obedient, however, his upbringing made him grow self-assured, maybe a bit too much so. By 8th grade, Vincent was a proper rebel, not caring what his parents or teachers said of him or told him to do, putting himself on a pedestal of his own making. Vincent was also beginning to gain his aggressive reputation at the same time, when he shoved a fellow classmate down the stairs in an effort to win an argument. He won, of course.

Throughout high school, Vincent became quite the thug, attracting a posse of jaded, antisocial bullies who saw his give-no-shit attitude as an aspiration. One of them was Benji Roseman, a teen with much shadier actions, who Vincent found himself attached to. The two became fast friends, a solid bond forming between them over the course of their school years, sticking by one another no matter what happened.

And then came graduation day.

Vincent, 19 at the time due to being held back a year, was set to move on with his life, free from the rules that school and his parents forced upon him, with a plan to travel the country together with Benji. But Benji was nowhere to be seen. Eventually, spending most of the day away from school hunting him down, Vincent found Benji. Dead. One of his shady dealings ended with him slaughtered, and Vincent stumbled upon the culprits about the dump his body. Faced with such a tragic loss, and about to meet the same fate, Vincent lost it; he went postal, beating the criminal group into little more than bloody pulps, managing to avoid death through sheer rage.

The victory was short-lived, as backup arrived for the group just in time to subdue Vincent. The cops were arriving on the scene, forcing the rest to take Vincent with them as they fled. As it turned out, the group weren't simple gang members. The ones that killed Benji, the ones Vincent so viciously fought, worked under none other than Orland Oliva, one of Barclay's most powerful crime lords. Vincent was brought before the man himself, and rather than a swift punishment, Orland had much bigger ideas in mind for the boy. He'd singlehandedly taken on several of Orland's goons, maybe even managed to kill a couple too. Who would pass up such a promising individual for this line of work?

Ever since, Vincent had been kept firmly under Orland's heel. With threat of making his rampage known to the police and the obvious outcome of going against the man, Vincent was forced to stay within Barclay, doing Orland's bidding. It started out simple enough - valet Orland around for his dealings, deliver a package to a buyer, small time stuff - but as time went on, Vincent was made to do worse and worse. Within a year, Orland had his grip fully over Vincent, who in turn became desolate due to his new life.

Ten years had passed since that day. Now, Vincent is Orland's top enforcer, protecting the man on a daily basis and sent on dangerous jobs, both for himself and his targets. Vincent had no outs, he was under too much scrutiny and in too deep to escape. He's grown listless, doing only what he thinks he's good for: following Orland's command.

• Scars: Kept on a short leash by Orland Oliva, Vincent is stuck, both in life and within himself. There's no hope for him if he stays as Orland's personal attack dog, and certainly his time was running short. One day a close call will be too close to miss. Vincent understands this on a fundamental level, unable to do anything to counter what appears to be his fate.

Metaverse

The thunderous stamping of hooves and the sharp scent of gunpowder fills the air, warning of a brutality few ever lived to witness, a deep-seeded hunger for freedom, and the luck needed to survive a life fraught with danger.

Persona - Soldiers of Fortune

They say that if you fall in your dreams, you die.

It's why you always wake up before you hit the ground.

It wasn't true. Not only because of the logic behind it, but also because he tried it. Dreams like this one, with the plane, graced his sleep every now and then, lucid ones where he could do anything. And he fell. Over and over, he made himself fall in his dreams, only for nothing to happen when his fall broke.

So when he met the man with the long nose and ended up ejected from his seat, he didn't fear the fall.

Maybe, just maybe, this would be the one to work......

.....

....

...

Vincent Cawler

8:22 AM

Vincent's eyes peeled open, none of the urgency one usually had waking up from a nightmare. He had too many of them to be bothered anymore. A beige ceiling greeted him, perfectly matching the beige walls and the slightly-lighter beige carpet. The air was stale, circulated only by the dull turn of an old ceiling fan that could barely muster the strength to make a cool breeze. With a long inhale, Vincent sat up, the mattress creaking under him, and tossed his covers onto the floor, along with piles of clothes, scattered trash, and the odd book. The room was a pigsty, but Vincent didn't care.

It's not like he lived there by choice.

Picking through the dirty, forgotten clothes, Vincent pulled together a decent enough suit, the only issue being that the jacket and pants were different colors, black and blue. Everything else was stained, no good to go out in public with. He also fished out the pants he wore the day before and rifled through its pockets for his wallet. As ready as he ever is to face the world, Vincent opened the door leading out of his room and into... a parking lot.

The Right Rest Motel, that's what it was, a simple place close to the Gulf where Vincent was holed up for the past 7 years. Most of the people who'd rent a room here only did so for a day or two, making Vincent something of an anomaly. As he closed the door to his room, #4 on the ground floor, a stocky middle-aged woman poked her head from around the corner of the building.

"Oh, look who's awake!" She squeaked in her high-pitched void, knowing full well what time Vincent usually left his room. It was the manager, Paula, though that job title is used very loosely. She made her way towards him, making a show of taking off the thick rubber gloves she was wearing and stuffing them into the pocket of her apron. "You know, sir, I really do appreciate your patronage here, but, uhm..." She put on an obviously fake look of polite concern. "The rent for yesterday didn't come. And, and I know how important it is for you to stay here, in this room, right where you were put, sir, but rules are rules, and there is the, uh, the late fee..."

Vincent stared at her, blank as a board. Paula was a savvy, sneaky woman, who knew exactly how to squeeze her special clientele without ending up in hot water. There was nothing to be done. Vincent pulled his wallet out and took out a couple of bills. $200, twice the cost of a room and most of Vincent's money which Paula snapped up quick, almost just hiding her grin.

"Ah, yes, thank you sir! You have a wonderful day, and, and I do hope that your usual rent for will be sent, tomorrow." With that, Paula scampered off back to her office, not even in the same direction that she arrived from. No doubt at the corner just to wait for him.

Letting out the tiniest of sighs out of his nose, Vincent pocketed his wallet once more and crossed the parking lot, heading to his first stop of the day, every day.

---

8:40 AM

The corner store two blocks down from the motel wasn't the best place to get groceries, but Vincent didn't have the means to buy or even store proper food. This place was cheap and not too far from where he called home.

In other words: it was his only option. Vincent came here every morning to buy what he could to eat for the day, and sometimes splurge on a magazine to pass the time. With Paula's shakedown for rent, though, he was working with only twenty bucks. No taxis or buses for him today.

“...indicate this incident to be just the latest in the string of so-called protests against alleged police corruption turning violent in recent...” The store's TV droned quietly as he picked out his goods, a simple box of granola bars and a six pack of vegetable juice. He brought them to the counter and tossed them on unceremoniously. The cashier, a pimply teen with curly hair, gave him a lopsided smile.

"Packin' light today, man?" While the teen scanned the items, Vincent reached to the right of the register, grabbing what he thought would be a burner phone, but instead only grabbing air. Vincent stared at the empty space for a full three seconds before the teen cleared his throat. "Yeah, man, last night my manager? He got rid of all those phones cuz nobody was buyin' them, 'cept you. I know ya liked them but I wasn't workin' to stop him. Sorry, man. Yuh know, maybe you should get a real phone, so you won't need to buy those crappy ones all the time?"

Vincent awkwardly brought his hand back to his side. With no burner phones to buy, that threw a wrench in his routine. A big one. As he was about to pay for his 'food', Vincent's eye caught something at the magazine rack. Sticking out from the side of a stack was a small, thin blue book; a Sudoku book. Vincent didn't have many whims these days, but the dark blue was strangely familiar to him. Something he couldn't place. Whatever the reason for it, he plucked the book free and passed it to the cashier.

"Alright man, that'd be..."

---

9:07 AM

Once back at the motel, after tossing his bag into his room, Vincent was around the back of the building, his sleeve rolled up to his elbow and his arm stuck right in a trashcan. He was to call his boss every morning at 8, on the dot, but since he couldn't get a new phone to do so, he had to resort to something else. After a minute of rooting around, Vincent pulled his arm free, a small flip-phone in his fingers. He gave it a shake, dislodging a chunk of hair that had stuck to the antenna, and flipped it open. A few keystrokes later, and the dial tone began to ring. The thing really stunk, not helped by how close Vincent held it to his nose, and now his whole arm did too. If he was already going to dig around in the garbage, then he could've at least worn the dirty--

"Is this not the same number as yesterday, boy?"

Orland Oliva's voice was deep, overpowering even over the phone, and heavily accented. Vincent didn't say anything in response. He never had to.

"I would think by now, simple instructions would be easy for you," Orland continued, his tone calm, but his words steeped in venom. "Was yesterday's sloppiness not enough for you? Was the missing payment today not clear enough for you, boy? Do you want to be given up to the streets?" He let the questions linger. Vincent only breathed, silently, his eyes drilling holes into the wall in front of him. Eventually, Orland spoke again.

"No, of course not." His voice softened into that of a kind uncle's or a grandfather. "You're a good boy, I know this. You're not stupid. I will forgive this mistake for your sake, boy. Just this once." He cleared his throat, the sound of a chair scraping on the floor underneath. "Now, onto business, yes? I have a meeting later, a lunch with some friends. Come by early, if you will, boy, half past ten. Yuxley's Diner, Poling Avenue. I would feel much safer if you at my side." Orland paused again, but didn't hang up. "And, destroy that phone you're using, boy. I expect better from you."

The call ended then. Vincent was quick to take the phone in each hand and snap it right in half, tossing the pieces back into the garbage. He rubbed his head, staring into the sky as he walked back to the front of the motel. Poling was all the way across the city from where he was. He'd have to start walking in a few minutes to even make it in time.

He paused, eyes still skyward. It wasn't different from any other day, really, but already things were turning out messier than normal. Something in his stomach churned; he had a bad feeling, and he's been in enough bad situations to trust his gut like that. Still... what could he do? Go against Orland after all this time, after all the things Vincent was made to do? There wasn't a chance in hell for that to happen.

...Hell...

”I must admit, your situation is not an enviable one. I couldn’t blame you if you called it Hell. After all, you’ve been thrown to the wolves, so to speak.”

Vincent shook his head. That dream was starting to come back to him, the plane, the man with the long nose, the woman, and the explosions. It felt almost real, and the man sounded so sincere. Thinking about it made the hair stand straight along his arms. Something about today was getting to him already. Pushing the thoughts to the back of his mind, Vincent went back to his room, taking the briefest of moments to eat a granola and drink a juice before he set out once again, to the meeting place.

---

10:28 AM

The walk across town was tricky. Vincent's line of work afforded him good enough exercise, but having to walk for nearly and hour and a half takes its toll on anyone. By the time he arrived in front of Yuxley's Diner - more of a back alley pub than a proper diner - Vincent was sweaty and tired. He managed to arrive before anyone else had, at least. With a few moments to himself, Vincent sat down on a short half-wall of a staircase leading to some basement club. Only for those few moments, of course, as no sooner had he gotten settled that a black car with tinted windows pulled up along the curb.

Vincent practically jumped to his feet, hurrying to open to rear door. A thin, old Hispanic man in a green suit stepped out onto the sidewalk. He stood nearly two heads shorter than Vincent, with a buzzed head of gray hair, friendly mutton chops, and harsh wrinkles. He clapped Vincent on the arm as the car pulled away from them again.

"I'm very happy to see you here, boy," he said, taking a small carton of cigarettes out of his breast pocket. "The others should be arriving soon." He passed the lighter to Vincent, who leaned forward and brought it up to Orland's mouth, lighting his cigarette. Orland gazed up at Vincent, his eyes trailing up and down the man as he smoked. Vincent kept his eyes on their surroundings, watching out for anyone eager to get at Orland, but his usual concentration found itself drifting. There was something very strange going on.

In the sidewalk just a few feet from himself, there was a crack. Obviously, a lot of sidewalks had cracks, but this one was different. It was tiny, narrow, almost as if the concrete had been stabbed with a knife. At first, Vincent didn't pay it any mind, it was probably a twig or a piece of trash, but as he kept glancing at it, it seemed to grow. Slightly, over time, but definitely getting steadily bigger all on its own. Soon enough Vincent was just staring directly at it, not even blinking. Was it the start of a sinkhole? An earthquake?

Eventually Vincent was snapped out of it when another car arrived and parked in front of the diner. Three men exited the car, nothing more than ordinary businessmen. Orland's face split into a wide smile. "Ahh, there you all are! Come on, now, let's move this inside. I'm a friend of the chef, you see, I have a special meal planned for us today."

Vincent stuck close to Orland, following the man inside and locking the doors to the diner behind them, thought not before taking one last look at the widening crack.

---

1:00 PM

As it turned out, it was a strategy meeting. After exchanging pleasantries and idle chitchat for a while, the group of men got to business over their food. The three men all worked for the same company, in different departments, and Orland was discussing the possibility of a takeover. A secret one, of course, so that Orland would effectively steal the company under the CEO's nose, gaining all the assets while remaining in the shadows. Some of it went over Vincent's head - he never learned much about business before - but he was able to understand the gist. Standing watch over Orland's shoulder, Vincent could swear that more cracks were showing up, in the polished floors, the walls, even right under the table. It might've just been his mind playing tricks on itself...

The hours passed uneventfully, and once all was decided on and their stomachs were full, the men bid each other farewell. The three all left, though Orland remained seated, wiping his mouth with his napkin. He gestured sideways, to one of the unoccupied chairs at the table.

"Come on, boy, sit." Vincent sat, putting his hands in his lap. He kept his eyes on Orland, whose expression was hard to read. It seemed... pensive. Orland suddenly picked up his plate and put it in front of Vincent. "Eat."

Vincent glanced down at the food. Two strips of uneaten steak, a smattering of roasted vegetables, all stewing in a thin pool of cold gravy. It was table scraps, but also the only good food Vincent would be eating this week. With a slightly cautious look back to his boss, Vincent picked up a knife and a fork, and dug in. Only a few bites later did Orland begin to speak.

"It's been quite some time, hasn't it? Since I first took you in. Ten years..." Vincent's eating slowed to a crawl. The reminder of how much time passed, what landed him under Orland's heel in the first place, it weighed heavily on his mind. Orland knew that. "And in all that time you have been outstanding, boy. Truly one of my best. I thank you for that."

There was another pause. Then, with such suddenness that Vincent couldn't even see it happen, Orland reached out and grabbed a handful of Vincent's hair.

"AND JUST LOOK AT YOU!" His voice echoed in the empty diner, giving the loud scream even more of a punch. "I ask you for one, ONE thing today, and you show up like THIS?!" Vincent instinctively fought against it, straining to push against Orland's fist, a battle that was lost the moment he was grabbed. His head jerked forward, slamming into the plate, flinging gravy and bits of food everywhere.

"Absolutely disgusting!" Orland was standing now, yanking Vincent's head back just to . "SWEATY-" Wham! "Smelling like complete SHIT-" Wham!! "And you can't even DRESS YOURSELF?!" One final shove forward drove Vincent's face right through the plate, shattering it into pieces. A shard cut the bridge of his nose, immediately spraying blood over the table. He was pulled back, enough force to completely toss him from his chair, falling to the floor dazed, bruised, and bleeding.

Laying on the floor, Vincent had his eyes closed, focusing on the pain in an effort to drive it away. There was another feeling, though. His cheek felt warm, not because of the blood seeping from his nose but more like someone was blowing gently on his face. As Orland's assault subsided, Vincent opened his eyes, and looked down at the floor. He landed over one of the strange cracks in the floor, and the air came out of it. Was he going crazy? Had the attack given him brain damage?

Whatever thoughts went through his head were quickly snuffed out as Orland walked over to Vincent again. The man looked down at him, disapproving and infuriated. "If I did not know better, boy, I would think you have a death wish. You're becoming a liability." He reached into his jacket, and for a moment, Vincent was scared. Terrified, even. It was happening, after all this time. Orland was going to kill him.

Only, no, that's not happening. Instead of a gun, Orland produced a small folded note, and flicked it over his body. "One job. If you do this for me, boy, I will once again forget this has happened. A little weasel shirked on his dues. He's a student at the university, not far from the motel I'm keeping you. Get me my money."

Composing himself, Orland strode out of the diner, leaving Vincent alone on the floor. His mind was going blank. Cracks, dreams, Hell, none of it mattered now. Vincent didn't care about any of it. His place was shown to him once more, and now all that mattered was to do what he was told.

---

3:31 PM

It was another long walk. It was already a trek back to where the motel was, and from there the university was another couple miles away, not to mention the added time for how awful Vincent felt. But he still did it. He trudged, no matter how much his feet burned or how woozy he got. He was on a mission. A job. It was all he was good for, the only thing he could do. By the time he made it onto the university's campus, Vincent was a wreck. His knees trembled, his breath hitched in his throat, his eyes bugged out of his head. More of those damn cracks formed as he walked, a sure sign that he finally lost his mind. Well, insanity was something to look forward to, at least.

Vincent lurched across the campus towards the dorms. The name on the note was Tyler Bennet, and what dorm he lived at too. Most of the students were in a class so nobody disturbed him on his way. It was like his luck was turning around.

When he got to Tyler's dorm, he found it empty. The kid was no doubt in class too. Barging into the dorm room, Vincent began searching around, through papers on his desk, notes on a corkboard, looking for any hint where Tyler was at this time. After a while, he found an old schedule buried under a mountain of discarded papers. He was about to leave when...

"Hey!" A shout from the door. The door Vincent left open. Another student peeked around it, eyes wide at the sight of Vincent. "What're you doing in Tyler's--" Vincent rushed the door, slamming it closed in the kid's face, not that it really mattered, he had already been seen. Already he could hear the kid on the other side calling the cops - "Hello, yeah, there's this creepy man breaking into our dorms! He's in a suit or something, and..." - so he had no time to lose now. Turning to the window, and grabbing the gym bag left on Tyler's bed as he went, Vincent opened it up and climbed out onto the campus grounds.

He moved as fast as he could without attracting too much attention, rushing to one of the main buildings in search of someplace private. By sheer luck he managed to enter one of the lecture halls and pass by a handicap bathroom. He ducked inside, locked the door, and upended the gym bag onto the floor. A towel and a pair of baggy clothes, noticeably unwashed, spilled out. They'll be looking for a man in a suit, so changing out of the suit would at least buy Vincent precious seconds if he gets seen. And as he changed, he saw more cracks, but these ones were different. They seemed to move.

The cracks started at the corners of the bathroom, extending out in jagged patterns before Vincent's eyes. He stopped midway through putting on the shirt to watch. He was transfixed. As the cracks met in the middle of the room, they connected, growing as a wide singular crack, out under the door. Vincent followed it, leaving his clothes and the bag behind where they lay.

Out of the bathroom, down the hall, out the front doors. Vincent wasn't sure where he was going, he just knew he had to be somewhere else. He couldn't wait for Tyler to finish classes, there'd be too many witnesses, not to mention the approaching threat of the police. He was pretty sure he could hear their sirens. Whatever the reason for this seemingly sentient crack's existence, Vincent continued to follow its path. It's not like he had any better ideas. Soon he saw where the crack was leading him, a dock just on the other side of the street, overlooking the water. It could work. It was out of the way of the public eye, afforded him a good view of the campus, and there already seemed to be people there to blend in with.

So Vincent wandered over to the dock, practically dragging his feet over the wooden planks. He walked right in the middle of the gathered students, a sweating, stinking, injured man, wearing gym clothes a size too short for himself and taking heavy, rasping breaths, sat right down among the rest of the people drawn to the gazebo. He braced his hands on his knees and, after taking a moment to collect himself, raised his head to stare at everyone individually - from Benny, to Alina, Caelum and Mila and Dakota - and said the first words out of his mouth that entire day, his voice weak and strained from its lack of use.

"If... the cops come around here... you tell them I'm a friend. Or else..." And with that, Vincent collapsed backwards and let loose the longest, loudest groan imaginable.

**CANCELLED** Flower Power! - A Plant-Inspired Superpowers RP [OPEN]

@LostButterfly92 I wasn't really sure on the details of it, just a passing idea that I liked, at least the idea of using 'grapevine' for something. Probably not directly mind-reading, no.