The Legion [Mods] (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
letsgolegion) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
legionmissions2017-01-03 12:57 am
letsgolegion) wrote in legionmissions2017-01-03 12:57 am
Entry tags:
SILENT HORIZON - [Part 1: The In-Between] [modplot]
Who| Everyone who signed up
What| 2 spoopy
Where| In The In-Between, the pocket dimension inside the Silent Horizon
When| After Valor's Day. Mission starts shortly before "No Sanity Clause" and runs simultaneously in game time
Warnings/Notes| Potential warnings for EVERYTHING. This is a horror plot that may tread a lot of ground. Please keep in mind that you can stumble on disturbing stuff in almost any thread. We advise all players to put warnings in the subjects of threads when they lean towards cut-worthy stuff.
The mission was simple. The team had to board the derelict Silent Horizon, a ship with an experimental stardrive, after it finally reappeared in UP space, many hours after it was supposed to reappear, during its first field test. No life signs were aboard, but the presence of several Roboticans on the crew -- who were undetectable by bioscan -- meant that the ship had to be boarded to make sure the Robotican crewmen were gone, too.
The United Planets government, concerned about the loss of the crew members, asked the Legion to step in, in case the threat on board was of a metapowered nature. Due to the massive danger implied by an entire starship crew going missing, the response team sent on the mission was relatively large, more than enough to handle any hostiles. None of this "we'll just send one tiny team to go alone into a giant starship against an unknown threat" business. No, if there was a hostile force on the ship, the plan was "let's drop 25+ Legionnaires on its head." Safety in numbers.
It was a good idea. In theory. In most cases, it would've given them the edge that would've let them face something very nasty without succumbing to it themselves. But in practice, it just meant that it was a much larger team that suddenly went missing after watching the last video log of the previous crew on the command deck.
Screams poured out of the screen the moment it started to play -- automatically -- when they entered the command deck. Onscreen, they saw the original crew murdering each other, tearing each other apart in a blood-soaked rampage.
"Wait, stop! What's wrong with everyone? Why are you --?" cried out one of the Robotican crew members, clearly immune from whatever was causing the madness, but his cries went unheeded as one of his Coluan crew-mates bashed his head clean off with a chair.
After the video played, the darkness swept in, wrapping around the whole team of Legionnaires, making them feel frozen all the way down to their bones and stealing consciousness away from them. When they woke again, they all found themselves separated, waking up in a realm of nightmares.
The halls breathe here -- at least in the places that have walls. They flex in and out, like the passageways inside the lungs. Sometimes the walls give way to open nightmare-scapes, remote and foggy, or bright and alien and exposed. The landscape bends and shifts around them, reacting to their thoughts and fears. And every so often, far off, there is the pitter-pat of something strange moving through this place. Like the sound of many feet -- or hands -- slapping against the ground or flesh-walls.
At some point, there is always a voice that each of them hears, tinny and robotic and distant, warning them of a being called the Faceless, that rules this realm. They're told not to feed from his blood, that if they do they'll be made a part of this place. If they accept his offer, and change forms, they'll eventually bleed to death, and if the Faceless isn't stopped before they die, those that die in their mutated forms will belong to him forever.
It's not the only voice they'll hear, though. This is a land filled with whispers. And screams. And the sounds of begging sometimes, too.
And for some of the Legionnaires, the In-Between speaks to them, touches something deep and dark inside them -- and it's calling them home.
What| 2 spoopy
Where| In The In-Between, the pocket dimension inside the Silent Horizon
When| After Valor's Day. Mission starts shortly before "No Sanity Clause" and runs simultaneously in game time
Warnings/Notes| Potential warnings for EVERYTHING. This is a horror plot that may tread a lot of ground. Please keep in mind that you can stumble on disturbing stuff in almost any thread. We advise all players to put warnings in the subjects of threads when they lean towards cut-worthy stuff.
The mission was simple. The team had to board the derelict Silent Horizon, a ship with an experimental stardrive, after it finally reappeared in UP space, many hours after it was supposed to reappear, during its first field test. No life signs were aboard, but the presence of several Roboticans on the crew -- who were undetectable by bioscan -- meant that the ship had to be boarded to make sure the Robotican crewmen were gone, too.
The United Planets government, concerned about the loss of the crew members, asked the Legion to step in, in case the threat on board was of a metapowered nature. Due to the massive danger implied by an entire starship crew going missing, the response team sent on the mission was relatively large, more than enough to handle any hostiles. None of this "we'll just send one tiny team to go alone into a giant starship against an unknown threat" business. No, if there was a hostile force on the ship, the plan was "let's drop 25+ Legionnaires on its head." Safety in numbers.
It was a good idea. In theory. In most cases, it would've given them the edge that would've let them face something very nasty without succumbing to it themselves. But in practice, it just meant that it was a much larger team that suddenly went missing after watching the last video log of the previous crew on the command deck.
Screams poured out of the screen the moment it started to play -- automatically -- when they entered the command deck. Onscreen, they saw the original crew murdering each other, tearing each other apart in a blood-soaked rampage.
"Wait, stop! What's wrong with everyone? Why are you --?" cried out one of the Robotican crew members, clearly immune from whatever was causing the madness, but his cries went unheeded as one of his Coluan crew-mates bashed his head clean off with a chair.
After the video played, the darkness swept in, wrapping around the whole team of Legionnaires, making them feel frozen all the way down to their bones and stealing consciousness away from them. When they woke again, they all found themselves separated, waking up in a realm of nightmares.
The halls breathe here -- at least in the places that have walls. They flex in and out, like the passageways inside the lungs. Sometimes the walls give way to open nightmare-scapes, remote and foggy, or bright and alien and exposed. The landscape bends and shifts around them, reacting to their thoughts and fears. And every so often, far off, there is the pitter-pat of something strange moving through this place. Like the sound of many feet -- or hands -- slapping against the ground or flesh-walls.
At some point, there is always a voice that each of them hears, tinny and robotic and distant, warning them of a being called the Faceless, that rules this realm. They're told not to feed from his blood, that if they do they'll be made a part of this place. If they accept his offer, and change forms, they'll eventually bleed to death, and if the Faceless isn't stopped before they die, those that die in their mutated forms will belong to him forever.
It's not the only voice they'll hear, though. This is a land filled with whispers. And screams. And the sounds of begging sometimes, too.
And for some of the Legionnaires, the In-Between speaks to them, touches something deep and dark inside them -- and it's calling them home.
Locus
It should have been a mission like any other. The setting at least had been somewhat familiar until the video started to play. Until the darkness swept in and left him alone, weapon in hand, with a chill deep in his bones. Dread crept under his skin and crawled like a living thing, and though initially he meant to search for the other Legionnaires -- safety in numbers, that had been the idea -- he swiftly found himself distracted by all too familiar scenes.
The smoldering remains of an UNSC base. Twisted corpses lying about the place, some in armor, some not. All seemed to stare up accusingly at him as he moved cautiously through their midst, and no matter how far he passed their eyes always seemed to be fixed on him.
Soldiers die. That's what they do.
He'd thought that once, hadn't he? The voice, wherever it's coming from, it isn't wrong. They were expendable, all of them. Whatever was on the ship was going to pick them off, all of them. Wait. Them. There had been others. There had been a ship, hadn't there?
Details were becoming hazier. The Legionnaires. He had to find them, he had to rejoin them. But he finds himself staring down at those familiar, bloodied faces. One of them was sickeningly familiar, the armor crushed and limbs splayed at strange angles, as though it had landed after falling from a great height. The scout helmet visor was cracked and broken, and what part of the face he could see...
This is what you bring wherever you go. Even your allies aren't immune. You are a weapon. A beast of war to be unleashed. A tool. The only thing that's changed is who now holds your leash.
No. No that can't be.
Guilt curls around his throat, quietly choking off air. He forgets to move.
II.
There's a noise following you. A soft, brittle clicking, like a gear turning, and the sound of chains moving against one another in rhythmic movement. The thing is, there's nothing there. Nothing you can see, at least.
There is the smell of blood in the air, and the noise, and nothing else. No clue of what waits there, but there is unmistakably something there in this space with you.
Seconds pass, and in another few moments the mystery will undoubtedly end, one way or another. The question is, are you sticking around to find out what is lurking there, watching you? Or do you dare to turn your back on it and hope that you are faster than it is?
stealth fite stealth fite
Logically, that makes it valid.
Illogically...
Well, it's all illogical. Which means it's all she has to work with, and it's what she's committed to in spite of the whispers and twitching groans that like to creep in while she and Cortana have both gone quiet, focused on joined efforts. It isn't until those sounds get closer that Sombra pauses, her palm still pressed flat against the wall and its rotted paneling.
A test.
Activating her thermoptic camo dissolves the contours of her silhouette, erasing every scrap of visual evidence that there is to take in. Beyond that, she doesn't move. Anything creeping around the dark (if there is anything casually tailing her) should lose interest with nothing to see, nothing to hear. And if it's all in her head? She figures she'll even out with a few alert seconds spent willing away the noise.
Can't hurt to take a break every now and then, even in a nightmare hellscape.
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for York
He will not be left alone.
Though unseen, the noises are there. They could just be any of the other noises, imagined or real, that York has been hearing all this time. The raking of chains across one another and the clicking of a gear slowly spinning. The scenery around them seems to shift the further they move, delving into York's mind and plucking away details. But that's all they are. Details.
Locus pays them no mind, intent only on following his prey.
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Re: Locus
The voice comes from behind him and there he is, with no face of his own, yet made up of other faces that look as if they don't belong to him. A tentacle curls and flicks lazily, like the tail of a contented cat.
"You try and try to redeem yourself, but that will never lead anywhere. There are other ways to escape your guilt."
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2
When she can breathe past the shaking in her core, the abrupt silence is enough to raise the hairs on the back of her neck. Gripping her helmet she holds her breath as she turns to look behind her.
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Doctor Strange (TW: Lots and lots of body horror, medical imagery, gore, car crash)
Help.
He had to help or he needed help, he wasn't sure which one. Someone needed help, right? Or was it him? Who was screaming?
Was it him?
This blasted spaceship. Stephen leaned against one of the walls, a greasy, stained hospital corridor. He squinted, knowing this couldn't be real, yet...it had to be. No, it wasn't--it was a spaceship, he was in a spaceship, and something bad had happened. Of course something bad would happen when he gets to go on a mission, gets to go into space--which in any other case, would be extremely awesome. He had a feeling he was trapped in some kind of horrific sci fi movie, except that it was, you know, real. And he knew how those movies turned out too, practically everybody died.
He glanced down at the yellow, aging linoleum floor. Blood was splattered on it. Fresh, too. And the smell...stench, really. Like death. Someone was yelling.
People.
Doctors. They were rushing someone on a stretcher to the OR. Frantic footsteps, yelling, the waving of clipboards, worried faces.
Christine.
"Christine!"
Stephen raced forwards, following the trail of blood. "Christine, wait! I can help!"
She wasn't looking at him, though, like he wasn't even there. Her face was contorted in incredible worry, as she looked down at the patient. Who was the patient? Stephen ran faster, trying to catch up to them to see if he could assist.
...
The patient was him.
Bloodied, bruised, his hands mangled...mangled beyond all reason, beyond help, beyond hope...blood everywhere, so much of it--
The sound of a car crashing echoed through the halls and without warning, a sports car--his car!?--smashed through the dirty, stained walls and he dove out of the way only just in time.
There was a terrific rending noise like the whole world was getting torn in two, and Stephen shut his eyes--he was shoved to the side by crashing walls, though they didn't really sound like walls. They sort of sounded like wet meat. Schlup, slurp. He peeked an eye open, the car embedded in the ceiling and the wall where it had 'landed', but instead a break in the drywall and concrete, it looked like someone had smashed into a butcher shop. Goo and unidentified flesh dripped from the hole in the celing, splashing on him. He was a doctor, he wasn't afraid of this, but...it was certainly disgusting. And it didn't make any sense. There was something horribly wrong...this couldn't be real. This was a dream! It had to be!
"Christine!" he ran towards where they had gone down the hallway, minding the destruction from the strange appearance of the car, and dripping meat. They could have gotten hurt--
--there were bodies everywhere. Injured horribly. He immediately set to action, but there were too many--too many, he couldn't save them all. He wasn't an ER doctor, this wasn't his specialty, he couldn't--no, Christine--he ran over to her side, where she was hurt beyond what anyone could scarcely bear.
"Christine! Christine, stay with me," he reached over to check her pulse. She had to be dead. There was no way she could survive with that much damage--this wasn't real. He was dreaming. Wake up, Stephen! Fight this!
"Stephen..." she mumbled, looking up at him with eyes that had someone turned white, like she was dead already. "You let me down. Like you always have. I shouldn't be surprised."
"No. I'm here, I can save you--I'm the best, I can save you--"
"It's your fault," tears spilled from those dead eyes. "You...all I wanted was to help you. And you were so cruel. How could you be so mean, Stephen?!"
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have...I was horrible to you, Christine, I wanted you to forgive me but--"
"I could never forgive you," she said, her voice small and fading. "I want you to live with the pain that you caused me. Because no one cares for you, Stephen. I was the last one. You have...no...one. No one at all."
He felt a cold chill grab at his soul and not let go. She was right...this didn't make any sense but she was right...if he couldn't get out of this mad landscape...who would miss him? Who would even realize he was gone? Wong? Mordo hated him too...the Ancient One was dead...and Christine surely didn't...
He was alone.
And no one would care when he died.
Stephen sat down suddenly, roughly.
No one had cared that he died.
Suddenly, horrific-looking wounds appeared on his chest, where Dormammu had stabbed him with shards of rock. More wounds appeared where he'd shot him full of holes with some kind of light. They weren't bleeding, they were just sort of there...maybe real, maybe not. He couldn't really feel anything at the moment, he was so cold. The feeling of all those moments...of dying echoing louder and louder in his mind.
No, this wasn't real! This wasn't real, fight it--
He'd did it to save the world, but did they care? Did they know? What was the point of doing all this if no one knew? Wasn't that what he cared about, his name getting known? Recognition? His name on procedures? Well he saved the whole world and they wouldn't know!? He went through all this horror and were they even grateful?
They didn't even care that he'd lost his hands. He looked down at his hands, for some reason his gloves weren't there anymore. Had he taken them off? He couldn't remember. But the scars were..growing. Writhing, like snakes. They opened up, like they'd been torn open, revealing the bones and metal pins inside.
Stephen just stared dully.
His hands. Useless.
Just like him.
Useless.
Unloved, unwanted.
The imagery disappeared on his person, turning into smoke and drifting away into the ceiling. He wasn't actually injured, and his hands were quite fine. But he just sat there, staring numbly at them.
What was the point of fighting back against this place when it was...quite right about everything?
B. One of My Turns
Stephen was a stubborn man, and frightfully optimistic in the face of certain defeat.
The fact that he succumbed was an equally frightening thought, and despite the black grip that was now cemented around his heart, he was still fighting. He'd done something...terrible, he'd...despaired.
Maybe because they were right. He didn't deserve a second chance. He was unloved and unwanted anyway. Might as well stay here, where he belonged.
No--that wasn't right! That was...there was a mission, he had to get back...find the others...right?
Stephen stumbled through the hallway, it was reminiscent of some kind of industrial area now, but every so often there was something odd about the walls. Like it was living...like it was part of an organ...he was a Doctor, he should help...but there was no helping whatever this was...
...might as well just stay here where he belonged--
--no! Where was this all coming from? He'd despaired, yes, but didn't mean he was down and out for the count. He'd made a mistake, and this whole thing was probably a dream anyway...though in his experience, it really, really probably wasn't. Regardless, he had to find the others, he needed help--
--he was getting really tired all of a sudden. He leaned against the weirdly warm steel wall, a part of it shiny like a mirror besides being covered in barnacle-like rusty growths. For some reason he caught a reflection of himself in the glass--
--his eyes were red. Like, actually glowing red. And black streaks were curling round the side of his cheeks...no, wait, what was that? He reached a trembling hand up to his cheekbones when suddenly bone just...spurted out of his skin. Ripped right out.
"HUUAHHHHHGHHHH--"
He pressed his hands to the mirror-like surface, trying to get a closer look. Like a knife, the other cheekbone did the same thing. Blood dripped slowly from the eruption. What the--suddenly pain, emanating from his whole face, his mouth on fire, he couldn't see, couldn't think--just pain and something warm where blood dripped from whatever was going on. He could feel it though, pushing past his nose, his mouth--was it bone? He could see it--something bone-like and white, like a beak was erupting from his entire face, or his face was sort of melting into it. It just kept growing and growing, until he caught sight of himself in the mirror.
He almost laughed, it was so absurd--he looked like a ridiculous bird, like a bird-skull had simply replaced his face...wait, he'd seen something like this before. Plague doctor mask?
At least the pain had ebbed. Blood dripped from where the bone 'mask' was connected to the rest of his head, which was fairly normal, right up to his scalp, his hair, sweaty and disheveled, sticking to it.
He seemed like he had a clearer mind now, the shock of this all had really brought him back to himself. They were on a spaceship...something had happened, something had tricked him into despairing, and he had to get out of here. He needed help!
"Is there anybody out there!?" he yelled, making a run for it down the hallway.
His hands began to ache something fierce, even moreso than they usually did.
"I need help! Somebody!?" his hands--his gloves were long gone, somewhere--were starting to--his fingers were melding together. No...no, stop, not his hands! There was nothing he could do...he could only watch helplessly as his fingers melted together, hardening into some kind of bone-like structure, like a spike at the end. It was growing, too, becoming more narrow, and scythe like.
"Stop it! You have to stop! Whoever's doing this...please, we can work this out! What do you want? There's got to be something that you want..." Stephen couldn't figure out what the point of all of this was. Just to torture them? He stared at the horrific-looking scythes that were now where his hands were supposed to be, extending at least three feet out. Despite the madness, he chortled out of sheer absurdity.
"I mean...I could save money on shaving, but not like this..."
C. Comfortably Numb
Help came too late, probably. Or maybe it just wasn't enough.
He couldn't really remember.
It all felt like a dream. And this was reality.
No matter how much he tried...he couldn't free himself from the black grip on his heart. It was like sinking into quicksand.
And the quicksand had eaten him whole.
*****
A golden circle appeared and a skinny, scythe-like arm shot out of it, swiping at anything it assumed was still alive. And then, it shot back into the circle, disappearing completely.
Oh, teleportation had its uses when he wanted to hunt his prey. It was so easy to sneak up on them. A golden circle appears, a quick swipe, and it was all over.
On the rare occasion he felt like exerting himself, he'd make an appearance. Golden circle, and then...WHUMP.
A bony creature, like some enormous skeletal bird. Glowing red eyes were the only sign of life in that bird-skull face, like two rubies lost to the night.
He had some kind of body, covered in a black cloak, but one could see the skittering bone legs underneath. At least seven of them, even as he had a general bird's shape, there was a spidery-sort of undercarriage to the creature.
Tik-tik-tik-tik scurried the legs in the darkness.
Often the last sound a person could hear.
(OOC: Titles belong to Pink Floyd.)
B [cw: eye gore.]
The boy that stood before him was a bit of a mess himself. His clothes were torn in places and the front of his superhero uniform was stained with blood, the source which was very obvious. It dripped from his left eye and dropped down his front. So far, that was the only physical change that'd happened to him so far, but he didn't seem to notice it was even happening.
He didn't seem fussed at all over Stephen mutating. Or fussed about this being Bloody Nightmare Torture Heck-land.
Dipper knew the kinds of things he could survive.
"It wants you to panic. It probably feeds off fear or something. Even if it doesn't, fear makes you forget who you are, so if you're trying to avoid being changed, stop being afraid."
He said it like was it something people could just control.
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A
It took effort to peel himself off the wall, his gait a little stiff, his body feeling oddly offcenter and York himself wholly oblivious to the wires that seemed to be growing under his skin, twisting the scar under his bad eye. "You still sane?"
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South Dakota // SWITCH
The message itself is creepy enough, seeing the blantant horros on screen made South a little uneasy being on the ship, but she isn't given too much time to worry about it before she's waking up in a nightmarish land. She goes on high alert; she's got to escape, got to find her way out. But she's seduced by visions - flashes of hte ranking board, reflections of North's face, whispers of disappointment from the Director, from everyone else. No, she couldn't escape; she had to prove herself. She had to prove she was stronger than that.
But was she?
No matter when you catch her she'll likely attack before recognizing friend over foe, but the later you catch her the harder it'll be to convince her you're a friend.
But that's exactly what she needs right now.
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Just him in his tan armor and dead silent AI. "It's Taylor. Put the gun away."
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Re: South Dakota // SWITCH
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Roland Deschain
1, during the transformation
After a while it occurs to him that the heaviness in each step, the weight in every limb and every inch of skin, that the empty and bottomless ache inside his chest is a symptom of grief. The next time his head becomes too heavy, bows down, he catches a glimpse of himself.
"Guess it's not grief, after all." It's a dry, understated thought and a dry, absentminded sentence, one which brings deja vu with it. The phrase, deja vu, does not quite exist in either of Roland's native tongues. The concept, though - the concept itself he knows, and when the sensation introduces itself to him - reintroduces - he receives it with a dim horror. He's realized this before, looked down before, said it before. Then forgotten.
(a, cw death of a child)
Perhaps he'd said it in the caves, before he'd noticed the hand. Of course, before the hand. Of course he would have forgotten after that.
(b, cw a teenager burning to death)
Or perhaps during the Reaptide festival. That time, it's the fire afterward that would have done it. After the fire and after that scream, then he would have forgotten.
(c, choose your own adventure)
Or some other time. Some other place. He has some distant knowledge that not all the places here have been his. Every time he's wandered into one, it's taken him some many moments, minutes, hours, to notice.
2, after the transformation
After a while he stops wondering, even in that slow and dim way, over the odd sensations. He's stopped wondering at which place it is surrounding him, too, or how many times he has moved through it. Could be anything. Doesn't matter. He only goes on, moves on with long, smooth strides. If he looked down it might, once, have occurred to him to wonder at how smooth those strides are - that they shouldn't be, looking like that. He doesn't look, not at anything.
At some point a noise disturbs him. It doesn't matter what - the approach of a new person, a new scene settling itself around him, it makes no difference. One hand goes for a gun; the other stays where it is, raised to investigate the one question which he is still capable of wondering. He does not wonder, as he draws the gun, why his index fingers are the only ones which still move; he does not wonder why even they have lost all sensation at their tips, why they glint hard and white whenever the light catches them. He does not wonder about his hands in the same way he did not wonder about his face, why a moment before he'd had to send his searching hand down and down and down again before finding the corner of his eye.
It'd been disappointment he'd felt, he decides, when he found the answer to the one question remaining in him. If the liquid running down his cheek - well, down his jaw - had shown the sting of salt water against the raw meat of his index finger, that would have been something. But what he'd found running from the corner of his eye had been viscous, oozing over his palm slow and thick like crimson honey.
Most of his mind is occupied looking for whatever'd made that noise. His field of vision is somewhat lower now than it used to be. It takes concentration, accounting for that. But there is a part of his mind that's still aware of it, of the slow thick trail from his eye, down onto the hand touching it, down his forearm, dripping down onto the leaves and petals living now where his chest was, once. It's that part of his mind which might stop his trigger finger if his roaming eye catches sight of something which wakes him enough - the L insignia which sits shining on his own belt would do it. He's forgotten which word the L stands for. He hasn't forgotten what it means. In absence of that, of some reminder he'll be moving in to kill.
for victor
Cort had also known him. His final student. It'll be your damnation, boy, he'd said and, when Roland's been run down to something heavy and heartsick, worn to his thinnest under the weight of dreaming, he hears that voice again. You'll wear out a thousand boots on your way to hell.
There's a siren call, feeling very alien, very much of this place, singing its dark and wet call inside Roland's heart now. He answers it.
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Kubo
Once the screens showed the violence that had filled this place, though, he gasped sharply and reached for his mother's arm, gripping her tight through the familiar silk of her robes.
He looked up at her for some confirmation that this, at least, was not phasing her. She'd seen the wonders and horrors of the cosmos, centuries of war and death. If she'd seen something like this before, something like this could be overcome.
Kubo had seen terrible, heart-shattering things, but nothing this overwhelmingly, meaninglessly awful. He desperately hoped for his mother's confirmation that it could be overcome.
But before he could communicate any of this to her with more than a glance, cold swept through his flesh, touching his mind. The last thing he managed to do before losing consciousness was tighten his hand on his mother's arm, pouring all of his strength into keeping her with him.
He awoke to find it hadn't been enough.
The smell and sound hit him before he opened his eyes. He jumped to his feet, slipping a little on porous, wave-cut rock. The sound of a roar turned out to be the source of the smell - a rancid sea of a liquid that didn't seem to be water, stinking as it churned against the tidal flats. The softer sediment in the rocks hissed as the acidic waves ate it away.
Kubo ran inland as the next wave washed over where he'd been lying seconds ago. A cliff of roughly hexagonal stone pillars of varying heights surrounded him, surmountable, but with effort. He climbed the stones as the sea washed into the bay, emerging onto a flat landscape of black mold, pitted with soggy pools of shallow liquid oozing like open wounds, and fungus dripping bone-white slime. A dense fog smelling of the rancid sea kept his vision short.
Kubo refrained from shouting for his mother. A shape moved, distant, in the yellowed fog. He stayed still where he was, watching as it moved, trying to distinguish it as a friend . . . or something else entirely.
(ooc: Kubo won't be transforming, and will be using his paper magic to nonlethally fight any transformed Legionnaires who attack him, while trying his best to talk them back into their senses. Feel free to attack him, but ping me before dealing him some damage and let's talk!)
Vs. Strange
It's getting louder, then fades away.
Then gets even louder.
It's right behind him!
But if he looks and turns around, there'll be a flash of gold, a deep peal of laughter, and no one there.
Re: Vs. Strange
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Re: Kubo
Re: Kubo
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Re: Kubo
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Sariatu
She hadn't wanted to scare Kubo by clinging to him when the monitors screamed. It was the only reason she hadn't had him in her arms when the cold began to overtake her, even as he held her arm. She'd tried, when she felt it, she'd tried to grab him, to hold on to him, but unconsciousness had taken her even as she'd grasped for him, and when she woke, her arms were empty.
When she woke, it was to the deceptively peaceful halls of her father's palace. The Moon King's palace.
Beautifully painted murals, technically perfect but with no soul to them, adorn the walls. The floors are clean. Bluish light - like moonlight, but brighter - filters in through a window. Everything seems washed out, devoid of vivid colors, and it's hard to tell if it's the quality of the light or an intrinsic part of the setting.
The murals depict a masked warrior slaying powerful men, her robes and hair streaming behind her in the light of an overlarge moon. Sometimes two smaller, black-cloaked figures follow in her wake. Sometimes she is alone. It seems to tell a chronological story, as she moves from the right side of the room to the left, cleaving through enemies until one, with a beetle on his banner, pulls her sword away from her. Until she is removed from the moon's light. It shows her languishing in darkness and decay with only her son beside her until she dies, and the Moon King himself comes down and takes the boy, putting the mask she wore over the child's face before lifting him up to the moon, leaving the earth (and the boy's shamisen) behind.
And, on a stand, as if a memorial, the white robes worn by the warrior in the murals, and her sword and mask, on display in the center of the room. The whole room is pristine and perfect in every way, save for a solitary worn black eyepatch on the floor in front of the warrior's robes.
Sariatu can only stand and stare for a long time, her face schooled into a mask of impassivity. Her flashing eyes and her white-knuckled grip on the hilt of her sword are the only indications (aside from the fact that she's standing perfectly still and not attempting to go anywhere) that she is upset. But oh, she is. It's her nightmare made real - her precious, kind, compassionate, loving Kubo taken from the earth, blinded, and made into one of her father's subjects. Made into something like she used to be, behind the mask she wore to earth to keep her from seeing its beauty.
If one watches carefully, one might see that she's trembling.
b)
She broke away from the calm, perfect, horrifying nightmare she'd woken into eventually, folding herself down into Monkey's form and finding her way down the halls, the Sword Unbreakable strapped to her back and ready to be wielded at a second's notice.
She will find her son. Everything else can wait until she's done that. But of course, if she happens to find anyone in trouble before then, she can't really leave them behind, can she?
And if anything attacks her, well... if it's recognizably someone she came with, she'll do her best to disengage. If it's not, she won't hesitate to bring her considerable swordsmanship to bear on them.
A
"Sariatu?" Hiccup said as he spotted her. He pulled up his mask as he jogged over to her. "You alright?"
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B
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cw: blood, eye gore, body horror, harm to children
A. pre-transformation - open to everyone
It's monsters. Just monsters. Just a hellscape. Just madness. He's done all this before. That's why every time the land shifts and something scary is thrown at him, he mostly just rolls his eyes. Sometimes he has to fight it off with teke. Sometimes his powers are suppressed and he has to run or rely on improvised weapons from his surroundings. In either case, the most he shows is reasonable caution. No fear.
The most he feels is a familiar flutter of adrenaline, and by now it feels natural. He feels more awake and alive and lucid.
"Let me guess," he says to the landscape, treating it like the living thing it probably is by talking to it, "next it's going to be creepy dolls on spider legs. Or creepy twins --" Dipper hears something shifting and clicking behind him, and turns to see two twin dolls on clockwork spider legs waiting for him. "Called it."
The twin spider-dolls freeze in place and the way they turn to look at each other seems slightly...embarrassed. The legs twitch and instead of attacking Dipper they turn to scamper off. He looks up and around at the hellscape.
"What else you got?"
The place has already tried blood pouring down walls and out of faucets, spiders, creepy music boxes, reflections in mirrors that aren't his, creepy taxidermy, and evil marionettes. It almost got him with the "Mabel is out there screaming for help" trick but logic kicked in. She didn't come on the mission and Kid Q wouldn't send her into something as creepy as "the whole away team disappeared on a derelict."
It's pathetic, really. As far as scary nightmare landscapes go, he gives this one only a five out of ten. There aren't even any dimension-rending bubbles of madness or anything.
B. starting to lose it - open
This place really isn't that scary and it's getting less and less scary the longer he stays here. Honestly, it's almost relaxing to see pools of blood and bony ribs sticking up through the landscape. There's a wrongness to it that's starting to feel right.
But that's probably messed up. Probably.
The only thing that's really bugging him is the pain he's started feeling. It keeps stabbing him behind his left eye. Maybe a cluster headache?
When he hears a noise that suggests that someone else is there, he turns his head suddenly and his shoulders relax when he realizes it's a team-mate.
"Oh man, am I glad to see you. I haven't seen anyone else from the team in, like, hours. Or at least it feels like hours. Time's all weird here."
He smiles in relief and it all would be very hopeful if not for the fact that blood is seeping from his left eye, dripping down his face. He hasn't noticed. He also hasn't noticed that it's stained the front of his uniform, suggesting this isn't the first time it's bled that way without him realizing.
C. post-transformation - open
He's still Dipper. When they see him, it's from behind -- that's the way the landscape opens up, always. They get where he is and they see him from behind and he's sitting on the ground, hunched over, his back to them, his arms folded in his lap. His hat is long gone and the uniform is ripped to shreds at the shoulders. He looks damp and his clothes are stained in enough red and brown to make it clear he possibly took a full-body dip in some blood.
Still, he looks human from behind.
"Everyone keeps worrying about me," he says, still facing away from the person that's approached him. "Because I'm young, I guess. It gets people all protective. But they don't need to fuss."
He shrugs a shoulder.
"I mean, I guess it's peer pressure or whatever? But I really don't think I made the wrong choice in joining in. It's nice to feel like...like I belong somewhere, you know? I was starting to think I'd never feel that way again."
That's when his head turns around backwards, his body still sitting there in place. One eye is sewed shut. The other is gone, and blood is dripping down his face from the socket. Deep within it, there's an unnatural yellow light burning away, like an ember of coal.
"You belong here, too. You just don't know it yet," he says cheerfully, and pointy teeth flash in his mouth.
His body then unfolds and turns around. The arms are stretched out too long, ending in hands with long fingers and razor sharp claws. His legs unfold in ways legs should never be folded up. They're too long and bend in places legs aren't supposed to bend in. The pants of his costume are shredded and his boots are long gone, too.
"This is the part where I unhinge my jaw and chase you, by the way. It's pretty lame, I know. Total cliche. Buuut you have to play to your strengths."
And he does just that, his jaw unhinging, showing lines and lines of needle-like teeth. The screech that erupts from his throat is as inhuman as he looks -- and then he starts to skitter along the ground towards them with twitching limbs.
closed to grif
He walks into what's clearly a graveyard. "Ooh. Spooky. Not."
That's when he sees the girl. She looks...strange, and he realizes that's because she looks different through each eye. When he looks at her through his right eye, it looks like her eyes and nose are torn away, leaving gaping holes. Her white dress is bloodstained and most of the hair's been ripped from her head.
But when he holds a hand over his right eye, through the left eye she looks...beautiful. She looks like a really cute teenage girl, around his age, wearing a white sundress. A little voice whispers in his head that that's the image he should trust. Everything about this situation feels normal, like it's some boring summer day back home in Piedmont or Gravity Falls. Through his left eye, the graveyard even seems like some sunny field in the Oregon woods.
"So, uh. Heeey. I guess? What's a girl like you doing in a place like this?"
It sounds way cooler in his head than it does out loud, but then she laughs like she thinks it's cute and Dipper smiles.
She holds out her hand, for him to take it and run away with her, and he knows she intends to take him to see secret things in secret places. He knows that this one day of summer around him can be endless, with him forever getting to find out all the things that are unknown. Every mystery is his to uncover and he can be an adult and a kid at the same time, exactly the way he wants to be. Forever.
He just has to take her hand.
To people the outside, however, it isn't a sunny summer day in a field. Dipper stands in a foggy graveyard, with a monstrous ghost floating in the air in front of him, reaching a clawed and rotting hand towards him.
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the faceless
closed to Gwen
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A - TW: Too many limbs
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C
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C. Further CW warnings: more harm to children, indifference to own life
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C
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C
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B
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B....with a little A, A B-ish??? ↑↑↓↓←→←→B A START
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Pidge
It was her home, this was her family. Her father, her brother, her mother...even her dog was there, alive and OK. Her mother was just putting dinner on the table, her father was trying to sneak a bite of broccoli before she'd even called them to the table, her brother was just standing up from feeding the dog and...
There she was, with her hair long and her dress wrinkled from the work she'd been doing on the small machines her father had brought home from the Garrison. She was smiling and talking and Pidge couldn't hear a single word from any of them.
She must have gone deaf from the screaming before she blacked out, that was the only explanation. The tinny distant sound in her ears didn't come from the conversation that she could clearly see taking place. Her brother said something, but the sound-
-came from behind her.
There was a hallway behind her -where she knows the door is supposed to be- and in the distance she hears the familiar voices of her family. It resembles nothing so much as a black hole, and when she steps through it and sees herself.
She's Pidge and she's Katie, one and the same, and now she is staring at herself down the hall. Herself before her brother and father were taken, before she disguised herself and joined the Garrison. Before Voltron.
"Katie" is smiling, and Pidge knows the only way to go is deeper but when she blinks, the clone is gone and her family is there. She blinks again, and a Galra Druid looms over them, impossibly tall. Their voices are gone, moved somewhere further down. Her mother is sickly pale and thin, her father is in chains, and her brother has had his arms replaced by the Galra's prosthetics.
She hears herself scream, but there's a louder scream in her head telling her to save them. If she just goes down the next hall...and the next and the next...
If she gets away from whatever is following her.
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The landscape that's directly outside the house is a steep hill, and Pidge and the person that tackled her hit the grass and roll down the hillside. Arms wrap tightly around her, as the person who tackled her curls their body around her to try to protect her from being hurt as they roll down the embankment.
Then finally they roll to a stop.
Better punch that monster clinging to you, Pidge.
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※ ＦＥＡＲ ＴＨＥ ＲＥＡＰＥＲ
ＩＩ． ＯＮＬＹ ＴＨＥ ＩＮＥＶＩＴＡＢＬＥ
Bloodborne OST plays ominously in the bg: Soldier 76/ Reaper/ Sombra
She has to ask from time to time. In part because it takes less than five minutes to realize how this place thrives on working to separate anyone that isn't leaning into its horrific curve; because transmissions don't get through unless they're designed to walk you straight into a trap; most importantly, because she's seen firsthand what it does to anyone she can't look after directly— and she has the scuffs and scrapes to prove it. If she's careful, it's because she has to be. And if it wears him down, her protective adherence to his side (downplayed aside from glances, from the occasionally unnecessary question that demands an answer, or the fact that she doesn't stray more than a few feet), she couldn't really care less.
This is one ally she isn't losing. Not like the others.
There's a pause as she reconfigures her digital map of their surroundings, making a minor adjustment to reflect yet another drop off into an entirely legitimate abyss. The rest, seemingly altered on its own, is in truth handled by Cortana from inside the figurative machine.
They're so close. A few more sections charted and she'll be able to narrow down where this...Sin Rostro is nesting, she's sure of it.
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Only the Inevitable
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Miku
The thought that it might all be over soon enough kept her from running screaming back to their ship.
When she awoke, it was on hard ground. Musty, mildewy air circulated, making it difficult to want to breathe. Miku sat up, a hand to the back of her head to make sure her hairpin hadn't come undone. Moonlight filtered through the opening of a well, and where the light struck were claw marks, as though someone had tried to climb up. Miku looked around for anyone else. Above her there was moonlight, to her left the well became a slick, dirty tunnel. It was covered in lichen and mold, and nothing about it particularly screamed, "Welcome!"
Still, there was something tugging her that way. If she followed it, perhaps she'd find the others. "Is... is anyone here?"
Her own voice sounded warped and distorted, like she was reliving a memory. Miku swallowed and called a little louder, "Anyone? Hello?" She saw movement down the hall, like a flicker of shadow in the shape of a person. It stopped, as though it heard her, and turned its head. And turned its head. And turned its head.
There was a noise Miku recognized as the snapping of bone, as the figure turned slowly toward her. It felt like it drained the color from all the world, leaving everything in a shrieking, monochromatic mess. Miku looked around, desperate for a way out, an escape route, but saw nothing. There was the tunnel, and the creature - which was beginning to gain speed as it barreled towards her. Its loping, uncoordinated gait seemed wrong for how fast it was coming at her, as if someone had pulled its limbs from its sockets and left them to hang from the torso.
Miku screamed, and put her shield up to defend herself from the impact.
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As if it would be so simple to get her to do that.
Still, she wanted to get out of here and find the others as quickly as possible. Being by herself in this spaceship straight out of hell was not something she'd ever recommend. As she moved, her surroundings began to change and shift. Before she knew it, Gwen had found herself inside a tunnel, with little option but to keep moving forward. It wasn't long before she heard the sound of... something. She wasn't sure what it was, but moved closer to the source regardless.
Gwen wished she hadn't, once she finally saw what was making all that noise. It was attacking someone, too.
"Miku? Hold on!" She yelled, firing her web shooters at the creature to get it's attention.
"Hey, ugly. Over here!"
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Re: Miku
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Sombra | Azúcar
II: SCOUTING
III: MONSTER FACTORY
IV: WILDCARD
Monster Factory
Seriously, this whole mess was actually gonna give her nightmares for weeks. Months, even.
She keeps running towards the gunfire, finally spotting the monsters that she presumes are the ones being shot at. Alright, well, no sense in really waiting any longer, as Gwen fires multiple shots of webbing at the monsters, looking to pin them against the walls to keep them from running all over the place.
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hay gurl
aaayyy <3
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III - Monster Factory
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III CAVALRY'S HERE
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II: SCOUTING
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Mostly 4 with a bit of 3
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II: Scouting
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CW: Discussion of child death, bodies, mental health, possible self harm
ALSO please note that I will avoid discussion of self harm in your thread unless I've gotten your permission first. ]
We're going to need a bigger boat. He only thought it. He didn't dare to say it while the video of the crew dying played. In his head, the Jaws quote was a desperate attempt to not be as numb as he felt, watching the screen unflinchingly. Humor was a defense mechanism. See, he told himself, I still need a defense mechanism for this.
But the coldness grew and brought the dark with it.
----
When he came to and rushed to see what had happened, the joke was the only thing still hanging around. His teammates weren't, and that scared him more than the snuff screening that had been thrust upon them. The rubble he laid on wasn't encouraging.
"Didn't have to get hit with the bigger boat." Aloud, this time, and he almost wants someone to yell at him or ask him what the hell he was talking about as he got to his feet. Someone that he could then ask a more important question: where are we?
Not where he was. He's not on the ship anymore, or he thought he wasn't. The absence of walls was a giveaway, and the wrought iron fence, mostly melted to slag, but there are a few standing segments. The sky is low and overcast, and Robbie can't spot the sun through it - a sun. It wouldn't be the sun.
Maybe he was on the ship. It could have its own Habitat Deck. That would explain why the sky was so flatly colored, so uniformly grey. If he squinted, Robbie thought he could make out the cloudcover shifting in all directions, like the wind couldn't make up its mind. Undulating. He watched it for a few seconds with a growing sense of something is wrong when the previously unfelt wind hit him.
Robbie, very professionally, nearly jumped completely out of his skin. It wasn't just disturbing of the utter stillness; it was what the wind brought with it. The smell of burnt pork. It tastes black and oily, and he thinks it coated him from nose to lungs because the wind is gone and the smell remains.
He must have jumped, he realized, because his back was against the fence. The bars felt warm through his uniform. The explosion couldn't have been that long ago.
Several synapses fire at the same time, and all of it - the smell (of the dead), the sky (grey with smoke), the rubble (of flattened buildings and decimated cars), the fence (that stood outside Stamford Elementary) - coalesces in his mind. He was in Stamford. The Time Trapper sent him home, on the middle of a mission, and screwed up the timeline, sending him years in the past to the massacre of over six hundred people. His fault. Now, he's home. He's almost literally home. Springdale was less than half an hour away, but Robbie won't get there. Someone will find him, any second now, because if the iron was tolerable to touch, there were other heroes here, doing search and rescue. No. It was already a recovery, by now.
There was no rescue in Stamford. Only recoveries, one after another, body bags getting carried through the rubble and lined up on the ground until there was an available vehicle to take him to a morgue that still had fridge space. Them. Not him. He was the lucky one who lived.
He was too caught up in his head to pay much attention to the shuffling bricks on the ground. Like the rest of the area, their color was buried under black soot and grey ash. The motion continued, until a shadowy hand emerged between them, like a crab working its way out of the sand.
Robbie had convinced himself that this was not Stamford. It was also not a dream, because the idea that this could be another one of his nightmares occurred to him. He's never been cognizant in a dream. He's being crazy, and he couldn't afford to be crazy, with over 20 teammates missing. Missing. They weren't dead again - too - and he didn't smell anything. He's on a bad trip from the knockout gas, and the grey was the cell walls, and this was completely manageable as soon as the visual hallucinations stopped, and he was not schizophrenic, dammit.
"I wanna go home..."
He quietly shrieked and jerked his head around, turning enough that he's done a 360 sweep - no, there's no one here. Just him. There's no one else left. There's no kid around here to talk. (Although, if this was Stamford, then he's in the schoolyard. He would not have to move much debris to find a child's body.) There's no one here.
But Robbie was looking around again. This time, with his eyes on the ground, daring himself to find a body. He didn't see a body, child or otherwise. Instead, a shadow was dragging itself upright. He thought, again, about dreams - filled with animated corpses that knew his name and asked him why. Robbie never asked them, why what.
This wasn't that. He saw through this, but it moved. Approached. He felt - nothing. Cold, maybe, but it wasn't from fear. Just a horrified nothing as a child's shadow ambled up to him. The internal rationalizations stopped abruptly between Peter Pan and ghost, and he swore that the shadow tilted its head back as if up into his face. He stared back through the faceless face and swallowed the compulsion to apologize.
The shadow kicked him in the shin, but there was no contact. Then, it ran a few yards away and stayed there. Watching him, watching it. (It had laughed, when it kicked him and ran. Laughed, like a five year old girl. He heard it. He knew he heard it.)
No. This was why they always said not to do drugs. Robbie began to back away from the girl-shadow, before his subconscious supplied a name for her from the list of six hundred and twelve dead. Forty-two would be her size. They were just kids.
He backed away.
She followed.
-----
The second shadow appeared by darting through his legs, before falling on the ground in blurry convulsions.
----
The third, he witnessed the birth of. The soot silhouette of a boy tore itself off the very cement and beckoned him.
----
Shadows seven and eight played leap frog with each other. That was the first time they seemed solid, and it kept his mind too busy to notice that he had left the school behind and yet continued to find these young shadows.
----
It wasn't until 15 that he realized he'd been keeping count of them, despite how they stayed squarely behind him.
----
With 26, the in-fighting started. This largest one began abusing the smallest. Robbie told her to stay close to him, and from then on, the littler ones hovered within arms reach.
----
Thirty-three saw one consistently trying to climb up onto his back for a piggyback ride. Robbie barely noticed when the boy succeeded.
----
59. Robbie had to help this one out, half pinned by a girder (with no trace of the building it must have belonged to). His arms slid right into the ground to lift her free, and everything that sank in came out coated in a thick, ruddy tar that dripped like congealing blood.
The splash of color made him look faded. In this light, cornflower eyes seemed grey, and his hair was more silver than sunny. Even his uniform's bright, complimentary tones took on that pre-dawn sameness. Robbie paid no attention to this. There was one more to find.
midway, maybe around #15?
...well, from everyone, technically, but there was one absence that took precedence in Ken's mind over all of the rest, because even when the rest of his team (his old team) graduated, moved on, left him trailing years behind him like he'd always realized was inevitable, Koromaru had still been there. Koromaru moved back into the dorms with him when they reopened. Koromaru waited for him to get back from school every day. Koromaru trained with him so they could both stay sharp, because someday, everyone was going to need their help again.
Koromaru was always there. Until he wasn't.
Tartarus had done this a few times, when he thought back on it. It had worked out. It had just been the place trying to mess with them, but all they had to do was regroup and keep going.
So he started walking, and when he finally saw a mess of shadowy figures moving a ways ahead, he picked up his pace. Koromaru used darkness. Maybe -
"Hey! Wait!"
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Gwen Stacy (set after Dipper's turn)
But this...
This.
It all seemed so much worse, and it was unsettling her way more than anything else she'd witnessed so far. Horror movies had nothing on this crap. And then there was Dipper. Oh god, Dipper... The memory alone was enough to make Gwen throw up on the spot.
Bent over, still, both hands were on her knees as she finished losing the rest of her breakfast and lunch. And while all that was happening, she could hear the echoing sound of increasingly loud footsteps.
"Awesome." She said to herself before putting her mask back on.
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Thankfully, the monkey the footsteps belong to has no intention of attacking or hurting her. Monkey does briefly wrinkle her nose at the smell of vomit, but turns her attention to the person who'd (probably) done the vomiting.
"Are you all right?"
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Locksmith & Delta
They've seen this horror movie. That's York's first thought when the mission's described. They've seen it, some of them have lived it, and sending in a small team? Isn't happening. Having seen it he figures that as long as they stick together and keep an eye out? Everyone will make it out okay. It's just an Alien or something that killed everything off or a virus or- something. Something small, something containable, something they can paint a target on and kill.
Then the video.
Then the people ripping each other apart for no reason.
Then the world goes dark in a terrifyingly familiar way, everything distant and cold and the one conscious thought York has before he blacks out is that there's something on this ship that hates them.
They wake little by little in the comforting embrace of his armor, breath shallow and strained and surrounded on all sides by something malleable and cumbersome. It's only when York pulls on a hand and yanks himself free he realizes he'd been buried in corpses. Bodies, too many to count- with familiar blonde hair. York stumbles free, old pain and guilt that's not even his roaring to life as voices tear through his mind and the surrounding environment, echoing, rebounding, overlapping in a deafening cacophony of insidious pain.
Allison-
-put that thing down. You're gonna make me la-
-not be concerned. This is perfectly normal-
-gave you the schematics, they're just- they're too complex-
-not your fault Agent York and Texas-
-Tex don't- don't let 'em-
Allison Allison Allison Allison Allison Allison Allison ALLISON
Panic stirs him to movement, to get away, to climb free of this literal mire of grief that he never asked for, tripping over bodies bent and burnt, a million imagined deaths for a woman he'd never known strewn about like dried leaves, leaving him struggling against the irregular relief of the cliff's face as he tries to claw his way free.
II
He'd lost his helmet somewhere along the way. In the pit or at the crash- more familiar faces, more burnt bodies twisted in unnatural angles, straps tight enough to stop the bleeding but not to prevent bones for breaking. Maybe it'd fallen off, maybe he'd torn it off to vomit, maybe he'd thrown it at another goddamn ghost that wouldn't leave him alone. Trying to find anyone's been impossible and Delta-
Delta's been quiet. No cool wash of calm in the back of his mind, no commentary, no grounding reminder that none of this is real. It feels real. Smells real. This must be some kind of hell and he must have earned it- sure as shit makes more sense than the happy possibility of being a hero. He'd fallen earlier or. Something. He can't remember. But that has to explain the pain in his head, the blood welling at the back of his neck at odd intervals. Without reflective surfaces he can't see the web of something growing under his skin. Can't notice the odd glint to his good eye as he wanders, calling out at anyone that looks like they're alive.
III
"Help-" it's faint, the voice. York's voice. Low and strained and exhausted, echoing endlessly in the dark. At the far end of the hall he's standing, head up, eye bright despite the lack of light. Almost luminescent. "I got turned around."
Everyone did. There's no one right way around, no one answer, and he seems well. A little stiff, voice a little stilted, and terribly still. There's no sigh of relief. No rush to meet whomever he meets in the hall. Just that quiet voice, pleading. "Help."
Closer inspection shows why his posture is so stiff and awkward. Why he doesn't move- blood smeared tendrils have grown out from the base of his neck, under and through his skin- leaving him standing suspended by a singular point. Bulging tangles writhe at his throat, pierce the plating of his armor from the outside in, winding in great coils around his limbs as he's puppeted in grotesque, jerky motions to beacon people close.
w i l d c a r d :P
In a sea of radio interference and hallucination, why is this coming through so clearly?
"Sombra, distress call from Delta. York's in trouble." Regardless of how honest the call for help may be, it's certainly factual regardless--they're all in trouble. "The protocols all check out, but I think it's a trap."
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2
2
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3
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Rocket
Halls shouldn't be made of meat. It was one of those general rules of life that weren't supposed to violated.
The sound of pattering made him swing around, pointing his gun in the direction of the noise and laying his ears back. "Okay, see, situations like this? Situations like this is why the whole 'non-lethal' thing is stupid. I gotta make more bombs. Bombs're non-lethal, if you're in the opposite direction."
Despite his best efforts, the complaining wasn't as much of a distraction from the feeling of creeping fear as he would've liked. Rocket bristled as he walked forward again, ready to unleash a load of non-lethal but still painful shots at the first thing to surprise him.
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Here where he was caught up in more of that fleshy wall stuff, pinned by debris and wires and some sort of mass of fleshy tendrils. If he held still too damn long he was gonna get absorbed at this rate.
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Agent Conneticut
But she's not going to find her team mates or any answers by sticking around. For all that she's wearing her power armour, Connie's able to slip quietly through the dark and sparking hallways of the ship with a double or two stalking silently by her side. Every now and again there's the sharp crackle of electricity accompanied by a moan so low it's almost a whimper, and the deeper she gets the more unnervingly familiar the hallways- and the voices are.
Don't think about them. Regroup, find whoever else is alive, and try to get out. This is your last chance, Connie.
Survive.
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And a UNSC IFF signature to kill it with, apparently. They're just everywhere lately.
She opens a comms channel with all the proper protocols, providing her own IFF signature. Being alone with her thoughts has not proven healthy on this mission, and it's probably the same for everyone else.
"Agent Connecticut?"
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Lena Oxton | Tracer
HOME
CRISIS
WILDCARD
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Somewhere else.
A military base, that much he's pretty sure on. Somewhere with barracks and plenty of nooks and crannies to hide in. York staggers to his feet, massaging away the ache in his bad eye as he starts looking for high ground. Somewhere these shadows can't claw at his ankles to drag him down. The architecture is just unfamiliar enough that muscle memory taking over leads him to high ramps and weird crosswalks instead of, well. Sickbay or a command room. He only twigs to it being NOT UNSC when he hears someone else calling. "Yeah?"
A beat, he sticks his head out a door into what looks like open air. "How the hell do you get around in this place?"
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HOME
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76 | get at me
II
III
wildcard
I
"Sir Seventy-Six—please, it's just me."
Her brow is sweaty and her hands shaky, but she's doing her absolute most not to quiver or back down. She's so terrified to find herself at the end of another weapon after all this time that putting down her own doesn't even occur to her, one twitch and she feels like she'd be collapsing or fading away.
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I
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I do what I want
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II
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I
Re: I
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Victor
He has barely enough time to muffle a cry of horror at the violent snuff film playing out on the monitors before the darkness closes mercilessly over his head, plunging him into the unknown. When he wakes, he's alone, alone again and that's maybe the worst part of all this. He's alone in a world of the horrifying unknown, and he has no frame of reference for it. It takes him some time to rise to his feet, and even then he has to steady himself against the unsettling flesh walls more than he'd like to.
Victor has no traumas raw or recent enough for this place to exploit, nothing other than the trauma inherent in this place. What he does have is the knowledge that he needs to get out of here: his heart is back on Legion World, and that's enough to propel him forward, looking for another person, a way out, the source of that distant, tinny warning. He has nothing to guide him, only the warnings of his precognition to steer him away from the paths that lead to no return, but he's still alive and he's still moving. He still has hope.
For now, that will have to be enough.
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The figure approaching Victor is walking stiffly, like each step is coming at a cost. The shuffling movements are accompanied by dry, hair-raising sounds. Clicking. Clacking. Skrip-scraping through the nightmare terrain. It's the hard, hollow sound of bone-on-bone, and the sound sets teeth on edge as it manages to rise over the constant chatter of the shadow-children that accompany him.
Crunch. Crack.
Robbie is barely recognizeable beneath the bone and blood. He's surrounded by a lattice work of bone that covers most of his body. It has grown, quickly and organically, from spikes of bone that erupted all over his body and twisted, connecting into this delicate carapace. Flashes of blue and orange and blonde can be seen through the holes, but the rusty color of dried blood dominates.
Sic him! Go faster! Zap him from here! Don't be useless!
He has to get to Victor. Has to put him out of his misery before something awful can happen to him, too. Victor will be safe where the the monsters can't get him anymore. Nothing will interrupt that bubbly personality anymore. Robbie won't have to think about smiles and winks anymore. They'll all be safe when he's standing over a pale limp mass watching blood slick silver hair down.
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Re: Victor
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