Yvonne sees the woman, and is relieved. There was safety, a respite, even if it would be brief. As she spoke, waves of worry washed over Yvonne, however, when she asked if anybody else was okay. She didn't know. She had so much to think about, and...
Before Yvonne slumped to the ground unconscious, she uttered three words.
"I don't know."
You pass out at One-Eighty's feet, your senses becoming one in the world of dreams, a deep blue sea of flawless perfection stretching in every direction, you floating in the black, starlit void above, throwing seeds of sharp death into the depths where they give rise to mighty, buzzing trees with razor leaves and ravenous ant colonies, forming magnetic roots and networks between each other to maximize efficiency of deployment. Some grow taller, some grow shorter, but all grow according to your design, bearing great streaks of red fruit at your bidding. Here you are queen and tender, and in the center of this garden you shall dwell, forever inviolate...
You waken to the sight of your mother chasing off a group of girls from your class who seem to have been poking at your unconscious body with sticks. The sidewalk you seem to have been deposited on smells gray and dusty, and you feel the filth of it slowly worming its way into you. You blink a few times at the bright blue sky above, the unmistakable feeling of freedom invigorating your spirit.
Lacie swore, this was the last thing that she needed, losing her tools and her key on top of everything else. Not able to imagine how this could get any worse she slipped through the door, emerging in her small apartment. It was not the tidiest place, clothes were strewn about the floor and a couple of empty glasses and plates still resting on various surfaces. The thief limped through the mess towards the kitchen and almost collapsed in one of the chairs around the wooden table, her half eaten dinner still resting where she had left it. This night had been an unmitigated disaster, weeks of planning gone down the drain all because of her one stupid mistake. She was lucky even to be alive, she would certainly be dead if whatever had happened to her body hadn’t occurred.
With that thought the young woman looked down at her body, it was still a shock to see it made of wood instead of flesh and blood. She flexed her fingers, marvelling at the fact that she could even move. For a while she simply stared trying to think of a reason that she ended up like this, her mind came up blank again and again. What on earth was she and why had she suddenly changed like this? She eventually gave up, whatever it was it wouldn’t change anything in the end. Instead her mind turned to how on earth she was going to get back to normal.
For a moment she hesitated, then with all her mental strength she focused. Trying to will herself back to her normal state of humanity.
You try very hard to will yourself back to your normal state, but the wooden nature of your flesh refuses to abate, remaining as it is for the few minutes that you attempt to concentrate your will.
Though maybe you're just not doing it right, it occurs to you. After all, what does it mean to concentrate your will? Repeating a sentence again and again while squeezing your eyes shut like you're in the Land of Oz? Emptying your mind of anything but the desire to become human again? Attempting to harness some inner strength that would push you over the mystical boundary enforcing your unnatural form? The idea of "willpower" as such usually refers to sticking to an idea despite unpleasantness and inconvenience that would be incurred - in your case, being full of broken glass and possessing an open fracture again, which doesn't sound at all pleasant when you think about it. Heck, you remember exactly how it felt, and no sane person would look forward to that again.
Truthfully, you have no idea how this is supposed to work. Is it supposed to work? You haven't really heard much about parahumans, which you suppose you are now, needing a lot of time to figure out what their powers are. It's usually pretty intuitive. And you seem to have no obvious way of turning human again presently.
If he could do it, Kyle would be massaging his temples in an emotion somewhere between annoyance and amusement. That said, he figures that this is a good time to get some petty revenge.
"You know what? Fuck it. I'll let you go for now... But, I'm gonna need your clothes, your shoes, and your gun. Oh, and any ammo you have left. Can't have you shooting me or my family in the back now can I? And in case you have any ideas, I can very easily kill you if you try shooting me again, so let's just make this easy."
Tubby, currently scared out of his mind, attempts to fully comply, presenting you his clothes and his shoes, which seem like pretty alright overall aside from the length of time they've spent in contact with Tubby, even if it is an alternate universe Tubby. He doesn't appear to have a gun, which is good, as you didn't see one on the Tubby you replaced him with.
In considerably worse news, you do have to look at half-naked Tubby to do all this while making sure he's not trying anything. And he doesn't even bother trying anything to make sure you observing him was justified. Crafty bugger, that Tubby. Even in defeat he manages to vex you.
"What kind of stuff?" Steven asks, purposefully ignoring the mans nudity and reaching out to snag one of the glazed donut's the universe was so desperately trying to deny him.. "...and how structurally sound is your basement?"
pausing for a moment, Steven recalls that Kim wants Z gone and idly toys with an idea.
"I tend to avoid going into the cellars of armed men, but i need a favour too...
for reasons i cant be bothered explaining i need of those alcoholic cakes i dont have the time to go get it, if you can go get me one ill clear out the basement for you while your gone."
"Lively stuff. Used to be people, I think," Z explains, grabbing a donut for himself as he sits down on the couch's armrest. "Basement's solid and soundproof. But meh. Guess I'll have to do it myself, then," he says as he bites down on the donut mirthlessly, seemingly skeptical of its quality. "Gonna need a long break before, though. And maybe fire, too."
"Wouldn't be you if something actually got done," Kim disdainfully mentions as she sips her decaf, but Z is too busy ruminating on the donut critically to reply.
((Not really in a mood to write up an rpey thing, didn't feel like delaying the game though. Sooo not as good quality as normal for me.))
Vel decides, while chewing on his sandwich, that yes, making food for himself might be a good idea. Then his mom stumbles in. Goodie.
"Morning Mother."
"Forget to sleep again?"
"No."
"Intentionally choosing not to sleep?"
"Yes."
"You really should fix that sleep cycle of yours you kn-"
At this point, Vel gets up, picks up his plate, and goes back downstairs. Another nag is not needed.
As your mother speaks you feel a nagging edge to her voice, a misplaced and misinformed concern for your health. She knows nothing, so you leave after few words, climbing down into the basement to finish your sandwich and water there. The sandwich is rather nice, really. A bit better than what you usually eat,
when you even eat. You really should eat more, you look so-
-wait. That thought. You hold it for a moment, feeling it out, trying to analyze it carefully.
Very strange. It is definitely a thought that just popped into your head. It is, however, not your thought. This much you are sure of. It has a... different texture of sorts. Related, yet alien in all too many ways.
Rachel blinks once in surprise, then grins. The seemingly acidic or corrosive nature of her new existence is not unwelcome. After all, she had planned on trying to slip through the door, like she had with the restraints. This new discovery, however, made this next step all the more doable. Rachel presses her hand to the door again, this time aiming for the locks. If her suspicions are correct, she's being held in one of the testing rooms at the base, where new concoctions of her father and the other scientists are used on willing volunteers. Which begged the question, just what, exactly, was that liquid that she had seen in her IV? And why had no one come to check on her? Was this a test?
Brushing the questions and speculations aside once more, Rachel returns to the task at hand, watching the door carefully.
The door is automatic, two slabs of interlocking metal. Very thick, you would think. Much thicker than those of any testing rooms you have knowledge of. Not the sort of room your father tended to work with, to be perfectly honest. Well, not to your knowledge, anyway - wherever you are, it feels very foreign, very high-tech. Might be a refurbished complex of the old research initiatives. The parahuman powers would certainly make sense in that event, but those don't happen to be your father's specialty. Or, indeed, any of his chief research directions from what you know of his work. Makes sense, of course. People who do much in the way of imbuing powers aren't really the sort who get published anywhere. Instead they're just paid massive sums of money and kept in underground bunkers away from regular society. Or so you've been told, anyway.
In any case, you press your hand to the door once again, working a finger into the hole and driving it slowly deeper. Oddly, it is only your fingertip that seems to work like this, corroding its way into the steel door. And the finger doesn't seem to be pushing into it so much as elongating, thinning out... experimentally, you slide another finger in, and finally a fourth, your entire hand stretching out like a spiked protrusion, biting deeply into the steel until you manage to create a miniature hole in the door's seam, at which point you pull your hand back, noting that is seems to have grown to about three times its length and one half of its former diameter, its vague proportions and very obvious sharpness giving it the look of a set of five spikes grouped very closely together.
You look at the hole, too. It's tiny, true. But somehow you get the feeling that it is
just big enough... perhaps even comfortable to get through. You only need to dive in, you think...
Alex would quietly focus and stare at the ember. He would attempt to kindle it.
You stare earnestly at your father, who is not sure what to make of your incommunicability. You're probably drunk, he must think. However, what you're actually doing is much stranger. It feels like making a marsh catch on fire at first, but you see the ember light up a little at your first poke, only to subside. Your father blinks. You poke it again, and there's a spark. For a moment he looks absent. The third time, though, the ember lights up properly, flickering in your father's mind intermittently. It is an interesting thing to observe, and you look at his mind for a good few moments before he inadvertently loses this weird staring contest you're having, which makes him laugh.
"Why
are we standing out here, anyway? It's cold! Come in, son!" he says affably and perhaps a bit too loudly, ushering you in. "Why were you out there, anyway? Do you need any coffee? Man, I could sure go for some coffee right now," he rattles off at you. "I'll fix some for us and you'll tell me all about it. Must be some
interesting business out there, eh?" he nudges you with his elbow insistently, then throws his arm around your shoulder warmly. "I remember when I was your age. Oh boy, the things I did. How I'm still alive today only god himself knows."
He guides you into the kitchen and gently pushes you toward a chair as he starts to fiddle with the espresso maker impatiently.
"How does this thing even work?" he continues to talk out loud. "These things can never just have a button that says 'make me some damn coffee', can they? Always has to be some hullabaloo with settings and modes and what have you. I might as well try and make espresso in the fondue set," he says as he immediately abandons the endeavor and starts absently looking for the fondue set. You're not sure if you have a fondue set. "That sounds pretty great, actually. Hold on a sec, son, I'll make us some good coffee yet!"
Ugh, people. There were always people. Arnie didn't like most people. People hated him. There was always someone ready to shove his face to the curb or spit at him. Even those that seemed nice usually had other motives. Arnie knew. He knew that the world looked down on him. He had been called so many things. Crazy. Stupid. Disgusting. Pathetic. What would they call him now? He shuddered even thinking about it.
Arnie looked around the kitchen. Huh? Did he just see a shadow move past the window? Was that whispering he heard? Is he truly alone? Someone could be hiding here, waiting to strike. Maybe this was all part of their plan. To experiment on him and then strike him down. They made him like this, so they might know his weaknesses. Yes, that has to be it. They must be waiting for an opportunity to strike. Arnie readied himself for a surprise attack. He'll be ready. He won't let anyone treat him like a rotting piece of garbage. Not any more.
Arnie waited. The waiting was torture. Finally, Arnie couldn't take it any more.
"I know you're watching me!" Arnie yelled at his surroundings. "LEAVE ME ALONE!"
Start wrecking the kitchen. Kill or destroy anything that seems threatening.
You wreck all things at once in the kitchen, smashing the microwave, kicking the fridge until it gives in, smashing a chandelier, breaking all the dishes, breaking the cupboards and flipping basically everything in a baleful rage, objects flying around as you flail with rage, all up until the moment where you hurl a chair through the window, breaking it open. This being one of the more instinctive things to do, the window breakage happens very quickly, at which point you are distracted by the sudden way you seem to be seeping out of the window, spreading out into the nightly air, your flailing continuing as you vainly attempt to banish the shadows outside the house.
The look of the outside - near deserted, crumbling rows of houses, the occasional crazed howl, ominous buzz or panicked scream resonating in the half-ruins, nobody at all within easy spotting distance - would indicate that you are in the Low Fields. It feels oddly like home, you would say. You wonder why the snake-woman thought to bring you here. Were the Bluffs too far? Was she going to leave you here when the snakes took you, so that you may bring down the others you know in turn?
The truth is out there. And your soul is pulling you out of the house, indicating that enlightenment may indeed be found elsewhere.
She- He- Had-
Oh god. What just- she had just...what had she done? What was she doing? And- and- she had to save Lucian, he could still be saved, right, someone needed to call the police, get an ambulance, people could survive getting shot in the head, right? Right?
But she knew it was hopeless. Even so, a small part of her knew she had to get Dominic free. But her own body she could not move. Lucian, however, or what used to be him, as she could feel his 'self' slipping, no matter how she tried to force it to life. She was slumped, on the floor, tears streaming down her face as Meche stared, taking a step closer, before backing away. The woman did not know what had happened, but it was terrifying and awe-inspiring at the same time. The fear was more familiar to Meche. And in her life, that was stronger than the bonds of family, it seemed. "B-baby? Y-you take care of your brothers-brother now, I'm gonna, gonna try and f-find someone to help, alright? You-you just stare here and take care of Dominic and...and...a-and take care of Dominic, okay? I-I'll be right back."
She probably meant it too, when she said it. But Serra knew she wouldn't come back. She never did. She'd left them time and again, and this time, it had gotten her brother killed. She wanted to say something. 'Don't bother, maybe. Or 'this is your fault'. Or even just 'why?'. But she couldn't manage any of it. Lucian had untied Dominic, or at least ripped apart the bonds, and he was crying just as she was. But his tears were more silent. His screaming, his fear, that had been the last few days. Hers was just now, as she sobbed, curled up on the floor, and her brother hugged her. He was scared too, probably. But Dominic...he was a good kid. A good kid.
And no one. Would ever. Hurt him. Again.
Meche does not come back. And neither does anyone else arrive. You don't know how much time passes, or if it even matters. All three of you are there, with you and Dominic trying to find some solace, making wordless promises to one another to try and cope, your lives forever changed by the experience.
And but a few small steps away is Lucian, failing to understand, staring at his brother and sister and unable to stop himself from crying along with you in childlike sympathy, the fear and the horror slowly flooding back into him after his killer, broken and lifeless, is out of sight and mind, feelings of violence and urgency no longer kindled by his lifeline. He inches forward and tries to reach out weakly, wishing dearly for the comfort of his siblings' embrace after the helplessness and terror of the past few days, uncomprehending of his final moments apart from a sensation of something very wrong, his lack of breathing, congealing head wounds, a feeling of creeping cold and alien sensations all telling him of an inevitability he has no hope of ever understanding.
All three of you are there, left alone now in a house of corpses.
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Topic: Come On Down To Edwardstown: A Worm-Inspired RP (9/9) (Read 16510 times)