MISSION 002

[etrayamods]

WHO: Everyone!
WHEN: May 3rd-28th
WHERE: Within the Labyrinth
WHAT: The second Mission
NOTES\WARNINGS: Potential death, violence, injury. Please add additional warnings as needed within threads.

⏵ into the labyrinth ⏴ Aurora's announced time for the mission was correct: four days after, as she had promised, the door to the Labyrinth opens, connected to Etraya's atmospheric bubble by its entrance point. Characters are directed to come to the entrance on May 3rd, and warned that they may want to bring medical supplies, weaponry, and any important artifacts along with them. She warns that large vehicles will not fit within the limited space available, and smaller ones may be difficult to remove, thus advises those to stay behind. Aurora also offers to watch over any companion animals and keep them safe while competitors complete the Labyrinth. They are given a short amount of time outside of the entrance to speak with one another, to plan and organize themselves, before they are ushered into it in groups of two to four. Once passed the entrance, they'll find that they are unable to turn around and exit out of it: a barrier keeps them from going back into the city proper, and as soon as they are far enough forward, the walls around them shift, closing them in, moving in complex patterns meant to separate them and bring them together. Characters with extraordinary abilities may find some of them inaccessible: super strength may be downgraded to closer to ordinary strength, magic may prove to be less predictable than it should be, and regardless of how strong, fast, or clever characters are: passing over the Labyrinth walls or destroying them proves to be impossible. While one may be able to run through the pathways at superhuman speeds, the pathways compensate for it by running them in circles, refusing to allow them to make any progress on their own. ⏵ pathways collide ⏴ Junctures of the Labyrinth often present competitors with choices, some that may have consequences: a left turn down a darker path may prove to be harmless, whereas the well-lit path may be full of traps intent on slowing them down: a trip wire that activates a swinging massive axe, or arrows that shoot straight out of the wall as soon as one gets close enough. Other junctures may present characters with choices that have consequences: they can choose the shortest pathway, but at great personal risk to themselves or their partner (ie, you can go this way, but your arm isn’t going with you) or they can choose the lengthy pathway full of traps and trials they’ll have to surpass to get to the end. ⏵ balancing act ⏴ The pathway opens up into a massive space, but it's not one with an easy path out: instead, competitors will find an obstacle course that will not let them continue forward until they complete it. Many of the tasks involve things that one cannot do on their own: they must walk across multiple wooden boards balanced precariously on a tall beam, but to ensure it's balanced, there must be one person on both sides of the boards and make sure that they're walking on the board in just the right space to ensure their weight doesn't cause it to sink too far on the opposite side. If a smaller child is on one end, they may want to stand significantly further away from the beam than the larger person on the other half. ⏵ help! i'm bleeding! ⏴ A large garden area spawns off of a pathway. The peaceful chirping of birds can be heard among blooming cherry blossom trees, and it all seems utterly peaceful and calm. An area one might wish to take a breather in, enjoy the sunshine reflecting from above, and get a good nap in. Or would, except a companion bot whose abdomen is covered in ketchup appears to be struggling across the ground, crying out for help. They state they are bleeding profusely and require immediate medical attention, otherwise, they will die. The companion bot also carries a bag of medical supplies and MREs, which player characters are welcome to utilize. The pathway out of this open space will not open until after the companion bot no longer states they are dying. Whether it's because they're "dead", or because those who came across them offered "medical attention" and patched them up until they've stated they're good and no longer need assistance - well, both will technically suffice. ⏵ choice is an illusion ⏴ After walking down an additional pathway, characters will find themselves trapped within a glass box. In front of them is a pedestal with two buttons: one red, and one green, as well as a tablet above it displaying the image of another group of characters. The tablet states hindering them will help you. You may either choose to make the second group's time through the maze more difficult, or hinder your progress by pressing the green button and helping the other group forward. Characters are given two minutes to decide which path to take; the timer, on the tablet, counts down regardless of any attempt to break or hack it. Pressing the green button will drop several squishmallows into the glass box. Inside one of them is a key that unlocks the roof of the glass box. Pressing the red button, while it promises to hinder the other group, actually. . . causes a toxic yellow gas to flood the glass box. The gas will burn the lungs of those who breathe it in, but it also begins slowly melting the glass box. This gas will make breathing difficult for the next 24 hours, but will not kill those who inhale it. Healing factors will not offset the gas. ⏵ who deserves the knife? ⏴ A group of two characters will walk through one corridor and find themselves strapped to two chairs, the backs of which are leaning against each other. In front of the both of them are drills, slowly approaching their chests. They cannot go sideways but can push forward and backward. They can push backward and get themselves further away from the threat of injury - forcing the person behind them to suffer but allowing themselves to escape - or they can push into the drill and free the person they're with. Alternatively, they can choose not to push either way, potentially sacrificing them both. Three options, but they are left with minimal time to decide as the drill continues to press closer. If they choose to go out together, they'll find that as the drills press against their chest - they simply stop. Minimal blood will be spilled, and they will have all the time they need to figure out how to squirm out of their bindings. ⏵ the Siren waits for thee ⏴ A seemingly harmless pathway turns into much more trouble than it's worth. A few steps through a corridor, and suddenly competitors will find the floor falling out from under them, revealing a body of water and - no solid ground on either side of it. There are the walls, but they lack any good climbing holds. Within the water are numerous Sirens - beautiful androgynous creatures that sing soft songs meant to entice others into following them deep into the water. While they may look beautiful, their mouths are full of razor-sharp teeth, and their intentions certainly aren't innocent. However, the Sirens can only touch competitors once they have initiated touch first. They will do their best to encourage this: holding out their hands, crying out for help, pretending to drown, or trying to coax them into coming in close enough for a kiss. As long as they remain on the path, they're harmless. But the moment they reach out for the Sirens... getting away from them will not be easy. Their tails are powerful, built for moving swiftly throughout the water and dragging others along with them. They bite hard and will dig their teeth deep into flesh to discourage struggling. If one gets captured by them? They're lunch. Or worse yet: if they get bitten but manage to escape, they may find themselves becoming a bit.. scaley around the neck, eyes shifting color to a too-soft green, and an almost impossible-to-resist urge to take a bite out of their friends. This effect will continue until May 28th regardless of when the character reaches the end of the Labyrinth. After May 28th, they will find that their scales slowly begin to shed, their eyes begin to turn back to their normal shade, and any other new features slowly turn back to how they were before they were infected. ⏵ don't forget your ball of twine ⏴ The Labyrinth is large, and there are many challenges around each corner. There may be space for breaks in between monsters, challenges, riddles, places to sit and recuperate between battles and mind games. It's not all chaos and challenges meant to test one's strength of will. ⏵ NOTES ⏴ May's mission is completing a massive Labyrinth. All characters must enter the Labyrinth; whether or not they participate once they're inside is up to them, but no one will be permitted to stay behind in the city. The duo who completes the Labyrinth first will be allowed to assist in choosing the next mission. Sign-ups for this are here. We will contact the chosen characters on May 13th. This mission will cover the time between May 3rd and May 28th. After May 28th, any characters who have not yet exited the Labyrinth will be gathered by the companion bots and brought back into the city. The companion bots will be aiming for nonviolent intervention. If more is needed, please let us know here. The first to exit will be returning to the city on May 15th. There will be powercapping during this mission, but the extent of which is fully up to players. We want the Labyrinth to be challenging but don't want to hinder gameplay too much. If you have any questions relating to this or want assistance coming up with ways to powercap your character, please feel free to ask us here. We will be largely leaving this up to player discretion. Food is scarce within the Labyrinth, but not impossible to find. There are chests (or maybe they're mimics?) strewn throughout with various useful items. One might have a sword, another might have a fresh chicken nugget Happy Meal from McDonalds. Or an entire birthday cake, candles included. Large vehicles will not fit in the Labyrinth and must be left behind in the city. Numerous challenges are throughout the Labyrinth. You are welcome to make your own, but we will also provide several you may utilize! Please feel free to throw down wildcards, or your own challenges into your prompts! The limitation is that characters must remain themselves throughout the challenges. There are no mirror replicas, nothing within the Labyrinth will affect their personalities or core values. It’s meant to challenge, not change them. Deaths that occur within the Labyrinth will last 24 hours. Please report these on our Death Tracker. All new locations will appear after player characters have returned to the city. Feel free to note the differences from the May 3rd map, versus what characters will be returning to on May 15th.

Comments

cw: partial degloving mentioned

[skaikru]

( how many days has it been out here now? two, three, ten? this little lab rat had lost track and found it easier to keep track of near death events and the people she's met along the way than actually track the passage of the sun filtering through the too-tall stone walls of the labyrinth. there'd been several at this point, and people and monster alike she'd thus managed to escape mostly unscathed. but this last one...? oh, the last one had been bad. clarke had rounded a nondescript corner and found herself immediately yanked off her feet by something imperceptible; slammed into a tall backed wooden chair with welded manacles shackling her wrists to the armrests. a drill had slowly whirred directly towards her chest, and a younger boy had been locked in similar straits directly behind her. in the end he'd broken bones in his hand to get free, and sought to pull her free from harm as well, but not before clarke had struggled so aggressively against this slow, insultingly repetitive death that she'd shaved a good chunk of skin off her right hand in an effort to wrench herself free. she hadn't felt it in the moment, so pumped full of adrenaline and borderline furious at the idea she'd die here twice within one month to feel much of anything.

so it'd been with a detached sense of self that, afterwards, clarke had looked down at the pieces of dead skin peeled away from ink-black flesh and fat and bone. and just... neatly slid it back to where it should go, from knuckles to carpal. wrapped it in a fresh sheet of gauze that'd quickly soaked through like ink through parchment paper, and gone on her way one-handed. pain had been something that could be overcome with a sharp grit of her teeth and the sheer determination to find the exit of this horrid place; the early stages of infection wasn't as easily brushed off, though.

eventually she'd recognized she needed to stop walking. and she knew, eventually, she was going to need to undo the wrappings and clean the wound properly. inspect it more closely, troubleshoot with her dwindled and inadequate medical supplies. she'd stumbled across a well staged resting space and told herself that was the first order of business, but thus far has just been sitting in a camping chair in front of a fire she didn't light. for once not zeroed in on her surroundings and just focused on how cold she feels despite the lick of flames and how hot her right palm feels. she's keyed in on forcing her fingers to flex and relax, even if it's agony with every twitch — if she can still move it, it's fine — and almost doesn't hear the small voice that pipes up. but it registers last second, and she tilts her head in that direction with glassy eyes.

the vision of a young woman on the other side of the fire, flanked by wolves and seated atop a beetle the size of a horse, and — is that a dragon? clarke'd had a rather unfortunate run in with a dragon too, but couldn't force herself to run at the sight of it if she wanted to at this point. anyways, her vision feels unreliable. the whole odd tableau wobbles and undulates with the mirage of fever. it's either real and deeply unnerving or it's not and she doesn't need to even acknowledge the entourage. time will tell.

for someone so visibly pallid, her voice is cool and calm. )

Sure. But, sorry. I don't think I'm going to be very good company.

( though company serves to break her from just idly staring at her own hand. with a poorly restrained wince, clarke curls her fingers up and cradles her right arm to her chest while her left digs in the deflated go-bag she'd set down between her feet at some point. acetaminophen is the plan, and she finds a gas-station two pack of tylenol in an exterior pocket; brings the foil to her mouth to rip open with her teeth. )

[ontologically]

[There's something off about this woman's injuries. Even at a glance, tired as Amy is, she can see that. Her eyes are sunken, but nonetheless sharp as she evaluates this stranger. Has she seen her before? No. She doesn't think so.

She snaps her fingers, and as if acting on instinct, the wolves stop and sit. The dragon relaxes, but never drops it's guard fully, and the beetle stands motionless.]

That's fine. Suits me perfectly. [She climbs off, turning to the flesh ooze - before hesitating.]

You're hurt. Let me help. [It's barely an offer. She's used to people in this place telling her not to worry - that they'll just tough it out, because they think she's working with a limited reserve. She's not really interested in having that conversation here and now.

Instead, she leaves the ooze and the wolves behind and walks over to Clarke. Up close, the fear and despair in Amy's general demeanor is pretty plain to see. And still, she offers a hand.]

[skaikru]

( ah, so amy has met the clarke griffin type before. the ones who say "i'm fine" when obviously not, the ones who'd rather bleed out than stop running in whatever direction they've set their mind to. that is in no way surprising, this place seems engineered to attract the type; can't save the world without being horrifically stubborn, or something.

but there's always a point wherein the mask slips. where clarke may considering waving off the open palm extended, set on fumbling for needle and thread in her pocket, but already knows she can't stitch herself up single handedly. she has never been very good at being alone. somehow even less equipped to ask for help, but to turn it away when practically shoved in her face? when it didn't even matter if there were caveats or fine print beneath the offer, because the alternative is curling into a feverish ball and never fully waking up? there's self sacrifice and then there's just base stupidity.

it takes a heartbeat or two, though the moment feels like it stretches through the lens of a fever dream. but clarke wincingly raises her right hand in it's black drenched bandage. she manages to look the other girl in the eyes, and for a second it's like looking in an exhausted, melancholy sort of mirror. just one set of irises are brown and the other blue. )

It's... bad.

( not broken bone jutting out through skin bad, but loose and greying skin on the verge of necrosis bad. clarke can't even tell if she's begun to smell of rot or not. she really hadn't wanted to die here, let alone from something as simple as infection after the fact, and yet it feels like a very real possibility. amy may even be privy to a slight flash of pure, indignant anger that lances across clarke's brow and draws her lips up into the beginnings of a snarl at the idea — but it pretty instantly transforms into a hiss when she forces stiff, vaguely purple fingers to grasp the extended hand properly. )

I don't know if there's anything to be helped.

[ontologically]

[They ask a lot, don't they. Amy is transfixed briefly, staring into those exhausted eyes, like a mirror into the same despair she feels. She doesn't look like Victoria, Amy notes. Her hair just happens to be blonde, her eyes just happen to be blue. But that thought still crosses her mind like a bad memory. This is what would have become of her. What still might become of her. Not quite what Amy turned her into, but what Carol would have turned her into by the time they were done.

She's pretty. Despite the decay.

She certainly doesn't look like Skitter. But that crosses her mind too.

The mutated flesh blob slides forward soundlessly as Amy makes a quiet noise - barely a whistle - and Amy lays her hand on Clarke's.]

I can heal it. [She thinks she can. Distantly, she's aware that her newly strengthened shard might rebel again. If that's what it can be called, if that's not a blatant excuse.] This will only take a minute.

[She has to force herself to remember the ethics she's supposed to operate under. She doesn't ask verbal consent, but she does ask this.]

Do you want to be awake while I fix it?

[Some people find it disturbing after all.]

[skaikru]

( heal it, huh? maybe for the second time ever on this planet, the fates have decided to dole out a bit of luck. and here, in much more dire straits than the first time, she gets a choice? )

I definitely don't want to be asleep.

( feels like a long time ago and also yesterday she'd braced herself against the edges of a couch before a red-hot knife dipped into her open gut wound. the nerve damage around the subsequent scar has lessened significantly in the almost two years since it happened, and god does she miss the man who'd saved her life that evening. but the main takeaway here is that whatever happens next, clarke thinks she can take it. (looking directly at the weird fleshblob, she decidedly cannot take, and thus keeps her unsteady gaze as latched to amy's face as she can manage.)

and below the fever, there's a base curiosity. she wants to watch this, with the hungry eyes of someone who grew up thinking they'd pursue medicine in a medbay that didn't even have the supplies to treat the flu. a whole second chapter of her life spent in another interdimensional kidnapping and the knowledge that'd trickled in being surrounded by magicians and gods has her wondering — is this like flesh magic? like the warm light sandalphon had enveloped her in to fix the rope burn on her palms days ago? is it like dying back on the serena eterna, where their bodies were re-sculpted behind the closed morgue doors? or like dying here in etraya, which seems technology based but that doesn't explain why she'd woken up without so much as a scar from being stabbed through the heart.

she wants to see, and better understand, and will even go so far as to bring up her left hand to tug at the ends of her filthy gauze bandage; starting to unwrap it, baring the full view of greying, dying skin and jet black dried blood smeared around the wound — so amy can see what she's working with and clarke can try to keep her vision focused on how it reknits. )

cw for body horror, gross medical stuff

[ontologically]

[She can't quite imagine what could make someone want to see this - especially after seeing the reality of what Amy can do right before them. The writhing ball of flesh, the shackled monsters far bigger than her, the monster she stretched out and created to serve as a mount for people she didn't trust.

It's enough to make her incline her head in curiosity.

Unwrapping the bandages is unneccessary. Amy is already in tune with Clarke's body and all of the many injuries she has. Her circulatory system acts as a blueprint, her nervous system a pathway. The first thing she does is take away her ability to feel pain. After all, this would hurt a lot if she did. Then she's left with a choice.

She could restore her skin using leftover blood and fat - whatever she can find in Clarke's digestive system, fluids she can manipulate and turn into skin cells. The blood is strange, black and alien and it behaves just a little bit different from what Amy is familiar with, but it's still very similar. It reminds her of the passengers in her own body - in all of their bodies. Alien parasites designed to shape themselves around the host.

Or she could use her reserve of biological matter. The flesh mound that trails behind her.

It doesn't even occur to her that she should probably ask. But it doesn't matter. She can work with this.

Amy is silent as she works. Normally, she'd have to keep a somewhat friendly face, to not scare the patient into panicking and messing her up, but now she's focused. It's going to take a couple minutes, and during it all, Clarke will just feel her skin stitching itself back together, blood hardening and fat hardening and transforming until you couldn't possibly tell the difference.

Looking at her now, there's not a trace of fear in her. Just cold blooded focus.]

this is so gross and i love it

[skaikru]

( fever. it's fever and paranoia and a few thin strands of curiosity all woven together to form a taught coil that snakes throughout clarke's ribcage. it's the concern that if she sleeps or relaxes or doesn't pay attention, she might die again — the indignance of that possibility far more pressing than the thought of what this girl in front of her could potentially do with her body after the fact.

and... alright, maybe a bit more curiosity than she'd like to admit to herself. because she originally comes from a world so devoid of medicine that something as simple as the flu or strep throat could be a death sentence. had trained to follow her mother into the field of medicine anyways, but had lost more people than she'd saved and when faced with the sight of her own exposed tissue, was lost on any actionable way to fix it. it's fascination that bends itself right back around to something bordering jealousy when it comes to magic — or powers, or advanced capabilities, or whatever this is.

in the end, the absence of pain is almost more distressing than its constant, throbbing presence. clarke, pointedly refusing to look at the mass of flesh at amy's elbow, stares transfixed at her own wrist as the skin ripples and knits itself back together. involuntarily whimpers once out of habit as scraped off bits of subcutaneous tissue and tendon worm their way back into place, and strangles the sound in her throat the second time it wells up as blood vessels reattach to reanimate skin that'd been on the verge of greying. it's like watching a scene from a movie, like seeing something happening to someone else's hand; watching something miraculous but disgusting, mildly nauseating but so cool — time rewinding, or time speeding up, the healing process cranked up to eleven.

her fingers twitch in amy's palm, filthy nails itching to scratch at the seamless suture point when the last scrap of epidermis smoothes into place, but not pulling away. she doesn't want to risk disturbing the process. and when it's done, when it finally becomes so disconcerting to stare at the absolute lack of a wound that'd been there just a second ago, clarke blinks some of the glassiness out of her eyes and drags her gaze to amy's face. soaks in the sight of those cored out eyes, the frizz of her hair, what blood on her clothes, the tight press of her mouth and the cold determination thrown into sharp relief by the fire... well, consider this a strong first impression, bordering on disconcerting and awe inspiring, and forever seared into her grey matter. )

Oh... wow.

( how did you do that? the wants to ask. but that's a dumb question, so when clarke finally cracks open her dry mouth what actually comes out is a rasped — )

What are you?

( which is...still a dumb question. seriously not even better, potentially mildly insulting, and she can't even blame fever for that one. because despite still feeling moderately lightheaded, she is miles more aware with the source of infection quashed; enough to recognize the only reason she feels cold right now is from sick sweat chilled by the slight breeze. ah well, the words are already out there. )

[ontologically]

[The connection isn't severed - not by the words of the patient, not by the end of the work. Every vein, every strained ligament - every blood cell, it tells a story. She doesn't like to acknowledge that part of her power often.

It makes people less comfortable with her help. It makes her less comfortable with helping. Strangers - meaningless nobodies, people she helped because she had to, and they all owe her their lives. For a split second she knew everything about them - for a split second she almost cared.

Still. This is new. Tentatively she pulls her hand away, puts it in her lap - flexing it to get used to her own limbs.]

I'm a healer. [It's almost a joke. No matter how true it might be. It's been a while since she operated on someone who didn't know full well who she was and what she could do.] You can call me Panacea.

[If she were feeling friendlier - she might offer her name, rather than the burden they forced her under. Then again, it's not really her name is it?]

I'm also not the one with alien blood coursing through my veins. [Her eyes are flat - evaluating where normally they might be wide open and wild or sunken and sad. Her tone is even, but there's almost a tug to the corners of her lips. The slightest ghost of a not entirely pleasant smile. Too exhausted to be hostile, too exhausted to pretend to be friendly.

This is a moment of pure despair for her. This is a moment of pure euphoria for her.]

[skaikru]

Panacea, ( clarke repeats, testing the consonants of the name on the back of her tongue and the vowels on the tip. it rings an immediate bell, but keeping a steady eye on francis krouse's network relay of her personal shortcomings (death, her death) feels like an age ago, and despite the most recent reminder, she's still going to need a minute to truly slot the puzzle pieces into place. but despite going un-offered, a name niggles in the mesh of her grey matter like a ghost. she is only distracted from sorting through her hazy, slow to clear memory by what almost sounds like an accusation. amy releases her now mended hand and clarke pulls her wrist close to her chest, left hand coming up to rub idly at perfectly mended flesh — barely resisting the urge to scratch at it. )

I'm only technically an alien.

( because she's human. painfully so, or at least it sure feels like a shortcoming when pitted face to face against someone so obviously more than that. she is the descendent of the few hundred astronauts who happened to be suspended in space during the worlds end, three generations down the line and altered in the name of adaptive survivalism. everyone on board the ark had been genetically engineered to be a universal donor, their proximity to the sun exposed them to enough solar radiation to make the ambient ground levels survivable. her bones are a little less dense than an old world skeleton, and every woman provided long acting birth control in an attempt to curb the population. and her blood? it's almost normal. viscous and prone to ooze like everyone else's, just jet black instead of rust red. with a vague snap crackle pop in every cell, dna so set in stone not even a world leveling radioactive event could disassemble it. a feat of technology undertaken in a moment of desperation, just a little more genetic engineering, what would have entitled her to a near royal claim if she'd been born this way. she hadn't always been like this, and often forgets until someone reminds her.

amy's mouth twists in an almost-smile that doesn't quite reach her flat eyes, and clarke doesn't entirely know how to take that. but her opinion and expression are still so entirely wrapped up in how cool (and gross, very gross) that spot of healing had been, any potential danger flags — and the ominous entourage, she's still entirely focused on the other girls face — are mere background noise.

she smiles back. big and bright, and grateful. local space-born woman entirely unaware of the connotations of aliens in the worm universe. )

[ontologically]

[Amy hums in acknowledgement of that. This girl is odd, she's distantly aware, and it's not just the strange biology. She would expect that from anyone given the distinct nature of their various universes. The way that she's - smiling. Big and bright. Grateful. People have thanked her, said they'd name their children after her, offered to pay her thousands of dollars (she always said no.)

She almost thought she'd grown numb to it, but it sends a small ache to her chest. Warmth and hurt blooming through her system like a virus, betraying the dark empty feeling that was already there.

She's very pretty, even with all the grime and the blood and the deep set exhaustion in her eyes. Amy looks away after a moment, feeling overwhelmed on top of everything else that's happened to her in the last few days.

Amy properly sits down now. A few spaces next to this stranger. Some of the tension leaves her, and the exhaustion makes her body untense.] You could probably argue that I am too. [That is where her powers come from after all. Others probably couldn't argue that - but Panacea's shard has always been a big part of her.]

You didn't give me your name.

[skaikru]

( is it really so odd to be expressively grateful for someone who just saved her from a very slow, painful death? or at least the horrors of attempting self-surgery, probably followed by aforementioned awful death? or even to be a slut for easily impressed by magic? or — powers. curses. abilities. whatever someone wants to call them; whatever aptitude someone has that she lacks, and routinely finds herself wildly jealous over. coming from a world where all the antibiotics had run out, and the medbay she'd shadowed her mother through may as well have been renamed a morgue, something like healing especially prompts clarke to wonder how life would have turned out if at least one of them had been something more than human.

or maybe an actual, quantifiable aliens, as the brunette announces that similarity.

the remnants of the fever ebb completely by the time the other girl settles into her seat. and the brilliance in clarke's smile fades with it, as she properly looks at the entourage that'd flanked her savior for the first time. the giant beetle is disconcerting as all hell, the sight of the dragon causes her stomach to do a very uncomfortable series of acrobatic maneuvers, and she will still purposefully avoid looking directly at the mound of flesh like her life and sanity depend on it. panacea is the easiest to look at, with her deflating shoulders and prompting question. )

Clarke Griffin.

( and then it hits. user name: panacea. real name — )

And you're actually Amy Dallon, right? I was supposed to talk to you.

( a beat, a wobble in her resolve — why does it have to be you? — ) Or not talk to you. ( and the slightest hint of a lie. ) I can't remember.

[ontologically]

The girl who died.

[She mulls over the words used, the specific feelings that pass over her face. Clarke. It's a nice name.

A very minor betrayal all things considered. An offer made in good faith, responded to with suspicion behind her back. It's just a little bit grating.

She could return the favor. Undercut him a little bit, to remind him that he needs to cooperate if he wants to keep lying to everyone in this godforsaken city. It's petty and spiteful and pointless, but maybe it'll make her feel better.]

Trickster said he'd send you my way. [Carefully using the alias - it's the only way she had ever thought of him prior to their meeting here. The fact that Krouse wanted to keep that on the downlow? Not a factor. Well, except for the way that it's the only reason she's bringing it up.

Why did Krouse undercut her? Why did Krouse shield this girl in particular?

He might actually like her. She can see why. She can forgive it.]

I don't think it needs to be you specifically at this point. Plenty of people will have died by the end of this. If you're hesitant for any reason - I'd understand.

[There's the monsters. The ooze. Amy's general unpleasant demeanor.

But she is sincere. That shines through, despite everything. She won't force anyone to do anything. Not if she can avoid it.]

[skaikru]

( there's no pomp and circumstance to celebrate being the girl who died. clarke does not hold out her newly mended hand and wave her fingers like ta-dah, she doesn't even nod in easy assent. there's no need, not when it barely seems to come as a surprise to amy that the dots finally connect. she works her mouth a little; presses her lips together, then drops the tension to draw in a light breath between her teeth. it's an accurate title, even if it's an uncomfortable one.

what does earn a bit more of a reaction is: trickster. krouse had deigned to grace her with the seemingly tight held secret of his first name a while ago, but never this. is it a nickname? a title? if she didn't know him any better, clarke would have ventured towards a superhero alter ego. is it a code name? that feels right, especially in conjuncture with panacea. or a handle, an expansion of the limited characters one was allowed when claiming first place on an arcade game.

ultimately, it doesn't matter. none of them are in amy and krouse's home world, and most of clarke's nicknames are probably worse. still goes down as something to maybe ask him about in the future, as her brows knit and she tilts her head.

but then it's to business. )

I still don't entirely know what it is you're hoping to find. And I have my doubts there's anything to find, no matter how hard you look. But I guess — ( she trails off for a beat, fever-clear but dirt-irritated blue eyes dropping to look at her wrist again, just to make sure it was really whole. then back at the other girls exhausted face, spending a split second searching the set of her mouth and bags under her sad eyes for deception. )

Now I at least have an idea how you'd do it?

( the uptick of inflection in her voice at the end turning it into a question, or maybe a quiet hope? because holding amy's hand hadn't felt like being flayed open for a clinical study, which was sort of what krouse had made it sound like it would. it'd actually been rather pleasant, or as pleasant as watching your skin reknit in record time and flesh bubble beneath the surface could be. it'd be like a body scan, right? a little flesh magic? and quite possibly the most painless way she's ever managed to help anyone... )

I would like to help.