Mission 010 Catch All - Closed

[herofhopeless]

WHO: Sleipnir, Barnabas, Joshua, Leon, Vander, Kirk, Hernan, Sleeper (Silas), Accelerator
WHEN: Weeks 3 and 4 of Mission 010
WHERE: San Francisco
WHAT: Planned threads with various characters, didn't want to bog down the main mission log
NOTES\WARNINGS: NSFW, violence, blood, murder, unsafe behaviors

(Read more...)

Comments

Sleipnir - Later in the event

[herofhopeless]

[ After Accelerator ]

[quibblingfunctionary]

[Gone. Empty. Silent.

. . .

When in the middle of the night, like it is now, one of the easiest observations to be made of the warehouse district is just how empty the sidewalks and streets are. There is an unsettling quiet which settles over an area which is usually so bustling with life, but the absence of other people allows for other details to seep into awareness. How sounds, though infrequent, are far more difficult to pinpoint the origin of here. Too many large buildings, all empty, all made of concreate, of brick, of metal; thick, hulking things filled with more metal, more brick, more concreate. And, despite the difficulty of locating the source of any sounds heard, the noise never seems to travel far— particularly when within one of warehouses.

The one Sleipnir's coordinates lead Clive into is a rusted and worn thing with windows of varying shades of opaque grime. In several places the concrete floor is covered in strange misshapen puddles— the ground clearly unlevel to varying degrees. The water likely coming from broken windows in the high above ceiling. There are concrete beams and metal ladders leading up to metal beams and pipes and chains, all in different stages of decay.

Around the big open area of what must have been some sort of work floor, amongst the rubble of cinderblocks, concrete, and broken machinery sits Sleipnir. He is not in his armor and there does not look to be anything physically wrong with him, although it is immediately evident by the dirt and grime on his clothes that he is what is responsible for the destruction around him. But still, he sits on top of some larger piece of time forgotten machine and once Clive gets closer he'll see Sleipnir is gripping his left ring-finger. He's slowing bending it backwards, forwards, then backwards again.]

[herofhopeless]

[Clive is already halfway to his motorcycle when Sleipnir gives him his coordinates. With deft fingers and practiced ease, he connects his phone to the bluetooth in his helmet and hits start. He rips out of his parking spot, disregarding anything and anyone around him. He had one goal: get to Sleipnir as quickly as possible.

While Clive had developed a taste for testing the limits of both his bike and the laws regarding the rules of the road, this was completely different. He had never dodged and weaved so close to other vehicles before, never nearly ran over pedestrians as they walked by or narrowly avoided being in an accident and maybe causing a few. None of it mattered. Sleipnir needed him.

He pulls up to the door, putting the kickstand down haphazardly and ripping off his helmet, letting it fall to the ground as he sprinted inside the building. He stopped and looked around. Destruction. Based on the smell of how the dust was settling, a good portion of it was recent. Not the rot. That couldn’t have been. But the rubble?

Doesn't matter. He follows his nose, searching for the cool marshy morning and birch tar scent of Sleipnir. It doesn’t take him long to find him.]

Sleipnir.

[He doesn’t waste time. He lets his muscles shift in his legs and jumps up onto the rubble.]

I’m here.

[He reaches out just slow enough where Sleipnir could pull away if he wanted, but if he doesn’t, he will find himself pulled into Clive’s arms and tucked safely against his chest.]

Barnabas - Late Week 3

[herofhopeless]

[Clive isn’t sure what time it is when he hauls himself over the fence into the backyard of Barnabas’ house. It’s nighttime. That’s all he knows. There is no true darkness in this place, no quiet, and right now everything burns. He can feel it pushing through his skin, the scorching need to destroy all of this, burn down everything. It has only been getting worse. At first, he could satiate the itch by stopping people from doing bad things. Then he could do the same, but with a little added violence.

Then he met the man in front of the Veil and Virtue building and everything got so much stronger. A disdain for this world that only grew as the days went by. Then, simple violence wasn’t enough. He needed to see them in agony, as their flesh crackled under his touch, limbs becoming useless as they begged for their lives. And he let them keep them, their lives. Perhaps then they would learn.

Until tonight. It wasn’t enough. He kept pushing. A charred hand turned into a charred arm turned into- They were dead and all that was left was a smoldering pile of liquid fat and burnt bones. He left enough for them to identify the body. After all, their family needs to know what scum they have in their blood so they can excise any others that may be the same. Clive squeezes his eyes closed against the thought. No. No, that wasn’t right.

Barnabas. He needs Barnabas. If anyone can stop him, he can.

He feels his body revolt as he puts his foot on the stairs that will lead him up towards the top balcony. Clive staggers back and folds in on himself. Those horns rip back through, threatening flame. His skin darkens and cracks, hardening to jagged rock and obsidian, the glow of molten earth and fire showing through the fissures. His bones crack and change, giving form to a jagged ridge down his back, legs reshaped, fingers long and taloned, tail lashing out behind him. His hair grows, feathers out, strands of ruby flame weaving their way in, ever in motion.

Panting, he looks up, blue eyes now glowing with the tell-tale brightness of his Eikon, and unfurls to stand at his full height of 8 feet. He tilts his head, hears the sound of people out on the sidewalk going by, feels fire threaten to crackle fresh across his form, and staggers. No. No, he can’t. He curls in on himself again, trying to fight back the change, revert to his normal form, but he can’t. Barnabas should have felt him by now. Would that be enough? Would he come?

Clive is afraid to move, afraid that if he unfurls, whatever impulses that rage within him will win, will jump right back over that fence and find another body to burn.]

Barnabas…

[And the thing inside of him sings at the promise of challenge. Clive wars with it, heart racing at the promise of what might turn into a battle and the fear of not being able to stop.]

I need you.



[[ooc: body changes inspired by Ifrit concept art.]]

[odinpusrex]

[Day or night is rather inconsequential to Barnabas. For a man such as he, a man who is barely a man at all, rest is not something he requires. Though, were he one to give into fancies, perhaps night would be his preferable company, and that might give reason as to why he basks in the dark of it now. Though, it is not only the embrace of shadow that envelopes him, for he always feels the pulse of the other Dominants, their aether unmistakable to him, like colored bursts of light against a backdrop of black—yet one pulses particularly erratic this night and it draws his attention thus.

Mythos...

Donned in his armor, he follows that pulse, appearing in the air some meters above—only to find what looks to be a miniature of what would be his Lord's vessel in his yard. Curious as it is, Barnabas knows better than to throw caution to the wind. He is not Cidolfus, after all. Thus, with his own pulse of aether does Zantetsuken form in his open hand as he descends, leaving a couple yards between them.

Making certain that the house is on the opposite side of him as he lands, should Mythos attack him, he would rather his abode not be damaged in its wake.]

Mythos...what has become of you?

[Idly he wonders if his nature is overtaking him, and there is a spark within him at the thought, though any such sign of it is shrouded by the shadow of his helmet.]

Tw: graphic depiction of bodies burning

[herofhopeless]

[Things that had worked to calm him before no longer did. So instead, he turned to pain. He finds a fissure in his armor and digs a claw in, hissing as it punctures the flesh under that sheath of magma. Drops of the fiery molten earth drip to the ground. He focuses on them, watches them sizzle on the stones of the patio, and watches as they start to cool, little bits of dark stone. Maybe if he did this a couple more times, he would have the focus to unfold, find Barnabas. Where was he?

As if on cue, the voice of the man he had been searching for rings through him. The wave of relief that washes over him was quickly replaced by an excitement, a hunger of an entirely different kind. One that makes his heart race. He finally sits up, tilting back to look up at the glorious form that is Barnabas. Seeing that armor sends a shiver down his spine. It is likely a precaution, but it is also a promise. Clive tracks his movements as he slows to stand across from him, eyes alight in his mostly still human face, hunger writ clear in his eyes. Slowly, he stands. The desperation that had been in his voice, the pleading, was gone.]

It’s this place, I think.

[There is something a little different about Clive’s voice, not the same timbre that comes with a semi prime but something deeper, rock shifting in the mouth of a volcano.]

I want to break it. No. Not it. The people. They are…

[He closes his eyes. His voice takes on that tone of desperation but does not shef its harshness.]

I need help. I killed someone. He was walking home from work. I-I couldn’t stop myself. He screamed and it sounded so-

[He shudders again.]

He didn’t do anything wrong. He was just walking and I– But the people here, they’re a plague. They are destroying this world, just like ours. Their greed… Barnabas.

[He takes a step forward.]

I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop. I want to do more. I want to watch the flames overtake them, listen to their skin crack open, their flesh burn, their fat bubble. It sounds so good, smells so good.

[He shakes his head and takes another step.]

Help me. You’re the only one I trust to stop me.

Silas - Early Week 3

[herofhopeless]

[Clive hadn’t been spending as much time at Joshua and Dion’s recently as he had before. It felt too dangerous. They were both too keen and he could not let them see. Couldn’t let them see the pull, the itch, the need. But he missed Silas. The child had been a balm to him earlier in the month and again the few times he had seen him since. So he had made plans. Take Silas to the beach, give Joshua and Dion some alone time together.

He arrived a little early, bag of goodies for sandcastle making slung over his shoulder, and walked in without knocking.]

I’m here!

[He called out, starting to look for his charge for the day.]

Who wants to go build sandcastles?

[He needed this, perhaps even more than Silas. But he couldn’t imagine a 4-year-old wanting to be cooped up in the house all day either. Today would be a good one, he could already feel it.]

[definecat]

[While in some ways Silas is rather mature for their age, they're still very much a child. Hearing that voice causes a loud shriek of excitement and a small child hurtling towards Clive at excessive speed.]

Unca Cliffie!

[One can only hope Clive is braced for impact or there could be trouble.]

Sandcastles? We're going to the playground?

[herofhopeless]

[Clive is 100% braced for impact. He crouches down to catch the missile of a child and swing him up into the air in a circle before balancing him on his hip, one arm wrapped around him securely.]

Mmmm, I was thinking something more along the lines of the beach. How's that sound?

[Founder, this kid was cute.]

Joshua - Late Week 4 (after Vander's death)

[herofhopeless]

[He was on fire but everything was cold. The flames guttered and died, blood dripped from clawed fingers, once vibrant blue eyes dull, footsteps slow, path automatic. He couldn’t wash it off. If he washed it off, he would be gone. That would be it. The last warmth of a man he had come to care for so dearly. Even as the blood started congealing on his skin, he did not move to wipe it off.

His body had slowly shifted back to its human form. Ifrit’s voice was quiet for once. Maybe the first time since he met Nate. But the blood stayed. He willed it to stay. It was the first time he had tried that, willing something to stay between his forms. He couldn’t bring himself to care.

Vander was dead.

Clive had killed him.

He lost control. He lost control and now Vander was dead and it was all his fault. Why couldn’t he have just kept control, reined Ifrit in, reasoned with him, calmed him? No. No he couldn’t pass this off. Ifrit was him, he was Ifrit. He had killed Vander. Tore him apart with his own two hands, tasted his blood, cloying and –

He shuddered. Blood no longer dripped. It was drying, caking on his skin, in his hair, in his clothes. Only the tracks left behind by tears expose truly clean skin. He was dead. Vander was dead. Gone. Vander. Oh Vander. Beautiful, vibrant, intelligent, kind Vander. He wanted to scream again, but there was nothing left in him, only the hollow cold that spread from his chest, turning his body leaden.

And yet he walked. He arrived at a familiar house, climbed his way to the door, and rang the bell. Once the door opened, he whispered, voice hoarse.]

Joshua…

[ablazinggrace]

[Joshua has been worried about Clive for a while now. It started not too long after they arrived in this new place for the new mission, and has only become worse since. It isn't like Clive - the brusqueness, the disappearing for days on end without even answering Joshua's calls, the strangely haunted look in his eyes when he is around.

Joshua has tried to share their home with his brother, but Clive is only ever here for such a short time now when he does come. And after all the years apart, unsure of each other's fates, after everything they've been through...why would Clive become so distant now? How can he bear it, as Joshua cannot?

He has tried to hunt Clive down, when he's been missing for too long. But there is something almost Odin-like about the way Ifrit's aether slips from his senses. He wonders whether Barnabas has done something - but no. As devoted to his cause as the king of Waloed is, he would not dare to tip the balance of Ultima's vessel in any way that Ultima himself did not command. He would have no reason to do so. But if not Odin, then it must be this place.

At one point when Clive did drop by to visit within the last week or so, Joshua slipped one of his feathers into an inner pocket of his jacket, that he might stay connected to Clive no matter what, just as he had when Ultima nearly succeeded at claiming his brother that final time. They are a part of each other in such a fundamental way that Joshua is sure he could reach Clive somehow, even if all else were to go horribly awry.

But as it turns out, when it inevitably does, it's Clive who comes to him, for once.

He opens the door and immediately, his eyes widen and he reaches for his brother to draw him inside.]

Clive! You're hurt--

[Before he even bothers to close the door behind them, he's already filling his hands with warm, healing light and searching Clive's body for sources of bleeding.]

[herofhopeless]

[The light that spills from the open door is almost too bright. Clive squints against it and turns his face away, just for a moment. Suddenly, the urge to run spikes in him. He can’t let Joshua see him like this. He can’t let Joshua near. What if he loses control again? What if he.. What if he… Clive grips his hands into fists and tries to breathe.

Burning. Bloody hands grabbing for purchase. Burning. Desperate eyes wide with fear. Burning. Tearing flesh, skin under fingernails. Burning. His skin itched. It itched it itched it itched. Plates of rough stone and obsidian begin forming over his skin in patches, spines of it slowly ripping through his shirt over his spine, nails turning into claws –

Then the Phoenix’s fire is washing over him. The warmth, gentle and familiar, permeates his skin, pushing the straining Ifrit back, soothing him and Clive at once. He catches Joshua’s hand in one of his own, dried blood flaking at the contact.]

I’m not.

[He looks up to make eye contact with his brother, once vibrant eyes flat with an emptiness Joshua had yet to see in the man.]

Not my blood. It’s…

[Clive closed his eyes, memories to fresh to bury flashing behind his lids. Hands grabbing, glass breaking, pleading, screaming, burning, burning, burning. Clive shakes his head, opens his eyes. They glow with the ethereal blue of his Eikon and yet are still so empty.]

I killed him.

Leon - Last half of the event

[herofhopeless]

Kirk - Late Week 4

[herofhopeless]

[Something had been bugging Clive, his gut telling him that he was needed somewhere. That there was something he needed to do. He had already been planning on going to see Vander that day so he thought it might come to him when he saw the man. Lately, Vander had been one of the only people who could give him any sort of clarity, that would help his mind go quiet against all of the rage inside, the anger at the state of this world, at the desire to cleanse it all away.

The smell of blood hit him before anything else. Then those earthy tones that were so distinctly Vander, the gentle overlay of sandalwood and lavender. He broke into a dead sprint, using a light post to whip himself around a corner so he didn’t need to slow down. He tore through the city, shoving anyone in front of him out of the way, tracking as the scent got stronger and stronger until he was rounding a bend and saw them.

Vander, on the ground, not moving, and a man he had never seen bent over him, covered in his blood, teeth embedded in the other man’s flesh.

Rage blanked his vision, and suddenly there was a burst of flame. One second, he moved as he did when he was a man, the next, he was a towering half-man, half-monster. Horns spurting bursts of flame extended backwards from his head, skin a mix of raised rock and obsidian hiding the flow of magma beneath, tail whipping behind him, hands turned monstrous and clawed, legs that of a beast. Glowing electric blue eyes blazed in rage, teeth made for tearing flesh bared.

Without slowing down, he bodily slammed into the creature lurking over his friend and maybe-lover, sending them both toppling and tumbling over the ground.]




[[ooc: body changes inspired by Ifrit concept art.]]

CW: Description of a vampire feeding

[godsandbats]

[Kirk would swear it wasn't planned. This wasn't the result of another hunt. It just happened. Kirk's self-control had been breaking down over the last three weeks. It's been maddening to think about how easy it is for most people to eat whenever and whatever while he has to play nice and put extra restrictions on himself. For what? So-called morals? Is it still morally correct if he has to keep starving himself?

So Kirk had enough. It feels like a blur. One moment he and Vander were talking and the next, he's trying to rip his throat out.

The beast in him was savoring his newest meal when he smells smoke and something intensely burning. Before he had a chance to react, he's slammed and knocked away from his prey. It's a mess of punches, clawing, and kicks to try and get the interloper off of him]

Cw: this way there be violence

[herofhopeless]

[Every punch, claw, and kick is returned with one that is just as ferocious. He can feel parts of his armor crack with particularly well-aimed or strong hits, the threatening magma underneath dribbling through to hit flesh or pavement, sizzling in the comparatively cool air.

There is nothing coordinated about this fight, simply two beasts intent on destroying the other. With a bellow of frustration, Clive shoves his knee between the two of them and kicks out, talons ripping into skin as he tries to get a little distance between the two. He wanted to see this thing's face when it was consumed by hellfire.

His voice, when he speaks, sounds like the deep earth, plates running together, promising eruption.]

How dare you?

[Flames erupted on the backs of Clive's hands, eating their way up his arms until they join and bridge a ridge of flame down his spine. He shifts to put himself between whatever this thing was and Vander, letting a ball of flame begin to pool in his hand. He should have gotten here sooner. Fuck. Fuck.]

You will burn for what you've done.

[And with that, he throws the flaming orb at the one who so brazenly decided to go for what wasn't his.]

Vander - Late Week 4

[herofhopeless]

[The second it was safe to turn his back, Clive turned to face where Vander’s body lay. For a moment, he was frozen to the spot. Grand, vivacious Vander. Beautiful and kind and generous. Rough and violent and strong. Grief’s ugly hands pulled forth from their hideous ocean inside of him, reaching and climbing his ribs. With each step he took towards Vander’s body, those hands climbed closer and closer to his heart.

[no no no no no no not him no]

He sank to his knees, looking down at his body. A sob almost choked its way out of him. He was so pale. There was so much blood. Why hadn’t he been there sooner? Why couldn’t he have listened to his gut before? Would even 5 minutes have been enough to stop this from happening?

[not him please not him]

With shaking fingers, Clive reached down to gently run the back of a rough hand against Vander’s cheek. Would Etraya’s rule of ‘no death’ still apply here? If it didn’t, this is the last image he would have. A man once so vibrant, pale and bloody and dead. Again. It was happening again. Kneeling in the blood of a man he cared for, unable to do anything, as their life left them. Would anything ever change?

[ill kill them ill fucking kill them they are going to die theyre all going to burn every last one of them]

Carefully, Clive lifted Vander’s body to hold him to his chest, letting the armor there meld back into his flesh so Vander was tucked against the soft, warm skin of his human form while still maintaining the majority of Ifrit’s shape..]

buckle up, it's going to be a rough ride

[cantilevers]

[Vander had not fought back, aware it would inspire more violence. Even as Kirk moved in to drink from him - an act he was wholly familiar with - he had not panicked when he felt the violent dig of those fangs, the tight seal over his skin so that his blood flowed into the other man's mouth. He set his hands calmly but firmly on Kirk's shoulders, trying to ground his friend even as Kirk began to actually hurt him.

He'd fought to stay conscious and force Kirk off of him, but eventually his consciousness had swam and he had passed out. He recalled a jerk of pain as Kirk was finally forced off him, but he was in no state to realize that someone had come to his aid. No, instead he lay quiet and pale, his eyes closed and his breathing having slowed. Blood covered part of his face, matted some of his hair and even soaked into his clothing.

His head swam. He heard things but did not register them. There was a benefit of having a thick neck at least in that major vessels were deeper and more protected, so he could survive. He felt cold and unable to move.

Yet, there was warmth suddenly, a familiar sensation against his cold skin. Clive. While it took time, he registered the younger man's smell and feel, and his fingers twitched where they rested against the pavement. It was so warm, and it was that fact which roused him slowly out of the near critical exsanguination.]

...ah... [He managed to pry his eyelids open, seeing blurred shapes at first. He shuddered weakly, his mouth opening but making little sound. He was still oozing blood from the bite wound on his neck. He knew this smell. He knew this man.] ...Cl... ive...?

Looks like we are in for some rough weather

[herofhopeless]

[Those cruelly taloned hands of grief had reached his heart, were digging in, clawing out a place in his chest to nestle in and freeze him from the inside. He could feel himself start to rock gently, trying not to hold on too tight. He didn’t want to hurt him.]

[hes dead hes dead they are going to pay i will eat them alive they will suffer i will kill the beast first make the bastard watch they will die they will die they will die]

[Clive felt the sob that was bubbling up in his chest that turned into a choked gasp at the sound of his name, weak but there. He pulled back just enough to see just a sliver of grey looking up at him.]

Vander. [He was alive. Oh thank the Founder. They needed to get to a–]

[Something in Clive shifted, his eyes taking on a deeper ethereal blue, pupils becoming slits, scent shifting towards something that somehow smelled like a forest fire, the scorching heat of the desert, dusty logs burning, hot earth, a slow trickle of brimstone. While Clive’s voice was different in this shape normally, there was something else about this. Something deeper, older. Impossibly old.]

Vander. You fool, what did you do?

[The creature that was Clive but was not leaned down to press an almost too hot tongue to the wound. He licked up before nuzzling against the side of his neck, a soothing rumble coming from somewhere inside his chest.]

There was no fight. Why didn’t you fight?

[There was frustration in the voice, frustration and rage and concern. He curled a hand around the wound, putting pressure on it as he still cradled Vander to him. He growled.]

I’ll destroy them for what they have done to you.

[That flying piece of trash would get thrown in just for fun. Maybe he would do it the other way around. Make the beast watch someone that it cares for die before tasting the sweet release itself. Or maybe he wouldn’t even let the creature die, just watch, helpless and destroyed, as it lost what was precious to it.

His grip tightened.]

How dare they so much as touch you? Filthy creatures. They have overstepped. They will pay.

Accelerator - Later in the event, post Sleipnir death

[herofhopeless]

[Nothing had been able to settle the burning rage that was roaring inside of Clive. He had been able to keep it in check while he was with Sleipnir. The man had needed him and he was going to be there for his friend. It wasn’t until he made sure the other made was home safe that he really let the rage loose.

There was an evil little piece of shit that was going to die. It would pay for what it did and Clive was going to make sure it felt every single second of it. A quick death would be too good for that filth.

It took a couple of days to track the disgusting little thing down, but once he did, he followed. He watched. The fire raged just under the skin, but he could be patient. He needed to make sure they would be somewhere they wouldn’t be interrupted. The frailty of the thing was surprising, but Sleipnir was very clear about the danger it posed.

So when Clive attacks, he is swift to pin it, prone, to the damp grass of the park. His monstrous form hulking over the slip of a thing, he pins it to the ground with one large, taloned foot and leans down and growls, the smoke of hellfire washing over the worm beneath him.]

I hope you enjoy receiving pain as much as you enjoy giving it.

[With a scalding hand that would quickly turn blisters into third degree burns, Clive yanks an arm back, popping it clean out of its socket before letting his jaw split wide enough to fit its forearm into his mouth and clamps down with a ferocity that tears skin and flesh and shakes as an animal would it’s prey, relishing the breaking of bone between his teeth.]


[[ooc: Clive's new physical traits are based on Ifrit's concept art for FF16. While his visage is still overall human, the traits he has adopted are from his Eikon's form.

Quick description: horns, tail, monster arms and legs, armored skin that looks like it is made out of rock and obsidian with cracks flowing with lava, glowing blue eyes, longer hair that has strands of what look like fire going through it]]

cw for a kid getting mauled

[levelshift]

[Accelerator isn't at the park for any specific reason. It's late and he's been wandering around San Francisco, tired, chugging coffee after coffee. Seeing the edge of the large green space made him realize that the area is probably going to be quiet at this hour, so he wandered in to find a bench to sit and finish off his coffee and be alone with his thoughts.

So much for that.

He isn't quick enough to switch modes on his choker and get his reflection up before he's suddenly getting bowled over and pinned by some kind of creature. For a fleeting moment, Accelerator is reminded of those monstrous forms Aleister Crowley had released on the world, but that thought is dashed from his mind almost immediately. Those things are all dead, and it's unlikely Echo would bring any of them here. In a world with superheroes and kaiju, it honestly isn't that surprising to see something so inhuman wandering around. Why it's attacking him is the question, and as he stares at it with a confused fury it's one he tries to raise.]

What —

[That's as far as he gets, thanks to the blistering heat and pressure from that thing's claws searing the flesh of his arm. Pain screams through his brain, amplified when that arm is dislocated, and for several long, disorienting moments, it's all he can think about. When he tries to cry out he sucks in a lungful of smoke, so what would normally be a scream dissolves into ragged coughs.]

F - fuck!!

[Shit shit shit he can barely — he needs to get a hold of himself — get his ability working, shut down his pain receptors without causing more damage to his body — why didn't he bring his gun — what the hell is this thing talking about??]

What the fuck?!

Dion - Within the last three-ish days of the mission

[herofhopeless]

[Clive wasn’t sure how many days he had been in this room. After Joshua took care of him on the night he murdered Vander the night he arrived, time had ceased to have any meaning. He rarely turned on the light, either overhead or the lamp on the bedside table. It was too bright. Too much. The darkness was safe. In the darkness, he didn’t have to see. Didn’t have to see himself, look at this room, these walls, acknowledge a world past the door that kept him from the other people who lived here.

Keep out the world where he killed a man he –

No. No. He couldn’t think about it. He wouldn’t think about it.

It was the only thing he could think about.

Vander’s hot blood pulsing over his hands, strangled breaths through the gaping wound in his throat, blinding tears, begging. Please. Please don’t go. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorryimsorry]

I’m sorry. [Clive choked out a sob.

He missed the numbness. He wanted it back. When he was numb, he could hate himself in peace. When he was numb, it made sense. He could look at all of it and understand that what he did was objectively horrible and he deserved to be alone. It was a fact.

When he wasn’t numb? When his heart was screaming louder than his mind, when he choked on tears and apologies and desperate begging into his pillow? It was all too much.

His skin felt too tight. He couldn’t breathe. It was too loud. It was too quiet. It was too bright. It was too dark. It was too much. Talons ripped through his fingertips and he tore. Ripped his clothes to shreds, dragged bloody gouges on his face, his scalp, his neck, his chest, his arms, his back, anywhere he could reach. His skin was too tight. He needed to get out.

Help. It was too much. Someone, anyone. Help me.

He didn’t realize he was yelling.]

[oblige]

[ When Clive had arrived at their doorstep a bloodied, broken mess, it was only natural that Dion step back and leave him to his brother's care. The Phoenix had been increasingly worried over Clive in the preceding weeks, and Dion had been audience to those concerns. What's more, he had shared them.

However, it was not his place to be in the midst of this. Surely, it was best that he allow the two of them space to work through whatever had befallen Clive. Dion has never known a close familial bond, but he knows well enough what it looks like, just as he knows that his only place in these proceedings is to ensure whatever is needed is near at hand.

So he tells himself. He abides by this self-imposed rule, privately warring with his own unease about whatever could have wounded Clive's spirit so. It isn't his place. He knows this. Even so, even still, the fomenting worry remains.

Still, Dion is disciplined enough. He keeps to the tasks he's set for himself with little exception, bringing food and water whenever he notes that either Rosfield has neglected himself again. It's a trait the brothers share: forgetting themselves while focusing on others. This is what he could and should do, he tells himself.

That is, until he hears screaming.

Careful as he had been to remain at some appropriate distance, to serve some appropriate function, these reservations are cast aside as Dion drops what he's doing. He rushes into the room half-expecting to find some manner of assailant, but when he flicks the light on, there is only Clive.

There is only Clive assailing himself. ]

Clive, what—

[ His brow furrows, worry flooding his wide eyes. In absence of another to stay his hand in the moment, Dion will have to do. He closes distance quickly, catching the man's hands to stop him from clawing at himself. ]

Stop this, you're wounding yourself.

[ Distress strains his voice, but Dion endeavors not to shout. There is enough of that already. ]

Sleipnir Part 2 - Hide & Seek

[herofhopeless]

[Time is slowly starting to make sense again. While Clive had turned off the overhead light after his time with Dion, a meal, and a warm shower, he did opt to turn on the bedside lamp. He checks his phone to find the battery dead, plugs it in, and then settles in to read a book. He could be a semi-functioning person. He needs to be one if not for himself then for Joshua. The fact that his little brother had to see any of this…

Clive sits there with the book open in his lap, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to read it. How long had it been since he contacted anyone at Barnabas’ house? He should probably check that, let at least Sleipnir and Cid know that he was okay. Shouldn’t he? Maybe. Probably not. He didn’t want to worry them. But wouldn’t having disappeared for days on end when he had been spending multiple days a week have been a sign for concern? No, he is a capable adult. They know that. Why would they be worried about him?

Never mind that Clive would notice if the situation were reversed. Clive is an attentive person by nature and changes in the behavior of the people he cares about tend to stick out to him. So it would make sense if he noticed. Besides, he hasn’t been a part of Cid’s life in a year. Why would a week make a difference? And Sleipnir was probably still recovering from what happened to him, even if it wasn’t acknowledging it so it would make sense if he didn’t notice or didn’t have the energy to follow up. And he was pretty sure that as long as he wasn’t dead, Barnabas wouldn’t care where he was so there was no point in saying anything to him.

It’s fine. He’s fine. They have faith that he will be fine. He doesn’t need to tell them everything that he does. He’s a grown man, they are grown men, they are all perfectly capable of existing on their own outside of each other and it didn’t matter that he hadn’t said anything so why would Sleipnir Cid anyone there be worried about him?

Book abandoned, Clive grips his fists into his sheets and closes his eyes against the cold fire in his chest. He hears the buzz of his phone coming back to life but doesn’t dare look. He doesn’t want to see, doesn’t want to know if they noticed. He would go and get his motorcycle and his clothes in the morning and anything any of them may want to say to him could be said then.

Decision made, Clive uncurls his fists from the sheets and picks up his book again, going back to staring blankly at the pages and trying desperately to read.]

[quibblingfunctionary]

[It has been six days since Sleipnir last heard from Clive Rosfield and he is not taking it well. The latter is something he is unwilling to acknowledge within himself.

The first day nothing felt amiss, after all, Mythos tended to come and go as he pleased. One might call him a rambling man.

The second day went by unremarkable, which was a little odd, but nothing too out of the ordinary. That night Sleipnir had texted Lord Rosfield about if they wanted to hit the club together one last time before they went back to Etraya.

In the middle of day three when he still hadn't heard from Clive despite the text missive? Well. Sleipnir didn't panic or anything. Didn't send the man anywhere between three and seventeen text missives demanding he check in. He didn't sneak over to Bahamut and Phoenix's abode to check to see if Clive was there, nor did he do any extra patrols at all hours just in case he might catch a glimpse of him. That would have been overreacting. At least, Sleipnir assumes so. It felt like it anyway.

He did all those things on day four.

Morning of day five came and Sleipnir teleported all the way out to where Clive had taken him to breath to see if the man was lurking in the area. Surely he would be somewhere doing something benign, why wouldn't he? Clive is a very resilient and strong young man filled with determination. He isn't there. In fact, Clive Rosfield didn't seem to be anywhere and his mind started to flood him with images of the high ceiling, the pipes, and the rust. The rhymical sound of dripping. Sleipnir tore through warehouses then. Empty ones, used ones, ones currently in use... All of them. He looked through all of them.

Day six hits and Sleipnir is checking alley ways, and he is checking ditches. The city is entirely too big and filled with far too many people. There are so many places one could hide a man, hide a body. A body laying on the cement with the cool damp leaching through his clothes, through his flesh, flesh he could not control, writhing for eternity, pain screaming out— He didn't find him. He couldn't find him—

But wait, that is it, isn't it? Clive is not missing, he is hiding. He has to be. This is his game of Hide and Seek. Clive did not have Sleipnir count to some determined number, nor had they declared the area they are playing in.. but this must be it. It has to be it. And Sleipnir told Clive he would find him. That he would always find him.

Night has fallen and Sleipnir has decided to try and get into Clive's mindset; were he to hide, where would he go? This is an easy question, he would go to the Phoenix every time. This is the thinking which leads Sleipnir to outside of one of the bedroom window's at Bahamut's place and almost all of the air in his lungs whoosh out. One more time through another orb of darkness and Sleipnir comes stumbling out, over-eager and rushing the landing, in Clive's(?) room. His movements are swift as he turns the stumble into a hustle and he vaults over the baseboard at the foot of the bed, landing in a bounce just in front of Clive. Sleipnir appears visibly winded.]

Clive Rosfield— There you are!