MISSION 011 Sidelogs

[etrayamods]

WHO: Individual sign ups for mission 011
WHEN: September 19th - October 3rd
WHERE: Etraya
WHAT: Mod-driven threads!
NOTES\WARNINGS: Psychological horror, hallucinations, paranoia, body horror, violence, death imagery, loss of autonomy, existential horror. Mother thread will have parental abuse to a child (physical, emotional, and verbal) as well as neglect. PATHOS thread will have severe dissociation and assisted suicide.

Please indicate in the subject line if you're specifically looking for a mod response to a tag. A simple o7 will do! Otherwise I will use my judgment about where to pop in.

Comments

CW: graphic depictions of child abuse and neglect

[scynful]

Sometimes, moms just need to be mad like that, he'd said. Sometimes
they need to say and do things that hurt you. It's how they love you.
SARAH GAILEY

The Mother — Damian and Maelle

Underground is a parody of the house above. There's a whole upstairs Damian and Maelle are aware of, because they can hear it: footsteps softly pacing, occasional visitors, life and all its accompaniments going on without them. In the basement, they have a microcosm of kitchen, living, and sleeping areas all packed into one open space, narrow casement windows set along the ceiling at the edges. It distinctly resembles a dollhouse, something children might put together to play-act at being adults, practicing roles they would one day take on.

Maelle and Damian have not left it in a long time. They can't remember how long. Extended confinement makes everything strange, gets their brains to play tricks on them.

They're not totally without preoccupation, at least. They have approved materials, some books by now grown to be well-worn and loved favorites. The Mother leaves them assignments, reappears periodically with food and supplies to check their work, though sometimes she... forgets. Sometimes it's been so long since they've seen her that they have to start to ration, piecing out what they have and marking time by when they get to eat.

But she always comes back -- she always returns. She would never abandon her children. They need her, have so much farther to go until they can be whittled into the perfect beings she knows they can be.

Eventually, they'll hear the muted click of the latch on the basement door turning over, and the measured steps of heels coming down the stairs.

Hopefully the room is in good order; that's the first thing she'll check.

[brat]

( damian has always been a tinkerer.

he loves to pull things apart to piece them back together. loves to fix and mend, even if he couldn't put it into words as to why. both of his grandfathers had been physicians, at some point or another. both trained doctors who have excelled at their craft, even if ra's chose to go another direction. his father, too, enjoys figuring out how the world around him works so he can fill in the cracks. damian would compare it to kintsukuroi. rather than breaking down pieces so he can put them back together whole, he fills in the broken spaces with gold - doesn't hide the damage, but accentuates the cracks themselves, turning it into a celebration of what had once been broken being made anew.

except he can't remember any of that now. couldn't place the reasoning for why he is the way he is, just that it is. here in the dark that tinkerer's mind that loves to find what's broken to remake it has been muted; whittled down to attempting to control what can be controlled.

maelle certainly isn't it.

the kitchenette remains spotlessly clean, blankets precariously folded and placed out of the way when they've decided it isn't time for sleep; any rips and tears in books have been mended carefully, with hissed words and barked orders keeping maelle from touching anything he has drying in the very small windows.

small folded paper dolls with another piece of paper covered in drawn squares rest on the floor in front of him now, each placed upon a specific square up until he hears the click of the lock and grabs hold of the workbook he'd initially used to hide it within, settling each down within pages before pulling himself up to his feet and the workbook back in plain sight: resting on a shelf among other workbooks in a way that wouldn't catch one's eye too closely. he's quiet about it, footsteps near-impossible to catch even amongst the quiet of the basement, and quickly shoves his way over into maelle's space to grab hold of whatever she had been working on - not to overtake her, but for the appearance they had both been fussing with it together. )

[maellum]

[She's not sure when the thought occurred to her. It was likely a whisper one day, when they were left hungry for the second or third time, when she insisted she wasn't starving so that Damian had a little more than nothing. It became louder the more she heard footsteps above. Other people. Laughter. A realization that one day rang loud and clear: She'll never let us out.

But she lets herself in, and Maelle tenses. She watches Damian move as quick and quiet as a mouse, and when he comes in close she scoots closer. There's a pair of socks Maelle has been slowly and carefully darning. She doesn't know how to do this task, but she's been managing, albeit painfully slowly. It's given her time to think. She'll never let us out.

That can't be true. She must. Why else would she eventually remember to feed them?

Her head remains down, focused on her work, as if she hasn't heard anything. As if she's not worried for Damian. Better to keep her head down and see what the mood is before doing anything silly like speak.]

Outline

[scynful]

The Mother does return eventually. I was going to play this by ear, but based on how your thread's been going, she will indeed be charmed by Damian's drawing and bring him upstairs. He will discover that at some point the house has become destitute and rundown; what was once a lavish Southern gothic style residence has turned into something covered in dust with spotty electricity. The noises they've been hearing from upstairs are fake -- an audio track the Mother has been playing purposefully to deceive them that things are all still normal.

She has an overly earnest, sincere conversation with Damian about how much she loves him and worries for how he'll manage on his own. At some point here there's a Munchausen's by proxy element where she overtly insists he takes medicine of some kind to ensure his immune system can handle the outer world after so long spent in the basement. Of course, the medicine makes him biddable, tired, and easy to handle. She doesn't seem to want him to do much but lay in bed receiving her affection and constant care.

He will also notice that her skin is sagging, her eyes are bulging, and she increasingly smells of rot.

From there it can go one of two ways: 1) Damian resists somehow and goes to retrieve Maelle so they can escape together, pilfering the key to the basement from around the Mother's neck; or 2) Maelle gets worried and desperate after time keeps passing and she hears nothing from Damian, and the next time the Mother visits her, the Mother tells her that Damian has gotten very sick and she's taking care of him. Presumably, Maelle at that point attacks her to retrieve the key.

In either scenario, they will discover that the 'real' Mother has been dead for some time and is now inhabited by a fleshy creature with spindly limbs and enormous eyes. It's the psychic embodiment of the house itself. It truly loves Maelle and Damian -- they've lived so long here, put so much energy and pain into this residence that it's grown fond of them -- and when the Mother died, it manifested into a physical form and crawled into her corpse to animate her and maintain what it thought was the parent they needed. Attacking the Mother will cause it to gradually burst from her skin-sack, flesh tearing. It will plead for them to stay with it and promise it can become their ideal mother.

The house itself will fight back against them leaving -- all the doors and windows will remain sealed unless they either destroy the creature, or promise it that they will return to visit later.

Let me know if they choose the latter!

[scynful]

Do you think this new existence will be a life worth living?
CALIBRATION SURVEY v0.3

PATHOS — Setsu and Clea

The bottom of a massive freshwater lake is much like the bottom of the ocean. Here in the profundal zone, almost no light penetrates and temperatures are direly cold. There aren't enough nutrients to sustain larger forms of life, but life is still abundant, from strange shrimp-like crustaceans to pale fish, some of them lacking scales and half-blind.

It's silent and peaceful, only the soft susurration of water currents moving sand across the sponge-beds. Whenever the crash happened, it wasn't too recent -- the sea-dust has settled across the floor of the lake and the gnarled submersible has some curious fish investigating it. The robots, when they rise to consciousness, have been here a while. When one of them starts to move, crabs scurry away, startled.

Their minds struggle. They have the sensory processing of a human, and they try to make sense of what is going on around them through that lens. When they look down at themselves, the mechanical form they've taken is superimposed with the body they expect to see, flesh and blood a mirage, like the sensation of a phantom limb sparking nerve endings that no longer exist. The cognitive dissonance is a blank wall that has no purchase.

Eventually, when they orient themselves enough to go on, they'll notice that there are two current sources of light: one a flickering unsteady headlight from the submersible, the other a distant glow, fuzzy and green-shaded in the dark water.

If there are answers to be found, those are places to start.

[backtostart]

[ It's so cold. That's the first thing Setsu thinks as they regain consciousness, pushing themself up on their hands. The ground shifts down beneath their palms, and the delicate vibration of multiple tiny legs, like insects scurrying away, shocks them into sudden clarity.

The black void of the sea greets them, with its colorless sand equally colorless fish. The little light there seems to nearly pass through their thin flesh, illuminating the structures underneath as they swim through the brightest points.

This isn't right.

Setsu scrambles to stand, and their feet slide, knocking against the bot beside them, as a second wave of unease shakes them. Their line of vision is too high, and this body is too large. The pale skin and lean muscle of their legs is and isn't there as they watch the mechanical joints twist and rotate to give their feet purchase on the lake floor.

This is a hallucination, right? It must be: The particles have an effect on one's psyche, so this must be an extreme case of psychosis. (Can they trust the mission debriefs to be accurate?) —No, they can't start having doubts like that. They're hallucinating. For now, for the sake of moving forward, Setsu decides to go with that.

And—that's right, they're not alone here, so they have to pull it together. Setsu turns and crouches down, looking at what appears to be a companion bot. (Not they can't trust their perception to be accurate right now.) ]

Hey... Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere?

[ Setsu offers out a hand. The screen of their face doesn't have much ability to emote, and the black dots of their eyes simply stare ahead, but their voice, at least, is gentle and concerned. ]

[repaintress]

[ Before she opens her eyes, Clea knows something is wrong. There's no ache in her ankles and wrists, no catch of her heart in her chest when 45 seconds after coming into consciousness she remembers her brother is dead. Somehow, she knows that it's cold, but there's no sharp tang of icy feeling when she shifts a leg against the cold metal.

Something knocks against her and Clea feels a burst of irritation, but unlike usual, it passes as soon as it's felt, rather than setting off a reaction - there is no pulse to race, no sense of heat, no tension that demands release and feeds on itself.

A voice. She should answer. ]

No, I'm not injured.

[ That's not her voice. How is she speaking? Clea moves an arm, placing it on her throat, utterly appalled by the lack of tactile feedback. She sounds like some form of recording. How displeasing. This entire situation is enraging. How dare someone trap her here, overwhelm her as though she were a child?

She's going to find them and make them regret it.

Clea pushes herself into a sitting position and finally opens her eyes.

Oh, disgusting. She opens and closes one hand, eyes slanting in anger as she looks at 'herself', ignoring her mind's attempt to see her own living arm instead of what's in front of her. Did they put her in one of those mechanical creatures Aurora uses to do her bidding?

The body is strange and even more alien that her own experiments with different forms had been: When Clea had Painted herself something new, it had always been something alive. Blood, flesh, sinew. Senses. Breathing. The sounds of her real body are absent: There's no breath, no heartbeat.

Find whomever did this.

Clea turns her face up to the (other?) companion bot(?), slanting angry eyes moving back to a neutral shape. She reaches up and takes its hand, automatically internally starting the process of acclimating herself to her new form, learning how hard to pull (how strong is this body?), how to move so she can stand.

It's easier than usual to put her anger aside, focus on the other person there. They might be a person.

Do they know who they are? If they were brought here without warning and consent, if it is a person, would they remember? Or would they be like her sister, sleepwalking unaware? ]

Who are you?

[ There's no anger or demand in the question - Clea isn't upset by their presence, just wanting to know. ]

Do you know how I got here?

[ A fish swims by the outside of the submarine, and Clea can't help but walk over to try to catch a glimpse. It looked so beautiful, eerily white and shining against the darkness outside. Are they underwater? ]

[scynful]

The truth alone has never set anyone free.
It is only doubt which will bring mental emancipation.
ANTON LAVEY

Maleficium — Lois and Accelerator

The room is not large, just big enough for an effective workspace. Wall and floors are fully tiled with the same stoic white subway ceramic for ease in cleaning. The embalming table with its grates and piping is set in the middle over a large drain in the floor, sterile medical counters arrayed behind it with equipment and supplies neatly organized. One wall is a line of mortuary cabinets, most of them empty but three occupied.

For now, all the cabinet doors are closed, and the air is chill and stifling with the scent of preserving chemicals. There is one external door that cannot be opened, but has a keyhole, and a window that is nailed shut opposite it. Outside is the pressing dark and an unexciting lawn, moonlight casting shadows of trees across the grass.

The whole room feels old and direly in need of renovations -- chips of paint are peeling off the window frame, one of the mortuary cabinets is half-open and unused because the latch no longer works, and some of the supplies, on close examination, are past their expiration date.

But that doesn't really matter to the dead.

A carved wooden desk is set in the corner, varnish worn away on the edges, and on it are the following:

1. A note with shaky writing that reads only: You must finish what I started. Prepare the deceased and burn the demon. Be sure to get the right one.


2. A stack of three medical files, labeled with the names of the dead.


3. Instructions on embalming.


4. An old, well-preserved early copy of the Lesser Key of Solomon.


5. A radio playing Gymnopédie No. 1 by Satie on endless loop at low volume, static crackling through now and then.

Look around and take inventory. What do you do first?

[levelshift]

[This isn't any normal space in Etraya. Even without his ability Accelerator is able to clock that as soon as he enters the room. Reflexively, he tenses up, eyes darting around for some immediate threat, and he only relaxes when he sees some horrible, eldritch monster isn't about to jump out at him. It's just a room.

A room that smells like chemicals he recognizes from home, and a wall of metal cabinet doors, and a metal table, and grates on the floors and this tile is the exact kind of tile Academy City scientists often used in facilities because it's so easy to clean —

Accelerator exhales slowly, understanding where he is, sorting through his memories as he scans his surroundings for more details. It isn't one of the rooms used for esper experiments. At least, it isn't one he was ever in. It's too small, and the desk and music are out of place. Since it isn't any room he's ever encountered in Etraya, Aphaia, Solmara and the like, he has to conclude this is the result of the nebula particles. It's a terrifying thought, one that's making his pulse start to pound in his ears.

If he's already being affected, what does that mean? Is he more susceptible due to being an esper? Thank God he doesn't have his ability, that makes him a little less dangerous. He still has a weapon though, and if his mental faculties are crumbling it's possible he'll be more inclined to hurt people. His free hand clenches into a fist, nails digging into his palm as he considers this. It could be a repeat of what he did in San Francisco, in that warehouse. John and Harold were wrong about him, he's only going to disappoint them again. Why they keep bothering with him is something he's never going to understand....

He's so lost in his thoughts that he doesn't notice it when he stops being alone.]

[thisisontherecord]

( Lois pauses, caught between one step into a building after the shadow of Clark or Jon, she'd be hard pressed to say, and the sudden stark, worn down tile and cabinets of here. Music plays low and thoughtful from hidden speakers, recognizable but not nameable to Lois's recollection. She comes to a full stop, glancing from Accelerator to the rest of what shows to be a mortuary space: she recognizes those cabinets, even if she wishes she didn't.

Everything here is crisply real in a way that the illusions and hallucinations she's brushed against so far have not. Moreover, Lois has no particular fears or memories tied to a morgue of any kind, let alone one as... aged as this feels.

She grimaces as she steps forward, a woman dedicated to motion when she has no other leads on what to expect. (

Accelerator?

( She calls out, not coming close to where he is so much as circling around, an eye on the embalming table, already drawn toward the small desk and her own nosy tendencies. Lois wants information, including what is triggering this. )

You don't happen to have any mortuary linked history, do you?

( Trauma she decides not to ask. Insensitive as she can be in pursuit of answers time to time, this is not one: they've been living in a breathing nightmare of the fog generated by the nebula particle nonsense, and she won't linger in wondering what if. She reaches the desk, eyes scanning across its contents. The note catches her attention, and she lifts it, frowning as she reads the shaky writing. Nothing it says makes sense, really. At the same time, everything it says is understandable. )

... Are demons a thing in your world?

( Are they one in hers? )

Outline

[scynful]

Wilbur Whately: Marfan syndrome, physically goat-like with excess body hair and horizontal pupils. Cause of death was heart failure from growing too fast.

Mina Murray: beautiful demure 20-something woman who died of exsanguination. Nothing appears strange about her otherwise.

A variety of spooks will occur as they embalm everyone, Mortuary Assistant style. Feel free to use your imagination here. They actually happened to pick the correct body first -- Harry D'Amour is the one who's possessed, so the most spooks will happen while they're working on him. The very next spook was going to be live tapeworms crawling in through the window and wriggling across the floor to try to get into Harry D'Amour's body. Does this make any sense for real tapeworms? Nope!

The demon in question is Andras, the 63rd demon of the Ars Goetia who looks like this. He is a nasty asshole and causes discord and quarrels by his presence, so as they work on Harry they will be increasingly snappish with one another, which is the biggest clue that he's the possessed one.

The door leads to the crematorium, and if they try to leave before burning Harry, or if they burn someone else first, one of them will get possessed and you can figure out what happens from there. Andras is notoriously violent and vindictive.

Alex

[scynful]

[ Alex is the one person Scylla actually does seek out purposefully while he's here. He owes her, well, something, and he's not so lost in his own problems that he can't see or care about someone else's. As long as they don't interfere with his goals, of course.

This time when he appears before her he's physically real and solid, which means he's dressed in his actual clothes -- maroon and gray, casual but snappy -- and speaks with his own voice, which has just a slight unplaceable accent, faintly guttural. He's looking around at the oppressive fog and the overall chaos, and he doesn't exactly sound sheepish, like he would if he actually felt guilty. But he is surprised. ]

Well, this went farther than I intended. Guess that's what happens when you throw some manifestation at an eldritch cosmic force.

i am so sorry

[reincarnesiac]

( The thing is, she's seen Enough that is and isn't there, has had enough encounters with physically altered spaces in this supposed illusion and hallucination zone, that when she sees Scylla?

... She just.

She tackles him.

Like she doesn't need to succeed, but if she does, she'll look absolutely startled, because: )

Wait, it's really you this time?!

no apologies necessary whatsoever

[scynful]

Oof.

[ Scylla is indeed tackled, jolting back a step to get his balance again and laughing in incredulous surprise as he straightens up, trying to create some distance with his hands holding her off. ]

Whoa, okay, hello.

[ When was the last time he had casual physical contact like that? He's not going to get sentimental about it, but... however long it's been for him, it's been much longer for Echo. ]

Percy

[scynful]

[ Towards the end of the mission, one time when Percy switches back to his normal self -- in whatever state that leaves him -- he'll find Scylla observing curiously nearby, eyebrows raised, morbidly fascinated by the whole process. He's a spindly normal-looking guy with just a faint guttural accent. ]

Do you want me to... fix this? That seems unpleasant.

[badnewsandshitlist]

Percy steadies himself, breathing as though each inhale tastes faintly of ash. The quiet is heavy, pressing into his bones, and for a long moment he simply stands in it. He catalogues the sensation with a clinical detachment: his skin feels thin, too raw, his body like a garment worn and stretched in the wrong places. Every shift of muscle reminds him he is only flesh again.

When his eyes rise to Scylla, the man is still there, observing with the patience of a collector studying some rare specimen. Percy wets his lips and adjusts a glove, small motions that mask his unease.

“You must forgive me,” he says at last, voice low and brittle. “It takes time to remember how to be myself again. The skin never fits quite right when I return. It is as though something essential has been misplaced and I am left rattling about in my own frame.” A faint, humorless curve touches his mouth. “But one cannot remain borrowed forever.”

He draws a breath and lets it go slowly. “You claim you can fix this. I will not pretend I believe you, but I am far too tired to chase you off for the attempt. So speak, if you have something worth saying. Who are you, to offer such things?”

[scynful]

Scylla can wait for Percy to recover. This is, well, his fault that this happened. He didn't set out to do each thing deliberately, but he did set this into motion beyond what Echo had intended, and he knows that. He's making a point here -- he doesn't regret what he'd done -- but he doesn't have to leave someone in a horrible situation like this, either. This is something that's beyond Aurora, and he has power enough to fix things for one individual person, if not anything bigger than that.

Percy is more composed than most would be in that situation, which causes a quirked appreciative glance from Scylla as he responds.

"My name is Scylla. I snuck in when the vent opened," he says frankly, "and caused a bit of a mess. Including what happened to you."

Normally he's all devil-may-care easy charm, but he turns serious and reserved, something like academic interest behind his gaze as he looks Percy up and down. He's composed, not distressed, as he goes on: "Seems like the least I could do is clean up a little before I go."

Clive, Dion, and Sleipnir

[scynful]

[ The three emerge from the bunker into the dim foggy landscape of Etraya. There's fresh air, at least, but not much else to give them a sense of relief -- the mental effects from the ghosts linger and the extended, impossible, stultifying passage of time while they were down there makes the abrupt change disorienting. Being greeted out of the blue probably doesn't help. ]

Oh good, you made it.

[ Scylla is a tall man with shaggy blonde hair and a subtle trace of an accent, and if he doesn't seem impatient, exactly, he is definitely restless. He's been waiting for them, and the waiting has made him nervous. ]

We all in one piece? Able to speak? I really need you able to communicate.

[oblige]

[ After what had been a harrowing experience, the trio does indeed emerge, somewhat worse for wear. None bear dire injuries, owed to their collective martial skill and some creativity, but the dried blood, bruising, and cuts are readily visible among them. Their clothes have seen far better days. A hot bath would be welcomed.

What they find instead is a stranger unfamiliar to them. The three have themselves a good squint at the man before talking briefly among themselves. Afterward, Dion steps forth as the representative, though he does not move far, having every intention of confering with the others. ]

We have survived that ordeal, yes.

[ He confirms this observable truth, if only to allow him a short span of time in which to straighten his posture and pretend he doesn't look like he'd clawed his way out of a death trap. ]

I shall speak on behalf of my fellows... And we cannot help but observe that it seems you were waiting here.

Clea & Setsu

[scynful]

[ Eventually they reach the communications room in Lambda, presumably in an effort to try to contact Aurora or someone else and ask for a rescue -- but the room is already occupied. There's a tall man with a mop of blond hair casually leaning back against the blinking array of comms equipment, and he straightens up as they enter. To someone really observant, they might notice a trace of relief flicker across his expression, but it quickly morphs into something like impressed awe. ]

None of this will work, it's from a totally different dimension, [ Scylla explains helpfully. ] But I can get you out of here. [ That's what he planned on saying, but he ends up adding, ] Damn, though, you guys really have some identity issues to work through.

[ Sometimes the physical manifestations of horror were more or less random... and sometimes they really weren't. Scylla can tell the difference; the two of them have drawn in almost a whole discrete chunk of this other dimension based on sympathetic psychic resonance. ]

[repaintress]

((OOC Note: Clea finding out she's a copy pretty radically changes things for her - that's responsible for the tonal whiplash/difference in her reactions here. Clea is canonically uh...pretty abusive/unhinged about representations of herself and bot!Clea is Going Through It(TM)))

---

[ Everything is wrong. Wrong wrong wrong. The word pounds against her skull when she and Setsu enter the communications room. Setsu can be rescued. They deserve that: They'd been considerate, caring, and competent. Clea shouldn't stop just because there's nothing more for her. Still, her display has been stuck in permanent worry-eyes since they've been told the truth, and she's taken to trailing listlessly after Setsu, mostly only reacting when asked a direct question or told to do something.

Until they enter what Setsu had said was likely to be the communications room. It takes Clea a moment to realize what - who - she is seeing. She doesn't want to use her other self's memories, but they come to her unbidden. Sitting at a table with Alex, asking her to describe the man who'd come to her. ]

Scylla.

[ She speaks for Setsu's benefit, not his, and her eyes slant from worried to suspicious, narrowing on both ends.

Despite its vague nature, Clea understands what he's saying. They're in a different world. They won't be able to call outside - it would be as futile as a Painting inside of a Canvas trying to call out to the real world. They won't be able to call outside because they don't belong there. Clea knows this is true, but she can't accept it. She has all of Her memories. She hadn't chosen to be here. Why is this her fault? Why would She blame her for it? Images of herself with white hair and skin dance through Clea's mind, and this time Clea puts herself in the statue's shoes, seeing her own face twisted with coldness and cruelty.

She shakes her mechanical head. Focus. ]

Why would you offer passage?

[ She crosses her arms, cautious but not outright hostile. ]

Gods rarely pay this much attention to each other's toys unless they too have 'issues' to work through.

[ Is he so different? Clea remembers her - no, her other self's - parents (she has no parents and no family; the thought fills her with despair). She remembers a world rent in twain. The piles of painted bodies littering the landscape.

They are the playthings. Those with such power are dangerous. Why spend time with specific toys when they could remold reality itself? Whatever Scylla and Echo are doing, it has more to do with each other than with any Etrayan.

They must be cautious. They must not go out of the frying pan into the fire. ]

Vincent, Gorgug, and Gustave

[scynful]

At some point during their time in Hannibal's house, one of the group will find the following note. On the reverse of the page are scribbled fragments of complicated math (representative example).

6.2.40▮▮
Saving all of them isn't possible. But if I focus on anchoring specific universes, on stabilizing them with ▮▮▮▮▮ as the others burn, it should at least save those. It will give them time to grow, eons to develop, and maybe someone else can find a way to truly save everything. I am holding everything together for now, until I can figure out how to make an impossible choice.

Who do I save? What worlds do I hold together when everything is falling apart? I feel like a gardener with an orchard on fire, hands blistering while I choose which trees to protect while the rest turn to ash. It's impossible - some may be more advanced than others, but they are all alive. And life in any form is precious, it's worth protecting.

Clea

[scynful]

Clea is left awakening as the fog fades to her merged consciousness, the following page near to hand, math scribbled across the back.

12.6.39▮▮
▮▮▮▮ was right.

I thought the whole "the world is dying" was bullshit at first, but it isn't. I've seen it. Decaying threads falling apart at their roots and collapsing with nothing left to hold onto. Futures colliding into themselves, like serpents eating their tails. What once was full of endless possibilities is now nothing more than memories. I've told ▮▮▮▮▮ we need to do something about it, but what can we do?

If I tug at a thread, it snares. If I cut one, countless lives are ended. And none of this was meant for me to touch anyway, this isn't something my own brand of magic was meant for. I can fix it myself, I just need time. But time is what we don't have.

scylla content

[sophielicious]

(Bad idea? Maybe. Good idea? Probably not. Does she think it should be done? Absolutely. On her own, she can't do much — her entire telepathic repertoire is more akin to delicate, intricate surgery, and without the hivemind, well. Let's just say she is still learning how to be one when it comes to it. Quentin, on the other hand? He's more than fine in that regard, but also has the subtlety of a highlighter-pink bulldozer.

And even with Quentin's stupidly large range, they're kind of locked out of the whole multiverse thing. So, great idea? Alex and her very complicated power. She's closed NYX for the day, saying her goodbyes with a smile before she locked the doors with a sigh. Going back to routine after that bullshit is quite a task, but okay, time to get new bullshit.

When Quentin gets there, Sophie finds a cushion for herself, sitting on the floor with arms holding it against her chest.)

Okay, everyone's out; we have food, drinks, and some space to rest after. So, just review the plan, and we're ready to go.

[querulus]

[How the hell did Quentin get dragged into this crap? Oh, right, by being cool and amazing and so incredibly powerful and smart. All of those things. Look, he's been feeling like shit since that stupid fog. So maybe he wants to stroke his ego a little by showing off. What, is that a crime? He got poisoned and tortured, fuck off. And honestly? He's just ready to take out his anger on someone, and this Scylla fuck seems like an ideal candidate. Sure, he didn't actually do the poisoning, but he's an asshole. And that's what's important.

Quentin tosses another cushion onto the floor and plops himself down on it across from Sophie, folding his legs up into a standard cross-legged meditation pose. It's important. And comfy!]

What plan? We juice ourselves up and find this creepazoid. Ain't exactly rocket science.