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.

[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.

[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. )

[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?

[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? ]

[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.]

[scynful]

[ The Mother sweeps in without a trace of hesitation, stride unfaltering, utterly poised as always. She has a serving tray laden with hors d'oeuvres, individual finger foods prepared by the caterer -- and they aren't leftovers. There's a good selection, all thoughtfully arranged. She'd set them aside specially to bring down later, after the party was done. ]

Hello, darlings, [ she greets, her voice cool and stately despite the affectionate epithet. ] I've brought you some treats. You must be hungry. I'm sorry, I've been so busy lately with everything that I lost track of time.

[ It's hard to blame her if she's already apologized, isn't it?

Setting down the tray of food on the dining table, the Mother straightens and sweeps her eyes across the room, a casual inspection followed by a light question that can be offered so gently because the threat is already known, and understood, and respected. ]

Have you been keeping busy?

[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.]

[backtostart]

[ Setsu gives the other bot time to adjust, quietly watching as it touches its own throat after speaking, as its eyes slant in a facsimile of anger, until its hand wraps theirs. Even in this alien form, their grip is firm and certain as they're first being pulled in as the bot tests its strength, then plant their own feet to help haul the two of them up.

It's a strange, dizzying sensation that makes them sway. Not quite like muscles flexing, with what's not quite their center of gravity.

They steady themself and ignore it.

More importantly, with those reactions, this probably isn't actually a bot...

And she doesn't know where they are either... ]

No, I don't... I woke up here. Before that, I was in my own apartment. Or, that's as far as I can remember.

[ Regardless of who this is, there shouldn't have been another person in their apartment, considering Setsu's never invited anyone over. ]

I'm Setsu, and this will be my second mission here. Who are you?

[repaintress]

Good, you know who you are.

[ So neither of them had been overwritten, even if they'd been forced into this place and these bodies. Because whomever did this couldn't, or because they didn't want to? If Clea had her human body, the thought would have made her shiver, but instead the unease lingers with no easy form of release.

Setsu.

The name is familiar. That's right, they're one of the quirky, cutesy bubbly girl's friends. That means they're likely going to be sweet. Hopefully, they're not too compliant, as Clea has no intention of going along with what this second kidnapper wants. ]

I'm Clea, and this is also my second mission.

[ The eyes on her screen slant in the other direction from when she was angry, expressing her worry even though her voice remains steady. ]

This isn't part of the mission. It can't be. There are no particles. Do you think this is our mind playing tricks on us? Is it your mind?

[ It has to be, if it's anyone's. Clea returns to looking out into the darkness for a moment, then looks around herself at the vessel. She's never seen anything like this, a boat straight out of Verne's stories but far more alien, made of strange metals and with every part of it stranger than the last. She knows how her mind conjures horrors, this is not her own mind. So if it is an illusion, it must be drawn from the other person's mind.

The mission hadn't started yet, had it? She can't remember. Why not? ]

Are we trapped here?

[ Clea can't see anything outside, only darkness. Who could find them there? The unease inside of her continues to grow, spreading whenever she catches sight of 'her' arm or leg, limbs that feel nothing. Are nothing, and yet her mind falsely sees her flesh.

She must focus. They must focus. ]

[brat]

( he knows how this works, by now. knows to stay quiet unless addressed, knows to look like he's been busy, be obedient, be the perfect child because there is no other option. maelle presses closer and damian tenses for a brief moment, before he's leaning into it a little.

there is no way out. they only have one another.

yet mother walks herself downstairs and damian tips his head up just enough to meet her gaze, before his eyes briefly shift to look at maelle. )

Yes. Of course, Mother.

( but he doesn't lurch toward the food. that would be showing weakness, an undeniable need, and he refuses. )

[backtostart]

[ Why wouldn't they know who they are? Setsu's eyes blink in and out of existence on the screen.

That's not important now. Clea... Right, they've seen her before, at least over the network. From what they've gathered, she's a civilian, without any combat experience. And this is only her second mission, too.... People like that, Setsu is used to working with; people like that, it's Setsu's job to protect them.

Suddenly being thrown into a disorienting situation without explanation, of course she's worried... And it's also Setsu's job to help her. ]

We don't know if we're trapped yet. Let's save any assumptions until we have more information.

[ Setsu's voice ordinarily has a calm quality that's reassuring in situations like this. The bot's voice doesn't have any such qualities, rendering it simply soft and neutral. ]

We also don't know the nature of the hallucinations the particles produce. It's possible this is a shared hallucination pulled from our surroundings or from the nebula itself. Regardless, our ability to perceive the reality of our situation is impaired. We should proceed carefully.

[ Carefully, but they must still proceed. ]

I'll take the lead, but I'll let you choose where we'll go from here. [ They point out. First, to the fuzzy, green light, then to the flicking white. ] We need answers. Where do you want to look first?

[ Doing this, hopefully it will build confidence for her...but Setsu has no intention of allowing her get hurt in the process, or of allowing them to remain idle due to their uncertainty. ]

[maellum]

Yes, Mother.

[She says obediently with Damian, lifting her eyes. Distantly, some part of her knows this isn't right. A parent should embrace the parts of their child that don't align. A parent should be loved, not feared. A parent should be the place one wishes to run to, not away from. There should be relief upon their return, not dread.

She doesn't know where the learned these things but they feel true.

Like Damian, she knows to remain in a heel. But her stomach betrays her, gurgling loudly. She can't remember the last time she ate.]

[repaintress]

You're right. We don't know what the rules are here.

[ They may not be the same as Etraya proper, whether it's a hallucination, something like a Canvas, or this is actually happening. The thought is supposed to make her stomach twist, but she doesn't have a stomach. She doesn't like that thought.

Setsu seems intelligent and well put together. It's a relief, but unexpected. Clea had, as usual, assumed the worst. (If she expects the worst, perhaps it will not take her by surprise.) Clea crosses the metal arms, clearly thinking about Setsu's words. ]

Aurora described the effects as mental in nature: the particles impacting our minds. What's the last thing you remember before awakening here? I was preparing - my last memory is before the mission.

[ She would have already been prepared if the mission had been underway, not in the process.

It's disorienting to have someone taking charge so easily and doing a good job. Clea had forgotten what that felt like - Setsu seems to know what they're doing, so she doesn't have to do anything. That is a strange, strange feeling. Good and bad and shameful all at once. It is a relief and a weight off her shoulders Clea doesn't usually realize is there, but her relief makes her feel shame. More importantly, it's a good omen for them finding who did this and why. ]

Tell me what I should do.

[ That is what she would want to hear in Setsu's position. Clea accepts Setsu as knowing what they are doing and, provided the decisions make sense, she will follow their lead and assist accordingly. ]

The white light. I believe it would be wiser to stay in or near the vessel at first - we do not know for certain this is a hallucination. Either way, we may become lost or separated in the darkness.

[ The two of them will find out more together. ]

[scynful]

[ There's just a trace of impatience as she says, ] Well? Give me an accounting.

I'd like to hear all about it while we eat.

[ Not that she'll be eating -- she already ate -- but the Mother is proper that way, wouldn't frame the occasion as something they do in front of her while she only watches. Though that is what happens. The Mother takes a seat in a pointed move meant to indicate they should join her, and eat, and justify how they've spent their time.

Tonight it's the pretense of a family meal; that happens occasionally. The Mother doesn't plot it out deliberately, truly thinks sometimes she should indulge them a little bit or becomes regretful of something she's done or how long it's been since she's seen them, but the outcome is undeniable. She hasn't failed to notice that they're always standoffish like this at first when they see her, and letting them eat should help lower their defenses.

They should be honest with their mother, and sometimes they need help to achieve that. ]

[brat]

( the fear isn't new. the need to please isn't either, nor is the being secluded away from others - albeit the extent is new. perhaps that's why damian's subconscious doesn't rub up against being stuck down here as hard: talia had limited his freedom, but not to this extent. she had encouraged movement, had encouraged superiority among those who were not herself and ra's, but had kept damian sequestered away from those not in the league.

this almost feels normal, except for the rare points in which it doesn't. maelle's stomach makes a noise and his eyes shift down toward it for a moment before he's pulling himself up to his feet and reaching a hand back to her.

it's almost protective, in a way. almost. )

Maelle has almost completed repairing the holes in our socks. ( it's informative, without emotion, ) I finished the math workbook and fixed the kitchen drawer.

[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? )

[levelshift]

[A familiar voice snaps him back to reality and he blinks, gaze focusing in on Lois. He isn't alone, unless she's some horrific simulacrum created by the particles invading his mind. A hallucination wouldn't be unfounded, and he regards her warily.]

Ye — [Hold up. His answer dies in his throat and he steps over to the desk, confused. Her potentially being a hallucination takes a back seat to something that's way more important.]

Wait, did you say demons?

[What in the hell do demons have to do with a mortuary? His gaze follow hers and drops downwards, and he reads the note with the shaky writing.]

What the fuck?

[For someone who happens to employ a demon that can possess people, reading instructions that say to burn one is making him bristle with a tense anxiety. Don't tell him this damn nebula wants him to hurt Qliphah on top of everything else.]

[thisisontherecord]

( Lois sets the paper down, studying his expression for a long moment. Then her eyes drop back to the desk, scanning over what else rests on its well used surface. The music is louder here, apparently playing out of the old radio set on the desk's surface. The three files have names on them, but she ignores those for the moment, along with the instructions for... emblaming?

What the hell?

The book ends up in her hands, Lois flipping through gently to see if it opens to any particular page, the book's spine more worn in one or more sections than others. )

I did, and you have them, from what you're saying. Any that relate to these?

( She shows Accelerator the page she's stopped at, a list of all seventy-two sigils of the named demons per the novel's claim. Small compared to later pages, but still legible on the spread between the two open pages of the book. )

[levelshift]

[This can't be right, Qliphah can't be involved in any of this. His eyes jump over to the files as well, reading over the names written on them. They're unfamiliar to him, which is reassuring. It means the likelihood of his demon possessing one of them is dropping.

It's another small relief to not see Qliphah's name anywhere on that list, likely because of her artificial nature. Coronzon would not have been involved in the creation of any books, let alone ones naming out demons. Qliphah had meant to be an ambush against Aleister, so publicizing her existence before using her would have been a dumb move.

However, the book is still giving him a bad feeling.]

... Not unless Beleth is supposed to be the same as Belzébuth. Let me see that.

[Which is to say, he's forcibly grabbing the book away from Lois and putting it down on the desk so he can start at the very beginning.

On the cover of the book. Solomon is a name he remembers coming up during his time in England, Aleister had muttered it when talking about one of the members of his old cabal.

On the title page. Rosicrucian Order. He knows that as founded by Christian Rosenkreutz AKA Johannes Valentinus Andreae, run by pain in the ass Anna Sprengel. Does that mean she's involved in this? Or at least, is the nebula screwing with them by using the knowledge he has of the Anna he knows back home? Accelerator's eye twitches as he considers this unpleasant possibility, and flips more pages.

It's when he reaches the page titled THE INITIATED INTERPRETATION OF CEREMONIAL MAGIC that he says something aloud. That page is dense and he doesn't understand what he's reading at all, it's just that a single name in a small font at the bottom subscript catches his attention. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then decides on an appropriate reaction.]

That bastard is involved in this??

[backtostart]

That's true... We can't rule out that this isn't a hallucination yet, either.

[ That would simply make the way they continue to perceive their own flesh along with this robotic body all the more disturbing... Not knowing what Clea is seeing or not seeing herself, they choose not to bring that up. That they're both experiencing reality and having hallucinations is also a possibility...

Either way, it's too soon to say. Setsu nods and gestures for them to continue. ]

Let's stick close. If you see or feel anything that seems strange, tell me. Our instincts exist to protect us, so let's pay attention to what they tell us.

[ And that's what Setsu would like for Clea to do right now, as they begin towards that flicking light. Setsu can answer her other question as they walk. ]

Anyway... The last I remember was the same. The mission hadn't started yet. It was nighttime, and I was doublechecking everything was in place, before the mission began. I don't remember the time, so it's possible that if the particles began coming in at midnight, I wouldn't remember that the mission already began.

o/ - did I do that right?

[repaintress]

The only way I know of to rule out whether or not this is an illusion is not a viable option.

[ Everything in a Canvas feels real: not only as it pertains to one's obvious senses, but to one's internal ones as well. The passing of time can be shown on a body, one can feel tired and hungry. Time will pass and the Canvas will exist without one taking action, lending credence to the illusion.

It feels completely real. That is why it is dangerous to lose oneself. Why it had been pleasing to hear Setsu identify themself so readily.

Clea allows Setsu to lead, but she carefully positions herself to watch behind them, trying to provide some cover for the other just in case this is not mission related and there is someone (or something) else on board this strange ship. The only other creatures she's seen were crabs. How had they gotten in here? If they were underwater and there was a way in, wouldn't water have flooded the vessel?

Her unease grows. There's too much here she doesn't understand.

She wants to breathe. To take a deep breath and release. To ignore the dread she feels catching glimpses of 'herself' off metal.]

So it's likely this is either before the mission - and therefore not mission related - or we both lost some amount of time.

[ Clea peers over at Setsu. ]

Have you found anything?

you sure did!

[scynful]

[ Deep water submersibles are chunky affairs, thickly layered to withstand pressure and strapped with cameras, lights, and sensors. There is one small round window at the front, bulbous like a frog's eye and glass six inches thick. The intermittent white beam of navigation light casts a desolate air against the steady gleam of dull red emergency lamps marking the extremity points of the vessel.

A hole is blasted out the side of the submersible, like a powerful explosion had gone off inside it and blown it open. The thick layered hull has been peeled back in gnarled twists of metal, and inside they can see a cramped area, just large enough for three or four people sitting closely. Panels of instrument readouts and mechanical controls line the walls, most of them defunct but a few still blinking and operational.

There is a third companion bot inside, slumped against the controls. The bottom half of it is missing, torn off, wires and electronics from its innards exposed to the water and weakly sparking.

The face panel is blank, but it emits a faint rasping noise, sound traveling easily through the water, like it's breathing. ]

[maellum]

[A parent should be someone Maelle wants to chatter at incessantly, about the big and the small things going through her mind at any given moment. She thinks that sounds right, because Mother's invitation (Mother's demand), makes her stomach twist in knots. But that could be the hunger, too.

She takes Damian's hand and squeezes it as she stands. He's somehow younger and stronger than her in so many ways. It feels unfair--to him, not to her. It shouldn't be like this.]

I'll be done before bedtime. Thank you for the wool, Mother.

[Maelle says, hoping to keep her attention as she goes to sit at the table. Her shoulders are stiff. Her spine is stiff. Upstairs, she can imagine there's a table set beautifully, sunshine playing over the plates and utensils. Laughter and loose limbs, people leaning into one another at a particularly funny remark.]