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etrayalogs2025-09-19 08:20 am
etrayamods) wrote in etrayalogs2025-09-19 08:20 am
Entry tags:
- !mission log,
- a certain magical index: accelerator,
- arcane: jayce talis,
- arcane: viktor,
- atla: toph beifong,
- batman wfa: jason todd,
- co e33: gustave,
- co e33: lune,
- co e33: maelle,
- dc comics: bruce wayne,
- dc comics: damian wayne,
- dc comics: dick grayson,
- dc comics: jonathan kent,
- final fantasy vii-r: vincent valentine,
- final fantasy x-2: paine,
- final fantasy xvi: cidolfus telamon,
- final fantasy xvi: dion lesage,
- final fantasy xvi: sleipnir harbard,
- marvel comics: sophie cuckoo,
- monster pulse: julie greathouse,
- person of interest: harold finch,
- person of interest: john reese,
- person of interest: sameen shaw,
- superman (2025): clark kent / superman,
- superman (2025): lois lane,
- the batman: bruce wayne,
- titans: jason todd,
- vox machina: vax'ildan vessar,
- xmcu: scott summers (teen),
- ✘ dimension 20: gorgug thistlespring,
- ✘ genshin impact: kaeya alberich,
- ✘ ice age: manny,
- ✘ kpop demon hunters: rumi
MISSION 011
WHO: Everyone.
WHEN: September 19th - October 3rd
WHERE: Etraya
WHAT: Mission 011
NOTES\WARNINGS: Psychological horror, hallucinations, paranoia, body horror, violence, death imagery, loss of autonomy, existential horror. Threads may have their own individual warnings.
WHEN: September 19th - October 3rd
WHERE: Etraya
WHAT: Mission 011
NOTES\WARNINGS: Psychological horror, hallucinations, paranoia, body horror, violence, death imagery, loss of autonomy, existential horror. Threads may have their own individual warnings.
CONTENT WARNINGS: Psychological horror, hallucinations, paranoia, body horror, violence, death imagery, loss of autonomy, existential horror.
❬ Ashen Veil ❭
Aurora had issued a warning: the nebula's particles were coming, whether or not they were wanted.
Through multiple conversations, she had made her limitations clear: she could let them know what was coming, but provide no assistance in finding the vent to end it, nor offer safe haven outside of the already established mechanisms for skipping missions. This was a puzzle they would have to solve regardless of how much they hated the idea of participating, and solving that puzzle means being an active participant: it mean searching through the particles to find the vent, physically closing off the thing allowing them inside their city.
Yet some allowances have been made: on September 18th, she gathers up all the animals she can convince to come along with her, ushering them into the same dome that those with mission passes will find themselves within. People are welcome to bring her their pets, too, to ensure they do not experience the same horrors they will - all will be kept safe and fed, cared for by the companion bots and Aurora herself until the vent is closed and the particles are fully filtered out. They are not participants, and she would hate to have them suffer through a mission when they can be protected elsewhere.
The night of the 18th goes by quietly, companion bots ushering animals out of the way while Aurora herself offers a hand clearing the way. And once they've all been herded in, the vent opens, allowing the nebula's particles to slowly begin making their way through Etraya's atmosphere.
It doesn't take long at all for the small bits of dust to accumulate in the protective barrier's atmosphere. Thick fog enshrouds everything, it makes it's way through the cracks in windows, the space under doors, through the very fabric that makes up every piece of Etraya. And with the spread of the Fog comes the horrors it brings.
Everything becomes hazy.
While Etraya is green, brimming with life and bright colors - the Fog dims everything. What was once light and beautiful now looks drained, color leeched out and left as nothing more than a husk of what it once was. Every flower and leaf appears to wilt in moments under the heavy weight of the Fog's touch. The air itself grows heavy, tasting of metal and rot, seeping into the lungs of those under it's influence like a slow suffocation. Sound itself dulls - footsteps echo strangely, or perhaps even sound duplicated, the steady taptaptap making it feel as if one is being followed. Then again, considering how difficult it is to see mere feet in front of them - perhaps they are.
Shapes stir in the haze. Some may be tricks of the eye: distortions among the thickened air, but others linger a little too long, watching with patience in a way that feels wrong. Eerie. A shadow may linger where no one should be, only to dissolve when approached. Or worse - it does not dissolve at all but turns as if it look at those who approach it.
Yet the Fog also remembers things it should not. It bends itself into shapes familiar to those within it, taking the outline of loved ones and enemies alike, whispering in voices that should not be present. But it's whispers, it's movements, are all wrong. There are cracks, clear distortions of what may have been a happy memory now turned menacing. Perhaps a friend appears to offer comfort, before their features distort and their comfort curdles into ill wishes.
And through all of this, the vent breathes unseen. The nebula's particles continue to seep their way into the city, digging deep into every possible surface, clawing it's way through skin to settle deep. There is no safe space left upon the surface of Etraya - as soon as the Fog has been given leave to spread, it has entered not only the atmosphere but those within it. It lingers behind eyes, under skin, whispering that it will never leave.
You belong here now, under its veil.
Through multiple conversations, she had made her limitations clear: she could let them know what was coming, but provide no assistance in finding the vent to end it, nor offer safe haven outside of the already established mechanisms for skipping missions. This was a puzzle they would have to solve regardless of how much they hated the idea of participating, and solving that puzzle means being an active participant: it mean searching through the particles to find the vent, physically closing off the thing allowing them inside their city.
Yet some allowances have been made: on September 18th, she gathers up all the animals she can convince to come along with her, ushering them into the same dome that those with mission passes will find themselves within. People are welcome to bring her their pets, too, to ensure they do not experience the same horrors they will - all will be kept safe and fed, cared for by the companion bots and Aurora herself until the vent is closed and the particles are fully filtered out. They are not participants, and she would hate to have them suffer through a mission when they can be protected elsewhere.
The night of the 18th goes by quietly, companion bots ushering animals out of the way while Aurora herself offers a hand clearing the way. And once they've all been herded in, the vent opens, allowing the nebula's particles to slowly begin making their way through Etraya's atmosphere.
It doesn't take long at all for the small bits of dust to accumulate in the protective barrier's atmosphere. Thick fog enshrouds everything, it makes it's way through the cracks in windows, the space under doors, through the very fabric that makes up every piece of Etraya. And with the spread of the Fog comes the horrors it brings.
Everything becomes hazy.
While Etraya is green, brimming with life and bright colors - the Fog dims everything. What was once light and beautiful now looks drained, color leeched out and left as nothing more than a husk of what it once was. Every flower and leaf appears to wilt in moments under the heavy weight of the Fog's touch. The air itself grows heavy, tasting of metal and rot, seeping into the lungs of those under it's influence like a slow suffocation. Sound itself dulls - footsteps echo strangely, or perhaps even sound duplicated, the steady taptaptap making it feel as if one is being followed. Then again, considering how difficult it is to see mere feet in front of them - perhaps they are.
Shapes stir in the haze. Some may be tricks of the eye: distortions among the thickened air, but others linger a little too long, watching with patience in a way that feels wrong. Eerie. A shadow may linger where no one should be, only to dissolve when approached. Or worse - it does not dissolve at all but turns as if it look at those who approach it.
Yet the Fog also remembers things it should not. It bends itself into shapes familiar to those within it, taking the outline of loved ones and enemies alike, whispering in voices that should not be present. But it's whispers, it's movements, are all wrong. There are cracks, clear distortions of what may have been a happy memory now turned menacing. Perhaps a friend appears to offer comfort, before their features distort and their comfort curdles into ill wishes.
And through all of this, the vent breathes unseen. The nebula's particles continue to seep their way into the city, digging deep into every possible surface, clawing it's way through skin to settle deep. There is no safe space left upon the surface of Etraya - as soon as the Fog has been given leave to spread, it has entered not only the atmosphere but those within it. It lingers behind eyes, under skin, whispering that it will never leave.
You belong here now, under its veil.
❬ broken symmetry ❭
The street below doesn't feel stable - it shifts and sways, shifts from stretching out into the Fog to folding in on itself, leaving those on it at unfamiliar crossroads. Yet one will find that they are not the only one who has arrived here: a stranger, or a friend, stands opposite, but something does not quite feel right: they look distorted, not quite as they should, but it's almost impossible to tell what has changed. And yet both individuals will feel the same pull: that this person in front of them isn't as they should be, and something needs to be done.
Perhaps their hair is too long and needs to be cut, and one feels the intense need to take out a pair of shears to trim. Perhaps it is their clothing, somehow wrong in how it hangs off them. Or perhaps it's something - a little more dire. The shape of their nose, the color of their eyes. Regardless, it needs to be fixed. Repaired.
Yet the one being judged may feel as if everything is completely normal, and the person opposing them just happens to be calling out the thing that causes them the most insecurity: the shape of their nose, the weight of their hair, their clothing. But the feeling of something wrong goes both ways.
Perhaps what is truly needed here isn't to change, but to accept.
Perhaps their hair is too long and needs to be cut, and one feels the intense need to take out a pair of shears to trim. Perhaps it is their clothing, somehow wrong in how it hangs off them. Or perhaps it's something - a little more dire. The shape of their nose, the color of their eyes. Regardless, it needs to be fixed. Repaired.
Yet the one being judged may feel as if everything is completely normal, and the person opposing them just happens to be calling out the thing that causes them the most insecurity: the shape of their nose, the weight of their hair, their clothing. But the feeling of something wrong goes both ways.
Perhaps what is truly needed here isn't to change, but to accept.
❬ that which burrows ❭
Something pricks against the skin - sharp, fleeting, similar to a mosquito bite or perhaps a bee sting. But by the time one reacts, whatever it had been that had touched them has already slipped beneath the surface where no hand can reach. Yet it was no insect that had touched them, nor was it anything real in any sense one could understand.
It gnaws at the edge of thought, settling in one's gut and swelling into a panic. A worry that perhaps they had once dismissed, or perhaps had never stopped to truly be concerned over, blooms into something monstrous and all encompassing. It fills every corner of their mind, until breathing becomes near-impossible. Reason fractures, and the thought writhes, burrowing deeper, until there is nothing left.
Maybe they should have never been born. Maybe their existence is a blight upon those around them. Perhaps they truly are the disappointment their companions have assured them they are not. Maybe a mistake made eons ago resurfaces, until they are left sobbing with regrets and begging for forgiveness that has long-since been earned and yet they cannot accept it. Perhaps they are choking on regret, heart pounding as bile rises in their throat and nothing seems to successfully swallow back that sensation, the gut-feeling that their regrets were truly their fault.
For those familiar with panic attacks, many of the same techniques that help to manage can help push back the thought, but cannot circumvent it - physical contact being the most effective way to reduce cortisol, grounding the mind if only for a fleeting moment. Still, the presence remains, thrumming beneath the skin like a parasite of unease. One can muffle it, console it, distract it, but never banish it.
It gnaws at the edge of thought, settling in one's gut and swelling into a panic. A worry that perhaps they had once dismissed, or perhaps had never stopped to truly be concerned over, blooms into something monstrous and all encompassing. It fills every corner of their mind, until breathing becomes near-impossible. Reason fractures, and the thought writhes, burrowing deeper, until there is nothing left.
Maybe they should have never been born. Maybe their existence is a blight upon those around them. Perhaps they truly are the disappointment their companions have assured them they are not. Maybe a mistake made eons ago resurfaces, until they are left sobbing with regrets and begging for forgiveness that has long-since been earned and yet they cannot accept it. Perhaps they are choking on regret, heart pounding as bile rises in their throat and nothing seems to successfully swallow back that sensation, the gut-feeling that their regrets were truly their fault.
For those familiar with panic attacks, many of the same techniques that help to manage can help push back the thought, but cannot circumvent it - physical contact being the most effective way to reduce cortisol, grounding the mind if only for a fleeting moment. Still, the presence remains, thrumming beneath the skin like a parasite of unease. One can muffle it, console it, distract it, but never banish it.
❬ hollowing road ❭
A narrow trail winds through the forestry of Etraya, murmuring to them that this is the way, this is where the vent lies.
If one follows, the Fog rewards each step with a loss. At first, it's nearly impossible to perceive what has been lost - perhaps it was a favorite color, a memory of where one had left a friend, or the taste of a favored meal. Small things, gone before one even notices their absence.
But as they continue down the path, they will find that the loss increases. Memories unravel like a thread being pulled from it's spool, leaving behind remnants from memories lost. Objects may become buried in the foliage behind them on the trail - a piece of fabric from a favored dress, a key that once opened the door to their childhood home, a picture of a family lost. Each pulses faintly with the echo of the memory they belong to, begging to be picked up and held close - or perhaps buried deep in the forest to never be found again.
Eventually, the truth will become impossible to ignore: those on the path will no longer remember why they came, nor what waits at the end. Turning around, they may find evidence of what was left behind in their wake, leaving them to gather the pieces that once made them whole. Each item will dissolve once pressed close to it's owners chest, sharing the memory itself with anyone who happens to be close enough to get a taste.
If one follows, the Fog rewards each step with a loss. At first, it's nearly impossible to perceive what has been lost - perhaps it was a favorite color, a memory of where one had left a friend, or the taste of a favored meal. Small things, gone before one even notices their absence.
But as they continue down the path, they will find that the loss increases. Memories unravel like a thread being pulled from it's spool, leaving behind remnants from memories lost. Objects may become buried in the foliage behind them on the trail - a piece of fabric from a favored dress, a key that once opened the door to their childhood home, a picture of a family lost. Each pulses faintly with the echo of the memory they belong to, begging to be picked up and held close - or perhaps buried deep in the forest to never be found again.
Eventually, the truth will become impossible to ignore: those on the path will no longer remember why they came, nor what waits at the end. Turning around, they may find evidence of what was left behind in their wake, leaving them to gather the pieces that once made them whole. Each item will dissolve once pressed close to it's owners chest, sharing the memory itself with anyone who happens to be close enough to get a taste.
❬ MISSION NOTES ❭
📌 — The above prompts are just there to get you started. Feel free to play with the setting and concept beyond what we've suggested here!
📌 — For all questions relating to this mission, please refer to mission plotting. All other questions can be directed to the FAQ.
📌 — Custom scenario prompts can be threaded here or anywhere else, as you like. Mod-driven threads will be posted here.
📌 — For all questions relating to this mission, please refer to mission plotting. All other questions can be directed to the FAQ.
📌 — Custom scenario prompts can be threaded here or anywhere else, as you like. Mod-driven threads will be posted here.
no subject
Lex moves to join the scientist, stepping around the white curtain with a motion to jab the scalpel into the offensive scientist's throat, but as he steps to the other side of the barrier, there is no scientist there. Only the table.
And on the table is a beautiful, dark-haired man with his eyes closed, wrapped in a crimson cloak. His wrists are bound with leather straps, securing him in place.
no subject
He's not in control if he's hallucinating incompetent scientists, but also with meta humans around it could be that it was someone who just teleported away.
He hopes it's that at least because the hallucination thing doesn't bode well for him. Who knows what else might not be real if that's the case. Which is just great. He'll hold onto that denial while looking over the 'experiment.' Weird outfit, but he's not here to judge a person's fashion sense.
"What exactly were they doing to you ..." The question is rhetorical and he's not really expecting a response. What he is looking for though is documents or indications of what sorts of drugs were used on this guy.
no subject
From the table, there's a deep sigh as the man lying there opens his eyes. It appears he's still in this nightmare. His eyes, one crimson and the other distinctly different, look over to the unfamiliar man in the room. He doesn't look like a Shinra scientist.
"Release me," he murmurs. There is a gun strapped to his thigh, but whether he intends to use it is a mystery.
no subject
Well it's offensive.
The guy strapped to the table, less so, even with the weird looking eyes. Probably not a natural metahuman from what Lex can tell. Being experimented on puts him higher on the list than those who were born with abilities. At least he probably didn't ask for it.
He circles around where the man is strapped down, observing him, looking for anything super dangerous. There's a gun, sure. But he's more looking for dripping acidic goo, or something like that.
"That all depends on what they did to you. That walking incompetence posing as a scientist, who was he?"
no subject
From the table, Vincent's eyes track the movements of the man in the room. He may not be Shinra, but the way Lex looks at him, takes everything in, he clearly has a scientific mind. It's enough to unsettle Vincent, who tugs fruitlessly at his bindings. With the fog, he doesn't have his powers or his strength.
There is nothing leaking, but the drip bags with IVs attached to them do contain a glowing liquid.
Is he being questioned first? This man is not like others in Etraya. Vincent responds, half in a daze. "His name is Hojo. He is head of Shinra's research and development."
no subject
He's not expecting an explanation. He's still eyeing the man and deciding if this is a threat or someone he can use. It's hard to say really, he doesn't trust people and might be a little paranoid, but then again.
"... I'll release you. But I have another question first." He, in a sort of show of good faith, disconnect anything else from him. No more IVs to worry about it.
"What's your opinion on aliens?"
no subject
But, he will answer Luthor's question. Maybe it will satisfy him enough to help Vincent off the experimentation table.
What does he think of aliens? "It will destroy the planet." Naturally, he's referring to the calamity that's a danger to his own world.
no subject
"It certainly will destroy the planet unless something stops it."
Unfortunately Lex is talking about Superman and has in fact referred to him as an 'it' so in his mind they very well could be speaking of the same thing. If not alien-hating still counts for something.
"I'm Lex Luthor by the way. You can thank me later. I'd rather leave this ... disaster first."
no subject
“Vincent Valentine.” Vincent looks to the door, then puts his feet on the ground. "I know another way out." Provided this place is the same as it is back home. "Follow me."
He knows they need to move quickly before the creature picks up their scent. Vincent heads to another door that exits the lab and pulls it open. It leads into a dimly lit tunnel that's a winding path.
no subject
And less messy.
But no time to really think about that.
"Lead the way, I'm not in the mood for dying." He'll follow. He's not stupid and means it when he's implies he's not going to just stand around to get murdered by whatever just broke out.