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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
But he does. And Bruce is ready for him. It's easy to be. The kid is angry and feeling the pressure of being Gotham's self styled protector. He's feeling the pressure and broadcasting his moves. It's easy to see the trajectory of his swing, the arc of his arm and to calculate the speed and to see a multitude of ways he can counter. He swings and Bruce counters and attempts to throw him off balance. ]
no subject
the counter is met with a heavy grunt. he pivots. cape fluttering behind him. a back swing of his arm meant to crack against the other bat wherever it may land. the joker continues to laugh — watches from the sidelines within the fog, but he’s ignored by the younger bat who relentlessly comes at the older bat. this isn’t to kill. he doesn’t kill. never will. but it’s not exactly gentle either in the way he comes at him and there’s nothing to say. just anger and guilt being felt deep within and they can both be felt with every swing he gives. )
no subject
But this Bruce, with his busted knee and mostly healed broken ribs and trauma and tragedies and years of broken relationships, had the experience. The backswing finds its target, landing hard against the ribs that Dick had so lovingly cracked back on Earth. Fresh pain radiates up his spine. The Wound Man seems to revel in it, dancing in and out of his vision to every throb. But Bruce powers through it. He uses the younger Bat's proximity to catch his arm and if he can yank him in close, he's going to headbutt him as hard and as viciously as he can. ]
no subject
no subject
Even though the impact is absorbed and dissipated, there's a disorienting feeling that starts behind his eyes and crawls up into his skull and down into his jaw, spreading through him like a wave. He has seconds to find his footing again. The elbow digs deep into his side, crushing the already damaged plates of his suit into his ribs. He can feel the kevlar biting in, blood seeping from the wound. He catalogs it and puts it away.
Another pain to deal with later.
He powers through, pushing the pain aside and redirecting it into the power he puts into a blow aimed for the younger man's jaw. ]
no subject
that's when the hit to his jaw comes and it connects in a way that throws him back — has him stumbling over his own feet and he drops down to the clouded ground in a blur of midnight with his cape trailing after him. a hand grips the ground — pain ricocheting throughout him even harder than before, and he spits out a mouthful of blood there as he groans weakly to himself, hunched over. everything seems to slow around him — joker's laugh distant in the way it echoes from within the fog and he contemplates just letting himself drop down.
but he doesn't. instead, nearly toppling over in his hunched position, he reaches into his utility belt and pulls out a vibrant green coloured shot. just barely managing to pull his one leg forward, he jabs the needle into a hole carefully placed within the suit and presses the top of the syringe down with the pad of his thumb. eyes roll back in his head, green adrenaline rushing through his bloodstream and with blood there smeared across his teeth, he growls and suddenly gets himself up, rushing for the other man. hard. quick. throwing himself right into him with every intention of taking them both down. )
no subject
So he doesn’t relax when the other Bruce drops. He doesn’t relax when the Joker’s laugh pierces through him, sharp and cold and cruel. He doesn’t relax when he catches the way the other Bruce’s hand travels to his belt. He’s ready for a weapon, for a batarang or bolas. He has counters for those. What he’s not ready for, is the green vial and seeing it has him feeling Bane’s massive hands on him all over again. Lifting him up and bringing him back down again, over his knee and splintering his spine.
He’s not ready, but it doesn’t take much for him to course correct. Because he knows what venom does to a body. Their bodies collide and Bruce is braced for the impact. A knee buckles under the strain, but he’s determined not to fall. ]
You damned fool.
no subject
no subject
Another blow and it feels like he can't breath. Every pull of air is like needles picking against his lungs. But he powers through. His weight shifts, though his knee protests the sudden twist. He needed space to regroup and put an end to this before this man did something he regretted. So he shoved, with all of his might so he'd have the space to reach into his own utility belt for a sticky explosive. It wouldn't hurt him, with all of those layers of armor, but hopefully it's enough of a shock to slow him down. ]
no subject
the adrenaline continues to push through him — provide him with a seemingly endless supply of power and energy that he only ever reaches for when his body can barely take it anymore or there’s absolutely no other way to make it through. he doesn’t like to rely on them — doesn’t ever intend to. but they’re there as a backup. as a means to be a last ditch effort when everything else ultimately fails him in the moment. because he’s not a kryptonian flying around in red briefs beneath a blue suit. he’s just a man. a man who can break and bleed like any other. and he’s all gotham has both here and back home.
part of him anticipates a move made — something to throw him off, but. the frenzy that his mind is currently in clouds that sort of judgment to make and so when the sticky explosive makes its appearance, it’s too late for him to react as he normally would.
the explosive goes off — throws him back some — and he hits the ground with a thud that almost resounds throughout the fog they’re in. when the dust settles, he’s there on the ground, seemingly unconscious until eyes slowly begin to open there beneath the thick paint smeared across them and he stares up to the apparition of selina kyle crouching over him. she smiles down to him, he stares blankly, wanting to tell her she’s not real, but he can’t. too dazed and hungover from a shot that slowly begins to fall silent within him.
It’s ok, baby. It’s over now.
to which she leans down and presses a kiss that isn’t there to his lips and just like that, she’s gone. again. )
no subject
And he waits. Waits for the other Bruce to get up. Waits for him to orient himself and get to his feet. He wouldn't leave him out in the fog alone. Not yet anyway. When he's sure the other man isn't unconscious, he gets up and takes a few steps back, to widen the space between them. ]
I'm going to find Damian.
[ Then he turns to go. ]